Yang tilted her head, but said nothing.
Bryn licked her lips and wished she hadn’t. It gave her nervousness away. She stood up straight and spoke firmly to counteract it. “I’m going to leave my father’s house. I’m not going to tell him I’m leaving. I don’t want you to tell him I’m leaving and I no longer want your protection. Is that clear?”
Yang looked over to the passenger seat at an agent Bryn had never met. They exchanged a few hushed words before she turned back.
“It’s not that simple, Bryn. Why do you want to leave?”
Bryn sighed. “That’s between me and my father. I’m going to get into my car now and drive away. I’d prefer it if you didn’t follow me, but obviously I can’t stop you. I mean it, though, about my dad. Don’t tell him where I am. If you do, I’ll just take off again.”
She didn’t wait for Yang to summon up an argument or pepper her with more questions. She stalked back up the driveway and got into her car. Halfway down the lane, she caught sight of headlights in her rearview mirror. They stayed there all the way to Brooklyn.
Bryn wasn’t familiar with the demographics of Brooklyn’s neighborhoods, so she wasn’t prepared for Carla’s home to be located on a rundown block of three story apartment buildings. She drove around for twenty minutes looking for a parking space, which, at two in the morning, were nonexistent. Finally, Agent Yang pulled up alongside and motioned for her to roll down her window.
“There’s a pay-to-park structure six blocks away,” Yang said. “We’ll give you a ride back from there. Even if you find a spot on the street, a sweet little car like that all packed with stuff is going to be stripped by morning or flat-out gone. I assume your dad was handling the car insurance?”
Bryn was upset enough without Yang dealing that last low blow. There were a lot of things her dad had paid for. Her salary had been adequate for her needs; make the car payment, buy electri-gas for the car and purchase a few luxuries now and then. In point of fact, her holophone had already been shut off and this month’s car payment was due and she had no idea how she would pay it.
There was nothing else to do. She was tired, emotionally wrung out, and had a headache from crying. She didn’t know if Carla even lived here anymore and she didn’t have a plan B. With a defeated wave of her hand, she indicated to Yang that she would follow.
Once the Hamster was parked safely, Bryn got into the back of the sedan and resignedly gave Yang Carla’s address. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t find it out anyway. To her immense relief, the agents didn’t cross-examine her during the ride. They double-parked to drop her off and as she walked away through the dimly lit, narrow lanes, the sedan inched forward to keep her in sight. Despite her determination to make this fledgling attempt at independence her only attempt, it was reassuring to know they were there.
She located Carla’s building, but when she pressed the buzzer to her apartment, there was no response. Bryn depressed the button every thirty seconds for about five minutes before sitting on the steps in utter dejection. Carla either wasn’t home, was a heavier sleeper than even her father, or the buzzer wasn’t working.
It was a warm enough night to sit outside and wallow in miserable reflection, especially since she was wearing her leather jacket and the scarf covered her head and shoulders. While she waited, every word her father said this afternoon paraded across her consciousness. She tried to find some error of judgment on her part; some redeeming word or phrase that her abhorrence had obscured. Instead, her anger reignited.
The muted sound of a car door alerted her and she looked in the direction of the street. A dark-clothed figure walked toward Bryn along the sidewalk, trailed by another figure—Bryn was pretty sure the second figure was Agent Yang. The first person was also female; Bryn saw her glance over her shoulder at Yang and begin walking faster. By the time the pool of light at the entrance to the apartment building revealed the woman to be Carla, Yang was only a few yards behind.
Bryn stood up and Carla gasped in surprise. She reacted by jumping back to put both Bryn and Yang in her line of sight. Her arm shot forth from her pocket, a wicked-looking pistol in her grip. Before Yang did something stupid, Bryn exclaimed, “Aunt Carla!”
Yang responded by holding her hands up and walking on past like she hadn’t been deliberately tailing her.
Carla said, “Bryn? Is that you?” Then she laughed self-consciously and tucked the pistol away. “Gawd, I almost shot you! I thought—oh, never mind. Sweetie, come here!”
