Masks (Out of the Box Book 9)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Okay, Big Brother,” I shot back and staggered away, sending both him and Friday a salutatory wave. “You keep your eye in the sky on me while I go do my hero thing.” I practically snorted over the hero part, because it wasn’t really how I saw myself. It was, however, a nice way to dig at Scott, who I could tell was full of his mission.

  Unfortunately, it looked like his mission was me, and I doubted it was something nice like, “Bake a cake for Sienna to make her feel better after a bad day.” It was more like, “If Sienna steps out of line or ends up killing anyone extra-lawfully, bring her down like Capone.”

  I should have known Harmon wasn’t just going to let me walk away and make a nuisance of myself outside of government service.

  “What the hell was that?” Captain Frost stepped into my path, all puffed up, his breathing finally under control.

  “A confrontation,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from accidentally decking him. “Angry words exchanged, some not-so-subtle-threats, some—”

  “I meant you saying I didn’t help here,” Frost said, as peeved as a poltergeist. “I went into the building and—”

  I started to walk away from him. I didn’t really have anything else to say, after all; my report to Welch was going to be short and not-sweet, and include the assessment that this guy was a moron who probably spoke out of his yoga-pants-clad ass at least as often as out of his pretty-boy mouth.

  “Hey!” Frost bellowed. “I’m not—” He ran after me, and wisely decided not to grab my shoulder or something similarly stupid. He came wide around and parked himself in my path, looking hurt and a little offended. For my part, I was seething inside, a lot, which might help explain why I did what I did next. “I thought we were gonna … team up,” he said softly. He eased closer to me, and I caught a whiff of crying puppy dog that had been kicked mixed with horny guy hoping to get laid. I wasn’t sure which was stronger, and neither one impressed me.

  I sighed. “Listen …” I pulled out a pen and fished one of my new business cards, slightly crumpled, out of my pocket, and wrote something beneath the phone number. “This is my card.” I held it up and he puffed up a little. “If you call, make sure you mention the reference number here,” I pointed to what I’d written, “so that they can connect you through to someone who can help.” I handed it to him and then started to circle away, figuring I needed to find Gravity Gal so I could chat with her real quick and then go home. Hamilton would have to wait; I wanted to get out of New York before Scott and Friday got too antsy and did something dumb. Or I did something dumb in response to them doing something dumb. I may have been more restrained lately, but I was by no means an angel.

  “Hey!” Frost called after me. “This isn’t a reference number at all!”

  “It’s just a figure of speech,” I said, not turning around.

  “It says, ‘This guy is a total jackass’!”

  I shrugged and glanced back at him. He was mad again, and all that horny guy vulnerability was gone. So was the sad puppy dog look. Mission accomplished. Self-pity and rampant hormones are such an ugly combo. “I’m bad with names.”

  “I’m Captain Frost!” he screamed in the middle of the street, sounding pretty pathetic.

  “You’re a savvy internet guy,” I said. “You might consider crowdsourcing a new name. Even Boaty McBoatface would be an improvement over what you’ve got now.” And I shot into the sky, an awful lot of eyes trailing me, a few of them not at all friendly.

  25.

  Jamie

  When Jamie woke up, the headache was well settled in behind her eyes, like pain poured directly into her brain, ten thousand volts of electrical current jumping back and forth in her skull. She sat up and the world seemed to flash around her. Every muscle felt exhausted. Simply standing up seemed like a dicey proposition that might end in her collapsing like the building across the street.

  She stood anyway.

  Once she was on her feet, it was a battle not to collapse again and accept the gravel-covered rooftop as perfectly valid bed choice. She wiped at her face with a gloved hand and it came back covered in grit, scratching against her skin. She took a breath and felt like she’d smoked a whole pack of cigarettes. Not that she smoked, but she’d tried one once and had a coughing fit that felt like it lasted for days. About like now, actually.

