OUTCASTS
FROM
BEYOND
©2009 The Angst Guy (theangstguy@yahoo.com)
Daria and associated
characters are ©2009 MTV Networks
Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me,
whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com
Synopsis: On her way to see Tom
Sloane, Daria Morgendorffer has a car wreck—but that’s only the start of her problems in this long, weird alternate-universe/crossover Daria tale of secret identities and
super-powers that begins about halfway through “Boxing Daria” and heads into
the wild blue.
Author’s Notes: This story, originally entitled “Green,” was
posted on PPMB and SFMB between November 2005 and May 2006 in response to an old
PPMB challenge. Before the old PPMB board
shut down in July 2003, WacoKid asked in an “Iron Chef” for a fanfic that takes
place in the final fifth-season episode, “Boxing Daria,” at the moment when
Daria has a near accident in her parents’ SUV, driving through a storm on her
way to see Tom Sloane. For story purposes, Daria bumps her head and regains
consciousness to find the world is somehow different. I had to take a rain
check on it at the time, but finally found time to do it when I had an idea I
hoped would make it worthwhile. I can’t believe the story actually got this big,
though. I need to be more careful next time.
The “Author’s Notes II” at the story’s
end contains background information on this tale, with notes on this alternate
universe if anyone else wants to set a fanfic there using this set-up and
introduction. It should be noted that a geeky knowledge of the big events in
Marvel and DC Comics throughout the 1980s would help in following along
Acknowledgements: First, my heartfelt thanks to WacoKid for the “Iron Chef” contest that
inspired this story. My thanks also go out to Ms. Kinnikufan, Orpheus, and
Psychotol for finding errors in the text; WacoKid (especially), Sleepless, and
Jedah for suggesting changes to the thoughts, words, and actions of certain
characters; Psychotol and DJ for correcting the explosive effects of a Hellfire
II missile; and the idea of having Jennifer Love Hewitt play Daria was stolen
from Aaron Adelman’s tongue-in-cheek “Unofficial Daria Movie Rumor Page”
online. That about covers it. Enjoy.
*
During the day, I’m a mild-mannered
student.
But at night, I fight crime in a
stretchy-stretchy costume.
—Daria in “The Story of D,”
being sarcastic but closer to
the truth than she knew
I
Thursday, November 4, 1999
After six irritating rings, the cell
phone in the driver’s door map holder fell silent. Daria Morgendorffer frowned
at the Interstate ahead, Lawndale in her rear-view mirror and the sun falling
behind the hills to the west. That was probably
Mom or Dad, wondering where I’m going. Screw that. They don’t want to talk honestly
with me, I don’t want to talk with them, either. I’ll take off a few days and
spend time with people I can trust. Let’s see what the ‘rents think about that.
Tomorrow’s Friday. I can blow off one day of school and come back Sunday. Tom
got a few days off from school for that family wedding he has to attend on
Saturday. He said he wouldn’t mind my company around the Cove before then. My
platonic company is all he’s getting, but maybe he’ll be okay with that. Better
call ahead and see if I still have the green light to stay a day or two.
Reaching down, she retrieved the cell
phone with her left hand and thumbed in a number as she drove. A late autumn
thunderstorm rode the darkening sky ahead. Misty curtains of rain fell across fast-moving
traffic less than a mile away.
This
whole day sucks, she thought, holding the phone to her left ear. My parents won’t tell me why they had a
fight about me and separated one night when I was six years old, so I get
pissed off and take Mom’s Explorer, which I hate because it’s too damn big, and
now night’s falling and it’s about to rain and all this crap started when I saw
that damn refrigerator carton by the—
“Hello, this is Kay,” came a woman’s
cheery voice over the cell phone.
“Hello?” said Daria, coming to. “Mrs.
Sloane? Is Tom there?” Lightning flickered in the darkness ahead. She gripped
the wheel tighter with her right hand. Hate
this car.
“Daria, so good to hear from you!” said
Kay Sloane with delight. “I’m afraid Tom’s out with his uncle right now. I
believe they’re boating, but they should be back soon. What can I do for you,
dear?”
Thunder rumbled. Daria glanced at the
mounting traffic in the fast lane on her left. “Well, would it be okay if I
took you up on your offer to visit?”
“Oh, certainly! We’d love to have you. We
have a guest bedroom we can fix up. Are you calling from your car? It sounds
like you’re on a cell phone.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, be careful, dear. How long do you
think it will be until you can get here?”
Daria glanced at the dashboard clock. “I
can be there in about four hours.”
“Wonderful! I’ll let Tom know. He’ll be
pleased to see you—and I will, too. We could use some intelligent conversation,
heaven knows.”
“Thanks very much, Mrs. Sloane.”
“You’re welcome, Daria. See you soon!”
At
least she likes me. Daria clicked
off the phone and returned it to the map holder. Drops of rain splattered
against the windshield. Here goes,
she thought. The raindrops multiplied into a blinding torrent. She turned on
the wipers and leaned forward, squinting into the rain-swept dusk. What a great start for my trip. At least I’ve
got a room to—oh, no, I didn’t even think to pack. I don’t have a thing to wear,
damn it! I can’t believe this. I just got up and walked out of the house
without thinking, and here I am trying to drive up the East Coast from Baltimore
in a rainstorm, and why I’m trying to see Tom is beyond me. He’s playing mind
games with me, too, and—jeez, am I doing what my dad did all those years ago,
running off on my mom and my sister and me? Screw it, I don’t want to think
about what I’m—
Her temper flared. Her right foot pressed
on the gas. That was all it took.
Sudden motion ahead in the left lane—a car
spinning around, hydroplaning on the wet, oily asphalt—brake lights, screaming
tires, the blue car ahead was too close—
Whoa!
Daria gasped and spun the wheel to the right, foot nailing the brake, but the Explorer
hit water and spun frictionless toward the right shoulder. No! Don’t—
The Explorer went off the road backwards
at sixty, flying over the top of an embankment. Gripping the wheel in both
hands, Daria jammed her right foot down on the useless brake. A wordless scream
left her mouth as the SUV rotated in the air, weightless all the way down to
the impact—
II
A light mist fell in the darkness. Hidden
by undergrowth at the edge of a nearby forest, a silent figure watched as a
crowd of rain-soaked cops, firemen, EMTs, and passers-by stood in the light of
flares and flashlights, studying the scattered remains of the red Ford Explorer
in the tall grass at the bottom of the ravine. The largest remaining piece was
the buckled rear of the Explorer, intact up to the front seats. This part
rested on its tailgate door, every window shattered, with the passenger seats
facing up into the night sky. The driver’s seat was missing, and the driver’s-side
door had been ripped from its hinges by the impact—or by something else—and lay
halfway up the slope up to the Interstate. The forward part of the SUV, from
the dashboard up to the grill and headlights, was smashed into the ground and
emitting clouds of smoke and steam. Shredded scraps from the vehicle’s impact
bags lay everywhere.
Twenty yards ahead of the wreckage, in
the weeds near the tree line, several men stood next to the driver’s seat. It
lay in tangled pieces, held together only by a crooked metal bar in the
framework and a long strip of fabric from the shoulder harness.
The only thing missing from the scene,
other than the steering wheel, was the unfortunate driver. Scraps of clothing
had been recovered, but not the wearer. Clusters of police officers, medics,
and bystanders walked slowly away from the wreckage, scanning the overgrown
grass with their lights. Someone called out that he had found an empty boot,
the leather seams ripped out. He was close to the tree line. A number of men
walked in his direction, flashlights swinging left and right.
Alarmed, the figure among the trees
crouched down behind the bushes and saplings. The cluster of men stopped short
of the tree line, only fifty feet away. Safe for the moment, the figure raised
its enormous hands, outlined in faint light, then spread its fingers. It stared
at its palms and digits in wide-eyed shock, then brushed long hair from its
face and peered out again at the searchers.
The people by the boot began walking once
more through the tall wet grass toward the tree line, searching the ground. The
figure rose and retreated—and broke a thick branch under a bare foot.
Someone shouted. A half-dozen lights
flashed in the creature’s direction. Panicked, the figure broke into a run. In
moments, it was far, far away—
—but not before everyone got a
split-second look at it.
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
* * *
Tonight, for lack of anything better to
do, it was toothpicks on the kitchen table. Jane Lane dabbed a bit of wood glue
on the tip of the toothpick and carefully set it in place in the toothpick
construction she had dubbed the “Tetrahedral Gorilla.” The two-foot-high figure
by now did sort of resemble an ape with massive upraised arms. It wasn’t a
serious work, but Jane liked exploring the range of things that could be created
using a simple three-dimensional shape.
In addition, toothpick tinkering helped
Jane take her mind off the fate of her best friend, Daria. Since dusk, she had
received five phone calls, three from the Morgendorffers’ home and two
long-distance calls from Tom Sloane at the Cove, asking if she knew where Daria
was, who had not picked up her cell-phone calls for hours. The last call, at
10:35 p.m. from Daria’s mother Helen, had been interrupted by call waiting on
Helen’s end—and Helen had hung up shortly thereafter. No one at Daria’s home
answered later when Jane called back.
Jane’s brother Trent was off with his
band, playing at a tavern in Swedesville, so Jane had his car—but she knew of
nowhere to look for Daria. She had not been overly concerned until the last
call, after which she elected to wait by the phone for further word. No such
word had come.
Jane hated waiting. Her mind conjured up
dreadful possibilities she dared not say aloud. She had decided a while ago
that if she hadn’t heard anything by midnight, she was leaving home to drive
around the school, the pizza places, and Tom’s mansion-sized house in a nearby
gated subdivision. Tom and his family were away, but Daria might have gone to
the house and parked just to get away from home. Daria’s mother had made
reference to an argument happening before she had left home. It would be like
Daria to seek some alone time to be depressed or angry, then sort out what to
do next.
“It could be a professional wrestler,”
Jane said, continuing a long conversation she’d been having with herself about
the toothpick figure. “Could be a future boyfriend, too. That would be
interesting. The relationship might not last more than a few weeks, but the
experience is the point. I could see—”
The phone rang. Startled, Jane jumped,
then ran from her seat to the wall phone and snatched up the receiver. “Jane
here!” she cried, not at all her usual laconic self.
A moment of hesitation on the other end
of the line, and then: “Jane? This is Daria.”
Only . . . it wasn’t quite Daria. The
voice was deeper and stronger in tone. Still, it could be Daria, if she had a sore throat. “Daria? Where the hell
are you? Everyone’s been hunting for you for hours and your mom’s—”
“Jane . . . I had a wreck.”
Oh,
no! “A wreck? Are you all right?”
A pause. “Yes . . . and no.”
“Are you at a hospital? Are your parents
there?”
“No and no. Jane, listen, I’m just off
the Interstate, at the northbound rest area at the county line. I’m using a
public phone. I can’t talk long. Can you get over here and pick me up, like immediately?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. I can leave now. Are you
sure you’re okay?”
The deep voice became stressed. “No,
actually, I’m not sure. I can’t explain it. I think . . . I don’t know what to
tell you.”
“I can call an ambulance and have it—”
“NO!”
Jane jerked the handset away from her
ear. That was loud. “Okay, okay!” she
said. “I’ll get there by myself! Do you want me to call your parents?”
“No! Just get over here, you and nobody
else!”
No point in arguing. “I’m on my way, amiga.”
The other end hung up. Jane clapped the
handset back on the wall hook and ran to get the car keys and her driver’s
license.
Eight miles away, a nervous figure
hurried off with long strides from an outdoor payphone. Headlights were
approaching on the access road leading to the rest area. Whirling blue and red lights
appeared atop the oncoming vehicle, which came to a stop beside the payphone.
Two officers got out, hands on their holsters, and flashed lights into the
darkness around them. Seeing nothing, they turned to go back to their car—until
one flashed his light down at the base of the payphone where the ground was
muddy and covered with coins.
It wasn’t the torn-away metal coin box
that caught their attention, though that was part of it. It was the footprint
that nailed them.
That was when the guns came out.
III
Friday, November 5, 1999
“Finally!” Jane shouted in exasperation.
She gunned the engine of the ancient Plymouth Satellite and roared past the
traffic officer who waved her into the only lane left open on the Interstate.
Forty-five minutes after leaving home and well past midnight, she was escaping a
traffic jam that had swamped the northbound lanes of the rain-slick freeway. “What
the hell’s going on around here?” she grumbled. “This had better be worth the
wait. Daria will be pissed, I wasted almost a quarter tank of gas, and . . . jeez,
what’s all that . . . oh.”
Her monologue disintegrated as she
spotted a line of police cars, ambulances, television news vans, fire trucks,
and civilian vehicles parked on either side of the road ahead. The top of a
ravine ran along the right side of the Interstate, beyond the shoulder. Red and
blue emergency lights flashed everywhere. Men in yellow reflective jackets walked
along the lines of vehicles to the left and right, ignoring the passing cars.
Jane’s gaze darted ahead to a flatbed
truck parked on the right, next to a crane wrecker. Resting on the flatbed was
something that vaguely looked like an SUV. Her eyes widened as the sight grew
clearer.
It was the battered rear end of a Ford
Explorer. The license plate was hopelessly plastered over with clods of dirt
and grass, so identification could not be precise—but the original color of the
wreckage had been red. She saw that for sure. The Morgendorffers owned a red
Ford Explorer that Daria often drove. Jane recalled that Daria had hated that
car, claiming it was too big to handle properly.
Uh-oh.
Jane started to brake and pull over,
realized she had no room on either side of the road to do that, then realized
she could not stop in the line of traffic she was in. The best she could do was
to slow down enough to get a good look at the wreck as she went by. Wordless,
she came up to the flatbed and looked directly at it for one second.
The front of the SUV was gone. The driver’s
door and seat were also missing. It looked just like the Morgendorffer’s SUV on
the inside.
Robbed of coherent thought, Jane looked back
at the line of traffic ahead and followed the red tail lights like a robot. She
did not know if she breathed. Her face worked and her eyes starting to water,
but she kept driving and forced herself to remember: Daria called me on the phone right after the accident. Daria is still
alive.
But the phone call had been almost an
hour ago. Where was Daria now? Was she still alive, or was she . . . ?
Jane passed the last car parked at the
accident scene. She was on the verge of pulling over and walking back to look
at the wreck when a blue highway sign came out of the darkness on the right,
announcing that a rest area was one mile ahead. That’s where Daria said to meet her! She accelerated, searching for
the exit. How did Daria get there? Did
someone drive her over after the wreck? Did she walk? The latter idea
hardly seemed possible, given the condition of the Explorer.
More trouble appeared. The police had
blocked off the exit ramp to the rest area, so no one could leave the freeway.
A dozen police cars and emergency vehicles were parked around the rest area
shelter, and perhaps two dozen uniformed figures were in view. The grounds were
being spotlighted by a helicopter that Jane heard thumping faintly above. What the hell is going on here? How am I
going to get Daria? Did they find her already? Is she already on the way to a
hospital? Is she alive?
She had to know. Jane hit the right-turn
blinker and carefully pulled off the road, easing as far off the shoulder into
the wet grass as she dared go. She kept the left tires on the asphalt for
traction. The landscape was relatively flat here, with a dark forest only a
stone’s throw beyond the drainage ditch to her right. She turned in her seat
and looked back. It was a quarter-mile walk to the rest area, more or less. At
least the rain had quit. A crescent moon looked down through a hole in an
overcast sky.
She turned to the front again and looked
in her outside left mirror to check for approaching cars. None were visible.
She pulled the keys from the ignition, put her other hand on the door handle,
and—
The impact on the right side of the
Plymouth rocked it violently to the left. Jane’s head smacked the side window.
She felt the burst of pain and cried out at the same moment she heard an
explosive ripping of metal from the other side of the car. Looking back, half
blind with pain, she saw the right rear door of the Satellite come completely
off the car. Window glass sprayed everywhere. The left tires shrieked as they
were jerked sideways on the blacktop, the car rocking to the right.
A giant shape filled the rear doorway of
the Satellite and jumped into the back seat and put its face next to Jane’s in
a half a second. The rear door was in its right hand.
“Get
us out of here!” the creature roared, louder than an indoor AC/DC concert with
the amplifier volume turned to 11.
Jane stared at the creature, her mouth
open and eyes showing white around her blue irises.
“Move
it! Hurry!”
The monster’s face was framed by a thick
mane of long dark hair with leaves, mud, and twigs entangled in the locks.
“Damn
it, Jane, let’s go!”
The monster’s face was a woman’s—not
unattractive, but large, a bit dirty . . . and green as could be.
“JANE!”
The monster’s face was also Daria’s. Jane
thought she would go mad. There was no mistaking it. No glasses, but it was
still—
Enraged, the creature shoved on the front
passenger seat, crushing the seat’s back flat against the vehicle cushion
without effort. It rested the upper half of its body on the makeshift pillow, then
pointed with one long finger at the ignition.
And waited.
Glaring.
Jane slowly got the idea. She felt as if she
were moving in a drugged nightmare. Her fingers fumbled with the keys as she
inserted one—wrong one, next one—no, next one—it fit, but now she didn’t know which
way she was supposed to turn it. That direction didn’t work, the other
direction—
The engine started. Jane tried to
remember the steps involved in driving a car. She had completely forgotten how.
Was the brake involved?
“Is there is problem?” said the giant
green woman lying two feet away from her. The giant’s voice vibrated the bones
in Jane’s chest all the way back to her spine.
“Problem?” echoed Jane, her mind blank.
With a visible struggle to control its
temper, the creature leaned over and put its face close to Jane’s. “Drive to
your house, Jane,” it said. “Please.” It hesitated before adding, “Help me.”
Help
me?
Daria
needs help.
Jane looked away, put the car in drive,
checked the rear-view mirrors, and pulled back on the Interstate into the
traffic, accelerating hard. Cool wind roared in through the hole where the side
door used to be. The creature pushed itself up on an elbow, looking out the rear
window. “Hurry,” it said. “They’ve got a helicopter.”
Jane licked her dry lips. “Wha . . . what
happened?”
“What happened?” The monster’s voice rose
until it was short of deafening. “What happened?
How the hell do I know what happened? I don’t know what happened! Just get me
to your house as fast as you can!”
“Uh . . . right. Okay. We’re going.”
The monster subsided. It looked out the
back window again, then ducked its head to avoid being seen by people in other
cars. It looked down at itself and began picking debris from its skin. Jane
could not keep from looking at it, either. Lying next to her was a huge green
woman wearing a stretched-out amber T-shirt that magnificently advertised that
the giant was built like a brick outhouse. The giant’s only other item of
clothing was a pair of white cotton panties that were starting to rip along one
seam.
Daria usually wore an amber T-shirt under
a green jacket. And her sole choice of underwear, Jane knew from sharing her
phys-ed class, was boring old white cotton. Jane also that Daria had the
weakest musculature of any girl in the senior class, and at five-foot-two was
one of the smallest girls in their grade.
The green giant, however, was close to
seven feet tall. She had biceps larger around than a skater’s thighs. Her
smooth legs were impossibly long and perfectly muscled and capable of winning
every athletic medal in existence for power lifting.
And the giant had Daria’s face.
I
have She-Hulk in the car with me, Jane thought. I have the real, honest-to-God Marvel Comics She-Hulk right here in
Trent’s car, with me, and it’s Daria. Of all possible people, it’s her.
She drove in silence for a minute, trying
to absorb this. She then casually let go of the steering wheel with her right
hand and felt to her side, reaching for the giant. Her fingers touched
something large and soft and round and warm and fabric-covered. This is real. Ohmigod, this is all really
happening. Her fingers began to explore further.
“What do you think you’re doing?” growled
the giant.
Jane glanced over—and jerked her hand away.
“Sorry!” she said, looking back at the road with a frozen expression. “Sorry. I
didn’t know that was . . . your . . . um . . . never mind.”
The giant’s glare softened. “Making sure
I was actually here?”
“Uh . . . yeah. I guess. Sorry.”
“Forget it. I can’t believe it, either.”
A beat. “Don’t do it again, though.”
“Right.”
A long pause took hold while Jane drove.
Outside, all was darkness.
“Thanks for picking me up, by the way,”
said Daria.
“Uh, sure.”
“Sorry about the door. I was kind of in a
hurry.”
“No problem.”
She-Hulk,
thought Jane. My wish came true. Ten
years after I made it, yeah, but it came true. I can’t believe it. I’m best
friends with She-Hulk.
And it’s
Daria.
Neither of them spoke the rest of the way
back to Jane’s place, except when Jane suggested that Daria put the door back
on so they wouldn’t attract attention in town. This was managed with Daria
lying down across the back seat to hold the door in place, and all was well. So
far.
IV
A lot of things bothered Daria in her
present state. What the hell happened to
me? Was it my fault? Does being huge and green mean I’m going to die soon? If I
don’t die soon, how am I going to explain this to everyone? What will Mom and
Dad do? Will they be angry with me because I left home and wrecked the car and
became a freak? Will they look at me in horror because I’m a monster who breaks
things just by touching them? Is there a special school for people like me?
Will Quinn scream and faint when she sees me? Probably. Guess there had to be a
positive side to this. And Tom—great, I totally forgot about Tom. I don’t even
know how to deal with not showing up at the Cove. Do I feign brain damage? Do I
tell him what happened and hope he’ll be understanding and not think I’m a
loon? And speaking of that, what the hell happened to me?
By the time they arrived at the Lane home
in Lawndale, however, a new irritant had been added to the list:
What
the hell is Jane so happy about? She’s even humming to herself. At least I
think that’s humming. She couldn’t carry a tune if it was stapled to her.
“We’re safe inside Casa Lane!” Jane said,
shutting off the engine. “Garage door’s shut. You can let go of that door now.”
Daria, lying flat across the back seat,
released the warped right rear door of the Plymouth Satellite. It fell with a
loud metallic clatter to the concrete floor of the Lane family garage. Great, I owe Trent a new car. Maybe he can
file insurance and claim this was hail damage.
Jane got out, shut her door, and walked
around to watch as the green giantess managed to extricate herself from the
back seat. When she stood up at last, the transformed Daria kept one hand on
her underwear, holding the ripped seam together in a last bid for modesty.
“A bit nippy in here, isn’t it?” said
Jane, smirking at Daria’s chest.
Daria quickly covered her breasts with
her other arm. “That death wish of yours is going to get you in trouble one
day,” she growled. The garage windows rattled as she spoke. She looked
nervously at the door leading into the house. “Is Trent home?”
“Let’s find out,” said Jane. She cupped
her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Hey,
Trent! Come out and see Daria’s Halloween costume!”
