by C G Cooper
He wasn’t going back. This was the end. If not of the mission, then of his career. No matter how many layers he peeled away from the mystery of Tiffany’s murder and the Nine Nine, there always seemed to be another layer.
No longer. The favor he’d asked of Chance was the last he would ask on this side of failure or redemption. If he failed, he’d walk away. If he was redeemed, life would get even more interesting.
Two phone calls to make.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Mikayla first. If he’d timed it right, she would be between classes.
No luck. She answered after the first ring. “Hi.”
“Aloha,” he said. “I know you don’t have much time. Can you give me two minutes?”
“Sounds serious. What’s on your mind?”
“There’s been an adjustment. The blizzard. My lecture’s been moved up to 4:30 today.”
“I heard something about that. Mac, you know you don’t have to ask. I’ll be there.”
“Actually, uh, I was calling to say, do you think you could not be?”
“What’s that? I don’t understand.”
“I wanna see you, but I don’t know if I want you to see me. At that club, that was—”
“Oh my God. Are you…? You’re worried that what happened Saturday night will happen again.”
“It’s not just loud music. Crowds, so many people—”
“Like your family reunion. I understand.”
“You were great the other night. Amazing. But you don’t need to see me like that again.”
“Mac. Baby, don’t you know a lady likes her man vulnerable? I don’t have the super strength to get under bullet-proof skin.”
“Did you just call me baby?” he asked.
“Yeah. Careful next time you put a hat on that big head. Listen,” she said. “I’m going to be front and center today. I’m going to get there early, and I’m going to keep my seat. And you? You’re going to tear the house down. If you look like you need help, I will personally clear the auditorium. It’ll just be you, me, and however much God is left in that place after last year’s symposium on Ancient Etruscan Erotica. You don’t have to talk to a room full of strangers, Mac. You just talk to me. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds— I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
She answered, “No. No, you do not. I’m going to be there for you.”
“Thanks. You’re the most supportive double-rain check I’ve ever dated.”
Mikayla laughed. “I’m just getting started. Times ticking. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at 4:30, okay? Front and center.”
“Looking forward to it. Never thought I’d say that, but I am.”
“Me too, baby. You keep looking. Aloha.”
“Aloha, sweetheart.”
He hung up, stunned by the speed of his infatuation. Fresh from their conversation, it was almost see himself making it through the lecture, that her sustaining presence would be enough to overcome his fear.
No. He was fooling himself. At least he’d prepared Mikayla to watch him crash and burn.
Glancing at his watch, Mac saw that there were more than thirty hours before the end of his countdown. He considered adjusting it, but what was the point? He called Kreisburg.
“Boxer?” said the old man. “Not sleeping ‘til noon today?”
“I’m healing up nicely, thanks. How’s Tentpole?”
Kreisburg’s tone lost its brusqueness. “I was gonna call you. Her condition took a turn last night. Some sort of secondary reaction. Her heart couldn’t take it. I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
Mac stumbled over to the new sedan, leaned against the hood. He felt like he’d fallen from orbit into the depths of the sea.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean a reaction? Reaction to what?”
“Didn’t I tell you? That’s right. With your phone outta commission yesterday, I forgot. The docs found an injection site, a place where somebody stuck a needle, over Tentpole’s left breast. The swelling in her brain didn’t put her into a coma. It was the allergic reaction.”
Mac swallowed. His chest itched over his left pectoral. Images of Saturday’s fight came rushing back.
They injected me, too, he thought. Only I wasn’t allergic.
He didn’t want to share this revelation with Kreisburg. If he did, the old man would pull the plug on the entire operation. Mac couldn’t afford another failure.
He said, “Do you know what she was injected with?”
“Not yet,” said Kreisburg.
“Do me a favor. Cross-check against our school girl’s medical report. Blood, hair, tissue. Let me know if there’s a connection.”
