The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (8 page)

Imaginary pain? Ana Watson tells me my pain is
imaginary? Oh, that's rich
.

Unbidden, the memories return. The demons that show up at random times. The reason Roger keeps finding me playing video games at four in the morning.

Dad, joking about his chronic toilet problems
.

Mom and Dad, explaining to ten-year-old me how he'll need to have some surgery soon. I'm more impressed by the X-ray they've brought home. The one with that vague mass in the intestinal area
.

Dad, ever the optimist, pretending he's going to buy a toupee. And that he'd finally found a diet that worked
.

“Sorry, Zak, looks like I can't make the camping trip this year.”

And those awful last weeks, when he'd lost everything, when there was nothing left for him to do but lay on the couch and wait for the inevitable, he'd still hang out with me. We'd sit there and watch entire series, epic things like LOTR because he was too sick to even talk, and I'd hold his hand and even then I didn't really believe I was going to lose him because, after all, he was my only daddy and . . .

And suddenly I'm back at Washingcon, storming down a corridor, with Ana by my side. And she's looking at me with what I'd almost believe is real concern.

Cool it, Duquette. It's not her fault. Everyone thinks they're the only one who's ever been hurt
.

I receive a text. “That was Warren,” I tell Ana. “He says to meet him in the Pacific Ballroom.”

Ana nods but doesn't say anything. It's hard to read her. She's always so snippy and pissed off, but sometimes she almost acts like she's enjoying being around me, just a bit. If this gamble with Warren pays off, she might actually lose her contempt for me.

Evening is falling. The rooms grow more crowded as guests begin to trickle in from the cubicle farms and computer help desks around the city. Soon the events will start: autographing, panels, games, and movies.

“So, do you guys rent the entire complex?” Ana asks out of nowhere.

“Pretty much. We don't need all the space, but the convention center learned early on that it's best we do what we do without any outsiders. Especially after what happened four years ago.”

She sighs. “You clearly want me to ask about that, so tell me what happened.”

I snort, wishing she'd show a little fake enthusiasm. “The Seattle Square Dancing League held their annual barn dance here. Quite a sight, seeing an octogenarian cowboy in polyester pants almost throwing down with an Asian Anakin Skywalker. It's hard to say who was the bigger group of freaks.”

“Spoiler alert: It was you people.” Ana is smiling, so I let it pass. I have the uncomfortable feeling that I'd let a lot pass, just to keep that smile pointed at me.

“At any rate, Warren's in here.” We've arrived at the ballroom. Its doors are closed, and a sign reads
PRIVATE EVENT
.

“Shall we knock? I've seen enough of this place that I don't want to barge in on anyone.”

I chuckle, remembering the time I stumbled upon a square dancer getting very friendly with a Ghostbuster half her age. “It's cool. Warren's one of the con organizers.
He told me to come on in.” I remember something. “Hey, Ana, when you meet him . . . don't mention it.”

“Mention . . . what?” she places her hands on her hips and looks at me sternly.

“Nothing weird . . . well, maybe it is.” I've known Warren so long, I've grown used to his peculiarity. Maybe Ana will find it endearing. “It's just . . .”

She's not listening. Her gaze is fixed on something behind me. I turn but don't notice anything, other than a dozen or so people milling around in front of a room, waiting for a presentation.

“Zak! Look at the guy in the Iron Man helmet.”

I let out a world-weary sigh. “Ana, that's Boba Fett. Can you honestly not tell the difference?” I mean, the directional range finder is a dead giveaway.

And then I realize what she means. The bounty hunter is not wearing armor. Instead, he has on a blinding orange-and-red shirt, one so clashing that it hurts the retinas from fifty paces.

I know that shirt. Clayton was wearing it, last time I saw him. So ugly, even I noticed it.

I grin. “Dr. Kimble at last. So, how do you want to do this? Good cop, bad cop?” I start to walk toward him.

“Wait.” Ana looks uncharacteristically indecisive. I wonder what happened to the bossy team captain, but
I don't miss her. “Zak, maybe you should go talk to him alone.”

“Just me? Why?” That smacks of duty and effort. And why would he listen to me over his sister?

“The thing about Clayton is, he always does what he's told. I mean always. But tonight, we got in kind of a fight. I think he's angry with me.” She looks over at her brother, but he's still mingling with the crowd.

I wonder if Clayton is really that obedient, or if he's just better at getting away with things than Ana. “What did you fight about?”

She gives me a cockeyed look, with just a slip of a smile. I have the strange feeling that she's implying something I'm too dense to catch.

