Freaking Off the Grid

by L. L. Muir

  “Well, hello, Jamison!” The driver’s voice was easily heard through the open window.

  Jamison? As in Mr. Jamison, her old Scottish ghost?

  No!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Skye felt like she was standing in the middle of the movie set and no one had given her a copy of the script. The white-clad Somerleds faded back down the sidewalk and around the corner, toward their fruit stand. None of them looked her in the eye.

  Well, that was just fine with her. For all she knew she’d just avoided her own kidnapping. And she had enough problems of her own without worrying about what might happen to the guy who chased her from McDonald’s.

  And what would she tell the police? That some Somerled freaks had gotten a hold of some weapon that could propel people backward like a silent, invisible explosion, and they’d just used it to force some stranger into their van and kidnapped him. No, she didn’t know who he was. No, she had no license plate number for them. And she sure as hell didn’t know their motive.

  And who was she? Where did she live?

  Un uh. The best thing to do was to hustle back to her car before somebody stole that out from under her too.

  She ran flat out for the end of the block, and when she reached the parking lot, she was completely surprised to find her green Corolla was still there. Untouched. Not surrounded by a gang of white robes. It just sat there, where she’d left it. No one hid inside—she checked—and the sun visor was still in place.

  She said a silent prayer of thanks for at least one thing in her life being where it was supposed to be.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” she told the car and turned the engine over. “Looks like it’s just you and me now.”

  She rolled the windows down a little to let the heat out, but she wouldn’t wait around until the car cooled. She did look one more time into the rearview mirror, but not because she was afraid someone was hiding in her back seat, but because, for the first time in her life, she really wished the old Scotsman would pop up again. She had a few important questions to ask and they had nothing to do with the future. For instance, did the help he saw in her future go by the same name he did?

  But Mr. Jamison was a no show.

  She turned left onto the street to keep from driving past Fernando’s even one more time. The fruit stand was also on the list of things she never cared to see again.

  It wasn’t like she needed to stick around for anything. No one was going to hand her four thousand dollars, and it wasn’t like she would be able to help the blond guy. She wouldn’t have the first clue where the van had taken him, and the police would never believe it if she told them some poor kid got nabbed by some Somerleds gone rogue.

  And they had gone rogue.

  Somerleds didn’t force people into cars against their will. They didn’t force people to do anything. It was like seeing some Amish dude sneak behind a tree and pull out a cell phone, or better—seeing some Amish dude pull his horse and buggy up in front of a strip club and head inside.

  Those things just never happened. Somerleds were docile and predictable—possibly the most predictable people ever, cult or not. The fact that some of them had turned sour kind of shook her world view.

  I’ve just got to get out of here.

  She turned toward the freeway. But just as she was about to turn onto I-15, her hands froze on the wheel and she missed the entrance. It was like her body followed someone else’s suggestions.

  Fear and adrenaline rushed through her system like an oil spill catching fire. She could feel it tingling in her fingertips. Or maybe it was the death-grip she had on the steering wheel while she waited for her hands to turn her into oncoming traffic. Minutes and miles passed, but nothing happened. She decided she had imagined it and that she was so stressed out she couldn’t function anymore.

  Yes, she wanted to get away from the bad luck that always came soon after a visit from that old ghost.

  Away from those freaks in white who just scoop people off the street.

  Away from the psycho daddy/daughter duo at the café.

  Away from Blair and…

  Away from her money!

  Damn. She wasn't going anywhere.

  She'd worked too long for that money. She'd been taking crap from the Garzas since she’d turned sixteen. She would rather die than have to accept that she'd done it all for nothing.

  And if she didn't figure out a way to get her life’s savings out of Blair the Creep’s greasy hands, she'd have no gas money to get anywhere anyway. Her worst nightmare would come true. She'd end up on the streets of Vegas.

  Gas. She needed to conserve gas. She needed to find a safe place to park.

  Even though she knew she'd be taking advantage of one of the only friends she had, she headed back to Michael Pollock’s house. At least she felt a little safe there, like, if some stranger were chasing her, she'd have a place to run. She could scream and Michael’s mom might care enough to let her in.

  She had to give herself a break and think as simply as possible. Parking at Pollock’s was Step One. She would think of it as the first step to getting her money back. She had no idea what Step Two would be. Maybe a ghost would come around and give her some suggestions.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jamison woke with a fly buzzing on the inside of his head. He could still smell the chloroform on his face. The ribs of the van floor pressed into his hip. He must have been lying there for a while.

  He didn't move. He wanted to get his head clear before he dealt with them. After a few minutes of listening to variances in breathing and the slide and thump of shifting bodies, he guessed there were at least three others in the back of the van with him.

  “He's awake,” said one of the guys up front. Probably a mind reader, like his friend Lucas.

  Guess his mental defenses weren't functioning yet.

  “Sit up, brave boy.” A hand lifted his elbow and pulled him off the floor. The sleeve around that hand was filthy on the edges. Jamison would love to hear what Lanny had to say about that. He'd seen Somerleds crawl out of a muddy ditch looking cleaner.

