The Flux (29 page)

I
mani couldn’t believe
Paul was dead, even as she attended his funeral.

The sheer size of Paul’s funeral seemed designed to impress upon Imani how her ex-husband was gone; she’d had to change the church location once she realized how many people would be attending. She’d switched from a small funeral home to a massive cathedral with high-vaulted walls and dark wood benches and a place for reporters to sit as long as they promised not to take photos.

She organized the service, because no one was left to do it. Reporters had asked for a morning funeral, so they could make the evening news. Officers had asked to do a three-volley salute in tribute to Paul, which required permits to be filed. And during the whole complicated process, she kept thinking
oh, I should get Paul to help, Paul would love setting all this up
, then remembered Paul was dead.

OK. She was no slouch at organizing things herself.

That was, she supposed, one of many reasons they’d fallen in love.

Crowds parted as she approached the casket, teeming well-wishers who’d never known Paul – they knew THE MAN WHO’D KILLED THREE ’MANCERS from the headlines. They recognized her as his ex-wife, reaching out to touch her, as though she were a reliquary for Paul’s legend.

She shrugged them off. They’d been quick enough to pillory him, back when Paul had led the Task Force. But now the anarchomancers had shown how toothless David’s Task Force was. Now that the mayor had closed up shop to cede power to SMASH, people thought better of old Paul. Paul had never said a bad word about David in public, never tried to hog the limelight, had merely retreated to live a quiet life to protect his daughter.

And then a ’mancer had murdered him.

She strode up to the coffin to say her goodbyes, the first in a long line. The former Task Force had turned out to pay Paul their respects, as had the cops, as had a surprising amount of people who Paul had helped at Samaritan. Strangers pulled her aside, explaining how Paul had pulled strings to get their claims through.

Imani smiled; Paul had always tried to do right by people. One more reason she’d fallen in love with him.

He couldn’t be dead.

But here she was, kneeling before the black shiny casket. It had been a closed-casket ceremony; the mortician, a wispy blonde with a cane and tastefully purple eyebrows, had informed Imani that Paul’s face could not be reconstructed for the open-casket funeral she’d wanted. The mortician hadn’t wanted to be so blunt about the extent of Paul’s damage, but Imani wasn’t one for dodging hard truths, and so had gotten it out of her.

Imani felt a mad urge to fling open the casket; she half expected to find it stuffed full of Samaritan Mutual forms. But she didn’t. She had to play the grieving ex-wife today, and while she longed to go mad she had always excelled at playing to expectations.

She did run her fingers along the lid, though.

She did not cry. She
would
not cry in front of strangers.

After Imani had said what goodbyes she could muster, she went back to take her place in the reception line. She
was
the reception line. She longed to hold Aliyah’s hand, to feel her daughter’s warmth – but even though Aliyah had begged to come to the funeral, the therapists at The LisAnna Foundation For Children’s Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder had advised against it. Aliyah had been having serious regressions, they told her; new environments might cause a breakdown.

Looking around, Imani regretted the decision. Why should Paul’s daughter, the one thing he lived for the most in all his life, not see how many people had loved him? Imani didn’t trust the therapists there; she’d questioned too many “expert witnesses” bought and sold by corporate masters. There was something oily in the way those men agreed with whatever she said, yet found some jargon-laden way to explain why her instincts were wrong.

But Paul had chosen the LisAnna Foundation personally, and countermanding his last decision seemed disrespectful. Imani had researched the alternatives, of course, but the LisAnna Foundation had by far the best reviews; Paul would not have settled for anything but the most sterling treatment for their daughter.

And Aliyah was in deep trouble, Imani knew; she’d upped her visits to three times a week even before Paul had passed on, trying to figure out why Aliyah grew cold and violent.

“Do you ever think the good ones lost?” said an officer, sliding into place next to her.

Imani frowned; the man had a wispy, ill-fitting mustache, and his skin exuded the cinnamon reek of Axe body spray. But he’d slicked his hair down for the funeral, and his expectant gaze told her she’d met him somewhere before… Lenny. Lenny Pirrazzini was the man’s name. One of Paul’s officers.

“What do you mean the ‘good ones’ lost?”

