Why, she wondered, would her co-worker be interested in this stuff? Kera MacDonagh wasn’t credulous, New Age-y, or the superstitious type. She’d always struck Stephanie as a grounded, sensible, rational woman. After all, she had majored in computer science. Those folks weren’t known for dabbling in witchcraft.
Then again...
Kera had recently come in late on one or two occasions, previously unheard of for her. She had also lost a lot of weight in a short period of time, gained mysterious markings on her body, been out of work for multiple days for reasons she’d glossed over—which Cevin had refused to talk about, too—and had suddenly dyed her hair black for no appreciable reason.
Kera, who rode a black motorbike with a matching helmet.
Stephanie sat bolt upright. “Nah,” she insisted to herself, “she is not Motorcycle Man. That’s ridiculous. Stephanie, you need to go to bed and get some rest.”
But as she brushed her teeth, the notion refused to leave her mind. She was buzzing with hypotheses and implications and questions she didn’t know how to either answer or ignore.
Upon returning to her room, Stephanie woke her tablet back up and did one last thing. She went back to the site where she’d found a pirated PDF copy of the book.
“Shouldn’t be doing this shit,” she muttered as she hit the button and downloaded a copy. But she wasn’t going to figure out if this was for real unless she did her damned research.
For the first time in what seemed like far too long, Johnny found he didn’t actively dread showing up at Pauline’s office when summoned. He had a spring in his step as he approached and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Pauline called.
When Johnny walked in, he did a double-take. Pauline looked…different.
She didn’t appear ready to discuss that, however.
She got right down to business, folding her arms and running her tongue over the tips of her teeth. “All right, since I cannot rely on any of you to ultimately figure out what the hell is going on, I’ll make the plan, and you will do as you’re told.”
Johnny frowned. He might have been wrong about this being a good meeting. “With all due respect, Boss Lady, we know what’s going on. It’s only a matter of hunting down our enemies and dealing with them.”
She replied in a voice that was sharp but not angry, “You are essentially right, and I appreciate your attitude. No one else has demonstrated the level of commitment you have, Johnny. However, you’re glossing over the specifics, which are complicated.”
Johnny frowned but said nothing. He wasn’t quite sure where this was going.
Pauline looked at him. “I will conduct a reconnaissance operation designed to draw Motorcycle Man and the LA Witches out of the woodwork so we can learn more about them. We will then use that information to eliminate them once and for all. Brute force has proven ineffective. We should have been using espionage and subterfuge from the beginning.”
Johnny nodded. He couldn’t think of what to say.
“You will be joining me on this job since you’re the only one who has shown an acceptable level of enthusiasm for hunting down our enemies and stomping them into the goddamn dirt where they belong. Now is not the time for excessive caution or prudence.”
“Hey, I try.” He leaned against the wall, grinning. “So, what’s the gist of your plan?”
“I was getting to that,” Pauline reprimanded. “First, I’ll be coming along in person, though in disguise. Probably in the role of, say, the vapid, dull-witted girlfriend of a stupid rich playboy.”
“Oh, that explains…” Johnny gestured at her outfit. She was wearing very different makeup and clothing, as well as a reddish-brown wig. She also had thigh-high boots over her jeans that showed off how nice her legs were.
Johnny narrowed his eyes, though his mouth was twisted with amusement. “So, does that mean I’ll be playing the rich playboy?”
“Most likely, yes,” she confirmed. “Unless I can find someone better on short notice, in which case you would be our bodyguard. Either way, we’ll find a good use for you. As for when we’re doing this, it’s tonight. I hate wasting time. And as to where we’ll be going, I would say the most sensible option is to stake out the place where our woes began, which has been a thorn in our collective side this entire time.”
Her hands had rolled into tight, bony fists, and her red nails were making equally red marks on her palms.
Johnny nodded, understanding at once what she meant. The prospect filled him with vague low-level dread, but also a certain vicious excitement.
“The Mermaid,” he surmised.
Doug Lopez’s mouth went through a series of sputtering motions before actual words came out. “What the shit?”
Mia rushed over from her desk. “What is it? It’s not something related to our story, is it? Ugh, wait, don’t answer that. Of course it is.”
She looked over his shoulder at his laptop’s screen. He was viewing their most recent report on Motorcycle Man and his exploits, or rather, the final draft of their report.
It had been altered. Substantially.
Mia’s mouth imitated Doug’s, twisting in odd shapes as her eyes bulged in wrathful disbelief. Random weird sounds came out eventually.
Someone had reworded sentences here and there, deleted others, and added a couple of new paragraphs, all of them bent toward a particular goal: pandering to the feds. The report now fulfilled the Bureau’s “suggestion” that Motorcycle Man be smeared, vetoing the public’s honest opinions.
There were cryptic suggestions that Motorcycle Man was the alter ego of a mentally imbalanced career criminal, and his stunts had been no more than distractions from his illegal activities. Not to mention, the article threw shade on the vigilante’s heroic rescue efforts, positing that he had been reckless and stupid and had unnecessarily endangered the populace by refusing to let the professionals deal with things.
