At First Touch

by Dunman, Mattie

  I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling pretty confident that I was safe. As long as Fitz’s memory stayed wiped there was no reason for me to come to the attention of the Feds or the Coalition. In fact, I was rooting for the Feds; as a concerned citizen, I’d love to see drugs off the street and a murderer safely in jail.

  I smacked my forehead with the palm of my hand. Thanks to my new, intimate knowledge of Fitz’s business dealings, I knew precisely where the drugs were, along with two murdered bikers.

  I could feel my pulse speed as I considered the possibilities. If I could somehow get this information to Agent Thrasher, it might keep the agents busy with the murders and not questioning why Fitz had the memories of a rapist from New York. That was the sort of discrepancy that could lead to problems for me.

  Of course, the rub in all this was that I had never successfully imparted information to the authorities without putting myself in danger. In the early days after my accident, before I learned that it wasn’t just the Coalition who would be interested in me, I had bumped into a number of criminals and had naively reported the information to the local authorities, seeing myself as a sort of superhero. The reality was that no one believed me. When they did, they thought I was psychic and treated me as though I were the dangerous one. They say witch-hunting went out of style hundreds of years ago, but I can testify to the fact that the sentiment is still alive and well.

  After a frustrating and distinctly unfruitful period, Dad and I agreed that I should just stay out of it and keep information to myself unless it might save someone’s life. That’s how the FBI found out about me.

  Two years ago, Dad and I were living in D.C., and I took the metro to school every day. It was on my way home that I inadvertently bumped heads with a man as we both reached for the same standing pole. I had nearly fallen to my knees as the sick nightmare of his mind writhed through my own. He had stared right through me, the whites of his eyes too large, too overwhelming for the slate-grey of his corneas, giving him the look of a corpse. I remember a courteous Hispanic gentleman offering me his seat, telling me I looked pale, while I clung to the pole as if it were my last link with reality, with a world not bathed in blood. I don’t think I breathed until the man with the dead eyes got off the train. I rode the rest of the way home in a haze of terror and nausea, his evil swirling through my mind like a poisonous fog.

  When I told Dad what I learned from the man, he agreed with me that I had no choice but to go to the authorities. The man, whose name was Brian Martin, was a serial killer already responsible for the death of three young girls. Their deaths were so perverse, so macabre that I never think about it anymore, except for the nights when I wake screaming, trying to rip nonexistent chains from my limbs and scratch out the mad, lifeless eyes hovering over me. At any rate, Brian Martin had chosen his new ‘angel,’ or in non-serial killer terms: victim, and I had the power to stop him. I knew where he lived, his bank accounts, his parents, where he worked, where the bodies were buried, everything. I could have written one hell of a book exposing the mind of a real serial killer had I wished to destroy my own mind.

  Armed with the knowledge that I was going to save a young girl’s life, Dad and I directly contacted the FBI, deciding to circumvent the usual dance of disbelief with local police and deal with a higher authority with better resources. They seemed to take the tip seriously and invited me in for questioning. Thrilled that someone believed me for a change, I told the agents everything, never noticing their carefully blank expressions, the significant looks they exchanged, their patronizing tones. By the time I had relayed the whole story, they thanked me sincerely and told me they would put their best men on it. I went home secure in the knowledge that Martin would be stopped and the girl saved; I even harbored thoughts of going into the FBI. With a gift like mine I would be an unstoppable crime-solving machine.

  The upshot was that instead of putting their agents on Martin and the projected victim, they kept me under surveillance and so were taken unawares when the girl’s parents reported her missing. Two days later, Martin was pulled over for running a red light, covered in her blood, her mangled body wrapped up in a Mickey Mouse shower curtain and stuffed in his trunk.

  Unsurprisingly, this changed the agency’s perspective of me. I was taken into custody until it was made patently obvious that I could have had nothing to do with it; after all, I had been under 24 hour surveillance and Martin was caught red-handed. I was sick with it. The thought that they could have prevented the poor girl’s savage murder made me nearly crazy with grief. I was forcibly put into the psych ward and held for weeks, completely befuddled with medication, talking with therapist after therapist, telling every one of them their own life stories until the Bureau was satisfied that I was the genuine article.

