TWENTY-TWO

DID I have you going? At least a little? Of course I’m not going to kill the dogs. Haven’t you been paying attention? I’m going to grab one and see if I can find an MRI around here to scan him with. Al, not having been with the story as long as you, doesn’t know better. I’ve rattled her. I can hear it in her voice.

“You sure run hot and cold toward those pooches.”

I play it up. “Pop-pop was special, but he’s gone. This is a war, and in a war, people die—even if they’re dogs.”

I’m almost to the door when her cane trips me. “Why don’t you at least try sending an email first?”

“Damn it, woman, don’t you think I’ve thought of that? What kind of idiot would answer a random email?”

I’m almost up, but she trips me again. She’s gotten fast since the last time I saw her.

“Same kind that’d try to take over the world by breeding puppies that turn into monsters and write his website on the bones.”

Hm. Maybe she’s right. Eager to avoid exposing the pups to needless MRI radiation, even if it is considered safe, I crack my knuckles and head back to the terminal. “Email it is, then. But we’ve got to be clever about it. I can’t just send him one of those spam messages from Nigeria offering to transfer millions into his bank account. Last time I did that, it cost me millions.”

“You created fake spam from Nigeria…and sent the money?”

“Let’s just say for once in his life, Dr. Yabril Omotayo was true to his word.” Thanks to the intuitive OS, a few clicks get me to an email client. “This caper requires more finesse. To start, I’ve got to create a false digital persona—something that looks real, but bounces across servers all over the globe so it can’t be traced. Oh, there’s a button for that right here! Great. Now I just have to pretend to be someone Dick will want to meet, like a female admirer.”

Al sticks her nose over my shoulder. “How do you know he’s not gay?”

“Nah. They’d never make the only gay guy in the story the villain. Sends the wrong message. Besides, Jane said they dated. You’re a woman, right? What do you say when you’re flirting?”

Her lips crinkle in a devilish smile. “Couldn’t tell you. The men always came to me.”

I nudge her. “In droves, the way I heard it, Mata Hari, but help me out. I need an in.”

“I dunno. Tell him you liked the website?”

I read aloud as I type. “Hi there. I’m strangely aroused by your email address. Is info your real name?”

“Sure. Why not? But ask him another question, too—something open-ended so he can’t answer yes or no.”

“Good, good, good. How about: What’s your idea of a perfect day? Mine would be meeting you.”

She pinches my cheek. “And who said psychopaths are only superficially charming? You want to keep it short, so end it there with something flirty, like: Feel free to respond inappropriately.”

I giggle. “You are so bad! What do I sign? Can I be Vanessa? I’ve always liked the name Vanessa. It’s classy but alluring at the same time.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“And…SEND.”

Then comes the waiting. The awful, terrible waiting, the waiting that can send the best of us right back into our awkward years.

I’m a pimply faced pariah on a Friday night, huddled by the phone. Sophie swore she’d call back when she was done with her homework, but I don’t know whether to believe her or not. She may have been trying to get rid of me. There was something I had to talk to her about. Something really important, but I can’t remember what it is. Couldn’t be planning to tell her how I feel, could I? Nah.

Frustrating as it is staring at the phone, it beats listening to Dad get mad at the television. Starts out better, anyway, but my fear and longing build with every swing of our moving-eyes cat clock. Self-doubt and self-control vie for a hold on my soul. Self-doubt’s about to take it, but at the last instant, long-seething resentment sneaks up and takes them both down.

It’s seven, and Sophie hasn’t called. The emotional teapot of my being boils over into rage. I smash the phone. It splits in two, already a useless hunk of junk, but that’s not enough—not nearly. I want to hit it so hard Sophie will feel it all the way on the other end of the line—which makes no sense, since if she were on the line, I wouldn’t be mad in the first place. I pick up the pieces and smash them again. I stomp on them, over and over, until all that’s left is a crackling heap of plastic bits and circuit boards.

For the first time in my life, I’m making more of a ruckus than Dad. Might be jealousy, but when he stomps in and spots the mess, he puts down his drink and pulls out his belt.

“You have any idea how much that phone cost?”

I shouldn’t answer, but I do. “Doesn’t the phone company pay for those?”

He goes at me, Hulk-furious, beating me within an inch of his worthless life.

A digital tone from the Weapon X computer terminal yanks me back to the brittle present. The soft, squishy past disappears like blood stains scrubbed clean with bleach.

There on the screen, I’ve got my answer.

“OMG! OMG! He likes me! He wants to meet! Al! Al! What do I do?”

When I tap her shoulder, she nearly falls over. She must’ve fallen asleep during my hallucination. Before I decide whether to let her hit the floor, she catches herself and sucks in a waking breath.

“Huh? What?” Groggy, she smacks her lips and sucks some stuff out from between her molars.

I snap my fingers in front of her. “Dick wrote back. He wants to meet! What do I do?”

“Do I have to tell you everything? Offer to jump his bones and get his address. Head on over; catch the bad guy. Can I go home now?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Don’t want him thinking I’m that easy. I’ll suggest coffee. Vanessa’s a class act. The high-octane swill I drink wouldn’t be her style, so it can’t be just any place.” I do a quick search for popular spots. “Here we go. A chic open-air café on Amsterdam and 112th. Perfect. I only hope I don’t start babbling. Caffeine makes me babble.”

