Red-Line: The Shift (Volume One) (8 page)

She walked through the high-ceilinged foyer of her home and into her office. She passed a dark-paneled wall of books, approached her large oak desk, and sat down. She ignored the pile of work waiting to be reviewed. She regarded the view outside her window instead, recalling her latest confrontation with John Ramsey.

It had been unpleasant, as usual. She knew that her position would always carry with it the need to be a tough-as-nails, no-nonsense lady. People either loved or hated her, and most often it was the latter. She accepted it, though, as all do in positions of high authority. She had been rough with Ramsey from the start, and he resented her for it. She knew it. But beneath all their past conflicts, difficult encounters, and angry disagreements, they respected each other. Without that respect, there was no way they would still be working together. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen him for this job. It had not been a popular decision with the others, but she had refused to yield. She knew it had to be him, and she knew why. Using her considerable influence, she’d called in a few favors, and had made it happen. Now, as she sat at her desk and looked out over the small pond in her side yard, she pondered her decision and the ramifications of it.

Her valet appeared at the door, interrupting her thoughts. “May I get you something, madam? Glass of port, perhaps?”

Morgana looked up. “That’s an absolutely divine idea, Ronald. Thank you.”

“Straight away, madam.” The occupied doorway became empty again.

Morgana returned to her thoughts. There was so much at stake here. Had she made the right choice in not revealing to Ramsey all that she knew? At the time, she had believed that it was, but now, she couldn’t help but reconsider. One of her most valuable traits was her decisiveness. Once she made a choice, she never looked back. She hoped this trait served her well now and that she would not live to regret it. The future of their people depended on it. She sighed as she sat back farther in her chair and looked out her window, seeing nothing.

**

“WE’RE NOT COMPLETELY in the dark,” said Leroy.

“How do you mean?” asked Ramsey. The two continued to sit at the kitchen table in the secluded house. By now, Ramsey had helped himself to his own cup of coffee.

“The man who tried to take her. Describe him.”

Ramsey reflected for a moment. “Elderly. Looked to be around seventyish, graying hair, gray beard, thin, strong…” He paused for a moment, thinking.

“What is it?” asked Leroy.

“Very strong. Hell, I’m an idiot. He used heat on her….” He paused again. His eyebrows furrowed.

“What? He used heat on her?” Leroy asked.

“Yes, to subdue her.”

They both paused, realizing the implications.

“He’s one of us?” asked Leroy.

“He’s one of us,” confirmed Ramsey.

“Damn.”

“Damn.”

As members of the Eudoran community living on Earth, both Ramsey and Leroy enjoyed the basic abilities of heightened sensitivities, advanced intelligence, an instinctual need to protect their species, and an overall desire for peaceful coexistence. But there were others with more developed skills and training, whose tasks involved ensuring that any potential threats to their people were handled as efficiently and easily as possible. Although Eudorans disliked violence, and as a group, rejected it, they did have the ability to manipulate energy and direct it as needed. It was a special skill cultivated by those who would use it responsibly, if necessary. This group was small, but both Leroy and Ramsey were both members, and now, apparently, so was a thin, well-dressed, grey-bearded, seventy-year-old man.

“Who, though?” asked Leroy. “How could we not know this person? Who would benefit from taking her?”

“Think about it.” Ramsey sat up in his seat. “If they got to her before her Shift, they could potentially mold her, control her, and use her. For their benefit.”

“But they couldn’t hide that for long. At some point, they would be discovered. You can’t hide a Red-Line without someone sensing her after a certain point.”

“Unless they know better. How much do we know about Red-Lines anyway? If they have an inside source…” Ramsey’s voice trailed away.

“What?” asked Leroy. “What are you thinking?”

Ramsey looked at him with concern. “What if they have an inside source? Someone we know. Someone we trust.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Sherlock. We’re already on their side. We have her. She’s with us. Once she shifts, then we’re out of the picture. There’s no need to kidnap her.”

Ramsey sat back, putting his mug down. “Then we don’t know everything. There’s a reason to take her now, a valuable reason. We just don’t know what it is.” Ramsey’s earlier weariness now quickly faded.

