Double Cross [2] (5 page)

I’ve come to hate the secret. I feel like it’s huge and formative, and my ignorance of it prevents me from truly knowing Otto—or Packard, for that matter.

“I saw Simon and Helmut today,” I offer. “Helmut wants to put bodyguards on Packard.”

“I bet he does,” Otto says. “That’s a good idea.”

“And Simon said disillusioning your prisoners is like shooting fish in a barrel.”

Otto harrumphs. “Yes, it would be exactly like that if we were killing the people, but we’re not. We’re doing them a favor. We’re inducing them to turn over a new leaf and setting them free.”

“What if they don’t
want
to turn over a new leaf?”

The corners of Otto’s generous lips turn up. “Oh, Justine.”

“Seriously. What if a target would prefer to stay the way she is, and stay imprisoned for life, instead of being law-abiding and free?”

Otto gives me a thoughtful look. “I think most targets
would
choose to stay what they are, but it doesn’t matter what they want. When you take people’s lives and terrify the citizenry, you give up certain rights. We’ve got to look at this from the point of view of what’s best for Midcity, not what’s best for the criminal. But yes, they probably don’t want to change. People rarely want to.”

“Then do we really have a right to change them? Isn’t it a human right to be who you’ve become?”

“It’s not as if you’re brainwashing these people. You’re rebooting them.”

“Still—” I pause as the waitress delivers our sodas and chips and salsa.

He touches my cheek. “Evil is an aberration of nature. You’re rebooting them, restoring them. Righting them. You think a prison is somehow more humane, or moral, where the aberrations only get worse?”

I take the wrapper off my straw and stick it into my soda.

“If you went to them after they turned positive and asked which they’d prefer, they’d be grateful for your turning them. The work we’re doing together is helping me keep the streets safe, so children can play in parks, and people can live free, and businesses can feel confident about locating here. Besides, I believe that, deep down, everybody yearns to be good.” He unwraps his straw. “At
any rate, I certainly can’t keep them all imprisoned with my mind, they can’t go to human prisons, and they can’t be freed the way they are. So even if what you’re doing is wrong, which it
isn’t
, sometimes you have to choose.”

I examine a tortilla chip, considering this.

“You’re overthinking it,” he adds.

“And they’re all for sure guilty?”

He furrows his brow. “Of course.”

I dip my chip into the salsa.

“I spoke with the lead Dorks investigator earlier,” he says. “Their latest theory is that all the victims were wearing something blue.”

“Like the Dorks hate the color blue? That’s why they’re killing people?”

“Something like that.”

I crunch my chip disdainfully.

“What else are the detectives to think?” Otto says. “They don’t know what connects the victims. If somebody trustworthy informed them that the victims are all highcaps—”

“But somebody trustworthy
can’t
.”

An hour or so later we step outside into the chilly darkness. Otto’s town car waits at the curb. After the last time we ate here, we walked a few blocks to the West Side Bakery for dessert. This is a perfect moonlit night for a walk, not so cold, though you can still see your breath. But there are the Dorks to think about.

Otto mentions the idea of a walk to Covian, who peers up and down the sidewalk. Across the street, the mirror windows of a mod 1960s gas company building reflect the moonlight.

I wait, thinking about something Otto once said, about how disturbing it is to highcaps to have their power thwarted. I could especially see it upsetting Covian. He takes his bodyguard work so seriously.

“I leave it up to you, old friend,” Otto says. “You’re the guard.”

Covian stares at the sky for a while. Then he says, “Their pattern’s been every three days, and always nearer the lake.” He looks at Otto. “And they hit once today. It’s not common for serial killers to change patterns.”

Otto nods.

“But then, this is a gang of three, which adds unpredictability,” Covian reasons. “Then again, twice in a day? And out here?”

Otto waits. Otto believes in people. Sometimes when he looks at you, his trust and faith feel like a warm breeze inside. I always think that’s part of why he was elected—people like it when other people believe in them. I know I do.

“They struck once today,” Covian says. “We’re fine.” Covian goes to the curb to send the car ahead.

