Vacant (2 page)

She sighed. I felt her considering.

“Go ahead and turn around,” I said. She was a workaholic and obligated to the department. Getting in the way of her job wasn't going to get me anywhere. And the feeling of that death bothered me. I wanted to know what was going on.

“But—”

“It's fine,” I said. “Let's find out who died.”

“Okay.” So she turned the car around.

I gave her
directions, eyes closed, a macro game of hot and cold as we got closer to what I'd felt, back and forth along streets.

“Right,” I said, and a few moments later she turned right.

“I see it,” she said, and slowed the car.

We parked a few hundred feet away, engine settling and then turning off. On the sidewalk was a scatter of T-shirts like molted feathers, a metal pole with cloth loops now dark with blood, and a man who had clearly been beaten to death. Beyond it, a pay phone under one of the arena's lights.

“Is that . . . ?” I asked into the silence of the car.

“Yeah,” she said, staring at the steering wheel. “Yeah, it is.”

She got out of the car, walking past the body while I sat there, in shock. What had happened in ten minutes? Why hadn't I felt anything but the death? Why hadn't my future-sense kicked in a little? We might have saved his life by arresting him.

Cherabino picked up the pay phone, and I closed the car door behind me gently.

“I need to report a murder in Fulton County,” she said as I stood over the man. She added her police number and additional identifying information.

His face was dented, actually dented in a couple of areas,
while swelling around his eyes made him look . . . inhuman, like clay formed by a child sculptor, only an approximation of a man. His body looked worse, arm out of socket, clothes dark with blood. His leg was clearly broken, half out of place.

I'd touched his mind, just a few minutes ago. And now the absence, the hole in Mindspace that signified his death, was like a fresh wound in the world.

She hung up the phone and walked back over to me, hands deep in her coat pockets.

“Are we . . . ?” I asked.

“They'll look at us for a little while, but the forensics won't match up and they'll let it go,” she said. Her mind added that we might have to spend the night in Fulton County Lockup. Maybe. But running would get us far worse, and professional courtesy should extend somewhat.

Distantly, sirens wailed. I shivered in my jacket.

*   *   *

It was a sad and unfortunate truth that the person to report the crime was often the first suspect. In this case, that meant that Cherabino and I, out of our jurisdiction, were suspects. I wasn't entirely surprised when they bundled us up and took us into the station. I was surprised when they kept us for hours.

I found myself on the opposite side of the interview table, in a strange room, with yet another stranger asking me questions. She was a fortysomething woman with strong features and a hard personality, what my father would have called a battle-ax when I was growing up—and he would have meant it as a compliment. Unfortunately, after three interviewers, I was less than pleased with her on principle.

“You lost your job with the DeKalb County Police Department recently,” she began, after the usual softening-up questions. “Tell me about that.”

“My job at the DeKalb County Police Department changed focus and hours,” I replied as precisely as possible. “I'm a consultant. I consult. Unfortunately one of the consulting jobs I took outside the department last year made Paulsen—my supervisor—uncomfortable. It was decided to move me more directly to the homicide and robbery squads to work with Branen and his team, who do not have the same concerns about other consulting.” I'd had a few hours to figure out how to phrase that by now. Plus, Swartz and I had discussed the best way to say it for job interviews.

“What was the consulting job that made your superior uncomfortable?” the interrogator asked.

“I'm sorry. What was your name?” I asked, tired of being played like a civilian. After the second interviewer, they'd already left me alone for an hour and a half with bad coffee and no bathroom; I'd spurned the one because I'd planned for the other, but it had to be two a.m. and I wanted a nap. Another nap, I should say. She'd woken me up once already. Or her predecessor had. I was losing track.

“Officer Malone,” the woman said, after a moment of consideration. “I'll repeat, what was the consulting job that made your superior uncomfortable?”

“Officer Malone. Thank you.” I made myself relax my body language a little more . . . more “open,” less defensive. “The consulting job that made my superiors uncomfortable was one with the Telepaths' Guild. I can't go into details.”

Her whole demeanor changed then, her body drawing back, her lip curling under. “The Guild? You worked for the Guild?”

