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The second time she woke, she felt considerably better than the first. But by this point Sam knew better than to trust her feelings. The low hum, faint vibration, and seatbelt lumped around her stomach told her she was in a car. Slitting her eyes open, she took stock of the situation. She was laid out in a back seat of a four-door car, her feet propped up on something—actually, she realized, someone.
“She’s awake! Lane, she just woke up.”
This tense voice was a new one, pitched high with stress. The second voice that joined it was more of a baritone, and more excited: “Oh, awesome! Lane, why don’t you let me take the wheel so you can do your mojo again?”
Sam squeezed her eyes shut, trying to pretend she was asleep so these guys—whoever they were—would decide against knocking her out again.
“Ha ha—no you can’t drive. Nice try. And let her wake up, it has to happen sometime and I don’t have the energy to keep her asleep forever.”
This voice was unmistakable. Her rescuer/kidnapper, now the driver, apparently.
The person whose lap her legs were resting on shook her feet: “We know you’re conscious.”
Sam shrugged and sat up, noticing her headache was gone. Nice. How long had it been since she could last think straight? A week? She guessed a little oxygen deprivation and enforced rest was all she’d needed. Thinking of which, “Where are you taking me?”
Three pairs of eyes were now on her, and for the first time Sam got a good look at her kidnappers. Not exactly what she’d imagine as girl snatcher types. All in their mid to late twenties, they seemed so, so... normal.
Sitting shotgun was a good-looking guy with a dark complexion, wearing an “isn’t this fun!” grin. He looked to be of Middle Eastern heritage, but his bearing was more of a surfer dude. Her feet rested on a slightly pudgy blonde whose curly blond hair, glasses, and round face put her in mind of a teddy bear. OK. So maybe they didn’t fit the profile perfectly. But true psychopaths rarely did, right?
Samantha took a deep breath. Maybe her best bet here would be the rational approach: “Look,” she said, “I don’t know what is going on here, but I do know what you’re doing is a felony. You need to stop the car and let me out. Right now.”
Blondie shrugged, “That might be a tad problematic.”
“Problematic?” Sam said, “How?”
“You’re a couple hundred miles from home,” the surfer dude supplied helpfully.
“A couple—” Sam looked out the window, jaw dropping. Sure enough, the big city had disappeared, giving way to less than scenic desert. They were heading east on the 10. The numerous, skeletal Joshua trees dotting the flat landscape were a dead giveaway. The night stretched out, long and endless across the desert.
“Shit.” She muttered, then, louder, “Stop the car. I want out. I want out now.”
“Hey, Al,” Blondie said caustically, “Way to freak her out. Why don’t you just tell her we’re aliens?”
“You think you’re aliens?” Sam said, garbling the words.
A strangled laugh erupted from the front driver’s seat. Lane coughed and looked at Sam in the rear-view mirror, “Sorry. You have to give Al and Harry a break. We’re new at this.”
“Kidnapping?”
“Rescuing you,” he said, “Stone was about to kill you, remember?”
“I’m sorry, it all tends to boil down to the same crazy,” Sam said. “This is the last time I ask nicely. Let. Me. Out.”
“Did she ever ask nicely?” Al said, looking over at Lane. Lane shook his head.
“Fine.” Desperate times called for desperate measures. Unbuckling her seatbelt, Sam whipped opened the car door and looked out at the whirring pavement below. Her breath caught. God. This was going to be harder than she thought. But better to critically injure herself now, where she might get help, then be murdered somewhere in the middle of nowhere later. Right? Right? Somewhere between her brain’s orders to “jump” and her body’s response her gut kicked in and she hesitated.
Two pudgy, but still strong, arms latched around her stomach: “Don’t do it!”
Air rushed into the vehicle at seventy miles per hour. Sam’s long hair whipped back, stinging her face, mouth, and eyes as she tried to push the door open. Grunting, Harry worked against her, pulling on the door handle while struggling to maintain his grip around her middle. Using her index and middle fingers, Sam hooked his nostrils and yanked upwards, using her other hand to push him away. “OW!” he yelled, “OW OW OW! THAT HURTS!”
