The Whole Truth (The Supercharged Files Book 1)

by Jody Wallace

  I didn’t remember seeing a window in the wall beside the chiropractor’s office. Huh.

  John shook his head. “The children’s consignment store on the corner isn’t ours. Neither is the cell phone place.”

  Let’s see, with my experienced shopper’s eye, I’d noticed the chiropractor, the kid place, the pizza place, a cellular phone store, a gym, an empty spot, a dollar store, a dry cleaner and a computer repair shop. None of which I had much use for. I couldn’t imagine anything I’d want in a dollar store. Maybe a five dollar and ninety-nine cent store. I had my standards.

  “How do you find time to dissect aliens and chase terrorists if you run all these businesses?” I wandered to the breakfast bar and opened the baggie on it, hunting for bagels. Several inflexible buns lurked in the bottom of the sack like poppy-seeded rocks.

  “Not the kind of work we do,” Samantha said in a singsong voice, “and if you say that one more time I’m going to push a crying jag on you.”

  “A what?”

  John frowned. “Samantha’s a pusher.”

  I froze. Were they into drugs? “I won’t get involved with anything illegal.”

  “I can shift people’s moods if I get my hands on them.” Samantha wriggled her fingers at me. “I like your writing. It’s so vivid.”

  “You lied to me?” Nobody had been able to trick me in person since I’d turned thirteen. She’d used her pushy power to negate mine. That was so...bad? Good? Terrifying?

  “I do like your blog.” She stood, no shadow around her. “I pushed a sense of acceptance on you so you’d quit asking so damn many questions.” Around her, a grey haze winked into and out of existence.

  What part of that had been untrue? “I didn’t give you permission to push me.”

  “Do you get people’s permission to read lies?”

  “That’s different.” I couldn’t help what I did, and she could. All she had to do was keep her hands to herself, right?

  She shrugged. I recalled the sense of warmth and friendship I’d felt and was almost disappointed it had been manufactured.

  Gal pal material? Not gal pal material? She was like a pair of Dolce & Gabbana trousers that seemed stylish on the hanger, but on your butt they widened you like a funhouse mirror. A good pair of pants to give to, say, your lyingest coworker, so you could enjoy the way they expanded her butt instead.

  Luckily no one around me could sense when I was lying, because I did it a lot.

  “Don’t worry, Cleo.” John busied himself in the kitchenette, retrieving a tub of cream cheese from the fridge, a couple knives and plates, and a jug of orange juice. “Samantha’s push obviously didn’t stick.”

  I’d been more at ease, but he was right. I hadn’t stopped asking questions. “Why didn’t Samantha’s sneak attack work on me?”

  “John stopped me before I gave you a full dose.” She pointed at him. “You’re the one who tasted her, John.”

  “What’s your super power?” I asked him.

  “He’s a licker,” Samantha said. By John’s expression, I guessed that was a vulgar description of his talent.

  “The correct term is a nose. I have a keen nose and taste buds. One thing I can do is detect whether or not people have suprasenses. That’s what we call them.”

  “Supersenses? Shazam!”

  “Supra,” Samantha said humorlessly. “Suprasenses.”

  “What can Alfonso do?”

  Samantha exchanged a glance with John, then said, “He’s an ear. He’s also the head of our security department.”

  I didn’t ask what it meant to be an ear, but one would assume keen hearing. A good thing to know if I needed to place any surreptitious phone calls to the police to come rescue me from the loonies.

  “So we have suprasenses.” It sounded better than seeing masks and shadows. Frightened people saw shadows. “John, can you turn your nose off, or was riding in the car with the cat pee torture?”

  “I can turn it off.” He opened the cream cheese and pulled off the metallic seal.

  Samantha cocked her hip to one side. “Too bad you can’t always turn it on.”

  I took a rock out of the bag to distract them from each other. “This isn’t a bagel.”

  “Yes, it is.” Samantha stuck her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. She’d kicked off her Manolos and her toenails were sand pink.

  I thonked it on the bar. It echoed. Poppy seeds scattered across the Formica. “This is a tricycle wheel.”

  She snatched it out of my hand and thrust it in the microwave without a plate. “Nuke it.”

