Sharp

by Alex Hughes

  Tamika opened her mouth, and I tore open every boundary I had. I let it all go, and projected at full strength. The first thing telepaths were taught never, never to do. And I’d pay for it—I’d pay for it.

  But for now, for now, I poured literally every ounce of power I had out, like a long scream at the top of my voice, holding nothing back, uncaring of damage.

  I pictured Bellury’s face as he died, shot to death like a dog. Killed, for my sins. For my guilt. I poured that guilt, that guilt that would never go away, out with every inch of me. I poured it out, with anger, with shame, with guilt, in overwhelming quantities.

  The faces around me were ripped open with raw emotion, but it wasn’t enough. The telepath was starting to get his bearings, starting to bear up under it.

  I opened the last box, the scary box, the box that made me shiver and sweat and scream. I opened the last box and forced it out into the air, into Mindspace with all the strength I’d been born with and all the strength I’d gained in a lifetime of work and sweat and tears.

  I opened the lid, and let my deepest fear out of its prison.

  The monster—the horrible monster—that lived in the basement of my mind, the nasty guy that whispered I knew I wasn’t good enough. I knew I’d ruined it all, I’d fucked it up, I’d pissed it away. And I’d never, never amount to anything but pure stupid, helpless failure. Failure. Junkie. Guilty. Useless. Fuckup.

  Tamika called me names then, but the monster liked names. It added names to the mix too, horrible names that spouted out of me like a flood, names and shivering pain and fear of what I’d never be, fear that crawled into everyone’s brain, pain that wouldn’t let them go.

  I fell to my knees, the helpless fury turning inward as the monster roared with its full breath. The only thing I could see, as my vision started to go from the strain, from the horror of holding all of this open and out, from the shame of the monster and everything it said I was—from the horrible belief—the only thing I could see was the others hitting the floor, all the way down.

  I heard someone crying like their world had fallen apart. It might have been me. But another voice joined it, and I didn’t have two voices. The monster pulled out its claws—

  And another voice joined the chorus, this one confused. “What in hell are you doing?” Tamika’s voice echoed into the room. And her footsteps went over to one of the guards. “What’s going on? I told you to shoot!”

  The only woman in the world whose mind was so twisted, so wrenched, even my worst monster didn’t touch her.

  The sound of a bullet, sharp and hard.

  An impact on the floor inches in front of me. A miss. She was out of bullets.

  I took a breath, and poured out my last reserve into Mindspace; this was it. This was it.

  Something hard scraped along the floor, then the sound of a handgun cocking as Tamika took the guard’s gun.

  This was it. There was nothing I could do.

  Failure. Junkie. Guilty. Useless. Fuckup. This is exactly what you deserve, the monster said, and the room moaned.

  The crack of a high-caliber bullet echoed through the room.

  I opened my eyes, the shock loosening the monster’s hold. No pain, no physical pain. I wasn’t dead.

  Tamika fell over, blood seeping through her shirt.

  A bullet went off from the handgun when she hit the floor—and it hit one of the guards, who screamed.

  The last thing I saw before the monster dragged me back under was Cherabino, Isabella Cherabino at the door, nose wrinkled like she had a migraine, holding a rifle.

  * * *

  Inside my mind, the world was black with swipes of red, swipes of red that hung in the air to spell out my failures. Every mistake, every choice I’d made on the streets—stealing and worse, cons and worse, the people I’d mind-raped for money, the death of my friend, the death I couldn’t stop—tortured me. Bellury getting shot, me unable to do anything. Cherabino calling me a failure and meaning it. Paulsen telling me I’d lose my job. Swartz, holding his chest, almost dying.

  The vision, suddenly all too real, the certain knowledge that I’d be alone, completely alone, without even a roof over my head or the right to call myself clean. Without any self-respect. With the certain knowledge that nothing—nothing—I did would ever make it better.

  The cold, dark monster who whispered, Why go on?

  And into the blackness of my mind walked a woman in police-issue heavy body armor, black plates somehow reflecting that light that didn’t exist here. Cherabino held a gun, and she took aim at the monster.

  The thing, like a huge bat, spread its wings and claws—and she shot. Three times. Directly in its chest.

  It laughed. You can’t kill me. You have no power here.

  And for Cherabino, for Cherabino I stood up.

  I looked into the face of my biggest fears, at that lying mouth . . . I looked at the monster I’d been running from for years.

  “Hand me the gun,” I told Cherabino.

  She did, the gun surprisingly heavy and real in my hands, and I shot, slowly, carefully, taking aim like she’d taught me to do in the shooting range. It disappeared like smoke, and then reappeared. It laughed and started to get bigger. I shrank back.

  Cherabino huffed. She turned and slapped me across the face, hard.

  “Ow! What the hell was that for?” I cradled my face, which was going to have the imprint of her hand for sure. The monster had retreated, though; maybe the distraction of the pain was keeping it in its place. It still hurt like a mother.

  “I don’t know. I’m new at this mind stuff. You’re in a coma and I grabbed your arm.” On purpose, her mind added, here where there were no secrets. She swallowed, and I could feel her fear, the too-close, too-close, too-close litany her mind was squirreling away, and suddenly she couldn’t meet my eyes. She was hanging on, controlling it desperately, with her cop mind, but inside she was afraid. At what she might know—of me and her and worse—and never be able to take back.

