Unleashed

by Carolyn O'Doherty

  The slithery feeling gets more uncomfortable. I know how far Ross could go. With my skills under his control, he could do anything. Frame someone. Rig a vote. Eliminate his rivals. I shake my head, and once started, I can’t seem to stop.

  “What you’re suggesting isn’t justice. It’s wrong.”

  The shining light of Ross’s enthusiasm narrows into something more like a laser beam.

  “And stealing isn’t wrong?” His hold on my wrist tightens. “Where’d you get your new clothes, Alex? How have you been eating? You pay for all that with your allowance?”

  Heat flames my face.

  “It’s not the same…” I stammer.

  “Sure it is,” Ross says. “We all do what we have to, to get what we need. I thought we’d been over this. Right is in results, not process.”

  I pull myself upright. “No.”

  Ross’s blue eyes don’t look like an ocean anymore. They look like ice.

  “If you want to save yourself, you don’t have any other choices.” He yanks his wallet out with his free hand and slides a business card from an inner flap with his teeth. “Take some time to think it over. When you get tired of being a rat chased around the gutters, I’ll be waiting.”

  Ross holds out the card. I don’t take it.

  “If not for yourself,” Ross says, “think about your friends. How long do you think they’ll survive without any help? I hear KJ was pretty sick when he left the Center.”

  Rage stiffens all the muscles in my body. KJ never trusted Ross, and to hear Ross use his name as leverage now hits me like the ultimate betrayal. I hurl all my strength into a sudden twisting wrench, and yank my arm free. Instantly I melt time, then refreeze it just as fast. Ross remains where he is, hand still curled around the space that no longer holds my arm.

  “You’re a liar!” I shout. Frozen Ross just stands there, still holding out the white business card. “Stupid, lying, manipulative…”

  And probably right, a voice in my head whispers. How long can we expect to remain undetected? Those men at the mall came within seconds of catching us. Were they really security guards? The two of them tried awfully hard to get hold of two kids who hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Maybe they were wipers. I shiver.

  Wipers could be anywhere. Anyone.

  The pounding in my skull twists into an agonizing stab. Time tests the bounds of my control. I tighten my mental hold, forcing myself to focus, which I do—on the small white square in Ross’s hand. A flag of surrender or an emblem of hope? I hesitate. Accepting it doesn’t mean I’ll use it. It only gives me options. The card is printed on thick paper and embossed with a raised seal. It feels smooth against my fingers when I take it. Carson H. Ross, it reads, Time Agent. Below the printed contact information of the police department, in Ross’s familiar spiky handwriting, is a phone number.

  I dash out the front door. Fresh air cools my cheeks but does nothing to lessen my anger. Or my fear. The card in my hand mocks my weakness. I should toss it in the gutter. I don’t. Instead I slip it into my back pocket. And then I start to run.

  06 CARSON ROSS

  CARSON ROSS STARES DOWN AT HIS EMPTY HAND AND then up at the even emptier space that a second ago held Alex’s trembling form. A smile plays across his lips. The power, the possibility, in that fleeting instant of disappearance never fails to thrill him. And Alex looked so deliciously scared. She took the bait; the trap is set. Now it’s only a matter of time before he gets her back.

  “She’s gone?” Barnard asks.

  Ross arranges his features into a confused expression before turning around. Barnard stands in the shelter of his office, his broken arm in its blue-and-white sling curled protectively against his chest. The man’s face is a mask of horror. Ross smothers the glee bubbling in his chest. Watching Barnard squirm is like a cherry on top of his sundae.

  “I don’t understand,” Ross says. “Where did she go?”

  “I guess she just ran really fast?” Barnard’s voice is barely a squeak.

  Ross makes a slow 360-degree turn to scan the room. Barnard’s eyes flick from side to side in a frantic dance. What explanations is he conjuring to try to explain a girl vanishing into thin air?

