Scott climbed onto the running board behind him and reached for Mouse’s gun, but it must have fallen out of his waistband while he was underwater. He pulled the rifle from Dundee’s slack hand. He couldn’t see the armed men, but knew they were there. The distressed sounds of the animal in the crate echoed over the water. He saw Bryn now, behind the inflatable. She was trying to push it to shore.
With an expletive on his lips, he’d taken a chance and stood with the gun held high. No one shot him, which was encouragement enough to fling it toward shore. He dove into the water, swam to the other Wavecruiser and climbed on. Still no gunshots—they were waiting to see what he would do. If he tried to run for it, he doubted he’d get far. He straightened the cruiser’s handlebars and accelerated. Happily, the watercraft wasn’t difficult to maneuver. There was no need to go slow anymore; on the contrary. The tow rope snapped taut and the sinking cargo offered significantly more resistance, but within seconds he’d driven the cruiser right up onto the sand.
Once there, he’d jumped off and grabbed the rope. Even though two of the men joined him in hauling the cargo in, he assumed he was still in someone’s gun sights. The inflatable was barely afloat when the waves began to help bring it in.
When Bryn appeared, the leader of the armed men, the one she’d called ‘Kareem,’ walked into view. There was no sign of injury, but his vest was unfastened—Scott saw it was bullet-proof. Even so, a shot to the chest from a high-powered rifle would cause more than superficial damage.
Kareem pulled off his ski mask, wincing as the movement produced pain. “Bryn?” he asked. “Is that you?”
Bryn lowered her hands, went straight to the crate and peered into one of the air holes. “Oh, my God!” she gasped, directing eloquent, accusing eyes Scott’s way. “It’s a baby panda!”
Scott sighed. “She’s not a baby, just a juvenile.”
Bryn drilled into him with those eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Shut it!” Kareem snapped, staring at Bryn’s quills. “I don’t know what you’re mixed up in, girl, but right now I need you to step away from our little friend there.”
He directed his two men to lift the crate. Scott knew the young panda weighed around a hundred pounds. Add in the weight of the crate and the fact that the panda was shifting around inside attempting to escape, and the men would need help. He looked at Kareem and spread his hands. Kareem nodded. Scott took one corner and they hefted the cargo out of the sand and loaded it onto the white truck. Kareem signaled one of the men, who immediately got in and drove off in the XBestia’s truck.
Scott saw Fiske then, trussed up in the sand with duct tape. The fourth man was on the far side of the dune buggy watching the show through his gun sight. He shouted, “Hey, Kareem!” and pointed.
Everyone turned. Dundee was a speck in the distance on the water.
Scott heard sirens. Even in Coney Island no-man’s land, cops would eventually respond to an emergency call about a gun battle on the beach. The whole thing had lasted less than ten minutes.
Kareem opened the back door of the dune buggy and gingerly got in. “Let’s go.” His men obediently hopped aboard and the wheels sent sand flying.
Bryn looked surprised that Kareem left so abruptly, like she expected him to stop and offer her some words of wisdom. Scott grabbed her arm. “Come on.”
She dug her heels in the sand. “What about him?”
Fiske was rolling around, attempting to talk through the tape across his mouth.
“He’s the guy who punched you when you were kidnapped.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”
Without another word of protest, she joined him on the boardwalk as they walked away from the scene like any other xenofreaks out for a stroll in the early twilight.
Chapter Thirty-one
They went back to the bungalow and Bryn sat on the bench at the little table. Her hands shook from a combination of muscle strain from piloting the Wavecruiser and residual adrenaline. Scott retrieved a holophone from inside a cupboard and powered it up.
“You can’t stay here,” he said.
She knew he was going to say that. The ‘easy job’ had gone horribly awry, through no fault of hers. Still, she’d been a liability. She wasn’t surprised he would have second thoughts about helping her. It had never been clear why he’d agreed to in the first place.
“I have money,” she said.
