His normally angst-ridden self seemed more angsty than usual
today, if his all-black wardrobe and scowl were any indication. Still, my face
lit up when he walked into the studio five minutes late.
He dropped his black leather satchel by his desk and sat
down with a dramatic thud. "Sorry I'm late. It's been... a day."
"No problem. I'm just glad this is my last class until
tomorrow."
He grunted and turned to pull out a sheet. "I'd hoped
we could talk more about your painting and the art contest, but Higgins called
me into his office and said I had to turn in an evaluation of you—immediately.
That's why I'm late, if you care."
My heart skipped a beat. "Evaluations aren't due for
months. Is everything all right?"
The vein above his eye popped out, and his fist clenched the
paper as if it were something evil to be destroyed. "Is anything ever okay
when it comes to this place?"
"Mr. K, why do you hate it here so much? Isn't this
your dream job?"
The noise that came out of his throat didn't sound human.
"More like nightmare. But I can't really talk about this, Sam. I'd get us
both in trouble. And don't go probing my mind for secrets; you won't find
anything helpful, just a few new expletives that a young lady such as yourself
shouldn't use."
His glare challenged me to defy him, but I knew better. The
few times I'd slipped into his mind uninvited hadn't ended well for either of
us. I'd been in messy minds, tidy minds, perverse minds, but none as chaotic
and terrifying as Mr. K's. Undoubtedly serial killers had worse minds, but they
couldn't have been that much worse. Mr. K didn't just play the part of a dark
and brooding artist; he'd created the part. His mind contained hidden corners
that were best left to his mental cobwebs. There's a fine line between genius
and madness, and while Mr. K was harmless, he wasn't entirely sane.
When I made no move to speak, he nodded and continued.
"Today, you're going to draw what's in my mind, and, based on how well you
do, I'll grade you for this ridiculous evaluation. Okay? Don't worry, I'll keep
my mind calm for the assignment."
"Um, sure." His mind didn't frighten me when I had
permission and stayed within the boundaries provided. This actually seemed a
bit easy, but whatever. I reached for my bag to grab my supplies.
He put a hand up to stop me. "I have something for
you."
He handed me a brown leather-bound sketchbook that looked
well-used and smelled of old places and history. A round emblem, made of gold,
was pinned to the cover. Its intricate shape reminded me of one of those
meditation circles, but with a more elaborate design. The pages inside spoke to
me in their own language, teasing me with drawings yet to be sketched. It even
had a special compartment in the front for my pencils, and the paper looked
like it could be refilled. I loved it immediately.
I pulled out the pencil already held there and opened the
book up to the second page, saving the short dedication he'd written on the
first page for a later read.
The chair underneath him squeaked as he pulled it forward so
that we were uncomfortably close to each other. "Sam, it's important that
you keep this sketchbook, and this sketch, safe. Do you understand?"
I nodded, though I didn't really understand his urgency, and
poised my pencil to begin sketching.
He closed his eyes and I dipped into his mind. Humans don't
think in linear thoughts, not usually. Most of the time people's minds are
crowded with a blend of words, images, emotions, sensations and subconscious
whispers. I spent a lot of years learning how to fill in the blanks and make
sense of things in a way that would serve my work, so it wasn't difficult to
push past the clutter in Mr. K's head to find the brightest image to draw. I
just had to stay away from the dark corners, the places where his thoughts
hadn't been tethered to the sane.
My hand raced furiously over the page, as if on autopilot.
Time drifted into nothing and I became one with the art. Thirty minutes later
Mr. K opened his eyes to examine my work.
"Remarkable. Sam, you've outgrown me in talent and
ability. I'm so proud of the artist you've become."
I looked at the sketch in my hand and had to admit it
rocked.
A wooden box, carved with the same symbol as the pin on my
new sketchbook, and detailed images of nature took up the whole page. The box
seemed to come alive, as if begging me to open it.
Mr. K smiled and made a few notes on his evaluation form.
I must have passed.
***
The next morning I waited by the front gate with Old Charlie
and my very own bodyguard, who introduced himself as Gar.