  She wobbled as she took a step. The mask felt heavy and hot, even though it was normally light. She was sweating profusely, drips of salty, soot-heavy liquid running from beneath the cowl and down her face. She steadied herself, standing there experimentally, and then looked south.

  There was the Freedom Tower, winking in the distance. The Empire State Building was closer and felt like an easier anchor, so she reached out for it. Once she had a solid grip, she reversed gravity on the channel and yanked herself into the air, heading for the tip of the observation deck.

  The night air felt cooler against her wet, clammy skin. The sensation of being pulled through the night was a relief; she had a good grip, and it didn’t feel like she was taxing herself too hard. It reminded her of running, of hitting that point where the exertion didn’t matter anymore, she was just in the rhythm and could go on for a while, some of the pain erased by endorphins. Mid-air, she changed course, attaching to Freedom Tower and launching herself forward, faster.

  The night air was sweet, and she wanted to take off the cowl, feel the wind fully on her face, but she didn’t. There were cameras everywhere, after all, and someone might catch a glimpse of her without it, and they could track her back to her origin … and that would be no good for her, no good for Kyra—

  Kyra.

  She’d forgotten their little spat, forgotten that her daughter had charged into her room and slammed the door behind her. It lacked conclusion, their quarrel, and she needed to get back, get it resolved before the morning.

  Jamie was moving on rote memory by now; she’d made the trip back and forth to Staten Island so many times she couldn’t even count them anymore. The way back was a little more difficult, and she made the hand-off, establishing a channel to the Statue of Liberty and zooming along it. The last bit was the trickiest, finding a place to tether on solid ground on Staten Island. There weren’t a ton of great options, and she couldn’t stilt-walk on gravity channels over the water, unfortunately. Trying to set up a channel on an unstable surface tended to end in disaster, like trying to walk on water.

  She came down over the north end of the island near the St. George Terminal and started her stilt-walk, loping along with channel after channel, pushing off the ground and angling herself forward with each movement. She could see her house ahead, the back door light revealing her clothing scattered over the yard.

  She drifted to the ground and settled softly on the grass, a strange sense of ease rolling over her as she landed. The pressure behind her eyes abated a little, and she pulled off the mask, which hugged tightly to the top of her head and face, leaving room for her hair to flow out the back. It slipped off wetly, the heat contained inside it from her efforts and the warm air leaving her scalp soaked with perspiration. She ran fingers over her face, and already knew what she’d see in the mirror—soot-stained skin, damp, tangled hair—she looked like hell, basically, probably either flushed red or pale as death. Based on the clammy feeling, it was probably the latter. At least no one would see her like this, she reflected as she scooped up her pants and her blouse, then grabbed the shoes she wore over the skin-tight leotard of her costume.

  She froze, bent over, a tingle running up her spine. It was an eerie feeling, like she was being watched. She snapped her head around, butt still up in the air, and caught a glimpse of—

  Oh, no.

  Oh … no.

  “Sorry,” Sienna Nealon said, looking more than a little shamefaced as she floated to the ground behind Jamie. “I, uhm … didn’t mean to catch you, uh … here …” She was covered in soot, probably the same as Jamie, but the embarrassed expression on her face was nothing compare
d to Jamie’s sudden horror at being found out. Nealon took a breath, almost not daring to meet Jamie’s eyes. “Sorry. But we need to talk.”

  26.

  Sienna

  For some reason, catching Gravity Gal picking up her clothes outside her house felt way, way more uncomfortable to me than my confrontation with Scott. It shouldn’t have been. In one case, we had my ex-boyfriend who was basically laying out the fact he was looking to arrest me if given a chance; in the other, we had a middle-ageish woman in Spandex picking up her clothing from the ground in her own yard.

  Should have been no contest, and yet somehow, middle-ageish woman in Spandex was winning, hard.

  Gravity Gal was staring at me, giving me the kind of look my mom might if she’d been caught … um … yeah, I shoulda knocked, but still … anyway …

  Gravity Gal looked like that, with a blouse thrown over her shoulder and pants covered in dirt clutched in her hand, rump in the air like she’d been trying to vacuum under the couch. She was red in the face but really pretty, in a way that wasn't reflected through the mask.

