Blindside (8 page)

“You didn’t.”

He unwrapped the bread and with his other hand, presented her with a tiny container of butter. “Somebody has to babysit your ass. Mom worries you don’t eat.”

Telling Big Al to lie down on her daisy welcome mat, Nick made his way into the kitchen. “Come on, young lady, time for breakfast.” He drew out one of her cobalt plates and, with a flourish, snapped open a citrine colored napkin. “Nothing but class at Chez Rossini.”

“Dork.” But she broke off a hunk and brought it up to her nose, savoring the smell, the thick unmistakable scent of rye bread.

“So?”

Expectant looks, both from her brother and the dog. She stalled, making a show of spreading whipped butter on the torn-off piece, then taking a small savoring bite.

“Yeah. It’s the real deal.” And nearly impossible to find. She took another bite and with her mouth full, tore off another chunk for Nicky who shook his head.

“I still don’t know how you can eat it.”

Knowing full well Nick got pissed when she fed Big Al from the table, she whistled for the dog.

Instead of bitching, Nick simply shook his head. “He filches something from the counter, it’s your fault.”

The nerves inside her belly settled. “Good thing the big goof ain’t my dog.”

Next door, a slap broke the silence. Something shattered against a wall, loud and obnoxious, the sound so clear she ran her hand over her pillow expecting shards.

Lava coiled and hissed under her palm in tandem with Al growling into the darkness.

Nothing she could do, Lana thought and padded barefoot to the bathroom, bumping into a chair on the way. Sometimes, she hated this apartment, this thick, colorless darkness, the dense iron shutters on the windows keeping the light at bay.

The argument next door grew louder, the male screaming something about money. The dog a comforting presence beside her, Lana snagged a carton of ice cream from the freezer, her fingers going numb until she rummaged in the back for the emergency non-sugar-free stash.

Another slap, then unmistakable sound of a woman weeping.

Since there was nothing she could do, Lana ignored them the same way she ignored the drab gray room illuminated by the laptop.

“You got into the system?”

The hacker known as Crash didn’t bother with a greeting, nor did he request she turn on the video portion of a program that let them communicate without needing to type. “I need specific details to search for.”

Another crashing noise came from next door, maybe a lamp or a cheap vase. Big Al pushed his nose under her armpit, probably waiting for a chance to snag the ice cream while she wasn’t looking.

“I’d rather have full access.”

“That wasn’t our deal. I give you exact data or the transaction’s off.”

The argument next door escalated to curses, the female screaming inventive expletives. Big Al snuck a quick lick over the carton lid and, despite the burn under her skin, she had to smile.

“Fine. Search for Rossini. I need police case files, everything you got. HR reports, complaints.” She waited a beat, fortifying herself with dairy and sugar and strawberries.

“There’s a number of them. Got a first name?” The way he asked made her skin itch.

“Nicholas Andrew.”

A tap of keys followed by a soft grunt. “Give me an hour. Stay online.”

Ice-cream forgotten, she ran her own searches, trying to dig in her limited ways, the screen a muted flash of blue, the least painful color in the spectrum.

Crash came back about fifteen minutes later. “Truckload of data from IA. Want that as well?”

“It’s bullshit,” Lana heard herself saying before she could force her mouth to zip, the room around her suffocating in shadows, rain scratching fingernails over the windows she kept shut. Next door, the neighbors went to round three.

You’re no hero
. Not her business.

“Not my place to judge,” came through the laptop speakers. “Although I had this friend that used to say if there’s smoke….”

“Yeah, give me everything you got from the IA.”

 
“You can’t let them see you’re nervous.” Nicky sipped his own coffee, his dark gaze clear and somber on her face.

“Because I’m Rossini?”

“That. And because they’ll think you got something nervous to be about. Where’s there’s smoke and all.”

Big Al abandoned her to sniff the tower of boxes by the sofa. She kept ordering decorations, picking just the right pieces to display in the gorgeous corner apartment with huge windows to let in light.

“You want to talk about what crawled up your rear?”

Nick rubbed his hands over dark, tired eyes.

“Why do you want the job? Forget the third generation cop thing. Why do you want it?”

