Chapter 4

Perry flinched at his own outburst. Then flinched some more, because obviously he'd now told Deckard about his no-longer-secret power, so "I don't want to be found out, ever," just took a long walk off a short pier. For no reason except Deckard had loomed over him with those intense blue eyes and his overpowering scowl and his physical presence.

Perry had gotten flustered. Not in a good way. Well, maybe in a good way, too. Because Deckard was hot like fire and had admitted to being queer, and had those eyes…

Don't be ridiculous. Sergeant Deckard might turn every crank Perry owned, but that didn't make him a safe person to confide in. Thank goodness I was smart about the transparent-is-a-color thing. That secret was the heart of Perry's power and the one he didn't dare let loose. He didn't think the military, or crime lords, or whoever, had an interest in being able to change the color of their drapes. There were lots of minor and major powers running around and Perry's decorating talent wasn't going to win any contests.

It's safe. I'm fine. "Am I going to be in trouble for the traffic light?"

He wished he hadn't asked when Deckard paused as if the idea hadn't occurred to him. Maybe he'd forgotten. Still, better to ask now than be arrested later.

Perry offered, "I'll pay for the damages, if you'll take a payment plan." A very slow payment plan. "I have almost five hundred dollars saved."

Deckard shook his head. "I think we'll let it be our little secret, for now, till we figure out what Fox-face is after and make sure it's not you he's hunting. Insurance will cover the damages. Just promise you won't do something stupid like that again."

Perry chewed on his lower lip. "I can promise I won't do that same stupid thing again, but odds are I'll do something else. I'm a bit impulsive."

"Like getting into a moving squad car? Why am I not surprised?" Deckard heaved a sigh. "All right, but no more traffic signals."

"I swear."

"Good." Deckard sat and tapped his phone again. "Continuing recording, subject Perry says weird things happen to colors around him. The traffic light is unusual but not unique." He looked up at Perry. "Is that correct?"

"Yes. That's right." Perry grabbed for the out Deckard for some reason was giving him. "Things sometimes change color around me. It's mysterious."

Deckard's lips twitched, and Perry realized he was probably overselling it. But Deckard only added, "And you thought the package was dangerous, why?" He made a circling motion with his hand.

Perry had hoped that topic had been lost in the conversation, but he obediently repeated the bullshit about it feeling wrong and having a dangerous aura. What did I say on the 9-1-1 call? He had a feeling he might've spilled a few beans but maybe not fatally. Stubbornness kept him from admitting anything more. Aura. Felt wrong. Thought it was ticking. He could tell Deckard didn't believe that part of his story, but after a few rounds where Perry repeated the same lies, Deckard signed out of the recording and pocketed his phone.

"Now what?" Perry asked.

"Now you go home and stay there for the rest of the day."

"But there are a bunch of other packages to deliver."

"The whole mailroom is a crime scene. The residents will just have to wait an extra day for their deliveries."

"Do you think there are other bombs?" Perry's stomach lurched.

"I doubt it," Deckard noted, not seeming worried. "Nix checked the others first, and she would've signaled if there were more explosives. But we'll be investigating, or at least, the NCPD Major Crimes division will be. You'll no doubt have a detective stop by for an interview later."

"But I told you everything I know." And more than I should have. "Can't you just give them your notes?"

"I will. But my squad is responsible for the explosives and ordnance side of the event, not the rest of the investigation. A lethal threat to a court justice? Major Crimes will definitely want a piece of that."

"Okay." Not looking forward to another interrogation. Especially from someone without Deckard's trustworthy feel. The man was intimidating, but he didn't feel like a threat.

Perry chanted to himself, Weird color things happen around me sometimes. I don't know why. He'd have to work to keep his story straight. And to sell it, because that was even less believable than, The bomb had an evil aura. One advantage of appearing young and nerdy was that people would roll their eyes and dismiss him if he went off on some new-age tangent. Hopefully.

"Do you need a ride home?" Deckard asked.

With you? Sure. But reality intruded. "You don't have a car, though." I got it smooshed.

"I didn't mean with me."

Perry flinched. Stupid high hopes. "I can call a cab."

"All right." Deckard gestured at him. "Grab your phone. Enter this number." He rattled off ten digits.

"Wait!" Perry dug out his phone and opened a contact. "Go again."

Deckard repeated the number slower, and Perry typed it in.

"Is that you?" Was it wrong to put it under Sergeant Hotness? Yeah, it probably was. Perry added the correct name.