Sam responded by kneeing him in the groin. He started crying, but stubbornly held on. Damn, that fat kid had determination!
“Shut the door!”
Accompanying the command came an abrupt decrease in acceleration. Without a seatbelt, Samantha flew forward, slamming into the back of the passenger seat, sliding with a thump onto the car floor. Harry undid his own seatbelt, crawled across the seat, and pulled the still open door shut. Sam started to get up, but that deceptive calm returned, easing through her like warm molasses. Relaxing, she melted against the car floor.
The locks slid into place with a “thunk” as the car sped up again. Shoot. There went her chance. She knew she should be upset, but upset was buried under a mountain of unfamiliar contentment. The carpet on the car floor was comfy, scratchy against her chin. Someday, Sam thought, I’ll figure out how he’s doing that and make sure he stops. But for now, I think I’ll just lie down here. Lying down isn’t bad.
Up front, Lane cleared his throat: “Why don’t you buckle your seatbelt and we’ll explain everything like civilized folks.”
Samantha pulled herself back onto the car seat, buckling up. Harry huddled in the corner opposite, gingerly touching his nose and looking at her like a wounded puppy.
Fine, Sam thought, I don’t care. Anyone would have done the same in my situation. She crossed her arms, turning away. Stubbornness was the only thing maintaining her indignation now. That warm molasses feeling still fought to overwhelm her.
“All right,” Sam said, “Explain.”
“Look,” Lane said, “I couldn’t take you to the police because the police can’t help you. They have no defense against people like Stone.”
“You mean well-dressed?” Her inner smart aleck was still alive and kicking, at least.
”No, I mean, Talents—uh, people with special abilities.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Were you still conscious when Stone used telekinesis to slam you into the wall? Or were you already out of it? That’s what I mean by ‘special’.”
Samantha declined a response.
“Or like what you did with the bus!” Al said. “Ohmigod that was totally special. Beyond special. I haven’t seen TK like that in, like, my whole entire life.”
Sam gave Al a bewildered look, “Are you talking about the bus crash? Because that had nothing to do with me. That was just luck.” Bad luck getting in the bus. Good luck surviving.
“Right, you had nothing to do with that,” Al said, still chattering, “That’s why you blacked out. That’s why you’ve been having headaches ever since. Am I right? I bet I’m right.”
OK, so she had blacked out. And she had been having headaches. That didn’t prove anything. Maybe it just proved they were creepy obsessive stalkers.
Unwilling to respond, lest she gave them the idea she thought their claims were rational, Sam re-crossed her arms and stared out the window. She pretended not to notice Al, who faced the wrong way on his seat, arms wrapped around the headrest, chin on top and staring at her. Harry, too, watched her, though somewhat more covertly.
So what if they seemed like nice guys? They believed in telekinesis and special abilities, and thought she had those abilities herself. She shouldn’t feel safe in this environment. She knew she shouldn’t. Which was why she had to get out. Any way possible.
“Anyone hungry?” Lane asked.
Chapter 4
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Harry whi
spered to Lane as they walked into the diner. The concern eased off his friend in a gentle fog that Lane had long grown accustomed to.
“I’m not an idiot, Harry,” Lane said, “but this will be a lot easier if she’s cooperative, and the only way I can think of to win her trust is to trust her first. Besides, I’m hungry.”
Situated in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the long haul between Los Angeles and Vegas, Mary Lou’s diner aspired to become its own tourist attraction as an authentic 1950s diner. The doors were plastered with signs making poor attempts at humor: “Here’s a tip: Food comes spit free if you tip us, too!”
They pulled the double doors open and were hit with a solid cold blast of AC. Passing through a small entry, the building branched into two areas. To the left was the recent addition, a convenience store and gift shop for people in a hurry. To the right was the original part of the building, a diner for travelers who wanted a sit-down meal and an authentic 1950s dining experience. Authentic in that very little looked like it had been cleaned since the actual fifties.
