by Leah Cutter
Before he did it again. Because the rambling note that the news released promised more retribution. He’d only killed two people with the first bomb—couple of kids. The next deaths would run in the thousands, or so he said.
Other, better trained post–cogs had been working on this puzzle for a week. Sam had finally called me in.
Okay, so I may have bugged her about it a little. Teased her that her and the other blessed just didn’t want to get their minds dirty.
Possibly threatened to withhold sexual favors until she let me try.
But now I saw what she meant. The event happened too damned fast. The bomb kept going off before anyone could spot who planted it.
Either that, or…
I opened my eyes, slipping out of the area of knowing where I’d been traveling along the past timelines and into Sam’s place. I’d been lying on her couch—a wave–like piece of furniture that was far more comfortable than it looked, supporting my back fully while keeping my knees slightly raised.
Still thought we should break it in someday. But Sam didn’t want the overtones of a sexual encounter on her seeing couch.
I kind of got that. Kind of pissed me off that she was such a prude about such things, though.
The July day outside her lovely suburban apartment with the AC blasting looked perfect—that thick Minnesota summer sky, so blue it could choke you. Just beyond the perfectly manicured lawn was a private lake, surrounded by sturdy maples and oaks. I think even some elms had survived Dutch elm disease and prospered there.
I wasn’t about to step one foot outside the wonderful cool of Sam’s place though. It might look lovely outside, but it was probably ninety–five degrees out, with ninety percent humidity. The grass that looked so lush was more harsh to walk on than AstroTurf. And that scenic lake bred mosquitoes the size of crows.
I picked up my phone. No messages. I’d told Tom we might hang out later, but I’d been vague about it. Didn’t surprise me that he hadn’t called. I was going to have to remember to call him, and de’Angelo, and maybe Tess….
With a sigh, I got up off the couch and stretched how I usually stretched, arms up over my head then down toward the floor. I wasn’t about to touch the floor—I was pretty sure I hadn’t been flexible enough to do that since I was seven. Particularly with my tits. They always got in the way.
I heard Hunter’s voice in my head, telling me that I needed to be serious about stretching.
Hunter had been wrong about a bunch of stuff. Being more flexible hadn’t been my problem in the least. Not when he was trying to teach me that funky kung–fu shit of his.
For once, thinking about Hunter didn’t automatically get my back up. I mean, yeah, he’d kind of screwed me with that whole blood–brother shit, bringing me into my powers like he had.
I couldn’t get a job as one of the blessed. No employer trusted me because I hadn’t had decades of training. I’d interviewed everywhere and was always turned down for the same reason, if they gave me a reason at all—no official training by the Jacobson Consortium. They considered me a rogue, a wildcard, not trustworthy or employable.
I sighed. Nothing I could do about it. Had already burned that bridge. Back to the case.
There was something about the way Hunter moved that was fascinating. He’d always claimed the ghosts had taught him.
I’d never seen another human move as quickly as Hunter did, particularly when he was trying to be fast. Even when he wasn’t trying, he still moved with a grace that seemed inhuman.
Was that why none of the other post–cogs could see the guy who had set the bomb? Because he’d moved like Hunter?
I gave in and did one of Hunter’s strange stretching exercises, a twisting motion with my “toes like fists” as I pushed my left hand toward my right side, then vice versa.
Hunter was in amazing physical condition. I’d never be able to match him, no matter how hard I trained. It didn’t matter that I was fifteen years younger than he was. My body would never move like his.
Stupid freak.
I owed him another visit. I know he was always desperate to see me, and would start stalking me if I didn’t make the effort. But visiting with Hunter was like having to go see that weird aunt when you’re a kid—always scared you’ll say the wrong thing and set her off on one of her tirades. Hunter was getting better, but he was still far from “cured.” We’d managed to talk for at least an hour last time before he went off on one of his paranoid government rants.
I pulled my T–shirt back down, adjusted my bra, and pulled my long board shorts up more snugly before I lay back down on Sam’s couch. It would be a few hours before she got back home. Some board of directors’ meeting that she’d gone to. More rich people and favors and charities.
I’d love to have a reading for her by the time she got home. A name. Maybe I could ID the guy, even. Not that it was some sort of competition or I wanted to one–up her or anything. Really.
I closed my eyes and easily dropped into my area of knowing—basically, a gray field with me represented by a blue dot in the corner. I don’t know why it had to be the color blue, but that was the only color that worked. I always saw it as a medium textbook–color blue.
I spread out the waves from my solid point. Hunter had tried to teach me squares, and for most pre– and post–cogs, that worked. They operated from a square area of knowing, a solid block.
I was one of the special ones, though. I worked with lines and waves.
Normally, a PA needs to be in the area where something occurred to get a reading. I’d been to the area once after the bomb and had picked it up and tagged it.
I didn’t know how else to describe it to Sam. Once I’d physically been in a place after a major event, and had scanned it for doing my post–cog thing, I didn’t have to go back. The places weren’t numbered or something. I just could find them again in my area of knowing. Could always go back to that area and time.
And you’d think an ability like that would be a sure–fire attraction for an employer.
You’d be wrong.
