Mind Games (42 page)

O
TTO POUNDS
on Mongolian Delites’ door, and then he runs his hand over the face, tracing the elegantly curved nose that matches his. I think it’s a good sign we’re here, and not in some storeroom out in Branlock or something. He’s thinking about the offer. I may have lost him, but at least I was right about him.

It’s still morning, two hours before lunch. Carter opens up and looks back and forth from Otto to me. “What’s up?”

I stammer, unsure where to begin. My left temple is starting to throb in a way it never has before.

“I’m here to see Sterling Packard,” Otto says.

“It’s okay,” I say.

Carter lets us in. “What’s going on?”

“Is he in the booth or the kitchen?” I ask.

“Kitchen,” Carter says.

I take his arm. “Let’s go get him.” I pull him away from Otto, leading him around some tables to the bar area where Shelby, Helmut, and Simon sit.

Helmut nods at Otto, who stayed near the door, keeping his distance from me, from Helmut. From all of us. “What’s he doing here?” Helmut asks under his breath.

Simon says, “You’re pals with Chief Sanchez?”

“Look closer,” I say. “Add hair and a beard.”

Simon exhales loudly. “The face. Shit, Justine—” He grabs my shoulder. “The nemesis. It’s him.”

Helmut pales. “I’m getting Packard.”

I feel Carter stiffen against my arm. “Sanchez is the nemesis?”

“Carter, be calm.”

Carter jerks away from my grip. “You’re telling me Sanchez is the nemesis?”

Simon stands up from his barstool. “This oughta be interesting.”

I grab for him, but it’s too late: Carter’s across the room, and in a flash he attacks Otto, all fury and speed.

I run over. “Stop it!” I grab Carter’s shirt, but it rips. Otto’s recovered from the surprise of the attack enough by this time to be hitting back. I step back, flinching with every smack, thwack, and grunt. They’re in a full-on guy fight. Otto’s got height and mass and power, but Carter has speed and a whole lot of rage. I grab for Carter’s arm, but it’s like grabbing a moving fan blade. Things are too out of control; it’s like the fight is a blinded beast, thrashing wildly around the room. Just like that they’re on the floor, rolling, pushing at each other’s necks and faces.

The next thing I know, Packard piles on. He pulls Carter off Otto and back a few steps, arms around the thrashing Carter, encircling him, mumbling into his bloody hair. Otto grabs his beret, which came off during the fight, and puts it on. The way he touches the back of his head, I’m guessing he sustained a blow there.

“What do you want?” Packard says, still holding Carter, who redoubles his struggle. With a jerk, Packard tightens on him. “Stop it,” he whispers loudly.

“I want to make a deal with you,” Otto says. One of his cheeks is tomato red.

Packard glares at him. “Will it bring Diesel back?”

Otto doesn’t answer.

“Then I’m not interested.”

Carter’s calmed down, finally. Packard lets him go with a warning look, and they both straighten. Blood runs down from Carter’s eyebrow, and there’s a red circle on the side of his mouth.

“It’s open,” Otto says suddenly.

Packard shoots his gaze to the door, regarding it with fear and longing, like it’s this live thing and not just a slab of wood.

“I lifted the field because I need your help, Sterling.”

I’m surprised. If Packard decided to let Carter kill Otto now, wouldn’t the field stay off? Is this some show of submission? Repentance? A bargaining salvo? How fast can Otto reknit the force field? He’d have to get to the wall. Or can he interface from the floor?

“I’m sorry about Diesel,” Otto continues. “I know how you loved him.”

“Don’t ever say his name again.”

Otto moves closer to Packard. “The door stays open if you help me. I need you to help me keep the city safe.”

“I’d put a bullet in my head before I help you do what you do.”

“I’m not asking you for that. I want you to do what
you
do. I want you to reform my current prisoners the way you reformed Benjamin Foley.”

Packard tears his attention away from the door and regards me with a subtle smile in his eyes; then he closes them, thinking.

Otto continues. “And the violent humans and high-caps I haven’t grabbed yet. Quietly, of course.”

“So our upstanding Chief Sanchez wants to set up a shadow arm of the law.” Packard turns to Otto. “No thanks. I’ll stay where I am and wait for you to crack.”

“I won’t crack.”

