Simon smiles. “I’m your bridesmaid, Justine, and I couldn’t be more excited. Ez here agreed to stand in as the model for all the rest of you so we can all have matching capes. Wait until Trinh comes back with my hat.”
“Simon told me this was a mandatory fitting,” Ez glares at Simon. “It’s good I’m here anyway. Or our capes would’ve been five feet longer.”
Shelby laughs. “A bare-chested man standing up at Otto’s wedding. I will like that very much.”
“I will too.” Simon pushes his cape backward, baring his shoulders. “I’m having four of these capes made so we’ll all match. Don’t worry, Justine, it’s fake fur. It’ll be a great effect during the horse procession.”
“Unless the horses trip over them,” I say.
“There’s not going to be a procession,” Packard grumbles. “It’s not going that far.”
Simon gives him a look. “Come again?”
A hush falls over the room as an elderly woman in a bright-blue smock brings out a black top hat with white fur around the brim. Trinh. She smiles at me as she hands the hat to Simon, who introduces us. Trinh clasps my hand, telling me how honored she is to play a last-minute role in the mayoral bridal party’s couture, and how important it is to her to match everything to the work of my original dressmaker. She also compliments me on my bold design vision for Simon’s special outfit; nonpraise if I’ve ever heard it. I thank her, praying she doesn’t recognize Packard, who’s taken a seat on the couch in the corner, next to Jordan. He’s kept his black winter cap on, at least. Not much of a disguise, but it’s better than his curly, reddish hair acting as a flashing beacon.
Shelby introduces herself as a member of my bridal party. Trinh apologizes—she has the capes cut out only, not yet sewn. She starts removing the pin-filled cape from Ez, telling us she needs only two hours.
“Take your time,” I say.
She looks at me strangely. “You are indeed a calm bride.”
“Not at all—don’t be fooled.” I force a laugh. “Do you mind if we stay to have a quick, private meeting in here? We’re meeting a friend. Secret wedding stuff.”
“Please, stay as long as you like.” She removes Ez’s cape, and then Simon’s, leaving him wearing just his chest straps, hat, pants, and boots. We decline her offer that the boy bring refreshments.
“Where’s your Vindalese guy?” Packard asks Simon as soon as Trinh’s gone.
“He’s on his way,” Simon says. “What’s this about stopping the procession?”
“The second she senses danger she needs to jump out, that’s all. It’s becoming far too dangerous,” Packard says.
“Nothing’s different,” Simon argues.
“Everything’s different,” he says. “A day ago she wanted to marry him and thought I was a killer. Now she knows he’s a killer who’s set loose the most dangerous people in Midcity.” He tells Simon about the highcaps let out of the prisons.
“Let’s concentrate on going forward,” I say. “Otto and I are leaving to get my dad in a couple of hours, and there’s no reason to call that off. We’ll bring him back to the condo to have dinner and then to his hotel. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Packard huffs out a breath, forehead furrowed. “You’ve had your eyes open for two months.”
“No I haven’t. My eyes are open now.”
“Just in time to be trapped in a car with him for an hour? You’re a good liar, but you’re not that good.”
“Yes I am that good. All my life I’ve been pretending to feel fabulous when I’m freaking out. You think I can’t act like I’m having a nice time when I’m not? You think I haven’t done worse?”
There’s this awkward silence where I’m guessing everyone is taking the time to remember that I had sex with Otto when I thought he was Henji, a super dangerous killer.
“Christ,” Packard says.
“It’s not going to come to that, but just to illustrate. This is something I can do, and only I can do it. And maybe I’ll find something,” I say this with a bravado I don’t feel. In truth, I’m anxious about being with Otto, and worried about Packard, hunted by the most desperate and dangerous men possible, yet running around in public. I wish we could get out of this tailor shop, out of Midcity.
Jordan raises a finger. “And if Justine gets killed or sealed away forever, you’ll feel sad, blah, blah, blah, but later you’ll find somebody of similar looks and personality, and she will replace Justine. That’s how it always works with people.”
Packard and I both glare at Jordan.
