Vacant (8 page)

He asked a couple, and I answered them.

I summed up, in the hope of ending the conversation: “It's just additional information at this point, something for us to take seriously but not to worry about much. We're already on protective duty. It's not like this information changes any of that.”

His thoughts about that were cautious, like someone placing his feet carefully in a darkened room. “How likely is it that we're dealing with the events of the vision?” he asked. “How much can we plan in advance and head this off?”

That was the question, wasn't it? I damped down impatience and decided on honesty. “I have no idea. The future is mutable, or it usually is. I think it's likely . . . judging from my previous experience here, we're much better off taking slow moves to change things than aggressive action. Aggressive action can backfire.”

He huffed. I waited, but he said nothing else, and his
brain was just churning over what I'd said from a few directions, discomfort and speculation mixing with my words. And I needed to go.

But I'd also been gone from Tommy for several minutes now, and I was supposed to be the Minder. So I took a quick look at Mindspace, behind me, to check on Tommy.

I got a much clearer view, much faster, than I would otherwise expect. Probably the connection between us meant I could monitor his mind more easily than the average. Tommy was facedown on his bed, working through the comic book, engrossed in the story. He didn't notice I was there, which was both good and bad.

Since I was open to the house anyway, I took a look at the surroundings, making sure I could account for all the minds. Everything seemed normal, so far as I knew—but then, in the front room behind me, I felt the bodyguard's mind shimmer in and out of reality.

“Crap,” I said.

“What?” Loyola asked, annoyed, but I was already moving down the hall in her direction. I entered the main room.

Yeah, she was slumped over on the left in that bowl-shaped chair, hand drooping to the floor, color ashen. The bandage on her arm was covered in blood. But it was her mind that bothered me. Did she have internal bleeding?

“Jarrod,” I said to him.
Jarrod,
I said into his mind directly.

“What?” He looked up, frowning at me from the board over on the right.

I gestured. “Tanya's going into shock. Somebody's going to have to drive her to the hospital. If that's me, we need to pack up the kid and go now. She can't wait.”

I added a little strength to her mind, not enough to stabilize
her, but enough to help her last a little longer. It would buy us another few minutes.

Jarrod sighed and got up. “One thing after another,” he muttered under his breath. He headed out to the porch, me following.

I blinked in the light of the setting sun.

“Mendez,” Jarrod said, and she turned around.

“What?”

“I need you to get Tanya to the hospital, ASAP,” Jarrod said. “Check on the other bodyguard while you're there. Take Sridarin with you.”

Mendez thought dark thoughts about the woman being the one on hospital duty, but out loud she just said, “Yes, sir. Emergency?”

“Looks like it.”

The other mind I'd felt came up the front steps. He was a young guy, maybe twenty-one, of Indian descent, and he moved with the quick-footed grace I associated with soccer players. He and Mendez pushed past me immediately; they had Tanya up before I was back in the room.

“I'm fine,” Tanya mumbled as they half carried her out of the house. I felt her mind fade in and out again, and I added another shored-up piece to her mind. Then I opened up to the house again. Loyola was joining the others up front, the judge was on the phone in her office upstairs, and Tommy was out of his room and looking for me.

I checked in and then locked myself in the bathroom to take care of my bladder. And worry, a little, where Tommy wouldn't hear me.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, I met Tommy in the hallway, barely in the front room, senses fully open. His feet creaked on the old wooden floors, as did mine, as did everyone else's who
was moving all too quickly to respond. A chorus of creaks everywhere; it was distracting.

I needed to pay attention to the mental space, not the physical noise. With everybody involved with the emergency at the front of the house, I needed to pay attention to every single fluctuation in Mindspace in case this was a setup. How anyone could predict that Tanya would go into shock at this exact moment, I didn't know. But it was my job to be paranoid. And I was worried, more worried than ever, and feeling very paranoid.

“Is Tanya okay?” Tommy said.

“Let's go to your room,” I told him, “away from the windows.” My tone was probably too intense, and I didn't try to hide my concern for Tanya, but I added a determination to prevent any problems well before they started.

I reached out and touched his shoulder, pushing him gently in the direction of his room.

