Destiny: The Girl in the Box #9 (8 page)

Antonio gave a quick look around the store. Annoying Samuel was still against the wall, shaking but now upright. I could feel it when Antonio had grabbed him, and the hold was strong, like a meta’s. Still, he wouldn’t have known that, and it made me wonder what could possibly have clued our people in that this was a meta incident.

“I’m sorry,” Antonio said, and the remorse was all over his face. His eyes were sagging, his lips were drawn down like he’d had someone pull his cheeks down with lead weights. I thought he was going to cry right there for just a beat. He turned to Trenchcoat, and for just a moment I thought he was going to apologize to the corpse, too. The smell of gunfire hung heavy in the air.

“Uh …” Samuel’s answer was a non-answer, two steps away from stuttering. His mouth hung open and he tried to form words. He lifted a hand to point, and it shook like he was in agonizing pain at that very moment. “I … I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave …” I just stared at him, glad I was incorporeal. I doubt I could have hid how much I was marveling at his stupidity.

“I’ll go,” Antonio said, to my surprise. He shook for a moment, and his skin rippled. He grunted like it hurt, his skin taking on a different texture, a rougher one. He grunted again, and I wondered if he was going to Hulk out like a Hercules-type. His body stayed the same shape, though, his skin just … changed. And not like I’d seen Clyde Clary do.

Ridges appeared as his body hardened and he gained a few inches in height. Antonio started toward the door and his walk was even slower and more awkward than before, like he was walking on two tree trunks. Like one of the Ents I’d seen in the Lord of the Rings movies. His hips swung wide with every step and he went through the door sideways, shuffling to accommodate his larger frame. His skin had become like tree bark, a layer of protection against whatever came his way.

I watched him walk, and changed my angle slightly to see him go for a car across the street. He lurched toward it, and as he reached the side I caught a glimpse of the plate number.

I took one last look at Samuel, against the wall, watching, hand still shaking and stuck in place from where he’d held it out to point Antonio toward the door.

The memory faded as the pawnshop snapped back into rough clarity around me. The haze of blue was gone, and I realized that the blurring had faded as soon as the stocky woman had run away from the scene. I pulled my hand from Samuel’s and his body slackened, slumping onto the counter. He caught himself with a hand, but he looked as though he was going to be sick right there on the glass display. Which would be a shame, because then the next customer wouldn’t be able to see the ten thousand Pokemon games he had for sale.

“Wha …” Samuel’s green eyes snapped up to me, cloudy, like he was coming out of a deep sleep. “What … what …” He murmured, nearly incoherent.

“Go sit down,” I said, turning away. I started back toward the door, the neon signs that lit the front windows looking even more vivid now that I’d returned from the haze of memory. “You’ve had a very traumatic experience.”

“I … have?” Samuel mumbled. “Did I get robbed again?”

I paused, thinking of all the things I’d like to say, the things that would sound cool, but the truth was, he was a scared kid. I’d seen that while I was in his mind. He wasn’t any older than me, and he was so bad with people he’d probably be single forever. “No,” I said. “You’re going to be fine. You just got a little lightheaded there for a bit. Have a seat, chill out and get some water, okay?”

“Okay,” he said as I pushed through the door into the sweltering Vegas heat.

The bright sun overhead glared down on me. This time I started to sweat instantly, but it still felt like my body was retaining heat so it could cook me internally. I made it five steps before Scott opened up on me. I’d almost forgotten he was there, he’d gotten so quiet.

“What the hell was that?” He didn’t even bother to restrain his anger; it lashed at me as we walked through the sweltering parking lot.

“Investigation,” I said.

“You almost took that poor bastard’s soul!”

“I was at least ten seconds away from that,” I replied, heading for the car. This time, I felt a trickle of sweat make its way from under my hair down my temple. “Besides, I got a plate number for the robber and some insight into what’s going on.”

Scott paused, and I could feel his anger without looking at him. He was a black hole of irritation, following just behind me. “What did you find out?” he asked finally, with reluctance, like he was being dragged to the point of asking.

“Antonio—the robber—got interrupted by Century,” I said. “He pulled a gun and shot one of their members.” I glanced back at the store. “Killed him. And it saved Antonio’s life.”

