Third Power Page 5

  “Call 9-1-1! There are two armed men about to bust in here to rob you, and they’re going to try to take a hostage on the way out.” He glanced quickly at his watch and, aside from noting the time, discovered the haziness around his vision was gone. “You’ve got about forty seconds before the first one gets here. Call now!” he finished emphatically when the clerk just stared at him unblinking. This last, however, startled the man into movement and he went for the phone. “Everyone else take cover!”

  Satisfied, Steve turned and quickly assessed his options. It was not enough simply to try to buy time for the police to arrive and handle the situation themselves; for rather than one hostage, as he had seen in his vision, the inbound robber would have a whole store full. If what Steve had seen was to be believed, this thief already had little regard for life and recklessly attempted to take a young woman with him when it would have been much easier just to run to his accomplice’s car and leave. And the last time Steve checked, bullet trumps bat, so just standing in the open waiting for the thief to step through the door so he could play baseball with his head was not likely to happen. Just then, the six-foot tall, cylindrical magazine stand brimming with comics books to the left of the door caught his eye and sparked an idea.

  Exactly twenty-six seconds later, a man wearing baggy gray sweatpants and matching top hopped the three-foot chain link fence on the side of the Circle K property that separated it from the mini strip mall. He pulled a black ski mask from the left pocket of his sweatpants and slipped it over his head, situating it as he crossed the asphalt.

  Steve watched all of this from an oblique angle through one of the eight foot by four foot panes of glass that made up the store’s front. Though he could see the approaching thief clearly, he knew the same did not hold true for the thief, concealed as Steve was as he peered between the space not covered by the near floor to ceiling advertising posters plastered against this and the adjoining pane of glass.

  “Here he comes,” Steve said loudly. He looked over his shoulder and eyed the clerk directly. “Remember, do exactly as I said.”

  The thief was at the storefront in less than ten seconds. Pausing just a moment outside the double glass doors to withdraw a snub-nosed revolver from his pocket, he threw open one of the doors, the bell attached to the horizontal handle tinkling loudly with the motion, and shouted, “Nobody move!”

  Inside, the sales clerk froze. The two young ladies, now huddled together in the back of the store and hidden from view by rows of five foot tall shelving, made no sound. A gray-haired man, dressed in off-the-rack gray business attire, crouched near them with his body placed strategically between the young women and the likely avenue of approach by the gunman should he decide to search the store.

  The clerk carefully put down the phone and raised his hands, the sound of the 9-1-1 operator’s voice on the other end sounding like the tinny buzzing of an insect as she continued to press for details.

  The gunman moved forward quickly with his weapon trained on the clerk. As his second foot moved across the threshold, he stubbed his toe on the doorjamb and the sharp retort of a gunshot startled everyone, including the thief, as a bullet shattered the nearby concave mirror mounted near the ceiling for keeping an eye on potential shoplifters. The thief’s eyes narrowed angrily behind his mask and he fired off two more shots into the ceiling.

  “That’s right, I mean business here!” he shouted, clearly trying to make the entire episode look intended, and then trained the weapon on the clerk once more.

  Steve waited until the entire length of the man’s arm was in view before moving, then he swiftly stepped out from behind the broad spindle rack of comic books he had earlier pushed closer to the door and put all of his weight behind his swing. The aluminum bat crashed down on the gunman’s wrist, snapping the bone with an audible crack and knocking the gun to the floor. The thief screamed in pain for only a second, for Steve’s second swing followed a savage horizontal arc that collided with his midsection, cracking one rib and driving the breath from his body. With eyes bulging and a pathetic squeal, for despite the pain it was all the sound he could manage, the would-be thief slumped over like a sack of oats. The short, Filipino clerk leaped over the counter with the nimbleness of an acrobat and scooped the gun up from its place on the floor.

  “Easy with that,” Steve cautioned him with an extended, upraised palm.

  The clerk, wide-eyed, only nodded.

