Face the Change (Menopausal Superheroes Book 3)

by Samantha Bryant

  The Director spoke softly. “We’ll do everything we can for your mother, Mary. Therapy. Treatment. Whatever you want. You can have a say in every decision. We want to help.” Mary bristled, but she didn’t feel the push at her mind or tug at her emotions that she’d felt earlier. The Director seemed to be perfectly sincere.

  “What makes you think I can help you?”

  “Look at me, Mary.”

  She complied.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  Squinting to focus better, she looked. “A tall, slender man, around thirty, with an uncanny resemblance to a young Jimmy Stewart.”

  “Look harder.”

  She did. Her vision seemed to grow cloudy. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hands and refocused her glare. The Director’s face seemed to waver for a moment as she examined it, going in and out of focus. Then, suddenly, she saw him clearly. A short, slightly stocky man of about forty-five years of age. Brown hair, receding hairline, weak chin. Mary frowned. Was this another trick?

  “I don’t look much like Jimmy now, do I?”

  Mary shook her head. She walked around the man, examining him from every angle. She was tempted to poke him to see if he were really there.

  “I’m throwing everything I have at you,” he said, smiling and revealing teeth that overlapped slightly in the front. “And you can still see through me. That’s what we need you to do. To look and tell the rest of the team what you see. My agents can’t trust their senses on this one, so I’m going to ask them to trust you.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Men like Leonel are true believers. There’s value in that clarity of vision, that sureness. But it’s not enough on its own. Sometimes it’s exactly the wrong thing. What we need now are more skeptics.”

  “I’m feeling pretty skeptical right now.” Mary paced a few steps away, wanting to think and knowing she needed to act. “You haven’t exactly given me a lot of reasons to trust you.”

  The Director looked down at his shoes. Either he felt remorse, or he knew how to fake it. Maybe even both. “I wish I could go back in time and change the way we brought you in. Of course, we didn’t know then how talented you are.”

  Mary crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “You’re not helping your case by telling me that you only care how I feel now because you want to use me.”

  “I deserve that. But innocents are being hurt here. And you could save them. Don’t let my stupidity and arrogance stand in the way of your chance to make a difference.” The Director’s voice had risen in passion. The speech felt a little practiced, but that didn’t negate its truth.

  “I help you, and you help my mother.”

  The Director held out a hand, smiling. Mary didn’t take his fingers right away. “And I get to define what help means.”

  A quick nod. Mary looked into his face again, searching for any subterfuge or manipulation. When she didn’t find any, she held out a hand for the Director to shake. “In that case, I’m your girl. I’ve got a gold-plated bullshit detector. I’m glad to hear it’s good for something.”

  “Thank you.” The Director turned to walk back to the van. It had backed up and was parked outside the alley. He turned back and grinned at her as he climbed into the front seat. His face seemed to stretch out until it reformed into his Jimmy Stewart-wannabe visage. “Welcome aboard, Mary.”

  Sally Ann Makes a House Call

  Sally Ann examined the device in her hand again. It didn’t look like much. A little flexible rectangle, no larger than your average flash drive, backed with tiny needles. The research department had put them together using Dr. Harvey’s notes. Walter had practically vibrated with excitement as he attempted to explain the science—something about ATP and cellular energy depletion—but the takeaway for Sally Ann had been pretty simple. If you can affix one of these to each of The Six, their powers will weaken, and the team can take them in. Theoretically.

  Sally Ann wished she had more to go on than “theoretically.” They knew far too little about the two members of The Six who had been making appearances in public. Even less was known about the other four holed up in this house.

  She picked up her binoculars and examined the house again. It was a simple cottage, probably two bedrooms. An old, black woman with a head full of white curls sat out on the front porch in a rocking chair. It was her house, but she’d been sitting there a long time. Too long in this weather. Closer examination by zooming in the view revealed that the woman’s pants were wet, the ringed pattern suggesting she had urinated some hours ago and had been sitting there in the ruined pants ever since. But, she showed no sign of getting up, despite the lack of any visible restraints. Sally Ann felt sure they were seeing another victim of The Six. Probably a hypnotic suggestion not to move. Poor woman.

  According to Dr. Harvey’s notes, they were facing a range of psychic skills. Sally Ann had already seen Corman’s coercion and Matheson’s influence over perception, up close and in person. She’d memorized the details of the other four, along with their photographs. Lillian had limited foresight; Henry could read minds, but he required physical contact to do it; Ava could hypnotize with the sound of her voice; and Georgia had remote viewing. None of them were anywhere near as strong as Corman or Matheson, but all of them had skills that could prove useful in the right circumstances. She could see why Corman and Matheson would keep them around.

  “Knowing is half the battle,” Sally Ann whispered to herself. She wished she knew what the other half might entail. Her team was as ready as they could be and would improvise the rest when the time came.

  There was no other motion visible from outside the house. The team following Matheson and Corman had tracked them back into downtown. Sally Ann tried not to worry about what trouble they were cooking up there, and to focus on the here and now. While the cats were away, they could catch the mice. If they moved now.

