Double Cross [2] (10 page)

Just as I’m picking up my coat and kit, the door opens and Greg, another thug telepath—a short, pale man with a buzz cut he’s kept since his mercenary days—storms out. I quickly skunk my thoughts with “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” as he passes. He heads for the exit.

Then Packard comes through the door. “Your turn.”

“What?”

“With the suspect.”

“Me?”

“You made a good case.” Packard takes my first-aid kit from my hands. He opens it, pulls out my scissors and tweezers, and tosses them onto the couch. “No weapons.” He snaps the lid shut. “Ready?”

“Just like that?”

“Apparently I’m not above much of anything.” He turns before I can reply. I follow him through the security door and down the depot hall. He stops at the very end, before a door with no window, still holding my kit. “Even though it’s possible he’s working with the Dorks, I don’t feel that he’s dangerous—far more bark than bite. He’s hungry, and mentally exhausted. He’s almost there, but he just won’t budge. Maybe he’ll respond to the good-cop treatment. Or just a human face.”

I think about what Simon said. That we’re barely human.

“You’re on your own in there. Keep in mind that it’s soundproofed. I’ll stay out here, but I can’t listen. If you need me, you’ll have to shout. I’ll be right out here.”

“What? No cameras or recorders or two-way glass?”

“What would highcaps need that for?”

“Right. Why spy when you can see right into people?”

“You want to do this thing or gripe?”

“What’s his name?”

“Marty.” He gives me my kit.

“Sending me in to be on my own with a suspect,” I say. “Should I be flattered or worried?”

“Get us some answers and you can be whatever you want.” He unlocks the door and I go in.

The room is plain white and bright, and a thickset fellow sits at a table in the center of it. He’s in his late thirties with a shaved head, chubby cheeks and squarish tortoiseshell glasses, which give him an owlish look. There’s an angry splotch on his jaw that will be a bruise tomorrow, and his lip is bloody.

I close the door with my foot. “Hi, Marty.”

Marty frowns.

I set down my kit. “Can I take a look at that lip?”

“What are
you
doing here?”

“I’m here as a nurse.”

“That’s not an answer. You know these people are highcaps, right? And I’m being held illegally? I’m going to guess you know that.” He wears a roomy tan canvas jacket over a red T-shirt and denim jeans—dark, like they just came off the store shelf.

“I think you should consider me an uninvolved party, here on your behalf. Like the Red Cross.”

“If you were here on my behalf, you’d call the cops. Or at least bring me a sandwich.”

I open my kit. For all my big talk to Packard, I don’t have any idea how to deal with him. What can I possibly learn from a man this angry? I unpeel my cold pack and jerk the sides to activate it. “Hold this to your jaw. It’ll cut down on the swelling.”

“Oh, sorry, you mean hold it with my fucked-up hand?”

I gasp when he shows me his left hand, which features a fat, purple, crazily bent pinky. “Oh my God!”

“Wow, your bedside manner is impeccable. You think you can do something about it? Aren’t you supposed to jerk it back into place or something so it doesn’t heal crooked?”

I nod. He’s probably seen that in movies. So have I.

I walk around to his side of the table and take his hand in mine, thinking about the anatomy book Otto and I sometimes study. “The fifth metacarpal digit.”

He snorts. “You want a prize for that?”

“Can you move it?” I ask, cradling it, careful to not touch the pinky area.

He shifts it minutely, winces. “Ow.” He looks up. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

His owlish features darken. “This is what your friends did to me.”

Carefully I turn his hand to look at it from a new view. The pinky points sideways, like somebody tried to twist it off, and it stuck in its twisted position. “Which one?” I ask. “That military-looking fellow who just left?” Greg, I’m thinking. Hoping.

“No, the other guy.”

“Blond with a beret?” Daryl. Maybe it was Daryl.

“What does it matter to you?”

“It just does.”

He glares at me. “They’re all highcap.”

It must’ve been Daryl. Probably why he’s not here anymore. I release Marty’s hand.

“You going to treat me?”