  “Of all the strange…” Ross says. “I was right on her heels and then…” Barnard’s face turns a greenish shade of pale, like he’s on the verge of passing out. Ross savors the moment for one more second before reaching down and grabbing his right leg. It’s important he makes sure everyone believes he doesn’t know the truth about the spinners’ skills; that way, no one can suspect him of using them.

  “And then my knee acted up,” he says. “It does that—old training injury—and I glanced down at it, like a reflex, you know? And when I looked up again, she was gone.”

  “Oh.” The relief in Barnard’s voice is laughable. “Yeah. Well, she had a real burst of speed there right at the end. Check outside. See if you can tell where she went.”

  Ross makes sure to hobble as he heads over to the open door and peers up and down the street.

  “No sign of her,” he says, stepping back into Barnard’s town-house. “You want me to call it in to the precinct?”

  “No,” Barnard says, quickly. “I’ll call our security force.”

  Barnard walks back to his desk and drops into the chair behind it. Ross reclaims the seat on the other side. When he sits, he can feel the cell phone in his pocket pressing against his leg, a present waiting to be opened. Barnard dials a preset number on his own phone and speaks sharply. Ross’s hand drifts to his pocket. Does he have time for just a quick check?

  “They’ll be here in ten minutes,” Barnard says, dropping the phone on his desk.

  “You really should think about getting some better door locks,” Ross tells him. “She might come back.”

  “I will.” Barnard scrubs a hand over his face, wiping away who knows what nightmarish visions. The man clearly isn’t sleeping well. Bags show under the eyes behind his wire-rim glasses, and his normally immaculate clothes look rumpled.

  “Why do you think she came here?” Barnard’s voice holds a plaintive note.

  Ross tilts his head. It’s a good question. Despite Barnard’s obvious fear, Ross doesn’t actually see Alex as a threat—at least not a violent one. It’s much more likely she came here looking for something. Keys to the Center? Information about Barnard’s private research? The latter is definitely a subject worth looking into. Ross himself is fairly curious. He wonders if she found anything. He figures she must have been searching a long time if she got so tired she lost control of her freeze.

  “It’s probably some irrational impulse related to her Aclisote withdrawal,” Ross says. “It’s sad to see how quickly she’s deteriorated. I hope the Center will have an opportunity to restart her treatment before it’s too late.”

  Barnard shuffles the papers cluttering his desk, and Ross rubs his nose to hide the smile twitching his lips. Barnard knows perfectly well that Alex’s actions have nothing to do with withdrawal, but he can’t say that without exposing himself as a liar. The situation is almost unbearably amusing to Ross.

  “Of course, you’re right.” Barnard checks his watch. “With the wipers on their way, I’m afraid we’ll have to wrap up our meeting rather quickly. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

  Ross’s smile vanishes. He’d achieved his first goal in coming here: getting Barnard to agree to let him know if the wipers had a line on Alex. It had taken a lot of sentimental gibberish about his worry over his former spinner, but the groveling was worth it if it meant he could keep her from getting caught. He still needed Barnard’s help with a second problem, though. Ross runs the story through his head one more time, lining up his arguments against Barnard’s possible protestations, before leaning forward.

  “I also wanted to talk to you about Sikes.”

  “Sikes?” />
  The name has clearly caught Barnard off guard. Ross glances over his shoulder, and even though he knows no one is there, lowers his voice before speaking again.

  “Yes. This is highly sensitive, and I’m trusting you to not spread it around.” Steady eye contact is the trick to a good lie. Ross doesn’t let himself blink. “Chief suspects someone in the force might be working with Sikes, so he’s asked me to shadow the investigation.”

  Barnard’s eyes narrow. “I thought Chief pulled you off that case after Sikes killed your partner?”

  “He did. He thought Sal’s death made the whole case too personal for me. Which is actually why he’s asked me to help now.” Ross allows himself a wry grin. “I’m pretty much the last person anyone would suspect of having anything to do with Sikes.”

