by Alex Hughes
Just then Kara arrived, and greeted me with a small, polite smile. She was all dolled up in a flowy pantsuit of some kind, a long powder blue trench coat keeping her warm in the morning chill. The streetlight behind her flickered.
She joined me in my place in line, now nearly in front of the door.
Next to us, a small crane on wheels had moved next to the streetlight, the crane extending up over the roof of the crystalline building next door. A man in the crane basket adjusted his hard hat and brought out a loudspeaker.
“People on the street!” he said. “We will be measuring the structural integrity of this building for approximately ten seconds. Please maintain silence during this time!”
A low rumble came from the crowd, and then, quietly, with a shrug, silence fell.
The man brought out a pipette and dropped a stream of water onto the crystalline roof, a woman at street level with a dish-shaped sound collector pointing it carefully. After a moment, the water stopped, and a tone came from the collector. “A pass,” the woman said.
“Thank you!” The man projected through the loudspeaker. “We’re done!”
“Two?” someone said.
“What?” I turned.
Four feet away, right inside the open restaurant door, the hostess smiled. “Table for two?”
We moved forward, quickly, into the restaurant.
The hostess was a pretty blond college student with a huge bar pierced through the skin of her forehead. I stared; it looked painful.
“Yes, please.” Kara frowned at me. We’d been engaged, years ago, and for all everything had changed since—for all she’d betrayed me to the Guild after I had burned out those students—sometimes I could still see her, I could still understand her, without the need for telepathy, or words. “Could we get a table in the corner please?”
“You’re in luck. There’s one available.” The hostess walked across the room like there was something stuck in her shoe. The shoe in question had large spikes coming out of it on several sides. Admittedly, I did not understand fashion at all; Kara’s quieter flowy thing made sense, but this . . . ?
We sat, Kara setting her coat over a hook on the wall, and we ordered fresh real coffee, fancy omelets, and biscuits from the waitress. This place made the best biscuits and gravy in the city, and they could do things with cheap meal-replacement pellets you had to taste to believe. Pellet omelet? You’d better believe it. With spinach and soy feta and smoked habanero, it was exactly what I needed this morning.
“Why am I here?” Kara asked me, once the waitress had left. With us being in a concrete-reinforced corner of the room, behind a life-sized movie replica character, the low rumble of conversation around us would cover anything we said.
I took a breath. Surrounded by normal things, here, the vision didn’t seem as overwhelming as it had last night, but it was a vision all the same. And my accuracy was unfortunately high, especially when it came to my personal safety. I had to believe what I’d been shown. “I need to ask for a favor,” I said.
“You told me. What’s the favor?” Kara was wary, and perhaps she had some right to be. As the liaison between the Guild and the Atlanta public and government, she got a lot of requests, I was sure.
“I need a certification to keep my job, and I’d like to renew my telepath certification at the Guild. I realize it’s unusual, but I have the skills.” This was the worst possible time, with my mind still healing, with my telepathy still on the fritz, but if last night’s vision had said anything to me, it was that I no longer had the luxury of waiting. “I can pass the lower-level tests today, if you’ll give me the standard three attempts. We can work out a schedule for—”
The waitress arrived with our coffee and I got quiet.
Kara stirred sugar into her coffee. “Why do you need a schedule?” she asked. Then, almost with compassion: “Are the leftover chemicals in your system messing with your reliability?”
“No!” I took a breath, and leaned forward. “No, I just had a run-in with a really horrible hot spot in Mindspace and pushed too hard.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Not quite. If I hadn’t still been healing from the thing with Bradley, that probably wouldn’t have fazed me.
“You were out of commission at the Guild inquiry too. You haven’t initiated a mind-to-mind conversation in several months, according to my notes.”
“I don’t owe you answers. I can pass a low-level test. I just need a certification. Kara, I need this job. I need it. And politics are—”
“Politics are what they are.” She nodded. Our food arrived.
I dug into the omelet to end all omelets as she thought. Finally she put her fork down. “Well. Here’s the reality of my politics. Since the Bradley inquiry, the higher-ups have been asking more questions about you—a lot more questions, especially recently.” She held up a hand to cut off my protest. “That doesn’t mean, well, anything right now. But it means until they figure out what they want and how to deal with you—you have to realize you’re an unusual situation.”
I nodded. Most people who left the Guild joined another Guild somewhere else, lived quietly without using their gifts, or died quietly—some even from natural causes. The others, well, usually they’d done something overt to cause trouble. Usually.
“Until they figure out policy, they’re not likely to let anything through casually. I’ll have to fight for it. Which, for a lower-level certification—a Level Five, maybe—shouldn’t be hard. Especially if you’re willing to keep coming in and paying the fees for the test. The Guild likes money. But honestly, Adam, do you really want to show them you’re not up to snuff?”
“I may not have a choice. How much money?” I asked, but my heart sank. The accountants did have some money saved up for me in an account somewhere, but I didn’t know how much. And the Guild was notoriously expensive for nonmembers.
“I’ll see what I can do to get you a discount if that’s what you want.” Kara took another bite of her “kitchen sink” omelet, more fillings even than egg.
