Double Cross

by Carolyn Crane

  He touches my cheek. “Evil is an aberration of nature. You’re rebooting them, restoring them. Righting them. You think a prison is somehow more humane, or moral, where the aberrations only get worse?”

  I take the wrapper off my straw and stick it into my soda.

  “If you went to them after they turned positive and asked which they’d prefer, they’d be grateful for your turning them. The work we’re doing together is helping me keep the streets safe, so children can play in parks, and people can live free, and businesses can feel confident about locating here. Besides, I believe that, deep down, everybody yearns to be good.” He unwraps his straw. “At any rate, I certainly can’t keep them all imprisoned with my mind, they can’t go to human prisons, and they can’t be freed the way they are. So even if what you’re doing is wrong, which it isn’t, sometimes you have to choose.”

  I examine a tortilla chip, considering this.

  “You’re overthinking it,” he adds.

  “And they’re all for sure guilty?”

  He furrows his brow. “Of course.”

  I dip my chip into the salsa.

  “I spoke with the lead Dorks investigator earlier,” he says. “Their latest theory is that all the victims were wearing something blue.”

  “Like the Dorks hate the color blue? That’s why they’re killing people?”

  “Something like that.”

  I crunch my chip disdainfully.

  “What else are the detectives to think?” Otto says. “They don’t know what connects the victims. If somebody trustworthy informed them that the victims are all highcaps—”

  “But somebody trustworthy can’t.”

  An hour or so later we step outside into the chilly darkness. Otto’s town car waits at the curb. After the last time we ate here, we walked a few blocks to the West Side Bakery for dessert. This is a perfect moonlit night for a walk, not so cold, though you can still see your breath. But there are the Dorks to think about.

  Otto mentions the idea of a walk to Covian, who peers up and down the sidewalk. Across the street, the mirror windows of a mod 1960s gas company building reflect the moonlight.

  I wait, thinking about something Otto once said, about how disturbing it is to highcaps to have their power thwarted. I could especially see it upsetting Covian. He takes his bodyguard work so seriously.

  “I leave it up to you, old friend,” Otto says. “You’re the guard.”

  Covian stares at the sky for a while. Then he says, “Their pattern’s been every three days, and always nearer the lake.” He looks at Otto. “And they hit once today. It’s not common for serial killers to change patterns.”

  Otto nods.

  “But then, this is a gang of three, which adds unpredictability,” Covian reasons. “Then again, twice in a day? And out here?”

  Otto waits. Otto believes in people. Sometimes when he looks at you, his trust and faith feel like a warm breeze inside. I always think that’s part of why he was elected—people like it when other people believe in them. I know I do.

  “They struck once today,” Covian says. “We’re fine.” Covian goes to the curb to send the car ahead.

  Otto turns to me, brushing a stray hair off my cheek. “A short after-dinner stroll, a cookie, and then home …” The way he says that, my heart drops through my chest. And then home …

  “Sounds wonderful,” I say.

  “I needed time,” he says, “but I’m back.” He means with me.

  I want to say a million different effusive things, but before I can embarrass myself, he takes my hand and we set off down the block.

  Covian catches up with us; then he drops behind, into shadows, then comes back near. That’s how he guards, walking loose, open to waves from the future.

  We’ll have sex tonight; I can feel it. Does it mean Otto’s over my attack on him? Of course it does. I squeeze his hand. Everything about this night has turned magical, and this dark, quiet neighborhood is suddenly the center of the universe.

  We round a corner and stroll past shuttered store-fronts. Across the way, a glass office tower is held up by giant concrete pillars; it looks like it’s on stilts. During the day, cars park under there.

  That’s where the three loud booms come from. Boom-boom-boom.

  Glass shatters. Car alarms wail. I freeze, bewildered.

  Suddenly two louder booms sound like cannons in my ear. It’s Otto, gun out, shooting at the pillars.

  I didn’t even realize we’d let go of each other’s hands, but there he is, running in the other direction, returning fire. And drawing theirs.

  He yells, “Get him behind that car!”

