by Alex Hughes
Loyola looked at me, thinking really, why was I scaring the kid even more?
“Homework sounds like a good idea. We’ll do drills later. Life goes on, right?”
Tommy pouted and then sighed, all drama. “I don’t want to do homework. You don’t have to do homework.”
“Kid, I do homework all the time.”
Loyola laughed.
CHAPTER 8
I sat at the kitchen table, paging through a two-year-old magazine on art that I didn’t really care about while Tommy sat and drank orange juice and ignored his homework. He was watching me, and I let him. As much as I wanted to be rattled by the connection I’d accidentally made between us, I was the adult and the professional at the table and I needed to be calm. Regardless of how his mom had treated me, or how uncertain I was about this connection I hadn’t seen coming, or how over my head I felt in dealing with a ten-year-old. Or even the vision weighing down on me, or the worry about Cherabino’s job. I had to handle this. I had to be the strong one.
I forced calm, calm and openness like I’d do for another telepath I liked. As expected, after a few minutes he started poking around in my mind. I let him. Another telepath would have a much “louder” mind than a normal and would be easier to hear, not to mention the connection between our minds, which would probably let him see me even when his Ability wasn’t stable, which would happen at his age, where he was in the development curve.
I let him look, and stayed calm. Certain things got bottled up, filed, and locked away, but that would be the same for any telepath.
He drank orange juice and poked around some more.
“Having fun?” I asked finally.
“What’s the . . . the . . . itchy. . . . thing in your head?” he finally asked, making a flailing motion with his hands like words were failing him. He’d been looking at me very seriously for minutes at a time, so even in the absence of good words I’d happily answer questions. He meant the thing in my head that he could see getting twitchy; at least I thought he did.
“I want a cigarette,” I said, which was true, if incomplete. I wanted my drug, Satin, my addiction. But the cigarette would do for now. “Don’t ever start smoking if you can help it. Even when you’re not smoking you’ll spend half your life thinking about the stupid things. Plus, they’re expensive.” Even so, I couldn’t see myself giving them up anytime soon; if I stayed around here, I’d probably have to get some of the stupid plastic-tasting gum to keep myself from going crazy or smoking in front of the kid. Not happy either way, but there it was.
“Oh,” he said, but settled. He had a name for what ailed me, which actually was helping me too. Something to focus on.
“You’ll be a telepath. It’ll take a couple of years for your Ability to stabilize, but you’ll get there,” I said after a minute, in answer to his unspoken question.
He blinked and went back to his orange juice. Unnamed fears and hopes and the memories of this morning all jumbled up together in his head, getting stuck, rubbing up against each other.
I went back to the magazine. He’d work through it on his own, or I—or more likely, his mother or Tanya—would be able to ask questions that would help. But pushing him to talk before he was ready didn’t seem useful, not at this stage.
Besides, I was out of my league and I knew it. He was far younger than I was used to dealing with in students, the structure of his mind seemed fine, and there was nothing I could investigate right this instant. His bodyguard was likely to have seen more significant details than he would have, considering her training, and the laws about mind-reading and consent in kids were tricky. I still felt a bit helpless, though. And worried about what was to come. Could I really keep him safe? Could I really not worry in front of him?
I turned another page in the magazine, and came across an article with a star drawn by it. A Savannah artist and art professor at the design college, showing in a New York gallery. There were pictures of his work, intricate 3-D things set on top of canvases, not quite paintings, not quite sculpture, with many gears and brightly colored paint so that your eye was drawn to them and you half expected the whole thing to move.
“Do you guys know this guy?” I asked.
He leaned over to see what I was looking at, then straightened. “He’s a friend of the art teacher at school. The school went to the opening.” A vague sense of wanting to be there too. “Mom said I couldn’t go, not since we’re going to be traveling soon and I don’t get to go to school much as it is.” His mind informed me that this was stupid. “I’m not in school anyway. They’re doing a field trip to the courthouse and River Street this week. I really wanted to go, but she said no again. She says no a lot.”
Then he started thinking about this morning again, raw red thoughts full of fear and confusion.
I tried to figure out how to tell him we’d do everything in our power to keep that from happening again. His bodyguards were good; they’d protected him once. And the FBI and the sheriff’s department would do their jobs too. That was why I was here. Because the universe believed I could make a difference. I had to believe that.
He settled a little, from my thoughts or emotions or not, I didn’t know, and a question started to rise to the top.
I felt an anxious mind approaching the house at a very fast clip, and I clamped down mind-protection shields around both of us, moving around to right next to him, between him and the door.
Tommy descended into fear, outright fear, at my actions. I reached out, grabbed his hand, and emanated calm, as much calm as I could manage. “I’m right here,” I said.
My attention was at the front door, where the mind was headed.
Two minutes later the sound of moving feet on old floors, then the minds up at the front in high, instant alert, guns up and ready.
After a moment, the alert settled down two notches, and I heard the door opening. I braced; if there was a threat from a telepath, there might be every reason to suspect he’d get past the guards.
