Grounded (Out of the Box Book 4)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Wow,” I said. “I guess I just … I don’t know. It all seemed a little over the top. I was watching the news a couple weeks ago and …”

  She lowered her head, her lips turned faintly like a little ghost of a smile was there—the joy was long dead, all that was left was the form. “You’re talking about the sudden burst of spontaneous think pieces where they accused me of being the villain while Sovereign was actually a misunderstood reformer, aiming to change the world for the better?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That wasn’t …” I didn’t want to be insulting, but at the same time I had a question. “None of that was true, was it?”

  She shrugged and kept walking. “He wanted to change the world, all right. By wiping us all out, eliminating all armies and putting everyone under his boot heel. So, yes, you could call him a reformer, if you were a big supporter of Germany in 1938.” She smirked. “Which Time magazine was, apparently.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “So why’d they report it that way?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “We’ve got a PR flack named Jackie who says that she’s never seen anything quite like this. Like the entire press corps’ mood has just turned on me. She’s tried repeatedly to turn it around using every trick she has, and … she’s smart, I’ll give her that, but …” she shrugged again, “… no difference. They’re gonna keep coming at me.” Her jaw tightened. “And now that they’ve got a new favorite—”

  “You talking about Katrina Forrest?” That wasn’t exactly a tough leap to make.

  She seemed to speed up just slightly, pushing me to quicken my pace. “Was it that obvious?” she asked.

  “Not a whole lot of big-name metahumans out there,” I said. “You, your brother, Katrina, your ex … though you don’t hear much about him anymore.”

  “Scott?” She shook her head. “He wanted out. He’s in the family business now, out of the public eye as much as possible.”

  “So there’s really not a whole lot of examples to point to,” I said. “Once you get through that list, then you start getting into some of the nearly-nameless, like that guy whose ass you beat down in Manhattan—”

  “Eric Simmons,” she said, not looking all too happy.

  “Those Russians you killed when they tried to take over your headquarters, the Italian guy from the Vatican thing—”

  “Anselmo.” Her voice was hard.

  “You got like three-four heroes,” I said, “and a list of villains, most of whom are dead. Doesn’t give a lot of examples to point to when you’re looking for heroes. I mean, I’m now on the list of high-profile metas, and I’ve been in this game for like … ten minutes.”

  She cocked that eyebrow at me. “Yeah, I’d watch out for that if I were you. Just based on personal experience.”

  “You think Katrina would say the same?” I asked. Not quite banter, but it was a little pointed, I’ll admit.

  “No,” she admitted as we turned a corner. We were walking pretty fast now, but not so fast we were outpacing cars or anything. “She seems like she has the world by the damned tail.”

  “Well, if it’s like you describe,” and I was having a hard time believing it was that bad—call me an optimist at heart— “then she’ll probably catch the other side of that sword before too long.”

  “Shut up, Gavrikov,” Sienna muttered under her breath, so low even I could barely hear her. “We’ll see,” she said, back to normal volume. “Kat has a tendency to skirt through things mostly unharmed. She’s a little like Teflon in that regard. None of the bad stuff sticks to her.”

  “What about the good?” I asked.

  “Seems like she’s getting a fair dose of that, doesn’t it?” she asked. “Who’s she dating nowadays? One of the Hemsworth brothers or something?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Does it matter?”

  We fell into a silence that I could tell, just by looking at Sienna, was sullen as hell. “She lies about her age, you know,” she said after a moment’s pause. “She’s not really that young.”

  “Whaaaat?” I asked. “Girl looks like … twenty, tops. With that body? Or are you saying there’s some Photoshop going on there?”

  “There’s always Photoshop going on there,” she said. “But no, I mean she’s older than she says she is. We metas … a lot of us don’t age like others.”

  “So … you’re saying I could be like sixty and still look young enough to date eighteen-year-olds?” I felt my eyebrows rise. “Because that would be—”

  “Don’t creep,” she said and then hesitated. “But, yes, you could do that. Possibly even at a hundred and sixty, you could do that.”

  “Oh, damn!” I actually covered my mouth with my hands. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Man, this just keeps getting better.”

  She got sour fast. “Yes, it’s such a wonderful fringe benefit, constantly being able to sleep with young women under false pretenses while avoiding the discussion about your recent sesquicentennial and the embarrassing collapse of your birthday cake under the weight of all the candles. Don’t be a perv, Augustus.”

  “Hey,” I said, “you know, I just look at older women and I think … I’m not ready yet. I’m just glad to know that I have the option—”

  “Ugh, ewww, ugh,” she said, putting her hands over her ears. “Just … ewww. You’re Janus in training.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot all about him,” I said. “That dude was kind of famous for a minute, too, and then he went and disappeared. What was up with that?”

  She pursed her lips. “He and Kat broke up, and he went back to England.”

  I felt my brow furrow, my whole face shrivel up in disgust. “That old dude hit it with Katrina Forrest? Ohhhhh, that ain’t right!”

  A glimmer of amusement ran through her eyes. “Just think—someday that could be you.”

  “Ohhhh, yuck. I take it all back.” I held my head in my hands. “Damn, that just ruins my whole image of her.”

