Chapter 13: Booked to the Rafters

Jorge was sitting alone, watching departure times for the trains.

A man wearing a mind shield had led him here from the Sears Tower. For some reason, instead of getting a plane to Denver, the man was taking a berth on Amtrak.

Jorge finally went to the phone to try reaching Charles again. He found it impossible to reach the Cabal's enforcer for two days now. When the secretary at the New York office once again told him Charles wasn't there, he had to consider other options.

After some thought he dialed another New York number.

"Hello?," the voice was a woman's whiskey tenor, husky and delicious.

"I'd like to speak with Bob."

"He went uptown on business," she replied. "Can I help you, or take a message?"

"This Bambi?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's Jorge. Tell him I'm on my way to Denver. I should be there by tonight. It's the Institute" He paused wondering if he should have said that, too late now. "I think he should come too."

"I'll tell him. He'll come. Where will you be staying?"

"There's an office in Boulder he can contact. He should be able to get the number from our New York people."

"Very well. Anything else?"

"No. Good-bye."

"Later then"

The clatter of the telephone was distant as she hung up. Jorge decided to go to the airport and fly after all. He walked past a couple in romantic embrace, and headed for the street.

Almost predictably there were no cabs around.

Jorge didn't have time to wait. He borrowed a passing car and driver. O'Hare was always such a mess to get to anyway, why wait?

Walking this street made Bob uncomfortable.

It wasn't the street so much as the people here. He was far more out of place here than he expected. Fear rose inside, coming from the place where he drew himself to when he was not in control.

Even the Voice didn't make Bob feel as distant from the rest of the world as this, the sensation of being the only white face in a large herd of people. There was a surging current of animosity as well. And that was just what he could see in the faces, the minds were sometimes worse.

The fear he hadn't felt when being shot at in Brooklyn swiftly gripped his chest here.

He had diverted three gangs so far, seeing him as easy prey. Nothing would save him from a sniper he didn't spot in time though. He saw no police either, rather he had seen four officers. They gathered together as though in numbers their own risk was mitigated by the other targets.

The police would only get in his way, attracting even more unwanted attention.

He walked up from the edge of Central Park. It was a nice day, until he noticed his tension growing. He wondered if a black in a crowd of white's felt a similar undercurrent of hatred. He never noticed, but hadn't looked for it before.

The poverty he saw didn't escape him. Many of these people had nothing to lose, consequently his sense of personal danger rose further. He was too well dressed to be here, not to mention he already looked like an easy mark.

He drew in on himself, vowing never to come back after this exercise.

With some small relief, he found the church he sought and climbed the steps. It was nestled between a pair of brownstones, it's windows either broken or shuttered over with plywood. The grafitti leapt out, belying the purpose of the structure. A small, hand painted sign read "Church of Jesus Christ Lord".

He tried to smile, but knew somehow it had come out as a fractured caricature of a grin. The foreboding from the surroundings kept his reactions subdued.

The doors opened to his touch, a quiet stillness within.

He found himself entering a small entry hall in far better condition than the exterior of the building. A small locked donation box sat chained to a table beside the entrance to a chapel.

An eerie sense climbed his spine, the chapel hall was empty. Some candles were lit on a table to the right of the pews. An intense sweet odor overrode a dusty, moist aroma of infrequent cleaning.

He examined some of the literature, finding explanations of the rigors of baptism and other related theology, a 'retreat' boot camp for Christians, and other assorted brotherhood forms of worship. He smiled, these were familiar, even if the location had him on edge.

Spotting a sign labeled "office", he followed the arrow through a door. A set of stairs led down to a long hallway, the office clearly labeled halfway down the hall. Stepping up to the opaque glass door, he entered without hesitation.

In the dark room, on the floor, amid piles of scribbled on paper, sat the man he knew he was looking for. A paunchy fellow dressed in black with a cleric's collar, sat clasping a pen in his fist, trying to draw a picture on the back of a letter he'd found.

"Ahwannaplaysomebodynow," burbled the grown man. He rolled to the side. It became apparent from the stench and large wet spot on the floor he had messed himself.

