Trance (27 page)

Gage rinsed soap off his face. “What if we’re preempting ourselves here? We’ve had Specter’s description out to every law enforcement agency for the last four days. He can’t look that different after fifteen years. Someone matching the few early photos we have is bound to turn up.”

“Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. “But Specter doesn’t stay anonymous for thirty years just to get picked up on a speeding ticket and booked into the system. My gut tells me the cops won’t find him before we do.”

“So even if we figure out a way to bait him, we still need a trap to spring.”

“Precisely.”

And how do you keep a mind separated from its body? Especially a mind as strong as Specter’s?

I hung the hair dryer on its hook and shook out my hair. The purple smudges on my hairline and throat were now as natural to my eyes as plain pink skin had been two weeks ago. I adjusted the short jacket of my uniform, pleased with the fit. Someone had picked it out for me and left it in my room. Renee ranked at the top of my suspects list. I wasn’t a fashion plate and didn’t care what I wore, as long as it was both comfortable and functional.

The ensemble consisted of a tank top the same silver as a pair of knee boots with wedge heels, a gunmetal-gray three-quarters jacket, and matching low-slung pants. The effect was professional enough for a television interview, with a dash of my own personality to give it some sparkle. I
checked my appearance once more before leaving my room.

Gage’s door opened just as I closed mine. He stepped out, dolled up in a body-hugging uniform: black slacks tucked into a pair of cobalt-blue boots, topped with a blue-and-black patterned shirt. The colors didn’t swirl, exactly, just coexisted in the material so it looked blue from some angles and black from others.

He wasn’t paying attention and nearly slammed into me.

“What’s your hurry?” I asked. “We’re not late.”

His eyes blazed. “The trap.”

“What trap?”

“Specter’s trap. If we can lure him, I know how to trap him.”

Speechless, I let him grab my hand and pull me toward the elevator, listening as he rattled off his idea.

Marco and Agent McNally were easy to find. We had to rustle Renee and William out of bed in order to get their feedback. William took the time to throw on his uniform; Renee trudged into the conference room in rumpled pajamas. She yawned as she sat, extending her jaw to comical proportions.

“Please don’t tell me, T,” she said, “that you dragged us down here to tell you how stunning you look for your television debut.”

“You can go back to bed in ten minutes,” I said. “Gage has an idea.”

Renee held up her hand and made a spinning motion with one finger. I rolled my eyes.

“I still don’t have anything in the way of bait,” Gage said, when attention turned to him. “But I know how to trap him away from his physical body long enough to find it.”

McNally straightened up in her chair, as fresh and awake as I’d ever seen her during the day. “What do you have in mind, Cipher?” she asked.

“Psystorm.”

“Si-what?” Renee asked.

“Psystorm. He’s a Bane, one of those imprisoned right now on Manhattan Island. I remember him because my mentor Delphi fought him a few times. She also mentioned one day having to train Trance to fight him, because they had similar powers. Back then, anyway.”

“The name is familiar,” Marco said. “What is his power?”

“With line-of-sight contact, he can seize control of your conscious mind. He can affect your thoughts and the signals your brain sends to the rest of your body. Freeze you up. It’d be a risk to the host, but Psystorm could keep Specter inside one of us.”

Renee smacked her hand palm-down on the tabletop. “Wait a second, you just said Psystorm is a Bane. Why the hell would he help us capture one of his own kind?”

Gage leaned forward. “Specter avoided prison all these years and never made an attempt to free the people he led during the War. Sounds like a reasonable excuse for some payback.”

“What would he have to lose?” I asked. “We were raised to believe all Banes were bad, but maybe they aren’t. We should study Psystorm’s background file and figure out a way
to make a deal. Not for free, obviously, but we don’t know his price until we ask.”

“And what about after?” Renee asked. “What the hell’s to stop Psystorm from turning on us when it’s all over?”

“Nothing, but I think it’s a chance worth taking. The alternative is sitting here twiddling our thumbs and hoping for the best next time Specter decides to take potshots at us.”

Marco flinched, but I got my point across. I wanted their support—no, needed it—for this decision. If I didn’t get it I would damned well do it without them. Psystorm was a Bane, but I had to believe he could change and be someone other than who he’d been fifteen years ago.

