Ripple Effects

by Laura J. Mixon

  By this time a cop had arrived. He left his shop lights flashing. “What happened here? What are all these?” He poked with a toe at a nearby red-flame pillar, which had shrunk considerably and grown gooey.

  “A barrier I put up to protect the crash victim from oncoming traffic.” John gestured at the driver who had smacked into the barrier, and was now using his phone to record a video through his windshield. The man waved. At least he doesn’t seem pissed off.

  “You’re an ace.”

  “Yes, Officer. I saw the crash and stopped to render aid. This young man was riding his bike into the intersection, there.” John pointed. “A pedestrian stepped into the bike lane right at that instant, and the cyclist had to swerve to miss him. He ended up in front of this woman’s truck.” He gestured at Samiyah, who was walking over to rejoin them. “She had no time to avoid him. Neither of them was at fault. It was the fault of the pedestrian who stepped into the street. He was crossing against the light.”

  Samiyah was nodding as John had described the impact.

  “Officer,” she said, “he got thrown right under my wheels before I even had time to react. He’d surely be dead if not for him.” She touched John’s shoulder. “That green fire of yours is a blessing, Candle! He used it to heal the man,” she told the cop. “It’s a miracle the Candle was here.”

  John just shook his head, lips drawn taut. It wouldn’t have happened at all if I hadn’t been here.

  The cop looked around. “Where is the pedestrian now?”

  “I didn’t get a good look at him,” Samiyah said.

  John replied, “He left immediately after the accident.”

  “Well, first things first.” The cop knelt next to the cyclist. “I see blood here. Young man, can you hear me?”

  The cyclist looked up at the cop. He patted the cop’s face plate and said in a puff of purple sparks, “Nice panda.”

  John told the cop, “Those purple sparks have a hallucinogenic and sedative effect. I healed him as best I could with my green fire, but the repair may not have been complete—I’ve never used it on injuries this severe. He should be checked out right away. Ms. Morretty and I rigged a neck brace for him, but it will melt in the next few minutes.”

  “EMTs are on their way,” the cop replied. “We’ll take care of him.” John heard the sirens even as he spoke.

  John stood. He thought of the trumpet, and his team, who would be transferring it from the Queen Margaret to the amphitheater on New Liberty Island soon. Rip had vanished, Armstrong’s gold horn was at risk, and his team had no clue what was going down. He came to his feet and pulled out his wallet.

  “Officer, I’m a private investigator with Chubb Insurance.” He showed him his PI license. “We’re here on a protective detail for an exhibition aboard the Queen Margaret. I was heading to the ship on an urgent security matter when this happened and I need to get back there right away. With your permission?” He handed the officer his business card. “You can reach me at this number if you have further questions.”

  The cop jotted down John’s badge number and tucked the card into his clipboard. “All right. We’ll contact you shortly. We’ll want to get a description of the pedestrian.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Officer.” John accepted a thank-you hug from Samiyah, which he appreciated, but which did little to calm him down. “Take care of yourself,” he told her. Then he stalked to the cab stand across the street. People moved out of his way—probably because small jets of multicolored flame were shooting out from his head, hands, and arms.

  He caught a taxi to Pier 88 and the Queen Margaret. As he climbed out and paid the fare, a glint in the sky caught his eye. The tourist airship had risen high into the sky over the harbor and was floating slowly up the river toward the pier.

  As John moved toward the water taxi, a gust came up, and a fast food napkin tumbled over to land under the ball of his foot. It had writing on it in black magic marker. He stooped and snatched it up.

  It had to be Titus. The message was their old shorthand from back in the bad old days, when they’d ditched school to tag buildings and subway walls, pick fights, and do other stupid and/or illegal shit. Eyeball-specs-down-arrow-sunset meant watch for instructions this evening. Presumably at the concert venue, on New Liberty Island. Dime-ghost-target was a threat: Snitches and deserters get dead.

