Deja Who (19 page)

4) Charlie the Scofflaw. Charlie, the oldest in their group, in her early fifties, was a beautifully dressed woman with skin like hot chocolate with lots of milk, a fifty-dollar manicure, a hundred-dollar haircut, and thirty-eight unpaid tickets. She was waiting to be bailed out by her assistant, or for the mayor to hear of her predicament and do some arm-twisting. At Leah's curious glance, she shook her head.

“Sorry, did you want me to do something?”

“That's okay.” Charlie tried a smile, but wouldn't meet Leah's gaze. “I'd rather you didn't.”

“That works well, since I can't see you.”

She shrugged and examined her long, elegant nails. “No, I wouldn't expect you could.”

“At all.”

“Don't worry.” This time the smile was a bit more real. “It's not contagious.”

“Actually it's interesting. Maybe only to me,” she added, “but you're the second life-blinder I've met this month. My boyfr—my stabbing vic— My future lover . . . well, hopefully; he is proving a tough nut to crack, no pun intended. Stop laughing at me, Celia, and yes, I'm aware there are multiple layers to that comment. You don't—”

“You said the cops think you killed your mom!
And
you stabbed someone?”

“The one has nothing to do with the other, and it's rude to interrupt. Anyway, I can't see
him
, either. I thought it would be creepy and unsettling, but it's . . .” She had to think about it, something she had not allowed herself to do as of yet. She had outstanding excuses to put off examining her feelings, her mother's murder holding pride of place on the list, but she also understood they were only that: excuses.

“It's nice,” she finally decided. “He doesn't expect anything from me. No offense,” she added as she saw a few of the women frown, “because you didn't, either. I more or less forced myself on you.”

“Yeah,” Terry said. “We're the victims.”

“No one who had to be forcibly prevented from microwaving their boyfriend's cat unto death gets to claim that status.”

“You don't know what it's like to be me.”

“I know exactly what it's like to be you,” Leah replied, bored. She turned back to Charlie. “May I ask a personal question?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “You seem like your life is in order, judging superficially by your clothing and
accessories and lovely manicure and diction. You're successful on your own? It's not from marrying well?”

“I run a consulting firm.” Charlie's voice was as stunning as she was, rich and dark like pricey chocolate. It wasn't unlike verbal velvet.

That gave her pause. “Consulting firm” could be anything from a food truck empire to the mafia, but Leah had no interest in quibbling. “And you never thought that your inability to see what happened in your life before, that never held you back. Right?”

“Of course not. What matters is . . .” She trailed off.

“What you do in this life.” That sounded like a sufficient cliché. But the thing about clichés is, as Nellie had pointed out, they are truth. “It works both ways, doesn't it? A lack of previous life knowledge can be considered crippling by some—”
My entire profession, for example. Me, earlier this month.
“—but as freedom for others. There's not one thing to hold you back, yes?”

“Just me,” Charlie replied, and they shared a smile like it was a sweet secret. “And I don't think I'm blind. I think I'm
rasa
.”

That made Leah's smile drop off. “Oh, I don't—ah—interesting.”

The woman gave her a level, unblinking look. “You don't believe it.”

“I'm not your Insighter,” she hedged like a craven, cringing coward.

“And you're too polite to tell me I'm full of shit.” She glanced around the cell, a pointed but silent reminder that Leah was outnumbered. “Or too cautious.”

“Is there a way to answer you without upsetting you?”

She smiled. “It
does
happen, you know. You, especially, would know.”

Not really. Not for decades upon decades. As with religious miracles, the further past the Age of Enlightenment society crawled, the less often miracles were acknowledged. The chances of a random
rasa
being really, truly
tabula rasa
were the same as the image of the Virgin Mary in a basement water stain being an actual sign from God. It wasn't a miracle, it was simulacra.

“It doesn't matter,” Charlie finished. “I know what I know.”

“Then let's leave it at that.”

“Let's.”