Instead of allowing Carla to fold her into a hug, Bryn removed the scarf from her head, or tried to since it got stuck and only came halfway off. It was enough for Carla to see what had become of her.
“Oh, Brynnie.” Carla’s voice held a wealth of sadness, but no surprise. Like everyone else, she would know all about Bryn’s misfortunes from the news. “Let’s get you inside.”
Carla’s apartment was midway down on the third floor. Bryn didn’t think the shabby chic décor was deliberately shabby, but it was cozy and clean. She sat on the faux-suede tan couch and let Carla untangle the scarf from her quills while she poured her heart out.
“That son-of-a-bitch,” Carla muttered when Bryn told her what her father had done. “He was never right in the head. I tried to tell Miranda, but she couldn’t see the bad in people.”
“I was hoping I could stay with you until I got on my feet,” Bryn said.
Carla sprung off the couch and said, “Of course! Even if I hadn’t promised your mom I’d take care of you, I’d be thrilled to have you. The sofa pulls out into a bed.”
She removed her overcoat and hung it on a wooden coat rack by the door. Underneath was a uniform consisting of a short maroon dress with a white mini-apron over it. Her hair was cut in a shoulder-length shag that flattered her petite form and features. Bryn remembered being nearly as tall as Carla as a child; now she towered over the older woman.
“I’ve got some sweats that might fit you until we can get your car moved,” Carla said. “I have a spot assigned to me, but haven’t used it since I lost my license. It might upset whoever’s been parking there, but who cares?” She crossed the room and bounced back down on the couch. Bryn caught a whiff of alcohol, and cigarette smoke emanated from her clothes and hair. A network of fine wrinkles surrounded Carla’s brown eyes and a few deeper lines intersected the contour of her upper lip. For some reason, the lip lines reminded Bryn of Scott’s scar.
“It’s late. You’re probably exhausted,” Carla said. Bryn thought that no matter how hard life had been for her mother’s best friend, she seemed as kind and loving as ever.
She pointed to the nametag on Carla’s uniform. “Mouse?”
Carla’s lips curved in a mischievous smile. She pulled the front of her dress partially down. In short white fur on the top inside curve of her left breast was a small xenograft in the shape of a mouse.
Chapter Twenty-two
After the confrontation with the two drunken xenos, Scott and Padme decided it would be best to stay hidden. The back room at Bluto’s was nicer than Scott expected. He’d imagined a smelly broom closet, but it was a sizable space with a desk, couch and two armchairs. Phaco was running the place while Bluto, the man who owned the restaurant and bar, did time for assault. From the décor in the back room and throughout the establishment, Scott surmised that Bluto’s favorite pastime was hunting. Framed photos of a big, bearded man in camouflage fatigues dotted the walls. In each shot, the man had a rifle in one hand and the carcass of some dead animal in the other.
Padme sat at the desk, where Phaco had given her access to the old-fashioned company computer. Scott settled into one of the oversized armchairs and watched idly as she tapped on the keyboard.
After a while, she said, “Abel’s been arrested.”
“Has he?”
Abel’s full name was Abel Wiener, a retired forklift operator from New Jersey. The XIA had more than enough evidence to charge him with crimes that would lock him up for the rest of his
life. They’d left him alone because he’d been Scott’s ‘direct supervisor’ within the XBestia organization. His arrest was a calculated move to get Scott a ‘promotion.’ Scott considered it a long-shot, but Shasta felt differently.
“We’ve fished a lot of dead XBestia lieutenants out of the river lately,” she’d said. “There’s plenty of room for upward mobility.”
Scott thought Shasta was putting an overly optimistic spin on it. Moving up was essential, but given the rate at which Lupus went through underlings, significantly more dangerous.
Padme looked up from the keyboard. “Tomorrow you should head for the stadium. Most of the displaced Warehouse folk are there now.”
