Unleashed

by Carolyn O'Doherty

  “Not on purpose! But what if they can trace us?”

  Jack frowns. “Who could have traced you?”

  It takes a supreme effort to not scream at him.

  “There was this man. He followed me onto a bus. He knew my name.” The man’s voice echoes in my ears, insistent, eager. I swallow. “I know he’s a wiper, and I was thinking—what if wipers know when we freeze time? They could follow the freezes and trace me back here.”

  “Alex.” Jack sits down again. “Think it through. If the wipers could sense when we froze time they would have caught us days ago.”

  The logic of Jack’s words refuses to penetrate my brain. How can he sit there talking when we should be evacuating right this very instant?

  “Well, what if the wipers use spinners? They could rewind my whole day and find us that way.”

  Jack makes a dismissive gesture. “What happened after you saw this guy?”

  “I froze time,” I say. “And ran.”

  “Then he couldn’t have followed you. Even if he called a spinner and they waited until now to do a rewind, all they’d see was you disappearing. They’d have no idea where to look to pick up your trail again.”

  The words take a second to sink in, and when they do, a little of the terror wrapping my body eases. I froze a lot today, enough that anyone rewinding it would lose my trail multiple times.

  Jack cracks his knuckles. “Did you find another place for us to stay?”

  I shake my head. My legs are shuddering visibly now, the uncontrollable trembling of released adrenaline. I sink to the floor, massaging the quivering muscles.

  “We need to warn the other spinners right away. We have to get out of here. We’ll look for a place somewhere…” I raise my head.

  “What is it?”

  “Did you hear that?” I whisper.

  “That’s just Victor walking around.”

  “No—listen—someone is talking.”

  Jack’s mouth opens, then closes. We both hold very still. I hear the sound again, and this time I can tell it’s coming from KJ’s corner. I’m on my feet again, even though my legs are shaking so badly I’m not certain they’ll hold me. There are two voices, one male and one female. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I am absolutely sure it’s not Faith and Victor.

  “Were you watching Shannon?” I whisper to Jack. “The whole time I was gone?”

  “Yeah.” Jack shoots a guilty look at the chips. “Pretty much.”

  Prickles crawl over my skin. I underestimated Shannon, and overestimated Jack. She must have managed to sneak out. Who’s over there? Ross? Barnard? Wipers? I tiptoe forward, Jack at my heels. Time barely trembles when I brush it. I still haven’t recovered. If I can even stop time, I won’t be able to control it for long. The male voice speaks again. Shannon laughs.

  Jack and I creep up to the armoire and peer around it. There are two people in the room. One is Shannon, kneeling in her usual spot beside the bed. The other is KJ. I take a gulp of air. KJ is not sleeping. He isn’t tossing and turning, either. KJ is sitting, propped against a pile of pillows, his face shining at me as I burst into the room.

  11

  JOY SHOOTS THROUGH ME WITH THE FORCE OF AN exploding firework.

  “KJ!”

  My best friend gives me a wobbly smile.

  “Alex?” he croaks. No wonder I didn’t recognize his voice.

  I sink to the floor on the opposite side of the bed from Shannon. I want to throw my arms around his neck, kiss him, and tell him how much I missed him. But I can’t, not with Shannon sitting a few feet from me, beaming at KJ with her whole heart in her eyes. My smile trembles. I realize I wanted KJ to recover so desperately that I’d never allowed myself to picture anything past the moment when he gained consciousness. Now that it’s happening, I feel like I’m stepping into a brand-new world, one where I’m not really sure of the rules.

  I pick up KJ’s warm fingers and squeeze them between my cold ones.

  “How do you feel?” I ask. A stupid question—mundane and meaningless.

  “OK,” KJ answers. “Tired.”

  “He just woke up five minutes ago.” Shannon smooths the covers over KJ’s chest possessively. “It’s like a miracle.”

  I swallow the I-told-you-so that dances onto my tongue.

  KJ’s eyes roam around the room, taking in the stacks of boxes and piles of furniture. They stop at the figure hovering in the doorway.

  “Jack?”