5) Celia the Hooker. Leah had met more than one in her professional capacity, but not one so thoroughly undamaged, unashamed, and indifferent to Leah's services. “Don't worry about it,” she said after the other girls had begged Leah to, as Terry put it, “Insight the shit out of us!” “I'm fine on my end.”

“But don't you want to—”

“Tom Mulligan.”

Leah blinked. “Who is Tom Mulligan? Besides you, of course.”

“A regular guy. Nice childhood, nice college, got a nice job, married a nice girl, had nice kids.” Celia smiled a little. “Died a nice death at home, at age seventy-two, holding his wife's hand. Cancer. He blew off chemo the third time; he felt the radiation was making him feel much worse than no radiation.”

“Imagine that.”

The other woman's smile widened. “Yeah, crazy talk, right? That radiation can hasten your death? Anyway. I'm not in the second-oldest profession—I'm pretty sure agriculture was the first—because I was raped by an older brother or because I used to be Anne Boleyn. These were my choices.” She shrugged. “It's boring.”

“You're not boring.” Though it sounds as though Tom Mulligan was. Leah respected Celia's wishes and did not express aloud the sentiment that Celia's choices brought her to a Chicago jail cell in the middle of the day, something Tom Mulligan never experienced. “But it's nice to have someone prove what I always say. That we didn't all used to be famous people. Sometimes we were just John Smith. Or Tom Mulligan.”

“None of this is helping me with my problem,” the sociopath interrupted, and Leah had to laugh, because the thing was, Terry truly felt that sense of being wronged. Her sociopathy provided gargantuan levels of entitlement. It was never, ever her fault, she deserved everything she desired, and she believed that catechism the way the pope believed in tithing. Leah knew people felt sorry for people like Terry (“Oh but their lives are so empty since they can only love themselves and they're forever chasing highs and never holding on to them so they're always unfulfilled poor deluded creatures”) but Leah never bothered. People so ruthlessly set on forwarding their own self-interest needed no one's pity.

So jail had been interesting. Just when they decided to play “weirdest place you've ever done it” (Celia was disqualified, and asked to be the judge), along came Detective Preston, wearing an unmistakable “just got chewed out by my boss” expression. He had let her out, then took the time to walk her out. If he
could be gracious in defeat, Leah could be gracious in entitled bitchiness, and gave him a proper apology. He seemed to appreciate it, and she was gratified to see he seemed to be paying attention to her words. Time, of course, would tell.

And then Archer.

And then Archer.

And then Archer.

“Y
ou're going back to your life, Archer.” Leah spoke with a firmness he was sure she didn't feel. “And I'm going back to mine.”

He spoke without thinking, and wasn't sorry. “You don't have a life and you
are
my life.”

“Stop it,” she said absently, looking for a cab.

“
You
stop it, I'll drive you home, obviously.”

“No. And where the hell are the cabs? I can't be the only newly released detainee in the history of Chicago to leave a police station and require a ride.”

“You're not listening. I'll give you a ride and you're my life.”
Nope, still not sorry.

“You sound like a Hallmark movie. Is it intentional?”

He was now a tiny bit sorry, and pulled up short at that—she'd been tugging him by the elbow out of the police station and onto
the sidewalk, and they were both blinking at each other in the sudden sunshine. “You're not breaking up with me—”

She made an impatient gesture, the kind busy restaurant patrons make when they're asked if they want dessert and they don't; they're in a rush for the bill. “We've been over this. Several seconds ago, remember? I cannot break up with someone I'm not dating. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a funeral to plan.” She looked like she wasn't at all sure how to feel about that. “Run along.”

He scowled at her. “I'm older than you, for Christ's sakes, don't dismiss me like a kid off to naptime.” Anger deepened his voice, but his crossed arms probably showed his stress.
Oh God she's doing it she's freaked she can't see me and freaked my dad's in prison and freaked because her mom was murdered and oh God I can't let her do this I won't let her do this.

