Paws

by Stefan Petrucha

  Em doesn’t hear that last part, because the elevator’s already rising. In a wink, she’s gone. I know, because I wink, and then she’s not there anymore.

  Al heard me, though. I keep forgetting she can hear.

  “What the frick, Wade?! Never mind I can’t keep an eye on anything, you’re going to leave me with a bunch of flea-bitten mongrels that can turn into monsters? Where the hell is here, anyway? Can you at least tell me which state I’m in?”

  “Oh, Al. It wouldn’t be a secret base if I told you where it was, would it? You’ll be fine. They would’ve turned into monsters by now if they were going to. Probably. And you heard Preston, it’ll only be for an—”

  “Yip! Yip! Grr….”

  Looks like we missed one during the kennel roundup. A Rottweiler pup is sitting up on a little raised platform beneath one of those ray-gun-shaped lights, gnawing away on the lever. Look at him go!

  “Grrr…”

  All that teething’s important, and not only for his growing choppers. Gnawing is a big part of the way dogs explore their world. They don’t call those beauties right and left of our incisors canines for nothing. When he growls like he’s some badass wolf, I can’t help but pick him up and take in the wriggling cuteness.

  “Hey there, little guy!”

  Are you bonding again?

  You know you shouldn’t.

  Guys? I really don’t need the internal voices with Al here. She can do that stuff now.

  “Are you bonding again?” she says in the real world. “You know you shouldn’t.”

  Hmph. Don’t mind us.

  We’ll just sit here and try to remember the last book you read.

  “You know me better, Al.” I press him to my face. “But I am gonna name him Pop-pop!”

  Living up to his new name, Pop-pop pops out of my hands, landing with a meaty plop and a grunt. Then he hightails it back to that lever and starts gnawing at it again.

  “Aw, look! Pop-pop thinks he’s an evil scientist working on his death ray!”

  Al ducks. “Death ray? What death ray? Crap! Where’s it aimed?” “Oh-ho! Better watch out, Pop-pop. You don’t know what that lever will…”

  The world goes electric blue. When the platform fades back into focus, I see—choke—a bunch of dry bones standing there. They tumble into—sob—the most adorable little pile you ever did see. It’s no use pretending that he’s fine. I go to my knees and pound my fists into the floor.

  “Nooooo! Pop-pop, no!”

  Al puts her arm around me. “Come on, you ruthless mercenary, pull it together. I’ll get you a goldfish. At least that won’t be able to operate weaponry.”

  “That…you…know of….”

  I crumble into her arms. Now I know how the Hulk felt. “I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean…”

  She rubs the back of my head. “There, there. I know, I know.”

  “See why I need you here?”

  “Yeah, guess I do.” She feels her way over to the bones. “Somebody’s got to clean this up. Don’t worry, I’ll find a nice resting place for Pop-pop. Where’s the trash bin?”

  “The trash? You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  She gathers the skeleton in her arms. “He’s too big to flush down the toilet, isn’t he? And I’m not gonna…hold on.” She gets a funny look. Not the same funny look she used to get when I passed gas, but in that ballpark. Puzzled, she rubs one of the ribs with her fingers. It’s just weird enough to snap me out of my funk.

  “Al, just so you know, what you’re doing there looks pretty gross.”

  “Shut your pie hole.” She tilts her head and focuses. “There’s a pattern on this thing. Damn. Not braille, but it’s some kind of raised writing.”

  “Huh. The monster pups were genetically engineered. Maybe the architect left some kind of signature?” I walk over. “Where? I can’t see a thing.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re looking with your eyes.”

  “That some sort of Zen metaphor?”

  “No, you idiot.” She tugs my glove off and grabs my index finger. “Yeesh. When was the last time you washed your hands?”

  “Been busy.”

  She presses it down into the bone. “Check it out. The human finger can discriminate between surfaces patterned with ridges as small as thirteen nanometers. So say your filthy finger was the size of the Earth. Push down on the planet like some giant freak that needs to finger everything, and you’d be able to feel the difference between a house and a car. My other senses work overtime to compensate for my lack of sight, so I could probably tell a Prius from a station wagon. And I wash my hands.”