Daria yelped and crouched down, using the
car to shield her in case the door opened. “Jane,
damn you!” she shouted. Most of the garage windows cracked.
“Oh, keep your shirt on, if you can,”
said Jane with a grin. “We’re home free. Trent’s not coming back until next—”
The door to the house opened. A moment
later, Jane’s older brother Trent stuck his head out. “Did you call, Janey?” he
said. His eyes adjusted to the dim light in the garage, and a moment later he
spotted Daria—what could be seen of her from the nose up, hiding behind the car
trunk. “Daria?” he said in surprise.
Daria emitted a curious whine as she
stared back in shock.
“Isn’t this great?” Jane called,
recovering. “She’s dressed up as She-Hulk! Green skin and all! For Halloween!”
Comprehension dawned over Trent’s face. “That’s
cool, Daria,” he said. “You look just like her. Great costume.”
“Uh . . . thanks,” Daria said.
“Wasn’t Halloween a week ago, though?”
“Uh—”
“It took a long time to get the color
right,” said Jane. “It had to be perfect. The time didn’t matter.”
“Oh. Yeah, I can see that. Cool how you
made your voice so low, too. It’s kinda, like, sexy. I like it.”
Daria closed her eyes and thumped her
head softly against the side of the car.
“You okay, Daria?” Trent called in
concern.
“Uh . . . I’m . . . I’m hiding, Trent,”
she finally said. “I, uh, had a, uh, costume malfunction. You can’t look.”
“Her underwear ripped,” Jane clarified. “We
didn’t expect you back so soon. Is the concert over?”
“Nah. The concert was cancelled, ‘cause the
tavern in Swedesville burned down this afternoon.” Trent waved. “Stay cool,
Janey. You, too, Daria. You look great.” He went back into the house, leaving
the door open behind him.
Daria turned and gave Jane a look that
should have blasted her into atoms.
“Oh, get over it,” Jane said, walking to
the doorway. “Trent won’t notice anything unusual about you now. You could walk
around naked, and he’d think it was part of the costume. Let’s go up to my
room.”
Daria, however, would not budge until
Jane made Trent go into the basement. Then she hurried in—and discovered that even
a causal walk caused severe vibrations throughout the Lane home, complete with
the sound of cracking floorboards. She was reduced to a sort of
shuffle-and-tiptoe to avoid damaging anything else. After seeming ages, she was
in Jane’s bedroom-slash-art studio, with the door safely shut behind her.
“Why are you in here?” Jane asked, leaning
out of a closet to peer at her. “You need a shower. I’ll get some big clothes
together and throw them into the bathroom for you. There might be something in
the costume chest. You know where the bathroom is, so get started.”
“But
Trent’s in the house!” Daria whispered, loudly enough to be heard two rooms
away.
“He won’t come up.”
“Well, go make sure!”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Do I have to do
everything around here?”
Daria frowned and growled. The plaster
wall beside her cracked.
“Oh, all right, fine, be that way.” Jane
left the room by walking past Daria—who then felt a sound smack on one of her
muscular green buttocks. Daria whirled, but Jane was already racing down the
stairs three at a time, snickering all the while.
She’s
being awfully familiar for someone with a green monster in her house, Daria
thought with a parting glare. She was
never like this before. Maybe it’s one of those football player things, where
guys smack each other on the butt because—I don’t know why. Because they’re
guys, I guess.
Or maybe
it’s not. Hmmm, it had better be the former, because I don’t think I could
handle the latter. I have enough problems to juggle right now. I don’t think
Tom could handle weirdness like that, either, but he is a guy, after all. If he
says, “I want to watch,” even as a joke, I’ll knock the living crap out of him.
He’ll be crap-free for years.
She pushed aside her thoughts and walked
down the creaky, groaning hallway to the bathroom. The underwear and T-shirt
ripped to shreds when she tried to remove them intact. She threw them in a heap
by the sink and a few minutes later was scrubbing herself down in the shower
under a scalding spray, trying to get used to her new body. That she had
stupendous strength plus curves—major curves—was one thing, but her sensations
had changed, too.
That’s
weird. I can tell the water’s hot, but it doesn’t hurt. And I’ve got perfect
vision even though my glasses are gone, probably at the wreck busted into
pieces. Eww, I can’t believe the junk I had in my hair. My hair’s dark emerald
green, almost black. It’s really tough, too, almost as tough as my skin. And I
can’t believe my brown eyes turned green. I feel like some kind of damn
comic-book creature. Guess now I really will need to get a stretchy stretchy
outfit. Which superheroes were green? That DC Martian guy, whatever, and the Ninja
Turtles . . . they don’t count . . . and the Hulk . . . mmm, I don’t like that.
I’m a lot like the Hulk. Can’t remember anything about him, except he was
strong and dumb, so I’m halfway there already. Can’t even remember which bad
guys were green. Am I radioactive? God, listen to me.
I’m going
to have to call Mom and Dad after I get out of the shower. They’re probably
wondering where I’ve run off to. I felt half dumb before, in the car, but now I
feel really stupid. The Explorer is junk, and I look like a human Chia Pet. I
wonder if this is a disease. I never heard of a virus that would make you green
and strong, just pale and sick. This would be a lot of fun if it didn’t suck so
much because it’s really happening. I should just go home and try to explain
this to Mom and Dad—which of course I can’t. I can’t even explain it to me. Or
Tom. Or Jane. Damn it.
And all
this started because Mom and Dad wouldn’t tell me why they were arguing that
night back in Highland when Dad got mad and left the house, and I hid in that
cardboard box all night.
I hate
this. I wish I was normal again. I want to be the Daria who was around
yesterday at this time. I want to . . . oh, my God.
Daria’s arms were changing color. Her
broad feet squeaked on the shower-stall floor as they were pulled closed
together. She felt the shower get REALLY HOT—
She hastily shut off the water and stood
dripping in the steam-filled stall. She looked down at her arms, then at the
rest of her out-of-focus body. Wow, my
eyes are back to normal! I had perfect vision when I was green, but now . . .
Seconds later she was out of the shower,
peering closely into the mirror over the sink with astonishment and delight.
She was normal again. She was Daria. Hallelujah!
She ran out of the bathroom without even
putting on a towel. “Jane! Hey, Jane!
Look at—”
And she ran slam into Trent in the
hallway.
V
“Daria, please come out of the bathroom. Please?
Oh, come on. Trent’s sorry for thinking you hadn’t started your shower yet
because he had cordless headphones on and couldn’t hear anything. I’ve screamed
at him and punched him in the arm five times and I know he’s sorry. We can’t undo
the past. Daria, please come out! At least put your arm out and get the clothes
I piled up outside your door. I found some stuff I think you can wear. Come on,
Daria, this isn’t a joke! I’m really sorry about this! I swear I didn’t set
this up! I gave up teasing you about Trent a year ago! Daria, get over it and
move on. So you were naked, so what? You think Trent hasn’t seen naked girls
before? Well, not you, but . . . okay, forget all that. This has gone on long
enough, Daria. Come out of there or else. Okay, you brought this on yourself. If
you don’t come out, I’m going to sing. I swear I will. I’ll sing the school
song at the top of my lungs until you come out. You have ten seconds. Wait a
minute, the phone’s ringing.” Footsteps raced away from the bathroom door
toward Jane’s room down the hall. “I’ve got it, Trent!”
Daria sat on the toilet with the lid down
and stared at the tiled floor, her body and hair swaddled in large bath towels.
It wasn’t possible to be more humiliated than she was now. She no longer had a
burning crush on Jane’s twenty-something brother, but to have actually collided
with him while she was stark naked, and then to have stood there in dumb shock
before she realized what she’d done, while he looked her over goggle-eyed in
astonishment . . . that was too much. She sighed and shook her towel-wrapped
head. Oh death, where is thy sting?
Footsteps came swiftly back up the hall. “Daria!
Daria, your mom’s on the phone! Come out!” Loud hammering sounded on the door. “Hurry!
Your mom’s on the phone and she wants to talk to you! I told her you didn’t
remember the wreck! Daria!”
Get
it over with. Daria got up, unlocked the door, opened it, took the phone
from Jane, then shut the door and locked it again. It was time to complete the
disaster. Steeling herself for the barrage of questions, the blistering lectures,
and the quasi-medieval punishments to come, she raised the phone and took a
breath. “Mom?” she said.
“Oh, God!” screamed her mother. “My baby!
Are you all right? We were worried sick over you! Your father and sister are
out with the searchers, hunting for you in the woods by the wreck! Sweetie, are
you hurt? I’m sending the police over right now to get you, and I’m coming with
them! Are you okay? Are you bleeding? Talk to me, Daria! I can’t believe it! Thank
you, God, thank you! The police called and we went to the accident and I can’t
tell you what went through my head! Amy’s on her way here, and Rita’s coming,
and . . . and . . . and I love you and I’m so grateful you’re alive!”
With that, Helen Morgendorffer—a type-A
workaholic corporate lawyer with the emotional armor plating of the U.S.S. Iowa—burst into tears.
Little was communicated over the next ten
minutes except her mother’s relief that her eldest daughter was alive and well.
Daria had the presence of mind to get dressed in the castoffs outside her door,
which was good because within ten minutes the police did arrive, in six cars, as
did an ambulance, several news vans, and a horde of curiosity seekers who
parked up and down the street for hours and wandered into everyone’s yard.
Two things made the flow of events less
stressful for Daria than they might otherwise have been. One, Daria said she had
no memory of what had happened to her after the Explorer went off the road. She
claimed to remember nothing until she was brought to Jane’s house and had a
shower. She stuck to this story like glue, fearing that the truth would prove
detrimental to what little hope she had left for a semi-normal life.
Two, as the cops and news media swarmed
in, Jane grabbed her brother Trent with one hand, pulled off his headphones
with the other hand, and shouted, “Don’t say anything about her costume or
anything else, not a thing to anyone! Just say nothing, period! Got it?”
“I wasn’t going to—” he began in a
wounded tone.
“Nothing!”
screamed Jane, before she raced off to let the police into the house.
Trent shook his head, put his headphones
back on, and went down into the basement for the rest of the night, safe from
his sister’s painful arm punches. There, he spent his time wondering: How did Daria get out of that costume so
fast? Did she leave it in Jane’s room? Could
I get Monique to wear it? That would be cool. A little Wesson oil, a little
wrestling . . . very cool. She might like it. I’ll ask next time I see her.
Meanwhile, once the police, EMTs, and her
mother arrived, Daria thought she had been picked up by a whirlwind and carried
off like Dorothy to Oz. She was transported to Cedars of Lawndale Hospital by
ambulance, her mother and Jane at her side. As she was being hauled through the
entrance to the ER she heard the shouting of news reporters. What the hell’s going on? she thought. Why are they asking me about Bigfoot?
There was no time for an answer, as her borrowed
clothing was cut away and she was examined with shocking thoroughness inside
and out. She was proclaimed to be in good shape considering the circumstances, except
for a bump on her forehead where she apparently hit the steering wheel on
impact despite the airbag. An IV was put into her arm, eight sensors on long
wires were taped to her chest, lights were flashed in her eyes, and numerous
scans, x-rays, and tests were scheduled.
Then her white-faced father and younger sister
appeared and bawled like babies the second they saw her. It was one thing to
have her well-meaning but neurotic father wig out and get totally weepy. She
was used to that. However, to have red-haired Quinn grip her hand and profess undying
sisterly love instead of the usual litany of annoyance or disgust was enough to
make Daria cry, too, which pissed her off a little as she didn’t think she had
any reason to cry to begin with. But that was the way it went.
At five a.m., a weary, overstressed Daria
was allowed to go to sleep in the ICU on an uncomfortable bed with all the
lights on. Twenty minutes later, she was awakened and transported on a gurney
bed across the hospital for her first MRI scan, then across the hospital again for
an x-ray, then back to the ICU where someone flashed more lights in her eyes, a
tube was inserted in a vein in her wrist to draw blood samples, and she was
made to use a bedpan. Twice.
“Better enjoy hanging around in bed all
day, because things are going to get a little weird when you get out of the
hospital,” Jane warned Daria at seven a.m.
Daria’s reply cannot be reprinted, but
Jane smiled and patted her best friend’s arm in sympathy and understanding. “That’s
my Daria,” she said. “Just be aware that—” she lowered her voice to a whisper “—some
people saw a giant shaggy alien monster in the woods near the car wreck, and
everyone thinks the monster kidnapped you but you escaped and called me for
help and I rescued you, but the monster tore the door off Trent’s car, which
the police found but I’m not talking about, and I drove you home so you couldn’t
be taken into space aboard Bigfoot’s UFO, and you have traumatic amnesia but
hypnosis might make you remember the kidnapping and how the aliens plan to take
over the Earth. Keep up the amnesia thing for now until we can get a guest
interview on Oprah, then let it all
out on national TV.” Jane leaned closer. “And there might be a movie deal in
this, too. I’m going to play myself. You should get Jennifer Love Hewitt to—oh!
Daria, don’t! Nurse! Nurse! She took
out her IV! Daria, stop it! NURSE!”
The nurses and doctors reinserted the IV,
reattached the eight chest sensors, and injected something into the IV tube that
made Daria very sleepy and less violent. Jane was glad of this, as Daria’s eyes
had begun to glow green just before the tranquilizer really hit home. Maybe the jokes about Oprah and the movie
were a little much, Jane reflected in shame. I only wanted to cheer her up. Jane held Daria’s hand and felt even
sorrier that later she would have to tell Daria that everything else she had
mentioned was true. The media frenzy over Daria’s alleged kidnapping by giant
green aliens and her subsequent escape and rescue, documented in part by dozens
of witnesses including police and rescue personnel, threatened to eclipse even the
legend of Bill and Monica and the blue dress. Daria was in danger of becoming a
media icon.
For her part, Daria felt a lot better
under the tranquilizer’s effects. Maybe
Jane’s right, she thought, floating on air, Jennifer Love Hewitt would make a much better Daria than I would. She
could go to school for me. I can’t imagine her with my glasses, but the
special-effects department could fix that. Virtual eyewear, reality lenses. My
adventures through the looking glasses. I’ll need a white rabbit to go with
the—
White
rabbit? someone asked, a teenage guy coming in the ICU room. That’s like stream-of-consciousness humor,
tangential thought, right? That’s funny. Wrong book, but still funny.
She turned her head slightly to see him
better. He was boyish, naïve, and had an honest, open smile. And those glasses and
that swept-back blond hair . . .
Ted?
she thought.
Hey,
said Ted DeWitt-Clinton, still smiling. His mouth did not move as he spoke. You’re Daria, right? That’s humor, too.
Feigned ignorance. I like your joke better.
Ted,
what are you doing here?
I
came to see you, of course. The photo editor for the high-school yearbook,
and Daria’s long-ago first love interest, wandered over to stand beside Daria’s bed opposite Jane. Jane did not
look up or even appear to notice him. The two nurses in the room didn’t notice
him, either.
Daria
looked at Jane, who held Daria’s hand with a devastated expression, then turned
to Ted again. Is this some kind of dream?
Not really, said Ted. I came to say I was sorry to hear about the
accident. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. I can’t be everywhere at
once.
What had to happen?
Trigger event, said Ted. He peered at
Jane, who was the picture of silent misery, then reached across the bed and
touched Jane on the forehead with a thumb. Her eyes closed. After a moment, Ted
withdrew his hand. Jane’s eyes opened and she smiled down at Daria, her face
clear. That’s better, he said. I don’t like suffering. I read Lewis’s
The Problem of Pain and Rabbi Kushner’s
work, but I still don’t like it on a personal level. Admiring it in Goya’s art or
when you read Dostoevsky is one thing, seeing it before you is another. What do
you think?
What do I think? Daria blinked. I think I’m having
a dream, because we’re not really talking. We’re thinking to each other. That
happens only in dreams.
Ted
shrugged. I won’t push it. Anyway, I’m
glad you’re well. The bruise on your head will go away soon. That’s what
triggered your transformation. You haven’t been hurt like that since you went
through puberty. Falling off the horse at Camp Grizzly when you were twelve didn’t
trigger it because you . . . well, you were a late bloomer. Kind of a hormone
thing. You are different, you know. It couldn’t be hidden forever.
Different? Different how? Daria
struggled to stay awake—and realized she wasn’t asleep at all. She felt a touch
of fear. I’m not really dreaming, am I,
Ted?
We’ll talk later, said Ted. Just rest and stay calm. Hospitals are
annoying, but what can you do? You’ll be out soon.
Ted? With a supreme effort of will,
Daria held on a few moments longer. Ted,
if I’m really different, hasn’t anyone noticed that before now? I’m in a
hospital, so—
Ted
grinned. How can you notice anything
unusual if you think that what you see is normal? he said. I took care of it. Nothing big, just a minor
reaction adjustment on the staff. I did it before, when you were hospitalized
because of that rash. I’ve been watching out for you and the others since we
got here. Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll talk later.
Ted? Ted,
keep me awake! Damn it, I ought to kick your ass! Ted!
Her vision blurred. Just as everything
got dark, she felt Ted take her hand and squeeze it gently, then touch her
forehead with his other hand.
Just
like your mother, he said.
And the world went out like a candle
flame.
VI
A little after nine that morning, Tom
Sloane arrived at the hospital. Jane spotted Daria’s boyfriend in the waiting
room, talking with Daria’s parents and Quinn, on her way out of Daria’s room in
the ICU.
“I’m going home,” she said from the
doorway. She rubbed a spot on her forehead that itched. “She’s asleep for now,
but she should be up at ten when they get her next set of x-rays.”
“Jane,” said Tom. His face betrayed his
shock. “Thank you so much for helping her. I’ve heard the craziest things on
the news—”
“Don’t worry about it. Stupid reporters.
She doesn’t remember anything that happened, and nothing much happened anyway.
More or less.”
“Okay. I just . . .” Tom had trouble
getting out his next words. “I owe you everything for finding her, Jane. Daria
does, I know, but I do, too.” He swallowed. “Thank you.”
You
almost look like you’re sorry you cheated on me to get her. Oh, what the hell,
who cares anymore. She managed a smirk. “We’ll talk price later. Just take
care of her and keep her calm. I need to go take a shower.”
“You’re out of school today? It’s Friday.”
“Oh, huh. Hadn’t thought about it, guess
I am. I’ll worry about it at graduation. By the way, how was the wedding?”
“It’s tomorrow,” said Tom. “My family let
me out of it so I could come back and see Daria. I’ve been on the road since
four-thirty this morning.”
“At least your priorities are straight. I’d
better go before my underarms asphyxiate everyone. See you later.” She waved
and headed for the elevators. The spot on her forehead still itched. Bug bite, probably, she thought. Kinda late in the year for that, though.
Two men in business suits stopped her
before she got there. “Miss Lane?” said the suit in charge. “Do you have a few
minutes?” He pulled out a badge wallet and flipped it open. “I’m Detective Richard
Casey with the Lawndale Police Department, and this is Lieutenant Pete
McConnell. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I could.”
Jane looked at the badge and her heart
sank. Oh, hell. How am I going to get
through this? “Can I get a shower at home first?” she asked.
“We’ll drive you home after we’ve had a
chance to talk,” said the detective, putting the wallet away. “We just need to
know what happened last night, that’s all.”
No,
you don’t need to know. “I’ve
already been quizzed about this by one of Lawndale’s finest. That was about
three a.m.”
“Yeah, I read the officer’s report. That’s
why I decided to talk to you myself. Sounds like a great story, and I’d like to
hear it first-hand. I’m old-fashioned like that.”
Something’s
wrong, I can tell. Well . . . what the hell. I’m an adult. “Sure, okay. No
torture, though.”
“No torture, agreed. We have a car
downstairs. Lieutenant McConnell will come with us. Are your parents in town?”
I’m
so glad I’m eighteen now and can’t be picked up by Child Welfare. “Uh, no.
Just my brother Trent.”
“Trent, right. We’ve already talked with
him. He’s been helpful.”
Crap.
What the hell does that mean? “That’s nice. Why do you need me, then?”
The detective grinned. “Because you’re
the heroine of the hour,” he said with an expansive gesture. “You saved your
friend. Everyone should want to talk to you, right?” He waved Jane into the
elevator before he and the officer got on after her, then he punched the button
for the basement.
“Will this take long?” asked Jane, feeling
nervous. I wonder if Daria’s mom will
take me as a client if things go badly.
“I don’t think so, hour or two at most. And
don’t worry about the chaos downstairs. I know a way to get around the crowd in
the lobby.”
“Crowd? What crowd?”
The detective gave her a twisted smile. “The
people who want to know how you managed to rescue Daria from the great green
Wookies from the planet Mars. Hey, I’d like to know, too.”
* * *
All was silent in the ICU room save for
the hum of the fluorescent lights, beeps from the biomedical monitor, and the faint
rush of air as Daria Morgendorffer breathed.
The spot itched where Ted DeWitt-Clinton had
touched her on the forehead. Waves rolled out through her mind like ripples
spreading on a lake. The ripples stirred things below the surface of the lake
and broke the webs holding them to the bottom. One of those things floated to
the surface, into a light it had not seen in many a year.
Just
like your mother.
Daria’s eyes began to move beneath her
eyelids.
Waking
up in the dark, I’m in a big dark bedroom in the mansion, the place everyone
calls the mansion; the door opens, light comes in, someone shouts. We have to leave,
the older boy cries, the blond round-faced boy who knows so much, the boy whose
name is like a president’s. I’m in my p-jays, the ones with the feet. Hurry,
help me get the others, says the boy, hurry. I run into the bright hallway,
shout into the other rooms around the floor. The other kids come out frightened
and crying. I don’t cry; I am brave and proud of it. Gather around me, shouts
the older boy, there’s no time. Is my mom back yet, I ask him. Your mom is still
fighting, he says, but some of the others were killed, the professor said doom
is coming, we have to leave before he gets here. Where
are we going, I shout. Somewhere safe, says the blond boy, just us, I can’t
take anyone else except my mom. My dad, take my dad and mom, I yell, but I know
my dad is far away and my mom is much farther, and the blond boy is already concentrating,
focusing, preparing. The other kids scream and wail. I don’t cry. I remember my
mom and dad. They always want me to be brave. I will be brave. I will never let
them down. There is a pop, and suddenly the world, my world . . .
. . . is
different.
More things surfaced, long forgotten
until the ripples set them free.
Mom
has brown hair, a bob cut, she’s a lawyer and is gone a lot. She calls Dad
sweetie and sometimes Wyatt, and says careful with that, be careful, don’t
break that, Jessie. She means me.
