Super
Page 2
Quentin frowned at her, setting down his half-empty coffee. “What the hell were you thinking? You could’ve been killed!” No hint of a smile appeared on his usually sunny face.
Tilting her aching head back, she exhaled and ran her hand over her hair. “I’m five foot nothing and I’ve been called cute more times than you’ve had sex.” She settled into her chair.
Anger gave way to thoughtfulness. “Unlikely, but possible. You are so adorable that it is a constant struggle not to pinch your little cheeks and coo at you. What does that have to do with you trying to die? Climbing mountains and jumping out of planes is one thing, this is…” Quentin waved a hand in the air as if words failed him. At 5’10, he had the height she lacked, and he had the good fortune to share the striking Quechua features of their mother and oldest brother. On him, the effect was soulful. Zita was the only one to sport a mestizo pixie face, courtesy of their father. Regular workouts kept Quentin toned enough to please his dates, without being much stronger than average or spending a minute more in a gym than necessary.
“My point is, nobody looks at me and sees a threat. People don’t realize I’m 26, rather than 20 or even 18. Sure, they like me, but they don’t want me doing their taxes or anything that requires brains or maturity. I have to work to be taken seriously, neta? If things turned farce, those kids would be less likely to hurt anyone or get hurt. Justin may not be my type or even resemble an effective agent, but he doesn’t deserve to die. So, you know, comic relief to the rescue.” She eased her sore foot back up and took off her shoe.
Quentin stared off across the street with the stare that told her his mind had drifted somewhere other than the dying confusion there. He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. It was probably cold.
While he was silent, she sent Miguel a brief text. “No on the baby agent. He can’t keep his gun in his holster.” As expected, she got no reply. Some people were too responsible to reply to personal texts at work; the concept was alien to her.
“If the Marines taught me nothing else, it’s that any situation can go to crap at any moment. You’re not invulnerable. Don’t make us lose you yet.” Quentin’s phone chimed, and he dug it out of his pocket, all dreaminess gone. Wielding his second-best angelic grin, he hugged her. One hand stroked over her hair. “Don’t you remember our rule? Don’t be a dumbass! Miguel will harangue you later and then some when he finds out. If his latest serial killer case weren’t giving him fits, he’d already be here to do it. Tell you what, I’ll get you something sweet for the adrenaline crash if you can stay out of any more trouble. So, relax, I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the café.
Suspicion flaring at his unusual willingness to pay for food, Zita tried to unwind while she tightened the athletic wrap on her ankle again. A few minutes of people watching, and her shoulders began to relax.
Gleeful evil interrupted her salacious appreciation of the derrieres of several fit men in the tight gear of biking enthusiasts as Quentin returned, carrying a bear claw pastry and a sweating lemonade. “So, admit it, Iggy may have been bad, but he was a better pick for you than that epic fail getting his nose set. You want me to call him back and see if he wants a second date? I bet he’s looking more appealing.”
Was fratricide really a sin? Zita thought, seizing the food. She took a fortifying bite of the sweet pastry, and then another before he could steal it back. With a snort, she shoved a blue dreadlock aside. “Inky’s a no go, Q.”
“Why, you got plans tonight that don’t involve working out in a gym?” her brother replied. “His name is Iggy. He likes climbing. You like climbing, and it couldn’t hurt for you to climb on each other. How long’s it been now, my little Two-Date Disaster?”
Four years, one month, one week, she counted, not that he needs to know. I could figure out the number of hours, but I’m not obsessive. Much. She countered, “Hombre, some of us don’t have to buy STD tests in bulk. Sweet hands and a sexy rear can’t stop the whole thief thing from turning me off. So did you need me to do more tonight? You’re on the hook for my pitiful paycheck on the lock changeover earlier today.” Fatigue washed over her. She took another bite and washed it down with the drink. Her brother’s voice interrupted her musing.
He had the temerity to say, “Your paycheck would be bigger if you could commit to more hours, instead of working part time for me, part time for the tax place, and picking up summer jobs in exotic locations whenever you get a chance. I don’t know why you think you’re looking for a serious relationship when you won’t even commit to one full-time job. No more work for us today; I’ve got a hot date tonight.” Her brother teased her even as he plopped down in the chair across from her.
