Broken Angels (10 page)

“You talk about appearances, and the surface of skin,” Miss Blake said, “but what about the surface of your language? Switching between bad poetry and poor philosophy—it may’ve charmed some of the sillier women you’ve been with, but is it really authentic? Can’t help but wonder what’s really underneath those sugary words of yours.”

“Well, you won’t have to wonder for long. Just keep your eyes open.”

“
Cute,”
he thought he heard her mutter.

“Not more words,” Darryl said, “but a person’s actions make his words into lies or truths. I agree with what you might be thinking, that the words are just a lot of gossamer. But that’s not how I mean them. To be honest, I prefer action to speeches. As they say, talk is cheap, and usually worthless.”

“So I shouldn’t spend my time listening to what you say?” Her tone was playful. Darryl matched it, but kept his meaning serious.

“Ignore it, or absorb it,” he said. “At my age, I’ve had plenty of time to learn, over and over, that a man can hardly talk to a woman without her expecting him to expect something deep to develop from it.”

“A tangled sentence for a tangled idea,” she said with a sigh. “Something deep like what? A good, honest friendship?”

“No, like—” Darryl didn’t want to say it. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” she said. “And just how old do you think you are anyway?”

Darryl laughed. “You know, Miss Blake, I’ve also learned that if I were to ask any adult woman that question, I can expect a five finger reply, if I’m lucky enough not to get just one.”

“Grown men and women can be civil and friendly with each other, Mister Ridley,” Miss Blake said, “
close
without being
closed
to each other, without expecting anything sexual to come out of it.”

“Are you talking about the man’s expectations, or the woman’s?”

“I’m talking about self-assured, secure, reasonable adults.”

“Oh,” Darryl said. “So neither then.”

“Ha ha, comedian.” She bumped him sportively with her elbow. “You know, you didn’t hesitate to engage me in conversation this morning, or to ask me out to lunch. What outcome were you expecting?”

“An engaging conversation,” Darryl said, “and a nice meal.”

“That’s it, huh?”

“A rest on a bench would be nice. But I’m not greedy.”

The two settled themselves on the first clean and shaded bench they could find. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the passersby on the grass and the gravel walkway in front of them. Darryl was about to remark how, despite the fact most of the people who passed by were tourists, there was far more variety in their languages, dialects, and accents (totem poles of babel) than in their styles of clothing. But she spoke first.

“Wow. I just realized. You and I are on the exact same bench as you and she were.”

Darryl looked at her. “Me and who?”

“That short, kinda plump, really dark-skinned girl.” Darryl drew a blank, until she added, “The one with the Jamaican accent.”

Now he had it. He remembered that girl’s name, but then he thought of the name of the woman currently sitting next to him. Forget the cute, flirty “Miss Blake” stuff…Veronica.
Veronica Blake
. Was that a familiar name? How did she know about him and Joyce?

“Joyce, right?” Veronica asked. “Wasn’t that her name?”

“How do you know that?” Darryl asked. “Do you know her?”

“No. But I remember seeing you two sitting here.”

Darryl thought for another moment. He hadn’t seen Joyce in two years. “You remember that?”

“Well, yes, of course,” Veronica said. “I remember seeing you. You have a very memorable look, with that out-of-this-world tan and all.”

“Okay,” he said, “but Joyce’s name, how did you know that?”

“Picked it up during one of the times I passed by. Picked up her accent too.”

“One of the times?”

“I was jogging,” Veronica said. “I was in better shape back then. Running 10Ks every other week.”

She’d passed by multiple times, and he hadn’t noticed? Not enough to remember?

“What are you mumbling?” Veronica asked.

Had he been mumbling? He must’ve been so deep in thought he failed to mind his mouth. If so, undoubtedly he’d been mumbling what he’d been thinking. “I, uh, just said you’ve got a scary memory.”

Veronica laughed. “You find it scary that I can remember something I saw more than a year ago? I think it’s a sign of good mental health.”

“Some might find it intimidating.”

“Aw, poor baby, intimidated by a li’l ole woman’s memory, bullied by the idea of settling down into marriage.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Darryl matched her mocking tone. “And don’t forget my paralyzing fright at the mere sight of a baby carriage.”