It wasn’t true. Aside from the sixty-two dollars in Carla’s tips in her pocket, she had around fifteen dollars in the bank. But if what Carla said was true, there was a slim chance a life insurance check was waiting for her at the offices of Provincial Mutual.
Scott set the phone down and began texting something with clumsy paw pads. He responded absently, “That’s not going to protect you when my boss comes looking for answers.”
“I just need to get to Trill Street.”
Without looking up from the phone, he pointed to the door.
She stood, sick inside. “So that’s it?”
He avoided her gaze, focused instead on the holophone. After a moment he asked, “What do you want from me?”
She had no idea. “Apparently I want you to be something you’re not.”
He laughed as if her words were funny. The last thing she wanted to do was walk out the door, but he seemed immovable on the subject. The holophone had his complete attention. He was done with her.
She got slowly to her feet, toes squishing in her boots. She was wet and miserable and dying for a shower. Carla had said she would meet them back here at the bungalow, but she would have come and gone by now. XIA agents were likely still out looking for her so Bluto’s was off-limits, as was Carla’s house. Maybe the cash in her pocket would get her a cheap motel room. One night to decide where to go.
She took a reluctant step toward the door. Scott let out a frustrated groan and for a moment she thought he’d reconsidered. But he was still involved with his texting. He typed something and waited and then groaned again before snapping the holophone shut and giving Bryn an inscrutable look.
“Alright,” he said. It sounded like he was conceding to something.
“What’s alright?” she asked.
“I am officially your babysitter.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. You said you needed to get to Trill Street?”
He’d done a miraculous about-face. Bryn decided not to question her good fortune. “It’s an insurance company. They won’t be open now.”
“Tomorrow then. Right now, we need to vacate the premises before I have to answer some hard questions about a certain panda.”
He tucked the holophone in his pocket, opened the door and waved for her to precede him. She thumped down the steps. Instead of heading back out to the beach, they began weaving their way through the bungalows. She didn’t think it possible, but the place got seedier the further in they went. Like the Warehouse, people were out and about, all xenofreaks, all watching. Fires were everywhere now that the sun was down, burning in garbage cans and makeshift fire pits, lighting their way. Bryn wanted to stop and stand next to one until her clothes steamed dry, but Scott hurried on.
She saw a street light and thought they were headed that direction, but Scott veered away toward a bonfire at the far edge of the field in the space where two bungalows had once been. They merely skirted it however; just close enough for him to toss something into the blaze.
“What was that?” she asked, but he didn’t answer and she was forced to break into a trot to keep up. On the street, they walked for a few blocks before catching a bus. The driver had a xenograft on his forearm, which made sense in this neighborhood. It was warm inside the bus. She sat next to Scott, he with his hood up and she with her scarf, looking out the window, but all she saw was their reflections.
“Scott?” She didn’t turn from the window. There was no one else on the bus, and they were far enough back that the driver couldn’t hear their conversation.
“Yeah
?”
“I—I know you said you do what you’re told, but…didn’t it bother you that Fournier almost got an actual panda?”
Scott shifted in his seat, his thigh brushing hers. “What makes a panda any different from any other animal?”
The words seemed insensitive, but something in his tone made her think he didn’t mean them that way.
“Well for one, they’re an endangered species,” she said.
He snorted. “Do you know how much money has been funneled into supposed panda conservation? It’s big business.”
“That’s not the panda’s fault.”
“I guess not,” he conceded. “But that money could have been put to better use saving animals that aren’t so cute and cuddly.”
“Like the cougar?” she asked, and immediately regretted it. She turned and put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”
But he said, “It’s not illegal to hunt cougars, except maybe in California.”
“You know a lot about animals.”
His lips tightened and she got the distinct impression he was irritated with himself. It was becoming apparent to Bryn that he didn’t want her to get to know him. Which only made her more determined to find the proverbial chink in his armor.