“Thank you.”
She swallowed. “Now, why did you really ask me to breakfast?”
“What?”
Kara met my eyes. “That was a phone call. Now, what’s the real reason I’m here?”
I swallowed. She still knew me, apparently. After a decade or more, maybe she still knew me. The thought was both comforting and disturbing. “Can I ask you a sensitive question?”
She sat back in her chair, wary. “You can ask.”
“Are there any rogue Abilities in the area? Nonstandards?”
She blinked. “There’s always nonstandards here, Adam. It’s the US Headquarters.”
“Um, I’m wondering, well, I’m trying to figure out a murder scene. The woman was killed by strangulation—but she didn’t fight back, not nearly like she should have. I’m wondering, well, I’m wondering if there’s a rogue Ability that would let you sit there and let yourself be strangled. Because I can’t think of anything else this could be.”
“You realize normals kill each other? A lot? I assume there’s special circumstances?”
I took a breath. Braced. “The murder victim is Emily Hamilton. Used to be Emily Grant, back when she worked for the Guild.”
Kara put down her fork.
“Did you keep up with her?” I asked quietly. “Did you keep up with what happened to her at all?” I hoped to God she had. Otherwise she’d betrayed me for nothing.
“Emily’s dead?” She looked like I’d sucker punched her. “Um, yes. I did. I did for several years. I promise you, I tried. When Charles . . . well, a lot of us tried. But she didn’t want it after a while. She just didn’t . . . A few months before her baby was born she told me to stop calling. I tried to respect her wishes.” She took a shaky breath. “How did it happen?”
“I don’t know details yet. But a strangling . . . I think Emily would have fought back, at least enough to make defensive wounds. More than she had. I just want to know if there’s anything on the
Guild end that could have done this.”
“She wasn’t exactly a standard mind anymore, not after that. And she was married to that guy . . .”
“What happened to her? How did she end up with an abuser?”
Kara shook her head, determinedly cut the last of her omelet up into smaller pieces. “I don’t know. He never seemed quite right to me, but she was determined. It was like she wanted the family thing, badly. She wanted a baby. She wanted what she called a normal life. If she couldn’t have the Guild, I guess she wanted the next best thing. We offered her a job here, her and Tamika both . . .”
“But she didn’t take it.”
“No. She was too proud. She went out and found herself a job and got that family she wanted. She was pregnant within a year, Adam.”
I didn’t know what to say. Kara and I . . . well, we’d never really wanted kids. Never talked about it for more than a minute or two, laughed it off for future selves and other people. But the wistfulness in her voice now . . .
“She called me,” Kara said. “A few days ago. I was in meetings all day and the message only said to call her back. I did, but I never got ahold of her.”
“It’s not your fault.” I reached over and put my hand over hers.
A small, sad smile.
“I—just, could you keep an eye out please? We’ll find whoever did this. It’s just odd enough, and after Bradley . . .”
“Yeah, I get it. We’re all running scared after Bradley started killing normals. I’ll help however I can,” Kara said. “If I haven’t said so before, thank you for your help. I’m glad we caught him.”
“Me too,” I said, and glanced at my watch. I’d have to hurry to finish the omelet so I could get permission to put this on my tab and still catch the bus.
“Adam?”
I looked up.
“If I can get you a certification, I will. At least the chance to try.”
“I appreciate it.” I took another, mammoth bite of the omelet. Swartz always said I owed Kara one of my biggest apologies. Maybe, for the first time, I was starting to see why. I swallowed. “I really do.”
* * *
I knocked on Paulsen’s door. It was open. She held up a finger, a clear message to wait. She’d asked me to meet her first thing, despite the double shift the night before.
Paulsen’s office was even messier than usual, piles of paper everywhere, colored file folders, tabs in every shade of the rainbow, notes stuck on the wall behind her with sticky tape and pins, her careful handwriting covering miles of paper all around her.
Finally Paulsen finished writing something, dropped her pen, and pushed the stack of papers aside. “Come in.”
I inched in and perched uncomfortably on the guest chair—straight posture might keep me awake. I’d thought about closing the door, but no, that would make things seem a much bigger deal than they were. Paulsen had threatened my job, yes, but she’d tried hard not to make it personal.
“You feeling better?” she asked me.
I nodded. “Is the plant new? It’s kinda cool.”
It was a very plump, hourglass-shaped cactus with tiny quills and three peculiarly large black-and-white-striped flowers in a very ugly pot. On closer examination, the cactus skin shone faintly in the light.
Paulsen’s nose wrinkled. “It’s a birthday gift from Bransen.”
“Happy birthday,” I said. Had I known it was her birthday?
“Thanks. He says it’s supposed to keep you from getting headaches. With as many headaches as this department gives me, the idea was a good one anyway. Something about a chemical it releases in the air. The hell of the thing is, though, it seems to be working. At least so far.”
The air did smell faintly clean, but that could have been my imagination. “Bioengineered?”
“I assume so.” She settled back in her chair. “Just for my information, what happened to make you pass out?”