They both laughed. Only Veronica’s sounded as if it came from genuine amusement. The undertone in Darryl’s voice no doubt gave him away. As she looked at him with a coy, playful smile, he could see something he didn’t like in that bold blue eye of hers. He was happy it didn’t linger on him. Veronica turned to gaze at the people on the grass; Darryl turned his attention inward.

This one was different. Unlike any of his previous charity cases, this one was able to keep up. She wasn’t the annoying silent type, and she wasn’t the type who’d get too confused at his philosophical-poetic musings. And she wasn’t shy about disagreeing when any of those musings expressed something she didn’t like, but she wasn’t the angry, argumentative type either. A far throw from the type he’d grown used to. In conversation, she could keep up, even trip him up. It was all so different than the vapid conversations of most first dates. And unlike with the others, he figured he could push on, wrap up this particular case quicker than usual. No need to wait for their third or fourth date to begin it. He’d start the process now so it’d be done in a week or so. Veronica Blake was different, but she wasn’t on the bright path. Not yet.

She was an artist, or so she claimed. True or not, he knew her type. Whether talented or not, she had to be
sensitive,
unsure of herself, insecure about her place in the naked world. The scarred, blemished,
sick
world. Whether they’d admit it or not, Darryl knew all self-proclaimed artists sought in some small or big way to create their own perfect world, a world perfect in their own eyes. If their vision wasn’t strong enough to overcome the entire real world, it was just as well. Their little world could remain in a tiny bump on the greater world, noticed or unnoticed. A mole on the face of reality. Maybe regarded as a beauty mark to some onlookers, but to others—

“What?” Veronica asked.

His thoughts interrupted, Darryl reentered the reality before his eyes and at his fingertips. “Huh?”

“I heard you mumbling again. You said something about an ugly spot. And something about ‘the heart of death.’ Sounded really weird.”

Darryl was sure, almost positive this time, he’d said nothing while he was ruminating. But even if he hadn’t said a word, she’d mentioned the words “heart” and “death,” words from the title of the book that gave his life meaning and directed him toward redemption. Still, whatever she thought she’d heard him say, he’d have to spin it some other way. In the process of peace, words were to be elusive, actions direct.

“I was just thinking about the concept of
peace,”
he said, “which I guess some poets might refer to as the
heart
of death.”

Veronica rolled her visible eye. “Here we go with the poetry again.”

“You’re right,” Darryl said with a smirk. “To hell with poetry. Actions trump words.”

He exerted just the right amount of pressure with his arm. She turned toward him, matching his smile as he tightened his muscles, pulling her closer, looking into her eye, preparing to look much deeper after the spirit-weakening first kiss. Step one in the treatment. She looked ready; she seemed willing, so easy—then she turned her head to the right, letting Darryl kiss the hair that fell over her left ear.

“Hey,” she asked, “where’s the sock hop?”

Darryl blew off the hair sticking to his lips. “What?”

“Check out those two,” she said.

Darryl looked toward where Veronica nodded. “What the…?”

Michael and Christine were walking on the gravelly path on the other side of the grass.

Michael and Christine, one of the terrorist duos associated with The Infinite Definite.

So conspicuous…How had Veronica’s untrained eye spotted them before he did?

Darryl slid his arm from her shoulder.

The terrorists were dressed in their usual outfits, just like cartoon characters—though there wasn’t a damn thing funny about them. Michael wore his black jeans, white T-shirt, and black leather jacket, copied from the generic greasers seen in most modern movies about the rebellious youth of the 1950s. His look never varied. His companion was different. According to the photographs Darryl had seen and the descriptions he’d heard from fellow agents, her outfit stayed the same while the colors changed. This time she was wearing the red skirt with white poodle, white blouse with white poodle, red chiffon scarf, and red cats-eye glasses. All that red, so vibrant and eye catching. It made an angry Darryl again wonder why he hadn’t spotted the two on his own. What kind of a Watcher agent was he?

The duo was on their way to a dance, all right. Darryl knew he had to cut in before they forced anyone else to spin with them.

“Whoa,” he said as he fingered the watch on his right wrist. “Time almost got away from me.” Darryl stood up from the bench. “I really have to run.”

“Another date?” Veronica asked as she stood. “Are you blessing calendars instead of damning them?”

