by Cubed, Magen
“The reasonable thing to do would be to get us up to speed on what you do know,” Adam said from his perch on the armchair. “So we can at least come up with some ideas.”
“It’s going to be a long night,” Kyle warned him.
Norah raised a hand to vote. “I have nowhere to be tomorrow.”
“All right. Hey, Clara.”
Clara perked up. “Yes?”
Kyle fished some money out of his wallet. “Could you run down the street to that coffee shop? Pick us up something to get us through the next few hours?”
Her shoulders sagged, deflated. “You’re sending me on a coffee run? Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You’re the fast one.”
Snarling, she swiped the money from his hand. “I’m nineteen, you know. Old enough to drive, vote, join the army—”
“Luckily this isn’t a democracy, then.”
She rolled her eyes and turned to drudge downstairs for her shoes and jacket.
IV.
Lieutenant O’Donnell dropped Damon White’s case file. It landed with a meaty thump on Amanda’s desk atop her already growing caseload from the tip hotline. She looked up from the report on her computer screen, fingers still hovering over the keys. The lieutenant didn’t look pleased. She put on a good face regardless.
“So, I guess the joint task force meeting went okay.”
“Yeah, until Durocher laughed me out of the conference room.”
“Why?”
“Your priority suspect, Sidhari. Really? Why did you even bring this shit to me?”
“I had a lead,” she said. “I brought it to the joint task force. That’s what you asked me to do.”
“This guy’s sheet doesn’t match the field office’s working profile. You made me look like an idiot. Worse than that, you made the whole department look like we’re chasing our tails down here.”
“Sir, I ran this lead down myself. Damon White sounds like a homegrown nutjob, and his wife is convinced that he’s our guy. It’s worth looking into.”
“You have anything to go by?”
“Well, not yet, but—”
“Then he doesn’t fit the profile,” O’Donnell said sharply. “You’re wasting time. I need you to keep your theories to yourself and watch the phones.”
“But—”
“No buts, detective. Watch the damn phones. And if you’re going to chase bullshit leads, do it off duty.”
He turned to walk back to his office at the end of the floor. Once his back was turned, she dropped Damon White’s file into her drawer. She pulled her phone from her pocket and found Kyle’s name from her contact list.
“It’s a long shot, but I have a name for you,” she thumbed into the text box. “Get back to me ASAP.”
V.
Going to the coffee shop was simple. It was getting home that got Clara into trouble. Lloyd’s Coffee was just five blocks away from the boarding house. It was a brisk walk down dim side streets with graffiti tags on the exposed concrete of decaying buildings. The graffiti was just names and initials, the rough scrawl of kids playing at being hard. She was on her way home with a cardboard carrier in one hand and a cooling cup of coffee in the other when she heard the first crash. Hollow sounds of bursting plastic over a soft bubble of laughter followed after. When she rounded the corner on Fig Road, she found the pack of teenage boys perched atop the hood of a parked minivan. They were fifteen at most; a bunch of gangly kids in hooded jackets. One of the boys swung a baseball bat into the domed headlight casings of the van. Another boy assaulted a hatchback with a bent crowbar.
Clara stopped in her tracks. The hooded boys looked up at her. She put the coffee down on the sidewalk and squared up to ready for a fight.
“What’re you looking at?” a gap-toothed boy called out.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Keep walking, bitch,” one of the boys barked. He was all of fourteen with a dusting of freckles on his light face.
“What are you supposed to be, thugs?” Clara scoffed. “You’re sad little tweens and it’s a school night. Go home.”
The boy with the bat busted the van’s taillight and laughed at her as the other boys snickered amongst themselves. A taller boy stepped up, invading her space. She saw red.
“Okay, that’s it. Get off that goddamn van and take your asses home. I won’t tell you again.”
“What’re you going to do about it?” asked the tall boy. “Get the fuck out of here.”
