The Diamond of Freedom Read online

  The woman holding the dangerous treasure removes the elastic and tosses the pocket watch to her female friend. She raises the diamond to the light. I wait for the inevitable. Her friend closes the watch, and the woman holding the diamond crumples to the ground, dead. The diamond lies on the ground beside her.

  My powers return with a force strong enough to take my breath away for a moment. I use my healing power on my own heart, calming it and healing the pain. I catch Chris’s eye and ever so slightly shake my head, hoping he’ll get the message to stay put. Then I turn my attention back to the ensuing debacle.

  “Gina!” the other female shrieks. She bends down and shakes her friend’s shoulder.

  The man holding me lets go and pushes me toward Chris. I crouch down next to him and notice his bleeding lip, which Duke had split open. Duke joins his cohort by the lifeless body of their companion, where the woman sobs uncontrollably. “What the hell happened?” he shouts.

  “Call an ambulance!” The female shouts through her sobs.

  The other man who had collected everything out of the cash register rushes over and says, “No! Pick her up and bring her. We’ll get her help somewhere else.” Duke leans across the dead woman and reaches for the diamond. As soon as his fingers wrap completely around the stone, he falls forward on top of Gina.

  The shrieking woman screams even louder at the sight of a second dead friend.

  “What’s going on?” the other man yells. He spins around in a 360-degree circle, brandishing the gun at an invisible suspect. The woman’s screaming drowns out the approaching sirens.

  I glance at the cashier, a frightened, pale-skinned, thin man probably in his forties. A quick mind-read reveals he has alerted the authorities to the robbery by tripping a switch under the counter. I hope the gunman won’t shoot him once he realizes they won’t be going anywhere.

  Once the thug hears the sirens, he grabs the frantic woman by the shoulder, catching her hair and shirt, and yanks her to her feet. “Shut up! You hear me?”

  The woman has lost all control. The man’s mind reveals he views her as a liability now. He pushes her away forcefully. She falls into a shelving unit and crashes to the floor, hitting her head with a thud. Boxes of cheese crackers tumble on top of her. My healing ability senses she will be all right even though she’s been knocked un-conscious.

  The lone gunman lets off a series of curse words that would make a sailor blush. He’s in complete shock and confusion. He raises his gun, points it at the cashier. “You called the cops?”

  The cashier doesn’t move. He cringes and pinches his eyes shut, waiting for certain death.

  I use my healing powers and cause the gunman’s head to hurt by forcing fluid up around his brain. I don’t want to kill the guy, just disable him enough for the authorities to get to him, and for us to be able to escape, which with every passing second is becoming more and more difficult. Police cars with flashing lights surround the front of the building.

  The man drops his gun, and both his hands fly up to his head in agony.

  I leaned over to Chris. “Get his gun. Hurry.”

  Chris scoots over and grabs the handgun by the barrel, and as he moves back toward me I hear the voice I have feared.

  “Calli. There you are.” Freedom’s low, rumbling voice resonates through my body, sending chills through my entire being. He has bi-located near the end of the aisle, wearing his trademark trench coat.

  “Find the watch and open it, Chris,” I say.

  “Where is it?”

  “She dropped it somewhere over by those shelves.”

  Maetha appears on the opposite side of me. “Calli, what’s going on?”

  A commanding voice speaking through a bullhorn outside the building announces: “This is the police . . . the place is surrounded . . . come out with your hands up!”

  Boy, if there was ever a time for a do-over, this is it. I miss Brand.

  Freedom doesn’t move. He glances all around the inside of the building, for what I don’t know.

  Chris locates the pocket watch and holds it up for me to see.

  Maetha speaks to him saying, “Not yet, Chris. You two need to escape first, then open the watch.” She turns to me. “The camera captured you, Calli. I told you no cameras. This is going to put Beth on your trail as well as the authorities—and Freedom. Now go, and make better choices.” She motions toward the door.

  I pick up the diamond and drop it in the pouch, feeling doubly ashamed for letting Maetha down.