"Yes. I'm going to give you another number for the NCPD crime hotline too." Deckard repeated that one. "Call the hotline and ask for Major Crimes if you have evidence pertaining to the case. Call 9-1-1 if you think you're in danger. But…" Deckard paused as Nix came out from under the bench and sat on Perry's foot, big brown eyes on him like she wanted petting.

"Can I tell her goodbye?" Perry asked. He wasn't sure about the rule for working dogs.

"Sure. She's off duty now."

Perry squatted and scratched Nix's curly chest and rubbed her long, silky ears and told her what a good girl she was.

When he straightened, Deckard called Nix to heel with a gesture, but he wore an odd expression as he stared at Perry. "As I was saying, if there's a non-life-threatening problem, or something to do with your powers, something you don't want to tell the other detectives, you can call me. Text me now, so I have your number."

Perry stared down at his phone, then texted to "Sergeant Deckard," ~It's me. He sent it, then added, ~Perry Crawford, just in case Deckard knew a lot of people called me.

I'm such a dork.

Deckard's phone pinged twice in his pocket but he didn't take it out. "All right. Enjoy your day off."

"Even though some madman may want to blow me up?"

"I told you, that's a very low probability scenario." Deckard turned away.

Perry didn't want to let him go. "What are you doing next?"

"We'll be analyzing the bomb and looking in the explosives-crimes database for past matches."

"Will you tell me what you find?"

Deckard's left eyebrow climbed in the way Perry was starting to find devastatingly sexy. "No. Go home, Perry." With Nix at his side, Deckard jogged off down the path, crossed the street, and took the stairs on the front of the looming police building two at a time. Then he pulled open the front door, ushered Nix inside, and they were gone.

Perry slumped, all the starch going out of him. His shoulder ached where the seatbelt had caught him and so did his hip. He checked his phone, shocked to find it was barely two in the afternoon. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he'd missed lunch, but he wasn't sure he could eat.

He forced himself to his feet and when he reached the park entrance, he called for a cab and was given a ten-minute wait time. Leaning against a tree, enjoying the cool of its shade, he called his best friend Tucker. They weren't that close— he wasn't Tucker's best friend— but he needed to talk to someone and definitely not his mother. Which left Tucker. My life is pathetic.

Tucker answered after three rings, "Hey, birdbrain, your timing sucks. And what's with the voice call? It's not 1990 you know."

"Sorry," Perry said. "Just looking for a friendly voice."

"Hey, is this about the thing at your building. Billionaire Towers? I saw on the news they evacuated the whole place." Tucker's voice went eager. "Spill the tea. All the luscious details."

Perry huffed a breath. Tucker's energy made him feel tired and he decided he didn't want to share how terrified he'd been. "It was a bomb scare, I think. They don't tell us lowly peons anything. They chased us all out and the bomb squad showed up and then we had the cops around asking questions." At least this bit he could share. "This one sergeant who questioned me was totally hot. Like, eleven-on-a-scale-of-ten hotness."

"Description or it didn't happen."

"Thirty-five-ish, blond wavy hair, blue eyes like laser beams, around six feet, maybe an inch or two over. Muscles but not in a roid-rage way. Nice solid build."

"Tell me he stared at you like he wanted to dick you down while wrapping his handcuffs around your wrists."

Maybe? There'd been a hint of wanting to cuff him with the way Deckard had crowded in close, especially when Perry had tried to flee the accident. A suggestion of heat in Deckard's eyes once or twice, if Perry wasn't totally off base. He wasn't sharing that with Tucker, though. "I wish. Sadly, there was no dicking to be had."

"That's disappointing. I suppose a boy can dream."

I probably will.

"What was the bomb scare about?"

Deckard wouldn't want Perry to spill any details to Tucker, who loved gossip. He went for bland ignorance. "Who knows? There are lots of important folk living there. The police commissioner for starters, city council, a judge, that woman who made a fortune selling hidden nanny-cams. Not to mention folks with exes and mistresses. Lots of room for rage."

"I guess. So are you quitting your job?"

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Duh. What if the bomber tries again?"

Perry shuddered. Yeah, what if? He hadn't thought past today. If I go back tomorrow, I'll have to screen all the packages all the time. That sounded exhausting. An excuse to snoop should've been a plus, but he could just imagine telling Deckard, "I have another one with a weird aura." He didn't think Deckard had bought that lie the first time. Maybe he could claim to have a wire-detection power. "You may be able to ditch a job on a moment's notice, Tucker, but I have rent to pay."