  I edged out of her way. Boris had nearly finished the bowl of kibble, and I enjoyed the sight of Samantha and John dancing around his huge, yellow, stinky self in the shoebox-sized kitchenette. The bed wasn’t as hard as I’d figured it would be, but I didn’t lay down, afraid I’d konk out and miss all the fun. And the so-called bagels, my stomach reminded me. The donuts we’d gotten at the gas station in Mt. Vernon had long since been digested.

  Something soft butted my calf—Natasha, creeping along the edge of the bed. She hated traveling. She’d probably spend this whole time beneath furniture. “When are we going to meet your boss so I can get back to my normal life?” I asked.

  John sliced hot bagels and arranged them on a plate while Samantha poured juice. “We thought you’d want to get cleaned up,” he said. “On Saturdays he comes to work around ten.”

  “Like Dr. Spivey.” Maybe his name was Spivey. Dr. Spivey the chiropracting mad brain scientist.

  The shower turned off and Alfonso exited the bathroom. “The carrier is in the shower, and the cat box is under the sink. Figured that was a better place than the closet.” He motioned toward two slatted doors next to the television.

  Oooh, closet. Did that mean clothing? I’d bought my current outfit several months ago in a fit of spring fever, but this was one skirt I’d be happy to shove in the Goodwill bag. I hoped the garments they claimed to have provided weren’t hideous. Like, slacks with pleats and a Hawaiian blouse.

  I dragged myself to my feet and opened the bifold doors. A few lonely items hung in the closet—a black pants suit, a couple T-shirts, a nightgown, a pair of hibiscus capri pants. There were some unopened packages of underwear, socks and bras on the side shelves, and on the floor were two pairs of shoes—black kid granny pumps and white canvas tennies.

  Aw, man. Hadn’t they let Samantha do my shopping? Where were my Manolos?

  Maybe she had done my shopping. At Wal-Mart.

  Suddenly I heard the telltale sound of Boris kakking up the food he’d poked down. It proved they didn’t know everything about me and my cats. They’d left a whole bowl of food available for Big Boris. Even my next door neighbor, who checked on the cats during my rare vacations, knew not to do that.

  “Eeew!” Samantha exclaimed. I looked over, interested to see how she’d react to phase two. Shop at Wal-Mart for me, huh? She and John stared at the floor. “Oh....oh....oh, God, don’t eat it! Cleo, your cat is eating—”

  She chased Boris away from his prechewed snack in her mad dash for the small bathroom. Boris ran under the bed. Natasha yowled and ran out from under the bed, realized she had nowhere to hide, and made a bee-line for the bathroom. More snarling, a scream, a crash, and Natasha hurtled back out, wet. I opened the closet, and she accepted the invitation.

  The bathroom door slammed. Alfonso grinned. John was still mesmerized by what was probably a massive amount of regurgitated cat chow. It’s amazing how much that stuff swells after the briefest time in a cat’s stomach.

  Suddenly, I felt right at home.

  “Bagels ready yet?” I asked. “I’m starving.”

  Chapter 3

  In which I meet Doctor Fronkensteen

  John and company deserted me without cleaning up the cat vomit. They said they’d fetch me for my meet and greet in a couple hours and I should rest up. Alfonso was the last one out.

  “Don’t try to take off,” he said. He pocketed someth
ing small and silver. “I’ll hear you if you do.”

  About to polish off a tricycle tire bagel, I paused. “I thought I wasn’t a prisoner?”

  Alfonso smiled. His teeth were sharper than your average pearlies, accentuating his apelike visage. When he disappeared down the hallway to the magic RC Cola machine, it clunked shut with an ominous thud.

  I waited five minutes and tried the drink machine. It opened. There was nobody in the break area and nobody in the chiropractor’s office. I returned to my cats and slumped on the bed to mull over my situation.

  Three very different people, one very unusual day. I eyed Boris’s shameful pile and considered removing it before I stepped in it, but I knew from past experience it would be easier to wait until it solidified.

