Possession

  Cait put the phone facedown on the table. Curled up a fist and rested her chin on it.

  As she stared across the linoleum, she felt weird. Not exactly depressed--because that would be ridiculous. In the first place, she was alive. And secondly, as it turned out, she hadn't been the one to let things down with G.B.: If she hadn't been chatting with the uniforms, she'd have just been cooling her heels in the foyer of the theater, stewing on whether or not to call him and when she should leave.

  The evening had turned out to be a total bust.

  Glancing down at her feet, she flexed her toes.

  Her lack of footwear, at least, was an issue she could do something about.

  Getting up, she hit the stairs in search of fresh white socks and her UGG slippers. And as she went, that odd off-kilter feeling followed her to the second floor, staying on her close as a second skin.

  Maybe it would help if she put a label on whatever it was ... but she was too afraid to.

  As she came back into her room, she thought about Sissy again, and prayed that the afterlife was easier than the stuff that went down on the earth.

  At least if you were a ghost, or an angel, or whatever you turned into, you didn't have to deal with being chased in parking garages. Or talking to the police.

  As Jim sat behind the wheel of his truck, making turns like he knew where he was taking him and Sissy, he felt pretty damn castrated. Even though there was a lot about this situation that wasn't his fault? Didn't matter. Someone had to take responsibility for the unfairness and there was no one else in line with him.

  Plus, he didn't like the way she was just sitting there. Especially as she put the visor down and looked at herself in the credit card-size mirror. When she flipped it back up, he wasn't sure whether she'd seen what she wanted. Probably not.

  "McDonald's," he repeated, in case she'd been too distracted. "Okay?"

  When he didn't get a response, he let her be. A Big Mac, large fries, and a Coke were probably not first on her mind right now, but if he didn't get some food in him, he was going to--

  "Fuck!"

  Wrenching the wheel to the right, he narrowly missed a black cat that ran right out in front of them. Which was the good news. The bad? As the damn thing shot off in the opposite direction, the truck beelined for an oak tree big enough to be in a Harry Potter movie.

  Without thinking about it, Jim threw an arm bar across the seat, catching Sissy at chest level, as if that would somehow work out better for her than her goddamn seat belt. At the same time, he tried to course-correct by yanking a hard left and slamming on the brakes.

  As time slowed, he watched the tree rush for the front grille, all defensive lineman and then some.

  Wasn't this perfect timing--a car accident right in the middle of--

  Boom!

  Okay, really getting tired of explosions at this point. And the impact certainly sounded like the discharge of a small-bore cannon--or at the very least a bazooka. But he had more important problems than pegging a decibel match.

  Unlike Sissy, he'd forgotten to put his seat belt on.

  And also unlike her, his air bag failed to deploy.

  He caught the steering wheel in the pecs and the windshield right in the face, a brilliant flash of light making him feel like someone had hit his good self in the puss with a roman candle.

  Man, there had been waaaaaaaaaaaaay too many light shows and loud noises...

  ... lately.

  "What the fuck!" he yelled as someone came at him.

  Instead of waiting for an answer, Jim grabbed whatever was in front of him and hauled the weight to the side, rolling with it and mounting up with every intention of beating the ever-living--

  "Stop! Stop! I'm a paramedic! I'm here to help you!"

  As his "attacker" cringed into the pavement, Jim frowned and noticed that there was a stethoscope around the man's neck. And the guy was wearing a uniform with patches. And there were red and blue strobe lights going off everywhere.

  He looked around, still keeping one hand locked hard on that throat, and the other curled into a fist and held high over his shoulder.

  Over to the right, like something out of an ad for insurance policies, his truck was wrapped around a tree trunk--

  The tackle came from the other direction, the one he wasn't looking in, and whoever it was had some experience knocking people down. Jim bowling-pinned it to the ground, the force sliding him across the asphalt, ripping a hole in his arm, driving the breath out of his chest.

  Unlike him, however, his wrecking ball was not prepared to beat the shit out of his target.

  As Jim was all but bolted face-first to the ground, a sensible voice said in his ear, "You've been in a motor vehicle accident. You were unresponsive when we arrived on scene. The EMTs are in the middle of their medical assessment, and with your consent, they would like to continue."

  Jim strained the one eyeball he had with any upward trajectory. The mountain heap on top of him was an African-American CPDer with a goatee and a bald head. And the heavy bastard seemed perfectly content to take a TO on Jim's backside for however long the situation required it.

  Sissy! Where was--

  "What's that, sir?" the cop said. "Sissy? You were alone when we found you, sir."

  "No! Sissy was with me!" Oh, great. He had the enunciation of a three-year-old, the words coming out with all kinds of ths where they shouldn't be.

  "Look, how about we take this one thing at a time. Do you consent to be treated?"

  "I need to find her."

  The EMT Jim had welcome-matted came over, walking with a limp. "I think he's got a head injury--"

  "Sir, I'm going to have to cite you for--"

  As they both started yammering at him, Jim figured he'd change his tactic. "Fine, treat me," he spat.

  The main issue was that he had to find out where Sissy was-- so he needed his booty-sitter up and off of him.