"Better homeless than dead."

"How often does someone try to bomb the same building twice?"

"Hang on." There was a pause, and Perry realized Tucker was searching the answer online. After a moment he continued, "Okay, not often. That we know about. But it could happen."

Perry laughed. "I guess."

"But then you might see the hot cop again. Lose-win? Though not if you're blown to bits."

"I'll try not to get blown up."

"Hey, a bunch of us are going to party at The Zone tonight. There's a rumor Longspear might show up. Speaking of hotness."

Perry had to admit, the hero Longspear had been the basis for a few past fantasies, with his long weapon— and also his spear— but the attraction of a superhero he'd never met, and who'd never been seen with a man, paled beside a hot, blond, queer cop who clearly loved his dog. "Not feeling it tonight. Thanks, though. I hope he turns up."

"I have this awesome new glitter catsuit I'm going to wear. You sure you don't want to come?"

"Positive. Have fun, though. Fuck some hot guy for me even if you don't land the superhero." The Zone was a mixed club. Longspear might be straight— or not, no one knew— but there'd be plenty of choices for Tucker.

"Or be fucked by a hot guy. Will do. Don't play with any bombs tomorrow. I'd miss you."

Perry was left clutching his phone as Tucker hung up. It should've felt good to think someone would care if he died. Would've felt better if he believed Tucker meant it in more than a shallow way.

The taxi pulled up and he got in with a last look at the looming police building. Partway home his phone rang with a caller ID of NCPD. Deckard? He answered and was disappointed when the caller was a woman who said, "Peregrine Crawford?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Detective Zamora. I have you booked for an interview tomorrow, ten a.m. sharp, at police headquarters. Give your name to the front desk."

"But I have to be at work. And I told Sergeant Deckard everything I know." Mostly.

"Deckard? Oh, the bomb squad guy. This is a Major Crimes investigation. You'll have to speak with our officers."

"I can't," Perry told her. "I'll be in the mailroom of the Hoffward Building doing my job that I don't have any vacation time left on. Can't you come to my work to do the interview? My boss will have to say yes if you glare at him." Perry hadn't seen Officer Zamora's glare, but the crisp tone of her voice suggested it would be an effective one.

She hesitated. "Very well. Ten-fifteen. Make sure you're available."

"Yes, ma'am."

Another hesitation, as if she was trying to figure out if the honorific was serious or sarcastic. Perry wasn't sure himself, so he kept silent till she cut the connection. He blew out his breath.

The cab driver asked, "Whadda the cops want with you?"

"I'm just a witness. Who knows nothing. And wants to go home and eat lunch."

"It's two-thirty, almost."

"Late lunch." He'd thought he wasn't hungry but his stomach growled on cue.

The cabby laughed. "Almost there."

When they arrived, Perry tipped well, even though it put a dent in his wallet, and headed up the walk to his side door. Mrs. Goshima's house was as ordinary as a building could be with its blue aluminum siding, faded gray roof, and curtained windows, sitting beside a spreading oak tree and a scatter of untrimmed bushes. Same as always. Perry could almost believe nothing had happened.

Except he was never home this early on a Monday, and his right shoulder and left hip ached. Stupid seatbelt. Although it'd probably saved his life. Good seatbelt.

He unlocked the side door and slipped into the hallway. His room and the small bathroom he used stood on either side of the hall eight feet in from the door. If he went forward, he'd reach Mrs. Goshima's part of the house. She might be baking tarts, or knitting, and he could sit at her table and be soothed by the idea that handmade socks existed while bombs were defused. Except she'd ask why he was home and he didn't want to talk about it.

Leaving his shoes on the mat by the door, he ducked into the bathroom. The guy peering at him from the mirror looked the same as ever too. The same person who'd fumbled his way through school and somehow decided that if he took a mundane job, it would force him to write the great fantasy novel. The same guy who had a dozen first chapters of nothing on his ancient laptop, and whose most exciting pastime had degenerated into playing package-peeping-Tom. His delusions of authorship were fading. His main characters tended to be like him, and that was a fatal flaw. Maybe if I made Deckard the hero?

That was no doubt a bad idea, too.