Scott inhaled deeply and let it out in an audible sigh. “Not sure I should stick around. I got a friend in Seattle who might put me up.” He forced a short laugh. “I’m running out of places to go where the cops aren’t looking for me.”
She tapped some more keys and in a surprisingly short amount of time, said, “Looks like you have a warrant out of San Diego in addition to the one here.”
Scott nodded.
The Marine Corp probably wouldn’t have kicked him out for his San Diego arrest considering he’d only been defending himself, but Shasta and the XIA got him dishonorably discharged and had his police record doctored to implicate him in several burglaries. They didn’t need to expunge anything from his past that would indicate who he really worked for, but he did need a background befitting a true bad-ass. It nagged at him that the XIA didn’t seem to equate his faked criminal background with the other agents’ expunged ones. All he could hope for was that the computer forensicians did a better job making stuff up than they did erasing it.
“I wouldn’t recommend leaving town until Lupus clears it,” Padme said.
“Yeah, I guess. But I’m not much use to him at the moment.”
“Perhaps you should alter your appearance.” He knew she meant change his facial features surgically.
“No money. I used every cent I had to get this done.” He held up his hands.
“Why did you do it?” Padme had never asked about his alteration before and she didn’t sound particularly interested now, but he’d rehearsed his answer in his head so many times he responded almost without thought.
“To ditch my fingerprints.”
He’d been printed only twice in his life; before entering the Marines and when he’d been booked into the San Diego jail, so his answer was patently untrue. He’d gotten the alteration for two reasons: because the first two XIA agents to go in had gotten fake alterations and subsequently disappeared, and because a xenograft appeared to provide protection against a tentatively-identified and deadly pathogen. The XIA suspected Fournier of dabbling in biological warfare and Scott’s primary objective was to learn more about it.
“You sacrificed your sense of touch,” Padme said thoughtfully, rubbing the edge of one of her cow ears with her fingertips. “And I my hearing.”
“I can feel,” Scott said, “but it’s like I’m wearing gloves.”
“And I can hear, but not as well I used to.”
“You ever feel like…” he paused to get his wording right, since he’d be a fool not to take this opportunity to broach a subject that was integral to his mission, “…the nanoneurons are, I don’t know, messing with you?”
“What makes you think I have them?” she asked. “My alteration doesn’t do anything. The ears just sit there.”
“Oh.” He hid his disappointment by leaning forward and studying the antler arrangement holding up the glass-top of the coffee table.
She took the bait, though. “Do you think your nanoneurons are malfunctioning?”
He shrugged. Something in her voice, a keener-than-usual interest, warned him to tread lightly here. The truth was: his nanoneurons didn’t bother him a bit. He felt nothing, but the XIA didn’t like the fact that they’d never been able to hack the program that ran Dr. Fournier’s nanoneuronic system.
He decided to back off. “Probably just being paranoid.”
“If it bothers you, why did you choose a functional alteration?”
“So I’d always have a weapon at hand,” he replied.
“Is that a joke?”
“Why? Is it funny?” He was irritated with himself now, and with Padme. She was like a nesting doll with infinite layers. Every time he thought he might get somewhere with her, she redirected the flow of conversation, usually to find out something about him.
They didn’t talk after that. Scott hadn’t slept well in jail. He lay down on the couch and without intending to, fell asleep. Music and noise from the bar woke him some time later. He sat up groggily and looked for Padme, who wasn’t in the room. His right nostril was completely stuffed up, so he stumbled over to the desk for a tissue and blew his nose. He took a moment to check if Padme had left the old computer unlocked; she had, but when he tried to trace her Internet movements he found she’d erased her trail.
When she came back with a tray of food and drinks, he was playing a game of Scorpion Solitaire.
“What level is that?” she asked, nodding at the computer screen.
“Four.”
She shook her head. “That game is luck of the draw. The odds of winning level four are one game in fifty. I don’t understand why anyone would play something you lose over and over again.”
Scott had played four games and lost each one. “Can’t win ‘em all, but there’s no shame in trying.” It was something his father used to say.