What kind of name
is Gar?
Gar didn't talk much, but his rippled, veiny muscles, and a
jaw so square it looked cartoonish, made him look scary—perfect for a
bodyguard.
I clutched my overnight bag to my chest and shivered in the
cool morning breeze. A limo arrived promptly at six and whisked me to the
secret airstrip we used to fly to all of our assignments. The drive only took
twenty minutes, and I never saw a highway or city sign, just trees and valleys
of nothing.
Once there, Gar grabbed my overnight bag, but I strapped my
backpack to my shoulders, not wanting to lose control of my most precious
belongings. I boarded the Cessna Citation X, the world's fastest mid-sized jet,
and sank into one of the plush leather seats.
I knew the drill: once we were airborne, Lollie, the
stewardess, came to my seat with a needle balanced on a silver tray. I closed
my eyes as she injected the drug into me, the one that would render me
unconscious for the duration of my trip. This was for my protection, so I'd
never be able to disclose the location of the Rent-A-Kid school. As always, it
quelled any nervousness I had about the assignment.
My doubts and fears drifted away on a cloud, as darkness
overcame me.
***
Something cool and soft tickled my forehead. My eyes pried
themselves open as my head attempted to clear itself of the drug-induced
fuzziness.
Lollie had her small hand pressed against my skin.
"Time to wake up. We'll be at our destination in thirty minutes."
She handed me a cup of orange juice and a turkey sandwich
and helped me get my seat into an upright position. The rush of sweet sugary
fruit gave me clarity and a burst of energy. I tackled the sandwich like a man
who hadn't eaten in a week—a common side effect of the drug.
With a few minutes to spare, I used the bathroom and brushed
my teeth, then pulled my long brown hair into a bun. A quick touch-up to my lip
gloss and a bit of mascara to accent my blue eyes, and I was ready to roll.
I went back to my seat and reviewed my file on the client
one last time, though I knew the whole thing by heart. New last name, new
identity. Each assignment we got a new name, but I didn't actually have a last
name of my own. Didn't need one, really. The target had a son, Tommy. I hated
assignments that involved kids, but what could I do? I pushed away my
reservations and rehearsed my cover story in my head.
We landed at another private airstrip, where a middle-aged
driver in a tux waited for us. "Sam Tinsley? Mr. Dollinger is waiting for
you. Please come with me."
I climbed into the back and Gar sat in the front with the
driver. The driver told us we were in Utah. This didn't register as anything
terribly exciting for me. Once the limo hit the highway, I pulled out my new
sketchbook and began drawing what I saw, which was mostly flatlands and farms,
until we pulled into a wealthy neighborhood with big, lumbering mansions that
looked out of place in their environment. Naturally, we beelined for the
biggest, gaudiest one of them all.
A great cast iron gate with a lion's head crest blocked our
entrance into the palatial estates. Gar took a moment to confirm with the
guard, and, after a grating buzz and a few groans, the lion gate opened to
allow us in. All around us, bushes trimmed into lion sentries stood guard as we
passed. Someone had read too much C.S. Lewis.
My breath hitched in my throat when we arrived at the front
door and a tall, lean man in a suit came out to greet us. He smiled at me
through the tinted windows, but the smile looked painted on, like a clown's.
The driver opened the car door and I stepped out, straightened
my spine and forced myself to meet my client's eyes.
He played his part well and held out his arms for me. Did he
want a hug? Not happening. I shifted back, slightly, but enough to get my point
across. His eyes flickered a flame of anger before he smothered it with false
sincerity.
"You must be Sam. I haven't seen you since you were a
baby, but your father says such great things about you. I'm sorry for
everything you're going through, but rest assured, no harm will come to you
while you're here."
Before I could reply, a small boy of about six ran out the
front door with all the enthusiasm of youth. "Is she here? Is she here
yet, Uncle Henry?"
"This must be Tommy." I raised an eyebrow.
"Your nephew?"
He mussed the boy's hair while maintaining eye contact with
me. "The Beaumont's son. We've been partners so long we're practically
family."