  Steve turned back to the pain-racked thief, who was having trouble even drawing breath, and began stripping him of his sweats pants and shirt.

  One of the young women stood then and moved out from behind the gray-haired man sheltering her. “Steve?” she said questioningly, coming forward from the back of the store.

  He turned at the sound of his name and nearly stumbled in surprise. Of medium height, with long brown hair and fair skin, she reflected deep concern in the soft lines of her face. “Cheryl?” he said half-amazed. In all his hurry and rushed explanation of what was about to occur, he never once noticed Amy’s sister until now. Steve’s voice dropped to a whisper as understanding dawned on him. “It was you.”

  Cheryl regarded him with frightened eyes, waiting for him to explain but he did not have time. Instead, Steve turned back to the thief and finished removing his clothing.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him.

  He paused a moment, weighing the danger of what he was about to do, and then pulled the sweats on over his own clothing.

  Steve watched from inside as a brown, two-door Pinto swerved recklessly into the Circle K parking lot, one tire catching the curb and sending the hubcap careening out of sight along the side of the building. He frowned at that, for he remembered no such detail from his vision the night before. If it truly was a scene from the future he had witnessed—and he certainly had no need to doubt it now—then perhaps this was a consequence of changing that potential future; a butterfly effect spreading outward and affecting the events in this new unfolding timeline. At this point in his vision the thief was already in the parking lot with an arm around Cheryl’s neck. By changing that one small variable he had caused an equally small change in the Pinto’s course—but it had still arrived. He stopped the first thief, but three shots were still fired into the building.

  And his vision had ended in death.

  It was not enough to change the future subtly. Subtlety meant this version of the timeline still ended with an innocent life lost; perhaps not Cheryl’s, but someone was going to die. No, if he was to prevent that tragedy this version of the future had to take a ninety-degree turn.

  And subtlety wasn’t going to get the job done.

  Steve burst out of the convenience store wearing the first thief’s gray sweats and ski mask, the aluminum bat in his right hand. The driver of the Pinto clearly mistook him for his partner, even raising both of his hands off the steering wheel in a gesture meant to convey, “What the hell?”

  Steve ran straight in line with the hood of the car as though he were about to break for the passenger side, and then veered instead to run up along the driver’s side. The windshield crunched under the force of the blow from the bat, and erupted in a blinding network of white cracks and fissures emanating from the central impact point.

  “What the fu--!” the second thief started to say but was cut off as he suddenly bent over to his right to escape the flying glass that pelted his face as his driver’s side window exploded inward under a second blow. He frantically scrambled for the gun tucked into the front of his pants but found it difficult to get around the seatbelt hampering his progress. Finally, the gun came free…and he froze. He slowly raised his hands into the air, and let the weapon fall from his hand.

  “Easy…” The thief drew out that word. “Easy, Jeff. I don’t know what’s going on, man, but—”

  Steve pulled off the ski mask with his left hand, his right keeping the barrel of the snub nose pressed firmly against the second thief’s temple. “I’m sorry,” he said, “J
eff’s not home right now, but please feel free to leave a message after the—”

  His thumb pulled back the hammer of the snub nose with an audible click.

  Half a dozen police cars screamed into the parking lot not three minutes later and the officers poured out of their vehicles to take cover behind their doors and engine blocks with weapons drawn.

  Steve marched the driver out of the store. After shoving him into the parking lot, he then took care to slowly put his borrowed weapon on the ground at the command of nearly every screaming officer present. The police took them both into custody then, after a brief explanation and multiple statements from eyewitnesses, they released Steve and several officers went into the store to deal with the second, nearly naked, accomplice.

  The Welands’ Camaro pulled into the parking lot of the Circle K ten minutes later with Mr. and Mrs. Weland inside, as Cheryl continued to pepper him with questions.

  “How can you be so calm?” she asked.

  Steve exhaled through his nose in what amounted to a curtailed laugh. She had no idea how close she came to dying today, and he was happy to keep it that way.

