Cold

by Robert J. Crane

  With a final, melancholy smile, she shut the door and the cab pulled away, and I looked back to see the yoga-pants-wearing Triad boss watching me go and waving.

  87.

  Holloway caught up to me at the gate about twenty minutes before boarding started. He looked like he’d been run through the ringer, and I was about to ask him what had happened when he answered.

  “Willis caught hell from Director Chalke on the corruption thing we turned up,” he said, plopping down next to me. Maybe it was a mark of me being weak, but I didn’t tell him to move his ass down a chair. Whatever. If he got handsy again, which seemed unlikely at this point, I could always knock his ass into the middle of next week.

  “I had a feeling she wasn’t going to be pleased about that,” I said. “What’s the status of the investigation?”

  “It’s in the hands of Burkitt and the local boys,” Holloway said, shaking his head. He ran fingers through his dark hair. “My guess? It’ll die quietly. Warrington’s too connected in DC.”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.” I looked down at my phone. It had been silent since Chalke’s message to me back at the hotel, so at least she wasn’t looking to tear into my ass about this. For whatever reason.

  “Look, you did the right thing,” Holloway said, lowering his head like a bull as he sat next to me. “If the brass doesn’t want to pursue it, well…that’s on them.”

  “I guess,” I said. But my actual guess was that Whit Falkner’s stories would force them to at least look into it, for as long as whatever heat she generated lasted. Maybe Warrington’s opposition in the state would be able to whip up a genuine, long, hard look into his dealings. I doubted there was much hope for it, otherwise, but that was the idea behind a free press—to keep the pressure on the powerful, to keep an eye on them and their dealings.

  The sun had set outside the large glass airport windows. I’d killed a whole day talking to cops and interviewing Corcoran, then riding to the airport and sitting around here.

  I was feeling it, too, that drag at the eyelids. It had been an early morning, after all, and the day hadn’t gotten any easier from there. I let out a yawn, thinking maybe it’d be nice to sleep on the flight home. Or “home,” rather, since I was heading to New York.

  “We good?” Holloway asked, kind of out of nowhere.

  I looked at him like he was an idiot. “We’re all right, I guess,” I said, not really sure. I didn’t hate him anymore, but I didn’t exactly like him, either.

  “Good,” he said, uneasily, settling back in his seat. I don’t think he quite bought it, but he settled his gaze on the TV, and nodded at it. “What’s up in Vegas?”

  I looked up at the TV for the first time since sitting down. The coverage was of some meta disaster on the Strip that had apparently been settled. They flashed to a shot of Olivia Brackett standing behind police tape, looking a little disheveled as she leaned on a cop car, arms folded in front of her. She looked strong, confident—like a different person, really, than the one I’d seen in my dreamwalk only last night.

  “That one of your brother’s crew?” Holloway asked, watching the TV.

  “Hell if I know,” I lied. “He and I don’t really talk anymore.”

  Holloway arched his eyebrows at me. “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “I don’t think he much likes that I work for the government,” I said, using a well-rehearsed line that was totally true. Thankfully, Holloway didn’t ask anything more, just nodded as he watched the TV as we waited for our flight to be called.

  88.

  Warrington

  Ivan Warrington woke in a cold sweat.

  They’d moved him to the 17th floor but kept him here, in the Hotel Fantaisie, after it had all shaken out. Brianna Glover was dead, after all; he’d checked her pulse himself once she was wheeled out into the hallway just to be sure.

  He hadn’t expected he’d be able to fall asleep, not after today, but he had, and now he woke, sweating, slow panic working its way through his limbic system as a calm fell over him.

  He’d spoken the truth aloud.

  They’d heard him.

  Nothing was going to be the same anymore.

  Warrington shifted the covers, sliding his legs out from beneath the sheets. The air conditioner hummed in the background, and someone coughed out in the hallway. At least two troopers were on his door, standing just outside, in case someone tried anything.

  No one would try anything. Brianna Glover was dead.

  She’d failed.

  Warrington mopped his brow and bald head with the white covers. He’d been sleeping, but a feeling of creeping panic had followed him out, and one thought had kept him tossing until he woke.

  It’s all over.

  “Shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered under his breath, rising on unsteady legs. This room was smaller than the suite; easier for the troopers to storm in if anything went awry. “That was my mistake.” He brushed his hand over his smooth, damp forehead, and his eyes settled on the window in front of him, open on a view of New Orleans.

  He stood and sauntered over to the windows. Down there was the Algiers Ferry. He stared at it. Had it really only been two days ago when Brianna Glover had taken her first shot at him? And missed?

  He thought about it all again, and that same idea kept coming back: It’s all over.

  And maybe, just maybe, it would have been better if she’d gotten him then.

  After all, there wouldn’t have been any of this running around. None of this foolishness, the pulse-pounding stress of trying to manage his schedule while all this was going on. It would have been easier.

  I could have gone out on top, not…like this.

  He could see it now. It’d be death by a thousand vulture pecks. They’d take him piece by piece.

  The Algiers Ferry was right down there, though. He’d gotten it open again for free. That was something.