  The nervous energy that had jazzed me like six double shots of espresso had worn off. If I weren’t careful, I’d fall asleep. Samantha and John would catch me drooling and force me to meet Professor Xavier with spit stains on my shirt. With a groan, I dragged myself out of bed and did my best to make myself presentable given my limited supplies. In the bathroom medicine cabinet were a toothbrush, toothpaste, a bar of soap, aspirin, a washrag, a box of feminine items, and a tube of pinkish beige lipstick. Not really my color. I had better cosmetics in my satchel.

  “What do you think they’ve got in store for us, Mr. B?” I asked the cat when he followed me into the bathroom. “Exploratory surgery? Tea party?”

  Boris blinked and yawned. I wondered if Alfonso was listening. When I used the bathroom, I turned on the faucet full blast in case he was a potty voyeur.

  I had trouble believing my new friends, even though they appeared to be honest. Since they knew about me, they’d been careful not to say anything untrue. Or much of anything at all. I was lucky they hadn’t blindfolded me when they drove me to their super secret spy hideaway in the run-down strip mall. Take away my eyes, and I was one normal, if better accessorized than average, woman.

  At the same time, the big reveal I’d always dreamed about had finally happened. Why wasn’t I thrilled? All I felt was tired and slightly annoyed. Maybe my lackluster attitude was Samantha’s doing. Maybe they wanted me numb and dumb.

  I stared at the clothing in the closet awhile before making my choice. The black pantsuit fit, even if it wasn’t seasonal. When would they come back? I dragged my satchel toward me with my toe and sorted through it, careful to check every pocket and fold, but my cell phone wasn’t there.

  How could it have fallen out when it was so deep I hadn’t seen it in days? Frustrated, I dumped the whole satchel. Nada. I checked under the bed, in the kitchen, in the bathroom. No expensive silver flip phone anywhere. The image of Alfonso pocketing something much like my cell phone swam before my eyes.

  “Hey!” I said aloud, feeling rather foolish. “You’re a jerk, Alfonso. Where’s my phone? I just wanted to check messages.”

  There wasn’t anything I could do unless I wanted to walk down the road in a pair of frumpy black heels and try to catch a taxi to the airport. What would I do with the cats? Boris was way too heavy to lug on the lam, and Natasha—well, maybe I could leave my address and they could freight her to me.

  “I want my cell phone back. Do you hear me?”

  The only response was Natasha growling softly under the bed.

  The guest quarters didn’t have floor space for me to pace. I threw myself onto the bed. Boris joined me, happy to add yellow fur to my clothing.

  My overextended brain jumped around like a jar of fleas. If I weren’t careful, the ramifications of my mini-adventure would hit me, and I’d turn to terrified jelly. I’d been kidnapped by strangers because of my (dis)ability; discovered I wasn’t unique; and found out, moreover, there were entire organizations of people like me out there doing God knows what, God knows how, and God knows why.

  I knew what assholes people could be. How often they lied about such stupid things. Give them super powers, and I don’t think they’d use them for good. Hell, I didn’t. I’d thought about offering my services to law enforcement, but I’m scared of what I'd see if I talked to anyone in a position of power or influence. I don’t vote, don’t go to church, don’t go to political rallies, and try not to talk to strangers. Too often I find out things I’d rather not know.

  Being in a position of too little knowledge was a novel one for me. Was it true that John and Samantha’s group—YuriCorp rang a faint bell but not enough of one that I could remember without the internet—was the good company and the other group was the Freakazoid Mafia? By their lack of masks when they’d informed me of their righteousness, they definitely believed it.

  But humans believed all sorts of untrue things.

  Unfortunately, a firm belief in an untrue thing was a brand of lie I couldn’t detect.

  I put the extra pillow over my face to block the light. There were no sounds, no air conditioning turning itself off and on, no noisy neighbors. I didn’t like my situation or my lack of phone. Did they think I’d call the cops? I’d ask them. Several times, until they broke under the strain and lied.

  People always did. I’d been using my powers to my advantage since I turned thirteen, and it had been...lonesome. Knowing when people fib made my transition to womanhood rough, I can assure you. Turned me into a grab bag of insecurities and cynicism.

  Like that's any different from other twenty-nine-year-old single women.