Just then, the boy comes in with a man with impossibly shaggy blond hair and blue-tinted aviator glasses. Hank the languages genius. Hank compliments Simon’s outfit, and the two of them settle down on the couch with the printouts of my photos. Jordan, Ez, and Shelby gather around them.
Packard pulls me off across the room to a little alcove with a coffee maker and a plate of decorated sugar cubes, plus every color of fake sugar packet known to mankind.
“What are you going to find new in the condo, or on a trip to your dad’s? I don’t want you taking risks for peanuts.”
“We have a day,” I tell him. “There’s something to find, I know it. Don’t forget that e-mail from Fawna. Even Fawna predicted his downfall. Fawna predicted our success.”
“Fawna also predicted the ground running red. And she didn’t say whose blood that was.”
“She didn’t even say it was blood.”
The planes of his face seem harder. “Justine, when a seer uses the phrase ‘ground running red,’ she’s not talking about the carpet.”
An excited murmur from the group.
“You can’t prevent the world from being dangerous,” I say.
He says, “I can want to.” The wounded intensity of his gaze drills clear into my heart. He takes my hands and squeezes. “I don’t want you to leave me again.”
I don’t know what to say, or really what he means, by my leaving him again. I was never really with him. But then I realize something: I grew up with a family that loved me, messed up as they were—people who loved me unconditionally. Packard never had that. He’s always been alone—fiercely, completely isolated. Fighting for whatever he could get.
A crash of metal and glass from the front. I jump. Packard lets go of my hand and moves stealthily toward the sound. In comes a dapper man, dragging the boy with him, gun to his head. The man wears a tan business suit, and his kinky, black hair is slicked back with so much product, it looks wet. A second man enters, pudgy and pale with bushy, angry eyebrows, and an old yellow chainsaw that also looks angry.
“Vanderhook,” Packard says, addressing the dapper man with the boy, who seems too stunned to cry.
“It won’t help,” Vanderhook says. He means it won’t help that Packard has just let us all know that this is Vanderhook, Midcity’s most notorious short-term prognosticator. Not everyone would know Vanderhook by sight, but we’ve all heard of him. He’s a thief and a killer who can see ten moves beyond the present. Another one Otto supposedly imprisoned. I don’t know what type of highcap the chainsaw man might be, but just to be safe, I skunk my thoughts with a repetitive song: “It’s a Small World After All”.
He glares at me.
“The other’s a telepath,” I announce.
“That won’t help either,” Vanderhook says.
A scream—Trinh stands in the open doorway, a wad of white fur at her feet.
“Stay back!” Vanderhook gestures at the boy. “This one doesn’t have to die.” He turns to Packard. “You do.”
“Hey, we got a disillusionist over there!” The telepath points the chainsaw at Simon. “That one’s a disillusionist! Heard it before he started skunking. Wanting to whammy us.”
“Disillusionists are a myth.” Vanderhook eyes Simon. “Yes? No? Maybe so? It doesn’t matter. Either way, this thing ends bloody.”
Trinh screams.
“Shut up and get over to the couch!” he yells.
She complies
, a look of shock on her face.
“You all stay right there.”
The boy whimpers as Vanderhook tightens his grip, staring at Trinh—his grandmother, I’m guessing.
“Trade me for the boy,” Packard says. “Let the boy go and I’ll come along with you.”
“We really only need part of you,” Vanderhook says.
“Don’t!” I grab Packard’s hand, but he pulls away, with a sly sideways glance and walks toward Vanderhook.
“Stop!” Vanderhook says suddenly. “Go to him, not me.” Vanderhook nods his head at the chainsaw-wielding telepath, but as soon as Packard changes direction, Vanderhook changes his mind. “Stop! That doesn’t work out either.” Warily he watches Packard, who waits in front of the platforms where Simon and Ez had stood. “What are you doing?” he barks.
“Standing where you told me to stop,” Packard says.
“Everyone stay where they are.” Vanderhook says, then he pauses, getting impressions—waves—from the future. I heard a short-term prognosticator explain it that way. “Packard lies down.”
Packard kneels.
“All the way.”