He was scared, suddenly, horribly scared, his mind flashing back to the attack this morning all too vividly. I pushed the images down. I was scared too. It wouldn't hurt anything to move through a defensive posture—even if nothing was wrong now, it might make him feel safer and me feel more practiced if anything else really did go wrong.

Inside the room, I closed the door and turned to the window, which seemed too low and too vulnerable. “Here, help me move the dresser in front of the window,” I said. So we did that.

Huffing and puffing, I stood back. Better, maybe. More warning. With the images of his attack echoing in my head with all his strong emotions, the danger seemed all too real to me now. I opened up my senses wide, and watched the car taking the bodyguard to the hospital leave the property.

“Is Tanya okay?” Tommy repeated in a small, worried voice.

“Tanya is in shock.” I turned to him. “They're taking her to the hospital now. She should be okay.”

“The hospital?”

I thought about how to explain it. “When you lose a lot of blood or telepathic energy all at once, it throws your whole body out of whack. You can die.” Old lessons paraded through my head: the mental signatures of someone in Stage 2, where intervention was most effective, which Tanya perhaps had passed. Chemical charts of sodium, potassium, and acidity of the blood, which I'd been forced to learn as part of my teacher-training, both for blood loss and for Ability overwork. I was more familiar with the internal feeling that I'd reached my limits. They pushed you in advanced training, over and over again, for that reason. So you knew when pushing harder would hurt, but be okay, and you knew when pushing meant you could likely die. There were limits to the human mind and body, and while you could train for more endurance, for more strength, all humans eventually hit a wall beyond which they could not go. I wasn't as familiar with blood loss, with physical damage, but in those cases it had to be the same. Beyond a certain point, you had to have help to survive. “She'll be fine,” I said, as if by a force of will.

“She's not a telepath,” Tommy responded to me.

I blinked, and paid attention again. I really had spent too much time around normals not to be expecting to be read at any moment. “No, she's not. She had to have some bleeding inside. I don't think the arm injury was enough on its own.” I tried to consider whether I could have spotted it earlier. “The hospital isn't far. She seemed like she'll do okay with IV fluids. Odds are she should be okay.” I didn't know whether I was trying to convince him or me. I'd seen too many fellow students—and myself—come back from telepathic shock with a full recovery. But blood loss was different, and she hadn't felt good.

“Will Jason die?” Tommy asked, quietly, after a moment.

“I don't know,” I said. I looked around and finally settled for sitting on the floor. My knees creaked, but I made it. “There're a lot of things I don't know. I'll try to claim them. But the folks at the hospital have this as their job. They see it every day, and they're as good as anyone is at making people get better.”

“That's not an answer,” he said.

“No, it's not, I guess.” I cast about for something to talk about. I'd already struck out on the comic books, and I didn't need to worry about Cherabino more, not right now. There—over there, the floating anti-grav boats I'd seen once before. “You going to show me the boats there?”

He sat down, in that boneless way only children had, like his joints were made of rubber. “They're just boats.” He was actually trying to read me now, and I let him.

I felt Loyola coming down the hall.
Come in slowly,
I told him.
He's going to spook easily.

I got a general feeling of agreement from him.

“Speaking of, we'll have to make contingency plans sometime today,” I said. Then, in response to his thought: “Contingency means something that you don't think will probably happen but you want to plan for it anyway, just to be safe.”

“Like Tanya did with the car,” he said, flashing to drills he'd done to drop out of sight. In the emergency he'd done it. He was proud of that. But he'd been so scared. And although he was calming down now, he was still scared. Everyone else was moving so quickly, and they said Jason might die.

“I don't know what's going to happen to Jason,” I told him. “But he wanted more than anything in the world for you to be safe. That's something I want, and Loyola wants, and all the
agents are here to make sure of. It's better to see the danger coming. In the meantime, we're just going to have to do some drills like you did with Tanya, just in case. It probably won't happen,” I said again, trying to reassure him.

He seemed dubious, and I felt his low-level fear. I didn't know how to help.

A soft knock came on the door, and then it opened slowly. Loyola stuck his head in. “Is there a reason the dresser is blocking the window?” he asked after a moment.

“It made me feel better,” I said.

He came in. “Short of a robot army invading the area, I don't think a dresser is going to make much difference.”

