The Hidden Gift

by Ian Somers

  I lifted my feet onto the dashboard and got comfortable. Despite being on official Guild duty for the first time, I was more relaxed than I’d been since I left my home in Ireland many months earlier, or since the evenings with Romand and the Atkinsons … before Marianne found us. I rested my head on my shoulder and soon drifted off.

  I had a crick in my neck when I woke up and I thought there was something wrong with my eyes for a second; everything was blurry and grey and I found it hard to focus. When I was fully awake I realised there was nothing strange going on at all. Hunter was smoking a cigar and hadn’t bothered opening any of the windows.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ I bawled. ‘You’re killing me with all this smoke.’

  ‘Stop being a baby.’

  I rolled down the window and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air and then noticed we were heading towards a city.

  ‘Newcastle?’

  ‘Yeah. The place where we’re headed isn’t too far from here.’ Hunter had a map stretched across the steering wheel and was running a finger along one of the little grey lines. ‘Won’t take us more than twenty minutes if the traffic’s in our favour.’

  ‘Don’t you think we should have a plan of action decided on before we get there?’

  ‘Leave that to me. I’ve done this a thousand times before.’

  ‘You’re not going to beat someone up, are you?’

  ‘No … that’s plan B. There’ll be no violence as long as they play ball.’

  ‘Is plan A to go in and ask for the address of the reporter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think that’s too obvious. Do you have a mobile phone?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Is it as old as this 4x4?’

  ‘No. It’s fairly new. The Guild insisted I have one while on the mission. I don’t like it very much. Not as easy to use as my old phone.’

  ‘Does the old one have the internet on it?’

  ‘No. I use phones for making calls, Bentley, not surfing the web.’

  ‘Give it here.’ I held out my hand impatiently. ‘Come on. I’ll find out where this guy is.’

  He handed it to me and I quickly accessed the web browser and went to Twitter. Just on the off chance that the journalist liked tweeting about every single little meaningless thing he did from day to day. I was in luck. It seemed Peter Lambell had a Twitter account and he liked telling the world all about his day to day business.

  ‘Lunch with friends – pasta and dolcetto. Delish! Back to covering the motorcycle convention now. Zzzz!’

  ‘Right,’ I said, ‘he finished lunch twenty-five minutes ago and is off to report on a bike convention for his newspaper. And I now know what he looks like.’ I showed his profile photograph to Hunter, who was quietly impressed by this modern, and more efficient, form of investigatory work. ‘Now to find out where the convention is.’

  I googled the convention and it led me to the homepage of the company that was promoting the two-day event. It was taking place at a hotel, and the address was just below the header. There was even a link to location on Google maps.

  ‘Take the next exit,’ I told Hunter. ‘It’s only a few miles west of here.’

  ‘Keep this up and I might bring you along to Switzerland with me next week.’

  My heart seemed to freeze in my chest. The mention of going to look for the gifted killer was the last thing I wanted. I liked my freedom, I also valued my life.

  ‘What’s in Switzerland?’ I faked an excited smile. ‘Another of your girlfriends?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just some friends. Forget I mentioned it.’

  I was glad to drop the subject and I kept my mouth shut except to give him to directions to the hotel.

  We drove round the back of the main building to the car park and Hunter wasn’t too pleased when a security guard told him that he had to pay to park. He handed him a few pounds then drove into the maze of parked vehicles.

  ‘You stay here,’ he said as he turned off the engine. ‘I’ll have a look for him then follow him back to his car.’

  ‘It would be better if both of us went looking for him. We could split up and––’

  ‘This isn’t the movies, Bentley. I don’t want anyone recognising you so stay here until I return. Do not leave this car no matter what happens.’

  I didn’t have much of an argument to put to Hunter and I watched him pacing away into the crowd of people. This was the worst part. I really didn’t know what Hunter was going to do next. He had a fierce temper and didn’t seem to have any problems with being violent towards total strangers. I just hoped he wouldn’t drag the journalist back to the 4x4 kicking and screaming.

  It was the most excruciating wait of my life. Hunter didn’t reappear for ages and I got more and more agitated as the minutes ticked by. How long was I to wait before deciding that something was wrong? The least he could have done was left the phone with me.

  People occasionally brushed past the 4x4 and I slid further into the seat and bowed my head in case any of them decided on looking inside and recognised me.

  At 4.30pm Hunter finally emerged from the crowd and I watched him following a tall, thin man with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. It was Lambell – I recognised him form the twitter profile photo – and he sauntered through the sea of vehicles before getting into a dark coloured hatchback. Within seconds the car was headed under the barrier and out onto the road.

  Hunter jumped into the 4x4 and started the engine. He didn’t say anything and barely acknowledged me as he reversed from the parking spot and drove to the exit. I thought we’d lost Lambell’s car, but we caught up with it once we got onto the first main road. Hunter’s 4x4 looked like a bucket of bolts, but it was a real flier once it hit the open road.

