Double Cross [2] (23 page)

“I am aware. I do not want more people killed.”

“I like him. I do,” I say.

Her pretty lips tighten in a secret smile. “He is good man.”

“What if we, you know,
fired
you? Just got you out of it? Let Simon and me do the dirty work. Let us be the ones.”

“It would be complicity all the same. To not warn him.”

“You can’t keep preventing us like this. I mean, Simon shouldn’t have done what he did. But going forward.”

“Do not worry,” she says sullenly.

“You’re with us.” More a question than a statement. “You’re with us on this.”

Her pointed look is a loud Yes.

I smile wistfully. “You remind him of his mother.”

Tiny Shelby smile. “I am sure I do not.”

We drive in silence. She’s in a good mood, for her. She hasn’t even bent Gumby. When we’re almost at her place, she turns to me. “I am so sorry, I have not asked. Have you heard from …” She stops short, like she doesn’t want to say his name. Like it would hurt me too much.

I shake my head. “It’s bad. This feels so severe. He doesn’t even want to speak with me!”

“You do not know.”

“It’s not too late for you, Shelby. Let us kick you off the case. I just don’t know how this can work. How can you be on both sides?”

She traces a shape on the passenger window. “That is my question to myself, yes.”

I choose my words carefully as we near her ramshackle apartment building. “Will you tell me if anything changes?”

She sits there, pondering the glove compartment.

“If you’re not with us anymore?”

“If I am not with you, yes, I will tell you.” She gets out, not looking back.

I swing by the government offices and head up to the mayoral floor, hoping to get information. I find Sophia in Otto’s office suite, sitting behind her desk in the front room. Her red hair is in a chic, almost sculptural blowback style, and her green suit has a slight shimmer. I’m relieved to see she didn’t accompany Otto to Washington, D.C.

She raises one unnaturally perfect brow. “What do
you
want?”

I bite my lip. What I want is something more than text messages, but I can’t say that. Nothing would give her more glee than to know Otto’s angry at me.

I say, “Can you tell me the name of the hotel Otto’s
staying at? I didn’t get to ask him, and I need to send some stuff.”

This is quite true; I want to have orders of egg foo yong and egg rolls delivered to his room from an area restaurant. He often forgets to eat when he’s revitalizing.

She makes very little effort to conceal her smile. “You don’t know where he’s staying?”

“Would I be asking you?”

She smiles.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure if I can give out that information.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you can.”

She stares at me and I look away. She laughs. “Oh, Justine, if I wanted to snatch your memory, I’d snatch it. As for Otto, he is a man of his word. He says what he means, and when he
doesn’t
say something, it means he didn’t intend to say it. He must not want you to know.”

“Of course he wants me to know.”

“That doesn’t appear to be the case.” She sits tall, polite professional smile, polite professional words. “Can you think of any reason he wouldn’t want you to know where he is?”

I wait, wondering how much she knows.

She says, “Because that does seem to be his communication, doesn’t it?”

“Quit screwing around.”

“I can send over these urgent items myself if you like. And I’ll let him know you have been inquiring about his whereabouts when I speak to him next.”

“When will that be?” I ask, hating to crawl to Sophia like this. “When did you speak to him last?”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot reveal my communications with the mayor.”

I do a mean little sniff-laugh, like she’s pathetic, and all this is maddeningly inconvenient, nothing more. “So you’re
not
going to tell me.”

“I’m busy,” she says into her computer screen. “Why don’t you run along and pour your wretchedness into one of your victims?” She looks up. “I believe this interview is over.”

My steps sound crisp down the marble hallway. I punch the elevator button. Of course she’ll tell Otto I was trying to find his hotel. Like a stalker. Otto’s too much of a gentleman to tell her what happened, but she’ll smell blood all the same.

I
’M NOT IN THE IDEAL STATE
of mind for visiting Ez, but it’s not like I can take the night off, being that I only have until Monday to get her rolling. As I touch the descrambler bracelet, I imagine, as I have so many times lately, unclasping it from my wrist and handing it over to her, and the joy on her face.