“We don’t know anything, Sherlock. You’re just coming up with scenarios. You have no idea if there’s an inside source. Hell, we don’t know if there’s a source, period. This guy could just be some strong old man with good genes and a penchant for pretty, vulnerable women. Don’t get too carried away. Let’s just stick with the facts as we know them.”

“I am sticking to the facts, Leroy,” said Ramsey. “The facts are adding up to some scary possibilities. We’ve had conflicts in the past with various factions who’ve not had the best intentions for us.”

“The past is right. That was years ago. If those factions were a threat to us, you know the Council would make us aware of it. I’ve not heard a whiff of anything to suggest that could even remotely be a possibility. The Council would not make us sitting ducks, and they certainly wouldn’t put Sarah at risk.”

“Maybe they don’t know, either.” Ramsey’s inner alarm bells rang.

Leroy was done with this line of thought. He stood up and went into the kitchen. “Come on, Sherlock. You can’t whistle a show tune without the Council knowing it’s from your favorite musical. It’s preposterous.”

Ramsey eyed his friend with annoyance. “Is it?”

“Yes, it is.” Leroy looked around the kitchen. “You’re right, we need something stronger.”

“Then what’s your theory, if mine’s so preposterous?”

Leroy straightened after looking under a kitchen cabinet. “My theory? Hmmm. I’ll tell you what my theory is, my friend. Somebody talked. That’s all. Somebody spilled the beans, told somebody something or somebody overheard something, and now the secret’s out that there’s a Red-Line about to shift. Naturally, there’s curiosity. They want to know more, like who it is, what does it mean, get the scoop, tell their friends. Somebody figures out it’s you who’s protecting her. Not a big leap. You do happen to get some of the bigger cases. So they follow you. Watch you. See where you go and whom you see. They figure out you’re protecting Sarah. They get a little carried away. Think ‘How cool would it be to see a Red-Line?’ Maybe Grandpa heard the story. Maybe he’s pissed over some perceived slight that got handed to him by the Council somewhere down the line, and he volunteers to get to the bottom of it and find out the truth. He watches you, sees you with Sarah, gets an overactive imagination, and thinks he can protect her, get her through her Shift, and then bring her in and get all the praise. There.” Leroy put his hands on the counter and looked at Ramsey. “Now that’s a theory.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s ridiculous is what it is.”

“It’s not as ridiculous as having some inside source turning on us and going after Sarah to use her as some sort of weapon against us.” He turned back around, still searching through the kitchen.

“Weapon? I never used the word ‘weapon.’” Ramsey eyed his now-empty cup and pondered the word.

“It’s what you implied,” replied Leroy. He gave up on his search and decided on a glass of water.

“Weapon,” said Ramsey. “Could that be possible?”

Leroy stared at his friend in frustration. “Dear God, man. I’m sorry I said it.”

“Don’t be. It’s a good word, and entirely realistic. Don’t you get it? That’s exactly what they could use her for.” Ramsey stood and faced his friend from across the kitchen.

“Sherlock, they can’t use her as a weapon.”

“Can’t they? Think about what you just said. Somebody talked or overheard something. It gets to somebody who’s peeved at the Council for some reason probably long forgotten. It’s no longer on their radar. But this guy’s got it on his. He hears the rumors, does a little investigating, finds us, and makes a move. A bit of a novice act, but he tries it and almost succeeds. But now, he’s really pissed. He’s angry I took her back, made him look foolish. Weapon? Maybe not in the ‘kaboom’ kind of way, but it certainly would make the Council look stupid if he got a hold of her, used her for ransom, or worse, killed her. You said it yourself. It’s a theory.”

Leroy held his glass of water but didn’t drink it. He studied his friend. Outside, the shadows grew longer as the sun made its descent. He would have to leave soon. His absence would be noticed, especially if Ramsey was missing, too. They had to keep a low profile. He considered Ramsey’s comments.

“I admit it’s a plausible theory,” he conceded.

Ramsey continued to look at him, but not with the satisfied grin Leroy was expecting. “Now what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Ramsey’s mind was racing. He was thinking through his actions the preceding days, and his conclusions were making him uncomfortable.