  Maybe, if he did it this way, instead of letting them draw it out, they’d speak kindly of him, the way one did at funerals, rather than pick at his bones for the next five years the way you did with something that was dying on the side of the road.

  It’s all over.

  Yeah. That was it.

  Warrington grabbed the desk chair and ran it into the window. The glass shattered and flew out like a thousand sparkling diamonds into the night. He heard the troopers hit the door as he followed it out, flying off into the night—

  Down sixteen floors to the pavement, where the last thought that went through his skull before it ceased being a skull and became a puddle of mush instead, was:

  It’s all over.

  And he was right.

  89.

  Sienna

  I woke to Holloway gently shaking my shoulder, out of a deep grog as the plane rattled on a slow turn. I looked out the window to see runway lights just outside, and smacked my dry lips together. I must have slept through the whole flight.

  “Sorry,” Holloway said, lighting up his cell phone and turning it off airplane mode. “Didn’t figure you’d want to sleep here when you could get off and head home.”

  I pulled at my neck, which ached slightly from the angle at which I’d had it crammed against the bulkhead. “Good call. I—”

  Holloway frowned as his phone buzzed. It looked like fifty text messages rolled in at once, and he opened them immediately. When he did, he paled a couple shades.

  “What?” I asked, stretching my neck.

  He shook his head. “Looks like Warrington took the easy way out. Did a nosedive out the Hotel Fantaisie’s 17th floor window while we were in flight.” He let out a low whistle. “They’re scraping him off the pavement now.” He glanced at me. “Guess they’ll be putting him in the morgue right next to Brianna Glover.”

  “Huh.” I wasn’t sure how I should respond to that. “I suppose that’s justice,” was all I could think of to say.

  90.

  Olivia

  I got a little sleep on the plane back t
o Minneapolis, between Augustus and Jamal bickering about some videogame or another. It was not much of a trial to leave them at the terminal at MSP airport, catching an Uber to the office and arriving so late that I was sure no one would still be there.

  I was wrong.

  “Hey,” Tracy said as I walked into the bullpen. He was huddled over his desk, but looked up at me through squinting eyes, his big frame comically bent as he stared at his computer screen. “You made it back.”

  “Yeah,” I said, pausing before I willed myself to move again. I headed for my desk, cool chill running over my skin, which felt suddenly hot. “Why are you here so late?”

  “Boss man’s still in, so I’m in,” Tracy said, pointing at Reed’s door. Sure enough, there Reed was, staring at something on his desk, his head bent over a sheaf of papers, long hair dangling on either side to block his face.

  I paused, thinking about it for only a second before I altered my course and headed for the door. I knocked, and a moment later Reed looked up, smiled through the blinds and said, “Come in.”

  Shutting the door behind me, I stepped up to his desk. “Got it done, boss,” I said, feeling like that was more telling than any report I could write. Though I’d still have to write one. Which is what I’d come here to do.

  “I heard,” he said, arms folded over his chest, nodding in slow, quiet respect. I hadn’t seen the look on his face before, at least not aimed at me. “Jamal and Augustus talked to the local cops. They say you really turned some heads out there, bringing this meta down with minimal collateral damage.”

  “Minimal?” I blinked. “I thought everyone was mad at me for the Fremont Street mess and the bar in—”

  Reed shook his head. “Collateral damage is part of metahuman policing, especially when you’re dealing with people who have this much power. Vegas PD are familiar with it, and no matter what their politicians say, they still have a keen memory of what metas out of control can do.” He looked pained for a second, adjusting in his chair. “It was only a couple years ago that Sienna got into a rumble with some crooks on the Strip who almost burned down Aria, so I don’t think they’re much bothered by a small structural fire in the Bellagio and a little damage to the bar at the Venetian. Speedsters can do a lot of damage, and police officers talk across state lines. Vegas PD know they got off light on this one—thanks to you.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Uh. Well. Good. Though…I couldn’t have done it without your sister’s advice.” I hung my head.

  “Yeah, so?” Reed asked. “You still did it.”

  I blinked and looked up. “Well, but—”

  “You think getting advice invalidates the action?” Reed smirked. “Come on. You did it. She may have pushed you in a certain direction, just like I’m sure Veronika did, but you were the one who stepped up and knocked out that speedster. And it was a good thing you did, by the by.” He moved aside the papers he’d been looking at and picked up another page, holding it out across the desk at me. “Check this out. They found it when they raided an alternate property this Sylvia owned.”

  I took the paper and looked at it. It was a typewritten report with a black and white picture printed at the bottom of what looked like a giant bomb.

  “Gulp,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Reed said, taking it back from my limp fingers. “So I don’t think Vegas is going to be complaining about minor damages, since that thing would have leveled about ten blocks.”

  “Really dodged a bullet there, I guess,” I said, blinking myself out of that train of thought. A bomb? A massive bomb, in the hands of a lady who repeatedly proclaimed a desire for chaos?

