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“I would imagine you’ve tried to put all that behind you. You’re looking to get back to normal. Four years on, and you’re still trying to find normal.”
That was too close to the bone for a smart-ass response, so Dekka stayed mum, watching those intelligent, slightly lens-distorted eyes as they stared frankly at her.
“You are, in fact, among the least affected. Lana Lazar spent time in a mental health facility.”
“I know, she’s a friend of mine,” Dekka snapped. “She’s fine, now.”
“Others, like Sam Temple, the supposed hero of the FAYZ, have had—”
“Hey!” Dekka’s finger was instantly in Peaks’s face. “‘Supposed hero’? Screw you. You don’t disrespect Sam Temple where I can hear it.”
She reached across Green for the door handle and popped the latch.
“I apologize,” Peaks said quickly.
Shaking her head, as if disagreeing with her own choice, Dekka closed the door again and rounded on Peaks. “If you’d lived through one-tenth of what Sam Temple lived through, you might start drinking, too, if you ever nerved yourself up to crawl out from under the bed to start with.” Then, in a calmer tone, “Anyway, he’s on the wagon. Sober for sixteen months.”
“Fifteen months, twelve days,” the FBI agent said from the front seat. Then, in an actual moment of humanity, he added, “I’ve got nine years, four months, and nineteen days, myself.” He superstitiously rapped his knuckle on a piece of wood trim.
“So you people do still keep an eye on us,” Dekka accused.
The FBI’s Agent Carlson and Homeland Security’s Green both nodded. Peaks said, “Of course the government keeps track of you. At one time you possessed extraordinary powers. You, Ms. Talent, were able—by a simple act of will—to cancel the effects of gravity. Incredible! Sam Temple could fire killing energy beams from his hands. There was a girl who had the power to move at speeds just short of breaking the sound barrier. And—”
“Brianna,” Dekka said softly. Then, with a wistful smile, “The Breeze.”
“You were friends,” Green said, not quite a question.
But Dekka was no longer listening. She was seeing Brianna’s wild, reckless grin; hearing her fearlessly proclaim that she was off to this fight or that; feeling a sudden gust of wind and catching just a glimpse of ponytail standing straight back as Brianna blew past.
Other memories were there, too, dark and awful images, but Dekka brushed those aside. Four years and she still could not think about Brianna without crying. It was an unrequited love, maybe a ridiculous love, but love just the same, and it still warmed Dekka. And sometimes it burned her.
Dekka took several deep breaths and cursed herself for the need to wipe at tears.
You were brave one too many times, Breeze.
“Our point is,” Peaks persisted, “you are almost uniquely normal, stable. No alcohol or drug issues, aside from the occasional joint or beer. No psychological breakdown. No wild or reckless behavior—other than speeding violations on your motorcycle. Of all the people who gained—and then lost—these supernatural powers and endured the PBA, the FAYZ, you, almost alone, seem to have avoided going . . . becoming . . .” He searched for the right word, so Dekka supplied it.
“Crazy. That’s the scientific term: crazy.” Dekka felt a sudden longing for her dinky apartment and especially its tiny shower. Four years on, the FAYZ had left its marks: she ate too much, a common problem for people who’ve been close to starvation; she still had nightmares, though less frequently; and she took two long, hot showers—drought be damned—every single day, reveling even now in the luxury she’d been denied for that one-year lifetime in the FAYZ.
Peaks nodded, accepting the word. “You didn’t go crazy. There’s something about you, maybe genetic, maybe psychological, that made you particularly resistant to whatever the powers do to those who possess them.”
“It’s not about the powers,” Dekka said, “it’s all of us who were there. It was a whole lot of bad things we had to do to survive.”
“No,” Peaks said flatly. He shook his head by millimeters so that it was more a vibration than a back-and-forth. “The numbers don’t lie. Among survivors of the Perdido Beach Anomaly who did not have any mutations, thirty-six percent have had serious psychological or behavioral problems. Among those with major powers? The number is closer to ninety percent.”
Dekka stared at him. Then at Green. And at the eyes of the FBI man watching her in the rearview mirror. “What is this? What is this about, what do you people want?”
“We will be happy to tell you.” Green again. She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen a few times. “There’s a document on this screen. Read it, sign it—thumbprint will do—and we can tell you everything.”
Dekka took the phone and read, flicking down the page. “This swears me to secrecy.”
“Under penalty of law, and we are very serious about prosecuting unauthorized statement
s,” the FBI agent said without turning around.
“Yeah?” Dekka said with a short laugh. “Well, it’s been fun, folks, but I’m sweaty and I smell like the vanilla almond milk some brat spilled on me. So, good night.”
Again Dekka reached for the door, and when Green didn’t move aside a hard look came over Dekka’s face.
