Storm of Lightning (6 page)

As I walked into the lobby, I put my hand over my cut to cover it from the woman who was still at the front desk. She was staring at me.

“
Buenas noches
,” I said.

“
Buenas noches
,” she repeated with a frightened expression.

I ran back upstairs. I entered my room as quietly as I could, but Taylor still woke.

“Michael?”

“Go back to sleep,” I said.

She watched me as I walked to the bathroom. I turned on the bathroom light, then soaked a towel with cold water and put it against my face.

“Michael, what happened?”

“It's nothing.”

Then Ostin woke. “Is it time to go?”

“It's time to go back to
sleep
,” I said.

“What's up?” Ostin asked. “Besides us.”

Taylor got up and walked toward me. “Michael, what happened?” she asked again.

“Some loser threw a beer bottle at me.”

She looked at me with a peculiar gaze. “I meant to your arms.”

I looked down. “What the . . .” There was a strange reddish fern-leaf-like pattern on my arms.

“Holy moly,” Ostin said. “Those are Lichtenberg figures.”

“They're what?” Taylor asked.

I tried to wipe the marks off with my towel, but they appeared to be permanent. Like tattoos. “What is it?”

“They're called Lichtenberg figures or lightning trees. They appear with extremely high voltages. I've seen pictures of scars like that on lightning strike victims.”

“Will they come off?” Taylor asked.

“No,” Ostin said. “They're scars. Michael, did you just have a super-big surge?”

“Yes. When the gang attacked me. It was like I had become an electric ball.”

“Gang?” Taylor said. “What gang?”

Ostin walked over to examine my markings. “Wow. They look kind of cool.”

“Do they hurt?” Taylor asked.

“No. I didn't even feel it happen.”

After a moment Taylor said, “Well, I'm sure your jaw hurts. It's swelling up. We need to get some ice on it. Ostin, there's an ice machine at the end of the hall. Would you fill up that bucket?”

“On it.” Ostin grabbed the ice bucket from the dresser and left
the room, while Taylor soaked a washcloth in cold water from the sink. I just stared at my arms. Was this really permanent?

When Ostin returned, Taylor dumped some of the ice onto the towel and rolled it up. As she held the cloth to my face, she suddenly closed her eyes and grimaced. “Oh, my . . .” She was watching the replay of my attack. She looked into my eyes. “Did any of them die?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“You know they're going to tell others,” Ostin said.

“I don't care,” I said.

He frowned. “You will when they come after us.”

“I pity anyone who comes after us,” I said angrily. “I'll take down this whole country if I have to.”

“Michael,” Taylor said. “You need to calm down. You're really upset.”

“I wonder why,” I said sardonically. “Maybe because I was just attacked by a gang that was planning to stab me to death.”

“You have every reason to be upset for that, but that's not why you're upset.” She looked me in the eyes. “They didn't kill your mother.”

“I don't care.”

“You need to care. You need to stay in control.” She pulled back the blood-soaked cloth to examine my wound. “It's not that deep. Ostin, go down to the front desk and see if you can find a bandage.”

“You got it.” He walked back out.

Taylor rinsed the blood from the washcloth, put more ice in it, and held it against my jaw. I just kept looking at my arms.

Ostin returned a few minutes later with a box of off-brand Band-Aids. “This is all they had.”

“It will take a few of them,” Taylor said. She dabbed the cloth around my wound again, then applied three different bandages. Then she got a fresh washcloth and soaked it in water, wrapped it around more ice, and gave it to me. “Keep this on your face. Now you better get some sleep. We have to leave in two hours.” She kissed me on my other cheek. “I'm going back to my room. Get some rest.”

“Thank you,” I said. After she left, I took the switchblade out of my pocket and tossed it on the floor. I turned out the lights and got back into bed, holding the cloth against my cheek.

“Are you okay?” Ostin asked.

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither,” he said. “Good night.”

“Night.”

It seemed like just a few seconds after I'd shut my eyes that I woke to the room's phone ringing. The wet, bloodstained washcloth was lying on the other side of the bed, soaking and staining the sheets.

Ostin grabbed the phone. “All right,” he said groggily. He hung up. “It's Scott. He says to meet downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

We all arrived at the van about the same time. Scott was holding open a large pink box of Mexican pastries—where he'd found an open bakery at four in the morning was beyond me. As I walked toward him, he stared at my bandaged jaw. “What happened?”

“Some guys tried to mug him,” Taylor said, walking up behind me. “They hit him with a bottle.”

Scott looked at me nervously. “What did you do to them?”

“Invited them up for churros,” I said angrily. “What do you think I did to them?”

“Mexican barbecue,” Zeus said. “Wish I had been there.”

“Me too,” Jack said. “I would have loved to help out.”

“Trust me, he didn't need any help,” Taylor said.

Jack grinned. “Still would have been fun to watch.”

Suddenly Abigail gasped. “Michael, what happened to your arms?”

Everyone looked at me.

“They're lightning burns,” Ostin said.

“Lichtenberg figures,” Zeus said.

“How did you know that?” Ostin asked. I'm sure he was disappointed that someone besides him knew what they were called.

“Because I've given them to people,” Zeus said. “It's like my calling card.”

“What people?” Taylor asked.