When she didn’t move, he knocked her cup from her hand in a splash across the pavement. She exploded, moving in a blur to shove the other boys from their roost on the van and snatch the bat from the armed hood. With curses and squeals, the boys scattered down the street in different directions. She forgot the coffee as she took off after them. Adrenaline made her irrational, unwilling to forgive such disrespect.
Through the spindly streets, she trailed as three of the boys ran down a flight of stairs to the basement entrance of a ramshackle tenement building. She followed, descending the concrete steps and running through the open door. The door slammed shut behind her in a bark of laughter and the lock of the bolt. She watched the boys scurry through the tiny porthole window and lock it behind them. Enraged, Clara pounded at the window, snarled at their smug faces through the dirty glass and swore her revenge.
Behind her, the door opened long enough for another boy to throw a handful of lit fireworks at her feet. They went off in tiny flashes of light and smoke. One of them exploded in a pop and a whirl. It spat fire rather than smoke, and made Clara and the boys outside jump. The lapping flames captured the nearby box of ancient tax paperwork and quickly ignited. Cursing, the boys took off down the street in a panic. Smoke filled the basement faster than Clara could stomp the fire out. She buried her nose and mouth in the crook of her arm as she stamped her feet at the growing flames. Losing to the fire, she scanned the room for a heavy book and struck it against the locked window. She broke through quickly, knocking the slivers out of the way for safe passage.
She climbed out on the end of a ragged cough and dragged herself to her feet. In the dark, the boys’ footsteps retreated down the street and disappeared somewhere around the corner. Stomping her feet, she reared her head back and screamed after them.
“If I catch you on this block again, I’m gonna beat your punk asses to death.”
Even if they hadn’t heard her, she felt better.
Chapter Twenty
I.
Sirens and tires screeched past the house on Chelsea Street as the glow of police lights filled the windows. When Clara finally came home, the dirt in her clothes made it hard for her to lie about what took her so long. Norah met her in the foyer when she heard the scrape of Clara’s key in the lock. Seeing the state she was in, Kyle emerged from the living room with a hand on his hip.
Clara sighed and held up her hands in defense. “Look, I can explain.”
“Are the cops here for you?” Kyle asked grimly.
“I might have been involved in a slight case of arson.”
“You just went down the street!” said Norah, locking the door behind her. “What the hell happened?”
“I ran into some teenagers, little hooded thugs. They were tagging up the place and busting people’s cars, so I stopped them.”
“You picked a fight with some kids and started a fire?”
Adam and Bridger appeared at the doorway. Clara sighed again and elbowed her way into the kitchen to wash the dirt from her hands. The others followed after, Kyle at the head of the pack.
“That’s not entirely accurate. More like I chased them into this old apartment building and they started the fire. They locked me in and were hurling firecrackers at me, trying to teach me a lesson. But, I mean, it’s fine. Nobody got hurt. Nobody even saw it happen, so we’re okay.”
“Are you kidding me?” Kyle asked. “Why the hell did you even go after them?”
“The
y were vandalizing property.”
“They’re teenage boys. Of course they were vandalizing property,” Bridger chimed in. “Have you seen this neighborhood? Not a whole lot else to do.”
“But they started it!” Clara barked. “They knocked the coffee out of my hand. What was I supposed to do?”
“So, you chased them?” asked Kyle again. “Because that seemed like the rational thing to do?”
“Yes, I chased them. They pissed me off. They tried to set me on fire, in case you forgot that part.”
“Well, they weren’t entirely off-base with that.”
Clara threw her hands in the air. “What do you want me to say, Kyle? Maybe it wasn’t my best moment, but they were being little shits and I stepped up. What’s the point of having powers if I don’t even do anything good with them?”
“I told all of you to keep your heads down and not draw attention to yourselves, and then you pull this superhero shit. What the fuck were you even thinking?”
“Okay, look, this isn’t going to get us anywhere,” said Norah. “Nobody got hurt. Let’s just let this one go.”
“I was just trying to do the right thing,” Clara said.
“And you somehow managed to fuck that up, too,” Kyle said.