“I spent more time on that door earlier than you will on tonight’s so-called relationship outside the bed.” Practice helped her ignore the criticism of her lifestyle. Grabbing her lemonade, Zita gulped it, the sweet and tart liquid cold on her tongue but not granting her the relief she sought. I need rest, aspirin, and food, she decided, if that much sugar can’t make me feel better. Tomorrow, if I’m better, I can scope out the Cairo apartment building in D.C… work on my plans to creep out and spider up it some night.
He shrugged and stole a bite of her bear claw. “Guilty as charged.”
Unable to stand the claustrophobic feel of clammy fabric on her back another second, she pulled at her work coveralls, unzipping and stripping off the top half. Her head spun as she stood and let them fall to pool around her ankles. The air, thick with summer and burgers and exhaust, had to be only a few degrees cooler without the bulky clothes; nonetheless, she was as elated as if she had escaped a fiery prison.
Without asking, Quentin washed down his bite with a gulp of her drink and held it out to her. “So, should I call one of my other friends, see if they’re available this weekend?”
Stepping free of the coveralls, she bent and picked them up before answering. Her head swam, and she resolved to rest until the flu or whatever passed. “No. From Iggy’s face, he was expecting someone more… more something not me anyway. What did you tell him?” After a brief battle to catch her breath, she fought to focus through the increasing pain. She rubbed damp hands on her cargo shorts.
Her brother shook his head, letting his fashionably shaggy black hair settle around his face. He puffed out a breath of air. “It’s the hair. That’s got to be the ugliest chingado hair on the planet. You should do a makeover. I know ladies who could work on you; they like a challenge and that’s you all over and then some. As for Iggy, all I said was I had a cute little sister who picked up extra bucks working for my locksmith business when her accounting job was slow. Oh, and that you were a bit shy, but loved to have fun and were stacked.” He smirked.
She stared at him. Her head was pounding her brain to jelly. The sun disappeared behind the horizon, and the dusk should have been soothing, but the pain grew. “That’s got to be the biggest pile of… prevarication I’ve ever heard. It’s somehow true and a fat lie at the same time,” she accused. There may have been some awe amid the disgust, but she would never admit it.
That bastard preened. “I know, I was proud of it,” he admitted. “But if I’d admitted you were a hyperactive terrier training for an Olympic event that doesn’t exist, and have had more failed and injured dates than anyone else ever, nobody’d go out with you. You’d be stuck with Miguel’s picks, since you don’t look on your own. Nobody wants that, except him. Let’s not forget the giant Technicolor tarantula on your head, either.”
Zita pointed her finger at him, but a wave of dizziness swept over her, and she forgot what she was saying. Her head ached. Oh, right. “My hair is fun! Why you got to be hating?” she scolded, her hands punctuation.
He tsked, undeterred by her rebuke, but stopped. Quentin peered at her. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Whatever he saw made him rush closer.
She swayed. Strange, I hadn’t planned to do that. Her vision shrank as the world faded. Zita fought it, but felt herself falling, interrupted by a
stabbing sensation on her forehead before the blackness won.
Chapter 2
Awareness nagged at her. Someone’s phone beeped over and over. Was it hers? If it were, she would have something to say to whoever was bothering her. Her body felt slow and sore. Some jerk was pinching her arm, and… her brain registered the catheter and identified the pinch as an IV. What if my cancer came out of remission! I’m not done yet!
Zita’s eyes shot open. She blinked, and once the ceiling had resolved into cream industrial drop ceiling tiles with tan water spots, attempted to sit up. Bonds on her arms yanked her back. Tied down! Tied down! Her breath came out uneven, harsh, and rapid, and the EKG monitor howled like a animal. A feral whine escaped. She forced herself to calm and to assess. The heart monitor began to slow to a more normal rate. She looked at her arms and chest; they belonged to a woman, not the just-pubescent child she’d been during cancer treatments. The infernal EKG beep rate dropped again as she controlled her breathing. Scooting her body as far toward the right as possible, she twisted and reached down the side of the mattress. Her fingers scrabbled for a moment before she reasserted control over herself. A disciplined search discovered leather restraints, not cloth, but the knot was in the same place as so long ago. Helpless, my ass. I’ll be loose faster than a raccoon can open a trashcan.
