by M. C. Sutton
Professor March leaned forward, folded his hands in front of him, and pressed them to his lips. “Matthew…”
Matt squeezed the leather arms of the chair as the professor stared at him with his eyebrows drawn. “Yes, Professor?”
The clock at the top of the student union building bonged out a warning to those poor souls who were crazy enough to take a seven-thirty class.
The professor took a deep breath. “Do you like English toffee?”
Matt smiled. “If you’re talking about the stuff my mom made you for your birthday, then yes sir, I’d have to say I do.”
“Fantastic!” Professor March stood and walked around his desk again. He pulled a large tin from his top drawer. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said as he sat back down and opened the lid, offering some to Matt. “I enjoy a good toffee as much as the next fellow, but I can’t possibly eat all of this by myself. And if I take it home, then Sarah will know that your mum made it for me, and we’d both be in trouble.”
“Don’t worry, Professor. Your secret is safe with me.”
Matt knew from personal experience how Nazi Sarah tended to be with all of them about their diets. He was also well aware that Professor March could easily eat the entire tin by himself. In fact, that’s exactly how his mother had known to make him the toffee in the first place. He had devoured an entire plate of it at the OGE’s last Christmas party.
But Professor March had offered him the toffee because he knew it would help. Not so much the candy itself, as the feeling associated with it. Professor March, like Matt, was an Empath, so he knew that the quickest way to cheer Matt up was to conjure a positive emotion. Family was the most important thing in the world to Matt, and the toffee was a reminder of the time his family spent together during the holidays.
Sure enough, as soon as he had taken his first bite, he was flooded with a sensation of warmth, with images of his mother baking in the kitchen while he and his father added more wood to the living room fireplace. The smell of freshly baked cookies wafted through the house as Jacob opened the oven to put in the next batch. Up the hall, Matt’s sister was hiding in her room, wrapping the last of her gifts. It was all so vivid that if he closed his eyes he could almost hear Sinatra singing “The Christmas Song.”
It also didn’t hurt that Professor March himself got so much enjoyment out of the toffee.
Matt relaxed and rested his head against the cool leather. “Thank you, Professor,” he said quietly.
“You’re very welcome, Matthew. Now.” The professor brushed the crumbs off his lap. “I don’t think your mother’s toffee is the reason you came to see me today. Something has been bothering you lately. Something that I gather has been eating at you for quite some time now.”
Matt sighed. “Yes, sir.”
“I do believe I know where part of the problem lies,” said the professor, raising an eyebrow. “Miss Romano came in to see me yesterday. She’s been coming to my office quite a bit lately.”
“Oh.” Matt looked at the floor. “I see.” He sometimes forgot he wasn’t the only ESPer Professor March worked with. Matt wondered exactly what the two of them talked about and how much of it involved him.
“Now, Matthew, I don’t have to remind you that anything I discuss with any of my students is completely confidential.”
Matt shifted in his chair. “Of course not.”
“But I will say this. Whatever your reasons for distancing your relationship with Miss Romano, you’re keeping it well hidden, even from me. Of course, it is not at all necessary for me to understand why you’re doing it. My only concern is that you understand why.”
Matt took a deep breath.
“Look, Matthew, I know how hard it can be as an Empath to trust your own emotions. Often we wonder if the feelings we experience come from ourselves or from someone else. I would caution you not to let that distrust interfere with what has the potential to be a sincere and fulfilling relationship, whether it be with Miss Romano or anyone else.”
Matt managed a half smile. He didn’t doubt that Professor March understood what it was like. Not only did the professor speak from personal experience, he had spent a lifetime training other ESPers to learn how to adapt so their gifts didn’t control their lives. But there was one thing the professor didn’t know. The one thing that no one in Matt’s life could possibly understand.
“Well then, let’s move on, shall we?” Professor March returned to his desk to put away the candy. “Something else is bothering you, Matthew. Something not wholly yours, and yet very close to you. My first guess, of course, would be that you are worried about your parents. But I also sense it is something much more than that. Something deeper that’s been going on for a few months now. And you’re having trouble pinpointing it.”
“Yes, that sounds about right.”
“Have you tried some of the focusing techniques we’ve practiced?”
Though Professor March taught philosophy and theology now, that hadn’t always been his primary occupation. He didn’t talk about it much, but Professor March had spent most of his life working with British intelligence. Matt had no idea precisely how long “most of his life” was, but imagined it was a while. Whenever any of them would ask the professor his age, all he would say was, “I’ve been on this earth long enough to learn a thing or two.”
During that time, the professor had been trained in certain techniques that could help an ESPer turn their gifts from passive to active. Techniques that had made it possible for him to use his gifts to find and gather whatever information he needed. Techniques so advanced that he could take what he wanted—feelings, memories, sometimes even more—instead of passively having them pushed onto him. He had spent the last few years trying to teach these techniques to Matt—with frustratingly little success.
“I have,” Matt answered, “but I’m afraid whatever it is is just too close. Anytime I’ve tried, it’s like whatever I’m sensing gets all mixed up with my own feelings about it.”
