Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change (28 page)

I hovered about a foot off the ground in the middle of a brown yard, waiting for the smoke to clear and trying to get my ears to stop ringing. The bomb going off was an instant drop of adrenaline into my bloodstream, triggering my fight or flight response. Obviously in this case, flight had won out, but fight was right there, ready to take over now that I’d dodged the explosion.

I activated the flashlight feature on my phone and swooped into the smoky back door. Clearly Redbeard was not into rear entry, I noted as I looked at the damage. This door had been wired shut so that no one could come in. I could see the front door from where I hovered, and it was similarly wired. Of course. Why would a man who can walk through walls need a door?

I searched the house in a flash, finding the windows were all set to blow as well, and one of the rooms had an epic amount of explosives just lying there. It was clearly his cache, or his surplus, because I doubted he was sleeping on plastique.

Other than that, a computer, and an air mattress for sleeping, the house was empty. The fridge was as empty as mine at home, but at least I had expired ketchup.

I heard the first sirens and flew out the back, looping over the house and coming down on the lawn. The first cop car was swiftly followed by eight more, and I stood there with my hands up after identifying myself to the first pair of officers.

Detective Waters arrived on the scene about ten minutes after the first cop, wearing a scowl and looking like I’d dragged her out of bed. “You didn’t have probable cause,” were her first words to me.

“The back door just exploded,” I said, shrugging lightly. “I
probably
did not
cause
that.”

“You could have, for all I know,” she shot back.

“I can burn things, but I can’t, like, blow up a tree,” I said. “This place is wired to make a boom. Front door, all the windows. Might want to get your bomb squad on this.”

She made a grumbling noise. “They’re on their way.” She dialed the hostility back a notch or two. “He’s not here, I assume?”

“Nope,” I said, shrugging.

“Ma’am?” One of the patrolmen got Detective Waters's attention. “We, uh … picked up a naked pedestrian on the way in. He ran when officers caught him huddling over a small fire on the sidewalk. Said he got mugged, someone set fire to his clothes and his possessions.”

Detective Waters just stared at him, open-mouthed, before turning to me with an accusatory look. “Weird,” I said, “Who would do such a thing?”

“I wonder,” Detective Waters said. But I could tell she wasn’t wondering too hard.

“All kinds of perverts in this town,” I said with a shrug. At least that was true.

The arrival was perfect, a red carpet appearance that allowed her to hold her head high as she came into the party. They got footage for the show, the paparazzi got their dish, and Kat got to shrug off a million questions, all of which told her that the narrative was going to be exactly what she wanted—that she was a fearless, bold hero for stepping outside her own door tonight.

“Ms. Forrest—”

“Kat—”

“Kat, who are you wearing tonight?”

“Ms. Forrest, how are you feeling after the incident at the park?”

“Kat, do you want to say anything about your friend Bree, how wonderful she was? Her fans are listening!”

“Ms. Forrest, do you have a message for the man who’s been terrorizing you?”

Kat stopped on that last one, a strange twinge running down her back. Her gown ran full-length, split up the side to show leg. It was a classic look for a classic occasion, and she turned to see the questioner, waiting.

“Yes,” she said and broke away from the line she was leading into the party. Flannery and Scott were a few steps behind her, Guy Friday and Butler a few steps in front of her. Both groups scrambled to catch up to her, probably afraid she was going to dive into the crowd or something. “I have something to say to him.” She looked right into the lens of the camera. “You’re a coward.”

A silence fell over the red carpet, and Kat pushed her perfectly sculpted hair back before continuing. “This is a man who hides himself, who hides his identity because he knows the world will hate him, will hate what he stands for, who he is.” She was going unscripted, improvising, but this was the sort of thing Taggert would approve of. She needed to look brave, to put on the brave face. “This is a man who’s been rejected, for good reason.” She brushed her hair back again. “He’s a murderer. He’s a man with powers who preys on the powerless. He’s a coward, as gutless as they come, and his days are numbered.” She stared right into the camera. “We’re not afraid of you. You’re doing what you’re doing because you didn’t want to do what it would take to make yourself heard without violence. You didn’t want to play nice, you didn’t want to be nice, and you thought you were better. You’re not. You’re the worst of us, and people saw that in you before you ever did what you’ve done now. Enjoy the attention you’re getting right now—and we all know that’s why you’re doing it, because you need attention—because your mommy didn’t love you or whatever. Try therapy, loser, instead of impotently taking out your pathetic issues on everyone else in the world.”

