"Sorry for what? Not laughing?"
He held up his hands. "Look, I didn't mean anything by it. You're just stuck with it is all. They're literally foolproof."
She smiled and scooched forward, letting her legs fall open just a little. "If you could do it, I could make it worth your while."
His eyes wandered up her thighs and he licked his lips. "Uh, I can't. I mean, we could remove it, but they'd know instantly."
"What about a fake signal? Could you jack the GPS and send a false location?"
He sighed. "They'd still get the real one. Without hacking their system—and no, that's not going to happen without months of work, and probably not even then—they'd get two signals and it'd tip them off anyway."
She dropped off the couch and shoved her tits in his face. "If you help me cut it off, I'd be really grateful."
"They'll know."
She bit his bottom lip, pulling it out with her teeth while rubbing her tongue along it. "It's the fucking cops. I'll be long gone before they get here."
"It's not smart."
She grabbed his belt and yanked it free. "Nobody's ever accused me of being smart."
* * *
Matt texted Monica on the way out of the Capitol Building. His four-hour deposition consisted of a million times saying, "I don't know" and an uncomfortable moment when he'd questioned them about Sakura's disappearance and looked for reactions. Unfortunately, he'd always depended on her to read the liars, and he'd learned nothing.
Monica met him under the Washington Monument amidst a heavy lunchtime crowd, the Indian Summer having drawn the residents and workers out of their homes and offices to bask in the near-seventy-degree sunshine. She had Ted leashed to the stroller and looking none the worse for wear after the most traumatic helicopter ride in the history of dogs or helicopters. He kissed her, then leaned down to scratch Ted behind the ears. "Must be nice to be too dumb to remember, huh?"
Monica slapped his ass. "That for me or the dog?"
He stood and kissed her again, then pulled back and grinned. "Why not both?"
She patted his cheek. "You watch it, mister. I've killed men twice your size."
He looked for guile or pain or anything in her eyes, and found her as inscrutable as ever. He brushed his knuckles down her cheek. "You okay with that?"
She shrugged and looked out toward the Lincoln Memorial. "Had to happen. I ain't going to feel bad about self-defense."
"And that's that?"
She smooched him. "No. But yes. It's got to be."
She turned and pushed the stroller down the sidewalk then stopped to look at a plaque on the trees by the FDR Memorial. "That's ironic."
He raised an eyebrow.
She read the plaque. "In nineteen-twelve on this spot, three thousand and twenty Sakura cherry blossom trees were planted in a spirit of friendship between the cities of Washington, D.C. and Tokyo, Japan. Under the guidance of First Lady Helen Herron Taft and fulfilling the dream of Mrs. Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore, these first trees led to mass plantings throughout the Tidal Basin for several decades."
The plaque continued for several more paragraphs, but she didn't read it aloud. They stood in silence, until Ted broke it with a loud fart.
"Really, Ted?" Matt said. Ted wagged his tail at his name, and looked back and forth between the two of them, assessing his best options for treats or loving.
"I hope she's okay."
He hugged Monica with one arm and led her away from the spot. "She's the toughest woman—the toughest person—I've ever met."
They approached the water, and Monica pulled Adam out of the stroller. He rubbed sleep from his eyes but didn't fuss—at this point Adam never fussed—and suffered the baby leash with aplomb as Monica prevented him from chasing the few remaining Canadian Geese lingering around the reflecting pool.
Monica wandered down the side of the pool, and Matt watched her take in the sights. A young woman jogged by in a heavy jacket and running shoes, large sunglasses covering most of her face. As she passed, a half-folded paper fell from her pocket.
Matt picked it up. In streaks of black marker it read,
* * *
You took my happiness. I'm taking yours.
* * *
Matt bolted for his wife. "MONICA!"
Monica looked up as the jogger passed her and raised a pistol, her happy wave turning into a downcast look of sorrow and resignation. The jogger removed her sunglasses and smiled at Matt.
Someone screamed, and the world slowed down. Ten steps away. Nine. Eight. The whispers cackled in elated glee.
Libby Kamen pulled the trigger. Seven steps.
Monica's eyes closed. Her head listed to the side. And then it erupted, a spray of blood and brains out across the water.
Six steps. The geese scattered at the sudden noise.
Monica collapsed on the bank next to their son, who stared around with wide eyes. The world shrieked back to normal time.
Matt brought his hands to his head and stumbled to his knees, sliding across the sidewalk, a wail of complete anguish erupting from his throat.
Libby's eyes blazed green, a look of sheer terror wracking her face as she put the gun to her own temple and fired. A red puff and she collapsed, the weapon clattering to the concrete. Ted barked, turning in confused circles, tail between his legs.
People ran, most away, some toward the bodies. Cell phones streamed video, cameras flashed, and through it all Matt screamed, raw and unending, a maelstrom of whispered hell given victim and voice.
Adam looked down at his dead mother and shook his head. Over and around and through the cacophony he said, "No, Mama." He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her neck. Matt crawled toward them, unable to stand, unable to reason.
A silver light enveloped Adam, a million tiny particles glowing with internal flame. It shifted, took in the light from the reflecting pool, stole the light from the midday sun. Shimmering motes became feathers of silver and ice and light, and his wings unfolded to blanket the sky. He cradled Monica's head and stroked her hair, and the silver light slithered into her.
The bleeding stopped, the exit wound collapsed in on itself, and new flesh covered the red ruin. Adam beat his wings and they both rose from the ground, limned in silver. Monica's eyes fluttered open, she lifted her head. As her feet touched the ground the light died, and Adam fell into her waiting arms as his wings disintegrated in the rising wind.
Matt stood, stumbled to her, wrapped her in his arms, then sobbed. He closed his eyes and kissed her hair, kissed his son, held them and cried, hot tears streaming down his face from under his eyelids.
"Look, Dada."
He opened his eyes at Adam's touch. Through blurred vision he saw them, hundreds of people on their knees, eyes raised in rapture at his family, some of those present with cellphones raised, red lights staring like baleful eyes.
Ted licked his ankle, tail wagging. In the distance, sirens blared.
THE END
Patrick Freivald is an author, teacher (physics, robotics, and American Sign Language), and beekeeper. He lives in Western New York with his beautiful wife, two birds, three dogs, too many cats, and several million stinging insects. A member of the Horror Writers' Association and International Thriller Writers, he's always had a soft spot for slavering monsters of all kinds. When he's not writing, he's reading, keeping bees, building robots with his FIRST Robotics team, proofreading college application essays, and teaching kids the wonders of science and technology. Black Tide is his fifth novel. There will be more.
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