some DA trying to get reelected changing his mind, deciding I was a fourteen-year-old Bundy at the start to my life of crime. I’ve been to jail before, Hector.” Only for a day, only before it was all sorted out and I had a cell to myself, but a day even in a podunk country jail makes an impression on a kid. I dreamed of iron bars for weeks afterward. What my life would’ve been like if they hadn’t believed me and the evidence. “I didn’t much like it.”
• • •
Fortunately, Hector’s government muscle came through after we were fingerprinted but before we made it to the mug shots. Ten minutes later, men in dark suits and sunglasses came in, flashed badges, and ushered the three of us to a black car out front. We left mystified and furious cops in our wake, which almost made the whole day worthwhile. Before I’d found the carnival and lived on the streets picking pockets, I’d had to bust my ass to outrun a cop or three. They couldn’t just let a kid make a living.
“Don’t say a word until we get back,” Hector said at my ear in a whisper so low, lips barely moving, that the Men in Black didn’t notice. It looked like, same as always, the right hand didn’t know what the left was doing-even in secret government organizations. I had a feeling that when all was said and done and this entire project was finally written up, the amazing All Seeing Eye, psychic Jackson Lee, was not going to be featured anywhere.
Thank God.
On the other hand, there were bound to be many uses the government could find for a psychic, enough uses to last until I was old and gray, then dust in the ground. If that happened, I would’ve been better off staying in jail.
Once we were back at the base, we were dropped off without a word. Meleah headed back to the infirmary, Hector and I to the main science building. Thackery was waiting for us. He appeared unhappy and, well, thwarted, rather like a zoo veterinarian who’d just lost his shoulder-length rubber glove, speculum, and favorite watch inside a pregnant elephant.
“What now?” he demanded. “First your psychic’s room is napalmed, and then the car he was riding in was apparently blown up. Are you sure he’s a psychic and not a sadomasochistic pyromaniac instead?”
That’s why he was feeling frustrated. He was disappointed that I hadn’t been in the car when it had exploded. “I’m psychic enough to know you did double the dissections of the other students in your anatomy class because you just loved picking out cats at the pound and cutting them up. And no matter what you told the teacher, it damn sure had nothing to do with extra credit.”
He stared at me, the color leeching out of his eyes to match the chunk of ice that masqueraded as his brain. He was a Bundy, a Dahmer, a Gacy who hadn’t crossed the line to killing people-letting it happen, yes, but not doing it with his own hands. But someone knowing what he was, exactly what he was, down to his last sociopathic cell-it could push him over that edge. At least when it came to me. But I was tired of tiptoeing around this shit. In the week and a half since I’d been there, nothing had been done. Not one damn thing. Charlie hadn’t been saved. A spy hadn’t been caught. The only thing that had been accomplished was that I got to take a tour of several very nasty places and “see” many even nastier murders take place. If I had to take a tour, I’d have chosen a goddamn cruise, not this. The sooner we could wrap this up, the sooner people would stop dying, and the sooner I could go home.
If that took pushing, I was read to push my guts out.
I knew Hector agreed, because he followed right along. “We know there’s an industrial spy here. We know they killed Charlie. And Dr. Thackery…” He leaned forward until he was nose-to-nose with the smaller man and bared his teeth in what would pass as a smile if he were a crocodile. “We know you knew about the spy and didn’t tell a goddamn soul. That makes you responsible for my brother’s death in my eyes, if not the law’s. So I’d advise you get behind the team on this one while I decide just what I’m going to do about that.” He moved in even closer, causing Thackery to take a step back. “About you and Charlie. Start thinking hard about who the spy could be. Start now. I’ll be back soon to see what you’ve come up with. Jackson, come with me. I need to go to the armory to get another gun.”
Thackery didn’t move as we passed him. He had to be calculating whether the gun was for him. At least, I hoped he was, the prick. Hector was striding down the hall at an angry and fast speed, but running at the Y seemed to have helped, and I kept pace easily enough.
“You know you made a lifelong enemy there,” he said.
I shrugged philosophically. “An enemy is just a friend you were smart enough to stab in the back first before he got you. Besides, you were on his list before me. In fact, I imagine everyone he has ever met is on the Thackery shit list. We’re nothing special.”
“Special enough to be at the top.” He stopped. “The armory’s around the corner. This isn’t a military operation, Jackson. We have military support around if we need it, and we damn sure have needed it, but bottom line: Thackery and I are in charge here.” And whoever had sent the black car was in charge of them. “That means I can check out as many handguns as I can carry. We’re in trouble, me, you-so this time, let me get you a damn gun. I understand because of your stepfather why you don’t want one, and you might not have to use it. I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t have to use it. But we need to be armed if worse comes to worse.”
A gun.
Boyd, the lazy, rattlesnake-mean, abusive shit. Until I was fourteen, I had one mental picture of him, only the one: him sitting in the filthy, beat-up recliner and drinking beer until he was drooling drunk.
From fourteen on, that picture would be replaced by him lying in the small, cramped hall of the house. He filled it, actually, from wall to wall, the fat slob and his beer gut. Not that beer was what came out of it when I hit him with the first shotgun blast. Instead, handfuls of fat that looked like masses of yellow grapes. Loops of intestine like you’d see out of fresh roadkill, only bigger and more. It hadn’t stopped him, though. He’d kept staggering toward me until I’d pumped the shotgun a second time and put another load in his head. He’d been close enough to me then that they had to bury him without a face. There was no covering up that crater with a dab of mortician putty.
And the smell. I’d never forgotten the smell of cordite, blood, and leaking guts.
The bedroom where he kept the shotgun didn’t have a window. I had to climb over his body to get to the phone to call the police. I tried not to step in… him. But he was everywhere. Covering the entire floor and some of the walls. There was no way around it. I left a sneaker trail of blood and other things as I ran to the kitchen and the phone. Footprints of what used to be Boyd. Sometimes now, sixteen years later, when I put on my shoes, I checked the soles for Boyd-
“Jackson? Did you hear me?”
“No guns,” I answered, resolute.
“Damn it, it could save your life.” He ran a frustrated hand over his short hair, still neat and in place despite the explosion and the wreck. Not like Charlie’s hair. That boy could have walked out of a barber, and in two seconds people would think he’d been in a windstorm.
“It could,” I admitted.
“Then take one.”
“No guns,” I repeated, and for a moment, I thought he was going to smash his fist into the wall as he rolled up his fingers tightly.
“Taking one could save your life. Not taking one could cost you your life. That bastard out there could kill you. You could die, you asshole.”
Die because Hector had pulled me into this and now was dealing with the consequences, guilt being the biggest one right now.
“I could.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Yeah, I could die, and I will before I touch a gun again. Sorry, Allgood. That’s just the way it is. Next time you go after a psychic, you should check out their phobias first. Get me a baseball bat, and I’ll beat the son of a bitch’s head flat enough that you could serve it up as a pancake. But no guns.”
Hector swung his balled-up fist, but not at the wall. He swung it at me. I slithered to one side, did a leg sweep, and dumped him on his ass. I meant it. I’d been taught to take care of myself. Cane Lake for dangerous teens, a little Krav Maga at the Jewish Community Center for dangerous adults. Hector had to know some Krav Maga moves himself from Army training, but at the moment, he was feeling too pissed, too guilty, and too out of control to see them coming from a psychic he assumed sat on his butt all day telling people where Great-aunt Edna Mae’s lost will was.
“A sock stuffed with your mess hall’s mashed potatoes?” I suggested helpfully. “One hit with that, and I