“I’m thinking.” The movies where people pull parts of bodies straight are usually Wild West movies, but it seems like movies set in modern times show it too. The pinky definitely needs straightening. It seems like a matter of logic. “It
is
important to do this sort of thing earlier rather than later,” I say. “You don’t want it healing wrong. Or to lose the finger.”

“Could you just get it over with?”

“I’m willing to try to set it, but here’s the thing. While I have a certain kind of medical experience, I’m not really a nurse per se.”

“Are you in nursing school?”

“No.”

“What sort of experience? Have you set bones or dealt with things like this?”

“Not specifically.”

He stares at me incredulously; the light overhead glints off his glasses and makes his bald head shiny. “You have no nursing experience at all?”

“Not really.”

“Why in the hell would you say you were a nurse?”

“I’m here
as a nurse
. To act in the capacity of a nurse for you.”

“Act in the capacity of a nurse? Christ, what is this?” He kicks the table.

I jump.

“Ow,” he says, cradling his hand. “Fuck. This is fucking great.” He grabs the cold pack with his right hand and holds it to his damaged pinky. Winces. He’s a man at the end of his rope.

“Well, clearly you need some medical attention if you’re going to save that finger.”

“Fuck off.”

I unwrap an antibacterial pad. “I’m going to clean your lip.”

“No, you’re going to fuck off.”

I put the pad on its wrapper on the table. “I’ll leave it in case you change your mind.”

“How long exactly do you guys plan on keeping me here?”

“That’s undetermined.”

“So basically you’re useless.”

“I came to see that you’re all right.”

He leans forward and glares at me. Being in this room with this man feels like being confined with an angry wasp who might decide to sting me. Packard says he’s not dangerous. Is he sure? Suddenly I wish he could listen in. Though if he was listening, he would’ve stopped things the minute Marty kicked the table.

I walk back around to my side and try to think what to do. Questioning a guy is weird. It’s not like a normal conversation, even a normal fight. You’re supposed to sort of be the boss. I’m not the boss type, or the predator type.

“So you think this is okay?” he suddenly asks. “All this? It’s okay for highcaps to go around raping people’s private thoughts? And then, when a guy like me does something to protect himself, they kidnap and assault me? That’s all good with you?”

“You did something to protect yourself?”

“Listen, I don’t have jack to do with the Dorks, as I’ve told them over and over. Don’t you get it? The highcaps don’t like that I can see them, that’s all. And they don’t like that they can’t fuck with me. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re here because somebody’s killing them, and those people have the same kind of immunity that you do.”

“And as I’ve already told your friends, I don’t know
anything
aside from the news. I didn’t know it was highcaps getting it until, oh, about six harrowing hours ago.” He blinks at his hand. “You don’t think I’d actually lose my finger, do you? You weren’t just saying that.…”

“If it’s not getting blood you’ll lose it, I know that much. You need medical attention.”

“Maybe you should see that I get some.”

“How could you tell I wasn’t a highcap? How are you immune?”

“Don’t you dare question me!” This, like I’m so beneath him.

“Did you always have these abilities?”

He clamps his mouth shut in the shape of a big frown.

“If you’re innocent, why won’t you say?”

“Because I shouldn’t have to.”

“You should if you know something that could prevent a crime.”

“Then arrest me, huh?” He stands and shoves the table. “Why don’t you turn me in to the cops?”

My pulse surges. I’m not good at this.

He breathes hard, nostrils going. Aerating.

“I’m trying to help.”

“Well, you’re not.” He flops back in his chair, tan jacket hanging open. You can read his whole T-shirt now. Midcity University Beagles.

I pack up my first-aid kit, click the lid shut, and snap the latch.

He sits up, as if alarmed by my leaving. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s been a harrowing day, you know?”

I nod.

“I was heading to my son’s ball game. My parents were going to meet me there.”

I recognize this as
Captive 101
—you remind people that you have a family so they empathize with you. It makes me feel very weird.

“And I don’t see why it’s a crime. Having this, you know, capability.”

“What’s it like? The capability?”

“To recognize them? And they can’t fuck with me? It’s great, that’s what it’s like.”

