Trance. Part 31

I finally managed my own smile. He looked so tired. Dark smudges had appeared beneath his eyes, and his skin was ghostly.

"Have you slept?" I asked. "You look like h.e.l.l."

"I slept for a while this afternoon. It's evening now, so you've only been resting for about six hours."

Six hours-too much and yet not enough. I really wanted to curl up and sleep until my body stopped hurting completely. Maybe next week. "Did I miss anything? Ethan?"

His expression clouded. "Still nothing. Marco is going out of his mind. I think he feels responsible for letting Ethan get away, and I can't snap him out of it. Dahlia's with him right now, though, so he's not alone. She has a peculiar knack for charming people."

"Does she?" I hadn't interacted with her as much as I'd have liked, and I regretted it. She was still learning the ropes; I needed to be available to her, to teach her.

"Yeah, she dragged him down to the housing bas.e.m.e.nt to pick out a uniform for herself. She even picked out a code name. Ember."

I turned it over in my mind. She didn't create fire, just manipulated the source of it, absorbed its heat. Like the glowing center of a coal. It fit.

With the team accounted for, I grasped for something else to say. Anything impersonal-I wasn't quite awake enough to follow the usual pattern of our more intimate conversations. I surprised myself by blurting out, "I'm sorry about this morning."

His hand tightened around mine. "I know you are."

"You told me something very private, and I was a b.i.t.c.h for throwing it back in your face." Even through the fading haze of painkillers and everything that had happened in between, shame crashed over me. Utter shame at how I'd behaved-a petulant child misdirecting her anger. Not a trait becoming to the leader I was trying to be.

"I know you were hurting when you said it."

"It's no excuse."

"No, but it's an explanation." He sucked his lower lip into his mouth. "I didn't tell you those things for sympathy or pity. I know I run hot and cold, and I didn't want you to think it was you. It's not."

If he'd forgiven me, he didn't say it. I didn't want it, even if I had thought I deserved it. I needed to learn patience. He needed to stop seeing me as his cause. We'd both be happier for those things.

"No, it's not me," I said. "It's both of us, Gage. We both have things to figure out before we can really make this work. But I want to try. Do you?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation.

"Good." As much as I wanted to linger on that promise, I had to drag our conversation back to current things. "So, Dahlia. Is she engaging Marco because she's really into this superhero gig, or to humor him?"

Gage lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. "More the latter, I think. She's still pretty skittish, especially around Renee. And for some reason, she's terrified of Agent McNally."

"Probably because she's convinced herself that the feds are our enemy." I frowned, then rethought the expression when my chin and lips twinged. Even scrunching my nose increased the intensity of my headache.

She may have been listening for quite some time, but Agent McNally chose that moment to scare the pee out of me by saying, "I hope you don't think so, too, Trance."

Gage jumped a mile and squeezed my hand hard enough to elicit a yelp. I was down to one good hand. If he broke it out of fright, I'd be very screwed. I didn't know if it was possible to create an orb with both hands bandaged. One day I would have to experiment while wearing mittens.

"I'm sorry," she said, stepping into the room. "I didn't intend to startle you, and I apologize for eavesdropping."

"How much did you hear?" I asked. Bit by bit, my racing heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm. New headline: "Hero Felled by Fear-Induced Myocardial Infarction."

"After Ember's choice of code name. It's good." She smiled, defusing any sense of annoyance she should rightfully feel. We had been talking about her behind her back, after all.

I c.o.c.ked my head to the side. It wasn't as intimidating as my hand-on-hip stance, but you work with what you've got. "Can we trust the ATF?"

McNally's eyebrows arched slightly. "You get right to the point, don't you?"

"Someone's still trying to kill me, and he or she got d.a.m.ned close this morning. We are now fresh out of leads and s.h.i.t out of luck. I need straight answers, and even though you lied to us once, I'm probably as likely to get them from you as from anyone else in the federal government."

The complacent smile never wavered. "I admire your candor, Trance, and in the interest of honesty, I don't know. I can't speak for every agent in the ATF. As for myself, yes, you can trust me. I had no idea Marcus Spence was living here in Los Angeles. I don't know who started the fire at Fairview, or who is manipulating the Specter powers now. Please believe me when I say that I'm on your side, and if I had information to share with you, I would."

A glance at Gage and his subtle nod confirmed her words. I loved having a human lie detector by my side to validate my own judgment. "You lied about our powers," I said.

"And I admitted to my mistake in doing so. I can't change that I lied to you. All I can do is try to make amends now." She smoothed one hand over her perfectly coiffed hair. The style was immaculate, every hair exactly in place. My mane of random tangles and waves shifted if I breathed too hard.

"Okay. Hey," I said, the thought striking without warning. "How's Psystorm? Is he awake?"

"Last I checked he was showing signs of waking and his vitals are strong. Dr. Seward had to remove the collar completely in order to treat the burns it created. While I believe we'd all be safer if he remained in deep sedation until this is finished-"

"He doesn't have Specter contained."