  John looked around. Longshoremen were removing sound equipment from the Queen Margaret with a portable gantry near the ship, about to load it onto a water taxi en route to New Liberty Island. But they were too far away to have caused it, and the only other people nearby were, like, eighty or something, and only had eyes for each other as they strolled toward the river walk a short ways away.

  Titus could have paid someone to release the napkin. But at the precise spot it would have had to be when they released it? For the breeze to catch it at just the right angle and just the right instant for it to land under his foot, as he stepped onto the curb? When it could have could have as easily tumbled off into the water or blown off down the way?

  No. The delivery method was as important as the content. Titus was nailing his point to John’s forehead with a staple gun. I can get to you anytime I choose. You won’t see it coming. There’s not a damn thing you can do about it, much less prove it was me.

  * * *

  The magazines were a total waste; Tiffani couldn’t find the concentration to read during her morning-long sojourn, crammed in the locker. She alternated between playing Candy Crush and staring at her phone’s clock. At precisely 12:03 p.m. and six seconds, the double tone sounded and she sprang up, pushing the lid open. She really needed to pee. She climbed out of the locker and scrambled down.

  The Gossamer Spirit was airborne—she could tell by the gentle rocking under her feet—and the corridor was empty. As promised. She had a strong signal now. It was past the ten-minute window. Rip should be in his blind spot. Please. Please be future-blind.

  She called her sister, Annabelle. “Belle? It’s me, Megan. It’s an emergency. Can you talk?”

  “Oh, hi, honey! We got the card you sent with that last check. And all those lovely gifts! Thank you so much!”

  “You’re welcome. Now keep quiet and listen. The family is in extreme danger—”

  “Say what?”

  “I said, the family is in danger! I need you to call everyone. Right away. Tell them they have to be out of their houses and on the road, quick as they can. Get to Charleston and pick up Mamaw and Pampaw, too.”

  “Well—OK, I’m hearing you, but—why? Are you in trouble, honey?”

  “Yes, I’m in trouble! The man who gave me the money for those gifts—he’s not a good man, Belle. And I’ve defied him, and he’s going to do something terrible to the family if you don’t all get out.”

  She could hear Belle’s breathing on the other end of the phone.

  “What did you do, Meg?” Her tone was harsh.

  Tiffani dug her manicured nails into her palms. Then she hung her head with a sigh. “I made a deal with the devil, Belle. I purely did.”

  “And the bill came due.”

  “Yes.” Tiffani broke down. Her body shook with messy sobs. But she gulped them back in. No time for that, either.

  “Now, Meg,” her sister was saying. “That’s a big old shame. But nobody is holding us hostage. He can’t hurt us. He’s just made you fearful, or your own conscience has. We’ve all been there. It’s never as bad as it seems. You just need to leave this man. Come on home. The good Lord will forgive you, and your heart will heal in time.”

  Gahhh! “No! This isn’t about my soul! It’s about your safety!” Tiffani lowered her voice with a nervous look around. “Things are not going to be OK,” she whispered into the phone. “He’s going to come after you. After everybody!” She swallowed another sob. “He’s done it to others and not gotten caught. I’ve seen it. You have to get away. Load everybody in the car and go. Please. NOW.”

  A long pause. “Well … but … al
l right, hang on.” Tiffani heard her talking to someone else. “It’s Meg. She’s having a meltdown. Said her new beau has turned out to be a real douche-noodle, and he’s threatening the family.”

  Thomas came on the phone. “Now, what’s all this about?”

  Tiffani sighed. “Never mind, I’ll explain later,” she said, and hung up.

  She needed to get out of here, one way or another, and her chance to go below had passed—her hand that gripped the ladder down through the hatch felt a vibration. Someone was ascending.

  I get found now, she thought, and it’ll turn out he’s known since the beginning. There’ll be another trap waiting. It’ll all be over by the time the airship lands.

  Her gaze fell on the cargo door at the back of the hold. Her hand went to the lanyard with the key card she’d forgotten to leave behind. The handle on the hatch turned at her feet. Well, you were ready to die anyway. Now or never!