“Robot army?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I like B movies.” He thought moving the dresser didn't hurt anything either, and reacting to everyone else's distraction was a good habit to be in. Maybe I was competent after all.

I suppressed a sarcastic comment.

“B movies are awesome!” Tommy said. “Jason lets me watch . . .” He trailed off.

“Well, we'll watch a few together, then. I'll even make popcorn,” Loyola said, then paused. “If there's nothing critical going on right now, how about you get started on your homework?”

“Aw, do I have to?”

“Just because you're not going to school doesn't mean you don't have to keep up,” Loyola said.

“But what about Adam? He said we had to do preparedness drills. Like in case something happens. Isn't that better than homework?” Tommy's mind wasn't nearly as afraid now that the adults were acting normal.

Loyola looked at me, thinking really, why was I scaring the kid even more?

“Homework sounds like a good idea. We'll do drills later. Life goes on, right?”

Tommy pouted and then sighed, all drama. “I don't want to do homework. You don't have to do homework.”

“Kid, I do homework all the time.”

Loyola laughed.

I sat at
the kitchen table, paging through a two-year-old magazine on art that I didn't really care about while Tommy sat and drank orange juice and ignored his homework. He was watching me, and I let him. As much as I wanted to be rattled by the connection I'd accidentally made between us, I was the adult and the professional at the table and I needed to be calm. Regardless of how his mom had treated me, or how uncertain I was about this connection I hadn't seen coming, or how over my head I felt in dealing with a ten-year-old. Or even the vision weighing down on me, or the worry about Cherabino's job. I had to handle this. I had to be the strong one.

I forced calm, calm and openness like I'd do for another telepath I liked. As expected, after a few minutes he started poking around in my mind. I let him. Another telepath would have a much “louder” mind than a normal and would be easier to hear, not to mention the connection between our minds, which would probably let him see me even when his Ability wasn't stable, which would happen at his age, where he was in the development curve.

I let him look, and stayed calm. Certain things got bottled up, filed, and locked away, but that would be the same for any telepath.

He drank orange juice and poked around some more.

“Having fun?” I asked finally.

“What's the . . . the . . . itchy. . . . thing in your head?” he finally asked, making a flailing motion with his hands like words were failing him. He'd been looking at me very seriously for minutes at a time, so even in the absence of good words I'd happily answer questions. He meant the thing in my head that he could see getting twitchy; at least I thought he did.

“I want a cigarette,” I said, which was true, if incomplete. I wanted my drug, Satin, my addiction. But the cigarette would do for now. “Don't ever start smoking if you can help it. Even when you're not smoking you'll spend half your life thinking about the stupid things. Plus, they're expensive.” Even so, I couldn't see myself giving them up anytime soon; if I stayed around here, I'd probably have to get some of the stupid plastic-tasting gum to keep myself from going crazy or smoking in front of the kid. Not happy either way, but there it was.

“Oh,” he said, but settled. He had a name for what ailed me, which actually was helping me too. Something to focus on.

“You'll be a telepath. It'll take a couple of years for your Ability to stabilize, but you'll get there,” I said after a minute, in answer to his unspoken question.

He blinked and went back to his orange juice. Unnamed fears and hopes and the memories of this morning all jumbled up together in his head, getting stuck, rubbing up against each other.

I went back to the magazine. He'd work through it on his own, or I—or more likely, his mother or Tanya—would be able to ask questions that would help. But pushing him to talk before he was ready didn't seem useful, not at this stage.

Besides, I was out of my league and I knew it. He was far younger than I was used to dealing with in students, the
structure of his mind seemed fine, and there was nothing I could investigate right this instant. His bodyguard was likely to have seen more significant details than he would have, considering her training, and the laws about mind-reading and consent in kids were tricky. I still felt a bit helpless, though. And worried about what was to come. Could I really keep him safe? Could I really not worry in front of him?

I turned another page in the magazine, and came across an article with a star drawn by it. A Savannah artist and art professor at the design college, showing in a New York gallery. There were pictures of his work, intricate 3-D things set on top of canvases, not quite paintings, not quite sculpture, with many gears and brightly colored paint so that your eye was drawn to them and you half expected the whole thing to move.

“Do you guys know this guy?” I asked.