“Just talk to him, Zak. Clayton likes you. Try to get him to go back to the hotel, at least by bed check, okay? He doesn't have to go with me, but maybe you could keep an eye on him?”

Story of my life. I try to impress the girl, and end up hanging out with her little brother. But damn, her green eyes . . .

“Duck into the ballroom, Ana. Let Warren know I'm on my way. I'll have a word with your bro.”

She gives me a one-armed hug. I'm so taken aback, I forget to return the embrace.

“You're an okay guy, Zak Duquette,” she says, and releases me.

“Please, call me Duke.”

Ana opens the ballroom door. “Good luck, Zak. Hey, how will I recognize Warren?”

“Trust me. You'll know him when you see him.”

She shoots me a questioning look, then vanishes into the room.

Well, it's all down to yours truly. If I can convince Clay to hang out with me and come back to the hotel before lights-out, Ana will be most grateful. First-date grateful. Maybe.

I guess I'll confront him, man to man. Just remind him that it'll cause a lot of trouble for a lot of people if he goes AWOL.

I slip into the crowd. Remembering how he said he enjoyed
RoboCop
, I decide to break the ice with a line from the film. “Come with me, citizen,” I say in a monotone as I firmly grab his arm.

The results are impressive. Clayton spins his mask toward me, then yanks out of my grasp and goes darting down the corridor, elbowing people out of the way.

I'm too pissed to be diplomatic. “Get back here, you little . . .” He's sprinting like a jackrabbit. I rush after him.

There's no way I can catch him in a mad rush—there are too many people, and I think he's faster than me.
Luckily, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of the convention center. I duck into an
EMPLOYEES ONLY
door, dash down a maintenance hall, nod hello to a surprised guy taking out the trash, and emerge in an empty kitchen. I crack a door and wait. Sure enough, he comes walking by, trying to adjust his facial armor. I yank him by the collar and pull him into the food prep area.

I'm furious. “Knock it off. You know what I want.”

Even under the helmet, Clayton looks terrified. His whole body is shaking, knees knocking, breasts heaving . . .

Uh-oh
.

Boba Fett hurls the mask to the ground. Underneath is a shorthaired, fine-featured girl of about nineteen or twenty. Her eyes blaze with rage and fear.

It's going to take a very, very delicate touch to extricate myself from this situation. I take a deep breath.

“I—”

Her petite fist snakes out (how could I have missed the nail polish?) and drills me right under the eye. I stagger back into a counter.

“Ma'am, I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

She replies with an uppercut, smacking my jaws together with a tooth-rattling clunk. My vision goes blurry.

“My friend's little brother. Believe it or not, he has a shirt that same—”

Her blow to my solar plexus cuts my apology short. I stand there trying to suck in air with a stunned diaphragm.

“Just . . . a . . . mis . . . under . . .”

I think she realizes I'm not fighting back. I hope she'll end the onslaught, but hell hath no fury, and so forth. I don't see the foot coming, but I sure feel it as it connects between my legs. I collapse to the floor.

My feeble voice spurts out in six-point font, “So . . . sorry.”

She's not kicking me, so either she's decided I've had enough, or is searching for a rolling pin. I lay there in the fetal position, staring longingly at an industrial fridge and its probable contents of numbing ice.

Boom. Boom. Boom
.

Something is coming.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Something is near. I don't want to look.

BOOM.

I can't help but think of the classic horror movie, with the tied-up woman, the ominous approaching shadow, and the islanders all chanting
“Kong!”

I slowly turn my head.

He's huge. Tall, and very wide. He's shirtless, wearing
nothing but furry leggings and a Viking helm. And hair. Lots and lots of hair. All over.

I remember him. He was standing near Boba Fett when I attacked her. His lips fold into a snarl. He cracks his knuckles. It sounds like artillery fire.

Ruh roh, Shaggy
.

I have no idea what to expect when I enter the ballroom.
Zak says there are weird subcultures at the con, and I fear I might walk in on something that cannot be unseen.

I'm pleasantly surprised to realize that the room is being prepped for a wedding. A half-dozen well-dressed people unfold chairs, arrange flowers, and string balloons. An easel near the door proclaims this to be the Horowitz-Danvers wedding and reception.

Suddenly, I'm frozen in horror.
This is a wedding
. Right here. Freak show central. I thought Zak said the con reserved the whole center, but he must have been
mistaken. This couple obviously has no idea what they've signed up for. I picture the look on the poor bride's face when a bunch of drunken Wookiees stumble in during the vows. I have to warn someone to get some kind of security detail in place. Where is Zak's friend?

“May I help you?”

He's a very handsome man in his thirties, with brown, slightly receding hair, steely eyes, and no costume.