  Freedom says, “You won’t get far, Calli.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I answer him. I take Chris’s hand and walk to the front doors. We step by the debilitated robber, who is on his knees, holding his head and groaning in pain.

  The cashier stands motionless and pale as a ghost with his back pressed up against the cigarette display.

  I use my telepathy to tell Chris, We’ll go out with our hands in the air. On three, we’ll run to the left and out into that field and we won’t stop for at least five miles.

  He nods.

  I add, You lead the way and lend me your running power because I don’t know how this diamond will react. We walk out of the building with guns aimed at us and our hands raised. I begin counting: one, two . . . I wonder what the surveillance camera will capture. I imagine we’ll be in a frame one second, and the next we’ll be nothing but a blur.

  It wouldn’t be the first time a convenience store camera had caught such a picture.

  Three!

  We run, covering at least five miles of ground before stopping. Chris opens the watch as Freedom’s image begins to appear, hot on our trail.

  “That was intense.” Chris hands me the pocket watch.

  “I know. It was a mistake to stop at that place. I should’ve known better.” I insert the watch into the pouch and wedge the diamond inside. I’ll need to locate another elastic band to secure everything because the other one was lost at the convenience store.

  Chris tenderly grasps both my shoulders. His Pulse Emitter’s LED light blinds me. “Stop blaming yourself. There’s no way we could have known the place was about to be held up.”

  “We’ve been captured on camera, and now our mugs will be plastered all over the media. I just forgot completely.”

  “So did I, Calli, so did I.”

  “I guess we’re on foot now. Good thing we grabbed the backpacks, right?”

  “Right. We have everything we need. Unfortunately, we need a vehicle or some kind of transportation. We can’t go back for Maetha’s car.”

  We walk through the fields using the light of the emitter to guide the way. We don’t want to get too close to the highway for fear the police might find us.

  I think about how Freedom kept looking in different directions when he appeared in the gas station. The only thing I can figure is that he was searching for some kind of clue as to where we were. I don’t know if he found what he was looking for. Maybe he will only need to use his connections with the government to pinpoint the location.

  We need to keep moving to stay ahead of Freedom, local law enforcement, and Beth. She will be picking up on our location too and heading this way. I can’t help but worry about the eventual run-in with her.

  I’m comforted when I think about Beth now, compared to the Beth she might have been if she hadn’t dumped Justin. She would be in jail right now. I feel better knowing she’s doing something productive with her life. Too bad it includes hunting me down.

  Up ahead, we approach a small shopping center parking lot. At least twenty Harley Davidson motorcycles are parked in two lines, some with their headlights on, lending light to the rowdy scene. The owners stand nearby, laughing, telling stories, and carrying on. Men and women of all ages and dimensions laugh robustly as each story is outdone by the next.

  Chris mutters, “We should probably avoid these guys.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “Hey, what do we have here?” A rather loud, deep voice
yells out into the night. “Now, don’t be shy little lady . . . wandering around in the dark . . . you must be who the cops are after.”

  I let out a defeated huff. “I guess we’ll go talk with the nice people after all.”

  “Maybe you should hold the watch in your hand just in case we have to make a quick exit.”

  I whisper back, “I don’t dare expose the diamond.” We become surrounded by black leather, beards, spikes, and chains. To say I am intimidated is an understatement, but having seen Freedom dressed in his biker boots, mirrored sunglasses, and leather duster has helped me get used to the overall image.

  An idea pops into my head. I say, “Hey guys, yeah, we’re on the run. We need to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

  A particularly stereotypical biker guy steps forward. If a movie was being made and the casting call needed a bad-ass biker dude, this guy would certainly get the part. He has long scraggly hair, an even longer graying beard, and a black bandana with white skulls wrapped around his head. He wears a black leather vest, chaps, and blue jeans, and tattoos covering his arms give him the appearance of wearing sleeves. His low rumble of a voice suggests he just may be the sole reason the cigarette companies are still in business.

  “Honey, you came to the right parkin’ lot. Most all of us is runnin’ from the law for sump-thin’ or another. What’d ya do?”

