The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind (The Frost Files)

by Jackson Ford

  Annie roars in his face, then hurls herself into the van.

  “Annie? Jesus, are you all right?” Paul tries to follow her and gets another incoherent yell for his trouble.

  “I’m fine too, by the way,” I say.

  He ignores me, crouching down in front of Annie, who ignores him. She’s sitting on the low bench that runs along one side of the van’s interior; the other is packed solid with radio equipment, tool racks, stacked duffel bags. A wire-covered bulb in the ceiling fills the inside with harsh white light.

  “Think I’ll sit up front,” I mutter.

  I swing round to the passenger side, and Carlos pops the door for me. Behind us, through the partition, Annie growls at Paul to leave her the fuck alone.

  On the jobs we do Paul handles comms and logistics while Carlos does the driving. He’s a big guy, with a blocky, angular face and stubble that never seems to vanish no matter how often he shaves. He’s wearing a flannel shirt despite the heat, the sleeves rolled up to expose the intricate tattoos lining both arms. The tattoos mix a hodge-podge of images, classic American muscle cars nudging up against snarling tigers and leaping dolphins. The biggest piece is a grinning, colourful día de los muertos skull with flowers for eyes, wrapped around the inside of his forearm.

  Carlos flashes me an evil grin as he puts the van in gear. “Yo, I got what you need.” His Mexican accent gets stronger when he talks like this. “Get you real fucked up. First taste is free.”

  “Shut up and give me the goods.”

  He laughs. “Glove box.”

  I pop it, and the sight of the bag of beef jerky nearly makes me faint with joy.

  “You’re my hero,” I say between mouthfuls of delicious salty meat.

  “I’m everyone’s hero.” He’s pulling slowly out of the alley, looking left and right for cops. “What’s up with Annie?”

  I tell him what happened, bracing myself for the freak-out.

  It doesn’t come. Instead, he just says, “Huh.”

  “That’s it?” I say.

  “What?”

  “I pull off an amazing last-second save, and all you can say is ‘Huh’?”

  “You know Annie’s scared of heights, right?”

  “Well, yeah, I mean, it was pretty scary and all, but I had it totally under—”

  “No, like really scared of heights. Like one of her worst fears.”

  I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. Thinking back to the cargo elevator, how Annie stood with her eyes closed, not moving. And in the office where we placed the coupler, how she stayed away from the windows. Didn’t even look at them.

  “Huh,” I say.

  A siren splits the night behind us. Carlos guns the van, and we’re gone.

  SIX

  Jake

  The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their history.

  In all the books Jake had read—and he’d read many, stolen from libraries or shoplifted from second-hand stores or borrowed and never returned from shelter break rooms—that was the one phrase he’d never quite got out of his head. It would come to him in odd moments, drift across his mind as he tried to fall asleep, shivering under cold bridges or freeway overpasses, as he stepped out of gas stations and corner stores in towns that he and his mother might have lived in when he was a kid.

  It always bothered him that no one knew who actually said it. Most people attributed it to George Orwell, to 1984, but Jake thought most people had shit for brains. He’d read 1984 three times, and he’d never come across it. Everybody was going around parroting this bit of wisdom without knowing or caring that its own history had been obliterated.

  Then again, he knows a thing or two about being denied a history.

  The quote crosses his mind again as he rides down the freeway, heading towards the glimmering skyscrapers of downtown LA. Beneath him, the Royal Enfield Bullet Classic growls and roars, its tailpipe spitting as he weaves his way through the late-night traffic. It’s not a good sound, and it’s got him worried: a thrown engine might be the one thing that could ruin tonight. But Jake and the bike have been together a long time, since the Detroit days, and it’s always come through for him. Royal Enfield started making bikes over a century before, in 1901, and the Bullet Classic dates from 1933. His isn’t that old, of course, even if it sometimes acts like it.

  His helmet suddenly feels too tight. As he slows to pass between two honking pickup trucks, Jake reaches up and unclips the chin strap, pulling it off and wedging it in his lap.

