The Forbidden Trilogy

by Kimberly Kinrade

  I looked around the property. Majestic pines soared to the sky, their brown needles littering the forest floor. The log cabin looked more spacious than I'd expected, with large windows on every wall. "This place does have indoor plumbing, right? Because I'm so not squatting outside."

  Brad stopped the car and opened his door. "Yeah, it's got plumbing, and electricity. Just no phone. Don't worry. Let's go."

  Drake somehow beat me to my own door and opened it before I could even touch the handle. He offered his hand, and I placed mine in it, relishing the warmth of the contact. The guys grabbed the bags, and we walked up a few wooden steps to the front door. The smell of pine assaulted me as we approached.

  Brad knocked once, rang the doorbell and waited.

  My throat dried up and my stomach danced with angry bees as I imagined this man's reaction to our ludicrous story. If he really didn't have a phone, maybe we could run before he called the cops. But if he didn't have a phone, would he have internet? We still needed to get that blog viral.

  My cotton shirt clung to my body as sweat crawled down my back despite the cold. What if Professor Shaw wasn't even home? Then what would we do?

  Before I could create an alternate plan, the door opened, revealing a fit man in his sixties with a full head of white hair gracing his head like a halo. His clear blue eyes widened in surprise, but not anger. I immediately slipped into his mind to monitor him, despite how shaky I felt.

  'Good to see the boy. Looking a bit thin. Wonder what stories await from these three.... '

  His thoughts were benign, nothing to panic about. Yet.

  Brad and the professor hugged, then Brad turned to us. "Professor, these are my friends, Drake and Sam. We, um, need your help. Can we come in?"

  The professor opened the door wide and stepped aside. "Of course."

  We followed him into a spacious, entirely civilized living room with a deep, overstuffed couch, two armchairs, and a large coffee table that actually looked like an ottoman.

  Professor Shaw followed my eyes. "That table belonged to someone famous once. Be damned if I can ever remember who. Paid enough for it, though!"

  "You have a lovely home," I said.

  "Thank you. Now why don't you and Drake go sit down and make yourselves comfortable. Brad and I will get some drinks and snacks." He looked to Brad. "Come along."

  The guys dropped the luggage in the corner, and Drake and I sat on the couch while Brad and the professor disappeared into what was presumably the kitchen.

  'Well?' Drake asked.

  "Well, so far his thoughts are of normal things. He's happy to see Brad, loves him to death, actually, and he's curious about us. No red flags yet."

  'Okay. Don't exhaust yourself though. You shouldn't read him until you have to.'

  "I know. I'm fine."

  'Right.'

  Drake put his arm around me, and I sank into him, grateful for his strength.

  Clanking noises came from the kitchen, then both men walked through the swinging door carrying trays with sandwiches, fruit, juice and water.

  They set their trays on the famous ottoman, and Professor Shaw waved his hand over the food. "Please, help yourself."

  I greedily loaded my plate with food, and poured a glass of water. I hadn't realized how hungry and thirsty I'd been.

  Professor Shaw let us eat in silence, but once the last crumb had been licked off my lips, the questions began. "So tell me. What kind of trouble are you in and how can I help?"

  I froze. We'd told Brad our story, but he'd grown up with Drake. He knew this stuff existed. And yeah, we were about to spill it all on Brad's blog, but I didn't have to sit face-to-face with doubters and haters.

  Drake squeezed my hand. 'It's okay. If you hear anything off in his thoughts, we'll leave. We can overpower him physically or mentally. He can't hurt you.'

  I knew he meant that to be comforting, but it had the opposite effect. Professor Shaw didn't deserve to be "overpowered." We'd barged in on his life, uninvited and unannounced. How could we consider punishing him for not buying our story?

  All eyes in the room were on me, which I guess made sense, but I didn't have to like it. I took a deep breath and tried to still my shaking body. It didn't work.

  Professor Shaw's kind, understanding eyes held mine. "Just start from the beginning. I don't bite."