“Hey.” Adam stepped in between them, his hands out to maintain their distance. “Kyle, I know you’re pissed off, but she was just trying to help.”
Kyle shook his head. “Stay out of this, Adam. She has to learn.”
“You don’t need to jump in her shit. She made a mistake, all right? Nobody got hurt and nobody saw her, so let’s just calm down.”
“I am calm. You’re the one always getting into people’s business.”
“Yeah, because you’re an asshole most of the time.”
“I’m the one trying to keep us out of jail long enough to catch this guy. And what do you around here, exactly? Cook? Clean? Play house with Bridger all day?”
Adam stepped up close and crowded Kyle in. He was a full head taller than the other man and used it to his advantage. “Don’t start with me, Kyle. I’m here for the same reason you are.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Adam. You’re a wet nurse.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, no thanks,” Kyle sneered. “You’re not exactly my type.”
There was a sudden hum between them and an explosion of force that pushed them out of each other’s spaces. Clara and Bridger stepped back as the plates and cups rattled in the cabinets. The nails in the floorboards creaked beneath their feet. Norah stepped forward with static electricity crackling at her fingertips. It made the lights flicker and the wiring buzz.
“That’s enough,” she said firmly. “Put your dicks away, the both of you.”
“Norah—” Kyle tried to interject.
The air in the room felt heavy in turn. “Kyle, shut the fuck up. Clara, go to your room. Adam, honey, I love you, but you’re not too big to spank.”
“Why do I have to go to my room?” Clara scoffed. “He’s the asshole here.”
“You were involved in an arson. Don’t argue with me.”
Huffing, Clara turned to storm up the stairs to her room and slammed the door behind her. Bridger put a hand on Adam’s back and pulled him away from Kyle to herd him toward the living room with the promise of bourbon. Left in the kitchen, Kyle looked to Norah. Slowly, the charge in the air dissipated.
“Am I wrong?” he finally asked.
She shook her head. “You’re not wrong. That still doesn’t make it okay to be an asshole all the time.”
“But what am I supposed to do here? I’m just trying to keep any more people from getting hurt because of this. Because of us.”
“Then, tell them that,” she said. “And go easy on the other stuff.”
With that, she left to climb up the stairs to retreat to her and Hannah’s room. Alone, he ran a hand through his hair and felt the latent heat of pride leave him in a futile kind of emptiness. In his back pocket, his phone vibrated. He opened his inbox to find Amanda’s message.
II.
Morning came to the house on Chelsea Street in a procession of stomping feet and slamming doors. Clara’s outrage had quelled to a lingering sulk. She marched down the stairs for cereal before returning in a huff to eat in her room. No one had seen Kyle since the night before when he pulled on his jacket and shoes. He had disappeared at some point before everyone else woke up. Still fuming in the kitchen, Adam was fine with his absence, complaining to no one in particular as he helped Hannah shuffle through the fridge for suitable breakfast foods. By the time Bridger and Norah made it downstairs, the worst of it had blown over. The both of them exchanged glances and shrugs as Norah prepared Hannah for school and Adam went upstairs to change.
Now it was noon in Camden, and Adam and Bridger sat opposite each other in the waiting room of Harper & Lowe. Adam had tucked himself into the undersized armchair. Bridger resigned to slumping across the sofa and staring at his phone. Twiddling his thumbs, Adam counted the checkered tiles under his feet that concocted elaborate patterns in the expanse of gray and white granite. Eventually, Bridger scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Did you sleep?” Adam asked.
Bridger shrugged and dropped his phone into his pocket. “Do you mean recently?”
“I guess?”
“Nope.”
“Divorce stuff?”
“Yes. Well, yes, but no. This is all just financial crap now, making sure I didn’t forget anything. I just can’t focus. My head’s jumbled.”
“With what?”
“Traffic reports, mostly.” Another shrug. “I keep dreaming about this wreck on 1-90 in three months.”
“Sounds lame.”
“Pretty much.”