  Jack grins. “Hey, buddy.”

  KJ’s head swivels back toward me. “Who else is here?”

  “Just us four,” I say.

  “Where are we?”

  Shannon purses her lips. “They call it the squat.”

  “It’s a warehouse,” Jack explains. “I knew these street kids from before. They’ve been letting us stay with them.”

  “Victor and Faith,” I say. “They live here, too. They know about us.”

  KJ’s hand hangs limply within my own. I remember how I’d felt when I first woke up from the sickness: confused, exhausted, and very weak.

  “You hungry?” I ask him.

  KJ nods gratefully. “Starving.”

  Shannon takes KJ’s other hand.

  “He should eat something light,” she says. “Maybe some chicken broth or Jell-O.”

  KJ looks down at their linked fingers, then back at me. A frown forms between his brows. I wonder how much KJ remembers about the time before he’d fallen sick, and I’m not sure what makes me more nervous—that KJ will think he and Shannon are still an item, or that he’ll blurt out that they aren’t.

  “There’s some food in the kitchen,” I say. “I can make you something.”

  KJ opens his mouth, clearly full of questions. Shannon puts a finger against his lips.

  “Shhh,” she says, “no more talking. What you have to do right now is rest. I’ll fill you in on everything later.”

  I squeeze KJ’s hand and stand up. KJ slumps back against the pillows, the frown still wrinkling his brow. Shannon’s hand slides from his lips to caress his cheek. Her face is shimmering with a happiness I can’t bear to witness. I watch her moving fingers, so pale against the newly healthy dark of KJ’s skin. Something ugly rears its head inside me. Running away together was our plan—mine and KJ’s. We are the ones who figured out the Center was rotten. We are the ones who deserve a cozy reunion.

  I force myself to swallow my jealousy. I used Shannon’s affection to get her here; it’s not fair to resent her for it now. At some point, she’ll find out he prefers me and…a twist of discomfort dims my happiness. And we’ll all have to deal with that later. Cradling the blissful fact of KJ’s recovery close inside my chest, I slip out of the room to get him some food.

  The four of us eat dinner on the floor around KJ’s bed. By Shannon’s decree, we keep the conversation light, which, surprisingly, works. Jack makes macabre jokes about how horrible KJ looked when he was sick. Shannon laughs and never once mentions the Center. I read an article out loud from the newspaper about a kid who rescued a herd of wild horses. KJ listens to everyone with a half-focused gaze, leaning back against the pillows and yawning a lot. By the time Jack pulls out his guitar to plunk out the few cords he’s learned, KJ is fast asleep.

  “In the morning we should wash his sheets,” Shannon says, as we carry our dinner mess back to the kitchen.

  “It’s easier to just get new ones.” Jack glances at his watch. It’s full-on dark now, the only illumination coming from the glow of the streetlights outside the window.

  Shannon drops some trash into a garbage bag and picks up the coffee maker. Dried residue from KJ’s broth crusts the sides.

  “I’ll wash up,” she offers.

  “Thanks,” I say, and then with a rush of answering generosity, add, “I’ll go out early in the morning and
pick up a real breakfast.”

  Shannon nods and carries the dishes off to the bathroom. Jack checks his watch again.

  “I’m heading out,” he says. “Victor has studio time tonight, and we’re going to try the new synthesizer.”

  I fish a cookie out of the bag and nibble on it. Jack heading out into the night ignites a litany of worries, but the fear feels muted under the glow of KJ’s resurrection, so I offer only a few mild cautions. Jack promises to be careful to cover his tracks, and he vanishes.

  I put away the rest of the food. It’s not that late, but the whiplash emotions of this long day have worn me out, so I head over to my sleeping space. KJ’s awake. I take off my sweater and pull on the T-shirt I’ve been sleeping in. Without the numbing dread of KJ’s possible death, my mind feels free in a way it hasn’t since we left the Center. I know most of our problems haven’t changed, but for the first time it feels like things are actually turning in our favor.

