This was nothing. At least, almost nothing. A faint shading of red, like tones of a sepia photograph processed in watery blood, identified what she was seeing as unearthly, but there were no demons, no creatures, no identifiable presence of anything not of this world. The only strangeness was the area around the nephilim rather than the man himself. It wasort of murky shine, a halo of darkness that feathered out at the edges as though it were made of dissipating smoke. It didn’t quite touch him but the edges closest to his form churned sluggishly, as though it wanted nothing more in the world than to close that final six-inch gap and swallow him up. She needed to—
Casey Anlon jerked away from her and scrambled out of his chair, his eyes suddenly wide with fear. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Oh no you don’t—stop touching me! I know about people like you!” He backed away from her until he hit the wall and pressed himself against it.
Brynna blinked as the connection was broken. “Wait—”
Eran scowled. “What are you talking about, Mr. Anlon? What people?”
“You work for the—” He choked, then clapped both hands to his mouth and coughed into his fingers. “It doesn’t matter,” he said abruptly. “You either let me out of here right now, or I want a lawyer. Right now,” he repeated. His gaze was fixed on Brynna. Why in the world was he so afraid of her?
“Mr. Anlon,” Bheru said, “Ms. Malak is simply a consulting person for the police department, nothing more. Who is it you think employs her?”
“Lawyer,” Casey spat. “I’m not talking to you.”
“There’s no need for that,” Eran said agreeably. “I’ll escort you out. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a ride?”
“Absolutely not.” The nephilim edged toward the door, and Brynna decided it would be best to stay where she was and say nothing. She wasn’t sure what she’d done but it couldn’t be good—Eran and Bheru were going to need a miracle to get this man to even talk to them in the future. Too bad.
She watched as Eran led Casey Anlon out of the room but she didn’t look away when the nephilim sent her a final, malice-filled glance before disappearing into the hallway.
“That was interesting,” Bheru said. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat on it. “Even more interesting would be your take on this.”
Brynna stared at the empty doorway, trying to work out in her head just how much she should and shouldn’t tell Eran’s partner. Bheru had been more accepting about her “special” skills from the start, but experience had taught Brynna that for many—okay, most—people, acceptance only went so far. Past a certain point they would require proof, and cops were even more inclined to disbelief than the average citizen.
“Perhaps you saw something, as you did with Mr. Kim,” he suggested. “When you touched his daughter’s scarf.”
Of course—he was remembering how she’d been able to tell them that the girl had been kidnapped, although he was choosing to bypass that they’d later learned that Brynna had also chosen not to reveal some of the more important parts. “It wasn’t the same,” she said truthfully. “There’s something strange about that young man, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.”
“Give it the all-American try,” Eran said as he came back into the room.
“That was fast,” Bheru said.
Eran spun a chair around and sat. “He wanted out of here so badly he practically took off running when we came out of the stairwell. I made him take one of my cards, but I’m sure he’ll just toss it.” He turned to Brynna. “So fill me in on what I missed.”
“Not much,” she said. “Bheru asked if I saw something like I did with Cho Kim’s scarf, and I told him no.”
“Okay,” Eran said. “So what did you see? Anything?”
“Touching a person directly isn’t the same as it was with that girl’s scarf,” Brynna told them. “And there aren’t any hard and fast rules about this anyway.”
“So what you’re saying is that he’s telling the truth.”
“No,” Brynna said. “He is absolutely lying.” When the detectives perked up, she added, “I just don’t know about what.”
Bheru looked confused. “I don’t understand.”
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“Neither do I,” Brynna admitted. “All I can tell you is that there’s something off about him. I don’t believe for a moment that he has feelings like he claims he does. But I have no idea how he’s getting his information.”
“You can’t read his mind?” Eran asked.
Brynna bit back a snarky comment about how that would’ve made for numerous exciting times between them, then was momentarily proud of herself for doing so. She really was learning to think before she spoke. “I can’t read anyone’s mind,” she said. “And I wouldn’t want to, anyway.”
“Well, then,” Eran said. He pulled his well-worn notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “I’ve got his vitals—home address, work address. Cell phone number, although that won’t do us much good without a warrant.”
“License plate?” Bheru asked.
Eran shook his head. “He doesn’t have one. Looks like he doesn’t drive.”
His partner nodded. “Doesn’t matter. We have enough.”
Brynna looked from one man to the other. “Enough for what?”
Eran gave her a tight smile. “To keep tabs on him. And if wonder boy decides to go for rescue number four, hopefully we’ll not only have some solid information on what the hell he’s gotten into, but we’ll be there when it happens to try and stop it.”
He stalked out of the room before either Brynna or Bheru could respond. Too late Brynna saw the expression on Bheru’s face and realized Eran’s blunder. And she didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know his partner was wondering why on earth they’d want to stop Casey Anlon from rescuing anyone.
Fifteen
They knew about Gina.
