Chapter 10

Perry framed yet another package with his hand and pushed transparent at it. His temples throbbed and the room went a bit wonky. The parcel, sadly, was a box wrapped in brown paper, so he ended up with a useless view of the opaque cardboard under the transparent paper. Crap. Odds were it was fine, and he couldn't linger. He moved it from cart one to cart two.

He'd spent six days in this mailroom since the bomb, screening every package, and his power was consuming his energy. His color-change ability was usually effortless, but for some reason transparent was a lot more work. He'd lost enough weight his slacks were getting loose and given that he ran scrawny to begin with, that wasn't a good look on him, definitely not one he wanted Deckard to see.

Although Deckard didn't seem to be looking. They shared the house, and every night, got into the same bed. No matter how far apart they fell asleep, they woke up with Deckard close behind Perry, usually spooning him. But when the lights were on, Deckard treated him like some mix between a houseguest and a little brother.

"Hey, you, get a move on," Mr. Brown thundered from the doorway. "You're so slow lately. I could hire a sloth to do the sorting faster than you."

Perry jumped. Maybe it was lucky the last package had been wrapped, because Mr. Brown wouldn't notice anything unusual about a brown box versus brown paper. Casually, he turned and put it behind his back. "I'm heading out now, sir."

"See that you do." Mr. Brown held the door wider. "Important people are waiting."

Perry sighed and moved to the handles of cart two, sliding the box onto the top, transparent-paper side away from Mr. Brown. "I'll start with these. One of them's heavy. I'll do the other cart after that."

Mr. Brown glared. "The boss doesn't pay you to slack off."

"No, sir." Perry pushed the cart past him, remembering to make it look like an effort.

Once in the elevator, he restored the brown paper and slumped against the wall. "I coulda been a hero," he said in his best Marlon Brando accent. If I had any heroic qualities at all. Watching Deckard run out and be all cop-like every day made this job seem even more pathetic. The contrast wasn't enough to make Perry join the army or anything, but enough that he'd gone from hoping he never saw another bomb to hoping he did, so he could call Deckard and say, "I have more evidence."

The police OSA representative hadn't been very helpful about SPAM and April. They'd heard of both, but told Deckard that descriptions of April were never the same twice, and SPAM had no current official address or contacts. Perry had given in to Deckard's pleas. He was now out to the cops as a color-changing supe— transparent remaining his last secret— and photos of both notes and the plastic bag had been sent off for analysis. But if anyone had learned anything, they weren't telling Perry.

As the elevator door opened on 21, because he liked to start at the top and work down, Perry wondered morosely if he should move back to his old room. Nothing threatening had happened around him in almost a week. Well, not threatening to him. Deckard had come home four nights ago depressed again and hopped right into the shower. The news reports had churned over a detonated bomb in another supreme court judge's home, and Perry could do math. But that meant Perry wasn't the mad bomber's target, and he had no excuse for getting picked up after work and eating Deckard's food and sleeping in his bed.

He rang the doorbell at 2103. When no one answered after three tries, he consulted his tablet. Mrs. Covington liked packages left outside her door, rather than held and redelivered. He set the box down on the hallway carpet, took a photo on his tablet for the record with her door number in the shot, and headed back to the elevator.

One down, thirty-six to go.

He'd done half the job, with the packages either handed over or replaced on the lower return-and-redeliver shelf, and was staring at the lighted numbers on the freight elevator panel when the car stopped and the door opened on 14 to reveal a tall, lanky man standing four feet away. Perry didn't recognize him, which wasn't unusual given how many maintenance people the Hoffward employed, but this guy wore street clothes rather than a Hoffward polo or coveralls. What's more, he took one look at Perry, whirled while raising a hand to his face, and hustled off down the hall.

Maybe just a visitor who'd found the wrong elevator but this was Justice Campbell's floor… Perry hit the hold button, pushed the cart out into the hall, and hurried after the man. "Hey, can I help you with something?"

The man jogged faster, then broke into a run, and his shape from the back and his stride rang bells. The fox-guy, running off down the alley. "Stop! Wait!" Perry shouted.

At the stairs, the guy grabbed the handle, yanked the door open, and swung into the stairwell. His footsteps pounded downward. Perry put on a burst of speed and followed. When Perry hit the first landing, the stranger was one flight down, his heavy strides thudding on the uncarpeted treads. At least he went down, not up. That made sense, because unless he had a resident's key, every level but ground would be locked to him. Perry's thighs were still grateful.

