Head Rush

by Carolyn Crane

  My friends are right: my fiancé has surrounded himself with a powerful, protective field.

  Ally extols the greatness of girl’s hockey. Otto chuckles warmly at some smart-alecky comment Ez makes. I rub his hands less tenderly.

  Why wouldn’t he tell me? Generating a personal force field is a surprising and newsworthy enhancement of his powers.

  I catch Simon watching from across the table. He knows what I just did—I can tell from his smug smile.

  I look away. It’s all I can do not to tell him to go to hell, to send everybody home. How could Otto keep me in the dark?

  Simon stands, raising his glass. “I want to thank our host and hostess for this wonderful dinner.” He grins at me, then at Otto, who is still standing behind me, still with his hands on my shoulders. “I’ve heard it said that trust is both a state of mind, and an activity.”

  I bore into him with my eyes. I’m going to kill him.

  He continues: “Or wait. Is it that trust is a state of mind? Whereas, the lack of trust is an activity?”

  I swallow, betraying no emotion.

  “Or is it that trust, like love, is a state of the heart? Yes, that’s it. And love is a state of the heart, but also, an activity. And quite an awesome one.” Ally and Ez snicker. Otto chuckles behind me. Simon continues: “With these wise words in mind, I want to wish our hosts, Otto and Justine, a happy future full of love and trust, and the right kind of activity.”

  “Here, here,” Ally says. People clink glasses.

  I look up at Otto and give him a smile I don’t feel. Then I level my smile at Simon, and this smile is one I do feel, and it’s definitely an activity, too—the activity of fist suppression.

  Chapter Six

  Soon after we finish our coffees, four police escorts arrive and suddenly everybody’s saying good-bye. I’d wanted to talk privately with Shelby, but apparently the police can’t wait around.

  “Tomorrow,” she says.

  I watch the elevator doors clunk shut. Otto comes up and stands beside me. “I think people had a nice time,” he says, winding his fingers in my hair.

  “I hope.” I really want to confront him about this force field thing, but how? Hey, Otto, my bridesmaid tried to penetrate your energy dimension and was blocked by a force field, and then I tried to spelunk you, and I couldn’t. What’s up with that?

  “You’re lucky to have such friends,” he says.

  We head into the kitchen, where I spot Otto’s coffee cup on the counter, mostly full, and his truffle barely touched. Avoiding a caffeine and sugar spike. He’s more concerned about his head than he let on. Could that be what the force field secrecy is all about? That he doesn’t want to worry me?

  “I’m going to revitalize a while in my office,” he says.

  “Okay, honey,” I say. Revitalizing is Otto’s way to center himself; he uses his fields to create a cone of complete silence for a couple of hours.

  I watch him disappear down the hall, still feeling angry, but tonight is not the time to talk to him about this force field issue. And in the end, it’s all so stupid—silent cones and protective fields don’t help a person feel safe.

  I think back on Packard’s words: You’re bigger than your fear, stronger than your fear, and you can outshine it with what you have inside you.” It seems like an impossible dream.

  And there’s nothing I want more.

  Back in the living room, I find the coffee-table book we were looking at—Lost Midcity—open to a spread about the 1943 wedding. I slam it shut and shove it back onto the shelf next to the fireplace, where the embers still pulse and glow, and then I cast around for a book to read in bed. What I really want is Mrs. Archer and the Golden Plume, but it was taken when my apartment was robbed, the same day my car disappeared.

  To walk in and find my place ransacked and my stuff gone, it was the last straw after all that violence and chaos. They took my passport and other hard-to-replace identity stuff, and all my favorite clothes and jewelry, almost as if they were trying to collect my most prized possessions—they even took the Mrs. Archer book, which I was in the middle of reading, an especially cruel touch. Otto told me that burglars take weird stuff sometimes. They panic. Grab what they can and run.

  Now I’m wondering if they took it at all. Could I have left it in my car? I do sometimes carry books around with me, and I was really excited about this one. Two months and I still remember where it left off. Surely if I wear gloves I can search the car for the book and not disturb the prints. It’s the only book I feel like reading.