  When I emerged from the hospital, I was taken into “protective” custody. Really, I was a prisoner. The agency was determined to use me as a sort of super interrogator. How they were going to justify this legally I was never sure, but it was obvious that my freedom was no longer a priority. Luckily, once I was off the drugs they had used in the psych ward, I was able to think clearly enough to use the knowledge from various agents I had downloaded to escape. I ran straight to my father and within a few hours we had disappeared.

  There had been times in the past few years when we had close brushes with the agency, but for the most part, we managed to stay under the radar. The only thing I wanted less than to be captured by the Coalition was to be reclaimed by the government.

  A pounding on the door brought me to my senses and I quickly unlocked it and went to the sink to splash water on my face. An irritated middle-aged woman in an unfortunate velour track suit barged in and shot me a dirty look. I shook my hands dry and made my way back out to V.J., who was watching for me, concern darkening her face. Ignoring the two agents seated at the next table, I sat down, a cheerful smile pasted on my face.

  “Sorry about that; too much milkshake I think.” I smiled apologetically and V.J.’s frown evaporated.

  “Oh it’s ok. Do you feel alright?” I nodded, smiling, and took a bite from a cold French fry. “Cool. Well, are you ready to head out? It’s only six, so if you want, we could drive into Hamilton and see a movie.” She looked so unabashedly hopeful at this I couldn’t help smiling. I couldn’t think of any reason not to go, and it would be nice to get my mind off of things for a bit.

  “Sure, that sounds fun. Are you sure you don’t mind? I mean, you’re being so nice taking me around and everything, I don’t want to put you out.”

  She grinned and shook her head. “Liz, it’s cool. It’ll be fun for me. My friends…” she paused, looking off absently. “We’re not really that close, and they do a lot of stuff together outside of school without ever inviting me. Missy and I sometimes get together, since we’re the only single ones in the group, but she’s, well…kinda dull; so there are a lot of times I don’t have anyone to do stuff with. To tell you the truth,” she added, “it’s kind of a relief to meet someone new. We’ve all known each other for too long. It’ll be good to have some fresh blood around.”

  I gave her a lopsided smile. “Well, thanks. You and Carey are making this so much easier for me,” I said sincerely.

  We were silent for a moment, both slightly uncomfortable with the serious tone our conversation had taken; I sipped the dregs of my milkshake and glanced at the federal agents at the next table. They were talking in low voices, both holding their Blackberrys like talisman, completely oblivious to everyone around them. I pondered for a moment, trying to think of some way to get the pertinent information about the drug stash to Thrasher. I sighed and turned away, unable to come up with anything that wouldn’t get me directly involved.

  The check came and V.J. and I argued over who paid the bill; we finally compromised by paying for our own portions and got up, ready to continue our night on the town. As V.J. stood, her chair knocked into Agent Carson’s behind her and he started, turning around and glancing at her. She
apologized and he nodded, his eyes flicked over to me and started to turn back to his partner when he froze and slowly moved back to me.

  Apparently I had downloaded the wrong agent.

  His eyes widened with recognition and then he frowned. I didn’t need to read his mind to know that he was trying to figure out why I looked familiar. I could only hope that he had seen the brief about me in passing and would dismiss the resemblance as a coincidence. I continued getting my stuff, acting as nonchalant as possible, watching him out of the side of my eye and praying that he would just move on and forget all about me. After a moment, it seemed my prayer was answered; he gave an infinitesimal shrug and returned to his lunch. My shoulders sagged in relief and I hot-footed it out of the diner, V.J. struggling to keep up with me.

