Music blared from Luke and Lucy's suite, next door to my own room. I let myself in and plopped down on their overstuffed purple couch.
Lucy saw me and turned down the radio. "What happened?"
I tossed her the file.
Luke walked through the wall from his bedroom into the living room and stood behind his sister to read. He frowned when he noticed the dates. "What about your interview, and the contest?"
"Higgins said he'd try to get me in, but I've got to take this assignment." I sighed and flopped back on the couch. "This totally sucks."
Lucy sat next to me with her arm draped over my shoulders. "At least you got your painting done. Come on, no more moping. It's Saturday. Let's eat junk food and watch movies."
So we did. All weekend long.
When Monday arrived, so bright and early, I had a major sugar hangover, but my mood had improved from sustained and prolonged contact with my cheer squad. I survived Calculus, barely, and Computer Programming, with Lucy's expert help—the hacker genius that she was— and a few other classes not worth mentioning, and finally made it to my favorite class. All of us had an advisor with whom we met once a week to practice our para-power skills. I had Mr. K.
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.
