Limitless

by Robert J. Crane

  “Yeah, I’m not sure why he ran,” I said, mulling it over. We’d stopped off at a department store that I didn’t catch the name of, and in spite of some frowns from the proprietress due to my attire and a certain amount of bendiness due to a crack in my only credit card, I’d managed to get pants and a new shirt. I’d wanted a trench coat to go along with everything, but I couldn’t find one that fit. The lady behind the counter had apologized profusely once I’d cleaned up and paid, but they just didn’t have anything in my shorty short size. Ah, the challenges of being a woman of average height. So I stuck with the beat-up leather coat. It wasn’t like I could ruin it much more wearing it in the rain, I supposed. “He had us. All he had to do was come right back through the door while I was out, and he could have finished me.”

  “There’s an element of play to this whole thing,” Webster said, tapping his finger on the wheel. “I mean, what he did to your friend Max—”

  “Max wasn’t my friend,” I said absently. I didn’t say it like I was indignant or upset, just stating a fact. Max wasn’t my friend.

  I didn’t really have any friends. Not anymore.

  “Well, what he did to Max was just brutal. And dumping the body like that? He had to know it’d be found. He even made sure it was identified.”

  “Serial killers like attention,” I said. “Or so I’m told.” Right, Wolfe? I got a growl in my head in reply.

  “Maybe he’s playing with you, too,” Webster said, finishing his thought. “Maybe you’re part of his game now.”

  “Maybe,” I said, not convinced. “Or maybe we’ve watched a few too many serial killer movies. Don’t these guys—I mean, don’t they typically want to keep getting away with it?”

  “One would presume,” Webster said, and the car slalomed slightly. He looked over at me, a little red. “Sorry. I just don’t understand it. It feels like there’s more here, obviously, lots of pieces we’re not seeing. But what he did to Maxwell Llewelyn makes it feel like there’s some rage in there.”

  “I don’t really understand sickos,” I said, shaking my head.

  “I, uh…” Webster started, and I could see the hesitation. “You’ve uh… had to kill a few people, right?” He froze, then adjusted. “In the line of duty, I mean?”

  I sat very still for a moment and felt my mouth go a little dry. “Yes. In the line of duty.” Not the whole truth, but never mind. “But I’ve never mangled a corpse.” Mangled a few before they became a corpse, but never afterward. “I agree, what he’s doing to them is vicious. Do you have a serial killer division or something?”

  “Or something,” Webster said. “Not sure they’ll be interested in this one. It’s being kept rather quiet, naturally, since metas are involved.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling my sarcasm had not been put to enough use today, “because you wouldn’t want to devote time and resources to stopping people from dying unless they’re full-on human.”

  “That’s not quite fair,” Webster said.

  “I totally agree; it’s very unfair to the people who are being killed.”

  That shut us both up until we were back in the parking garage at New Scotland Yard. We entered the building in silence, and I followed his billowing trench coat down the halls and into the wide-open bullpen where his desk was located. He hesitated as we walked in, and I caught him looking across the bullpen to one of the offices that ringed the room.

  There was a woman standing in the doorway making a come-hither gesture with her finger and showing absolutely no emotion otherwise. Except sternness, if one could class that as an emotion. That was present.

  “I think this is where I leave you for a bit,” Webster said, his expression a little contorted. He took one step and then halted as the woman with the stern face shook her head and altered her finger’s direction slightly to indicate me instead.

  “Or maybe this is where I leave you,” I said, brushing past him. He stood between two desks in an aisle partially obstructed by a chair. Seemed like a fire hazard to me, but I did my best to get past him without knocking him over. I held him at a distance as I passed, my hand brushing around his back through the trench coat. I didn’t feel anything. Promise.

  I made my way over to the waiting woman. She wore a fancy uniform, one with bars on the collar and everything. “You must be the commissioner,” I said as I approached.

