Paws

by Stefan Petrucha

  I give him an opening. “I like to be surprising sometimes, too.”

  “Do you?”

  I take another sip. “Uh-huh.”

  He leans forward and makes his voice low and husky. “How’s this for surprising? Want to get out of here? Go someplace and…talk?”

  Unable to move my mouth very much, I smile coyly. “You read me like a dirty book. I want to, but I’m not sure. Will I get to see what’s under the mask?”

  He winks. “Only one way to find out.”

  I pretend I’m still thinking about it. I look left, I look right. Then I meet his eyes. They’re brown, like mine. I know what I’m supposed to say, but I can’t do it. I can’t lie to him anymore.

  “I’ll be honest, Dick: I like you. Not in a gay way, but I get the feeling we could be buds—share some brews, play some Dragon Age.” I pick up my purse and open it on my lap. “Thing is, I just lost someone, a dog named Pop-pop. I thought I could just move on, but I can’t. A big part of the reason is that this sweet little puppy was bred to become a monster. He was made that way by some maniac out to form an army. So you caught me on the rebound—meaning this, whatever this is, wouldn’t last. Now, I don’t really know you, and you don’t really know me, but I’m going to go ahead and guess that neither of us really wants that.” I reach into the purse and slip my hand around the gun inside. “I figure it’ll be much better if I just kill you.”

  CHAPTER 23

  DICK’S smart. Well, smart is the wrong word. After all, he was ready to invite a strange woman back to his place. Quick. Quick is a better word. Not Quicksilver quick, but about as fast as I am.

  No sooner do I say kill than he’s jumping up from the chair.

  That move takes him three feet into the air. By the time I’ve got the gun out, he’s landing on the table. While I’m pulling the trigger, he’s kicking. As the Glock discharges, his fine leather shoe connects with my chin, ruining the shot.

  I go backwards. Dick goes running. Run, Dick, run.

  Works for me. Having explored my feminine side enough for one day, I could use a shot of testosterone. I tear away the fabric of my tasteful dress, revealing the black-and-red battle suit that hugs my manly muscles and, yes, rides up in places you don’t want to know about. All eyes are on me as I slip on my own mask. With a quick salute to my caffeinated admirers, I go after Dick, dodging skirts, ducking uniforms, racing around pedestrians, diving past suits.

  “Out of the way, you lame chase-scene obstacles!”

  But all the while, I’m thinking, calculating the best possible joke about his name to use when I catch him. Because, you know, it’s Dick. It’s only when he reaches the crosswalk that I come to the sad realization that none of what I’m coming up with can possibly make it into print.

  He’s halfway across when the light changes. Traffic rushes through, filling the space between us. Typically, this is the part where the good guy almost gets hit by a car, and then watches helplessly as the crook gets away.

  Not this time. First of all, I’m a half-block away. Second of all, Dick’s the one who gets hit. A late-model Subaru lurches into him. From here, it looks like the smack-up had to be worth a few broken bones—but no, he shakes it off and heads for the Subaru. Stunned, but a fast thinker, the meaty driver manages to close the window. Dick gets his own gun out and uses the grip to smash it in.

  He tries to do like Buscemi in Reservoir Dogs and pull the driver out the window to steal the car. Only—get this—the driver won’t fit! Oh, he tries to yank the poor guy through, but it’s not happening. When he sees me gaining, Dick gives up and goes back to running. Pretty funny, if you could see it. Plus, his little faux pas has managed to stop enough traffic for me to sail across the street without skipping a beat.

  We reach a more residential area (which in this part of the Big Apple just means that the tall buildings have apartments, not offices). Dick trips his way around some girls playing jacks. Barreling along in all my glory, I leap over them.

  Apparently, this reminds Dick he can jump, too. The lousy copycat bunnyhops across a line of merchant tables spread along the sidewalk. Postcards, old LPs, and African knickknacks go flying. Back on the pavement at the other end, he tries to stay true to the classic foot-chase trope by shoving a steaming hot dog cart in my way—but just like with the Subaru, his timing’s off. By the time I’m there, the cart is clattering against a building and not in my way at all—unless you count that delicious smell as an obstacle.

