by Alex Hughes
“You’re coming with me?” I asked, in the loudest whisper I could get my bruised voice box to do. The bandage on my neck from the bullet graze pulled as I tried to look at her.
She nodded. I couldn’t read her, not really, but the flashes of light had stopped again. I’d set myself back, with that stunt, but it was only a setback. With any luck, a couple of weeks and I’d be back to full strength.
I looked at Bellury’s house’s door. Then back at Paulsen. “Will you keep me from screwing this up? Please?”
“I’ll try,” she said, and gave me some advice as to how to break the news.
* * *
After roughly the hardest hour of my life, I sat outside, feeling numb, on the bench in Bellury’s garden. I’d lit up a cigarette and was smoking it, trying to clear my head of the suffocating sadness and panic—and my bruised and hurting throat. I’d pushed through as best I could with my bruised throat. I’d talked about Bellury to his wife, about all the good things he’d done for me, and said to me. He and Swartz were—well, half of the foundation of my world had gone away, and it was my fault. I owed him enough to sit there, awkwardly, and croak out what words I could, and try. Now it was over. She didn’t want to talk anymore. And she didn’t want to see me anymore. She knew whose fault it was, and I knew too.
“Can I sit here?” Paulsen asked quietly.
“It’s open.” I stubbed out the cigarette and waved my arm to dissipate whatever smoke I could.
Her nose wrinkled at the smell, but she sat down.
There was silence between us, but it wasn’t a happy silence. It wasn’t a comfortable one.
And all I could think about was that vision, that horrible vision. Would that be me by Christmas? Despair hung over my head, despair and the burned desperate taste of uncertainty.
“I guess I’ve lost my job now,” I said, voice raspy. “With Bellury—”
She straightened painfully, as if my choice of timing was just too painful.
“Just tell me.”
“Well . . . you realize I haven’t had a chance to even think about all of this yet.”
I was silent.
She cleared her throat after a moment. “Well, there will be a full independent review of your actions, I can promise you that. But you also closed a major case.” She held up a hand to silence my protest. “This isn’t my first rodeo, even if it’s yours. Cherabino’s still arguing for you hard, and has been for weeks. You’re not out yet.”
“But Bellury—”
She cut me off again, looking stern. “This is the day for us to remember a good cop and a good man. To plan a proper police funeral to honor him as he deserves. To heal. To figure out how not to do this again, if we can. If you can’t do that, if you can’t see beyond yourself that much, maybe this isn’t the job for you.”
“But—”
“Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I cleared my throat, pushing out the painful words: “What do you need me to do?”
She nodded. “That’s the right question. For now, I need you to sit here and let me think.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And I sat there, letting all the horrible results of all the last few days sit in my mind while I tortured myself over and over again.
I wasn’t hardly surprised to feel Stone in my head again at that point.
You survived, I said, with a sense of intense relief.
He was gone almost before I finished the thought.
* * *
Since nobody told me not to, I went back to work the next morning.
By the time I got there, it was still early, too early for most of the cops to be at work, and much too early for the army of secretaries to have arrived yet. I sat, alone at my borrowed desk in the middle of the empty secretaries’ pool, and drank another sip of honeyed tea. This morning the swelling had set in much worse and my voice was too rough to be understood without something to lubricate the pipes.
I settled in on writing my report of the actions of the day before, Bellury’s death and all the rest, in all my idiocy and all its horrible glory. I took especial care to highlight Sibley’s actions and the box he’d carried; he’d finally been captured, toward the end of the firefight, and was currently sitting in a high-security holding cell. I’d do everything in my power to make the case against him stick. Everything. He’d killed Emily for no other reason than that Tamika had asked him to. For no other reason than that Emily had decided to do the right thing.
Finally it got too much, the emotions too raw, too present. So I got up, fetched some tea and some peace of mind, and settled back down at the desk. One more uncomfortable duty this morning. Paulsen said the FBI would call me in a few minutes now, and that, in her opinion, it was not going to be good news.
“You solved the case almost by accident,” she’d said, and then trailed off. I knew I’d screwed up. She didn’t have to say any more.
So here I was, with the tea in hand, waiting for the phone call. At least Kara had gotten the Mindwave influencing machine before anyone else could make off with it, I told myself. Even if the FBI was about to tell me I was a loser, at least that part hadn’t gotten screwed-up.
The phone rang with an earsplitting peal. I picked up. “Hello?” I croaked, and took a sip of the tea to lubricate my voice box.
A man’s voice came over the line. “Special Agent Jarrod, FBI. We talked last week about an inquiry.”