  She’s right. “I feel something rising up in a line. Cool, but it doesn’t help me read it.”

  “You said this is a lab. Any microscopes around?”

  “I don’t think the best microscope in the world would help you, Al.”

  “Not for me—for you! So you—or better yet, someone with brains—can see the pattern!”

  “Right.”

  It takes a while to sort the measurement devices from the death rays, cleaning equipment, and what I think may be a toilet. At least, I hope it was a toilet. Neophyte though I am, I manage to find a Scanning Transmission Electron Holography Microscope, because it has a label on it saying just that.

  The big power lever reminds me of…Pop-pop. Sniff. Even though the tag means he was a monster pup, and I would have had to put him down anyway, it still hurts.

  But Preston was right—the operating system that runs everything in this place is pretty straightforward. The hard part’s centering the bone under the sensors so it can pick up the itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny writing.

  Al’s extra-sensitive finger pads help with that. Sure, there’s some shoving and hair-pulling, because I want to do it, but we get there. In no time, Al’s still kicking me, but I’m staring at a video readout on a hi-res monitor. If my mask wasn’t holding my chin up, I’d be slack-jawed. Sensing my shock, probably because I gasp loudly, Al stops kicking and nudges my shoulder.

  “Can you read it? Is it English?”

  “It’s better than English. It’s a website. Dirtydealingdick.com.”

  “They put a porno site on a dog’s bone?”

  “I wish, but no.” I tap a finger to my chin. “I’m afraid, old chum, that I didn’t tell you this before, because repeating story details is boring. But I have reason to suspect that the sick, twisted mind behind these killer dogs is, like this website, named Dick.”

  “Why?”

  “A really hot MMFF named Jane told me.”

  “And you didn’t tell that nice lady from S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

  “Not yet. I’m on retainer with Jane, and I wanna see how things play out.”

  I type the URL into one of the terminals. It’s not much of a website. No clickbait, just one of those placeholders:

  Coming Soon!

  Orders from Your New Global Leader!

  info@dirtydealingdick.com

  This is big. I feel like I’m close to cracking this thing, but I need more to go on. I can’t just write to the guy and ask where he lives so I can come kill him.

  Got to think. I look at the microscope screen. I look back at the doors to the kennel.

  “Say…Al? You think having a look at some of the other puppies’ bones might tell us more?”

  “Maybe, I guess, but how you gonna do that without killing them?”

  I slip the glocks from their holsters and cock them. Steeling my pounding heart, I move toward the kennel. I will not bond, I will not bond. There is a job to do.

  CHAPTER 22

  DID I have you going? At least a little? Of course I’m not going to kill the dogs. Haven’t you been paying attention? I’m going to grab one and see if I can find an MRI around here to scan him with. Al, not having been with the story as long as you, doesn’t know better. I’ve rattled her. I can hear it in her voice.

  “You sure run hot and cold toward those pooches.”

  I play it up. �
��Pop-pop was special, but he’s gone. This is a war, and in a war, people die—even if they’re dogs.”

  I’m almost to the door when her cane trips me. “Why don’t you at least try sending an email first?”

  “Damn it, woman, don’t you think I’ve thought of that? What kind of idiot would answer a random email?”

  I’m almost up, but she trips me again. She’s gotten fast since the last time I saw her.

  “Same kind that’d try to take over the world by breeding puppies that turn into monsters and write his website on the bones.”

  Hm. Maybe she’s right. Eager to avoid exposing the pups to needless MRI radiation, even if it is considered safe, I crack my knuckles and head back to the terminal. “Email it is, then. But we’ve got to be clever about it. I can’t just send him one of those spam messages from Nigeria offering to transfer millions into his bank account. Last time I did that, it cost me millions.”

  “You created fake spam from Nigeria…and sent the money?”