“It’s not your fault,” Adam said softly. “The insurance company, I mean. You couldn’t have seen that coming.”
“I saw the hospital coming. And the bank.”
“It’s not like we can tune you like a radio.”
“I don’t know that.”
“Well, I do. You can’t control what you see. You can’t beat yourself for something you don’t understand yet.”
“I need to understand it. I’m plugged into this guy’s head and it’s been doing dick all for me so far.”
“You’ll get there. It’ll just take time.”
“Yeah, that still doesn’t make me feel any less shitty about it,” Bridger admitted. “Is Clara still pissed?”
“Yeah,” Adam answered. “I had to talk her down last night after everyone else went to bed, but she’ll get over it.”
“Kyle’s not exactly wrong, you know.”
“He’s not exactly right, either.”
“Who is these days?” Bridger stood and popped his neck. “I gotta pee. I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks for the update.”
“You’re welcome.”
He only took six steps to the men’s washroom before the pain hit him. It landed between his eyes like a brick. The hard blow filled his sinuses with blood and his skull with visions of water and fire. He grabbed his head and gritted his teeth, stumbling back, and refused to drop this time.
Adam jumped to his feet to catch him if he fell. “What? What is it?”
Images cycled through his mind, water filled his lungs, and flames licked at his fingertips. Out of the dark, Damon White’s face emerged, his hollow features lit up by the backward drift of snow. Wiping blood from his nostrils, Bridger almost laughed.
“He’s here. That fucker’s here.”
“Here?” Adam asked. “In the building?”
“No, no, not that close.” Bridger righted himself on wobbly feet and looked for an exit through the fishbowl of his vision. He saw the bank of elevators across the waiting room and staggered for it. Adam followed after. “But he’s here. I can feel the motherfucker.”
They went down the elevator, into the lobby and out on the street outside. Bridger wandered aimlessly with Ad
am in tow, ducking and weaving down the street amid the afternoon foot traffic of Camden. His head throbbing, he followed the smell of blood to trace unseen steps across intersections and through crooked side streets where Damon White had walked. He could see it all there in flashes behind his eyes like foot prints in the snows of his imagination. Rebecca White danced in her perfect dress.
“Where are we going?” Adam asked, keeping up with Bridger’s erratic steps.
“I don’t know yet.”
“What do we do when we find him?”
“Don’t know that, either.” Bridger tugged him into a nearby alley. “Over here.”
Through the detour, they emerged at a gap between two shops facing a jumbled intersection of crisscrossing streets. Bridger pulled Adam to the edge of the curb with tightly laced fingers before letting go and stopping at the mouth of the crosswalk. On the other side, Damon White stood. He was an unassuming ghost of a man in sunglasses and an old, canvas jacket. His face was sallow and prematurely aged by stress; he was dark under the eyes from sleepless nights at his worktable. Bridger couldn’t see the hands stuffed into the coat, but if he could, he would have been disappointed to see how long and thin they were. They were not the meaty paws of a killer. From across the busy street, Damon met Bridger’s cold stare. Straightening up, he bristled as Bridger dug his phone from his pocket.
“That’s him?” Adam felt a wave of cold roll down his back. “That’s the guy?”
“I’ve seen your face, bitch.” Bridger thumbed open the camera app and trained it on Damon. “Try running from me now.”
As quickly as he had appeared, Damon stepped away from the curb. His body melted from the eye of Bridger’s camera and into the crowded street behind him. Bridger’s vicious bark of laughter followed him far into Camden as a steely echo above the cough of traffic that haunted him until it finally faded into the wind.
III.
Amanda was leaning against the door of her car when Kyle showed up. She waited the corner of Barnes and Latimer just like she said, on the curb outside Frank’s Deli. He hadn’t yet slept when he got the message the night before. He hadn’t yet slept when he found her, either. She was flipping through messages on her phone as he sauntered up to take his post beside her. The night’s reading and rereading of case files and news reports weighed heavily in his limbs.
