Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone (14 page)

But he settled for a dismissive grunt, nothing more.
How dare you?!
Michael wanted to demand, to scream at her.

“Well,” Amanda said, her tone piqued for the first time, “I’m sorry to have taken up your time, Mister Takayasu.” She paused, and Michael waited for the line to finally close. Then she threw at him, “We’ll be there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, in case you change your mind about seeing her on her goddamn birthday. Would you like to know which prison she’s rotting in?”

“I already have that information, Mizz Hopkins,” Michael growled. “
I’m
the one who put her ass there.”

In the end, it was Michael who hung up the phone, and he did so with a bang. Then he picked up the receiver again and slammed it back into the cradle even harder. Then, for good measure, he shoved the whole phone off his desk.

Mark quipped, “Hey! Easy, young’n!” with a forced chuckle, but he was clearly dumbfounded by Michael’s sudden outburst.

All thoughts of boring reports and wacko churches and recruits from Russia had fled Michael’s mind; he was consumed by such a rage it made him dizzy. He lurched up from his desk and punted the phone against the far wall, charging after it to stomp his heel on it — he refrained at the last moment, but the wild energy had to go somewhere, so it translated into a kick that left a noticeable dent in the wall.

“Mike ...” Shockwave whispered, stunned, never having seen anything remotely like this behavior from his partner.

“Shit,” Michael spat, then he punched the same wall and yelled, “
Shit!
” Another punch. “God
damn
it!”

Mark stood up slowly, cautiously, not sure what to do, how to react. Michael was inordinately out of breath, bent forward with his palms against the wall, facing mostly away from him. Then voices drifted in through the open office door, and Mark realized that this conduct was about to have witnesses — the first tarnish on Michael’s reputation, so far as he knew, since joining the PCA.

Mark thought fast. Just as the other PCA staffers poked their heads around both sides of the door, their expressions half-concerned, half-gossipy, he grabbed his own desk phone and knocked it to the floor.

“Stupid, dumbass reporter!” he roared. “Can’t get anythin’ right! It’s ‘Shockwave’ — ‘
Shockwave
’! How hard can that be?! Dumbass!”

He pounded his fist on his computer keyboard, screamed “Son of a bitch!” at his monitor, then picked up his wireless mouse and threw it across the room.

Mark rounded toward the door, and “discovered” that his coworkers were watching him. He bellowed, “The hell are
you
assholes lookin’ at?!
Huh
?!!”

The crowd immediately backed off, hands held up in supplication, and Mark slammed the door in their faces. He shouted another curse or two, just to make it look good for the loiterers ...

... then he dropped the act and turned back to Michael.

Michael was still leaning against the wall, his face hidden, but his carriage suggested that he had calmed down. After a moment, he said, in a very quiet voice, “Thanks.”

Mark took his seat. “Everyone already thinks that I’m an asshole, so no harm done, right? But do you wanna tell me what just happened?”

Michael was silent long enough for Mark to presume that the answer was no. But as he collected his mouse and phone, Michael turned around, leaned back against the wall, and opened up, beginning with the phone call he had just received.

“No way,” Mark commented, too surprised not to say anything, but trying to stay calm and neutral. “Shit ...”

But Michael was done talking about Christine’s presumptuous sister. “I was such an idiot, Mark. She was just some waitress at a nearby café, and there I was, talking to her about my work. She even broke into my apartment, and I let it slide. Why? Because she made me dinner? Because she was cute? Because a cute girl wanted to be my girlfriend? Is
that
how easy I am?” He slapped a palm against the wall, but it was a pale echo of his previous outburst. “How the hell could I have been so blind? Aren’t I supposed to have this high ESPer rating and all that bullshit? Doesn’t the PCA job description require me to be half-detective? Such an idiot ...”

Mark remained silent, allowing Michael to control the path of this conversation.

“I miss her, Mark,” he whispered, his voice close to breaking, his eyes on the floor. “Can you believe that? I knew her for all of a few weeks, she stabbed me in the back, she consorted with a
terrorist
, for God’s sake ... and I miss her. Or at least I miss the girl I
thought
she was, before she showed her true colors. I guess. I don’t know ...” He added, in such a soft voice Mark almost missed it, “Why did she
do
it ...?”