“That’s right. My lieutenant says you were thinking about offering me a job.” I took another sip of tea. “I take it that’s off the table now.”
“Not necessarily,” Agent Jarrod said. “There aren’t many independent telepaths anymore, and even fewer who are interested in the kind of work we do. While we don’t think there’s a permanent place on our team—we just don’t have the funding for the supervision your lieutenant says you need—I would like to offer you an opportunity as an occasional consultant for our more difficult cases.”
“What? What would I be doing exactly? Would this be in Washington?”
“Likely not. You’ll be working for a new division of the Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, and we go where the work is. Our unit is based out of the Southeast.”
The bandage on my neck pulled as I shifted too fast. “But why?”
“Ahem. Well, your work on the Bradley case was exceptional, and your skill set isn’t easy to find without Guild oversight. Our team would rather not have all of our information available there, as I’m sure you understand, but your lieutenant says you’re trustworthy with information. Do you disagree?”
“No, absolutely, I don’t share information. It’s the principle of the thing.” Wait, Paulsen said I was trustworthy? It was like the heavens had opened up and light rained down. I’d done something. I’d proven myself at least somewhat.
“I’d be glad to send you more details in the mail. It’s not something you need to decide right now.” He paused. “I needn’t mention this will be at a considerable increase from your current daily rate salary.”
“That’s good to hear.” I hated to mention it, but surprises were never a good thing. I took another sip of tea. My throat was getting worse, and I’d have to stick to short sentences. “You know I have a criminal record?”
“We are well aware of your record. I’m afraid as a result policy says we won’t be issuing you a gun, but I’m sure we can find you a stun weapon of some kind if—”
“I don’t need a gun, I’m a telepath.” A break for more tea. “When do you expect the first case to hit? I’ll need to clear this with Paulsen.”
“Of course. And I don’t know. Like I said, it’s as needed and occasional. I’m hoping we won’t need you for a while. But cases come up, and you’ll need to be ready. I’m afraid I need an answer from you right now,” Jarrod said. “I can send you the paperwork later, but I need a yes or a no right now.”
I stalled for time while I took another sip. But the answer arose from inside me like a light turning on. �
�Then yes. If I can help, I will.”
CHAPTER 29
Swartz met me at the usual Narcotics Anonymous meeting a little early; Selah had driven him, then left to run errands. He was leaning on a cane, moving slowly, breathing hard, and the lines around his eyes had gotten deeper. He’d also lost weight, too much weight.
“How are you feeling?” I helped support his arm as we waited for the elevator. I was blocking hard, but even through the shields I could feel he was in pain.
“Tired. Very tired. How are you, kid? That doctor guy said . . .”
“Not a big deal, okay? Let’s not talk about it.”
He poked my foot with the cane to make me look up. “It’s still me. Thank you, all right? That’s all I wanted to say.”
The elevator dinged. He pulled away, to amble in himself and push the button. I ignored how pale he was and how hard he was breathing; he ignored the fact that I hadn’t responded to the thank-you.
As the elevator settled on the basement, he got his breath back enough to demand, “Three things. Grateful. Now, please.”
I smiled a small, hopeful, surprised smile. “Cherabino’s nephew. Chocolate truffle ice cream. And you. Living.”
He grunted in a pleased way, and let me support his arm again.
I escorted him into the small room, saying hello to the others, and settled him down at the front; it was his turn to lead the meeting.
“You sure you’re up to this?” I asked, after he’d had a chance to settle and some of the paleness had passed.
He shrugged. “In a month or two I’ll be strutting around like a spring chicken. Now I’m tired walking around the damn room. Tell you what . . .”
“What?”
“Why don’t you lead this time?” He held out the binder with all the meeting notes, all the words you were supposed to say to lead the group.
“I can’t—”
“It’s just reading, kid. Reading and asking the right questions. You already know how this goes.”
Somehow I couldn’t say no, not to Swartz. I cautiously took the binder, its weight in my hands sobering. “I’ll try.”
“You’ll do fine.” He nodded to one of the regulars, and called out a greeting to a newbie, then engaged him in a conversation. The whole time I was sitting there, my heart was beating nearly out of my chest.
When the clock hit the hour, I opened up the binder and started to read.
* * *
It was late by the time I got home, and I picked up my mail from the basement of the building, the usual pile of junk and a heavy vellum envelope that rustled. The second round of my PI application papers, maybe, or a summons to court. Maybe the FBI papers, though it seemed too early for those. I climbed the stairs with a heavy heart, tired to the bone.
Somehow I wasn’t surprised to see my door open, Stone sitting on my couch, with his feet on my coffee table and his arms crossed in a carefully studied ease.
