“Who are you?”
“Mind control is a very dangerous skill, Molly,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard my question.
Fuck. “You never saw me,” I said, pushing power into my voice.
He shook his head. “That doesn’t work on me. You’ll have to try something else.”
“Who. Are. You?” I asked again, standing up straight. My hands flexed into fists. Habit.
“You going to beat me up? I’m not some street thug,” he said.
“Am I going to have to?”
“The last thing I want to do is get into a fight with you.”
“You can start by telling me your name then, and why you were following me,” I said, lowering my hand and grasping the canister of tear gas in my pocket.
“You’re not going to need that. My name is Nain.”
I looked up at him, narrowing my eyes. “Is that your real name?”
“Close enough. Le Nain Rouge, Red Dwarf, Red Gnome, Lutin. I prefer Nain.”
“Right. Oookay. I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“It’s not any more far-fetched than someone controlling people with her mind,” he said, meeting my eyes. Pretty eyes, a deep sapphire, practically glowing under the street lights.
“You don’t look particularly red, or, you know, gnome-like, to me,” I said.
“That’s one of my forms. I don’t do that anymore.” Anger, regret.
“Right,” I said again. Dude was a complete nutcase. “You cause trouble. Harbinger of doom, all that shit.”
“People always get that fucked up. Where does it say that the harbinger of doom is the one that actually caused the doom? Maybe the so-called harbinger is there because he saw it coming and is trying to stop the doom.”
“Uh-huh. So you’re saying you had nothing to do with the ‘67 riots?”
“Trying to stop the fighting.”
“Or with burning the city to the ground in 1805?”
“Chasing the guy who actually did it.”
“And you didn’t, in fact, curse Cadillac?”
“That, I did. And he had it coming,” he said. Snarled, to be more accurate.
“Right. So you’re claiming to be over three hundred years old, and you can change into a little red dwarf. And I’m supposed to believe that you’re not completely insane?” I hissed, feeling my power spike in response to my emotions.
He just watched me. He was so serious looking I almost wanted to believe him. Almost.
“Okay. I don’t know how you found me, or what you think I can do. You stay away from me or you’re going to be wearing your balls as earrings. Do you understand?” I started getting into my car.
Crazy people, I thought as I slammed the door behind me. He was still standing there, next to the car.
Or we can just converse telepathically, he thought at me.
I got out of the car again, looked up at him. “Shit.”
He gave a short bark of a laugh, crossed his arms over his chest.
You can really read my thoughts?
Yes, I really can.
How did you find me? I could feel a headache coming on, always a side effect of reading thoughts, never mind actually conversing telepathically.
“We can just talk,” he said, seeming to understand my discomfort. “Once you’ve had more practice with it, it will hurt less.”
“You’re a telepath, too, then?” I asked, annoyed with myself for continuing to converse with this crazy person.
He nodded. “In some ways, I’m a lot like you. I can read thoughts. I can converse telepathically with someone who has the same skill, though it’s been awhile since I’ve come across another.”
“Are there many?”
He shrugged. “It’s always safe to assume that there are others around. Most don’t quite realize what it is that they can do.” He stopped talking, met my eyes again. “It would be a good idea to learn to shield your thoughts. You are wide open, Molly. That can be dangerous.”
I looked at him. Concentrated. “I can’t pick yours up.”
“I have a lot of practice shielding. It’s automatic at this point.”
“So someone can only hear your thoughts if you want them to?” I asked, interest piqued.
Yes. And then, only that person. No one else.
I thought about that. Any telepath around could hear everything I thought. Dangerous, for sure, if any of them were like me. I looked around, watching the shadows, as always.
“But, there is at least one big difference between you and I,” he said, as if he’d never stopped talking. “I can’t control thoughts. I can’t put my thoughts in other people’s heads, make them act on my command. That’s a whole different level of power.”
“And you want something from me, is that it?’ I asked.
