“Bless you, my daughter,” I say to another.
I wink at a cop. I enter the precinct’s airy atrium and place my hands on my hips. I own this.
A hundred of the common people are waiting for their number to be called to pay traffic tickets or to make complaints at the kiosks on the left. To my right are a couple phones for use by criminals in need of fingerprinting. Directly ahead, an officer swipes his card and enters through the security door. I strut over to it and use my cast to catch the door before it closes.
Once inside I can see the scalps of dozens of constables who work at their cubicles. Offices along one wall are for the captain and the various sergeants who lead the major crime units like fraud, homicide, and other places everyone wants to work. Detective Williams’s cubicle is somewhere in the middle, and I recognize her straight, near-black hair as I skip to her. My cast thumps, bringing the attention of a few officers I grin at as I pass. Everyone loves me here after what I did for the sister of one of their own.
“Janus?” Williams stands in her cubicle and glances around. Okay, so everyone is watching now. Even Haines’s blockhead has emerged from his office door, fixing me with piercing eyes. “What are you doing here, Janus?” Williams asks.
“Hey there, Sergeant Haines!” I say. “Wait until I get my Haines on you, right? Ha, ha!”
He shakes his head and disappears, shutting his door.
“Janus, have you been drinking?” Williams asks.
“With the captain, you mean? Just kidding, I know he doesn’t do that and neither do I. It’s bad for you.” Just then I see she has the phone I’d lost to the evidence locker, and I grab it from her desk with a smile.
“Janus—”
“Yes, yes, why am I here, you wonder?” I say, lifting my arms in a dramatic pause. “They murdered my dad, that’s why. They killed him. Bang, bang, or maybe with a knife. Slit his throat. He’s dead.”
Williams peers at me, face a mask of concern. “Come, we’ll find a meeting room.”
All the meeting rooms are full, so we end up in the big glass room that fits twenty people, but we slide into two chairs at the end.
“The soup kitchen is great, by the way,” I say as I sit.
“What do you mean, they killed your father, Janus?” she asks.
“Well, you see, I was kidnapped last night by one of my dad’s former customers,” I use the quote signs around customers, “and he showed me where my dad was buried. It’s the same group—I’m pretty sure—who are behind this Zombie Worm, but don’t worry about that, I’m on the case. Let’s talk about the murder.”
Williams regards me for another long moment before seeming to make a decision.
“Do you have an address?”
“The woods, somewhere in Quebec.”
“That’s a pretty broad area, Janus; could you take me there?”
“I was blindfolded, but I could feel my way there.” More quotes around feel. “I saw that once in a movie where the blindfolded guy remembered all the turns. I think I can do it.”
Williams draws a deep breath. “What about this man; describe him.”
“Big,” I say. “He has a long ponytail.”
“Caucasian?”
“About my dad’s age if they hadn’t killed him,” I say, nodding. “But they did. Kill him.”
“This man killed him,” Williams replies.
“No, they did. He was my dad’s friend. Bitchain.”
“Bitchain is the friend?”
“It’s a gang. I think they’ve created the Zombie Worm that I’m a cleaner for now. You have to listen better. Aren’t you a detective? And while we’re talking on the subject, am I back on the force?”
She blinks hard and then takes my hand between both of hers. “Janus,” she says. “I’m worried about you. You’re not making very much sense. It must be really hard with your mom in the hospital. Is there anyone I can call to pick you up?”
“I’m okay. I know this is all really complicated, but I think my mom’s boyfriend is behind it all.”
“Uh huh.”
“Yes, arrest him, and then torture him,” I say. “Ha, ha, I know you can’t do that, but if we can just crack the encryption on his hard drive, we’ll have the answers.”
“Okay, so what are you going to do?” Her grip tightens and I have this weird thought that maybe she’s in on Bitchain as well. Everyone is.
“I only wanted to tell you. Let the police handle it from here,” I say. “You know me.”