  Barnard taps his cast. Is he confused or suspicious? Behind the cover of the desk that separates them, Ross’s hands curl into fists. If Barnard checks Ross’s claims with Chief, it will cause no end of trouble, as Ross was specifically told to stay clear, and a reprimand will not look good on his record. The risk is worth it, though. To be truly effective, Ross needs money, and Sikes is famous for stealing it. With Alex’s help, Ross can steal some, too. One big heist should set him up, after which he will arrest Sikes, managing in one single swoop to both shift the blame for his own robbery and boost his career by being the conquering hero who finally put Sikes behind bars. Having someone else catch Sikes, while unlikely, would ruin his plans, which is why Ross wants to have some warning if the case is advancing.

  “What is it Chief wants me to do?” Barnard asks.

  “Given that I’m not supposed to be involved,” Ross says, “Chief can’t openly brief me about any new Sikes developments, so I need someone else to keep me informed. He wants you to tell me when a spinner gets called out on anything that might be Sikes related.”

  The finger tapping Barnard’s cast increases its tempo.

  “This is highly unusual,” he says.

  “Sikes is an unusual criminal.”

  There’s a long pause. Ross’s fists squeeze so tight his hands grow numb.

  Barnard’s finger slows. He nods.

  “All right. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Ross’s fists relax in his lap. The rush of returning blood makes his fingers tingle.

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  He gets to his feet. Now that he’s gotten what he came for, his focus slides back to Alex and her tantalizing nearness. Ross slips his hand into his pocket and cradles his phone.

  “Good luck tracking down our runaway,” he says as Barnard ushers him to the door. “And if there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be more than happy to.”

  A small shiver shakes Barnard’s shoulders.

  “I think it’s best we leave it to the wipers,” he says.

  “Of course.”

  Barnard shuts his door with a loud clunk. Ross smiles. How will the doctor spend the rest of his day? Does he have any peers with whom he can share his true concerns? Golden afternoon sun shines on Ross as he jogs down the front stairs. Maybe Barnard will spend his time nailing his doors and windows shut, imagining that, at any moment, a vengeful Alex might reappear.

  Ross’s squad car is hot from sitting in the sun, but he doesn’t waste time waiting for the air conditioning to kick in. Instead, he drops into the sweltering seat and opens his phone, tapping on the app he recently installed. A map opens on his screen—the city of Portland from ten thousand feet. Ross watches the antenna icon blink as it searches the airwaves for its connection.

  An hour southeast of town, tucked into the forests surrounding Mount Hood, Ross has bought a house. It’s small and quite secluded. Workmen are even now finishing up the modifications he’s asked for: bars on the outside of all the windows, a doubledoored entry with electronic locks that can’t be picked, security cameras. All his plans will work more smoothly if Alex returns to him willingly, but he’s not naïve enough to count on her cooperation. The renovations will be done on Monday, so he can move her in on Tuesday. Which means all he needs to do is keep track of Alex’s location for three days and make sure the wipers don’t get close. The map zooms down to street level. Ross brushes the screen with the gentleness of a caress. A blue dot moves fitfully down West Burnside, tracking the progress of the chip embedded in Ross’s missing business card. The smile that lights his face is triumphant.

  “Hello, Alex,” he whispers. “Let’s find out where you’ve been hiding.”

  07

  TIME ESCAPES FROM THE LAST CRUMB OF MY CONTROL when I enter the squat. I sag against the door, massaging my aching temple in the murky light of our refuge. Even the faint sound of cars passing outside makes the hair on my arms stand up. How long will it be before the wipers find us? My body slides to the ground. My head is pounding so much it’s hard to hold it upright.

  “Alex?”

  Panic slams my heart against my ribs and I clutch for the time strands, but seconds slip through my exhausted body without even stuttering. I squint into the gloom. Jack is peering at me from the kitchen, a frown creasing his forehead.

  “What’d you do?” Jack sounds annoyed. “Get lost? It’s almost dark.”

  “I walked most of the way back. In real time.”

  “You walked?” Jack comes closer. “Why? Wasn’t the bus running?”

