The worst thing about Seth was Jaden’s lack of privacy. It didn’t stop Jaden from grumbling. It was a long walk to Em House, and he wasn’t in the mood to argue—again—about the current state of his life. For once he wasn’t going to think about it.
Seth smiled as he walked beside Jaden, staying quiet.
“We’ll figure this out,” Seth said after a few minutes of silence. “Together. I promise.”
Jaden regarded him, reading sincerity on Seth’s usually cocksure face.
“We will,” Jaden said, and his stomach calmed. “We’ll start with a new name.”
“A good beginning, I think,” Seth said. “A clean canvas.”
It was still light out, and would be until late into the night. Perhaps he would get his chores out of the way tonight and dedicate the next two days to projects.
An unusual noise whined into their ears, so out of place with the time it caused both to halt. The low, muffled groans of distress would have been more appropriate for the darkness. When Jaden focused on the sound, searching for its source, he knew exactly what was taking place.
“Wait,” Seth said, putting out his hand.
One accident had already happened because he hadn’t acted soon enough. This was not an accident: there was no time to wait and ponder the possible outcomes of his involvement. Jaden pushed Seth’s hand and dashed through a gap between the buildings.
Three people grappled with each other: two men and a woman. She struggled in the grip of a fat man, while the smaller (not by much) man was ripping off her clothes. Without thought or hesitation, Jaden charged, his body a battering ram, colliding into the predator and knocking him to the asphalt.
The first man held fast to the woman, but watched as his partner fought with Jaden, trying to wrestle him away, get out from under him. Jaden picked him up and threw him into a dumpster.
Slow motion, that’s what it was like. Jaden saw the wild man throwing punches in slow motion, giving him time to duck and weave, avoiding hits.
A left hook. Duck.
Jabbing combinations. Slide.
Upper cut. Lean back.
The fight would have been no different if Jaden were blindfolded. He sensed every move, predicted the direction the fighter would take, he was fast enough to dodge a blow and land one of his own.
Jaden knew he had to end the battle quickly. An animalistic urge to kill both men tried to take over, but logic restrained him. Two more dead bodies to his name would bring unwanted scrutiny, even though the men deserved it.
Jaden kicked the assailant in the face, launching him backward into a wall. Instead of waiting for him to come back for more, Jaden focused his attention on the second man holding the woman. Surprised, perhaps by Jaden’s smaller stature, the sexual predator hesitated. Jaden grabbed the woman, who he suspected may be a prostitute, and tore her from her captor’s grip and pushed her away.
“Run!” he told her, but she didn’t need telling.
Now there were two.
Both men fought wildly, enraged at Jaden’s intrusion, and sure their advantage in numbers would win the fight. But he had an advantage of his own, a way of predicting the trajectory of each kick and jab.
Using mainly his elbows and palms, trying to protect his weak gripping hands, Jaden beat back the two men, hoping they would give up and run.
But neither did.
After minutes of brawling, Jaden suspected stimulative drugs were involved. He was tempted to end their lives: there were no witnesses. Both men’s hearts beat fiercely, and if they were to suddenly stop, who would suspect anything but an overdose?
“You can’t do that,” Seth said.
Jaden elbowed one in the face, breaking his nose.
“Why not?” Jaden growled back.
“Because there was a witness. She ran away.”
“She won’t say anything,” Jaden said, almost sure of it. A prostitute would not report an attempted rape to the police.
“You enjoying this?” Seth asked.
As Jaden swung his left fist into the larger man’s kidneys, he had to admit it was gratifying. He saved someone from a terrible injustice, and was exacting punishment on the two responsible.
“You’ve gathered a crowd,” Seth said, looking toward the street from which they’d come.
Jaden spared a moment between punches to observe. Seth was right. A crowd of five spectators watched, two on cell phones.