  “How did you know they were coming? You just burst in waving that bat around and the next thing I know...”

  Steve shrugged. “The bat was in my trunk. By the time I got here there wasn’t a whole lot of time to explain.” He paused and gave her an even look. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

  “Cheryl!” Mrs. Weland cried. Both she and Mr. Weland ran up, Mrs. Weland catching her daughter up in a bear hug that would have done a WWE wrestler proud.

  “Mom, it’s okay. Put me down!” Cheryl insisted. “Dad, you should have seen Steve! It was unbelievable!”

  Mr. Weland looked as though he were ready for a nervous breakdown. “Cheryl, what were you doing here? You never said anything about stopping anywhere.”

  “I’m a sophomore in college, Dad,” she said drawing herself up defiantly, “not some little girl who has to report home every thirty minutes. Should I tell you when I have to fart in the future too?”

  “No one knew this was going to happen, Mr. Weland,” Steve put in. Well, almost no one. “Nobody got hurt; that’s the important thing.” He glanced at the thief in the back of the squad car he had pummeled with the bat. At least no one who didn’t deserve it.

  Mr. Weland nodded repeatedly, his emotional control appearing to come back to him with each breath. “You’re right, you’re right. It’s just that when I found out Cheryl was here…”

  Steve nodded in understanding. Just then, he looked around and realized the entire Weland clan was here, save one. “What happened to Amy?”

  A middle-aged man dressed in khaki pants and jacket, followed closely by a photographer, weaved his way deftly through the haphazardly parked police cars. In his hands, he carried a small notebook and he smiled when he spied the young man surrounded by a small crowd.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me! You’re the one I heard about over the police band, aren’t you?” He reached out and shook Steve’s hand. “My name is Bryan Gerts from the Seattle Times. Do you have a minute?”

  The next couple of days at school were nothing Steve expected. The story of the weekend’s events not only turned up as front-page news in the largest newspaper in Seattle, but appeared on the local TV stations as well. The reporter he spoke with dubbed him “Babe Ruthless” for the way he took down both gunmen with his aluminum bat, and the whole student body of Federal Way High School was buzzing about the event. Wherever he went, strangers and friends alike rifled him with the same questions: were you scared, how did you know what to do, do you want to be a cop, have you taken martial arts, etc. He even received an invitation to speak at the local Boys & Girls Club, for it would “do a world of good for the kids to have a positive role model in the local community to speak to.”

  He reluctantly agreed.

  It was not as though he would have minded the attention under any other circumstances, but every question was an exercise in deception, and a stark reminder of the events leading up to that confrontation that he still did not understand.

  It took a full forty-eight hours for his fifteen minutes of fame to tamp down to a tolerable, less intrusive level. After the initial two days at school, the crazed hysteria that had infected the whole of the student body calmed enough such that only the newspaper nickname haunted him on occasion. Now, finally with enough room to breathe, there were a few unknowns he needed to figure out: like who Azinon really was, and how did he do what he did? Or why was he having visions of the future and, of ever greater concern, where was Amy in all of this?

  He sighed thoughtfully as he sat in his fifth period class, twirling his pencil in his fingertips. It was Friday again and he had not seen or heard from his girlfriend since leaving the previous Saturday. He had followed the Welands back to their home when the reporter and news crews were satisfied they had all the information they needed, but Amy was nowhere to be found. Since that time, she had not called and he, in turn, despite his best efforts, could not reach her. To make matters worse, Mrs. Weland was now issuing excuses on her daughter’s behalf. Amy just stepped out, she was visiting with friends, sleeping, or just plain couldn’t talk just then.

  A fine thank you for saving your daughter’s life, he thought sullenly.

  With every passing day, his agitation worsened. For some reason Amy was avoiding him—purposefully—and for the life of him he didn’t know why.