“Great,” Scott said, and let loose a sigh. “So the extermination is alive and well in Vegas right now. Or was, anyway.”

“Still is, I think.” I reached the car and grasped for the handle. The chrome was so hot from the sun that it burned my hand. “There was another one of them—a telepath. She blurred the world for Samuel so he couldn’t remember much of anything.”

Scott let that sink in. “Why … why would she care?”

I’d been thinking about that since I’d figured out what she was doing, and I’d come to a conclusion that made me smile. “Because if the extermination is going on right now, here in Vegas, then it means the last of Century’s telepaths are here. Right now.” I glanced at Scott and saw him nod, all trace of his rage gone.

In fact, I think he might have smiled just a little bit himself.

The Las Vegas Metropolitan PD got us a near-instantaneous return on Antonio Morales’s license plate, along with an address that was in Henderson. Fortunately, I found out when I checked the GPS that we were in fact already in Henderson, and our destination was less than ten minutes away.

“I guess Antonio doesn’t adhere to the old adage of ‘Don’t shit where you live,’” Scott said. He chuckled slightly.

I frowned, feeling a surprising amount of empathy for the would-be stick-up artist. “He was scared. He knew Century was coming after him, somehow.”

“If that’s the case, you don’t think he’s going to be hanging around his house, do you?” Scott sent me a sidelong look that I ignored.

We pulled up to the house a few minutes later. It looked odd to me after a steady couple years of Minnesota living. The entire front yard was made up of rocks instead of grass, and instead of the paneling that was so common in the upper Midwest, the exterior was a dull beige stucco texture that reminded me of a choppy river. The whole neighborhood had a similar sun-bleached look, complete with dull orange roofing tiles that reminded me of an Italian villa I’d seen on TV.

“We’re not in Minneapolis anymore,” Scott said, neck hunched down to look at the house.

“What tipped you off?” I jerked the handle of the car and pushed the door open. “The hundred and eight degree temperature?” I felt the rush of heat hit me again as I stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Well, really, it was that there’s no lawn,” Scott said, straightening as he got out of the car. “What’s up with that?”

“It’s the desert,” I said with a shrug.

“Yeah, but I’ve seen grass. They’ve got golf courses here. It’s not all sand, sand, sand as far as the eye can see. I mean, Las Vegas means ‘the meadows’ in Spanish, for crying out loud.”

“Do I look like a climatologist or something?” I asked, but said it relatively gently. My nerves were getting to me. I had no idea what to do here, and standing out in the hot sun wasn’t making me any happier or more relaxed. I wondered how long it would take my pale ass to get sunburned. I looked at my lily-white, near-glowing skin and knew that it wouldn’t take long. Not in this heat.

We walked up the driveway, past the single brown garage door. I opened the metal gate attached to the front door and gave it a solid knock. The whole setup screamed, “Go away!” to me, and I wondered if it was a function of the owner’s personality or just the neighborhood that prompted it. The streets were quiet, filled with houses just like this, but it was hard to tell if it was quiet because people were scared, or if it was just too hot to be out.

I felt a long trickle of sweat roll down my ribs and started leaning toward the latter.

I gave the door another solid knock. Scott and I waited, staring at each other for a good thirty seconds before he broke the silence. “Maybe he’s not home,” he said.

“Maybe.” I gave it a second’s thought and then kicked down the door.

“Jesus, Sienna!” Scott said, and he had his gun drawn a second later. I was already on my way inside. “Are you trying to get killed?”

“Antonio,” I announced from the entryway. “My name is Sienna Nealon and I’m here to talk to you.”

There was a stark silence. “I don’t think I’d believe you if I were him,” Scott said. “You just kicked down his door!”

“I don’t think he’s here,” I said, chewing my lip. It was dry and starting to crack from the desert air. “I suspect Century ran him to ground.”

“You mean like … he’s dead?” Scott asked.

“Or hiding.” I couldn’t see anything from the entryway, so I took a step forward and looked to my right. Just through an arch was a living room that had been tossed. And by tossed I mean completely destroyed in the search for anything useful. The couches were knocked over, the cushions slashed to leave a mess of stuffing everywhere on the grey slate tile. The coffee table was overturned, presumably when someone checked to make sure nothing was taped underneath. There were holes punched in the walls, vases shattered, and every painting had been torn down and ripped from its frame.