Jaden danced with the two predators a while longer, landing more blows to ribs, jaw, stomach, kidneys. Seth didn’t know how powerful it felt, to be the one doing the hitting instead of being the object of the blows. It was a feeling he wanted to hold onto, for only a few more seconds. Seth didn’t understand.
“You have to take a hit,” Seth said, looking solemn.
“No way,” Jaden said, his jaw clenched.
“You have to. They’re getting suspicious, those people watching, calling the police. They’ve watched for a while. You’ve not been hit once.”
“That’s the point.”
“You’re too good, you’re being too memorable. These people, they’ll talk about you. A supernatural boxer. Sensing the coming hits. For once do what I’m asking. Take a hit, knock them out, and end this. Enough is enough.”
It had been years since he had been hit, and he didn’t relish the idea of volunteering. But this time the beating would be his idea, a way to protect himself from suspicion. The hit was necessary, valid even. While it would hurt, Jaden had experienced pain much worse.
He had to do it, follow Seth’s advice this time. Jaden would win the battle and take some casualties so he didn’t seem invincible.
Before taking the final hit, Jaden threw all his power behind a punch, eliminating one fighter. Then, not excited, but acknowledging its importance, Jaden put his head in the line of the second, bloodied-faced man’s punching arc.
The strike was shocking. Stars burst in his wavy vision, flying in coordinated circles. The dizziness made him nauseous and Jaden tripped over what he later realized was his own foot, falling to the concrete. His ears rang with a high pitch tone, deafening him to ambient noise. As he struggled to get his hands and feet underneath him, he saw the face of the man he’d just knocked out, lying on the ground.
A piercing pain cracked through his brain at the same time the sound returned. Jaden grabbed his head in his bruised hands, the pain unbearable.
Down on the ground, his opponent kicked him in the side.
Seth was gone. His idea to punch this man, after taking a hit, now seemed impossible. Full of suggestions and admonishments, this was the perfect opportunity for Seth to chime in with his wisdom.
But it was just Jaden.
The fight resumed.
With as much strength as he could spare, Jaden tied up his pain and shoved it down, to be dealt with later, dedicating a fraction of his focus to finishing the fight. He gathered his vision to him—the floor leveled out.
An onlooker from the crowd ran to help. Sirens echoed in the background, a lull in his ringing ears. The police could not find him here. His opponent could not win. Jaden started the fight to rescue a distressed woman. He must finish the battle.
Before help arrived, the fat man, his face a portrait of violent rage, picked Jaden up by his coat and shoved him into the dumpster. The pain in his head had receded enough that he was able to hear again.
“I own you now,” snarled the lech, then pushed Jaden away.
The three words were barrels of gasoline with flames licking the bottoms.
Headache forgotten, Jaden lunged, his fists like javelins, hitting anything within their reach. Face twisted with wrath, Jaden pummeled his opponent’s stomach and kidneys with fast, violent blows.
With a mighty right hook to the temple, the fat man, who outweighed him by at least a hundred and fifty pounds, fell backward to the ground with a cracking thud, unconscious on impact.
“No one owns me,” Jaden muttered under his breath, his impromptu help dea
f to his mumblings.
“You okay?” asked the late helper.
Jaden nodded, the sirens were louder in his ears. Police would ask what happened, who he was. Can you show us some ID please? No? Do you have any prior arrests?
Jaden had to go. Now.
“They tried raping a woman,” Jaden breathed. “Tell them that.”
“Hey man, I think you need the hospital,” said the help.
Jaden shook his head. That was the last thing he needed. Standing straight, Jaden spun and ran from the scene, sprinting fast.
The sirens were behind him, but after several turns and changes in direction, Jaden was sure he was clear. To alter his appearance, he took off his jacket and threw it away.
It was silent. His daily running sessions hadn’t been for naught.
After he had jogged a mile or so the headache returned, and made up for lost time.
Every step was painful. This was the worst headache of his life, an immense pressure in his brain, a splintering of his nerves, making his stomach sick and his eyes tear. He retched twice before reaching home as the bright sky turned to dusk. He leaned on the door, warmed from the sun, closing his eyes.