  God, please let Devina not have shown up with her normal fucking impeccable timing.

  The cop dismounted slowly. "You're going to have to lie still. Your head went through a lot of glass, and we're also worried about your spinal column."

  Roger that, occifer.

  Jim immediately flipped over onto his back with every intention of getting to his feet. But the instant he tried to do the upward-mobility thing, his body went weak on him.

  "Nah," the cop said, "you don't need to be doing that--"

  "I'm right here."

  Jim wrenched his head to the female voice. And as he did, a sharp shooter rode up right into his brain, making him wince.

  "Let me get a collar on him," another medic said.

  "Can you tell me your name?" the cop asked.

  But Jim wasn't tracking, and he didn't care what they did to him. Sissy was standing under a streetlamp just on the periphery of the action, watching over the drama, her arms wrapped around herself.

  Talk about an angel.

  Maybe it was his injury ... but man, all he could think of was how beautiful she was--and not in the ways of a girl, but as a woman. That illumination she was under cast a beckoning thrall around her, her long, straight blond hair teased by the wind, her eyes grave and serious, not wide and scared: In spite of the accident, she stood tall and strong, even though there had been way too many traumas tonight.

  "Thank God," Jim breathed.

  "Really," the cop said as the EMTs crowded around and various medical devices were taken out of carry-ons and attached to him. "Didn't think parents went with Thank anymore as a first name. And God's pretty unusual."

  Wha--oh, the name question. "No, I found her," Jim muttered.

  "Who?"

  "Sissy." Jim tried to lift his head again. "I'm okay," he called out to her.

  "Have you had anything to drink, sir?" the cop asked.

  "Are you sure you're all right?" Sissy said.

  "Yes," Jim replied. "I'm sure."

  "We've got a confirm on the alcohol," the cop interjected.
r />   Another uniformed somebody or other came over. "Have you found a wallet on him?"

  "Sir, do you have a driver's license?"

  "Don't worry," he told Sissy.

  "Well, I'm supposed to be concerned about this," his cop said. "It's my job."

  "Give the man your license," she interjected.

  Shit. He probably still had his old one with him, but if they searched the name and photo? "I'm dead," he mumbled.

  The paramedic who he'd clotheslined laughed. "If so, you're the first stiff I've ever met who has blood pressure."

  Wait for it, Jim thought.

  "I'll put a spell on them," Jim said as a cuff was put around his neck. "It'll take care of everything."

  "Bring over the stretcher," a voice shouted.

  "I'm not going to the hospital."

  The cop leaned in and smiled at him. "A spell, huh? You're just going to blink and this is all going to go away?"

  Jim met the man right in the eye, locking on, locking in. "That's right."

  With a force of will, he sent energy outward, pushing it through the air molecules between them, assuming control of the man's mind, and through it, all of his thoughts and actions. The solution out of this mess was to do the same thing one by one with the others, and then he and Sissy were free.

  Hell, he could even get this uniform to give them a ride home--

  "You guys get your board?" the cop asked as he turned and looked over his shoulder. "Time to get him into transport."

  Jim blinked in confusion. What the hell?

  The EMT who'd been checking the blood pressure shrugged. "There's little flight risk, if that's what you're worried about. His leg's probably broken. He's going nowhere."

  "He managed to jump you pretty good," the police officer pointed out.

  Wait, wait, wait, this was not how it was supposed to--

  "Here's the board. Okay, sir, we're going to move you. On three ... One ... two ... three--"

  As pain barged in and took over, shorting his brain out, Jim's last thought was that it should have worked. Ever since Eddie had shown him the tricks of the angel trade, he'd been able to influence things and people like magic.

  Apparently, playing sledgehammer with your own face cut those benes short.

  Damn it.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  Hours after Cait put herself to bed ... she was suffocating.

  In spite of all the cool, clean air in her bedroom, she was choking, a band of constriction tightening on her ribs, making it impossible to take a deep breath. In fact, it was almost as if she were underwater and being held there, the surface something she could only see in the distance through a wavy, blurry death sentence.

  For the one millionth time since she'd gotten into bed, she looked over at her alarm clock. The Bahama-blue digital number glowed 2:34.

  Oh, the irony. Even freaked-out in the dark, her mind still somehow knew when to check the time so that the numbers were in sequence.

  Her eyes had long ago adjusted to the dimness of the room, and as her house gently snored, its familiar creaks and buckles like the rhythms of a sleeping dog, she measured the order that surrounded her, defined her.

  Across the way, all the books on the shelves on either side of the window seat were arranged alphabetically. The throw blanket was precisely folded over the carefully arranged down pillows in the alcove. The pictures on the walls were set in identical frames that had been hung not by eyeballing it, but through a torturous process involving two tape measures and four hours with a pink hammer and slippery little nails. Her desk up here was for bills and documents, not drafting or drawing, and everything was where it needed to be, the pens locked away in a tray in the middle drawer, her to-be-paids filed in a vertical holder with beginning-, middle-, and end-of-the-month slots, the paperwork she was in the process of dealing with set aside in a manila folder.

  No clutter. Nothing out of place--ever. And the same was true with her bureau, her closet, her whole life.