  The rest of the evening was pleasant; we saw a romantic comedy that I forgot as soon we left the theatre, and we chatted about school the whole way home. By the time she pulled her luxury car into my tiny driveway, we both had that glow girls get when they start a new friendship; the warm feeling of shared sisterhood, the hope that you’ve finally met someone that won’t stab you in the back.

  “So, do you think you’re going to go to Jared’s party tomorrow night?” V.J. asked as she shifted into park. I considered for a moment and shrugged.

  “I think I might. Carey said his parties don’t get real crazy; is that true?”

  “Yeah. There’s a big field behind his house where he usually has a bonfire and everyone makes S’mores and plays guitar and just relaxes. There’s never any drinking; his parents are always home. It’s usually the honor kids and the band kids that show up anyway, not the hard-core partiers.”

  “Ok, that actually sounds like something Dad will let me go to.” I grinned.

  “Do you want to ride with me? We could go together and then you can spend the night at my house. If you want,” she tacked on hastily.

  I hadn’t been to a party since the sleepover I had attended with my school gymnastics team before the accident. I was actually really nervous at the prospect, and the thought of having V.J. by my side, her natural sociability putting me at ease, was irresistible.

  “Yeah, that sounds great.” We smiled happily at each other, our tentative friendship cemented by shared eagerness.

  “Cool! Um, I’ll pick you up at eight?”

  I nodded. “What should I wear? Is it mainly outdoors?”

  “Yep. I’d wear long sleeves and jeans,” she replied, not even glancing at my fabric-enveloped form. I smiled warmly, appreciating that though she had been obviously tempted to ask me about my little fashion quirk, she had respected my privacy and held back. That showed a really considerate nature. “You might want to bring a coat or a sweater, too. It’s supposed to get down in the forties tomorrow night.”

  We exchanged goodbyes, both looking forward to the next evening, and I climbed the stairs to the back door, watching her sleek sports car glide cautiously down the street and fade into the dark.

  Chapter 7

  Saturday morning dawned overcast and chilly; Dad spent most of the day casting dire predictions about the evening’s activities, but I ignored him, swept up in excitement at the thought of attending a party with my friends. We had argued for over an hour the night before over the various pros and cons of me attending a crowded party, particularly while the FBI was in residence, but I had prevailed, throwing Dad’s own words about enjoying my youth back at him. It was unfair, perhaps, but once the idea had taken hold I couldn’t just let it go.

  Carey had called while I was out, but Dad said that no matter what, ten o’clock was too late to return a boy’s phone call. He had such a strangely pleased expression when he told me this, I felt tears burn at the back of my eyes; so much of our life together since the accident had lacked basic father-daughter dynamics. I think we were both a little surprised at the ease with which we slipped into our respective roles now.

  “Liz, I’m making grilled cheese, you want one?” Dad’s voice sounded from the kitchen and shook me from my musings. My stomach rumbled in response and I called out for him to make me one. Glancing at the clock, I figured it was late enough to return Carey’s call, so I picked up my cell phone and dialed the number he had left with Dad.

  It rang eight times before the answering machine picked up. I hesitated for a moment and then hung up, unwilling to leave a message. Shaking my head at my paranoia, I stumbled into the kitchen to wait for lunch. Dad and I ate in companionable silence; he reading his newspaper while I stuffed my nose in a shabby old Victoria Holt paperback that once belonged to my mother. Half the books I owned had once been hers.

  “Ok,” Dad said abruptly. Startled, I looked up from my book and caught the serious, thoughtful expression he wore. “Here’s the deal.”

  I nodded and put down the book, giving him my full attention.

  “You will keep your cell phone on and within hearing distance the whole night. You will answer the phone, even if you’re surrounded by people who think it’s un-cool.” I chuckled and waved my hand for him to continue. “You will call me when you get to the party, halfway through, when you leave, and when you get to V.J.’s. You will not drink, smoke, or partake of any illegal substances. You will not engage in any orgies.” His face was suffused with red, his embarrassment plain. I stifled the giggles that were threatening to bubble up and boil over.

