Arc Angel (5 page)

“You know, Miranda,” the detective said gently, “you can get help. There are a number of therapists in the area… I’ll e-mail you a list of those taking on new clients.” And Detective O’Hara reached over and clicked the recorder back on, the red recording light glowing like a beacon. Her voice resumed its brisk tone.

“So, Ms. James, if you didn’t touch the man, what do you think happened to him?”

He got a shock.
But it certainly hadn’t been bigger than the one she’d gotten a moment ago from the detective. She’d been trying to help her. Why?

“I-I don’t know,” Miranda finally answered. “Maybe he had a heart attack?”

There. That seemed plausible. And she hadn’t even stuttered too much.

But Detective O’Hara shook her smoothly coiffed head. “No, we have the preliminary medical reports back, and his internal organs are burned.”

Oh god. She’d done that. She’d burned someone so badly it had affected his organs. Miranda felt her head swim and blinked to make the black spots in front of her eyes recede. Suddenly she wanted to tell Detective O’Hara the whole story, wanted some kind of human support. She wanted to explain that something had happened to her, that she’d been
possessed
by the light, and that she’d never meant to hurt anyone, not even a bastard mugger. And more than any of that, she really, really wanted her powers to disappear as suddenly as they’d appeared.

Miranda felt a sudden buzz in the back right pocket of her jeans. She had a split second flash of panic that the electricity had somehow come back and zapped her as punishment for what she’d done. But then she remembered she’d tucked her phone in her pocket. Someone must have texted her.

In addition to scaring the crap out of her, the buzzing also jolted her out of her mood. She felt terrible about hurting that man, she truly did, but if she told Detective O’Hara what had actually happened, the woman would know that Miranda was crazy. And not merely “not wanting to leave the house” crazy. Full on crazy. And maybe a criminal. Either way, she’d be shoved in front of doctor after doctor, and she had a feeling that this new power of hers would definitely attract a lot of attention in the medical community. She couldn’t tell anyone the truth.

“Ms. James? What do you think happened to that man?”

Miranda couldn’t tell the truth, but decided to stick to the closest approximation of it that she could. “M-m-maybe lightning h-hit him.”

O’Hara nodded. “Maybe. His injuries are somewhat consistent with the effect of a lightning burn. But that was an awfully convenient lightning bolt, don’t you think? It managed to hit right when you, and Mrs. Dobrusky, needed it to.”

Miranda didn’t say anything. What could she say?

“Don’t you find the timing interesting?”

Miranda’s phone buzzed again, making her jump, and reminding her that she hadn’t checked the message she’d received a moment ago.

“Ms. James?”

“Sorry. I just got a text. My phone is in my pocket and it’s set to vibrate.”

“I can see how that might have been startling.”

It was, and not only physically. Who could be contacting her? A job? A logical guess, but probably not a correct one. She’d finished one job yesterday, and all her clients knew she took a week break before starting another. But Detective O’Hara didn’t know that. Maybe she could use the text as a way to get this interview to end.

“Um, I’m sure that was a client. I have a ton of work to do today. Do you think I could go soon?”

Another of the detective’s trademark pauses.

“One more question,” she finally said.

Miranda wanted to bounce up and down in her chair. She was almost done! Almost free to go back and hide in her safe little hole again.

The detective shuffled the papers in front of her, tidying the already neat pile. Without looking at Miranda, she asked, “Who is Arc Angel?”

It was like a hundred pounds of lead had appeared on Miranda’s shoulders, pressing her down into the chair. Talking about the mugger had been bad enough, but this… She did not want to talk about this, especially since she suspected that the true answer to the question was “I am.”

What had she told the police officer last night?

“Sh-she’s a comic b-b-book character. A superhero.”

“Any reason you mentioned her last night?”

Only because she’d
become
her.

“I-I’m a fan. Maybe I f-felt like her last night, f-facing off against a bad guy or something.”

Yeah, that was convincing. Miranda waited for the detective to pull out the handcuffs.