Bob shook his head. He was too late.

Looking about he saw two walls were covered with theological works. One wall without books had a number of framed certificates, degrees from seminaries, and a Masters in Social Sciences from the University of Michigan. Photos, also on the wall, showed an affluent family in a reasonably suburban neighborhood. Relatives probably.

Bob reflected, the man poured his life into helping the local needy, only to be injured in this hideous manner by Bob's new enemy. He walked over to the desk. Finding a phone, he dialed the police. At least they could find someone to take over for the poor man.

Bob tried to probe the black minister, only to find nothing left but childhood. The institute may have come up with a way to do this, but he doubted it. Either the guy went around the bend real suddenly, or someone with Voice erased this man's mind.

Charles would have to listen now. This could attract exactly the wrong kind of attention, if it happened often enough.

Bob couldn't understand is why the guy wasn't just dead. There was no indication his mysterious enemy had any compunction against murder so far.

Bob turned to leave. He took a few steps towards the door.

"Nastyladylefttoo." It was a child's tones in a man's voice.

The chill returned to Bob's spine as he heard this. He turned back. The no longer adult eyes were intent on Bob, a fear of being left alone shone there. Instinctively, Bob shuddered.

"Tell me about the lady, little boy." Bob tried to force his voice into a friendly tone.

"Lady gone." Bob probed the memory rising with the statement. There was a woman, in a dark black dress, wearing a veil. How very apropos for this cloak and dagger stuff. The oddly twisted man on the floor could remember her perfume, an intense sweet smell. She had shoulder length black hair in a 50's style perm, and wore low black work heels.

This victim remembered her laughing in a deep, almost masculine tone as she left him on the floor, putting a large pistol into her purse. Bob thought of the sweet smell as he came into the Church. He must have just missed her.

Bob shuddered. Why would a woman from Cabal want him dead?

He waited for the police. A child shouldn't be left alone.

The sunlight streamed in from the apartment's western windows.

House plants had turned their leaves into the warm beams, silent in photosynthesis. The number of planters caused the potted soil smell to prevail over other musty odors.

Outside, it was a warm day. The trees on the hillside were moving in the Colorado breezes rolling down from the mountains, but the warmth would penetrate Diane if she wandered out.

She wasn't going to wander out though. Heather wanted her nearby, and Diane desperately wanted to be with Heather. Her soul longed to frolic in the clean country air, to look over the beautiful vista below and soak up sunshine.

Heather reached out and stroked her hair. Diane shuddered with excitement at the attention. Her back tingled with the hope her mistress would command her services. She dared not ask, Heather would simply grin, then go do something else.

"Hello my pretty."

"Hello my love," she replied.

"I think I want you to eat me, my pretty," the red head almost moaned, "Would you like that?"

"Oh my love, I would like anything you enjoy."

"Well, you aren't going to eat me now, my pretty."

Diane's heart fell. Heather enjoyed teasing her like this. On occasion she made Diane wait hours, teasing her with those long auburn locks, the smooth curves of her body, and an occasional hint of a kiss.

Heather seemed to get great pleasure in using her as a foil for her desire. She sat still, awaiting Heather's pleasure. The telepath's fingers slid down Diane's shoulders, lingering at the raised line of her bra. A pout crossed the freckled face Diane lusted after.

"You shouldn't be wearing this today."

Diane quickly pulled her t-shirt over her head. A suggestion from Heather was a command to her. In moments she had the bra clasp open, drawing the bra off too. Her full breasts fell free, swaying a little as she moved.

As she reached for the t-shirt to put it back on, Heather grabbed her by the wrist. The soft, yet strong grip made Diane freeze, waiting the woman's pleasure.

Heather held her pinned by the wrist, with her other hand she traced little circles around the exposed nipples. Diane drew in a gasp as each nipple sharply rose to attention. Her shoulders instinctively pulled back, pressing her ample bosom forward towards the exploring fingers.

"Desperate little pretty, you want to be my toy, don't you?"

Diane looked into her lover's eyes.

"I long for your every touch."