“Not until you release the boy,” Packard says.
“We’ll release the boy once we cut your head off.”
My fear surges. I think about lunging, but the boy… I consider zinging Vanderhook, but then I decide it’s the chainsaw guy I should zing. Maybe go at him from the back. The room is eerily silent, except for my pulse, whooshing in my ears.
Vanderhook looks over at me. “You make trouble in this scenario. I want you down too.”
“What do you mean?” I sidle nearer to Packard.
“No. In the other corner,” Vanderhook says. “You can’t be by him. You’re a highcap or…” he glances at his telepath pal, then back at me. “Doesn’t matter. Get over there with the others.” Vanderhook tightens his arm around the boy, who cries out.
“Okay, okay.” I back off.
How can we win against this guy? He can read the near future, the instant events are set in motion. Whatever I commit to doing, he’ll know.
I take my time getting over there. Maybe zinging the guy would have worked—is that what he saw? Fear trumps most weapons.
Over by the couch, Ez holds Trinh, who sobs quietly. Simon, Shelby, and Jordan stand by. Do they have a plan? I don’t. Hank keeps reading the Vindalese papers, scribbling notes, like he’s in study hall or something. Where does Simon get these people?
“It’s a Small World” plays senselessly and somewhat ironically in my mind.
“There’s no chip in your neck, you know.” I’m stalling, hoping to distract them. “It’s a memory revision. A fiction. You’ve been revised.”
“Shut up.” Vanderhook says.
“Let the boy go,” Packard says. “It’s my head you want. Get these people out of here and it’ll be just us. You have a chainsaw and a gun. You’re in control.”
“We don’t make it two feet out the door in that scenario. Wait—” Vanderhook pauses, then he jerks his head to the side. “Maybe…” He stops, tilts it a different way, as if he’s getting a new wave of information. “You wouldn’t,” he says to Packard.
Packard waits.
“Stop that! You’re forming intentions you don’t intend!”
Packard gives him an innocent look that tells me he’s anything but innocent.
I gasp as Vanderhook turns the gun to Packard “We can chop off a dead man’s head easy as a live one’s.” But then he tenses and lurches the gun back onto the boy. What did he see? “Stop it!” Vanderhook says. “I know what you’re doing!”
“Don’t need him dead to chop off the head.” The telepath pulls the chainsaw cord. Vanderhook stares mutely at Packard as a throaty roar fills the room. I’m so focused on the chainsaw I don’t see Vanderhook push the boy away, but the next thing I know, the boy’s stumbling across the floor. Shots boom out, and Vanderhook’s a blur heading into the front hall—spooked by whatever he saw. Which leaves his partner holding a chainsaw—it’s him and the chainsaw against nine people.
Packard’s up with a metal folding chair, and he’s stalking toward the man. “Drop the saw!”
Simon has a chair too; he comes at the telepath from the other side, still wearing his top hat and belt-and-chain shirt.
The man pulls the trigger to start up the chainsaw part, making the buzz of the giant, angrily vibrating thing more shrill.
Trinh rushes around the perimeter of the room and pulls the boy into her arms.
Shelby and Ez have crept to the wall behind the chainsaw-wielding telepath. Nobody wants to get close to him. Suddenly the man throws the entire buzzing, shaking behemoth at Packard, narrowly missing him, and spins to run out, crashing right into Shelby. He grabs her hair and flings an arm around her neck, as if to use her for a human shield, backing toward the door.
And then, all at once, his angry face softens. It looks as if he’s thought of something disturbing. His shoulders droop—his whole body droops—until he’s practically leaning on her. “Fuck it,” he says.
She wrenches away from him, triumphant, majestic. “Yes, that is right, fuck it.” There’s a gleam in her eye. She’s glorying.
The man sits cross-legged on the floor. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”
She zinged him, of course—zinged all her grim hopelessness into him. He picks at the carpet. I have a new respect for Shelby’s weaponized grimness—it really is a destabilizing force. Meanwhile, she’s free of her darkness for at least an hour, feeling normal for once, or likely, beyond normal. Beyond happy, beyond powerful.
