Skin Deep
Page 12

“I don’t,” he agreed. “But let’s tread lightly, eh? Zen is dangerous. I ran across her a couple of times in black ops missions. She left corpses, sometimes operatives—sometimes just innocent bystanders.”
I nodded.
“You’ll want to carry a sidearm,” J.C. said. “You realize that if it comes to a confrontation, I won’t be able to shoot her.”
“Because of past familiarity?” I said, giving him an out. I didn’t like to push him to confront what he was—instead offering reasons why, despite being my bodyguard, he could never actually interact with anyone we met.
Except that one time when he had done just that.
“Nah,” J.C. said. “I can’t shoot her because I’m not really here.”
I started. Had he just . . . ? “J.C.,” I said. “This is a big step for you.”
“Nah, I’ve got this figured out. That Arnaud guy, he’s pretty smart.”
“Arnaud?” I looked across the room toward the slender, balding Frenchman who was our newest addition.
“Yeah,” J.C. said, hand on my shoulder. “He has this theory, see. That we’re not figments, or whosits, or whatever crazy term you feel like using at the moment. He said . . . well, it’s a lot of nerd talk, but it means I’m a real boy for sure. I’m just not here.”
“Is that so?” I wasn’t certain what to think of this.
“Yup,” J.C. said. “You should hear what he has to say. Hey, chrome-dome!”
Arnaud pointed at himself, then hustled over as J.C. waved. J.C. put his hand around the diminutive Frenchman, as if they were best friends—the gesture seemed to make Arnaud distinctly uncomfortable. It was a little like the cat buddying up to the mouse.
“Let him have it,” J.C. said.
“It? What it are you speaking of?” Arnaud spoke with a smooth French accent, like butter melting over a browned game hen.
“You know,” J.C said. “The things you said about us?”
Arnaud adjusted his spectacles. “Well, um, you see, in quantum physics we talk about possibilities. One interpretation says that dimensions are infinite, and everything that can happen, has happened. It seems to follow if this is true, then each of us aspects somewhere has existed in some dimension or realm of possibility as a real person. A curious thought, would you not agree, Étienne?”
“Curious indeed,” I said. “It—”
“So I’m real,” J.C. interjected. “The smart guy just said it.”
“No, no,” Arnaud said. “I merely indicated that it is likely that somewhere, in another place and time, there really is a person who matches—”
J.C. shoved him aside and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, turning me away from Arnaud. “I’ve got it figured out, Skinny. We’re all from this other place, see. And when you need some help, you reach out and snatch us. You’re some kind of physics wizard.”
“A . . . physics wizard?”
“Yup. And I’m no Navy SEAL. I’ve just got to accept that.” He paused. “I’m an Interdimensional Time Ranger.”
I looked at him, grinning.
But he was dead serious.
“J.C.,” I said. “That’s as ridiculous as Owen’s ghost theory.”
“No it’s not,” J.C. said, stubborn. “Look, back in that Jerusalem mission. What happened there at the end?”
I hesitated. I had been surrounded, hands shaking, holding a gun I barely knew how to use. In that moment, J.C. had taken hold of my arm and directed it, causing me to fire my gun in the precise pattern needed to bring down every enemy.
“I learn quickly,” I said. “Physics, math, languages . . . I just need to spend a short time studying, and I can become an expert—via an aspect. Maybe gunplay isn’t different. I studied it, fired a few times at the range, and became an expert. But this skill is different—you can’t help me by talking—so I couldn’t use you properly until I imagined you guiding me. It’s not so different from what Kalyani does in guiding me through a conversation in another language.”
“You’re stretching,” J.C. said. “Why hasn’t this worked for any other skill you’ve tried?”
I didn’t know.
“I’m a Time Ranger,” J.C. said stubbornly.
“If that were true—which it’s not—wouldn’t you be angry at me for grabbing you from your other life and trapping your quantum ghost here?”
“Nah,” J.C. said. “It’s what I signed up for. The creed of the Time Ranger. We have to protect the universe, and for now that means protecting you as best I can.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Hey,” J.C. interrupted. “Aren’t we tight for time? You should be moving.”
“We can’t do much until morning arrives,” I said, but allowed myself to be moved on from the topic. I waved Tobias over. “Keep everyone working. I’m going to go take a shower and do some reading. After that, we’re hitting the field.”
“Will do,” Tobias said. “And the field team is?”
“Standard,” I said. “You, Ivy, J.C., and . . .” I looked through the room. “And we’ll see who else.”
Tobias gave me a curious look.
“Have the team meet me in the garage, ready to go, at seven thirty.”
9
I turned the cryptography book to text-to-voice, cranked the volume, and set it to 5x speed. The following shower was long and refreshing. I didn’t think about the problem—I just learned.
When I stepped into my bedroom in my bathrobe, I found that Wilson had set out breakfast for me, along with a tall glass of lemonade. I sent him a text, asking him to have the driver prep the SUV—much less conspicuous than taking the limo—for a seven-thirty departure.
I finished the book while eating, then made a call to Elsie, my contact in Homeland Security. I woke her up, unfortunately, but she was still willing to check on the matter for me. I put in a call to the coroner’s office—got the voicemail, but left a message for Liza—and as I was finishing, got a text back from Elsie. I3 was indeed under lockdown, with the CDC investigating and the FBI involved.
I strode into the garage a short time later, dressed and somewhat refreshed, right on time for our departure. There I found Wilson himself—square faced, bifocaled, and graying on top—flicking a speck of something off a chauffeur’s cap, which he proceeded to put on his head.