“Will do. Boxer, I know you didn’t know Tentpole for long. But if you want to come in from the cold—”
“No. The cold’s where I need to be.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Somewhere, an infinite number of monkeys pounded out the works of Shakespeare. In what he felt was a slightly less likely scenario, Mac passed through the door into the Grant-Spencer Admissions Building at 4:10 with a smile on his face and lecture notes under his arm. He approached the vertiginous carpet with a vague hope that the next twenty minutes might not be the last of his career.
Emma Jarrald, trim hips hugged by denim, jogged up from the reception desk. She was wearing her signature dark purple lipstick. As he lifted a hand in greeting, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. He didn’t kiss her back, though he didn’t push her away, either, mostly because he couldn’t think of a way to press her tender young body that couldn’t be misinterpreted. There was nobody to see the kiss but the receptionist. She arched an eyebrow, then went back to playing with her phone.
“Uh,” said Mac.
Smoothing the wrinkles out of his coat, Emma said, “Don’t worry. Mikayla already staked her claim. That was for luck.”
He looked down at her. She quit fiddling with one of his coat buttons and winked. On their way past the desk, Emma grabbed a tissue out of the receptionist’s box and passed it over. Mac dabbed at his lips.
They traced the reverse of the path Chandra had blazed Friday morning, heading north up the walkway to the stairs that led out into the snow. A few flakes drifted down from the gray clouds overhead. Mac looked up without comment, thinking how happy he would have been to greet the blizzard if Chandra hadn’t decided it was so important to satisfy his audience’s curiosity.
Quite a few members of that audience were making their way along the paths between naked trees to towering St. Alban’s. He was surprised to see so many had shown up early. As Emma led him closer, he understood why they’d braved the cold.
The steps to the main door were a sprawling affair, broadening out from the double doors to span the church’s entire western facade. A few students were walking up the stairs, but the vast majority had spread themselves out in front. They seemed to be maintaining a deliberate gap between themselves and the church, as if they’d been warned to do so. Mac recognized a few faces in the crowd. He could tell they had recognized him by the way they hefted their signs.
“Big Brother, go home! Big Brother, go home!” they chanted. The more verbose protesters transitioned to “Fascists are criminals!” Paul Arken was standing opposite the mob, heels close to but not touching the church steps. He was holding a sign. It read, “Safety ≠ Liberty.”
As if to reward Mac for spotting him, Fu-Fu chose that moment to swing around from the far side of the admissions annex, rotors buzzing, on a track that took it directly over Mac and Emma’s heads. Mac wondered if Kreisburg was driving.
The protesters sent up a collective “Boo!”
Waving with the arm that wasn’t clutching his notes, Mac said, “Aloha to you,” in the pause before the chanting resumed. He managed to keep his voice steady, at the cost of letting it rise an octave.
Emma tried to steer him around the crowd, but a knot of fist-pumping youths swiveled to block their path. She glowered and was abou
t to say something when Arken appeared, elevating his sign above his dispersing followers like Moses parting the Red Sea. The path that opened for him closed as soon as he passed through.
“Ben Franklin, right?” said Mac, pointing at his sign. “My favorite of his is, ‘If we don’t hang together—’”
“Your wit is no more welcome than your presence,” said Arken.
“Less, I woulda thought,” said Mac.
Emma palmed her forehead. “Paul, tell your goon squad to get out of the way.”
“You should be with us, Miss Jarrald. Look at how mighty we are.”
If numbers were his measure of mightiness, he had a point. The crowd now gathered before the church dwarfed the group Mac had met on his way from Admin.
Emma said, “You’re pissing on the wrong tree, or whatever. Mac’s here to talk. What’s your problem?” As the slit that served the scarecrow for a mouth opened, she added, “Know what? I don’t care. Just let us by, Paul.”
“You’re under the mistaken assumption that I hold authority over these brave souls,” said Arken. He indicated the crowd. “We are free people. Free Americans. We kowtow to no one.”
“You’re about to cow to my boot in your shriveled sack,” said Emma.