“I think you will,” Packard says. “What’s more, seeing the crime wave unfold and knowing it’s all due to
your
foolishness has been one of my greatest pleasures in life. It wouldn’t have happened if you’d left me alone.”

“I was cutting the head off the snake.”

“And you created a mindless monster. I told you that would happen, and you didn’t listen.”

I half expect Otto to argue here, but he doesn’t. It’s clear, suddenly, how he climbed so high: he’s as goal-oriented as Packard.

“And now I’m making you an offer,” Otto says. “I need you to disillusion and reform them.”

“I will never disillusion the people who trusted me and followed me. All they ever needed was a leader. I’ll die in a hole before I betray them.”

“It’s the new ones I need you for. The ones you never knew, never met, never led.” Otto touches his vein star spot again. “The ones I need you to reform were never your people.”

“How many highcaps are you holding, Otto? A dozen?”

Otto says nothing.

“Three dozen?” A pulse of a smile passes over Packard’s lips. “More?”

“I want you to disillusion the violent highcaps I have sealed in, then disillusion the people who are problems on the outside—humans we can’t convict, other violent highcaps.”

Packard crosses his arms. “I won’t be your employee.”

They regard each other calmly. And just steps away, the door is open to Packard. I can’t believe he doesn’t run right out.

“You’d be an independent operator.”

Packard’s tone is cool, almost careless. “No thanks.”

“What do you want?”

“What I had.”

Otto shakes his head. The room feels strangely still. Simon grins hungrily. Shelby comes over and takes my arm, and with a wave of gratitude I pull her close. Otto says, “I can’t bring him back.”

“He was innocent.”

Otto presses his lips together. Pain. Packard understands just how to wound him. It makes me wonder about this secret past of theirs.

“Here’s the offer, Sterling. Disillusion and reboot whoever I direct you to, in a timely manner, and you’re free to lead life as you please. Just stay under the radar of the police and out of the media.”

Packard says nothing.

“I need citizens to stop feeling frightened. Beyond that, stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”

“If I didn’t know better, old friend, I’d say you were running for office.”

“I’m here to keep the citizens safe from evildoers of all kinds,” Otto says.

“Right,” Packard says.

“Is that a no?”

Packard’s silent. It’s not a no.

“Will you give your word of honor on this?” Otto says. “As long as you disillusion who I need you to disillusion, you remain free.”

“I won’t do it indefinitely,” Packard says. “There has to be an end.”

They negotiate. There will be a list. The issue of pay for us comes up.

Shelby frowns. “Secret police,” she whispers to me.

I turn to her, voice low. “You don’t like this? You don’t want to do it?”

“I did not say that. Vigilante, secret police. Is much the same.”

Otto comes to Packard hand outstretched. The two
men eye each other; then Packard takes it and they shake.

Packard glares at the door, but it’s a glare that hides a smile. He sucks in his lips, as if to swallow his happiness. It’s done.

And then Carter pushes both doors wide open to the late-morning light, holds them open to a scene of stone buildings, signposts, light poles, and trees growing from iron circles in the sidewalk. A car drives by, momentarily blotting out the parallelogram of sunshine on the street. Packard gazes out with an expression that looks something like grief. Shelby offers him her arm.

“No,” he whispers. “Let me.” He crosses the space to the door in a few steps, slows as he passes over the threshold, and pauses on the outer stoop.

I hear the slightest intake of breath as Helmut comes up next to me, hands clasped tight together against his belly. We all draw slowly toward the door, not wanting to crowd Packard. But during a lull in the traffic, Packard wanders into the street. We move out onto the stoop and sidewalk, unsure what to do. The parallelogram of sunshine in the far lane glows and sparkles on the pavement, and that’s where Packard kneels, lifting his face upward.

The traffic light changes, and the cars approach. “Shit.” Carter goes out there, followed by Helmut. They wave and direct the oncoming cars into a different lane to avoid Packard, who kneels still, bathed in light, oblivious to the honking, eyes closed in what I can only describe as a look of bliss.

Shelby puts her hand over her heart. “He wanted only to feel sun on skin. Eight years.” She glares at Otto, who leans in the dark corner of the restaurant doorway, holding a bloody towel to his eye. I’m guessing he’s a lot more worried about a vein star than his eye; after all, his hat came off during the fight. He may even be enduring
a silent smite. I have this urge to touch him, to help him, but obviously that won’t be happening.