But
my name is Daria, not—
Don’t
break that, Jessie, she says, put it back, go wrestle your father, I have so
much to do and I have to go, I love you. My dad lifts me high and laughs and calls
me his starlight and sings to me, you are my starlight, my bright star, Jessie
Double-Double, my bright and shining star, just like your mother.
No.
Jessie is not—my name is Daria, not—
Jessie,
that is my name—
No!
My name is
Jessie, but my new mommy, she calls me—
Daria jerked in her sleep. The biomedical
monitor beeped loudly. The EEG, EKG, respiration, oxygenation, and blood
pressure scores rose and their graphs changed, the waves narrowing and piling
up. An alarm went off in the ICU nurses’ station.
My
new mommy, we are in a new place and I have a new mommy. She has brown hair, a
bob cut, and she’s a lawyer and is gone a lot. Your father has issues, she
says, and she calls him Jake and she calls me Daria, but Daria is not my name.
My name is Jessie, it is Jessica, Jessica Walters-Wingfoot, Double-Double-U, but
the blond boy says don’t cry, Jessie, you have a family and I don’t, and he reaches
for my forehead—
Three nurses came into the room and began
assessing the situation. One left to get a tranquilizer. The other two checked
the monitor leads and shut off the noisy alarm. The EEG signal suddenly warped
in a strange way and the monitor alarm came on again. The other scores
continued increasing. One of the nurses slapped an alarm button on the wall and
shouted, “Code blue, room five thirteen!” The other nurse noted that Daria was
jerking in bed from increasingly violent muscle spasms. It looked like a
seizure.
Wrong,
wrong, wrong, this is all wrong, there is only one, no, two mommies, one for
Daria and one for Jessie—one mommy not two, no, there are two, but I am one—just
like my mother.
“Don’t give it IM, put it in her IV line!”
“Watch it, she’s pulling on the IV!”
“Grab her arms! Grab her—”
“Oh! Oh, Jesus!”
“No! Don’t—”
Just
like my mother, I’m just like her, and my mother is—
She opened her eyes. They were shining
green.
VII
Damn
it, what is wrong with my head? I have to pay attention to what he’s saying,
but I can’t—
“Miss Lane, are you all right?”
Jane shook her head and frowned at the
detective. The overhead lights hurt her eyes, though they were not particularly
bright. “Having trouble concentrating,” she said. “Just a headache. Go on with
what you were saying.”
“Want some Tylenol?” asked the lady cop
sitting in the office with them.
“Yeah, thanks. Lack of sleep’s probably
doing it. Not that I’m blaming you guys for keeping me awake even longer, of
course.”
“Generous of you,” said the detective,
though he wore a look of concern. He glanced at the lady officer as she fished
through a nearby desk drawer. “What I was saying,” he said, “is that most of
your story checks out, and Trent confirms it. We can place you at your parents’
house until the time of the phone call from the county line rest area, all that
checks out, and we can probably place Daria in the SUV from fingerprints and
DNA testing once we get the—”
“DNA tests? Why are you doing that? Do
you think we did something wrong?”
“Miss Lane, this is a very unusual
situation. Your friend miraculously survives a severe car accident, the car’s
totally destroyed yet she has only a bump on her noggin, and then she vanishes
from the scene and reappears near a rest area several miles away, hardly the
worst for the wear. You drive out to pick her up in a car that comes back showing
major damage to one side with a rear door torn off, and you have no explanation
for this. Neither does your brother, and it’s his car. The car’s interior is
damaged as well, with debris in the back seat and in your garage and even in
your upstairs shower from—”
“Hey! You were going through our house
last night?”
“Your brother Trent argued with us about
it at the door until we said we’d call your parents to get permission to search.
He said fine, go ahead, no one knew where his parents were, but it so happens
that your mother, Amanda, left a note stuck to your mailbox giving her phone
number at the Montreal Ceramic Arts Festival, and when we showed it to him, he
gave up and let us in. Here’s the note.”
Jane glanced at it and groaned. “Figures.
Mom doesn’t believe in private property. She’d let anyone in.”
“Sounds like a hippy commune thing.”
“Don’t get me started.”
“Then I’ll get started instead. That
search-and-rescue operation last night was expensive, Miss Lane. We had crews
from three law-enforcement offices and two fire departments, not to mention all
the civilians including Daria’s own father and sister, out hunting through the
woods around the accident scene, yet you
were the one who found Daria, with only a head bump, two miles away from the
wreck. On top of that, somehow all these rumors got started about green
monsters in the woods, which caused us even more problems, so you can see why
we’re so interested in—”
Jane shut her eyes and flinched. “Alfred,”
she gasped.
The detective stopped, puzzled. “Beg
pardon?”
“Um . . .” Jane shook her head, frowning
again. “Alfred,” she repeated. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”
The lady cop gave her two Tylenol capsules
and a cup of water. “This better not be a truth drug,” Jane muttered, taking
them. “That would be cheating.”
“It would also get our evidence thrown
out in court, so it’s not worth the trouble,” said the detective. “Who’s
Alfred?”
Jane swallowed the capsules and water,
then put the cup on the desk before her. “I just thought of the name, I don’t
know why. I don’t know anyone named that. I’m just tired and I stink and my
head hurts. Typical day. Go on.”
“We’ll cut to the chase, then. Was Daria
depressed about anything recently? Something happen to upset her, make her feel
bad?”
“What? Oh, no, she’s always like that. She’s
a realist.”
“You’re saying she’s a realist, so she
always looks depressed, is that it? Well, I’m a realist and I’m sometimes
depressed, so I guess I can buy that. Has she ever talked about hurting
herself? Ending it all?
“Not since I’ve known her. Well, she did
sit on a peanut-butter sandwich in front of my brother once, when she had a
crush on him, but if she didn’t kill herself then, she never will.”
“I see. Is she popular in school?”
“No. Neither am I, I guess, but there’s
no accounting for tastes. Most people don’t like having reality force-fed to
them.”
“Force fed?”
“Daria and I like giving color commentary
on the day.”
“Any reason for doing that?”
“It’s a hobby.”
“Ah. Does Daria have any enemies?”
“Enemies? Like anyone who’d want to hurt
her? No, jeez. I mean, we don’t have that many friendly acquaintances, I guess,
but no one really hates us. Except maybe our gym teacher. Hey, you know, maybe
you could investigate her, because she—”
“My son has Ms. Morris for gym and he
hates her, too. She doesn’t count. Do you and Daria like practical jokes?”
“Oh, no, no, we can be sarcastic, but . .
. wait, this wasn’t a joke or a hoax. We didn’t set this up. We’ve never—”
“You two ever try something elaborate,
like leaving big footprints around town to make it look like a monster was
here, drop torn clothing around, fake a kidnapping—”
“Whoa, wait, no! We’d never do that! Not
in this town, anyway. Everyone already knows us. That was a joke, by the way.
You know about jokes, right?”
“I’ve heard a few.” The detective flipped
open a folder on his desk. “We were talking with Ms. Angela Li, the principal
at your high school, and she said you and Daria have been in trouble there
before. There was an art contest two years ago, and a picture that you did was allegedly
defaced—”
“That—ow!” Jane winced and put a hand to
her forehead. Her voice became pressured. “Ms. Li was responsible for that screw-up,
not us! Go ask Daria’s mother. Ms. Li altered my poster without my permission,
and then she—crap, that hurts! What
the—”
It surfaced.
I’m
on a special bed inside a big machine. I look up at a bald man with a gray
mustache. I remember that I like him. He’s nice to me.
I say to
him, Alfred, I don’t want to go.
I’m sorry,
miss, he says, but it’s your only hope.
Are Mom
and Dad coming?
No, miss,
he says, lie still and close your eyes, it’s time.
Are they
dead, Mom and Dad?
Yes, he
says, and his voice quivers as he adds, I’m very sorry, it’s almost over.
Are we
going to die, Alfred?
Not you,
miss, not you, be brave, it’s time, goodbye and Godspeed.
Goodbye,
Alfred. I love you.
He waves
at me, crying, and says, goodbye, Selina. I love you, too.
“Miss Lane!”
Jane looked around, eyes blinking madly. Someone
was hammering on the office door. “What?” she said, feeling fevered. “What the
hell?”
“There’s been an explosion at Cedars of
Lawndale!” shouted a man at the open office door. “They’re calling for all available
personnel to get down there!”
“Daria!” Jane got to her feet, her mind
clear. Every shivering nerve in her body howled to life. “I’ve got to get—”
“No, wait here!” said the detective, on
his feet and coming around his desk. The lady cop reached for her.
Escape.
Jane reflexively caught the woman’s arm
with one hand and dragged her forward and off-balance, keeping her close and
pivoting in place, shoving her around in a half-circle with the other hand until
flinging the lady cop into the detective’s midsection. The two of them crashed
into the opposite wall and fell. Jane sidestepped the man charging her from the
doorway and tripped him, then ran through the doorway into the open office area
beyond. The front door was on the other side of the big room, and the entire
day shift of the City of Lawndale Police Department was in between, looking in
her direction.
A white-shirted man got up from his desk and
came at her. She rocked sideways and kicked him in the stomach, knocking him back,
then kneed another officer in the crotch when he grabbed at her. She pushed him
into two more men, then dodged to the left and tripped a fourth man. Shouts and
cries rang through the room. An officer pulled a gun and aimed at her a yard
away; she grabbed the gun, bent it backwards in his hand and made it fire into the
ceiling, then kicked the man hard in the groin and dropped him like a sandbag.
She threw another man with his own momentum, jumped on a chair and then on a
desk, ran and leaped to another desk then jumped to a third but landed on a
stack of papers that slid from under her. She crashed into a female officer and
knocked her down, rolled and got up, threw a stapler and a calendar and a wire
basket full of papers, kicked a big cop to her right and took his nightstick
and whacked his knee to drop him, kicked a female cop in the jaw, then hit the glass
door out and knocked down a gray-haired officer coming in with a cup of coffee.
She was in daylight and running down the street faster than she ever remembered
moving in her life, curses ringing behind her.
What
the hell happened? How did I do that? What’s going on here? What—oh, forget it,
I can’t stop, I gotta get to Daria as fast as possible. Over there—
A man tried to start his motorcycle by
the side of the street ahead. Two seconds later the man rolled across the
sidewalk, arms flailing, and she was on the cycle kicking down. The engine
roared and she pulled into traffic, missing a delivery van and two cars, then gunned
the engine as she flew through a stoplight, turned left across two lanes of
honking, squealing traffic, and headed down a side street for the hospital.
He
called me Selina. Why would Alfred, whoever he is, call me that? Who the hell
was he? Did I really wish ten years ago that all this would happen?
She shook it off. Everything could wait but
Daria.
VIII
Jane flew block after block until she was
heading northbound for the hospital on Gorman Parkway, weaving around cars and
zooming through intersections with only glances left and right. Then she passed
a black LPD Chevy Caprice going in the other direction, red-and-blues flashing
and siren howling. Tires screeched and horns blared behind her, then came the
siren’s renewed howl and more screaming tires as the police car came after her.
She didn’t look back. She leaned into the wind, flying up the yellow line
between opposing lanes of traffic, her mind moving as fast as her cycle.
This’ll
be tough to explain when Trent visits me in prison, she thought, ducking to
avoid the side mirror on a bus in the oncoming left lane. I can hardly explain it even to me. It’s like living in a Jackie Chan
film, like I can do every stunt, every trick, every kick and jump and strike I
ever saw in any action movie. It’s all reflex; I sense what to do and I do it,
but I’m wearing out fast. I can’t keep it up for long. I’ll be lucky if I can
move an inch when I wake up tomorrow, assuming I’m alive tomor—OH!!!
At a red light two seconds ahead was a
tractor-tanker coming through from the right. She would hit the tanker dead
center. With no time to stop, she flipped the handlebars and laid the bike flat
on its left side against the pavement, swinging her left leg out of the way so
she lay horizontal across the cycle like a street luge. Jane and the skidding
bike missed by inches a red pickup truck coming from the left, then went under
the tanker ahead of the rear wheels and came up on the other side in the clear
northbound lanes. She stood up on the right cycle pedal, jerked the bike
upright by leaning over while holding the right handle grip, then vaulted back
into the seat and roared away.
OW!
Damn it, my crotch! I’ll never walk
normally again! I’m going to puke! That didn’t work like on Mission:
Impossible! Don’t puke, come on, stay
with it, keep going. Daria needs me, and if I stop for a moment I’ll curl up in
a ball. I’ve got to find—
The asphalt under the cycle jumped
faintly—and jumped again, vibrating her hands on the handgrips and her butt
through the seat. Again, louder and stronger, every half second and growing
harder. She suppressed her nausea. What’s
that? Grenades? Bombs? Earthquake? Or—?
Rapid ground shocks jarred her bones even
through tires and shock absorbers. Ahead was the big intersection with Sherman
Avenue, Cedars of Lawndale half a mile beyond on the left. Far ahead, red and
blue lights flashed in the oncoming lanes of Gorman—and ahead of the flashing
lights was—
Oh,
no!
A tall green figure clad in tattered
clothing ran full throttle toward Jane from the hospital, ahead of the police
cars. Dark hair flying, the green giantess bounded between the southbound lanes
of slower-moving traffic. LPD cars rocketed down sidewalks and fishtailed into
open northbound lanes in mad pursuit. Pedestrians dived for cover.
Jane braked and came to a tire-shrieking
stop turned completely around in the middle of the Gorman-Sherman intersection,
where traffic had halted at the wail of police sirens. She revved the engine
and waved her arms to get Daria’s attention, then gave the cycle the gas and
went south on Gorman back the way she came, thinking Daria would follow—
—and saw the LPD Caprice that had followed
her suddenly cut out of the northbound lane and turn sideways into the two clear
southbound lanes of Gorman, to prevent her escape. The officer scrambled out of
the car and ran to one side, pulling out his sidearm, looking right at her—and
at something behind her.
The ground jumped. Something huge and
green blew past Jane and went for the squad car. It was Daria. She extended her
arms, palms out like bulldozer blades, and hit the black Caprice between the front
and rear doors on the right side. Safety glass from burst windows blew out in a
sparkling cloud. Daria raised the vehicle high in her hands as she ran, the
Caprice folded over where she had hit it, its white airbags boomed out and
theft alarm wailing. Then she turned to her right and slammed the vehicle down to
the pavement. The police car exploded with a deafening thunderclap, consumed by
an orange gasoline fireball that briefly launched the car back into the air. A
black mushroom cloud rose from the flaming wreckage into the morning sky.
Pedestrians fled in earnest, panicked drivers abandoned their cars, and everyone
screamed. The air reeked of flaming petrol.
Jane roared past the wreckage of the LPD
car, hot on Daria’s trail. She didn’t try to process the unreality of what had
happened. She kept the big green girl in view and hoped that the two of them
would miraculously live to see another day. Head
out of town, Daria! Get us out of here so we don’t kill anyone and they don’t
kill us! This is totally out of control!
Something stung Jane’s right arm. The air
cracked around her. Ouch. Gunshot. Her
upper arm hurt, but her fingers still worked. Good enough. She ignored the
injury, as there was too much else to do. Blocks ahead of her, Daria slowed and
veered right on Nicholl Street. Good
going! Jane thought. You’re heading
for the Interstate! Keep it up!
Daria bypassed the first exit to get onto
the Interstate, ran under the overpass, then to Jane’s astonishment skipped the
second exit, too, dodging around morning traffic that came to a squealing halt
once she came into view. Jane swerved around stopped vehicles and half-open car
doors, speeding down the shoulder dangerously close to the gravel and grass.
Police sirens screamed behind her. Daria,
what the hell are you doing? We have to get out of Dodge, girl! You’re heading
for the . . . oh! Oh! I get it!
The road turned into a four-lane
straightaway with few intersections and less traffic than in town, heading
northwest away from Lawndale. A road sign on the right reminded drivers that
the Sedimentary Rock Country Club and Lawndale County’s Great Forest Park were
only a few miles ahead. Jane grinned. The
forest! There are caves there! We could hide for a little while and rest if we
could only ditch our fan club!
Jane’s hopes were interrupted when she
heard a car pulling up from behind. She glanced in her rear-view mirror.
Tailgating her was a low-slung, bright yellow sports car, a convertible with a
Mitsubishi emblem on the hood. The lady driver, a stunning brunette in a
business suit, held a portable camcorder with the viewfinder over one eye while
she drove—expertly—using the other eye. The camcorder, of course, was aimed
right at Jane’s posterior, not ten feet away.
Paparazzi,
of course. Bet she’ll sell this for a pretty penny to the networks—or she would
have if she hadn’t pissed me off. Jane swerved to the left and braked. As
she went past the Mitsubishi with three inches between them, she reached over,
snatched the camcorder from the driver’s hand, and flung it to the left, where
it bounced off the road twice and crashed through the windshield of a sedan in
a used-car lot. Jane then blew a kiss to the driver and gunned the bike’s
engine, roaring ahead before the other woman could react. Checking her mirror,
Jane saw the sports car drop back as the driver mouthed a curse and gestured
vigorously with an upraised middle finger. Police cars were jockeying to pass
the interloper, so Jane turned her attention back to her escape.
And discovered a little problem.
A mile ahead past a long line of car
dealerships on the left was the open bridge over the Rolling Falls River. Once
over the bridge, it was clear driving to the thickly wooded park and a much
needed chance to rest.
Getting over the bridge was the little
problem. Three law enforcement vehicles had blocked off the far end, emergency
lights flashing. The men were aiming rifles in her direction. Oh, crap. County sheriff, maybe a state
trooper, too . . . end of the road, kid. It was a good run. Unless—oh, why the
hell not. Blaze of glory if it fails, but if it works—
Jane gave the cycle all the gas she could
and aimed to pass Daria, who was running at about seventy miles an hour. As
Jane flew by her friend, she looked up. Daria looked down at her at the same
moment.
Freakin’
friends forever.
Jane pulled ahead and roared onto the
bridge. She glanced over her shoulder at Daria, then pulled up next to the
right barrier at ninety miles an hour. A moment later she pulled both legs up
and crouched on her seat—trying to ignore her bruised crotch—then leapt to the
right. The cycle fell over, bounced, and tore itself to pieces as it went end
over end across the bridge to crash into the opposite barrier and explode.
Jane sailed over the barrier and down
toward the Rolling Falls River in a perfect Olympic high-diving pose. The water
came up very fast. She shut her eyes, head down, arms up, and clenched her
teeth.
Behind her, Daria gasped when Jane went
over the edge. Then her face creased with angry determination. The big green girl
gave a little jump, then a big jump that shattered the pavement ten feet around
the spot where she took off. She sailed to the top of an arc sixty feet high,
then came down in a cannonball into the river far below.
Five minutes later, the Rolling Falls
Bridge was crowded with police cars of every sort. Over two dozen officers
looked into the river on both sides of the span, searching for survivors. None
were visible.
On the south end of the bridge, well away
from trouble, a striking brunette watched the scene through binoculars. She
stood beside a bright yellow Mitsubishi Eclipse Spyder parked on the side of
the road. The loss of her camcorder was trivial, as everything it had seen had
been transmitted to the car’s computer memory. When she lowered the binoculars,
her expression was thoughtful.
She walked back to her car, got in, and
raised her right hand to her face so that the gold ring with the
mother-of-pearl setting was by her mouth. The mother-of-pearl had a curious
inlay worked in onyx: a black octopus with two unfriendly eyes.
“Executive One,” she said in a
no-nonsense tone. Her throat tightened.
“One moment,” said the mother-of-pearl
setting with a feminine voice. The brunette waited, forcing herself to breathe
slowly through her nose. She had never called for her superior so directly.
“You rang?” said a cultured male voice
with a European accent.
“A very curious thing has happened,” said
the brunette. “I have a video file to send you, but I can make a verbal report
now.”
“Is this in connection with amusing
reports of green alien monsters in your vicinity?” said the voice. One could
almost see a corner of the speaker’s mouth pull back in a scornful twist.
“Yes, it is.” She swallowed and plunged
on. “The monsters are real. One of them is, anyway, and it has a notable
helper.”
There was a momentary pause. “Ah,” said
the voice, taken aback. “I am not the kind who values practical jokes, Linda, but
I will humor you this once. Make your report, then send the video.”
The brunette nodded, her face ashen, and
began to describe what she had seen. She did her best to give every detail
without editorializing. If Executive One was intrigued with her discovery, she
would earn a bonus and an incentive check to go with her bi-weekly salary, and
maybe some extra vacation time.
And, most importantly, her boss would not
have her killed.
IX
She floated alone in a great dark space,
and as she floated, she dreamed.
Alfred,
where are Mom and Dad?
No doubt
working, miss, as always.
Why don’t
they want to be with me?
They do
want to be with you, miss, but your parents . . . it is hard to explain.
Do they
love me?
They love
you with all their hearts, I know they do, but they are working to make the
world a better place, and I’m afraid it doesn’t leave them time to be home for
long.
Are they
working today?
I believe
so, miss, though I cannot say where.
Are they
on Earth?
Somewhere,
yes.
You know
what Mom called me?
No, miss.
She said I
was her little secret.
And so you
are, miss, and a wonderful secret at that.
Why am I a
secret, Alfred?
The
gray-haired mustachioed gentleman in the butler’s uniform sighed and rubbed his
rheumy eyes. The world, he said, is a dangerous place. There are many people
who do not like it that your mother and father want to make the world better
for us all. Those people would rather the world were a worse place than it is;
they would rather see the world broken, and they want to be the ones to break
it. They are very bad, these people. Your mother and father have fought bad
people for years to keep the world safe. It is hard, dangerous work. I worry sometimes
that . . . never mind, it wasn’t important.
But why am
I a secret, Alfred?
Because,
said the old gentleman, because . . . it is better that way.
Does a bad
person want to hurt me?
The old gentleman
stood still, then looked down at her and smiled and tousled her hair. I will
always protect you, miss. I will always be here for you. I give you my word.
His smile
was hollow. She saw his fear behind it. He straightened and took a deep breath.
Would you help me in the garden, miss? We can collect a few flowers for the
dinner table tonight, you decide what we should have.
Okay . . .
can we have lilacs?
Bless you,
miss, of course we can.
Alfred?
Um, yes?
Am I
really named for my grandmother?
Oh, indeed
you are, miss, indeed you are.
What was
she like?
Someone strong grabbed her around the
waist and pulled her rapidly through a medium that flowed around her like water.
Alfred?
Your
grandfather said she stole his heart. He did not seem unhappy about it, though.