"I believe you. And he may have valuable information hiding in his head. But the staff is prepared for any eventuality."

Translation: We're taking no chances. "How about Caleb?"

"He knows his father is sick and that he's getting better. I believe he's in the waiting room, coloring in a picture book."

Waking soon meant I could talk to Psystorm and get a better idea of what had gone on inside of the heads of Milton and Spence during their struggles. I couldn't begin to imagine how telepaths used their powers, or how their inner sight worked. If Lady Luck decided to smile on me, she would let Psystorm remember something. Anything that hinted at who was controlling the Specter powers.

Gage shifted, looking for a comfortable way to stand facing both of us. He seemed to give up the fantasy and aimed his body at me while twisting his head every few moments to acknowledge McNally. His indecision amused me.

"So what do your bosses think of today's events?" Gage asked.

"I don't know. I haven't reported it yet."

His lips parted in surprise. "Really?"

"You aren't the only one to call a few loyalties into question. Until we figure out who this doppelganger is, I'm keeping what you tell me between us. If my boss doesn't like it, that's not my problem. My loyalty is to you both and to your teammates. It always has been."

"Good luck putting that across on Grayson."

She shrugged. "The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives may have a hand in your funding, but I don't answer to Grayson, and neither should you. We've done nothing except bring hardship on you, and you're intelligent enough to do this alone."

"You have no idea how much I love hearing you say that," I said, and I meant it. More and more I felt the stranglehold of authority closing its grip around my throat. We were not meant to operate like this-run by committee and second-guessed by people with no powers experience. Ranger or Bane, it no longer mattered. Few could understand us; fewer tried. It was easier to compartmentalize us and order us around.

No longer, not if I had anything to say about it.

Right after we neutralized the doppelganger.

"Agent McNally, why did our parents lie to us?"

"About what, Trance?"

"About what really started the War?"

She was silent for a long time. "Because they were the good guys. Or they were supposed to be."

The answer was so simple, and it made perfect sense. "So Psystorm is in a coma, Ethan is MIA, and Marco can't morph. Dahlia is slowly getting the hang of things. I am once again in a hospital bed, and somehow Renee has still managed to be the only person not wounded."

"Physically, at any rate," Gage said.

A reply died on my lips. He was right, and I felt like an a.s.s for forgetting. It was barely thirty-six hours since William had died, soon to be one week exactly since we regained our powers and the world spun on its head. Something told me our Specter impersonator never intended his hunt-and-slaughter to last this long. He or she could get desperate. Slip up. It was our only real chance at catching him.

I reached for Gage and squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry, I'm just ranting a little and waiting for my vision to inevitably turn purple." The threat of going nova again was the absolute last complication I needed on my plate.

"Any excuse for a filter cleaning." The corners of his eyes crinkled in an adorably boyish way that made me wish McNally was elsewhere. I could get lost in his eyes and in the way they looked right through me. Saw every part of me.

Wait.

"Eyes." I craned my neck to see past Gage and look at McNally. "Do we have a file on Marcus Spence?"

"A slim one, why?" she said.

"I was just thinking something. We know Specter's eyes glow yellow when he's using his powers on others."

"You're correct, Trance, but what-?"

"Do his eyes glow when he's not using his power?" Her expression slackened; it hadn't occurred to her either. "Would we even know it if we pa.s.sed Specter Two on the street?" Or had been working close to them all this time?

"I don't honestly know. I never engaged Specter personally, and no one I've spoken to has mentioned it."

"Psystorm would know," Gage said. "He knew Specter for months, if not years, before the end of the War. Specter had to power down once in a while. Of course, I'd prefer if his eyes glowed all the time. It makes finding him a little bit easier."

"Nothing about this has been easy," I said. "Why should this be any different?"

"Hey, guys!" Dahlia's panting, overeager voice boomed though the quiet room, almost as startling as McNally's earlier entrance. She skidded to a stop just inside, half-hidden behind Gage. He scooted to the side, and I blinked.

She had certainly chosen a uniform. Shimmering yellow fabric clung to her short, thin legs, ending with stirrups that hooked under the two-inch heels of her black boots. The top of the unitard looked like a shelf-lift corset, outlined with black and orange piping. She wore a short, elbow-length black jacket over it, giving her shoulders some modesty. Her long blond hair had taken on an orange hue-either a color job, or her powers were changing her body, kind of like Gage's hair had changed from blond-brown to sandy-salted. Even McNally seemed stunned by the wardrobe choice.

"What is it?" Gage asked.

"One sec." She waved at someone in the hallway. Seconds later, Marco appeared by her side.

He was also out of breath, red-cheeked, intent on something. The haze of self-pity surrounding him since Sunday had finally lifted-a very good sign. "You look terrible, Catalepsia."

"So I've been told," I said. "What's going on, you two?"

They shared a look and a smile, and I found myself daring to hope for good news. It had to be good news. They kept nodding back and forth, each prodding the other to relay their information. Cute, if annoying. I cleared my throat. It got their attention.

