“I took a good flight, that's all,” I said, stretching. A couple solid bruises still protested on my back where I'd come in for a hard landing. “I've had way worse beatings. Clearly Mr. Smokeskin wasn't serious about hurting me.” Gondry cocked his head at me. “Sorry...I make up stupid names for my villains because they don't usually introduce themselves politely before trying to kill me, and I just can't handle saying, 'That guy,' or, 'the lady who tried to kill me this afternoon.' It's all very unwieldy, ergo...”
“'Mr. Smokeskin.'” Gondry nodded. “Yours is a peculiar business, and having now seen it from the inside...one I would not wish to participate in on a regular basis. Do you have a name for my assassin yet?”
I almost said, “Phinneus,” flat out, but held that one in. “I dunno. I'm not great at naming. My inclination goes to, 'Mr. Shooty Bang-Bang.'”
The president cringed. “You're right about the naming thing. Perhaps 'Shooter McJerkface?'”
“I like it. Feels like you've done this before. And are maybe a fan of Happy Gilmore.”
“A classic of comedy,” the president said. “Sienna...thank you again.”
“You're welcome, Mr. Pr–” I caught a glare from him. “–errr...Richard.”
“Better.” He paced to the far corner of the room. The place was lit brightly, and I noted work lights plugged into every outlet, eight of them in total, chasing away all the shadows in the place. The Secret Service had wised up quickly and taken my advice at top speed. “So...what do we do about Shooter McJerkface and his friends?”
“I have a simple method for dealing with situations like this,” I said, and he turned to look at me. “Find 'em, fight 'em, kill 'em.”
“That's not so much a 'we' thing as–”
“Yeah, it's on me,” I said. “Your job is to bunker down, and also to run the executive branch. I'm sure that the latter is very light work and you'll be done for the week in an hour or so tomorrow morning, so after that you can just chill, watch a little Netflix, maybe catch up on Downton Abbey.”
He settled his gaze on me. “Why would I watch Downton Abbey?”
“Because it's a really good show,” I said, pushing up off the couch. I was very tired, and felt like I could conk out right there.
“What are you going to do?” the president asked.
“Chase my tail, I suspect.” I frowned, scanning the room. There were oil paintings on the wall, antique furniture was everywhere. The only concession to modernity was the work lights, and if they'd been pointed at the furnishings and paintings rather than at random spots on the wall, the place would have looked like a museum. “That's what I've been doing so far, muddling my way through. It's a thing I do, you see. Muddle my way through to the end of a case.”
The president frowned. “That makes it sound rather...haphazard.”
“Typically, it is,” I said. “Motives, perpetrators, their plans...they unfold as the case goes on. I'm not farsighted enough, or predictive enough to know what's coming. I'm constantly surprised by the lengths people go to, the things they do. Sometimes I wish my powers had gone to a Sherlock Holmes type, because I'm forever getting blindsided by...well, lots of things.” I sat back down, because by golly, I felt like it. And because I felt like I'd stood up too suddenly.
The president pondered this for a moment, then nodded. “I did a rather exhaustive survey of your 'cases' last year, after Revelen. Your entire file, really, from the Directorate up to present. It seems to me you've always done the best you can, and in rather less than ideal circumstances in most cases.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, genuinely curious what the president was talking about.
Gondry smiled faintly. “You left your house for the first time in your post-childhood life when you were seventeen, correct?”
“Yeah, I was a shut-in.”
“Well, it seems to me,” the president said, “most young women in your situation would have struggled to adapt to the outside world. You were, after all, a bit like Miranda from The Tempest.”
“Oh, it was a brave new world, all right.”
He smiled. “But you didn't just find yourself thrown, you found yourself thrown into the worst part of it. I read about Wolfe. The government has a long file on him. The FBI's known about him since its inception. Do you know what instructions were appended to it? 'AVOID AT ALL COSTS.'” He gave me a look of great significance. “You're not the first metahuman in government service, after all. They consciously avoided Wolfe for almost a hundred years. His brothers, too – but you killed all three. Wolfe within days of leaving your house for the first time. His brothers...what? A year later?”
“The timeline is fuzzy in my head but yeah...probably. After I discovered my powers. The additional ones, you know.”
“Another interesting thing about that file,” the president said, pacing past me and stopping in front of a painting of a woodland scene defined by its messy brushstrokes. “Scotland.”
“Ah, yes. My finest hour,” I said sarcastically.
“That Rose was a bonafide threat to the world,” he said, looking over his shoulder at me. “She was immensely powerful, she grew under our very noses and not a security service on the planet noticed. She leveled your offices in Minnesota, and no one could stop her – except you and your friends.”
“Well, what can I say? I have some powerful friends.”
Gondry laughed. “You shouldn't have any friends at all with your upbringing. You realize that, don't you? You should be...isolated. Untrusting. Forever alone, doomed to be unable to form proper social connections to people.”
“That's...cheerfully specific, as diagnoses go,” I said, frowning.
“I had a psychologist in to talk about it,” the president said. “One night for dinner. A whole panel of experts – on you.”
