Malcolm and Ives 02 - Trouble With Air and Magic (18 page)

She tried to use the calls to solicit more donations, but she was lousy at it. By noon, she had the media calling. She was even worse at diverting news hounds. She hadn’t realized how much she hated this job until today.

Her father started ringing her up just before noon. She refused to take his calls. Let him harass his pal Zimmer and find out what was happening.

She truly didn’t believe any of her staff was capable of stealing from the foundation. She knew they resented daddy’s little girl taking over, but they were idealists concerned about their clientele and convinced they were helping to improve the world.

Dorrie decided employee morale might be more important than money. She called a deli down the street and ordered a tray of sandwiches and fruit, enough even for the men in the boardroom. She told the receptionist to give the delivery driver elevator access when he phoned from the garage, thereby obeying Conan’s instructions to stay in the office.

When her order arrived, Dorrie hurried to meet the delivery at the elevator door to sign the receipt.

A tide of negative energy rushed down the corridor to greet her. The vibrations were so violent, that Dorrie ducked, expecting a gun barrel to swing in her direction.

The receptionist taking the tray glanced at her as if she were crazed. Maybe she was. She pretended to look for an earring and stood up again, fiddling with the gold bob in her lobe.

“Miss Franklin?” The delivery man held out his clipboard. “If you’ll sign here—”

Approaching to take the invoice, she felt the impact to her shoulder before she heard the crack of the shot, recognized the pain, and smelled the gunpowder. Only as she spun backward with the force of the blow did she glimpse the slim youth several feet behind and to one side of the startled driver.

Reacting to the rush of adrenaline, with the invoice clipboard as her only shield, Dorrie forced herself to remain upright as the shooter hit the elevator button and raised his gun again.

For years, she had dreamed of the intruders shooting Mei Ling—of all the things she should have done, could have done.

She’d never wanted to relive the agony of that moment ever again. She’d spent a lifetime burying it.

But she couldn’t let anyone harm her staff. She’d practiced for this day, even if she hadn’t realized it. Even if the shooter was too far away for her to reach. She focused her energy through her pain. Using her
tai chi,
she unconsciously slipped into the trained exercise.

In slow motion, she forced the air into energy arrows and flung her weapon. The clipboard was worthless on its own, but the compressed energy with which she threw it could maim.

Still five feet away from the gunman, she watched through a haze of agony as the board caught the teenager in the neck, startling him from firing again.

At the same time as the board left her hand, she swung on one heel and kicked with the other. Her injured arm stung, unbalancing the graceful
tai chi
motion. It didn’t matter. She was too far away for her foot to hit anything but air—which was all she needed. She used her spike heel as a compressed scope to aim the energy arrows. The effort drained her of any further ability to stay on her feet.

Crumpling to the cold tile floor, Dorrie had the satisfaction of glimpsing the shooter stagger backward and double up in pain as if she’d actually kicked him. A second shot hit the ceiling, creating a downpour of dust as she fell.

Conan left the accounting crew at the Foundation to their own devices after pointing out the path he’d traced, but he kept an open screen in case anyone had questions. He wasn’t certain if they realized he hadn’t bothered turning off the telephone connection and that he could manipulate their microphone. He wasn’t too interested in their murmurs and paper shuffling.

He was glad he’d had time to run the laptop over to the school before Dorrie called. Now he could listen to her office while working on his own project of tracing the Adams Engineering technicians.

He was seeing no clear path through the maze to anything relating to Magnus. In fact, he couldn’t even find Magnus on the Adams’ payroll. The military contract didn’t specify personnel, so James Ling Bo Franklin wouldn’t necessarily be in the files, but Magnus was a private contractor these days. The name of his firm should be there. Or had the military hired him?

Instead of focusing on his work, Conan kept waiting for the phone to ring. He was actually waiting for a woman to
call
. When was the last time that had ever happened? Like, never. People called. He didn’t anticipate. Maybe he should actually pick up a phone and try calling
her
.

Stupidly, he was sitting here hoping Dorrie would call with gratitude for his remembering the laptop, or for his fireworks display, or just because he wanted to hear how she was faring, but it sounded as if she had her hands full. She’d been right. She was surrounded by people and physically safe.