  A gong went off in his skull, the after effects of the chloroform, probably. But when the ringing died off, the buzzing was gone too. He groaned a little, though, so they wouldn't expect too much from him.

  “He's plotting his escape,” the first guy said. He was sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the front window. His whites were immaculate.

  Jamison remembered when he’d had to keep Lucas from reading his mind and decided he'd better practice. He didn't have any idea how long they were going to detain him, but he wasn't going to sit there and let that guy narrate his every thought.

  The clean guy turned back and smirked. Good luck, he said in Jamison’s head.

  Undaunted, Jamison set aside the emotions he'd gone through all the way to Nevada and concentrated on the monotonous scenery. Sagebrush. Scrub Oak. A red cliff here and there. Sagebrush. Scrub Oak. A Ranch Exit sign.

  “We have a problem,” the Clean Guy said to the driver.

  “What?”

  “Better knock him out again.”

  A fresh wave of chloroform wafted his way and Jamison started thrashed with everything he had. His elbow connected with the guy to his right, the guy who'd helped him sit up. Something wet splashed across Jamison's arm and the other two sitting on the floor with him started using curse words that could never have been on the list of Acceptable Vocabulary for Somerleds.

  Something was definitely off among the Somerleds of Nevada, and he stopped blaming the Somerleds from Colorado for not coming along to help. They probably thought whatever it was might be contagious.

  Jamison turned his head away from the fumes and felt the guy with the dirty sleeve collapse into the van wall at their back. Then his body was dragged away from Jamison along with the rest of the fumes. Jamison held his breath and turned to find the short one he’d fought on the street squatting in front of him throwing a punch. He ducked at the same time he ya
nked on Shorty’s arm. The fist slammed the metal wall and the guy cried out.

  But that wasn't right. Somerleds shouldn’t feel anything!

  If his enemies were somehow mortal, his odds might be a lot better than he'd expected!

  While the Shorty shook his hurt hand, the last guy backed away from Jamison and dropped onto his butt next to the one who had passed out. He started pulling up the hem of his robe, like maybe it, too, had been doused with the chloroform. Jamison was shocked to find the dude was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but even more shocked when he pulled a gun from his belt.

  “I'm done with this bullshit,” he said, pointing the gun at Jamison's head.

  Jamison quickly raised his hands in the air. He wasn’t going to be any use to anyone if he was dead. And besides that, he really didn’t want to die. He might have wanted to when he thought Skye was gone from his life forever, but that seemed like ages ago.

  “If you have to shoot him,” said the clean one, in that passive Somerled tone, “don't kill him.”

  The guy rolled his eyes. “Ya think?”

  Jamison backed up tight against the wall, pulled his knees up to his chest, and locked his arms around them, hoping they would take it as a sign of his submission. Then he lowered his head, avoiding what fumes remained, and thought about that long road again…

  Because anything else he might think about—or any one—might be safer if he forgot all about them.

  ~ ~ ~

  Michael’s house was in the kind of neighborhood where 2007 Corollas weren’t classy enough to drive down the street, even back in 2007. It wasn’t that the multimillionaires who lived there would be watching out their windows for suspiciously poor looking characters, but their security staffs would.

  Skye felt like a hillbilly in a pickup truck as she made her way to the mansion at the end of the street. She should have waited until dark. Or she should have stolen a pizza sign and stuck it on her roof.

  She’d been out of a job for half a day and already she was thinking about stealing things! What was wrong with her?

  She pulled up to the gate that blocked the driveway running along the right side of the house. Out past the gardens, there was a giant pool house with an indoor pool and waterslide. And on the outside, another swimming pool. Beyond it all was a little spot where Michael’s mother had allowed her to park for the last few weeks. She’d been allowed to use the shower in the pool house, and had been completely, blessedly ignored with the understanding that Skye would be moving on as soon as she turned eighteen. Michael’s mother wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type, but she was reasonable.

  Next to the red brick pillar, Skye rolled down her window and the late afternoon heat flooded in while she punched in the security code. The red light flashed. The gate didn’t open.

  She tried the code again. No go.

  Though she hated to bother anyone, she pushed the button for help. The security dude said, “One moment, please,” instead of his usual, “How you doin’?”

  Skye closed her eyes and took a deep breath, bracing herself for more bad news. It was almost funny, the way things were falling apart. One day, she’d look back and be amazed at the amount of crap that could land on one person’s head in a single day.

  She looked up at the house and saw a curtain fall back into place. Then she watched the front door, hoping Michael would pop outside to come straighten things out. She really didn’t want to remind the woman that someone was squatting in her backyard.

  Michael stepped out the door and Skye smiled with relief. But then Mrs. Pollock appeared and followed him down the stairs, and together they headed toward the gate. The woman’s boney arms were folded, her face stern, and Skye was tempted to throw her car in reverse and drive away before she could be told to leave. But she wouldn’t be rude to Michael after all he’d done for her. She’d survived being fired. She could survive being evicted from a parking space.

  She turned off her car and got out, then walked over to the gate. “Hello, Mrs. Pollock,” she said with a smile. “Hi, Michael.” Then she resisted fidgeting with her fingernails while she waited for the pair to reach her.