“Uh, sir,” I said, “I'm hearing what you're saying here, but I'm starting to get a little concerned that you've spent this much time thinking about me, my doings, my upbringing, all that–”
“Most people would be flattered, I would think,” the president said, arms tightly behind him. “To have the president give this much thought to them. To their history, their life, their current...predicament.”
“Yeah, well, don't take this the wrong way, but to me the scrutiny feels a little like the eye of Sauron,” I said. “I do what I do because I'm the only one who can. Or who wants to. But if I could do it anonymously...be assured I would.”
“That's something the psychologist told me,” he said, pensive. “That you seem to eschew fame. A curious quirk, very...not of your generation, with their Instaphoto and Influencers and whatnot.”
“Definitely down to my upbringing, I'm sure,” I said, suddenly feeling like I was trapped in here with someone whose interest in me had grown somewhat...uncomfortable. Would anyone notice if I bolted?
Oh, right. It was the White House. How could they not?
“You have a look about you,” the president said. “Like you think I'm about to skin you alive to make a dress of your flesh.”
“The goods news is, I'd survive that and it'd grow back, so if you are Buffalo Bill, I'll be okay after some serious discomfort,” I said, a little weakly, because...
...Because the president of the United States seemed to be about two steps short of dropping to his knees and bowing to worship me. Or at least that was how I was reading it.
“You saved my life,” the president said quietly.
“So has the Secret Service, sir,” I said, standing rigidly. “This is the job.”
He nodded slowly. “And that's all it is to you? A job?”
“No,” I said. “Not exactly. It's more than that, or I wouldn't have done it while on the run all those years.”
There was a gleam in his eye. “A calling, then?”
“For lack of a better word.”
“This makes you uncomfortable,” he observed. “Why?”
“It's a little like feeling beholden to save people sometimes,” I said
. “And it's a great way for my enemies to trap me. Any time they want to, just put lives on the line. Random strangers, my friends, the president – they do that, they know I'll come running.”
He nodded again. “So you're duty bound to save me, then?”
“I have to save you, yes,” I said. “But it's more than duty.”
The president turned to me, and his eyes were haunted. “Save me, Sienna. Please. Like you have before.”
I didn't know quite how to respond to that. “Sir, is there something you're not telling me...?”
“I've been in this job for two years,” the president said, shoulders sagging, “and I feel it eating at me. I can't let go because I'm afraid of what someone else would do with it. We do some good, you know? We try, anyway. But part of me wants to let go, too. To throw it all away, all this responsibility it entails. In days of old, it would be 'godlike', this power that I have to watch people, to kill people. I have armies at my command, the ability to ruin lives at my fingertips. Any mortal who takes command of this office and doesn't feel that awe...I fear to hand that power over. I fear what others, more ambitious, less moral, might do with it.” He stared at me – through me, almost, still haunted, speaking so quietly. “Why would they want me dead but to put someone else in my position? Someone more amenable to...whatever it is they want.”
“China,” I said quietly.
“China,” Gondry agreed. “And maybe more, besides. Barbour would get back to business as usual. Let China run roughshod in every way. Make peace without conditions so that the donors could have their deals and she could get back to enacting the party agenda.” He bowed his head. “So, yes, I fear losing my grip. I fear dying – not because I fear death. In some ways, it'd be a blessing to lay all these burdens down and erase those worries about who succeeds me. But I can't. I can't. And you're the only one who can protect me. They're coming. With metas, they're coming. So...will you...stay with me, Sienna? Save me...from them?” His eyes locked on mine, so plaintive, so...
Fearful.
“Yes, sir,” I said, without another thought. Of course I had to. “Of course I will, sir. And I'll stop them, too.” I nodded, slowly. “I'll stop them.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Julie
She shut the door as the FBI agents walked off, down the front steps, retreating into the darkness of the night. Their queries had been quiet, patient, not hard and fast like she'd have expected from an interrogation.
They'd all been centered on the reporting from the websites, seeming to avoid asking about any actual crimes, at least as far as she could tell. Julie put her back against the front door, sagging against it, all the breath and energy gone from her. Now she really did need that glass of wine.
But Dom was there, in the entry to the kitchen, arms folded in front of him. “What'd they say?”
She stared at him languidly. “You weren't listening? We were sitting in the dining room. There aren't any doors separating us from here.”
“Of course I was listening,” Dom said petulantly. “I was asking to be polite.”
Julie pushed her hair back behind her ears. “Eavesdropping is polite? Interesting take.” She took a few steps to the nearest chair and collapsed into it. She needed to sit first. Wine could come later.
“I'm your husband,” Dom said, standing there, foreboding. “I have a right to know what's going on with you, especially when two men with guns show up at our house – our children's house, Julie – and question you for an hour!”
“I didn't do anything wrong,” she said, just so tired. “You heard them. They were asking about the reporting. The stupid...” She didn't even want to say it out loud, so she whispered it. “...The drinking on the job stuff. The...affairs stuff.” She shook her head. “I don't even know why the FBI would care about that.”
Dom's eyes blazed. “I care about it.”
“Of course you would, you'd be personally involved if it happened,” she said. “But what would the FBI have to do with it? It makes no sense.” She pushed her hair back again; regularly bowing her head with the hair free was causing it to spill over her eyes.