They charged down, flight after flight, Perry neither gaining nor losing ground despite his shorter legs, which he was proud of. Close to the bottom, it occurred to Perry he could do something far more useful than chase a man who probably outweighed him by thirty pounds. He stopped and fumbled his phone out.

9-1-1.

"Emergency services. What's your emergency?"

"It's that guy—" He had to gasp a breath. "The fox guy. I know it is. He's in the… ran down the stairs at the Hoffward building. He's almost at the street. Someone should stop him."

"Is anyone in danger, sir?"

"No. Yes! I don't know. What if he planted another bomb? He's getting away." Down below, the sound of the man's footsteps changed as he hit the spiffier stone of the ground floor flights.

"Where's the bomb, sir?"

"I don't know!" Perry wailed. "He's at the door. Fuck, he's getting away." The alarm on the emergency exit sounded as the fox-guy, if it was the fox-guy, made his escape. "Never mind." He hung up and dialed Deckard.

"Perry, I'm busy?—"

"Fox-face was here," Perry gasped, his run catching up with him. He clung to the rail and slumped to sit on the stairs.

"Where? What's that alarm noise? Are you safe?"

"I'm fine. He's gone. It's the door."

"What door?"

"The Hoffward Building."

"Listen, Perry, call 9-1-1, now!"

"I did that already. I think I just confused her. Anyway, it won't help now."

He heard Deckard blow out a breath. "Start at the beginning."

Perry let go of the railing to swipe his sweaty face. "I was delivering a package run…" He described his desperate chase, ending with, "…and then he was gone and 9-1-1 was useless, so I called you."

"Okay, I get the picture." Deckard hesitated. "How sure are you the guy was Fox-face?"

"Like, ninety percent? Or maybe eighty?" In the heat of the moment, he'd been positive, but now doubts crept in. "But even if he wasn't, he took off running. And he was a lot bigger than me, and I had the Hoffward uniform, so it's not like he thought I was going to mug him. He had to be up to no good."

"I agree. Damn." Deckard huffed a laugh. "I am so not looking forward to evacuating that damned building again."

"Evacuating?"

"Fox-face likes bombs and he's tried before. Maybe he wasn't there to plant another bomb, but maybe he was."

"Well, shit."

"Get yourself out, Perry. I'll start that ball rolling but I want you somewhere safe. Somewhere there's other people, and keep your eyes open for Fox-face."

"If it was me he wanted to kill, he could've done it right then. He wouldn't have run away from me." Perry clung to that logic.

"Maybe not. Or maybe he didn't have his guns and his bombs on hand. You sit in that damned coffee shop like I told you the last time and don't budge, right?"

Perry pushed to his feet, peering back up the staircase. "I left the rest of the packages up on fourteen."

"And they'll stay there till this is over. Go!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" He was disappointed when the call went dead without a reply.

Should I tell Mr. Brown? The idea made him shudder. Letting Mr. Brown know Perry was the reason the building was being evacuated twice would not even begin to go over well. Let someone else be the bearer of bad news.

He trotted down the last two flights and stepped out past the clanging alarm, only to pull up short as one of the building security guys grabbed his arm. "Stop! That's not an exit."

"Hey, Ed," Perry babbled. "Did you see him? The guy who ran out? About six-two, long legs, dark clothes? I was chasing him down the stairs but he beat me down here."

Ed let go but stared at him. "Why were you chasing him? I didn't see anyone."

"Crap. It figures." Perry gave Ed his sunniest smile. "He was up to no good. The cops are on their way."

"Cops?" Ed peered up and down the side street. "I don't see—" At that moment a cruiser with lights and siren going edged through the intersection down the block and approached between the lines of cars squeezing against the curbs to make space.

"There." Perry pointed. "Go talk to them." As soon as Ed headed for the curb, Perry turned and hoofed it down the block. Whoever was in that patrol car, Perry didn't have the spoons to deal with them. Deckard knew everything he knew. They could ask Deckard. The safety of a busy café was calling him.

Perry ordered three cupcakes and a cup of hot tea to calm his nerves. Well, one of the cupcakes might be Deckard's, if he ever showed up. More cop cars screamed past. The rising babble indicated people were being moved out of the Hoffward Building. Again, various folks noted in gleeful voices. The place was roped off. There were all kinds of authorities around. Perry tried to ignore the voices. He licked the chocolate frosting off his first cupcake bit by bit, and kept his ankle hooked around the other chair at his small table as the café filled to capacity and beyond.

With the rising noise level, he set his phone to vibrate and kept his hand on it in his pocket. No messages pinged, though. No calls came in. An hour ticked by, then another. He bought more tea to hold his seat, till he was swimming in the stuff. He'd finished his second cupcake and pulled the phone out to check for the twentieth time when he heard Deckard's voice call, "Perry?"