  I know I do!

  I pause to grab a footlong with relish. The garnish, not my emotional state—though I admit some relish on my part, as well. After comparing it to what I recall about Gomdulla the Living Pharoah’s finger a ways back, I return to the race, satisfied that my analogy was accurate.

  We all know it wouldn’t be a truly classic chase without two guys carrying a big pane of glass. And here they are. Trying to look cool about it, Dick ducks down and scrapes his side along the asphalt to slide under the plate glass. It’s tight, but he makes it.

  I give him an 8.7.

  Or I will, when I catch him.

  I’m too busy trying to reach him to imitate his slide, but I do manage to run around the glass. Sorry, guys, looks like we’ll avoid that cliché where the glass gets smashed. Seems a shame. Clichés become clichés for a reason. Like the elderly, they’ve earned some respect.

  What the hell. I spin back and give it a quick heel-kick.

  I call to the poor slobs carrying it: “Couldn’t resist, working citizens! But is there anything more satisfying than the sound of shattering glass?”

  They don’t respond. They just gesticulate like we’re in a silent film. You never hear a peep from the guys carrying the glass. Part of the deal.

  Dick turns at the corner. Since I’m running after him, I do, too. And what do you know? The whole street happens to be sealed off from traffic for a grand outdoor food festival! It’s one of those scenes that really remind you how many people fit into all these buildings. There are blocks and blocks of booths and food carts, bands, and street clowns—even a few of those giant twirling Chinese dragon puppets.

  Not so much a bull in a china shop as an evil villain in a hurry, Dick grabs and throws whatever he can at me: fried rice, shish kabob, empanadas, some kind of pasta dish, dough—you name it. Man, this festival is totally international!

  I happily catch a few fresh-cut fries in my mouth. The hot oil he sends flying my way after it doesn’t sit so good. It hisses where it hits my skin, which gives off a smell like broiled lamb that could use more seasoning. Sure, it hurts—but after getting pulped by Goom and his goombahs, and up close with Hulk butt, a little first-degree deep-fry only pisses me off.

  I pour it on. Almost got him—but out of nowhere, Dick does this great cartwheel that takes him between two tightly packed vendors and out the other side. He’s finally showing me something here. In answer, I do a double hand-flip and watch for his next move.

  Eh. The cartwheel was a one-off. He’s all dead-on running. It’s artless—brutish, even.

  He’s easy pickings, so I go back to trying to come up with a clever Dick joke. I mean, do they all have to be about size? It is the popular choice, I grant you, especially since that’s what she said is so overplayed.

  Hoping to get far from the maddening crowd (as opposed to The Madding Crowd, the Hardy novel), he ducks down an alley. It’s like he’s never seen a foot chase before. Of course it’s a dead end. The poor sap staggers to a halt in front of the only door—which, naturally, is locked. This was quick.

  I strut toward him, slapping my fist into my open palm. “In case you don’t get it, lemme explain. In a few seconds, my palm’s going to be your face. And my fist—well, that’ll still be my fist.”

  I figure it’s over. You probably figure it’s over. But that’s what we’re supposed to figure. Saving his best for last, Dick fly kicks the door like he’s spring-loaded. He hits hard enough to buckle it, yanks it out like it’s so much cardboard,
and dives inside. Now we’ve got a nice interior thing going. We’re hurtling through tight hallways; making quick, hairpin turns that take us from one long, dark corridor to another; flattening ourselves against the thickly painted plaster wall to slide past custodians and repairmen.

  The trick with a twisty corridor run is to never go all out. You don’t know exactly when that hall ahead of you is going to throw you a turn.

  Called it.

  Missing a righty, Dick crunches into the wall and stumbles. He keeps going, but that dent he leaves behind gives me an idea. Standard drywall’s half-an-inch thick. Figure the wall’s made out of two sheets—so all told, I’m headed for half an inch of gypsum, with some air in between. Not much for a well-built bruiser such as myself. Ignoring my own advice (who the hell asked me, anyway?), I go full-tilt boogie—thinking I’ll smash on through without losing any speed and, with a little luck, cut off Dick on the other side.