“Older. Hmm.” Leah's eyes were tipped up in thought. “I always seem to forget. And then I remember, and it goes on the list.”

“List?”

“The list I've been compiling of all the reasons you would be an incompatible intercourse partner.”

“If you're gonna call me your ‘intercourse partner,' we should definitely break up,” he said at once, then slapped his forehead. “Argh, see? The worst has happened. I've gone and said something I can't take back.”

“Stop hiding behind humor to cover your anxiety.”

“I'll hide behind whatever I want to cover my anxiety,” he snapped back.

Leah blinked, but went on. He was pretty sure she would go
on if he had a heart attack on the spot. “Speaking of the worst, you need to vanish from my life now.”

He nodded like she'd said something he agreed with. She hadn't, but this—this he could work with, at least. “I don't blame you for being upset, but I swear to you, I was going to tell you about my dad. Nellie knew and it didn't bother her, and so much has happened this week I never had a chance to bring it up.”

“I made a list in jail, all the excuses not to think about what these last weeks have meant, and realized making a list of reasons why you put off something unpleasant is proof of cowardice. And it's not about your father. Or Nellie wouldn't have given a shit.”

“Of course it is!” he snapped. Then, “What?”

“Of course my mother knew your family's history; she would have checked it out. Remember, in her mind she was a huge celebrity and that's what a huge celebrity would do. So she knew, she just did not give a shit, which is what I'm ninety-five percent sure I'll be chiseling onto her tombstone. Ugh.”

She slapped a hand over her eyes and wouldn't look at him. “I've been trying to suppress the memory but I just realized I'll eventually have to go to the playing of her will. Her
video
will, because of course she would never refuse the opportunity to perform. If she's wearing the birthday outfit with all the feathers, I will somehow reanimate her corpse and then kill her all over again.” She took her hand away and speared him with her shark's eyes. Cold. Nobody home behind them. “You were perfect for her. You aren't perfect for me.”

“You're wrong.” He stood quietly on the sidewalk, ignoring the stares as people streamed by. “You're not dumping me
because of my murdered uncle, are you? And you don't think I killed your mom.” No. Stupid to even consider that for a moment. Who would know better than the maddening creature before him that you weren't what your parent was? It hadn't given a shit, and Leah didn't, either.

That was worse. That made it all so much worse.

“We have nothing in common.”

“We both think you can be kind of bitchy,” he suggested.

“Very well, we have one thing in common. That, and our continual need for oxygen to survive. And you're far too stubborn.”

“Oh my God, the pot has spoken! You don't fool me at all, Leah Nazir. It's the life-blind thing, isn't it? You thought you could handle it and you can't, so you're pitching me over the side.”

“That's not it,” she said at once, so he recognized the lie.

“So you're not just chilly and distanced, you're a bigot, too.”

“I am not, in other lives I've been African-American, Korean, Chinese—I can't afford to be a bigot, I'm in glass houses all day long.”

“You are, but not for the reason you think.” He was starting to get
very
angry and put his hands behind his back so he wouldn't be tempted to choke her. “You hide there. You like it there. You're always a nobody, whether you're slicing off Anne Boleyn's head or watching the revolution burn through a royal family.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Ha! You're fine watching history instead of making it. You're fine with everything. Look, Leah, there's nothing wrong with keeping your head down, which in your case resulted at least
once in keeping your head. If more people followed that example, you'd have less clients.”

“Fewer.”

“What?”

“I'd have fewer clients.”

“Forget it!” He stuck a finger under her nose and shook it. “I refuse to find the Grammar Police thing sexy right this minute but might later! As I was saying! You're so used to being on the sidelines in past lives, you can barely participate in your current one. I might not agree being life-blind is
blind
, but you refuse to see that always being on the outside isn't healthy, either. And the thought of admitting you need someone, it's fucking paralyzing, isn't it?”

