by Chris Hepler
"I know a hero," I say. "I had this friend, Rachel. She found out my father was… well, I don't have time to go into it now, but he was worse than any of us. She thought that by sleeping over at my place she could defend me, and when it turned out she couldn't… well, shit, she pressed charges and aired the entire thing out."
"Oh, God," Deborah says. "That is brave—"
"No, I'm getting to the brave part. My dad had this cult of people around him, and they hated the hell out of both of us, and they broke her windows, and even when her parents and the lawyer were saying we should settle, she said no, he needs to be in jail, and we fucking won. He did time, and after he got out, he went back in for narcotics 'cause he picked up a habit. He's still in L.A. County State, and her, she's like this IT expert for the Navy making anti-missile coilguns and shit, keeping us all safe. She's a hero," I finish. "Me, I'm a survivor. Not the same thing."
Deborah doesn't buy it. "But you're still here," she says. "That took something, didn't it?"
"I guess," I say. "I don't want to get in people's faces about it, though. There's lots of things I should be ashamed of—"
"Oh, hon, you can't think of it that way—"
"No, not that. Lord, I mean like the time I fucked someone who wasn't my boyfriend, even if he cheated first. That, I had control over."
"Oh," says Deborah, "all right, I think I see."
"So, there really isn't much I can cop to that qualifies as guts," I say. "Pulling out a gun, even that's 'cause I'm scared." Deborah seems to think about it, clearly dragged out of her comfort zone. I don't expect any more from her. She's a civilian if there ever was one—
"Wait, that's not true," Deborah says. "Real cowards, they don't admit to things. You do. You're not scared of what I think. That's something, isn't it?"
I allow it. "Okay, so I'm better at it when you're around." That gives Deborah some cheer to hold on to, and I like it—anything is better than going down the road of confession.
"How about I do it, too?" Deborah asks.
"Do what?"
"Be brave, dummy. If you ever need help," Deborah says, "I promise, if you need me to do something big, that I'll do it with a smile on my face, okay? Anything you want. But you have to promise to be at least as courageous as me."
I almost laugh at the idea, but then my face freezes. I have everything now, don't I? I can wrestle and fight and shoot, and here is this naïve nobody offering to sacrifice for me, to me, like I'm some pagan deity. On some level, it's wrong, having this power, but I can't feel bad. Doesn't loyalty fire everyone's heart?
"Okay. I'll remember that." I fish out a tissue to wipe the black smudges from my fingers. "Now, come on. Let's get home. We still won today. Everybody's gonna want a celebratory bite."
42 - RANATH
October 3rd
The Arlington County police department is hardly the most imposing building I've ever seen, but I still pause for a moment before going in. I give a last look at the car. Ena is my moral support. She's in the locking trash can in the back seat because the hotel started asking questions. It's cool tonight but not cold enough to be a danger to her. After I'm done here, we will find another place to live.
I rub my hands against my itching new clothes and wish for the hundredth time I had a partner to practice on. I did the next best thing this morning, spouting an improvised story to a motel clerk who looked bored enough to talk. He hmmed and uh-huh-ed through it. He didn't spot flaws, but he was a poor substitute for any interrogation a police officer might drop on me.
Let's do this. I push into the police department and find the front desk. It's busy, being a Saturday night, but well-staffed. The wait is short.
"I had my wallet stolen," I say. "I was wondering if by some miracle anyone turned it in."
"What's your name?" says the bulked-out female officer working the desk.
Simon Walter Davis, I don't say. It's tempting, to be sure, but any F-prot searching for such things would be familiar with BRHI records and would raise a red flag. I want to get out of trouble, not into it.
"Percival Nathan Cross."
"When did you lose it?"
"It was stolen, I'm pretty sure. Yesterday."
"Keith, do we have any wallets since yesterday?"
"No," comes a voice.
"Sorry. Just a second. I'll get you the form. You'll want to report it. Got a pen?"
"Yes, actually."
She wanders off and returns with papers. "Fill this out. Someone will be with you soon."
I settle down and detail the nature of the problem. It's not long before the door opens. An officer who looks like an old catcher's mitt calls me back into the bullpen. We sit by his desk.
"Mr. Cross, I'm Officer Watson. Why don't you tell me what happened?"
"I was at a restaurant in the hotel I'm staying at—"
"You're from out of town?"
"Yes."
"Where are you from?"
"Massachusetts."
"Boston? Springfield? Where?"
"Boston," I say. It's far enough away that flying makes sense, not so far that it'd be a problem driving. "Anyway, I was in the hotel restaurant, and I've got my wallet out, and we're fiddling with the stupid prepaid card I've got—"
"A credit card?"
"It's like a credit card, but you put money on it and take it off. It's a whatsitcalled, here, I'll show you." I pull out an Urbanbank card. "This is the sole survivor of my wallet right here. You pay Urbanbank to put cash on it, and then you just use it like a debit card. I give myself a few hundred bucks a month, and if I hit the limit, then I stop shopping. That's how I stay out of credit card debt."
"Smart idea." The cop examines the card, noting the name on it as Percival Cross. I filled out the application form under that name three days ago.
