Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) (13 page)

He went up to check in.  Luckily, the woman was already bored, more interested in playing computer solitaire.  A little tweak and a soft suggestion, and her game went from a diversion to a fascination.  She was only too eager to get him a room so he would stop trying to distract her.  Come the morning, she would remember only that she had a customer and that she’d played solitaire most of the night.  Such was the nature of the human brain.  Had he tried to force her not to notice him, her mind might have rejected his influences and he would have had to use a lot more power.  Going with the flow was much more effective.

Al and Harry were awake and waiting for him outside the car, Al doing what looked like his ‘I have to potty’ dance.  Except that he was grinning, excitedly gesturing to Lane as he drew near: “Wait’ll you see this,” he hissed.  

Curled up in a corner, Sam snored, a small line of drool curling down from the corner of her mouth.  Her arms curled around herself.

“Can we take a picture?”  Al whispered.  Harry grimaced at the thought.  Lane shook his head, muffling a laugh.  Al had a point.  It was funny to see the normally composed Sam in this kind of state.  He doubted she would appreciate evidence, though.  He leaned forward, planning on unbuckling her and carrying her into the hotel room.  But she was startled awake as he leaned over her, her hand going up to his neck in a defensive gesture. 

“Geez!”  Lane coughed, feeling his windpipe, “Is it
ever
safe to wake you up?!”

Sam looked at him, eyes wide, pumped with anxiety and adrenaline.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, “I don’t like it.”

Taking a step back, Lane put his hands up in a placating gesture.  Al gave Harry a look that said just what Lane was thinking: What the hell?

“I got you a room.”  Lane held the key out to Sam, who took it, “And we’re sharing the one next door.  OK?”

“Fine,” she said shortly, “but I hope you’re not planning on staying here long.”

“No longer than I have to,” he snapped back.

#

Sam let herself into the motel room.  It was about as good as one could expect: the décor looked to be at least twenty years old, but it was clean at least.  And any bed would do at this point.  The only thing she didn’t like was the big glass picture window next to the door, facing out onto the narrow walkway overlooking the parking lot.  Undefendable, that was.  Even so, she locked the door behind her, first the door lock, then the dead bolt.  She finished by sliding a chair under the handle.

At last, convinced she was as secure as she could get, she started to strip, only to jump when a familiar knock sounded on the door.  Heart pounding, she looked through the peephole.  Lane again.  Sam quickly dressed and removed the chair, opening the door.  “Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you, but I thought you might not want to sleep in your new clothes.”  Lane held a lump of fabric out to her and Sam took it.  “G’night.”  He left without another word.  Sam unrolled the lump: a plain white T-shirt, large enough to be a nightie.

“No way,” Samantha said to herself as she undressed and pulled on the T-shirt, “There’s no way this guy’s for real.”

She wrinkled her nose as she climbed under the sheets. Smelled her pillow.  Traced the scent to the T-shirt where she finally identified it as a mix of man, aftershave, and laundry detergent.  It was nice.  Somehow, the shirt echoed Lane’s comforting presence.  What was up with that confidence, anyways?  It was like he thought he lived in a little bubble of invincibility.  And he somehow thought just being near him meant she would be invincible, too.  Well, it was a nice thought.  An alluring thought.  But sirens were alluring, too, as they drew you to the rocky cliffs.

“Not for real,” Sam reminded herself once more before drifting into a fitful half-sleep, “They never are.”

#

When Lane came into the hotel room, Al and Harry were watching TV, channel surfing from news show to news show.

“Anything good?”

“Nothing on us.  Nothing on Jacobs.”  Disappointment filled Al’s voice.  The TV blinked off.  Al climbed off Harry’s bed and threw himself down on the cot they’d bought him.

“Speaking of which,” Harry said, “First Garret Stone, now Hal.  Lane, they’re bringing out the big guns to get that girl.”

“What about the dog man?”  Al said, “Oooh, I control puppies.  It’s hardly the stuff of nightmares.”

