Hero Stalker

Part Six

“Someone from the Psi-Crime Division wants to talk to you.” A nurse poked her head through the curtain. “He’s waiting outside. The doctors cleared you to leave—no burns, no broken bones. You got lucky.”

I didn’t felt very lucky. My skin still crawled at the thought of how close I’d come to death. “Does my insurance check out?”

She nodded. “There’ll be a fifty dollar co-pay.”

Normally, my jaw would have dropped at the prospect of losing that much money, but getting kidnapped had put things in perspective. “Tell the officer I’ll be right out.” I pulled on my damp blouse, averting my eyes from the bruise on my side.

Of course the PCD would want to talk to me. They served as liaisons between the Centurions and the police, handling all details the Centurions couldn’t. Technically, they were the ones who made the arrests on every criminal the Centurions detained, filled out the paperwork, and handled lesser supervillains the Centurions didn’t have time for. Some were psi-positives who hadn’t made the Centurion cut, but they tended to keep quiet about that stuff.

All I really wanted to do was go home and call Annabelle. I’d asked the nurse to get my phone from the coat check and quickly texted her. She said she was fine, but she needed to get to work, and I couldn’t blame her for wanting this whole mess to be over. To be smaller than what it was.

The Worldley Fewe would go nuts when I posted what I’d seen—at least, an edited version of what I’d seen. I was one of the top three posters on the forum, but this was the first time in years I’d had first-hand information to share. All I needed right now was my bedroom, my quilt, and my laptop. Not a three-hour interrogation.

Well, it’s not like anyone else can break this story. I buttoned up my blouse and headed out into the hallway, where a tall white man with a badge around his neck stood next to a flu prevention poster from the eighties.  

“I’m Detective Daniel Silver.” He extended his hand. “Call me Dan.” He stood at least six feet three, with short blond hair and light blue eyes. With his muscular arms, strong jaw, and easy smile, he looked like a model in a sporting goods circular. You know what they say about tall men . . . “How are you feeling, Ms. Dodson?”

I shook his hand—strong, firm grip—and realized I was grinning like a fool. “Fine. Call me Gloria. Only my pride’s hurt. Well, I got burned a little, but I’m fine.”

He pulled a couple of flyers off his clipboard. “The precinct hosts a weekly support group for victims of psi-crime. If you need support—”

“I’m fine. I mean, this is Bayton, right? People get abducted by whackjobs in robot suits every day.” My voice went up an octave on the last sentence.

“Unfortunately.” He paused. “You still have to take the fliers.”

 I took the fliers. Dan escorted me up to the hospital lounge on the bottom floor and gently asked me to describe what had happened. I told him that Annabelle and I had gone to the docks to take photos for a blog post. Surprisingly, he nodded and didn’t push forward. I couldn’t remember any identifying information about Harpy, but Dan told me not to worry. The henchmen they’d arrested would probably take a plea bargain. A week from today, Harpy would wear handcuffs.

 “When we catch this guy, you may be asked to testify,” he warned me. “Since none of your attackers knew your name or address, you shouldn’t have to worry about retaliation. But I can have a squad car park outside your house tonight if you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried.” That was a lie. My skin still felt like I had electricity buzzing through it, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. But if Mom noticed cop cars outside our house, she’d demand answers. There was no way I’d let her know what happened.

“If you’re sure. You can change your mind at any time, you know.” He shifted around in his chair. “Now, did Harpy demonstrate any kind of superpower?”

Halfway through the interview, I realized that I didn’t have any shoes on and therefore I wouldn’t be able to take the bus home. Mom could come pick me up, but that would mean explaining why I was at the hospital. Annabelle would be at work until eight. My brother James was on an extended business trip in Jamaica. Which left only one person.

I pulled out my phone. Valerie had sent a nice text when she learned I’d been hurt and fifteen threatening texts before that. Holding my breath, I dialed the one person I dreaded speaking with as much as Valerie.

“I’m glad you have someone you trust to take you home,” Dan said when I hung up. “Pat . . . is that your boyfriend, or a friend . . . I mean, it’s very important that you don’t get in cars with men you don’t trust—”

“It’s my sister. Patricia.” And that was the least subtle come-on I’d seen since a drunk Darryl pulled me into a closet at the annual Christmas party and asked me for a blowjob.

“Oh. That’s good.” He looked relieved. I wondered what Mom would say if I brought him home for dinner. Would she interrogate him first about his politics, or his religion? Would it be better or worse than when James brought home an Asian man? “One more question. Is there an alternate phone number I can reach you at?”

I weighted the options and gave him a number. “That’s my work number. I’m usually down at the Sushi Queen flagship store on Cable Street.”

“That’s a block from the precinct. You work with that crazy lady? The one who yells all the time?”

“Yeah,” I admitted.

 He jotted down my answer. “I was part of the Grey Butterflies bust. Spent three weeks undercover at a gay bar trying to find out where they got their heroin. Three weeks in tight pink leggings. Believe me, I know what it’s like to hate your job.”

“At least you’re involved in something important.”

He grinned. “Well, most of the damsels in distress I rescue aren’t as sweet as you.”

I took a deep breath and went for it. “I supervise the counter at the Cable Street store from nine to two on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You should stop by.”

“Maybe I will.” Dan smiled at me.

“I’d like that.” The room door creaked. “My cell number’s on the form—feel free to call it any time. For personal reasons.”

“Gloria Marie!”

I looked up to see my older sister, Patricia Dodson-Penn, standing in the lounge door. She wore a sharp blue suit and her freshly-cropped hair hugged her skull like a helmet. Her eyebrows knitted themselves together in a frown, an expression that made my inner child flinch. But Pat was twenty-seven now. She wouldn’t shove my head down a hospital toilet.

“Let’s get you home,” she said. There were dark circles under her eyes. “I don’t want to leave Deshawn alone with the triplets for longer than I have to.”

“No.” After all, they might actually have some fun. My sister might have left the Navy, but I doubted it’d ever leave her.