Was that a gun?

Was that the image that pushed out of the big man’s thoughts, of him leaning forward and shoving a pistol toward some helpless enemy?

The sense had been gone in another moment, leaving Paul only the sight of the bald man in the ragged coat standing in the bus line. Paul had Opened his mind to him again and again, but got no other glimpse of the man’s thoughts. Of course not.

But Paul still slipped into that cross-country bus’s line, and snuck on board.

He hadn’t meant to take that first, deceptively-smooth step across the snowy platform—but once he’d begun, it was easier to keep going than risk pulling back. Even after all the memories of blood and violence he’d wanted to leave behind.

The gleaming bus at the far end of the platform would have pulled out later in the night. It would have taken him further and closer to the town that might have his answers, and it had been his choice for a larger crowd that would be easier to stow away among.

Instead he slipped onto this stale-smelling box, where the lights along the aisle’s floor were so dim that some of the chattering boarders stumbled against the dark seats they passed. All the same, the tall driver barely gave him a glance.

Paul sank down onto the cushioned seat. The paper bag with what belongings he’d been able to grab went on the unused seat next to him; the bus was only filling up in fragments anyway. He had to Open his sight to cut through the dimness, but the ragged man was slumped some rows ahead of him behind some mother and her wriggling child. The “gunman” never looked up.

Paul turned his Opened gaze around the others. About half seemed about as young as himself, from the glimpses of faces or hands he could catch through the seats, but others were middle-aged or older. He could hear a stubborn cough, a hushed conversation or two, and a hint of music where someone’s earphones must be leaking sound close by.

And… the ragged man’s thought was most likely his own misreading that new sense. Anyone could be thinking of lashing out at their lives, couldn’t they? Like the other people around, they were all just people, with no need for someone to obsess over “finding their secrets.” The real mystery was up beyond where this bus went—and the real priority was that no cop would find a record of Paul Schuman buying a ticket in that direction.

Steam hissed, or it sounded like it. The bus tugged itself forward and moved out into the night.

Out the window, lights and the shapes of cars rolled by in the dark—starting and stopping, but they’d gather speed once the bus reached the highway.

Paul pulled a faded mystery from the bag; the crinkle of brown paper sounded too loud even among the rustlings of the bus. Nothing to do now but settle in for what rest he could get. Nothing to keep him awake, no answers about his power here…

The book sank to his lap. He could still try.

He studied the ragged man on the seat up ahead, across the aisle. A phone twitched near that bald bullet head, rising and falling with some unseen struggle to make a call or not.

I can see deeper than that, if I can control it. Paul Opened to the man’s thoughts.

The shapes didn’t change. No new gestures, no signs of what lay at the top of his mind. Paul stilled his breathing and stretched his will, but nothing.

He let out a slow sigh. Of course this awareness he’d just found was more stubborn than Opening his actual five senses. He still knew next to nothing about any part of his power.

I know it began because I needed to hear the truth. If that need had to be fueled…

He Opened his sight, then switched to his hearing. Wherever he focused his will, people stood out as rumpled heads leaning on cushions or talking in what would have been softness:

“We’re on the highway now—”

The crunching of a snack, some kind of chips—

Another stomach rumbling, and the cushion scraping as they shifted on it—

“Home soon, babe—”

Something chirped in that voice, something that sounded false and forced. He couldn’t hear more, but he couldn’t see inside, couldn’t see, see, see…

The bus lurched. No, the man lurched, it was the short man with the red hair standing up that broke Paul from his trance. Stupid, stupid, and he’s looking right back at me.

The redhead strolled down the aisle, stumbling once—the bus was maneuvering after all. Paul slumped in the chair to act asleep, but those eyes were locked straight on him. At least the driver and the others didn’t seem to notice his attention.

“I’m Cal. And I know about taking in the sights.” The stranger kept his voice low, and he gave Paul a wide grin that looked almost hungry. “On a long ride, there’s nothing like watching the people you’re locked in with.”

“I guess.” Paul brought up his book to block his face; no need to be gentle about shooing him away.

But Cal only sat down on the seat, next to the bag. “I’m always on the road. Scouting locations, you know.”

He paused, leaving his conversational hook dangling. Paul didn’t bite.

