Smokescreen

by Meredith Fletcher; Vicki Hinze Doranna Durgin

  “I’m the one in control!” he snarled at her, and it involved spittle.

  Sam kept herself from flinching at the sudden verbal violence, knowing it was just what he wanted. “Not anymore. I left one of your men trussed up over on the south side, and the cops have probably found him by now. They’ve been called here as well. So what I think is that you should cut your losses and quietly leave.”

  His face—heavy features heading fast toward jowly, a handsome mouth constantly distorted with emotion—turned ugly with anger, bringing up a heavy red flush. He spat something uncomplimentary, punctuating it with a shove to Gretchen, the only woman within reach. Sam bit her lip, cursed the light switch, and weighed her chances of breaking his killer grip on his wife so they could both bolt to freedom.

  One of the men returned from the front of the house, stopping short in surprise at the doorway opposite Sam. “What the hell?”

  Dammit. Two of them now.

  “Never mind that,” Scalpucci said, suddenly calm now that his employee had returned. “And never mind finding the others. We’ve spent too much time here. Grab her and let’s go. Be sure to leave one of your special gifts behind.”

  “Already set,” the man said, eyeing Sam; his .38 revolver looked small in his hand. “We can trigger it any time.”

  Scalpucci looked straight at Sam and said, “This is your doing. All of you dumb bitches and your oh-so-clever underground. And now everyone in the city will know what happens to those who defy me.” He gave his wife a hard shake, his hand clamped so tightly on her slender arm that his fingers met. She, too, found Sam’s gaze, a hopeless expression; she mouthed I’m sorry.

  “Seems like a good time to scream,” Sam told her, and meant it. A cry for help in the night—Jeth should hear it if no one else. And she frantically hunted other options, knowing she couldn’t take both these men, that Jeth had her gun and she couldn’t go unseen under this spotlight.

  “You keep your mouth shut,” Scalpucci said, giving Gretchen another good shake as the other man headed for Sam, one hammy hand extended to gesture her into his clutches.

  “Holy freakin’ jerk.” Sam scowled at Scalpucci from the other side of the dining room table. Options. Who needed options? She’d just make a few of her own. She whirled to the light switch, flicked it off—and ducked, going unseen just that fast. Just barely fast enough, for the revolver discharged with a giant smack of noise; the bullet slammed into the wall above Sam’s head.

  She leaped up, flinging a chair hard at the gun-toting minion and leaving him to wrestle with it while she charged right up onto the sturdy dining table and skidded across to launch onto Scalpucci from above.

  And still Scalpucci managed to grab her arm and her shoulder and slam her into the wall beside him.

  Hard.

  Her guise flickered away, leaving her reeling, sinking to the floor. Visible and vulnerable and alone.

  All wrong. This was going all wrong. Jethro had made his noise, he’d done what she’d asked; he’d drawn them off. He’d managed to do it in a way he could do it, with a veritable chorus of car alarms. And yet Sam stayed within the house, where the lights flicked on and off without apparent reason and screaming resonated and a certain amount of crashing and thumping made its way out the open front door, audible even above the party music and the huddle of angry young men who’d come outside to shut up their vehicles.

  Sam.

  Something had gone wrong. In spite of her mind-boggling ability to wear other faces and other bodies and to go unseen altogether…something had gone wrong. And here he crouched behind a car, a tiny gun he wasn’t even willing to use filling the palm of his hand. He curled his fingers around it in frustration, making an awkward fist…and then he looked down at the fist with dawning determination.

  Something had gone wrong, and it was time to move.

  He stood up from behind the car. Scalpucci’s man was still on the lawn, looming to disapprove of the recent noise and keeping an eye on the angry young men who spat brags and threats from several houses down. Jethro moved along the street side of the parked cars and approached the van from the far side. He didn’t hesitate or lurk or try to keep himself unnoticed; he was good at none of those things. He just walked up like he belonged. He fumbled the safety off, pushed the tiny gun up against the van tire and pulled the trigger.