  The first part works out. I smash on through the plasterboard without losing any speed. But I didn’t figure the wall on the other side would be cinderblock. Rather than cracking a bone, hitting the concrete only makes my left arm pop out of the socket, causing what they call a dislocated shoulder.

  If that’s not bad enough, Dick didn’t even go this way. He went in the other direction—the one that leads to an exit. With a little more than my pride hurt, I trudge after him.

  It’s a whole new alley, wider than the last, but blocked off by a sheet-metal wall topped with coiled barbed wire. Dick’s almost at the top. His face is cut; he’s getting blood all over the nice barbed wire.

  I whistle.

  “Hey, Dick! Looks like you might make it—but unless there’s a sewer or some other kind of cool underground catacomb on the other side, I’m calling this chase finis.”

  The first katana pierces his casual jacket right above the shoulder and stabs through it to the metal. He tries to pull it out, but the second blade hooks his waistband, twisting him around.

  Hanging his head, he wisely gives up. “Good shot.”

  “I wish. I was trying to gut you, but I missed. Hey, we’ll talk in a sec, but I got my shoulder dislodged back there. Mind if I take a break to fix it?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I slam my shoulder into his chest. Dick pops up a little; my shoulder pops back into place. Pop-pop. That’s why I’m here.

  I grab his masked chinny-chin-chin. “Richard—can I call you Richard?—I’ve seen some really screwed-up crap lately, but I’ve still got to ask: What kind of madcap loon makes monsters that look like puppies?”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  I drop his head and give his cheek a pinch. “That’s not what Jane tells me.”

  “Jane? That lying—”

  “Careful. I’ve got a sweet spot for her.”

  His laugh is sad and beaten. “Jane’s using you the same way she used me—trying to keep you off track. Like I’m the mastermind. I’m no one. All I was supposed to do was design the website, and I haven’t even gotten around to that! I’m just a dupe, trapped in a sexless codependent relationship, serving her monster-army plans. She’s the evil one deserving of death! I can prove it. Reach into my pocket.”

  “No way. The date’s over.”

  “There’s a flash drive on my keychain. Get it.”

  I do. There is. “So?”

  “It’s security-cam footage from the lab. Look at it. That’s all I ask.”

  “Let’s say I do. What’ll I see?”

  “Jane.”

  “Naked?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.”

  “She’s with the puppies right after they were created. Right there on tape, she says, ‘I can’t wait until you’re all monsters, and I can use you to take over the world.’”

  “Think I was born yesterday?” I laugh. “That could mean a lot of things. She might be answering a trick question, like, ‘What would a super villain say about these puppies right now?’”

  “No tricks. It’s just her, alone with the dogs, laughing and carrying on about the carnage. I couldn’t see it before. I was distracted by her beauty, wrapped around her little finger—like you—but she’s crazy. Nothing short of death will keep her from trying to carry out her insane scheme.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Dick? Because you know, this is really, really serious.”

  He raises his head. I can see the tears welling up in those brown eyes of his. “I swear! I only want to be free of her. That’s why I responded to your email. I was so lonely. I wanted to hope.” He looks up at the sky and swallows. “But now all the world sees who the real fool is.”

  “You, right?”

  He nods. “You’re a mercenary. I’ll hire you to kill her. I’ll give you anything!”

  “She already hired me to kill you.” “I’ll pay you double. Triple.”

  I tap his nose with the drive. “This doesn’t pan out, I’ll be back in touch.” I’m about to leave, but something’s nagging at me. “Oh, and thanks a lot for running out and leaving me with the bill on our first date, Mr. Dine-and-Dash. When you pay me, it’ll have to be cash.”

  CHAPTER 24

  BACK at the lab—you know, the one with that big overstuffed containment tank—Al’s leaning against the only thing in the place that looks like what it is, a water cooler, as I fill her in. She’s full of questions, questions I wished I’d asked myself, starting with:

  “You just let him go? What the hell, Wade?”