Mac held her back. “Now, now.” He pointed to the top of the steps, where Chandra had just emerged from the double doors, flanked by Brian Jarrald and Tad Marshall.
“Dad!” called Emma. “Get Prof Barkin’ out of my way.”
Professor Arken’s face twisted in anger. Evidently, he’d heard the nickname before and didn’t like it.
Brian spotted Emma and pointed her out to Chandra, who started down the steps. Tad darted forward, catching her arm a split-second before a snowball smashed itself to pieces at her feet.
“Who threw that?” said Brian, plainly indignant.
“Stop!” said Paul, leaping up to a step. “Civil disobedience is our weapon.”
Mac felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. Like a lot of idealists, he didn’t understand the force he had unleashed. In defiance of his plea, three more snowballs arced from the crowd.
One struck very near the first, either poorly aimed or deliberately missing the president. Another went wide, exploding against the side of the church. The third struck Paul Arken on the cheek. It must have startled more than it hurt the gaunt man. Either way, he lost his balance, kicked his feet into the air, and went sprawling over backwards. An audible crunch punctuated his landing.
Three-quarters of the crowd surged forward at once. Mac saw a freshman girl trip over her own feet. Without hesitation, he shoulder-blocked into the forest of bodies and deflected a woman who was inches from treading on the freshman’s head. Responding instinctively, the woman’s neighbors shoved him back. He managed to hoist the girl up by one arm before the tide rolled over her. In the confusion, he pushed her into the embrace of an onlooker, then elbowed his way through the sea of bodies.
The need for action had saved him from thinking about his predicament, but as soon as he broke free, scooping out a hole between two students who expelled breath in a stereo “Oof!,” fear closed up his throat. His pulse was moderate, so the experience wasn’t exactly like Sudan.
Still, he felt the panic coming. It would swell up in his mind, first. He wouldn’t be human when it hit him full force, only a beast, fighting to survive.
There was a tug at his sleeve. He clenched a fist, released it when he saw Emma.
“Arken’s hurt,” she said. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He nodded, gaining a measure of control. Emma took him around to the back of the sea of humanity, which had surged and rebounded off the church steps. Mac saw their exit, a short stretch of crusted snow he’d have to smash through to reach the sidewalk. He locked hands with Emma and got ready to charge.
A pale face shaped itself out of the crowd. The pupils of the eyes were so wide they almost obscured the whites. In the shadow of the mounting storm, Jordan Ross looked less like a man and more like an apparition, crowned by a fleshless skull. His right hand was inside his coat. As soon as Mac saw this, he sidestepped, putting his body between Jordan and Emma.
He had packed away his P229, but his lecture notes were still under his arm, despite the jostling. As Jordan drew nearer, Mac tossed a dozen pages into the air. The distraction muddled Jordan just long enough for Mac to hurl himself through space, crashing into the kid with the impact a freight train. Jordan flattened under his weight, squishing into the mud that the protesters’ boots had churned up from the snow.
Somehow the crash didn’t knock out Jordan cold. Even as his breath wheezed out, he swung a fist at Mac’s jaw. It struck and deflected, cotton dusting steel. Mac was already twisting his wrist, preparing to wrest away the gun.
Only, Jordan wasn’t holding a gun. In his hand was a metal cylinder with a plastic nozzle on top. Had he been planning to blind Mac with spray paint? Mac reached for the cylinder. That was when a tree crashed against his rib cage.
It took him two full seconds to recognize that what had struck him had not been a tree, but the dirt bike woman’s leg. He had flipped over, by then, and was looking up at her balaclava - white today, not black - as he batted away her stomping boots with both hands.
His defense wasn’t perfect. Four times her heel passed his guard before Emma, whose presence he’d forgotten completely, tackled her from the side. More surprised than Mac himself, the female attacker hopped backwards, slipped in the slush, and fell.
