Painkiller

by Robert J. Crane

  “Great,” I said, my voice hollow. “I’ll see you then.” I hung up. “What the hell are you playing at?” I asked Harry.

  “I’m not playing at anything,” Harry said, “Carrier Cattle Co. is good eating, always. Also, there’s something that’s going to happen at this lunch that’s going to give us a shadow of hope.” He smacked his lips. “I love it when everything comes together like that.”

  “How much hope?” I asked, holding my phone tightly in one hand, my bedspread loosely in the other. I felt like I’d been whammied, like Harry had hit me over the head with something heavy and I couldn’t think straight.

  Harry suddenly looked very guilty. “Not much,” he admitted, “but it’s more than you had before, so maybe now isn’t the moment we should get picky.”

  54.

  “I need a gun,” I muttered as I walked out of my room with Reed’s coat buttoned around me. It was huge, my brother apparently getting all the freakish height in the family and leaving me with nothing when I came along. At least I got the brains.

  “I think you actually need clothes,” Reed replied, giving me a critical eye, Harry Graves standing next to him shaking his head in disagreement. “Maybe some shoes?”

  “I think you look just fine as you are,” Harry said, and somehow—maybe it was because he’d probably been delivering this line for a century—he managed to avoid sounding like a gross old man doing it. He actually sounded charming. Not charming enough that I wanted to take my coat off or anything, but charming. Worlds away from his earlier crack about his prowess.

  I slipped my phone into the coat pocket and flexed my toes against the thin carpeting on the hotel room’s floor. “All right, so we’re going to a meeting that’s going to give us a slim chance to change this catastrophe that’s about to befall the metas of Chicago.” I glanced back at the clock. “But that’s over an hour away. What can we do in the meantime?”

  “I know a gaming hall not far from here …” Harry chucked a thumb at the door.

  “Veto,” I said and looked to Reed. “I guess we don’t have Maclean’s second victim dossier anymore.”

  Reed shot me a look that crawled from me to Harry, filled with great significance. I wondered for a moment if Harry caught it.

  “Unless I’m lying about everything,” Harry said in a loud, staged voice. Yeah, he caught it.

  “How about these assassins?” Reed asked. “I can’t imagine we’ve seen the last of Veronika or—what was the name of the one with the gun?”

  “Phinny … uh …” I struggled.

  “Phinneus Chalke?” Harry asked in sharp disbelief. “You’ve got Phinneus Chalke after you?”

  “And Veronika something or another,” I said.

  “Acheron?” His jaw dropped an inch. “Holy crap, you’ve got somebody mad at you.”

  “A speedster, too,” I said.

  “A … what?” Now Harry just looked perplexed.

  “Like the Flash,” Reed said.

  Harry gave him the same confused look, and he pointed at me. “She’s going to flash who? I mean, she’s dressed for it, but—”

  “A speedster,” I said, my irritation drawing his gaze back to me, “someone who can run really fast. Colin Something-or-other.”

  “Fannon?” Harry’s eyes closed involuntarily. “Oh, man. Who turned this bunch of hardcases on you?”

  I looked at Reed. “Smart money’s on Gustafson now, isn’t it?”

  “Seems likely,” Reed said, thinking it over, “since he was apparently soft-stonewalling us on what Jacobs was up to.”

  “And he knew we were heading out to Naperville,” I said. “Probably not too much of a stretch to guess which road the cab would take—”

  “That would explain the speedster attack on the bridge,” Reed said, tapping his chin. “And the ambush at Dr. Stanley’s office. But not the why, really. I mean, if we’re leaping to conclusions, I’m guessing he’s tied into us dying somehow, in pain … but how and why?” He shrugged. “Maybe it has something to do with that research he didn’t want to explain? The stuff about metas?”

  “Hmm,” I said, nodding. “That’s a good, long leap. Well, we’ve got a line between points, but it’s pretty thin, and there’s no way we can tie anything to Gustafson. I mean, this could be coincidence so far.” Reed gave me a patronizing look. “I admit, it’s unlikely, but we need a little more.”