“Don't try to make this a commitment phobia,” she said sharply. “If anything I'm phobophobic.”

“You don't like having your picture taken? I'm not trying to be funny!” he yelped, holding out his hands to placate her. “I have no fucking idea what you're talking about.”

“Also part of the problem,” she muttered. “It's fear of having a phobia.”

“Well, that's just
great
. Of course you do. Or of course you are—do
not
fucking correct my grammar on that one. You're the planet's best Insighter—”

“Actually, Moira McKinnen in Edinburgh is probably the planet's best.”

“Please shut up, sweetie. You spend your time helping people see their past fears, screwups, and deaths.”

“I'm aware of my own job description, Archer.” But he saw it at once; her sharp tone was hiding her unease. He was getting to her and he thought he knew what button he was pushing.

Are we really thrashing this out on a public sidewalk with dozens of witnesses streaming by on either side of us?

Yep.

“You help clients you view only as medical charts see themselves make the same lethal mistakes over the centuries, and then you help them fix it. Sure, it's a noble calling and all, but sometimes, no question, it gets old. Jaded comes with the territory. As does phobophobia, sometimes. But it doesn't have to define you!”

“Archer,” she said, her voice low and sorrowful, “it does define me. It
isn't
just a job. I'm also possibly a thanataphobe.” He must have looked helpfully blank, because she elaborated. “Fear of death.”

He threw his hands in the air. “Well, yeah! This goes back to what I was talking about! If I'd been murdered a dozen times, I'd be afraid of death, too.”

“But I shouldn't be.” Her tone—he actually wished she would go back to shouting. She just sounded so young and lost—like a girl who'd lost a mom she
loved
, as opposed to losing It. “I know I'll come back again. Except—” She cut her gaze and looked away from him. “What if I don't? One of these lives might be my last and I'll never know why. I'll never get another chance to fix things. Or worse—what if I come back like—like—”

He took a breath. Let it out slowly. “Like me?”

She said nothing.

“That,” he said, “could be a blessing. You guys are so busy feeling sorry for people like me, it hasn't occurred to any of you that a person who has the experience of one measly lifetime can be emotionally and psychologically stronger than someone busily screwing up life number xix. Don't you get it? We can be
like that because we
have
to be. We can't hit rewind a hundred times until we figure out our—I dunno”—he groped for something that sounded scientific—“our autophobia is because we've died a dozen times in a dozen car crashes.” When she said nothing, he went on. “Fear of cars? Right?”

“Fear of being alone,” she said slowly and
why
wouldn't she look at him? He thought he knew.

“That's one thing you
never
have to be afraid of.” He reached out, wanting to cup her cheek in his hand, wanting to feel her smooth warm flesh, wanting her to tip her face into his hand and rub like a shark-eyed cat. He wanted to feel the muscles in her cheek flex as she smiled up at him. “Not ever, Leah.”

None of those things happened; she took a calculated step backward and he only cupped air. “That is inappropriate, as we are no longer seeing each other.”

Each word was like a needle in his chest, long and sharp and hot going in. He dropped his hands, took a calming breath. Tried to take a calming breath. “Leah, I love you, but my God: your knowledge of past lives hasn't made you smarter or braver or stronger. It's paralyzed you. Please, please let me help you.”

Oh, shit. What did I say?

Her eyes widened.

Oh, shit! She heard me say the words!

If they got much wider, if any more color fell out of her face, she'd do a face-plant on the sidewalk.

Ohshitohshitohshit.

He braced himself to catch her but wasn't sure he could move fast enough—

“I don't love you and what's more, I never could. I tolerated you because, much like a Vulcan, every now and then I need to
mate. You're not worth the time nor the trouble. Get out of my life. The next time I see you, I'll call the police.
After
I plant a balisong in your voice box.”

—and it was just as well he couldn't have gotten there in time, because he might have let her smack into the sidewalk, purely for spite.

She turned and walked away.

He let her.