  “Mary Marshwin,” she said, not offering a hand. Whether it was because she knew what my touch could do or because she was simply uninterested in shaking my hand, I didn’t know. Her face made me lean toward the latter. “Come in.” There was a hint of a Scottish accent in her voice and no warmth whatsoever.

  I breezed into her office behind her and halted just inside the door. We were not alone.

  A well-dressed gentleman in a double-breasted suit stood as I walked in. A rich aroma of tobacco smoke wafted off of him, but not the kind that offended my sensitive nostrils. He had a perfectly groomed mustache, and his hand reached out to me in a gesture of friendliness, his smile already wide, though a little limited by a hesitancy I caught behind his eyes. “Alistair Wexford, Ms. Nealon. I am the Foreign Secretary. Welcome back to the United Kingdom.”

  “Glad to be here,” I said as I took his hand. His handshake was warm and firm, and it broke after an appropriate interval. “Though not because of the circumstances, obviously.” I hesitated, wondering how that sounded. “I just mean it’s nice to be back to merry old England, which I enjoy—”

  “Quite,” Wexford said with that tight smile. I was actually a little grateful to him for cutting me off before I started babbling. That was always a possibility in strange company. I’d done it once in front of Congress, which had been deeply embarrassing. “Perhaps you’re familiar with your ambassador from the United States?”

  “Ryan Halstead,” the other man said. He was still seated in front of the desk. Mary Marshwin moved toward the chair across from him. Halstead exhibited about as much interest in greeting me as he might in greeting a mosquito. His tone was bored and perfunctory, and he turned his head to look away from me after announcing himself, as though I were worthy of no more notice than a bug.

  “Please, have a seat,” Wexford said, offering me his chair. I smiled at him and shook my head.

  By this time, Commissioner Marshwin was back in her seat. It looked like it could lean, but she was in it straight, her back as stiff as the drink I wished I had in my hand right at that moment. “Now that the introductions are made,” Marshwin said, “perhaps we can get down to brass tacks.”

  Personally, I thought she looked like she was sitting on the brass tacks, but I kept that to myself. “Sure. I have to admit, I’m a little surprised to see everyone here—”

  “It’s best to have these sorts of discussions prior to there being any misunderstandings,” Wexford said, apologetically. I liked his brand of diplomacy; for a guy so high up the ladder, he seemed genuinely decent, which, in my experience, was not usually the case.

  “Or to put it another way,” Halstead said, his tone and bearing giving away the fact he was a classless asshole, “it’s better we get you straight on what the hell’s happening here before you stick all of our tits in a ringer again.”

  I let my eyebrow creep skyward on that one. Marshwin coughed gently, as though she’d never heard that sort of language before. Wexford’s smile dimmed just a hint.

  “My tits aren’t in any ringers just yet,” I said, keeping a measured tone. “Trust me, I keep track of these sort of things.”

  Halstead turned his head around just enough to acknowledge me. He had the smirk of an asshole. “You may not realize it yet, but the next time you go before Congress, you will.” He turned back to Marshwin as if I were no longer there. “She’s a little slow.”

  I resisted the urge to jam a hand down his collar and lift him up by the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I think my tone conveyed the fact that I wasn’t remotely sorry about anything, ever. “Did I miss something? Becau
se so far the only thing that’s happened is that I’ve come face to face with a meta who’s killing UK citizens, and I lost my leg trying to apprehend him.” Wexford made a sympathetic noise and looked down at my legs. “I got better,” I assured him, wondering if anyone else got the Monty Python reference.

  “Let me tell you what you’ve done,” Halstead said, his sneer settling as he shot Marshwin a she’s-so-stupid-let-me-educate-her look that was not reciprocated. Fortunately. “You’ve brought a handgun into the United Kingdom—”

  “Two, actually,” I said.

  “—you’ve prompted an exchange of gunfire—” Halstead went on.

  “I’m the only one who shot,” I corrected.

  “A UK citizen has been kidnapped—”

  “And I tried to retrieve him, at great cost to life and limb,” I said. “Or at least at the cost of one limb.”