She studied him over the hunk of bread “I don’t have time for psychobabble. And you aren’t weaseling out of this conversation again.” She brought up the big guns. “Or I’m calling Mom.”

He didn’t smile back. “I’m serious.”

And looking into his face, Lana saw that he was. “I want to help people.”

“Why?”

She tore off another chunk of black bread—the only thing she’d eaten for weeks after her parents took her from the orphanage. “I don’t know, Nick. Protect the innocent.”

“You can’t save everyone.”

“I know.”

He dragged a hand through shaggy hair. “Look, you’ll do great. I’m just…tired. Working OT too long.”

The city cut out overtime because of the new budget. She put the bread on top of the fridge where Big Al probably couldn’t reach it and walked behind Nicky to smack him on the head.

“Cut out the bull and spill it.”

“Look, Rookie—”

“No.” She dragged a chair to sit across from him and look him in the eye to see if he was lying. “The truth this time.”

“I can’t. Not for a couple of days.” He pushed a hand through the shag of his hair. “Do me a favor. Keep Big Al for a few days? I’ve been working so much, he hasn’t had a decent walk in weeks.”

The damned dog stole her ice cream. While she paced the floor, waiting for Crash to come back online, Big Al licked through most of the carton.

When she tripped over a chewed-up water bottle, she flipped on dim blue light to see Big Al’s innocent grin over the demolished cardboard that used to be ice cream. Pointless to yell after the fact, and since he had to wait for his walk after sunset, Lana let him off the hook this time. Nothing like bribery to ease some of the guilt.

Two in the afternoon was when they slept, with her having come back from “work,” exhausted. And if she was exhausted not only from chasing leads but chasing dealers off the street, nobody had to know.

A ping from her computer indicated Crash came back online. She stepped onto a knotted-up rope toy and was rewarded with a warm tongue on her bare foot.

“That was quick.”

A soft grunt was her answer. “The city’s got shit for security. I got your data. IA records, medicals, family. Adopted sister named Svetlana.”

She didn’t like the way he pronounced her name, putting the emphasis on the first syllable. Then again, not like she spoke much of the language.

“Something pop on her?”

At the quick tap of keys, the itch between her shoulder blades fueled the burn of lava.

“Russian name. Funny.”

A slap next door. The dog stopped licking his chops long enough to whine.

“Yeah? How’s it funny?”

More tapping. More crashes against the wall, glass shattering, a quickly cut off yelp. She didn’t know how the keyboard didn’t spark under her hands with all that lava simmering inside her. A warm, automated female voice murmured at her: “Svetlana. One who makes light.”

A long, heartbreaking wail punctured the stretched-out silence. This time, Al let go of the ice cream to glower at the wall, ears pinned back, teeth showing.

“I gotta go,” she said, and pushed her sunshades on her aching head. “Let me know how much I owe you.”

She refused to think about the Friends of the City money she’d just spent for vengeance. The daylight in the hallway, vicious despite the glasses, egged on by the throbbing in her head.

“What do you want?” Short hairy legs visible below dirty shorts, a stained white wife beater. She couldn’t see behind the man who answered her brisk knock, but she heard the muffled sob.

“Keep it down or I’m calling the cops.” Nobody had to know that she was bluffing.

Another tearful gasp, the sound bitten off as though a fist was shoved into a quivering mouth. God knew she didn’t miss domestic calls.

“I’m sorry, miss. We’re just talking loud.” He shoved the door closed in her face; the movement revealed a limp snake of a belt he clutched behind him.

She didn’t try to clamp down on a power burst, and threw her shields up in time to avoid splinters of old wood.

“Hey! You’re nuts, you know that? I’m gonna call the fucking cops.” He swung the belt in her direction and gave her the excuse to paint that worn out profile with blood. He stumbled back, crimson drops spraying against her shields. Watching him sit onto the carpet the color of old vomit, Lana flexed her fingers at the small yet satisfying string of pain.

“Oh my God, Carl?” A woman with ugly welts covering her bare legs rushed to his side. “Call an ambulance! Carl, what should I do?”