It earns me a small smile and her expression softens.
“You’re going home?”
“Yep, off to the soup kitchen and then home.”
Williams releases my hands and then pats my hand. “Good girl, I want you to stay home until I call you. Promise?”
“Promise.” Beneath the table my legs are crossed so it doesn’t count.
She walks me out, and we chat about how the fiberglass companies and crutch makers are spreading rumors that broken bones need six weeks to heal in a bid to increase sales. Corruption—it’s everywhere.
Annie greets me at the soup kitchen and hands me a peeler. I chat with the potatoes as I strip away their skin and poke out their eyes.
“One potato, two potato, three potato, four. Five potato, six potato, seven potato, more! Icha bacha, soda cracker, Icha bacha boo. Icha bacha, soda cracker, out goes Y-o-u!” It’s a song that never grows old, although I think Junker makes stabbing motions a couple of times.
Then I go home, where I update Shadownet and try to stay warm.
Williams calls me back and says she hasn’t been able to reach Peter. She tells me to call her in the morning, but adds that unfortunately after this afternoon, the captain firmed up his decision to have me serve out the community service hours at the soup kitchen. Whatever.
You’re all just a sack of potatoes, Heckleena tweets. Better left in a cold, dark place.
If I were a potato, Hairy replies, I’d be baked.
I’d be a sweet potato, Frannie adds.
ME? I’D BE CRAZY CURLY FRIES, JanusFlyTrap tweets.
I try to sleep. The Geek Goddess’s mind races.
Chapter 20
<<@HairySays had it right,>> Janusflytrap tweets. Baked, definitely baked.
Fly you fools, Gandalf, Hairy tweets.
I wake to the smell of smoke.
“Mom!” I shout, but of course, she’s not here. She’s in the hospital, and for once that’s a good thing. Smoke means—fire.
I snatch my phone and wrap the wool blanket tight around me.
One advantage of living in an office is the windows facing the living area. I brush away the drapery to darkness. Darkness means no flames, not here. So where’s the smoke coming from?
On my cast I stumble over to the other side of my room and raise the blinds to look over the retail store. Fire licks above my windowsill. Beneath me is ablaze, and the flames flash higher.
I flinch and hobble over to the light switch. High-pitched whines throb from my chest.
Smoke billows against the lit ceiling panels and I duck away. I test the handle to my door. It’s warm, but not hot. Huddled in my blanket, I take a moment to assess the situation. But I’m finding it difficult to keep images of burning servers out my head. And I wonder if this was how my dad had died, too. In a ball of fire, rather than a knife or a gunshot. But then it’s the smoke that gets you, isn’t it, the smoke inhalation? I cough and lie closer to the ground.
A foot below me, burns a fire. I am alone. No one’s coming for me. I glance at my phone to call the fire department but know what my mom would say: Get out, Janus. Get out, Now!
The smoke alarm blares. I cover my ears and clench shut my eyes. It’s not going away. None of it is. I stay. I die.
There are two exits from the second floor: an elevator and the fire stairs. The elevator is a bad idea. Not knowing what I’ll face, I draw a deep breath and hold it as I open my bedroom door.
It’s eerily silent. But too warm. I want to ditch the blanket but know that’s not smart. If I had time, I’d drench everything in water and find myself a cloth to breathe through, but I’d rather be a little-bit-singed alive person than well-prepared charcoal.
My eyes sting and I try a quick breath. Immediately I break into a fit of coughing. The smoke’s lower in the living area and I crouch, making my way on my hands and knees to the fire exit on the far side. The fire stairs lead to two doors below. One door opens directly into the store and the inferno. The other leads outside. But I’ll still be moving toward the fire rather than away from it.
Heat radiates through the floor. I pass a bookcase filled with photos, which I know I can’t carry. Trailing behind me are my blanket and sweaty palm prints on the carpet. My knees hurt from rug burn but that’s the least of my worries. Finally I’m at the door. The metal is hot to touch, but there’s nothing for it.