Otto turns to me, brushing a stray hair off my cheek. “A short after-dinner stroll, a cookie, and then home …” The way he says that, my heart drops through my chest.
And then home …

“Sounds wonderful,” I say.

“I needed time,” he says, “but I’m back.” He means with me.

I want to say a million different effusive things, but before I can embarrass myself, he takes my hand and we set off down the block.

Covian catches up with us; then he drops behind, into shadows, then comes back near. That’s how he guards, walking loose, open to waves from the future.

We’ll have sex tonight; I can feel it. Does it mean Otto’s over my attack on him? Of course it does. I squeeze his hand. Everything about this night has turned magical, and this dark, quiet neighborhood is suddenly the center of the universe.

We round a corner and stroll past shuttered store-fronts.
Across the way, a glass office tower is held up by giant concrete pillars; it looks like it’s on stilts. During the day, cars park under there.

That’s where the three loud booms come from. Boom-boom-boom.

Glass shatters. Car alarms wail. I freeze, bewildered.

Suddenly two louder booms sound like cannons in my ear. It’s Otto, gun out, shooting at the pillars.

I didn’t even realize we’d let go of each other’s hands, but there he is, running in the other direction, returning fire.
And drawing theirs.

He yells, “Get him behind that car!”

I see Covian on the ground, clutching his thigh. “Covian!”

More gunfire. More windows break around us. Alarms are going crazy.

“Go!” Otto says.

“Shit!” I help Covian to safety behind a car a couple yards down. Otto continues to shoot.

“Get down, boss,” Covian yells, face a tight mask of pain. He unfolds onto his back on the cold sidewalk. “Don’t let him—”

“Shhh,” I say.

Otto’s positioned himself behind a lone car at the other end of the block. The long stretch of sidewalk between us sparkles with broken glass.

“How is he?” Otto calls over the cacophony of alarms.

“I think he’s hit in the thigh,” I call back. There’s a major artery in the thigh I’m worried about, and I press the heel of my palm where I think it is. Covian breathes heavily.

“Team on the way,” Otto calls. “You need my help?”

“God, no!” Covian yells.

“We’re fine!” I add. We’re not, but neither of us wants Otto crossing the open space. Covian clutches his thigh; then he lets go, like he can’t decide what to do. I can’t
tell if he’s trying to help stanch the blood or lessen the pain. Sometimes he touches the side of his stomach. Blood’s on his pants, his hands, my hands. It’s getting cold. My fingers are numb.

“I’m okay,” Covian says.

The bloodstain creeps wider on his pants leg. I feel so helpless.

“I’m pushing on where the artery is,” I explain to Covian. “Applying pressure. Okay?”

Covian grunts his assent, then there’s more gunfire. “No!” Covian yells.

I look over and gasp. Otto’s sprinting across the empty sidewalk. More gunfire. He slides in like a ballplayer.

“Damn it!” I say.

“Covian.” He crawls over and touches Covian’s forehead, then he takes his hand.

Covian watches Otto’s face, like he’s finding strength there. The car alarms wail on.

“You’re okay,” I say. “I’m just keeping up pressure.”

“Don’t worry, Covian,” Otto adds. “Between the two of us, we have a great deal of vascular knowledge. You’re in excellent hands.”

“With you two?” Covian barks out a laugh. It seems to cost him.

Otto smiles, but his eyes stay dark with worry. Sirens scream in the distance.

Covian whispers, “I couldn’t feel them coming!”

“Of course not,” Otto says. “It’s the Dorks. It’s not your fault.” He pulls off his coat and settles it over Covian.

I gape at the red bloom of blood on Otto’s shirtsleeve. “Your shoulder!”

“Flesh wound,” he says.

“Well, God,” I say.

With a burst of energy that surprises me, Covian reaches up, grabs Otto’s collar, and pulls him down, almost
like he aims to kiss him. “Don’t go out again until they’re caught! Promise me you won’t take any more chances! Promise you’ll stay inside!”

“I can’t make that promise,” Otto says.

The sirens are closer. “Promise me!”

“I’ve canceled my speeches,” Otto says. “All public events.”

“You have to promise to stay inside!” Covian is really freaked out. They have a bond, those two. They came up together on the force, highcaps in hiding.

