Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Forty-Three

The apartment was small and tranquil. Camille raised her head from the papers she had spread out in front of the computer keyboard and cast a lazy eye about the place. The low ceilings, wooden beams, and small doors gave the place the aspect of a monk's cell. She'd been surprised when she first saw it. There were the basic necessities: a small bedroom, a large and comfortable couch, and a small kitchen with a butcher's block for cooking and dining.

And then there were the books. Bookcases lined the central living area on every side, and there were stacks of books and magazines everywhere. She never would've figured Sam for a reader, but his taste in literature seemed to run the gamut, everything from Louis L'Amour to Marcel Proust. There were loads of books on philosophy, science, history, and public policy. He had two entire shelves devoted to books on law, many of which were older editions of the same legal case books Camille used in school.

Who woulda thunk it? Sam Babington, Renaissance man.

She tried to bury her head in the papers again, but gave up after a few minutes. This was five straight hours she'd kept herself neck-deep in maps and casefiles. Her only breaks had been to conference with Sam and Tommy and to pick up the phone and call various places in Effingham she thought might have leads to Amy Lascar's vehicle.

She had to take a break.

Putting on the gas, Camille filled the pot for tea and placed it on the burner. It was never her intention to intrude on Sam's privacy, but after Rollo there'd been an avalanche of work. They'd spent nearly three days driving to various parts of the Midwest to speak with some people and to ascertain the identities of others. Sam drove and fielded Camille's million and one questions, while she worked the phones, communicated on the tablet with Philly, and organized casefiles. After six years of police work, Camille was an expert at running an efficient office out of a car seat.

But what a ride.

Somehow, her new friend never seemed to tire, and his list of friends and acquaintances was nigh endless. By the time they'd made it to Sam's Bronzeville apartment the previous evening, Camille had spent nearly as much time on the phone with Sam's friends as Sam had, asking questions, seeking favors, and soliciting advice. They were up early and, save for a few breaks, had been hard at it all day.

She decided she liked Sam, really liked him, but also had elected to be sensible. From their conversations, it was obvious he was significantly older than she'd first surmised. More than a few of her friends had taken jobs in Washington or on Wall Street after college and had fallen into May-December romances, wowed by powerful bosses or successful older coworkers. That was not for her. Even May-August romances were something she planned on avoiding religiously.

To her great relief, Sam had been a complete gentleman. He sometimes was sweetly flirtatious, and several times she'd caught him giving her approving glances when he'd thought her unawares. But he hadn't made anything that might even remotely be construed as a pass, for which she was grateful. The truth was that she didn't know whether she'd be able to resist if he did.

Taking her tea to the window, now, she looked out and decided she liked it there. Sam never tired of extolling the virtues of Bronzeville and the other neighborhoods of the South Side of Chicago, and she knew he had Gifts like Tommy's. When she'd asked whether he'd ever had some kind of superhero name or handle, he'd laughed and confided people sometimes referred to him as "Southside Sam, but not the original Southside Sam." That had been a local businessman and philanthropist named Sam Fish.

"He was a friend of my father," Sam had told her confidentially, "so I had a lot to live up to."

Camille hadn't yet established the knack for gaging when the Chicagoan was teasing her, but earlier that day, before he'd departed to his meeting in Lincoln Park, Sam had given her the nickel tour of his neighborhood. It was splendid. There clearly were some rougher blocks and areas, but most of the neighborhood consisted of working-class and working-poor areas where people just wanted to live their lives in peace and happiness.

With the last sip of her tea, she prepared another. Then it was time to get back to work. Glancing at the clock, she realized it was later than she'd imagined. Sam should have been back 30 minutes ago, but Camille thought nothing of it. The place he was meeting his friend, Glenn, was just outside Lincoln Park Zoo, a spot Sam had declared "the most beautiful place on Earth," the kind of place "where God goes to think." And Sam had taken along a book.

Checking her phone, it was fully charged. She dove back into the casefiles, instantly losing herself.

When next she glanced up, after what seemed like 15 minutes, another hour had passed. There still were some hours before dark, but she picked up the phone and called Sam anyway, preparing to scold his tardiness. Nothing. The call went to voice mail.

She called a second time. Nothing. An unease settled on her.

Camille Thomas was never one to horse around. She called Philly and without preamble asked, "Where is Sam's phone?"

After a short pause, the other woman gave her an address on the near northside of the city.

"Okay, I'll call back."

Grabbing her wallet, Sam's spare apartment keys, and the keys to the black SUV Sam had exchanged for the red, Camille locked up the apartment, shot down to the street, and ran the half block to where the vehicle was parked, thankful that Sam had decided to take the bus.

Thirty minutes later, she'd mapped her way to the address Philly had provided. There was no sign of Sam. After several futile circuits of that location, she moved her search a block in each direction. Nothing. Along the way, five more calls to his phone went unanswered.

She grabbed the closest available parking spot, locked the vehicle, and began to walk. As she moved, she dialed Philly. "Where am I in relation to Sam's phone?"

Over the next few minutes, Philly walked Camille to the point where the GPS signals of her and Sam's phones overlapped. After a few minutes searching and another call to Sam's phone, Camille found the gadget under some bushes. She stood briefly and fought down a panic that threatened to engulf her. Three long breaths passed, and she looked around.

"Damn." It was the perfect place to sandbag someone—at least any normal person. From where she stood, the sidewalk was only about three feet away. The bushes and underbrush were thick on that corner, but otherwise it looked like any street corner near a city park. She looked around. Not a single security camera, and hardly anyone was about. Checking the ground, she saw nothing.

"Damn."

Sam was not a normal person. If he was even half as strong and tough as Tommy, it would've taken a small army to snatch him off the street. She thought and paced, head down and hand to her mouth. Whoever it was must've been in a hurry, otherwise, they wouldn't have left the phone.

"Think," she said out loud. They got lucky, replied a voice in her head. Every other abduction was carefully planned and executed. This was sloppy. "They got lucky with the location," she said. "But how'd they grab him?"

It occurred to her she was walking in small circles while blathering, and she stopped. However they managed to grab him isn't the point. He doesn't meet the profile. Sam didn't have a "mental" Gift, and he wasn't taken in a carefully planned abduction. He hadn't been travelling, and he wasn't going to or from work. He was out in the city on a one-off meeting with a friend. This had all the earmarks of an impulsive snatching.

A thought suddenly seized her. They're after him because they're afraid of being exposed. "Shit." If they know about Sam, they know about his place ... and the computer Philly's people had set up there? That workstation had access to every bit of research they'd compiled.

The urge to call the local PD was strong, but she fought it. Instead, the young woman ran back to the SUV at a full dash and jumped behind the wheel.