  “Why not let Gustafson know where you are for something?” Harry asked. “Set up a trap to draw in your would-be assassins?”

  I exchanged a look with Reed. If Harry was playing us, getting all three assassins to come at us at once was not going to end well on our end. “Uhm …” I said, not thinking quickly on my feet.

  “Oh, right,” Harry said, nodding. “You’re worried I’m going to betray you. Fair enough.” He just accepted it, like that. “Well, here’s something for you—these three? Colin, Veronika, Phinneus? They work alone. For good reason, too. Not one of them plays well with others, so you can bet your sweet ass—” He started to point to me and stopped, grimacing partway through, apparently remembering my sweet ass was currently a strong breeze away from being exposed like Marilyn Monroe, “—uhm, that if you get them in the same room together, they’re not just going to fight to kill you, they’re going to fight each other to be the one to do it. That’s how assassination contracts pay. Winner take all, loser sucks tailpipe and chokes on the fumes.”

  “Taken a few assassination contracts in your day, have you?” Reed asked, his cynicism about Harry bleeding through.

  “No, but I know these cats you’re talking about,” Harry said with a smirk. “Every single one of them got recruited by Century back when you were fighting your war, did you know that?”

  “No,” I said, frowning. “How did you hear about it?”

  “Metahumans that have been around a while tend to form interlocking circles of acquaintance, let’s say.” Harry grinned. “Six degrees of separation, right? Only it’s less than that, because there aren’t that many of us. We all know each other. We run into each other every now again, talk, gossip, the same stuff normal people do. Phinneus, Colin, Veronika—they all said no to Century, and they walked away with their lives, taking at a least a couple Century players each when they did. You weren’t the only ones fighting that war.”

  “Yeah, I must have missed you guys at the five year reunion,” I snarked. “Great. They’re all badasses.”

  “So set an ambush,” Harry said with another shrug. “Walk them into it. Deal with them one at a time if you need to, let them fight with each other—”

  “And have you switch sides in the middle of it?” Reed asked. “Ugh. This is like a morass.”

  Harry glanced at me. “I’m normally in favor of more ass—”

  I gave him a pointed look back; the charm had gone out the window again. “I’m in favor of less, and you’re being one right now.”

  “Fine,” he said, throwing up his arms. “What assurance do you need from me in order to feel safe? Because I would think that the fact that these assassins didn’t descend on your hotel room in the night, even though I was checked in just down the hall, I would think that would be enough.” He spread his hands wide. “What do you need from me? Within reason. I’m not going to go committing seppuku or anything like that—”

  “I have an idea,” I said, folding my arms over the coat and staring at Harry shrewdly. Reed was looking at me with one eye cocked, probably because a grin was spreading over my face. “And maybe … just maybe … we can roll our problems up in one big ball and get rid of several all at once.”

  55.

  “Mr. Chang,” I said, shaking the lawyer’s hand as he extended it to me. We stood in the middle of a pretty impressive steakhouse, waiters in white coats bustling around us in a two-to-one ratio. We were standing in front of a booth on the back wall exchanging pleasantries, the view opposite us a window showing a busy street overlooking the river. “Thank you so much for meeting me right now.” I
stood a little taller in my new shoes, the suit I’d bought with Reed’s credit card looking good enough to give me some confidence that I wasn’t walking into this meeting naked with nothing but an overcoat.

  Plus, Harry had stolen me a gun. I didn’t really want to know how, but after we’d gotten downtown he walked off for about ten minutes and came back with a Glock of the sort the cops carried. I didn’t even want to ask, but he assured me no harm had come to its previous owner, so I’d taken it from him without much in the way of question.

  It gave me a warm feeling to know I was armed as Mr. Chang ushered me into the booth at the far end of the room in the Carrier Cattle Co. The room had dim lighting, perfectly elegant ambiance oozing out of the ultra-soft suede leather that I was scooting across so I could sit in the middle of the booth. The better to see all my angles of attack, before you ask.

  “I understand you’ve had something of a difficult trip,” Mr. Chang said, a little stiffly. He pushed a small bag over to me under the table, looking uncomfortable for having to do so. He lowered his voice before he spoke again. “I’ve brought everything you asked me to.”