  “Gotcha, Dad. No orgies.” I couldn’t help the grin stretching my face. What did he think I was attending, a Roman bacchanal?

  “I’m overdoing it, huh?” he asked sheepishly.

  “Just a little,” I returned, unable to choke back the laughter any longer. Dad cleared his throat and fixed me with a stern look.

  “Seriously though, you need to be careful. Don’t let your guard down, and call me at the first sign of trouble. I won’t lie, I’m a little nervous about all of this.” I reached out and patted his hand affectionately and then drew away before his thoughts could intrude.

  “I know, Dad. Me too.” We sat there quietly for a moment, lost in our own thoughts. Finally Dad smacked his hands on the table and stood up.

  “Ok, honey. There’s no point in talking about it further. Have fun tonight.” He bent over and dropped a kiss on my head and told me he was going to do some laundry.

  I spent the next hour in the garage going through my training routine; I emerged sweaty and exhilarated, muscles quivering like jelly. Still wired, I stretched out on my bed to read when the phone rang. I was halfway to the door when I heard Dad pick up, pause for a moment and then call my name. Sure that I knew who was on the other line, I felt a thrill rush through me as I reached for the phone.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice slightly husky. I cleared my throat surreptitiously, hoping I didn’t sound like a frog over the phone.

  “Liz? Hey, it’s Carey. Sorry I missed your call earlier; my family went out to lunch. No cell phones allowed.” He sounded so grim.

  “No problem, I was just returning your call.”

  “Right. So I talked to my friend at the police department and he said the FBI is in town and has taken custody of Fitz. They’re still here and don’t look to be leaving anytime soon.” He paused, waiting for my reaction.

  I was silent for a moment, wondering what to make of this. He hadn’t really told me anything I didn’t know, but the fact that the Feds were keeping Fitz local made me wonder if they were after more than just the mercenary.

  That made me nervous.

  “Liz?” Carey’s rich voice broke into my thoughts and I realized I hadn’t answered him.

  “Oh, sorry. I got lost for a minute there. Thanks for the info. I appreciate you going out of your way,” I said, all in a rush, my mind still running over possible explanations for the Feds’ behavior. I really needed to get around Thrasher and revisit his thoughts for a bit. Maybe download his partner as well.

  “It’s no problem, Liz. I told you that.” He was quiet for a minute and I didn’t need to read his mind to know what he was th
inking.

  “I know. Thanks.”

  “Anyway, did you give Jared’s party tonight any more thought? I’d be happy to give you a ride if you want to go.” He sounded so expectant I hated to disappoint him. Not to mention I was totally psyched that gorgeous, immensely talented, sweet Carey wanted to take me to a party.

  “Yeah, but I’m going with V.J. I’m staying at her house afterward.” The words came out hesitantly, as if I were afraid that saying it out loud would jinx it.

  “You’re staying at V.J’s? Wow, I’ve never been to her place. I hear it’s really something.” He sounded genuinely impressed, which amused me. How great could her house be? She lived in Pound, after all.

  “Yeah, she’s being so nice.” I paused. “So are you,” I added.

  “So will I see you tonight?” he asked after a moment.

  “Yeah, I’d like that.” I felt overwhelmingly shy all of a sudden, never having been in this position before.

  There was another moment of silence and then Carey cleared his throat exaggeratedly. “Cool. Well. Ok. So I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Yep.”

  “Ok. Well. Bye.”

  “Bye,” I returned, and hung up. I sat stunned for a moment and then let out a squeal that would have done Miss Piggy proud, burying my head in my pillow, a painfully broad smile on my face. Oh, this was so not good. I’d known Carey for a grand total of 72 hours and I was already at this stage? I wondered if I shouldn’t leave town after all.

  I glanced at the clock. It was just after four. I needed to clear my mind and couldn’t bear the thought of just sitting still and waiting for hours to pass until V.J. picked me up. I decided to go for a run and wear myself out a bit.

  “Dad, I’m going for a run!” I called. His bedroom door opened and Dad poked his head out.