Shandra cradled the stolen cell phone in her bandaged hands, listening to a quiet crooning echoing in the stairwell, an eerie wordless lullaby. She held her breath, trying to locate the source of the sound, and it stopped.
Then her mind drifted, and the lullaby started again.
When she opened the phone she’d snatched from Rachel’s bag, the sound stopped ... and she realized that it had been her. Humming without realizing it.
"Oh, Shandra," she whispered.
That was crazy, even for her. Next she’d start arguing with fire hydrants. She knew she wasn’t right in the head--nobody knew better than she did, how un-right she was in the head, how very deeply wrong. Yet still, she coped, she managed. She pretended.
And now she needed to act.
She tugged the bandage from her right hand with her teeth, then ran a fingertip across the phone’s keypad.
She imagined calling home, talking to her mom and dad. They loved her--she knew that--they loved and feared her. She knew that. She knew too much.
She pressed the 1, heard the beep. She pressed 212, a little rhythm. Pressed 12121212, letting thoughts whirl around in her head. She’d memorized Maddie’s phone number. She knew Maddie worked for PJ, she knew PJ could end her pain.
Oblivion waited, one phone call away.
----------------------------------------
Carson Boone bought an apple at the grocer across the street from Courage House, wondering at the impulse that had drawn him to a foster care agency. He took a bite, and his gaze switched to the basketball court behind the high chain-link fence, empty now except for a few fast food wrappers.
His limo idled at the corner, the driver casually intent and the close protection officer sweeping the street with his gaze. Not that Boone needed a bodyguard, not with the faint ticking of bone on brick revealing Nomika’s presence on the walls above. Nobody else noticed her, not even when she clambered in plain sight across city walls, and he’d given up wondering why. Just part of her longshot powers.
He crossed the street and climbed the stairs and pressed the button. An unseen hand buzzed him inside Courage House. He chatted with the woman at the desk, about the organization, the funding, the children. He waited for the swell of certainty, and felt nothing.
Until he returned to the street. Then a familiar coolness washed over him like a mist. There was active neraby. Where?
There. The basketball court. On a dented metal bench, sitting by herself.
The limo prowled behind him as he crossed under the hoop. He sat facing Maddie, on the bulky bone-white chair, woven together like a trellis, that Nomika formed beneath him.
Maddie wiped her face. "I’m sorry. I'm--I'm scared."
"Me, too," he told her.
She lowered her hand and looked at him. She hadn't expected him to say that. "You're not … Really?"
"Of course. There’s so much at stake. What happened?"
She told him about animating mozzies in her apartment, then speeding into Red Hook ahead of me. She told him about bringing me to Dewitt.
"How is your brother?" Boone asked. "So much hinges on him."
"He’s dead."
She started crying, and Boone touched her arm. He let her cry, he listened and he sympathized. He wondered why he had so much more patience for Maddie than for his own daughter. So much more kindness. Perhaps because he also had lower expectations.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
"What did we want Dewitt for, anyway?" she asked, after wiping her eyes. "Him and his stupid memory."
"His power ran deeper than that, Madeline. His sleeping mind is--was--more powerful than a supercomputer. He could’ve synthesized blueprints and traffic patterns and weather conditions. He would've been a vital part of the team."
She swallowed and nodded.
"I’m sorry for your loss," Boone said. "I’m sorry for all of us. But it's only a little longer, and this mission will be over."
She picked at the metal bench. "PJ’s changing. He hates you--hates your authority, hates following your orders."
"I know."
"He's out of control."
"That’s one reason he’s perfect for this."
"He’s in my head. I can’t fight him much longer." She swallowed convulsively. "I--I told him about the Rock. All the people there."
"That’s fine," Boone said. "That's not a problem. As long as he’s not pushing back the schedule?"
"He's not. Everything ends tonight, one way or another."
"Good."
She wiped tears from her eyes. "I'm afraid that when the time comes, I'll let you down."