Jordan was on his feet. He was doubled over, his mouth had gone slack, but he brandished the spray can like a tagger on the prowl. Mac’s ribs ached from front to back. He couldn’t bring himself to roll backwards, over his shoulder, so he threw himself to one side and scrambled upright.
Grappling the skull-faced kid, he made a grab for the cylinder. Sweat from Jordan’s bare hands made it slippery. Mac’s gloves slid off, giving Jordan enough time to juggle the cylinder to his other hand. Now the nozzle was aimed away from Mac, toward Jordan. Mac grabbed Jordan’s wrist to prevent him from spinning the cylinder.
That would have ended the fight, if Jordan hadn’t done something unexpected. Instead of resisting, he bit down on the spray can, pressing the nozzle with the roof of his mouth. Colorless gas ejected with a hiss. Jordan closed his lips, puffed out his cheeks. Before Mac could break free, Jordan bent in close and exhaled. His breath was a white mist. It billowed into Mac’s face. He jerked away, but an acrid smell told him he’d already sucked in some of the gas.
Spinning, he caught Jordan with a left elbow that dropped him to the snow. That gave Mac a moment to assess the effects of the gas. No pain. His vision was sharp, olfaction acute. He coughed but didn’t sense any burning.
“Little help?” said Emma. She was hanging on to the woman’s leg. Mac rounded on her just as the woman broke free.
The crowd had noticed the action by now and was beginning to ring the combatants. That was bad news, in Mac’s humble opinion. More bystanders meant more people to get hurt. Worse, his fear of being hemmed in was returning. He had to end this thing quickly. The woman had the same idea. Dancing away from Emma, she pulled out a gun.
Mac took two steps to reach her. She took a half-second to aim. As he reached for the barrel, he realized she wasn’t pointing the gun at him or Emma. Her target was Jordan. The kid was still on the ground, stunned. His lip was bleeding. The woman had a bead on his head. Mac’s fingers closed around the gun barrel. Then, he stopped moving.
The world seemed to pause. Falling snow halted, hung in the air. Mac felt like he was watching himself from over his own shoulder. He couldn’t see himself, exactly, he just felt distant, disconnected. He saw himself standing motionless, gripping the woman’s gun. He saw her smile.
“Take it,” said a voice.
Mac looked at the woman. Her lips hadn’t moved. The words had come to him through his hearing aids. Someone was talking to him remotely.
“Take the gun,” said the voice. This ti
me, he recognized the slight, metallic twang the speaker was putting on.
In the background of wherever the tall man was calling from, he heard music. He couldn’t name the tune, but it sounded familiar. He was sure he had heard it recently.
He had a flashback to his first night in the townhouse. The same syncopated rhythm had been intercepted by his hearing aids, before he’d removed them for the night. He hadn’t heard the music again, but its tones were so familiar he wondered if he’d ever actually stopped hearing it. Perhaps it had just been turned down, below the threshold of conscious awareness.
Reality whipped back into place.
He was surprised to find himself holding the woman’s gun. He didn’t remember taking it from her or transferring his grip to the handle. The feeling of displacement that had accompanied the voice intensified.
“Shoot him,” it said.
“Who?” Mac asked.
“Shoot the thin-faced man in the black coat.”
A tunnel formed around Mac’s vision, pinning his perception to Jordan Ross. Jordan was up on one knee. As Mac squinted at him, Jordan rose.
“Shoot him,” said the voice. “Shoot him now.”
“No,” said Mac. The tunnel collapsed. He felt weak. Swaying, he lowered the gun.
Jordan lunged, seizing the barrel and pressing it against his own chest.
“Kill me,” he said. “You have to kill me.”
“He won’t do it,” said the woman. Mac had never heard such concentrated disdain. “They should have let me have my way.” She wrapped the fingers of both her hands around Mac’s, forced him to squeeze the trigger. There was a crack of exploding gunpowder.
The woman smashed the toe of her boot against the back of Mac’s knee. His leg went out, but he caught himself, recovering just in time to see her bash her way into the crowd of screaming students. Before he could blink, she was gone.