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

by Jackson Ford

  Ditto for telling Javier that he, Jake, had his wife and daughter. It was a more promising possibility, one which would definitely speed things up a little. But after a moment he’d rejected that too. The only hostage situation in history that had ever gone even close to smooth was when D. B. Cooper hijacked an airliner in 1971—and you couldn’t even really call that a hostage situation.

  Sure, he could tell Javier not to call the police, but people did stupid things under pressure. Or the man could panic, get himself into a car accident on the way over. No, that was a bad idea—especially when he (or Sandy anyway) could get Javier to come to the house willingly, walk right in here. If he was only prepared to wait.

  Sandy had to take another shaky breath before she answered, force some cheer into her voice. “She’s fine. She’s sleeping.”

  “Did they issue an evac order? I saw the fires on Fox last night. They—”

  “No. No, it’s just a warning for now. The fire’s still a ways away.”

  Jake had smirked at that. The people here treat fires the same way they treat earth tremors: things as normal as sunshine. Even a fire as severe as the one ripping through the canyons above Burbank won’t get them moving until the evacuation warning turns into an actual evacuation order. All the same, the fire hasn’t backed off. It’s intensified, eating up the hills above Burbank and Glendale. He’ll have to keep an eye on it.

  “Oh. OK,” Javier had replied. “Uh, I don’t… What’s up?”

  She said exactly what he told her to say: “I just want to know if you could come by the house?”

  “Why?” He came a little more awake, suspicion entering his voice.

  Jake had shifted his position on the couch, still holding tight to her daughter. The child hadn’t made a sound, despite the tears staining his hand. Smart girl.

  “We… I… well, we miss you,” Sandy had said.

  A few seconds passed before Javier answered. “You can’t do this, Sand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last week you told me you never wanted to see me again. Told me to go talk to your lawyer. Now you want to meet up? Like everything’s OK?” He sighed—the sigh of a man who has been asked to deal with far too much. “I told you I’m sorry about a thousand times. I made a mistake. I know that. But it doesn’t give you the right to… to torture me like this.”

  A flash of anger. “I’m not.”

  “What else would you call it? First you’re angry at me, and now you just call out of the blue? I don’t know what you want me to do here.”

  Jake had found, to his surprise, that he was bored. He didn’t come here for this. He wasn’t interested in whatever bullshit fight they had going on.

  He’d gestured with his free hand to Sandy to move it along and floated the bloody shard of glass a little closer to the child to make the point. The girl had given a soft moan, exactly one, so quiet it was almost inaudible.

  A note of steel had entered Sandy’s voice. “Do you want to see your daughter or not?”

  “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare use her to get to me.” A thud, as if he was standing up. “For your information, I’m working today. The project out in Chino Hills. I’m only supposed to be there at nine, so I was kind of planning on sleeping off my hangover for a little bit. Of course, now I’m awake, I guess I’ll get some coffee and stare at my bank account to see how long I’ll be able to rent this place. Maybe check my email to see if you’ve sent the divorce proceedings. Is that OK, Sand? Is that info sufficient for you?”

  Sandy’s fear had given way to anger, her face turning dark. “You don’t get to talk to me that way.”

  “Then what way would you like me to talk?”

  It came as a shout, the call distorting. Sandy’s face had collapsed, and she’d given Jake a helpless look.

  “Wait. Hold on.” The anger had left Javier’s voice, replaced by desperation. “I’m sorry, Sands. I didn’t mean it. I just… I didn’t sleep too well last night.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Can I speak to the Bean? Can you put her on?”

  “She’s still in bed.”

  “Oh. Right. I’m sorry I yelled at you, Sands, I didn’t mean to get… get like…”

  “It’s OK. Can you come?”

  A few seconds’ silence, as if he was trying to decide whether the offer was real or not.

  “I gotta be in Chino Hills,” he’d said, sounding genuinely torn. “Mariposa’s off sick, so they got nobody else to run point, and I can’t risk my job right now. I’ll try see if I can get off this afternoon.”