After a few silent seconds, Cal waved at two seats up front, one balding old man seated behind another. “I mean, look at those two there. Are they together and each wanted a seat to himself, or strangers where one felt like sitting near the other? What do you think?” He edged a little closer.

He’s leaning right over my bag—to steal from it? Paul reached for his mind, but now he caught nothing to break the flow of chatter.

“Or the big guy up there, see how he’s looking at his phone?” Cal nodded right toward the bullet-head himself. “Could be his wife, but I think maybe it’s his boss who just chewed him out—”

Bullet Head erupted out of the seat. Cal went silent at once, but the big man looked right past them, face screwed up tight in pain. He stomped down the aisle and on by them, until he slammed the bus’s bathroom door shut behind him.

It would be so easy to Open hearing and catch any phone calls or whispered threats the man might make… but really, anger was just anger, right? Heightened senses and a need to use them didn’t mean Paul could understand what he heard. When he forgot that, somebody always paid the price.

A rattle sounded from the front, not a loud sound but one that spread and rolled down the bus for whole seconds. The little girl at the front was starting down the aisle trying to gather up spilled chips.

“See her mother up there?” Cal nodded to the blond head dozing against the wall. “How long has she been on the road?”

The bus slowed a moment and made the child wobble, and she dropped to hands and knees to pick up more of her chips. Here and there other heads were turning to watch her.

Her crawling brought her to where the big man had been sitting. A half-open suitcase lay on his seat, and she glanced toward it.

The bathroom door hissed open at the rear. Heavy feet marched forward.

The girl looked up at the advancing man. “Hi. Can you help me pick up—”

“Amber Marie, you come back here this instant!”

The mother’s voice slashed through the bus, all shrill anger and desperation.

“You sit right down here where you belong. Don’t bother the man, don’t you embarrass me—”

The little girl choked back a sob. Paul heard it, but she said nothing as she scurried back to her mother, through the sudden silence.

And the big man’s breath caught. Paul’s hearing Opened to catch the strangled growl in his throat, rage straining against itself…

Paul broke free. The bus driver was just turning to motion to the little family in front: “Keep your voice down, ma’am. Everything’s fine now, why don’t you both sit down and have a nice quiet ride.”

Nobody answered. The shocked stillness that had caught at the passengers gave way to low, scattered rustlings and whispering where people were free to move again. The bullet-headed man clomped back to his seat, only a few rows behind the two.

Cal’s voice was lower than ever, but just as confident. “There’s a story there, alright. That woman’s at the end of her rope. But she’s still young, and easy on the eyes. You think if someone could come by and make the kid laugh, she’d be grateful?”

“I think she’s got enough going on,” Paul said. “You really think she wants someone to flirt with her now?” He managed not to mention the babe that he’d heard Cal talking to before.

Still, something in his voice must have gotten through: Cal’s brow lowered in what looked almost hurt. Then he laughed softly. “Well, it’s always fun to watch for. Thanks for listening.”

And he stood up and moved back toward his own seat.

Cal’s head did stay trained on the mother and daughter up front. Did that mean something ominous? Paul tried Opening to Cal’s thoughts again, and he did see a shimmer of the redhead starting to walk toward them—Cal wanted to reach out to them, he didn’t see himself speaking to them or using them, but he saw himself approaching them. Again and again the imagined Cal moved toward them…

Paul wrenched himself free. The bus was humming and slowly building speed, and the motions around anchored him. Cal was still just sitting in his seat.

Idiot! I lost control again—even Opening my real senses was never this bad. He lay still against the cushion seat, and let the staleness of the air fill his nose.

This journey was supposed to track down the source of his power. Not lose himself by pointlessly sticking his head into spaces he knew nothing about. Or guard against “creepy” neighbors by prying open every thought that looked suspicious, just because he thought he could reach them. Worse than stealing, far worse.

He glanced up at the driver again. The broad man seemed hunched at the wheel, some dark-jacketed mound that never turned away from the windshield ahead. But all it would take was one thought of him checking for tickets, and then to reach out to the police about his stowaway.

And the man who’d been thinking of guns… Paul had felt his rage, heard his growl through real senses. But not everything was actual danger.

The blood…

Paul pulled himself in tighter in the chair. He wanted to forget the shooting, the threats, the danger he’d brought down on his father and brother. I thought the breakthrough for my power was my need to drag answers out of the world. But how many people have answers, how many even have questions?