  “Fuck it,” she said. She dropped her bag and bolted for the door.

  WARNING—DO NOT OPEN DOOR IN FLIGHT, the sign on it said.

  A shout came from behind her. She didn’t bother to turn and look. Instead, she swiped the card and shoved at the bar latch. The door flew open and carried her out. An alarm blared and a light flashed. Her back bumped into the bulkhead. She hung on.

  Cat’s out of the bag now. She looked down. A mile below her dangling feet, she could see the Golden Lady, the shining new Statue of Liberty they had thrown up after the old green one of her childhood had been destroyed in the Rox War. The amphitheater that would host the charity concert was at the lady’s feet. All around were the waters of New York Bay.

  Tiffani let go.

  At least try to survive. Slow yourself down. Tiffani grabbed the edges of her cardigan and flattened onto her belly, the way she’d seen flying squirrels do, and her cardigan billowed up, like a parachute, slowing her a bit. But after a few seconds it tore loose from her hands and the wind ripped it off her. The water was getting close.

  She’d read once that if you fell from a plane, even to water, it would be like hitting concrete. But diamond could cut through concrete.

  Get vertical! Make a knife. Feet first—point toes, arms up!

  Crack! She called her ace—and ka-BOOM!—she hit the water.

  Tiffani came to in a coughing fit with stabbing pain in her ears and water streaming into her nose. She coughed, and spat, and swam for all she was worth toward what she thought must be up: the glittering light she saw amid murk and bubbles still boiling from the impact. Finally, she emerged into air and treaded water, coughing till she could breathe. Fish surfaced around her, belly up. Oops. Sorry, dears.

  She turned in the water, looking around. New Liberty Island was maybe a quarter mile away. I can swim that far, she told herself, though her head pounded so hard she could barely think and her limbs trembled from shock and cold and pain. Sure. Why stop lying now?

  But she could tell she’d broken bones, despite her diamond armor, and was going into shock. She could barely move her arms. After a minute or two it just seemed like too much trouble. The bay closed over her head.

  * * *

  New Liberty Island was three times as large as the original island had been, the one that had been home to the first Statue of Liberty, before it had been washed away during the Rox War. Its five-thousand-seat amphitheater, an open-air quarter-cutout of a bowl, nestled at the feet of the Golden Lady, with the towers of Manhattan behind her. A twenty-foot retaining wall lay between the stage and the harbor bank. The water taxi had dropped John near the backstage area. From here, he could see straight through the stage and up into the stands—though people were installing panels behind the stage that blocked the view.

  He headed up the slope to the amphitheater’s rear entrances. Stairs led up to the top of the stands on either side of the skybox entry. Rashida and Arry stood conferring outside the east entry passage beneath the stands. The underground secure complex housed amphitheater operations as well as equipment and machine rooms, and air-conditioned locker rooms and green rooms for performers. John’s team had co-opted the equipment room and installed further security. That was where they’d house the horn and case till after the performance.

  Rashida saw John and waved. Both had their comms on.

  “The horn?” he asked.

  “Secure inside,” Rashida replied. “Gil and Horace are on duty with it.”

  “Any surprises?” he asked, and his seconds looked at each other. Arry rumbled, “Not at all, dear,” and Rashida asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”

  He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Just wanted to be sure.”

  Arry cocked her giant head as if listening to something, and Rashida touched her ear. “On my way,” Arry replied. She dropped onto her hands and lumbered down the passage to the freight door. A production company guard there opened the door for her and she moved through, tilting her head to make sure her horns didn’t gouge the doorframe. From inside the door, she turned and bent down so they could see her face. “You two could both use some rest. We gotcha covered. See you at six.”

  “Thanks, Arry,” John said. “Call if you need us.” He and Rashida started along the sidewalk toward the boat.

  “You get into a fight or something?” She gestured at the filth on his clothes and hands.