I kick open the door with my good foot. The stairwell takes a gulp of air before expelling a jet of flames that char the ceiling. I cringe under the blanket, back scorched, the fingers of my exposed hands seared. In an instant the fireball dissipates.
The stairwell is made of metal and concrete with cinderblock walls. It’s a kiln and too bright for something that should be pitch black. A fluorescent light panel warps in the heat and drops. It shatters feet from me.
I steel myself.
I’m wearing only socks and a nightshirt. Smoke fills the stairwell. I’ll need to stay low. Two flights. Thinking fast, I scrabble into the stairwell and drape the heavy blanket over the stairs. Diving over top of it, I wriggle downward to the next landing. Here the heat is unbearable and it prickles my skin. I feel the flesh of my cheeks tighten and the hair on my arms curl. Janus is most certainly not invincible. I’m cooking.
My head burns to touch and I’m forced to breathe through my nose so as to protect my throat. I know what real burning feels like though and this isn’t it, not yet.
Light comes from around the frame of the entry to the retail area; even the metal door glows, and I can’t tell if it’s some trick of the light or if it’s actually from the heat of the fire. I gather the blanket over my head and back.
I half whine, half scream as I crawl past. Heat envelops me. In a final push, I throw myself against the back door. I hit it, shoving it wide, and tumbling down the two steps to face-plant in the snow. I’m so surprised, my body can’t tell if the snow is burning or not, and I scream until I realize I’m safe. I roll farther into the snow, rubbing it over my face and into my hair. Soon I’m soaked.
I pull the blanket around my shoulders again and find my phone by the light of its screen. Even before I hit 911, I hear sirens. The flames aren’t bad here, but the glow rises above the roof now. I trudge around to the front and gape at the globe of fire that was once our store. The phone falls to the ground as I begin to shudder.
I’m not even sure my mom kept the insurance payments up. Inside this building was my home, photos and fading memories. Inside was Shadownet, pieces of me. I have been stripped of everything.
First to arrive isn’t fire, it’s police. I look for Williams but that’s wishful thinking.
The cruiser’s bumper pulls to within a foot of my knees, and the officer, a wiry man I don’t know, steps toward me and touches my shoulder.
“Is there anyone else in there?” he asks.
Hairy, Gumps, Frannie, Heckleena … my father’s email. Digital me.
“My cats,” I say and burst into tears.
“We’ll do our best.”
He turns to his partner. “Just glad she’s alone. Little young, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Probably smoking,” the partner replies.
“I wasn’t smoking,” I scream. “Save it. Save them!”
I let the blanket slide from my shoulders to puddle at my ankles. I’m simultaneously burning and quaking with cold. But I’m angry too. Rage coils in my chest. It flares. But what’s left to fuel it? I mean, even I know this is it. My rage flashes like a magician’s misdirection. I’m a husk. My dad’s email to me seems out of reach. How can I be the best I can be? What family and friends do I have to love?
“Is there anyone we should call?” the officer asks.
I spot a length of chain. The snow has melted around it. It wasn’t there when I came home. I’m sure of it. What’s left of my brain that hasn’t been smoked, burned, or frozen tries to crank over, knowing it means something, but not sure what. But I’m out of gas. None of that matters. I think it’s time to take a break. To let go. To leave it to the police. A cat dashes across the parking lot. Everyone can take care of themselves.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say and sink to my knees. The cold and heat mellows until I’m numb. Totally numb. Someone folds a dry blanket around me.
And that’s perfect. “I’m going to lie down now.”
Chapter 21
The lights are flashing but no one’s home.
Heckleena tweets this in my head. I smile at the glimmering lights of the advancing fire trucks and lean into the warmth of the fire. Frannie thinks it’s pretty. Dad took me camping once. It was fall. Marshmallows have never tasted so good.