  I wriggle out of my jeans and drape them over a broken lamp, freeing a roll of paper that flops to the floor—the flyers I picked up at the farmers market. I unfold the pages and flip through the crumpled sheets. Coffee beans, organic apples, fluoride. I smooth out the last one. The Portland Police logo is smeared from rain and rough treatment, but the tagline at the bottom is readable, even with the limited glow from the streetlights: Call the Crime Tips Hotline.

  It was just over a week ago that Ross and I broke into a place called Tom’s Bar and found evidence that proved its owner was the elusive Sikes. At the time, I believed Ross and I were a team and that we were on the verge of arresting Portland’s most notorious criminal. An echo of my euphoria in that moment washes over me. Arresting Sikes was vital to me then—an undeniable achievement that would give my restricted life meaning. I study the paper in my hand. Ross and I aren’t a team, and my life is no longer counted out in months, but that doesn’t mean I can’t finish the job I started.

  My phone is charging next to my bedroll. I unplug it and dial the hotline.

  “Hello?” I say, after a recorded voice invites me to leave any information I have to offer about an active crime. “I’m calling about Sikes?” My voice sounds squeaky and way too young. I clear my throat. “I work at a place called Tom’s Bar, and I was in the owner’s office putting something back in his safe, and there was this envelope labeled like receipts or something, but it didn’t have receipts in it.” I’m talking too fast. I lick my lips, visualizing exactly what I saw so that I can describe it accurately. “There was a painting in there. Sunflowers. I’m certain it was one of the ones Sikes stole. Matt—that’s the owner’s name, Matt Thompson—he doesn’t know I found out, and I thought, well, I thought I should report it. So you can follow up.” I add the combination to the safe, a number that is still burned in my memory. “Thanks.”

  I hang up. The phone rests in my hand. It’s shaking a little bit, and for a split second, I think it’s on vibrate and the hotline is calling me back, until I realize it’s my hand that’s quivering. I did it. I turned in Sikes.

  I plug the phone back into its charger and climb into bed. Dark settles around me. It’s not pitch black, but merely soft gray, which is somehow comforting, just like the rustling of the birds outside my window, and the gentle sigh of KJ’s even breath. I close my eyes. Soon, the cops will know who the terrible Sikes really is. It might take a couple days, but they are sure to follow up, and when they do, they’ll find what they need to put Sikes in jail for a really long time. This is justice—real justice—not Ross’s twisted imitation. I smile to myself as I drift off to sleep. KJ is recovering, and I have finally done something that is unequivocally good.

  12 CARSON ROSS

  ROSS DOESN’T NOTICE THE MESSAGE ON HIS PHONE until he’s pulled into the precinct’s underground garage. From the time stamp, he guesses Barnard must have called while he was in the shower. Ross skips the elevator and hurries up the steps that lead into the building from the garage while he replays the voicemail. Tuesday’s eight a.m. briefing is in three minutes, and he’s already been late twice this month.

  “Hi, Carson. I checked the call sheet this morning, and there’s a mission on it related to Sikes. It’s to a place called”—Barnard’s computer keys click in the background—“Tom’s Bar over on SE Oak. Seems an employee called in an anonymous tip. Claims she saw a stolen painting in his office safe. Probably a crank, but you asked me to pass along whatever I heard. They assigned the case to Agent Marquez. He’ll be here to pick up Raul at eleven.”

  Ross stops dead on the second-floor landing. An employee saw the Van Gogh? That’s impossible. Sikes would never have been that careless. But then who…? Ross puts his hand out and steadies himself against the bannister. Alex! It has to be. The two of them are the only people besides Matt Thompson who know about the contents of the safe. A tiredness that has nothing to do with lack of sleep settles on Ross’s shoulders. How could Alex do this to him? She knows that unmasking Sikes is a career-making arrest for him. Calling it in anonymously won’t even get her any credit for it. Ross leans against the metal railing. The renovations to his hideaway are now complete. He’d planned to nab Alex after the briefing; now, he’ll have to find a way to stop Marquez’s mission from succeeding first. But how? If he goes to Tom’s Bar now, he’ll be seen in Raul’s rewind.

  “You OK there, Carson?”