  Sensory memories flash through my head: the painfully slow crawl of the swaying bus, the smell of diesel and human sweat, the feel of bodies bumping against mine, the tinny music leaking from too many headphones, and the eyes. So many eyes. All watching me.

  I roll my head against the door, which only tightens the knots twisting my neck.

  “You should stay inside tonight,” I tell him.

  “What for?”

  “The wipers.” A voice in the back of my head can’t stop screaming. I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff and the abyss is calling me to jump.

  Jack bends over me, frowning. “The what?”

  “Ross was there.” I look up at him. “At Barnard’s. He grabbed me.”

  “Seriously?” Jack says. “Are you OK?” I nod, which comes off more like a shudder. Jack holds out his hand.

  “Come on,” he says. “I made some coffee. The caffeine will make you feel better.”

  I let him haul me to my feet. The kitchen is filled with the bitter aroma of fresh coffee. I pour a cup and drink it greedily. Haltingly, I recount my trip to Barnard’s. Jack’s expression shifts between curiosity and nervousness. When I finish, he stares at me.

  “The Sick has their own security?”

  I hold my coffee cup close against my chest. “Ross said that’s why we never hear about escaped spinners.”

  “Wow.” Jack shakes his head. “And here I’ve been calling you paranoid.”

  There’s not enough nail left on my thumb to chew, so I substitute my pointer finger. Jack frowns at the steaming coffeepot.

  “How’d you lose control of time, anyway?” he asks. “Were you super tired?”

  “It was more than that.” I rub my head, feeling again the knife-edged slice of time tearing away from me. “My freeze just…got broken somehow. It’s like controlling time didn’t work around him.”

  “Did he have a leash?”

  “No.” I shiver again. “At least I didn’t see one.”

  “Maybe the shock of seeing Ross made you lose focus.”

  “Maybe.”

  Jack cracks his knuckles in a steady round of pops. “So, Ross thinks we could use our skills to run the city?”

  “Not us.” I drink more coffee. The caffeine is finally starting to dull the edges of my headache. “Him.” I remember his card and pull it from my pocket. Here, far from Ross’s deadly magnetism, the small slip of white seems far less tempting. I tear the card in half and toss it in the general direction of the trash.
“I think Ross wants to be like a benevolent dictator or something.”

  “He could probably pull it off.” Jack bends down and picks up the two pieces of the torn card. “If we worked with him, I bet…”

  “Jack! The guy murdered Austin Shea in cold blood.”

  “Yeah, I know, but if we get caught, they’ll murder us.”

  I stare at the card in Jack’s hand. Is Jack right? Is working for Ross a reasonable price if all of us get to live?

  “We’re not going to get caught,” I say.

  “The only way we don’t get caught is if we leave Portland now.”

  I shake my head. Outside, the sun sinks closer to the horizon. From the other end of the squat, rustling noises drift through the darkening air. It’s KJ, or maybe the roosting pigeons—I can no longer tell the difference between their restless shuffles. Exhaustion settles over me with the coming night. The coffee I’m drinking only heightens the competing demands pulling me in too many directions: the other spinners hurtling toward their unnecessary deaths, KJ dwindling into the sickness, Shannon’s endless errands, and the money we need to steal for Victor. I look down at my mug. In the dim light, I can barely see my hands, as if I’ve literally been stretched so thin I’m starting to disappear.

  “We’re not going to get caught,” I repeat.

  Even my voice sounds faint.

  Jack holds out the two halves of Ross’s torn business card.

  “We can still hold on to this,” he says. “Just in case.”

  I bite my lip, but I don’t say no.

  * * *

  I dream I am back at Austin Shea’s, floating through unmoving rooms, oppressive in their heavy stillness. As much as I want to go somewhere else, I find I can take only the same route I did the night I was there with Ross. When I reach the bedroom, a familiar silver moon lights the figure on the bed. Night makes the gash in his throat appear black, and I know that only time keeps the blood in his frozen veins. I can almost see it under his skin, a cresting wave of red, waiting for me to release time so it can gush into the night.