  But there were no secrets, here, in this space; this deep, the Link was as close as she would allow it to be, which in this case—despite the overwhelming fear, despite the panic, despite the issues laid on her like heavy weights—in this case meant she cared, damn it. She trusted me not to hurt her. And maybe—maybe—her mind shied away from any more.

  I couldn’t take that trust; it hurt.

  “I got Bellury killed,” I said, my voice heavy, my own secrets flowing out if she had the peace of mind to grab them.

  “I know,” she said, and sighed. The job sucked sometimes, and cops made mistakes like anybody else. She’d been responsible for a death herself, her rookie year; it never truly left her. “He was a good cop.”

  Sorrow ran over me like water, and she stepped forward with a sigh, putting her arms around me, her head on my chest. “Get us out of here, okay?”

  I looked over at the monster—who felt very small now. He was me, just a part of me. And I held Cherabino in my arms. I breathed in to smell her hair; and there was nothing. We were still outside reality, still in the construct my mind had made to deal with the thing I’d let out.

  I nodded at the monster. He nodded back. Then, holding Cherabino gently, her trust like a delicate flower, I brought us back to reality, slowly.

  Reality was painfully bright.

  I felt it like a blow when her hand left mine.

  CHAPTER 28

  Paulsen was there outside Bellury’s house waiting for me as the sun started its slow slide to sunset. One of the uniforms had dropped me off, and I’d assumed . . .

  “No one has talked to her yet,” Paulsen said. “You were the one there, so it falls to you.” Her face looked odd to me under the shiny brim of the formal uniform cap. The official skirt also looked odd; I realized then I’d never seen her in a skirt. Even on court days she wore pantsuits a
nd jackets built to hide a gun. She was just a little older than Bellury, I realized. I’d never thought of her as old, not like I had Bellury, but she was older. They might have been in some of the same beats, back in that time. They might have worked together.

  “You’re coming with me?” I asked, in the loudest whisper I could get my bruised voice box to do. The bandage on my neck from the bullet graze pulled as I tried to look at her.

  She nodded. I couldn’t read her, not really, but the flashes of light had stopped again. I’d set myself back, with that stunt, but it was only a setback. With any luck, a couple of weeks and I’d be back to full strength.

  I looked at Bellury’s house’s door. Then back at Paulsen. “Will you keep me from screwing this up? Please?”

  “I’ll try,” she said, and gave me some advice as to how to break the news.

  * * *

  After roughly the hardest hour of my life, I sat outside, feeling numb, on the bench in Bellury’s garden. I’d lit up a cigarette and was smoking it, trying to clear my head of the suffocating sadness and panic—and my bruised and hurting throat. I’d pushed through as best I could with my bruised throat. I’d talked about Bellury to his wife, about all the good things he’d done for me, and said to me. He and Swartz were—well, half of the foundation of my world had gone away, and it was my fault. I owed him enough to sit there, awkwardly, and croak out what words I could, and try. Now it was over. She didn’t want to talk anymore. And she didn’t want to see me anymore. She knew whose fault it was, and I knew too.

  “Can I sit here?” Paulsen asked quietly.

  “It’s open.” I stubbed out the cigarette and waved my arm to dissipate whatever smoke I could.

  Her nose wrinkled at the smell, but she sat down.

  There was silence between us, but it wasn’t a happy silence. It wasn’t a comfortable one.

  And all I could think about was that vision, that horrible vision. Would that be me by Christmas? Despair hung over my head, despair and the burned desperate taste of uncertainty.

  “I guess I’ve lost my job now,” I said, voice raspy. “With Bellury—”

  She straightened painfully, as if my choice of timing was just too painful.

  “Just tell me.”

  “Well . . . you realize I haven’t had a chance to even think about all of this yet.”

  I was silent.

  She cleared her throat after a moment. “Well, there will be a full independent review of your actions, I can promise you that. But you also closed a major case.” She held up a hand to silence my protest. “This isn’t my first rodeo, even if it’s yours. Cherabino’s still arguing for you hard, and has been for weeks. You’re not out yet.”

  “But Bellury—”

  She cut me off again, looking stern. “This is the day for us to remember a good cop and a good man. To plan a proper police funeral to honor him as he deserves. To heal. To figure out how not to do this again, if we can. If you can’t do that, if you can’t see beyond yourself that much, maybe this isn’t the job for you.”

  “But—”

  “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I cleared my throat, pushing out the painful words: “What do you need me to do?”

  She nodded. “That’s the right question. For now, I need you to sit here and let me think.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” And I sat there, letting all the horrible results of all the last few days sit in my mind while I tortured myself over and over again.

  I wasn’t hardly surprised to feel Stone in my head again at that point.

  You survived, I said, with a sense of intense relief.

  He was gone almost before I finished the thought.

  * * *

  Since nobody told me not to, I went back to work the next morning.

