the horrific sound of the passenger side getting cracked, she was behind the robber.
And another bizarre thing was that it wasn’t until Manny cursed that the bastard seemed to realize a third party had entered the scenario. Except that couldn’t be true—he would have seen her coming around the car, right?
Whatever—however it all went down, Ski Mask ended up leaping to the left and going back and forth with the weapon between Payne and Manny.
That tennis match thing wasn’t going to last. With god-awful logic, Manny knew the guy was going to zero in on Payne because she was the weaker of the—
Next time the gun muzzle swung back in her direction, Payne . . . disappeared. And not as in ducked or dodged or took off at a dead run. She was there, taking up space one moment—and gone the next.
She reappeared a split second later, and caught the man’s wrist as he went to put the gun back in Manny’s face. The disarming was just as fast: One, she twisted the weapon away; two, she snapped it out of the SOB’s hold; three, she tossed it at Manny, who caught the thing.
And then it was beat-down time.
Payne spun the guy around, grabbed the back of his head, and pounded him face-first into the Porsche’s hood. After she polished the paint job a little with his piehole, she repositioned him and got a grip on the SOB’s baggy-ass jeans. Hefting him up by the hair and what was either his waistband or his rectum, she hauled him back and threw him . . . about ten yards.
Superman didn’t fly half as well—and the robber ended up knocking on the side of the horse-pital with his forehead. The building didn’t have much to say in response, and what do you know, neither did he. He landed facedown in a flower bed, and stayed there, his limbs going dead meat and then some.
No twitching. No moaning. No attempt to get up.
“Are you all right, Manuel?”
Manny slowly turned his head to Payne. She wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Jesus . . . Christ . . .” he whispered.
As Manuel’s words drifted away on a breeze, Payne fussed with her baggy top and her loose pants. Then she smoothed her hair. It seemed like the only thing she could do to make herself more presentable in the wake of the violence.
Such a wasted effort at trying to feminize herself. And meanwhile, Manuel was still just staring at her.
“Will you say nothing further?” she asked in a low tone.
“Ah . . .” Manuel put his free hand on his head. “Yeah. Ah . . . let me go see if he’s alive.”
Payne wrapped her arms around herself as he walked over to the human man. In truth, she did not really care in what condition she had left the robber. Her priority had been to get that lethal weapon out of Manuel’s face, and she had accomplished her task. Whatever happened to the thief was immaterial . . . but she clearly didn’t know the rules of this world. Or the implications of what she had done.
Manuel was halfway across the grass when the “victim” rolled over with a groan. Hands that had been on the gun went to the mask that covered his face and shoved the knit weave up to his forehead.
Manuel knelt down. “I’m a doctor. How many fingers am I holding up.”
“What . . . ?”
“How many fingers?”
“. . . three . . .”
Manuel put his palm on the guy’s shoulder. “Don’t get up. That was a hell of a belt to the head. Do you have any tingling or numbness in your legs?”
“No.” The guy stared at Manuel. “Why . . . are you doing this?”
Manuel waved the question off. “It’s called medical school—creates a compulsive need to treat the ill or injured regardless of circumstance. I think we need to call an ambulance—”
“No fucking way!”
Payne dematerialized over to them. She appreciated Manuel’s good intentions, but she was concerned that the robber had another weapon on him—
The instant she appeared behind Manuel, the guy on the ground shrank away in horror, raising his arms and cringing back.
Manuel looked up over his shoulder—and that was when she saw that he wasn’t naive. He had the gun pointed at the man. “It’s okay,
In a sloppy scramble, the robber got to his feet and Manuel let the muzzle follow him as the human stumbled and caught his balance against the building. Obviously, he was getting ready to run.
“We’re keeping the gun,” Manuel said. “You understand. And I don’t need to tell you, you’re lucky to be alive—you don’t aggress on my girlfriend.”
As the human tore off into the shadows, Manuel rose to his full height. “I need to turn this weapon in to the police.”
Then he just looked over at her.
“It is all right, Manuel. I can take care of my presence with the guard so naught will be known. Do what you must.”
On a nod, he took out a small phoning device, opened it, and hit a few buttons. Putting it up to his ear, he said, “Yeah, my name is Manuel Manello and I was held up at gunpoint in my vehicle? I’m at the Tricounty . . .”
As he spoke, she looked around, and thought she didn’t want it to end like this. Except . . .
“I have to go,” she said as Manuel hung up. “I cannot . . . be here if there are going to be more humans. It will just complicate things.”
His phone slowly lowered to his side. “Okay . . . yeah.” He frowned. “Ah, listen . . . if the police are coming, I need to remember what just happened or—shit, I’ve got a gun in my hand for no reason I can give them.”
Indeed, it would appear that they were trapped. And for once, she was grateful for an imprisonment.
“I want you to remember me,” she said softly.
“That wasn’t the plan.”
“I know.”
He shook his head. “You are the most important piece in all this. So you have to take care of yourself and that means wiping me—”
“Dr. Manello! Dr. Manello—you okay?”
Payne glanced over her shoulder. The first human male they had seen at the desk inside was running across the lawn in a panic.
“Do it,” Manuel said. “And I’ll figure something out—”
As the scampering guard came up to them, Payne faced the new arrival.
“I was on my rounds,” the man said, “and when I was checking the offices at the other end of the building, I saw you through the window—I ran as fast as I could!”
“We are fine,” she said to the guard. “But would you look at something for me?”
“Of course! Have the police been called?”
“Yes.” She touched below her right eye. “Look at me, please.”
He was already locked on her face, and the extra focus just made her work easier; all she had to do was open the way into his brain and put a mental patch over everything that pertained to her.
As far as the human knew, her surgeon had come and gone alone.
She kept the man in a trance, and turned to Manuel. “You need not worry. His memories are so short-term, he will be fine.”
From far off, a howling sound rang out, high-pitched and urgent.
“That’s the police,” Manuel said.
“Then I shall go.”
“How will you get home?”
“In the same manner as I got out of your car.”
She waited for him to reach for her . . . or say something . . . or . . . But he just stood there with the cold, silent night air between them.