On the heels of that, still:
He’d missed.
As he climbed into a cab, Casey felt like there was a hurricane roaring inside his skull. The cabdriver had to ask twice before Casey could give coherent directions to his building on the corner of Larabee and Chicago Avenue, but Casey had other things to worry about besides the strange looks the guy was sending him in the rearview mirror. The four or so miles from the police station to home didn’t give him a lot of time to think things through before he had to pull out his still-sodden wallet and hand the guy a wet twenty-dollar bill. He didn’t bother to wait for change.
Because he was so wrapped up in his job and computers, Casey seldom focused much on his apartment. It was just sort of there, a place to put his belongings and watch television, where he could putter around with the latest system he was working on and play World of Warcraft online, something he did with a fair amount of regularity. But now, standing in the small entry foyer and staring at his tiny living room, it suddenly seemed very precious to him. It wasn’t that great, it wasn’t decorated very well, and it was bachelor-messy and, well, kind of bland . . . but it was home. This undersized city box, with its miniature kitchen and the annoying support column between the dining area and the hallway, was his space, where he lived and ate and slept and messed around with his hobbies. It was where he felt safe and it was his stepping-stone to the better life, the family life, that was his main goal.
It was something the young woman who’d fallen off the bridge would now never have a chance to get.
And it was something—or something like it—that Gina now stood a very good chance of losing.
He couldn’t do anything about the girl who’d died. There were no do-overs on this kind of a mistake, and he certainly couldn’t go back in time and grab her wrist two seconds earlier. He could feel guilty—he would feel guilty—about it for a long time, but she was gone, and that was that.
Gina, on the other hand . . . crap. Casey pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and pried open the Ziploc bag he’d wrapped it in before leaving work. He’d stuck a
few of his ID cards in there with it, the ones he thought might be damaged in the water, but his wallet itself wouldn’t fit. The phone was dry and working, but ultimately useless—he still didn’t have a telephone number for her. On the heels of that thought came the recollection that her only call to him had been from a public telephone, but now, after all that had happened to him after the river fiasco, Casey thought he could understand her caution. She was only trying to protect herself.
He turned and trudged back to the front door, then turned the second dead bolt that he hardly ever used. He was safe enough. He was sure of it. When it came right down to it, the spooks who had questioned him at the police station—and he was certain that’s what they were, agents of some kind masquerading as city cops—weren’t interested in him beyond finding out where he was getting his information. Even more frightening was that woman who’d touched him just like Gina. Could she see something, too? If so, what? The best Casey could hope for was that there were other people besides Gina who were in this program of hers, so that she didn’t stand out like a big neon sign that read, “I’m the one who told him!”
If only he could get hold of her. But it was Friday, and if things kept to the predictable schedule he and Gina had slipped into, the next time he was likely to see her was at lunchtime on Monday. Unless she called him over the weekend, which was pretty damned unlikely.
He went into the bathroom and wriggled out of the still-damp clothes, then climbed into the shower. The water was hot and steamy and the scent of sandalwood filled his senses and made him want to close his eyes and breathe in. But no . . . suddenly it seemed like a guilty pleasure. He was thinking of Gina again, and the ramifications that would come with her being found out. Would she be arrested? Beaten? Tortured? He wasn’t so naive that he didn’t believe those things happened, even in America. When you factored in a clandestine government agency conducting secret experiments on its own employees, the ante rose considerably.
Was she even now being dragged out of her house?
Feeling sick, Casey turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub. As his fingers brushed the edge of his towel, his cell phone rang.
He was so startled that he cried out. His balance slipped and he clutched at the towel, which slid off the chrome rack and made him lean sideways even more. He lost it and went down with a knee-bruising thwack, then scrambled on the floor like a crab as he tried to pull free of the towel that had somehow gotten wrapped around one ankle. The phone was on the dining room table, and he had to get to it, in case it was—
“Hello?” he practically screamed as he lunged across the hall, dripping and dragging that damned towel with him. “Hello?”
“Casey?”
“Yes,” he gasped. “Gina—”
“Is something wrong? You sound out of breath.”
“Gina, listen to me. They know about you, I’m sorry, but they pulled me in and questioned me—”
“Who knows about me?”
“The government, Gina. I don’t know how, but they found out.”
“Did they say that specifically? Did they mention me by name?”
Casey blinked. “No, not by name, but—”
“Then I’m fine. Trust me, if they really did know, they’d have taken me in already.”
“What I’m trying to tell you is that they know I’m getting my information from someone, and so it’s only a matter of time before they connect that to you.”
“Trust me on this, Casey. I’ll be okay.”
