Bedlam Boyz(5)

"Dale," Anne Houston said, her voice sounding shaken, "This is too weird for words . . . the guy's covered with blood and there's a hole in his jacket, but there's no bullet hole in him!"

* * *

"Just shock," someone said directly above her. "I didn't find a head injury . . . she probably fainted during the attack."

Everything hurt. That was her first thought when she opened her eyes: her entire body felt like one big bruise, like she'd gone through the tumble-dry cycle on a clothes dryer. Someone was looking down at her, a tall man with graying brown hair, wearing the dark blue uniform of the LAPD.

"Thanks, Randall," he said to someone out of her sight. He smiled at her, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners, then looked up sharply as a woman shouted, "Dale, grab him!"

Kayla blinked and sat up, then wished she hadn't. Everything spun around her, and she felt like she was falling. Someone fell on top of her, and she screamed. It was the man in the leather coat, his face only inches from hers. "Got him, Anne," the police officer said, and hauled the man in the leather coat up against the magazine rack, twisting his arms behind him and slapping on a pair of handcuffs.

"Do you know this guy, kid?" the female officer asked.

Kayla found her voice. "I've never . . . never seen him before. But he . . . he killed those people. He would've killed all of us."

The gunman grinned at her, licking his lips. Whatever had been human in his eyes, for that brief moment when he'd pleaded with her to save his life, was gone again.

She tried to sit up, and everything went blurry again. When her head cleared, she saw two paramedics carefully moving Billy out of the store on a stretcher. The blonde woman's body was still lying by the counter, but someone had placed a blanket over her face. The policewoman was reading Miranda rights to the gunman, two other police officers holding the man by his handcuffed arms. The brown-haired policeman was next to her, watching her intently. "Do you feel up to a trip to the station, kid?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Good." He helped her stand up. Her knees were so wobbly, she had to hold onto his arm for support. "You're a tough kid," the cop continued. "You survive this, you'll survive anything."

Will I? she thought.

"She's magic!" the gunman shrieked suddenly, trying to wrest free from the policemen. He struggled briefly, staring at Kayla with insane eyes. Beneath the leather coat, his shirt was still wet with blood. "She healed me, she has the Devil's power! I saw it, she has the Devil in her!"

"Jesus, get him out of here," the policewoman said in an exasperated tone. The other officers complied, wrestling the man through the door.

"I'll take you to the station now," the brown-haired officer said. "Easy now, I know your legs aren't working too great just yet. We'll walk slowly, it's okay. . . ."

Easy for you to say, she thought resentfully. You didn't just see these people get blown away in front of you, including your best friend almost dying, and then have that—whatever it was—blue light thing happen to you.

They moved out through the doorway, and Kayla stopped short, momentarily blinded by bright lights.

There were several camera crews aiming cameras at her, and a huge crowd of people gathered on the sidewalk, held back by several police officers.

Kayla wondered if she ought to faint or throw up. Either seemed likely right now. . . .

"Just a little more," the policeman said in a gentle voice. His grip tightened on her arm, as though he realized that she was about to fall. Half-supporting her, they walked to a police car parked on the edge of the lot. The policeman helped her into the back seat; Kayla fumbled with the seat belt strap for a few seconds before the officer reached over to fasten it for her.

There was someone already seated in the car next to her, a beautiful Chicano girl with feathers knotted into her hair. The girl gave Kayla a curious look. "Why are they not taking you to the hospital?" she asked. "I saw you lying there, I thought you were dead."

"Please, witnesses can't talk," the policeman said from the driver's seat. "Neither of you can talk about what happened yet, okay?"

Okay by me, Kayla thought. I don't want to talk about it, anyhow. I don't even want to think about it.

The officer drove in silence through the brightly lit streets. Kayla leaned her face against the cold glass and tried not to think.

Billy was alive. She knew that much, from the moment that her entire world had faded back from bright blue lights and hot electricity into normal reality again. She'd saved his life, somehow, and the life of the guy in the leather coat.

I should have let that slimeball die, she thought, then shook her head. Even now, she knew she couldn't have done that. It didn't matter that the man was a murderer . . . even if he was slime, she couldn't just sit back and watch him die, not when she knew she could do something to help him.