“Breathing makes you babble. At least a drink will give you something to stick in your mouth a while.” She makes a face. “Ain’t you forgetting something important?”

“What?”

“Well…never thought I’d be asking this, but do you look like a woman?”

“That is so cisgender. Does my body define who I am inside?”

“Anyone else, no. In your case—given the way I’ve seen your brain rearrange your personality when it heals up—yeah, pretty much.”

“Mind/body point taken. Will you help me do a makeover?”

“The blind leading the bipolar? Sure.”

The first hurdle is finding the right mix to smooth over my facial lesions. We settle on a concoction that’s more plumbing caulk than pancake. Long as I don’t move any of the twelve muscles in my mouth, or the four in my nose, I should be fine. I was going to go with my real hair, but that only grows in patches, so a wig it is. Finding the right outfit is the toughest part. Every time we ’port to a clothing store, Al tries to make a run for it.

But it’s got to be right. New York gals know how to dress, and I don’t want to come across like some Midwest hick. Not too this, not too that; revealing, but not too revealing. I want to look appealing, but not like a slut. It’s half art, half science.

With minutes to go, we finish. Al steps back and runs her fingers along my face, judging her work.

“Well? What’s the word?”

She inhales. “I am really, really sorry I’m blind.”

At first I think it’s a compliment, but then she starts laughing.

“You think it won’t work.”

“No, no, no.”

She slaps her sides hard, barely about to contain herself. “Anyone desperate enough to meet someone after one email is going for low-hanging fruit, so I’d say you have a shot.”

Already sociably late, with Al’s laughter echoing in my ears, I ’port a block from the café. I try to regain my self-esteem, but a look at my face in a store-window reflection confirms the worst. Maybe if I get there first, I can buy a hot espresso. Then, when he does show up, I can hurl it into his eyes so he doesn’t see me. I sigh and move on. Wouldn’t you know it? There he is, seated with his back to me at the corner table I mentioned in my last message, looking out at the street.

I step up and lean over. “Dick?”

“Vanessa?” He gets up, but doesn’t start running yet. A good sign.

He’s about my height, so I’m glad I wore flats. He’s dressed casual: sport jacket over a collared shirt, dark, fitted jeans, and pricey leather shoes. It’s hard to describe his face, though, because he’s got this black mask on—kinda like the one Jane wore back in Chapter 8, only more…manly.

He takes my hand—not in a creepy way, politely—and walks me the two feet to my chair.

We exchange a little small talk—the weather, the menu, our seats. Once the waitress brings our drinks, we hit our first real silence. Good a time as any to bring up the elephant in the room.

“So, Dick.”

He perks up. “Yes, Vanessa?”

“You wear a mask?”

He looks down at his latte, a bit deflated, and taps the spoon against the rim, making a quick series of little clinks. “Yeah. I do.”

Now I’ve done it. I’ve made him uncomfortable.

“Sorry, I just—”

“Oh, it’s okay.” His body language says otherwise. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, taps the rim some more. “It’s not as if people won’t notice, right? I’m just never sure when to bring it up myself.”

It’s already out there. No point in going back. “So are you…?”

“A super villain?”

I laugh. “I was going to go with burn victim. But are you a super…?”

“Burn victim? No. Luckier than that, in a way. I wear this to conceal my identity.”

I already feel like I’m prying, and I don’t want to push him too hard too soon. I stir my espresso with the little spoon and focus on listening.

“Everyone’s entitled to their secrets, right?” he says. “I mean, we’re all so wrapped up in knowing these silly little details about each other, like what we look like. But what does it mean, really? Why don’t we just say, ‘I like to be surprising,’ and leave it at that?”

He’s far from charming, terribly self-conscious—and there is that mask. Still, there’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s something that speaks to me. I just…like him. By the time I put the cup down, I’ve decided.

I give him an opening. “I like to be surprising sometimes, too.”

“Do you?”

I take another sip. “Uh-huh.”

He leans forward and makes his voice low and husky. “How’s this for surprising? Want to get out of here? Go someplace and…talk?”

Unable to move my mouth very much, I smile coyly. “You read me like a dirty book. I want to, but I’m not sure. Will I get to see what’s under the mask?”

He winks. “Only one way to find out.”

I pretend I’m still thinking about it. I look left, I look right. Then I meet his eyes. They’re brown, like mine. I know what I’m supposed to say, but I can’t do it. I can’t lie to him anymore.

“I’ll be honest, Dick: I like you. Not in a gay way, but I get the feeling we could be buds—share some brews, play some Dragon Age.” I pick up my purse and open it on my lap. “Thing is, I just lost someone, a dog named Pop-pop. I thought I could just move on, but I can’t. A big part of the reason is that this sweet little puppy was bred to become a monster. He was made that way by some maniac out to form an army. So you caught me on the rebound—meaning this, whatever this is, wouldn’t last. Now, I don’t really know you, and you don’t really know me, but I’m going to go ahead and guess that neither of us really wants that.” I reach into the purse and slip my hand around the gun inside. “I figure it’ll be much better if I just kill you.”