“I think it’s a good idea, Trance,” McNally said. “I’ll have my office send over the file on Psystorm, so we can work on your approach. We can’t offer him the world, but I’m sure there’s something he wants.”

“Besides freedom?” Renee asked.

“If that’s what it takes,” I said. My petulant side didn’t want any more help from the MHC, only I couldn’t afford to be picky. “Has there ever been an effort made toward rehabilitating the imprisoned Banes? Or did the AFT just concentrate on keeping them locked away from the public?”

“I honestly don’t know, Trance,” McNally replied. “It was never my area of expertise, nor was it my postwar assignment. However, I’m fairly certain the answer is no. The viewpoint in Washington is that the Banes are simply a menace to be dealt with, not a problem to fix.”

“Nice,” Gage said with a snort.

“What about now?” I asked. “What if there are Banes who
just want to get out of prison and try to lead a normal life? Or at least a quiet and somewhat productive life. Shouldn’t we try to offer them the chance?”

“How do you figure out the difference, T?” Renee asked. “How do you know they’re sincere and not just playing you?”

“We probably won’t.”

“No, you won’t, and the wrong ones will go free, and we’ll be both blamed and responsible for picking them back up. Isn’t it smarter to just leave them all where they are?”

I bristled. “Maybe, but I say we take a chance on Psystorm and see what happens. The rest of it we’ll deal with as it comes.” Crossing the bridge and all that.

“Fine.” She sank into her chair, frustration playing out on her smoky blue face.

McNally stood up and said, “We can go about contacting Psystorm after the interview is over. Right now, let’s focus on getting that off our plate.”

“Agreed,” Gage said.

Renee didn’t look at me when I walked past her. She stood and spoke quietly with William. They hugged, kissed. Feeling like an intruder, I ducked into the corridor to wait with Gage and McNally. William joined us a moment later.

“You were pretty quiet in there,” I said to him.

“That’s because I’m worried about it, same as Renee,” William replied. “I think you’re right, though. We don’t have a choice. It’s what’s got to be done, and if you believe it, I believe it.”

I did believe it. I just hoped the others would be able to forgive me if I was wrong.

M
cNally had picked a small studio, host to several public digicast shows, including a morning and evening news hour. The studio was built inside an old warehouse in West Hollywood and had minimal security. Our window-tinted utility vehicle drove around to a rear entrance. The place didn’t even have a security gate. Definitely an obscure location.

An elderly gentleman in a faux-expensive suit waited for us in front of a pair of double-glass doors. He shook McNally’s hand, regarding us with open curiosity.

“Miles Lanthrop, segment producer,” he said. “I’m so pleased you chose our little studio for this interview, Miss Trance.”

I grinned; he was endearing off the bat. “It’s just Trance, Mr. Lanthrop. These are my associates, Cipher and Caliber.”

Lanthrop shook Gage’s hand firmly. He winced a bit when William took hold. He led us through the double doors and down a short, dark-paneled hallway. We passed a series of closed doors. Past the sixth, the hall turned sharply left. Directly ahead was a set of swinging double doors, and through
their windows was the studio. To the left was a sound booth and to the right another plain door.

We entered the studio, which was surprisingly active. Three cameras stood at attention, and two operators were fiddling with buttons and switches. A pair of young women with headsets scurried back and forth on the stage, shifting chairs and fluffing fake plants. They’d created an informal living room set—a nice touch.

One face was missing.

“Where’s Dahlia?” I asked.

“Probably chewing her fingernails to a nub,” McNally said. “The poor thing sounded terrified on the phone. She’s had a copy of your questions to go over, so she should be fine.”

“If she ever comes out of the dressing room,” Lanthrop said. “If you three don’t mind having a seat, I’ll have my makeup girl—”

“No makeup,” I said. “I don’t want this to look staged. You get us and all of our pores.”

Lanthrop gave McNally a pleading look; she just smiled. I might still be angry with her, but I did like having her on our side.

“All right, then,” he said. “The sofa there, stage right, is for you. The chair stage left is for Miss Perkins. We’ll be running all three cameras at once and editing it from tape. If you feel the need to address the camera for any reason, try to speak to the camera on your left. It will be in close-up.”