Just to be safe, I take it off and fasten it around my ankle; as long as it’s on your person, it works. It’s only a matter of time until Simon gets his hands on one. It’s probably only a matter of time until he tells Ez what we are. If he hasn’t already.

Ez looks relieved to see me, so Simon hasn’t told yet. Good. Ez is freaking about nanocites and obsessed with a zone of aliveness under her right rib. We discuss that, and she asks to see the descrambler bracelet again. I tell her I can’t show it, and ask her about the Cellini book, which she has of course read. My fear is still in her; there’s this uncanny way that I can sense it running through her veins like poison.

At one point she fixes me with her burning gaze and asks the strangest question: does Packard pull lots of night shifts at the hospital? She seems almost angry about it. Why? Does she think he was up all night?

Was he?

I run my finger around the edge of the ledge. Packard
told me it wouldn’t work for us to sleep in shifts.
The dream link is extratemporal
, he’d said.
It doesn’t matter when we sleep, only that we sleep.

I inform her that I don’t know his schedule.

Did he stop sleeping? No, with all that’s going on, that would be madness. Though he’ll do anything to stay free.

“Let’s get a pulse,” I say. She gives me her hand.

As I build up to my zing, I start feeling more disgusted with myself. I tell myself I just have to do it. I have no choice now. I press my thumb to her vein and watch the clock.

Packard sometimes asks me when I can ever forgive him. That’s not something I’m ready to do. But ironically, it’s the times I feel most trapped that I come closest to forgiving him. He was a prisoner just like me. He wanted freedom, just as I do.

I’m stoking, readying to zing her, pretending to find the vein, when I look into Ez’s eyes. They’re full of worry, and trust.

“What is it, Justine?” she asks.

And then it hits me: Ez is a prisoner, too. I’m a prisoner hurting another prisoner. She never had a trial and she’s maybe innocent, and she trusts me and I’m secretly attacking her. I feel queasy. Again I tell myself I don’t have a choice, but I’m tired of that.

I do have a choice.

I drop her hand, stare at her dumbly. “I have to go.”

“What? Don’t leave!” she says. “You’re not done taking my pulse.”

“I can’t.” I turn and walk—it’s all I can do not to run for the exit sign.

“Come back!” she calls.

I push out the door into the night. The fear I stoked up boils uncomfortably at the surface of my energy dimension. It’ll settle some if I give it time. Outside, I brace my
hands against the cold brick wall, pulse pounding in my ears. I do have a choice, and my choice is to stop being a minion of Packard.

People have been telling me I am like Packard. I am—I’ll do anything to be free.

Including risking becoming a Jarvis.

Everything feels so still—my heart, the stars, the icy air. Even the snow has stopped. I pull my hands from the rough wall.

I’m done. I’m making my own decisions from now on.

It’s so crazy, yet so simple.
Packard doesn’t get to boss me anymore.
Maybe I’ll zing Ez again if I decide she’s actually guilty, but it will be my choice.

And if I refuse, I have a little under a month until I turn into a Jarvis. Or I turn into a sleepwalking cannibal first. Or both.

“Fuck it,” I say aloud, and I stroll down the sidewalk. I’m free. My own person. Nobody can make me do anything I don’t believe in anymore. I smile. Laugh. It feels incredible.

And terrifying. The decision I’ve made is serious and dangerous, and completely the right thing. I don’t know whether Packard gave me that ultimatum as a way of helping me or controlling me, but it doesn’t matter. I’m ultimatum-free now.

My first act as a fully free person is to head over to Lenny’s and order three orders of French fries. Lenny is still there. He sinks them into the fryer and we have a jokey little exchange about whether I’ll be able to eat them all. Yeah, I’ll eat them all.

I read Dear Aggie while I wait, and when the fries come, I drown them in ketchup and cover the ketchup with salt. They’re just a little bit crispy. Delicious.