“Let’s get out of here,” Simon says. “Vanderhook’s coming back. He’ll keep initiating and testing new attacks until he hits one with a successful future.”
“Gimme one more sec,” Hank says, scribbling furiously.
Simon turns to Packard. “You really fucked him up. Forming crazy intentions you didn’t intend? How do you form intentions you don’t intend?”
“Oh, I intended them, that’s the trick,” Packard says. “It takes a massive inner shift—rearranging the packing material of your personality. Hard to hold something like that.”
Unless you have the highcap psycho-sight, I suppose.
“Done.” Hank slaps the sheaf of papers down next to him on the couch and holds out his hand to Simon. “That’ll be three hundred bucks.”
Shelby grabs the papers, scans with a pleasant expression. “Anything of Sophia Sidway?”
“In there somewhere,” Hank says, counting the money Simon gave him. “There’s no word for Sophia in Vindalese, but a phonetic spelling like that showed up. Near the end.”
Shelby shuffles through. “Here! With address.” She shows it to Packard.
“Good. You and Justine and I can go find Sophia—she may be able to give us something for leverage. Simon, you do some cleanup and, you know, manage things.” He nods his head at the far corner where Trinh and the boy huddle. “After that, maybe you three can settle our glum friend in with Mr. Bricks.” In the railcar with the Brick Slinger, he means.
Shelby suggests meeting at Mongolian Delites after that.
“Not me,” Packard says.
“Otto and I have our rendezvous with Dad,” I say.
Packard gives me a look out the corner of his eye. Still not a fan of that plan.
Chapter Thirteen
Packard and I ride in the back seat of Shelby’s car on the way to the North Midcity apartment complex where Sophia’s imprisoned—according to Hank’s translations, anyway. Shelby drives quickly and expertly; we all tend to be better drivers when we’re glorying.
I’m glad to finally get the chance to treat Packard’s shoulder wound, but I’m not so glad when I peel back his shirt.
“This…this is full of…” I pat the area with an antibacterial pad, then just resort to wiping it. “Sludge.”
“Quite some bedside manner.”
I don’t tell him that this was my positive spin on things, co
mmenting on the sludge aspect instead of the fact that the sludge could be laden with anything from flesh-eating bacteria and E. coli to encephalitis strains, and it has been soaking into his open gash all this time. It was good that the field bandage I’d made stopped the bleeding, but that same bandage held the Tanglelands Tea in place. I go through wipe after wipe, patting the gash and thoroughly scrubbing his entire arm and shoulder, as though getting the whole area insanely clean will somehow reverse things. I scrub and scrub. I’m so worried.
“You trying to amputate my bicep with those wipes?”
I put it aside. “No.” I grab a new wipe and dip it in some salve. “It’s a good thing I got this salve,” I say. “This salve is amazing. It will fight anything.”
“Excellent.” He kisses the top of my head.
Fight anything. I don’t say win, but of course Packard doesn’t pick up on that; only a hypochondriac would. It’s not that I want to deceive him, but it’s important that he believe the treatment will work; the placebo effect cannot be overstated in cases like these. At least it’s not red or inflamed; that’s a good sign, but still, I’m so worried—it’s unsettling to think of him as vulnerable. I wrap new gauze around the area, then I press my lips to his pale, firm, chemical-smelling shoulder, just above the bright, white bandage.
I don’t want to leave him, either.
I look up to find him watching me; he slides his hand around the back of my head and kisses me. I stretch up to him, dragging my lips against the seam of his until they open, hot and hungry. My heart races as I taste him, melt into him.
His teeth graze my lips like a dark promise, hands sliding secretly under my coat.
Shelby clears her throat. “We are there.”
Sophia is imprisoned on the top-floor community room of a mostly vacant 1970s building. A sign on the door says “Closed Until Further Notice”. But from the cobwebby condition of the hall and the dust on the party room sign-up sheet, no Closed sign is needed; it was 1994 when it was last reserved. Probably 1993 when it was last cleaned.
I open the door and pass right through the force field. Otto has imprisoned her with low security, like our friends at the fun house.
Head Rush Page 18