  He’s tall, a little over six feet, with a lanky frame and a dirty crop of shoulder-length blond hair. It blows about his head as he accelerates, framing a face that could be that of any aspiring actor in LA—the kind of actor that populates every audition in town, clutching well-worn headshots and proudly talking about the Best Buy commercial they did, or the indie movie from six years ago that performed well at film festivals. It’s the face of a barista, of the barman who pops your beer, of the guy across the hall in your apartment building with whom you’re on nodding terms but never actually speak to. If anybody chose to look closer, they’d note the rips in the leather jacket, the ancient Timberland boots held together with straps of duct tape, the scabs on his hands. But they never look.

  The Enfield’s engine blats, its rusted green gas tank reflecting headlights from every direction. The air stinks of smoke from the fires, but Jake doesn’t mind. Tonight is the night he finds out who he is. Chuy has promised him everything, all of it, the mother lode. Every detail of his past. As long as as he can do what he promised.

  There’s no way he’s letting this opportunity slip. No way, no how.

  A grin splits his face. He feels good. Really good. Even the old pain in his jaw, the familiar ache from endless clenching as he sleeps, is barely background noise. Fifteen years he spent in foster care. Fifteen years of bumping up against a federal system that either couldn’t or just plain wouldn’t help him. Documents that they wouldn’t let him see. That they misplaced. That they didn’t give enough of a shit to look for. Why would they? For a kid that would almost certainly be rehoused in a few months, a year at the most? They didn’t care that his history had been obliterated. No matter how hard he begged and pleaded, they wouldn’t help him. Even the good ones, and there were very few of those.

  No one would tell him where he came from.

  The road ahead of him curves, the traffic tightening. As he brings the bike to a gentle halt, Jake glances at the car next to him and sees a tiny face looking back at him through the rear window. A little boy, maybe three or four, strapped into a car seat and staring with undisguised wonder.

  The sight rattles him a little—what’s a kid like him doing up this late? Then he relaxes. Parents coming back from a party, maybe, the kid dozing in the back seat, waking up briefly and spying him through the window.

  Jake grins at the boy, his own teeth reflected in the glass, and flips a cheerful, almost lazy salute. The boy laughs, delighted—Jake can’t hear him, but he can imagine the laugh, crystalline and clear. One of the adults in the front seats turns around, saying something to the boy, who ignores her.

  An idea blossoms—an absurd, risky idea, one that on any other night he would shy away from. All the drivers around Jake are looking forward, concentrating with herd stupidity on the clogged road ahead. And the drivers behind him won’t be able to see what’s happening. So why not? Why the hell not? If he’s going to have any audience tonight, why shouldn’t it be a child?

  He makes an elaborate show of looking around. In reality, he really does check—simply because the night is going well doesn’t mean he wants to tempt fate. But nobody is looking at him, the drivers all concentrating on how terrible it is to be stuck in a traffic jam.

  He looks back at the boy, holding eye contact. The helmet in his lap rises until it’s level with his chest. He winks at the goggling child, puts a raised finger underneath the floating helmet, and makes it spin like a basketball.

&nbs
p; The kid’s mouth falls open, his eyes huge in delighted disbelief. As he turns to tell his parents, Jake drops the helmet back down. The kid is going nuts in the car seat, pointing, bouncing up and down. The mother glances at Jake, her gaze dull, uninterested. He pities her. There is no one else with a Gift like his, no one, and she doesn’t even realise it.

  The traffic moves. With one last glance at the excited boy, Jake accelerates, gunning the throttle and speeding away, leaning into the highway as it curves.

  He has come a long way. A thousand miles, a thousand different sleeping spots. In a way he’s grateful for all of it because it led him here. To this great and glorious night, when he will finally find out where he came from. He has three tasks to complete, and the night wind is rushing through his hair, and the bike’s engine is now steady, purring underneath him.

  His history might have been denied, but it hasn’t been obliterated yet. And if there’s one thing he’s discovered over the past fifteen-odd years, it’s that he is very hard to destroy.

  SEVEN

  Teagan

  It’s nearly midnight by the time we get back to Paul’s Boutique.