Am I like my
grandmother?
The old
man smiled down at her. Why, I believe you two are purrr-fectly alike, miss.
Purrr-fectly alike.
* * *
In an inlet just over a mile upriver from
the Rolling Falls Bridge, five minutes and twenty seconds after Jane Lane hit
the water, she surfaced again—head back, limbs dangling, eyes glazed, mouth
open, lifeless. Her body was clutched in the great arms of a naked green
giantess who splashed toward the shoreline as fast as she could run. Once on
the bank, the giantess lifted Jane’s body over fallen trees and boulders, tore
through briars and brush without stopping, and finally lay her friend down on a
bed of red leaves beneath a silver maple.
The giantess bent her head and listened
to Jane’s chest through her soaked black T-shirt, heard a faint heartbeat, then
tilted Jane’s head back and lifted her torso. With desperate gentleness, the
giantess put her mouth over Jane’s and gave two shallow puffs.
Jane jerked and coughed before the
giantess could continue mouth-to-mouth. She turned her head and vomited,
coughed, spat, and vomited again. She then flopped exhausted on her back, her
body still cradled in the giantess’s green arms, and looked up.
A pair of stricken emerald eyes looked
down at her, scarcely daring to believe.
Jane’s left hand came up and touched the
giantess on the cheek, fingers moving slowly around to touch dark green lips. A
droplet fell from one emerald eye, then a droplet from the other. Jane’s hand curved
around the green neck and gently pulled the giantess down until her forehead
rested on Jane’s chest. There, with the giantess’s ear close by, Jane whispered
three words.
The green woman’s shoulders shook as she
wept. Jane’s hand pressed down against the giantess’s long, wet hair and did
not let go. Above them the autumn wind stirred the rustling leaves, and flocks
of geese departed in search of quieter waters.
X
Daria bandaged and set Jane’s right arm
in a sling using pieces torn from her friend’s long-sleeved red shirt. She then
took off, carrying Jane miles upriver in hopes that searchers would concentrate
their efforts downstream, east of the highway bridge. She strode along the bank
at a rapid pace, Jane cradled in her arms, and did her best to use natural
foliage and rock outcrops to conceal her passing. Though she was naked, she hid
out of concern that she and Jane would be found and attacked, not out of any sense
of modesty. To her surprise, she discovered she liked being without clothes—and
that wasn’t like her. She found her state of mind both curious and troubling.
Shouldn’t
being naked as a big green jaybird bother me more than it is? I’m not sure I
care, and I can’t figure out why. True, this is rather comfortable: I feel pressure but little pain, I sense the cold
but it doesn’t bother me. My touch sensations are scaled back on the high end; I
can feel a breeze, but I could probably also run barefoot over broken glass and
never say ouch. Or even get scratched. My flesh must be like tank armor. I feel
like a character in one of my stories. In fact, I feel a lot like Melody
Powers, super-spy. She wouldn’t care about running around naked if she couldn’t
help it—especially if she were super-strong, super-tough, and trying to save a
friend. Naked? She’d rub it in everyone’s face. Mmm, maybe that wasn’t a good
analogy, but it’s true. This is how Melody thinks, how I’m thinking now. This
is way too weird.
What
happened to me? Turning into Big Green Girl affected my perceptions and
attitudes as well as my appearance. I was embarrassed to death when Trent saw
me naked last night, I could have died, but . . . I wonder what he thought. Brainy
little high-school chick in the buff, hmmm, was that trippy enough for him? Did
he like what he saw, or was it off-target? He always liked anorexic poster
girls like Monique better. I wonder what he’d think now. Hey, Trent,
check out the Green Machine. Me or Monique, which one makes your Stratocaster
sit up and take notice? Too X-treme for you? Yo, Tom, how about you? There’s more
than a mouthful at this buffet. Look at these portions. Too much on your plate?
Are you too full? I’m not. Oh, Daria, that was just rude. Heh, kinda funny,
though Tom might not think so. The mechanics of actually doing it with a guy would
be very . . . I’ve got to stop thinking about this, got to STOP thinking about
this.
I’ll stop.
I’ll stop thinking about it and be my regular self. I’m Daria now. There.
I wonder
what Jane thinks. That’s starting to worry me. Yeah, sure, she said she loves
me, but I saved her life, so of course she’d say that. Anyone would. And I like
her, too. She’s my best friend. My only friend. Even after I betrayed her with
Tom. I can’t believe she stuck with me. Why did she? And I worry a little about
what she’s thinking now—what she really thinks. She’s been giving me the eye since
I changed, and she isn’t trying to hide it. Smacking my butt, what was that all
about? It could be just the novelty. I could see that. Of course she’ll stare
and fool around. That’s just Jane. It’s the first time she’s ever had a giant
naked friend who’s built like a porn star. Not to mention green. Everywhere. I
think. Okay, time to stop thinking about THAT again. I’m not thinking about it.
I’m not thinking about Jane looking at me. Constantly. Like she wants to—
WHOA, NOT
GOING THERE, let’s not go there, just stop. Not ready to deal with that. Just
get her out of here and keep her safe. Stay with reality. Uh, um, let’s see,
oh. Let’s evaluate the situation logically. The bullet went right through her
bicep, it’s a clean wound, bone’s okay, but that river water was filthy. It’s a
matter of time before infection sets in. Where am I going to find a doctor for
her? Where can I go that they won’t shoot at us? I don’t know how bulletproof I
am, and I know for a fact she isn’t bulletproof at all. I have to be very
careful. Have to do something—but what?
And where
did she get that motorcycle? I didn’t know she had one. She could have been
killed back there on the bridge. That scared me. So small in my arms. She used
to be taller than me by four inches, but I’m holding her like a baby. She
weighs almost nothing. I hope my power walking isn’t bothering her. She looks
like she’s asleep on my shoulder. My left hand is under her left armpit and OH
NO, okay, I’ve moved my fingers so they aren’t touching her breast anymore,
SORRY, and my right hand holds her . . . her hip and part of her butt, but that’s
okay, it can’t be helped. I’m just carrying her so that’s okay, I’m just
supporting her, and it’s okay that my hand is full of my best friend’s ass AAAAAH
STOP IT, DON’T GO THERE, not now, can’t deal with that AT ALL, PERIOD, even if
I’ve got Melody’s brain. I’m straight, I’m sure of it. I’m into guys if I’m
into anything. I mean, I’m just into Tom, sort of, when he’s not pissing me off
every other day, and not Jane who’s my best friend and always there for me and is
the only person I really trust, and this line of thought is REALLY DISTURBING
ME. Jane’s my best friend, my only real friend, and I don’t want to lose her. Stay
cool. I want to keep things like they were, best friends forever, I’ll keep
thinking that. That’s it, keep moving, kiddo, get your best friend to safety. Give
it all you’ve got. Everything will work out.
Eventually.
I hope.
God help
me.
Around noon, things got complicated again.
The densely forested riverside park ended at an upscale subdivision with
mansion-like homes built high on the bank in a row. Boat houses and willows lined
the shore. Daria could not move into the open without risk of being spotted, so
she retreated a quarter mile downriver to a rock overhang. There she gently set
Jane on the ground, then dragged fallen limbs over until the space under the
overhang was well camouflaged. Making a bed for Jane from a pile of leaves was
easy.
Then Jane began to shiver. There was
nothing with which to cover her from the cold, and her clothing was still
soaked. Daria was beside herself. Damn it
to hell! What am I going to do? I can’t light a fire here or anything. What can
I do?
“D-D-Daria?” said Jane through chattering
teeth.
“What?”
“P-p-please hold me.”
“It . . . but . . . it’s—”
“Your skin is h-hot!” said Jane,
shivering harder, her whole body trembling. “You’re so warm, and it’s so freaking
cold out here! I hurt all over, p-please!
Daria!”
There was enough room for both under the
overhang. The branches and piled leaves gave plenty of cover. The spiders,
snakes, and other annoying fauna were gone for the winter. And Jane, bullet
wound and all, was her best friend.
So . . .
Jane fell asleep in seconds, wrapped
securely in massive green arms. Her sock feet were tucked under and her head was
pillowed by a green shoulder blade. The giantess swallowed as she leaned
against the moss-covered rock wall under the overhang, sitting up on her heels
with Jane in her lap. The position was not uncomfortable at all. Not physically.
Okay,
this is beyond weird. Melody Powers alter-ego or not, this is a little much. What
to do? Don’t think about it. Don’t even look at her, pretend she’s not there.
Watch the river. Listen for intruders. Just let her sleep and stop worrying.
It tickles
my left breast when she breathes. It’s making my—
Oh, my
God. Quick, think about something else. This is turning me on. Oh, my God. I
have to wake her up. I can’t wake her up. But I have to. But she’s injured and
exhausted and she needs to sleep. But if I don’t wake her up I’m going to . . .
this is so . . . damn it, this is . . . it’s . . .
It’s kind
of nice, actually. Nice in a kinky, scary sort of way, yeah, but . . . I guess
I can live with it. I’m over it. Big Green Melody Powers is straight, a little
muddled but straight. Great, my first homosexual crisis. This is so NOT going
into my diary.
Okay, that’s
settled. I really should think about a few far more important things here,
like: Who the hell am I, really? Why am I only now remembering this stuff about
people calling me Jessica Wyatt-Wingfoot? Why do I feel like I had two
different sets of parents? WHY AM I GREEN? And what the hell does Ted have to
do with this? I had this crazy dream about him coming in my hospital room and
talking with me without saying anything, using telepathy. That can’t have been
real.
I wish I
could call Mom and Dad and let them know what happened. They might have been in
the hospital when I broke out. I hardly remember what I was doing. I shoved
some people away from me and tried to get out of the room, and I went through a
wall that turned out to be the outside wall on the second floor of Cedars of
Lawndale. Man, I must have made a mess. I must have been crazy for a few
moments. All I wanted to do was escape, and next thing I know I’m running down
Gorman Parkway in a torn-up hospital gown with the Lawndale Police Department
right behind me . . . oh, no, I smashed that police car up, too. I remember
now. Oh, great. Was there anyone in it? Melody Powers wouldn’t want to hurt
police officers, but this is all . . . oh, boy.
On the
good side, they probably can’t build a prison to hold me.
On the bad
side, they’ll probably try.
Nothing I
can do about it now.
What
happened to make me turn green? The car wreck? I sort of remember it, but not
very well. Trigger event. Who said that . . . Ted? In my dream? Or was it a
dream? I’m a green giant, so sure, maybe it wasn’t a dream. Impossible things
are happening already. What did he say? I had a trigger event. I turned into
the Incredible Hulk when the car wrecked, but I didn’t when I was twelve at
Camp Grizzly and fell off that damn horse and got stitches, because I was a
late bloomer . . . hey! How did he know that? He doesn’t know when I started
getting periods! How the hell could he—
Calm down,
breathing too fast. Might wake up Jane.
How would
he know? Ted’s got some ‘splaining to do. I’ll wipe that happy geek smile off
his face, one second flat.
I wish I
knew what was going on here.
He said
something else, I remember now. Ted said he’s been looking out for me since we
got here, as if he and I came from somewhere else. Like from another world.
He said he’s
been looking out for me and the others.
What
others?
Daria’s gaze slowly drifted down to the
top of Jane’s head. She thought about what she had seen Jane do, leaping from a
speeding motorcycle off a bridge into a river six stories below—perfectly. After
she had been shot.
And she had survived. What Jane had done
was completely impossible.
Daria’s mouth fell open.
Her,
too?
XI
“Jodie?” Brittany Taylor whispered. “You
wanna use my cell phone?”
The African-American girl with cornrows
and braids turned to the pigtailed blonde who sat with her on the floor under a
lab table, in a corner of Ms. Barch’s science class. “You brought a cell phone
to school?” Jodie Landon asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I was sort of hoping to get a call from
someone who’s not very important, but he didn’t call when he said he would, so
now he’s really not very important
and I’m not going to call him back no matter what and he can go stuff himself!” Brittany, attired as
usual in her Lawndale Lions cheerleader’s outfit, became anxious. “Please don’t
tell Kevvy, okay? He might think that other person was important even though he
wasn’t, but if he had called me back then
he might have been important, but—”
“Don’t worry,” interrupted Jodie. “I won’t
tell Kevin a thing.” Under her breath, she added, “He’d have to have an IQ in
the triple digits before I’d ever try to—”
“What?” said Brittany, puzzled. “I didn’t
hear you.”
“I said, no problem. Your secret is safe.”
“Thanks! You’re the best!” Brittany
handed over the cell phone.
“No, you are,” said Jodie, in a grateful
mood. “Thanks.” She punched in the number for her home and waited.
“Landons,” said her mother in a tense
voice.
“Hi, Mom,” said Jodie, steeling herself. “I’m
fine, just wanted to call.”
“Jodie! I’ve been trying to reach that damn
school of yours for an hour, but those idiots—”
“We’re under a secure lockdown, so no one
can call or get in or out. We’re hiding under tables away from the windows, and
the police are patrolling the hallway, but nothing’s really happening. I borrowed
a cell phone to call you. Do you know what this is all about?” Jodie glanced
across the room at her fellow students whispering together under the other lab
tables—and the teacher, Janet Barch, armed with a glass jar full of acid from
the chemistry closet as she watched the door with a resolute glare.
“Good Lord, girl, haven’t you heard
anything? Someone set off a bomb at the hospital and attacked the police
station, and there are—”
“What?”
“—gangs running around town on
motorcycles, shooting at everyone and blowing up police cars! It’s a war zone
out there! I’m looking at it right on TV!”
“You’re kidding me!”
“Don’t you call me a liar, girl.”
“I’m not calling you anything, Mom! I
just can’t believe—”
“Save it. I have to call your father. He’s
over at the middle school picking up your sister, but he’s worried sick about
you. You stay right where you are, you understand?”
“Yes, Mom, but—”
“Don’t you ‘but’ me! You stay right there!
Your father will be right outside to pick you up as soon as they let you out.
You come straight home.”
“Mom, should Dad be out if there’s
trouble going on?”
“Oh, like anything I say to him’s going
to penetrate that thick skull of his. You do what I tell you, you understand
me?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Good. Thank the Lord you’re all right.
The TV news is showing a police car on fire on Gorman, near the hospital. Oh,
now there’s a report about a gun battle outside of town, near the river. Sweet
Christmas! What is this world coming to? I could kill your father for making us
move here. If I hadn’t had your little brother and I’d stayed on with U.S.
World, we’d all be living in—”
Jodie sighed. “Mom, I have to go. Someone
else needs to use the phone.”
“The hell with them! I’m talking to you! You tell them to—”
“Love you, Mom.” Jodie pulled the phone
away from her ear.
“Jodie Abigail Landon! By God, you’d
better—”
Jodie thumbed the cell phone off and
handed it back to Brittany. “Thanks.”
“What’d your mom say?”
“Oh . . . stay put and wait. That’s all.”
“Maybe I should call my stepmom and see
if we can go shopping at the mall after school. That always helps me relax when
I’m nervous.”
Jodie reached over and took the
cheerleader’s trembling hand. “Everything will be fine,” she said. “Don’t worry
about a thing.”
Brittany took a deep breath as she gripped
Jodie’s fingers. She gave a weak smile. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I feel lots
better. You know what I wish?”
“What?”
“I wish I could go outside and do
something about whatever’s happening. I can hear all the sirens and everything,
and I know we have to stay in school because something bad’s going on, but I
get so nervous having to wait and do nothing. If I can do something to fix
things when they’re messed up, then I always feel better.” Brittany reached up
and twirled one of her pigtails with her index finger. “I want to make the
world nicer, that’s all.”
Jodie felt the urge to look in the
direction of Ted DeWitt-Clinton, three tables away talking with another
student. She fought off the impulse and nodded slowly, looking at the floor. Her
jaw tensed—then relaxed. “Me, too,” she said with a trace of bitterness in her
voice. “I really wish I could, too.”
* * *
Late that afternoon, Jane stirred and
yawned.
“Up already?” said Daria, who had dozed
off as well. “You haven’t gotten your full twelve hours in yet.” She had a
cramp in her left calf muscle, but it was tolerable.
“Thanks for reminding me, amiga.” Jane gently pushed Daria’s arms
away. “Actually, I think I’m good to go, except maybe for my right arm. I’ve
not felt as stereotypically lazy of late. I want to get up and stretch, maybe
visit a bathroom, get some lunch, battle it out with the army, navy, and air
force, then go for pizza. You with me?”
“First things first. We’ll need to find a
doctor for your, um, injury pretty soon.” Daria remained sitting on her heels
while Jane got up, crouching under the rock overhang.
Jane peeled back the makeshift bandage on
her right bicep and inspected the wound.
“Hey,” said Daria, worried. “Be careful.
That’s probably infected.”
“Doesn’t look too bad to me,” said Jane,
making a face. “It isn’t green or anything, if you’ll pardon the expression. It
still hurts, though.”
“Jane, you were shot. You need medical
attention.”
“Mmm, right, and I’m sure Cedars of
Lawndale will be happy to provide it. What happened with you there, by the way?
We haven’t had a lot of time for chitchat.”
“It can wait. Nothing good happened. I
think we’re really on the lam this time and not just sneaking home late after
curfew.”
“You had curfew at your house, right. I
remember. Wow, now I don’t feel so bad about being abandoned by my parents.”
“You’re not helping. Speaking of parents
. . . I think we should call home, but I don’t know how. We not only don’t have
a phone, but I think it’s likely the police will try to trace any call we make
to my place or yours. They might already be questioning my family, but that’ll
probably be more torture for the cops than for my folks. Anyway, I’m not
comfortable yet with the idea of a face-to-face meeting with the law. They
might have a teensy little grudge about a police car that I bumped into on the
way over here.”
“Is that all? I beat up every cop in the main
police station trying to get outside and find you. If they have a little grudge
against you, they’ll drop an atom bomb on me.”
“You did what?”
“Let’s just say it was like The Terminator, only I don’t think there
were any fatalities. Unless they catch me, of course, in which case there will
be . . . one.”
Daria shook her head. “How did that
happen?”
“How did that happen? I don’t know how it
happened any more than you know how it happened. I had this terrible headache,
and all of a sudden I . . . I, uh—”
“Started to think you had another name?”
Jane stared at Daria, dumbfounded. “Yeah,”
she whispered. “Yeah, I did.”
The pause drew out until Daria said, “And
what’s your real name?”
Jane blinked. She reached up and rubbed
the bullet wound with her left hand. “Is this happening to you, too?”
The green giantess nodded. “What’s your
name?”
“Is your name Jennifer Walters?” said
Jane excitedly. “Do you think that’s your real name?”
Daria frowned, taken aback. “How did you
know—wait, no, that’s not right. No, I had this delusion that my real name was
Jessica Walters-Wingfoot. I have no idea why. I’ve never heard that name before
in my life, but now I remember—”
“Oh!” Jane gasped, wide eyed. “What was
your name again? Jessica?”
Daria crossed her arms over her breasts.
The conversation was becoming irksome. “Jessica Walters-Wingfoot. Does it mean anything
to you?”
“Wyatt Wingfoot was a comic-book
character, a Native American hero who dated She-Hulk, Jennifer Walters! That’s
your last name, Walters-Wingfoot!”
Daria’s green eyes grew larger. “Wyatt?”
she said. “Wyatt was my father’s name!
I mean, I keep thinking that was his name! I don’t know if it’s real, but this isn’t
something out of a comic book! I really think it! What are you talking about?”
Jane was staggered. “Daria, don’t you
know who She-Hulk is?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re
talking about!” Daria snapped, her voice rising. “I’m not a comic-book
character! I’m Jessic—I mean I’m Daria
Morgendorffer, damn it!”
Frightened, Jane backed up and bumped
into one of the huge tree branches that sheltered the space under the overhang.
“Daria, calm down. I didn’t—”
“No!”
Daria pushed away from the rock wall and got up, bent over with her back to the
roof of the ledge. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on! I’ve been in a car
wreck, put through a hundred medical tests, chased by the police, and now I’m
camping out in the middle of nowhere with someone who’s telling me I came from
a comic book! No, I will not calm down, damn it!”
“Jeez, tell the whole freaking world, whydoncha?”
Daria controlled her temper with a
terrible effort. She could hear her voice echoing from the hills across the
river. “Damn,” she growled. “That was bloody stupid.”
“Daria, listen to me.” Jane summoned her
courage and stepped closer. She reached over to put her left hand on her friend’s
arm.
The green giantess jerked away. “Don’t!”
she snarled. “Don’t touch me right now! Just don’t!”
“Please, listen to me! I have a secret
name, too!”
“I can think of some good names for you.
Want to hear them?”
Jane appeared near tears. “My name is Selina
Grayson! That’s my birth name! I had another life before this one, and I don’t
know how—”
“Selina Grayson?” The giantess’s voice
reflected true surprise. “Selina Grayson?”
“Does it mean anything?”
Daria drew back. After a pause, she
closed her mouth and her expression darkened. “This is stupid,” she growled.
“Stupid? What do you mean, stupid? That’s
my birth name! I had this memory that
I was raised by this old guy named Alfred—”
A curse spilled from Daria’s lips. She
spun on her heel and lashed out, punching one of the tree limbs propped up on
the overhang. The six-inch-thick, twelve-foot-long limb flipped violently end
over end through the air, falling down slope to crash into the river, over a
hundred and fifty feet away.
Jane put out her hands in real fear. “Daria,”
she said, “for the love of God—”
“I’ve
read comic books, too!” Daria shouted. Jane ducked and winced, covering her
ears. “Are you making this up?”
“No! Don’t shout at me!”
“You
have a comic-book character name, too! Didn’t you ever read Batman comics?”
“Daria! Stop!”
Daria heard herself breathing like a
steam engine. She was so close to doing something terrible, she could feel it
in her blood. She was right on the edge of it. It was almost there.
She held herself back from the edge a
second longer, then another second longer.
She heard Jane crying. Daria blinked and
tried to focus.
Jane was half-crouched, her hands pressed
over her ears as she looked up at Daria. Tears streaked her red face and fell
from her chin.
Daria’s face went slack with horror. She
stepped back and put a hand to her forehead. What have I done? What did I almost do? She knelt down among the
leaves and rocks and branches. What have
I become?
“Please,” Jane sobbed. “Please don’t hurt
me. I love you.”
Daria looked at the ground. Her arms fell
to her sides. The strength ran out of her. I
am a monster. I almost killed her. I’m beyond redemption.
A police-car siren broke through the
trees upriver. It grew louder. Daria hesitated, then turned and looked back
toward the upscale subdivision and the approaching police.