Michael sighed and, eyes still downcast, shuffled over to his desk, and slumped into his chair.

When it was clear that Michael had run out of steam, Mark opened one of his drawers and withdrew the latest envelope from Christine, the one Michael had thrown in the trash the day before, and held it up for Michael to see.

Michael looked at the envelope in surprise, and a touch of anger built in his eyes.

Mark held up a placating hand. “I haven’t read it, I haven’t even opened it. I just thought that maybe
you
should. And maybe you
should
go see her tomorrow.” Now it was Michael’s turn to go slack-jawed, and Mark rushed on before he could say anything (or blow up again). “Look, Mike, I knew that this was still botherin’ you, but I didn’t realize just how much, how deep. Hell,
if
you wanna go tomorrow, I’ll even tag along if you want — act as a bodyguard against her pissed-off sister.” This earned a very slight smile from Michael. “The point is ... take it from someone who has a lot of experience dealin’ with personal issues: This ain’t gonna get any better unless somethin’ changes. You haven’t seen Christine for a year, so clearly out-of-sight/out-of-mind ain’t the answer. Somethin’s gotta give ... before you break down for real. Okay?”

Michael didn’t say anything, but his face was very thoughtful — right up there with when he was trying to crack a case. Mark took this as a good sign.

After a very long moment, Michael reached out for the envelope, which Mark handed over forthwith.

Another moment passed ...

Michael opened the letter.

POWERHOUSE

Lincoln was enjoying his day off in his family’s new, very large apartment (paid for by the PCA); unlike Shockwave, he felt no need to drop by HQ when he didn’t have to be there. Still, he had volunteered to help Pendler fill out the report on yesterday’s incident, but the Ensign assured Lincoln that he had it covered. So he was relaxing in the living room, channel-surfing but not finding anything interesting to watch.

“Enjoying” your day off, “relaxing” in front of the TV ... how about “trying to keep yourself occupied,” huh, Linc? Maybe you should’ve insisted on helping Pendler.

Shut up.

Tommy and Sarah had just gotten home from school and were doing their homework at the kitchen table; occasionally one of them would call out a question, and he tried his best to answer (Lincoln wasn’t “dumb” by any means, but he didn’t exactly get a quality education growing up; he’d had trouble with the ASVAB test when he entered the National Guard for his two-year stint). The PCA had offered to hire a tutor for the siblings, and he would probably have to take them up on it soon.

Lincoln was about to give up on the TV when he heard a police siren chirp outside. He crept over to take a peek through the front window, drawing the curtain aside enough to see without being seen. As he’d figured, the police were clearing up a clump of paparazzi that were hanging around and across from the west gate entrance, hoping to snap some photos of (as Shockwave would put it) the PCA’s “golden boy.”

Being so popular was kind of fun at first, but not anymore. They’d had to work out a whole routine for when they wanted to leave the building: When he was wearing his mask, he would come and go boldly through the west gate entrance; when he was unmasked, or especially if Tommy and Sarah were with him, they would slip in and out of a smaller gate on the southeast side. While Lincoln’s real name was on public record, just like Shockwave and the other paranormal agents, the PCA had agreed to his original request for as much anonymity as possible, for the kids’ sakes. His photos had been blurred out at the DMV, National Guard, and other public systems, and he made sure to always wear his mask when acting as Powerhouse. He knew it wouldn’t work forever — trash photographers were just too determined and unscrupulous — but he would keep it up for as long as he could for Tommy and Sarah. Once his face was eventually “outed” ... well, maybe the PCA would come up with something else.

Great,
he thought.
One more thing I’ll owe the PCA.

See? You can’t avoid this indefinitely. It’s relentless.

Yeah ...

The whole situation had been weighing on him lately. Even as he figured out that he was getting stronger and that the PCA was trying to hide this fact (or at least its significance) from him, he’d grown more conscious of their “handling” him. All these perks they were giving him, all these fringe benefits that the other paranormal agents didn’t appear to be receiving, not even Shockwave ... they were feeling more and more like the money he took from McLane when he first went paranormal (before the son of a bitch resorted to kidnapping).