  “Long story,” he said. “I’ll explain later. Right now I want extra security assigned to the concert. Let’s see if we can get a couple of the Queen Margaret crew out here.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  John started to reply but someone screamed near the western shore of the island. A family stood on the bay shore, staring up at the airship floating overhead. Sunlight flashed off a falling object as John shielded his eyes to look—something faceted and bright. A crystal statue? He barely had time to register its shape before it struck the bay in an explosion of water.

  They scrambled down across the rocks to the shore. Out on the bay, someone’s head rose above the water. “Someone survived that?” he gasped.

  “I’ll get to them. Get ready to shoot me some red!” Rashida particulated and rose in a swarm of tigereye beads, which raced out over the water toward the swimmer.

  John reached behind into inferno-world and brought back the strongest reds he could find. He shoved the wine-red energy out through his body, as fast as he could, weaving the strands into a stout cable. Then he readied it, swirling it above and in front of himself. It coiled in the air like a nest of burning snakes. But when Patina reached the spot where they’d seen the person’s head, no one was there.

  She shaped herself into a giant, brass, articulated hand-and-arm, and dropped into the water. A moment later, something bobbed up to the surface in a splash: a shiny, black-rubber version of that hand and arm, with a woman’s still form curled in Patina’s palm, the giant thumb, pinkie, and ring fingers holding on to her with her head pillowed at the base of the forefinger. The forefinger crooked itself at John—Throw me the rope!

  John cast the red flames out as hard as he could, drawing flame and casting again and again, fighting to keep it aloft, till the blazing cable reached Patina. As the flames coiled around the massive hand, its fingers grew smaller hands, which caught hold of the cable.

  “Hold tight!” he yelled, and tossed a section back for the nearby family to grab. “I need your help!” he told them. “It’s safe to touch. Pull!”

  They grabbed hold. Others ran up and joined in, and soon Patina Raft-Hand and her passenger were skimming toward shore. John waded out to meet them. He pulled the raft in and Patina re-particulated to a tigereye bead cloud. John caught the woman as she sank into the water. He carried her to shore and lowered her to the ground.

  Dead? No, she still breathed. He rolled her on her side—twisted to find green flames—and cast healing tendrils over her. In a moment, she coughed up a lungful of water. Her eyes opened. She looked surprised. “Well, well, the Candle. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” />
  John hardly recognized her through the schmutz and sodden, torn-up clothes. “Tiffani?”

  “The very same.” She propped herself up on her elbows and wiped her forehead with a trembling, dirty arm. Rivulets of muddy water ran down her face. “Holy fucking hell. What a day. I must look a fright.”

  He helped her sit up. For some odd reason she was wearing orange work coveralls. She had only one sneaker and her hair was a mess. She felt along her legs. “Huh. I was sure I’d broken bones.”

  “I took care of that,” he said. “What are you doing here? And more to the point, why did you just fall out of the airship?”

  She looked at him and then lowered her gaze. “Long story.”

  He folded his arms. “I’ve got time.”

  She looked up again. “In fact, you don’t.”

  By now a small crowd had gathered. Some were taking photos and selfies. Tiffani scooted to the side, maneuvering so he was a barrier between her and the people trying to film her. He stood and turned around. “All right, folks. The incident’s over. The lady is fine, and would appreciate some privacy.” The lookie-loos began to disperse.

  Rashida had rejoined them. Tiffani took her hands and gripped them tightly. “Oh my gosh, you saved my very life. And you too, Candle. Thank you. I’m Tiffani,” she said to Rashida. “John and I go back a ways.”

  Rashida gave her hands a squeeze and released them. “Rashida Thorne. Also known as Patina. So glad you’re OK! You sure gave us all a fright. What happened? Do we need to radio the airship?”

  “Please, no! The fewer people who know, the better.” She turned to John and lowered her voice. “Might I impose on you for the time?”

  John glanced at his phone. “Twelve twenty on the nose.”