  I grab my gloves and keys, slip on my little booties under my cocktail gown, and stab the button for the elevator. Norman’s surprised I’m going down so late. I explain that I left something in my car.

  “Be careful,” he says. “Make sure Sammy knows you’re in there so he can watch.”

  I laugh. “Lord knows what might happen in the most secure garage in Midcity.” But I promise to be careful as I step off the elevator and the doors close. I just stand there for a second, wondering what it’s like having your workplace be an elevator. Just this tiny box. What does he do in there when nobody is riding? Does he even sleep?

  I head around the corner to the front lobby, where Sammy is deep in conversation with a cop. Sammy rests his hand on the officer’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. As I draw closer, I realize the officer is crying.

  “…no such thing as happiness,” the officer sobs. “Nothing gets better, it just changes into new permutations of unhappiness.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. That sounds familiar.

  Sammy casts me a helpless look.

  “Nothing matters,” the officer continues. “It’s all hopeless.”

  I stroll over and address the officer. “Have you spoken to my friend Shelby recently? By any chance?”

  “Shelby Shavoyavich?” The officer huffs out a grim laugh. “Right, I was assigned to drive her home, but look. Here I am, and where is she? I should be there…drive her home, sit on the place…” He stares into the depths of a potted plant. “Oh well. Doing my job, not doing my job, it won’t change anything. Nothing matters, you know?”

  Oh yes, I know. I know that he’s been zinged. And what's this stuff about sitting on her place?

  “Did you see where she went?”

  He gives me a blank look. Cocks his head at the street.

  I look out the window into the snowy night, feeling worried about my friend. Why would she ditch the cop assigned to drive her home?

  Sammy looks a little guilty. He was probably on twitter during the whole thing.

  The officer seems to jerk to attention, horror stricken. “Mayor Sanchez can’t know! Please, don’t tell the mayor!”

  “I won’t.” I settle a hand on his arm. “Otto has enough to worry about. Shelby probably just wanted to walk home on her own.”

  “You think?”

  No, I don’t. Not in a cocktail dress, heels, and feather-light coat, not when it’s snowing like this. “She’s a very eccentric girl,” I assure him. “This isn’t something to bother Otto with.”

  I glance at Sammy, who looks relieved too.

  The officer sighs. “People slipping away. Time slipping. All coming to nothing. Like that miserable stub of a weed out there.”

  “Stub of a weed?”

  “It pushed up through a crack in the sidewalk back in summer…now it’s just a small, snow-covered stalk. I looked at that dead little stubby thing and everything became clear. There is no such thing as happiness. No such thing.”

  I nod. So Shelby pointed out the weed stalk to him, and in the next moment, the intense awareness of the pointlessness of life and the impossibility of happiness descended on him like a fog, and it’s all he can see now. In other words, Shelby zinged him.

  And disappeared into the night.

  What is she up to? The idea of her out there alone in the cold worries me; she did seem more distressed than normal. Whatever she’s doing, she doesn’t want an audience. But
why not ask me to help? I’d do anything for her.

  “I promise, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Better is an illusion,” he says.

  He was supposed to drive her home and sit on her place. Spy on her. On whose orders? Otto’s?

  The officer’s car waits out on the dark street, a plume of exhaust rising from the tailpipe against a background of falling snow. I wonder if Shelby was offended by being spied on. But then, why not take the ride home, change clothes and sneak out of her apartment? That way, she wouldn’t have had to zing him. Why shake the tail here? It makes no sense.

  Unless she was already where she wanted to be.

  I recall her interest in the seventh floor—the sounds, the workmen. The number of workmen. How to get in…

  “You stay here; I’m going to peek my head outside.” I head for the door.

  “No—I can’t let you go alone.” The officer fights his way out of his torpor, enough to rush to my side just in time to open the door. Damn.

  “I’m just peeking,” I say.

  He stays at my side. Great.