  The combined noise of the discharging gun and exploding tire made a hugely satisfying sound, carrying across to the party, grabbing the attention of the angry young men. Jethro jumped in spite of himself, but as the lookout cursed and hesitated on the lawn, uncertain whether to check the van or prepare for the attention of the angry young men, Jethro went for the front door at rugby speed. He could only hope that sheer audacity counted for something.

  Apparently, sheer audacity had its moments.

  Jethro burst through the open front door unimpeded as the confrontation outside escalated. Accusation, protest, demands…until finally a querulous voice shouted from next door, “I’ve called the police!”

  No telling when they’d get here.

  Unless…Jethro helped them along.

  No more the truth than what Sam had asked him to do in the first place, but suddenly somehow he didn’t think twice. He put his back to the wall, tightened his hold on the tiny gun, and prepared to do battle on a level new to Jethro Sheridan.

  “Police! Drop your weapons and come out with your hands on your heads.”

  Jeth. Jeth’s voice. It penetrated Sam’s daze.

  “Bullshit!” Scalpucci yelled back, not buying the authority—or lack thereof—in Jeth’s voice. The complete lack of flashing light bars might have had something to do with it, too.

  “Not for long,” Jeth said steadily. “And meanwhile your getaway van is limping off on three tires. Who’d have thought a big tough-looking guy like that could be chased off by a bunch of kids?”

  And Sam marveled, for even she had no idea if Jethro’s words were true.

  She didn’t need to know. All she had to do was take advantage of the moment—

  She lunged to her feet, still unable to focus and not bothering to try. She was better off than the man who’d taken her chair in his face, and all she had to do was free Gretchen—for Scalpucci had her again—and they could run. All of them, run far and hard and leave this mess behind. The cleanup would be something else again…but cleanup was for survivors, and first they all had to be survivors.

  She had to free Gretchen…

  So she put herself in the position to be grabbed. Lunged at Scalpucci so he’d have to grab her just to keep his florid face intact. He thought one hand would do, as it did for his deeply conditioned wife.

  He thought wrong. Sam twisted, bringing the ball of her foot up against the side of his knee. He cried out, more anger at her defiance than pain—she didn’t have the room to land a solid blow.

  But neither did he. He tried slamming her against the wall one-handed, and it gave her time to land a fist on his ear, imagining her target to be the other ear and her fist going all the way through. This time his yowl sounded heartfelt, and more so when she pulled back to do it again, both feet finally solidly on the floor.

  “In here, Officer!” Jethro yelled, a convincing note of desperation in his voice.

  Are they really—?

  Damn, too soon, gotta get out of here—

  And finally, Scalpucci released Gretchen to aim a one-handed blow at Sam, a blow Sam ducked, flickering unseen in his grip in a guise she’d never tried before, enough to startle him and not enough to convince him he wasn’t simply seeing stars after the two solid, fist-aching hits she’d landed at the side of his head. He froze, just for an instant—

  And then froze for real at the spectacular return of the older woman, the guardian. She reappeared briefly in the doorway and then charged forward at full shriek, and damned if she wasn’t followed by the woman who’d been frozen in fear and even by Jeth’s sister, who held a weapon of the frypan persuasion. As Scalpucci’
s minion finally threw off the chair and climbed up as far as his knees, they descended upon him—and Gretchen, rather than running, flung herself into the action boiling around the second man.

  “No!” Scalpucci bellowed, his florid color inching toward purple. “You fool! We’ve got to get out of here—”

  “Too late,” Jeth said, appearing around the corner behind Scalpucci—and from Scalpucci’s sudden stiff hollow-backed posture, Sam surmised the little Kel-Tec was firmly jammed into his spine. Jeth tossed a pilfered extension cord on the dining room table and said most amiably, “Suppose you release her.”

  Scalpucci glared down at Sam, his hand still clamped around her forearm tightly enough to make bone ache. She’d taken nothing for granted; she stood half-crouched and ready to deliver hurt from half a dozen directions. But when she looked back up at him, she smiled sweetly and she gave him the flicker effect again.

  The blood drained from his face even as Jeth grinned behind him. And slowly, so slowly, he peeled his fingers away from her arm.