They’re
coming. They might hurt Jane again. They might kill her. What would Melody do?
The answer was so obvious.
“Run,” Daria said flatly. “Get out of
here. I’ll draw them off. Get as far away from here as you can before dark.”
“Daria, no!” Jane cried. “Don’t leave me!
We’ll figure a way out!”
The green giantess turned toward Jane but
did not look up. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice strengthened. “I’m sorry,
Jane. I love you, too.”
She got to her feet and walked away,
heading upriver.
“Daria! Please! No!”
She began to run through the woods. Her
shoulder carelessly hit a tree trunk and broke it; splinters and bark flew
around her. The ground was soft and made her footing unsteady. It was still
enough to get through. She could see willows and boathouses ahead. Jane’s cries
echoed behind her. Shut up, Jane.
When she broke out of the forest and
started up the hill, the police were already there, two of them getting out of
a Lawndale County sheriff’s car in someone’s driveway. Both officers saw her
and went for their guns. She grinned and ran, looking very unlike Daria
Morgendorffer. You looking for some
action? Her feet tore out clods of earth and scattered them behind her as
she sped up. I’ve got your action right
here.
The cops opened fire when she was twenty
yards away. It didn’t do a thing to her.
Jane heard it all, and she covered her
face and wept.
XIII
“Mrs. Morgendorffer, good evening,” said
the police detective as he entered the crowded room and rounded his desk to
take a seat. “I’m Detective Richard Casey. I take it you’ve met everyone else. Sorry
I’m late. I’m a little short of breath with my chest taped up as much as it is,
and I couldn’t—”
“Before we go any further,” Helen
Morgendorffer interrupted from the chair in front of the detective’s desk, “I’m
telling you that that thing out there
is not my daughter, and I demand to
know what you’re doing to find her! Daria is not an alien sex goddess or a
Wookie or anything else that you might have picked up from the moronic
reporters who’ve been spreading lies ever since—”
Detective Casey raised a hand. “Wait,
hold on! Just wait!” He winced as he took a breath. “We don’t have a lot of
time, and the more talking you do, the less time for talking I have, and I’m
scheduled to speak with the governor in twenty minutes to make some decisions
regarding whoever it is out there throwing automobiles around like Godzilla.
Let me ask some questions, then you can ask me what you want, and with any luck
we can reach a decision I can take to the governor. Will this work for you?”
Helen’s voice rose to a shout. “Why are
we even talking about this if that’s not
my daughter?”
“Easy, easy. Please calm down.” The
detective stiffened and grimaced when he sat, then began breathing again with
care. “Was your husband not able to attend this meeting?”
“He’s taking care of our youngest
daughter, Quinn, in the break room. She’s taking this situation very hard. You’re
going after the wrong people here. Daria is not—”
“Ma’am, listen, I understand your concern,
I really do, but we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have evidence indicating that
it probably is your daughter who’s
causing at least part of the havoc going on out there right now. I’ve been
listening to eyewitness reports on this topic all day, when I wasn’t being
treated to a special live performance of ‘Fung-Fu Theater,’ courtesy of your
daughter’s missing friend, Jane Lane.”
“Allegedly,” Helen added under her
breath.
“Allegedly,” repeated the detective,
curling his lip. “Well, allegedly speaking, your daughter’s friend cracked three
of my ribs and bruised my chest when she allegedly threw a fellow police
officer into me, right before she allegedly fought her way through the rest of
the day shift like a scythe through wheat, an act that was allegedly caught on
videotape multiple times and has allegedly put her on Maryland’s Most Wanted
List, allegedly sharing the space at the top with your daughter Daria. Allegedly.” He made a face and gently
rubbed his ribcage. “Let’s don’t play games here.”
“We’re here to talk about innocent
children wrongly prosecuted,” said Helen crisply. “I’m angry enough that you’ve
been questioning Tom Sloane for as long as you have, and when his family gets
here tomorrow with their own lawyers, you can expect to be fully accountable
for his condition. He had nothing to do with any of this. And I want to see Jane’s
brother Trent, too.”
“That can be arranged. He’s in a cell by
himself in back. He isn’t saying much.”
“That’s no surprise. I can’t believe you’re
holding him, all things considered. What is he charged with?” Helen took a pen
from her purse and clicked it, pulling out a small notebook next.
“Resisting arrest and interfering in an
investigation. He tried to blockade his house with furniture when we returned
with a search warrant this afternoon.”
“He just found out his sister might be
dead! What did you expect him to do?”
“His sister is wanted on multiple felony
charges, some of which have to do with beating the bejeezus out of over a dozen
cops, one of them me. Pardon me for not being completely sensitive to his
special needs.”
“And pardon me for not being sensitive to
yours,” said Helen coldly. “What exactly is Jane charged with, alive or
otherwise?” Her pen was poised over the notebook on her lap.
“Fine,” said the detective. He looked
down at scattered papers on his desk, then picked one up. “Jane No-Middle-Name
Lane, wherever she is, is currently charged with four counts of second-degree
slash aggravated assault against a police officer; thirteen counts of
third-degree assault against a police officer; one count of third-degree
assault, against that motorcyclist; one count of carjacking, for the cycle; one
count of grand theft auto, also for the cycle; one count of resisting arrest; one
count of aiding and abetting the flight of your daughter Daria from police
arrest; six counts of reckless public endangerment with a motor vehicle; one
count of unlawful flight to avoid prosecution; five counts of eluding a police
vehicle; two counts of criminal mischief—”
“Wait,” Helen gasped. She had written
down the first few charges, but now her pen was frozen on the page, gripped in nerveless
fingers. The color drained from her face.
“I’ll give you a copy of the charges
later, Mrs. Morgendorffer. Skipping over a truckload of assorted traffic
violations—speeding, reckless driving, et
cetera—we’re probably also going to seat a grand jury to consider
conspiracy and terrorism charges against her, the details of which will be
worked out as soon as possible. All this will of course be moot if she did not
survive her spectacular leap into the Rolling Falls River. I’m sorry to be so
blunt, but as I said before, we have little time for niceties. For what it’s
worth, we have a search-and-rescue operation in progress for miles up and down
the river using sheriff’s department helicopters and local police divers, and
we’re expecting a team of Navy SEALs to come by after midnight and assist us,
courtesy of the White House.”
“The White House,” whispered Helen. The
pen lifted from the notebook page.
“The White House,” said the detective. He
picked up another sheet of paper. “Are you ready for the list of charges
against your daughter?”
“That’s not . . . that can’t be my
daughter doing that. That’s a . . . I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t Daria.”
“Whatever or whoever the giant naked
green lady is, it’s leaving behind your daughter’s fingerprints, though
curiously enlarged in size. We also have—”
“Someone’s faking the prints!” Helen said
quickly. “It’s a setup!”
“That could be. However, we also have reports
from one doctor and six nurses on duty this morning at the Cedars of Lawndale
ICU who state that the person who did over a million dollars in damage when she
tore through the unit, assaulted the staff, and smashed out a wall—that person
was Daria Morgendorffer.”
“No!”
Helen’s face twisted up. “They said it was a monster!”
“They said your daughter, while on her
bed, underwent a dramatic change in appearance that they all witnessed, each of
them having a clear line of sight and several of them being less than three
feet from her when the change occurred. The change was also caught in part on a
security camera, the film from which is being studied as I speak.” The
detective shrugged. “I can’t explain what happened, though we have a few
theories about how it might have been done. Doctored film, hallucinogens,
something.”
“My daughter is not a violent person!”
“Ah,” said the detective. He reached for a
notebook on the top of a stack of books and papers on his desk, each item sealed
in a plastic bag. “This is your daughter’s diary from two years ago, which we
picked up this afternoon using that search warrant for your home. We found it
inside her mattress with several other diaries and notebooks.” He held the
package to his face, squinting at a typed sheet inside. “In her diary, she
writes that she admires Attila the Hun for being focused. She describes her
friend Jane—” He glanced at Helen “—whom you have told me is your daughter’s
only friend, as ‘snide, antisocial, and resentful,’ then adds, ‘Finally, a
friend.’ She later writes, ‘The future is an enormous question mark, and I don’t
know what lies ahead. I only know that if it moves, I’m shooting it.’”
“Wait a minute!” Helen cried. “She’s only
joking! She’s very sarcastic, she’s not being serious! You can’t really think
she’s being—”
Detective Casey raised a hand to stop
her. “Your daughter has extensive diary notes on making a model of the
Haymarket Riot, which was a terrorist bombing in Chicago over a century ago that
killed seven police officers. She apparently made the model as part of a school
project. She muses on the possibility of getting a Stealth bomber to do ‘something
to change my situation.’ She collects models, books, posters, and photographs
of mangled bodies, skeletons, war atrocities, and diseased organs. Have you ever
talked with her about her Internet use?”
Helen stared at him, her mouth open like
a fish’s.
“We’ve had only a preliminary look at her
computer, but she’s filled the hard drive of her Apple Mac with dozens of first-person
shooter games like ‘Cannibal Frag Fest,’ which features lifelike gore and
splatter when victims are shot down by the game player. Do you know anything about
an e-mail pal of your daughter’s, named Rhonda Jean DeMarco? Rhonda Jean DeMarco
is currently serving four consecutive life terms in the Kinsington Federal Penitentiary
in Ontario, Canada, for the axe murders of her parents, uncle, and brother nine
years ago. Your daughter saved to her computer’s hard drive her weekly e-mail correspondence
with Ms. DeMarco for the last year and a half.
“And then there’s Miss Lane, who has the
same taste in mangled bodies as does Daria, judging from the artwork seized
from her room. We’ve found marijuana stored in the house under the floorboards
in several of the bedrooms, including her brother’s. And there are these notes
we found under her bed on how to organize an aircraft hijacking and mass ransom
in conjunction with the Libyan government. And . . . we found this.”
The detective pulled a thin, oversized
paperback from the stack. “This is a graphic novel, a high-end comic book,”
said the detective. “‘The Sensational She-Hulk, Marvel Graphic Novel Number
Eighteen,’” he read from the cover. “And down here, in Jane’s own handwriting,
we have, ‘My Best Friend.’” He held up the cover of the graphic novel. “Except
that the character here is wearing a swimsuit, this is an exact likeness of the
person out there right now who is giving us hell up and down the Rolling Falls
River Valley, the person who’s leaving behind your daughter’s fingerprints.
Jane collects She-Hulk comics. I’m told that she has every single one ever
published, all of them annotated with remarks showing her fondness for this
fictional character. You can understand why we think there’s a connection between
these two teenagers and the chaos engulfing this end of the state tonight.”
He dropped the book back on the stack
with the other materials. “As for the charges against your daughter . . .” He flipped
a sheet of paper across his desk in Helen’s direction. “That’s the preliminary
list, current as of seven o’clock this evening. As in Jane’s case, the grand
jury charges of conspiracy and terrorism have yet to be worked out in detail. I’d
get another lawyer, if I were you. A good one. Don’t handle this yourself.”
Helen reached for the paper with
trembling fingers. Her gaze went from line to line down the long list, until the
paper fell from her fingers to the floor. She covered her face with her hands.
“Here’s where we’re at, Mrs.
Morgendorffer,” said the detective, leaning forward in his seat. He gingerly
rested his elbows on the desktop, hands clasped before him. “The person that we
believe is most likely Daria Morgendorffer, possibly using augmented or military
body armor, and her natural strength boosted by drugs, hysteria, or explosives,
is hammering through the combined forces of the city police of Lawndale,
Oakwood, and Cumberland; the sheriff’s offices of Lawndale and Carter Counties;
and the Maryland State Police, wherever and whenever she encounters them.
She—or whoever it is—plowed through the Rolling Ridge subdivision like a
tornado just before six this evening, putting a dozen people, including three sheriff’s
officers, in various hospitals and doing a half million dollars in property damage
to cars alone. We have every helicopter and every squad car within a fifty-mile
radius hunting for her. We’ve got SWAT teams flying in from Baltimore, D.C.,
Philadelphia, Richmond, Newark, and New York City. And in a few minutes I’m going
to ask the governor of Maryland to declare martial law and bring in the
National Guard, because we need more men, more helicopters, and bigger guns.
Whoever it is running around out there dressed up like the Jolly Green Giant’s little
sister has brought law enforcement in this region to its knees, and we’re goddamn
sick and tired of it. By tomorrow morning, it’s going to be a whole new ball
game.”
The detective pointed Helen. “If that person
out there is not your daughter, she might
know where your daughter is. However, I must warn you that every single account
I have of that event in the Cedars ICU says that Daria somehow became the big
green lady who is hell-bent on tearing us a new asshole. We’re betting she has
on an armored costume, but time will tell. If you want to save your daughter, wherever
she is and whatever’s she’s doing, then we need your cooperation and we need it
now. We can’t wait a second longer. Help us in any way you can, tell us what we
need to know, and we’ll do everything possible to get your daughter back to you
safe and sound if that’s humanly possible.” His gaze fell upon the page that
Helen had let drop to the floor. “We’ll sort out the legal details later.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to her. We’re going to arrange a
telephone linkup through loudspeakers to whatever spot we can corner her, if
that’s even possible, and I want you to talk to her, do everything you can to get
her to surrender so we can put an end to this nightmare.”
Helen swallowed, then slowly nodded. “Okay,”
she said. Her voice was barely audible. “I’ll help you, but . . . if that’s
her, if it’s really her, please . . . don’t kill her. That’s my baby. Please
don’t kill her.”
The detective’s cheek twitched. “We’ll do
all we can,” he said. “I promise you that. Now, I want to go around the room
real quick and have each person here—”
Someone knocked on the door to the
detective’s office, then opened it and stuck his head in. “Sir?” said the
intruder, a man with his arm in a cast. “Pick up line three. It’s the lab.”
“Can it wait?”
The intruder shook his head.
“Oh, what the hell.” The detective sighed
and picked up the phone handset, punching a blinking button. “Casey, make it
fast.”
Helen looked down and picked up the list
of charges against her daughter, looking it over once more. It can’t be her. It just can’t be. This is
all so wrong, it can’t be—
“Wait,” said the detective into the
phone, frowning. “Are you sure about that?”
“Sir?” said the intruder at the door
again. “Line two. It’s the White House.”
“Tell him to wait,” said the detective,
one hand covering the phone receiver.
“But, sir, it’s the President!”
“Well, I didn’t vote for him, so tell him
to wait thirty seconds, goddamn it!” The detective uncovered the phone and
spoke briskly. “You’re sure? All the other prints match hers? Okay, call me
back in one hour.” He hung up, then turned to Helen Morgendorffer. “So,” he
said, “you know your oldest daughter pretty well?”
Helen nodded her head. “Of course I do! Any
mother would!”
“I see,” said the detective. “Then can you
tell me why your daughter’s fingerprints—every single print we’ve lifted from
her bedroom, from the wreck of the Explorer last night off the Interstate, and
from crime scenes all across this county today—can you tell me why your
daughter’s fingerprints do not match the prints from her birth certificate?”
Helen blinked. “What? I don’t understand
what you’re asking.”
“What I’m asking, Mrs. Morgendorffer, is
this: who is this person you keep calling Daria? Because, by our reckoning, unless
she got a whole new set of fingers at some point in her childhood, this person you
say is your daughter isn’t the newborn you brought home from the hospital almost
eighteen years ago in Austin, Texas.”
XIII
“Yo. This is Jane Lane. Bet you didn’t
think you’d ever hear that name on your phone messages. I take it that this is the
infamous Amy Barksdale’s actual answering machine, given the sarcastic greeting
I got. Daria told me a couple years ago where you live, and I got your number
from directory assistance. Daria said you were her favorite aunt, so I’m going
out on a limb in hopes you’ll call home and check your messages tonight. This
way the police can’t trace where I’m calling from. You might have caller ID,
yeah, but I’m assuming no one’s at your place to check it. I really hope you
don’t call the police. I don’t care so much about me, but Daria’s life is at
stake, and I don’t think the cops have her best interests at heart after everything
that’s happened today. I have to do something to stop her before she gets hurt,
but I ran out of ideas hours ago and I’m freezing my buns off. I hope you can
understand me with my teeth chattering.
“I heard from Daria’s mom that you were coming
to the hospital to see Daria, but she isn’t there anymore, of course. I can’t
imagine what else you’ve heard on the news, so here’s my side of the story.
Daria and I are in a huge mess, the biggest mess of our lives. There’s more
going on than anyone knows about. It’s . . . I don’t know how to describe it. You
wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it, it’s that crazy. Everything’s gotten
totally out of hand. We could really use some help, but Daria ran off and I can
barely take care of myself. I got shot in the arm, and the bullet wound’s not
looking that great. It was okay earlier, but it hurts a lot now. I’m okay otherwise
except for freezing to death. And starving. And my arm, did I say that I’ve
been shot in the arm? And I haven’t had a bath since, uh, one or two days ago,
but that’s kind of minor, next to being shot and starving to death and freezing,
and it is really freaking cold out here. I can see my breath and I don’t have a
coat or anything.
“That’s enough pity party. I’m not going
to try to explain what happened that got us into this mess, but I will say that
we’re . . . I’ll say we’re not who we thought we were. Daria and I are somehow
turning out to be other people. Does that make sense? We’re remembering things
that don’t have any part of our lives as we knew them here in Lawndale. We’re not
regressing to past lives as queens of Atlantis, and aliens aren’t sending us
messages from Jupiter, though those explanations make a hell of a lot more
sense than what I think is really
happening to us. You’ll see.
“Can you meet me so we can talk? I’m at a
Tank Tiger gas station west of Lawndale, somewhere near the river. I’ll call
again in about ten or fifteen minutes, after I figure out the best way for you
to get here. I promise to behave myself; I can barely walk as it is. I ache all
over, and there’s that darn bullet hole in me, too. And another thing: can you
please tell my brother Trent that I’m okay? Daria saved me from drowning, but I’m
all right, as much as can be expected. Tell Trent I’m okay. I’m worried about
him. And tell him to shut up and don’t tell the cops, or I’ll punch him in the
arm again. He’ll know it’s really me if he hears that. Let him know, okay? It
would mean a lot if you could.
“So, Daria’s favorite aunt, can you come
and get me? I need you to help me figure out what to do about Daria. I think
she’ll listen to you, if we can find her. She won’t hurt you. Trust me on this,
because she didn’t hurt me, though she could have. She’s . . . oh, I don’t know
what to tell you. This is such a rotten freaking mess, you wouldn’t believe it.
It’s just so . . . it’s . . .
“Sorry, had a bad moment. I’m okay. Please
try to meet me after I call next, and don’t tell anyone. We have to do
something to save Daria, but I have no idea what.
“Thanks, Amy, or Daria’s aunt, or
whatever I should call you. She really looks up to you, you know. I think you’re
her role model, but don’t tell her I said that because she might punch me out,
and given her condition and my condition, that would be a bad thing. I’d look
like a pancake. Anyway, I’ll call you later. Please bring me a coat or a
blanket or something, I’m shivering so much I can hardly stand up. And bring
some food, anything, please. I’ll eat anything, I’m so hungry. ‘Help me,
Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.’ Just kidding. A little. Thanks, and, um .
. . see you, Amy.”
* * *
Rita Barksdale glanced up from her fashion
magazine as her youngest sister walked back into the police station’s waiting
room from a long visit to the women’s restroom. “Did you fall in?” she asked,
an eyebrow raised.
“Aliens from Jupiter had a message for me,”
Amy Barksdale muttered, looking distracted. “Has Helen come back from that
meeting yet?”
“Not yet.” Rita checked her watch. “I was
going to call Mother, but she’s probably gone to bed by now. There’s nothing to
tell her anyway. I feel like I need another Tums, my stomach’s churning so
much. I can’t believe this crazy day.”
Amy settled into a chair across from her
blonde oldest sister and stared into space.
“I bet you feel lucky you don’t have
kids,” said Rita.
“Hmm?” Amy glanced at her sister, then looked
away and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I was trying to think of something that
would help.”
“If you think of anything, let me know.
Helen’s got all the legal expertise.”
“That young man, uh, Trent Lane, did he
come out yet?”
“Nope. They’re keeping him locked up.”
Rita eyed the thin, wavy-haired brunette across from her with a stab of
jealousy. Almost forty, doesn’t look thirty.
Classy black pantsuit, tasteful jewelry, six-figure salary, unattached and
happy. And now she wears contacts instead of those geek glasses. Life is so
unfair. “So, baby sis, how’s work?”
“Work?” Amy’s face went to surprise to relaxation.
“Oh. I got a freelance job this evening. Someone called me with an unexpected assignment
while I was in the restroom, dropped it right in my lap. I need to do a little
traveling, but I don’t mind. A job’s a job.”
“Busy hands are happy hands, I guess.
What’s the pay like?”
Amy gave a half smile. “The reward should
be good, if everything goes right.”
“Reward? That’s a funny way to talk about
magazine writing. What kind of article assignment was it?”
“Oh . . . uh, it’s about mysteries,
whodunits, the unexpected. That sort of thing.” Amy looked at the glass front
doors of the station. It was night outside, past eight p.m. “Do you think they’d
mind if I went out and grabbed something for the two of us to eat?”
“Nothing for me. You should stick around,
though. Helen might be out in a few minutes, or you could check on Jake and
Quinn, see how they’re holding up in back.”
Amy shook her head and stood up, reaching
down for her leather coat. “Too antsy. I’m going to get a burger and some air.
Be right back.”
Rita made a sour face as her sister
walked away. “I’ll let them know how much you cared,” she grumbled. “You always
run away when the going gets tough, just like when we were kids. Thanks for
nothing, baby sis.”
Walking into a cold wind, Amy Barksdale made
her way across the police department’s parking lot to a bright red Triumph
Spitfire convertible parked in the visitor’s section near a street light. She got
in and shut the door, but before starting off she removed her low heels and pulled
on a pair of snug, mid-calf boots. She left the lot at a reasonable speed,
attracting little attention. Once on the street, she pulled her cell phone from
her pocket, pushed a few buttons, then checked the screen. The caller ID
readout from her apartment phone appeared. Jane had called from an outdoor gas-station
phone in the same area code. Amy pressed more buttons, and a tiny color map
appeared on the cell-phone screen. The Tank Tiger station lay on State Route
32, which paralleled the Rolling Falls River. The phone location was nine point
three miles from the subdivision Daria had trashed before sundown. Jane might
be wounded and tired, but she could really move. This was the girl Daria said
painted, slept, and ate pizza all day? Interesting. She couldn’t wait to hear
the story behind that.