Red flashes on dark walls. Gently Otto removes Covian’s hands from his collar. “You need to trust that I’ll be all right.” He whips off his glasses and hands them to me, then he pulls his beret from the pocket of the jacket he’d draped over Covian and puts it on his head, transforming back to flamboyant Mayor Otto Sanchez.

The EMTs arrive and we give them room to work on Covian. Otto tells a pair of detectives what he saw. Officers are placing tabs next to bullet holes, examining the alley across the street. Only now do I think about the fact that Otto was carrying his gun. Dorks precaution?

Otto introduces me to the detectives Wang and Mulligan as his consultant, our usual ruse. The publicity of being a celebrity mayor’s girlfriend would destroy my ability to work as a disillusionist. It would also connect Otto to the world of the highcaps and to Packard, a known crime boss. In short, it would connect Otto to all the secret operations of his own administration.

Detective Wang and his partner ask me questions about what I saw. Nothing, I tell them. They don’t interview us hard, being that Otto was once a superstar detective and their boss. They’re interested in the fact that neither of us is wearing blue, though, and also that Otto noticed that one of the Dorks had eyeglasses. Squarish, brown, possibly tortoiseshell rims.

They’re putting Covian in an ambulance. His vitals
look good; that’s all they’ll say. Otto and I head down the block where Jimmy the chauffeur is waiting, leaning against the car. He opens the back door and Otto and I climb in.

“Midway General, please,” Otto says.

Jimmy nods. Maybe he already knew that. Like Covian, Jimmy’s a short-term precog—certainly a good thing for a driver to be. He puts up the partition window.

Otto rests his head back against the seat as we zoom away. “He gets shot in my service, and all he can think is that he let me down.”

“He’s going to be okay.”

Otto stares out the window. The hum of our tires mixes with the roar of a nearby motorcycle. After a long silence, he turns to me. “I won’t have us victimized like this, Justine. I won’t.” There’s an edge to his voice that I’ve never heard before.

I put my hand on his arm. “We’ll stop them,” I say.

Otto gives me a weary gaze. “I’m so glad you’re here. You help me,” he says. “So much.”

I smile. It’s not the most romantic thing a man might say, but it means a lot to me.

He shifts and arranges himself to fit perfectly next to me, chin on my head, like we’re two puzzle pieces. We’ve always fit well together; that’s one of the big things about us. Even last fall, in the chaos after I confessed that I’d been sent to disillusion him, we’d attended a charity ball together. We managed to have a nice time of it, in spite of it all.

But soon after, he told me he needed to step back—
to repair
, he’d said. And there was the election to think about. He’d decided to run, and needed to focus on that for a bit. And we disillusionists regrouped and began disillusioning the prisoners Otto’s holding with his mind. That was the deal: Packard’s freedom in exchange for us
disillusioning Otto’s prisoners. Every one we turn loose reduces the dangerous strain on Otto’s brain.

Otto runs his thumb back and forth along the silky lining of my coat in a motion that seems almost self-soothing. Otto doesn’t trust hospitals any more than I do; we’re both acutely aware that more people die in hospitals than anywhere else.

“I couldn’t make that promise to Covian,” he says suddenly. “I won’t let fear make me hide. But I’ll tell you this—I won’t use highcap bodyguards anymore. Even Jimmy.” He gestures toward the front. “I won’t put the highcaps who work for me in danger just because I won’t hide. Human bodyguards and human drivers
only
until this is over.”

“You should wear a vest, too.”

“I do,” he says.

“Good.” I nestle my head on his shoulder, glad I didn’t bother him with our Ez problem. All of these imprisoned highcaps are twisted and dangerous, but we disillusion them and it’s over. The Ez situation is so minor when you compare it to what happened to Covian.

Jimmy’s voice comes through the intercom. “Side entrance or ER?”

“The ER door,” Otto says.

We arrive at the ER entrance. It’s understood that I can’t go in, with all the press that will be there. Otto kisses me, warm and light.

“Call me,” I say as he gets out. “Call me when you know.”

I watch Otto disappear through the double door.

Jimmy lowers the panel between us. “Home?”

“Yes, please.”