But maybe if I could make this ID, someone would hire me.
Someone legit.
I found the lines I was looking for and spread them out further. I picked the main one again, the brightest of them, the present day, real world. I wouldn’t go up the alternate routes. Not yet.
I knew other post–cogs were capable of slowing down the activities on the street in order to see everyone. Hadn’t worked. There were too many people, casual strollers going from the yuppie Thai restaurant to the hand–crafted glass bong store to the brew pub.
Instead of studying the people, I paid attention to the shadows. Hunter always talked about hiding out in shadows. How sometimes, they were the only things to protect him from the ghosts.
So where were the shadows?
I examined the street again. Just outside the Thai restaurant stood a large planter with sickly bamboo growing out of it.
There. Right the fuck there.
A big blue shadow lurked to the right of where the bomb went off. Just behind that damned planter.
It jumped as I was watching it.
That had to be the guy.
No wonder slowing the timeline down hadn’t worked. He hadn’t been at the spot long enough. Not even a second.
But I had him. I just knew it.
If this guy was anything like Hunter, he’d probably started hiding in shadows three miles out. Hunter was a paranoid son of a bitch.
However, this guy wasn’t as patient, or as thorough, as Hunter. He appeared with the box containing the bomb half a block away, walking normally.
Then he moved into super speed.
I grabbed his face. Young kid, really. Mid–twenties. Acne starting on his cheeks and staining his neck. Blondish hair, that kind they do up here in Minnesota. Green eyes. Scared looking, that same kind of look that Hunter had when he was super high.
Did this guy also have ghosts? Was he a pre– or post�
�cog? Was that how he knew to mess up the place where he built the bomb?
Didn’t matter. I had his face. I’d be able to ID him now.
No matter how fast he moved, he wouldn’t be able to get away from me.
Ξ
“Hi, dear,” I greeted Sam from the couch, where I had one of her fancy house and architecture magazines spread out in front of me.
She frowned at me, but didn’t say anything. She looked lovely, as always, crisp white sleeveless top that wouldn’t dare melt even in the heat outside, casual gray skirt.
Damn it. I knew that she didn’t want me lounging on her couch of knowing. She was just going to have to learn to trust me, that I wouldn’t be there casually.
Instead of the grand buildup I’d planned, I came out with the news straight away.
“I found him.”
Sam did a double–take. She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever had the privilege to sleep with. Soft brown hair with the perfect curl at the end hung almost down to her shoulders. Her pale skin—god, I could write sonnets about how soft and touchable her skin was.
Don’t even get me started about her tits. Or her amazing ass.
“Show me,” Sam demanded as she sank down onto the couch beside me, holding out her hands.
I’d been teaching her how to share visions. Still freaked me out that there was anything I could do better than she could.
But sharing was one of them.
Don’t ask me what that said about our relationship.
I sank back into my area of knowing, pulling Sam along for the ride. I showed her the guy, then showed her the shadows, how they jumped, moved, blurred, as he raced along.
Then the bomb went off. Again.
Sam pulled back, startled. “Why didn’t you stop before the bomb exploded?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Happens too fast. Get too caught up in it.” I didn’t have any problems admitting I didn’t know things, not with her. Didn’t have to fake my way through stuff. Was still learning.
I wish she could have done the same.
“Okay,” Sam said. She shook her head, as if to clear it. “You should stop before the bomb explodes, you know. Messes up your vision for a while, afterward.”
“Huh,” I said. I hadn’t known. Hadn’t really noticed that aftereffect, actually.
“We should go back to the crime scene. So I can make the ID,” Sam said, standing.
“Why?” I asked, bristling. “So you’ll get all the credit?”
Sam at least had the good grace to look ashamed. “I never officially brought you in on this, you know.”
“So more unacknowledged work,” I said bitterly. “Nothing I can put on a resume. That might get me a real job.”
“Cassie—” Sam started. “Look. I can’t bring you in officially on this one. But I’ll split the money with you.”
“Split?” I asked, boggled. Had she really just suggested something like that? “What, give me a third for doing all the work? Half, maybe?”
Sam looked startled for a moment, then caught herself. “I’ll sign over the money. All of it. The entire contract,” she promised.
I sighed. This was one area where I wasn’t sure if Sam and I could ever work it out.
Money.
As a kid, I’d never had to worry about money. We’d grown up in the rich part of Minnetonka. Sure, after my mom had kicked me out I’d lived on the streets for a while. Had never had money since then.
But Sam was rich. Original 3M inventor–trust–fund–baby rich. She just didn’t get how important the money was to someone like me, who didn’t have any.
Sure, she’d share. When I asked. Never thought to offer. Just expected me to have enough.
Even when I was still primarily working my shit job at Chinaman Joe’s Good Luck Parlor.
“Okay. We can go by the crime scene later. I got to get to work,” I lied.
I was too steamed to go anywhere with her right then. We were sure to get in another stupid fight.
“All right,” Sam said. She turned away but stayed nearby.
She never asked me to stay. Never even asked me to take a day (or night) off.
“I’ll be off at 2,” I told her as I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Want to go out and hit the town then?” I waggled my eyebrows at her.