Hah—a reference to the woman in the poem. Darryl chuckled feebly as he again thought of the power of Veronica’s memory. “No, I
bemoan
them. Just like
she
did. But I can’t manipulate time.”

Veronica smiled and shook her head. “Well, I can only say ‘till tomorrow’ to you then. Let’s meet for brunch, if you’re not too busy. Call me.”

She moved closer, stood on her toes, and leaned in. Darryl pulled her even closer and kissed her, straining to keep as much of his own saliva in his mouth as possible. The use of his signature honey-trick (a strange-but-happy side effect of his Virus medication) would have to wait for another time.

They disengaged, and Veronica turned to walk toward the Metro station entrance. Darryl stood still and waited for—
There
—the moment she turned back to smile and wave at him. He returned the gesture, and, when she turned away, he turned himself invisible. He didn’t care about any others who may’ve witnessed the sudden disappearance, just so long as she didn’t. Not yet.

Darryl scrambled off the path and up into the nearest tree. He stripped down to his T-shirt and boxer shorts. On other days he would’ve been thankful if a strong wind were rustling the leaves, masking the sound of his presence in the tree. Today, it didn’t matter. He’d make his presence known soon enough.

Leaving his clothes hanging on the branches, Darryl took his corresq out of his hidden shirt pocket. He kept himself invisible as he drifted back down toward the ground, stopping to levitate just one inch above it. He then glided toward his targets, who, for the moment, were strolling along the pathway like two young people casually in love with each other. He knew they were really scoping out the territory as they decided on the best spot to tag the most victims. He knew their kind.

The Infinite Definite was a loose association of Virus-carriers who had dipped themselves once too often into the dirty-light pools of XynKroma. The result for each was a scrambled mind, conscious thoughts stained with uncommon sense, an inclination toward wild artistic expression, and an uncanny ability to manipulate the twisted laws of physics that ruled the extra-dimensional realm of Xyn wherever they went. They were the mentally undead. Magickally talented zombies. Like most Virus-carriers, they could manipulate light, but they took it to whatever extremes they could by performing what had become known as Dirty-Light Magick tricks—fantastical feats that were too, too real and always used in the service of mayhem and chaos. If they believed in anything, associates of The ID believed the nonsensical rules of XynKroma, the Ultimate realm of Reality, should rule over all realms of Reality, all planes of existence. They may never say so outright, but Michael and Christine subscribed to this messy philosophy; one could tell by their actions, their special brand of violence.

Both the greaser and his chick were in their mid- to late-teens. Darryl had never faced these two before, but he’d had two or three discussions with Watcher agents who’d encountered them. Their modus operandi was to draw attention to themselves by putting on a dance display in a public setting. After a sufficient number of individuals had gathered around to watch them, snap pictures, and applaud, the duo would snap and begin to hurt as many of the onlookers as they could before the authorities arrived. Today, they were taunting their luck; an authority was already here.

Darryl continued to follow them, studying them as he kept a distance of fifty feet and remained invisible to everyone around him. From what he’d heard, Michael and Christine wore the same basic outfits whenever they were in public, and they never manipulated light-and-shadow to hide, blur, or alter their facial features. They were among the most audacious couples associated with The Infinite Definite. Still, it was rare for them to cause alarm when they went for a stroll. People usually either took them as eccentrics and ignored them, or smiled at them with broad amusement.

Damned tourists. They were a big part of the problem. Though bold, Michael and Christine were also smart enough to frequent only the touristy spots in Washington and Northern Virginia, the places area residents saw often enough but rarely stopped to visit unless they were entertaining guests from out of town. A few residents of the area knew of Michael and Christine’s antics—how they looked and what they did—from brief mentions on the nightly news and small items published in the local papers. On the occasions sharp-witted residents spotted the duo, or even thought they did, they would either flee or call the police; unfortunately for local law enforcement officers, there existed a large number of social clubs devoted to the culture of “1950s America,” clubs whose membership included law-abiding adults and teenagers fond of dressing in 1950s fashion and speaking in 1950s slang. The police often found themselves answering to false alarms. These two in Darryl’s sight weren’t false; he’d been looking at them close enough and long enough to see they were exactly who he thought they were. But he couldn’t do anything. Yet.