And then Anson’s brain finished its processing. His receptors kicked in and he hurt like the devil. But even the devil didn’t know hurt as detailed as when Anson took to the ground landing at sixty-plus mph. Skipping a couple of times, skipping along, whipping and twisting along. Clothes shorn on coarse earth. The repeated, repeated, repeated slap of flesh on road until there was a sound. The sound of an animal begging to be put down.
A few seconds or so. A few seconds. Then Anson realized the sound was his own putrid screaming. One more lesson in a night of learning. Being invulnerable ain’t shit against hurting.
What Anson didn’t hear was the sound of the train braking. It kept hard-rolling, the engineer not wanting to have to go through due process and the form filing for hitting whatever it was he’d hit. If he kept on for Union Station, pretended like nothing had happened, well . . . maybe he’d just hit a bum. That was the same as nothing happening.
LA. Even through the hurt of getting hit, Anson thought: Goddamn LA.
And Anson struggled up to his feet. Gingerly. Then he reminded himself, had to actually remind himself he was indestructible. He was not hurt. Not truly hurt. No need to be ginger. It was time, again, to run.
Run to . . .
Where would he run that It hadn’t already demonstrated It would follow?
Run to the police? If they saved Anson from It, who’d save Anson from the police?
Home?
Diane? Run to her? Bring It to her?
No.
Run to where?
Tungsten. Anson thought of Tungsten. Anson used to want to be Tungsten, same as just about every metanormal—before San Francisco—dreamed of taking their gift and being something more than normal. Doing something beyond regular. Acting like a hero.
Tungsten had been KIA by King of Pain. King of Pain had previously, in one of those used-to-be-common battles between the supergood and the superevil, put the otherwise indestructible Tungsten in a coma for five months.
Didn’t matter.
To Tungsten it didn’t matter. When it came time to square off with King of Pain again, he stood his ground. Knowing King of Pain had the ability to take his life, Tungsten didn’t run.
Heroes don’t run.
No more running.
No equivocation in what Anson told himself, ordered himself to do: no more running. No matter the outcome might be same as with Tungsten, Anson would stand. Anson would fight It.
I will be, Anson said in his head, something more than human.
A trick of the moonlight. Clouds cleared the sky. Up the street darkness seemed to part.
Coincidental. It was coming.
I feel no pain, Anson told himself. I cannot die. I am more than human.
The caller ID on her integrated cordless phone/digital answering machine that had every advanced feature except the one that allowed Soledad to walk more than five feet from the base unit while talking on the phone said it was Soledad’s parents calling.
She didn’t pick up. Wasn’t Sunday. Wasn’t the day Soledad had designated in her mind and by habit as being the day to talk with her folks. Sit on the phone while they talked at her.
She let the phone ring itself out, was through the door by the time the answering machine picked up and her mom started asking of Soledad’s empty joint: “Are you there? Sweetie, it’s Mom. Are you home?”
Melrose to Robertson. Down to Third, over into BH. That was the route Soledad was going to run. A five-mile loop. Same one, with slight variation, she ran the four days out of seven she did road work. Not too many places in LA offered decent scenery and a fair lack of traffic. The city was built for driving. Health nuts be damned. Soledad had found a course, and she stuck to it. Some Hybrid on her iPod to speed the miles along. The sun was, as always, up there. The heat from the endless pavement, the smog; they’d mix for a physically taxing workout.
A good workout.
Some sweat and ache to wear away that nagging, fucking . . . Death. Death was nagging Soledad. Shouldn’t be. She’d gotten over, thought she’d gotten over, Death a long time ago. The day of San Francisco: Soledad, her family, were supposed to be in the city when a battle between the superhero Pharos and the supervillain Bludlust turned half the town and most of its citizens to slag and ash. But Soledad, her family, weren’t there. They are alive. Alive, Soledad figured, on borrowed time. So what was Death . . .
Left on Robertson . . .