  That’s what I call the house we use as our office, even if nobody else does. Technically, Reggie’s the one who runs the show, not Paul, but I’d been listening to some Beastie Boys a couple of weeks into our time there and the name was too good not to use.

  Surprisingly, they didn’t want me to put a sign on the door.

  It’s in Venice Beach, which itself is kind of a strange name. It makes the place sound a lot nicer than it is. It’s got some OK spots—a few nifty restaurants and coffee shops—but mostly it’s just bungalows, bad bars and bullshit tourist stores. And our office. Because they have to put us somewhere.

  Reggie lives in the back room, and we work out of the front. It’s on a street called Brooks Court that is only marginally nicer than the alley Annie and I crash-landed in earlier tonight. I would have preferred Carlos to drop me off in Leimert Park, where my little apartment is. It’s on the way. But Reggie insists on a face-to-face debriefing after a job, and I’ve been dumped on for missing them in the past.

  I’ve moved apartments a bunch of times since Tanner first stuck me in LA, but I’ve always worked out of the Boutique. It might be kind of a shithole, but walking inside after a job, sitting on the ratty-ass couch and drinking a beer or a cup of coffee is like letting out a breath you’ve been holding for a long time. It’s my way of transitioning back to being a normal person. One with a life that doesn’t involve doing black-bag jobs for the U.S. government.

  Besides, you can climb up on the roof if you know how. It’s a great place to sit and drink a beer.

  Annie is out the van the second Carlos pulls in, even before he cuts the engine, barging through the door leading to the living room like it personally offended her. Paul follows, stopping for a moment to fiddle with the garage door remote.

  Carlos has been silent for most of the way back—he’s like that when he’s behind the wheel, preferring to concentrate on his driving. Now he puts a hand on my shoulder. Speaking very gently, he says, “How many organs would you sell right now for a cup of coffee? Be honest.”

  “For your coffee? None of them. You can have a toenail clipping.”

  “I think I snorted a toenail clipping once. It’s not as bad as you would think.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah, I know. You would not believe what the coke has been cut with by the time it gets to Mexico.”

  “No, I mean it’s amazing you’re still able to speak, with all the horrible things you’ve done to your brain.”

  “You break my heart. You want coffee or not?”

  Coffee. Jesus, yes. It’ll help replace some of the energy I lost with my chair stunt, although it’s going to take one monster of a takeout and a long nap before I get it all back.

  There’s a rap on my window. It’s Paul, making the wind-down gesture with his hand. He does not look happy.

  I hit the button, lowering the window. “You rang?”

  “Annie told me about what you did.”

  Scratch that. He’s not unhappy. He’s furious. It’s not explosive, like Annie; he’s doing a very good job of holding it back. But the tightness of his shoulders, the narrowed eyes and thin-set lips give it away.

  “Dude,” I say. “Come on. Can I just—”

  “It was reckless. It was irresponsible.” He actually ticks these off on his fingers. “You put both your lives in danger. You acted without consulting me…”

  “Next time I’m falling out a skyscraper, I’ll be sure to call you up to discuss our options.” I give him a thumbs up. “Go team.”

  “Now you just—”

  “Paul,” Carlos says. “Maybe we do this inside? Get some coffee and talk, huh?”

  Paul exhales. Collects himself. After a long moment he gives a brisk a nod. “Yes. All right. Good idea.” Then he turns on his heel and makes his way into the house.

  “Why you gotta be such a dick to him?” Carlos says.

  “I’m a dick to him?”

  “Yeah. Paul can’t help the fact that he has…” He snaps his fingers. “Palo por el culo. You know? Stick in his ass? That how you say it?”

  I snort. “Yup.”

  “He’s born that way,” Carlos continues. “You should be more considerate, man.”

  My laugh tastes bitter. Didn’t I just save us? Pull us out the fire? I admit, I screwed up with the construction elevator, but I couldn’t see another way out of that room. It wasn’t what you’d call safe, but it was also the only option that didn’t get us arrested, or shot.