"Well, it was until I bent the fucking—excuse me. Until I bent it. See how it's bent just a little from being in my wallet? The strip wouldn't scan, and while I was fiddling with the card and the checkout girl, I put my wallet down on the counter. It was there thirty seconds, and it was gone. Driver's license, credit cards, discount cards, library—I don't even remember all the cards I had in there. Gone."
"How'd you pay for dinner?"
"It was lunch." Details matter. "But whatever, I was afraid I was gonna be washing their dishes, but I made a stink about how I just got my wallet stolen in their restaurant, and they were free to throw me out. They were nice enough to waive it for me instead of adding it to the bill." I pause. "Do you mind if I curse?"
"Go ahead."
It seems like the officer is taking a more protective attitude, buying my story. Now, I just can't slip up. "Thanks, I had old-fashioned parents, and you being police, it didn't seem right."
"Well, in my experience, you're in for a rough time," Watson says. "First, you're going to have to cancel your credit cards and get them re-issued, and a bent cash card isn't going to help you with that. Now, while your hotel bill's probably covered, I assume you're going to want a plane flight home."
I fake being stunned. "I didn't even think of that. They won't let me on without photo ID."
"However," Watson says, "if you give me all the details, we'll see what we can do for you. I can give you a police report you can use that explains that your driver's license and other ID documents were stolen. Now, you weren't traveling with a passport, correct?"
"No, I actually don't have one."
"Do you have a birth certificate or something you can use to get a new driver's license when you get home?"
Home. Home has the fire safe that contains my identity documents, but I can't go back there. The place will have been picked over by investigators, and the F-prots will have set surveillance in case I return. I'm just hoping that my image hasn't gone out to this very station as a person of interest who needs to be questioned.
"I think my parents still have that."
"What did you use the first time you got a driver's license?"
I
'm ready. "A Social Security card. How do I get one? Same thing?"
"Okay, why don't you give me your name and Social Security number, and we'll get started on this report?" Watson calls up a document on his computer.
"Percival Nathan Cross, and the number is 015-511-0251." I've looked up the state prefixes for the old system, just in case the lie has to check out.
"Birthplace?"
"Cambridge, Massachusetts." I take the details from what I know of MIT.
"Home address."
"1428 Elm Street, apartment 3, Boston, MA 02139." Pure bullshit, but I can update this one at any time with a simple change of address form.
"How long have you lived there?"
I didn't plan for that one, but I take it in stride. "About three years."
"Do you know the date?"
"I know the month."
"We'll say it's the first, then." Score. I have the officer fudging for me.
"Home phone?"
"I don't have a landline." I give the number of the prepaid phone I grabbed recently.
"Birthdate." I give my own. Some things are sentimental.
"Marital status."
"Single."
"And you don't know who might have your wallet and information now."
"Not a clue." The officer ignores a large section.
"All right, Mr. Cross," he says and makes a final few clicks. The printer on a nearby desk rattles its internal appendages and announces, "Printing Job One." A few seconds later, and Watson slides a warm sheet in front of me.
"I'm going to need your signature."
I sign. "What happens now?"
"You make copies of this form. You'll want to get it notarized because some credit card companies ask for that."
"Don't notaries ask for photo ID?"
"With this form, you should be okay. Now, you show it to the DMV in your hometown, and they hook you up with a brand-new driver's license. And last, we come to the boxes."
This isn't in the plan. "I'm sorry?"
"The boxes down at the bottom to make my life easier and your life harder," Watson says. He takes the sheet out of my hand and points to the checkboxes at the bottom, reading.
"Box one, 'Are you willing to provide help in prosecuting anyone who would have this information now and is using it in an illegal manner?'"
"I sure would," I say. "I guess I fly in if there's a court date or something, right?"
"Yes. Still want it?"
"Do it," I say.
"And box number two, 'Do you authorize law enforcement officials to release this information if it helps investigate or prosecute the person illegally using your info?'"
"Completely. Identity thieves deserve what they get."
"Then, we're done," Watson says, and I feel my shoulders fall in relief. It's all in character, but it's as real as it gets. "You just make those copies I mentioned—"
"Thanks for all your help, officer," I say, making sure to give him eye contact and a sincere handshake. "Unless there's anything else I need—"
"It's not Easy Street from here, you know," the officer says. "If someone else is using your credit cards and your cash card runs out, you can get in trouble quick."
I pretend to consider. "Most of the bills I handle online—"
"You'll want to change your passwords. Someone with the cards can sometimes reverse-engineer to get at the good stuff."
I nod. "Point."
"You got a friend you can stay with if things get bad?"
Friends? Ones that aren't separated by decades? "I think so… never put it to the test."
"Whose name comes to mind?"
I have no idea. I see Kern's face in my mind, but that is as unreachable as the moon, as is the whole F-prot team and Ulan, whom I think of for good measure. There are my parents, my senior officers, all a world away, and last, of course, comes Infinity. I linger on her, but all that comes out of my mouth is, "I only know one. Her name's Ena."
"Emma?"
"Ena. Japanese word. Totally different." I insist a little too hard.
"What's she do?"
"She's unemployed."
"Is she married?"
"No, not yet."