  “Because she slept with an older man?” Sienna scoffed. “Get over it. You could end up sleeping with a thousand-year-old meta woman without even realizing it, you know.”

  “She’d have to have a pretty damned hot—”

  “Oh, just stop it,” she said. “Are we close?” She nodded to the paper in my hand.

  “Ahead on the left,” I said, nodding at the house numbers. “Odds on this side of the street, so …”

  “Okay,” she said. “Watch out for vans filled with gunmen.”

  “That’s a conspicuous choice,” I said. “You’d think they’d just convoy in, like, two or three sedans, try and blend in a little or something.”

  “Strangely enough, I wasn’t expecting a van full of mercenaries when I crossed the street,” she said, “so really, they did okay on maintaining the element of surprise, I think. The residents didn’t seem to think anything was out of the ordinary either, except, you know, me crossing the street in front of them.”

  “Well, you kinda are a little white girl in a not-so-pearly neighborhood,” I said, sizing her up. She really was short. Not as tiny as Taneshia, but thicker, too. I had to look down to talk to her face. “They probably thought you were up to no good if they didn’t know you.”

  “I’m always up to no good,” she said and led me up the driveway of a house that had really been let go. It had shingles hanging off, plywood in the front window. I’d seen foreclosures around that had this problem. Kids would come and party in the houses, fire off paintball rounds or just tag the hell out of the interior with spray paint.

  Sienna paused for a second next to the old Buick in the driveway, leaned against it with a hand on the hood. “You been in this area before?”

  “Just passed through,” I said, looking up and down the street. “I don’t have any friends on this street or anything if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Close enough to what I was asking, yeah.” She knocked on the door, which was pitted and scarred like it hadn’t been replaced since the house was built and s
tood back, waiting for an answer.

  We stood there for a minute. “You think he lived alone?” I asked.

  “File said he lived with his mother.” She looked at the door intensely, and for a minute I wondered if she could see through it somehow.

  “Maybe she’s refusing to answer because she thinks we’re cops,” I said. “You’ve seen that before, right?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. I don’t tend to do a ton of investigating in my side of the business.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re mostly dragging people out of bank vaults and beating the hell out of them in restaurants,” I said, going back to that banter thing. She actually smiled on that one, though. “Don’t you have to find these people first, though?”

  “Yeah, but I mostly get the dumb ones,” she said. “Big egos, little brains. They’re practically defying authority in an effort to get caught. It’s like they’ve got daddy issues with law enforcement. Catch me if you can, and all that.”

  “Wouldn’t it be ‘mommy issues’ if you’re dealing with it?”

  She shrugged. “Whatever the case, it’s pretty straightforward. I’m not exactly a highly experienced investigator.” She hesitated for a second, looking a little reticent. “But, whatever, we’ll make it work.”

  I stared at her. “Did you just … did you just kind of, like … bluster your way through that?”

  She looked a little wounded. “I didn’t … I mean … I’m just saying that I’m not a detective by trade, okay? It’s a weakness, but, y’know, it’s something we can work around. It’s not a big deal.”

  “You’re after a murder suspect, aren’t you?” I asked. “Shouldn’t that be a big deal?”

  “I didn’t mean to say that the murders aren’t a big deal,” she said, slowing down her speech, “I mean … we’ll figure it out and catch who’s responsible. It’s all good practice for me.”

  “So you’re not exactly Sherlock Holmes is what you’re saying.” I leaned forward and pounded on the door. “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “Well, if lightning man peeks his ugly face out at us, you’ll find me reassuring as I beat the living daylights out of him.”

  “Does anyone actually use the phrase ‘the living daylights’ anymore?”

  She stared at me with a thin veneer of annoyance. “You’re really leaning on this banter thing. Nervous?”

  “I’m knocking on the door of a total stranger whose kid just got murdered by lightning,” I said. “It’s totally cool. I do this every week or so. It’s not unusual or uncomfortable at all.”

  Her gaze softened. “Just stick with me,” she said, and pounded the door with her fist again, this time with extra emphasis.

  “How do you know anyone’s even here?” I asked.

  “Car’s in the drive,” she said. “Hood’s still cooling off, which means it was parked recently. Someone’s here.”

  I let out a little whistle. “You’re getting the hang of this investigating thing, I think. What do you want to do?”

  “I’ll go around back and knock there,” she said. “You stay here.”

  I got the feeling from the way she said it that there was more in her mind than she was letting on. “You’re not about to force entry, are you? Because like I told that cop last night, I got a clean record, and I need to keep it that way—”

  “I’m not going to break down the door,” she said. “Just want the person inside to feel a little surrounded. Plus, if they haven’t closed their curtains, they’re going to feel stupid if I walk around back and catch them standing there pretending they’re not home.”

  “What if they’re in their underwear?” I asked. She gawked at me. “People do that, you know, when they’re at home. They could be in the bathroom—”

  “Just stand here,” she said and started off across the overgrown lawn, disappearing around the back.

  I just sort of stood there on the front porch, not really sure what I should do. There was a little peephole, and I looked at it for a minute before I decided to lean in and take a look.

  I saw an eyeball looking back at me.