  Chris takes over the conversation. “Nothin’ any worse than any of you. That truck stop is short a bit of cash, and some bodies are scattered around. Feds are after us. Can you help us? We can pay handsomely.”

  “Son, we don’t want your money. Where do you need to git?”

  “South, as far as Miami if possible.”

  “All right,” the guy laughs. “Roadtrip!” His companions roar with approval.

  Chapter 2 - Uncle Don

  Before we can say “Harley Davidson”, a few women and men come forward and donate several articles of clothing to help us disguise ourselves from the authorities. We are given helmets and sunglasses to complete our new outfits, and one sweet old man who looks like he would be more comfortable on a horse than a hog asks Chris, “Can you handle one on your own?”

  “You bet,” Chris replies. The man motions for us to follow him. He leads us to his bike and holds his hand, the keys dangling from his fingers.

  Chris takes the keys respectfully. He bends down and admires the shiny chrome and black engine that has been polished to a mirror finish. “You got a sweet ride here.”

  “You know bikes?” the man asks.

  “I do. This is a Harley Dyna Super Glide Custom FXDC. Twin Cam engine with Powerflow III two-into-one pipes that will dump you on your ass if you’re not careful . . . and a sissy bar to keep your girl on the back.” Chris stands and pats the passenger seat and backrest and smiles at the man.

  The man’s mouth opens wide, exposing several missing teeth as he grins. “Just keep it upright, and we’ll all be doin’ fine.”

  Chris swings his leg over and effortlessly pulls the bike straight and pops up the kickstand.

  I swing my leg over the back seat and wrap my arms around his stomach. The backpack he wears provides an additional barrier between the diamond pouch in my pocket and his back. He starts the bike, and the other riders start theirs as well. The noise and rumbling is something I haven’t experienced before. I’m glad my helmet blocks out some of the sound.

  Chris lets off the clutch, and we lurch forward with incredible force and control—he has definitely driven a bike before.

  Soon we are all on the road heading south, with Chris and me in the middle of the pack. This turn of events is beyond incredible. To think we would somehow end up with a band of bikers . . . well, I would have never guessed. I have never ridden a motorcycle, let alone a Harley. Chris handles the bike as if he’s been riding his whole life. Maybe he has—I really don’t know. Come to think of it, I don’t know much about this guy at all. I don’t even know where he grew up or if he has any brothers or sisters.

  Holy smokes! I don’t know anything about the guy who has become my destiny!

  We ride for a couple of hours until we come upon a roadblock. The State Police have the highway blocked as they search for the fugitive suspects of the truck-stop killing. Yet, here we are, amid a group of Hells-Angels-type bikers, hiding in plain sight. The cops aren’t about to detain the whole pack. Since we blend right in with the bikers and don’t match the description of the robbery suspects, we aren’t questioned at all.

  We stop at a rest area for a necessary break. I notice a few ordinary-looking families as they usher their kids quickly to their cars before some kind of ruckus breaks out. It’s probably better that way—the fewer people to see us, the better.

  Chris climbs off the bike and leaves my side. After he walks about twenty feet away from me, he turns around quickly and hurries back. He speaks softly so the people nearby won’t hear. “Calli, my powers came back where I turned around over there. Sit still while I experiment a bit.”

  He walks away from me in a different direction until he’s about twenty feet away and turns around again. We quickly establish the larger obsidian piece has a twenty-foot radius power field, except for a small spot where the metal of the watch blocks the power of the stone. If the stone had been sitting out on a table without any metal barriers, it would have been different.

  “Open the other door to expose the small stone, Calli.”

  I pop the other side of the watch open before I close the first door. I don’t want to risk having Freedom find me again. I certainly don’t want Maetha upset with me either.

  “My powers are back,” he whispers. He extends his hand out and touches my shoulder. “If I touch you, they go away. I guess I won’t be holding your hand and giving you my running power.”

  Chris fishes a granola bar out of his backpack and gives me a piece for energy.