  I try to explain, but I don’t really understand myself. “There was just…something about him that made me think he was telling the truth.”

  Balancing her hand atop the five-gallon bottle, she leans my way. “A twinkle in his eyes? His winning smile?”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, I walk toward a terminal. I keep my voice low as I pass.

  “I wouldn’t know. He was wearing a mask.”

  She pulls a paper cup from the dispenser and fills it, careful to keep a finger over the rim so she knows when to stop the tap. Then she takes a big swig of water and does a spit take in my direction.

  “A MASK? Didn’t you at least take it off when you had him pinned against the wall?”

  “I want to say yes, but…no.”

  “I’m really starting to worry about you. First you’re rolling around with those flea-bitten mutts, and now this. Lord knows you’ve screwed up before, but…”

  I toss my hands in the air. “I didn’t think of it, okay? I got all confused.” I plop into the seat and pound the keys, hoping to restore some of my dignity. “It’s not like I’m a complete basket case. I may not have mentioned it to our readers, but I did slip a tracer on him.”

  “Well, don’t get cocky about it. Even broken watches tell the right time twice a day.”

  I try to wow her with fancy tech-talk. “It wasn’t any old dime-store tracer, Al. It was a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued doohickey, a trillion circuits on the head of a pin, with a range of over umpteen billion miles. I’m telling you, that sucker can sense signals right through the core of the Earth—through the natural magnetic shielding and the mole people. Not only that, I can access the signal on scores of popular digital-media devices.”

  She harrumphs. “You even paid for the coffee, didn’t you?”

  Ignoring the question, I puff up my chest. “I’m telling you, I can find Dick whenever I want.”

  After an awkward silence, Al starts cackling. Her cup is still half-full, but spilling from her spasms of hysterical laughter.

  “Ohhh! Thanks for that. So, Lame Bond, where is he?”

  “Grr. Gimme a sec.” I hit a few keys.

  “So?”

  I hit a few more keys.

  “Yeah?”

  I hit all the keys.

  Then I hit this one key over and over again. Finally, I plug in the keyboard and hit a few keys again. The tracer interface comes up.

  “Huh. That’s funny. It’s dead.”

  “Not as fun
ny as you being able to find Dick any time you want—but, really, how can you follow that up?”

  I rub my chin thoughtfully. “He must have found it. He’s good. Real good.”

  A bony elbow nudges me. “Wade?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you turn it on?”

  I close my eyes. She starts laughing again. At least this time, her cup is empty.

  “Fine! So maybe he’s not that good. That only means it’ll be easier to catch him.”

  At first I think she’s patting my back, but she’s only supporting herself so she can keep standing while she howls. “Right. Great news! Man, Wade, sometimes I just don’t know how you’ve managed to keep me a prisoner for so long.”

  “Comes down to one thing, Al. I can’t die, so I always win eventually, as long as I don’t give up.”

  “Think so? Got a little logic gap there, right where your brain should be.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “What if somebody else dies, and you want them alive? Then you lose, don’t you? What was the name you gave that dog? Spit-spot?”

  I take Dick’s flash drive and plug it into the USB slot. “Pop-pop. I only lose if I care, Al. Only if I care.” As soon as it loads, the screen flashes. “See? There is a video file on this thing. So far so good.”

  The image is nearly all white. There’s an electronic rush, a steady pulsing. A sultry voice drifts from the speakers.

  “They all want me,” it says. “They can’t have me.”

  Al wrinkles her nose. “That your girlfriend?”

  I shush her. “Not sure. Sounds like Jane, but younger.”

  The pulsing continues. It grows. “Move with me. Chant with me.”

  I slap my hands. “It’s an arcane ritual! Jane must serve some demonic netherworld entity!”

  As if made manifest by unleashed eldritch energies, two wizened figures appear on the screen and speak in a foreign tongue. The words, the cadence…it all sounds so familiar, like the ghost of a memory haunting the edges of my consciousness.