Chapter Thirty-two
They switched buses once before disembarking on a dark, quiet residential street. Scott scanned the numbers on the houses and began walking, Bryn shivering in the cool evening air by his side. Two blocks from the bus stop, he started up the steep, cracked driveway of an older, one-story house. As he’d been advised when he’d contacted Shasta at the bungalow, the door was open.
“Whose house is this?” Bryn whispered as they entered.
Scot shut the door and locked it before switching on a nearby lamp. They were standing in a small, sparsely furnished living room with a white carpet. “Don’t worry. It’s safe.”
“I don’t care if it’s safe. I just care whether the owners are going to be pissed that we’re here.”
“It belongs to friends of mine. You want to take a shower and put on clean clothes or what?”
He saw from her face that she very much did want those things, and for some reason, it brought a smile to his lips that he couldn’t hide.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“You. Come on.”
Scott had never been to any of the XIA safe houses, but he’d been told they were all similar. This house had one bedroom and one bath. There hadn’t been a holovision in the living room, but he was happy to see one on a stand at the foot of the queen-sized bed. He went straight to the dresser and found clothes there, in a variety of sizes, just as Shasta had promised in her text.
“Take her there and let her get cleaned up for crissakes!” she’d said.
He’d argued with her—hadn’t wanted to risk the cover he’d worked so long and hard for, but Shasta was adamant. He was surprised she’d jumped so easily on his suggestion to court Mouse’s favor through Bryn, given that getting usable information out of Mouse would be a long-shot. Then again, Bryn did pose a problem to the XIA. Scott wasn’t the only one who felt responsible for what happened to her. Shasta had been very interested to learn that Bryn blamed her father for arranging the kidnapping in the first place. For the time being, Scott was to avoid contact with Lupus and Padme and follow the new leads.
Lupus would probably have something to say about that, but Scott, as he’d mentioned to Bryn, did as he was told.
“There’s a washer and dryer around here somewhere. These should do for now,” he handed Bryn a bundle of clothing and ignored her perplexed look.
“Are you sure your friends won’t mind?” she asked.
He grabbed her shoulders from behind, careful of the quills, and turned her toward the bathroom. “You want first shower or do you want a cold shower after I use all the hot?”
She disappeared behind the bathroom door. It was chilly in the house, so he found the thermostat in the hallway and set it to seventy degrees. The house had a secure, old-fashioned land-line telephone in the kitchen. He called Shasta.
“All set?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Pizza’s coming.”
“Good. What about the panda?”
“The ARA has it stashed at a farm upstate. I’m sending the coordinates in case you need them.”
“Word on how they knew?”
“None.”
“Dundee?”
“A blood-spattered Wavecruiser turned up at Bensonhurst Park. Fingerprints belong to one Duane Walker, native of Sydney, Australia. No body. No witnesses saw him come ashore—that have come forward, anyway.”
“Can they tell from the blood if he’s the carrier?”
“In the lab now.”
“Do they know what to look for yet?”
“It’s been tentatively identified as a typhoid mutation, completely resistant to antibiotics. Still can’t convince the frickin’ CDC that it might be airborne.”
Scott had seen holos of security tapes from the bank that had been robbed by a group of XBestias. According to Abel, they’d done it without Lupus’ sanction, but that was irrelevant. Abel only knew one of the perpetrators: Dundee. The holos showed the xenos lining the patrons and employees of the bank up, while Dundee forced the manager to open the safe. There was limited physical contact between the xenos and the hostages and no resistance. Cooperation had been coerced through intimidation; big guns and a lot of shouting in the hostage's faces. Within seventy-two hours, all seventeen victims had gotten sick and died. Until today, the XIA had only unconfirmed reports of the whereabouts of the perpetrators. They knew none of the xenos seemed to be affected by the pathogen. Scott’s report on Dundee’s robust health prior to his gunshot wound now confirmed it. One or more of those xenos appeared to be a carrier. If the typhoid mutation was indeed airborne, the XIA feared another Typhoid Mary was on the loose, but on a potentially more deadly scale. Since then, isolated non-xenos all over the city had turned up in the morgue with the infection, but none of them were linked to any other deaths—they caught it, but didn’t spread it themselves.