  I observe the other bikers and their behavior while we eat our food. They seem like they don’t have a care in the world, no place to be, and no one depending on them to be home at a certain time. Maybe they are so laid back because they have no homes and these fellow bikers are their family.

  I find myself wishing I could do a mind-read on any one of them. Maybe some other time.

  We continue to ride for hours on end, stopping only to gas up or hit a rest stop. Once we reach Miami, Chris and I thank the group, give back the accessories they’d loaned us, and try to offer payment, but they won’t take our money.

  One of the bikers tells us they’d been listening to the police scanners. “You two best be watchin’ your backs. You got multi-state pigs after you. I don’t know if you done the things they say you did, but they ain’t gonna stop ‘til they find you. Stay safe and good luck.”

  * * *

  The afternoon drags on by the time we reach the final corner leading to Uncle Don’s home. The walk has been invigorating after sitting in the same position atop a rumbling motorbike. My knees still buzz a little.

  The neighborhood homes have a dated look of around 1970 with old established yards and landscaping. I feel safe in this area, unlike some of the other areas we passed through to arrive here.

  I can tell Chris is nervous. I ask, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s just that my uncle is a bit protective of me. I’m worried about how he’ll react to you.”

  “I’m not concerned. We’ll be in good hands, Chris.”

  “Well, you might not think that when you meet him. He’s kind of odd. He uses big words and talks too fast. Uncle Don and my dad had a falling out about the same time my powers emerged, and I haven’t seen much of him since. We communicate through email.”

  We walk along the perfectly laid rock path to his front door. The doorbell is a purple-tinted piece of glass with facets like a gemstone. I lean closer to get a better look and am startled when the door opens abruptly.

  Uncle Don stands as tall as the doorway, with tan, weathered skin, several days of beard stubble, and clothi
ng that looks like he’s worn it for the better part of the year. His plaid button-up cotton shirt is ripped in a couple of places and is missing some buttons at the top, exposing a home-strung necklace with different-colored stones around his neck. The blue jeans he wears are two sizes too big and barely cling to his narrow hips. Recognition is slow to meet his eyes, but once he realizes his nephew stands before him, he smiles and stretches out his arms.

  “Chris, my boy.” He pulls Chris into an embrace and then releases him. “What are you doing here?” Don’s eyes travel over my face and then resume their fix on Chris.

  “Uncle Don, we need your expertise on something. Can we come in?”

  “Of course, of course.” He steps aside and allows us to enter. I notice as I walked by him his eyes scan up the street and to the surrounding homes, looking for what, I don’t know.

  “Uncle Don, this is Calli Courtnae.” I extend my hand to him. He grasps mine with his dry, calloused hand.

  “Ah, so you’re the one he’s been going on and on about in his letters.” Don smiles at me.

  I look over at Chris, who seems flustered and embarrassed. “Well, I certainly hope I’m the one he’s writing about.”

  Chris jumps in with, “Uncle Don, we need to learn what a certain type of rock might be. Calli, show him the pocket watch.”

  I pull the watch out and extend my hand to him. “Sir, don’t close the watch, please.” I show him the other side and open it for him. “Do you know what this black stone is?”

  Chris asks, “Is it black onyx?”

  Uncle Don pulls the watch close to his face. He magically produces a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and holds it to his eye. “No, not onyx. Black onyx is usually artificially colored. This is obsidian.” He turns the watch in our direction and points to the stone. “See the curved conchoidal fractures around the edge of the larger stone? Obsidian breaks apart in this way because it’s an amorphous solid.”

  Chris looks at me to see if I have a clue what Uncle Don is talking about. I shrug my shoulders.

  Uncle Don continues. “Obsidian is rapidly cooled lava with high silica content and is only found in a handful of locations around the world, always near volcanoes that experienced rhyolitic eruptions and rapid cooling. The inhibition of atomic diffusion through the highly viscous and polymerized lava explains the lack of crystal growth. You see, obsidian isn’t a crystal; it’s volcanic glass. Come with me. I’ll show you my obsidian collection.”