“The ’mancers.” His breath was hot with booze.

“There
are
no good ’mancers,” she shot back.

Lenny shook his head. “That’s not what Paul thought.”

Imani stiffened. That didn’t sound like Paul. Paul had been hell-bent on hunting down ’mancers; he’d gone after that stupid illustromancer alone because he wanted the bust, which had damn near killed him. Even hobbled, he took a job at Samaritan Mutual so he could turn ’mancers over to SMASH.

Some days, Imani had wondered if all that was left of Paul was hatred for ’mancers. He never talked about them.

“’Mancers burned my child.” She kept her voice even; she was very good at keeping her voice even. “They crushed my husband’s leg. They cost us our marriage. And now…” She gestured towards the casket, that damned sleek capsule, so shiny there couldn’t be a body inside.

“And a ’mancer saved me from burning. Twice.” Lenny bobbed his head. “I don’t mean to offend you, Ms Dawson, it’s just... it felt to me like there was a war between two kinds of ’mancers in this town. One was on Paul’s side. And the other…”

He shook his head, realizing his foolishness. “Shit, I’m sorry Ms Dawson. Sorry about Paul. And, well, your husband.”

Oh, yes.
That
.

Imani felt a guilty shock; she supposed she should be frantic at David’s disappearance. But her relationship with David had crumbled ever since he’d carried her across the honeymoon suite. She’d gone seeking Paul’s opposite, someone handsome and physically strong and ambitious – and she had found his mirror image, in a way. Paul’s love was accepting but diffuse, trusting in Imani’s ability to find her own happiness: even during the best days of their marriage, sometimes she felt like Paul wasn’t standing by her side but instead was watching coolly from a distance. Whereas David carried a deeply combative love, treating anything that affected Imani’s moods like it was an enemy to be destroyed. And after years of patiently enduring Paul’s post-traumatic withdrawal, having someone tell her
fuck
that guy, let’s go dance until you’re happy, well…

…she would have loved anyone who told her it was OK to care for herself.

But
Paul
would have never called Aliyah an ungrateful bitch.
Paul
never would have told Imani how she’d raised that damn kid all wrong, that Aliyah needed to learn how to show respect, that they could get back to normal by clamping down on Aliyah.

Yet when things had started to go sour on the Task Force, David had treated Aliyah like she was responsible for all his troubles. “Everything was great until that damn kid got burned,” he’d said. Like Aliyah had
asked
to almost die. She’d never forgiven David for that.

She worried for David, but realistically she’d been about to kick him out anyway. It had been exhausting, listening to his anger at everything that got in his way. She wanted him to be
safe
, but… in that abstract sense.

In truth, him being gone was a relief, and if that made her a bad person, so be it. She didn’t want him dead – which, to be honest, he likely was, because if a ’mancer had killed Paul Tsabo and now David Giabatta had vanished, then someone was targeting the Task Force to send a message.

What message? Who knew? SMASH would find out. And after bobbling the ball on Anathema – after Paul had shown them up – the federal forces were hell-bent on taking down Psycho Mantis. Army ’mancer troops rolled in in massive numbers, ready to destroy.

It felt to me like there was a war between two kinds of ’mancers in this town
, Lenny had said.
One was on Paul’s side
.

She frowned.

But New York
had
grown a little darker since Paul had stepped down. Everyone knew someone who’d been in a car accident, or broken their leg; even the stock market had collapsed. The very clouds rained bad luck down onto New York.

Imani shook those thoughts away to greet people, thanking them for sharing their stories of Paul. She was unflaggingly polite, calling upon all her charm-school lessons.

But she looked at that casket in between each visitor. Wondering.

“
Y
es
,” Imani said, after the crowds had gone. “I need to see him.”

The pixielike mortician blanched, her pale skin growing even paler. “The body – your ex-husband – is not in good condition, Ms Dawson.”

“I’ve watched surgeons strip the flesh from my daughter’s face, Ms Ratcliff. I watched her struggle for breath, positive she would die before her seventh birthday. I can see my ex-husband’s corpse, and you will show him to me.”

This was not technically true, as she had no legal right to view the body. Still, Imani spoke calmly, as though this were a done deal, and the only thing to be gained by protesting was hours’ worth of frustrating debate.

