Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change (14 page)

Now he was horror. A skeleton looked back at him from the mirror.

They’d all pay for this. All of them. They’d see who he was, what they’d done. He’d make them feel the shame of helplessness, of being done so very damned wrong.

Yes, they’d all see. The whole world would. They couldn’t ignore him anymore, and they were talking about him even now, as he stood in the shadows.

He could imagine their faces when he stepped out. Then they’d never stop talking about him.

Dawn found Scott still awake, staring out over the city, but he didn’t want to venture out into the living room area because he’d realized, a little belatedly, that Sienna was sleeping out there. He’d gone out in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep and found her curled up on the couch. She’d shifted at the sound of his footsteps, and he’d felt bad; here he had taken one of the bedrooms without even giving it a thought and she was stuck on a sofa. At least it looked comfortable, he justified it to himself.

He stared at the dawning day breaking over the city of Los Angeles and took a breath of the clean hotel air. It was better than the hotel his dad had put him up in, but he didn’t have a change of clothes or any of his toiletries, so it was kind of a wash. Normally he would have taken a shower, but instead he’d turned on the TV as background noise. They were still talking about the drought, how they hadn’t had rain since last fall, when it had deluged a few times and then quit. That didn’t seem like the atmosphere to take a long shower in. It would have made him feel guilty.

The taste of morning breath stuck on his tongue, and he tried to remember when he’d last had an actual meal. Had he even had finger food at the party? No, he’d run into Brock before he’d found the food, and now whatever was left of the spread was ash. He tried to smile, but he didn’t really feel like it. He had a sense of malaise in this whole thing that was unsettling, but it had settled—on him. On his bones, in his bones. It wasn’t just the dry air, either. It was everything, a feeling that had followed him from Minnesota.

Why had Kat said that he and Sienna were together? They’d never so much as gone on a date. He racked his memory; he’d seen the articles, the gossip rag stuff that said they were boyfriend and girlfriend, but that was gossip rags. It wasn’t like they ever got anything right. They made shit up for a living, like the weatherman or politicians.

There was a feeling in his mind that he quite couldn’t identify, though. Like something stuck in his teeth that he couldn’t work loose with his tongue, no matter how hard he tried.

Scott went into the bathroom attached to his room and ran water. It wasn’t exactly a shower, but it would do. He ran his hands under the tap, drawing the water in. He could store it inside—retain water, he always joked—and he needed it right now, in this town. After he’d had his fill, he let it run a little longer. It was like taking a drink on a hot day, like quenching a thirst.

He shut off the tap and didn’t bother toweling off his hands. They were already dry.

He eased over to the suite door and opened it. He took quiet steps up to the balcony and looked over. Sienna was still on the couch, slobbed out—there was no other way to describe it—mouth open, a little bit of drool running down her chin. He cringed and assisted it back into her mouth from above, then tiptoed down toward the kitchen, hoping they had something in the mini-fridge.

He was almost to the kitchen when the knock sounded at the door. He froze, like someone had whacked him in the back and forced him to stand upright. Sienna stirred on the couch but did not wake. He adjusted his course to the door, reaching it in a half dozen steps as the next pounding came. He flipped the lock quickly, the word “SHHHHH,” already building to be let out from his lungs, threw the door open to deliver his message—

And froze when he saw what was standing on the other side.

It was man wearing a black ski mask with an ovoid hole to allow his eyes to look out. He was massive, a mountain in the hallway, enormous, dangerous—and before Scott could say anything, he pushed his way into the suite.

I woke to the sounds of a scuffle, that funny after-sleep taste in my mouth and one leg hanging off the couch. It was a rude awakening; not the rudest I’d ever had, but not exactly a gentle kiss from Steven Clayton—errr, I mean Prince Charming. (I might mean Steven Clayton.)

I rolled my head to find Scott being put in a headlock by a dude in tactical gear with a black mask covering his face. I blinked twice, Scott’s neck trapped beneath a hammy forearm, and stopped myself from rolling off the couch just in time.

“Guy Friday!” I snapped, and the black-masked idiot looked right at me. “Let him go.”

Guy Friday did as I asked, well-trained chimp that he was. Scott bolted away from him as soon as the grip lessened enough for him to escape, and he turned and raised his hands like he was going to give the monkey a bath. “What the hell?” Scott asked, trying to clear his throat.