  “I am so sorry,” I compulsively apologized again. “I was trying to catch you over the harbor, but I’m not allowed to fly at supersonic speeds here … or, at anywhere, really, most of the time …” I stopped myself mid-babble, drifting to the ground. “Anyway, by the time I caught you were already in your yard, and I didn’t realize what was happening until you’d already pulled off your mask and—”

  “It’s okay,” she told me, but I could tell by her voice that it wasn’t, really. She stood up and held her clothes in front of her like she was carrying them in a basket, or like a shield. She swallowed heavily. “I, uhm … what did you want to talk about?”

  I looked at the high fences that hemmed in her yard. They weren’t that dissimilar from the ones in my neighborhood in Minneapolis, the ones I used to stare out at when I’d been confined to my house. “Can we … maybe step inside? I’m feeling kinda exposed out here.” I paused. “Did I just invite myself in? I am so—”

  “It’s all right,” Gravity Gal said, a little higher now, the strain plainly getting to her. “I just, uh … my daughter is in there, and … hopefully sleeping, but …”

  “Oh,” I said. “Uhm. Like … little, or—”

  “She’s sixteen,” Gravity Gal said, still cradling her clothes before her. “And, uhm … she, uh … doesn’t know I’m …” She raised a hand, pointing at her costume.

  I stared at her. “I bet your life is super fun.”

  She sighed. “You have no idea.” She blinked. “Well, I mean … maybe you might have … some idea.” She hung her head. “Come on in,” she said, and walked over to the door and opened it wide.

  I followed as she led me in to a clean but weathered kitchen and open family room. Once again, I was reminded of my house a little, with the construction being of the same vintage, even though the styles were different. Gravity Gal picked up some other laundry as she went, hurriedly scooping it up and tossing it all unceremoniously into a closet where I could see a washing machine and dryer standing one on top of the other to save space. She shut the door behind her, then surveyed the room in front of her and hurried to scoop up a dirty dish sitting on the counter.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said, now self-conscious. This woman was cleaning her house because I’d invited myself in. It was kinda hard to get an exact age off her because her face was powdered with soot stains, but I estimated early forties. In meta terms, that could mean she was pretty old. Maybe.

  “I haven’t been home all day,” she said, taking care not to rattle the dishes as she settled them into the sink. “Messes tend to accumulate with a lazy teenager around who seems to think chores are suggestions.”

  “I remember being that teenager,” I said, watching Gravity Gal concentrate as she turned the sink on and squirted soap into the rising water. She made a quick round to the counter and picked up a stray coffee cup and then slid it into the hot water, steam rising out of the sink. “I, uhm … listen, this doesn’t need to take more than a couple minutes—”

  “No, it’s fine, do you—do you want something to drink?” She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time, and I saw mom concern well up on her face. “Do you want a washcloth for the …?” She mimed washing her face, and I realized I probably had soot on me, too.

  “Ahhh,” I wiped at my face and my hand came away even blacker than it had been before. “I can wait until I get back to my hotel.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said and opened a drawer next to the sink and fished around until she pulled out a dark-colored towel. She dipped it under the running faucet and came around the peninsula to dab at my face. I froze, a little surprised that a stranger was doing this, but it was like she couldn’t suppress her mom instincts enough to let me do it myself. Probably realized I couldn’t see my own face, so it would have been fruitless for me to try without a mirror.

  She finished in a minute or so, and while she was gentler than steel wool, she wasn’t much gentler. I was pretty sure she used meta speed to expedite the process, too, which had caused a little more exfoliation than I generally preferred. “Ow,” I said mildly as she stepped back to study her results. My hair was damp around the top of my forehead where the rag had daubed it with water, and I suspected my thin eyebrows had a little extra charcoal in there, probably more than all the make-up I’d ever applied in total, but Gravity Gal seemed pleased with her result.