“No. All I want from you is to help you learn to control your telepathy. Learn to shield yourself.”
“There’s no such thing as something for nothing,” I murmured, mostly to myself.
He was quiet for a bit. I was starting to think he hadn’t heard me. “You’re right. I do want something,” he finally said. I felt my stomach twist. My power was reacting weirdly around him, and it was only helping to throw me off even more.
“What?”
“I want you to come and work for me.”
“I work alone,” I said.
“Just come, meet with me and some of my associates,” he said.
“I work alone,” I said again, slowly and deliberately, stopping and looking him dead in the eyes. “I am not a team player. I don’t even like most people. I’m not interested.”
I felt irritation rolling off of him in waves. The first time he’d lost his cool at all, I realized. Most people lost their patience with me much quicker than that.
“Holy shit,” he said, staring at me.
“What?” I asked, my stomach turning in response to the spike of surprise I’d picked up from him.
“What was that?” he asked. “You can sense emotions?”
“Stay the fuck out of my mind,” I said, stomping my foot.
“Then learn to shield yourself,” he shot back.
“It’s a real violation, that you keep doing that,” I said to him, irritated and stalking back to the car. “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”
I felt a tiny bit of guilt coming from him. But then he said, “Yes, and putting thoughts in someone’s mind, making them do what you want, isn’t a violation at all.”
I spun on him, glared up into his face. “You know what? Screw you. I do that, and I save lives. You followed me tonight. Those three girls would have been out on a corner in a week. I saved them from that.” I stopped, seething. I pointed at him. “And if it requires putting a fear of guns, a hatred of crime, and a terror of ever meeting me in a dark alley into any of these assholes, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Easy to abuse that power,” he said mildly, “once you decide you’ve got something to prove.”
“I don’t have anything to prove. I have a skill, and I use it. Stay away from me,” I said again, getting into the car. I slammed the door behind me, cranked up the stereo, and took off, tires screeching for good effect, into the night.
I looked at my watch. Fuck. I was way behind. I better not have failed my other lost girl, or he was going to pay. I sped toward the east side again. Checked the gas gauge. I really should get a more fuel-efficient car. Gas prices were killing me.
Chapter Two
I turned onto a mostly empty street, not too far from the Grosse Pointe Park border. So close to that moneyed life, yet worlds away. It had been a nice neighborhood once upon a time. People were trying to rejuvenate it, evidenced by the three large renovated houses that stood near Jefferson. The rest of the street was desolate, dark. I parked the car and got out.
I stood and just listened, watched. It was so quiet, which made my job easier. Noisy places were a pain in the ass. Easy to get surprised when there were a lot of background noises, cr
owds of people. I often thought how stupid my particular brand of criminals were. They hid people in emptiness. They didn’t realize that the best place to hide something was in plain sight.
I could hear something further down the block. Thumping, other muffled noises. I started walking toward the sounds. Slowed, focused, followed the sound of what I now knew was a woman; my lost girl. I reached out with my thoughts, caught them : “Oh my god I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me. Please God watch over Jakey for me.” More thumping. The woman was kicking the sides of her prison. A trunk? My telepathy was useful, but it wasn’t perfect. If the person wasn’t thinking clearly, and anyone as terrified as this woman wasn’t, then it made mind-reading a lot trickier. I was just relieved I could hear the woman’s thoughts at all. It meant I wasn’t too late.
I kept walking. One hand around my pepper spray. Another around my knife. I kept following the noises, the sound of pounding and kicking, toward a house. I crept toward it, listening. The noise was coming from the garage. The house was clearly abandoned; the garage barely standing. I gingerly pulled the garage door open. There was a red Taurus parked inside. The pounding noise was coming from inside the trunk. Bingo.
The noise in the trunk ceased, and I heard a whimper. A name came from the woman, along with an overwhelming wave of fear. Brandon.