A cheery sign said, “Sit yourself down!” Guests got to choose between the left—about ten barstools lined up along a gray Formica countertop—or the right side, faded red-vinyl booths.
The waiters all wore matching paper hats and frilly aprons, and a glass case hanging over the oven advertised the pies for sale. At this time of night, there were only a few other diners, and the waitress lounged against the counter, chatting with the chef.
“Just remember, Lane, you can’t read minds,” Harry whispered as the four slid into one of the booths. At his words, Lane glanced across the table at Sam.
Her face was a blank, but Lane could sense the riotous mixture of emotions going on underneath: anxiety, stress, suspicion. Not the best combination, he had to admit. And Harry was right. While growing up with being able to read others’ emotions—and knowing how to control them—lent an air of balance to Lane, his empathic powers didn’t make him a mind reader, especially for someone as opaque as this one.
Meanwhile, the kicking, screaming banshee had disappeared. Sam sat across from the two of them, hands in her lap, calm, composed. Her posture was impressive. She couldn’t be more than 5’6”, but the way she held herself made her come across as taller. So did the strength in her gaze. Again, Lane felt he’d made the right choice. There was no railroading this woman: their best bet was to lay their cards on the table and see how she took it.
Unfortunately, the truth in this case was not going to seem exactly, well, truth-like. Lane waited until the waitress arrived to take their order. Once everyone had settled, he decided to begin.
“The bus accident,” Lane said, “How have you been feeling since then?”
Sam shrugged noncommittally. Sighing, Lane went on, “I know Al mentioned this, but have you been getting a lot of headaches lately? Have strange things been happening to you?”
“Define ‘strange’.”
Al, unused to being quiet for this long, couldn’t resist jumping in: “Lights flickering when you enter the room. You overhear people talking to themselves. Maybe you get angry and a window breaks.”
“Let Lane handle this, Al,” Harry said.
“I am,” Al said. Rolling his eyes, he sat back and crossed his arms. Luckily, the food arrived, forestalling further conversation until the waitress was gone.
“So you think the incident with the bus means that I have magical abilities. And headaches.”
When put that way, it seemed so stupid. Lane shook his head, “Not magic, not exactly. And we think your transition is causing headaches. That’s the number one sign of transition.” Al leaned over to grab one of Harry’s pancakes, which Lane promptly snatched back and returned to Harry. Harry hesitated, looked at the pancake, and evidently decided it would be a long trip if he gave up eating what others had touched. He slathered jam and butter on the pancake, rolled it up, and cut it into pieces before eating.
Arching an eyebrow, Sam turned to Lane for more information.
“Uh, so you know how they say that we aren’t using our brains to their fullest capacity?”
“Yes, that’s hokum science used to explain psychics. But it’s not true.”
“It’s not complete hokum!” Al interjected, shooting an offended look towards Lane. Actually, it was Lane’s area of expertise, researching the how and why talents existed.
“Magic, the paranormal, and psychic powers all fall into the same realm: wishful thinking.”
This was ridiculous, Lane thought, he’d seen the books she’d been reading—now she was lecturing him about magical thinking?
“Do you get off on being cynical, or is it just us you enjoy baiting?” Lane was normally patient, but this girl sure did know how to press his buttons.
A glimmer of a smile appeared on Sam’s face, “Well, you did kidnap me.”
“Rescue,” Al corrected her, “We rescued you from Stone. That creep is hardcore evil.”
“We?” Samantha said, “I seem to recall only one brick-wielding white knight.”
Al purpled, and Lane decided now was a good time to interject. But before he got a chance, Samantha stood up.
“Where are you going?” Harry asked, giving Lane an alarmed look.
“To the bathroom. I’m allowed, aren’t I?”
This last question was aimed at Lane. It was a test, he knew. Either they were her captors or her heroes. Dictating this now would decide for her. Lane reached out with his mind. Sam was more self-contained than most, but he could still sense her feelings if he tried. Her emotions had settled since they entered the restaurant. Smiling, Lane waved his hand towards the restrooms, “Don’t let us keep you.”