“Warren?”

“Er, no, I'm John. Ma'am, this is a private event.”

“That's what I need to warn you about. Do you have any idea what's going on out there?”

He looks concerned. “What?”

“A comic book convention! I don't know if anyone told you, but there are some very strange people here this weekend. You might want to consider having someone watch the door.”

He blinks, then laughs. “You scared me there for a minute. Trust me, I know about the con. My fiancée and I met here two years ago.”

And that confirms my theory that these people have no social skills. This guy convinced his poor girlfriend to get married at the geek parade. Maybe she pretended it was a good idea, but there's not a woman alive who'd be enthused about this idea. I give the marriage two years. Maybe four—he
is
cute.

“Miss? Are you looking for Warren? He'll be back in a minute.”

“Thank you. And a piece of advice. Buy your wife flowers every day for the next year or so.”

Someone joins us. “I'd rather get chocolates.”

He's a big, somewhat tubby man, with a full beard and a graying ponytail. John smiles.

“This is my fiancé, Mark.” They both smile, as if daring me to have a problem.

Little foot-in-mouth action there. Nice one, Ana
.

I shake Mark's hand. “Congratulations to you both.” I notice that someone has labeled the two sections of chairs
FEDERATION
and
REBEL ALLIANCE
. They obviously deserve each other.

I start to walk away, but pause. I know it's not my concern, but these two guys seem so
normal
. I have to know why they're holding their ceremony here.

“Could I ask you guys a personal question?”

They both kind of laugh. “You want to know why we're getting married at Washingcon?”

“It's not my business . . . but yes. Doesn't this seem like a silly place for a serious event?”

“Wow,” says Mark, “That's exactly what my sister said.”

John chuckles. “Maybe it is kind of odd to have the ceremony here instead of somewhere more formal. But this place has a lot of happy memories for the both of
us. You know, for years now, I've been called a freak, a pervert, a deviant, a weirdo.” He pauses. “It's been even worse since I came out as gay.”

Mark rolls his eyes. He's obviously heard the joke before.

John continues. “But not here. At the con, there's one hundred percent acceptance, no ifs, ands, or buts. This is the one place where anyone can go and not be judged. And that's why we decided that this would be the ideal spot.”

Out of John's line of vision, Mark subtly shakes his head and cocks a thumb at his fiancé. I swallow my giggle.

“Good luck to both of you.” I attempt to give the Vulcan salute, but my fingers don't go that way. “May the force be with you, and all that . . .”

My phone beeps. I excuse myself to read the text.

It's from Zak.

THAT WAS NOT CLAYTON. STAY WHERE YOU ARE.

Great. Now what?

“Ana?”

I turn around. A tall, well-built black man stands behind me. He's dressed impeccably, with creased trousers, a starched shirt, and a perfectly knotted tie, complete with clip. His shoes are polished, and his ebony hands are so delicate I think they may be manicured.

And he's wearing a mask. An alien mask. Not that unusual around here, I suppose. But this thing is all battered and faded. Most of the paint is missing. It's like something you'd find in your parents' basement, kept only for sentimental reasons.

“Warren?”

“Yes. Duke texted me that you're having some difficulty locating your brother?” His voice is deep and smooth.

“Um, yeah. He's not supposed to be here, but we're kind of hoping to, you know, avoid trouble.”

Warren chuckles. His laughter is warm, comforting, and
why in the world is he wearing that stupid mask?

“I'm a Washingcon official. I may be able to figure out where your brother—what's his name?”

“Clayton Watson.”

“Where Clayton might be headed.” He gestures to a table. Propping my bow against the wall, I pull up a chair as he opens a laptop from an expensive-looking carrying case.

“I'm not really supposed to be doing this,” he says as it boots up. “But Duke said it was an emergency.”

I'm in love with this guy's voice. He's like a radio announcer. It's killing me that I can't see the whole picture, but Zak warned me against asking about Warren's oddity.

“Thanks for your help.”

“Please, don't mention it.” He's typing into his computer. “So, are you enjoying the con? Something tells me you're not a regular.”

“No. Things are kind of . . . crazy.”

He nods. The dead, opaque eyes of the alien reveal nothing. “Well, there are certainly a few unusual characters about. I've learned not to notice.”

“You don't say.”

“Hang on.” Warren peers at the screen. He actually lifts the mask a bit for a better look, but he's bent forward and I can't see any of his features.

“Your brother did indeed register here about two hours ago. One night, all access. Paid cash. Minor badge.”

“That doesn't give me much to go on.”