“They got you to run,” Harry replied.

“Hey!  You ran, too.  But he’s small potatoes, we’ve never even heard of him.  Or the girl.”

“A road block,” Lane answered, “thrown up to slow us down and scare us a little.  I bet they have people like that all over, just sitting around waiting for us to come by.  If it works, great.  If not, they have other people in reserves.”

“It might help if she could, y’know, actually use her talent.”  Harry fluffed his pillow, lying back and closing his eyes. 

“Like dropping a bus on the dog man?”  Al wrinkled his nose, “I think that might have been overkill.”

“Hell, I would have been happy with a moped,” Harry chuckled, “Something’s better than nothing.”

“But nothing is what we’ve got,” Lane said, sitting down on his own bed.  And it was strange; she should have been able to do something.  Nothing brought out adrenaline and instinct like being attacked by wild animals.

“Did we get the wrong person, do you think?”  Harry said, speaking the question on everyone’s mind.

Al shook his head, “If her powers aren’t great, then why work so hard to kill her?”

“Maybe the Corporation got the wrong person, too.  Maybe this is one big massive comedy of errors.”

“So, what, we ditch her?”

“Of course not,” Harry said, “I’m just saying we need to keep our options open.”

Lane sighed, rubbing his temples.  He hated arguments; they always gave him a headache.  Opening up his backpack, he pulled out his journal and started flipping through it absentmindedly.  

“Dude,” Al said, “This is getting weirder and weirder. Lane, do you think there’s something she’s not telling us?”

Lane thought about this.  She was hiding something. 

Whether or not it had to do with the Corp or her powers, he didn’t know.  

“Great,” Al said, “Now we have two mysterious silent types.  Thanks for your input.”  Al rolled over, pulling the covers over his head.  A soft snort from Harry’s direction signaled that he’d already checked out of the conversation.

Lane had a harder time falling asleep.  Whenever he closed his eyes, he thought of Sam.  That in itself was aggravating.  More aggravating was the lack of answers he had.  When he tried not to think of Sam, he thought of Hal or another power on a highway somewhere, closing in on them, intent on taking her to some horrible fate on a lab table somewhere, or locking her in a little box for experiments.  Not for the first time in his life had he wished that his talent were more tactile.  Something like Harry had.  Something that might slow a real power like Garret or Hal down.  What could he do, miraculously turn their anger into kindness and affection?  Fat chance.  The best Lane could hope to do was to sneak up behind one of them and hit them with something.  Then again, he’d already wasted that trick on Stone.  He tried taking notes, which usually helped him clear his mind.  He couldn’t even fill one page with answers.  The list of questions, however, threatened to be endless.  He snapped his notebook shut, shoving it back in the bag. 

Realizing this wasn’t working, Lane got up.  He stood up and announced his intention to his sleeping friends to go for a walk.  Which, he reasoned, was technically correct as he would be walking about six steps to Sam’s room next door.

He stood in front of the closed door for a moment.  She wasn’t asleep (he could sense the low buzz of anxiety), but she was close.  He thought of her reaction when he’d spoken to her earlier and decided against bothering her.  Instead, he kept walking, down to the vending machines where he put in a few quarters and pressed the button for a snack cake.  As he waited for the machine, he pulled out his phone and hit speed-dial again.

The voice on the other end was groggy,
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Oh.  Right.  Oops.

Tess grumbled something incoherent before managing to form a sentence. 
“What do you want?”
she asked.

“Any news on Samantha?”

“Ehn...A little.  Her permanent records are sealed, hard to break into.  I only found a few high school transcripts in Oregon and her college stuff.  Good grades, Key Club, the usual for a type A.”

That didn’t surprise Lane.

“But nothing major.  She doesn’t even have a driver’s license, did you know that?”

“I did, actually.  That’s it?  We had a nasty run-in with a crazy dog man today.  I’d really like to have a little more information about what’s going on.”