  Free, Sam wasted not an instant. She grabbed up the cord and hog-tied Scalpucci in short order, kicking his knees out from beneath him and accepting Jeth’s wordless help to finish the job as Jeth handed over the little gun. She turned to check the women; between belts and torn curtains and yes, the frypan, they had the other man well under control.

  The guardian stood, dusted off the knees of her jeans, and handed Sam a kitchen hand towel split lengthwise. “You might need this,” she said, indicating the similar gag around the dazed man beside her.

  “Yeah,” said Jeth. “Especially when he learns the cops aren’t really here.”

  Sam only grinned at him as Scalpucci said, “What?” and took breath for more. Sam got there with the towel first, tapping Scalpucci sharply on the forehead with the pistol to get his attention, indicating with a cock of her head and a significant look at the weapon that she’d do it again—and harder—if he gave her reason.

  Jeth said, “The van’s gone, though. The third guy took off just now.”

  “But not,” Sam verified, yanking the gag tight and then yanking the knot even tighter, “when you said he did.”

  Jeth’s mustache twitched. He shook his head, then ducked it. From there he said, “The cops have been called.”

  “Then there’s no time to waste.” The house guardian nudged the closest woman toward the door—but she didn’t move. She stood rooted to the spot, her eyes on Jeth as if she’d just now seen him. And Jeth returned the look, totally flummoxed, his work of the past moments quite obviously forgotten.

  Sam reached out to tug him forward, a giant step over Scalpucci—who, fully trussed, now lay on his side on the floor. “Outside,” she said. “Out back. Do this away from here.”

  The guardian wasn’t slow to realize the relationship between the two, and wasn’t about to let it interfere with their safety. She shoved Lizbet and pulled Jeth, and then suddenly the sound of an approaching siren cut the air and they all scrambled for the back door. Only Jeth hesitated, looking back at Sam…for Sam hadn’t moved.

  She waved him on, and when he didn’t leave, repeated herself more vigorously—“Go!”—until he turned away.

  But first, a conversation.

  She crouched by Scalpucci, forearms propped on her thighs. The arm he’d grabbed throbbed in warning—the very least of the things for which she owed him. His eyes bulged above the gag and she followed the gaze to her hands—to the Kel-Tec. She laughed. “Oh, no,” she said. “This is the least of your problems.”

  Her words left him visibly puzzled; he worked his hands behind his back, trying to loosen the cords. The siren closed in on the street—on the house. Sam didn’t move. Didn’t worry. “You thought you’d shut us down,” she said. “Looks like it was the other way around. Carl Scalpucci, defeated by a bunch of battered women—including his wife. Is that what you’re going to tell the police when they ask?” She glanced at the red and blue lights now reflecting through the windows and open front door to paint the walls. “And when they ask how, are you going to tell them about this?” She let herself flicker between guises—only briefly, for as discomfiting as Scalpucci found the sight, the effect from the inside left her dizzy with shifting energies. She leaned a little closer to Scalpucci. He tried—unsuccessfully—to cringe back through the wall. “You probably think I’d prefer you kept certain things as our little secret. Well, guess what. You are so wrong. When that first cop walks through the door, I think you should tell him everything. Tell him how we beat you two up, and how your loyal associate ran from the scene. Tell him that I flicker like a bad fluorescent lightbulb. Hell, tell him that I can disappear. Tell him all of that.” She stood, looming over him. “Try not to babble too much, though. And watch your blood pressure, okay? I didn’t even know a man could turn that color and live.”

  An authoritative knock pounded against the open front door. “Police! Come to the door!”

  Sam went unseen. Such a relief to slide into the guise and hold it without the flicker; so satisfying to see the look on Scalpucci’s face. “Go ahead,” she said. “Tell him. All of it.”

  She wanted to stick around to see it. To see Scalpucci, tied and gagged and surrounded by evidence, snarling demands and absurdities about a woman who flickered and who had then disappeared to walk right out from under the cops’ own noses. But she couldn’t take the chance of being caught in the house, and she couldn’t take the chance that a K-9 unit might roll on this one. She gave him one last long look as the cops finally, cautiously, entered the house, and painted him into her memory.