I choked on his words. Right, family that's ready to throw
each other under the bus for a buck. I shoved the judgment deep down and played
my part in this farce—this family that wasn't a family—with as much enthusiasm
as I could.
"Daddy says to say hi, and that he still remembers the
night you drank too much and threw up on his date." I giggled like a rich,
ditzy teenage girl and then smiled down at the boy, who hadn't stopped staring
at me. For a moment, I let my real self come through. "Hi there. I'm Sam,
what's your name?"
All boyish boldness fled as he dropped his big brown eyes
and shyly muttered, "Tommy."
"Well, Tommy, did you know that I can draw any animal
you can think of? Even animals that don't exist?"
His cherub face lit up in the happiest smile I'd ever seen,
and I instantly fell in love with the little kid. A pang of guilt hit my heart.
Tommy belonged to the Beaumonts—the family I had been hired
to ruin.
At four in the morning, Drake woke and couldn't fall back
asleep. He hadn't told Father Patrick about his car or reported it to the
police. Brad had given him enough grief as it was.
He rose, made coffee and sat on their balcony that
overlooked the beach. His cell phone beeped—another text from Kylie asking if
he planned to come over before the competition. His annoyance mounted, and he
turned off the phone and ignored it.
The sun hadn't found its way to the coast yet, so Drake
waited for sunrise in silence.
The crashing waves and smell of saltwater tried to calm him,
but this time they failed. Despite his still body, his mind hammered out worry
after worry. Brad had made him swear he'd at least consider dropping the competition,
but Drake knew he wouldn't. He refused to run away from his dreams because of a
few slashed tires and a bad feeling.
Oranges, reds and purples filled the dark sky as the sun
reflected against the ocean's waves. He waited for the sun like a man waiting
for a lover to come home. When the bright morning rays reached the balcony, he
closed his eyes, basked in the warmth, and let all worry go for just a moment.
Brad's voice broke the spell. "You're going through
with it, aren't you?"
Drake nodded.
"Come on, then, I'll walk with you."
They left for Venice Beach, where hordes of people would be
gathered to see the competition—winning would earn him a place in the U.S. Open
in Hawaii.
This had been Drake's dream since childhood. Each time he
landed in a new foster home, he prayed it would be near the ocean. When it
wasn't, he'd take busses for hours to get to the beach. Nothing could keep him
away then, and nothing would keep him away now.
They arrived early enough that a large crowd hadn't yet
formed. Drake found a spot for their boards and supplies, then put his wetsuit
on, removed his surfboard from its bag, and rubbed it down with surf wax. The
exotic coconut scent tickled his nose.
Soft arms wrapped themselves around his waist. He turned to
face Kylie, and frowned.
She'd been a fling that had become too clingy. He didn't
have time for, or interest in, a girlfriend—something he'd told her
repeatedly—but Kylie didn't seem to get the message.
"Drakey, you didn't come over last night."
He backed up and placed his board between them. "What
do you want, Kylie?"
"I'm your cheer squad, and I missed you. You never come
by or hang out anymore. I just thought maybe you could use a little fun before
you hit the waves. We could head to the bathrooms for some privacy."
He cringed in disgust. "Look, I had a good time with
you, but, like I said before, I'm not looking for a relationship."
She puckered and pouted and puffed out her chest. "But
we're so good together."
"No, we're really not. Go find someone else to drape yourself
on. I'm not the guy for you."
He waited for her to leave, but her eyes turned to slits and
she crossed her arms over her ample chest. "You can't get rid of me so
easily, Drake. I'm not going anywhere. We belong together and I'm not leaving
until you see that."
Seriously?
His temper flared to life but he pushed it
down. "Get out of here, Kylie. I mean it."
She reached for him and pushed herself against his chest.
"Don't you want to at least say goodbye properly?"
A war raged in Drake. He couldn't use force on her; he
didn't want to hurt her or attract attention.
The murmur of voices around him faded into the background
and his focus zeroed in on her vacuous mind. In a voice anyone else would have
had to strain to hear, he pushed all his power at her. "Go away, Kylie,
and leave me alone. We're done."