She flings up a hand. “Don’t tell me!”
“Okay.”
“Wait, what kind of news?”
“It has to do with mutation.”
“Shit! No, we were talking about the descramblers. You’re giving me a descrambler, remember?” She goes on, but with less heart. It’s the old hypochondriac Catch-22—you crave new information because you think it will calm your fears, but it usually does the opposite.
Soon enough I’m giving her the horrifying details of a deadly new viral mutation. It’s just the sort of news that would’ve upset my dad—he was fixated on pandemics. He still keeps a level-four biohazard suit and top-grade respirator for me out at his place in the woods. Always hazard gear for you here, he says.
I sometimes dream of introducing him to Otto, but Pop never comes into the city. Too many germs. I drive the hour out there now and then and spend evenings eating frozen entrees and playing chess. Pop’s impressed with my seeming sanity. He wouldn’t be if he knew what it cost me.
Our conversation winds on, the two of us on either side of a coat check booth window, psychologically attacking each other. But in the end, I win, because I stoke up a whole lot of terror, take her hand, and zing her. I strive to keep my expression impassive as my fear whooshes into her. Slowly, the peace fills my head and my heart, like cool, calming water.
She takes a shuddery breath.
I let go. Yes, I zing for public safety, to save Otto’s head, to save myself. But it feels great, and I love it. That’s the horrible truth.
Reverse emotional vampires. Maybe Simon’s right.
She looks into my eyes, but it’s that sort of gaze where the person really isn’t looking at you. At the end, after the last of us is done with her, she’ll be completely lost in that inward attention. “You have to hurry back,” she exhorts.
“I will.”
Chapter
Seven
THE DAY IS GORGEOUS—it has to be nearly forty degrees. I may be a reverse emotional vampire, but the sun is warm on my face and the sky is bright blue. I set back out toward Mongolian Delites to get my car, taking my sweet time. Halfway back, I treat my glorying self to a candy bar; I eat it on a bus stop bench while I watch pigeons tear at some garbage. Most enjoyable.
Glory hour is mostly over by the time I near Mongolian Delites. I can tell mainly because the reverse emotional vampire thing doesn’t seem quite so amusing anymore. It seems horrible.
I recognize Carter’s hair, like gleaming metal hay, from a block and a half away. He’s leaning on the brick wall outside the restaurant building, talking to somebody. As I draw closer, I see that it’s Daryl. They’ve positioned themselves in one of the few spots where the sun isn’t blocked by buildings.
Daryl is one of Packard’s thugs—a telepath and a jerk, which is an extremely unpleasant combination.
As I approach, I make a point of lodging the song “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” firmly into my head as a way of masking my thoughts from Daryl. Skunking your thoughts, it’s called. Telepaths hate when you do that. They can still get in, but it’s a whole lot murkier.
Carter’s expression is calm. He’s zinged a target recently. It’s always a relief when Carter’s had a zing.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Dorks got another one,” Carter says. “Trio. Hoodies. Gunned a woman down about an hour ago.”
“Is she—”
“Dead,” Daryl says. Daryl wears a beret over his longish blond hair—the Otto look, which tons of men are sporting these days. If he feels vulnerable as a highcap standing out on the street, he doesn’t show it. With so many highcaps in hiding now, the ones who do venture out are extravulnerable.
“Woman named Fern,” Carter adds. “Telepath over in the university corridor.”
“Packard said they got a suspect this morning,” I say. “But if there was a shooting an hour ago with three Dorks present, it means the suspect is the wrong guy.”
“Not necessarily,” Daryl says. “There could be more than three Dorks and they switch off.”
“That seems a stretch,” I say.
“Daryl was just there,” Carter says. “At HQ.”
“That’s right,” Daryl says. “And the guy can’t be read, just like the Dorks. And he recognizes us, too. He won’t say how. Hell of a coincidence.”
“Another guy with the powers of the Dorks, huh.” I lean on a parking meter and twirl my car keys around my finger, making a bright silver blur, keeping the song going. “Huh.”
Carter says, “Not good.”
Daryl eyes a couple clipping up the sidewalk across the street. The couple eyes us back, maybe thinking we’re the Dorks. We’re three people, though we don’t have the hoodies. “Won’t say how he has the powers, but we’ll get it out of him,” Daryl continues. “We’ll make him sorry he withheld.”
I grasp my keys, stopping their bright orbit. “What do you mean, make him sorry?”
“He’s gotta be one of the Dorks,” Daryl says.
“He wasn’t even at the last attack, but you want to make him sorry? This suspect gonna need a nurse?”
Daryl gives me the fish-eye.
Carter says, “Packard won’t let a guy get really roughed up.” Carter, of course, is Packard’s number one fan.
“As opposed to partially roughed up?” I say. “I’m going over there.”
“You’re not a nurse,” Carter says.
“But I’m like a nurse.”
Carter gives me a pitying look.
“Sometimes,” I add, turning back to my car.
I drive through the former industrial heart of Midcity. Years ago this was a bustling, prosperous area, but over the past decade it’s become a ghost town.
I position Gumby so that his arms are crossed. Annoyed Gumby. “I am like a nurse sometimes,” I say to him.