  “WILL YOU SHUT UP, YOU SILLY LITTLE BITCH?” Halstead lost his shit. He came to his feet, face inflamed, and poked a finger that hit me just below the collarbone. I let him. Once. “I am the ambassador for the United States of America, and I will not have you make a mockery of us by shitting all over the laws of the United Kingdom, you prissy, high-minded little—” He jabbed at me again.

  Less than a second later, he was screaming and grunting on the floor, his wrist twisted in a lock on the outside of my leg. I had my foot, the newly grown one, resting lightly on the side of his head, and his face was buried in Mary Marshwin’s carpeting. She was on her feet, hands on the edge of the desk in mild alarm, but she hadn’t made a move to grab her phone, which I considered to be to her credit. Wexford was standing a bit stiffly, but he did not look particularly upset. Maybe he hadn’t had time to get there just yet. Maybe he was secretly glad to see Halstead with his face buried in the floor.

  “Excuse me for just a moment,” I said to both of them, apologetically, “this is an internecine dispute.”

  Wexford cleared his throat and regained his powers of speech first. “Quite. Well.”

  “Listen, dipshit,” I dropped the formality as I turned my head to speak down at Halstead, “I don’t know whose lower backside cheeks you kissed to get this post, but let me make something plain to you. You may be the Ambassador of the United States to the United Kingdom, but I am the am-badass-ador. I’m here to help them, and you’re being a dick. So, we’re going to listen to what our hosts have to say for a few minutes, and you’re going to learn to love the flavor of Ms. Marshwin’s carpet while we do. Understand?” I inwardly cringed at the inadvertent double entendre, but I had a feeling no one else caught that one, so I ignored it. My brother would have been laughing had he been here, though.

  “Mmmrgh—!” he started to say, his face half-buried in the pile. I pushed him down harder.

  “I’ll take your silence as an answer, all right?” I kept one hand on his sleeve, keeping him in place, and used the other to brush my long hair off my face. “Sorry about that,” I looked up at Marshwin and Wexford. “You have concerns?”

  Mary Marshwin looked to Wexford, then back to me. She didn’t just look taken aback, she looked taken to the next damned county. “I don’t wish to incur your wrath—”

  “If you want me to surrender my guns, I will,” I said. “Under protest, since we’re dealing with at least one meta who has proven himself dangerous, but I’ll do it. If you want me to leave, I’ll do that. In spite of what this dickhead thinks, I’m here to help you, and I’ll comply with what you want as best I can.” I felt my face go stiff. “But this guy—the one I just ran across, the villain, not the moron drooling in your carpet—he’s dangerous. Truly vicious and well equipped. He’s a genuine threat. Probably the first one I’ve run into in two years.”

  “I don’t have a problem with you keeping your weapons,” Mary Marshwin said—of course—sternly.

  “We would ask that you be careful in discharging them, though,” Wexford added, sounding slightly apologetic.

  “Much appreciated,” I said.

  “It’s no less than we’ve done for others of your law enforcement branches over the years,” Wexford said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We do have another concern, though, and it’s about your…” He coughed, delicately, and looked to Marshwin.

  “We don’t want you flying over the city of London,” Marshwin said. “At all.”

  “London is a no-fly zone,” I repeated back to her. “Got it.”

  “And do try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum,” Marshwin said, emotionless. “We’ve had some problems in the last few years with spots on our reputation due to police actions that have resulted in deaths. We’d like to try and get these bastards alive if possible.” I got the sense from the way she said it that “bastards” might have been Mary Marshwin’s strongest epithet.

  “Yes, alive would be best if possible,” Alistair Wexford said with an apologetic tinge to his smile. “I’m sorry if that puts you out, but—”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said. I looked down at Halstead. I could see half his face, and his lips were partially visible. “Hear that? That’s how you make a polite request of someone.” I shook my head at Marshwin and Wexford. “I love your British manners. No one can deliver bad news quite like you folks can.”