He had just sent an address list of the Adams techs to a PI when he heard the screams emerging from his monitor.

Swinging to the computer connected to the boardroom, he jammed the space bar and opened the screen. He watched in shock as the fraud team grabbed guns from beneath their coats and rushed out. Fraud detectives carried guns?

Who was screaming? Why?

He punched up Dorrie’s number, fighting the dread rising in his throat and the ominous tickle in his nose. He could only hear arguments and shouts through the microphone. None of the voices were comprehensible. Dorrie didn’t answer.

At this hour of the day, it would take him half an hour to drive across town. He couldn’t arrive in time to be useful without developing hitherto unknown superpowers. Heart pounding as if he’d just wiped out on a twelve-foot wave, he clicked through the foundation’s server to their e-mail accounts.

Franklin shot
was the first message he caught. Conan had the urge to hurl, but panic wasn’t useful. Pulse frantically pounding, he switched on his police scanner. He continued monitoring outgoing text while dialing up Oz. The Librarian had been right. Circling the wagons didn’t make clear sense since it meant bringing all the targets into one place, but he couldn’t protect Dorrie on his own any longer. He needed help. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.

Within minutes he had Dorrie’s status, where the ambulance was taking her, a plan of action, and he was halfway to the car, shouting orders into his phone as he ran.

***

“I’m not allowing anyone in who isn’t wearing a badge or photo ID.”

Dorrie winced, wondering who had turned on the television. She hated police shows.

Huh, now that she thought about it, she didn’t have a TV anymore. Squeezing her eyes shut against a haze of pain, she tuned in to the surrounding
chi
and tried to determine what her muddled senses weren’t telling her.

The energy washing over her was like a powerful undertow, so turbulent that she couldn’t discern whether it was negative or positive or some combination. She had learned long ago that her gift wasn’t reliable, but muddled as she was, it was utterly useless.

“She’s not awake yet, Officer,” she heard a reassuringly familiar voice say from near by.
Conan
. She needed to pry her eyes open and figure out where she was, let him know she was awake, or he might blow up the room with his force field. Woozily, she contemplated that notion with interest.

“Are you family?” a stranger asked.

“Her cousin,” Conan lied. “Her father is confined to a wheelchair and unable to be here, so he sent me.”

His blatant deceit brought her back to reality. Dorrie lay still, manipulating her energy until the pain decreased to a low throb. She became aware of a needle in her arm. She wanted to scratch at the bandage. She strained to hear more of the whispered conversation.

“We’ve had conflicting reports of the incident,” the official voice said. “We need Miss Franklin’s statement to file charges. The doctor said she should be waking soon.”

Police
, she thought in confusion. There had been police at the office today. Had they shot her?

Attempting to recall the office, images rose of the delivery driver, the barking gun,
screams
. She struggled to arrange her thoughts.

“I’ll call you the instant she wakes, Officer.” Her
cousin
Conan.

A door shut, and she wanted to whimper for him not to leave.

“If you’re awake, now’s the time to let me know,” Conan said from close by, his voice sounding curt and cold and…
afraid
.

That shook her into opening her eyes. The terror and concern tightening his mouth into a grim line immediately relaxed to relief. He was vibrating like a massage machine, except with more power.

“Someone needs a kiss,” she murmured, not realizing she’d said it aloud until amusement loosened his clenched jaw.

To her bliss, he leaned over and gave her exactly what they both needed. She sighed with the breath of his life touching hers, his tongue telling her all was well, his masculine scent reassuring her, and his kiss acknowledging that he wanted her. Feminine power filled her as it never had before. Conan wanted
her
. She didn’t think she was misunderstanding the energy he was giving off. His desire was miraculously clear.

She couldn’t lift her arm to brush the hair out of his eyes. She pulled back, examining the IV tube running into her wrist. “What did I do now?” she asked worriedly.

“As best as I can tell, you disarmed a gunman with one of your flying stunts and then pulled your fainting trick. He grazed your shoulder with the bullet but the doctors are more concerned with your unconsciousness. You haven’t lost enough blood to their satisfaction. I think they’re looking for leeches.”

