Lady Superior

by Alex Ziebart

  He blushed and broke into giggles again as his brief sobriety collapsed. “Well, thanks.”

  “How old are you again?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “So the last time you cried was ten years ago?”

  He shrugged.

  Kristen raised her glass to her lips. Empty. She frowned into the cup. “I don’t remember what this was but I want another one.”

  “You don’t remember?” He snorted a laugh. “I think we should switch to water. I feel like I might die if I keep drinking.”

  “I think it had maple syrup in it.”

  They switched to water in the end. Kristen was full, but didn’t want to admit it—she was having a good time, and for the price they’d paid for that meat, she wasn’t going to let it go to waste. She paid little mind to the passage of time even as the sun began to dip low and every other patron of Bacchus had turned over, replaced with evening reservations.

  Jack noticed. “I think they’re going to be pissed if we don’t get out of here soon.”

  “We haven’t been here that long. Have we?”

  He checked his watch. “Uh, yeah. We’ve been here a couple hours.”

  “How many questions do we have left? Are we in love yet?”

  “We’re almost done. Just a few left. I skipped around.” Jack read from the script. “List five things you like about your partner. It’s not written that way, but screw it.”

  “So you got drunk and threw the whole test out the window?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Whose turn is it?”

  “I don’t remember. You go.”

  Kristen hung her drunken head to think and counted items off on her fingers. “You brought these questions and gave us something to talk about besides comic books. You’re cute. You have pretty eyes. You’re not as creepy as you seemed, even though you probably prepared all of your answers beforehand, and that’s a little weird. Is that five?”

  “You’re holding up four fingers.”

  “Oh, yeah. And I want to take your shirt off sometime.”

  Jack’s head hung similarly. “Shit, we’re drunk.”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, five things. You scare me. You picked steak for dinner. You’re built as hell. You’re gorgeous. Your boobs look amazing in that dress.”

  Kristen broke into laughter at his list and clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle herself, vaguely recalling they were in an establishment for fine dining. Eventually, she managed to calm herself. “I think we need to try this one again sober. I scare you? Seriously?”

  “You’re cool, but you’re intense, too. When you said we should go out sometime, you looked like you were going to rip my face off.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You definitely did. And I was sure that last one on my list would get me killed.”

  “I know what I’m wearing. I chose it debliber—” Kristen stopped, paused, and tried again. She spoke more slowly. “I chose it deliberately. You’re my date. You’re supposed to notice. Is that our check?”

  Jack swiveled his head back and forth, searching for the check. He spotted it on the corner and reached for it. Kristen snatched it out from under him.

  “What’s the damage?” he asked.

  “A hundred-eighty. Plus tip. We should probably give them a good tip.”

  Emma’s voice invaded her thoughts. Hoping he’ll give you a good tip, too?

  Go to Hell, Emma.

  “Two more questions.” Jack said. “We can do them. Then we’ll know if we’re in love or not. We can’t blow it now.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “These two are actually in order. This one’s kind of a downer, so maybe we should skip it.”

  Kristen mimicked his voice with a comedic bass note. “We can’t blow it now.”

  “Question thirty-five: Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?”

  “That’s easy. My sis—” Kristen stopped and snapped her mouth shut. She stared dead ahead for a long moment, then closed her eyes. Her mind performed a slow system reboot. When she opened her eyes again, she looked at her purse. “I have to use the ladies’ room.”

  His expression made it clear he wasn’t buying it. “Are you alright?”

  Kristen said nothing more, taking her purse and running for the restroom as best she could in high heels. She pushed through the swinging door in a fury, slamming it against the inside wall. Her gaze swept across the bathroom, noting a pair of heels beneath one of the stalls, but no one else. She walked to the back wall and leaned against it for support while fishing for her phone. Holding the power button down, she silently urged it on, the smartphone's boot process slow as glacial drift. The logo flashed, and she rapidly tapped her thumb against it as if it might help. Finally, the screen displayed the missed calls: a dozen since she turned off the phone. No texts. No voice mail. Just calls.