  Jake had gritted his teeth. This afternoon. Was the man going to be this difficult? He’d felt impotent suddenly, emasculated. He was supposed to have this under control.

  “I’ll be there, though,” Javier had said. “Count on it. Maybe we can get tacos or something? Poquito Más?”

  “Sure. OK.”

  It would have to do. It was the safest, most effective method of finishing the job. Sure, maybe Javier would find out what happened to the other two targets at some point today—but even if he was spooked enough to run, he wouldn’t just leave his wife and daughter. He’d be here sooner or later.

  Jake had given her another, more firm gesture, slicing at the air.

  “I’ll see you soon,” the woman had said and hung up.

  But they hadn’t.

  Jake had kept the phone and had been getting occasional text messages from Javier all day. The job had taken longer than they thought. A delivery hadn’t arrived. There was a problem with the readings. Apologies and excuses. More than once it had made him doubt his plan to get Javier to the house by telling him that he had his family. He’d managed to hold back—just. He’d waited years to find out who he was; he could wait a few hours more.

  It’s nearly 7 p.m. When Jake first came to LA, he was enthralled with what the people who lived here called the magic hour, when the sun hits the hills just right and the air turns gold and syrupy. No magic hour today—the smoke has got worse, choking off the sunlight, painting the sky a sickly yellow.

  He’s been staring into space for the past forty-five minutes. Thinking about Chuy and about the mother lode of information he’s holding.

  The night of that first car ride, Chuy had taken him to a junkyard in Northeast LA. He’d managed to coax a little more out of Jake by the time they got there, including his time spent in foster care. Jake hadn’t wanted to reveal too much at first, but Chuy had this way about him: like he was in a joke that nobody else was, and that nothing anybody did could surprise him.

  Chuy knew the guy who ran the junkyard, an enormous bearded white guy with a torn biker jacket. The man had emerged from a trailer, fist-bumped Chuy and then vanished. Chuy had led Jake through the stacks of crushed cars, their heels kicking against tiny shards of smashed headlight. It was surprisingly quiet, despite being close to the freeway.

  When they reached a clearing in the maze of metal, Chuy had lit a cigarette, offered one to Jake, who shook his head. It was cooler here, the baking LA night softened by the cars stacked in piles like ancient monoliths.

  “OK,” said Chuy, expelling a blast of smoke. “Let’s see.”

  “I’m not a dancing monkey.”

  Chuy smiled. “Nobody here but you and me, homes. No test, no grades, no audience. I’m just curious, like I said.” He took another drag of the cigarette, looking faintly embarrassed. “’Sides, I figure you might be a good dude to know, you know? This town gets to you after a while. You gotta have friends.”

  He’d clapped his hands, leaned against a crushed car. Looked at Jake expectantly.

  Jake had taken a deep breath, glanced around him. Settled on a broken headlamp nudging up against an old pile of rags. He reached out, grabbed it, floated it over to Chuy and dropped it in his outstretched hand.

  Chuy had whistled, long and low. “Well, shit. OK.” He’d flashed a smile at Jake, open and delighted, like a kid who’d been given a present. “Not bad. What else you go
t?”

  He began to move other things: an old steering wheel, a hubcap, a few pieces of shredded tyre. First one at a time, then all together, making them form a slow circle in the air. Then he’d stacked them, mimicking the cars around the edge of the circle. This last one took a little more effort than normal—the pieces kept wanting to drift off to the side, and he had to focus to keep them still. He’d held the stack for a few seconds, then lowered it to the ground, turning to Chuy with a smile on his face.

  It wasn’t returned. Chuy rubbed his nose, absently tapped out another cigarette from the packet. “OK. Nice. Keep going.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lift something different.” He waved in the direction of one of the stacks, lighting the smoke. “One of the cars or something.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. How hard can it be?”

  “It doesn’t work like that.”

  That had earned him an annoyed look. “The hubcaps and shit? It’s a cute trick. But I think you’re holding out on me, man.”