  “Excellent,” I said, favoring him with a smile before I turned to see Harry had scooted in to my immediate left. That forced Reed to sit on the outside of the half-circle booth, at my left. His back was to the kitchens, and he didn’t looked pleased about it. But, then, he didn’t look pleased about any part of this meeting or this plan. I found myself smiling at him. “Thank you for accommodating our requests.”

  Reed caught my look at him and shot me a scowl. “What are you grinning about?” he asked, apparently unconcerned with showing his displeasure in front of Harry or Mr. Chang.

  “Oh, uh,” I fumbled for a lie of convenience, “Wolfe just said something—never mind.”

  Reed’s eyes narrowed as he stared at me. “What did he say?”

  “That you’re mad because you only like to eat Italian,” I said, making shit up out of thin air. I sensed Wolfe's approval.

  Reed blew air out from between his lips. “Wolfe’s idea of a great party is the Donner party, so he can shut right the hell up.” He flicked his eyes toward Mr. Chang. “I’m not so sure this little gathering isn’t going to turn out like that one, though.”

  Chang’s eyebrows inched up a millimeter or two. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, Mr. Treston.”

  “He’s just crabby,” I said. “Because he’s suspicious of your offer.”

  “I can understand,” Mr. Chang said with a nod. “Naturally, this opportunity probably does sound a little too good to be true—”

  The waiter, a bigger guy in one of the staff’s white coats rolled up, looking a little like a pharmacist, his smile turned to a frown, his gaze fixed on Harry. “Sir, you can’t smoke in here.”

  I turned my head. Sure enough, Harry had a cigarette between his lips, bronze lighter in hand, about to flip it open. I hadn’t even noticed. Harry just looked at the waiter. “Should have seen that coming. You gotta be shitting me.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not joking, sir,” the waiter said. “There’s no smoking allowed.”

  Harry let out a long-suffering sigh. “For a hundred years you could light up wherever the hell you wanted. You know what this is? They make a fascist state and call it progress. Even the damned Nazis let you smoke indoors.”

  The waiter did not take this well, but he tried. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t—”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Harry said, putting away his lighter like he was the single most put-upon person ever on the face of the earth. “I see how it is.” He actually sounded hurt.

  “Uh, if we may continue?” Mr. Chang asked, clearly trying to delicately shift the focus back to his concerns, “Mr. Treston obviously has his worries, and I’d like to address—”

  “Hey, dudes,” came a voice from behind Reed, who spun in his seat to see the speaker. I honestly thought it was another waiter at first, but then I saw the thick-rimmed black glasses and the pudgy face and recognition dawned on me. “Reed with mead!” J.J. smirked at my brother. “I was going to save that for RenFest, when you might actually have a cup of mead on hand, but that’s, like, September, and I was afraid I’d forget between now and then—”

  “What’s he doing here?” I asked, caught somewhere between dismay and awe.

  “Ah, yes,” Mr. Chang said, “J.J. here was one of our first hires for the new working group—”

  “I was recruited,” J.J. said, pleased as punch. If he’d had suspenders, he’d have stuck his thumbs in them and puffed out his chest.

  “That guy’s not ever getting laid,” Harry pronounced, looking J.J. up and down in appraisal.

  Reed looked aghast. “You can read that?”

  “I don’t need to read it,” Harry said, picking up his menu and turning his attention toward the embossed black lettering spelling out each item, “I can practically smell it on him.”

  “Not that I’m not happy to see you, bro,” Reed said to J.J. before turning his irritable gaze on Chang, “but I thought you said Sienna gets to pick her own team if she does this.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Chang said. “Anyone she wants.”

  “Well, naturally we want J.J. on board,” I said, and the little geek lit up as Reed frowned at me. “Actually,” I admitted to J.J., “I’ve kinda wished you were around a couple times this last few days when stuff came up …”

  “Scoot over, hoss,” J.J. said, waving for Reed to make room for him. He came up with a small laptop that he’d been carrying out of sight under his arm, and put it on the table in front of him. “I am at your disposal.” He looked at Chang. “I am at her disposal, right?”