"Over here." He stood and waved, letting Deckard find him in the crowd.

"Come on." Deckard stopped in front of him and folded his arms, radiating some kind of disapproval. "My car."

Perry nudged the other empty chair with his foot. "I saved you a seat and a cupcake."

"Bring the cupcake." Deckard pivoted and pushed his way through the milling patrons toward the door. People seeing his uniform called questions, but he ignored them.

Perry was tempted to leave the strawberry and cream goodie behind. He was also tempted to ignore Deckard, but his curiosity had him on his feet and following like a good little duckling. Deckard stopped and held the door for him, which was at least some balm to his feelings. Once they were outside, though, Deckard frowned down at him. "Come with me. Quickly now."

Perry leaned back. "Am I under arrest?"

"What? No, Jesus, Perry, I want you out of the line of fire. This way."

Put like that… Perry obediently trotted at Deckard's side, holding the cupcake. "The last time we went to your car, he shot at us."

"I have someone watching for him." Deckard turned the corner, walked halfway down the block, and stopped at one of several marked cars parked blocking the near side of the road. An officer stood in the street, directing traffic through the narrowed single lane.

A female cop in uniform came out of a recessed storefront to meet Deckard. "No sign of any particular interest in yours."

"Thanks, McKenzie." Deckard popped the locks on the cruiser and motioned Perry to the passenger side. "Get in."

Perry got, pleased to see Nix waiting in the back with her vest off. "Nixy, girl, how was your morning?" He put his fingers up to the metal screen and she stood on her hind feet, paws on the divider, and licked at his fingertips. "Yeah, baby, icing. But the cupcake's for your daddy." As Deckard swung into the driver's seat, he modified that to, "Your grumpy daddy."

Deckard huffed, turning to him.

Perry held out the cupcake. "You want?"

He could see the professionalism and frustration in Deckard warring with his desire for the sweet. Perry swiped a little icing and licked his finger. "They're delicious."

"Oh, hell, I didn't get lunch. Hand it over."

Perry grinned to himself as Deckard peeled back the wrapper and ate a big mouthful, pink icing smearing his lip. "Yeah. Mmmm. Okay, Perry, once more from the top." Deckard licked his lips— that's not distracting at all— set his phone on the dashboard, tapped it on, and repeated their names. He made a "go on" hand gesture as he raised the cupcake to his mouth.

Perry recited the events of his morning again as Deckard polished off the treat in four bites and then wiped his fingers on a tissue.

When he was done, Deckard frowned. "We've got camera footage from the hallway, elevator, and stairs. Unfortunately, the guy had his hand to his face a lot of the time and seemed to know the camera angles. We don't have a clear shot. You didn't recognize him?"

"No. Not till he started running."

"Would you know him if you saw him again?"

Perry wanted to say yes, that the moment when their eyes met was burned in his brain and he'd remember forever. Unfortunately, not true. "Maybe? I wasn't paying attention. Dark hair. Tall. Kind of bony build but wide shoulders. Glasses. Thin lips?" His voice rose at the end because he wasn't even sure that was true, or just something he thought a villain should have.

"I'll run you back to the station. You can talk to a sketch artist and then look through some pictures."

"What pictures?"

"A set of people associated with a case that might be relevant."

Perry huffed. "That's clear as mud." He pouted for good measure.

Deckard side-eyed him. "The first thing my boss said when he heard you were staying at my house was, ‘Don't jeopardize the case, Deckard.' I'm not telling you anything you won't hear on the news."

Perry wanted to pout harder. On the other hand, he wanted to stay with Deckard, no matter how much sexual frustration he woke up in. "I tell you everything."

"Because you're the witness, and I'm the cop." Deckard put the car in gear. "Besides, do you really?"

Okay, that's awkward. Instead of answering, Perry bent to buckle his seatbelt and asked, "Did you figure out why Fox-face was there? Did he plant another bomb?"

"Need to know, Peregrine." Deckard pulled out a few feet and the traffic cop held back the cars for him to merge into the flow. "Meaning, you don't. We do."

Perry glanced over his shoulder. "You'll tell me, won't you, Nix? Were you a hero dog again today? Did you find more lovely explosive smells?"

"Doing our jobs doesn't make us heroes," Deckard said. "Nix gets her kibble eventually whether she finds something or not."

Nix wagged her tail at Perry and panted, but sadly, did not spill the beans in any way Perry could recognize.