Heather smiled as she stroked the nipples of Diane's luscious breasts. Diane wavered a bit, her eyes fluttered as the pleasurable sensations grew outward from the molesting fingers.

She moaned, almost imperceptively. Heather grinned at the helpless response. The fingers played across the pale round skin of the ex-reporter's mounds. Sensations drew her into the hazy joy of arousal. Her body swayed in almost involuntary ecstasy.

As quickly as it began, it stopped. Only the fingers around her arm remained. Diane whimpered, frustrated by the teasing touches she received.

Heather pulled her over to the porch doors, making her face outward. The courtyard below was empty, but Diane knew it didn't matter. Heather opened the french style doors one handed, forcing Diane through with the other hand.

Diane remained aroused, excited by any contact with Heather. The redhead's attention was everything to her right now, the rest of the world didn't even exist.

"Hold the rail," Heather commanded.

Diane leaned forward, taking hold of the stone railing before her. Her breasts swung slightly in the open air, but only Heather was there to see.

Heather reached about to the snaps on Diane's jeans. Undoing them, she then yanked the faded blue cloth over Diane's waist and down to her knees. Diane shuddered in excited anticipation.

"Oh my pretty, you left your panties off for me," Heather sounded pleased.

"Yes my love."

Heather rubbed her own crotch against Diane's naked bottom. The roughness of the clothe sharply accented the sensation. Diane moaned with need.

"Wait here pretty."

Diane could feel Heather leave her. But she held the rail, just as directed. She would not disobey her lover. A few moments later she could feel, or rather sense a presence behind her again.

"Stand still, my pretty, but part your legs for me."

Diane sighed, and moved to obey. She was more than happy to have Heather use her, but when Heather left it sometimes meant she was to satisfy someone else. She'd begun to dread servicing the needs of the Jones man.

While she was standing exposed for Heather's leisure entertainment, a large black car pulled up in the courtyard. The driver rushed out to open the door for someone.

Heather started to rub something against Diane's outer lips. Then it was thrust inside. A thick and long object had been inserted into her moist vagina and behind it, Heather's waist slapped against her ass.

"OOOOH!" Diane was quite startled. She gasped out another surprised syllable as Heather started the motions of fucking her with the toy penis.

Below the driver helped someone in a black dress and a veiled hat step out of the car. The woman's dark hair ended at her shoulders. She looked up at the naked women on the balcony.

"Unng!" Diane was beyond her own control. She held the rail tightly, her knuckles whitening as she bore down.

"Oh yes, pretty will come for me, won't you pretty?"

Diane knew she was expected to talk to Heather throughout her orgasm. If she failed to do so, Heather might not touch her for a long time.

"God yes, oooh, lover take me, please, unnng! Please let me come for you, let me give you my, oooooh!"

Diane could scarcely keep her eyes open. Her body rocked against the phallus substitute. Head down, hair rolling before her eyes, Diane ground herself back as Heather pumped forward.

"Oh, fuck me, please. Unnng! Please!"

Heather reached around and touched Diane. Diane felt the finger hit the tender flesh at the top of her pussy. Sensations of flaming lust rocked her, a jolt of energy pressing her into orgasmic spasms.

"YESSS, MAKE ME AAAAGGGHHH!" Her convulsions rocked through her again and again. Her breasts swung wildly, the sensational feeling simply lifting her to her tip toes. Heather was moaning herself.

Below the woman looking up simply shook her head and entered the building.

Warmth poured down from the sun, seeping into the pores of Jorge's skin.

Jorge was by the pool side. He had caught up with the Institute man at the train station. The man came to this hotel and settled in. So Jorge was staying here too.

This hotel was something of a resort. The tennis courts and golf course were substantial. The pro shops advertised lessons on signs in the lobby. There were three restaurants and a nightclub. Jorge noted the number of attractive young women wandering around, most of them seemed unattached.

Jorge had kept an eye on the man with the mind shield. He was discovering for himself the worst part of following someone. Never before had he been forced to wait on someone he already located. He was bored waiting for his subject to actually move on. So he enlisted a little help.