“No,”
Tess said
, “A dog guy?  Weird.  No, nothing usable.  Maybe a few rumors, but I haven’t been able to pin them down yet.  Even my contacts,”
— For Tess, who made social interaction her hobby, it was a wide net —
“are coming up with nada.  But look, I might have an idea.  Let me get some sleep, and I’ll see what I can do, k?”

Lane didn’t have much choice.  He thanked Tess for her patience and hung up.  He unwrapped the cake and took a bite, thoughtfully chewing.  Samantha was hiding something, he knew it.  He hadn’t been able to peg it at first, reserved as she was, so careful not to have any emotion at all, but her actions solidified what he’d already been sensing—too much caution, too much suspicion, rooted deep and strong.  It indicated a trauma, more than the bus or anything recent.  And what Al had said at the gas station must have stirred a memory for her, sudden and repressed, which caused the outburst.  Whatever it was, Lane would have to figure it out.  Repressed trauma and transitions didn’t go so well.  Or rather, they went together like a smoldering match and a keg of dynamite.

Chapter
11

Now how did I get here? 
Sam sat up and looked around the generic motel room.  She turned off the alarm.  Six a.m.?  Who set that?  And why did her mouth feel like dust bunnies had had a wild party in it the night before?

And—ow—she rediscovered the stitches as she tried to sit up.  Oh god, her shoulder hurt.  And her arm and leg muscles were tired.  Almost like, Sam thought, I had to run for my life.  That’s right.  The previous day rushed back to her.  The dog attack, the resulting stitches, and the cough syrup she had taken way too much of at Lane’s advising.  Nothing like a cough syrup hangover to start the morning off right.

Sam rolled off the bed.  Smacking her lips, she stumbled into the bathroom, still trying to wipe the fuzziness from her head.  She’d have to remember to avoid operating heavy machinery for a day or two.  After splashing her face with cold water, she felt slightly more awake.  She was about to get in the shower when she remembered the stitches.  That was a conundrum.  Could she shower with them?  She decided to find out what the boys were up to and ask Lane how to handle the stitches.

It didn’t take her long to find him.  When she opened her door, he fell into the room, hitting the floor and her right foot with a grunt of surprise.

He sat up, rubbing his head, bleary-eyed.

“Good morning,” Sam said, “What are you doing on my doorstep?”

“I, uh,” Lane looked like he was having trouble waking up himself, “I slept here last night.”

“Did Harry and Al kick you out?”

“No.”  Lane stood up, yawning, “But after yesterday I was worried.” 

“About me?”

He coughed, switching his weight from foot to foot and rubbing his arms.

Sam studied him.  Either Lane was embarrassed to be caught protecting her, or he was lying about his motives.

Sensing her skepticism, Lane tensed for the verbal battle he was about to engage in.  But Samantha surprised even herself with her response.  She decided to give the benefit of a doubt to the person who had kept her from bleeding to death.  Or at least from a really nasty infection.

“That was sweet,” she said.  

And it was.  As much as she hated it, Lane was quickly taking over the top spots in her “Top Ten Nicest Things Ever Done For Me” list.  Every time she saw him, in fact, he seemed to be doing something nice.  Secretly, she hoped he would snap soon and say or do something mean.  It was a little unnerving to travel with someone without knowing just how bad his bad side was.  Unless she’d already seen his bad side.  That thought was almost more disturbing than the first.

Lane cleared his throat, and Sam realized he must have said something while she was staring at him.

“Dare I hope you’re starting to like me?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow, “You’re the empath, figure it out for yourself.”

Lane chuckled.  He pointed to her arm, which she absentmindedly gripped with her good hand.  “Need help with that?”  She nodded.

The wound wasn’t any prettier on the second day than it had been on the first, but at least it didn’t look infected.  Now that her pain had subsided to an ache, it was easier for Lane to get a good look and focus on the stitches.  He gently cleaned around them, inspecting his own handiwork.  He made a noise that Sam took for satisfaction and sat back.