And at the end of the story was an advertisement for a live report the station was doing on their TV channel, which would begin in three minutes.
Doug asked, “Do we even want to watch it? I’m not sure I do. It’s going to be a total crapfest. I mean, look at this.” He waved his hand at the screen. “And we had zero involvement in the live show, so whatever nuances might have remained in our text story will go out the window.”
Mia rubbed her eyes, once again feeling like she could use a stiff drink. “Oh, man. Yeah, it’s going to suck, but we have to. We have to know what they’re doing with our work so we can calibrate our anger to the appropriate level.”
Nodding, Doug agreed, “You’re probably right. I’m guessing it will be somewhere between ‘really pissed’ and ‘nuclear explosion.’”
“Most likely. It’s your turn to refill our coffee, though.”
Mia sat down and switched to the station’s live stream as her partner hurried to the coffee machine. He returned with both cups full and steaming as the report began.
The journalist running the stream was a newer girl named Sandy whom Doug and Mia had only worked with a couple of times. She mostly ran with other departments, and as far as the two of them were aware, she’d had no involvement in the Motorcycle Man case before now.
“Hello,” she began, posing in front of a lush and prosperous suburban neighborhood, “and welcome to Motorcycle Man: Friend or Foe? A Special Live Report. We’re here near Los Feliz to speak to several residents who have gathered to discuss the mysterious vigilante everyone has been talking about, but whose true identity and motivations have remained shadowy.”
Doug groaned. “Motorcycle Man hasn’t operated in that neighborhood. They deliberately avoided the downtown area where people would be more likely to have firsthand information.”
“Yeah,” Mia grumbled, “and they’re already setting the stage for character assassination by using the word ‘shadowy' when they could have said something more neutral like ‘obscure.’ Goddammit.”
She had a terrible sinking feeling that her anger level was
going to trend toward the “nuclear” end of the spectrum Doug had described.
Sandy went on to give a brief, rough, half-assed overview of the situation before pausing to interview a couple of residents from the crowd of local observers. Doug and Mia wondered if they were legit or if they had been planted in the crowd.
She asked a cantankerous-looking fat guy in a nice button-down shirt, “How do you feel about Motorcycle Man’s complete flaunting of local laws and customs? New facts about the case suggest he may have a criminal background and may have crossed county lines as part of his vigilante activities.”
Doug’s fingertips clawed the desk.
The man gave a relatively noncommittal and elliptical response in which he blathered about how he didn’t support anyone breaking the law and figured that most people were better off calling the cops if they had a problem.
Sandy quickly interviewed two more people, both women, one of whom said she wanted to like Motorcycle Man but she wasn’t sure what to think, and another who huffily questioned why Motorcycle Man felt the need to hide his face and identity if he was so good and virtuous.
“Moving on,” Sandy elaborated as she looked into the camera, “new information has, as I mentioned, recently come out. We received word from an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, speaking on condition of anonymity, that the so-called Motorcycle Man might be an individual who was previously committed to a state mental health facility, or possibly a soldier for a local organized crime syndicate...”
She went on to touch upon a half dozen different conspiracy theories harvested from the Internet, carefully avoiding committing to any of them but implying that they might be true. Not a single one cast Motorcycle Man in a positive light.
There was a brief cut to some infographics on LA crime statistics and past instances of supposed vigilantes causing problems while trying to protect themselves or others from looters, rioters, and muggers. Then the camera returned to the live feed of Sandy, who had moved into the foothills not too far from Griffith Observatory, the better to get a wider shot of the city below.
“And so,” she concluded, “Los Angeles struggles with indecision in what are already uncertain times. The FBI has assured us that they are on the case and that all guilty parties will be brought to justice for any and all crimes committed. This is Sandy Satkowiak, signing off.”
Doug closed the screen of his laptop and took six or seven deep breaths, struggling to resist the urge to fling the device at the wall. “What a shitshow,” he muttered.
Mia was less restrained. “Oh, fuck this! They stopped just short of outright lying but still spent the whole fucking broadcast massaging the facts and seeding their bullshit agenda in the minds of viewers. As though public trust in the American news media isn’t abysmal enough! Fuck! We’re real journalists with integrity, and these shills keep hamstringing us every step of the way. And a hero is going to take a fall because of it. Ugh!”
She kicked the trash can, spilling its contents across the floor, then spent a moment calming herself down before she grabbed a couple of leftover napkins and cleaned up the mess.
Doug, meanwhile, could do little more than sit and stare into space. He was as furious as his partner, but his rage was tempered by a cold, sick feeling of depression and futility. After all their work on the Motorcycle Man story, this was the final result.
In a feeble effort to take his mind off things, he checked his email.
“Oh, look,” he mumbled. “The boss sent us a couple of emails. Want to read them?”
“No,” Mia snapped. “Definitely not. Thanks for asking.”
Doug nodded. “Same. I can’t put up with the bastard right now. I wonder if he wrote the emails himself, or if it’s just crap from the FBI that he has politely forwarded to our inboxes.”
Mia stood and tossed the last of the napkins in the trash, which had been restored to its rightful place. “Who cares?” she growled. Then she lowered herself back into her chair and ran her fingers through her hair many more times than was necessary.