He looked at the two old men Cal had wondered about, both dozing on their seats. Whatever “secrets” they might have, how would telling them to anyone do any good in the world?

His stomach churned. For years now, he’d been prying into petty lies and corruption around the city and selling them to reporters… for what?

Just in front of him, a middle-aged woman scrolling through her phone. Had he ever thought there was some life-changing truth he could see around her, that would change her, or anyone?

So many people, so many voices and thoughts he could reach for… so many lives that didn’t need him meddling.

Or he’d make it worse. The deeper the secret, the more the fear, the more the danger it drew… Dad and Greg, they would never have been near those bullets if I hadn’t been looking for conspiracies… He slumped in the chair.

“Hi there. What are you doing?”

The child’s eager voice yanked his head up. But the sound wasn’t even close by, it was all the way up near the front. The girl had stepped around to the big ragged man again.

And he looked up from the suitcase he’d been hunched over, looked straight at her. His voice was halting, thick with pain: “I… I’m trying to…”

“Right back here, Amber Marie. Now!” her mother shrieked.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” The girl darted back to her mother’s seat, white-faced and quick as a startled mouse.

And the man lurched to his feet. His hand slid into his coat, so fast it could only mean he had—

Paul Opened. Before him, the stranger yearned to yank the gun free and scream curses and bring the weapon up, his hand wanted to clench it so tight it would crush the wrongness out of the world, just one tug on the trigger, just one…

The man was collapsing back to his seat, one hand scrubbing sweat from his thick, shaved head. But only one hand: Paul saw his other must still be inside his coat, on the gun. Paul’s own fingers spasmed with the need he’d felt to pull a trigger, and they couldn’t stop.

He Opened again, not to thoughts but to simple hearing. The unstable bald man—Bullet Head—was straining through choked-down growls and harsh breathing…

Paul flinched away to aim his focus at something else, anything. It swung ahead to a rustle of clothes, and the low, low voice of a woman: “Shh, shh now, I’m so sorry, baby. I never want to yell at you. Here, would you like me to tell you a story, right now? It’s about someone else who shouted too much.”

And the child’s sigh of happiness…

Steeling himself, Paul swung back to the man a few seats behind them. Like stepping from a soft bed to a floor of jagged broken boards—on the edge of crumbling—he heard Bullet Head’s breathing growing louder and harsher by the second. How, how can he not see that the family’s alright—

The seat gave a rubbery squeak as Paul rose.

He swayed down the aisle, hands catching at seats for the first steps until his full balance came back. The row was just ahead.

Bullet Head was hunched in deep at the end of the row, so Paul had plenty of room to slide in on his left and block him in. If blocking an armed man half again his size was ever a good idea. Bullet Head’s lips pulled back to snarl at him, and one hand hung in the air trembling while the other stayed on the hidden gun.

At least I can lead with what he cares about. In the gentlest voice he could find, Paul said “I hate that, when people yell at kids. Such an ugly sound, you know?”

“Yeah…” The word eased slowly from Bullet Head’s chest, and some of the trembling faded from his left hand. His right hand slipped from his coat, empty for now.

A start. Paul motioned to the mother up front; her head and shoulders were the only things visible over the seat, as if the child were curled up on her lap. “But look at them now. It’s like it’s all blown over, and everything’s forgiven.”

The words seem to be right: the man stared, stared at the still shape ahead. His arms slumped, and his ragged coat slid open. If I moved closer, could I grab that gun if I started to hear him losing his calm again?

“Why you staring at my gun?”

For one moment, the words made Paul freeze. Bullet Head’s own face went wide in shock, at what he’d heard himself blurt out.

Then that hand dove back into the coat. The gun—battered-looking, stained, but the exact brutal weapon as in his thoughts—leveled at Paul, with its wielder hunching around it and between the seats to shelter it from others’ view.

“How’d you spot it?” Bullet Head’s voice was a rasping whisper. “How’d you know? Who sent you?”

“Sent me?” Paul felt a crazy laugh trying bubble up. “Sure, wouldn’t that make it easier—but no, it’s just me. You think someone’s chasing you?”

Fast as he could will it, he Opened to the gunman’s thoughts. He saw images of the hand raising the gun, shaking it in rage, but still not firing. He doesn’t want to shoot, even now.