  I step out and he comes out with me. Cold air whooshes over my bare arms. We spy Shelby’s footprints in the snow at the exact same time. “Oh!” he says. “Where’s my mind? I could at least have followed. Not that it would mean anything in the larger scheme.”

  The footsteps are dull impressions, leading south from a brushed-off spot where the sidewalk meets the building—the spot where they must’ve found the dead weed.

  “Looks like she wanted to walk home,” I say.

  Like a zombie, he starts following her footprints up the sidewalk.

  Double damn.

  I follow. I didn’t want to get her busted, I’d just wanted to see where she’d gone. The tracks lead around the corner. The trail is fainter on this side, because of the wind. “These probably aren’t even hers,” I try.

  He grunts, plods. We follow them around another corner, along Steven Street at the back of the building. A whoosh of wind lifts my hair and my skirt. I rub my arms, wishing for a coat, and something more than fuzzy little boots, but at least I don’t still have kitten heels on.

  The wind has all but erased the footprints back here. Up ahead, I spot a mountain bike chained to the base of the fire escape—it’s too covered with snow to tell for sure, but it looks a lot like Shelby’s. Shelby does winter ride, but why would her bike be here?

  The officer sighs.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I say. “Clearly she took a cab.”

  “No cabs run during curfew.”

  “Some other ride then. It doesn’t matter anyway, right? It’s all just meaningless, right?” I turn and bolt back the way we came. The listless officer follows, thank goodness.

  She could’ve left the bike here ages ago, though it didn’t have quite enough snow piled on it for that. Or maybe it’s not hers. Or she could be in the building, and she’s planning to ride it home. But in a cocktail dress during a curfew?

  Back inside, I shake the snow off my hair and clothes. “She’ll be fine,” I say to Sammy.

  I head back around to the elevator.

  “Find it?” Norman asks when the doors open.

  I step in, wondering what he's talking about. Then I remember. The book. “No.”

  He hits the top button. “Snowing in the garage?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I popped outside for a sec. Just needed a bit of fresh air.”

  He’s silent a bit, then, “Shouldn’t do that.”

  “I know, but…” I place a hand on my stomach and stick out my tongue.

  He nods. I watch the numbers flit from five to six to seven. We stop at eight and I bid him a good night.

  Back inside, I grab my phone and call Shelby, hardly surprised when she doesn’t answer. I head into the living room and put my forehead to the back window.

  Shelby’s main mission these days seems to be revenge on Killer of Avery. Packard, in other words. I think about her strange interest in the seventh floor—is it possible she thinks Packard is sealed down there? If Otto had caught Packard, the seventh floor would be the last place he’d put him. Is it possible Shelby’s not thinking straight?

  Kenzo’s in the kitchen. And the sliver of light under Otto’s office door tells me he’s still busy revitalizing.

  Quietly I grab the little fireplace broom. I creep back to the window, slide it open, and lean out into the biting wind to brush some snow off our fire-escape landing so I can see through the metal slats to the seventh floor fire-escape landing.

  And I don’t like what I find. Though the snow’s pretty well windswept, I can tell somebody was up there recently. Is she in there?

  I set down the little broom and tuck my dress into my panties, making it a kind of poofy minidress, and swing my legs out.

  The wind blows harder and colder up here; I lower the window and sneak down the steps.

  The seventh floor window is partly open. I creep closer. Strains of music from inside. Something old. Jethro Tull? The large room is littered with tools, tarps, and two-by-fours. Nothing but a construction zone, just as I told her. But apparently that wasn’t good enough, because I spot small puddles leading into the interior. Great.

  I push the window all the way open, and climb over the sill. With icy fingers, I lower the window back to its original position, grateful for the warmth and the cover of the music, which is actually pretty loud.

  I sneak along the puddle path, trying to stay generally inside it and not make new puddles. Part of me wants to call out and confront her, but there’s always the chance she really did tear off into the night. And that this is somebody else.

  The music comes from the first door down the hallway. Slowly I sneak up, then I tip my head forward and peer in. The walls are lined with steel utility shelving and wooden crates.