“First of all,” said Ramsey, “it’s over there. Bottom right cabinet, near the stove.”

“What is?” asked Leroy.

“The hard stuff. Secondly…” He paused and sighed, considering his next words before saying them. “If this guy’s been watching me, then he knows where this house is. “ He thought again and looked at Leroy. “He knows where we’re keeping her.”

THE FIRST INDICATION that she still lived was the throbbing in her head. She could tell she was lying down on a soft surface and was covered by what felt like a blanket. She was warm. No, she was hot. She wanted to kick the blanket off, but the energy required to do so was more than she was willing to summon at the moment. She didn’t even have the strength to open her eyes. Slowly, though, as she regained consciousness, thoughts began to emerge from her brain fog and coalesce into a somewhat ordered stream of coherent understanding.

She’d been having lunch. She had been with someone. Ramsey. John Ramsey. They’d eaten and she’d left angry, but she couldn’t quite recall well enough to remember why. It was a blur. She attempted to move her body but groaned at the effort. She hurt everywhere. Angry sparks of pain assailed her midsection. God, what did she have for lunch? Did it make her sick? She could feel the sweat trickle down from her belly. She had to get this blanket off before she burned to death. She moved her arms despite the soreness she felt and began to wiggle free, managing to get her upper body out from under the covering. It was a small measure of relief. She opened her eyes into a squint, expecting to see her own bedroom, thinking she had somehow managed to get home, get into bed, and sleep off whatever miserable bug she’d contracted. A trickle of fear coursed through her when she did not recognize where she was convalescing. It was a bedroom, but it wasn’t hers.

The fear gave her strength, and she kicked off the remaining covers. She tried to sit up but moaned again when she could barely move, and any movement she did make managed only to increase the pain in her head. She let herself fall back into a horizontal position as she tried to assess the situation. Where the hell was she? There must be a reason she was here. She tried to relax and just think for a moment. She’d left lunch, and she’d been walking home. She’d stopped. Had she stopped? No. Her eyes flew wide open at the memory. A man. He’d tried to help her on the street. But he’d grabbed her instead and pulled her toward a car.

Now she did sit up, despite her body’s protests. She looked around the room, attempting to focus on her surroundings. She tried not to panic, although her heart clearly ignored her. She recognized nothing, and no one appeared to be around. Where was she?

She swung her legs around and off the bed. If she could find a phone, she could call for help. But she didn’t see one. She wondered if she should yell or keep quiet when she finally heard noises from another part of the house. She listened, now really feeling afraid. It was two men. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. She had no idea what to do or where to go. She didn’t know what time of day it was, and the curtains were pulled closed. She looked at the curtains. Windows. She could get out a window. If she’d been kidnapped, she could go to a neighboring house and get help.

She steadied herself for a moment before attempting to stand. Her heart knocked and her head ached, but the adrenaline running through her gave her added strength. She stood up and held on to the nightstand as a dizzy spell passed. She took a deep lungful of air to calm down. When she felt balanced enough, she took a few steps toward the windows. She shook with a combination of fear and illness, but she steadied herself as she reached for the curtains. Another wave of dizziness hit her at the same time as a lancing pain tore through her midsection. The force of it caused her to unintentionally cry out. Her precarious balance deserted her, and she reached to find something to stop her fall but could only grab at the curtain. The curtain ripped as it took her weight, and the rod dislodged and hit the floor hard. All she could do at that point was prevent her head from hitting the floor. She succeeded at that, at least. She hit the ground with her side taking the brunt of the force, and she lay still and curled inward as the lance of pain worked its way through her torso and then was gone as fast as it came.

Running footsteps echoed from the hall. They’d heard. She resigned herself to her fate. There was nowhere for her to go, and worse, she had no strength to get there.

“Sarah.” She heard her name called. The footsteps grew loud as they entered the room.

“Stay away from me.” She tried to move away but didn’t get far. She closed her eyes again because the indirect light from the unobstructed window felt blinding to her.

“Sarah, are you okay?” She felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Leave me alone. Don’t touch me.” The strong voice she’d hoped to use came out more as a whimper.