Spitting Image (7 page)

THE ALARM ON MY PHONE startled me awake. Quitting time. After lying down at 6:30, I’d fallen into a deep sleep, bone tired, mentally ragged and physically used up. I came up scrabbling to turn off the alarm, confused as to where I was, barely able to speak English.

I sat up and looked blearily around. Pete was rolling up his sleeping bag. “You may want to get your wits about you before you go into the garage.”

“Hrmmgh?” I inquired.

“The Minute Man is here,” he smirked. “At six- fifty- nine on the dot, like the one way piece of shit he is. And he’s bitching about the state of the truck. I walked away because it was that or slap him.”

I processed this, swung my feet over the side of the couch and waited a moment for the fog to clear. I didn’t want to talk to Adam Armstrong with anything less than a clear head. He had the kind of voice that made everything he said sound like “please punch me in the face,” and he was a Minute Man. Any EMT or medic who consistently punched in at the last minute. It’s considered disrespectful and basically a dick move. We’re an emergency truck. We can’t go home until we’re relieved, and if a call comes in at six-fifty-five, at the end of a twenty four hour shift in this busy, brutal, idealism grinding hole of a city, unless our relief is here we own it, and we get out late. Part of being a decent member of the band of misfits is showing up fifteen minutes to half an hour early so your comrades don’t get screwed. Armstrong never learned that.

“What’s his issue?” I asked.

Pete shrugged. “He was bitching about some mess in the truck. I wasn’t really listening. It was ready to do calls. I restocked it after that last run an hour ago. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sweep the floor after the day we had.”

“You tell him that?”

“More or less. I unzipped my pants and told him to state his complaints clearly into the microphone.”

“So long as you kept it classy,” I groaned as I stood. Half an hour’s sleep hadn’t made much of a dent in the fatigue of the day. The numb, cold feeling in my chest reasserted itself as my mind cleared. I had more important things to worry about than Armstrong.

I pulled on my boots and clomped out to the garage. I saw Big Juan and gave him a smile and a handshake. He pulled me in for a one armed hug. “How’s it going, Homes?”

“You know,” I said, “if the city is gonna screw us, you’d think it would buy us dinner and give us a kiss first.”

“Rough night, ‘mano?”

“Four calls after midnight.”

He whistled. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“On my list. Here,” I unclipped the narcotics keys from my belt loop and held them out to him.

“I got Pete’s already,” he said.

I sighed. I had really hoped to avoid his partner.

I walked to the truck and stuck my head in the open side door. “Narc keys.”

Adam took the keys, then started his carefully rehearsed rant. “I already yelled at your partner,” he said. “Now I’m gonna yell at you.”

I sighed and braced myself.

“This truck is disgusting.”

“We did seventeen calls yesterday,” I said as calmly as I could. “Four after midnight. We got back at six thirty. We replaced the equipment. You’re operational.”

“It’s a disgrace.”

“You’re a disgrace,” I pointed out. “At least the truck has an excuse.”

I heard laughter from the back of the ambulance. Looking around Armstrong’s suety form, I saw Samantha, the same new EMT who had been riding with Nique and me. Great. Squabbling in front of the rookie. Way to set an example.

“There are electrode backings all over the floor, the trash barrel needs to be emptied, and the whole thing needs to be washed.”

Really? He was worried about the peel-off backing from the electrodes? “Dude. We got raped all shift. I’m not sweeping a truck at six in the morning. This is Philips Mills. This truck gets hammered. Especially at night. It was trashed yesterday when I came in, and the crew was unconscious.”

“So do your job and check the truck and clean it,” he said.

I saw red creeping into the edges of my vision.

“Do my job? Do you know what I did yesterday? First of all, I got here early, because I give a shit about the exhausted crew I’m relieving. Then, since I was coming in fresh, I cleaned and stocked the ambulance. And I ran around all day doing calls, more than you’ve ever done in a day because I clear from the fucking hospital when I drop off a patient and don’t sit all day milking my report and leave the other trucks to take up my slack.”

I realized I was getting heated, and that never changes things for the better, just gets me in trouble. I tried to force down my anger. In many times and many places, smacking him for pushing my buttons would have been accepted, tacitly if not explicitly, but in this day and age it would mean at least a suspension, maybe loss of my job, maybe even charges. I swallowed and tried to focus, to be reasonable.

“I’ll even hang out for half and hour and help you wash this beast. We fueled it. We restocked the supplies. If it had been bloody I’d have mopped it out. But there’s no way on God’s green Earth I’m going to sweep up the backings from the EKG stickies after twenty-three hours of getting my ass handed to me.”

“Well, then you better get used to being written up every week,” he said.

Something broke inside me. A red mist filled my vision. Armstrong was stupid and lazy and full of himself and no medic with less than five years on the streets has any business barking at me like that, and it was the worst type of spoiled brat cowardice to threaten to run to management with a write up for something that petty. So he deserved some of my anger.