I nodded.

Any professional courtesy she'd given me up until that point vanished like a mirage. She peppered me with question after question, hostility mixing with her fear at being
alone with a “traitor telepath” until finally she brought in another stubborn-minded male interrogator.

I held on to my temper with both hands and answered the questions as honestly as possible, going over what I'd seen outside the concert over and over again. Finally, after two hours, I said, “Are we done?”

“For now,” she said, anger in every line. Then they left me alone.

Great. It was going to be one of those nights, wasn't it?

*   *   *

About four in the morning, I slept. And, miracle of miracles, they actually let me sleep for long enough to count as real sleep.

Sleeping outside my apartment was always a risk, since the lack of my specialty telepathic wave cancellation machine meant I felt Mindspace fully even while unconscious. Sometimes that meant I slept badly. Sometimes that meant I saw other minds, or other futures, without control.

This time the dream came back, the dream that was a variant on the vision I'd had two months ago.

I saw a boy, a boy who was a growing telepath, a boy who felt familiar in some indefinable way.

We were in a barn with old, musty hay. Beams of sunlight dropped through rotting boards, leaving spaces in the barn's walls. The air danced with motes of dust and the smell of fear.

A man stood against a wooden beam, holding a long cord. The boy didn't know who the man was but was terrified of him. I, knowing, was even more terrified; the man's name was Sibley, and he was a professional hit man. He'd taken the boy for some unknown reason, and he knew I was connected to him.

Don't be afraid,
I told the boy.
Don't be afraid. We're coming.

A phone rang. I picked it up.

“You shouldn't have invaded my home,” Fiske's voice said.

A chill of fear ran down my spine, and I knew the boy was going to die.

Then the vision disappeared, and I found myself back in the real world. Someone hit my ankle, again, with a booted foot.

“Wha—?”

“Get up,” Malone said. “Your sergeant is here to collect you.”

“What—?”

“Get up,” she repeated.

So I got up, preceding her and her hostility into the cramped quarters that was this particular precinct of Fulton County Police.

But, as we passed more desks for cops, I couldn't shake the fear. That fear, and a boy who was about to die, and that it was my fault. My P-factor was seventy-eight percent, which meant that my visions of the future—when they decided to work—were right about three-quarters of the time. When they came to my personal safety, they were even more accurate, unfortunately. Unless I could figure out how to stop it, this vision would likely come to pass, and a boy would die. My gut felt empty, all too empty.

At the front of the station, I saw Cherabino with deep circles under her eyes, looking haunted. And there, behind her, was Sergeant Branen.

I'd never been so happy to see the bastard in my life.

But I was also cold now, cold and afraid for a boy I didn't know.

*   *   *

Branen greeted me, clearly unhappy, while a precinct full of strangers stared and judged.

I returned the greeting. “Sir.”

“You okay?” Cherabino asked.

I felt like crap, and the vision worried me. But I also didn't want to stay any longer than we had to, so I said, “Yeah. For now.”

“Follow me out,” Branen barked.

Cherabino glanced at me, then away. She was very aware of Branen's body language right now, and I didn't blame her. It wasn't a good situation for her boss to be dragged out to another precinct to pick us up. I didn't know what to do, frankly. I hoped she did.

Outside, street taxis whirred by in front of the Fulton County Police Building, the dirty road with puddles of unnamed substances. The skyscrapers towered overhead with shining glory of anti-grav-assisted supermaterials, pristine and beautiful above, the dirt and disuse below beneath their notice. The police building seemed an angry troll in comparison, dirty and old, squatting on land that it jealously guarded. The air was warming up a little, at least, and the pollution didn't seem too bad today.

Branen moved to a police car with the DeKalb County logo, currently parked illegally in a loading zone near a neighboring building. He pointed to the back, where I went with a sigh. I didn't like being treated like a criminal.

“You too, Cherabino,” he said.

A spike of anger from her, but she complied. I watched the thoughts bubble up in her head like a lava lamp roiling, but none stuck. None turned into words; the car was oddly, starkly silent.