“I’m not Brandon,” I said. The woman stayed quiet, but I felt surprise, hope from her. “I’m going to get you out of there, Teresa. Okay?”
Teresa started sobbing, and I felt relief from her. Police, the woman thought.
There wasn’t any point in correcting her. If believing I was the police made her feel better, she could go on thinking it. Fewer questions that way.
I looked around and found a crowbar on the floor in one corner of the garage. It was rusty, covered in spiderwebs, but it would work. I worked it inside the trunk, near the lock, and pushed with all my might. Harder. “Just hold on,” I said to Teresa again. I put all my weight on it, and could feel the lock starting to give.
I was still working at it when I heard gravel crunch behind me, a motor. A car door slammed, as did a whole bunch of panicked, angry thoughts. Lovely. Ex-hubby dearest had arrived. I cursed under my breath as I heard him running up the driveway.
“What the hell is going on here?” a man shouted, heading toward me. Teresa gave a cry from inside the trunk.
“Brandon?” I asked, freeing the crowbar and holding it nonchalantly at my side. My pepper spray was back in my hand.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Just, put it down.” I hefted the crowbar, glared at him. I have to kill this bitch. No other way, bury her and Teresa together and I’m done. “You really think a crow bar is going to do anything against me?” he said aloud. He laughed. I could feel anger, anxiety rolling off of him. It practically had an odor, it was so strong.
“If you’re so sure, come on and get me,” I snapped.
He pointed the gun at me. “Put it down.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
He let off a shot, then another. One grazed my thigh, but I bit back a yelp and tried to ignore it. The amount of fear and anger flowing around me was practically making me dizzy. I started walking toward him, and pushed out with my power. “You’re going to toss the gun down, now, Brandon,” I said, my voice full of power. He hesitated. “Now,” I commanded, and the garage creaked around us. He put the gun down, and the fear coming from him was absolute. I felt strengthened by it, almost giddy. “Step back,” I said. He did, and I kicked the gun behind me, under the car. I could feel blood dripping down my leg from where I’d been shot. I walked over to him, and he shook off enough of my influence to react. He got a hold of the ends of my hair, and yanked. I sprayed the pepper spray, then punched him in the face, hard. A wet sound, and then he dropped to the ground, whimpering.
“Yeah, big, tough man, kidnapping your ex,” I muttered. “You know, it’s pieces of shit like you that make it so I can never take a fucking vacation.” He started to stand up, but not quickly enough. I used the crowbar to knock him out, then bound his hands and feet with zip ties, and put some duct tape over his mouth. “Every damn day, I’m out here chasing one of you assholes down, you know that? Every. Damn. Day.” Once he was secure, I went back to the car and jammed the crowbar into the trunk, forcing it open.
The woman inside, Teresa, was tiny and scared to death, hands and feet bound with duct tape. A scarf or something was tied around her mouth. She was crying, and I started working at the gag so she could talk. She had been in there for a few days. The odor was awful. I wanted to hit Brandon a few more times. Forced back a snarl.
“Calm down,” I ordered, gently, just a little power in my voice.
“It’s you. The Angel,” the woman finally said, still crying.
I grimaced. Of all the monikers the media could have given me… “Do you need a doctor?” I asked.
The woman shook her head. She looked toward Brandon. “Is he dead?” she whispered.
“No. Just unconscious. For now.”
“I wish he was,” the woman said, staring at him. I was tempted to hand her the crowbar.
“I’m sure. I’m about to call the police to come pick him up. Do you have a way to get out of here?”
“That’s my car,” she said, pointing at the Taurus. “Brandon took the keys when he grabbed me.”
I went over to the unconscious man and dug through his pockets, coming up with some condoms, a pack of cigarettes, and the car keys. I tossed them to Teresa, then rolled Brandon out of the way.
Teresa watched me. “I’ll go to the police about him. I’ll tell them where he is, and what happened,” she said.
“They might not believe you,” I said. “They might think you did this,” I gestured at Brandon.