Amusement hid his concern, but she felt his tension and fear.

“I’d punch you if I could reach you,” she responded, tugging at the bandage holding in the IV. “I don’t fly. And I don’t need leeches. I need a hamburger. I assume this IV thing is pumping something nutritious into me, but I’m still hungry.”

“I’ll find you a steak as soon as I break you out of here. The lobby is swarming with media. The cops aren’t buying flying leaps out of tiny office managers. You should have been a ballerina. And I want to know who sent the jerkwad shooter before I let you out of my sight.” He ripped the gauze bandage free and removed the IV.

“I don’t think you can break me out of here,” she said, still muzzy from whatever they’d been feeding her. She could narrow the pain down to her shoulder now. She tested the bandage beneath the neck of the ugly hospital gown. It hurt like more than a graze.

“Just watch me. Here, I’ve already found these for you.” He handed her a set of peach-colored scrubs. “Thanks to the medics, your suit is in the scrap bag, but I rescued those classy heels if you want them.”

“I hate heels,” she grumbled. “Turn your back if you want me to put these on.”

“Not even a tiny peek as a reward for developing a dozen gray hairs and running every red light between here and home?” But he obediently turned his back.

Conan had raced here for her?
He’d kissed her.
That renewed her energy enough to struggle with the flimsy strings of her hospital gown, while she studied his turned back.

Even in the loose denim work shirt his shoulders were as wide as a quarterback’s. She was pretty certain he was bunching his fists as she struggled with untying the gown. Tense energy and possibly fury rolled off of him.

“Won’t it look suspicious if I leave before the police can question me?” she asked as she eased her injured shoulder into the pullover shirt.

“Are you prepared to tell them you don’t remember a thing?”

“Well, that’s pretty close to the truth. I don’t remember a whole lot. I don’t even know why we’re running.”

He nodded once, as if accepting that. “Okay, pull the covers over you so he doesn’t notice the IV or scrubs. I’ll let him in. Look pathetic. Tell him your head hurts, you don’t remember, whatever.”

“I’m betting I look pathetic without trying, and I really don’t remember. Can you steal real shoes for me while you’re out tracking down the cops?” She tried to keep her tone light, but she still wasn’t thinking straight.

Conan swung back around, filled his fist with her disheveled curls, and kissed her soundly before backing away again. “I’ll get you a cap to cover all this gorgeous hair or they’ll see you a mile away. Be right back. Remember, pathetic, not Venus coming to life.”

She blinked as he slipped out. Was that the geek being poetic? He thought her despised curls were
gorgeous
? Her heart fluttered a little in hope. It was preposterous to think of computer-brained supergeekman as even noticing her looks much less complimenting her. She must be on drugs.

But she tugged the covers over her shoulders and held the IV tube to her side. She was partially sitting up and lying listlessly against the pillow when Conan returned with the policeman.

“How are you feeling, Miss Franklin?” the policeman asked, with almost-convincing concern.

“Fine, thank you,” she whispered. “Help you?”

“We just need a report so we can file charges against the man who shot you. Can you tell me what happened?”

She had the vague notion that the shooter was more teenager than man, but she wasn’t arguing while Conan sent her warning signals. He’d said she’d performed a
flying stunt.
That made no sense. “Can’t remember, sorry,” she whispered, tugging at the covers. “Head hurts. Anyone else hurt?”

“No, you disarmed the gunman before he could shoot again. Do you remember how you did that?”

She frowned. She really didn’t remember doing that. Maybe later, when she recovered from energy loss and brain fuzz and drugs. “No, sorry. Why me?”

“We were hoping you could tell us, ma’am. The guy isn’t talking so much as moaning. You may have unmanned him for life.”

Dorrie detected a hint of admiration beneath the stern tones. She had a vague memory of insanely using one of her
tai chi
motions. After her mother’s murder, she’d tried martial arts, but she lacked aggression. She had a notion the gunman had been behind the delivery driver. Her legs weren’t that long and
tai chi
exercises didn’t involve maiming.