When Soledad was already dead? Should already be dead? That kind of thinking had kept company with Soledad, given comfort to Soledad as she jobbed her way through the LAPD academy, worked a beat, SPU and MTac without so much as getting sweaty palms.
Not once.
Until . . .
Right on Third.
And a thought came to Soledad, came like a frank observation that, being objective, was separate from her own thinking.
The thought: Know what you’re scared of?
What?
You’ve been hanging around Vin. You’re attracted to Vin. But you’re scared you don’t really care for Vin.
Endorphins pumping in Soledad. Runner’s high coming on.
A high coming on.
Stupid, Soledad told herself. Losing herself in natural bliss, she told herself the thought was stupid. Why would it matter if she—
You don’t care for Vin. Used to hate Vin. So you’re scared Vin’s just a bounce-back thing. You’re scared ’cause if he is, then who you really love, who you’re still in love with, what’s really giving you unease—
No! It wasn’t qualms or questions or misgivings on the ways of her heart. It was Death. Soledad felt Death creeping close and, yeah, it scared her because she didn’t . . . she wasn’t afraid of losing her life. She didn’t want to lose the life she could have with Vin. Vin. Vin she loved, she told herself. And told herself. She could deal with Death and falling for a guy she used to hate. What she couldn’t deal with—
A horn.
Soledad looked as she ran out onto Ivy. Looked too late. As she saw the massive front end of the Ford Expedition bearing on her, she thought: I hate SUVs.
There was laughter all around.
Rare thing. Odd thing.
Laughter from Eddi and Alcala. And from Soledad. Soledad laughing out loud, continuously. That was the bit that was rare and odd, and made more so by the fact that there were three MTacs cracking up and they were doing it in a hospital. Mostly, MTacs in hospitals meant cooling for some specialist to arrive from an ER, blood-covered, telling the rest—or the remainder—of an element, eyes lowered and with a mournful shake of the head, “Nothing we could do.” Mostly, MTacs in hospitals meant waiting for spouses or family or lovers or life partners to come around, get the official word, then break down in sobs while the rest—the remainder—of an element wondered how long it’d be before their spouse or family, lover or life partner would be heaped on a dirty tile floor sobbing for them.
Mostly, that’s the way it was with MTacs in hospitals.
But right then?
Eddi, Alcala and Soledad right then couldn’t bust up enough. The situation was funny in a relieved kind of way. Everybody was relieved Soledad was still alive. Her left leg, specifically her knee, was fucked-up to a monumental degree by the hit it took from the Expedition. Beyond that, some scrapes and bruises she collected skimming over the asphalt on Ivy, the situation was funny. To a degree. After squaring off against flamethrowers, shape-shifters, even a telepath, Soledad had almost gotten taken out by a representative hunk of one of the worst automotive trends ever to get spat out of Detroit.
To the MTacs, it was hi-F’n-larious.
“Jesus, Soledad.” Alcala joking. “Making all of us look damn near pathetic. An MTac getting put down by a station wagon.”
“Wasn’t a station wagon. You know it wasn’t a—”
“Actually heard a traffic cop making cracks about MTacs. A traffic cop, Soledad.”
“Hey, I had the right-of-way.”
Eddi: “Yeah, yo
u always have the right-of-way.”
“I’m serious. Had the right-of-way, and this ass . . .”
“Shoulda hit him with one of your bullets.”
“Guy barely brakes. Hate stupid SUV-driving sons of—”
“I’ve got an SUV,” Eddi said, wearing that slick smile of hers.
“Figures. And he was on the phone too.”
“You shoulda hit him with one of your bullets.” Alcala saying it again. “What do you got for asses on cell phones driving their—”
“Lead. Nothing special. Just lead.”
“Getting slow, Soledad.” Eddi flicked through some food on a tray next to Soledad’s bed with her index finger. Nothing worth trying. “You twenty-nine now? Might be time for your gold watch.”
“Hell with that. I was making a move.”
“Moving from human to hood ornament.”
“Like to see you get out of the way of a speeding truck, kid.”
“That’s the thing: Us kids wouldn’t let ourselves get boxed in first off.”
