My mouth dried up in an instant. I couldn't swallow. I grabbed my water and chugged it. Clients who broke Rent-A-Kid's confidentiality agreement faced serious harm. Though, it did make sense that someone would spill the beans eventually—especially if a famous reporter had serious dirt on them, and they needed to shine the spotlight on an even bigger story to protect themselves.
Bernard continued, "Of course, I didn't believe them at first. They would have said or done anything to keep me from printing what I knew about them. But they had proof. They'd kept videos, pictures, and other records of the kids they hired. I looked through it all and.... What if it was true? The evidence was damning, but that could have been faked. So they agreed to hire a kid spy and let me see the powers firsthand."
I perked up. He'd met someone from my school? "How long ago was this?"
"Oh, I don't know, eighteen years ago. I met a girl who could move objects with her mind. I wouldn't have believed it, but I witnessed it with my own eyes. I started asking around, using contacts to dig up dirt on other wealthy and powerful members of our society. Not everyone used this service, but I found two more who had and were willing to trade information to keep me quiet.
"I can only assume I was getting too close, because one day my house was robbed of all my research, and I was shot and left for dead. On that same day, someone killed all three of my contacts. It took me months to recover physically. I lost the trail and could never figure out how to pick it back up. After that, I tried going back into journalism, but had lost the appetite for it. That's when I started teaching. So yes, Sam, I believe you."
I exhaled hard, expelling the pent-up pressure in my lungs in one great whoosh. I didn't know what I had expected from the professor, but this punched me in the gut.
Drake shifted on the couch. "Maybe coming here was a bad idea. If you're already on their radar, we could be putting you in a lot of danger."
"I'm tired of hiding. This is the story that got away, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let it get away again. I'll help you kids as much as I can. Consider this your home while we figure out what to do next. I still have some powerful connections here and there. Sam, if you'd like, I can take a sample of your hair and find out what drugs you were given."
"That'd be great. I'm over the worst of it, but I hate not knowing what was done to me. This test... it's confidential, right?"
"Yes, your identity will be protected."
Bernard went over to his desk and pulled out a small vial.
I plucked a few hairs from the root and handed them over.
He slipped them into the vial and filled out a form. "I'll have these picked up right away. We should have an answer within a day or two."
He looked at Brad. "And you, what have you done with your writing career since last we spoke?"
Brad found something fascinating to stare at on his shoe. "Been trying to carve a niche for myself in journalism, like you taught me. It's not an easy world to break into."
How sad for him to feel disgraced in front of his mentor, I thought. "Brad does have a thriving blog, though, and he's using that to get our story out. He's going to be famous soon."
Brad smiled at me as his body relaxed.
"I may be an old man, but even I know the internet is quickly replacing print media. Hell, it's replacing print everything. I'm proud of you for sticking with it, Brad. Let's take a look at this blog of yours and see what we can do to spice it up. It's time I got my story out there too."
Brad beamed at the professor and grabbed his computer bag. They went to the dining room table next to the living room and sat shoulder-to-shoulder.
Bernard shouted back without turning to us. "Spare rooms are down the hall and to the right. Bathroom is on the left. Make yourself comfortable. Food's in the kitchen."
I stood and stretched. "Thank you."
His only response was a grunt as he focused on Brad's articles.
***
After two days with the professor, I knew my instincts had been correct. Not only was he helpful to Brad and his blogging ambitions, but he and I enjoyed long talks about ethics and the world of para-powers.
"So, you don't think powers are inherently right or wrong?" The mug warmed my hands, and the tea did the same for my insides.
In a look that I had come to recognize as his "thinking face," Bernard's eyes glazed over. "No, I don't. However these powers came to be, they are tools like any other."
Father Patrick had said much the same to Drake, I knew. I looked forward to meeting the man who had been like a father to him. When Drake told us of the priest's property and his willingness to help us, it changed everything. We now had a real chance to rescue my friends.
I took a sip of my tea and savored the spices on my tongue before I responded. "Criminals often argue that they are born that way—sociopaths and serial killers in particular. By your reasoning, anyone without a conscience can do whatever they please, right?"