  I see Covian on the ground, clutching his thigh. “Covian!”

  More gunfire. More windows break around us. Alarms are going crazy.

  “Go!” Otto says.

  “Shit!” I help Covian to safety behind a car a couple yards down. Otto continues to shoot.

  “Get down, boss,” Covian yells, face a tight mask of pain. He unfolds onto his back on the cold sidewalk. “Don’t let him—”

  “Shhh,” I say.

  Otto’s positioned himself behind a lone car at the other end of the block. The long stretch of sidewalk between us sparkles with broken glass.

  “How is he?” Otto calls over the cacophony of alarms.

  “I think he’s hit in the thigh,” I call back. There’s a major artery in the thigh I’m worried about, and I press the heel of my palm where I think it is. Covian breathes heavily.

  “Team on the way,” Otto calls. “You need my help?”

  “God, no!” Covian yells.

  “We’re fine!” I add. We’re not, but neither of us wants Otto crossing the open space. Covian clutches his thigh; then he lets go, like he can’t decide what to do. I can’t tell if he’s trying to help stanch the blood or lessen the pain. Sometimes he touches the side of his stomach. Blood’s on his pants, his hands, my hands. It’s getting cold. My fingers are numb.

  “I’m okay,” Covian says.

  The bloodstain creeps wider on his pants leg. I feel so helpless.

  “I’m pushing on where the artery is,” I explain to Covian. “Applying pressure. Okay?”

  Covian grunts his assent, then there’s more gunfire. “No!” Covian yells.

  I look over and gasp. Otto’s sprinting across the empty sidewalk. More gunfire. He slides in like a ballplayer.

  “Damn it!” I say.

  “Covian.” He crawls over and touches Covian’s forehead, then he takes his hand.

  Covian watches Otto’s face, like he’s finding strength there. The car alarms wail on.

  “You’re okay,” I say. “I’m just keeping up pressure.”

  “Don’t worry, Covian,” Otto adds. “Between the two of us, we have a great deal of vascular knowledge. You’re in excellent hands.”

  “With you two?” Covian barks out a laugh. It seems to cost him.

  Otto smiles, but his eyes stay dark with worry. Sirens scream in the distance.

  Covian whispers, “I couldn’t feel them coming!”

  “Of course not,” Otto says. “It’s the Dorks. It’s not your fault.” He pulls off his coat and settles it over Covian.

  I gape at the red bloom of blood on Otto’s shirtsleeve. “Your shoulder!”

  “Flesh wound,” he says.

  “Well, God,” I say.

  With a burst of energy that surprises me, Covian reaches up, grabs Otto’s collar, and pulls him down, almost like he aims to kiss him. “Don’t go out again until they’re caught! Promise me you won’t take any more chances! Promise you’ll stay inside!”

  “I can’t make that promise,” Otto says.

  The sirens are closer. “Promise me!”

  “I’ve canceled my speeches,” Otto says. “All public events.”

  “You have to promise to stay inside!” Covian is really freaked out. They have a bond, those two. They came up together on the force, highcaps in hiding.

  Red flashes o
n dark walls. Gently Otto removes Covian’s hands from his collar. “You need to trust that I’ll be all right.” He whips off his glasses and hands them to me, then he pulls his beret from the pocket of the jacket he’d draped over Covian and puts it on his head, transforming back to flamboyant Mayor Otto Sanchez.

  The EMTs arrive and we give them room to work on Covian. Otto tells a pair of detectives what he saw. Officers are placing tabs next to bullet holes, examining the alley across the street. Only now do I think about the fact that Otto was carrying his gun. Dorks precaution?

  Otto introduces me to the detectives Wang and Mulligan as his consultant, our usual ruse. The publicity of being a celebrity mayor’s girlfriend would destroy my ability to work as a disillusionist. It would also connect Otto to the world of the highcaps and to Packard, a known crime boss. In short, it would connect Otto to all the secret operations of his own administration.