The hotel staff was soon set up to let him know if the man did anything. Jorge would be able to relax and to enjoy the hotel services. The services he ignored so far were those of the lovely bikini clad college students staying poolside. This was something he could correct.

Jorge smiled to himself. All these goodies, and time to play too.

A very attractive brunette was practicing her dives from the high board. He'd been watching her for a little while. Her athletic body was muscular, her tan simply spectacular. Jorge enjoyed the midair spins, flips, and summersaults she executed.

He watched as she brushed aside two young men, separately. They couldn't draw her attention away from diving. She seemed to be mostly interested in getting a two and a half flip perfected. The young men seemed rather upset before moving on to other potential love interests.

Jorge gathered his towel and walked over to the lithe athlete.

"Hello, my name is Jorge."

"Good for you, Jorge. I'm busy. Beat it." Her breasts weren't quite as small as they looked from a distance. He looked at her puppy brown eyes, the flush of exertion had made her cheeks a little red. It couldn't be the sun.

"Come to the bar in five minutes. Look for me there."

"What? uh, oh." Jorge saw his controls sink in. She started for her towel. It would take more than five minutes for her to change. But he didn't mind. He went off to his room for clothing.

Bob dropped his garment bag on the bed. The flight was reasonably quick, he'd bumped some first class passenger for the trip. He had decided he needed the comfort this time.

The hotel he'd found was adequate for his purposes. The room contained a king size bed, the rooms to either side empty. They would stay empty too, the manager took care to ensure Bob's privacy for him.

He was a little displeased with the arrangements. Bambi had done the best she could, but he couldn't reach Charles. Mostly he was unhappy he was the only one who knew about the tragic turn of events in Harlem.

Charles should know about the damaged minister he found. The police would never find anyone responsible. To them it looked like another man gone insane in an insane place. Only Bob and the mysterious female visitor knew different.

Now, outside of Denver, all Bob could do was worry about what Jorge had found. The mountains loomed in the distance. His hotel was supposed to be near the Cabal site Jorge indicated. Bob didn't know, really didn't care.

A short drive, a long drive, they were the same. Some poor sot would lose part of his day driving Bob where he needed to go.

Jorge chose a table near the door.

He checked his watch. It was about 10 minutes before the diver, whose name he hadn't gotten, wandered in the bar. She spotted him immediately and joined him.

Her hair was still wet, but had been combed out down her back to the sturdy looking shoulder blades. She had full red lips and a stern gaze over her thin chiseled nose. Her muscular shoulders, doubtlessly developed from swimming, were now covered by a simple t-shirt. Her jeans concealed the lovely legs Jorge had admired from the pool side.

"Hello," he said.

"What do you want," she snapped. But she sat down with him anyway.

Jorge smiled. Then he waved to the waitress, a pert woman in her late thirties. The waitress came quickly to the table.

"Bring my friend here," he scanned quickly through her drinking tastes, "a Banana Daquiri?"

Stunned at his apparent knowledge of her drinking habits, she simply nodded.

"And I'll have a White Russian." The waitress rushed away as quickly as she'd arrived.

"How did you know?" asked the swimmer.

"Does it matter?"

"Damn right it does."

"No, I don't think so," he smiled.

"I'm leaving," she tried to rise. Jorge wasn't going to let her though. She made the slightest turn to leave but settled right back into her seat.

Jorge smiled.

As the young woman looked frantically about, the waitress came with their drinks. She smiled down on the two of them as she deposited the glasses neatly on cardboard coasters, then turned to leave.

"Wait!" The swimmer seemed frantic, "he's forcing me to stay, and I want to go."

The waitress turned and looked at Jorge.

"That true, sir?"

"Yes, it is. Now run along and take care of your other customers."

"Yes, sir. Sorry dearie, he is in charge here."

Jorge finished adjusting the waitress as she wandered into the kitchen. His new friend was stunned.

"What's your name," he finally asked the stunned brunette.

"Jessica." She tried to remain silent, but the name came out anyway. "Jessica Bays."

"Come Jessica." He took a sip of his drink, then pushed it aside.