  “Better,” she pronounced. “You’ll need to wash your hair tonight, though. And your clothes are filthy. They need to be laundered—”

  “You offering?” I snarked.

  “No,” she said, frowning. “I’ve got enough to do.” She backed off a few steps, looking suddenly sullen as she turned the rag around and scrubbed lightly at her own cheek. I didn’t possess the keenly honed mom instincts she did, so I didn’t step up to wash her face as she’d done for me. “Why are you here?”

  “Because this morning, when you saved Nadine Griffin, you pissed off Captain Icicles-for-genitals,” I said, trying out the new moniker for him. Gravity Gal regarded me with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t pretend it’s not a better fit for him.”

  She pursed her lips. “He’s just a kid. His temper runs a little hot and his moral compass spins in whatever direction his fans point. Why does it matter?”

  “Because he kinda threatened you,” I said. “And the NYPD took it seriously.” Or at least Lieutenant Welch had. “They have to treat these things as real threats, probably because a brawl between super-powered people is the sort of thing New York assiduously wants to avoid.”

  “Yeah, well, I want to avoid it, too,” she said, going back around the counter and shutting off the sink after tossing her rag into the laundry closet. Her efforts had done her no good; she was just smeared with soot in heavy, circular lines around her face. It looked like the world’s worst tattoo job. “I doubt Frost meant anything by it.”

  “I doubt it, too,” I said, “but I’ve seen idiots like him do dumber things when hit right in the pride—which is exactly where you got him, by the way.”

  That gave her pause. “I figured it’d bounce right off him. He seems so …” She made a slightly disgusted noise in the back of her throat.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And have you ever gotten the vibe from him like he … kinda wants to …?” I just threw it out there.

  “Sleep with you?” She looked unimpressed. “Only every time we’ve met.”

  “Ugh, I thought it was just me.” I made a sour face. “He’s just looking to score a pair of super panties for his wall.”

  “A super-notch in his bedpost,” Gravity Gal agreed. She paused. “I guess you’ll be able to find out anyway, so … my name’s Jamie. Jamie Barton.”

  “I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” Jamie said, looking at me like I was Captain Frost—an idiot, in other words.

  “I was just being polite,” I said. “So … Gravity
Gal …?”

  She made a disgusted noise. “I know,” she said. “Isn’t it appalling?”

  “Honestly, they ought to call me Gravity Gal,” I said. “I can repel people like nobody’s business.”

  She stared right at me. “Gravity is technically about attraction.”

  “Well, I attract weirdos,” I said. “Captain Frost being the most obvious recent example.” I looked right at her. “I think you’re right about him, by the way. He probably just lost his temper after being made to look like an ass on TV. It was a good call, what you said to him. He was way out of line.”

  “Seems like most people don’t think so,” she said, watching me carefully. “Yourself included.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She folded her arms in front of her. “I didn’t see you streaking in to save Nadine Griffin. Time was, big news like that, you’d pop in and see to it. I mean, I guess if they didn’t get word out in the Midwest—”

  “No, we got it. But I’m not allowed to fly across the country anymore,” I said. Her brow furrowed, and I went on explaining. “The FAA hit me with a cease and desist order when I left government service. New York suspends it locally, when I’m in town, and so do a few other states, if I’m working for them. They allow me flight in their area, but I have to take a plane when I want to go cross country.”

  “That’s …” She looked appalled. “That’s terrible. How are you supposed to—”

  “I don’t think the government really wants me to … whatever,” I said. “I think it might be more convenient for them if I just sat in a corner somewhere and let things proceed apace. Whatever that would mean.”

  “That’s awful,” she said. “That plane in Milwaukee … that bomber in LA … the … whatever happened in Chicago—”

  “Biogenic plague,” I said, and she frowned. “Targeted to meta DNA.”

  “Good grief,” she said, sounding shocked. “You do a lot of good, it seems to me.” She got a little stiffer, suddenly. “Not that it’s all good, what you do—”