“I’m certain,” I said, “that Agent McNally has already discussed approval of the final cut? Just to make sure you don’t edit anything improperly.”

“I understand your suspicions, Trance, but please be assured I have no intention of snowballing you or your friends. I simply want to bring this news to the world, and you are allowing me the chance. Don’t worry.”

“It’s my job to worry.”

Gage cleared his throat, put his palm on the small of my back, and steered me toward the stage. I went willingly and sat with Gage on my right. William stood next to us. He’d come as a lookout, not a participant.

One of the headset girls—a PA, I assumed—clipped lapel microphones to our uniforms. She managed to find places that didn’t show, and we went through a sound check with a man in the glass booth. They brought up blinding lights and held black boxes in front of us. The other PA patted some powder on my nose before I could protest.

“This is a bit surreal,” Gage whispered, hand covering his mike.

McNally and Lanthrop stood by the middle camera, deep in conversation. Two operators had taken position on small stools attached to the hulking equipment, while the third camera remained unmanned.

On our left the first PA opened a door and held it. She beckoned someone forward. A few seconds passed. Dahlia Perkins finally emerged, thin hands clutching a yellow clipboard. She spotted us and stopped. Took a few steps, stopped again. I bit my lip, trying hard not to laugh.

“It’ll be easier to ask the questions from over here,” I said, waving her forward.

Some of her fear seemed to evaporate. Dahlia strode
toward us with an air of purpose, if not intent, and carefully perched on the edge of her chair. She wore a simple black skirt and jacket, blond hair pulled back into a tasteful ponytail. She looked the part, even if she acted like a frightened teenager.

“It’s good to see you again,” I said, and introduced her to William. “Are you okay with the list of questions?”

“Yes,” Dahlia said. “I still don’t understand why you chose me, though. I’m not experienced with live interviews. I’m a writer.”

“Because you’re not experienced, that’s why. I didn’t want someone coming into this with a preset notion of how it will run. I didn’t want someone to try and toss in a few unregulated questions. This isn’t a fluff piece, and it’s not a free-for-all.”

She nodded.

“And if it goes well, it will look great in your portfolio.”

That earned a smile.

“Chad!”

Dahlia jumped. Behind the glare of lights, Lanthrop stormed around, seeking someone. A sleepy-eyed man emerged from a side door, yawned, and shambled toward the vacant camera. Lanthrop muttered something, and Gage laughed.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Just some colorful curse words,” he whispered back. “I guess Chad’s been given final warning a few times for being late.”

“You heard that?” Dahlia asked. She blushed. “Oh, right, of course.”

Lanthrop stepped up to the edge of the stage. “Are we ready to make history? Ms. Perkins, you okay? Need any more antacids before we start?”

“No, I’m fine.” She fanned herself with the clipboard, and the blush started to fade.

William took that as his cue to leave the stage. He stood on our right with a good view of the studio, greenroom doors, and the sound booth. Knowing he was there helped me relax.

Please let Specter stay away for a while.

“The intro and questions are up on the prompter,” Lanthrop continued. “Just remember to smile, breathe, and you’ll do fine.”

“And try not to belch on camera,” I added.

Gage covered his mouth with his hand. Lanthrop glared. Dahlia paled, finally matching the color of her foundation. Perfect.

“Just remember,” Lanthrop said, ignoring me, “this is tape. If we need to stop, we can stop. Let’s just aim to not do that very often, shall we? The morning crew will need the studio in three hours.”

Gage leaned forward. “If this takes three hours, I’m going to sweat through this sofa. These lights are damned hot.”

“Someone crank up the air-conditioning,” Lanthrop bellowed as he turned around. He disappeared behind the lights.

“And let the fun begin,” I said.

Dahlia licked her lips and tried to smile.

“Rolling in three, two, one …”

The smile turned on full wattage. “Hello, and thank you for tuning in for this historic broadcast occasion. I’m Dahlia Perkins, and today I have with me two members of the revitalized and re-formed Ranger Corps. The history of the Rangers dates back over one hundred years….”