Broken Angels Page 11

  He unfastened his belt with one hand while he pushed and shoved with the other, maneuvering his way through what felt like a suffocating crowd while focusing on the rampaging boy who had cornered the family in their seats. Robert felt he was losing breath as well as time as the boy continued to screech and swing his arms, yelling and scratching at the woman and her children. The targets buried themselves deeper and deeper into their seats as they tried to fend off the child and shield themselves.

  It took Robert almost thirty seconds to make his way through the mass of people—much too long. Once through he didn’t waste any time taking a breath before going straight for the wild boy.

  He pulled the child over and away from the tormented family with one arm while, with the other, he bound the boy’s wrists together with his belt. He then pulled the belt close to his own body so all the boy could do was scream and kick against Robert’s legs.

  “Let go my son!” An older girl sitting next to the one with the cell phone cursed and yelled the command as she lunged for Robert.

  He preferred not to lay his hands on a woman, of any age, but Robert hesitated only a moment before hitting her across the face with the back of his free hand. She didn’t go down, but she stumbled before rushing at him again. Robert used the same hand in reverse motion, balled into a fist, to knock the girl down and out.

  The train had stopped but the conflict only escalated.

  The child screamed louder and kicked harder when his mother fell; the two friends of the bad-boy’s mother expressed foul-mouthed shock that someone had dared to hit her while laying his hands on her son; and Robert suppressed a desire to deal with them in the same manner—but they were coming for him. He had to do something.

  Never mind the bruises that would appear on his legs tomorrow, he wasn’t about to let the child go, not until some responsible adults showed up and took charge. There was only one option.

  Robert focused his eye on the face of the attacking girl closest to him. Her cry of anger became an even louder cry of confusion after he ensured that, no matter how often she blinked, she’d see nothing but an opaque blanket of blackness for the next several minutes. As he’d hoped, she collapsed down to her knees in order to stabilize herself.

  He had no time to shift his eye and try the same trick on the other one. He used his free hand instead, pointing a fist toward her face and unfolding his fingers, showing his palm. Before the young woman could stop and think what he might be doing, he’d redirected a good portion of the subway car’s lights toward her eye sockets. She wouldn’t see anything but a stew of colors as she fell to the floor.

  Robert began to wonder about his next move, and then a hard object hit him in the back of the head. He grunted and stumbled forward as he heard, “Let the kid go, booty pirate!”

  He recognized the voice. Rather than turn around to see and confirm, Robert turned himself and the kid invisible.

  He wanted to wait until his head stopped spinning before making his move against the two punks, but Robert had little time, and no real choices. One of the punks held a knife. The other, a cheap handgun. Nice to see the repeal of the Second Amendment was still having its desired effect eleven years after the fact.

  The confusion caused by Robert’s disappearing act would last only a few seconds before that piece went off. The crying boy would give away their exact position soon enough, and Robert wasn’t about to let him go. Again, he had only one option.

  Robert focused and concentrated a thin, sharp beam of infrared radiation at just the right spot on the gunholder’s wrist, stinging him, causing him to relax his hand and drop the weapon. Before he or his friend could make another move, Robert reappeared with the gun in his hand, pointed at the two punks.

  He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

  Robert’s back was against one of the car’s side doors. No one could get behind him. He was in a safe position, but an unhappy one.

  He couldn’t be seen like this, holding someone’s bawling kid hostage with a belt while pointing a black-market .38 Special at two teenagers. Some stupid riders might try to rush him. Inspired by false courage or misplaced bravery, some idiot might force him to make the situation five times worse. So much could go wrong from here, and Robert was far from sure of the right way out.

  He began to silently count up to the inevitable—one, two, three, four—until the emergency exit door at the right end of the car opened and three Metro transit police officers rushed in.

  One of the officers stayed by the door as the other two advanced. “Nobody move!” one of the approaching officers shouted.

  “You!” the other officer shouted at Robert. “Drop the weapon! And let that kid go!”

  Robert shouted back. “Not until you get over here!”

  “I said drop the gun!” the officer repeated as he and the other officers quickly drew their weapons.

  “I drop it,” Robert said, “one of these assholes snatches it up and shoots me and the kid! And maybe you! Get over here and I’ll give you the boy and the gun!”

  The officer stopped shouting orders at Robert and started ordering others to back away from him. When they were close enough for him to feel comfortable, Robert loosened the belt and let the crying child go running. He then laid the gun and belt on the ground.

  “Get your hands up! Now!”

  Robert did as he was told and said nothing. The officer flattened him against the side of the car and cuffed him. Another officer radioed the train’s operator, telling her to restart the train, pull it into the next station, and keep the doors closed.

  The officer who’d cuffed him ordered Robert to sit crossed legged on the floor then read him his few rights as the other two checked on the boy, his recovering mother, and her visually impaired friends. Using a lot of fast and high-pitched words, the Muslim woman talked at the two officers as she pointed at the women, the kid, and Robert. Neither of the officers had any idea what she was saying. One of them tried to calm her down. Robert remained silent. He only glared at the two smirking punks as they did what they could to blend in with the car’s more innocent riders. Bastards. He should’ve burned new tattoos into their foreheads.