“Nah. I have the rope burns and bruises to prove it. And everyone knows you find lost girls,” she said, smiling. “Thank you so much,” she said, and started crying again.
I just nodded. Uncomfortable. “Okay. You should get going,” I said. Teresa nodded, then climbed into the car. I watched her drive into the night, gave the unconscious Brandon a kick for good measure, then headed down the street. Exhaustion had officially set in, and I had to work in the morning.
I walked back to my car, stumbling a little. I could feel my leg burning where I’d been shot. It wasn’t bleeding as much anymore, though. I got in and tore through the streets toward home.
When I got there, I scratched Kurt and Courtney behind the ears, then headed into the house. I went to my office first, faced the two large bulletin boards on the wall. Moved the photos of Shanti, Amber, Maria, and Teresa from the “lost” board to the “found.” I placed the pushpins precisely into the corners of each photo, ran my fingertips over each one. I inspected the wall again. The “lost” board was full. The ”found” board was filling up. And the third board, the one for girls I’d been too late for… that one had more pictures on it than it should have. I looked at their faces, the ones I’d been too slow to save, thought their names like a litany.
I looked back to the “lost” board. Shook my head. Feeling helpless now wouldn’t help them.
I limped down to the kitchen to get something to eat. I made a peanut butter sandwich and took it into the living room, flicked on a lamp and the television.
The local station interrupted Letterman with a news flash. A female reporter stood in front of one of the houses I had dropped the girls off at earlier in the night. It felt like so long ago.
A voice over said. “We interrupt this broadcast for a breaking news bulletin. Four people who went missing earlier this week have been miraculously returned to their families, from all reports, by the Angel. We’re on the scene with one of these people now.” I watched and shook my head. Media was getting stupid about this now.
“I’m here on the Southwest side with the family of Shanti Williams, who, as you may remember, along with her friends Maria Alvarez and Amber Bryant, went missing earlier this week. Witnesses sa
id they saw three men push them into a van and drive away. Tonight, all three girls are back with their families, safe and sound, and, from all reports, they have the Angel to thank! Shanti, can you tell me what happened?”
“The guys had us in an empty neighborhood. They were about to sell us to someone. We were in the van, tied up, and they were outside. And all of a sudden, we heard yelling and sounds like punching or kicking, and we were scared to death, thinking how much worse can this get, you know?”
“And then the van doors opened, and there she was. The woman who’s been finding lost girls,” Shanti said, and smiled through her tears. “She beat the hell out of two much bigger men, managed to get their guns away from them, got us out of there and drove us home. I’ve never seen anything like that my whole life. Those who don’t believe Jesus answers prayers, you’re wrong. I prayed for help, and He sent her. I know it.” And then the tears started falling.
The camera cut back to the studio. “We’re also getting reports that Teresa Marson, missing from her home for over a week, has also been found and returned to her family.”
The camera cut to another neighborhood. “I’m here in East English Village, where Teresa Marson returned home about a half hour ago.” A crowd outside the home erupted in cheers. “Teresa, can you tell us how you made it home?”
Teresa appeared on screen. Face bruised, but looking happy. “My ex-husband, Brad, kidnapped me because I wouldn’t go back to him. He bought a gun yesterday,” she said, and her voice started to tremble. “He knew people were looking for me. He was going to get rid of me tonight, he told me.”
“And I was laying in the trunk, waiting to die, and I heard someone working at the trunk, like they were trying to pry it open. But then I heard a fight start. Brad had come back, and he wasn’t happy to find her there.”
“Her?”
“The woman who rescued me. The one who finds lost girls. She fought Brad off, knocked him out, tied him up. Then she got me out of the car. I hope she’s okay,” she said, her forehead creasing. “Brad shot her, but she wouldn’t let me take her to the hospital,” she said, and then she started crying.
Lost Girl: Hidden Book One Page 2