  Samantha was spot on when she’d accused me of wanting to be found out. God, of course I did. Who wants to be unique? People say they do, but they’re lying. I should know.

  As my brain drifted toward snooze, I spared a thought for my stepfather. If anybody hassled Dan, I’d be seriously ticked. Besides having me, marrying Dan had been the one good thing my mother did when she was alive. He loved me, and he hardly ever lied to me. Boris purred beside me and my thoughts faded. I saw nothing but black behind my eyelids, comforting, quiet black. The black of every lie in the world, all at once. The lies I told myself.

  ~ * ~

  “What, huh, who’s there?” I jerked upright and slapped at the weight on my arm. John, who’d been shaking me, lurched back, but not before I smacked his hand.

  “We’re ready for you.”

  “What time is it?”

  “After lunch.”

  “That explains why I’m hungry.” I stretched and rubbed my hair out of my face. My fingers stuck in the damp strands.

  Great. The pillow I’d used to block out the light had caused me to sweat like a Marine. I’d be making a wonderful first impression on the big boss.

  “We’ll get lunch after you meet everyone.” John proffered my cell phone. “Alfonso said you wanted this back.”

  I yawned. “Why did he take it?”

  “It wasn’t worth the risk Psytech would call you.” John frowned. I was beginning to realize he did that a lot. “Are you ready?”

  “Not really.” I slipped into my shoes and jacket and followed him anyway. Alfonso was waiting next to the cola machine. When we left the chiropractor’s office, we passed a dark-skinned woman in a lab coat and nose ring. She was filing her nails at the front desk.

  “Hey, Doc,” Alfonso said.

  “Yo.” She cracked her knuckles. “I got a 2 o’clock, but you want me to do you after?”

  “Nah, I can wait until next week.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes. “John?”

  “No, thank you.” He turned to me. “Roxanne is a YuriCorp employee.”

  “Plus I do spine manipulation.” Roxanne cracked her knuckles again, inspected her nails, and held out a hand for me to shake. “You must be Cleopatra Giancarlo. How’s your back?”

  I accepted it. It seemed rude not to. She had a grip like iron and her palm warmed my hand like a cup of hot coffee.

  “Just Cleo, please. My back is fine.” Why did she know who I was, and why was she so toasty? If she had a power, she ought to turn it off when she touched people. If she could.

  “This job’ll tense you up and knoc
k your lumbar out of whack.” The warmth from her grip extended to my wrist. “You come see me.”

  “You bet.” If “you bet” meant “no way”.

  I jiggled my hand as we picked our way down the sidewalk to the pizza place, creatively titled, “Pizza Man”. In the short time we were outside, sweat beaded along my hairline.

  I wiped, but the sweat returned undaunted.

  Alfonso noticed my gesture. “Welcome to Tennessee. They recruited me from Canada. It takes some getting used to. Just wait until this summer.”

  “Definitely not a dry heat.” The air felt as moist as a dog’s mouth.

  Inside, the pizza place looked like any take-out joint—several small cafe tables, a drink machine, and the smell of grease and pepperoni. A teenager leaned on the counter, concentrating on something beside the cash register that beeped.

  “Can I help...oh, hey.” He raised a hand, tilting up the brim of his ball cap.

  “What can he do?” I asked John in a whisper.

  “Nothing—he thinks the Pizza Man national headquarters are in back.”

  “In the alley? Why would he believe that?” I glanced over my shoulder at the boy, who returned his attention to a small electronic game on the counter.

  “Because it’s true. Pizza Man only has four locations, all ours. We also have an eraser on staff who helps people forget things they shouldn’t know.”

  We crossed through the small kitchen, waving at another boy, and out the back into the alley. Several blue dumpsters lurked in the nondescript lane that had no graffiti to brighten it, but then again, it didn’t have any bums in boxes, either. The strip mall lined one side. Weeds and a metal warehouse lined the other. The sounds of the not-very-busy road in front of the strip mall barely penetrated here.

  “Where is it?” I asked. The smell of hot garbage wrinkled my nose.

  John indicated the dumpsters. “You can come through any of the stores or the warehouse. Most of us rideshare so there isn’t an imbalance of cars, but there’s more parking on the other side of the warehouse.”