Branen drove in silence, pulling out onto the busy street cautiously, working his way through the one-way streets and limited skylane on-ramps with concentration until he settled on the Freedom Parkway airlanes. Behind us, the early-morning commuters in their flyers stretched out like
ribbons above the major interstate, ribbons between skyscrapers on all sides. Ahead, the early-morning sun edged above the horizon, soft, beautiful light that promised a new day. It was lying, of course. The vision—and the treatment from the Fulton County cops—still lingered. “They have witnesses that saw you beating up both citizens,” Branen said finally, voice dangerously low.

“They started the fight,” I said.

“Not you, Ward. I don't want to hear from you at all if I can help it. You were down on the ground according to witnesses. I'm talking about Cherabino. They said she flashed her badge, apparently, then said some very harsh threats. Threw more than one punch—a few kicks—started the fight and then ended it with excessive force. One of the guys ran away, the other she knocked out and kicked. Then, maybe fifteen minutes later, you both find a body of the same man. On the two-year anniversary of the Neil Bennett beating. Your timing could not have been worse if you'd planned it.” That was right; Bennett had been beaten by three officers in one of the southern metro counties after he talked back to one of them. He'd lost the use of a lung and nearly his life. I'd completely forgotten about it; it hadn't been my county. Branen had to know, though. Branen was political.

He added, “Did you plan it?”

Cherabino protested, “No, sir. And I didn't—”

Branen cut her off. “This is a political time bomb. On the two-year anniversary of the Bennett beating. With officer brutality already on every media channel in the city.”

Wow. That sounded terrible. But she hadn't done anything wrong. The witnesses had clearly screwed up their memories of who had done what.

I told him, “Sir, that wasn't what—”

Cherabino protested, “I didn't—”

“I have your side of the story in copious notes from Fulton County,” Branen said. “I'm not interested in hearing it again. I'm interested in handling this time bomb.”

“Seriously, I was with her the whole time. She threw a couple punches and a kick after they started it, and then they continued after she told them she was police. It was—”

“Ward, if I hear one more word from you I will fire you,” Branen said. “You can't testify in court and with your background your testimony isn't admissible into Internal Affairs hearings except as a courtesy. Even then, I won't put you on the stand because the two of you are dating. You have no credibility, and there are three citizens with excellent credibility against you. It's a train wreck waiting to happen, and I'm not going to play that game. I'd suggest you shut up about now and be grateful you aren't being brought up on your own charges.”

“Ch-charges?” Cherabino asked, for the first time losing her cool confidence.

“This department has a zero-tolerance policy for police brutality, and the witnesses say you crossed that line many times over. Your hand-to-hand training—especially the judo—means you have the skills, and you did punch out the rookie last year. And on the anniversary, with the media already involved . . .” He sighed. “Cherabino, you're one of my best officers, but I can't play favorites, and I can't assume your innocence, not under these circumstances. I have my own career to worry about. I can't be seen to tolerate excessive violence from you or anyone else. Not at all after the Bennett incident, and especially not on its anniversary.” Bennett had gone to every media outlet he could find, and his battered body had played very well on the national news. I'd seen something about that in the paper yesterday.

I swallowed. We were really in trouble, weren't we?

“Sir?” Cherabino said, hurt emanating from her in sad waves.

Branen flipped on the lights and sirens and changed lanes nearly on top of another car, which moved out of the way with a bob of the antigravity engine.

I swallowed my stomach as we fell another five feet in the air, just in time to join the ground traffic below. I could see where Cherabino had gotten her driving skills.

“Sir?” Cherabino repeated. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

“The hearing will determine that, not me,” Branen said. “Considering what Internal Affairs already has on the docket, this one is getting fast-tracked. You'll face both issues together—the trip to Fiske's house a few months ago and this incident—and you'll do it this week. I'd suggest your lawyer and you have a long, hard conversation. If your job survives the process, I'll be stepping up my supervision. You might have the highest close rate in the department, Cherabino, but you are not above the rules. Not for a bad kill. Not for police brutality. Not now.” The last was said with such certainty that she reared back like she'd been hit. He was sure she'd done this, and his disgust at the fact was obvious even to her.