Gena Showalter - Playing With Fire (tales of an extra ordinary girl)

I blinked. What the hell? A tall, lanky man in a lab coat suddenly barreled out the front door of the brownstone at top speed, his eyes wide and wild, his white comb-over flapping in the breeze. One minute he wasn’t there, the next he was. My back went ramrod straight, the movement swishing precious latte over the rim of the cup. I blinked again, as if the action could jump-start my brain into figuring out why he was running.

The man darted across the street, uncaring as vehicles honked and swerved to keep from hitting him. Two of the cars collided. Even from where I sat, I heard the squeal of tires and the grind of smashing metal.

My eyes rounded as two burly, scowling guys sprinted out of the brownstone, apparently giving chase to the harried, wreck-causing man-who was now racing inside Utopia as if his life depended on it.

The bell chimed and I shoved myself to my feet, spilling my latte further. I set the cup on the table and stared over at the man. Skin pale, features tense, breath emerging raggedly, he scanned the café wildly. His gaze bypassed me, then quickly snapped back. Across the distance, our eyes locked.

“Are you okay?” I called, projecting my voice over the inane chatter around us.

“Please, help me,” he choked out. He sprinted toward me, shoving people out of the way and babbling, “They weren’t supposed to know. They weren’t supposed to chase me.”

Some gasped. Some snarled, “Watch it.”

When the man reached me, he gripped my forearms. Sweat trickled from his brow; fear filled his dilated eyes. “You have to help me,” he said between shallow pants. “They’re going to kill me.”

Kill? My mouth went dry; my blood mutated into ice, yet hot prickles slithered along my spine. “Stay here,” I said. “No, hide. No, stay. Oh, hell. Do whatever while I call 911.” His clasp tightened on me, but I tugged free and shouted to the people around me, “Does anyone have a cell phone?” I’d given mine up as an extravagance I could no longer afford. “Anyone?” I leapt around the tables, but everyone purposefully avoided my gaze. “I won’t use up your minutes, I swear. This is an emergency.”

“I demand to speak with the manager,” someone said, wanting, I’m sure, to complain about what had just happened and demand free service.

I rushed into Ron’s office and grabbed the phone. The 911 dispatcher answered after only two rings, and I explained what had happened. “A man was chased into this café,” I rushed out. “He says someone’s trying to kill him.” As I spoke, a woman screamed in the background. A male groaned.

“Help is on the way,” the dispatcher promised.

Heart hammering, I disregarded her plea to remain on the line, and tossed the receiver aside. I pounded back into the main area and skidded to a stop. I’d only been gone a moment, but the café looked like a natural disaster had struck. Tables were overturned. Chairs were strewn in every direction. Coffee slithered along the floor, a black river, with paper cups and napkins floating in it like dead bodies.

Shaking and scared, the café’s patrons and employees huddled in a single corner. Only Ron seemed unafraid. His arms were wrapped around Jenni, and he was copping a feel.

The man in the lab coat had vanished. Was he hiding?

The two guys I’d observed chasing him were now in the process of calming everyone down. A third male, whom I hadn’t seen exit the brownstone, stood at the doorway, preventing anyone from entering or leaving. He was young, probably in his mid-thirties, tall and muscled, with blond hair and a face any male model would have envied. Perfect, chiseled and droolworthy. He watched the proceedings as if mentally cataloging every detail.

“Everyone take a seat,” he finally said, his voice firm, no-nonsense. “Get comfortable. We’re going to be here awhile.”

“What’s going on?” I demanded, since no one else had spoken up. “Who are you?” Maybe I shouldn’t have drawn attention to myself, but there was no way in hell I’d just blithely obey, perhaps walking to my own death.

“CIA.” He frowned and flashed some sort of badge. “Now sit.”

CIA? My jaw performed a dance of drop and close, drop and close. I’d seen agents on TV, of course, but never in real life. Still, everything inside me screamed not to trust him. I mean, Lab Coat’s voice kept drifting through my head. They’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill me!

But… what if Lab Coat was an evil man who needed killing? Or what if Pretty Boy was lying and Lab Coat was really the good guy? What if I confused myself to the point of having an aneurism with all these internal questions?

Think, Jamison, think. Sit down. No, run. Sit. Yes, that’s what I’d do. No, no. I should run. As I continually changed my mind, my right foot moved back and forth while the left remained in place. Step, retreat. Step, retreat. Damn it! If I made the wrong decision, there was a very good chance tomorrow’s headlines would read: Local Idiot Found Dead. “Victim’s friend laments, ‘If Belle had taken a day off like I asked, she’d still be alive.’”

My eyes slitted. “What happened to that guy? The one in the lab coat?”

Pretty Boy crossed his arms over his chest and pinned me with a dark, almost hypnotic stare. “That’s none of your concern. Now,” he said, speaking to the entire room, “I have questions, and you’re going to answer me.”

Those eyes… they were intense, commanding, a little scary. “I just called the cops,” I gulped out. “If you hurt us, you’ll be thrown in prison and become Big Daddy’s bitch.”

His gaze flicked to one of Lab Coat’s pursuers, now our guard. He was a beast of a man, with a thick, black beard (were those peas between the hairs?) and more muscles than Arnold in his prime. “Take care of it.”

Take care of what? Beast radioed… the cops? He spoke too quietly for me to hear what he was saying. Meanwhile, the other guard ushered everyone into chairs. Everyone except me, that is. Maybe I looked menacing and they didn’t want to mess with me. Hey, it was a possibility.

But I didn’t understand why they were content to remain in here instead of chasing Lab Coat. Or had they caught him and ushered him away while I was on the phone? Why question us, then, if they already had him?

“That man is a dangerous criminal,” Pretty Boy told me. He must have realized that I wouldn’t cooperate otherwise.

“It’s in your best interest to help us.”

Dangerous criminal-the magic words of my capitulation. “All right, fine,” I said grudgingly, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had a badge, after all. “But if anyone pulls a weapon on me, I’m going PMS on their ass.”

“So noted,” he said with a dry edge, completely unimpressed.

Thankfully, the table I’d occupied earlier remained upright. My latte sat on the surface, unharmed. I plopped down and lifted the cup to my lips, sipping. Warm and sweet-sweeter than it had been earlier, as if the chocolate had thickened. Mmm. I continued sipping, taking comfort from it.

Pretty Boy questioned us one at a time, writing names and answers in a notebook. How very detective he was. He asked everyone the same three questions: 1) What is your name and address? 2) Did you see the man in the lab coat? 3) Did he say anything to you or give you anything?

Pretty Boy spoke with me the longest and had more than the standard three questions for me. What had made me want to help Lab Coat-“the doctor,” Pretty Boy called him, careful not to use his real name. Did we secretly plan to meet later? Had I ever met with the doctor before this?

I didn’t bother lying. Actually, I wasn’t sure I could lie to this man. Every time he turned those intense brown eyes on me, I felt compelled to share my deepest, darkest secrets. Not in a girls’ sleepover kind of way, but an I’ll-die-if-I-don’t kind of way. Very weird.