Eddi and Alcala laughed, dapped.
What the hell, Soledad thought, was Alcala laughing at? She was older than him, but he was junior rank to her.
She was going to say something about that, but Vin walked in the room. Walked pretty decent for a guy with one real leg. That Otto Bock worked good. Vin walked in carrying some flowers.
Things quieted some, the laughing fell off.
Vin asked what was funny, what was the joking he heard before coming into the room.
Eddi and Alcala mumbled about busting Soledad’s chops.
Then there was quiet. The uncomfortable kind.
Vin asked Alcala and Eddi how things were.
They said things were good.
The quad talked on about sports; what the hell was going on with the Lakers. The weather, the other night’s episode of some sitcom.
Some more quiet.
Eddi announced she had some things to do. Alcala, too, said he had some things that needed taking care of. Both said their good-byes to Soledad, Vin.
“Good seeing you again, Vin.”
“Take ’er easy, Vin.”
Then it was just Vin and Soledad.
Soledad gave Vin an update on her knee. Torn ligaments. There’d be further surgery. There’d be physical therapy, a limp that would, hopefully, diminish over time. Time when Soledad couldn’t work MTac. No matter how she’d gotten busted, she was a busted cop. Being busted was to be automatically inactive. Yeah, there was other cop work she could do: file files, write up reports. Any temp could do that. Doing that, the Admin work of law enforcement, was not being a cop. And the feeling that came with doing that—no matter she’d previously tried to convince Vin otherwise—was one of supreme uselessness. A car with no tires. A fork with no teeth. A Hollywood actress over the age of forty. It was a feeling as discomforting as any Soledad knew. Her job was her life, her purpose. It was her obligation. So no job . . .
No life?
No purpose?
And then Soledad got honest. “Scared me, Vin. Scared the hell out of me.”
“Screwed up your knee some.”
“Thought I was going to die.”
“If a freak can’t kill you . . .” Vin maintained a stare at the room door.
“That’s what scared me. I’ve gotten it in my head I’d go out in a general alert, gun in each hand taking on a rush of muties. Put down as many of them as I can before I go.”
“John Wayne.”
“Angela Bassett. But then you see mortality rushing at you in the grille of a Ford . . . what the fuck, Vin? I was going to die, and I was going to die for nothing. From after birth to a stain on the asphalt, and what did I amount to in the between time?”
Still looking at the door: “This an ego thing? You figure your obit wasn’t going to run enough column inches?”
“It could fill the paper, but right then I wondered, what would it amount to? That’s what I was thinking: I was going to die without ever amounting to anything.”
“Your gun, the telepath you took out . . .”
“I shot its wife.”
“Another freak.”
“I shot its wife. If I hadn’t, would Yar still be alive? Would you still have your leg?”
“Wife or no, you want to talk about what the telepath would’ve done if you hadn’t stopped it? Think about that.”
“What I’m thinking, I’m starting to think . . . it’s a war that breeds war.”
“Jesus, Soledad—”
“It’s the kind of shit that never stops. So my gun, how many of them I take out . . . doesn’t matter. They’ll keep coming at us, we’ll keep going at them. So what I do, what we do, what does it amount to? Might as well pack the fighting up, move it to the Middle East.”
“You almost got killed. I get that. But you don’t—”
“It’s not a near-death experience. It’s more like a—” It was more like what? “More like a near-useless death experience. I’m just feeling a little useless right now.”
“Tell me about it, Soledad. Tell me all about it and act like it’s new to me.” Through Soledad’s self-assessment, her talk of her feelings and concerns, Vin maintained his stare at the room door.
When Soledad finished her venting, Vin said at the door: “I’m a bad memory to them.”
Soledad knew who and what Vin was talking about. Alcala, Eddi. Their distance, their coolness when talking with Vin. From the second he stepped in the room the shift in their mood was obvious. Soledad’d hoped Vin would take it in stride. He didn’t. This was not good for her. Bad enough she had her own concerns. Now she’d have to put some emotional work into dealing with Vin’s as well.