Amy snapped the cell phone shut and stuffed
it back in her pants pocket, then reached for a pair of thin, black leather gloves
on the seat beside her. She pulled them on, using her knees to keep the
steering wheel steady, then pulled on the unused cigarette ashtray. After pressing
the hidden release latch, it came all the way out. The dead black, custom-built
Heckler & Koch Mark 23 and its silencer were still nestled in place on
their felt-lined, form-fitting drawer behind the ashtray. She drummed her
fingers on the weapon—then shoved the ashtray back into place. Not tonight.
When she got to the Interstate, she let
the Triumph roar, passing traffic left and right when her radar detector said
it was clear. She hated to be late to an appointment, especially for a hands-on
job.
Too bad it was Daria’s best friend, but, like
Rita said, busy hands were happy hands.
XIV
Saturday, November 6, 1999
Katie?
The pigtailed girl moaned and rolled on
her side. She curled into a ball with her knees drawn up and her right thumb
pressed to her lips. Her eyes were closed. Only the top of her head showed
above the periwinkle-blue quilt on her bed.
Katie?
Part of her mind stirred to
consciousness, a part that had slept undisturbed for a decade and a half.
“Alex?” she muttered to her thumb. Her
parents were down the hall in the master bedroom, sound asleep. No one else was
in the house. The girl’s older siblings had departed home for college, jobs, weddings,
and families. Only the baby was left.
No,
not Alex. You used to call me Tattletale.
Tattletale?
Is that you, Franklin? The girl’s lips moved but made no sound. Where’s Alex? Where’s Jack and Julie?
They’re
far away. Do you remember them?
She remembered—and the girl’s face
screwed up. Panic set in. Oh, no! I feel
like I overslept! What happened? Where am I? Where is everyone?
Katie,
calm down. It’s okay.
I
can’t wake up! The pigtailed girl began hyperventilating in her sleep. I can’t move! Help me!
This
is just a dream, Katie. Here—
An image appeared. Walking out of the
darkness around a black stage came Franklin, the round-faced blond boy who had
been as old as Katie’s big brother, Alex. Franklin wore jeans, a red pullover
shirt, and sneakers. He was still twelve years old.
Katie looked down at herself. She was not
five years old anymore. She was taller than Franklin, her limbs and fingers
thin, her clothes trendy and neat. Her long hair had darkened. She looked like
a woman. The sight frightened her out of her mind.
It’s
a dream, Katie. Come on, stop trying to yell, you’ll wake everyone up. Calm
down or I’ll make you go back to sleep.
But
you said I was asleep! What’s going
on? Her breathing slowed as she began to think. More memories were
returning. Tattletale, where are Julie,
Jack, and Alex? You said we would be together! You said we’d go home after
everyone beat up that bad guy, Doomsday!
Oh.
Franklin looked uneasy. They’re . . . the
others wouldn’t listen to me.
What?
Why won’t they listen?
Franklin’s unease grew. His mouth did not
move when he spoke. It’s been a long time
since we got here, Katie. We had to stay for a while. It wasn’t safe to go
home. I can’t explain it now. Your brothers and sister—your real brothers and sister—they live far from here.
They’re older. He hesitated. They
grew up, Katie.
Grew
up? Why don’t I remember that?
He struggled for an answer.
And then she remembered Franklin reaching
for her forehead, the very last thing she saw when she was five years old.
You
made me forget, she said. You made me
forget my family, everyone—Mom and Dad, Julie and Jack and Alex! You made me
forget them, Franklin!
I
had to! You were crying so much, all of you. Almost everyone who came was
crying all over the place, and no one would do anything I said. I had to do it!
You
said we had to get new mommies and daddies! That was stupid! You said we couldn’t
go home when we were supposed to!
We couldn’t
go home! The blond boy’s telepathic voice
grew in strength. Dr. Doom was coming! He
took all the Beyonder’s powers and was coming back to Earth to attack us! Professor
X told me about it! We had to escape really fast! I couldn’t take everyone,
just my friends and my mom! We couldn’t go home right then!
Why
didn’t you take us home sooner, Franklin? How long have we been gone?
Even as she said it, she had a terrifying
idea of how long they had been gone. But Franklin did not answer the first of
her two questions. He pulled back, face tight. Then he turned and walked off
across the black stage.
Franklin!
Franklin Richards, come back! Why didn’t we go home? Answer me!
Go
to sleep, Katie.
A great wave of drowsiness rushed over
her. She summoned all her willpower and held it off. No! I won’t go to sleep! Talk to me! Tell me what happened!
He slowed, almost gone from sight, and
started to make a motion with one hand—but he did not complete the gesture. His
shoulders slumped as he came to a stop. His hand fell to his side, and his head
bowed.
I
don’t know what happened back home, he said. Nothing’s going right here, either. Someone woke up too soon, and I
tried to fix it, but I screwed it up and someone else woke up, and now they’re
fighting everyone. I don’t have the spare power to make them stop, I have so
much else to do to hold things together. I need your help.
I
don’t understand, Franklin! Why didn’t we go back? What happened to our home?
He stood, silent, staring at the floor.
Then he walked into the blackness. It’s
gone, he said as the darkness swallowed him. We don’t have a home anymore, except for here.
Her drowsiness vanished. She began to
wake up, really wake up. Every part of her mind came to consciousness in a lightning
rush.
Pop!
She kicked the periwinkle quilt away, leaped
out of bed, stumbled, and fell on her hands and knees on a soft carpet. She
knew where the bedside light was and reached for it with trembling fingers. Click.
A bedroom with peach walls, a pointed
ceiling, a pale lilac carpet, wide curtained windows, and a periwinkle vanity
and mirror—a teenage girl’s bedroom. It was her room—but what she inhabited was
not her body.
“No!” She got up and ran to the vanity mirror.
The dream had come true. She really was a woman—but even after fifteen years of
thinking she was someone else, she recognized traces of her five-year-old face.
“Hello, Katie Power,” she said aloud,
though the Fashion Club notebook on the vanity had the name Stacy Rowe written across it.
Her eyes rolled up, and Katie/Stacy fell unconscious
to the carpet with a thud.
* * *
The thumping of the helicopters passed
overhead and soon faded, taking with it the brilliant glare of searchlights and
occasional gunshot. When she heard nothing more, Daria Morgendorffer peered out
of the den she had hastily dug into the hillside with her bare hands. Dead
leaves and earth stuck in her hair and fell across her face. Wind stirred the
branches above her in the night. She was safe for the moment—but there weren’t
many places left for her to go.
I
really blew it this time. I’ve lost everything, even my best friend. Jane must
hate me. I hate me. I’m a monster. I don’t deserve to live.
She gripped a tree root and crushed it
with indestructible hands. But killing
myself now is probably impossible. The irony is staggering. Maybe if I just
gave myself up, they would figure out a way to kill me. If I turned back into Daria Morgendorffer, I’d
be vulnerable. I could do it then. I could rid the world of me, or let someone
else do it.
She lowered her head in defeat. No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I’m a
coward. I can do terrible things to others, but I can’t do that to me. I really
am a monster.
She realized she was speaking aloud. She
had been talking to herself the whole time.
“Way to go. Guess I have more Daria in me
than I’d thought.” She crawled out of the den and stood up, brushing herself
off. On a whim, she had taken two one-piece women’s swimsuits from a boathouse
she had wrecked, after the fight with the police in the riverside subdivision.
She had put the swimsuits on, one over the other. They were tight but
serviceable, and they’d survived her flight through the woods with minimal
damage. A brief sense of modesty had motivated her, but it hardly seemed worth
it, in retrospect.
She leaned against a tree, breaking away
the bark but not noticing. I almost
killed my only friend, she thought, unaware she was talking to herself
again. I save Jane’s life after she was
shot, then I almost let myself beat her to death. It’s the giant green me, changing
me inside as well as out. I can’t control my emotions the way I used to. I’ve
turned into a crazed sociopath who attacks on impulse. I don’t think I’ve
killed anyone yet, though. I’ve tried not to, but I think I’ve hurt some people.
If I stay green much longer, the Daria I once was will be disappear in a green
rage. I get angry so fast, it happens so quickly, I barely know it before I’ve
done something horrible.
But if I
turn back into Daria, I’m afraid of what will happen then, too. Someone will try
to kill me, I know it. I’ve done too much damage, I’m too big a threat. I’m terrified
of what they’ll do about it. I can’t stay like I am, but I don’t dare change.
I’m as damned
as can be.
She sank to the earth, leaning back. The
tree behind her cracked under her mass and strength. Kind of funny that, after all the years I tried so hard to drive
everyone away so I wouldn’t be disappointed when they rejected me, here I am .
. . oh, the hell with it. It doesn’t matter anymore.
The crescent moon looked down through the
branches above. She watched her breath drift away in great clouds.
“Ted,” she said. “Ted did something to
me. I remember him being in my hospital room, talking to me with his mind. I
think. I don’t know what was going on, but he touched my head, and . . . he put
me to sleep. I remember that. It seems like that part is real, that he was with
me, but I don’t know if I trust what I’m thinking anymore. I want to see him,
get the truth out of him, but . . . I can’t. Not as I am.”
Her mind wandered. “Jane said . . .
before I almost . . . she told me her birth name. She said she was Selina
Grayson, and she remembers an old guy named Alfred. Those are Batman comics’
names. Alfred was Bruce Wayne’s butler, who knew his boss’s secret identity as
Batman and helped him fight crime. Selina was Catwoman’s first name, Selina
Kyle. I used to like her. A lot of what became Melody Powers for me started off
as Catwoman. But I liked Batman better. He was great.
“And Grayson was Nightwing’s last
name—Dick Grayson, the first Robin who worked with Batman. So, if Jane’s Selina
Grayson, does that mean Catwoman married Robin and became Jane Lane? That doesn’t
make any sense. It’s as crazy as everything else that’s going on, but it still
doesn’t make sense. Dick Grayson didn’t have any kids. The next Robin was Jason
Todd, but he . . . what the hell am I thinking about comic books for? I’m stuck
in the woods, probably being hunted by every cop in the state and every branch
of the U. S. Armed Forces, and I’m . . . argh.”
She exhaled and willed herself to say nothing more.
“Catwoman had a kid, I remember reading
somewhere,” she said later. “She and Batman got married, didn’t they? Wait, that
was on Earth Two, before Crisis happened. How did that go? They got married and
their daughter was the Huntress, I forgot her name, and she . . . oh, God, she
became a lawyer. Everywhere I look, there’s a lawyer. My first mom was a
lawyer, Jennifer Walters, and my second mom was a lawyer, Helen Morgendorffer,
and now this. Huntress went to work for . . . oh, right. Robin. Only he wasn’t
Robin anymore, he went back to being Richard Grayson again, another lawyer. Batman’s biological
daughter was working for Batman’s quasi-adopted son on Earth Two, the planet
that got wiped out in the Crisis storyline. None of it exists now. Huntress and
the old Robin were destroyed by antimatter, with everyone else from their
world.
“Helena. That was her name: Helena Wayne,
the old Huntress. The new one’s Bertinelli or something like that, but, before
Crisis, she was Helena Wayne, attorney at law. And my second mom is Helen
Morgendorffer, attorney at law. This is scaring the crap out of me. Lawyers
named Helen everywhere. I can’t believe this.
“What was I thinking? Oh. If Jane says
her name is Selina Grayson, then . . . well, that would be too weird. If Batman’s
daughter fooled around with Batman’s ward at work, and they got secretly
married and had a daughter and named her after Helena’s mother, then . . . but
that’s nuts. That’s not in the comics at all. That can’t be it. Oh, like it has
to be in the comics before it makes any sense? Listen to me. Look at me. ‘All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m
ready for my close-up.’ I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”
Daria got to her feet. “This is getting
nowhere,” she said. The fog from her breath filled the air before her. “That
would be too weird, if Jane was Batman’s granddaughter, not that I believe for
a moment she is. Her parents would hide her away forever. Her parents were
Batman’s kids? Well, Robin wasn’t really, but still, the scandal would be awful.
She’d be the biggest secret on her planet. The villains would be bad, but the
gossip magazines, the tabloids, they’d be murder. No one would ever be allowed
to see her, no one but her parents and maybe a few people they trusted. That’s
so unrealistic it’s ridiculous, but none of this is realistic. Earth Two was in
a comic book, and it doesn’t exist anymore anyway. It’s all a joke. I still don’t
know how Jane knew that Wyatt was my first dad. He wasn’t in any damn comic
book. Pissed me off. A little. I guess.”
She shook her head in disgust. “What are
you going to do now, Morgendorffer? How’re you feeling? Tired of being a
monster yet? No, just friendless and depressed as usual. Excuse me, I’m being realistic. Everything sucks, big time. That’s realistic. I wish I could call
Mom. I should call Mom. At least I can tell her I’m sorry I ruined the family
name before they nuke me.”
She looked around. The sky in one
direction was brightly lit. She decided to go in the other direction and look
for a roadside pay phone. Correct change would be no problem—she could rip the
coin box out of the phone again if she had to. With a heavy heart and deep
footprints, she set off to make her phone call. What she would do after that,
she hadn’t the faintest idea.
* * *
The Triumph Spitfire came to a stop in
the parking lot of an abandoned convenience store, one block from the Tank
Tiger gas station. Amy Barksdale got out of the low-slung car, scanning the
overgrown field and scattered trees behind the store. The chill air bit through
her pantsuit, but she took off her leather coat and tossed it on her seat. It
would only slow her down. Nothing moved but the wind. No one was there but her.
Wait—
Dry grass crunched in the distance. A hunched
shape—someone was coming through the field toward her, running low. Amy swept
her long hair back with her gloved hands, inhaled deeply, and held it in to make
herself relax. When she let her breath out, she was ready.
“Jane?” she called in a strong voice. She
looked in all directions as if she’d not noticed a thing. “Jane, are you here?”
“Amy?” someone cried.
She turned swiftly and looked at the runner
in the field. A teenage girl was hurrying toward her, barely visible in the
light from the gas station—yes, it had to be her. Short dark bangs, wiry build,
cradling her right arm. Right into my
lap.
Amy ran around her car and opened the
passenger door. “Thank heaven I found you!” she called. “Are you badly hurt?”
“I don’t know!” Jane wobbled as she approached,
exhausted and in pain.
Amy stepped aside as she waved Jane past.
The teen slowed down so she could get into the sports car—and Amy stepped in from
behind.
Something’s
wrong. Jane sensed rapid movement, jerked her head to the right and almost
hit the open door. Amy’s gloved right fist shot by, inches from the base of her
skull. No! Not you, Amy!
Amy’s left fist came at her. Jane ducked under
the blow and kicked out by instinct. Her boot nailed Amy under the ribcage. Amy
gasped hard but dropped a hand and hooked Jane’s leg by the knee, striking down
with her other hand at her head. Jane slapped the blow aside and twisted in Amy’s
grip so her other leg swung up, and she kicked the taller woman in the face.
Amy fell back with a cry, but Jane fell, too, and landed on her injured right
arm. It snapped. She saw stars from the pain, bit off a scream, and tried to
get up. A pant-suited leg lashed out and swept her right foot from under her,
throwing her down again. Jane rolled (Ow,
my arm!) and came up with a roundhouse kick, but Amy was up and kicking,
too, her leg following Jane’s and deliberately striking it from behind. The
push increased Jane’s spin and threw her off balance. Half blind with agony,
she tried to punch straight out with her left fist as she came back around—but
Amy was there, in close, her gloved fist a sledgehammer against the side of
Jane’s head.
Lights out.
Amy staggered on her feet and wiped at
the streams of blood running down her face from her broken nose. She ached in a
dozen places, and her black, French-label pantsuit was stained beyond repair. “Little
bitch!” she hissed at the motionless
shape at her feet. She almost went back to her car and got the H&K, reward
be damned.
But Executive One would be unhappy with an
agent who lost her temper when things got tough. Executive One would be
unhappier, possibly even angry, with someone who killed a potential prize. There
were worse things than having your nose broken and suit ruined, and Executive
One knew all the worst things.
What
the hell, I won anyway. Good fight. Back to work.
Amy opened her car trunk, stuffed the
limp teenager inside it with her soiled gloves, and slammed the lid down. It
would be a cramped ride for Jane, where she was going next. The thought of what
would happen after that made Amy smile, as difficult as that was with tissues
stuck up her nostrils to stop the bleeding.
Maybe
I’ll go to Maui again after my nose is fixed, she thought as she headed for
the Interstate. They have such nice
surfers there, men who know such interesting things to do with their strong,
busy hands—hard, lean men with easy smiles who like to share their time with an
innocent lady tourist.
Yes, hard
men are so very good to find.
XV
Helen Morgendorffer was exhausted when the
questioning had ended, but she decided to see Trent before doing anything else.
She would have preferred to go home, uncork a bottle of zinfandel, and drink
herself into a stupor, but an annoying sense of responsibility directed her to
action. Her thoughts would not grant her peace.
How
could they possibly tell me that Daria isn’t Daria? That’s insane! I’m going to
sue! All that nonsense about her fingerprints not matching her birth
certificate—that’s my daughter they’re talking about! She’s been with me from
start to finish, and she’s my child, MY CHILD, and they’re FULL OF IT! I’ll
defend her to the end! The lab’s got its fingerprint files all mixed up!
And poor Trent
was the brother of Daria’s best friend ever, her only friend, so . . . better check
my makeup in my pocket mirror, fix my hair . . . that’ll do. It’s after
midnight anyway. No one will care, Trent probably least of all. Here goes.
“Trent?” Helen called through the bars of
his cell.
The tall, scruffy young man sitting on
the edge of the wall-mounted bed looked up with sunken eyes. Helen was shocked
to see how Jane’s twenty-something brother had aged since she’d last seen him. “May
I talk with you for a few minutes?” she asked.
Trent stared at her dully, then shrugged
and looked down again.
He
must be so worried for his sister, and for Daria, too. I completely understand.
Helen glanced to her left. A corrections officer took up a position at the
end of the short corridor in front of a door, staring at his shoes with a bored
expression. He might overhear a few things, but that wasn’t an issue. No other
prisoners were in this wing of the city jail. The rooms normally used for
conversations with prisoners had been commandeered for emergency meetings
during the current crisis.
“Trent, I know this is a difficult time
for you,” Helen said, fearing the words would catch in her throat. “I want to
reassure you that the police haven’t given up hope of finding Jane alive.” Better not mention that they’re searching
the Lanes’ house yet again. I bet it’s for Jane’s fingerprints, from birth to
present. Idiots. When Trent did not respond, she added, “There’s still a good
chance that she’ll turn up in relatively good—”
Trent got up from his bed and began pacing
back and forth in his cell. His Kurt Cobain T-shirt was stained, his faded jeans
ripped, his black hair uncombed. The blue tattoos on his arms made him look
like a drug pusher—but he’s not, of
course, Helen told herself quickly. He’s
always been a good person, from all that I ever heard from Daria or Jane.
She began again. “Trent, I hope—”
“Daria’s alive,” he interrupted. He ran a
hand through his wild hair, and his silver earrings jingled. “They said she was
running around out there somewhere. If she’s there, then Janey must be with
her.”
That
green monster is not my Daria! Helen almost said, but she forced her
protest down. Trent’s logic had a certain appeal. There was still hope for both
girls at this point. “Anyway,” Helen went on, “I’ve come to ask if you need any—”
“I saw her in that suit,” Trent said
under his breath, pacing in his cell. “The one they’re talking about.”
Say
what? Helen glanced at the distant guard, who was inspecting his
fingernails. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t hear what you—”
“I saw Daria in that green costume,” said
Trent. “Janey told me not to tell, but I saw her.” He unconsciously rubbed his upper
arm, where Jane had punched him. “Daria looked good. Kinda big, kinda cute, just
like this comic-book character named She-Hulk. She was green, too.” He sat down
on the bed. “Must have used a quick-remove dye.”
Helen blinked. Oh, God, no. “You saw it? The green monster suit?”
“Yeah. It was cool.” Trent’s smile fled,
and he looked miserable again.
She shot a frightened glance at the bored
guard. “You saw Daria dressed up like—like what?”
Trent covered his face with his hands. “She-Hulk,”
he muttered. “She had on—”
“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” Helen
swallowed. Dear God, it can’t be! This
can’t be happening! What to do, what to do— She turned to the guard and her
voice rose. “Sir? Can we have a little privacy, please? Ten minutes?”
“Are you his lawyer?” asked the guard,
showing a flicker of interest.
She looked at Trent. I can’t be his lawyer, or Daria’s or Jane’s. The detective was right; I’d
be overwhelmed if I tried it—but I can be tricky. She looked back. “Yes, I’m
a lawyer.” But not his. “Please, can he
and I have a little time to talk, in private?”
The guard reluctantly nodded. “Don’t get
too close to the bars,” he warned. “I’ll be watching through the window in the
door.” With that, the guard opened the door behind him and stepped out of the corridor.
The door shut moments later.
Helen turned immediately back to Trent, pressing
herself against the bars. “What did you say about seeing Daria in a green
costume?” she said in a thick whisper.
Trent drew a deep breath. “I saw it last
night, when Janey got back from picking Daria up from wherever. Janey said she
and Daria made the costume for Halloween, so Daria would look like She-Hulk. She
said it took a long time to get it right. I didn’t even know they’d been
working on it, but I heard Janey call me when I was getting something to eat in
the kitchen. I was back from a gig that didn’t go over. I forget what time it
was, but it was pretty late. They were in the garage, Janey and Daria, by my
car. The rear door had already come off, but the car’s old so it was probably going
to fall off anyway. Janey had me look at Daria’s outfit. Daria was hiding
behind the car because part of her suit ripped, but I could tell it was her.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know how they came up with that costume, but it was
cool. Janey thinks of everything.”
Jesus
God, it can’t be! It just can’t! “But Daria doesn’t like Halloween,” said Helen in an incredulous tone. “She doesn’t
even like handing out candy unless she can insult the . . . oh, forget it. I
just can’t believe that Daria would . . . that she could make a costume like
that. It’s just . . . it’s . . .”
Trent thought, then nodded absently.
Helen’s defenses collapsed. Why would Trent lie? Dear God, that really is Daria out there! She really is destroying everything!
What happened? Why is she doing this? Is she on drugs? Did she go insane? What
could have done it?
“Janey’s alive,” said Trent, looking off
to the side. His expression was strange. “I can’t believe that she’s . . . that
anything bad happened. If Daria’s out there, Janey is, too. Daria wouldn’t do
anything without Janey. They’re like that.”