He wandered back to his room, used his key to let himself in and, after a second of ridiculing himself, relocked the door. Deckard had said it was extremely unlikely the bomber had any interest in Perry. But his half-forgotten high-school math told him unlikely didn't mean zero probability.

A tap on the window made him whirl, staring at the back yard. A waving branch contacted the window frame with a scrape and another tap. The rising wind made the leaves dance.

Just the bush Mrs. Goshima wanted me to trim. He vowed to get to that ASAP.

A grumble from his stomach reminded him he was hungry. None of the frozen things in his small fridge appealed, but Perry could eat peanut butter and jelly ten times a week. Ultimate comfort food. He made two sandwiches, because he'd earned them, and ate them standing at the little counter that held his microwave and sink. Normally, his small room with its barest nod to necessities felt cozy, but today he couldn't decide if he wanted a blanket fort or felt claustrophobic. He was unsettled and itchy in his skin.

Which might be from the fear-sweat I stink of. How attractive.

He washed his hands at the sink and pulled off his polo shirt, tossing it in the general direction of the hamper. A sniff of his pits confirmed that he urgently needed a shower. He shucked his work slacks, draped them on a chair, and walked to his dresser fingering the bruise on his shoulder. Yeah, that's going to color up nicely. It would be fun if he could turn his bruise pink and turquoise instead of puce and red, but his talent didn't work on living things, not even his hair. Probably just as well. I'd hate to kill a tree, turning it lavender.

He leaned toward the mirror, poking the darkest spot, when a white square on the dresser top caught his eye.

A note? What the hell?

He stared down at it. In neat cursive writing, it said:

Welcome to SPAM.We are activating your full Agent status, as of today. Stay tuned for more information about how you will use your powers for good, and battle evil.

April

SPAM? My powers? No one knows I have powers except Mom. Then he realized that wasn't true anymore.

His hands shook as he snatched up his phone off the counter, took a picture of the note, and texted it to Deckard, with ~Who did you tell???!!!

Then for good measure, he added more exclamation points. ~!!!!!!!!!!!

The phone rang in his hand and he almost dropped it. A voice call. Deckard's ID.

Perry snarled, "You bastard! You said you wouldn't snitch." Deckard had promised, hadn't he? Secrecy had been implied, anyhow.

"Take it easy." Deckard's deep voice was unfairly calm. "Breathe. What's that paper? Tell me what's going on."

"I don't know!" Perry sucked in a breath. "I came home, had lunch, turned around to get out a new T-shirt, and there it was on my dresser. It wasn't there this morning. They know I have powers. No one knows! Well, I told Mom but she's super disgusted I'm such a weakling and she wouldn't tell anyone. So you must've?—"

"Hold your horses, there," Deckard interrupted. "I'm going to take this outside. You're lucky you caught me going off duty. Now, keep your voice down."

Perry sputtered and huffed as the phone gave him the sound of feet striding on hard floor— those long legs and black leather boots, yeah— he gave himself a mental shake. Not the time.

A door opened and closed, then more footsteps, then Deckard said, "Okay, I'm out of the building. Begin at the beginning. I left you in the park. You went straight home?"

"Yeah. Like I said. I peed, had lunch, took off my shirt, went to get a fresh one, and there it was, on the dresser."

"In your room? Was the room locked while you were out?"

"Yeah. Yes, I know it was." The creepy realization hit him. "Someone was in my locked room! Oh, fuck! Crap!"

"Calm down. Think logically."

"Logically, someone left a note in my fucking locked room." Perry slammed his back to a wall, staring at the dark space under the bed. "What if they're still in here?"

"Get out of there, Perry. Go somewhere safe, you hear me?"

"Where's safe? Where do I go?"

"Is there someone around? Someone you can be with?"

"Just Mrs. Goshima and she's, like, ninety years old and doesn't know karate. I don't want anyone to hurt her." He opened his door and peered into the hallway.

"Then go out to the curb and stay on the phone with me. I'm on my way. Gray Honda sedan." A car started up in the background.

"Seriously?" He grabbed up his slacks and wallet and tiptoed out of his room, not checking under the bed, not opening the closet. Trying to silence his fast wanting-to-panic breaths, he stuffed his feet into his sneakers by the side door. Phone— check; wallet— check. Anything else could wait. He eased the door open, squeezed out of the house, and slammed it shut like something might come after him. Tripping over the single step, he hurried down the path, breathing easier when he hit the curb. "Okay, I'm at the road."

"Do you see any neighbors?"