  When the train reached the next stop, one of the officers received a call on his radio. Robert could only hear one side of the conversation, but it was enough. He knew it was good news.

  The officer took out his earpiece and looked at Robert. He then helped him to his feet and turned him around. Robert felt the officer’s hand reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet.

  “Can you verify your full name, sir?”

  “Robert Omari Goldner.”

  “Okay,” the officer said as he unlocked the handcuffs. “When these doors open, you’re free to go. We’ll contact you for a statement later.”

  The officer returned his wallet and Robert went to stand by the nearest door while the officer whispered something to his colleagues. He didn’t even attempt to eavesdrop. He could figure the scenario. Someone from the Heartland Security Agency had seen what was happening on the train, thanks to at least one of the three surveillance cameras on every car. They made a positive identification on those involved in the commotion—or, at least, a positive identification on Robert—and did a quick background check. They realized he was affiliated with the IAI, contacted them, and someone at The Burrow used their influence to keep one of their birds uncaged. It was a good thing he hadn’t bothered to use light and shadows to blur or alter the appearance of his face, which is exactly the method of disguise Adam had instructed all Watcher agents to use in such situations.

  The system works, Robert thought as he shook his head.

  “Okay, ladies,” one of the officers said, “you three are not free to go. You either, ma’am,” he said to the Muslim woman. “We’re going to need a statement from you all right now.”

  “And a translator,” one of the officers said.

  “When these doors open,” the first officer said, “all of you are going
to need to come with us. Stay close together. Don’t even think about doing anything else.”

  One of the English-speaking women asked in slurred slanguage if they were being arrested.

  “You will be if you don’t do what we say,” one of the officers said.

  “We might need a translator for that one too,” another officer said to his colleague.

  Robert left the car the moment the doors opened. He remembered too late that, as soon as he was uncuffed and nothing he said would be used against him, he should’ve told the officers about the two druggies and the fact one of them still had a knife. But the punks had fled, and Robert hadn’t the time or the desire to look for them. That wasn’t his role anyway. If he pursued them, he could end up arrested, and rightly so this time. Last place he wanted to be on a Saturday night was a DC jail.

  He brushed himself off and took deep, satisfying breaths of relatively fresh air as he left the Metro station. It took him fifteen minutes to hail a cab and almost twice that amount of time to get back to the hospital’s parking lot. During the drive, Robert thought about why he’d decided to travel such a convoluted route home in the first place. At least his funny feeling had disappeared. Whoever or whatever had been following him, even if just a specter of his imagination, was long gone. Thankfully. He wasn’t sure he could find the energy to handle another confrontation.

  After parking his car in its usual spot, Robert punched in the numerical code on the pad at his apartment building’s entrance to unlock the doors. The lobby was dead quiet. Not so unusual, even for a Saturday night. As he passed by the laundry room on his way to the stairs, he glanced through its glass door and saw it too was empty. Common, especially for a Saturday night. Who would want to do laundry when they could go to a club, house party, or restaurant instead? All Robert wanted now was a good night’s rest. He had a big day ahead of him.

  He pushed the security-shutoff button on his keychain and unlocked his apartment’s door. He opened it, took one step, and stopped short. There was a big surprise in front of him. He was sure he didn’t have the energy to deal with it.

  SEVEN

  Robert slammed the door behind him. Scowling, he balled his hands into fists. His eye glowed as its iris color-shifted to a rustyred hue.

  Ava Darden stood in front of him. Her uncombed auburn hair framed a plainly pretty face with unblinking sapphire-blue eyes trained on Robert’s.

  “Miss Goins gave me your information.”

  Ava hadn’t flinched when he’d opened the door, nor had she flinched when he’d slammed the door. She may have appeared calm, but Robert stayed ready to attack and defend himself.

  “She gave you my address?”

  “Your phone number,” Ava said. “I found the address on my own.”

  Damn landlines. He almost regretted not trading off for a cell phone like Darryl and pretty much everyone else in the country. “Why’d she give you my number?”

  “She left me a couple of contacts. I chose yours.”

  “Seems your memory loss is getting worse,” Robert said as he unclenched his fists. “You’ve forgotten there’re laws about breaking and entering.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I had nowhere else to go.”

  “You could’ve stayed at the hospital.”

  “No, I couldn’t. I—” She almost looked away from him. Robert could tell she was choosing her words carefully. “I didn’t feel comfortable there. I kept feeling like, at any moment, something would come and swallow me up.”

  “Right,” Robert said.

  “I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Especially since”—she did look away from him now—“I’m just starting to remember…bits and pieces…”

  Robert tensed, ready to hear something good or useful. “About what?”

  “About me,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re an honest one, Robert Goldner. I trust the impression I got at the hospital this morning. And even though I’m not back to full strength yet, I think I can go ahead and trust you with the one bit of information I do know about myself. An important bit.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “I’m—I am—” She stuttered a couple more times before saying it outright. “I’m an angel. The Arkangel Ava.”