  Michael nodded and grimaced.

  “Hello, Skye,” his mother said curtly behind him. “I’m sorry but I can’t allow you to stay here anymore. The neighbors have complained. You stay safe now.” And with her rehearsed speech delivered, she turned and started marching back to the house without ever having unfolded her arms.

  Skye called after her. “You’ve been very kind to let me stay so long already. Thank you!”

  The woman looked over her shoulder and nodded, but never slowed.

  Michael stepped closer to the gate and gripped the bars. “Mr. Blair called her a little while ago.”

  “He did?” She shuddered to think the man knew where she’d been staying. But she guessed Henderson was a smaller place than she’d hoped. Of course parents talked. And there weren’t a lot of green Corollas in town. Someone must have noticed her out-of-place vehicle and mentioned it to Blair. And if he’d been visiting the bank across from Fernando’s, he probably noticed her car in the parking lot from time to time, no matter how far she parked from the street.

  “Yeah, he did.” Michael shrugged. “He told my mom you’ve been hooking—”

  Hooking! That slimeball!

  “And that he was sent a statement of your bank account and you’ve got so much money it can only be from hooking or dealing.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed to be telling her, or embarrassed to be talking to a hooker.

  She took a deep breath if only to keep from screaming. “I’m not, though. Just so you know.”

  Michael grinned. “I know. Duh.”

  She didn’t deserve his loyalty, but she was grateful for it.

  “I’ve been saving my paychecks for two years,” she explained. “Spending only my tips. It added up, that’s all.”

  “I figured, and I told my mom you weren’t like that, but she says that either way, you can afford to go somewhere else.” He grimaced. “I’m so sorry.”

  Skye nodded. “I can. Don’t worry. But I don’t want you to think I was using you. It’s just that no one will let me sign a contract until I’m eighteen, you know?”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dumb. I didn’t think you were using me. But you know where to find me if you ever decide to.” He raised his eyebrows a couple of times, then laughed.

  She laughed along.

  His smile dropped. “But seriously, Skye. If you’re ever in trouble, give me a call. Things get pretty dull around here.” He gestured to the house behind him.

  His mother was standing behind a sheer curtain, watching. She probably thought Skye couldn’t see her.

  “Thanks, Michael. For everything. And I’ll keep your number, just in case.”

  “See you at school?”

  She nodded and climbed back into her car, then waved when she pulled away.

  If Blair the Creep was standing in the middle of the road at that moment, Skye was sure she’d run him over. He’d stolen her money, her plans to get out of Nevada, and the one safe place she had left. And there was nothing she could do about it except to hate him.

  The foster system had been part of her life for years, but she’d never really hated anyone, even Blair the Creep. Instead, she tried to do as she’d been taught by her parents—to pity those folks who could never be truly happy. She’d always disliked Jessica and her father, but tried not to let their warped personalities determine her own mindset.

  But not now.

  For nearly eighteen years, she’d been able to keep others’ hatefulness from sticking to her. How could all that change in one day?

  And where was she going to go now? Because she refused to sit and bleed out in the alley that had become her life.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The van floor was going to be permanently imprinted on Jamison's butt. When they did the autopsy, they’d think someone had tried to grill him
.

  They’d been traveling for hours, it seemed, before the van finally pulled off onto a dirt road. Everyone was upright again, but by the looks on their faces, Jamison wasn’t the only one with a raging headache.

  His ears had popped, so they were in the mountains somewhere. If he could trust his internal compass to work in a windowless cargo van, he guessed they’d traveled north and east. Maybe close to Lake Mead.

  It was another fifteen minutes or more before the van stopped. The side door opened. Bright sunlight and a fresh trio of Somerleds in much cleaner robes waited for him to get out. Once on his feet, one of them pulled Jamison’s arms behind him and zip-tied his hands together. He might have fought if one guy wasn’t pointing a wicked looking Taser at him. The prongs looked like giant spider fangs waiting anxiously for him to misbehave.

  Fifty feet away was a sprawling ranch house and they pushed him toward it at a fast clip. He didn’t have much of a chance to look around. Yes, they were in the mountains. Lots of red stone around. There was a large barn. A faded yellow tractor six inches deep in dirt. Nothing productive seemed to be going on compared to the two Somerled compounds he’d known. There were no animals. No planted fields. And maybe there never had been.

  Was it abandoned? Or had everything been built for show?

  He looked over his shoulder at the corral. There was something wrong about it. And only after they ushered him inside the house did he realize what that something was. The fence wasn’t complete. Front and sides only, like some false façade for a low-budget Western.

  There was something just so wrong about all of it—the farm, the Somerled imposters—he was just glad they hadn’t captured Skye instead of him.

  They moved from the porch into the heart of the house and he laughed to himself. The building was basically empty. The back wall was wide and blank. There was a discarded length of cable on the ground along with one of those little tracks for a movie camera. The ceiling was open and still held a single black canned light. At one time it would have held dozens, along with a few microphone booms. He’d seen a movie set like this before just outside Flat Springs where an entire Western town was built in a week and then torn down in less than two days.