Instead, the woman stared at the paperwork for another moment and then smoothly tucked it all back into the file folder.

“I think we’re done here for now. We are not currently pressing any assault charges against you, so you’re free to go.” Detective O’Hara picked up the recorder and spoke into it. “This concludes the interview with Miranda James.” She clicked it off and rose. “I’ll walk you out.”

Miranda stood uncertainly and followed O’Hara out of the cramped grey room and down the hall.

So what’s the catch?

If only she had the courage to actually ask the question. But despite feeling more relaxed with Detective O’Hara now than when they’d begun, Miranda knew she wouldn’t be able to get the words out. Or at least not intelligibly. The last thing she wanted was to look like an even bigger idiot in front of the detective. Of course, potential murderer and huge liar would be hard to top, but Miranda knew she could humiliate herself further if she tried.

They’d reached the front of the station again, and the detective ushered her out the door, and back into freedom. Miranda couldn’t stand it any more.

“That man,” she blurted. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Your alleged assailant? He should be fine. Apparently he’s already in good enough shape to be taking calls from the tabloids.”

Thank god.
At least she hadn’t killed him.

And now for her second stupid question.

“I’m really free to go?”

“You’re really free to go. Thank you for coming down today I’ll call you, er, e-mail you if I have more questions. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Detective O’Hara turned to head back into the protected area, but paused. She looked Miranda in the eyes and said, “I’d say don’t leave town, but I don’t think that’s probably necessary in your case.” And with that, Detective O’Hara stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind her.

Miranda instantly analyzed the detective’s words, searching for the hint of mocking she knew had to be there, but unable to find it. If anything, the tone of O’Hara’s exit line had been sadness.

Miranda headed to the front door of the station, only then remembering both her earlier ambush by Brooks and the text she’d received in the interrogation room. She stepped off into the corner and pulled out her phone to see who’d managed to have the worst timing ever.

Unknown number. Weird. The software she’d installed on her phone to identify incoming calls rarely failed. And she kept an actual list of everyone who had her very unlisted number. She clicked through to view the message, which read only “Call me. 555-2930.” Then she scanned down for the caller’s tag. She sagged against the wall in disbelief. Bryce Campion. How had he gotten her number? And more importantly, why did the creator of Arc Angel want to talk to her?

Chapter 6

Miranda didn’t see Gavin Brooks when she peeked around the door of the police station, but she did see her cab, parked down the block, waiting for her as requested. She headed toward it, the casual saunter she’d been going for turning into more of a brisk walk. At least she wasn’t out-and-out sprinting. She climbed into the back of the cab and slumped down into the battered vinyl seat.

As soon as her seatbelt clicked shut, the driver pulled away from the curb, not bothering to so much as make eye contact or confirm her destination. She let out a breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding.
Man, this service is worth every penny.
She’d had enough social interaction today. And speaking of social interaction…

Miranda pulled her phone out of her pocket and read the text again.

“Call me.”

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, she punched the reply button and sent a message.

“How did you get my number?”

She’d barely moved her fingers off the keys before her phone buzzed in response.

“Doesn’t matter. We need to talk. Call me.”

‘We need to talk’? What on earth did Bryce Campion want to talk to her about? He couldn’t possibly know about what had happened to her. So why had he tracked her down?

And he wanted her to call him. Not going to happen. Talking on the phone was impossible, far worse than talking face-to-face. Dr. French had explained that it was because she didn’t get any visual cues over the phone and so had an even harder time decoding the verbal inflections and tone people used. She didn’t know if she believed him; they hadn’t exactly bonded in their one-hour session. But whatever the reason, phone calls were out of the question.

Somehow the idea of trying to explain Dr. French’s theory via text didn’t seem very promising. Shit. What should she say? She’d been sitting here, staring at the tiny screen on her handheld for at least a minute. He probably thought she was ignoring him. Her lungs gave a familiar hitch as her breath caught in her chest. She had to say something.