Here was a new problem. How was he to get inside with such a headache? In his justified paranoia, Jaden chained the door and blocked it with heavy obstacles, ensuring only he could enter. With the pain, he couldn’t focus properly, making entrance difficult. Why hadn’t he thought of a backup plan should PK be compromised? For an emergency just like now.
The ground floor windows were bricked in, an added precaution. The roof access was sealed. The only way in was through the front door, exactly as he’d engineered it.
Psychokinesis was a part of him like anything else. Headache or not, his mind couldn’t fail him. Clarity was blackened out with pain, but he had worked around that before. He had to focus to get inside his building for the night. There were no other options.
Mentally fumbling for the lock, Jaden found it behind the door. Strangely when he focused, the pain abated. Without a pause, the boxes scraped the floor and moved aside; when the door slid open, he had a small path.
Once inside, he slid the door shut and secured it by hand. The gap between the boxes was minimal, but he managed to squeeze through. Getting to his floor would be difficult, as the ladder was tucked neatly behind the bookshelves.
It clacked as it slid across the top story, then dropped with a clatter to the cement floor. Jaden stood it upright and climbed to his floor, then pulled the ladder up to him.
Cat stood on the arm of the couch, tail whipping.
He didn’t keep drugs in the house. His high and mighty attitude toward drugs, legal or not, was an annoying principle to have when dealing with pain. It was deep in his head, so he couldn’t disconnect from it.
He would take a shower. Showering always made him feel better, it relaxed his muscles and calmed him from a laborious or stressful day. Stripping off his clothes, Jaden went into the bathroom, remembering he had to heat the water. He focused painfully to boil the ice. He drenched his head in hot water, wishing the heat would massage away the pain.
The water felt great on the back of his neck and shoulders, but it didn’t assuage the splintering in his brain. As he toweled dry, Jaden thought of the police, how they had his vague description. They did not know his name. He had not touched anything, didn’t leave fingerprints. If the two other men had priors, and Jaden assumed they did, maybe the cops would overlook the vigilante.
Eating made the headache worse. He drank as much water as he could before hurling into the bathtub. Lying in bed, he tossed and turned, desperately tying to get to sleep. But how could he? The pain was oppressive.
He tried rubbing his neck, applying pressure to certain areas, massaging his temples, taking deep breaths, nothing worked.
He got out of bed and sat at his desk, grabbing a notebook and sketching an elaborate gym for Cat. There would be a tower for him to climb, maybe several towers. Then a tunnel. He’d need to drill rubber mats and staple carpet to it so Cat could grip as he played.
After the cat gym, Jaden drafted a fancy table he may one day build, with lion paws for feet, and a grand round surface, something King Arthur might have commissioned in his day. It may be unique enough to sell. That could be his career. Carpenter, furniture maker.
Rocking chairs, a gourmet kitchen, bathroom cabinets and shelves, a wardrobe, he drew them all, listing the materials, calculating the costs. A stack of sketches sat on his hand-crafted desk. Then monikers, a whole list of names, identities he could assume: Alonzo McFaydon, Gerard Cooper, Kaleb Jones, Tristan Bruen, Devin Smith. He penned as many as he could, until he was named out.
Verbs, he listed as many he could think of, then adjectives and nouns. He tested himself on the fifty states, drew out a map of America, then tried capitals. Geography was something he had studied extensively, second to languages. How many countries within the continent of South America? He listed all he could remember.
It was eight in the morning when he noticed the sun. He had been in the middle of translating the verbs he’d written hours before into German. Distracting his mind from the pain had worked.
When he dropped the pen and massaged his hand, the pain ebbed back. He needed painkillers, he couldn’t write or draw forever. Maybe all he needed was an anti-inflammatory for a few days and then everything would be back to normal. He could return to the warehouse, lifting boxes, until he was ready to take on a new name and profession.