  Sally Ann sent the signal, and the team converged on the house, one agent coming from each side. Sally Ann had the front door, the most exposed position. She swung over the porch railing and landed as soundlessly as possible at the feet of the old woman in the rocking chair. The woman didn’t move. Sally Ann checked the woman’s pulse. Alive, though her skin was cold and a little clammy. Possible shock.

  She grabbed a blanket that was draped over the porch railing and tossed it across the woman’s shoulders. The woman didn’t move, but her lips trembled. Sally Ann whispered. “We’re here for the people inside, ma’am. It’s going to be all right.” She hoped she wasn’t lying to the old lady. Once she got inside, a rescue team would get the woman to a hospital.

  As she crouched by the door, she could hear an argument raging inside. “We can’t wait any longer,” someone shouted, a man’s voice. That had to be Henry. Another voice called out, “Archie and Agatha are in place. I can see them. You’ll ruin everything.” The last voice was slow and sleepy. “It’s too late. They’re here.”

  Sally Ann wrapped a piece of cloth around her hands, then kicked the door hard, below the doorknob. There was a splintering sound. She could hear the back door and side window breaking at the same time. Crouching low, she rolled into the room and found three people grouped in the center of the room.

  Unraveling the cloth, she hurried for the woman in the wheelchair and gagged Ava before she could speak and use her hypnosis to influence anyone, then cuffed her hands behind her. The woman thrashed and muttered in the chair, but the other two stood with their hands up, wisely choosing not to fight the agents. “Find the fourth one,” Sally Ann shouted, pulling her gun to help keep the other two women in place.

  “I told you they were coming,” one of the women whined, rocking back and forth.

  “Shut up, Lillian,” said the other.

  “Sorry about this, ladies.” Sally Ann pulled three of the devices out of her vest pockets, affixing one to the back of each woman’s neck, starting with the hypnotist. They winced when the small needles pierced their skin but showed no other sign of discomfort.

>   Two of the other agents followed Sally Ann’s signal to cuff the women and remove the prisoners to the transport van awaiting them. “Keep that one gagged,” she said, pointing at Ava. The others shouldn’t be too dangerous to the agents, even if the ATP suppressors didn’t work, but Ava could be a bad influence.

  Sally Ann moved swiftly around the room, making sure no other people lurked in doorways or closets or behind the furniture. She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the ambulance leaving. The old woman would get some care now. Tapping her earpiece, she spoke softly into the microphone. “Lester. Report.”

  “Back bedroom,” came the response. “He’s locked himself in.”

  Sally Ann turned into the hall, and after a brief glance to verify it was empty except for Agent Lester, approached. “Come on out, Henry,” Sally Ann called, rapping on the door.

  “Go away. I’ve got a gun.”

  Sally Ann looked down at her own sidearm, back in its holster. Why did people always seem to think that simply having a gun was enough to ward off trouble? In her experience, they brought trouble more often than they solved it, especially when wielded by people with no training or expertise. She gestured to Mike, a quick spin of her finger in the air. He nodded his comprehension and crept out of the hallway.

  “We’ve already got your friends, Henry. We don’t have to do this the hard way. Come out, and we’ll talk.”

  “She’s coming back. She said we should wait here. She promised to take care of us.”

  “Who, Agatha?”

  Silence behind the door.

  “Henry?”

  Still more silence. Then a surprised whoop. A scuffle and a thump. Sally Ann pulled her gun and backed a few steps further away from the door, positioning herself defensively. The door opened. Henry came out with his hands up, followed by Mike Lester, who held his gun against the back of the man’s head.

  “Relax, Mike,” she said, holstering her weapon and pulling out another suppression patch. “He’s hardly a criminal mastermind. This one’s got family looking for him.”

  “They don’t want me back,” the man said, dropping to his knees. “I heard their thoughts. They wish I was dead.”

  “You shouldn’t hold it against them, Henry. People think a lot of things they don’t really mean.”

  “Not Agatha,” he said. “She means what she says.”

  “And what did she say?” Lester asked, pulling the now-woozy man back to his feet.

  “She’ll make him listen. He’ll have to do what she says. Just like everyone.”

  “Who?” Sally Ann.

  “The mayor.”

  Cindy Faces the Music

  Mekai wouldn’t let Cindy drive, and she was terrible at giving directions, so it took them two hours to drive the thirty miles from the storage unit to Mary Braeburn’s apartment. Her father peppered her with questions the entire way. “Who is this woman again? How does the heat transfer work? Is it wise for us to go barreling up to her front door like this?” Cindy grunted noncommittal replies, staring hard at the road ahead like she could will them to just get there already. It was early evening when they arrived. The apartment looked empty, and there were no cars parked in front of it.

  They continued past, turned around and pulled into an empty parking spot along the street. “You sure this is the place?” Mekai threw the car into park.

  Cindy didn’t blame him for sounding doubtful. The place was a dive. The building seemed to sag rather than stand fully upright. “This is where she was staying. It’s her daughter’s place.”

  “And you said this woman can throw fire?” Her father still sounded incredulous, despite all the evidence he’d seen. How a man living in someone else’s body could be so sure that something like this was impossible was beyond her.