He broke the link. Bullet Head was still staring at him, and Paul went on “No, I’m guessing there isn’t anyone after you. You haven’t done anything, have you?”

The gun shoved an inch toward him. “Done? What about you? What did you do—you’re the one who saw it.”

“I… well, I don’t carry one of those. But you’re not on the run from anything.” Not like me, keep this away from how I’m stowing away here. “Does that mean you got the gun for something you still want to do?”

“ ‘Want’ to??”

This time his voice began climbing into a howl, for an instant before he cut it off. He glared up at the little family again—and he could only see the mother’s head, not how reassured the child had been.

In a lower, fiercer hiss he told Paul “I have to! They can’t do that to kids. I have to stop her, I’ll take mine back—out of my way!”

He held out the fold of his coat to screen the gun from sight, a feeble disguise.

It would only take one squeeze of that trembling finger… Paul had seen it, how easily a bullet could shatter skulls and lives. The big man’s face strained like it was about to explode itself. Paul staggered back into the aisle.

The gunman stood, clumsy and too big to slide between the seats, too maddened to slow. He moved out into the aisle.

“Hey—” One sound came from behind them: little Cal getting to his feet, concern on his face.

Bullet Head swung toward him. Cal went white, and fell limply back into his chair. Other faces around the bus stared, and too many looked away.

One heavy step toward the front, another. Too big to stop, but if something could make him stop himself…

Paul’s foot lashed outward. It hooked around the gunman’s boot and pulled. With a roar Bullet Head toppled, banged off a seat, and fell to the floor. Gun still covered under his coat.

Two steps brought Paul in close to lean over him. One hand out to help him up. The shape of the weapon pressed up against the battered cloth.

Right in his face, Paul hissed “If they see your gun, you’ll never see your own kids.”

The half-covered gun poked toward him. The stricken face snarled, blinked tears. “I… I’ll shoot you!”

“Then do it!” I really said that? “Do it, but you’ll never see them.”

The muzzle strained at the coat, the ring of metal deadly clear against the fabric. I’m betting everything on this.

“They’ll stop the bus!” Paul whispered. “They’ll call the police, all over the state and more. The more you shoot, the more cops they’ll call. How far away is your family? You’ll never make it there, never. But your kids will hear about what their father did, some day. What will they say?”

The answer was a sobbing “But she took her! She scares Emmy!”

“You’re scaring this little girl, right here. If you take one more step and she sees…”

Bullet Head pulled inside his coat, shriveling. He tucked his gun hand so tight under his arm, he had to roll around to take Paul’s hand. Pulling him to his feet felt like lifting solid rock.

Paul helped him slink back to his seat, not meeting the eyes of the others, especially the confused Cal. None of them could be sure what they’d seen—he’d have to slip away when the bus stopped, and use all his senses and the darkness to get away. That much he could do.

Now the man’s bullet head sagged against one hand and the seat ahead, while the other wrapped the coat tighter over himself and the gun.

“Emmy… I can’t see Emmy…”

“You… need to get some help,” Paul ventured. “You want to be sure you’re safe for her, don’t you?”

His eyes squeezed tight shut. “They said I should. But the people on the helpline won’t listen to me!”

Maybe… “I think they will this time. You get off at the next stop—you’ve already got something that will change that.”

“I do?” He looked up.

“Tell them the truth. You came out here with a gun, but now you want to turn yourself in. They’ll listen to you, and they’ll give you a chance to take their help.” I hope.

His gaze sank away from Paul’s. “If they don’t shoot me. If they let me out. How do I face them? I’m scared, I’m always scared now…”

“I know.” Even one life’s secrets had to be a crushing weight. He could only add “What does Emmy deserve?”

“I…”

The man’s words faded. The moments stretched on.

Paul pointed to the mother and child up front again. “Look at them. Peaceful, safe. I bet she’s telling her a story.”

“Story?”

Paul Opened. His hearing locked on the voices up front, leaving him deaf to his own voice and free to repeat:

“And on the road back, the father felt a single twig brush against his hat. And he broke it off, saying ‘Just what I need to keep my promise! I’ll take this back to Little Beauty…’ ”

---

(For more of what Paul left behind him, you can Open up Shadowed.)

[powr-comments id=363df0d1_1483899305]

On Google+