With delight, she determined the years had not stolen her skill with knots, even at that angle. Once one hand was free, freeing the other arm was easy. Restraints gone, Zita sat up and considered the catheter problem. She had no desire to risk damaging anything permanently down there by removing it herself. As she rubbed her wrists and arms, she checked: her range of movement was acceptable, and her ankle seemed fine. The sprain she’d taken in her last exercise session must not have been severe if a short rest had restored it. Her skin bore a distasteful layer of sweat, as if she had skipped a few showers. Though she limited the motions she allowed herself, her muscles reacted as she expected. It was odd that no one had checked on her after the machine went wild.
The undersized room was old; the olive drab paint had faded, the linoleum floor cracked, and the scent of dust and paper mingled with the usual hospital antiseptic scent. A translucent plastic film, peeled at the corners and waving in the minimal cool air coming from the air conditioner grumbling below it, obscured a double-hung window. Equipment that looked newer than anything else surrounded her bed and crowded an empty bed against the window. Two minuscule tables arced over the beds. A clipboard adorned her table, a pen through the top part. Light came from institutional fluorescents; one had a dead cockroach. An empty IV bag dangled from a metal pole next to her, still attached to her arm. No television, telephone, call button, or any of the other expected accoutrements existed in the room. She stole the pen and moved the IV pole into a better position for use as a weapon. The door remained shut.
Zita ran a hand over her head as she tried to figure out why she was here, and why her hair had been shaved in one spot by her temple. Last thing I remember, Miguel’s surprise blind date candidate almost got himself killed and Quentin bought me a donut so he could make fun of my love life. Did I fall and hit my head? Enough thinking, I need to do something!
“Well, better this than spending the rest of my existence incontinent because I couldn’t wait,” she growled. Wrapping the leather restraints around her one fist like a boxing glove, she yanked the electrodes off her chest, flinching at the sting. The EKG went dead. Counting seconds in her head as if holding a difficult position, she hid her wrapped hand under the sheet and waited. And waited. She practiced polite ways to ask what was going on. At three minutes, she probed the shaved spot, finding only stubble and a tender line of a half-healed gash. At four minutes, she determined that she couldn’t understand her own medical chart. Around the five-minute mark, she began cautious abdominal crunches and arm curls with the restraints to pass time.
Someone in navy blue scrubs banged open the larger door around the ten-minute mark, glanced in, then turned to leave.
“Hey! You! I’m not dead! What do I got to do to get attention around here?” Zita bellowed, her practiced request forgotten.
The woman in the door flinched and turned. This time, she noticed her patient sitting up and twirling the electrodes with one hand. Her hand dove to a clunky, old walkie-talkie clipped to her belt, fingers fumbling and fussing over the buttons. It fell out of her belt and to the floor, evading her grab for it. She stared at Zita, brown eyes wide behind tiny circle glasses, body tense, shoulders drawn up tight. The woman shifted from foot to foot, leaving herself off balance. Not a fighter, then. Little tendrils of hair straggled out of a tight, short ponytail to cling to a face both pale and pinched. Parsimonious lips opened in a silent “O”. She crept forward and extended one arm toward her device.
Zita snorted. “Not going to stop you. Knock yourself out.”
At her words, the other woman scuttled forward and snatched up the fallen walkie-talkie. Even as she snapped it back on her belt, she stepped back toward the door. She had the sensible shoes and endurance gait of someone used to walking, but lacked any other muscle tone on her spare frame.
