The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Reaching the kitchen, Samantha was relieved to find it empty. Although Alex had not bothered to ask her about the situation earlier, she really did not want to answer any questions about it now. She did discover, however, that someone had left a dirty plate and silverware in the sink. Judging from the now-soggy remnants, Samantha guessed that Alex had finished off the last of the apple pie.

We just bought that on Saturday!

Her cell phone was where she thought she had left it. She picked it up, saw that she had received one additional text message, and then the screen went suddenly blank. Samantha resisted the urge to hurl the infernal gadget against the wall.

A small vocabulary of profanity passed through her mind. She constructed two short phrases from it and then, still muttering her way through some of the other terms, slid the phone into her pocket and headed back for the gloriously windowed room that served as her office.

She dropped back down into the chair, still grumbling. It complained loudly, offering her an unpleasant reminder that, yes, she too needed to lay off on the leftover autumn pies.

Logging back in, she sighed.

PHONE DEAD. SKYPE?

There was a momentary pause before Sabrina answered. Samantha guessed that she had stepped away from her computer, expecting an actual phone call.

SURE

Samantha released a slow breath, trying to force herself back into as least a semblance of calm. That state, she suspected, was precarious at best.

ONE SEC. LET ME CLOSE THE DOOR.

Mumbling at her own lack of insight, Samantha rose again, checked to make certain that no one was nearby, and then closed the door. She seated herself a little more gently this time. The chair seemed to appreciate it, as it only moaned quietly.

She double-clicked on the icon to open the program and waited while it sounded what she suspected was intended to be a cheery musical refrain and began shuffling digital bits back and forth across the internet.

Sabrina’s face came fuzzily into view. The connection was terrible. Sabrina looked unnaturally pale, with dark smudges under her eyes. Phantom bits of electronic static pockmarked her expression. Despite all that, Samantha could make out deep lines of worry in her friend’s face.

“You look like hell.”

Sabrina grimaced. “Nice to see you too.”

She turned her head at some unseen distraction behind her. After a moment, she looked back at Samantha.

“Storms here,” she said. “And I’m on dodgy marina WiFi.”

Samantha nodded her understanding. The connection between them was not likely to get any better. Worse yet, it would probably drop completely out without warning.

There was a long pause before either them of spoke again, as if each was uncertain of what to say. Finally, Sabrina broke the silence.

“I want you to tell me that this is a really bad joke.”

Samantha breathed slowly before answering. “I wish I could.”

Growing concern deepened the lines in Sabrina’s face. “You don’t think it is.”

“I don’t know that it isn’t.”

She studied Sabrina’s expression, hoping her guiding voices would provide some insight. They, however, remained stubbornly silent.

“Do you think it’s something he would do?”

Sabrina stared back at her. Pain played across her features. Samantha was pretty certain that it was not a side effect of the connection.

“Do you mean as a joke? Or . . .?” She trailed off, clearly unable to complete the question.

“As a joke,” Samantha answered, hoping to offer at least some reassurance for now.

“We used to kid about it . . .” Sabrina explained uncertainly. The anxiety in Sabrina’s expression was deep and genuine. “But I really was worried about it.”

Samantha frowned, thinking back over her sessions with him. She remembered the topic coming up a few times, but it was never anything they had explored in depth.

Except that one time . . .

The subject had come up at the very end of a session a few months earlier. It had ended in silliness, dampening the sound of her internal alarm system. He had promised her, though, even through the laughter, that he would warn her in just this way.

It could be a joke . . .

Her guiding voices told her otherwise. While they did not scream their warnings at her, as they sometimes did, they were definitely strident in their insistence that she listen to them.

What do we do? she wondered, and then voiced the question aloud.

“I’m not sure,” Sabrina admitted.

“We can’t go to the police . . .”

“Why not?”

Samantha looked calmly back at Sabrina. “And tell them what?”

Sabrina frowned and looked stubborn. Samantha recognized that look.

“Does he have any kind of record? Anything that would make the police want to go looking for him?”

She asked those questions half-hopefully, although she knew the answer.

Sabrina’s defiant expression held for a moment, and then faded as she silently conceded the point.

“Contact the police? What about?”

Samantha’s heart skipped a long beat at the unexpected sound of Alex’s voice. She swallowed hard, not daring to turn around.

“Is this about what happened this morning?”

Samantha still did not answer. At the corner of her vision, she could see Sabrina watching the scene uncertainly, her eyes flicking back and forth between herself and Alex.