  Cindy tugged at the baggy tee shirt she had pulled over the change of clothes. It was stiff with fireproofing. So was her hair. Her skin was oily with a protectant as well. She hoped it would be enough to keep her alive. With more time, she could have made something less disgusting, but she’d been in a hurry and efficacy was more important than aesthetics. She glared at her father. “The treatment was for hot flashes. The fire was a side effect.”

  “Yeah, I guess you could call it that,” Mekai grunted. Cindy shot him a look—did Mekai think so little of her? She wasn’t indifferent to what had happened to the women using her products. If she could, she would help them. None of this had been part of the plan.

  “You will have to tell me more about this treatment you gave this woman,” her father piped up from the backseat. The man had been a magpie since her formula had taken full effect, chattering constantly. She supposed it was an improvement from his near-comatose state. At least he could move from place to place without assistance now. But damn, she wished he would just shut up and let her think.

  She turned to him and held up a hand. Patricia used to call it her diva hand. It had always been highly effective at shutting down unwanted advances of one kind or another. Her father made an offended hiccup of a sound, but it got him to stop talking for a moment.

  “I’m going in,” she said, getting out of the car. “If I’m not back in five minutes…”

  “I’m not going in after you,” Mekai said. “You’re on your own here, shortcake. My duty is to your father first. That’s who Bertrand promised to help. I’ll wait up to one hour.”

  Not for the first time since Mekai had come back into her life, Cindy wished she had managed to give herself the ability to throw fire, instead of wasting it on Helen. The man would be a pile of ash by now. Of course, hot flashes had not been her issue. She’d been more concerned about running out of time. There was so much still to learn and do. Looking back at the car, she thought about her father sitting inside it, wearing the skin of another man—his own attempt to extend his time on Earth.

  He would argue they were two of a kind, but Cindy didn’t believe that. He had killed so many to further his ends; she had never hurt anyone, at least not intentionally. She didn’t hold out much hope she could convince Helen of that. But she had to try, or else her research was stalled.

  It was time to face the music. Cindy squared her shoulders, hitched up her pants, and marched to the front door. The white door was half-covered in peeling paint. Helen’s daughter must still be living like a student. Of course, Cindy was one to talk. She hadn’t bothered to change a thing when she inherited her mother’s home. Maybe Helen’s daughter was like her that way—too focused on life and work to care for things like painted doors and trimmed grass.

  The door was ajar, and when she pushed, it creaked open. Cindy wished Mekai was with her after all. The man may be annoying, but he was also solid, dangerous, and well-armed. Then again, if Helen waited in there plotting her revenge, his gun was unlikely to do them any good.

  Cindy stood in the doorway, listening, hoping against hope the place was empty and at the same time desperate to find Helen there and persuade her to relinquish the emeralds. She could hear a television murmuring but couldn’t see it from the doorway. Leaning in, she saw no one. She entered the apartment, leaving the door open behind her in case she needed to escape.

  It was a small place, in ordinary disarray. It didn’t take long to explore the whole thing and establish that no one was there. There were signs of Helen everywhere: a half-filled coffeepot, scorch marks on the furniture, a box of Surge Protector pills. Cindy grabbed the box in triumph. Those had come from her storage unit. Maybe the emeralds were here, too. She knocked the papers and magazines to the floor and flung the boxes aside in her haste to see what was there. But there was nothing. Just more boxes of the pills and another half-filled mug of coffee now spattered all over the ugly gray rug.

  Helen probably had the emeralds with her, wherever she’d gone.

  The phone rang.

  Cindy stared at it for two rings, before launching herself across the apartment and picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

  Harsh breathing was all she heard at f
irst, then a slow, suspicious voice said, “Who is this?”

  Cindy tried to force some strength into her wavering adolescent voice, but it still squeaked. “Helen? Is it you?”

  “Who is this? Where’s my daughter?”

  “It’s me. Cindy.” She paused but got no response. “I don’t know where your daughter is. She was gone when I got here.” The last thing she needed was Helen thinking she’d hurt her child, too.

  Helen laughed, coughed, and then laughed again. There was a little mania in the sound, and something colder. “You got my message, did you? Bet you were surprised to hear from me.”

  “I did. And I was.” She waited. Nothing. Cindy had no idea what to say. Should she beg for mercy? What kind of apology could she offer for leaving this woman for dead in the hands of their enemies? “I’m here now. Where are you?”

  During the long pause, Cindy could hear muffled shouting and sirens going by. “Meet me downtown. There’s a plaza in front of City Hall. I’ll be by the statue of the fat, old man.”

  Cindy hung up the phone, took one last hopeless look around the apartment, and closed the door behind her. She stood looking up at the moon just beginning to show over the horizon. Chang’e, the woman in the moon, was up there, laughing at her.

  Mary in the Line of Fire

  The van careened around the corner, slammed into reverse, and started back the way it had come. The whole thing happened so fast, Mary barely registered what was happening before she found herself flat on the floor of the van with Jorge on top of her. “What’s going on?” She grunted and they disentangled their limbs and let Fuerte pull them up.