I stopped in the doorway, mail in hand. I was going to have to move if it was this easy to get in my apartment. “What do you want?”
“You have a wave cancellation device in your bedroom,” Stone began. “It’s illegal in forty-nine states and most of the Western European block.”
“So is Satin,” I said, and dropped the mail on the coffee table next to his hip. “And everything the Guild does now, apparently. I’m glad to see you’re okay.”
Stone nodded. He dropped his legs from the table onto the floor and stood up. “I’m here to remove my tag and tell you my decisions.”
I relaxed, all at once. “You decided I’m not a threat,” I croaked, my voice rough. “Finally.”
“That’s not what I said.”
I tensed right back up again. “Let’s do the tag and we’ll worry about the rest in a minute,” I whispered, my voice on its way out. Since my shields didn’t matter with the tag in place anyway, I let them go. In my present state they were hard to maintain anyway.
Two seconds later the tag was gone, him keeping his mental hands to himself, which I appreciated. I rebuilt my protection slowly, having to work at it. No one but Cherabino would be getting into my head any time soon.
Then I waited, my gut knotting. Stone still had absolute jurisdiction, and for all he’d saved me in that room with Sibley, he wasn’t an ally. Not quite. He could still kill me, if he wanted to, and right now I couldn’t stop him.
I waited for my fate.
“You’re a dangerous man,” Stone said. “But, I think, chiefly to yourself. I’ve recommended you be given a very long leash and otherwise left alone. For now. If you and I hadn’t made the deal for the medic, this is the part where I would give you my card, tell you to report any other suspicious Guild-type behavior on time, and walk away. With a stern warning so you know I’m serious.”
The beginnings of relief began to stir—and stopped. No tea in sight. If we hadn’t made the deal, I leaked painfully into Mindspace.
“But we did make that deal, and despite all your shenanigans, you’ve managed to pay off less than half of the debt. And I’m being generous.”
What about the telepaths with Tamika? I asked. They were up to no good. Don’t I get any credit for reporting them? Your damn secrets still haven’t gotten out.
“I know.” He paused, and nodded. “That’s why you’re still alive.”
I suppose I should thank you for that. I swallowed. Did you include credit for the bounties on those rogues?
“My tally includes those bounties. Like I said, generous. And my superiors expect me to get the full value out of you in a reasonable time frame.”
I don’t have any more money, I said. Better or worse, I’d had the accountants empty my accounts. And nothing I own is worth anything in trade. And I won’t share any department secrets. I told you that.
“We’ll be working it out of you in labor. Our choice of what kind.”
The thought was like a black hole, an uncontrollable descent into something that would rip me apart. I get veto power, I insisted. But it could be so much worse.
“You get one veto. And lest you think about skipping town on me—”
Would I do that? It wasn’t a bad idea actually.
“—or publicizing our deal, or anything that will be embarrassing for the Guild, keep in mind we know about a certain ten-year-old with medical issues and a strong Ability. A ten-year-old you’re aiding the parents to hide him from the Guild.”
He’s medically fragile!
That was out of bounds. He’s just a kid, I said desperately.
“He’s not your concern. And honestly, for the moment, he’s not mine. But if you do anything, and I mean anything, to make my life difficult, I can and I will use that knowledge against you.”
You’ll take him to the Guild.
“He’s medically fragile,” the Watcher said coldly. “There’s no telling what will happen to him.”
The implied threat hung in the air, cold and merciless.
“Am I clear?”
Crystal. Now get the hell out of my apartment. You have no call involving the kid.
He shrugged. “I’ll be seeing you.” Then he sauntered out, down the hall, and through the door to the stairs. I watched him go in Mindspace, anger eating at my gut, until he got into some kind of vehicle and drove away.
I sat down on the coffee table, the heavy envelope crackling under my butt. I pulled it out—
The handwriting on the front said Adam Ward. No address.
I opened the envelope. Inside, pictures, pictures that fell from my numb fingers to slide all over the floor. Pictures of me at the station, at my apartment, at the meeting with Swartz. Close-ups.
And floating down to land squarely on top of them, another handwritten note: I know who you are.—Fiske.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alex has written since early childhood, and loves great stories in any form including sci-fi, fantasy, and mystery. Over the years, Alex has lived in many
neighborhoods of the sprawling metro Atlanta area. Decatur, the neighborhood on which Sharp is centered, was Alex’s college home.
Also Available by Alex Hughes
Clean: A Mindspace Investigations Novel
Payoff: A Mindspace Investigations Novella