  “Would you mind letting him loose?” Wexford asked. “I hate to impose, but… we are responsible for his safety while he’s here…”

  “Sure,” I said, and let him go with a final, not-so-gentle crank of the arm that elicited a grunt of pain. “Since you asked nicely.”

  “What will you do now?” Marshwin asked, her spine just a little straighter now that Halstead was out of my grip. It was the only hint of how stressed she must have been while watching me manhandle him.

  “Follow your boy Webster’s lead,” I said, cracking my knuckles now that my hand was free of Halstead. I popped each of them in turn, eliciting a wince from Wexford and an even stare from Marshwin. “Track this guy down. Stop him.”

  “Very good,” Wexford said, still with that tight smile. He looked a little like a butler who’d been told he was done for the night. “We entrust this investigation to your capable hands, Ms. Nealon.”

  “At least somebody does,” I said, nudging Halstead with my toe as I turned to leave. He grunted, clutching his arm and wrist to his side. Wuss. I hadn’t broken them or anything, though soft tissue damage was a possibility.

  “And Ms. Nealon,” Wexford said as I hit the door, opening it.

  “Yes?” I asked, turning about.

  “Do be careful,” Wexford said with a faint smile tinged with worry. “I should not care to see you come to additional harm while assisting us.”

  “There’s nothing these pricks can do to hurt me.” I smiled and shut the door.

  Chapter 13

  I snuck up on Webster without him even realizing it. He was studying something on his computer, staring at it like it contained the very secrets of life. He had on earphones and was bent over as if he were listening to the very secrets of the universe.

  Or he could have been watching porn on the internet. He was certainly hunched over enough for it.

  The bullpen had cleared out; the few windows provided a sweeping view of the darkness falling outside. The smell of coffee that had been so strong earlier in the day had faded along with the volume of noise in the room. I saw other people coming in now, maybe the night shift, and heads were down as people worked on computers or paperwork. I approached Webster.

  When I got close enough to see his computer, I knew why he had the headphones in. He was on YouTube, watching an interview from NNC, the National News Channel. It was a couple years old, but I recognized it immediately.

  Since I was the one being interviewed.

  I could remember almost every word like it had happened yesterday. I watched the interviewer, Gail Roth, asking a question, and even without reading her lips, I knew what she was saying. That moment was etched in my mind, along with the slightly burnt smell of the hot lights in the studio, the
scent of the makeup they’d spackled on my face that made me feel like a geisha, and the sense that the air conditioning in the room was in a perpetual and losing battle with the heat coming off the lighting rigs.

  “Why you?” Gail Roth asked me. I watched her lips flap in time with the question, and I could hear her words in my head. She had blondish-brown hair and enough of the look of youth still about her that she wasn’t going to be kicked off the national newscasts for the crime of aging just yet.

  “Why not me?” I asked as the camera shifted angles to catch my reaction. I had gently taken Gail’s question and lobbed it back at her. Reed had taught me how to do it, said it was a sales technique called a porcupine. I hadn’t asked him how he’d known that.

  “You’re… nineteen years old?” Gail asked, and waited for my nod. “You’ve just saved millions of people from a tyrant who supposedly had enough power to take over the world—”

  “Yes, he did,” I said, interrupting her to confirm that little fact for her. Sovereign definitely had the power to take over the world. I’d seen what would have happened if he’d gotten his way. Enough power was not his problem.

  Gail paused, eyes searching me as she made a face to play for the camera. “You have to understand, for the viewers at home… we’re taking a lot of this on faith. Everyone’s seen the footage from the battle over Minneapolis, which was—incredible. Scarcely believable. The sort of thing you’d see in a Hollywood summer tentpole, not the evening news. You turned into an enormous, flaming dragon—”

  “I’d just like to point out,” I said, interrupting her again, “that the camera adds ten pounds, and there were an awful lot of cameras pointing at me that day. Like… all of them, I think.”

  “You turned into a giant dragon,” Gail Roth said, not breaking away. Her gaze was annoyingly penetrating. And not in any kind of good way. “You burst into flames. And you killed a man—”