He crossed his fingers and held them up. “Freakin’ friends forever.”
“That costume you saw,” said Helen. She
could not get her mind off it. “Did you see it do anything?”
“Oh. Uh, no, not really. It was real heavy,
though. The floor of the house almost cracked when she walked on it, when she
went upstairs. Janey made me go into the basement, but I could hear Daria walk
around, every step like boom, boom, boom. That costume must have weighed a lot
or something. Maybe a ton. Weird.”
The
costume was heavy. As in armored, mechanical, metal plated, just like the
detective said. And Daria and Jane made it. That really is her out there. She’s
the monster. With that, Helen suddenly knew, as clearly as she knew she was
talking to Trent in the city jail, that she would never see Daria alive again.
She sagged against the bars, her hands gripping the cold iron as her knees trembled.
Daria, my little Daria, what did you do? All
the years I raised you, all the years I tried to get you to come out of your
shell and join the human race, and what are you doing now? Why are you doing
this awful thing? Where are you? Why is this happening? Daria, answer me! Tell
me!
She closed her eyes and rested her head
against the bars. Wake me up, please,
someone get me out of this nightmare, I beg you. I’ll give you anything if you’ll
only wake me up.
“Don’t worry,” said Trent from his bed. “They’ll
come back. I know they will.”
Helen stared at the opposite wall of the
cell and said nothing.
“I know they’ll come back.”
“I hope so,” whispered Helen, who didn’t
believe it.
“Janey and I were out once,” Trent said,
his voice casual and low, “back when we were kids, when she was about five, and
I was ten, I think, and we were playing on . . . we were over playing by the—”
His voice rose “—on the railroad, on the tracks near our house, and she . . .”
He stopped and rubbed his face hard.
Helen’s gaze drifted toward him.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” he said. “She
. . . we were just kids, and I walked off to throw rocks and left her there,
and she was—” His eyes watered and his voice cracked “—she was on the tracks
when I heard the train, and I knew that . . . I saw the train was right there, it
was really fast, and she was still on the tracks, she was too scared to move, and
I screamed at her and ran to get her, I tried to get to her, but she—”
His voice broke. “I thought I saw her go under the train!” he cried. Tears ran
down his face. “I saw her run over, she
was—I saw—she was all everywhere—and I
was screaming, I was screaming so freaking much I passed out, but then—then the
train was gone, and—and I came to on the ground, and she was with me! She was alive, like nothing had happened! I thought she was dead, but I
must have dreamed it, because she was okay, it was all right, so I know she’ll
come back and she isn’t—”
He buried his face in his hands and sobbed
until he was hoarse. By then, the guard had come for Helen. She was gone.
Trent curled up on the bed and faced the
wall, his arms covering his head. Please
be alive, Janey. Please come back to me, just like the last time. I’m sorry I
wasn’t watching you. I’m sorry I wasn’t with you this time, too. It was my
fault I wasn’t there, but I didn’t know you were in trouble. Please be alive
like you were when I thought the train hit you. Please come back to me. That’s
all I want. Please come back.
* * *
The officer operating the tape player
turned off the recording. “He doesn’t say anything after that.”
The police chief put down the pencil he
had been playing with and looked to his left at an elderly gentleman in a rumpled
suit. “Sol, can we use this?”
The old man leaned forward in his seat,
clasping his hands on the table before him. “Mrs. Morgendorffer never stated
she was acting as the young man’s legal counsel, and we have no record of such
an agreement from any other source, so there’s no known issue of privilege. I
would say yes, unless we hear otherwise. Did she know that we have the cells
wired for sound?”
“She’s a lawyer, so she ought to know,” snapped
the detective who sat across from the chief at the table. “Trent gave her an
earful half an hour ago, and she’s not telling us about it. I want her
followed; if she won’t cooperate, we can charge her with withholding evidence
and interfering in a police investigation. We can add perjury and whatever else
to it if she lies to us later. We could charge her anyway just to keep her on
hand, and get the judge to throw out bail so she won’t flee. And we should hold
this Trent guy as long as we can and get the whole story out of him. I can’t
believe he could live in that house alone with his sister and not know she and
a friend were building some kind of all-in-one combat suit in the basement, or
wherever.”
The police chief nodded agreement, then looked
to his right. “We have anything from the lab yet about bomb-making materials in
the house?”
“Nothing yet,” said a sergeant. “Found a
few more stashes of dope, though. Some are pretty old, maybe from the
seventies. Could have been the parents’ stuff.”
“Anything on the parents from the FBI?”
“Still checking,” said a female officer. “We’re
trying to work out something with the Canadian authorities to pick up the
mother in Montreal, if she’s still there. We can’t find the father or the older
siblings.”
“Okay.” The chief sniffed. His allergies
were acting up. “As far as the search for Green Girl, the governor’s a go, and in
a few hours we should be getting high-tech help from the Army National Guard’s
air cavalry units. I want to blanket the whole area with infrared cameras, two
on every police chopper. Green Girl should put out a heat signature like a
forest fire, if she’s got machinery in that suit. The Air Force says they can
send over an AWACS plane to listen for any radio communication or electronic
noise she’s making. We should get that about seven a.m. for a full day’s time.”
“Should we try to negotiate with her if
we find her?” said another female officer.
“Negative,” said the SWAT commander. “Anyone
who finds her should keep her pinned until we can pile in and take her down. We
might not have time to evacuate the area first. She’s too dangerous.”
“I think we promised her mother we’d try
to save her life.”
“We’d do all we could, we said. Let’s not
get stupid here.”
“I’ll pass it along,” said the chief
tiredly, “but we’re already knee-deep in jurisdictional disputes with the
state. The governor’s office wants to appoint someone to command the search and
its aftermath, and the Guard copters aren’t going to be under our supervision,
anyway. Coordination is getting to be a problem, and it’s going to get worse.
This could be out of our hands by the time the sun comes up, except for lab
work.”
“What if she’s hiding in a cave or in a
lake or river?” asked an officer. “Can infrared cameras pick her up then?”
“That’s been brought up before. I doubt
it. We might have something for underwater searching, but we’ll have to search
caves on foot. No way around it.”
“If she’s in a cave, we could seal her
in,” someone said. There was a little silence after that.
“You know, that suit’s supposed to be
bulletproof,” said someone else, “but I heard that some of the officers who
fought Green Girl don’t think she’s wearing a suit.”
Everyone looked at the man who spoke. The
police chief grimaced. “What are you talking about?” he asked, but he knew what
was coming.
The officer who spoke up appeared
embarrassed, but he plunged on. “The officers think Green Girl’s not wearing
armor. They think she’s a live creature, like a monster. I know it sounds
crazy, but they said they couldn’t see how it could possibly be someone in a
suit of armor. She moves like she’s a real woman, like that transformation or
whatever in the hospital wasn’t faked. A couple of the guys—” The man coughed and
spread his hands “—a couple of them think she’s not human, that maybe she’s
more like a demon. Bullets bounce right off her. She picks up cars and smashes
them, and she’s been caught on video. She takes everything you throw at her and
just keeps going.”
“Let’s not spread that demon rumor around,”
said the chief heavily. “It isn’t going to help.”
“TV news already has it,” said someone.
“That’s bullshit!” said the detective
angrily. “She’s wearing damn good armor, and if our guns won’t bring her down,
maybe the Guard’s got something that will.”
“Cobras,” said an officer. “The Air
National Guard’s got Cobras, and Blackhawks for the Rangers.”
The detective’s face cleared. “Jesus,
they do, don’t they? Man, that would be—”
The chief suddenly pushed back his chair and
stood up. “I need more coffee. This meeting’s adjourned, but at six a.m. sharp,
we’re meeting in the main conference room. Closed doors, no press invited. If
you hear anything, bring it to my office A.S.A.P. And the first person here to
breathe the word ‘demon’ on the air will die a cold, cruel death.”
Everyone filed out of the room. The
detective stayed behind, scribbling patterns on paper, thinking. No one had talked
about what Trent had said, about his belief that his sister had once died. That
sounded like some kind of bad drug trip. He didn’t recall any train accident
with a kid being run over by a locomotive back in the mid-1980s, and he would remember
a thing like that. There was more going on than met the eye and ear—and he was
damned if he wasn’t going to find it out.
* * *
Kara?
The telepathic call brought her to the
edge of wakefulness, though anyone viewing her would say she was sound asleep. She
sighed in annoyance. What is it, Ted?
Franklin.
My name—
Get on
with it. I’m trying to sleep.
You’re
not—
—being
nice? Am I a bad slave? No wonder you keep me chained up like this.
Kara, that’s—I’m
not—look, I was just checking on you, okay?
Your humble
servant is doing well, Master.
That’s not
funny. Don’t call me that, I’m not your master.
Then release
me.
I can’t!
Of course,
Master.
Kara! Stop
it!
Why does
this bother you, Ted? Am I unappreciative? Ungrateful? Scathingly honest?
Ye—no! The
reason I don’t talk to you very often is because you are ungrateful!
You’re not being realistic about the situation at all!
Hmmm. You
brought me safely to this world and gave me a loving home . . .
Yes!
. . . and
stained your hands with the blood of innocents to do it.
No! Kara,
stop it!
You’re a murderer.
You’re a killer of children.
Kara, damn
it, I never did that! Stop it!
You can
leave if you don’t like it. It’s a free country and a free psychic ether.
We’ve
talked about this before, okay? It’s not—
You want
to discuss it?
No! Those
people were going to die anyway, Kara! All I did was—
—fail to
save them.
—I put
those who needed homes in place of those who were lost! I hunted every
alternate dimension there was to find for a world for us, and I found this one!
I found us a home!
Was that
really what you did, Ted?
Why . . .
what do you mean?
Is that
how that universe-crossing psychic power of yours truly works?
Of course it
is! What are you raving about?
I find
that hard to believe.
Well, you’ve
got a lot of abilities, yes, but you don’t have my powers, right? What could
you possibly know about what I can do?
I know
statistics. I am very well versed on that.
Statistics?
My dad always told me that the multiverse “was filled with infinite combinations
of the probable, the possible, and the unlikely.” I knew that, somewhere, there
had to be a place where all of us, everyone who escaped from disaster, could
make a new home, grow up in a new family—
We’re the
cuckoo’s children, you’re saying.
What?
A cuckoo
mother lays its egg in the nest of another bird. The newborn cuckoo is bigger
than the other nestlings, and it pushes them out or takes their food until it
alone occupies the nest.
That’s just
not true! We aren’t pushing anyone out of the nest! The nests were emptied by
fate, and we—
No, Ted, those
nests were emptied by you. You emptied them for us. You didn’t sort through an
infinite span of universes to find this one. That would be impossible by
definition.
Yes, I
did! I did find it!
No, Ted.
You created it.
You’re
lying!
You couldn’t
sort through an infinite number of universes to get a result like this one.
That’s statistically impossible, even for you. You just made it happen. You
created it.
YOU’RE LYING!
You
murdered those children for us and cleared those nests for the invaders. You
destroyed them, one of them for each one of us, staining yourself with blood
and staining us as well. You made us all the cuckoo’s children.
YOU GO TO
HELL!
What was
she like, Ted?
WHAT WAS
WHO LIKE?
Jodie
Abigail Landon, before you killed her to make room for me?
No response. The psychic ether was empty.
The young woman who slept in the bed
intended for Jodie Abigail Landon sighed again and rubbed her nose, then rolled
over and sank back into sleep. Even as she did, a part of her mind remained
awake and reflective. Franklin was wearing down, and his attention was
scattered. He wasn’t able to renew the psychic chains he’d placed over her
consciousness to keep her from using her powers. He feared her.
He had good reason to fear her, now.
As the girl who both was and was not
Jodie slept, a part of her mind worked away at her chains, wearing down the
hidden mental locks. It would not be long before the locks parted, and she rose
in freedom and told the world the names of her mother and father, which she had
taken as her own.
No one would believe her, but it would
not matter if they did.
And then, as her well-meaning but
air-headed cheerleader friend Brittany had wanted to do, she would make the world
a nicer place. And it would be a
nicer place.
No matter how many people she had to kill
in order to do it.
XVI
By five a.m. that cold Saturday morning,
Stacy Rowe had gotten only two hours of sleep, and that only because she had fainted
earlier in the evening. In her state of mind it wasn’t likely she would get
more rest, so she had turned on the coffeemaker and waited for her first cup.
She planned to drink it black.
It was warm in the house, but she wore a
white terrycloth bathrobe over her pajamas for the comfort value. On the
kitchen table before her was a fresh steno pad, and across the top line of the
first page she had written, “WHAT I NEED TO DO FIRST.” She stared at that
otherwise unblemished page with a purple pen at the ready, paralyzed with
indecision, for twenty minutes.
At five oh one a.m., she lowered the pen
and crossed out the word “FIRST.” That broke the dam.
1. Find Alex, Julie, and Jack, she wrote, then:
2. Find out from Franklin what the heck happened when
we got here and what’s going on now and if it has anything to do with all the
weird scary terrorist stuff going on in Lawndale yesterday and the school
lockdown and Quinn’s “cousin” (sister) and her weird friend blowing up
everything and Sandi telling me to erase any mention that Quinn was ever part
of the Fashion Club because it would be bad press.
3. Don’t tell Mom, Dad, Mark, Anne, or Cliff about me actually
being Katie Power.
4. Don’t tell anyone in the Fashion Club about that,
either (except maybe Quinn, but definitely not Sandi or Tiffany).
The pen twirled in her fingers.
What
am I going to do about my screwed-up age? she thought. I thought I was seventeen as Stacy Rowe, but I’m actually twenty as
Katie Power and I can’t figure out why I’m three grades behind and not in
college now. Was there a problem and I was held back three grades but don’t
remember it now, like it was so traumatizing that I went mental and had to be
hospitalized and given drugs and my new family had to move? I don’t remember
flunking any tests or anything, no big ones, anyway, except sometimes in math,
but other kids flunked those, too, and they weren’t held back. I think.
She shook her head. No, the only really big mental thing I went through was after Franklin
told us we would have to get new families because we couldn’t go back to our
real families for some reason, which he wouldn’t explain but I think meant
something bad had happened to our real homes, and then all the other kids
started yelling at him and I yelled at him a little, too, but then he did
something, Franklin did. It was some kind of mind trick, I’m sure of it, because
I remember I wasn’t angry with him anymore, and then he touched my forehead . .
. and I wasn’t Katie Power. The next thing I remember I was standing in a swimsuit
next to a swimming pool, and this lady ran out of the house and grabbed me and
said she was glad I hadn’t fallen into the pool and drowned. Then I think she
took me back inside the house, and that’s all I remember . . . except from that
moment on, I thought that that lady was my mother and my name was Stacy Rowe.
What
the heck happened? How did Franklin get my second mom and dad to believe I was
their daughter? And Mark, Anne, and Cliff think I’m their little sister, too.
Did Franklin do something to them and make them think I was part of their
family? Then, how did he create my birth certificate? Why did my kindergarten
teacher remember me as Stacy Rowe when she saw me a few years ago, but I didn’t
remember her at all and still don’t? I remember my kindergarten teacher in Manhattan,
when I was five and still called Katie Power, but not the one here.
So
many questions, but no good answers. My hair got really dark. It used to be
blonde when I was little, but now I’m a brunette. Why? It could be a natural
change, as it’s happened to lots of others, but . . . well, my eyes are still
dark blue, anyway. So, was there another Stacy Rowe, and I somehow took her
place? “My” baby pictures as Stacy show me with brown hair, but I never had it.
What happened to the other Stacy Rowe, if there was one? This whole thing is so
awful, it makes my stomach hurt.
What
happened to my real parents, Margaret and James Power? Can I find them or my
real brothers and sister again? That bothers me more than anything else.
The coffee had been ready for some time.
She got up, poured a cup, drank it straight and hot, then walked back to the
kitchen table with her second cup. She looked sourly at the steno pad, then
flipped it shut and put it on a nearby countertop. After she sat down, she held
the coffee cup under her nose and inhaled it with her eyes closed.
Franklin
got his way after all. He took away fifteen years of my life and made me live
as someone else with another family. What a rotten thing to do! He was so
sweet, and then he turned out to be such a creep! This is totally scary, scarier
than any movie ever, even that gross one with the man-eating alien in it, but I’m
also so totally ticked off at Franklin I can’t stand it! Why did he do this to
me? What did he get out of it? I should do an Internet search and find out
where my mom and dad are—oh, wait! No!
Her eyes opened wide.
Didn’t
Franklin tell us that we were on a new planet, when he brought us here after
leaving the Avengers’ mansion? That’s just nuts. This is the same Earth that we
. . . no, it isn’t the same. It couldn’t be. There are no superheroes here, no Wolverine
or Fantastic Four or X-Men or anyone. They’re only in the comic books. They’re
make-believe, pretend. They don’t exist and never did—except for me, Franklin,
my brothers and sister, and everyone who came over with us from the Avengers’
mansion—but how could that be possible? How can everyone I knew be from a comic
book? That’s crazy, but I know they existed! They were real! What happened?
Her eyes opened wider still.
Margaret
and James Power didn’t come over with us! Mom and Dad don’t exist anymore! Oh,
no! That’s not possible! It can’t be possible! They can’t be gone!
She fought back tears. The coffee cup
trembled in her hands. Calm down, calm
down! Get a grip on yourself! Hold your breath! Okay, better. What do I need to
do first? Uh, first, I need to find Franklin—Ted, I mean—oh, whatever. I want
him to tell me what really happened. And he’d better tell me the truth, he’d
better tell me everything he knows and be ready to make things good again, because
if he doesn’t—
Her eyes narrowed. Her teeth clenched.
She looked down into her coffee cup in a rage, and for the first time she could
ever remember in her life as Stacy Rowe, she thought about murder.
Fffft!
The cup and the coffee within it vanished before her face. An instant later,
Stacy’s hands began to glow from within, radiating bright yellow light.
“Oh, no!” she cried, staring at her hands
in horror. “Oh, no!” Her face was
glowing, too; she could tell with just a glance at a window. She had only seconds
left. She jumped up, ran to the door to the backyard, flung it open, ran barefoot
out into the freezing predawn air over the frost-covered grass, and fumbled
with the terrycloth sash around her waist, trying to pull it free.
FFFOOOM! Brilliant balls of fiery energy
burst from her chest and burned through the front of the bathrobe and pajama
top, flying like comets across the yard. As she slapped at her flaming clothes
in panic, the energy balls exploded against the ground twenty yards away with
deafening thunderclaps. Burning grass and dead leaves flew everywhere. Her
nightclothes blackened and smoldering, Stacy ran back to the house, picked up
the garden hose she was supposed to have disconnected and put away two weeks
ago, turned on the faucet, and ran back out into the yard to put out the small
fires she saw. The ground was too damp for the grass to catch much. She was
done in seconds.
Dogs barked all across the dark subdivision.
Doors opened. People came out and shouted. Stacy hurriedly dragged the hose
back to the house and flung it in a heap by the old hydrangea bed. Then she ran
back into the kitchen, her feet numb with cold. Hearing her parents’ footsteps
upstairs and knowing they’d be down in moments more, she ran into the nearest
bathroom and locked herself in. Then she tore off her smoldering clothing,
threw it into the bathtub, and turned on the shower. She then stepped back,
panting hard, dark spots swimming before her eyes. She was unharmed, not a
scratch or burn on her.
And then, because she had been hyperventilating
at a fantastic rate since the moment she realized her alien-given Energizer
powers were still active, her eyes rolled up and she again crumpled to the
floor in a faint, thumping flat against the rug just as her (second set of) parents
banged on the door and shouted her (second) given name.
* * *
Amy Barksdale’s route away from Lawndale happened
to take her past the Mall of the Millennium. It was closed at this early hour,
but because she needed to make a bathroom visit and her nose hurt badly enough
to make her eyes water, she reluctantly pulled off the Interstate and found a twenty-four-hour
pharmacy in the midst of a dozen closed fast-food restaurants. She parked on
the darkest side of the lot, carefully took the clotted tissues out of her
broken nose and threw them away, then left her car and checked the trunk lid to
make sure it was still shut. There was no chance a skinny teenager with a
gunshot wound, a broken arm, and no room to wiggle was going to get out of that.
No one was around, except for a guy in a hooded jacket waiting at a bus stop
and what looked like two adolescents across the street, waiting to cross at the
corner. Traffic was light. The eastern sky was lightening. All was quiet.
Satisfied, Amy went into the pharmacy and
used the bathroom, left a phone message for a top-rated plastic surgeon in the
Washington, D.C. area, then bought a bottle of pain pills, a caffeine-loaded
Ultra-Cola in a twelve-ounce bottle, and a CD she had been looking for since
forever (Bad Music for Bad People, by
The Cramps). It also helped to know that having Jane in the trunk meant she’d
be back in Maui to recuperate in no time. Executive One always rewarded good
work. Except for the busted nose and a few aches, it had been a decent enough evening.
“Ohmigod!” cried the twenty-something
girl with the eyebrow piercings at the cash register. She stared at Amy’s nose.
“Are you okay?”
“I god bugged doday,” said Amy, her
sinuses plugged. “Idz ogay, the poleez god the guy.”
“I knew a girl who got mugged once, but
they never caught the jerk. That looks so awful, with your nose swollen like
that! And you’ve got black eyes, too!”
If
I had wanted your fashion advice, I would have tortured you for it, Amy
thought darkly. “I doe,” she said, picking up her purchases with a smile. “Thag
you!”
“Oh, you’re welcome! Have a good night!”
Have
a good night, my ass. I could shoot her for that. Amy waved and walked to
the door. Tonio would have loved shooting
her. He hated rude, dumb people. Dear Tonio, he had such an exquisite chest and
great hands, so much potential. He was a fun mission partner. Too bad he was a
traitor, too. I wonder how long it took to find all of his brains so they could
reopen the beach after I shot him.
Once outside, Amy noticed Hooded-Jacket
Guy wasn’t at the bus stop. The kids weren’t around, either, but Hooded-Jacket
Guy had looked in her direction once when she got out of the car. She
immediately manipulated the car keys in her right fist to form a
slashing/stabbing weapon, and she turned in place. No one was in sight, but—
She stopped dead in her tracks. The trunk
of her Triumph Spitfire was open. A man lay spread-eagle on the pavement behind
her car. It was Hooded-Jacket Guy.
She walked over, alert to every sound in
the cold wind. The trunk of her car was empty. Hooded-Jacket Guy looked like a freight
train had hit him square in his face; it was difficult in the dim light to tell
if he was still alive, there was so much blood. That Jane can really kick, Amy thought in surprise. Good thing I didn’t try to check on her
myself.