“Well, let's keep looking . . . yes, here we go. Hmm. Looks like he signed up for the Mazes and Monsters card tournament. Five thirty, convention room B three. If you hurry, you can make it.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. As soon as Zak gets here, we can track down my brother, beat him savagely, and then all go back to the hotel.

There is a loud thumping noise from somewhere in the room. In the middle of the center aisle, part of the floor begins to rise. Some sort of maintenance trapdoor. It flips open with a bang. Filthy and disheveled,
Duquette climbs out from somewhere under the floor. The wedding planners give him a cursory glance and go back to what they're doing.

Zak looks exhausted as he flops down on a chair next to me. His shirt is stained with grease and the knees of his trousers are gone. He sits there and grimaces for a minute, as if in pain. Finally, he lets out a long sigh.

“Evening, Warren.” He then turns to me and nods.

“What the hell were you doing under there?” I blurt, horrified.

“Under where?” He then smiles, tiredly, and chuckles. “Underwear.”

“Zak?”

Zak tents his fingers and regards me through narrowed eyes. Though he's smiling, it's a tight, uncomfortable, almost angry smile.

“Here's a fun little fact, Ana. The promotional giveaway shirts for that
Operation Anarchy
movie are the same color as that one your brother was wearing. I chased some poor girl halfway across the building before I realized
your
mistake.”

Behind his mask, I hear Warren make a
tsk
ing sound. I replay the scene in my mind. Zak's right, I was the one who first mistook her for Clayton.

“Was she angry?”

He chuckles, humorlessly. “Yes, she really hammered
that point home. As did her boyfriend, who promised to break every one of my bones. Fortunately, he actually fell for that ‘your epidermis is showing' gag and I escaped through the maintenance tunnels.” Zak pauses, just long enough for the silence to become awkward. “And how have you been?”

“Warren found out where Clayton is.” My effort to change the subject falls flat.

“Well, jolly good. I hope you can take care of it. There's a rather unpleasant Viking fellow I'm trying to avoid.”

Warren clears his throat. “Duke, would you like me to call security?”

“That won't be necessary.” He stands. Slowly, as if something aches. “As soon as we collect our stray sheep, we're leaving. I've had enough of this crummy day.” He nods. “Warren.”

I try to say something, but Zak's distracted by the sight of the grooms. “John! Mark! You two finally tying the knot?” He walks over to them.

I turn to Warren. “Well, that's that, I guess.” After we get Clayton, we'll go back to the hotel. Crisis averted.

Warren stares at me with his blank eyes.

“Oh, don't look at me like that.”

“Sorry. Is this better?” His expression, of course, doesn't change.

“Very funny.”

“So . . .” He looks down at his perfect nails. “How do you know Duke, anyway?”

I look over at Zak. He's standing with the grooms, juggling some party favors. All three of them are laughing.

How do I know him? He's the moron who got forced onto my quiz bowl team and then saved the day. He's the jerk who convinced my brother to run off and the guy who nearly got killed trying to rescue him. He's a complete and total geek who people automatically like. And I've seen him naked
.

“He's a friend.” I don't look at Warren. Even with the mask, I can feel his eyes boring into me.

He clears his throat. “Someone told me Duke wasn't coming to Washingcon this year. I'm glad to see he made it—it wouldn't be the same without him.”

“Yeah.”
Too bad he can't stay
.

I stand up to collect Duquette. He meets me halfway across the ballroom. His mood seems to have improved.

“I need to get Mark and John something before we leave town. They're registered at Crate and Barrel, Target, and Rock Bottom Comics.”

“C'mon, Zak, let's get Clayton.”

He frowns and bites his lip. “Yeah.”

“Zak . . .” I take a breath, preemptively regretting what I'm about to say. “Thank you for coming out here.
I know you'd rather be with your friends. And if we find Clayton soon, maybe you could show us around for a little bit or something. We've got a couple of hours before curfew and I . . . owe you.”

Zak's face slowly molds into a smile. It's not cocky—it's actually kind of warm. Nice. “Thanks, Ana.”

I turn away and grab my bow before I can return the smile. “C'mon, let's get Clayton. We'll still have an hour or so before we should go back. And I mean, it's not like we're doing anything wrong, right? Mrs. Brinkham said we could go out to eat, and they have food here, right? So really, we're not doing anything that bad. I mean . . .”

I'm babbling. I sound like an idiot. In front of Duquette. Fortunately, he doesn't laugh at me.

“Let's go, Zak.”

He holds the ballroom door open for me. “Call me Duke.”

“No.”

“Then how about Eddie Baby?”

“No.”

“Renaldo?”

“No.”

“Peaches?”

“Stop talking now.”

“Okay.”

Side by side, we walk down the corridor.