The mortician squeezed her cane nervously, then required Imani to sign a form indemnifying the funeral home from potential emotional distress. Which seemed fitting.

Once the signatures were complete, the mortician swung the lid open.

Imani allowed herself one gasp. They hadn’t had her identify him, because his face was shattered. Yet Paul’s medical records were so well-known he would have been impossible to misidentify. His head was wrapped in Saran Wrap to hold its remnants together, his body wrapped in plastic to prevent leakage. She saw his stump, rimmed with red callous from where he jammed it into his artificial foot. Paul’s half-severed toes, unwelcome new additions.

“That’s not him,” Imani muttered. But she had no reason to believe that.

“What’s that, Ms Dawson?”

“Nothing.”

Maybe she was going mad.

S
he drove
out to the LisAnna Foundation, rejuvenating her spirits with a large iced coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts. The day’s events had exhausted her. But she would not leave Aliyah alone on the day of her daddy’s funeral, even if it meant three hours of driving.

Imani pulled into the parking lot, glad to arrive before the sun set.

Please, let Aliyah be in a good mood today
, she prayed to no god in particular.

She could never predict Aliyah’s moods. One day, Aliyah would be flinging books at her, her face flushed black with anger, yelling “You want to kill me!” And another day Aliyah would be sweet, settling in as Imani read her yet another classic book – Imani had started choosing classic stories with no mothers or fathers in them, like Pippi Longstocking or
The Phantom Tollbooth
– and Aliyah would drink her words up.

The therapists suggested Aliyah might be schizophrenic, or borderline autistic, or some other lifelong syndrome.

Imani believed, with the irrationality she believed that Paul wasn’t dead, that if she could reach Aliyah she could heal her. The lightning stroke. Just one revelation, and all would be well.

The therapists, and in particular repellent old Mr Jimenez, chuckled and said this was unhelpful thinking.
Hollywood
thinking. There was no miracle cure for your daughter, they’d said – just iceberg progress, two steps forward, three steps back.

To Imani, though, Aliyah felt like a festering wound. Once that wound was lanced…

…alas, it wouldn’t be today. Not on the day of her daddy’s funeral. Imani envied Aliyah’s closeness with Paul, maybe even missed that connection to her ex-husband himself, but today Aliyah would be devastated.

She got her visitor’s badge from the security guard, let them escort her to Aliyah’s room. “She’s not playing with the other kids today,” the guard said.

Aliyah was curled up on the couch, hugging her knees. But Imani had learned she couldn’t sweep Aliyah up in a hug nowadays – she had to sit next to Aliyah, let Aliyah come to her on her own terms.

She sat down.

Aliyah inched closer.

And Aliyah looked
older
. Her once-bright eyes had hollows. Her mouth, so carefully reconstructed after the fire, sagged at the edges. She moved like a beaten pet.

Imani’s arms itched to engulf Aliyah in a great big Mommy hug and squeeze her until the tears flowed.

Instead, she took out a book from her purse. “Today’s book is
The Borrowers
,” she said. “It’s... a little weird, but I thought you might like it…”

“Can we go outside?” Aliyah whispered.

“…what?”

“Can we go for a walk?” She put her mouth to Imani’s ear. “It’s nice out. I just… want to walk.” She looked at the ceiling as though there was something there, but Imani saw no spiders.

Imani breathed easier. Aliyah hadn’t wanted to go outside since she’d started attending the school.

“Let me check with Mr Jimenez.”

“No.” Aliyah trembled. “No, you
can’t
.”

“Sweetie, the grounds are locked. I can’t just take you out, I have to get permission.”

“But he won’t…” She sagged, disappointed. “OK.”

By the time she exited the room, Mr Jimenez walked briskly down the corridor, looking agitated. She got his attention. There was something familiar about Jimenez, a sour authoritarian aura; it drove Imani crazy, pinpointing where she’d met him, because normally she was good with faces.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Jimenez bowed. “Can I help you, Ms Dawson?”

“Aliyah has requested to go outdoors for a walk. I’d like to take my daughter on a stroll around the grounds. Would you open the back gates for me?”