She spoke for a while, with a soft intensity, and Boone listened. Then she stopped speaking and they both listened. Horns honked in traffic, Pakistani pop music floated from an open window.
Finally, he felt her tension ebb away. "Win or lose," he said, "You’re fighting the good fight. Win or lose, I’m proud of you."
She flashed a tentative smile. "But we’re going to win, right?"
The pop music aligned with the steam of a sidewalk grate and the slow spinning earth--and a rush of certainty overcame him.
"Yes," Boone said.
"Was that ... " She touched the tattoo on her throat. "I mean, are you sure?"
"I’m sure that this is even more dangerous than we expected, Madeline. I'm sure that PJ grows stronger every time he feeds, and less sane--" He stopped at her expression. "Yes, that’s new, a new certainty, that he gains strength but loses rationality."
She bit her lower lip. "He’s getting crueler."
"His power is corrupting him, as power does."
"So what do I do?"
"Whatever he asks."
Maddie watched a leaf tumble across the basketball court. "My brother is dead, Mr. Boone, and I--I’m not sure who killed him. That’s how deep PJ is in my head."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes," she said.
"In a war, there are casualties. You lost your brother. I lost my wife … and daughter. These are terrible things. However, our private losses--and even these bombings--are a small price to pay for the survival of the planet."
"PJ won't stop after a few bombings. He’s got other plans."
"Good. We need PJ to careen out of control, Madeline. Give him Lark. Give him the others from your island. Give him yourself, if you must."
She bowed her head. "I will."
"PJ is stronger and crueler than I expected," Boone said. "We need to harness that strength and that cruelty."
"But … but if he gets too strong?"
Boone stroked his bone-white chair. "Then he'll win."
----------------------------------------
The hospital room was a hospital room, with the hum of lights, the scent of disinfectant.
Rachel stood from the bed, wearing one of those backless hospital gowns, and checked her clothes on the side table. The jacket was ripped, the shirt freckled with blood from her nose. The pants didn’t look worse than dirty, though.
She reached for them, and gasped at the flare of pain in her side. Nothing broken, they’d told her, just a buttload of bruises and a stinging eye.
And she’d lost three hours. She didn’t have three hours to lose.
She wrestled into her grungy pants. She lifted her bag by the strap and the contents cascaded onto the floor. Crap. The strap only attached to one side.
She knelt on the floor and started scooping. Found herself sitting in the middle of her scattered pens and tampons and loose change. Crying. She never let herself cry, but she felt more alone now than ever.
She hadn't asked for any of this. She hadn't asked for her father, she hadn't for the Driggers or the senator. She'd just wanted to keep her head down. To her a little, quiet life. But now? Well, now she needed to do this: because there was nobody else. Nobody else understood this stuff like she did--nobody else could atone for her father's sins.
She wiped her face and grabbed her wallet, and a nurse came and talked about her recuperation.
Rachel said, "I need a shirt."
"Pardon?" the nurse asked.
"A clean shirt. And my gun. Where’s my gun?"
"The security officer keeps all firearms in--"
"Get him."
The nurse arched an eyebrow at her, then turned and left.
Rachel walked a circuit of the room, trying to shake free of the ache and the weakness. Who were those guys on the sidewalk? Nobody she recognized. Nobody from Boone--he'd never attract official attention that close to one of his offices. But if they answered to PJ, they would've killed her. She didn't understand, but that was okay. Longshot powers didn't lend themselves to comprehension.
She found herself going in circles, so she put that question out of her mind. What was her next step? She needed to stop PJ before the second bombing. Which that first, she needed to find him.
Or make him find her.
Hm. What did he want? More power. The way he talked about the ‘final scent’, he wanted to kill actives, to feed on them like a vampire. What did that have to do with suicide bombings?
She didn't know. She sat on the bed and thought. Most of this--kidnapping Dewitt, detonating suicide vest--sounded like PJ, not like Boone. It was too messy and undisciplined for her father. Boone never forgot his mission objective. Which meant what? He wanted the messy and the noise. He wanted the bloodshed. But why?