  So I did. I'd have thought that retelling my story would be easier. If anything, my vocal chords, as if working against my will, were more reluctant than ever to give up my secrets. All my life, I'd been told that if I revealed them to the wrong person, everything would be screwed.

  I talked for nearly an hour. No one so much as breathed too loud.

  My sweaty hand clutched Drake's cool palm. "So, that's the story. Whoever is after us is very dangerous. We didn't know where to go or what to do. Brad said we should come here."

  No one spoke for several minutes.

  A fly buzzed past my ear, startling me so bad I jumped and broke the silence with a chirp. I felt the blood rush to my face. "Sorry. Nerves."

  "Who wouldn't be nervous after all you've been through?" said Professor Shaw.

  'Poor girl. Can't believe she's been through so much. She must be exhausted.'

  My eyes flicked to him. "Professor, you believe me?"

  He harrumphed. "Please call me Bernard. And yes, I believe you."

  I couldn't help but grin. "Bernard Shaw. Really? As in the famous Irish playwright and novelist?"

  He smiled. "Yes. Actually, George Bernard Shaw, but I've always gone by Bernard. My parents had a sense of humor."

  "A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and...."

  "...art into pedantry. Hence University education," Bernard finished. "One of my favorite quotes."

  So far, I liked him.

  My brain pounded from the lengthy connection. I rubbed my head.

  'Sam, pull out. If any red flags pop up, you can go back in, but you're going to kill yourself.'

  "Okay, for now. I just don't want any more surprises."

  The pressure eased as I slipped out of the Professor's mind, and I enjoyed the solitude of my own thoughts. "Why do you believe me? This story is preposterous. Don't you want to at least test us? Have me read your mind?"

  "All right, what am I thinking?"

  Drake frowned at me, but I slipped in and out just fast enough to grab his thought. 'Brad needs a girlfriend. He's wasting away as a bachelor.'

  "Ha! Really? Brad, apparently the good professor here thinks you need a girlfriend to fatten you up. Though I have to say that assuming the girl will feed him is a bit sexist."

  Brad sat up straighter. "I do not need a girl in my life right now. Are you kidding me? How would I even see her?"

  He made eye contact with me, then turned his head sharply and looked at Bernard. "I know you're open-minded, but I didn't expect them to win you over so quickly. What aren't you telling us?"

  Bernard picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. "I spent a lot of years writing for some pretty big publications: Newsweek, U.S. News & World Report, The New York Times and L.A. Times. As an investigative reporter, it was my job to uncover the stories no one else could break. Once, when I was young and cocky, I landed on something I knew would be Pulitzer material, only I kept hitting dead ends. Not just normal, contacts-dried-up, leads-too-scared-to-talk dead ends, but literally—people kept ending up dead. All accidents, of course, unrelated to me or my story, but my gut told me there was more to it. I didn't take the hint. I kept prying."

  He put his mug down and pulled up his flannel shirt, revealing a fairly toned stomach for an old guy—and a nasty, familiar-looking scar.

  "You were shot." I rubbed the still-healing bullet wound on my own arm.

  Brad's eyebrows shot up. He'd obviously never heard this story.

  I asked the question I already knew the answer to. "What story were you working on?"

  He looked me straight in the eyes. "I'd met some very power
ful people who, in exchange for not having their names plastered all over national headlines, offered me an interesting story about kids with paranormal abilities who are rented out as spies."

  My mouth dried up in an instant. I couldn't swallow. I grabbed my water and chugged it. Clients who broke Rent-A-Kid's confidentiality agreement faced serious harm. Though, it did make sense that someone would spill the beans eventually—especially if a famous reporter had serious dirt on them, and they needed to shine the spotlight on an even bigger story to protect themselves.

  Bernard continued, "Of course, I didn't believe them at first. They would have said or done anything to keep me from printing what I knew about them. But they had proof. They'd kept videos, pictures, and other records of the kids they hired. I looked through it all and.... What if it was true? The evidence was damning, but that could have been faked. So they agreed to hire a kid spy and let me see the powers firsthand."