  Ross’s head jerks up. Police Chief Lamar Graham is walking down the stairs toward him, one hand clasping the sheaf of notes he uses to lay out the day’s assignments.

  “Staff meeting is this way,” Chief says.

  “Sorry.” Ross forces himself to smile. “I was just going to run back and get my jacket out of my car. It’s supposed to pour all day.”

  “You can get it after the meeting.” Chief holds up his stack of papers. “There’s a lot going on in the city this morning.”

  Ross’s smile stiffens. He should have claimed he was sick. He sneaks a glance at his watch. The briefing will last at least an hour, which doesn’t leave much time to figure a way out of this mess.

  Chief pushes open the door to the hall, giving Ross no choice but to follow.

  “How’s that last rewound murder case coming?” Chief asks. “You identify the guy who shoved that woman into the basement?”

  “Almost.” Frustration makes it hard for Ross to act naturally. He wants to slam his fist into a wall. “I’m checking out the suspect’s alibi, to make sure the case is rock-solid before turning it over to the DA.”

  “Well, pick up the pace, because the mayor is pushing me for results. She wants the spinner program to go out on a high note.” Chief shakes his head. “No idea why. That Center has been a pain in the city’s butt since it opened. I am not going to miss the protests and crazy rumors. Who you got pegged for the murder?”

  “The rewind wasn’t very clear,” Ross says, “but it’s looking like Joseph Sully.”

  “Sully? Never took him for a violent type.” Chief claps Ross on the shoulder. “Guess you never know about people, do you?”

  Ross, unable to think up an appropriately pleasant expression, hides his face by stepping back to open the door for his boss.

  The briefing room is crowded, and as usual, the building’s HVAC system fails to compensate for the mass of humanity warming the space. Ross can already feel his shirt sticking to his back by the time he takes a seat at an almost-empty table at the rear of the room. He doesn’t realize until after he chooses it that he’s sharing space with Jim Cannon. Officer Cannon, who has butted heads with Ross on more than one occasion, makes a pointed effort to move his chair away when Ross sits down. Jerk. After Ross becomes Chief of Police, Cannon will definitely be on the list of folks to weed out.

  Chief Graham brings the meeting to order and starts droning out the latest crises: a drive-by shooting that made a splash in the press, a council member’s demand that they roust more of the homeless people who s
leep along the waterfront, updated protocols for their final time missions. Ross listens with half an ear while his mind worries about his more personal problem. He can’t stop the rewind, but he can get rid of the physical evidence, which should at least slow down the investigation. With Alex nearly in his grasp, all he needs is a couple of days. Who can he send to empty the safe? It has to be someone he has leverage over. Someone who could toss the office and make it look like a burglary. Someone like…Joseph Sully.

  Laughter ripples through the overheated room, presumably at some joke Chief made. Ross joins in with an extra hearty chuckle. Joseph Sully meets every criterion—he’s a shifty character with a history of breaking and entering. The guy even has a day job loading boxes at a warehouse, so it won’t be hard to track him down. Just like it won’t be hard to convince him to help, not when Ross can offer him a deal that he can’t afford to refuse. He’ll tell Sully he’s been pegged for murder but that if he follows a few simple instructions, Ross will see to it that he only goes down for criminal mischief.

  Chief moves on to the day’s assignments. Ross relaxes into his chair, rocking it onto its back legs. The rewind will put Sully in Tom’s Bar, but even if they track him back to a conversation with Ross, it won’t matter. Ross has a legitimate reason for talking to him. He’ll tell Chief that Sully’s alibi worked out and peg the murder on Fred Watson instead. He’s never liked that guy much either. And if anything goes sideways, he can clean it up later on. He’ll have Alex back, and a short freeze can add or delete any evidence Ross needs to make his accusations stick.

  Ross brings his chair back down on all four legs and slides his phone out of his pocket, opening the tracking app under the shelter of the table. The ruse with the business card has worked even better than he’d hoped. Not only did he discover the kids’ hiding place, but Alex has kept his business card with her this whole time, allowing him to track her wanderings around the city. It seems she freezes fairly often, too, which is good, because it means she’s getting worn down.