"Better ask her roommates, too, if she's got any."
"I'll do that." I start making up a last name for her, to be ready for Watson's next question. But there is no next question. We finish the paperwork, and within fifteen minutes, I am out in the parking lot.
I find myself instinctually looking for my old car and find the rental. It's only a number, like the stock I must sell, like the bank accounts I must drain. I planned for this, as much as one can. I disappear better than anyone I know, and that has always been a source of pride.
Ena is the one thing that will follow me into my new life. Snakes are not social animals: she lacks the parts of the brain necessary for love or sympathy. She can live out her days never seeing another of her kind and never suffer for it. I have always found that interesting, but interesting and ideal now seem like two very separate things.
43 - INFINITY
October 18th
I watch the heap of salt disappear into the swirling water of Ferrero's solution and wonder when the magic starts. I've seen my share of sleight-of-hand, but I know Ferrero doesn't have access to any magician's props, so he'd better dazzle me. It's been a long time since I had my sense of wonder stimulated.
I touch my hand where I was bitten. Maybe not a long time but long enough.
Fererro's got some patter going. "Good, as you can see, we have our eye of newt and our powdered hemlock, a little touch of table salt, and if I may have the lighter… thank you." He takes the cheap, transparent disposable from my hand. "Now, who among us has money to burn?"
"Wrong crowd," says Ly. Morgan's with Deborah in the kitchen, and Cass and Jessica are out on some errand Morgan hasn't described.
"If I may borrow a bill? A hundred, perhaps. A twenty, a five, a one…"
"I've got four quarters," Ly counters.
"David Copperfield never had to put up with this," Ferrero says, pulling out his own wallet. "Here, an ordinary one. See for yourself. It has not been tampered with in any way."
"Turkey's on in two minutes," yells Morgan from the other room.
"Are we starting without Jess and Cass?" I fire back.
"They're off the highway now. Where are the tongs? We need to get the corn out."
The tongs are in Ferrero's hand, but I want to see them in action before they get taken away. I check out the dollar bill and give it back. He holds it in the metal's grip.
"Now, before your eyes, I dip it in the magic solution—"
"Which is apparently the alcohol we used to kill your lice," comments Ly.
"And we give it the spark of Prometheus's mighty fire, and… voila." Ferrero says. Flames leap to the dollar bill and engulf it, turning the cash into a raging torch.
"Like the bush when God spoke through it, it burns, but it is not consumed," Ferrero announces, shaking the bill. The flames die out almost instantly, and there's the bill, untouched.
I nod. "Not bad, God. Can you top it, Ly?"
"I'm double-jointed. That count?" I frown at him. "What? A buck is nothing anymore. Would've been cooler with a hundred."
"None on me," Ferrero says. "Everything went toward dinner tonight."
"You should have asked. I got some from a bite—" I reach.
"Morgan's rule. No blood money for tonight."
I hadn't heard that, but I have no chance to follow up. The door opens.
"Jess, where you been?" I call.
"Secret mission," the doctor says. "Has Morgan made the announcement yet?"
"We were waiting on you," Morgan says, and in moments, everyone is arranged around the table, with a gigantic roast bird and actual wine glasses. Plastic, though.
"This beats the hell out of ramen," says Ly. "You gonna tell us what the occasion is yet?"
"Avoiding the Halloween rush," jokes Cass.
; Morgan stands up straight. "As I'm sure you've noticed, what we have here is a traditional Thanksgiving feast minus, of course, the actual date of Thanksgiving. I decided to do this because I wanted us to have a day of our own, for a new tradition.
"Cass and Jessica spent the night camping out near the Court, trying to get any possible information. As you probably suspected, the justices went home Friday night, but their clerks and such spent the weekend working. After a little trickery, our champions found out that our case will be in the decisions that come out tomorrow."
Suddenly, Ferrero and Deborah start to clap. The others join in the applause. I follow suit, but I'm confused. Is this just for Cass and Jessica? No. It's because we have come far, and that itself deserves recognition.
The room grows quiet. Morgan continues.
"I suggest that, once every fall, we gather like this. We put aside the differences that have come up… because they will… and we celebrate the fact that we made it another year. Tomorrow, our lives may get significantly better or otherwise. There are no guarantees. But if we make it to next year, we should remember those who fell along the way. I mean, of course, the people we feed on, who, God willing, will recover from our visits but also those of us who could not stay or even died for us. And I'd like to inaugurate this decision with a toast."
We raise our plastic glasses.
"To those who would be with us and cannot be."
I say nothing as the drinks tap together. The list in my head counts backward: Roland, Owen, Aaron. It flashes on the people I left bleeding at truck stops and health clubs, to my gang of F-prots in L.A., to my father in well-deserved prison. Some simple words and some thrift-store goblets are making me realize one thing links damn near all the names.
"You're supposed to drink it," Cass stage-whispers over at me. Embarrassed, I try the wine. I'm going to need it.
◆◆◆
It's later, nearly one, when I catch Morgan out in the rowhouse's little enclosed backyard. The other vipes have migrated up- and downstairs, and I immediately know something's off. I slide the glass door aside and join him at the porch railing.