  I felt a little faint and caught myself on the edge of Reed’s desk, head lurching down. I shook my head, my eyes alighting on the papers he’d been studying when I came in. The headline caught my attention.

  RECOMMENDED LAYOFFS

  I read on, into a list.

  Friday

  Scott Byerly

  Chase Blanton

  Greg Vansen

  Veronika Acheron

  Katrina Forrest

  Taneshia French

  Abigail Garner

  Olivia Brackett

  I stopped when I saw my own. I met Reed’s eyes as I looked up, and saw the guilt burning in his.

  “You weren’t supposed to see that,” Reed said, and he sounded like he’d been caught doing something really dirty. “It’s not final—”

  “Tracy’s name’s not here,” I said, finishing it to the end. “Who are you keeping?” I looked up. “Are you even keeping anyone?”

  “Jamal, Augustus, Angel, myself,” Reed said, sounding pained. “Though at a vastly reduced pay rate for all three of us. Scott Byerly’s staying on, he’s just not getting paid. Same with Kat Forrest. She makes enough through her TV show, and working here generates enough storylines for her that not getting paid doesn’t bother her. Everybody else…” He shook his head. “But yeah. I’m keeping Tracy because Tracy works for peanuts.”

  I didn’t know how to take that. The old me would have just sort of nodded, gone along.

  “To hell with that,” I said, loud enough that Reed blinked, eyes widening, as I looked up with him. “You know how you came to me before you pulled Tracy out of the cloud? When you were desperate for help to get Sienna out of Scotland? I acted like it was fine. Because I really wanted it to be fine, wanted to be the kind of person that could just put the past behind me and be fine with it—with him.”

  My mouth felt dry and I shook my head. “I lied. It wasn’t fine. I wasn’t fine with it at all. I should have told you that then, that it wasn’t fine, that it would never be fine working with him, working with the man who—” I closed my eyes, stopping myself in the middle of what was fast turning into an epic rant.

  Reed was quiet for a long moment. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was desperate times, I know,” I said. “I should have spoken up when he stayed on afterward. I didn’t know how to. So…maybe it’s a good thing that he’s staying and I’m going—”

  “You don’t have to go,” Reed said quietly.

  I glanced up at him. “What?”

  “These are recommendations from an outside accounting firm,” he said. “Based on the last two years of data. They look at how much we pay versus how many cases people clear. Jamal and Augustus? They churn through them, kicking ass all the way. Same with Angel. Same with Veronika, honestly, but she gets paid more than anyone else. Greg Vansen is way up there, too, so those two were the first to get cut because they’re just too expensive. Tracy was at the bottom of the list because he works for almost nothing.” Reed looked a little embarrassed. “Because he’s still traumatized and brainwashed to follow me like a dog, I assume. But what you did in Vegas…” He picked up the list and waved it. “You changed this. You’re a major player now, if you do what you did in Vegas from now on. You could be the future of this agency, so…” He looked right at me. “You can stay, if you want. And Tracy can go.”

  It was funny how quick I knew my answer. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll stay.”

  Reed smiled. “Good. You should probably get some sleep, though, because tomorrow…” He looked at the list in his hand. “Well…this happens tomorrow. So…” His smile turned bittersweet and lost some of its luster. “There’s not going to be a lot of rest around here after that.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, and meant it. “I feel like I’ve rested enough this last few months. You took it easy on me to start out with, and…now I’m ready for more. A lot more, I think. So…” I opened his office door. “See you tomorrow, boss.”

  “Thanks,” Reed said, his smile fading. “And, uh…would you mind sending Tracy in when you go? Since he’s here?” He looked down at the list again. “No point in circling this any longer than I have to.”

  I thought about what was going to happen, and I felt a little twinge of pity for Tracy, which surprised me. “Sure,” I said, a little hoarsely, as I left his office.

  Tracy was lo
oking at me down the cubicle row as I stepped out. He waited for me to get close to my desk and asked, “How’d it go?”

  “Good,” I said, a little stilted as I looked at him. He was so different from how he’d been when he’d tormented me. He used to be bald, big, like a bodybuilder. His time in Reed’s prison had left him scrawny, and there were perpetual dark circles under his eyes, with a hint of twitchiness always in him.

  That I could relate to, even if I could barely stand to be around him.

  And I really did feel sorry for him.

  “The boss wants to see you about something,” I said, picking up my suitcase and wheeling it toward the door.

  “Oh, okay,” Tracy said, hopped right up. “See you tomorrow.” And he headed toward Reed’s office without waiting to hear me respond.

  I watched him go, then turned away as he went in. Reed’s head was already down, and I didn’t want to see this happen, so I turned and wheeled my suitcase out. The rattle of the wheels covered the sounds of their conversation until I was out of earshot, and I walked out of the office with my head held high, maybe for the first time since I’d started working there.

  91.

  Sienna

  It was the next day, and I found myself sitting in Dr. Kashani’s office again, making up for playing hooky and dealing with that bank robbery of a few days prior. I stared at the walls, the windows, the chairs, each in turn, assiduously avoiding Dr. Kashani’s eyes on me until I could ignore her no more.