  The Captain would be glad of his capture. Tied to the car bomb, to the break-in here, to the explosives this man had planted…he’d be jailed not for his crimes against this city as a whole, but for his personal beastliness. Like nailing a mafia don on tax evasion, only better.

  She hesitated in the kitchen, tucking herself aside so the cop who’d covered the back door could enter; the woman declared the kitchen clear and cautiously moved into the dining room, regarding Scalpucci with dawning recognition.

  It was enough.

  Sam smiled, and she walked unseen into the night.

  Chapter 7

  “You’re still leaving?” Jethro stood stunned in darkness that would soon turn to the predawn hours. Several blocks away from the refuge with the guardian leading the way and they’d finally stopped…and she’d said that he couldn’t come any farther. That he had to just stand here and watch as Lizbet walked away.

  Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to him that she might still consider her flight. The loss of her established life. The loss of their family.

  And now she looked at him and nodded. “It’s the only way for me.”

  “It’s not the only way,” he said, taking a step forward, voice raising enough so the guardian narrowed her eyes in warning.

  “It’s okay,” Lizbet told her. “He really is my brother. He’s not the problem.”

  Or the solution, apparently. “Lizbet, let me help—”

  “You tried to help,” she said, and her voice sharpened.

  Tried. Right. And there she stood, catching her breath with one arm in a sling and her face still bruised and asymmetrically puffy. Tried. But hadn’t done enough.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, miserable. “I should have done better—I should have scared his sad ass right out of the state. I should have—”

  Should have…

  Sam stopped short at the curb of the residential street, still unseen, only feet away from the refugees. Only feet away from Jeth, who stood with an awkward combination of guilt and defiance, as startled as Sam by the guardian’s brusque interruption. “Bullshit!” she snapped. “There is no should have, because there’s no could have. Not with a man like that one. Nothing stops his kind but bars or death.”

  “Lizbet—”

  “It’s not forever, Jethro.” She sent him a pleading look, and Sam could well understand its meaning. Make this moment easier, no
t harder. “He is guilty, and he will go to jail. His lawyer even tried to get him to plead out, but that would be admitting he’d been wrong, and don’t you know it but his victims always—” Her voice broke, but she took a breath and went on. “His victims always deserve it.”

  The woman behind her startled Sam when she punctuated Lizbet’s words by spitting on the lawn beside them, and Gretchen put an understanding hand on Lizbet’s arm.

  “Anyway,” Lizbet said, “I’m lucky. Once everything’s settled, I can come back. Or if I like my new life, I can let you know where I am. You can visit.”

  “Lizbet,” Jeth said, his voice thick, “you still could have come to me. You could have at least told me—”

  Lizbet lifted her head sharply, cutting off his words with that simple gesture. “No,” she said, “I couldn’t. Because you would have tried to do something. You would have tried to fix the unfixable. And that son of a bitch told me he’d kill you this time.”

  Sam winced at the shock on Jeth’s face, the transition to the realization of why she’d made her choices…the very choices for which he’d blamed her. If she hadn’t been unseen, she’d have put a hand on his arm…taken a step closer…at least given him an understanding look. But she’d made her own choices; this was the way she lived her life. She had an extraordinary talent and she used it, and it affected every facet of her life—from the way she looked at things to the pieces of her true self which she chose to show others. For every price that talent exacted, it also gave her a gift—allowing her to blend where she wanted to, to help where she wanted to. To experience things that might otherwise be denied her.

  And now and then, she could choose just to be Sam I Am.

  This time, this moment, she’d been unseen so as not to endanger the refugees as she tracked them down, following the murmured directives, panting breath and occasional scuff of foot as behind her, the party music cut off and another siren ground to a stop. Now she stayed that way, letting Jeth and Lizbet play out their goodbye. Watching Jeth, speechless as he drew his sister in for the most cautious of hugs and then separated to brush a gentle thumb across her cheek. She’d been ready for more arguing; no doubt she knew him well.