But he didn’t really deserve all of it.

I grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the side of the ambulance. Every ounce of worry about Caruthers’ clan and loss of Sarah and fatigue of the long, thankless shift and every itch on every square inch of skin from twenty-four hours in a sweaty uniform boiled over.

I saw his eyes widen as I leaned in close, forcing my words through clenched teeth. Only an act of will kept me from trying to beat his nose out the back of his head.

“Listen to me, you one-way, seven- oh- one piece of shit. I was working bloody trauma before you learned not to piss your own pants, and I showed vast restraint by not choking you out five minutes ago, but if you ever,” I shook him, just so he didn’t miss my point, “ever go and cry to mommy about me I will fucking
end
you.”

I released him with a shove, spun on my heel and walked out.

The whole thing had been cathartic. I felt cleansed. Whole. Satisfied.

I was almost certainly screwed.

I WALKED INTO THE APARTMENT like a zombie. I was numb. Emotionally paralyzed. I was at a total loss as to what to do.

You’ve been through worse
, part of me said. But that was different. The worst times, I was just trying to survive. Trying to escape. To talk or sneak or shoot my way out of a mess. And while it was terrifying, and not something I wanted to do again any time soon, it never lasted very long, and was nothing that quick reflexes, and a quicker tongue, paired with a well honed nose for danger couldn’t get me through.

This was bad. I probably wasn’t going to get shot or hanged, but there wasn’t going to be a quick escape. I wasn’t looking for the opening, trying to get clear of the catastrophe, I was trying to solve a problem and resolve issues for Sarah. I didn’t know if I ever could. I didn’t even know what other dangers were lurking in the shadows.

I suppose nobody really knows, but most people have to contend with things like infidelity or alcoholism or somebody getting religion, or chronically fired. Sarah had been beaten up once and kidnapped once. And, maybe kinda had been cheated on, but that wasn’t my fault.

It occurred to me that while I would have to be cautious of everyone, make sure they were who I thought they were, my friends hadn’t gotten the warning. One of these people could pass as me and ask a favor, find out information or lead them into an ambush. Or even just do something awful and blacken my name.

I called Pete.

“Sean!” he answered. “You ok, man?”

“I’ll live. I’m going to be away for a few days. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“You’re not gonna threaten me, are you?”

I ignored the jab. “I just wanted to warn you, somebody might try to talk to you, saying it’s me. Or maybe posing as somebody else you know.” Damn. This was complicated. The more I thought, the more possibilities for bad things seemed to open up. “I guess...you should ...we should maybe...”

“Why don’t I come over,” he said. “You can beat around the bush and stare into the middle distance and agonize while I drink beer and watch your struggle. That loses so much over the phone.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call Nique. She should hear this too.”

I called Nique and she agreed to come over as well. Soon they were both sitting in my living room.

“So what’s going on?” asked Pete. “I mean, apart from you losing your shit on Armstrong. Is it that dickhead we saw yesterday at the college with your girlfriend?”

“It’s more than that,” I said. “You remember the trouble last winter?”

“You mean the drug dealing supervillains who tried to kill us all?” he said. “No, I’d totally forgotten, because shit like that happens all the time.”

“Be nice,” said Nique.

“Easy for you to say. Nobody cut your throat.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of reasons people would cut your throat that have nothing to do with Sean.”

“There are some more old friends after me.” Both Pete and Nique had been with me last year when Doors and his gang of teleporting drug dealers had tried to settle a centuries-old vendetta. They knew what I could do, so they weren’t going to just dismiss the idea of strange powers.

“Terrific,” said Pete. “What can these guys do?”

“They can look like anybody. Imitate anybody. So if I ask you for something, be sure it’s really me.”

“You’re not trying to tell me it was your evil twin who threatened Armstrong, are you?” asked Nique.

“Oh no,” I assured her. “That was all me.”

“I thought so,” she replied. “It can’t be easy to fake that level of boneheaded disregard for your career and financial well-being.”

“Love you too, partner.”

“What did you do to piss these guys off?” asked Pete.

“It’s complicated.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? You didn’t try to hand them a dirty truck, did you?”

“One of them wants my genes. My longevity and healing ability for the family. So she posed as Sarah and tried to get me to...inseminate her.”

“So far, so good,” said Pete. “You have a bullet proof defense.
‘I thought it was you, babe.’
That’s a win-win. How’d you screw that up?”

“They put Sarah in danger, and I don’t like to be manipulated. I think I may have escalated things.”

I heard him sigh. “Man, I wish I had your problems. So this chick looked like Sarah?”

“I don’t think her mother would have spotted the difference.”

“And she could look like anybody?”

“Yes.”

