by Steven Gould
I returned to Kemp and began stacking the propane tanks on top of the table, two rows of three. When I was done, I went down to the other end of the room, to my little twelve-volt refrigerator, and took out a pack of dinner candles.
I'd bought them with E.V. in mind, for a romantic dinner.
I lit two of the candles, dripped wax atop the fridge, and anchored them there, burning brightly.
Romantic.
"So, do you have a secret headquarters, Kemp? I mean, someplace where you guys hang out, shoot darts, heft a few pints, eat paladin cakes, and practice killing little kids?"
He licked his lips. "Alejandra," he said.
I kicked him again. Same place. "Don't even say her name!"
He was reaching. I hoped he was reaching, but no matter what, I wasn't going to play their games any more.
"Why do you guys do it? Why are you after me? Why do you go around killing us?"
He looked at me and I saw hate and I saw fear, but he didn't speak and I was sick of hitting on him.
I opened three of the six propane tank valves and jumped away, to the top of the hill above.
I counted to ten. For a moment, I thought the candles had gone out. Then I felt it in my feet, the shock, followed by the rumble, echoing against the hill.
Down below, the mineshaft opening spat dust and smoke and, oddly, a near perfect smoke ring that spread as it rose until it was over a hundred feet in diameter.
Their trucks had cracked windows but the guy I'd injured first was still alive, shaken and staring around.
I thought about taking him away and playing with him, maybe extracting some information about this Roland guy, but I was tired.
Let him explain this to the park rangers.
I had a lead on a cell of three paladins who operated around the Gare de Lyon train station and I was drawing them out with a series of jumps, figuring out who were the Sensitives.
I'd identified one working the news kiosk and another, a waiter at Le Train Bleu, but I'd had no luck on the third and didn't want to move until I had.
I was eating pain au chocolat and between the flaky crust all down my jacket and the sticky chocolate on my face and fingers, I was making a right mess of things when a group of Spanish tourists went by following their tour guide. She was discussing the history of the station in perfect Castilian, but the voice wrenched my head around and widened my eyes.
She'd dyed her hair blond and cut it short, but it was her, slightly thinner, just as beautiful as ever.
As Alejandra came closer I turned away, pulling napkins from my paper bag and dabbing at the chocolate on my face. I soaked in every word, every bit of the warm, musical voice.
I wanted to run after her, to grab her, to hold her. I wanted her to hold me.
I didn't turn around until she was gone.
People surrounded me, moving through the station like schools of fish in a reef, like milling sheep. Meeting each other, talking, kissing, hurrying to make a train, their thoughts on their destinations or points of origin or just dinner.
But not me.
You don't have to drive or walk or even jump to get to the Empty Quarter.
Sometimes it comes to you.
The waiter I'd already identified talked briefly to a customer passing out of the restaurant. This man wandered around the train station for five minutes, watching the timetables, then abruptly went to the news kiosk. There he bought a newspaper, and talked briefly to the clerk, my other subject-only a few sentences, but more than were necessary to buy a paper.
Hello, boys.
I jumped.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-aeafc3-8316-1b45-19b9-040e-4dd6-54c748
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 27.12.2010
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