Sighing, Lincoln left the window and returned to channel-surfing, but he really wasn’t paying attention now.

He understood, intellectually, that his predicament in his early days as Powerhouse and the current arrangement he had with the PCA were very different things ... and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling of his still being an “owned man.” Wasn’t he, essentially, still whoring himself to the highest bidder, accepting rewards to perform acts at someone else’s command? If he decided to quit, wouldn’t it hurt Tommy and Sarah, thereby placing him in the same predicament all over again?

Come on,
he scolded himself.
That’s stupid.
The PCA didn’t force him to sign up as a field agent — he chose this, as penance for his sins (particularly for killing Graham, the lightning rogue, however much that asshole might’ve deserved it), and because Vortex’s selfless path had inspired him to emulate the hero.

You’re close, Lincoln, but still no cigar. Dig a little deeper ...

... Okay. Fine ...

And so, as he stared, unseeing, at the television, Lincoln finally, quietly admitted to himself that what had
really
 been bothering him lately, what had been pushing him into a dour mood with increasing frequency, had nothing to do with the PCA, or Vortex, or his killing of Graham:

A few months ago, a little boy approached him after he put down a rogue and Pendler was off calling for reinforcements to come and lock him down. Lincoln told the boy to keep his distance, just to be safe, but he’d made sure to keep his voice light. The boy, who was no older than Sarah, said he had a question he wanted to ask Powerhouse.

“Sure,” Lincoln told him, expecting something about how strong he was or if he knew Vortex.

And the boy asked, “How do you cut your hair? I bet it’s super tough, since you’re the Indestructible Man. So how do you cut it?”

Lincoln opened his mouth to answer ... and just stood there, staring at the boy. Luckily, Pendler returned a moment later, shooing the boy away, and Lincoln offered what he hoped was a friendly wave. The boy returned the wave, but was clearly frustrated that his chance to talk to “the Indestructible Man” had been interrupted.

Lincoln, on the other hand, had been grateful, because he had no idea how to answer him.

Until that young fan put the question to him, it had never occurred to Lincoln that he had not cut his hair, had not
needed
to cut his hair, since he went paranormal. And the more he thought about it, the deeper his reflection, the more changes he realized had occurred without his conscious knowledge: His hair no longer grew, his fingernails and toenails no longer grew; he had always been able to get away with shaving just once or twice per week (considering his dark complexion, his beard had always been unusually thin), so when the need to shave fell away, he hadn’t thought about that, either. In fact, the only thing about his body that had changed this last year was an increase in his weight, but even that was evidently a side-effect of the growing density of his epidermis and other tissues — if the scale hadn’t told him he was heavier, he’d never have known, because it did not alter his appearance.

In other words, his body was
exactly the same
as it had been the day he went paranormal.

In retrospect, he felt like a moron. How the hell could he not realize that his hair had stopped growing? But then, when
do
people think about these things, like clipping their fingernails, except for when they needed to be done?

So, in addition to gaining strength and invulnerability, his body had gone into some kind of ... what? Stasis? Petrification? What was the reverse of a metamorphosis? What do you call it when you stop changing altogether?

The more he dwelled on it, the more it disturbed him, which was why he tried so desperately
not
to think about it.

Even before the boy asked about his hair, he’d had other concerns, troubling “What Ifs?” that had crossed his mind over the past year. Like, now that he was invulnerable, what would happen if he got sick? Like, cancer or something? How would they be able to remove a tumor if they couldn’t cut into him? And if they tried something else, like radiation or oral chemotherapy (did they even
have
oral chemotherapy? Lincoln didn’t know), would the tumor prove to be as invulnerable as the rest of him?

Those thoughts had been scary as hell, but realizing that his body wasn’t changing in any way anymore was somehow creepier. And what did it ultimately
mean
? Did other paranormals with strength and invulnerability have this same side-effect, or was it just him? He was apparently the strongest on record, so maybe his condition was unique.