The professor smiled knowingly. This very problem was an Empath’s biggest downfall. Matt not only had to sense the emotion without letting it affect him, he also had to distinguish it from his own feelings. Some Empaths take a lifetime to overcome it, and many never learn to do it at all.
“Perhaps a little help, then?” said the professor.
Matt let out a long sigh of relief. It wasn’t often that the professor offered to help his students directly. Mostly because Professor March strongly believed in learning through experience. But also, Matt suspected, because any direct involvement the professor had with another person’s emotions meant that he had to experience them too, which was not only uncomfortable but risked exposing the professor to potentially private information.
Matt would normally have politely declined in order to spare him. But if things were bad enough that he was having fainting spells in public, it was probably time he tried something new. “Yes, sir, I would appreciate that very much,” he said.
“Well, then, let’s get started.”
Professor March picked up the phone and asked the department secretary to make sure they weren’t disturbed, then returned to his chair beside Matt. “All right, Matthew, I’d like to try something a little different. Something we haven’t tried before. I’m going to picture very clearly in my mind a specific time in my life in which it was necessary for me to be completely and totally focused. I am then going to place my hands on your shoulders—”
Matt took in a sharp breath before he could stop himself.
Professor March’s expression softened. “This will make it much easier for you to fully grasp the sensation,” he explained quietly.
Matt wasn’t so sure, but he trusted the professor. He nodded for him to continue.
“Now, Matthew, once you grasp it, I want you to use it to your advantage. I want you to use this focus to pinpoint the exact origin of the feelings you’ve been experiencing and explore them. Use all your resources to analyze what you’re sensing
.”
Matt noticed a twinge of apprehension from the professor, but couldn’t pick up on why.
“Matthew, do you understand?”
“Yes, Professor, I understand.”
“The sensation might be alarming at first, but I believe you are one of the few people able to handle such a direct exercise.”
“It’s all right, Professor,” said Matt. “If you believe it will help, I’m certainly willing to give it a try.”
“All right, then.” Professor March stood.
Matt tried to calm his breathing as the professor came to stand behind him. He sank back into the chair and rested his arms on the soft leather. For the first time since he’d walked into the office, he noticed that the window behind the professor’s desk was cracked open. A few dark clouds had rolled in, and the clean smell of rain blew through. Matt breathed deep the refreshing scent as he closed his eyes.
“Are you ready, Matthew?” Professor March asked quietly from behind his chair.
“I am.”
CHAPTER 13
“WELL, IF IT ISN’T THE cavalry,” Jon barked as he opened the door. Between his lack of sleep and Emma’s brush with death, it was all he could do to suppress his irritation.
Aaron, Rachael, Jack Allred, and a fourth man—the doctor, judging by his little black bag—walked into their suite. Two Secret Service agents remained in the hall.
Jon explained to the doctor that he believed Emma had accidentally ingested too many sleeping pills, and that he had successfully induced vomiting to get them back out again.
“I don’t understand, Jon,” said Jack. “How in the world could this have happened?”
Jon scowled. “Why don’t you ask Stephen Bennett?”
“Jon, why don’t we step out into the hall for a moment?” said Jack, glancing at the door.
Jon didn’t move.
Jack gently put his hand on Jon’s arm. “Come on, son.”
Aaron glanced back and forth between Jon and Jack. “It’s all right, Jon,” he said. “Rachael and I will stay here with Emma.”
Jon sighed and headed into the hall with Jack.
Followed by two Secret Service agents, they once again headed to the window at the end of the hall. Jon could feel the heat already radiating from the glass, even though it was still early. Down below, the crowd of protesters seemed to have doubled in size since their arrival. They held up their signs, shouting their contempt at whoever and whatever would listen to them. There was a distinctive rhythm to their angry cries, as if a collective spirit of contention had descended, pushing out whatever sense of reason these desperate and broken people still had left. How much had been taken from them, he wondered, before they gave up all hope and resorted to shouting their woes beneath the beating rays of an east Texas sun?
The world was going mad around him. He wondered how long it would be before he went with it.
“Jon Jacob.” Jack squeezed his shoulder.
Jon turned away from the window. “He had something to do with this, Jack. I know it. That pill bottle wasn’t even there last night.” He recalled pulling a flashlight out of that same drawer less than eight hours earlier.
Jack turned to the two Secret Service men. “Gentlemen, can you give us just a moment, please?”
“You know we can’t do that, Mr. Vice President,” one answered.
“I know you have to be here to watch over me, but can you please do it from a little bit farther up the hallway?”
The two men looked at each other, then back at Jack.
“Please,” he said.
They moved only a few feet up the hall.
Jack sighed and shook his head.
“Uncle Jack,” said Jon, lowering his voice. “You and I know exactly what Bennett is and what he’s capable of, and you also know that Emma would never have taken those pills herself. Hell, she didn’t even want me to bring them in the first place.”
“Of course I know that. But how in the world am I supposed to prove that Bennett had something to do with it?”
“By exposing him for what he really is, for starters.”
“And expose ourselves in the process?” Jack whispered.
Jon sighed. He was so sick of the incessant cover-up.
“Jon, look. I owe you and Emma both an apology. I feel responsible for all of this. I can promise you that for the remainder of the convention you will both have escorts and security posted at your door at all times.”