“Not on the phone.”

She hit send before she could think too hard about how stupid that sounded. Seconds later she felt the familiar vibration.

“Fine. Come to house. 528 West Lawn Dr. I’ll notify gate.”

Go to his house? Bryce Campion’s house? She set the phone down on her lap and wiped her damp palms on her thighs. A few years ago, she’d have jumped at the chance to meet Bryce Campion, particularly at a location not filled with thousands of screaming fans. Of course, a few years ago, she could still talk on the phone, at least sometimes. But now… he’d think she was a freak. She was a freak.

Miranda pushed at a few strands of hair that were stuck to her sweaty forehead. What would most people do when simultaneously confronted with their dream come true and their biggest nightmare?

The tiniest frisson of sensation danced across her skin. Oh god, the electricity.

She picked the phone back up and texted.

“On my way.”

It didn’t matter if she made an idiot out of herself. Bryce contacting her couldn’t be a coincidence. He had to know something. Maybe he could help her figure out what was happening to her. And how to make it stop.

Desperation gave her momentary confidence. “Excuse me,” she said to the cab driver. “There’s been a change. C-can you take me to 528 West Lawn Drive instead?”

Her driver grunted in acquiescence and jerked the taxi across two lanes of traffic into the left turn lane of the intersection. Miranda winced and looked out the back window to see how many cars they’d cut off. Fortunately, she saw only an SUV and two cars, and they were back far enough that it hadn’t affected them. As she watched, the black SUV tried to pull into the left lane as well, but the neighboring car wouldn’t budge, and laid on its horn. The cab lurched around the corner, and Miranda forgot about the traffic behind her and become more concerned about what lay in front of her.

She was going to meet Bryce Campion.

If the comic book world had a rock star, it was Campion. He’d started writing in college and quickly become a cult favorite for his quirky characters and macabre humor. And when he’d started making the Con circuit, and people had a chance to meet the gorgeous, witty, charming guy, his stock had risen even further. His panel appearances drew standing-room-only crowds, and videos of his sessions got twice as many hits as any of the other speakers. He’d had a number of offers to write for established lines over the years, but chose to remain independent. For the last few years, he’d been doing his own illustrations as well, only occasionally using a colorist. He’d also almost completely disappeared from the public eye, no longer attending the conventions where he’d been king.

Miranda had been fascinated by him from his first Author’s Note at the back of the very first issue of
Arc Angel
. His cleverness and confidence came through instantly, but neither overshadowed his warmth and compassion. It was a balancing act. He never tore down another author or belittled a fan, but he partied hard and drove too fast. He walked a fine line between warmth and danger: Prince Charming with a dash of Hell’s Angel. And Miranda couldn’t get enough of the enticing mix, becoming an avid follower despite never having the courage to even write him a fan letter.

In a few minutes she’d get to meet the handsome young recluse, an opportunity that comic fans worldwide would have killed for. And he happened to be the creator of her favorite character ever. Who she appeared to have turned into. Yeah, this wasn’t going to be at all stressful.

Miranda looked up from her hands, clutched in a death grip in her lap, and out her window. The cab zipped through a newly red light, and she heard the screech of last-minute braking behind them. Looking over her shoulder she saw a yellow jeep poking out into the intersection. And behind it sat a black SUV.

That’s weird
. Not that black SUVs were uncommon, of course. But it looked like the one she’d spotted earlier. Miranda twisted back around front, stared out the windshield, and tried to convince herself that she was imagining things. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Her skin began to tingle, little pinpricks of electricity crawling over her body. Her brain churned, trying to simultaneously remind herself that she was being crazy and come up with a plan to evade her pursuers.

This is ridiculous.
That was her conscious mind talking.

NO IT ISN’T.

Whatever that voice was, it wasn’t Miranda.

Miranda could feel the light start to fill her again, pushing against her skin, waiting to pour out.
Oh god.
But even as her panic deepened, a sense of pure calm came over her. She noticed a gas station coming up on the right.