  She dialed Emma's number. Her heart raced as it rang. The ringing stopped after the fourth ring. No greeting. No voice mail prompt. Dead air. She swallowed hard and asked aloud, “Hello? Emma, did you pick up?”

  A man's voice. “Hello, Kris.”

  “Chad?”

  “No.”

  Her chest felt tight as her heart drummed against her ribs. “Who is this?”

  “That doesn't matter right now. You should answer your phone more often, especially considering your new profession. Understand that only your full cooperation can guarantee your sister’s life.”

  Kristen lowered her voice. “Her? You went after her? I’ll tear everything down to find her. You know I will. You know I can.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m going to send you our location. We’re going to talk in person and you can see her yourself. Come alone. We’ll be watching. Don’t try to be clever, Kris. We won’t have a repeat of The Chocolate House.”

  Kristen struck her head on the wall. “You’re a scumbag, you know that?”

  “Don’t try calling me back. Your sister didn’t have a charger with her, and her phone’s battery is about dead.”

  “You can buy them at a gas station, you piece of shit.”

  “I choose not to.”

  The line went dead. A text message containing an address flashed on the screen. Drunken fury bubbled over, and Kristen roared in anger. She drew her fist back to put it through a wall, but better judgment took control, stopping her short. The woman in the stall called out. “Sweetie, did you get dumped? I’m so sorry.”

  Kristen whirled on the stall and jabbed a finger at it. “You are in no position to talk about dumping, lady.”

  I’m going to kill them. All of them.

  She stormed from the bathroom and back to Jack. She slammed a wad of cash onto the table. “I have to go. I’m sorry, but I have something to deal with. That should pay for my half, probably more, I don’t care. Keep it, give it back to me next time, whatever.”

  Jack stood up in a rush. He swayed on his feet, having stood too fast while far too drunk. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s—” Kristen stuttered, booze making it difficult to find the line between Lady Superior and Kristen Anderson. “It’s private.”

  Kristen was outside before Jack could get in another word. She kicked off her heels and left them on the sidewalk. Though she felt the urge to run as fast as she could for her car—to run as Lady Superior would—she restrained herself. She walked as fast as her dress would allow; she knew she shouldn’t have worn it.

  Half a block from Bacchus, a calloused hand grabbed her by the arm. The hand tried to stop her, but she used her strength to pull away—too much strength. Jack stumbled past her. She caught him before he face-planted into the concrete. “What's your problem?”

  He held her shoes out. “Do you want these?”

  She snatched them away.

  He looked her in the eyes. “I'm sorry I grabbed you. I was yelling for you, but maybe you didn't hear me, I don't know. Whatever made you storm ou
t of there, I'm guessing it's really bad. I get it, but—”

  “Don't you dare tell me to calm down.”

  “I'm not. But we've both been drinking. A lot. No matter what's going on, you can't drive right now. So let's sit down somewhere and sober up or let me call a cab for you.”

  “I can't take a cab, and I don't have time.”

  “You can sit down for ten, maybe twenty minutes. Whatever is happening can wait that long. If you go jump in your car, either you're going to get yourself killed or you're going to kill someone.”

  That’s the point.

  “At dinner, you literally told me you didn’t want to be famous for a car wreck.”

  Shit.

  Kristen took a breath. They’ve had her all day. You’ve kept her waiting all day. Sober up. It’ll be okay. She held out a hand. “Can I borrow your jacket?”

  “I thought you said no chivalry.” But he shrugged off his jacket and gave it to her anyway.

  “It isn’t chivalry. I’m not cold.”

  Kristen handed her shoes back to him and put on his jacket. She buttoned up the front—a tight fit, but it worked—and snaked her hands inside of her dress. With a sharp pull, she tore off her bra, then threw it into the street. Jack scurried after it. “Why do you keep throwing things? Are you that pissed off?”

  “Stop. Leave it. I never want to see that thing again in my life.”

  He jerked his hand away from the garment as if it were a snake. “Okay?”

  “Let’s walk.”