He watched her go. Cynical, maybe, but that girl had a nice walk.
“Dude, you listening to me?”
No, he hadn’t been.
Watching Sam shimmy towards the ladies’ room, Harry leaned over to Lane, “What are you reading?”
Lane frowned, shrugging, “She’s tense, but that’s understandable. Anything more is hard to tell. Doing a read on her is like trying to read Tolstoy upside down in a mirror.”
“She’s a hard read because she’s in transition,” Al said, “People are always screwed up during transition.”
“Or maybe she’s been a Talent for years and is just faking us out. There are a lot of possible explanations, Al,” Harry said, “Right, Lane? I mean, you’re the almost doctor here; isn’t she too old for transition?”
“Headaches can be anything. And it’s not like we’ve seen her power firsthand.”
“And there’s something off about her,” Harry said, “She’s almost too calm. Especially for having just been kidnapped.”
Lane nodded, “If it’ll make you feel better, we’ll call N.T.U. and have them run a background check.”
“Thank you,” Harry said, “That will make me feel better.” The three chewed in silence, waiting, trying not to watch the bathroom door too closely.
“What do you think she’s doing in there?” Harry said.
A milkshake was the only thing Sam had ordered, and now it sat melting on the countertop, barely touched.
“Doing her makeup?” Al ventured a guess. They’d returned her purse to her, which, in retrospect, might not have been the best idea.
“She doesn’t seem the type,” Lane said.
“Maybe,” Harry said, “she’s calling the police.”
Ding-a-ling.
The three men looked over as the door swung open and four C.H.P. officers walked in. Lane glanced out the window and saw two more cops leaning against his car. He looked over at Harry, who raised his eyebrows in an angry, “I told you so!” expression. Two of the officers approached their table.
“Hello sirs,” the tallest one said, “We’re going to have to ask you to step outside.”
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“Are you OK, miss?” The police officer asking was heavy, just large enough to be intimidating, Sam noted with satisfaction.
&nbs
p; She nodded, “I’m fine, thank you.” She was now. The manager on duty had kindly provided her with a Dr. Pepper and the caffeine was doing wonders for her outlook on life. She stood now in the newer part of the building, leaning against the cashier’s counter in the gift shop/convenience store that aimed to pry even more money from passing travelers’ hands. Heck, even Sam was feeling tempted to splurge. A clever fridge magnet might be just the right kind of souvenir for this experience.
”You did the right thing,” the first officer’s partner said, a middle-aged woman making a concerted effort to be warm and motherly. She’d introduced herself as “Fran” and the name fit. “You kept them calm, but called the police. That was exactly perfect.”
”Are they going to jail?”
Fran shrugged, “Kidnapping is a felony. And the F.B.I. will probably want to get involved, since they carried you across state lines. Then again, a lot of it depends on what you’re willing to do. What charges you want to press.”
Did she want to press charges? They had kidnapped her, for crying out loud, but they seemed so absolutely convinced they were doing the right thing, and she hadn’t been hurt. It was just so strange.
“Don’t worry, hon. You’re safe now.”
Safe. Yes, safe. Through a slat in the blinds, Sam had just watched as Lane, Harry, and Al were read their rights and none-too-gently shoved in the back of a car. They looked so embarrassed and stricken, she’d felt even guiltier.
Don’t. She reminded herself, remember your mantra: better safe than sorry. Besides, nice guys ask your permission before carrying you across state lines.
“Miss, did you hear me miss?”
Sam blinked at Fran and shook her head in response, “I asked if you knew anyone who could come here and pick you up. Friends? Family?”
Sam frowned. She hadn’t had a proper family since middle school, and friends were not exactly her strong suit. Sure, she had lots of acquaintances, people she was friendly with, but someone willing to drive two and a half hours to come pick her up? The only person who came into mind was Anne, and her roommate didn’t own a car. Though Anne usually dated a guy who did.
Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) Page 3