Fournier’s role in all of this was uncertain. It was known that in addition to his increasingly audacious xenoalterations, he had experimented with cloning and cross-species in vitro fertilization. He had a monstrous God complex. Scott wanted nothing more than to topple him from on high.
“Fiske?” he asked Shasta.
“Rikers.”
“Nosferatu?”
“Creepy bastard. Beat cops rounded him and his crew up. It’ll be high-profile. The girl was snatched on her way home from school.”
“How’d they get to Abel in Rikers?” he asked.
“That was a heart attack. Yang got him into the interview room and the guy went nuts. You never saw anyone so scared. Didn’t seem natural.”
Scott had a half-formed question at the back of his mind about Bluto’s, but he heard Bryn call, “Scott?” To Shasta, he said, “Gotta go, boss.”
“Burn phone’s in the pizza box,” she said. Then, uncharacteristically, “Take care of her.”
“I will.” He placed the handset in the charger and went back to the bedroom.
The bathroom door was cracked and flowery-smelling steam curled out towards the ceiling. He heard Bryn cursing. “You okay in there?”
“No.” She sounded tearful.
“Uh…anything I can do?”
She came out wearing the clothes he’d given her, black stretch pants and a long, soft sweater. Or she was partially wearing the sweater—it had gotten hopelessly stuck on her quills and only one eye was visible through neck hole.
It took a monumental effort not to smile. “Sit.”
He stood over her, easing the sweater away from a few stubborn quills, self-conscious now that she was clean. He must smell like a wet dog in comparison. The quills seemed to want to cooperate with him as he worked; they lay down close to her skull and made the job easier. He slid his hands around her ne
ck to reach underneath and lift them so he could adjust the sweater to rest properly on her shoulders, but he pricked his index ‘finger.’
“Ow!” Instinctively, he stuck it in his mouth. He’d had the xenoalteration for seven months and still the fur felt foreign against his lips, the pad rough against his tongue.
“Sorry,” she said. She looked positively morose as she went to pick her leather jacket up off the bathroom floor. When she began shrugging into it, he asked, “What are you doing? That jacket’s ruined. And it’s still wet.”
“I don’t have a choice. It protects me from the quills.”
“No, take it off. We’ll think of something else.”
She gave him a grateful look, almost a hero-worship kind of look. For the first time, he wondered how she was going to look at him when she found out the truth.
Chapter Thirty-three
While Scott was in the shower, Bryn explored the house. It was small and neat—and about as impersonal as a hotel suite. Each room had exactly one framed print on the wall; sober still-lifes from artists she didn’t recognize. The furniture was utilitarian; a sectional in the living room with firm, unyielding cushions and a plain wooden table with four chairs in the kitchen. The cupboards were empty except for one, which had a four-piece dinner set in boring beige stoneware and eight clear drinking glasses. One drawer held an eight-piece set of silverware with no pattern whatsoever and another had three striped dish towels that looked as if they’d never been used.
She had just decided the house must belong to a man who brought his mistress here when she opened the refrigerator and revised that thought. Inside were one bottle each of ketchup and soy sauce, a squeeze bottle of mustard, a jar of mayonnaise and an unopened twelve-pack of bottled water. No way a cheating dog could properly entertain a woman here, not without alcohol.
She helped herself to a bottle of water, wishing the empty pantry had something in it, even a few crumbs to stave off the hunger pangs that had been gnawing at her for hours now. She was contemplating slurping down a couple spoonfuls of ketchup when someone knocked on the door, startling her so badly she almost dropped her water bottle. She scooted into the bedroom and, mostly because she still doubted they had a right to be in the house in the first place, opened the bathroom door and said in a loud whisper, “Scott! Scott!”
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