Zeus frowned. “GPs—Hatch's guinea pigs—mostly.”

“Sorry I asked,” Taylor said.

“It's my past,” Zeus said. “It is what it is.”

“I don't get it,” Jack said, still staring at my arm. “What are they?”

“They're scars made by the diffusion of electricity through his skin,” Ostin said. “Lichtenberg figures were discovered in 1777 by a German scientist named Georg Christoph Lichtenberg. He built a machine to generate high-voltage static electricity, then recorded the resulting patterns it made by sprinkling powder onto a nonconducting surface. Afterward, he pressed blank sheets of paper onto these patterns. It's how he discovered the basic principle of xerography and today's laser printers.”

“You asked,” Tessa said to Jack.

“Do they hurt?” Abigail asked.

“No. I didn't even feel it happen.”

“It looks cool,” Nichelle said. “Really cool. Maybe I'll tattoo myself like that when we get back to civilization.”

“It's like a battle marking,” Jack said. “Like the way Maori warriors tattooed themselves before going to war. I think I'll do it too.”

Everyone kept staring at me until I finally said, “All right, quit looking at me. Let's go.”

“You heard him,” Scott said. “Everyone into the van. Grab a pastry if you want one.”

I passed on the food. We all piled into the vehicle. Taylor, McKenna, Ostin, and I crowded into the backseat. I must have been ticking a lot, because Taylor put her hand on my face. “Michael, you can lie against me if you want. You need sleep.”

I lay my head on Taylor's shoulder, and she ran her fingers through my hair until I fell asleep. I didn't wake until about two hours later when we pulled off the freeway onto a dirt road.

“Where are we?” I asked, lifting my head.

“Still Mexico,” Ostin said.

“We're about a half hour from the ranch,” Taylor said.

“Ian, keep your eyes open,” Scott said. “Let me know if you see anyone. And keep your eyes open for land mines.”

“I can blow them,” I said. “If I have to.”

“We don't want to blow them,” Scott said. “If the Elgen are still around, they'll hear it.”

“Why do you think they're still around?” Jack asked. “That's like robbing a bank and then hanging around until the police arrive.”

“It only makes sense if your real target isn't the bank but the police,” Ostin said.

“Exactly,” Scott said. “You know better than anyone that Hatch doesn't give up easily. You escaped the Elgen in Taiwan, so they might assume you'll be returning to the ranch. They may be waiting. The Elgen love traps.”

“The Elgen love traps like spiders love webs,” Ostin said.

For the first time I understood exactly why Scott had been so cautious. He was right. There was a very good chance we were walking into a trap. But trap or not, if I saw them, I was going to fight.

Boise police headquarters Boise, Idaho

C
hief Davis stuck his head into the break room where Taylor's father, Officer Charles Ridley, was eating his lunch from a brown paper sack—his usual pastrami-and-mustard sandwich on rye with dill pickles and a bag of potato chips. He was reading the sports page of the
Boise Herald
. The Boise State Broncos were having another unbeaten season, and he was angry that his team still couldn't get any respect from the national press. These days he spent a lot of time reading about sports. It helped him keep his mind off his missing daughter.

“Chuck, could I speak with you for a moment?” Davis asked.

Ridley looked up from the paper. “Sure, boss. What do you need?”

“Come to my office, please.”

Ridley chuckled nervously, as the chief was rarely this formal. “I'm not in trouble, am I?”

Davis didn't smile. “Just come with me, please.”

Ridley wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, then wadded it up into a ball and tossed it into the corner wastebasket. “No problem.”

He followed the chief down the hall to his office. To Ridley's surprise there were two men in suits waiting for them. One was a tall sandy-haired man in a navy blazer. The other was shorter with a shaved head exposing just a shadow of hair stubble. He had an ash-gray pin-striped suit. They were both standing behind Davis's desk, wearing serious expressions.

“Gentlemen, this is Officer Ridley,” Davis said.

“Have a seat, Officer,” the taller of the two men said. “I'm Officer Cazier, and this is my partner, Officer Ogden.”

Ridley looked at the chief, who nodded. Ridley sat down in one of the black vinyl chairs in front of the desk, his eyes nervously darting back and forth between the two men. “What's going on?”

Chief Davis folded his arms at his chest. “Chuck, these officers are from internal affairs.”

Ridley's blood pressure rose. “Internal affairs? Have I done something?”

“It's not what
you've
done, Officer. This matter concerns your daughter.”

He leaned forward eagerly. “You found Taylor?”

“No, I'm sorry. We haven't. But we have a lead and a possible new suspect in her disappearance.”

Ridley's brow furrowed. “A suspect? What do you mean a ‘suspect'? She ran away.”

“We don't think so,” said Ogden. “We have reason to believe that your daughter was abducted.”

Ridley felt his chest constrict. “Abducted. By whom?”

The officers looked uncomfortably at each other. Cazier said, “What we're about to tell you is highly confidential.”

“Of course,” Ridley said impatiently. “Who took my daughter?”

Cazier took a step toward him. “We believe your wife might have something to do with your daughter's disappearance.”

Ridley almost laughed. “My wife? Julie?” He shook his head.
“That's ridiculous. She's cried herself to sleep every night since Taylor ran away. You're crazy.”