To break the awkward silence as much as anything else, Doug quipped, “It’s effective, I’ll give them that—the sneaky, underhanded techniques they used. They never said any of this stuff was confirmed or offered evidence. They simply threw the ideas out there and are letting the people fill in the blanks on their own. When someone gets to do the last part of the mental work themselves, they feel more sure of their false, incorrect conclusions. Brilliant.”
A shudder went through Mia as she forced herself to stay seated. Another tantrum wouldn’t solve anything. “That’s one word for it. They won’t get away with this. We have to do something.”
Doug breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Once again, we are in agreement, but what the hell can we do?”
“I don’t know,” Mia admitted, “but we’re smart. We’ll figure it out. And soon.”
Mr. and Mrs. Kim sat down to dinner. Though the electric lights were on in the next room to provide extra illumination, they had a single candle burning in the center of the table.
Sam was at a friend’s house for the evening, so it was just the two of them. They did not eat meals together with no one else present as often as they once had and enjoyed it immensely when the occasion presented itself.
“I am much better lately,” Mrs. Kim told her husband in Korean. “Nothing has grown worse since Kera started her healing sessions, and getting up and training in martial arts again is making me feel stronger and healthier like I’m fifteen years younger again.”
Her husband gave her a small yet warm smile. “Good, very good. I always knew my flower would find a way to live through the frosts. You have always been strong. Sam is almost an adult, but he still needs his mother around. You will improve still more, I think.”
“I think so too,” she told him.
They clasped hands for a moment, then dug into their meal, a basic but tasty and nourishing chicken stir fry, along with strong green tea. At first, they chatted about daily life and how Sam was doing, but Mr. Kim’s mood grew distant and pensive. His wife kept trying to strike up further conversation, only for him to drift off into his own thoughts.
When both had finished off the majority of their food and drink, she looked across the table and asked, “My dear, what is wrong? I can tell you’re occupied with something. It would be better to state it outright than let it simmer.”
He frowned and settled back in his chair, letting out a sigh of resignation. She recognized the half-annoyed, half-relieved expression on his face. It meant he’d acknowledged that she was right.
“I am worried about Kera,” he said finally. “She is taking on too much too quickly, and I fear she won’t be able to handle it all. Things have grown complicated of late.”
His hardened hands flexed on the table as he rolled them into and out of fists and then rubbed his knuckles. Since Kera had used her abilities to channel healing energy into his hands, his arthritis had all but vanished, but old habits died hard.
His wife made a low sound in her throat as she reflected on his words. “She has good sense,” she pointed out. “Again and again, Kera has surprised me with her understanding, especially for one so young. She does not want to learn everything or do everything associated with magic. There is prudence and caution underneath her seeming recklessness.” She hesitated. “But she is cutting people off. I am worried about her decision to memory-wipe the boy. It was a big choice to make for him.”
“Yes,” Mr. Kim said. “And I fear for her. I wish she had a better teacher than me. She has a good one in you, of course, but that’s for martial arts. When it comes to magic, I am no great master, and it goes beyond that. She could use a good mentor for life in general. Someone who could protect her better and talk sense into her. As you say, she refuses to be convinced that she does not have to face all this strife alone.”
Mrs. Kim put her hand on his shoulder and rubbed the back of his neck. “My dear, you are far bette
r than nothing, even if we did not remain in Korea long enough for you to attain full mastery of your abilities. Besides, nowadays the kids have the Internet, don’t they? That might help her learn things. She could get in contact with other people who have had similar experiences.”
The man grunted. “Thank you, Ye-Jin. But there’s also the matter of these people who are going around the country and seeking out individuals who have the gift. I still remember when people came to find me after it became clear what I was. We were both terrified for our lives. You recall that, don’t you? We had to run. It was part of why we came to America. I don’t want the same thing to happen to Kera. She might do something stupid or have to flee to Mexico. Who knows?”
“We cannot know what will happen,” Mrs. Kim pointed out. “It may be that her experience is different, better than ours. It has been many years, and this is a different country. We will help her however we can, but it’s no use worrying about things that haven’t yet occurred.”
She stood and began to gather the dishes.
As her husband handed over his plates and utensils, he added, “She should have tried to make things work with that boy. He probably would have been good for her. Maybe not, but things could have succeeded or failed on their own merits rather than being based on her hiding and sabotaging the whole thing. She’ll do nothing but make herself miserable with this. Sad and lonely and scared.”
His wife took the dishes to the kitchen, then walked back toward the table. “We can give her advice, but no more than that. It’s not our place to make decisions for her. In the meantime, I think we should take Sam somewhere. Do something fun. Quality time, I think they call it in America. It’s been too long, and we’ve been very focused on Kera.”
Mr. Kim smiled at her. “Yes, I think you’re right. We all love Kera, but the three of us need to get away, if only for a day or so. I’ll think of something and talk to Sam when he gets back.”
“Good.” Mrs. Kim kissed her husband on the top of his head, and he stood and followed her to the kitchen, where they washed the dishes together.
How To Be A Badass Witch: Book Three Page 14