  “Let’s just say for once in his life, Dr. Yabril Omotayo was true to his word.” Thanks to the intuitive OS, a few clicks get me to an email client. “This caper requires more finesse. To start, I’ve got to create a false digital persona—something that looks real, but bounces across servers all over the globe so it can’t be traced. Oh, there’s a button for that right here! Great. Now I just have to pretend to be someone Dick will want to meet, like a female admirer.”

  Al sticks her nose over my shoulder. “How do you know he’s not gay?”

  “Nah. They’d never make the only gay guy in the story the villain. Sends the wrong message. Besides, Jane said they dated. You’re a woman, right? What do you say when you’re flirting?”

  Her lips crinkle in a devilish smile. “Couldn’t tell you. The men always came to me.”

  I nudge her. “In droves, the way I heard it, Mata Hari, but help me out. I need an in.”

  “I dunno. Tell him you liked the website?”

  I read aloud as I type. “Hi there. I’m strangely aroused by your email address. Is info your real name?”

  “Sure. Why not? But ask him another question, too—something open-ended so he can’t answer yes or no.”

  “Good, good, good. How about: What’s your idea of a perfect day? Mine would be meeting you.”

  She pinches my cheek. “And who said psychopaths are only superficially charming? You want to keep it short, so end it there with something flirty, like: Feel free to respond inappropriately.”

  I giggle. “You are so bad! What do I sign? Can I be Vanessa? I’ve always liked the name Vanessa. It’s classy but alluring at the same time.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “And…SEND.”

  Then comes the waiting. The awful, terrible waiting, the waiting that can send the best of us right back into our awkward years.

  I’m a pimply faced pariah on a Friday night, huddled by the phone. Sophie swore she’d call back when she was done with her homework, but I don’t know whether to believe her or not. She may have been trying to get rid of me. There was something I had to talk to her about. Something really important, but I can’t remember what it is. Couldn’t be planning to tell her how I feel, could I? Nah.

  Frustrating as it is staring at the phone, it beats listening to Dad get mad at the television. Starts out better, anyway, but my fear and longing build with every swing of our moving-eyes cat clock. Self-doubt and self-control vie for a hold on my soul. Self-doubt’s about to take it, but at the last instant, long-seething resentment sneaks up and takes them both down.

  It’s seven, and Sophie hasn’t called. The emotional teapot of my being boils over into rage. I smash the phone. It splits in two, already a useless hunk of junk, but that’s not enough—not nearly. I want to hit it so hard Sophie will feel it all the way on the other end of the line—which makes no sense, since if she were on the line, I wouldn’t be mad in the first place. I pick up the pieces and smash them again. I stomp on them, over and over, until all that’s left is a crackling heap of plastic bits and circuit boards.

  For the first time in my life, I’m making more of a ruckus than Dad. Might be jealousy, but when he stomps in and spots the mess, he puts down his drink and pulls out his belt.

  “You have any idea how much that phone cost?”

  I shouldn’t answer, but I do. “Doesn’t the phone company pay for those?”

  He goes at me, Hulk-furious, beating me within an inch of his worthless life.

  A digital tone from the Weapon X computer terminal yanks me back to the brittle present. The soft, squishy past disappears like blood stains scrubbed clean with bleach.

  There on the screen, I’ve got my answer.

  “OMG! OMG! He likes me! He wants to meet! Al! Al! What do I do?”

  When I tap her shoulder, she nearly falls over. She must’ve fallen asleep during my hallucination. Before I decide whether to let her hit the floor, she catches herself and sucks in a waking breath.

  “Huh? What?” Groggy, she smacks her lips and sucks some stuff out from between her molars.

  I snap my fingers in front of her. “Dick wrote back. He wants to meet! What do I do?”

  “Do I have to tell you everything? Offer to jump his bones and get his address. Head on over; catch the bad guy. Can I go home now?”

  I shake my head. “Nah. Don’t want him thinking I’m that easy. I’ll suggest coffee. Vanessa’s a class act. The high-octane swill I drink wouldn’t be her style, so it can’t be just any place.” I do a quick search for popular spots. “Here we go. A chic open-air café on Amsterdam and 112th. Perfect. I only hope I don’t start babbling. Caffeine makes me babble.”