“Shut up! No ambulance! You lost your mind?” Carl shoved the blubbering woman back.

“Get out!” Flailing fists, sobbing words. “Just get out!”

“Call the damned cops. Or I’ll do it next time.” Disgust bitter in her mouth, Lana turned back into the hallway.

Dark heavy power seared her blood. Under the bitter burning day, she felt her way down the endless corridor, the walls rasping her fingertips, her door a cool relief. The landlord would be pissed about the door. Her neighbor wouldn’t be the type to blab about a woman’s fist taking him down, but nevertheless, the door would have to be another dip into the Friends of the City fund.

Back in the blue tinted darkness, she leaned against the wall for a moment, the dog watching her with a serious gaze.

“Some you can’t save,” she told him, and turned on the TV she’d rigged only for sound. Under Amy Avalon’s voice describing how Narc’s serum would freeze her power, she sat down on the chewed up ice cream carton the dog managed to sneak under her butt.

***

Whiskey flowed harsh and bitter down Mac’s throat, the taste doing nothing to smooth the tension in his shoulders. On the sixty-inch flat screen above the shiny bottles of the bar, Amy Avalon pushed a mic at his face.

On TV, he didn’t look like Narc. Not the same arrogant, confident hero, full of idealism and ready to take on the world. These days, he was another scowling asshole with icy eyes and a leftover rasp from a punch in the gut. The Hero of New York, would laugh his ass off.

The bar hadn’t changed. Same shiny brown leather, same badges unwinding after shift change. The framed picture of Narc shaking hands with the mayor had been replaced by a Support Harkor Family sign with a picture of a cop in full dress blues. Mac slipped a C-note into the manila envelope tucked under the frame, when he passed by.

“Tell our viewers more about the serum,” Avalon said. Mac leaned against the counter to feel the cold plastic of the vials. Maybe with enough whiskey down his throat, he’d find the strength to use the serum.

On the screen, the asshole version of him sneered. “You’re the reporter. Dig.”

“Good class tonight.” Wojo slid onto a stool beside him and lifted his hand to signal for a drink. Maybe instead of scouring the streets for Lana, Mac would stay indoors and get miserably drunk.

The vials dug into his armpit. “I didn’t deserve to wear a black belt.”

“My class, son. I decide who wears what belt.” He took a gulp of coffee the bartender slid toward him. “It’s good having you back. Kids need somebody to look up to.”

“I’m no hero.”

“So you say.”

Mac let that slide down his throat along with whiskey. “What happened to Lana when I left?”

“Is that why you’re back? You feeling guilty?”

Silence was as good an answer as any. He pictured her gold gaze, the way she stepped away from him in fear. On the flat screen above, Amy explained to San Mike viewers how the serum paralyzed the “super” enzymes in one’s blood.

Wojo made a cutting motion at the guy behind the bar in a request to lower the sound. Three years off the job and he was still acknowledged by the cops, from nodded greetings to heavy claps on those giant shoulders.

Most didn’t see regret behind the comfortable smile.

“She didn’t take medical well. Supposedly, she tried for a Crime Data cert., but I don’t know where that’s going. She got her black belt though.” The tone went from subdued to proud. “Kicked major ass during the test.”

On the screen above, Doc Williams spoke with quiet intensity about budget cuts and how his team remained professional despite the loss of colleagues.

“Damned budget cuts,” Wojo muttered in tandem with the other badges, and gulped down his coffee.

“How many surgeries has she had?”

“Fifth was the last one. There was talk of an experimental treatment…. She refused.”

“But she kept training.”

“Yeah.” Wojo’s wide face went bright with a fierce smile. “Couldn’t keep her away. God knows she overdid it, training too hard, pushing herself to prove she isn’t an invalid.” His voice turned thoughtful once again. “She blames herself. Not getting there in time to save her brother.”

Whiskey flowed sour in Mac’s belly, doing nothing to warm the ice inside his gut. “You trying to be subtle?”

“Not subtle, son. I’d yell, if it would help. It wasn’t your fault what happened. Not the fire, not Lana. You did your best.”

The next words burned his tongue. “She’s the Night Rook. She has my powers.”