  Lambell led us towards the city centre and we soon sank into rush-hour traffic. We were a few cars behind him and I was sure he didn’t notice that he had a tail. All had gone according to plan so far, the problem was the lack of any strategy once Lambell reached his home.

  ‘What’s our next move?’ I asked Hunter.

  ‘We don’t have many options,’ he shrugged. ‘We can only follow him until he goes home then after dark we must confront him.’

  ‘This is going to get messy.’

  ‘Only if he puts up a fight.’

  ‘What if he pulls a gun on you?’

  ‘You watch too much television, Bentley.’

  ‘He might have a gun, though.’

  ‘He won’t have a bloody gun. This guy is just a features writer for a small newspaper – he doesn’t even write crime reports. He’s simply unfortunate that he wrote the wrong type of article and has gotten caught up in this. He won’t be expecting anyone to hunt him down or to threaten him in any way. He will not have a gun, and I don’t expect him to put up much of a fight.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Trouble

  Lambell parked his car in front of a three-storey apartment block near the city. He hadn’t noticed us and we watched him entering the building from across the street. Hunter waited a few moments to switch off the engine then sat smoking a cigar as he watched the glass door that Lambell had gone through moments earlier. There were a few people on the pavements, none of them paid any attention to us as they strolled past; most were probably on their way home from work and were thinking only of their dinner.

  ‘I wonder if he lives here in one of those apartments,’ I said, ‘or is just visiting.’

  ‘We’ll wait for two hours. If he doesn’t come out by then I think we can assume this is his home and we can pay him a visit. I’d also prefer to do this under the cloak of darkness so it’s in our interest to wait a while.’

  ‘What if he has a wife? Maybe he has a family. You can’t go barging in there if there are children in the apartment.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, Bentley. I am in charge here and you’ll be doing well to remember it.’

  ‘Chill out, will you.
It was just a figure of speech.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a wife or kids so don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

  ‘Charming phrase.’ I chuckled at Hunter’s crass manner and gazed at the building across the street, wondering what was in store for us. ‘How do you know he’s single?’

  ‘I followed him around the convention for well over an hour. I watched his every move and I noticed a habit that rules out the possibility of him being a family man.’

  ‘What habit?’

  ‘He was flirting with other men, which means he doesn’t have a wife and kids.’

  ‘Perhaps his boyfriend lives with him.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re going out of your way to annoy me again.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to annoy you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you’re trying to or not. You are succeeding in annoying me which is what’s important.’

  ‘I’m just trying to present an alterative opinion. It helps to keep an open mind.’

  ‘I don’t need an alternative opinion when I’ve already got a situation figured out. Now please stay quiet.’

  The sky gradually dimmed and a rough autumn wind shook the leaves from the trees that lined the street. The lamps warmed up and painted the road and pavements with an amber hue. The street became quiet and lights in the apartments came on. There were no distractions and we kept watching for any sign of Lambell, but he didn’t re-emerge from the apartment block. Hardly anyone came out during those two hours, apart from a cuddly couple, an elderly man, and a kid with thick glasses and a guy with a hood up.

  None of them fit Lambell’s description and at 7pm Hunter ran out of patience. He pulled on his green Parker jacket and stepped from the 4x4 then slammed the door shut. I watched him walking around the front of the vehicle before stepping out into the road. He paused and looked impatiently at me.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I didn’t know if you wanted me to come with you or not,’ I complained as I left the 4x4 and followed him to the opposite side of the street. ‘I’m new to this, remember?’

  ‘I don’t particularly want you getting in the way, but you have to learn how to extract information from people. I know you don’t like being violent towards civilians however it’s often necessary. Beating someone up to get answers can save someone else’s life. It’s the lesser of two evils.’

  ‘What if he feeds you false information?’

  ‘He won’t. People tell the truth when they think their life is on the line.’

  ‘You’ve definitely decided on beating him up?’

  ‘I’ll try asking him politely first. Is that all right, Mary Poppins?’

  ‘I’m not totally against violence, Hunter. I just object to the gifted beating the crap out of a normal person who doesn’t deserve it.’

  ‘Objection overruled.’ He smiled over his shoulder at me. ‘Hang back for a moment.’

  Hunter walked to the door, keeping his face low, and then pointed at the small camera in the corner of the porch. A shot of electricity left his hand and surrounded the camera for a couple of seconds and the little red light on its side flickered and was extinguished.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I shorted out the CCTV system. It’s always best to keep your face hidden from cameras … a lesson you should have learned before you entered The Million Dollar Gift.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault. How are we going to find out what apartment he’s in? Surely you’re not planning on knocking on every door in the place?’

  ‘Watch and learn, boy.’

  ‘Don’t call me boy.’

  ‘Sorry, man.’

  He went to an aluminium panel by the door that had the apartment numbers etched next to individual buzzers. He pressed one and moved his face close to the speaker unit above.

  ‘Yeah?’ a cranky voice came through the speaker. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Hey there, Lambell,’ Hunter put a disturbingly feminine voice. ‘It’s Cyrille. Aren’t you going to let me in?’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong number, dumbass. Lambell lives in 208.’