  I perked up. He'd met someone from my school? "How long ago was this?"

  "Oh, I don't know, eighteen years ago. I met a girl who could move objects with her mind. I wouldn't have believed it, but I witnessed it with my own eyes. I started asking around, using contacts to dig up dirt on other wealthy and powerful members of our society. Not everyone used this service, but I found two more who had and were willing to trade information to keep me quiet.

  "I can only assume I was getting too close, because one day my house was robbed of all my research, and I was shot and left for dead. On that same day, someone killed all three of my contacts. It took me months to recover physically. I lost the trail and could never figure out how to pick it back up. After that, I tried going back into journalism, but had lost the appetite for it. That's when I started teaching. So yes, Sam, I believe you."

  I exhaled hard, expelling the pent-up pressure in my lungs in one great whoosh. I didn't know what I had expected from the professor, but this punched me in the gut.

  Drake shifted on the couch. "Maybe coming here was a bad idea. If you're already on their radar, we could be putting you in a lot of danger."

  "I'm tired of hiding. This is the story that got away, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let it get away again. I'll help you kids as much as I can. Consider this your home while we figure out what to do next. I still have some powerful connections here and there. Sam, if you'd like, I can take a sample of your hair and find out what drugs you were given."

  "That'd be great. I'm over the worst of it, but I hate not knowing what was done to me. This test... it's confidential, right?"

  "Yes, your identity will be protected."

  Bernard went over to his desk and pulled out a small vial.

  I plucked a few hairs from the root and handed them over.

  He slipped them into the vial and filled out a form. "I'll have these picked up right away. We should have an answer within a day or two."

  He looked at Brad. "And you, what have you done with your writing career since last we spoke?"

  Brad found something fascinating to stare at on his shoe. "Been trying to carve a niche for myself in journalism, like you taught me. It's not an easy world to break into."

  How sad for him to feel disgraced in front of his mentor, I thought. "Brad does have a thriving blog, though, and he's using that to get our story out. He's going to be famous soon."

  Brad smiled at me as his body relaxed.

  "I may be an old man, but even I know the internet is quickly replacing print media. Hell, it's replacing print everything. I'm proud of you for sticking with it, Brad. Let's take a look at this blog of yours and see what we can do to spice it up. It's time I got my story out there too."

  Brad beamed at the professor and grabbed his computer bag. They went to the dining room table next to the living room and sat shoulder-to-shoulder.

  Bernard shouted back without turning to us. "Spare rooms are down the hall and to the right. Bathroom is on the left. Make yourself comfortable. Food's in the kitchen."

  I stood and stretched. "Thank you."

  His only response was a grunt as he focused on Brad's articles.

  ***

  After two days with the professor, I knew my instincts had been correct. Not only was he helpful to Brad and his blogging ambitions, but he and I enjoyed long talks about ethics and the world of para-powers.

  "So, you don't think powers are inherently right or wrong?" The mug warmed my hands, and the tea did the same for my insides.

  In a look that I had come to recognize as his "thinking face," Bernard's eyes glazed over. "No, I don't. However these powers came to be, they are tools like any other."

  Father Patrick had said much the same to Drake, I knew. I looked forward to meeting the man who had been like a father to him. When Drake told us of the priest's property and his willingness to help us, it changed everything. We now had a real chance to rescue my friends.

  I took a sip of my tea and savored the spices on my tongue before I responded. "Criminals often argue that they are born that way—sociopaths and serial killers in particular. By your reasoning, anyone without a conscience can do whatever they please, right?"

  "I'm not suggesting a moral free-for-all just because you have paranormal abilities. I am suggesting that the power of mind control is not inherently evil, as you seem to believe. There are situations when it can be used for good."

  "But who decides what's good and what's not? Doesn't everyone think they are on the side of good, that their actions can be justified? How will we survive as a society if we don't have clearly defined rules about para-powers, especially if me and my friends are indicative of a new trend in human evolution?"

