STARSCAPE BOOKS(33)

A minute later, I had my key card. Five minutes after that, Martin and I were standing inside a very comfortable room, fifteen stories above the streets of Philadelphia.

“Sorry I didn’t help,” he said.

“You helped. I don’t think I’d have had the guts to do that if I was by myself.” I pointed toward the shower. “Feel free to use all the soap. They’ll make more.”

I ordered some food from room service while Martin washed up. I felt bad for him. He’d had a lousy time on the road. I’d bet he could have used his talent to make things more comfortable. He could have talked people into giving him stuff, because he knew what they were proud about. I think most people, if you stroke their egos, can’t help liking you.

My dad was a master at that. He didn’t have any special power—he just knew how to make people like him. But Martin never had as much faith in his own talent as he had in everyone else’s. And he had this problem with using his power for his advantage. I didn’t see anything wrong with it. If I could add numbers faster than anyone else, I’d make use of that talent. If I could jump higher than anyone else, I’d jump whenever I could. If I can move things with my mind, why not use my talent?

“So what’s the plan?” Martin asked when he came out of the bathroom. He’d gotten dressed in his new clothes, but was still toweling his hair dry. Then he caught sight of the meal I’d had delivered. “You talk. I’ll eat.”

“I don’t have a clue,” I said as I watched him inhale a burger in three bites. “What I want to do is run away from here. I want to go so far that they’ll never find me.”

“That’s no way to live,” Martin said. “You’d be hiding from every stranger you see. It’d be like those guys in the witness protection program.”

“I know. So I’ve got to deal with this, somehow.”

Martin pointed to the remaining stack of food. “Right after I clean my plate.”

We talked until late in the night, catching up on stuff and trying to think up a plan. We’d done so well before, at Edgeview. But there had been six of us, and we’d known exactly who our enemies were.

“This is hopeless,” I said before we went to sleep.

“Hey,” Martin said. “Yesterday, I slept in an alley on pieces of cardboard. I was starving and I stunk.” He patted the plush comforter that he’d pulled down to the foot of his bed. “Look at me now. My bed is soft, my stomach is full…” He paused to sniff the back of his hand, then said, “… and I smell like lemons. So don’t ever tell me anything or anyone is hopeless.”

“Except you,” I muttered. But the mutter masked a grin.





AFTER PART THREE

BUT

BEFORE PART FOUR

SO CALL IT

PART THREE POINT FIVE




wherein

various forms of

travel produce various results





friday morning

peregrination #1


BOWDLER TAKES A RIDE AND FAILS TO KILL ANYONE





MAJOR BOWDLER KNEW he was wasting his time, but he needed to keep moving so the swelling rage wouldn’t cloud his thoughts. He drove through Center City, scanning the pedestrians in hopes of finding the escapee.

He can’t get away.

There was no way a fourteen-year-old civilian could remain hidden for long against all the resources Bowdler had at his disposal. The instant the boy used his established e-mail account, he’d be located. The moment he uttered his name on the phone, the massive computers buried beneath the counter-intelligence facility would recognize it and report his location. If he passed within range of any video surveillance equipment tied to the system, he would leave a trail.

It’s just a matter of time.

Bowdler glanced ahead as the traffic light half a block away turned green. A young woman, her head bobbing to music pumped into her skull through earbuds, crossed against the light. Bowdler gauged her distance and pressed down slightly on the accelerator. His car skimmed past her, close enough so she could feel the breeze against her knees. Perfect. Maybe that would give her enough of a scare so she’d pay attention next time. He didn’t bother to look in the mirror to see her reaction.

A block later, a dented red Chevy pickup truck ran a stop sign. Bowdler slammed his brakes, then leaned on the horn. The pickup cruised on like nothing had happened. “Idiot,” Bowdler muttered as he glared at the back of the truck. The driver seemed to be reading a map.

He drove for an hour, sticking to Center City. As he neared Franklin Circle, he spotted another jaywalker. This one, a teen who looked the same age as the escapee, was crossing in the middle of the block, obviously not paying any attention to traffic. The boy slowed his pace. Bowdler changed lanes, swerving to the left so he could brush past his target as close as possible.