The Blonde

himself back into some semblance of a man. It’s what monsters did.

He’d looked around at the debris of forgotten childhood.

The best operations, Kowalski’d reminded himself, supplied their own tools.

First, he’d found a needle and thread from a Kenner mini sewing machine kit. The gashes on his body could be covered with bandages and clothes. But his face? His face needed work. Sanitary? Hardly. But what was that to a monster?

The metal supports from the shelves? Leg brace, Road War-nor-style. Sort the broken bones out later. Long as they would support his weight.

A little water from the employee sink, he was even able to smooth down his clothes, get some of the shattered glass and dust and splinters and wrinkles out of them. Wash away the crusted blood from around the purple-and-pink-threaded sutures.

By the time he left the abandoned toy warehouse forty-five minutes later, the monster was reasonably human. He checked his image in a plate-glass window of another store. Pale, but no visible blood. People saw blood, they got upset. Otherwise, they could deal with anything. Even his stitched-up face and rusty leg brace.

A few questions of a passerby got him what he wanted: Yeah, strange guy, howling, taken away in cuffs.

His boy Jack.

Alive, at least up until the point he was arrested.

Nearest police district was the Fifteenth; he caught a cab up there, flashed the Homeland Security badge, just about damn near dazzled Detective Hugh Sarkissian with his embossed foil with the holographic flying eagles, which distracted him from the purple stitches and rusty leg brace. Kowalski told him that Jack Eisley was part of an investigation he was running. No, he wasn’t a terrorist, just a freaked-out informant.

“Who’s still alive, right?” Kowalski asked.

“Yeah,” Sarkissian told him. “But we’re ready to let him sweat it out a little.”

Kowalski took a chance. “He begged you not to leave him alone, didn’t he?”

Sarkissian’s face went wide. “Yeah. What the fuck is that about, anyway?”

Kowalski rolled his eyes in a “You don’t even want to know, buddy” kind of way, then gestured to the room. “You mind?”

Which got him in the door of the interrogation room at precisely 6:48 A.M.

Not a second too soon, from the look on Jack’s face.

He was hurting.

6:49  a.m.

I thought I was going to die just then.”

“You’re fine. Name’s Mike Kowalski, Department of Homeland Security, making America safer for domestic fucks to rape the citizenry instead of the foreign fucks, blah blah blah,” he said. “But does it really matter? After the night you had, Jack?”

“Who are you?”

Jack studied the guy, who looked strangely familiar, despite the purple-and-pink sutures in his face—what, had they run out of adult stitches at the hospital?

Wait.

The guy.

The hotel room.

The guy who strangled the security guard.

“Oh no.”

Kowalski limped over to the table and slid into a chair. He reached out and took Jack’s hand in his. Kowalski was wearing white gloves, stretched to the point of bursting. And Jack looked at them fast, granted, but he would swear one of them had the McDonald’s logo—the Golden Arches—right on the wrist.

Jack felt Kowalski grasp his middle finger. “This will hurt.”

And then Kowalski twisted his finger in a way he didn’t think was physically possible. Jack screamed, writhed in his seat. The pain seemed to rocket up his very bones.

Outside the two-way glass, Sarkissian was saying to MacAdams, “Don’tyou wish? ”

“Oh, fucking tell me about it.”

“Bet he doesn’t even leave a mark.”

“I was trailing your girlfriend, Kelly White,” Kowalski said. “She infected you with something. I want you to describe it to me.”

“Fuck! Ow, Christ, leggo of my—Ah!”

“No detail is too small. Tell me how it works. Why can’t you be alone?”

Kowalski pulled Jack closer to him, causing his metal chair to scrape against linoleum, and at the same time, he eased up on the finger. “Whisper it in my ear,” he said.

Now that Jack was up close and personal, he saw that one of Kowalski’s stitches didn’t quite do the trick. Dark blood pooled around a pink strand, started to bead up.

On the side of Kowalski’s nose, there was a thin sliver of glass, wedged beneath a few layers of skin.

Maybe the guy is with Homeland Security, Jack thought.

And if not, they should hire him. Because he didn’t seem to give one fuck about personal discomfort.

What was Jack going to do? Talk back to him?

So Jack talked.

Started telling him all about how he’d met Kelly, but Kowalski didn’t want to hear any of that. Sped him along to later in the night, in the hotel room. Jack tried to remember as much as he could about the Mary Kates, what their creator called “Proximity.” Tracking devices in your blood, linked up to a satellite. Only Kelly’s had a fatal error. Kowalski nodded. Probed for more detail. Asked about nanoassemblies. Is that what she’d said? Nanoassemblies? My God, it was like he believed him. Maybe he already knew about these things.

“Something else, too,” Jack said. “She gave me a toxin. No … a luminous toxin.”

“Luminous toxin, huh.”

“Yes! That’s it! She told me I’d be dead in …” He looked at his watch. “Oh fuck. About ninety minutes from now.”

“Sounds serious. But I’m sure we’ll be able to get that taken care of.”

Kowalski released his hold on Jack’s finger, then used this same hand to scratch his chin. Somehow, the tip of his finger avoided the two long gashes there. “Hmm … let me try a little something.” Kowalski stood up and picked up the gym bag he’d brought into the room. He placed the bag on Jack’s lap. “Hold this for a minute.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Kowalski stood up and limped over to the door. The metal brace on his leg squeaked as he moved. He knocked twice.

“Wait—where are you going? Didn’t you hear me? If I’m left alone, I could—”

“Yeah, yeah. Humor me. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t let go of that bag.”

“This doesn’t smell right.”

The door slammed shut behind Kowalski.

6:55  a.m.