At least that got her to smile. “Text me. No promises, though.”
I forced myself to smile at her. “Okay.” I kissed her lips softly, not hard enough to muss her perfect lipstick, even though I really wanted to drag her back down onto the couch with me.
No promises. That was just kind of the story of our relationship, wasn’t it? Nothing promised. Nothing committed.
Nothing to hold onto when things got rough.
Ξ
Stepping outside, the heat slapped me like a wet towel, made my brain pound inside my skull. I was sure that someplace, someone was frying an egg on the sidewalk. Or maybe they’d taken the easy way out and used the hood of a car.
The few white puffy clouds in the sky looked like they’d been placed there by a designer, those perfect accents to show off just how blue the sky was. If only it wasn’t so fucking hot.
I reached for my smokes, then cursed. Damn it. I was out. And Sam, of course, had conveniently “forgotten” to pick up another pack for me.
Well, at least I had a destination.
I walked to the bus stop, about two and a half of those huge–ass suburban blocks away. Of course, there weren’t any trees, no shade to be had. I was sweating like a pig by the time I reached the stop. Cars blew by me on the four lane road. It was supposed to be only thirty m.p.h. Not like anyone in their Beamer or Porsche was paying any attention to things like that.
At least my drenched shirt showed off my tits. Not like I was looking or anything. I had a girlfriend.
But for how long?
I pushed those thoughts away. We might only be good for now, but maybe something could be worked out.
And maybe Hunter would be able to teach me to fly.
As I waited for the bus, my phone rang. I couldn’t help how my heart leaped. Was it Sam? Calling me back?
Nope. Chinaman Joe’s.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hey, Cassie, it’s Aiiimmmmeeee,” came over the phone.
God, who even said that? I could never figure Amy out. She was at least thirty years my senior, but tried too hard to be hip or cool, dressing like a teenaged slut.
Just because she worked in a sex & toy shop didn’t mean she shouldn’t dress appropriately.
God, now I was starting to sound like a prude. Sam was starting to rub off on me. And not in a good, fun way.
“What’s up, Aim?” I asked as the bus pulled up.
“Any chance you’re free tonight?” Amy asked, breathless, as though she’d been running and had just raced to answer the phone even though she’d been the one to call me.
She was such a freak.
“Let me check my busy social calendar,” I told her as I made my way to my seat. “Nope. Nothing planned. Whatcha need?”
“Any chance you could work tonight?” Amy asked all in a rush. Her voice suddenly dropped down to a low, rough whisper. “I got a date.”
“You go, girl,” I told her. “I’ll be there in a couple hours.” Who would date Amy? I was curious as hell. Of course, it would be a guy. If it wasn’t cool to be gay, she wouldn’t have ever made friends with me.
“Great! You’re the best. Thanks!” Amy hung up.
So I did have someplace to go. Something to do tonight. Instead of brooding over Sam.
Maybe things were looking up.
Ξ
My luck seemed to be holding that afternoon. I got to Chinaman Joe’s in less than two hours, which was impressive given the Minneapolis bus system. However, the express had actually been express–like. And the AC on it had kind of worked. The drunk crashed in the back corner seat hadn’t reeked too much, either.
Someday, I was going to ha
ve to get a car. If only I could get a job that would let me afford one.
Finding my paranormal abilities was supposed to get me better employment. I was talented, damn it. An official member of the blessed, as they called themselves.
Regular people generally referred to them just as PAs—not merely for paranormal ability but pain in the ass.
But I wasn’t traditionally trained. I’d never gone through the rigorous Jacobson Consortium training. I’d come into my powers by taking a street drug. It went by several names—ghost tripper, the blood, even blues, though the drug was always in the form of great, luminous pearls.
So none of the big companies would take me. Had Josh warned everyone about me? I had figured he was just a stodge for the Jacobson Consortium, working undercover. But maybe he had more pull than I’d realized.
My abilities were off the charts. But I couldn’t be trusted. Not only because I hadn’t graduated from the official classes, but also because I’d admitted to seeing different timelines.
How could any company trust that what I’d seen was in the real world and not some alternate?
It was bullshit.
It also meant I was still broke.
There were less legitimate offers that had come, from places that worked “security.” Looking for PAs who would track people without justifiable cause, like some kind of stalker service.
I might not be the most upstanding and law abiding citizen, but that one place I’d interviewed had creeped me out.
I needed cash, though. A (more) steady, higher income than what I pulled in with odd shifts at Chinaman Joe’s.
Of course, I could give up my shithole apartment. But that would mean officially moving in with Sam. We weren’t stable enough for me to do that. To give up my one place to live.
I’d been on the streets before. I didn’t want to go back there, not even for a night.
Chinaman Joe’s Good Luck Parlor had been part of a large warehouse once, refurbished in the ’70s. It still had that feel, walking in the front door, with dingy gray linoleum that never quite washed clean, no matter how I worked at it, buzzing, industrial–style florescent lights that hung from the ceiling, and steel shelves that held dildos, vibrators, costumes, belts, floggers, DVDs, butt plugs—you name it, we probably stocked it.