A crowbar was missing from the tool kit
that should have been safely hidden under the trunk floor with the spare tire. How the hell did she do that? Is she a
contortionist, too? Now she’s gone . . . but she can’t have gone far.
No remote video cameras were in view. Amy
opened her car, tossed in the sack with her purchases, got the H&K Mark 23,
attached the silencer, and got out of the car. She shut the trunk lid. No one
was around but her and Hooded-Jacket Guy, so she knelt and put a hollow point
through the side of his head in case he decided to get up later and complain
about people being mean to him while he was breaking into car trunks. Cleaning
up the parking lot would be a bitch for someone once the bloody mess froze.
It was possible to back up without
running over what was left of Hooded-Jacket Guy, which she would have done out
of sheer spite except that it would leave evidence from her car that any police
lab could get. Amy drove out of the parking lot and down the street two blocks,
then parked in a secluded spot and got out of the car again. She had a few
ideas where Jane might have gone, and she gave herself a half hour to find that
little minx and teach her an excruciating lesson about what happened to those
who tried to escape from the disarmingly quirky woman that fellow operatives nervously
called the Misery Chick.
* * *
Clouds of frosted breath hung in the air
as Jane waited in the darkness for Amy. She had no doubt that Daria’s aunt
would find her—and she had little doubt the fight would be one-sided. She
leaned against the side of a cinderblock garage only two blocks away from the
parking lot where she’d escaped, shielded by bushes and clutching a crowbar
that was cold and heavy in her trembling left hand. It was next to impossible
to focus on what she was doing. The burst of energy that allowed her to
overpower the car thief and dash away had deserted her, just as her previous
bursts of energy had done. Only the mind-numbing pain from her broken right arm
kept her conscious.
The end of the crowbar lowered until it
rested on the ground. I’m going to die soon,
she thought in resignation, killed by the
favorite aunt of my best friend, for no particular reason that I can figure. I
don’t know who’s writing the screenplay of my life, but the scriptwriter sucks
ass. Maybe Amy will get run over by a car or something. There’s a little hope
left, there has to be. A little tiny minuscule atom of hope, but—
She heard footsteps coming. So much for that atom. She summoned a
last surge of energy, enough to raise the crowbar over her head, and she shivered
all over.
“Aunt Jane?” said a girl’s voice.
Jane blinked, her eyes widening. The
crowbar wavered. What the hell?
“Aunt Jane, it’s us,” said a boy. “Courtney
and Adrian. You’re safe now.”
No
way! I’m hallucinating. Knock it off, Jane, you’re going to get killed when Amy
finds you if you don’t straighten up. Jane held her attack position. She
could see a faint shadow—no, two of
them—approaching around the side of the garage, backlit by a distant
streetlight. Two of them? Were her niece and nephew actually here?
“The bad lady won’t hurt you,” said the
Courtney voice. “You can come out.”
“Aunt Jane thinks she’s going crazy,” whispered
Adrian. “She’s holding a crowbar behind the garage, over there.”
“Oh, no. Aunt Jane? Come on out. We found
a warm place to stay. They have pizza and other stuff, too.”
“Her arm’s broken,” said Adrian. “And someone
shot her! She’s really hurt!”
One of the shadows moved forward. Jane
looked up as a coat-wearing figure came into view around the corner of the
garage: a girl of about fourteen, up to Jane’s chin in height, with wavy blonde
hair, bright eyes, and a backpack. The girl raised a hand, palm up, extending
it toward Jane.
“Aunt Jane,” said Courtney, “please come
out. You’re safe now.”
The crowbar wavered a few seconds
longer—then it fell to the frozen earth by Jane’s feet. I give up, she thought. I
give up. I’m ready to die.
“You aren’t going to die,” said Adrian,
as if talking to a child.
Courtney stepped closer. Jane pushed
herself away from the garage and staggered toward her niece. She almost fell,
but Courtney was suddenly right there hugging her. Oddly, hugging Courtney made
Jane light-headed—and her pain was gone. She almost fell down in relief. Adrian
was there, too, hugging her before he pulled his aunt’s right arm over his
shoulders.
“Come on,” said Adrian. He and Courtney
guided Jane across a paved driveway toward the back door of the nearest house. “We
can rest here for an hour or two. It’s Saturday, and they didn’t set their
alarms to get up early.”
“What?” said Jane. Her knees wobbled, but
Adrian and Courtney held her up. “How do you know?”
“We just do,” said Courtney.
Adrian stopped without warning. He turned
and looked behind them, still holding Jane. Courtney looked back as well. Sensing
another presence, Jane turned, too.
A woman with a broken nose and two black
eyes, wearing a leather jacket and a bloodied black pantsuit, stood motionless
at the end of the driveway. The mouth of the silencer on her pistol was aimed dead
at Jane’s face.
Jane stared back and waited. Not a
thought entered her head.
Adrian raised one hand and made a curious
gesture toward the woman with the gun. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking
for,” he said in a theatric tone.
Courtney snickered.
The broken-nosed woman at the end of the
driveway lowered her pistol in puzzlement and looked around as if awakening
from a dream. After tucking her weapon inside her coat, she set off down the
street at a quick, quiet pace, one hand inside her jacket as she looked to the
left and right, searching for who knew what.
“Come on,” Adrian grumbled, turning back
to the house. “It’s frickin’ cold out here. The back door key’s on that
windowsill, under the flowerpot. I’ll hold her.”
Courtney let go of Jane and reached up
for the flowerpot. It was a foot too high for her—but Courtney’s feet then lifted
from the ground, and she reached the sill with ease. The flowerpot also rose
into the air as Adrian pointed to it with a finger, and it lowered when his
finger indicated it should. Once on the ground again, Courtney stuck the key in
the door lock and twisted. The door came open. It was dark inside.
“House alarm’s off,” said Adrian. “I’ll
reset it when we leave.”
“Who are you?” asked Jane. “Are you—?”
“The real Adrian and Courtney are in
Denver,” said Adrian. “They’re in a children’s shelter downtown, waiting for
their mom to get them. They said they didn’t mind if we pretended we were them
sometimes. Hope you don’t mind that we did.”
Jane inhaled sharply and resisted being taken
through the open door. “Who are you?”
she gasped, pulling away from them.
“We’ll explain inside!” said Courtney, grabbing
for her right hand. “C’mon! We’re freezing!”
“Wait,” Jane said—and then she realized
her right arm didn’t hurt, not a bit. It wasn’t broken. The gunshot wound was
gone. She stared at her arm, turning it back and forth, speechless with shock.
“We’ve got a long story to tell, Selina,”
said Adrian, “but we can’t tell it if we’re iced over in a glacier, okay?”
Jane stared at him next. “You know I’m
not really Jane Lane?” she said in a cracked voice.
“You can be Jane if you want,” said Adrian
softly. “The real Jane Lane is dead. Hurry up and get inside!”
Thunderstruck, Jane felt her resistance
crumble. The youths led her into the house without further trouble, and the
door shut behind them with a thump.
Several blocks away, the broken-nosed woman
kept up her futile search. When dawn came, however, she was gone.
XVII
The trio of resting hikers abandoned
their heavy backpacks in their haste to escape the green, muscular giantess who
confronted them on a hillside trail, this despite her friendly call of, “Hey, do
you have a cell phone I could borrow?” Watching the last of the trio disappear into
the trees, the green woman adjusted her double swimsuit and shrugged, then walked
over to the fallen backpacks and methodically sorted through their contents.
She found a roll of toilet paper and tucked it under one arm; ate all of the candy,
trail mixes, granola bars, canned drinks, and sandwiches she encountered; discarded
the spare clothing and Game Boys; and flipped through a copy of The Complete Moron’s Guide to Wilderness Survival,
Sixth Edition before tossing it aside as well.
Then she found a cell phone.
“If I wasn’t in such a freaking mess,”
she said aloud, “I’d almost think I was getting lucky.”
She finished eating the last six high-carb
energy bars (I’d kill for a pizza right
now, and I do mean kill), then stood and opened the cell phone. One bar,
lousy signal. Scanning the hillside above her, she put down the toilet paper (I’ll come back for it), stepped off the
hiking trail, and began to run, rapidly ascending to the top by leaping up
cliff faces and bounding over fallen trees and boulders. It took her fifteen
seconds.
At the summit, on the side of the hill
overlooking the Rolling Falls River, was a clearing in the trees around a huge
flat rock, a natural scenic lookout point. Judging from the nasty litter around
the area, it was also a prime make-out spot for hikers so inclined. Standing on
the lip of the overhang above a vertical drop eight stories high, Daria opened
the cell phone and tried again: three bars. Good enough. There were no
helicopters about and she saw no circling jet contrails in the sky, and so she gathered
her courage and dialed her mother’s cell phone number.
And hung up before she completed the
call. What the hell am I going to say to
her? What can I possible tell her, knowing what I know about myself, knowing
what I’ve done? “Hi, Mom—or, should I say, Second Mom. Sorry I went a little
crazy yesterday and destroyed Lawndale. Speaking of which, did you know anything
about me being a mutant when I was a kid? Did you and Dad go to some kind of
interstellar adoption agency to get me, or did you pick me out of a crashed
spaceship? Was Jane in there with me, but someone else adopted her? Did Ted
DeWitt-Clinton have anything to do with this? Did you know Jennifer Walters or
Wyatt Wingfoot? They’re not really in a comic book, are they? Who the hell am
I, really?”
She sat down on the cliff’s edge, her
long green legs dangling over the precipice. She did not expect her mother’s
reaction would be at all the same as when she had called after the car accident.
If she disowned me and turned me over to
the FBI, I could understand it. It’s not like I was crabby one night and wouldn’t
eat my lasagna. I’ve scared people and knocked them down, wrecked a string of
police cars, and destroyed a trillion bazillion dollars worth of property. What’s
she going to do about that? Assuming she hasn’t shot herself from the shame of
having me as her child, adopted or not.
And what
about me? Where can I go? I’m tired of running. This fugitive life is getting
me nowhere. I don’t even have a one-armed man to blame; this is my fault, how I’ve
reacted. It’s time to face the music. I should give up and go home, if I can.
Maybe I do have the courage to turn into my former self, the real Daria, and
let them jail me or finish me off. I can’t go on like this. I owe it to Jane to
end it somehow. I could have killed her. I’ll never get over the shame of that.
She swallowed and looked at the phone. The helicopters will probably return before
long to hunt for me, and they might have infrared spotters this time. Jane said
I radiated terrific heat. In this cold, it should be easy to see me in IR. Let ‘em
do it.
She lightly fingered the dialing buttons.
I still wonder why Mom and Dad were
arguing and Dad went to a hotel, when I was six years old and slept all night
in my refrigerator box. I still wonder what that was all about. Guess it doesn’t
matter now.
She dialed.
The phone rang four times, then— “Hello?”
The speaker was not her mother. It
sounded like—
“Quinn?” said Daria, getting to her feet.
She heard her sister gasp. “Daria?” cried
Quinn. “Ohmigod! Daria, where the hell are you? You sound really weird!”
Weird?
Trent thought my deeper voice was sexy. Whatever. “I’m somewhere west of
Lawndale, in the woods somewhere. Where’s Mom?”
“She’s with the police, out looking for
you! Dad and I came home a few hours ago. I’m in my room, but he’s downstairs
with the other police guys. They’re waiting for you to call us on the house
phone!”
That’s
why I called a cell phone instead. I should have called Aunt Amy, but I have to
face Mom sooner or later. “Why do you have Mom’s phone?”
“I was trying to call Sandi from the
police station, but she won’t answer. I think she’s avoiding me. Everyone has
been acting so bizarre!”
“Figures. What else is going on?”
“What’s going on? Are you freakin’
kidding me? What the hell are you doing? People are saying you’re doing bad stuff,
Daria! What’s going on with you, really?”
The temptation to play mind games was
powerful, but . . . no. Her heart came up into her throat. “Quinn, listen to
me,” said Daria. “This is very important, and I don’t think I have much time.
Are you listening?”
“Well, duh, yeah! What’s gotten into you?
What—I mean, what—oh, Daria!”
“Quinn—look, I don’t want to fight. This
might be the last time ever that you and I ever get to talk. They’re going to
find me soon, and . . . to be honest, I can’t explain what’s happened to me. It’s
too crazy. No one would believe it. Just—” Daria took a deep breath “—oh, hell.
Quinn, I’m sorry that I wasn’t a better sister to you. We haven’t gotten along
very well until lately, but I—”
“Daria, I want you to come home! Come home right now!”
“Quinn—” Another deep breath “—Iloveyou.
I’m sorry I haven’t said that very often before now. I regret a lot of things
that happened between us. I hope it’s not too late to tell you how much you
mean to me. Things are so . . . I’m sorry, I can’t explain what’s happening to
me to you or to anyone. I just can’t. Listen . . . Quinn? Please stop crying. Listen
to me. Stop crying, okay? Quinn, pay attention to me! Did they find Jane? Jane’s
alive! I pulled her out of the river and she’s okay, but did they find her?”
“No!
I want you to come home!”
“They didn’t find her? Well . . . please,
tell Jane’s brother that Jane’s alive! Tell Trent, okay? He’s got to know, he’s
her brother!”
“I want you, Daria!”
Daria put a green hand to her forehead. Tears
ran down her face, and it was hard to keep her voice steady. “Quinn, I’m going
to lay low for a while until things calm down, okay? I can’t come back right
now, because everyone’s gone a little nutty, but as soon as I can, I will come
back and see you, okay? I’ll see you and Mom and Dad, I promise. I—”
“I don’t want you to get hurt out there! Please come home, Daria!”
“As soon as I can, I will! I promise!”
Booming noises could be heard in the
background on Quinn’s side. It sounded like someone hammering on a door. “Just come home!” her sister cried.
“Quinn? Is someone trying to get into
your room?”
All Daria heard in response was Quinn’s
sobbing—and the crash of a door being kicked in.
It’s
over. “I love you, Quinn,” Daria said to the phone. She closed her eyes. “I
love you.”
The sounds of a brief struggle came over
the cell phone, mixed with a cry from her sister. An unfamiliar male voice then
said, “Hello? Is this Daria Morgendorffer?”
Daria heard the distant thumping of
helicopters echoing across the hills. A moment later, she opened her eyes and saw
a fast-moving line of a half-dozen military copters coming over the surrounding
hilltops, heading for her. What the hell,
they found me. That was quick. Did they trace the call somehow? Is this a GPS
phone?
“Daria?” said the man on the other end of
the line. “Are you there?”
No
more running, she thought. I want to
do something different, something I should have done from the start.
“I’m here,” she said, wiping her eyes, “but
if you hurt my sister, you’ll regret it. Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you. Your sister is fine.
Nothing’s going to happen to your family, I promise you. They’re safe and
unharmed, Daria. Can I talk to you for a moment?”
“That’s funny. I was going to ask if I
could talk to you.”
“You can, Daria, you can. That would be
great. You can call me Joe. What did you want to say?”
“Are you a hostage negotiator?”
“We call ourselves crisis negotiators now.
What did you want to talk about?”
“Are those helicopters coming at me going
to let me talk, Joe?”
“Those are probably with the Air National
Guard. They’re trying to locate you. Yes, they will let you talk.”
“It would really piss me off if they
tried to interrupt me.”
Something was obviously happening on Joe’s
end of the line, given the whispered commands she could hear in the background.
“Daria,” said the negotiator, “Can you tell me what happened to get this
problem started?”
“You want my viewpoint? Sure.” She
frowned. The helicopters were spreading out before her but not coming closer
than perhaps half a mile. “I had a car wreck two days ago and discovered I wasn’t
Daria Morgendorffer. I’m someone else, or something else, but I don’t know what. I’m sorry about tearing up
things there, but this has been very confusing for me. I haven’t been
myself—sorry for the pun. And now I have a question for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“If I turn myself in, what are you going
to do with me?”
“Ah . . . well, to be honest, Daria, we
want to find out what happened that made you want to attack those around you.
We don’t understand how you were able to do so much damage, and we’d like more
than anything for you to stop hurting other people and destroying things. You’ve
put about two dozen people in the hospital, and several are in serious
condition. We need to find a way to deal with that. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you, but . . .” He’s talking about me going to prison. I don’t
want to go to prison, but I probably deserve it. I didn’t know what I was doing
at first, but when I was trying to lead everyone away from Jane, I did know
what I was doing. I did a lot of terrible things. I was so angry, I hurt
people, I wrecked cars, I just went crazy for a while. Maybe I do deserve
prison—but how are they going to keep me?
“Daria?”
“I’m here. Sorry. Look, I . . . I know I’ve
made a mess, and I can’t stay out here forever.” She swallowed again. She didn’t
feel like Melody Powers anymore. “I don’t want to keep doing this. I miss my
family. Whatever it was making me do this is over with. I wish I could explain
what happened, but you’d never believe me. I don’t even believe me.”
“You might have a point there, but I’d still
like to hear what you have to say,” said Joe. “And your father and sister are
here, and they miss you, too. I’m sure they don’t mind me saying so. They just
nodded, so I guess that was right. Can you take off your armor, put down your
weapons, and come and talk to us?”
Daria frowned. “Take off my armor? I’m
not wearing any armor. What are you talking about?”
“The, uh, the green suit you’re wearing,
the bulletproof suit.”
“I’m not wearing a suit, except for two
swimsuits. I got tired of running around naked, if you’ll excuse me for saying
so. I’m afraid I stole two swimsuits to wear, but I’ll pay whoever it was for them.
Hmmm, I guess that sounded kind of lame, given everything else I’m going to
have to pay for on top of that.”
“Uh . . . are you saying that the—”
“I’m exactly what you see, if you can see
anything of me from a camera on those helicopters. I’m a big green woman with
big green hair. I have no idea how it happened, I swear to God. I was in that
car wreck, and presto, suddenly I was just like She-Hulk, or whatever her name
is. That’s what J—what I look like, a comic-book character.” Don’t mention Jane! “I haven’t been able
to figure it out at all.”
“Ah, Daria . . . I’m having a little
trouble, I’m sure you can imagine, with this idea that you’re a . . . your
friend, Jane Lane, didn’t she mention to her brother Trent that you were
wearing a Halloween suit?”
Daria pulled the cell phone from her ear
and stared at it in astonishment. “How did you know that?” she said, her voice
rising.
“Trent talked about it, Daria. Be calm. We
don’t understand how you were able to get the suit into the hospital and put it
on, as it seemed to be inflatable, or if you have some kind of a—”
“I told you, I’m not wearing a suit! Jane
was just kidding! I really am a big green woman like out of a comic book, and
for the life of me I can’t—”
“I don’t understand!”
“What is it that you don’t understand?
Didn’t anyone get a good look at me when I was running around yesterday? Do I look like I’m wearing any kind of suit,
other than a swimsuit? Do I look like I’m wearing body armor? I’m just me, damn
it!”
“Daria, calm down. I didn’t mean—”
“What do you want me to do, strip for the
cameras? Would you believe me then? I crashed my mom’s car and turned into a
monster! It’s insane, I agree, but it’s true! I don’t know what the hell happened,
except I remember not being the person everyone thought I was! I’m not—” With a
mighty effort, Daria got control of her temper again, but only just. She found
herself panting heavily as if she’d run a long distance. That was close. I was just about to start tearing up things again. This
big green form is playing havoc with my impulse control. I can’t afford to
screw this up.
“Daria?”
I’m
not really Daria, but what the hell, I may as well be. She took a deep
breath and raised the cell phone again. “What?” For some reason, she felt a
little dizzy.
“Daria, we’re patching through a
connection to your mother. Would you like to speak with her?”
Would
I? “Yes,” she said in relief. The dizziness grew, but it came with a strong
sense of well-being and peace spreading through her body from her chest. “Yes,
please.”
“Okay, give us a moment to get—”
Daria’s nose twitched. The air smelled a
little odd. She turned around. A light mist was drifting through the trees
behind her. She yawned. “What’s all that?” she said into the phone—and at the
same moment, like lightning, she knew the answer.
It’s
knock-out gas. They’re gassing me.
Blood thundered in her ears. Her senses sharpened
and focused as the dizziness and sense of well-being vanished. Shivering energy
roared through her from head to big green toe.
“Nice try, but no cigar,” she growled into
the cell phone. She crushed it with one hand and flung the pieces from her. Spotting
a rock half the size of an office desk off to one side, she walked over,
grabbed it with both hands, heaved it above her head, and flung it into the
trees in hopes of driving away whatever was back there spewing the gas. The
boulder smashed through numerous trunks; ten-story-tall poplars, maples, and
pines toppled with echoing cracks and pops, crashing down with a terrific noise.
The mist in the trees rippled and blew apart, though its origin was not yet
visible.
The destruction was oddly satisfying. The
helicopter pilots could hardly miss it, and neither could anyone watching on TV
from afar. There, let them chew on that
for a while and see if they want to try any further—what the hell?
A quivering shadow appeared on the
hilltop before her, cast over the remaining trees and their bare limbs. Daria
realized the shadow was her own. A brilliant light was behind her. She turned around
without thinking, aware of a roar—and she recoiled and cried out from the stabbing
pain in her eyes. She did not see what happened next.
But she felt it.
* * *
The
AGM-114K Hellfire II anti-armor missile that hit Daria Morgendorffer just under
her solar plexus was sixty-four inches long, which by coincidence was Daria’s
exact height in her normal, non-green, schoolgirl form. It weighed one hundred
pounds, only a dozen pounds less than the schoolgirl Daria did. The
high-explosive warhead weighed as much as her backpack did when fully loaded
with books. The missile’s velocity at the time it hit Daria was 913 miles per
hour, guided in by a laser beam from a firing point a half-mile away.
The double
warhead detonated on contact, the blast sufficient to punch through a tank or a
concrete-walled bunker. A mushroom-shaped pillar of smoke and dust instantly
consumed the summit and climbed into the cold morning sky. The remaining trees
on the hilltop fell. Smoking debris rained down on the forest below.
“Direct
hit!” cried the warrant office on the Cobra that had fired the missile. “Yeee-haaaw! Call me a weekend warrior,
will they? Think I’m just a paintball Rambo, do they? Big Jim’s done it! I’ve
shot down the demon! I kicked her ass! Yeee-haaaw!”
* * *
Ted DeWitt-Clinton, known to a handful of people as Franklin Benjamin Richards, hesitated before he pushed open the glass door to Dega Street Comiks. Something bad had happened to one of the Chosen. An imag