Gumby communes with me in his silent, silly way.
“Make a guy sorry?” I say. “When he wasn’t even at the last Dorks attack? Screw that!” I drive deeper north, past long, low buildings crouching behind empty loading docks, and faceless factories full of machinery carcasses. Life in this neighborhood is centered around the corner bars and pockets of run-down houses these days, all hemmed in by weedy sidewalks.
I turn before I hit the tracks, heading up alongside the wasteland of rusted-out freighter cars under a web of high-voltage wires. I park behind the old depot—a small, historic brick building with a boarded-up front.
This is what we disillusionists semijokingly call HQ. It’s the secret center of activity for our operations as well as those of the highcaps who support and assist the police—without the police knowing, of course. And Lord knows what else.
I go around back and ring the bell. One of Packard’s guys lets me in.
With its gleaming marble floors and fluted woodwork, the interior hearkens back to the time when Midcity was a thriving center of everything; you can almost imagine old-time families waiting here for their trains.
I settle onto a couch and nestle my first-aid kit onto my lap while the man gets Packard from the back, where the suspect is presumably being held.
After a few minutes Packard strolls out in coveralls and rubber gloves. “Everything okay?”
I stare, horrified, at the rubber gloves. Why is he wearing rubber gloves? And coveralls?
“Ez came off okay and all that?” His smile fades when he spots my first-aid kit. It’s my nice one—shiny silver, with a red embossed cross on it. A gift from Shelby.
“I ran into Daryl,” I say.
“And?”
“I know you all get a little upset when you’re unable to use your powers on somebody …”
A pause. “Just what do you imagine is happening here?”
“Why are you wearing rubber gloves?”
Packard raises his latex-covered hands between us. “Few props make a suspect more nervous, or make a person’s imagination run more wild, than rubber gloves. Greg found the coveralls in a closet. We thought they were a ni
ce touch.”
“They’re props?”
“Of course. I’m just wearing them to question him.”
“Cripes, Packard. You’re scaring him to death?”
“I’m not above scaring a man who knows something. Somebody’s got to do the dirty work.” Packard pulls off a glove, then meets my gaze with a defiant light. “Who better than me, right?”
I just stare at him with this weird ache.
“Stop that,” he says. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to see about this poor guy.”
“This poor guy?” He snaps off his other glove, eyes on me, like he’s looking through me. Shit, he’s reading me. “You’re using this poor guy. Riding in with your first-aid kit to make sure he’s okay. You’re uncomfortable with yourself for what you’re doing as a disillusionist, and you hope coming here will relieve some guilt, and restore your self-image as a good girl.”
“I can’t believe you’re throwing that back in my face!”
“Want me to go in there and hit him so you can bandage his face?”
“Screw you.”
“And if you can insult me while you’re at it, that’s all the better, since you blame me for all the ills of your life.”
“You got that right.”
“At the same time, you’re desperate to be with me, to know what that would be like. But since I’m so morally degraded, you settle for these angry encounters.”
I smile through the burn in my face. “And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen, proof that Packard is not an empath or telepath after all.”
“Denying it won’t make it any less true.” He lays the gloves gently on the top of the couch back and whispers, “It’ll just make it more powerful.” Even the gloves seem oddly suggestive now. I’m conscious of my mouth watering, like I haven’t swallowed in way too long. He sits on the couch arm. “And then there are those far-too-short moments at Delites.”
“You’re trying to charge up that memory again!”
“As if I need to.”
“That experience will never be as salacious and suppressed as your and Otto’s big secret.”
Packard smiles and crosses his long legs. “So how does the ol’ ball and chain feel about our new connection? Did you tell him yet?”
“I haven’t even seen him since yesterday.”
“Ah.”
“What do you mean, Ah?”
He smiles.
“Stop it. Quit trying to manipulate me.”
“I can’t say Ah now?”
“No,” I say sternly.
“Even if it’s purely innocent? A genuine Ah? Not even that?” He makes a pleading face. It looks silly on him; he’s never been the pleading type. He bats his cinnamon lashes once. “Not even …”
I try not to laugh.
He keeps the face going and finally I smack him on the arm. “Stop!”
He laughs and I laugh. It’s like old times. But then it all falls away and I catch this flash of sadness in his eyes. Casually he turns from me as if to check the clock, and when he looks back, I get his usual hard look: domineering, out-for-himself Packard. But that fleeting break made me feel sad for him, and suddenly I think of the Dorks out there. What if Packard had been shot? The image of him shot and bleeding on the pavement makes me feel sick.
“You really think this guy knows something that can stop the Dorks?” I ask.
“He’s able to recognize us like the Dorks can. And he’s immune. He won’t talk about how he got this way. Yet.”
“Has Francis tried to get him to talk?”
“Francis is still recovering.”
“So it’s only highcaps questioning this guy?”
“You have a point?” Packard asks.
“Let me talk to him.”
“Now you want to help?”
“I think you need my help.” I cross my arms. “You know what happens when you give a kid a calculator instead of teaching him math?”
He tilts his head, his eyes fetchingly bright.