  “Of course,” Chang said, looking at me. “Anything you need.”

  “Convenient,” Reed said through gritted teeth.

  “I need to know about a Dr. Carlton Jacobs,” I said, leaning across the table toward J.J. “He’s kind of a science-y sort of geek, like a real Bruce Banner by way of Victor Frankenstein kind of vibe—”

  “Sure, sure,” J.J. said, staring through his thick glasses at the screen in front of him. “One of those kind, yeah, probably written fifty papers but can’t figure out how to log into his own computer.” He was actually sneering. It was a cross-geek rivalry. “Okay, I’ve got his FBI file here, and …”

  “You’re not with the government,” Harry said, frowning, turning his attention unhappily from the glass of water in his hand to J.J. “How’d you get into their watchamathingy?”

  “Oh, it’s easy,” J.J. said. His neck suddenly snapped as he leaned forward abruptly. “Oh. Oh, wow. You’re, uh … you’re not going to like this, Sienna.”

  Reed leaned over to look, and his eyes almost popped out of his head, his jaw dropping. “What. The. Hell?”

  “Yeah, it’s a real ripoff you have to pay for the bread here,” Harry said darkly, looking at the menu and ignoring anything else going on around him. “You probably have to pay for the tap water, too. I swear to God, next they’re gonna start charging for napkins at these places—”

  “Sienna,” Reed said warningly, looking up at me. “This guy … Jacobs …”

  I sighed. I should have known there was something there, something beneath the surface, something that apparently a simple look at an FBI file would have told me. If only there’d been someone helping me who could have frigging done that basic thing. “This is why I’m leaving government service,” I said to Reed, who flinched back from the heat of my voice. “Because this is how it is, always. It’s like we’re being actively shut out, but it’s all done very passively, by an utter lack of caring.”

  “I’m … not arguing,” Reed said, looking pale. “You’re right. And—I mean, I’m following you for a reason.”

  “Yadda yadda,” Harry said under his breath, still staring at the menu, “kiss and make up already, you crazy kids. You’ve been fighting with each other all morning and stewing over it afterward. Cain and Abel didn’t argue this much.”

 
; “What is it?” I asked. “What did we m—”

  “Jacobs has an FBI file that’s tied to one of your old cases,” J.J. said, peering up at me through his thick glasses. “He was questioned last year because his research was sponsored one hundred percent … by Edward Cavanagh.”

  56.

  Veronika

  Veronika had gotten the call after she’d had a night of miserable sleep, interrupted by agony from the shards of glass that had been driven into her torso by Nealon, that pain in the ass. There was no doubt about it in her mind: Nealon was one big damned badass, irrespective of her short-stack stature.

  Now Veronika was just lingering outside Carrier Cattle Co., surveying the entrance. She’d been tipped that Nealon was coming, but she’d been standing out here for a few minutes and hadn’t seen her coming. She was still a little stiff from the throwdown at Soldier Field and the fall of the damned police building on her head, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary for a hard beating like the one she’d taken.

  At least, she didn’t think it was. It had been a long damned time since someone had kicked Veronika Acheron’s ass the way Sienna Nealon had. It produced respect and severe irritation all in one. Like a painful rash, she wanted it gone but she didn’t want to touch it.

  She’d almost steeled herself to go into the restaurant to wait it out when she heard the rumble of a Harley coming down the street. She paused, playing incognito in the thick post-lunchtime crowd clotting the streets, eyes dancing to the source of the noise.

  Dammit. It was Phinneus Chalke, riding his damned bike right up to the restaurant.

  He parked sideways, his front wheel touching the curb, sandwiched between an SUV and a Honda, leaving neither room to maneuver in his direction. His grey hair was done up in a ponytail, and—were his eyes red? He smoothed his coat around him as he got off the bike, and Veronika caught a glimpse of his pistol at his side, hidden beneath the tan canvas duster.

  She started across the street immediately. No way was Chalke getting first shot at Nealon. She’d been through way too much hell to just let him win now.