  Hunter turned to me with an arrogant grin and winked. ‘You see that, Bentley. Sherlock Holmes would have been proud of that.’

  ‘Pure luck. That guy could have just have easily told you to bugger off.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ he tapped the buzzer panel, ‘I had thirty-six other shots to get it right though. Now hop on up here and open this door without making any noise.’

  I paced up the steps and pushed out some of psychokinetic power and seized control of the locking mechanism. I remained very calm because I didn’t want to exert too much energy which might have cracked the metal lock or even the glass panel and alert someone to our presence. I pulled the metal tongue back and pushed the door open with a secondary wave of energy.

  I held it open for Hunter and curtsied. ‘Age before beauty.’

  ‘Beautiful people don’t have scars like you do, Bentley.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  Hunter stomped inside the brightly-lit hallway and headed straight for the staircase. I followed a few paces back and watched him rolling up his sleeves and cracking his knuckles as he climbed the steps. I knew he had no intention of asking politely for the information we needed. He had the look of a man who was preparing for a fight – a one-sided fight.

  We reached the first floor and looked left and right before stepping into the corridor. 208 was only a few doors down from the entrance to the stair and my nerves spiked as we moved forward. My emotions were stirred which always filled me with energy, I just hoped I wouldn’t need to use it.

  Hunter stopped dead in his tracks and stared ahead. His entire body had tensed up and his breathing quickened. At first I didn’t know what was wrong, but then I saw the door to 208 was ajar.

  Hunter pushed me towards the wall and told me to stay put then edged along the wall to the doorway. He sent out a modest burst of energy to push the door fully open but remained with his back against the wall for almost a minute. When it was clear that there was no danger he scouted forward and entered the apartment.

  He stuck his head a few moments later and whispered at me to follow him inside.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked quietly when I shut the door behind me.

  ‘It appears we’ve got trouble.’

  I followed him through the cluttered sitting room to a short hallway. The door to the kitchen was open and I could clearly see Lambell lying spread-eagled on the floor. His face was deathly pale and his eyes were wide open. It was obvious from the instant I laid eyes on him that he was dead. He was a relatively young man, in his mid-thirties, and it was unlikely that he’d died suddenly in the early evening while making his dinner.

  ‘This isn’t just a coincidence, is it?’

  ‘Not likely.’ Hunter entered the cramped kitchen and stooped over Lambell. ‘There are no wounds that I can see, but gifted people don’t need to inflict obvious physical injuries in order to kill.’

  ‘But we were right across the street this whole time. How could assassins have slipped in and out without us noticing?’

  ‘The killer could have been waiting for him when he got home. They still managed to slip past us, though.’

  ‘Only five people exited while we were parked outside.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Hunter muttered thoughtfully. ‘I think we can rule out the elderly man; he looked on death’s door and was having a hard time walking never mind killing. And the little kid could barely see where she was going.’

  ‘The killer could have been a mind-switcher and used the old man’s body to carry out the hit.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Hunter said. ‘A mind-switcher would use a normal person, and a normal person would leave a visible wound on the body.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ I said. ‘That leaves the lovebirds and the hooded guy as possibles. I know who my money is on.’

  ‘No point in trying to figure out which of them it was. Not ye
t anyway.’ He returned his attention to the body and examined the face and neck then ran his hands through Lambell’s hair to check for any hidden head wounds before lifting the jumper to inspect his chest and stomach. ‘Nothing. No clues. His death could have been caused any number of ways.’

  ‘Let’s check his back,’ I suggested. ‘He might have a cut or a bruise or something.’

  Energy seeped out of my body as I used my psychokinetic power to lift and turn Lambell over, so that his face was to the floor. We scrutinized his back and shoulders and ribs, but again there were no marks of any kind. I was thinking an electro-psych could have stopped Lambell’s heart or a psychokinetic could have ruptured his lungs or made mush of his brains or even crushed his throat from the inside. And those were only the theories that immediately came to mind. It would probably be impossible for us to determine the cause of death in the little time that we had.

  ‘Looks like we’ve drawn a blank,’ Hunter sighed.

  ‘Is that normal when someone dies?’ I asked, pointing to a pool of fluid coming from the dead man’s mouth and forming a circular pool on the tiled floor.

  ‘Depends on what it is.’ Hunter dipped his finger in the pool and scooped up a glob and sniffed at it. He frowned then dabbed the liquid on his tongue, which was quite disgusting.

  ‘This is strange,’ he breathed. He narrowed his eyes on the liquid slowly sprawling out over the floor tiles. ‘Or perhaps it makes perfect sense.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Water.’ He turned to me and raised his eye brows. ‘Just normal water.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It might mean nothing.’ He wiped his hand on Lambell’s jumper then stood up. ‘There’s no point in drawing conclusions at this point. There’s no obvious cause of death, but I’m guessing this is murder. It’s too much of a coincidence. We have to assume that someone else is searching for the girl – that’s not totally unexpected – and that they have a head start on us.’