  Carlos pops the door, then looks over his shoulder at me. “You OK? For real?”

  I roll my neck, wincing. “Sure. What’s a job without a little bit of whiplash?”

  “You gotta be careful, man. You leave that shit too long without fixing it, it sticks around.”

  “I’m fine. Besides, tonight wasn’t nearly as bad as Long Beach.”

  “You just fell like eighty floors. How was it not as bad as the Long Beach job?”

  “They had dogs in Long Beach, Carlos.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Again with this. Just because you’re not good with animals…”

  “No, I’m perfectly fine with animals. I love animals. As long as they don’t want to eat me.”

  “It was one dog, and it was like half a foot long.”

  “You didn’t see it. It was motivated. Give me an eighty-floor drop over that any day.”

  “Not sure Annie would agree with you.”

  He grimaces, realising he’s hit a soft spot. I don’t mind too much. Carlos and I give each other shit, but he always makes me feel better. No matter how gnarly things get, talking to him always helps. Maybe it’s because he knows what it’s like to go through hell and come out on the other side OK. More or less.

  He grew up poor in Tecomán, in Colima State. From what he tells me, it makes the worst block in LA look like paradise. His old man used to be a racing driver, and the one thing he made sure his son could do from like age ten was drive. Turns out, Carlos was pretty good at it—good enough to attract the attention of the local Zeta gang.

  From age sixteen, he was the guy waiting outside while the Zetas knocked over businesses or held meetings with corrupt officials or swung machetes. He would probably still be doing that now if the cops hadn’t decided to strike back at the gang and tried to get him to roll on them. Faced with either life in prison or a machete swing of his own, Carlos skipped across the border. He ended up on Tanner’s radar, somehow, and now he’s here.

  He’s probably the only person in China Shop who I’d actually choose to hang out with. He and I have spent many, many nights at bars around Venice Beach, knocking back beers and talking shit, him telling me endless stories about his rotating cast of boyfriends and hook-ups. He really doesn’t want to go back to Mexico—not even if he had a new identity. Mexican laws are slowly swinging towards legalisation of
gay marriage, but it’s still the kind of thing that you have to keep quiet. At least in LA, he told me, he can date whoever the hell he wants.

  “See you inside, Teags,” he says.

  “Yeah. Go make my coffee, bitch.”

  His eyes widen. “Bitch?” He puts a hand on his chest. “You call me bitch? I, who am descended from Aztec kings?”

  “Only one sugar this time, sweetie. Thanks.”

  “I am a man.” He makes his voice tremble. “Not some simple kitchen servant you can order around. You play with my emotions, señorita. I have dignity…”

  “You have a job making coffee, that’s what you have.”

  He leans in suddenly, conspirational, grinning. “If you still got that toenail, we could always—”

  “Ugh. Get out.”

  He goes, laughing, closing the van door behind him. In the silence that follows I have to fight off the temptation to just close my eyes and go to sleep right there. I’m hurting a lot more than I’d expect, and it’s not just the whiplash. I always feel it the day after I push my ability—a pain that ranges from aching muscles to full-on migraine—but I can’t remember feeling this sore so soon after. I must have hit it a little harder than I thought.

  Using my PK burns energy, but no one has managed to figure out how that energy makes it from my body across the room to whatever I’m lifting. I’ve been stuck inside particle chambers and hooked up to ECGs and dosed with low-level radiation, and the scientists doing it still couldn’t get a decent working theory together. My parents might have known, once—after all, they were the ones who made me, fucking with my genetic code in ways that had never been done before. But they’re gone, along with all their research.

  God, I need that coffee.

  It’s always amazed me that Tanner, who has access to all sorts of bottomless black budgets and off-the-books accounts, couldn’t give us a half-decent office to work in. The front part of the house is a spacious open-plan kitchen and living room, which has been converted into a workspace. Paul is the only one with an actual desk, a cheap Ikea number over by the window, covered in piles of drifting paper. A corkboard with faded invoices hangs on the wall next to it. Faded invoices and a photograph of a kid in a soccer uniform—Paul’s son, Cole.