Water dripped into his eyes and Casey scrubbed at his face with one fist. He felt soggy, like he’d been wet for hours, and the sensation just compounded his misery. Didn’t she get it? “Gina, how can you be so nonchalant about this?” he demanded. “After how you stressed that this all has to be a secret or you’ll get in so much trouble. What was it you said? Oh yeah—I remember now. You said you could end up in jail, and maybe I would, too.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen.” Her voice was firm, but somehow Casey wasn’t comforted. He couldn’t believe that he was taking this so much more seriously than she was. Her next words threw him off track even more. “Can you meet me for coffee tomorrow? I have to talk to you.”
Goose bumps rippled across the surface of his already chilled skin. He knew what that meant—she’d had another one of her feelings or whatever the hell they were, and she wanted him to try to save someone’s life. Part of him was excited at the prospect, perhaps because the logical part of his mind felt he could make up for his failure today, sort of balance things out. Another part just wanted to slam down the phone and run. “You want to meet on a Saturday?” That stupid question was followed by the sudden hope that maybe this was something different, something better. “Where?”
“How about at Starbucks on Lake and Michigan?” When he hesitated, she added, “It’s just south on Michigan Avenue. I have to go into the office tomorrow but I can get with you at, say, nine o’clock.”
Casey bit his lip. Get with you? So much for his date hopes. After all of this, and even that kiss, now she sounded downright businesslike. “Okay,” he heard himself say, and hated himself just a little because of it.
“Great. See you there.”
Gina broke the connection before he could say anything else, so Casey put the phone down on the table and went back into the bathroom to finally dry off. He made himself get dressed and comb his hair, go through the entire routine of a normal person just coming out of the shower as he tried to keep his mind distracted. In the end, he still caved and went back to the phone. He looked at it for a few moments, then picked it up and hit TALK to redial the number from which Gina had just called him.
Casey wasn’t a bit surprised when a stranger answered and told him it was a pay phone.
“YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY one who knows who the nephilim is,” Brynna told Eran the next morning. She’d brought the newspapers in while he was finishing up with changing Grunt’s bandages. The dog’s burns were almost healed and now it was just a matter of keeping her from chewing off the bandages and licking at the wounds. Eran had solved that problem by buying a dozen double extra-large T-shirts and custom-cutting them to fit Grunt’s ample frame. Every time Brynna looked at the dog she was reminded of the creature’s loyalty and the pain she was enduring as payment for it. Brynna had become so fond of Grunt that she supposed if it came down to it, she would probably do the same for the Great Dane.
Now Eran looked up in surprise. “Someone else knows he’s a nephilim?”
Brynna shook her head. “Not what I meant, sorry. Here—look at the headline.”
Eran gave Grunt a final pat on the head, then stood and reached for the paper. “Let’s have it.”
Brynna obliged, then watched him scowl as his eyes focused and he read the headline out loud: “Chicago’s Concrete Savior. Great,” he muttered before he continued reading. “For the third time this week, the same young man has attempted to save someone’s life on the mean streets of Chicago. Although the ‘Concrete Savior’ would not speak with reporters before leaving the scene of his latest rescue attempt, an anonymous source at the Chicago Police Department identified the rescuer as Casey Anlon of Chicago. Mr. Anlon has saved two lives since September 3 when first he kept Glenn Klinger from being run over by a subway train, then pulled Jack Gaynor from where he was trapped in his burning car on the Kennedy Expressway several days later. As reported previously, after recovering from the train incident, Glenn Klinger went on to shoot and kill ten people plus his ex-wife at his workplace before finally turning the gun on himself. In today’s failed rescue attempt, Anlon jumped into the Chicago River from the Clark Street Bridge after a mentally disabled young woman fell into the water after apparently chasing a bird. The young woman was taken to Cook County Hospital and Casey Anlon remains unreachable for comment.” Eran handed the paper back to Brynna and rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses. “Fucking great.”
“What’s wrong?” Brynna said with just a hint of irony. “You don
’t think saving the lives of your fellow humans is a good thing?”
“Of course it is. But things like that don’t happen with such amazing regularity in the normal course of the world. You know that. What is it you always say? There’s no such thing as—”
“—coincidence,” she finished for him.
“The last thing we need is some sort of superhero fever going through the city, where people start grabbing other people because they want to be the next best thing to Batman.”
Brynna’s brow furrowed. “Batman?”
He glanced at her and a corner of his mouth turned up. “Sorry—he’s a comic book figur a fantasy crime fighter. I guess we haven’t seen that DVD yet.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve given some thought to the idea that this guy is staging these rescues, doing them just for the publicity, although I can’t see how it’s actually possible for him to pull this off. There was this couple a few years ago who reported that their six-year-old son had taken off in some kind of a homemade balloon and floated away, then fallen out. The news hit the fan, so to speak, but in the end the authorities found out they’d staged the entire thing. They hid the boy in their attic and told him not to tell the truth, presumably so they could get money for television interviews and things like that. It was crazy, but that doesn’t apply here, either. Anlon is avoiding publicity . . . so far, anyway.”
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