Soledad said: “You’re not a bad memory. Alcala wasn’t even on the element when we went at the telepath. You’re not a bad memory for him.”
“Then I’m a poster child for what happens when things go south. Couldn’t even look at me. Barely could. Eddi could barely look at me, and Alcala—”
“That’s their own guilt; that it was you, not them. They’re staring at you, they’re staring at mortality. They look at you, and they’ve got to deal with their own shit, so they—”
“They were laughing with you. They can laugh with you, but with me . . .” Vin realized he was still holding the flowers he’d brought Soledad. He formally presented them to her.
“They’re pretty. Thanks.”
“Got them downstairs. Was on my way up, figured I shouldn’t come empty-handed.”
“Or you spent all day picking out ones you thought I’d love,” she coached. “You don’t have to be honest. Sometimes it’s okay to lie a little.” Soledad, touched, genuinely: “Thank you.”
Again, Vin looked to the door. “How’s Eddi?”
“Good.”
“She good or just getting by?”
“She’s good.”
“I worry about her. She likes to talk tough, but she’s more girl than man.”
“I’m telling you she’s good.”
“She had a thing for Yar, you know. Watching him get killed like that—”
“You want to make her?”
“Do I what?”
Soledad was kidding on the square. A little jealous, never mind her jokes. “I can slip her a note, see if she’s got a date for prom.”
“Or you could talk to her, make sure she’s good like you think. She worships you.”
“She doesn’t worship me.” Adjusting herself, Soledad tried to turn down the volume on the throb in her leg. Meds had kept it subordinate for a while. Soledad had quit those. Wasn’t some hard-ass ploy. Opposite of that. The painkillers were gooooood. Made Soledad feel as sweeeeeet as she had since . . . in years. She could see how people got hooked on the stuff. She could see herself getting hooked on the stuff.
So she quit ’em.
Soledad, finishing the thought: “She doesn’t worship me. Not anymore, if she ever did.”
“She get a tattoo?”
&nb
sp; “No.”
“You sure?”
“Checked.”
“Checked everywhere?”
Soledad stared at Vin.
Vin: “She’s not dumb. She knows you hate hero worship. She’s not going to get a tattoo on her shoulder.”
Soledad, still back at the head of Vin’s statement: “Check everywhere like where?”
“Her ass, maybe. Maybe . . . you know how some girls like to get one right near the crotch.”
Slow roasting. Soledad did some slow roasting. “No. I don’t know. Why don’t you hip me to how some girls like to get one near their—”
“Soledad—”
“Okay, just so we’re clear on things: You really want to bang her?”
“Do you talk like a guy because you think guys think it’s sexy, or—”
“Yes, and do you—”
“I think Eddi’s a very attractive person.”
Soledad opened her mouth to spew fire.
“But I think she’s nothing compared to you.”
No fire. No fury. Not a word. She didn’t say a thing. Soledad’s mouth maintained its slightly open position.
“So what are you going to do with yourself?” Vin asked. “I know you taking downtime isn’t going to happen.”
“I don’t know.” Soledad was talking to the wall opposite Vin. Forgetting for a second that her black skin didn’t blush, humility made Soledad look away from him. “Was thinking of seeing if I could get assigned to DMI. Next best thing to being an active MTac, right?”
Vin shrugged.
“Figure it’ll be good too, you know; doing intel. Find out what they know about freaks, how they track them, how many there really are out there. Now’s the chance.”
“Why don’t you get assigned to HIT? You can keep your research going there.”
“HIT is bullshit.” Looking back to Vin, blush turned to heat. “Bunch of geeks who couldn’t get jobs at Metalstorm or DARPA, sitting around with their bullshit theoretical science. ‘Gee, maybe if we perfect a particle beam or a rail gun, we can take out muties.’ Meanwhile, I’m in my garage making shit that works. Just because my knee’s messed up doesn’t mean I’m gonna go waste my time.”
“But that’s just your first reaction. It’s not like you put a lot of thought into it.”
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