Shelby leaves us and crosses the street to join Packard, Helmut, and Carter, who are laughing, now—happy, infectious laughter. The cars honk and avoid them. I suppose the drivers think they’re crazy.

Simon turns a wary eye toward Otto—his new boss, in effect. “Well then,” he says.

Otto simply nods; I wonder if he hears the note of challenge.

Simon, too, abandons Otto and me for the jolly fun in the street, taking up a place just apart from the knot of disillusionists.

I wonder how long it will take them to realize I gambled their lives. Have I lost them, too?

I’m awkwardly aware it’s just Otto and me in the doorway. Like a beggar, I soak up these last seconds of being near him.

They start off down the sidewalk—Packard, Shelby, Carter, Helmut. Simon follows at a few paces—with them, yet not. Packard glances back at us briefly, glowing with lust and life.

“The citizenry should be safer, at least,” Otto says.

The citizenry
. I miss him already. “Yeah.”

“Where do you think they’re going?” Otto removes the towel from his face and sets it on the ledge. There’s a bright red blotch on the outer edge of his eye.

I only have to consider this for a moment. “The beach. Probably Mexico.”

We watch in somber silence.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He regards me strangely. What is there to say? I could remind him I likely saved his life and the lives of others. But that’s not the issue. I turn to go.

“Wait.” A hand, heavy on my shoulder, urging me back. I turn. He looks troubled, even a little bit desperate;
I can’t tell if he wants to arrest me or kiss me. The pathetic truth is, I would welcome either.

“When you—? Was it—?” He stops. He can’t find the question.

I can find the question. “Was it easy?” A horrible silence unfolds around my words. “You trusted me and opened yourself to me. God, I always felt so happy to be with you. But I attacked you at your most vulnerable—twice.” I wrap my own arms around me. “I went against my feelings about you and lied to you and hurt you to achieve my mission. Was it easy? How could I? Is that what you’re wondering?”

His eyes shine with pain. “Yes,” he whispers.

“No. It was
not
easy. And yes, it hurt like hell—hurts still. But … how could I? I guess I just could. That’s what I’m capable of.” I won’t lie to him. “And if I thought innocent lives were at stake, including my own, would I do it again?”

He regards me sharply.

“I would,” I say.

His nostrils move minutely; he seems almost to breathe in my answer, weighing it, maybe battling it inside himself.

My stomach does this queasy flop. “I can’t tell you how awful it is to know I invaded you with my fear and darkness.”

“I thought I was going into overload. I felt crazy. My head …”

“I’m so sorry. I know you can never forget it.”

“I can’t.”

There’s this long silence. I glance up the street to find my disillusionist gang has disappeared from view. This makes me feel unaccountably sad.

“But I would’ve done it,” he says. “In your shoes, I would’ve done the same.”

I search his face, waiting for the
but
.

“I understand perfectly why you did it. But the fact remains you did it to me.”

I nod.

“Still, I find myself at such a loss.”

“A loss?” I echo stupidly.

He touches his chest. “More a conflict.” I’m thinking a conflict might be good, but it’s not the kind of thing you say to a person.

“You tried to destroy me, but you also gave me the means to destroy you. You believed.”

I’m so grateful, I actually feel like crying. I try my best to get a grip. “Of course I did.” I try not to smile as I touch his lapel. “Of course.”

He reaches out to me, and my heart leaps as he takes my hand and pulls me to him. “God help me,” he says, and he kisses me, long and strong, like his whole heart is pouring into it. He feels so good; I hold him to me, drinking in his lips, his arms, his warmth.

He pulls away as abruptly as he started, regards me with a baffled look. “You never answered my question,” he says.

I try and focus. “What question?” I don’t know if I can answer any more questions.

“Are you free for the ball tonight?”

I regard him dimly. Is he really asking?

He weaves his warm fingers into mine. “I want you with me.”

“You do?”

“I need time to repair, to trust. I can’t—”

Have sex with me again, he means. “It’s okay.” I try not to smile quite as hugely and wildly as my heart wants. “I would love to accompany you more than anything.”

He holds my gaze and pulls my hand to his mouth, kisses my palm without taking his eyes from mine. It’s
shockingly intimate—even more intimate than the kiss. “Good.”