Wow, way to kill a patient, Zita sniped in her head. Did Q cheap out on our chingado health insurance when I wasn’t looking? Did the cops figure out that I’m the one that spidered up that building in March and commit me to a psychiatric ward? Does that—not enough attitude to be a doctor—nurse have pepper spray next to that sad excuse for a walkie-talkie? That really looks like pepper spray. Being sprayed sucks and always reminds me of that one date. She pasted an agreeable expression on her face. Aloud, she said, “Hi. I want to leave. Would you please tell the doctor I’m awake and remove the catheter for me please? Oh, and why was my head shaved?” She was pleased she hadn’t cursed aloud once.
The nurse, aide, or whatever took a single step towards Zita, studying the Latina with an apprehensive expression. Her words had the deliberate enunciation most used with a dimwitted child. A soft, high voice asked, “Do you know your name? Is it okay if someone checks your pupils? On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in? Does anything feel strange to you?” Her hand skittered from the walkie-talkie and hid behind the pepper spray.
Weird. She’s acting like I’m a mental defect serial killer. Maybe that’s how they talk in creepy hospitals. Since she’s missing a nametag, I think I’ll call her… Nurse Mouse. Zita gave her suspicious look back, and answered, “Yes, I do. Sure, you can. Whichever end of that scale is low. And, yes, the catheter. Please get rid of it, carefully. Adult diapers would mess with my lifestyle, you know what I mean?” She tacked on another smile, the one she used when convincing customers of her competence. Keeping her improvised boxing glove under the covers, she smoothed the surface of the sheet covering her with the other, the weave of the fabric rough under her fingers.
The nurse gave a slow shake of her head and took a step towards the door. Zita blinked. Her thought that that the other woman had been scared of her had been facetious, but the nurse had paled as if Zita become a demon or whipped out Tupperware catalogs. “I’m sorry, Miss, I can’t change anything until after the doctor approves it. I’ll go call him. Please don’t move. Someone will be right back. Everything’s fine.” The words tumbled out of her in a rush, and then she fled.
“Not like I have much of a choice,” Zita grumbled. A thought struck her, and she shouted at the door, “Hey, can you bring food too? I’m starving!” The last half sounded forlorn, even to her.
A gleeful gurgle preceded a knock. A lanky blond poked her head in, and then hurtled through the doorway, a stained lab coat flapping over a sky blue jumpsuit. Her insouciant manner was at odds with her military-perfect posture and ground-eating strides. “Oh, so you’re up now! Welcome to the Reed Quarantine Center and Toenail Polish Removing Station. I’m Dr. Trixie Turner. I know, what were my parents thinking? Better not to ask. Take it from someone who knew them. What’s your name?” the doctor chirped, tramping over. Zita would have bet mo
ney she practiced a martial art. Her clothing concealed her figure to an extent, but given her pace and lack of exertion, the woman was in decent shape.
“Zita Garcia, but shouldn’t you already know that?” Zita replied. “What,” she began, before the doctor cut her off.
“How are you, besides hungry? Do you have any weird urges to bend steel, breathe fire, or shoot lasers from your eyes or another orifice? You’re one of the last to wake, you know, so I’ve been trying to get the others to take bets, but nobody likes to bet their Jell-O. People are so unreasonable. So, how’s you? Tell me everything!” The doctor plopped herself on the bed and opened her eyes wide, teeth biting her lower lip. She flicked her hair, the strands sliding back into place in the way that bespoke an expensive haircut.
Change creepy hospital to creepy mental hospital. Zita inched her hand closer to the pole. “I’m fine, but I’m tired of sitting still. No lasers or anything, sorry. What,” she started to say.
Trixie interrupted again. “Well, that sucks! I wasted great puppy dog eyes on nothing! No powers here either. I would totally abuse it, too, but in a superior way. Some people need a laser to their rears, in particular if they don’t use turn signals.” She grabbed Zita’s clipboard, snorting when she noted the pen missing. “It’s thoughtful details like no pens that up the luxury factor here,” she muttered. After reorganizing the papers, she flipped through the chart, and then turned it upside down. “Hmm. You’ve got a nasty case of chicken scratch, I see. You got a flashlight?”
A suspicion crystallized that had been niggling at her. “With my other belongings, but I don’t know where they are,” she answered. “What do you mean Quarantine Center?”