Jon shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, Jack. Because we’re not staying. As soon as Emma is well enough, we’re both getting back on the plane and going straight home.” He turned and headed back toward his room.
“What?” Jack followed after him. “Jon, what about Emma’s presentation?”
“Emma’s presentation?” Jon spun around. For a moment, he actually thought about hitting Jack. I really must be losing it. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Jack, my wife could have died this morning. We didn’t sign on for this.”
“Emma agreed to do this because she knew what needed to be done. She knew the risks involved, and she was still willing to make the sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice? Don’t you dare talk to me about sacrifice, Jack Allred. Do you have any idea what we’ve lost? What we’ve already sacrificed?”
“What you’ve lost? Jon, we have all lost something. We have all sacrificed something—for the greater cause. And we will continue to sacrifice because we understood the risks. We all knew what had to be done and what was at stake if we failed.” Jack lowered his voice. “I lost someone, too, Jon. Or have you forgotten that?”
Jon looked at the floor. “Of course I haven’t forgotten,” he answered quietly. Jack’s son, Danny, had been the closest thing Jon ever had to a brother. Danny had been part of the first wave in their unit to be called up for the war.
“Son, listen to me.” Jack put his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “Greg and I have watched out for you and Emma since you both were young. Probably a lot more than we should have. I understand your position. Really, I do. I loved both your parents very much, and I know what it did to your father when he lost your mother. But this is bigger than all of us, and we are running out of time. We can’t do this without her, and you know it. We need Emma.”
“I need her, too, Jack,” Jon quietly told the floor.
“You know what? Fine. You go right ahead and walk away. But just how long do you think you can hide out in your little town in the middle of nowhere? How long do you think it’s going to take before someone like Stephen Bennett catches up to you? Because eventually it’s going to happen, Jon. They know who you are, and they will see you as a threat. You think they’re just going to let that go?”
Jon crossed his arms and looked away.
“So I tell you what, Jon. If you’re going to turn your back and leave, you better make sure you talk to Bennett first. You go ahead and tell him that he’s already won. Because you are giving up,” he said, then pushed past Jon and disappeared into the hotel room. The Secret Service men resumed their posts by the door.
Jon clenched his fists, wanting to break something. He didn’t know what made him angrier: what Jack had said, or the fact that he was right. He was so completely done with this entire thing. But the knot developing in the pit of his stomach told him it was just beginning.
For the first time in years, Jon wished he hadn’t stopped drinking.
“Jon?” said Aaron.
He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts he hadn’t even noticed Aaron, Jack, and the doctor leaving his room.
“Hey, are you okay, man?” Aaron asked.
Jon turned to the doctor, ignoring the question. “How’s she doing?”
“I think she’s going to be all right, Mr. Grant. Her heart rate and breathing are both normal. Other than severe drowsiness, I don’t see any side effects. Definitely nothing that would require further treatment. She needs rest, but after that she should be fine. Thanks to you, most of the medication doesn’t s
eem to have been absorbed into the bloodstream. You did the right thing, Mr. Grant.”
“Don’t you think she should be taken to the hospital?” Jon asked.
The doctor shook his head. “No, not necessarily. They wouldn’t do much more for her there than what we’ve already done here.” He took off his stethoscope and dropped it into his bag. “Besides, from what the vice president tells me, we wouldn’t want to draw too much attention to the situation. For the sake of Dr. Grant, or the convention.”
Of course not. Jon rolled his eyes.
“I’ll be back in a bit to check her vitals.” He shook Jack’s hand and accepted everyone’s thanks before turning to leave.
“Well, I guess that means Emma won’t be doing her presentation this morning,” said Aaron. “I guess Bennett got what he wanted.”
“On the contrary,” said Bennett. “I was rather looking forward to it.”
Jon’s blood pressure shot through the roof. Bennett strolled down the hallway toward them in his crisp black tailored suit, his hands in his pockets, sporting that ridiculously smug expression of his.
Aaron moved to put a shoulder between Jon and Bennett. He had apparently picked up on the fact that Jon was struggling not to beat the living daylights out of the guy.
“So the rumors are true, then?” said Bennett. “Dr. Grant won’t be gracing us with her skills of persuasion after all?”
Jon tried to hold his breath and count to ten. He wondered why no one was asking Bennett how the hell he found out about Emma so fast.
“Yes, Minister, I’m afraid Dr. Grant is not feeling well this morning. It looks like she won’t be able to go forward with her presentation,” said Jack. He paused, then added, “At this time.”
Bennett shook his head. “Quite unfortunate.”
“I wonder if you might be prepared to go ahead with your presentation then, Minister? The convention must continue, after all,” said Jack.
Had Jon been the only one to notice the glow of satisfaction that flooded Bennett’s face?
“Of course, Mr. Vice President, I am prepared. Certainly Dr. Grant is known for her expertise, but she is also, from what I understand, somewhat impulsive. You can never be too certain when one so emotionally unstable will suddenly back out on their commitments.” He looked Jon straight in the eye and curled a lip. “Or attempt suicide.”