I settled Tommy’s mind behind mine, wearing it like a mental backpack connected to me and shielded by me, but not taking up any mental hands.
He struggled—Still and quiet, I told him. Still and quiet until we know what’s wrong. Like you did for Tanya this morning.
That made him even more afraid, his heart beating like a drum in his chest, but he stilled.
I extended out mentally, preparing myself to fight a possibly superior enemy long enough for the others to come. It had been years since I’d done this for anyone but myself—years.
Another burst of fear from Tommy.
Stay right there, behind me, and we’ll be fine, I said, and forced myself to believe it. I’ve survived a number of these fights in the last months, and you’re coming with me too.
He settled, somewhat comforted but still afraid, into that backpacklike place behind my mind, waiting.
I waited too, but the new mind stayed put in the front room, the others around him and suspicious.
In the real world, Loyola moved, gun in hand, down the hall past us. “Ma’am,” he said to the judge; then I didn’t catch the rest. A minute later, she followed him back past us.
A man’s voice murmuring in the front room, perhaps Jarrod’s, another replying. Then the judge’s higher voice, in rough anger.
Then another voice, in a calm tone I didn’t quite understand.
Tommy’s mind relaxed then, and he got up from the chair and pulled his hand away. “That’s Dad,” he told me seriously. I got a brief picture of a tall man with bruises on his face.
Another half-heard comment.
I double-checked the surroundings. I didn’t know all the fed minds yet, damn it, but nobody seemed all that new.
“Are you sure?” I asked. I was already nervous.
He nodded. “I’m going to see him now.” And he was down the hall. I trotted to keep up.<
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Assuming he was right, it was more or less safe, and nobody else seemed worried. Even so, I took a mental note that Tommy was the kind to make his own decisions, and quickly, when it suited him. I’d have to keep an eye on him.
In the main room, a circle of FBI agents and sheriff’s department guys stood around a tall man in a suit and a haircut that reminded me of Fred Astaire, very old-school indeed. He had a few bruises on his hands, and one on his neck that was already multicolored in the healing process. I got the impression he was a partier, a hard partier, earlier in life, but his mind when I checked seemed completely sober.
It lit up when he saw his son. “Tommy, good to see you. I trust you’re well.”
“What are you doing here, Dad?” Tommy asked, holding back. “You’re making everybody nervous, and you’re supposed to call first anyway.”
The man made a show of looking around, the boxes perched on his palm moving with the motion. “As I said, I heard what happened and ran right over. I brought you all some donuts as a thank-you for keeping my son safe. Am I right that our law enforcement professionals love pastries?”
Every cop in the place responded to the comment emotionally, most irritated, a few amused.
“Quentin, you’re doing it again,” the judge said.
“Doing what, my dear?” Quentin flashed a bright smile and set the two flat donut boxes on a nearby surface, the coffee table. “Am I not allowed to visit my son when the mood suits me?”
“You know very well you’re supposed to call before you come over,” the judge said. She sighed. “And you know your charm doesn’t work on me. Not anymore.”
“I’m wounded, truly.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Don’t I get a hug?” Quentin asked Tommy. “I brought your favorite kind of donut.”
Tommy just looked at him.
Loyola, the closest to the coffee table, opened the box. “There’re some cream-filled ones here.”
“No one eats the donuts until I have more information,” Jarrod said. “Who exactly are you?”
Quentin stood even straighter, turning toward Jarrod. “Quentin D. Alexander, at your service, sir.”
“What relationship do you have with the Parsons?”
“Dear Marissa and I were married at one time, or didn’t she tell you? She does leave that detail out occasionally. Tommy is my son, of course. A widely acknowledged fact, for all she doesn’t like to claim it.”
The judge crossed her arms over her chest. “Quentin is a con man. A good one, but just a con man.”
He tipped an imaginary hat. “Glad to hear you appreciate my skills. Though of course I admit to no such thing. Now.” Again he addressed Jarrod. “I’ve heard you fine gentleman are in town with the FBI. Is there a particular reason that federal agents should involve themselves in an attack on a county superior judge? You don’t have jurisdiction here, unless I am mistaken.”
Jarrod reluctantly introduced himself. He took Quentin’s hand, and shook it just a little too hard; my mind registered discomfort from Quentin. Jarrod let go. He was thinking very hard, trying to figure out how the judge had come to marry a con man and have a child with him without stopping her career in its tracks.
After all the thoughts swirling in his head, Jarrod merely said, “This is an investigation in progress. I cannot comment on details.”
Quentin smiled, like he suddenly knew a lot more than he did before. He nodded at me, particularly, picking me out of the crowd with no trouble. “And you also have a telepath. How delightful. What interesting and unusual details this day is bringing about.”
I hadn’t told him I was a telepath, and I didn’t wear a Guild patch. I’d gotten out of the habit of being recognized. Was this where the boy got his Ability? It seemed likely.
I didn’t really trust this guy, though.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Alexander,” Jarrod said. “Unless you have additional information to add to our investigation.”