"I believe I know where to find Ethan," Marco said.

Next to "I know where to find Specter Two," those were the best words I could have heard.

Thirty-two.

Alicia Monroe No amount of personal pain or pleading from Dr. Seward could keep me from accompanying Marco and Gage on their quest for Ethan. Renee and Dahlia agreed to stay behind and hold down the fort, and after a few heated words with a sleep-deprived Seward about my condition, we set out in another tinted-windowed vehicle. Gage drove; Marco rode shotgun to give directions. I sat in the back, biting the inside of my mouth to suppress yelps of pain each time we hit a b.u.mp or pothole.

After the end of the War, Ethan Swift had been fostered to a family in Kingman, Arizona. I was first to admit that the MHC could have vetted our foster families a little better before handing over twelve traumatized teenagers. Ethan's placement, though, astonished me. Marco and Dahlia found the records on the HQ's computer system and it read like a bad television movie.

Roger and Camille Bacon, according to all neighborly witness reports, seemed like the perfect couple. He worked an IT job and brought home a good living. She stayed home to raise their two children and had been a foster mom for seven years before Ethan came to live there. The children they fostered always complained when they had to leave. Local Family Services praised the couple up and down for straightening out a dozen children.

The pretty facade didn't hint at the volatile underbelly. I couldn't judge the Bacons by a file, so I didn't know if they were ill prepared to handle Ethan's particular condition, or if the other children simply adjusted and never told about the Bacons' methods of "straightening them out." Police reports said Ethan first ran away six months after arriving at the Bacon household. He was found two days later, living beneath an overpa.s.s, and sent back. He ran away again the following year. He made a complaint-later lost from his file-about his treatment by the Bacons. An investigation turned up nothing and the matter was dropped.

He asked to be given to someone else. The Bacons fought to keep him. For four years he lived under their roof, until he turned eighteen. He filed criminal charges of negligence and abuse, which were later dropped by the DA for lack of evidence. No medical reports, no broken bones, no bruises, no corroborating complaints. Just two upstanding adults who tried their best to raise a troubled boy with authority issues.

The file ended there. Marco had dug a little deeper and-with Dr. Seward's help-discovered the names of two other children fostered with him during that time. One of them, a boy named Charles Abbott, lived in New Hampshire and worked for a car dealership. The second, a girl named Alicia Monroe, had a California driver's license and a current address in Burbank. Quick phone calls turned up two more tidbits-she managed a restaurant called Totino's, and she had left work early yesterday and taken sick time for the rest of the week.

Gage exited the 405. We circled around and pa.s.sed an apartment complex on the right, down past an abandoned movie studio lot, and further into Burbank. As one of the few remaining "nice" neighborhoods in Los Angeles, the cleanliness was striking. Paved streets, living palms, painted buildings. The battle scars worn by the rest of the city had been expertly covered up.

Renee beeped my Vox while we were still a few blocks away. "Go ahead."

she said. My mind spun with the influx of data. I tried to pick out the pertinent information and store the rest. She sounded like a decent girl, the kind of person you could count on when in trouble, and the only person from Ethan's past currently on the West Coast. He may have gone to her for help. It was our best hope, and our one shot at finding him.

Gage located the apartment building easily enough, tucked away on a quiet side street near old downtown Burbank. Five stories, stucco roof and adobe walls, it screamed of a style no longer popular, yet still timeless. Outdoor staircases ascended to the upper floors, and long walkways connected the separate bungalows, probably six or eight to each level.

We parked in a private lot across the street. Didn't get out right away. Gage closed his eyes and concentrated. I scooted forward between the front seats, watching his face as he listened to the apartment life. His eyes scrunched. The corners of his mouth drooped. Minutes pa.s.sed.

"I think I found the apartment," he said, eyes flying open. "No voices, but I heard two distinct heartbeats and a television program."

"If they're home, then they are likely distracted by the television," Marco said. "They should not see us sneaking up."

"Let's hope," I said.

We exited the van and crossed the street. A teenage girl walking a dog abruptly changed sides when she saw us. Otherwise, we went undisturbed. Everything felt different in this part of town. Quieter, more relaxed. Far away from the hustle and boom of the ravaged, more industrial parts of the city.

Ethan knew how to pick a hideout.

Alicia lived on the third floor, number 5, nestled in a corner that would have made me jumpy, wondering who was lurking in the shadows by my front door. Two windows were shuttered on the inside. A straw welcome mat lay on the stoop, decorated with daisies and faded gra.s.s. Homey and girlish, rolled into one.

Gage turned one ear toward the door, listening. "Still watching television, I think," he said softly. "The heartbeats are at rest, close together. About twenty feet from the front door, in another room. The bedroom, maybe."

Made sense for someone still recovering from surgery to be in bed. This Alicia must be a special person to take off work at the drop of a hat for someone she'd known as a child, unless they'd maintained contact over the years, which was entirely possible. It only reminded me of how little I still knew about Ethan.

"Should we knock?" Marco asked.