  He’d flushed. “Fine.” He couldn’t lift the car, but he’d grabbed one of the hubcaps, thrown it as hard as he can with his mind into the darkness.

  Chuy had actually laughed. “What’s that supposed to be?”

  “If I threw that, and it hit someone, it could—”

  “Big deal. I got a nine mil can do that, and I don’t have to carry round hubcaps to use it, neither.” He lit the cigarette, the lighter sketching shadows on his face.

  Jake had started to shake his head, which is when Chuy had sprung off the car. The cigarette waggled in his mouth as he strode towards Jake, burning only a little brighter than his eyes. For a crazy second, Jake had been sure Chuy was about to hit him, but he’d stopped short, his shoulders shaking with what Jake saw was raw fury.

  “You fucking pussy.”

  Jake had stared at him, too stunned to be angry.

  Chuy spread his arms. “Look around you, man. Look where you are. You could make as much noise as you want and wreck as much shit as you want, and nobody would notice. That’s what I gave you. And what do you do? You throw fucking hubcaps around.” He marched over to the nearest car pile, whanged his fist on the metal. “Stop being an asshole. Do it.”

  Jake had stammered something, he doesn’t remember what. But he does remember the shame, the sullen anger.

  “Come on.” In the tight ring of cars Chuy’s voice was a metallic bellow.

  And then, all at once, he’d deflated. The energy ran out of him like water from a jug, and when he’d looked up at Jake the expression on his face had been unreadable.

  “You know what, man? Forget it.”

  “Chuy, I—”

  “Nah, that’s my bad. We only just met. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

  He’d taken a deep draw from his cigarette, tilting his head back to blow the smoke skywards as if contemplating the deepest mysteries of the universe.

  The drive back to Skid Row was done mostly in silence, and when he’d dropped Jake back at the spot the bike was parked, all Chuy had said was “We’ll talk soon.”

  Jake barely remembers the ride back to the shelter in Monterey, an indifferent building of stuffy dorm rooms where he’d managed to beg a spot for the night. What he does remember is not being able to sleep, getting up and going round to the alley behind the building and finding the heaviest thing he could—an old bag of dusty cement, left over from some ancient building works. He focused all his energy on it, trying as hard as he could to not just get it off the ground but hold it in the air, turn it, make it dance.

  Part of him felt resentful. How could Chuy, a guy he just met, possibly understand a single thing about how his ability worked? And yet he kept at it, trying to manipulate this thing that was far too heavy for him, straining until the muscles on his neck stood out hard as wood. The headache the next day had been brutal, like the world’s worst hangover, and yet he’d been strangely proud.

  Jake blinks. The plate, with its ruined grilled cheese sandwich, hovers in the air in front of his face.

  For a long moment he stares at it, his face slack. Then he sends it whirling across the kitchen, the sandwich disintegrating, the plate detonating against the wall. There’s a startled yell from the pantry, one which could be either the woman or her kid.

  Jake throws out a wave of energy from his mind, grabbing everything and everything: the plates in the sink, the coffee machine, the utensils in the pot by the microwave. He howls—an almost joyous sound—jack-knifing himself off the stool he’s sitting on, the space around him filled with whirling metal.

  All at once he’s furious with himself. Plates? Utensils? He could do those in his sleep. You’re not trying hard enough.

  He grabs the microwave, launches it through the plate-glass window separating the living area from the yard. The dishwasher is next—it takes an effort, a little more focus, but he rips it out, sends it crashing into the couch. With a look, Jake overturns what’s left of the couch, going from there to the TV, the pictures on the wall.

  Now he’s no longer angry with himself; he’s angry with the people who live here. The wife and kid in the pantry, the husband, wherever the fuck he is. They don’t know what it’s like. They’ve got everything, more than they could ever want. When the little girl grows up, she won’t just have money, she’ll have memories. She’ll know where she came from. Fuck them. Fuck them, and their perfect life, and their perfect house. Fuck their perfect memories.

  When he comes back, he’s sitting up against one of the kitchen cabinets, head slumped. He blinks again, long and slow, smacking his lips like he’s just waking up from a nap. There are no noises from the pantry.