“Here.” She set a plate in front of him. “I got you the special because you don’t need any more chili.”
He frowned down at the hamburger and fries. “Why not?”
She tilted her head towards the couch, where he’d been napping all afternoon. “I don’t think your digestive system needs any more stimulation.”
“Oh.” He felt a blush warm his cheeks.
“You also talk in your sleep.”
Scott froze with his lips an inch from his straw and lifted his eyes to where she stood on the other side of the desk.
She smiled, not kindly, but like a child with a secret. “You were, apparently, dreaming of our Bryn.”
He had no recollection whatsoever of any dream he may have had—usually he only remembered them if he woke in the midst of one. Padme didn’t seem suspicious, so he probably hadn’t said anything incriminating, but she did seem to be slyly intimating that he’d spoken inappropriately.
“So?” he said. “She’s hot.”
“She was. Past tense. Now she’s untouchable.”
He’d been irritated with her earlier; now he suppressed a flash of anger. He stuffed a French fry in his mouth and resumed playing the unwinnable game of solitaire, ignoring her as she stood there watching him. She finally took her food over to the couch.
After the meal, they briefly discussed sleeping arrangements. She would take the couch and he’d make do with one of the chairs. Given that he’d already gotten a significant amount of sleep, he told her he’d probably occupy himself with computer games until he got tired. She flipped the overhead light switch off, leaving only a small, low-watt desk lamp for Scott. When she closed her eyes, she seemed unconcerned that he might return the favor and watch her as she slept.
Eventually the noise from the bar died down. At around 3:00 a.m., Phaco knocked gently before coming in and telling Scott he was locking up for the night. Scott, still sitting at the desk, went back to his losing solitaire streak, head beginning to nod. That was the last thing he remembered before waking suddenly in the dimly lit room, instantly alert.
He sensed someone in the room, but the proximity of the lamp put everything but the desk in shadow. Padme shifted on the couch and moaned—Scott knew pain when he heard it—and the dark bulk on the couch was too big to be Padme alone. He started to get up, claws fully extended, when the man on top of Padme lifted his head. Glittering human eyes stared malevolently out of an inhuman face.
Scott had no idea how Dr.
Fournier had transplanted a wolf face onto a human one. He had to have accounted for several significant differences in skull structure, and yet he managed to make Lupus look very wolf-like. Lupus’ voice was naturally low and gravelly, furthering the impression when he spoke. Now his throat produced an uncannily accurate growl and his canine ears went back as he pinned Scott with his gaze.
Scott wanted nothing more than to leap across the room and take the pseudo-wolf on, but he sat slowly back down and resheathed his claws.
Lupus stood. Scott estimated his height to be about six-foot-four-inches tall. He was a big man, but not particularly muscular. It was hard to guess his age, but going by the style of jeans he preferred, he was older than Padme by at least a decade. Those jeans were unbuttoned and partially unzipped. Scott knew Lupus was completely lacking in morals; still, he had a hard time believing the man would attempt to have sex with Padme while Scott was in the room.
Lupus’ face was unreadable, of course, but his body language as he refastened his pants was cocky enough to tell Scott it had been some kind of show, possibly to stake his claim over Padme. As if Scott needed a demonstration of Lupus’ domination over the girl to warn him off her. The truth was, Scott wouldn’t have been interested in her even if she weren’t so very off-limits. The circumstances that led her here may not have been her fault, but she’d become toxic in the process.
Padme sat up and adjusted her displaced clothing, ignored by Lupus, whose focus was all on Scott.
“Abel has been eliminated,” Lupus said.
Scott knew better than to voice his question, “In jail?” Abel had been a marked man the moment he’d been arrested. Probably, if Scott and Padme hadn't 'escaped,' there would have been an eventual attempt on their lives from inside, as well.
Lupus reached into his pocket and withdrew something that jangled metallically. He tossed a ring of keys to Scott.
“Abel’s office at the stadium,” he said. “It’s yours.”
Xenofreak Nation Page 9