  Detective Wang and his partner ask me questions about what I saw. Nothing, I tell them. They don’t interview us hard, being that Otto was once a superstar detective and their boss. They’re interested in the fact that neither of us is wearing blue, though, and also that Otto noticed that one of the Dorks had eyeglasses. Squarish, brown, possibly tortoiseshell rims.

  They’re putting Covian in an ambulance. His vitals look good; that’s all they’ll say. Otto and I head down the block where Jimmy the chauffeur is waiting, leaning against the car. He opens the back door and Otto and I climb in.

  “Midway General, please,” Otto says.

  Jimmy nods. Maybe he already knew that. Like Covian, Jimmy’s a short-term precog—certainly a good thing for a driver to be. He puts up the partition window.

  Otto rests his head back against the seat as we zoom away. “He gets shot in my service, and all he can think is that he let me down.”

  “He’s going to be okay.”

  Otto stares out the window. The hum of our tires mixes with the roar of a nearby motorcycle. After a long silence, he turns to me. “I won’t have us victimized like this, Justine. I won’t.” There’s an edge to his voice that I’ve never heard before.

  I put my hand on his arm. “We’ll stop them,” I say.

  Otto gives me a weary gaze. “I’m so glad you’re here. You help me,” he says. “So much.”

  I smile. It’s not the most romantic thing a man might say, but it means a lot to me.

  He shifts and arranges himself to fit perfectly next to me, chin on my head, like we’re two puzzle pieces. We’ve always fit well together; that’s one of the big things about us. Even last fall, in the chaos after I confessed that I’d been sent to disillusion him, we’d attended a charity ball together. We managed to have a nice time of it, in spite of it all.

  But soon after, he told me he needed to step back—to repair, he’d said. And there was the election to think about. He’d decided to run, and needed to focus on that for a bit. And we disillusionists regrouped and began disillusioning the prisoners Otto’s holding with his mind. That was the deal: Packard’s freedom in exchange for us disillusioning Otto’s prisoners. Every one we turn loose reduces the dangerous strain on Otto’s brain.

  Otto runs his thumb back and forth along the silky lining of my coat in a motion that seems almost self-soothing. Otto doesn’t trust hospitals any more than I do; we’re both acutely aware that more people die in hospitals than anywhere else.

  “I couldn’t make that promise to Covian,” he says suddenly. “I won’t let fear make me hide. But I’ll tell you this—I won’t use highcap bodyguards anymore. Even Jimmy.” He gestures toward the front. “I won’t put the highcaps who work for me in danger just because I won’t hide. Human bodyguards and human drivers only until this is over.”

  “You should wear a vest, too.”

  “I do,” he says.

  “Good.” I nestle my head on his shoulder, glad I didn’t bother him with our Ez problem. All of these imprisoned highcaps are twisted and dangerous, but we disillusion them and it’s over. The Ez situation is so minor when you compare it to what happened to Covian.

  Jimmy’s voice comes through the intercom. “Side entrance or ER?”

  “The ER door,” Otto says.

  We arrive at the ER entrance. It’s understood that I can’t go in, with all the press that will be there. Otto kisses me, warm and light.

  “Call me,” I say as he gets out. “Call me when you know.”

  I watch Otto disappear through the double door.

  Jimmy lowers the panel between us. “Home?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Chapter

  Four

  JIMMY STOPS THE TOWN CAR on my modest, well-lit block of cheerful storefronts and eateries tucked below brick apartments. We say good night and I get out in front of Mr. K.’s jewelry shop window, with its row of empty, black velvet necks. I pull open the door on the far side of Mr. K.’s and enter the tiny tiled entrance area.

  Three flights of stairs later, I’m at my door. Even as I unlock it, I sense him. Sure enough he’s in there, waiting on my couch like a bad guy in a B movie.

  “You are so pathetic,” I say.

  He puts aside his newspaper and crosses his legs. He’s wearing beat-up jeans I know well, particularly a rip in the thigh. I used to fantasize about sliding my hand in there.

  “How’s Covian?” Packard asks. “I got the report.”