  I freeze at the sound of rattling from across the hall, like somebody trying to open a locker. Then footsteps. They seem to be heading my way. I rush into the room, and only then do I see it’s occupied—a man—a guard—with his head on the desk. Sleeping. Shit!

  I slip behind the open door and hide, heart beating like crazy, hoping to hell the guard doesn’t wake up. He has black, frizzy hair. His green suit coat hangs open to reveal a gun in a holster.

  The footsteps stop, then start again, head down the hall, past me. I wait, staring at the six or so computer monitors that are arranged on the shelves in front of the sleeping guard, like a wall of TVs. They flash black-and-white images. Exterior surveillance. The table in front him is scattered with papers, mobile devices, and laptops.

  A Peter Frampton song comes on; the music seems to be emanating from one of his laptops. What is this place? This has nothing to do with remodeling. Is Otto letting the police use this as a base of operations while the remodelers work? Is this why he comes down here? And why the secrecy? Again I feel that flash of unease. And anger. Otto…my friends…all these secrets!

  The man hasn’t moved. Is he okay? I watch the back of his chest and satisfy myself that he’s breathing, at least. I study the monitors; shots of downtown, a few houses and buildings. I recognize a shot of our old HQ. Another image looks like the front of Shelby’s place. What the hell?

  Footsteps. I melt back behind the door as far as I can. A person in a black ski jacket and ski mask enters and nudges the guard, who is unresponsive, then bends over one of the laptops. Shelby? The intruder is her height, but totally covered, with a black canvas bag slung over a shoulder. Thirty minutes ago, Shelby wore a cocktail dress and carried only a tiny purse. Where and how would she have changed?

  The intruder’s pant leg is cinched, like a biker’s. But the jacket’s not wet. This tells me this person didn’t come by bike, but is probably leaving by bike.

  This intruder moves like Shelby, and stands a few inches taller than me, just like Shelby. I’m 95 percent sure it’s her, but that 5 percent makes me hesitate. He or she opens a crate and pulls out a gun. It’s a submachine gun�
��a Scorpion, like my bodyguard Max carries—I can tell by the weird curl thing on the end.

  The person fusses around with the gun, snapping something back and forth, so comfortable and familiar with it. No way would Shelby know how to handle a gun like that. A surge of panic pushes me farther behind the door as the person pulls more guns out of the crate. I hear a crisp zip, and clunks of metal on metal. He’s loading guns into the canvas bag. Sounds of paper. Computer keyboard. Clicks. Snaps.

  A grunt. A Shelby grunt. It is her! I release a breath, and I’m about to say something when curiosity overtakes me, and I decide to stay hidden just a little while longer.

  She goes back to the man, brushes the hair around on the back of his head, then pulls something out of his neck and holds it up, pinched between her fingers. I can’t see it, but I’m sure it’s one of the tiny knockout darts from Avery’s blow gun. The man will probably never know he’s been hit. Or that she was here. I wonder what other stuff of Avery’s she has.

  She retreats now, light footsteps, past me, out the door, down the hall. In my mind, I follow her to the window. The first squeak is the window opening; a second squeak and it’s shut. Since when does she know how to click a machine gun like a guy in a movie? What is she thinking, running off with a bag of urban-warfare guns? Has she found Packard?

  I rush out and hoist the window back open. Leaning over the rail; I can just make her out, whipping down the fire escape. Going for the bike.

  I think to call out to her, but that would alert Max and Norman, and lord knows who else, and get her into a world of trouble. I stuff down my rising panic and decide to follow her. A car’s no good—not only would I get pulled over for violating curfew but, with a bike, Shelby can ride places cars can’t. A car is useless.

  But rollerblades aren’t.

  I scramble back up to the condo, grateful nobody’s about, and do a record-fast change into my ten layers of winter exercise gear, including face mask, goggles, and helmet. I throw my reflective jacket on, inside out—I don’t want to be bright tonight. Then I shove on my boots, grab my rollerblades, and haul out the window, climbing down as quickly as I can, dropping the last few feet.