  I let out a short, sharp “Ahhh!” and heard one coming from the other side of the door, maybe a little higher than mine. I stepped back and heard the deadbolt slide, then the door unlocked and a short woman with a scowl who looked like she came up to about my belly button was staring up at me, grey hair all done up in a bun.

  “What do you want?” she asked, hand against her chest. “You just about gave me a heart attack!”

  “Uhm,” I said, tongue twisting around, “I’m, uh … Augustus.”

  She peered at me through her thick glasses. “Augustus who? That doesn’t tell me anything. What do you want?”

  “I’m here about, uh … Kennith?”

  “You asking or you telling me that?” She took her hand off her chest.

  “I’m here about Kennith,” I said. “I wanted to ask you some questions.”

  “Who are you with?” That scowl made me want to take another step back.

  “I’m with, uh …” I tried to remember the mouthful of jargon that Sienna’s agency was called. “The, uh … metahuman police.”

  She gave me a look. “The who what?”

  “The agency responsible for policing metahumans,” Sienna answered for me as she came around the corner, floating through the air. “Ms. Coy?”

  “Mrs. Coy,” the lady answered, staring furiously at her, like her floating was nothing. “And don’t you make any jokes about it, either.”

  “Oh, coy, like—” I started then stopped myself. “Well, you did refuse to answer the door for a while, so … maybe you shouldn’t play it so—”

  She raised a hand like she was going to hit me, and I stopped and took a step back. “I am your elder and you will respect me,” she said. “If your mother didn’t teach it to you, come a little closer and I will.”

  “Ma’am,” Sienna said as she landed on the front porch, “we’re here about Kennith.”

  “I heard him the first time he said it,” Mrs. Coy said, staring her down. “What do you need to say about him?”

  Sienna gave me a look, something in the realm of This lady is going to be a pain in the ass. “We’re here about what happened to him.”

  “You mean how he died?” she asked, getting right to it. Even Sienna looked a little taken aback by her bluntness on that one.

  “Uhh … yeah,” I said. “That’s right.”

  “Well, then why didn’t you just say that?”

  “It’s kind of a delicate thing,” Sienna said. “I didn’t want to just throw it out there in case no one had told you …”

  Mrs. Coy’s head dropped. “You didn’t think I’d notice my boy got struck by a bolt of lightning outside my own window?” She yanked the glasses off her head and thrust them out at each of us in turn. “How blind do you think I am that something like that would escape my notice?” She turned her head, showing us each of her ears in turn. “Do you see hearing aids here? Do you think I would miss the crack of thunder?”

  “Was there a crack of thunder?” Sienna asked, and for a minute I thought Mrs. Coy was going to lunge right out at her.

  “Of course there was a crack of—” Mrs. Coy’s face got screwed up for a minute, and then she paused, like she was thinking about it. “Well, there had to be, didn’t there? Of course there was. Thunder follows lightning, that’s how it is.”

  “Thunder follows lightning because the air currents make that noise as the electricity is discharged from clouds or something, right?” I asked Sienna. She just sort of shrugged and nodded, all in one. “So if he was killed by someone who could shoot lightning out of their hand, there wouldn’t be thunder, would there?”

  “What in the blue hell are you talking about?” Mrs. Coy asked.

  “Ma’am,” Sienna said gently, which sounded a little strange on her, “we think Kennith was killed by a metahuman who generates lightning bolts from their hands.” She lowered her voice even fur
ther, almost to a whisper. “We think he was murdered.”

  Mrs. Coy put her glasses back on and squinted at us, smacking her lips together like she was thinking something over real hard. “You think he was murdered?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sienna said.

  “By a bolt of lightning?”

  Sienna looked to me again, and this time I could see the pained need for reassurance pass across her face in a flash quicker than the lightning we were discussing. I got it, because Mrs. Coy had one of those personalities like those clouds that make thunder—she made everyone want to wince and take a step back. “Yes, ma’am. We think so. We’d like to ask you some questions about Kennith because … we’re trying to track down the person we think did this.”

  Mrs. Coy screwed up her face again, and then pushed her door wide open. “You can come in, then.” And she backed away from the door slowly, shoulders hunched over, looking for the first time not like a force of nature hurling herself at us at the gates to her own castle but like a woman—an older woman—who had lost her son.

  18.

  Sienna

  Mrs. Coy’s house smelled of good food. We followed her down the hall into a living room that looked well-lived in, older furniture that had a stately aura about it—classy and aged well, kind of like the woman herself. The outside of the house might have been a little rough, but the inside was the domain of this tiny terror, and she clearly kept it completely in line, like her own personal kingdom.

  “Y’all want anything to eat?” Mrs. Coy asked. “People from the church brought all manner of food.”

  “I just ate,” I said apologetically. I watched Augustus catch her eye and shake his head.

  “I can’t hear your head rattle,” Mrs. Coy said, eyeing him.

  “Ah, no, ma’am, thank you,” Augustus said, tripping over his words. I couldn’t blame him; she had that effect on me, too.

  “Would you like some iced tea?” she asked, passing through a small gap between counter and wall into a kitchen on the far side of the room.