  “Vitals looked strong. Otto’s there now.” I kick off my shoes, switching them for my fuzzy slippers from the closet. When I look up, his eyes are twinkling. “What?”

  “Your slippers.”

  I look down at my beloved bunny slippers, only one ear between the two of them. “What about them?” I ask, defensive. I never go around in front of people with my bunny slippers. Even Otto has never seen my bunny slippers.

  “I like them,” he says.

  I roll my eyes, but actually it makes me feel good. “Anything else?”

  “That’s what I want to know. All I got was the official report. Can you tell me anything they kept out of it?”

  “Otto thought one of them wore eyeglasses. Sort of squarish brown frames.”

  “Eyeglasses,” Packard says. “Another victim thought that.”

  “Same old thing otherwise—three guys in hoodies. They went for Covian first. And Otto’s shoulder was grazed—he’s fine, in case you’re wondering.” I walk around my little counter to get a glass of orange juice.

  “He’s not fine. The Dorks know he’s a highcap now.”

  “No way. There’s no way they recognized him.” I come around with a glass for Packard. “Here, even though you don’t deserve it for breaking in.” As he reaches out for it I catch the glint of his blue metal chain bracelet—his friend Diesel’s bracelet, actually. Diesel died in one of Otto’s makeshift prisons. When Packard put on Diesel’s bracelet last summer, he said he wouldn’t take it off until he strangled his nemesis with his bare hands. That’s never sat right with me. Packard’s a highly imaginative criminal, but he’s no killer.

  “Why wouldn’t they have recognized Otto?” he asks.

  “Because he was wearing sunglasses and no hat when they came at us. It’s weird—even just when he takes off his beret, nobody thinks it’s him. It’s this disguise we use. People never see through it.”

  Packard grunts.

  I sit across from him, steadfastly not looking at the torn area of his jeans. It’s strange to have him there, legs crossed, arm slung over the couch back—not so much sitting in it as completing it, as if the couch has been waiting for him.

  “He’s upset about Covian,” I say. “He feels responsible. He’s thinking about letting people know highcaps are the targets, not humans, and maybe even coming out as a highcap himself—”

  Packard cuts me off. “He won’t do that.”

  “He sounded like he might. He’s pretty upset.”

  “He won’t come out.”

  “Well, you weren’t there.”

  “I don’t need to have been there, J
ustine, to tell you what Otto will and won’t do.”

  “You can’t predict everything about a person from seeing their psychology.”

  “Yes. I can. It’s simple pattern recognition. Otto will do what he needs to do to stay in control.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Packard smirks.

  “Unfortunately, Packard, pretending you’re a psychic won’t make you a psychic.”

  “Seeing psychology is better than being a psychic,” he says.

  “Are we done?”

  “You, for instance.” He sits back. “One of the things about you is your tendency to insulate people from the reality of who you are. You hide the hard things. The things you think people won’t like.”

  “I am so tired of your pop psychology insights. Maybe it works on the thugs and thieves you live off of—”

  Packard turns his gaze on me. It’s not that he wasn’t looking at me before, of course, but it’s different suddenly—like his gaze is burning a laser dot into my forehead. “Remember how you hid all those truths of your life from Cubby? Not just being a disillusionist, but all kinds of things.”

  It’s here that I get a very bad feeling.

  “You have the same sort of relationship with Otto. Which is why, even though this bit about the dream invader conferencing our sleeping minds together is something Otto would desperately want to know, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him.”

  A guess, but of course he’s right. I feel the heat rush to my face.

  “Fear. Guilt. It’s inevitable with you,” he continues. “You feel responsible for her compromising us in the first place, and you feel guilty about the feelings you still have for me—feelings that might be reinvigorated in the dream memories—and you think he can’t handle that.”

  “His friend was just shot, for Chrissake.”

  “Waiting for the right time, are you? Or maybe you’re just hoping the problem goes away so you’ll never have to tell him, because you need to be perfect for him. Because you’re worried that the real you will disappoint him.”

  This is like a shot to my gut, but I gaze at the ceiling as I sip my juice, pretending boredom.