  The dismissal bell snapped Steve from his reverie. He gathered up his books methodically and then walked toward his next class with all the enthusiasm of a junkie going to rehab. He didn’t make it far before a familiar voice caught his attention.

  “Hi, Steve.”

  He looked up to find Sonya Lorensen smiling back at him. She was in the midst of rummaging through her locker for a book she needed for her next class she coincidentally shared with him. Finding the needed book, she added it to two others she already carried and slapped her locker door closed. “So how’ve you been?” she asked.

  “Yo’ Steve!”

  He glanced away a moment and afforded a polite wave to the student across the hall who greeted him before looking back. To Sonya he said, “Okay, I suppose. I seem to be on everyone’s favorite persons list of late, so I guess it could be worse. How are things with you?”

  Sonya leaned her shoulder against her locker door with her books held close to her chest. Long, soft autumn curls framed a pair of bright, brown eyes and a face of peach blossom skin. She wore little in the way of makeup, and, Steve had long ago noticed, didn’t need it. Sonya was one of those rare individuals blessed with a natural beauty that shined without the help. She wore dark blue jeans low on her hips and embroidered with something akin to Celtic knot work across the pockets, complemented by an off-white, V-neck blouse that left her arms bare from the elbows down.

  “Pretty well, actually; I’ve been touring colleges a lot lately. I’ve seen some great schools but I think I’d like to end up at Western. Mr. Nicoletta says they have one of the best writing departments in the state. What about you? Still going for the Naval Academy?”

  “Whattup, Steve! How’s it hangin’?”

  Steve replied with a cursory wave to the person—this one he didn’t even know—who greeted him in passing. “Good! You?” He didn’t bother to listen for the reply and with a week’s worth of practice he continued his conversation without missing a beat. “Absolutely, if they’ll take me, I’m going.”

  Most of the eleven hundred teenagers who made up the student body of Federal Way High filled the hallways as they moved to their next class; and more than once already Sonya had been bumped by a passerby. Then, without warning, a gangly sophomore tripped unexpectedly over his own feet and stumbled into the back of her legs. Steve dropped his books and caught her up in his arms until the clumsy youth behind her regained his footing. The sophomore gathered his books hastily from the floor and, flushed with embarrassment, made a quick apology before continuing s
heepishly on his way.

  Steve watched him go, and when he looked back he realized he was still holding Sonya in a hug, her lips now scant inches from his own. Her breath was sweet and her hair smelled of wild flowers. He held her there a moment more, and then, as though struck, hastily helped her regain her footing.

  “We should...we should probably get to class,” he filled in lamely and stooped to gather his books.

  “Hmm? Oh, right!” Sonya glanced at her watch briefly but did not read the time. “We should get going.”

  Their sixth period Creative Writing class passed quickly and, before Steve knew it, there were scant minutes left. He quickly gathered his books and prepared for the dash out to the student parking lot to beat the crowd into the halls. The moment the bell rang Steve was out of his seat and out of the classroom. He practically flew down the stairs, out of the English department, then crossed the hall to exit out of the building. He jogged to his car, tossed his books into the front seat and retrieved his saber, helmet, and white fencing sweats from the trunk. After slipping his keys into his pants pocket, he jogged back across the parking lot in the direction of the school’s central courtyard.

  The air was sweet and redolent of fresh earth, green trees and flowering shrubs, with a sun that shined down through a cloudless sky. Something in the air harkened him back so the smell of Sonya’s hair and that wild flower fragrance of hers earlier that afternoon. It surprised him, really, to be thinking of her and feeling as good as he did right now despite the problem he was having with Amy.

  By the time he arrived three other fencers were already suited up and stretching out. Lee Thrace, a computer enthusiast with a year’s experience, greeted him first as he approached. Lee remained a bit overweight and, as a result, slow to attack and parry but had excellent point control with the French foil, his weapon of choice. If you missed him on the initial attack, chances were good it would cost you.

  “Mr. Martin said he has something to show us,” Lee offered as Steve passed by.