He leaned over to see what I was looking at, then straightened. “He's a friend of the art teacher at school. The school went to the opening.” A vague sense of wanting to be there too. “Mom said I couldn't go, not since we're going to be traveling soon and I don't get to go to school much as it is.” His mind informed me that this was stupid. “I'm not in school anyway. They're doing a field trip to the courthouse and River Street this week. I really wanted to go, but she said no again. She says no a lot.”

Then he started thinking about this morning again, raw red thoughts full of fear and confusion.

I tried to figure out how to tell him we'd do everything in our power to keep that from happening again. His bodyguards were good; they'd protected him once. And the FBI and the sheriff's department would do their jobs too. That was why I was here. Because the universe believed I could make a difference. I had to believe that.

He settled a little, from my thoughts or emotions or not, I didn't know, and a question started to rise to the top.

I felt an anxious mind approaching the house at a very fast clip, and I clamped down mind-protection shields around both of us, moving around to right next to him, between him and the door.

Tommy descended into fear, outright fear, at my actions. I reached out, grabbed his hand, and emanated calm, as much calm as I could manage. “I'm right here,” I said.

My attention was at the front door, where the mind was headed.

Two minutes later the sound of moving feet on old floors, then the minds up at the front in high, instant alert, guns up and ready.

After a moment, the alert settled down two notches, and I heard the door opening. I braced; if there was a threat from a telepath, there might be every reason to suspect he'd get past the guards.

I settled Tommy's mind behind mine, wearing it like a mental backpack connected to me and shielded by me, but not taking up any mental hands.

He struggled—
Still and quiet,
I told him.
Still and quiet until we know what's wrong. Like you did for Tanya this morning.

That made him even more afraid, his heart beating like a drum in his chest, but he stilled.

I extended out mentally, preparing myself to fight a possibly superior enemy long enough for the others to come. It had been years since I'd done this for anyone but myself—years.

Another burst of fear from Tommy.

Stay right there, behind me, and we'll be fine,
I said, and forced myself to believe it.
I've survived a number of
these fights in the last months, and you're coming with me too.

He settled, somewhat comforted but still afraid, into that backpacklike place behind my mind, waiting.

I waited too, but the new mind stayed put in the front room, the others around him and suspicious.

In the real world, Loyola moved, gun in hand, down the hall past us. “Ma'am,” he said to the judge; then I didn't catch the rest. A minute later, she followed him back past us.

A man's voice murmuring in the front room, perhaps Jarrod's, another replying. Then the judge's higher voice, in rough anger.

Then another voice, in a calm tone I didn't quite understand.

Tommy's mind relaxed then, and he got up from the chair and pulled his hand away. “That's Dad,” he told me seriously. I got a brief picture of a tall man with bruises on his face.

Another half-heard comment.

I double-checked the surroundings. I didn't know all the fed minds yet, damn it, but nobody seemed all that new.

“Are you sure?” I asked. I was already nervous.

He nodded. “I'm going to see him now.” And he was down the hall. I trotted to keep up.

Assuming he was right, it was more or less safe, and nobody else seemed worried. Even so, I took a mental note that Tommy was the kind to make his own decisions, and quickly, when it suited him. I'd have to keep an eye on him.

In the main room, a circle of FBI agents and sheriff's department guys stood around a tall man in a suit and a haircut that reminded me of Fred Astaire, very old-school indeed. He had a few bruises on his hands, and one on his neck that was already multicolored in the healing process. I
got the impression he was a partier, a hard partier, earlier in life, but his mind when I checked seemed completely sober.

It lit up when he saw his son. “Tommy, good to see you. I trust you're well.”

“What are you doing here, Dad?” Tommy asked, holding back. “You're making everybody nervous, and you're supposed to call first anyway.”

The man made a show of looking around, the boxes perched on his palm moving with the motion. “As I said, I heard what happened and ran right over. I brought you all some donuts as a thank-you for keeping my son safe. Am I right that our law enforcement professionals love pastries?”

Every cop in the place responded to the comment emotionally, most irritated, a few amused.

“Quentin, you're doing it again,” the judge said.

“Doing what, my dear?” Quentin flashed a bright smile and set the two flat donut boxes on a nearby surface, the coffee table. “Am I not allowed to visit my son when the mood suits me?”