  Together they walked back toward O’Donnel Park. Night falling, a new crowd swarmed downtown Milwaukee. The afternoon cyclists and beachgoers were gone, replaced with twenty-somethings dressed for clubbing. A flood of festival attendees flooded out of the fairgrounds to wash over the city, already drunk and looking for more. Food trucks lined the curb and pushcarts rolled down the sidewalk, little bells jingling. Jack peeled off and approached an elderly man sitting in a steel folding chair on the street corner, a dingy red cooler beside him. Kristen stopped and watched with a curious tilt of her head. Jack proffered a pair of dollar bills. The man stuffed them in the breast pocket of his white t-shirt, exchanging them for bottles of water from the cooler.

  The bottles dripped from the ice water they’d been sitting in. Jack wiped one off on his shirt and handed it to Kristen. “Have to stay hydrated, right?”

  She smiled and cracked open her bottle. “Thanks.”

  They continued across and down the street. People passed them in groups, almost never alone and rarely in pairs. To Kristen, the groups seemed to part for them as they passed, the evening soundscape a distant roar rather than all around them. In only a few minutes more, they were atop the O’Donnel parking structure. They leaned against the concrete barricade, looking out over the Calatrava and Lake Michigan beyond. For a moment that felt to Kristen like an eternity, they were silent, neither sure what to do next. She’d sobered some since leaving the restaurant, but driving wasn’t yet an option.

  Jack broke the silence. “Did you have a good time?”

  “I did.” Kristen’s voiced lack any enthusiasm. She tried, for Jack’s sake, but couldn’t find the energy. “Thank you.”

  He looked down, then away. “I’m sorry. That stuff with the questions, I couldn’t think of anything better. I didn’t want to be that guy—you know, the guy that can’t ever talk about anything but video games. I hate that guy. Sometimes I am that guy.”

  Kristen chuckled with a shake of her head. She turned to him, her hip against the concrete. “Sometimes we’re all that guy. The questions were fine. I did have a good time, I mean that. That phone call was just brutal. It isn’t your fault.”

  “I know you said it was private, but what was it, vaguely? Work? Family?”

  “Family.” She paused. Panic gripped her heart. “No—work. It was a work thing. Sorry. Tipsy.”

  Jack ran a hand over his stubble and looked out over the lake again. “You just got that job or something, right? Might be a bad omen if they’re already giving you a hard time on Saturday nights.”

  “It’s completely my fault.” Kristen looked skyward. The city lights drowned out most of the stars. Only the brightest of them stood out. She let her eyes wander across the sky until she found Orion. Orion was the only constellation she knew at a glance. Knowing that one—and only that one—always caused her to seek it out under an open sky. “It’s a new job. I knew it would be tough. They threw me right into a…uh…project, I guess. It’s a big deal to the company. I should’ve waited until it was over before going out. I screwed up.”

  “I don’t think anybody could blame you for going out on a Saturday.”

  Kristen snorted. “Yeah. They totally can. I’m assigned to a serious big-deal project and I’m supposed to be on call. Hell, I’m supposed to be working on it bright and early tomorrow morning. What am I doing now? Standing in a parking garage that smells like a diaper and trying to get sober as fast as possible so I can drive my car.”

  “It’s okay, by the way.”

  Kristen looked at him. “What’s okay?”

  “That you have to bail. I’m not mad.” Jack began to fidget with his watch, pushing it in circles around his wrist. “I was dating a girl a few years ago. I had some family stuff going on at the same time. Things would come up, I’d have to bail or cancel, and I felt like shit for it, but what was worse was that she’d get so mad about it. A buddy of mine called her high maintenance, but that’s what it was. She wanted a different lifestyle than the one I had at the time and I had to accept that. But I’ve been there, so I get it, and I’m okay with it. If we’re going to see each other again, or keep seeing each other, I’m okay with it if plans go wrong. As long as we try.”

  “Try?” Kristen asked.