“Damn. That’s the jackpot. This is better than a girl who’ll dress up like a cheerleader or a cop. She could be the whole Victoria’s Secret Catalogue. Not just the lingerie even, but the models! You could actually say ‘for my birthday, could you be Raquel Welch circa 1975?’ She could be a different smoking hot woman every night.” He was silent for a moment. “She doesn’t want some sperm from a better looking medic, does she?”

“I’ll put in a good word. The point is–”

“Dude,
time itself
isn’t even a problem! You could be with Farrah Fawcett from that poster we all had when we were kids. The one that got me through puberty.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I couldn’t remember puberty, but if I could, any such image would have been on glazed pottery. I did have to break into his fantasy to get my point established.

“OK, I get it. The important thing is we need a sign and countersign so you’ll know it’s me and I’ll know it’s you.” I stood. “I need another drink. Anybody need a refill?” I asked. Pete nodded, Nique shook her head. I went to the fridge.

“How about
‘What has two thumbs and likes head? This guy!’
”

“You’re pointing at yourself with both thumbs, aren’t you?” I called from the kitchen.

“That never gets old,” he said inaccurately.

“How about an homage to Raquel,” I suggested as I returned, handing Pete a beer. “The sign can be
One Million BC
and the counter will be
Mother, Jugs and Speed
.”

He whistled. “That’s good. Man, now I can’t decide if she was hotter in the uniform or the furry bikini. Probably the bikini, but that seems like a betrayal of EMS.”

Nique dragged the conversation back to relevant issues.

“I know you’re worried about these shape changers, but do you know what’s going to happen at work? You hear anything from Marty?”

“No,” I said. “Honestly, I don’t have the time to worry about that right now. Once I get myself out of this latest mess, yeah, I’d love to still have a job, but I can’t let that distract me.”

“Pete, you must have some pointers. How did you keep your job all this time?” asked Nique.

“I plan my outbursts for when they have critical medic shortages,” he replied. “Although, I was a little worried last year.”

“Which one was that?” I asked.

“I called Weinberg’s yarmulke a ‘Yid Lid.’”

“And he didn’t find that hilarious?” asked Nique. “Shocking.”

“I know,” Pete replied. “That was comedy gold.”

“I’m surprised you don’t get reported for the homophobic stuff you say to Sean all the time.”

“I’m not homophobic,” he said.

I paused, my drink halfway to my lips. Nique just raised a perfect eyebrow.

“I’m not,” he insisted. “
Homophobic
implies I fear or hate or in some way have a problem with the gays. I don’t. I just make fun of Sean for acting gay. Because he does.”

“You mean how he listens to women, and cooks and can hold an intelligent conversation about something that isn’t sports?” Nique asked.

“Exactly,” he said. “I have no problem with the gays. I think they have it figured out. I’d join if I could get excited about dick. I tried.”

“OK, what?” I asked.

“Back when I was young, like twenty, twenty-one or so, I was dating this crazy chick. It was a constant battle. She’d get upset and I’d ask what was wrong and she’s say ‘nothing,’ so I’d act like nothing was wrong and she’d get angrier. Then I’d ask her to tell me what I did wrong, and she’d be all ‘I shouldn’t need to tell you, you should know what you did’ and shit.”

He paused for a drink. “Now, I was young and dumb, so I’m gonna admit that part of the problem might have been me, but I’m not a mind reader, so this relationship is frustrating the hell out of me. But she was hot and the sex was great, so I’m conflicted. So I’m complaining to my buddy, and he tells me he’s gay. And I thought, we get along, if he’s pissed about something, he says, ‘Hey man, I’m pissed. Cut the shit.’ Which even at twenty I could figure out. I figured if I could switch teams, learn to like dick, then we could hang out, order pizza, watch the football game and trade blowjobs at halftime. That seemed like a pretty sweet deal. So I really thought long and hard about it, and I’m just not attracted to men. I mean, no matter how annoying a chick is, if she’s hot, I want to bang her. No matter how good looking a guy is, I got nothing. That’s why I think these people who say homosexuality is a lifestyle choice are wrong. Because if it was a choice, I’d choose it in a heartbeat. But I’m stuck with straight.”

There was a long silence during which Pete drained his beer.

“Wow,” said Nique. “That may have been the most unbelievably offensive epiphany ever. You actually made your journey to empathy feel creepy.”

“Don’t blame me,” said Pete. “I was born this way, baby.”

“Sean” said Nique, “you’re going to have to figure out what to do with your new arch enemies. Thanks for warning us. Let us know if there’s anything we can do. Meanwhile, we’ll see what we can do about helping you keep your job.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That means a lot.”

“It’s not just for you. I don’t want to think about who they’ll give me as a partner if they fire you.”

“I could swap my shifts around,” offered Pete. “Work on your days.”

“If they fire you and give me this guy, I’ll stab Armstrong myself.”