  Rubbing her face, she wanted to scream.

  Her insides felt radioactive, like the experience in that parking garage had contaminated her, and the after-effects were going to have a sizable half-life. And goddamn it if being around all of her obsessive need for control wasn't making that itchy-twitchy burn so much worse.

  Don't tell me you didn't think about me last night.

  Are you always this arrogant?

  I don't worry about what other people think.

  And what if that kind of attitude doesn't get you where you want to go.

  You want this, too. Don't deny it--

  Okay, she was not thinking of that man. She was absolutely, positively not thinking about that man--

  Shoot. Maybe she was. And maybe ... just maybe she kept picturing where she'd left her car keys, downstairs by her purse.

  But come on, it wasn't like she was actually going to go down to the Iron Mask and meet him. Not possible. Not ever--especially considering what she'd been through earlier ... because that would be like having a fire in your living room, and deciding, after the men with the trucks and hoses had left, that maybe you should arson up the rest of your house just so things matched.

  If you come over after my shift, I'll tell you anything you want to know about me. And then I'll show you the more important things.

  And what would they be.

  You'll find out. If you think you can handle it.

  Cait rolled away from the clock, hoping that if she didn't look at those numbers, she'd forget that she had enough time, provided she left now, to get dressed and make it downtown right when he'd told her to be there.

  Live now, a voice said. It's the only chance you have.

  Punching at her pillow to fatten it up, she threw her head back down on it and deflated the thing. This was just so crazy. Except if Heaven didn't exist, and all you got was a dirt nap at the end of your life, how stupid would she feel if she stayed in this cold bed alone ... when there was something hot and powerful waiting for her across town?

  Safe sex worked if you did it right. All it took was a condom put on correctly.

  Besides, the born-again-virgin routine she'd been rocking since college was getting depressing...

  "No. Absolutely no."

  More pillow fluffing. And cursing.

  It was two forty-six when she exploded out of bed. Put jeans on that she rarely wore. Chose the only lace bra she owned. Pulled on a turtleneck that could be trampled underfoot.

  Behind the wheel of her SUV, heading out of her neighborhood, she did not look back. Didn't think, either. The decision made, she wasn't going to dwell on it or the fact that there was a high probability she was still in shock from what had happened earlier. There would be time tomorrow morning for doubts and recriminations--right here and now? There was only her destination.

  Her phone went off just as she was getting on the Northway. Without thinking, she snagged it and checked who it was.

  Teresa. No doubt calling because the interminable insomniac hadn't gotten an update as promised.

  Cait let the call go to voice mail. She didn't want anyone else's opinion on this bright idea, and didn't trust herself to keep things on the DL. Besides, her old roommate was half in love with G.B., in that way people got hooked on TV or movie stars. Knowing how Teresa was hardwired, she was likely to get offended on the singer's behalf.

  Cait was too practiced at being guilty not to spot that trap.

  Not when this collision she was about to cause was only an exit ramp and a couple of traffic lights away.

  And she had no interest in saving herself.

  "Don't ask me to clear your head for you," Duke growled. "Because I'm going to use that bathroom stall you're hiding in to do it."

  Every night around two a.m., the Iron Mask's entrance line got shut down, and that meant that he had a good hour to deal with a dwindling number of ever more intoxicated and compromised brilliant thinkers--like this wiry guy who'd decided he was go
ing to be cool and do coke out in the open on one of the tables. Confronted, he'd dodge-balled around the security staff and locked himself in here.

  The sound of a giant inhale through a deviated septum suggested that Einstein with the powder fixation was going for some more nose courage.

  Maybe he'd do another line and end up levitating right up and out.

  Of course, it could be worse. At least Fleet-foot hadn't picked one of the private bathrooms--because then Duke would have had to hard-shoulder through a locked door in front of the patrons. As it was, the guy had gunned for a public facility, and picked the middle of the three bays that were opposite the urinals.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Duke caught sight of his reflection in the mirrors over the lineup of sinks. Jacked forward on his hips, he was unaware of having curled up a pair of fists, but there they were.

  "On the count of three," he barked. "You come out, or I'm coming in after you. One--"

  "Duke."

  The sound of his boss's voice cut through his aggression. Slightly.

  Twisting on his hips, he looked over his shoulder at Alex Hess. "I'm handling this."

  "No, you're not." She jerked a thumb at the door she'd come through. "Out."

  "I got this." He turned back around. "Give me--"

  Alex materialized in front of him, moving impossibly fast, and the force of her presence was like getting popped in the face with a crowbar. In a quiet voice, she hissed, "Here's the deal. You've been walking that line tonight, and if you go any further with this? You're going to hurt him." As he opened his mouth, she put her palm up. "My turf, my rules. Don't make me escort you the fuck out of here, because I will. If you kill someone on this job? I've got the CPD so far up my ass, I'm stirring my coffee with their badges."

  In all her buck-stops-here anger, her gray eyes seemed to glow, and it wasn't like he doubted that she'd physically relocate him if she had to. The boss lady was usually right and always in control--of herself, and of others.

  But come on.

  Duke shook his head. "This is no different than any other night."