"Mr. Mbabazi's out watering his flowers."

"Wave to him so he knows you're there."

"He'll think that's weird. He doesn't like me."

"Do it anyhow."

Perry waved obediently to the grumpy neighbor, who eyed him up and down, shook his head, and turned his back. Perry realized he was standing there in his underwear. "Well, he knows I'm here. He probably thinks I'm a stripper or rent boy or something."

"Why would he think that?"

"I'm only wearing my boxer-briefs."

Deckard made a sound Perry couldn't identify, then said, "Why are you in your underwear?"

"Because I was changing and someone said, ‘Get out now.' So I got."

"Oh, okay. Well, give me ten minutes."

"Good thing it's warm today." He spotted an elderly woman from the next block whose name he didn't know, walking her chihuahua. She noticed him and oh-so-casually led her dog across to the other side of the street. "Another neighbor saw me. She also thinks I'm a stripper."

"At least you'd make a cute stripper."

"What?" Perry wasn't sure he could believe his ears.

"What, what? I didn't say anything."

Perry wanted to call foul on that, but he couldn't be sure. He was pretty confused right now. "How far away are you?"

"Nine minutes. Talk to me. Tell me about your family."

Perry stuck his wallet in the pocket of his slacks and struggled to pull the pants back on while talking to Deckard, his head crooked to his shoulder to pin the phone in place. Why did I buy these slacks so tight? Oh yeah, they made my ass look good. He balanced on one foot. "There's just me and my mom. Dad died when I was little."

"I'm sorry."

"You can't miss what you never had, right?" He'd gotten good at saying that.

"Sure, you can," Deckard told him. "People with no family definitely can miss having them."

"Oh." For an instant, that chimed in his chest, a validation of loss that froze him in place. "I guess."

"Are you and your mom close? You said she knows about your powers?"

Even standing on a nearly deserted suburban street, Perry lowered his voice. "Yeah, but, I'm like the runt of the family. My grandfather, my father's father, was a famous superhero, Marvelous Mike."

"I'm not sure I've heard of him."

"Well, he could fly. Like, really swoop through the air. And carry things. Although only things he potentially could also carry on the ground, so he had a weight limit. He used to go where there were floods and rescue people off rooftops if they weren't too heavy, saved a lot of kids. He has a Digipedia article." Perry shimmied his hips, got the slacks up and zipped. He felt a bit less exposed without his ass hanging out.

"Sounds like a good guy."

"Yeah, but he tried to fly this statue up on top of a pedestal as a publicity stunt and it was too heavy and he crashed. Under the statue."

"Ouch."

"Uh-huh, didn't make it."

"I'm so sorry."

"It happened before I was born. I never knew him. Mom used to tell me all about him when I was small." She'd been pretty obsessed. "You're going to grow up to be like Marvelous Mike, only better. The Falcon, they'll call you."

"He was your dad's dad?"

"Yeah. Dad had some kind of superpower too. Mom would never say what. He died when I was a kid, when the Whirlwind battled the supervillain Black Widower and they took out a city block, levelled a bunch of buildings. Dad got caught in one of them." He'd have thought that would've soured Mom on the superhero stuff, but clearly not.

"I remember that battle. I was maybe fifteen."

Perry did some mental math. "So you're thirty-five now." He liked getting tidbits of information in return.

"Thirty-four."

"When's your birthday?"

Deckard hesitated, then said, "Near Halloween."

"A Scorpio, then. You know that's the sign most closely associated with sex?" Perry regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

"You don't believe that astrology stuff, do you?"

"Who me? No. Never." Perry put a hand over the little Pisces fish tattoo above his left hip. Which reminded him his hip ached. "Ouch."

"What? Are you hurt?" Deckard snapped. "Talk to me."

"No, sorry, just touched a seatbelt bruise."

"Ah." Deckard sounded calmer. "Well, you only have yourself to blame."

"Rub it in, why dontcha?"

That chuckle was definitely evil. Scorpio. Has a wicked side. Except Perry had said he didn't believe in astrology. Power-hungry, calculating, seductive. I totally lied— I believe.

"How long now?" he asked.

"Five minutes. Tell me about your neighborhood and your house. How could a stranger get inside?"

By the time he was done describing the layout and every means of access including crawling through an attic window from the oak tree or convincing Mrs. Goshima they were a long-lost relative, Perry spotted a gray car approaching down the block. "Is that you?"

"Yep. You can hang up now."