“Didn’t you see the donuts? I’m told sugar is brain food, the breakfast of champions.” He held up a hand. “Sincerely, though, I appreciate your diligence in helping to keep my son safe. What happened this morning—I cannot think about what might have happened. If there’s anything I can do—anything at all—you call me at once. I will leave you my number.”
“How can you possibly help, Quentin, really?” The judge shook her head, looking tired.
“You know that I know people. Quite a lot of people. Some of whom won’t talk with the police. Surely you remember.”
“I was never involved with your friends, Quentin, and I resent the implication that I was, in front of federal agents.”
“Why should we believe anything you say?” Loyola said, tone dismissive.
“We’ll take that number,” Jarrod said. Next to him, Mendez glanced at him, like this response was unexpected. But she looked back at Quentin.
“You’re offering to speak with these friends in exchange for what exactly?” Mendez asked him.
“Out of the goodness of my heart, naturally.”
Jarrod went from conflicted to certain then. “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Alexander, but we can take it from here. You’ll understand if we have any questions we’ll be interviewing you. In detail.”
Quentin smiled.
Everyone else just stood there, waiting.
“That means you need to leave now, Dad,” Tommy said.
“I know, nugget.” Quentin reached over and ruffled his son’s hair.
Tommy reached out and hugged him, quickly, like he was embarrassed to be caught.
“Where were you this morning, by the way?” Mendez asked.
Quentin’s mind, stronger than the others in the room, flashed a surprisingly clear picture of a poker game at a seedy club back room. “Sadly I spent the morning at the veterinarian’s having my poor doglet treated for her cancer. She’s been a brave soul, but it doesn’t look good. It’s very sad.”
“Uh-huh,” the judge said loudly. “Quentin, leave your number with the agents and leave. Tommy’s okay, and you’ll see him on your weekend. You’ll ask him all the questions then.”
“If my presence is no longer needed,” Quentin said, “I will make my way out.”
He did stop to write down a number on the top of the donut box, producing a pen from a pocket with a flourish and writing in a large loopy scrawl. Then he tipped his imaginary hat again and left.
“You okay?” I asked Tommy.
“Yeah,” he said in a small voice, and turned around, moving toward his room.
Jarrod caught my eye before I could follow. “Alibi?”
“He wasn’t at the veterinarian’s,” I said. “But he wasn’t anywhere close to the attack either. He seems genuinely wanting to help find whoever it was that attacked his son. I think you can let him go if you want to. He’s not meaning any harm, at least not to us.”
Jarrod nodded, dismissing me, and I went back to find Tommy.
That was fast. I guess I wasn’t used to cops taking my word seriously. It was kinda nice actually.
If it wasn’t for the weight of the vision and my worry about Cherabino’s job hanging over me like anvils, this might actually be a good day. I wished I could believe it would continue.
* * *
It was dark outside and I was hungry. Very hungry. Out of desperation and nothing more, I was now standing over a hot stove with a cardboard box in my hands, puzzling out the directions for a dried soup. I’d stayed with Tommy the whole time, and had mostly avoided any major lapses in conversation. But with the day going on and my fuel tank getting low, that would change if I didn’t eat.
I needed to call Cherabino, to check up on her and ask how the hearing was going, but I didn’t want Tommy to overhear. I didn’t want to scare him. The conflict between the two feelings
was making it much harder to puzzle out the directions on the soup box.
“You need water,” Tommy said. He was perched on a tall stool in front of the raised counter, a breakfast bar or some such.
I looked back at the mix. “Yeah, that makes sense,” I said, and located the sink. Check. Now for measuring. Eight cups of water, exactly?
“That’s not a very good soup,” Tommy said as I opened cabinets in the overly modern kitchen. Measuring cups, measuring cups . . .
“Third cabinet on the right, below the counter,” he said, with the dismissive tone of a kid stating the obvious.
I counted cabinets and opened the third one on the right.
“The other right,” he said.
I moved to the other cabinet. Kid thinks he knows everything. “Aha!” I said, then under my breath: “Jackpot.”
“Can’t you make macaroni?” Tommy asked. He swung his legs forward so they hit the counter in front of him. Thump-thumpity. Thumpity-thump.
“Not unless it’s dead easy,” I said. “Rehydrating dehydrated food is about the extent of what I can manage. Unless you want to take a shot, this is what we have. Unless you have peanut butter. I can do peanut butter,” I said hopefully.
“Mom says peanut butter is fattening,” Tommy said.
Of course she did.
“Why isn’t anyone else cooking?” he asked me.
“They’re doing rounds of the property and calling their contacts for research and talking to your dad’s contacts,” I said. “It’s just you and me. They’ll probably have some food later, but I wouldn’t count on it.” Most cops I knew carried around bar-shaped meals in small packages to tide them over, and I’d been known to do the same but had left Atlanta in too much of a hurry.
“Mom says Dad lies a lot so he can get what he wants,” Tommy said, still thumping the front of the counter.
“That’s usually why people lie,” I replied, and got the water level right in the cup after the third try. I poured it into the pan, which sizzled and spat steam at me. I stepped back.