As soon as Lenny gets busy with another customer, I call Simon. “So guess what I did tonight,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face.

“What?”

“Declared my independence.” I lower my voice. “I’m so done with being a minion.”

“What? Just like that?”

“I’m a woman of action, my friend.”

He whistles out a breath.

I pop a fry into my mouth.

“Are you going to zing random people or what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought it through.”

“You’re just stopping?”

“I’ll make my own choices from now on.”

“But listen, you’re not just going to …” He doesn’t finish. He’s thinking Jarvis, and so am I.

“Let the chips fall where they may.”

“That’s my line,” Simon says.

“I know.” It’s all a bit dizzying, like I’m way up high on a tightrope. Will I be laughing as the weeks go on? Defiantly, I stuff another fry into my mouth, determined to enjoy this moment. The fry is delicious. The decision was right.

There’s a long silence. “Maybe we’ll figure something out,” he says. “Kick around some ideas. I figured out spelunking. Packard figured out how to get free of Mongolian Delites. If we come up with something, then I’ll jump ship.”

Simon’s not craving risk. He must have just zinged.

“I don’t mind the odds,” he explains, “but there’s no upside to quitting this instant. I’m with you in spirit, and we’ll see about the rest. And, oh, man, Packard’s going to freak. If we figure something out and disillusionists start quitting, you know Otto’ll stick him back in the restaurant.”

“I don’t want that,” I whisper.

“And what about Otto and his imploding head?”

“I know, I know. I don’t want Packard sealed back up, and I don’t want Otto’s condition to worsen, and I don’t
want to be a sleepwalker for Ez. There are a million reasons on every side of this thing. But Simon, in my heart, I had to stop. I mean, what about me needing to be free to follow my conscience?” I eat a double fry.

“You don’t have to worry about Ez. She’s harmless.”

“I feel like you’re right, but I need you to prove it,” I say.

“I’m almost there. And just think—Packard’s out of your life. You never have to see him ever again.”

I feel hollow as the truth of this hits me. “Well, I’m definitely going to tell him I quit. I’ve been looking forward to it,” I inform Simon. I haven’t actually thought beyond telling him, and his reaction. Is telling him I quit the same as saying good-bye? The fry tastes like sawdust in my mouth.

“Justine, do something for me.”

“What?”

“Wait to tell Packard. He might throw Vesuvius on Ez. Just give me a few more days.”

“Fine.”

We get off the phone and I finish my fries and read more Dear Aggie. Relationship problems. Those were the days.

After bidding Lenny good night, I make my way back to my car, feeling like a giant blob, thanks to all that grease. But a free blob. I sit for a long time in the driver’s seat, not starting up. I’m tired, and I crave sleep, but I’m wary of it, because sleep makes me vulnerable to Ez’s control. She wants that descrambler. What if I bring it to her, and she breaks out and starts running cannibals again? It’s not like it’s one hundred percent impossible that Simon’s wrong.

Of course she’d gain control of me before Packard. As a highcap, Packard’s mentally stronger, even in sleep. Tipping my head back, I close my eyes, wondering if I should go to an all-night movie or something. Just sitting
with my eyes closed feels good, and I start to doze off with the pleasant sensation that I’m porous, like gossamer, as though it would be nothing for air or light or Ez’s thoughts to flow clear through me. I wake up with a start.

Am I in danger of sleepwalking at her command as soon as tonight? Or am I just obsessing about it?

I decide to take precautions. I run a few errands, and an hour later I’m parking in the weedy parking lot on the side of Shelby’s building.

I get out to the roar and exhaust fumes of the tangle; its overlapping masses of highway curlicues rise out of a sea of rubble and garbage on gargantuan concrete legs. Beneath is the dark, wild terrain of tanglelands—a dank, extensive network of highway underbellies and concrete caverns where dangerous people and dead bodies are said to dwell. As a rich disillusionist, she could live anywhere. It makes me love her that she chooses the building nearest the tangle.