“I can't have you here when – men with guns just came to our door, Julie,” Dom said. He sounded hoarse. Serious. “We can't – that's not safe.”
“I didn't do anything wrong!” She almost shouted it. “I got fired, Dom – but I didn't do anything – none of these things they're talking about happened, okay? I–”
“You came home drunk, Julie,” Dom said quietly. “And all this other stuff – I mean, it's everywhere. They're talking about it everywhere.”
“I came home drunk one time! One!” She threw her arms wide in exasperation. “And I have no idea where any of the rest of this is coming from. None!”
“I got to thinking about it, though, after I read another of those pieces,” Dom said. “How many times did you come dragging in after midnight? When I was already asleep or barely awake? I'm a sound sleeper. I don't even know what condition you were in.”
“Sober and tired,” she said, feeling disbelief absolutely shellack her like a slap across the face. “Because I was working late!”
“I...I just...” Dom shook his head. “I don't know, Julie. This is all...it's so much.”
“Someone is feeding the press this stuff, Dom,” she said, voice rising. “You can't possibly believe any of–”
“I don't know what to believe,” Dom said, standing statue-like, what felt like a million miles between them. “But...I don't believe you. And knowing that the FBI is getting involved...I don't feel safe with the kids here knowing that they're investigating you for something and you won't even cop to what it is.”
“Because I don't know!”
“Maybe.” He shook his head. “But you have to leave. I need...I need some space to think about this. And I don't want the kids to have to deal with...with this.”
“They're my kids–”
“Come on, Julie,” Dom said, so condescending, so angry, so suddenly. “You haven't been around for a while. I've been playing single dad while you were at work for months. I can't believe I didn't see it before.” He shook his head again. “It all makes sense now, if what they're saying is true–”
“It's not! I haven't been–”
“–The late nights. The early mornings. You could have been sleeping around all that time, how would I know?” He wasn't yelling anymore. He'd taken a tone of quiet accusation, and it felt like a dagger straight into Julie's heart.
“But the kids,” she said softly.
“They won't know the difference,” Dom said. “I'll tell them mommy's gone back to work. You gotta go, though. For a while, at least, until this gets settled. I need some...time.”
That blade of pain settled between her ribs as Dom shuffled off and left her alone. Which was fitting because that was exactly what he was doing to her in life, as well.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Sienna
“How are you feeling?” Reed asked me, safely ensconced in the quiet world of the dreamwalk. He was wearing his normal clothes today, no robe and bunny slippers to entertain me and invite mockery. Clever guy, my bro.
“I take it by the question you were watching Mr. Smokeskin play shot put with me across the reflecting pool?” I asked, slumping back on my favorite couch. I missed having a good couch, a familiar couch, a home couch. All the furnishings in my DC apartment were crap, temp stuff. All hard as a rock, or with springs poking into the material from advanced age.
“I did,” Reed said. “Or we did, rather, because the whole office was present. It looked like the landing was hard enough that Dad could have felt it.”
I winced. “Too soon.”
Reed rolled his eyes. “You didn't even know him.”
“Yeah, but this triggers my daddy issues,” I said dryly. “Kidding, of course.”
“Of course.” He took a long breath. “You need some help with this Smokeskin thing? And just as an aside, 'Mr. Smokeskin?' Weak
naming game, even for you. I'd have gone with 'SmokeyVenom.' It has more punch, and the way that thing moves–”
“I drew the Venom comparison myself,” I said. “But I didn't get it into the name. Doesn't matter, though. No, I don't need help with it. Clearly it doesn't have it that out for me.”
Reed cocked an eyebrow. “It pitched you into low orbit. How do you figure it doesn't have it out for you?”
I shrugged. “Could have followed up and killed me easily while I was down. Don't worry about that.”
Reed took a long breath, staring at me like I was fully insane. “Okay. Should I worry about the presidential assassin with the seriously long aim, then?” He shifted on the couch. “And do I need to raise the name 'Phinneus?' Is he a memory you lost in Scotland?”
“No,” I said sourly. “I remember Phinneus very well, and yes, he's probably the guy.”
“You've informed the entire FBI of this, of course,” Reed said. “They're doubtless issuing BOLOs to every law enforcement agency in the US, and he'll be apprehended shortly.”
I gave him a pinched look. “No.”
Reed sighed, long, loud, and theatrically. “Why not?”
“It's not...” I let a sigh of my own. “Look, just leave this mess with me, okay? I know it seems...stupid or whatever, to you, but associating myself with the guy who's taking shots at the president? It's–”
Reed closed his eyes. “I know you're not covering up for a presidential assassin because you're afraid of how it'll look that you've had dealings with the guy in the past.” He pushed fingers into the skin at his temples and started to massage.
“I'm not,” I said. “But while we're on the subject...Veronika's in on it, too.”
Reed let out a noise of strangled exasperation. “That's why you're not saying anything, isn't it? Because I've hired them both in the past.”
“We've hired them both in the past,” I said. “Along with Chase Blanton, who is now Jaime Chapman's number one bodyguard. So yeah...I'm kinda covering both our asses.”
Control: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 38) Page 23