“You know very well you're supposed to call before you come over,” the judge said. She sighed. “And you know your charm doesn't work on me. Not anymore.”

“I'm wounded, truly.”

“I'm sure you are.”

“Don't I get a hug?” Quentin asked Tommy. “I brought your favorite kind of donut.”

Tommy just looked at him.

Loyola, the closest to the coffee table, opened the box. “There're some cream-filled ones here.”

“No one eats the donuts until I have more information,” Jarrod said. “Who exactly are you?”

Quentin stood even straighter, turning toward Jarrod. “Quentin D. Alexander, at your service, sir.”

“What relationship do you have with the Parsons?”

“Dear Marissa and I were married at one time, or didn't she tell you? She does leave that detail out occasionally. Tommy is my son, of course. A widely acknowledged fact, for all she doesn't like to claim it.”

The judge crossed her arms over her chest. “Quentin is a con man. A good one, but just a con man.”

He tipped an imaginary hat. “Glad to hear you appreciate my skills. Though of course I admit to no such thing. Now.” Again he addressed Jarrod. “I've heard you fine gentleman are in town with the FBI. Is there a particular reason that federal agents should involve themselves in an attack on a county superior judge? You don't have jurisdiction here, unless I am mistaken.”

Jarrod reluctantly introduced himself. He took Quentin's hand, and shook it just a little too hard; my mind registered discomfort from Quentin. Jarrod let go. He was thinking very hard, trying to figure out how the judge had come to marry a con man and have a child with him without stopping her career in its tracks.

After all the thoughts swirling in his head, Jarrod merely said, “This is an investigation in progress. I cannot comment on details.”

Quentin smiled, like he suddenly knew a lot more than he did before. He nodded at me, particularly, picking me out of the crowd with no trouble. “And you also have a telepath. How delightful. What interesting and unusual details this day is bringing about.”

I hadn't told him I was a telepath, and I didn't wear a Guild patch. I'd gotten out of the habit of being recognized. Was this where the boy got his Ability? It seemed likely.

I didn't really trust this guy, though.

“I think it's time for you to leave, Mr. Alexander,” Jarrod said. “Unless you have additional information to add to our investigation.”

“Didn't you see the donuts? I'm told sugar is brain food, the breakfast of champions.” He held up a hand. “Sincerely, though, I appreciate your diligence in helping to keep my son safe. What happened this morning—I cannot think about what might have happened. If there's anything I can do—anything at all—you call me at once. I will leave you my number.”

“How can you possibly help, Quentin, really?” The judge shook her head, looking tired.

“You know that I know people. Quite a lot of people. Some of whom won't talk with the police. Surely you remember.”

“I was never involved with your friends, Quentin, and I resent the implication that I was, in front of federal agents.”

“Why should we believe anything you say?” Loyola said, tone dismissive.

“We'll take that number,” Jarrod said. Next to him, Mendez glanced at him, like this response was unexpected. But she looked back at Quentin.

“You're offering to speak with these friends in exchange for what exactly?” Mendez asked him.

“Out of the goodness of my heart, naturally.”

Jarrod went from conflicted to certain then. “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Alexander, but we can take it from here. You'll understand if we have any questions we'll be interviewing you. In detail.”

Quentin smiled.

Everyone else just stood there, waiting.

“That means you need to leave now, Dad,” Tommy said.

“I know, nugget.” Quentin reached over and ruffled his son's hair.

Tommy reached out and hugged him, quickly, like he was embarrassed to be caught.

“Where were you this morning, by the way?” Mendez asked.

Quentin's mind, stronger than the others in the room, flashed a surprisingly clear picture of a poker game at a seedy club back room. “Sadly I spent the morning at the veterinarian's having my poor doglet treated for her cancer. She's been a brave soul, but it doesn't look good. It's very sad.”

“Uh-huh,” the judge said loudly. “Quentin, leave your number with the agents and leave. Tommy's okay, and you'll see him on your weekend. You'll ask him all the questions then.”

“If my presence is no longer needed,” Quentin said, “I will make my way out.”

He did stop to write down a number on the top of the donut box, producing a pen from a pocket with a flourish and writing in a large loopy scrawl. Then he tipped his imaginary hat again and left.