  Oh good, he thought, another one of these.

  It seemed to him a small but steadily increasing number of Virus-carriers considered themselves to be “angels.” Some literally, some metaphorically. Darryl fell in the metaphorical camp; Robert stayed out of both. He thought it was all foolishness, just another symptom of the silly fictions people adopt to help them get by. Problem was, most carriers had the abilities to convince others of the truth of their personal fictions. Robert wondered what Ava’s angle could be.

  “I was hoping you’d help me with something.”

  “What,” Robert said, “you want me to help you break into someone else’s place?”

  “I think I know a way to help me remember more, help me rearrange the messy bits and pieces in my head, get them in some kind of order.”

  “Oh?” Robert approached the girl. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well,” Ava said, casting glances around the studio apartment, “we could use your bed, after you change the sheets. Or the couch. It looks comfortable enough, but we’d have to position ourselves like—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Robert held up his hands and took a step backward. He realized what she was getting at, and he wouldn’t go there. Not tonight. Not in his apartment. And definitely not unsupervised. “We just met. Let’s just sit and relax first. You, over there.”

  Ava looked at the black leather chair with some reluctance. When she finally sat, Robert began to look around the apartment to see just what had been tampered with. He thanked fortune his laptop was still at The Burrow, broken and slowly being repaired. He’d gotten a little frustrated a few weeks back during a research project and took his anger out on his computer, but he’d downloaded so much he didn’t want to just chuck it and buy a new one. For the first time, he was happy the IAI’s technician was taking her sweet time fixing it. He didn’t need Ava snooping around on it.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

  “I’ll take a glass of your orange juice,” Ava said. “Your tomato juice has expired. And the grape juice is flat.”

  Charming, he thought. “Did you check to make sure the ice trays were filled?”

  “Yes.”

  Perfectly charming. Robert sighed and shook his head as he started toward the kitchen. Ava stood up again and approached one of his bookshelves. She certainly wasn’t the type to stay put.

  Robert did a quick survey in the kitchen, making sure everything was as it should be. As he opened the fridge, he heard Ava say, “Very interesting looking…dolls you have.”

  “They’re more like action figures,” Robert said about the six-inch-tall toys on his bookshelves.

  “Oh.”

  “For adults.” He wanted to clarify without giving away too much. “Specially made by a friend of mine. An engineer.”

  “He made them especially for you?”

  “For my apartment. There’s much more to each of them than meets the eye. Or, tonight, maybe much less.” Robert didn’t hide his disappointment at the failure of his apartment’s unique security system. He doubted Ava could know the real purpose of the strategically positioned toy robots, and he doubted Zel’s devices had all malfunctioned at once, but somehow she’d gotten into his apartment without any of them either sounding the loud alarm or emitting the mosquito-like whine that was supposed to render unconscious anyone who was within a twelve-foot range of them. The robots just seemed dead.

  Ava was still examining the toys when Robert came out of the kitchen, bringing her a glass and a coaster for the coffee table. She only turned her attention to him after he sat on the couch and cleared his throat.

  He waited for
her to take her seat and her first drink, and then he asked, “Suppose you tell me every single important bit and piece that you remember about yourself ? I’m sure you’ve had plenty of sleep over the past day or so. And I’m willing to stay up all night.”

  After her fourth sip, Ava began. “I’ve checked a calendar. My last clear memories are from over a year ago. It was around that time, last March, when I thought I was about to die. I kept seeing these, all these, visions and strange things, like bugs, teeny tiny spiders, living under my skin. And Death. A living, walking, talking Death, watching me, following me, following me everywhere…” She took another drink, no doubt hoping the words would begin to flow more easily. “Then one day, finally, this Death confronted me and revealed itself—herself—as an Archangel. She gave me the good news, telling me I wasn’t sick, and I wasn’t dying. I was being helped. Not cursed, but blessed. Blessed with the chance to become an angel, a true-to-life angel on Earth, just like her.”

  Robert did all he could to maintain a straight face. For once he felt thankful for the eye patch; there’d be less chance of her seeing him roll one eye than two.

  Still, better to roll an eye in annoyance than have a good belly laugh at the black joke of people calling themselves “Arkangels” and “Archangels.” The terms sounded similar when pronounced by some, but when spoken by true believers, there was an added emphasis on the first syllable of “Arkangel,” causing one’s throat to catch a little when saying the word. Robert got tripped up pretty much any time he had to say anything about “angels.” “Sick humans” rolled off the tongue much more naturally.

  “This Archangel showed me different realms of Reality,” Ava said. “She took me down to the lowest levels of Reality, the Ultimate realm—”

  “XynKroma.”

  Ava seemed a little too happy to hear the word. She composed herself before continuing. “Yes. Of course you’ve been there.”

  “I’ve had my unfair share of visits,” Robert said.

  “Well, like you, I had more than a few, each one with the purpose of inverting me, rebirthing me into my destined rank, that of an Arkangel.” She paused and studied Robert’s face for a moment before asking, “What rank are you?”