  “Yeah, try. I mean…” Jack wrinkled his brow, giving his own thoughts a moment to pierce the fog. “I mean I’d rather we make plans that fall through because something came up than never make plans because something might come up. Effort, you know? That way we both know we’re still interested.”

  “When this project I’m on is done, let’s do this again. Something chill.”

  Jack nodded. “Hot dogs at Martino’s and a movie?”

  “Oh, man. I haven’t been to Martino’s in ages.” Kristen chuffed a laugh. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

  He smiled at her, the city lights casting long shadows across his cheekbones. “Cool.”

  The watched the lake in silence until both felt ready to drive. Kristen kissed his cheek and after returning his jacket, went to her car.

  Chapter 12

  Kristen pulled her car to a stop across the street from Sam’s Salvage, a junkyard just south of Mitchell International Airport. She double-checked the coordinates she’d been sent in the Bacchus bathroom. She was at the right place. Before driving out, she’d pulled off the road to change into her athletic outfit and stash her wig in the trunk. Gripping her steering wheel, she stared at the scrapyard, scanning for any unusual motion. What might constitute unusual, she wasn’t sure. She’d never been to a scrapyard. Unless the changelings were stomping around as dinosaurs, she doubted she’d notice anything. Floodlights illuminated mounds of twisted steel and countless rows of cars, some intact, others hollow shells of metal and plastic. A barbed wire fence encased the yard, and though a small shop with a Sam’s Salvage sign sat at the roadside, the only light came from a backlit “closed” sign made of yellowed plastic.

  What’s the play here, Kris?

  She gripped the wheel tighter, and swept her gaze up and down the street.

  The streets immediately north of Mitchell International were lined with food, lodging, and entertainment. Bright lights, tall hotels, dive bars, classy lounges, and strip joints. Sam’s Salvage represented everything immediately south of the airport, an image of a more rural American Midwest. Immediately south and for a few miles beyond, everything was flat, spacious, and brown with splashes of industrial corrugated metal. Nothing else wanted to be d
irectly beneath the path of every flight into or out of Milwaukee.

  Scouting the trees would be futile, she decided. She didn’t have the skillset. Todd probably did, Kristen thought, but he wasn’t there. And even he might not know the difference between a changeling in owl form and an actual owl.

  At that moment, nothing made sense but to go in, see Emma, and learn what they wanted with her. Anything else might put them on edge.

  Kristen got out of the car and slammed the door behind her. She made sure it was loud. The night felt damp on her skin, the air forming fog as the temperature dropped. Though it was still hours until midnight, the road was too quiet for comfort. No traffic. No people. No racket of industry. She heard only the rhythmic chirrup of crickets and her own footsteps as she crossed the road.

  She walked to the front door of Sam’s Salvage—a torn and beaten storm door she’d have expected on someone’s house, not a place of business—and pulled it open on creaking hinges. She found the weathered wooden door beyond unlocked and she pushed inside. Her eyes flicked back and forth, quickly absorbing the picture of her surroundings. She stood in a lobby. A long desk sat to her immediate left, taking up a full half of the small room. To her right, a bench upholstered with old, cracked leather. Wisps of cotton peeked from the cracks. Ahead, another set of doors. Beside them, a Coca-Cola machine so old its white had gone yellow, the dim lightbulbs inside buzzing their death march. The room smelled of stale coffee and cigarettes.

  Light flooded in through the windows behind her and Kristen, driven by paranoia, whirled to face them. The light illuminated a paper sign posted in the window, which she had to read backward: Closed until Monday for inspections. The Doppler of a car’s roaring engine set her at ease—just someone passing by. She took that as a good sign—Emma’s captors hadn’t managed to lock down an entire section of the city. The road just didn’t get much evening traffic.

  She turned from the windows and crossed the room to the other doors. Finding them unlocked, Kristen let herself outside and into the scrapyard. The floodlights cast long shadows like skeletal monsters through the labyrinth of steel. The air was thick with the smell of motor oil and gasoline. Looking up, Kristen saw writhing clouds gathered around the floodlights—insect swarms churning the air.