Jaden rushed to his shelf and pulled down his tin of cash, depositing his week’s wages, then replaced the tin on top of the shelf. He grabbed his wallet, which he only carried to make purchases, and opened it, counting the cash: twenty-two dollars and fourteen cents, more than enough for drugs.
The ladder wobbled as he climbed down, but he didn’t worry, he was on the ground in seconds. He mumbled the amendments of the Constitution as he wedged himself through the barricade and unlocked the chain to the massive door, trying to remember Section Three of Article One. Outside he slid the door shut, remembering it: there would be two senators from each state that served six years. Within the article were the rules for the senator’s age, length of citizenship, and so forth. There was nothing in the section about term limits, a sore subject for much of the population, or so he had heard as he passed irritated people lunching.
As it had been last night, walking was painful. Every step stabbed him in the head. Step stab, step stab.
Section Four, Elections for Senators and Representatives. Section Five, Congress’ compensation plan. Section Seven had something to do with bills and money, but he couldn’t remember the whole thing. Section Eight was taxes, duties, imposts and something else to pay for debts and defense and something else he couldn’t remember. Section Nine was a blank, as was section ten. The pain was getting worse, it was harder to focus. He abandoned the Constitution.
Counting, that would be easier. He counted as high as he could in Italian, and had just reached fifty-six when he came to the drugstore. It was one of those cheap places with the annoying—especially with this headache—drowning door chimes, informing people behind the cash register that someone had entered the store, making it harder for Jaden to sneak up and rob them. He stumbled down the first aisle to find chips and cookies, not drugs. In the next aisle were flip-flops and other cheap shoes.
The door chimed again, Jaden grabbed his head. He hated that stupid chime, and next time he came in here with an ailment and needed drugs, he’d rip it from the damn door.
He looked toward the entrance and the signs above each aisle, trying to find the drugs. How could it be so hard if he was in a drugstore? The signs led him to the far corner. He saw his pale reflection in the slanted mirrors as he passed more aisles. He looked like crap. Finally he came to the painkillers.
Jaden stopped.
A woman stood in front of the shelves, examining a box. For a moment the headache left him—he didn’t notice its sudden vanishing.
She was tall, slender in the waist with a shapely backside, wearing a long denim skirt with slits past her knee, exposing her muscular legs. He walked toward her and stopped when he was less than two feet from her. Auburn hair, with deliberate streaks of dark brown, fell just past her shoulders, curling onto her brown sweater. She had a perky, button nose, and freckles dotted her clear skin. She gracefully brushed a strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She smelled of sea shells and hot chocolate.
Her lips twitched, as if she wanted to smile but thought better of it. She turned her eyes to him. They were vibrant blue, brighter than the summer sky after a morning of cleansing rain.
She raised her eyebrows once, then her blue eyes crinkled as her lips pulled up into an inquisitive smirk.
“Hi,” he said. Then, as his own smirk turned into a small smile, he realized why she’d raised her brows. He was staring at her. “Sorry,” he mumbled and turned away, feeling hot.
Jaden studied the drugs on the shelf without seeing them, and the woman beside him turned toward him. He tried looking at her without looking, but couldn’t. He wished he had dark sunglasses...
“You’re bleeding,” she said to him. She pointed at her own nose, a visual clue.
Jaden touched his nose and saw his fingers. Indeed he was bleeding.
One thousand one.
The pain sliced his head like a helicopter’s rotor blades though a watermelon. Both he and the woman fell to the floor. He crumbled in spasms, his head exploding with pain. He blacked out for a moment, then his chest constricted—he couldn’t breathe!
“Hang on,” the woman said, grabbing his hand in hers. They were warm. “We’re going to take you to the hospital.”
Even though he felt himself drifting into unconsciousness, the severity of what she said gave him a small burst of urgent energy. He had to communicate how horrible that would be.
All he managed was a feeble: “No.”
Jaden Baker Page 36