  “Breathing makes you babble. At least a drink will give you something to stick in your mouth a while.” She makes a face. “Ain’t you forgetting something important?”

  “What?”

  “Well…never thought I’d be asking this, but do you look like a woman?”

  “That is so cisgender. Does my body define who I am inside?”

  “Anyone else, no. In your case—given the way I’ve seen your brain rearrange your personality when it heals up—yeah, pretty much.”

  “Mind/body point taken. Will you help me do a makeover?” “The blind leading the bipolar? Sure.”

  The first hurdle is finding the right mix to smooth over my facial lesions. We settle on a concoction that’s more plumbing caulk than pancake. Long as I don’t move any of the twelve muscles in my mouth, or the four in my nose, I should be fine. I was going to go with my real hair, but that only grows in patches, so a wig it is. Finding the right outfit is the toughest part. Every time we ’port to a clothing store, Al tries to make a run for it.

  But it’s got to be right. New York gals know how to dress, and I don’t want to come across like some Midwest hick. Not too this, not too that; revealing, but not too revealing. I want to look appealing, but not like a slut. It’s half art, half science.

  With minutes to go, we finish. Al steps back and runs her fingers along my face, judging her work.

  “Well? What’s the word?”

  She inhales. “I am really, really sorry I’m blind.”

  At first I think it’s a compliment, but then she starts laughing.

  “You think it won’t work.”

  “No, no, no.”

  She slaps her sides hard, barely about to contain herself. “Anyone desperate enough to meet someone after one email is going for low-hanging fruit, so I’d say you have a shot.”

  Already sociably late, with Al’s laughter echoing in my ears, I ’port a block from the café. I try to regain my self-esteem, but a look at my face in a store-window reflection confirms the worst. Maybe if I get there first, I can buy a hot espresso. Then, when he does show up, I can hurl it into his eyes so he doesn’t see me. I sigh and move on. Wouldn’t you know it? There he is, seated with his back to me at the corner table I mentioned in my last message, looking out at the street.

  I step up
and lean over. “Dick?”

  “Vanessa?” He gets up, but doesn’t start running yet. A good sign.

  He’s about my height, so I’m glad I wore flats. He’s dressed casual: sport jacket over a collared shirt, dark, fitted jeans, and pricey leather shoes. It’s hard to describe his face, though, because he’s got this black mask on—kinda like the one Jane wore back in Chapter 8, only more…manly.

  He takes my hand—not in a creepy way, politely—and walks me the two feet to my chair.

  We exchange a little small talk—the weather, the menu, our seats. Once the waitress brings our drinks, we hit our first real silence. Good a time as any to bring up the elephant in the room.

  “So, Dick.”

  He perks up. “Yes, Vanessa?”

  “You wear a mask?”

  He looks down at his latte, a bit deflated, and taps the spoon against the rim, making a quick series of little clinks. “Yeah. I do.” Now I’ve done it. I’ve made him uncomfortable.

  “Sorry, I just—”

  “Oh, it’s okay.” His body language says otherwise. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, taps the rim some more. “It’s not as if people won’t notice, right? I’m just never sure when to bring it up myself.”

  It’s already out there. No point in going back. “So are you…?”

  “A super villain?”

  I laugh. “I was going to go with burn victim. But are you a super…?”

  “Burn victim? No. Luckier than that, in a way. I wear this to conceal my identity.”

  I already feel like I’m prying, and I don’t want to push him too hard too soon. I stir my espresso with the little spoon and focus on listening.

  “Everyone’s entitled to their secrets, right?” he says. “I mean, we’re all so wrapped up in knowing these silly little details about each other, like what we look like. But what does it mean, really? Why don’t we just say, ‘I like to be surprising,’ and leave it at that?”

  He’s far from charming, terribly self-conscious—and there is that mask. Still, there’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s something that speaks to me. I just…like him. By the time I put the cup down, I’ve decided.