With that, she swept away from the camera, and a hundred media people seemed to all catch their breath at once.

“Ms. Forrest!”

“Kat!”

“Would you care to follow up on—”

“I thought we were supposed to be low profile,” Scott said, easing up behind her, Flannery still on his arm. “No one was supposed to know we were here.”

“Oh, relax,” Kat said, smiling for the cameras. “We’ll be out of here in less than an hour—just enough to make a splash, not long enough to give this guy a target.”

“You know what you’re doing, Kat,” Flannery said coming up next to her as they came into the lobby of the Luxuriant. “That’s probably going to trend in like, five minutes.”

Kat did not look at Scott. “Good,” she said. Because it was good, wasn’t it?

Karl heard every word Kat Forrest spoke, and without exception, every one of them boiled his blood, even the “the’s” and “a’s.” He stood in the middle of the crowd, his beard concealed by a long coat that held more than a few explosive packets, and his hair pulled back under a beanie. The sunglasses did the last part of the trick, oddball frames that were designed to make the shape of his face look entirely different.

He listened and he boiled, but the hot fury ran cool enough for him to realize that there were so many cameras, so many opportunities here. There was even a camera crew following Kat Forrest right now, soaking up her every move, her every word. There’d be more cameras at the party itself maybe, and if not, boy, wouldn’t it be fun to let her do another interview, and then right as she delivered one of the bits of gusto, he’d just rip her heart out. He would have done it right now if he hadn’t been shaking in quiet rage as she spoke.

No, there was a little time now. He’d make a circle of the perimeter, watch things unfold, and wait for his chance to pull Kat Forrest in front of the cameras for another interview.

And this one would be her last.

Detective Waters didn’t like me, this much was plain by now, but then, I wasn’t giving her a lot to like. I was basically just causing her migraines, after all, breaking into houses, discovering bombs, getting other places bombed, being involved in fatal train wrecks and celebrity party—uhh … catastrophes? Yeah, that’s probably the word for it. Couldn’t blame her for not liking me, but the truth was, I wasn’t
causing
any of these things. An argument could be made that I was causing them to
escalate
—I could even agree with that argument, because people with powers tend to cause havoc when they fight—but I wasn’t truly responsible for any of this. It’s not like I was running around threatening people or planting bombs.

My eyes fell on the back of the lone, occupied cop car at the scene, the one with a naked man in the back who was staring at me with a spiteful look in his eyes. Okay, well, I wasn’t planting bombs, at least.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Detective Waters said, shaking her head. I got the feeling she was mentally counting the years until retirement. It looked like it’d be a while for her.

“I sure hope not,” I said. “I generally try to be the death of criminals, not cops.”

She made that noise again, the one in her throat that hinted at a deep well of exasperation. “Uh huh,” was all she said. “Where are your friends tonight?”

“I don’t really have friends,” I said, giving her an opening that I hoped she would exploit to take a shot. I figured it would give her a little bit of catharsis, and I was sure she sorely needed that as I watched the bomb squad guy stuffed into one of those protective suits waddling his way into the back yard a hundred yards away. They’d evacuated the houses on either side and pulled back the perimeter to give those guys room to work.

“I can’t imagine why,” she grunted, and I could almost feel her tension dissolve a little.

“Maybe it’s the hours,” I said, giving her a commonality we shared. “Tough to keep friends when you’re working eighteen hour days.”

She gave me a sidelong look that turned a little grudging. “Uh huh,” she said again, but lighter.
Thank you, Dr. Zollers.
“Fine,” she went on. “Where’s your posse? Ms. Forrest? The others?”

“Tucked safely into the hotel,” I said, folding my arms and leaning back into a police cruiser. “Out of harm’s way.”

“You talking about Kat Forrest?” A thin cop was standing a few feet away from us in a patrolman’s uniform, dark hair and pale eyes. “I heard she just showed up at the Luxuriant at some party. Sounds like a real shindig.”

I felt like I’d gotten struck by a bolt of lightning. “No. That’s not possible.” No one could be that stupid, not even Kat.