  Brad ran into the living room waving around his laptop. "Hey guys, my numbers are way up! Sam, I got 500 hits yesterday from our interview. Lots of comments too. Most people think it's some fiction thing, but at least they're reading. I think you're right—we should do a vlog too. You and Drake would be very convincing on video."

  I smiled, proud my new friend was finding success. "Right now?"

  He grinned like a kid in a candy shop. "If you don't mind."

  "Sure, let me just shower and put on some make-up. If this does go viral, I don't want to look like road kill."

  ***

  The hot water scalded my body, turning my pale skin red. Voices from the past collided in my mind as I considered what I would say in Brad's video. Thoughts of trusted teachers, of past clients, of the students and their memories, rolled through my brain like tumbleweeds in a windstorm. Gar and Ana. Dead. Serena and Tommy, two children whose lives had been ruined because of me.

  Professor Shaw—Bernard—had nearly died trying to uncover the truth about Rent-A-Kid. They'd kidnapped Drake. They'd impregnated me against my will, which felt like a form of rape... maybe worse. The violation weighed heavy on me, my only consolation being the connection Drake and I had formed.

  However it happened, this baby belonged to us. But what about all the other girls who were used in this way and died because of it?

  It would be hard to get people to believe, but we had to find a way to make them listen. If only Drake and I had more obvious powers, which we could showcase on film. But then, with editing and special effects, nearly anything could be faked.

  Maybe we could show off Drake's strength? So much power, physically and mentally, in one person. Despite the heat, my body broke out in goosebumps, and I shivered.

  Once my fingers and feet had pruned, I shut off the water and stepped out of the steamy shower. I wiped down the mirror and wrapped a towel around my body, my swollen belly exposed through the slit. I stared at myself in the mirror.

  Were the eyes truly windows to the soul, as people said? What did mine say about me?

  The light purple crescent moons under my bloodshot eyes said I needed more sleep, at least. I pulled my brush from my overnight bag and ran it through my long wet hair, then pulled out a blow dryer and did my best to make it look presentable.

  The red blouse and black slacks for my fil
m debut draped over the toilet. The buttons on the pants almost didn't snap; it would be time for new clothes soon.

  Lost in thought, I didn't see Brad until I smacked into him and dropped my bag. "Oh, sorry!"

  He picked it up before I could. "You okay?"

  "Yeah. Feel better after a shower."

  "You looked a million miles away, and sad. But... also beautiful. I mean, the red, it's a good color on you. It'll look good on film. So, um, what's up?"

  "Just thinking about everything. Worried."

  He put his hand on my arm, his body heat fighting the chill on my skin.

  "The interview can wait, if you want." His mouth turned down in worry.

  "No, it's okay. I'm—"

  Pain stole my words from me.

  I doubled over, clutching my belly even though it felt as if knives had impaled my head. Distant eyes bored into me. Someone else's consciousness moved into my mind, seeing into my life.

  I screamed and squeezed my eyes shut, pushing back against the invader.

  Hands on me. Voices around me.

  Couldn't focus. Couldn't respond. Couldn't think.

  Can only fight.

  Chapter 36 – Lucy

  "You have to be prepared for anything." Mr. Lancaster walked up and down the aisles and made eye contact with each person. "If you depend too much on your power, that power becomes a liability. The key to success is adaptability and improvisation. That is what we will be practicing today."

  Lucy wondered if her teacher knew about the problems kids had been having with their powers. His lesson seemed awfully timely.

  After Mr. Lancaster walked past her row, a paper airplane hit Lucy in the back of the head. She turned to see Darren smile impishly at her and float the airplane back to his own desk. He mouthed, "Sorry."

  Before Lucy could respond, Mary leaned over and whispered, "I know about your little Freedom Fighters. You guys think you're so cool with your secret meetings, but you're all idiots if you think you can take on Rent-A-Kid. It's only a matter of time before you get caught."