“Sure he can do math that way,” I continue, “but then if you take the calculator from him, suddenly he can’t do any math at all, because he’s learned to rely on the calculator. Your power lets you look at people and see exactly what it takes to make them tick. Or crumble. But without your power, you don’t get people.”
“No, I have a challenge for once. It’s refreshing.”
“I bet, when your power is gone, I’m the superior psychologist. Because I’m used to reading people the hard way.”
“You really want to get in there and see him?”
“If he hates and fears highcaps, and there are only highcaps questioning him, how is that effective? I’m sure your just being a highcap antagonizes him.”
“So you should talk to him?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know he wouldn’t hate you more than he hates us? You’d be the conventional human who went over to the dark side.”
“Let me go in there and see him.”
“Are you interested in saving us, or saving him?”
This stops me. Packard waits, running his hand heavily along the back of the couch, palm along the nubby fabric. The motion makes a low whispery sound.
“Both, I guess,” I say. “Why can’t it be both?”
He studies my eyes for a bit, then levers himself up off the couch arm and walks slowly to the door, lithe and lanky, and slaps the metal panel next to it. A buzz. He pulls it open and disappears.
Is he mad? Is this his answer, then? End of conversation? I stand there stupidly, unsure what to make of the sudden sense of loss I get from Packard walking off and ending the conversation. It’s like I’ve been pushing and pushing and pushing on something, and now it’s gone. So that’s it? I was sort of a bitch to him, but who wouldn’t be in my place?
Just as I’m picking up my coat and kit, the door opens and Greg, another thug telepath—a short, pale man with a buzz cut he’s kept since his mercenary days—storms out. I quickly skunk my thoughts with “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” as he passes. He heads for the exit.
Then Packard comes through the door. “Your turn.”
“What?”
“With the suspect.”
“Me?”
“You made a good case.” Packard takes my first-aid kit from my hands. He opens it, pulls out my scissors and tweezers, and tosses them onto the couch. “No weapons.” He snaps the lid shut. “Ready?”
“Just like that?”
“Apparently I’m not above much of anything.” He turns before I can reply. I follow him through the security door and down the depot hall. He stops at the very end, before a door with no window, still holding my kit. “Even though it’s possible he’s working with the Dorks, I don’t feel that he’s dangerous—far more bark than bite. He’s hungry, and mentally exhausted. He’s almost there, but he just won’t budge. Maybe he’ll respond to the good-cop treatment. Or just a human face.”
I think about what Simon said. That we’re barely human.
“You’re on your own in there. Keep in mind that it’s soundproofed. I’ll stay out here, but I can’t listen. If you need me, you’ll have to shout. I’ll be right out here.”
“What? No cameras or recorders or two-way glass?”
“What would highcaps need that for?”
“Right. Why spy when you can see right into people?”
“You want to do this thing or gripe?”
“What’s his name?”
“Marty.” He gives me my kit.
“Sending me in to be on my own with a suspect,” I say. “Should I be flattered or worried?”
“Get us some answers and you can be whatever you want.” He unlocks the door and I go in.
The room is plain white and bright, and a thickset fellow sits at a table in the center of it. He’s in his late thirties with a shaved head, chubby cheeks and squarish tortoiseshell glasses, which give him an owlish look. There’s an angry splotch on his jaw that will be a br
uise tomorrow, and his lip is bloody.
I close the door with my foot. “Hi, Marty.”
Marty frowns.
I set down my kit. “Can I take a look at that lip?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m here as a nurse.”
“That’s not an answer. You know these people are highcaps, right? And I’m being held illegally? I’m going to guess you know that.” He wears a roomy tan canvas jacket over a red T-shirt and denim jeans—dark, like they just came off the store shelf.
“I think you should consider me an uninvolved party, here on your behalf. Like the Red Cross.”
“If you were here on my behalf, you’d call the cops. Or at least bring me a sandwich.”
I open my kit. For all my big talk to Packard, I don’t have any idea how to deal with him. What can I possibly learn from a man this angry? I unpeel my cold pack and jerk the sides to activate it. “Hold this to your jaw. It’ll cut down on the swelling.”
“Oh, sorry, you mean hold it with my fucked-up hand?”
I gasp when he shows me his left hand, which features a fat, purple, crazily bent pinky. “Oh my God!”
“Wow, your bedside manner is impeccable. You think you can do something about it? Aren’t you supposed to jerk it back into place or something so it doesn’t heal crooked?”
I nod. He’s probably seen that in movies. So have I.
I walk around to his side of the table and take his hand in mine, thinking about the anatomy book Otto and I sometimes study. “The fifth metacarpal digit.”
He snorts. “You want a prize for that?”
“Can you move it?” I ask, cradling it, careful to not touch the pinky area.
He shifts it minutely, winces. “Ow.” He looks up. “What do you think?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
His owlish features darken. “This is what your friends did to me.”
Carefully I turn his hand to look at it from a new view. The pinky points sideways, like somebody tried to twist it off, and it stuck in its twisted position. “Which one?” I ask. “That military-looking fellow who just left?” Greg, I’m thinking. Hoping.
“No, the other guy.”
“Blond with a beret?” Daryl. Maybe it was Daryl.
Double Cross Page 7