“Right.” It’s true that once you know about highcaps, it
is
disconcerting, to know they could do so many things to you and you’re helpless, often ignorant about it. “So, like, if you were at a baseball game, you could just look around and instantly tell who the highcaps are?”

“That’s right.”

“And they can’t do their thing to you?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm.” I trace the red embossed cross on the lid. “Sometimes when I know a guy’s a telepath, I think of an awful song. Sometimes I do that Wham! song, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” Or else, you know, “Who Let the Dogs Out?” … Woof. Woof woof …”

He says nothing.

I smile. “They hate it when you do that.”

“You have to protect yourself,” he says. “That’s smart of you.”

I study his face. “So your thoughts are secret and private. You’re your own person.”

“They have a hold on you, don’t they?”

This stops me.

“Don’t look so baffled,” he says. “You’re uneasy about their power, yet here you are. And why else would you say
you’re your own person
? It doesn’t make sense to the conversation. But it shows what’s important to you.”

“Important, huh?”

“That’s right. I’m in sales. I’m always looking for people’s priorities.”

I give him the vague, knowing smile Packard sometimes gives me when he wants me off balance.

“You don’t have to worry what you say in here,” Marty says. “They can’t hear. Did you know that? They don’t have this room miked.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I’ve been in this hellhole all day. Figured a few things out.” Marty nods. “And it’s clear you’re not your own person, and that you would love to be.”

He has no idea how
not
my own person I am, I think wistfully. How badly I’d like to be free. Even as a prisoner, Marty’s freer than me. He’s not a slave to zinging.

“Wouldn’t you love that?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not one of them. You want to keep something to yourself? That’s your right. We’re on the same side, you and me.” He crosses his legs. “Imagine if there was a way you could keep them from ever seeing into you, or using their powers on you. And you could tell who they are just by looking. Would that interest you?”

I narrow my eyes. He’s talking like he can give me the power.

“You don’t have to say it. I know you want it. And you deserve to have it. How is it right that some people should walk around with power over other people? Some guys can see your thoughts, but you can’t see theirs? Some guys have the power to fuck with you and fuck with your stuff in totally outrageous ways, but you just have to sit there and take it?”

“It’s not wrong to have different powers. If we met out on the street, you could probably beat me up if you wanted. Is that wrong?”

“Questions are good. It shows you’re serious about this. And my point is, you should have the right to level the playing field, wouldn’t you agree? And you can do that,” he says.

He has no idea how wrong he is. It’s way too late for me to level the playing field.

He sits up straight, adjusts his jacket. “What’s your name?”

“Justine.”

“Justine, I know not all highcaps are bad, but some of them are. Think how it was before Mayor Otto brought the hammer down for law and order. But Mayor Otto isn’t standing on every street corner, is he? What’s wrong with recognizing highcaps for yourself and guarding against them? It just levels things out.” He claps his hand to his chest. “But they’re holding me here because they don’t want us humans to have that.”

“It’s not a crime to be like you are,” I say, “but it’s not a crime to be a highcap, either.” This is all starting to get confusing. There are too many angles that seem right. “Look, my one and only function here is medical, and I feel strongly that you need medical attention.”

He gets this wily look. “Will you help me”—he does quote fingers here—“
get medical attention
if I show you how to be like me?”

This is interesting. I want him to say more, but he’s waiting. I look up at the cracked white ceiling, bare except for a decrepit light fixture in the middle with three lightbulbs. If this was a normal place a glass cover would be over them, making the bulbs less harsh. “I don’t have a lot of pull around here.”

“With what pull you have? Surely you could find a way to see that I get out of this.”

“I really don’t think I could, unless the case was solved.”

“Maybe I’d show you out of the goodness of my heart. We’re both trapped, and it makes us natural allies. Maybe I want to do that for you.”

“I don’t understand. You could
show
me how to be like you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

I consider this. Immunity to highcaps wouldn’t be a bad power to have. It wouldn’t get me out of being a minion, and it’s too late for it to work against Ez; the damage is done, she’s made the dream link. Still, it could be handy going forward.