Shit. As if this isn’t complicated enough already.

#

Jonathon Reiter was bored. It was only two hours into his six-hour shift and he had already completed four full circuits of the third and fourth levels of the complex. He was grateful that he was not also required to patrol the grounds outside. Autumn already had the nighttime temperatures dropping near the thirties. Add the airborne moisture from the nearby coast and it made for a miserable night of security duty. Staying warm and dry had it advantages, he supposed, but were of only small comfort in alleviating his boredom.

So far, the only interesting thing he had discovered was a software engineer who had fallen asleep at his desk. That incident had not been without its amusement value, though. Upon being awakened, the developer thought he was being arrested and began spouting his innocence about how the weed had gotten into his apartment in the first place. Jonathon had managed to keep a straight face, but only just barely.

He glanced over at the bank of four video displays mounted into the security station. They each cycled at random through the dozens of the security cameras mounted throughout the building and grounds. One screen showed provided a mazelike view of darkened cubicles, another showed the outdoor tennis courts, the third one showed the north end of the main visitor’s parking lot, and the last one gave a view of the interior of one of the basement parking garages. Without reading the label, he could not identify which one it was. He did not truly care which one it was. They all looked the same: dull and gray. Besides, no one had entered the gates for hours. The only person to exit through them in only slightly less time had been the sleep-deprived engineer.

Seated behind the desk, playing solitaire on the computer station, was Trevor McCullen, his shift supervisor. He was Jonathon’s senior only by his additional four months on the job. He was nice enough, but rarely let Jonathon forget it.

Trevor swore softly, and then blanked the screen after another loss to the computer. Jonathon could not remember the last time that Trevor had won a game—if he had ever won.

Trevor stretched, pushing back in his chair.

“Coffee?”

Jonathon thought about it for a moment.

His stomach signaled its disapproval with a quick flash of the acid burn that had plagued him for the past few days. He and two friends had pulled a gaming all-nighter during the weekend, fueled by coffee and Red Bull. His digestive system had proclaimed its rebellion ever since.

“I’d better not,” he told Trevor. “But hot chocolate, if they have it.”

That was one of the nicer perks of the job. They had access to the coffee and beverage supplies reserved for visitors and VIPs, far better than the coffee provided at the other stations throughout the building.

“Sounds good,” Trevor agreed. “Make sure to get some when you bring me my coffee.” He grinned at Jonathon, clearly pleased by his petty show of one-upmanship. “French roast,” he told Jonathon. “Not that House Blend crap.”

Jonathon tried hard not to snarl with annoyance, and mostly succeeded. Besides, having to get both of their drinks might kill, oh, ten minutes—fifteen, if he really stretched it.

“Right,” he said. “French roast,” he repeated. “Light on the cyanide.”

Trevor snorted and Jonathon headed for the executive coffee station.

He returned a little more than ten minutes later, feeling a bit more pleased. Someone had once again stocked the hot chocolate with the miniature marshmallows.

It’s a small thing, I know, he admitted to himself. But it really does make all the difference.

Trevor was studying one of the displays intently. Jonathon offered him his coffee. Trevor accepted the cup absently, without looking at it.

“Something going on?” Jonathon asked, leaning over to peer at the monitor. He recognized the view as being from one of the parking garages.

“Not sure,” Trevor replied frowning, entering something on the keyboard. “I just got a call that it looks like someone might have locked themselves inside their car.”

Jonathon’s eyebrows rose in dumbfounded disbelief.

Inside their car?

Trevor must have read his expression.

“You know these brainiac types,” he said, not bothering to disguise his snide opinion of them. “Big on that college-type learning,” he went on. “Not so much on real smarts.”

Jonathon suppressed a snicker, but only just barely. He moved in closer to the security displays.

“Do you know who it is?”

Jonathon could tell that it was a light-colored car, but that was about it. Trevor adjusted the controls, but it did not seem to help. The image remained gray and indistinct. Zooming in on it just gave them less detail, not more.

“Nah,” Trevor admitted, expressing only mild frustration. “Can’t see the license plate,” he said. “It’s behind a pillar.”

He turned and tossed Jonathon a set of keys and the Slim Jim.

“You’re on it,” Trevor told him, “Garage 3, Section C.”

Jonathon caught them both easily. He snapped the keys onto his belt with one hand and then held up the long flat tool.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t know,” Trevor told him with a grin. “Beat whoever it is over the head with it for being a moron?”

Jonathon rolled his eyes. Still, he had little trouble agreeing with the suggestion.