“Really?” Detective Waters brought her phone up and touched the screen a couple times. “Hmph.” She held it up so I could see it.

KAT FORREST ATTENDS PREMIERE PARTY, HAS BRAVE MESSAGE FOR HER ATTACKER

I wanted to slump right there on the street, to bury my face in my hands, to slam my head in a car door, to drag the naked mugger out of the back of the police cruiser and slap him around for a little while. I did none of these things, however, instead counting silently in my head to ten as I took a deep breath—bad feelings outttttt, good feelings innnnn …

“You gonna be all right?” the patrolman asked.

“Where is this Luxuriant?” I asked, trying to come back to myself. “Also, that’s a dumb name for a hotel.”

“It’s right there,” Waters said, pointing at the LA skyline. Of course it was the one lit up with searchlights. Because this whole town was so tailor-made for Kat and her attention-seeking idiocy. It was a perfect marriage, like Ike and Tina, alcohol and vomiting, meatloaf and my tastebuds.

I shot off into the sky, unable to leave my rage behind on the ground, flying off to save my idiot “friend” from herself.

“This is so fun, isn’t it?” Flannery asked, breathless, dancing with Scott in the middle of a sea of famous bodies—celestial bodies, really, stars through and through.

“Yes,” Kat said, faking that smile on her face. The cameras were rolling, were catching everything. Scott’s forehead had sweat rolling down it profusely, and she was even breaking into beads a little bit here and there. It was hot in here, wasn’t it? “So fun.”

The music was turned up to eleven. Kat snagged a drink from a waiter who passed by, halting in the middle of the dance floor, her camera crew responsible for a five-foot section of empty floor to her right. The waiter passed right through, conveniently, not looking at the camera but doubtless hoping to get his face noticed. She stopped him, perfectly timed, and handed glasses to Flannery and Scott, flutes of champagne. Probably pretty fine stuff, but she didn’t know names for these sorts of things. Crystal? Was that a kind of champagne? It was bubbly and kind of sweet and she tipped it back in one, not even making a toast. Flannery shouted, “Woo!” and drained her own, beckoning the waiter forward for another. Scott did his with a cringe, like a shot, making a face as it went down. He was such a beer guy; champagne was probably a little too sophisticated for his palate.

“Woo,” Kat said, under her breath. “Yeah.”

“We should mingle,” Flannery said, her shoulders under Scott’s arm. He looked like he was struggling a little bit, like weight had settled on him, or he’d brought baggage. Well, she knew he had brought some baggage; that was how she got him to come, after all.

“Yes, we should,” Kat agreed. Flannery didn’t have to say the rest—this was a place to see and be seen. She took her retreat from the dance floor gracefully. The gown was a real bitch to dance in anyway.

“Is that Kevin Feige?” Flannery asked, looking through the crowd. “I need to introduce myself. I could totally be Captain Marvel.”

“Don’t look too desperate,” Kat said, bringing her champagne flute up to her lips. It exploded in her fingertips, showering her with glass. A little too much strength, and she hadn’t even noticed she was squeezing the glass. A thin trickle of blood streamed out of her thumb, no wider than a paper cut. It oozed once, then stopped.

“Wow,” Flannery said, admiring her finger. She grabbed it and held it up, and Kat held back to urge to slap her hand away. “I bet that constant healing thing could really mess with a good Botox.”

“Ugh, tell me about it,” Kat said, gently pulling her hand back. “It does almost nothing, I swear. Also, that labiaplasty I wanted—”

“Whaaaaaaaat?” Scott butted into the conversation. “A what?”

“Labiaplasty,” Flannery said, rolling her eyes. “Maybe you’ll see one later if you don’t embarrass yourself. They're big nowadays. Makes everything so much more … put together.”

Scott was staring off into space, pondering that one. “Hummm.” He shook his head. “Oh, hey, there’s Steven.”

“Steven Clayton?” Kat spun and sure enough, there he was, lurking near the edge of the party, threading his way through the crowd. “Oh! Hey! Steven!” she shouted. He was about twenty feet away, through two thick knots of conversational circles, one of which included execs and a star of a movie that had just topped the box office for eight weeks running. “Steven!” she shouted.