“I wasn’t apprised that you were involved in this situation,” Guy Friday said in a thick voice. “It wasn’t in the briefing materials.”

“You just worked with him like, two months ago,” I said, cracking my back as I got to my feet. My leather jacket slid off me where I’d been using it as a blanket, and I caught it deftly. “Maybe give him the benefit of the doubt next time?” Under the mask, I thought I could see Guy Friday thinking it over, but it wasn’t easy to tell. He wasn’t exactly a brain trust. “What are you doing here?”

“The director sent me,” Guy Friday said, hands at his sides, his muscles fading a little now that he considered the danger over, I guess. He was a Hercules-type, able to grow his muscle mass in times of crisis. Or when he wanted to head to the beach and show off, probably still wearing his ski mask the whole time. It was good for all occasions, I guessed, whether hitting the slopes or robbing a liquor store. “I was ordered to find you and keep an eye on the situation, manage the crisis.”

“Well, we’re managing to crisis just fine, thanks,” I said. “Why, we’re crisis-ing like pros here.”

“Crisis is not a verb,” he said stiffly.

“It could be,” I said, a little resentful. “Let’s crisis, fools!” I said experimentally. He just shook his head. “It’s gonna be a thing. You wait and see.”

Kat’s blond head appeared at the balcony, took one look at Guy Friday and screamed before turning and running back into her room. I heard the slamming of a door and the bolting of a lock. “They’re going to have to Photoshop the brown spot out of her yoga pants,” I said.

“What?” Guy Friday asked.

“She’s doing a photoshoot for
Vanity Fair
today,” I said with a forced smile.

“That’s stupid,” Guy Friday said.

“Yeah, the timing is dumb,” I agreed. “I tried to talk her out of it, but she and her manager/producer/lover are immovable on the subject.”

“I meant
Vanity Fair
is stupid,” Guy Friday said, suddenly an expert in magazines. “Adhering to a scheduled event when someone has declared their intent to kill you is suicidal.”

“At last, something upon which we can agree,” I said. “And here I thought we had nothing in common.”

He perked up, looking at my hip. “Is that a CZ Shadow II?”

“Oh, wow,” Scott deadpanned, “you guys have so much in common you should get married.”

“No, thank you,” Guy Friday said, sounding as serious as if I’d just proposed to him for real, “I quite enjoy the single life, and wouldn’t care to be chained down just yet.” He wandered toward the staircase and looked out the window, and I thought, just for a second, he was admiring the view of the skyline. “This is a disaster.”

“I agree,” I said, “urban planning hasn’t really improved since the skylines of—”

“I meant the window,” Guy Friday said. “You could put a sniper outside and pick the target off with ease.”

I looked out the window. There were no other towers of similar height for well over a mile, and in fact anyone trying to shoot up into our room would have a beast of a time making that shot due to the angle, what with us being on the top floor. “Ummm … I’d be more worried that someone would come through with a helicopter and a Gatling gun, but okay … sniper. Will definitely consider that.” And file it under “I” for “Idiot.” Captain Redbeard was more likely to ride the elevator up and just walk in, do his thing and drop off a bomb while we were all sleeping. Which I had considered but was too tired to take very seriously. Bodyguarding is not really my jam. “Someone should go calm down Kat before she dials 911,” I said, and looked to Scott.

He looked back at me for a moment then realized I meant him. “Oh. Right. Yeah.” He started toward the staircase, paused, looked like he wanted to say something, then dismissed it and headed on his way.

“Any idea why this target was picked?” Guy Friday asked.

“The suspect is a guy Augustus had a dust-up with in Atlanta a few months back,” I said, watching Guy Friday’s eyes for a trace of reaction. “You know, Augustus?” He stared at me blankly. “Black guy? Can use earth powers?”

“I know of him,” Guy Friday said without a hint of emotion.

“Yeah, well, this guy put a hand in his girlfriend—”

Guy Friday’s eyes narrowed. “He did what?”

“He—he can make himself pass through solid matter, and he kind of stuck a hand in Taneshia’s back and like, ripped a hole in her body—”

“He ripped her a new one,” Guy Friday said, but sounded strangely unamused, like he was filling in a blank. “The body already has several holes,” he went on to explain, oh-so-helpfully.