The lights glare inside the ambulance, and some guy mouths words above me. A stethoscope hangs around his neck and he wears a uniform. Why doesn’t he speak? I can’t read lips, I say. But I’m not buying what he’s selling anyway.
This is different.
Lights flit past above my head. Lying flat on the gurney, I inspect the decor. I hate hospital green—no fashion sense. Tule says no to green in shades of pus and snot. People move around me. Lots of them. An emergency doc, a burn doc, and then I hear the words I expected.
“Consult to psych,” he says.
Good, I’ll see Mom. We can be roomies. Better than that, maybe this means I am more like her than Dad.
The light’s softer here. It emanates from a lamp and I’m raised forward. A man strides in. He’s a man with too much to do, places to be, heart attacks to diagnose. If you want something done on time, give it to a busy man, Gumps thinks.
I sit staring for however long it takes for dawn to leak through the window. Then I shut my eyes, waking to a needle prick.
The nurse, he’s sticking me. And it’s like it’s not my arm. I can’t feel the needle or the gentle tugs on my wrist as he takes my pulse. Zombie girl, Heckleena calls me.
A doctor again. He shines lights in my eyes. A blood pressure cuff hugs my bicep. I’m breathing easy, the wrap around my ribs is gone. Two medical students appear beside the doctor. A twenty-second diagnosis: “Dissociative, in a daze, mumbling. Yup, yup, yup. Acute Stress Disorder. Good work, Dr. McNally.”
“What happened, Janus, what happened?”
Williams speaks.
I look through her and recall my mother looking back through me.
“Burning,” I say.
“Did you see who set the fire? It wasn’t accidental,” she says, moving her head around as if trying to enter my line of sight.
“Burning. Kettlebells,” I say.
“She’s talking about a different fire,” Williams says to the doctor. The students are gone.
“Did she set that fire?” the doctor asks.
Yes, I did.
“Is she connected to any other fires?” the doctor asks. It’s like I’m not here. Call me Carrie, JanusFlyTrap says.
Maybe I’m not here.
“I just don’t know,” I say.
“That’s what the insurance company is asking too.” Another voice. Gruff. It pats my hand.
�
�I don’t know,” I whisper.
“She’s like a zombie,” another voice says. A girl. Hannah?
“Too many visitors.” The doctor snaps his fingers and a door clicks shut. There’s only room for doctors, residents, the police, nurses. No friends allowed. I think I hear Jonny too. Peter’s here. I can smell his old man cologne.
I feign sleep and the scent fades.
I wake to music. Jonny’s picking a tune on his guitar. His head is down, focused on fingering, hair hanging over his expression. I remain quiet. Me, watching the fluid dance of his fingers and the sliding of his hand over frets. It’s Spanish, I think, but I don’t know much about music. Did I really believe I could play a symphony on my leg?
“Jan.” The music stops and Jonny floats over to me. “You’re awake.”
I breathe him in. Turpentine. Roast chicken.
The thought of food turns my stomach.
“What happened, Jan?”
“I missed class,” I say.
He smiles sadly. “Yeah, you could say that.” He’s brought the Sisterhood book and another on hacking, plus my phone.
“There was a fire,” I say. And I think of burning servers.
“It was really hot,” he replies. “Accelerant. Do you think it was the customers?” He uses air quotes around customers and I love him.
“I just don’t know,” I say.
“But you do, you were on to something before the fire. You were.” He’s shifted closer on the bed and leans down. Roast chicken and garlic potatoes.
“I don’t.”
“Jan, Jan?” Jonny sighs his defeat. “Here,” he says, and leaves Heckleena’s Twitter account open on my phone to her last tweet.
You’re all just a sack of potatoes. Better left in a cold, dark place.
Her red lips mock me.
More days pass. I know this because Peter’s clothes change each time he visits and the staff tries to force me to do the same things. Like eat. Like walk around or play video games. They ask the same questions. “Do you feel like hurting yourself or others?”
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 40