“I was tired,” I said. “I won’t ask to be paid for last night. I only worked half the shift.”
“Nothing critical came up, and according to Bellury you were in the crash room in case somebody needed you. You should have reported it, but I assume that’s what you’re doing here. I’m talking about Wednesday.”
I shifted. Wednesday’s crime scene seemed forever ago. And I’d have to be careful not to lie to her, but also not to let her know I wasn’t up to par. “Well. It won’t happen again.”
She waited.
“It’s . . . it’s complicated.”
“So explain it.”
I finally settled on an explanation. “I made a stupid mistake. You know the frog-in-the-pot thing? Where the water gets hotter and hotter without him noticing? I thought I could take more heat than I really could.”
“And you passed out.” Her tone of voice was skeptical.
I took a breath. She didn’t know, she couldn’t know, why this situation was shameful to a telepath, even with an injury. “Long story short, I overloaded my system and it knocked me out while my brain waves reset themselves. It shouldn’t have taken that long, though. Usually the reset takes no more than twenty minutes.” Now that I had a little perspective, I was thinking I was lucky as hell to have gotten off as lightly as I had—I could have ended up with real damage if something else had happened. Real damage, especially with my brain already in trouble. I could have done something permanent.
Paulsen leaned on the desk. I heard her considering whether to tell me something. I realized it was early and she was familiar, but it was still heaven to hear her without straining. Without trying. Maybe I was on the mend.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “You can tell me.”
“The trucker you interviewed a few days ago?” Sadness came from her, and anger.
Okay, now I was wary. “What about him?”
“He was found dead this morning.” She held up a hand. “It’s not your fault. Morris is on the case. She was just one day too slow requisitioning the uniforms to watch the house—she’s taking the death personally. But you may need to help out there, if something else happens. This is the third hijacking—but the only death. We’re putting major weight behind it now.”
Had I promised Tom too much to get his help? Had I . . . lied in a way that had gotten him killed? Was it my fault?
“It’s not your fault,” Paulsen said, heading off the thought as well as any telepath. “This might have happened with any of the interrogators. It’s an unfortunate side effect of dealing with criminals, but Bransen says he’s putting real weight behind this one. They’ll find the killer, Morris will get the notch on her belt, and everyone will have learned something. But I did want to tell you.”
“There’s a requisitioning process for uniforms?”
“I’ll get someone to show you. Morris is already getting instruction.”
“Thank you.”
Paulsen nodded, her hand on the desk. “Cherabino tells me she’s borrowing you for another case.”
I took a breath. “That’s right. Supposedly domestic abuse, but there’s something about this one bothering me. I think we’ve run into him before.”
“If you have, you’ll do the department a big favor if you catch him. Make sure you keep Bransen in the loop.” Bransen was the head of the homicide department, a boss on Paulsen’s level, and Cherabino’s boss. When I worked with Cherabino I effectively worked for Bransen. But Paulsen was still my boss.
“It could be a lot of time out of the interview rooms,” I began.
She waved a hand. “I know you need to prove yourself. You know you need to prove yourself to keep the job. Do what you need to do. Just write your reports on time this time around. And make sure Clark knows when you’re gone.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather go through you,” I said quickly.
“I’m getting tired of playing kindergarten teacher with you two.”
I waited.
“Keep me in the loop. I don’t want to be caught off guard if you’re go
ne.”
“Fine.” I leaned forward. The thing with Tom bothered me. A lot. I’d promised him, damn it. Promised him we’d keep him safe.
“Are you okay?” Paulsen asked, an odd question from a cop. “You haven’t been . . .”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically. Surrounded by this many cops, I’d say it lit on fire and covered in supercancer. I wasn’t, of course; my world was tilting on its axis lately, and I was gripping on with the edges of my fingernails. But I was gripping. And maybe, today, the telepathy could work. Maybe I could prove myself. Maybe I could keep this job.
Her posture straightened all at once. “Make sure you stay that way, okay? Talk to me before something major happens.” She paused, like she was waiting for me to say something else. Finally, when I didn’t, she said, “Close the door on your way out.”
* * *
It occurred to me suddenly that I hadn’t put Cherabino’s cubicle back in its dubious order when I’d left it last night. Not a good move when I was trying to get back in her good graces. I checked the time—I had an hour before the big group of interviews started this morning. Maybe I could go fix this, and show I was trying.
I arrived at the cubicle, coffee peace offering in hand, but she wasn’t there. The mess, however, was. So I straightened up as best I could, restoring her piles where I thought I’d left them. The casebook with Emily’s autopsy was out in the center of the desk, where I’d left it, and she’d left it in the cabinet.
I put the file back, my hands running over the smooth rows of binders, a visceral representation of order. Or disorder; this was Cherabino’s Unsolved Cabinet, and just this drawer was stuffed to the brim with maybe twenty-five cases. Rows of binders, of folders, small and large—new ones to the front, carefully labeled in Cherabino’s messy scrawl, colored tags sticking up from cases that had gone cold or were waiting on something. I think the yellow flags were court appearances. I went back and read the labels carefully, trying to see if they sparked anything.