“Yeah, well,” I said, “Augustus dealt with him at the time, dragged the ground out from under his feet and buried him in a hole—” I paused a second to track this with my experience. Redbeard could make himself totally insubstantial, walk through walls, dodge through punches, all that, but he didn’t fall through the earth when he did any of that. Yet Augustus had yanked the ground from beneath his feet.

How?

I looked around for my phone and found it on the nearby chair. I had notifications out the wazoo. Six were from Dick, a progressive spiral of jealousy and anger as he realized I was apparently not meeting him for breakfast, but the seventh was a missed call from Augustus.

Thankfully, he left a voicemail. Which I immediately pulled up and put on speakerphone.

“Hey, yo,” Augustus’s youthful voice came, “got your message about that phase-shifting dude. Yeah, I remember him, bald man, red eyebrows and goatee, and a shit attitude. I thought I’d seen the last of him after what he did to Taneshia. Reed and I are in the middle of something pretty big at the moment—yeah, okay, it’s actually just the world’s longest stakeout, we’re talking like, a week going on now—anyway, when this wraps up I’m heading to LA for sure. Anyway, this guy, he’s got the ability to slink through solid matter, but he’s got to keep the bottoms of his feet solid when he does this stuff, or else he’ll slide into the earth. So just, y’know, aim for the flat foot. I don’t know.” There was a sound in the background, Reed muttering. “Okay, gotta go. Just hold him off and I’ll be there to help you—I’m just kidding. I’m sure you’ll have him all wrapped up by the time the Austin, Texas, version of
The Longest Day
is finished over here. Later.”

“Bottoms of his feet,” Guy Friday said, reminding me he was there and annoying me in one go. “Got it.”

“Why did the director send you here?” I asked, tucking my phone back in my pocket.

“Because the election is days away,” Guy Friday said, “and if you screw this up, it’s going to make the president look bad.” He paused for dramatic effect, or possibly just because it took the thought that long to rattle through his brain to be dispensed out his mouth. “Again.”

“It was super subtle the way you rubbed that in just now,” I said. “How’d you find me?”

He nodded to my phone. “The geek tracked you down.”

I looked down and found a message from J.J. buried among Dick’s multiplicity of texts:

J.J.

Guy Friday is heading directly to you. Director’s orders. Sorry.

“Should have slept with my phone by me,” I muttered. Then I saw one of Dick’s messages:

Ricardo

I am at Al’s, and have two stools at the counter. Where are you?

“No, I shouldn’t have,” I said under my breath and pocketed the phone. Some things could wait. Like crazy. Crazy could wait.

“Do you always talk to yourself?” Guy Friday asked, watching me like I was a science experiment worthy of study. He still had his arms folded in front of him, all forbidding.

“Only when there’s no one else worth talking to,” I quipped. “Speaking of which, since you’re on guard duty, I’m going to go take a shower.” And it was going to be long and luxurious, and then I was going to … put on exactly the same clothes I was wearing right now. With no anti-perspirant, because I didn’t have any. “On second thought, I’m going out for a bit.”

“Where?” Guy Friday asked, squinting at me through his mask.

“I need some stuff to wear,” I said, rolling my eyes at him. “Figured maybe I’d go out, get a mask of my own, y’know. Tactical vest and all that.”

“Good luck,” he snorted. “I picked this baby up online at—”

I closed the door without waiting for him to finish. I doubted I’d be able to find a ski mask in Los Angeles anyway.

Kat was working it for the camera, and she knew she was kicking this photoshoot’s ass. The photographer was a little stiff, his assistants weren’t exactly responsive, Karyn hadn’t shown up this morning before she’d left the hotel, and Taggert was still sleeping through the effects of Ambien, probably, but she was here and giving it her all. Sienna and Scott were watching with vague disinterest, keeping more of an eye on the crowd around MacArthur Park Lake, where she was parading around in the water looking spontaneous as hell and good while doing it. The other guy, the one in the black mask that Sienna kept calling “Guy Friday,” he was watching too, though now he was all swelled up like he should be working out in Venice Beach. Had he been that big earlier? She didn’t think so.