  The oven has been pulled out but hasn’t quite been yanked from its power point, as if he lost interest halfway through. The clock on the front is still alive, reading 19:21.

  The outburst has drained him. Stupid. He should save his strength. He gets to his feet, digs in the fridge, pulls out a carton of milk. It goes down cold, oil-thick. Taking the carton of milk with him, he walks into the living area, settling down on what remains of the couch to wait.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Teagan

  Waking up this time is exactly like it was when I fell out of bed at 4 a.m. And by exactly, I mean a million times worse.

  My head is pounding, my stomach a roaring hollow. My bottom lip is swollen from Annie’s punch, like my face has been injected with helium.

  I open one eye, then wish I hadn’t. We’re in an industrial area: gravel underfoot, pipes everywhere, surrounded by huge cylindrical tanks. We’re out of the truck, which is parked deep in the shadow of one of them. The sun, wherever it is, is a lot lower in the sky. I’m propped against the tank, next to Reggie.

  Paul, Carlos and Annie are standing by the truck, talking in low voices. Carlos glances my way, sees that I’m awake and lopes over.

  “Holá,” he says, crouching down. “How you holding up?”

  “Like the morning after you brought that expensive whiskey to the office.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I sit up, wincing as my head lets me know that it violently disagrees with this course of action.

  The corners of his mouth twitch. “Don’t blame me. Four of us, and you had like half the bottle.”

  I give him the finger. “Where are we?”

  “The old Chevron plant,” says Paul. “Just south of the Boulevard.”

  “Cops?”

  “Nah.” Carlos smirks. “Lost ’em. Been hiding out here for a couple hours, just in case.”

  “Still probably gonna be some heat when we get outta here,” Annie says. “We need another car. This one’s licence is in their system now.”

  “Just finished paying it off too.” Paul smacks the back of the cab. “Quite a situation you’ve landed us in, Teagan.”

  “Go die in the street, dude.”

  “How did you do that?” Paul folds his arms, frowning at me. “The chopper. Your psychokines
is shouldn’t be that powerful.”

  “Yeah,” Annie says. “That was some major shit.”

  “I…”

  “Thought you weren’t that strong, man.” She isn’t looking at me. “Isn’t that what you said? When you came in this morning?”

  “I thought I wasn’t,” I mumble, more to myself than to her. This is why I didn’t want to tell them. One of the few things I had going for me was that I wasn’t strong enough to bend rebar like the killer does, an alibi which is now out the window.

  I retell the story about the alley in Skid Row, this time leaving in the part where I discovered that I could lift five hundred pounds. When I’m done, Annie lets out a low whistle. “And this happens when someone hits you? That’s kinda fucked up, Teagan.”

  My lip is throbbing, sending low waves of pain across my face.

  “No,” I say. “It’s not that. It’s like a… a fight-or-flight thing. My mind senses I’m in danger and just like quadruples its energy output. Quadruples the hangover too.” I spit, a globule of saliva arcing through the air. Gross. “That’s why Annie had to hit me—convince my brain to use some more juice.”

  “Does Tanner know about this?” Paul says quietly.

  “No.” Reggie, who hasn’t said a word up until now, speaks without opening her eyes. “They tested her under stress, but they never saw anything close to this. This is something else.”

  Propped against the tank, she looks impossibly small and frail. She’s gritting her teeth, her jaw locked.

  “Are you OK?” Paul says.

  “Damn nerve pain.” Her eyes flicker open, then slam shut again. “Happens sometimes after a long day.”

  “Long day is right,” Annie mutters. She squats down in front of Reggie. “You want some deep tissue?”

  “Doesn’t really help.”

  “Yeah, well, better than nothing.” Annie starts to work on Reggie’s wasted legs, powerful hands squeezing and kneading. Reggie has zero real sensation below her shoulders, but sometimes she gets phantom pain: burning heat, freezing cold. Pins and needles. She can’t feel the deep-tissue massage, but it doesn’t stop Annie from trying.