“Ugly, but thorough,” Scott said, going down the hall. He still had his gun out and peeked around the corner with his weapon first. “Kitchen.”

I followed him past the kitchen and into bedrooms, my pistol drawn now as well. I didn’t think we’d find either Century or Morales, but I’d been trained that it was better to be safe than sorry. We swept through the house, clearing it before we searched in depth for clues to the whereabouts of Antonio Morales.

Once we were sure no one was there, we ended up in a bedroom that looked to have been re-purposed as an office and a garden. There were dozens of potted plants, and every pot had been smashed. Clay fragments littered the wood floor like broken pieces of Antonio Morales’s life. There was a computer here, too, and it looked like it was the only thing that hadn’t been smashed and overturned. Scott gave it a nod then touched the mouse to wake it. “What’s up with this?”

“Probably searched his computer as best they could,” I said as the screen turned right back into a desert landscape. “Looked under the table rather than turning it over, and just left it when they were done.”

“Huh.” Scott leaned over and opened the browser. “History’s clear. I guess Antonio covered his tracks pretty well.”

“Yeah,” I said and gently put a hand on him. He looked up in surprise and I pushed him aside. Not hard, more like a suggestion to move. With a minor amount of force. I reached down and typed an IP address into the bar at the top of the browser and hit enter. I saw it load then enter a blank screen as I pulled out my phone and dialed a contact.

“Hello, Boss Lady,” came J.J.’s high voice from the other end of the line. He sounded awfully peppy.

“I just pinged your site from a computer I need searched,” I said.

“Ahhh, I just got an alert about that,” J.J. said. “Henderson, Nevada, huh? Put a dollar in the slot machine for me, will ya?”

“I’ll get right on that,” I muttered. “Give me something, J.J.”

“Hmmmm,” he said. “Looks like somebody worked this computer over. Twelve days ago a buttload of files were erased, browser history cleared. Six days ago someone nosed around looking for stuff, copied the remains of the hard drive to a flash drive. Doesn’t look like they found anything.”

“And will you find anything?” I asked.

There was a laugh on the other end of the line that bordered on boastful. “I already have, because I’m not some amateur loser that gets halted in his tracks by a blanked-out browser history. I am—”

“
I
am not renowned for my patience,” I said, cutting him off, “so let that be your guide in whatever you say next.”

There was a moment’s silence from the phone. “Right. Yes. Okay. So, I have his search history, thanks to some back doors we have with the big providers—”

“English is my primary language, and it would help me greatly if you’d speak it to me,” I said.

There was another pause. “Okay, well, short answer—I don’t have anything for you right now.”

“Remember what I said earlier about patience?”

“But I can get you some analysis!” J.J. said. “I just need some time. I’ve got his search history, I’ve got some files he failed to erase properly, I mean there’s a lot of stuff for me to work with. Give me a few hours to sort it out, okay? Please?” Now he sounded like he was begging.

I held my breath for effect, and I imagined I could hear him doing the same on the other end of the line, but for entirely different reasons. “Fine,” I said. “Hurry.” And I hung up.

“You were kind of harsh with J.J.,” Scott observed as we made our way down the darkened hallway toward the front door. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you manage anyone else like that.”

“J.J. is special,” I said, thinking of something pretty gross that I’d inferred from something he’d told me about his cat. Scott was right, though; I didn’t usually lean on people—at least not my allies—the way I’d just leaned on him. Maybe the stress was getting to me.

“Uh huh.” I could hear the reticence in the way he said it.

My phone began to ring. “See?” I said, but I didn’t smile. Dammit, he’d actually made me feel bad about how I’d treated J.J. I looked at the faceplate but didn’t immediately recognize the number. It had a 702 area code, which I knew meant it was local. I slid my finger across the answer button. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Sienna?” There was a kind of nervous tentativeness in the voice. “It’s Lauren over at the morgue.”

“Oh, hey,” I said as I got into the car. Scott fired it up and the air conditioner started blowing at full blast, warm air that hadn’t had a chance to cool just yet. “What’s up?”