  By the time I got there, it was still early, too early for most of the cops to be at work, and much too early for the army of secretaries to have arrived yet. I sat, alone at my borrowed desk in the middle of the empty secretaries’ pool, and drank another sip of honeyed tea. This morning the swelling had set in much worse and my voice was too rough to be understood without something to lubricate the pipes.

  I settled in on writing my report of the actions of the day before, Bellury’s death and all the rest, in all my idiocy and all its horrible glory. I took especial care to highlight Sibley’s actions and the box he’d carried; he’d finally been captured, toward the end of the firefight, and was currently sitting in a high-security holding cell. I’d do everything in my power to make the case against him stick. Everything. He’d killed Emily for no other reason than that Tamika had asked him to. For no other reason than that Emily had decided to do the right thing.

  Finally it got too much, the emotions too raw, too present. So I got up, fetched some tea and some peace of mind, and settled back down at the desk. One more uncomfortable duty this morning. Paulsen said the FBI would call me in a few minutes now, and that, in her opinion, it was not going to be good news.

  “You solved the case almost by accident,” she’d said, and then trailed off. I knew I’d screwed up. She didn’t have to say any more.

  So here I was, with the tea in hand, waiting for the phone call. At least Kara had gotten the Mindwave influencing machine before anyone else could make off with it, I told myself. Even if the FBI was about to tell me I was a loser, at least that part hadn’t gotten screwed-up.

  The phone rang with an earsplitting peal. I picked up. “Hello?” I croaked, and took a sip of the tea to lubricate my voice box.

  A man’s voice came over the line. “Special Agent Jarrod, FBI. We talked last week about an inquiry.”

  “That’s right. My lieutenant says you were thinking about offering me a job.” I took another sip of tea. “I take it that’s off the table now.”

  “Not necessarily,” Agent Jarrod said. “There aren’t many independent telepaths anymore, and even fewer who are interested in the kind of work we do. While we don’t think there’s a permanent place on our team—we just don’t have the funding for the supervision your lieutenant says you need—I would like to offer you an opportunity as an occasional consultant for our more difficult cases.”

  “What? What would I be doing exactly? Would this be in Washington?”

  “Likely not. You’ll be working for a new division of the Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, and we go where the work is. Our unit is based out of the Southeast.”

  The bandage on my neck pulled as I shifted too fast. “But why?”

  “Ahem. Well, your work on the Bradley case was exceptional, and your skill set isn’t easy to find without Guild oversight. Our team would rather not have all of our information available there, as I’m sure you understand, but your lieutenant says you’re trustworthy with information. Do you disagree?”

  “No, absolutely, I don’t share information. It’s the principle of the thing.” Wait, Paulsen said I was trustworthy? It was like the heavens had opened up and light rained down. I’d done something. I’d proven myself at least somewhat.

  “I’d be glad to send you more details in the mail. It’s not something you need to decide right now.” He paused. “I needn’t mention this will be at a considerable increase from your current daily rate salary.”

  “That’s good to hear.” I hated to mention it, but surprises were never a good thing. I took another sip of tea. My throat was getting worse, and I’d have to stick to short sentences. “You know I have a criminal record?”

  “We are well aware of your record. I’m afraid as a result policy says we won’t be issuing you a gun, but I’m sure we can find you a stun weapon of some kind if—”

  “I don’t need a gun, I’m a telepath.” A break for more tea. “When do you expect the first case to hit? I’ll need to clear this with Paulsen.”

  “Of course. And I don’t know. Like I said,
it’s as needed and occasional. I’m hoping we won’t need you for a while. But cases come up, and you’ll need to be ready. I’m afraid I need an answer from you right now,” Jarrod said. “I can send you the paperwork later, but I need a yes or a no right now.”

  I stalled for time while I took another sip. But the answer arose from inside me like a light turning on. “Then yes. If I can help, I will.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Swartz met me at the usual Narcotics Anonymous meeting a little early; Selah had driven him, then left to run errands. He was leaning on a cane, moving slowly, breathing hard, and the lines around his eyes had gotten deeper. He’d also lost weight, too much weight.

  “How are you feeling?” I helped support his arm as we waited for the elevator. I was blocking hard, but even through the shields I could feel he was in pain.

  “Tired. Very tired. How are you, kid? That doctor guy said . . .”

  “Not a big deal, okay? Let’s not talk about it.”

  He poked my foot with the cane to make me look up. “It’s still me. Thank you, all right? That’s all I wanted to say.”

  The elevator dinged. He pulled away, to amble in himself and push the button. I ignored how pale he was and how hard he was breathing; he ignored the fact that I hadn’t responded to the thank-you.

  As the elevator settled on the basement, he got his breath back enough to demand, “Three things. Grateful. Now, please.”

  I smiled a small, hopeful, surprised smile. “Cherabino’s nephew. Chocolate truffle ice cream. And you. Living.”

  He grunted in a pleased way, and let me support his arm again.

  I escorted him into the small room, saying hello to the others, and settled him down at the front; it was his turn to lead the meeting.

  “You sure you’re up to this?” I asked, after he’d had a chance to settle and some of the paleness had passed.

  He shrugged. “In a month or two I’ll be strutting around like a spring chicken. Now I’m tired walking around the damn room. Tell you what . . .”