“Maigo,” he says, using the name freely.
I shrug.
“You know...” His voice is uncommonly unsure, like he’s going to say something he shouldn’t. His body language belies nothing, but that’s probably because we’re coming in for a landing and one wrong move could send us plummeting to the lawn or smashing into the Crow’s Nest’s thick windows, which actually look a little dirty from the outside. “I always sort of rooted for her. For Nemesis.”
I forget all about the dirty windows. Before he can continue, I double-check to make sure Devine’s transmit function is disabled.
“Not for killing all those people, mind you. But...who she was...once. All she wanted was justice. You helped make that possible. And you saved a lot of people because of it. And I think she knows that. She owes you. I know you feel the same. We all do. You don’t hide it as well as you think.”
I smile. “Not like you?”
“Boy, I was in the Marines for thirty God dang years, and I was never once written up for anything unsavory. You know why? Ain’t cause I was a goody two-shoes. It’s cause I can hide shit from a turd-burglar. But you? You transmit your feelings to the world like a billboard. I swear if you weren’t an FC-P agent you’d be some kind of crunchy artist type, thrusting your inner self all over everyone.”
He’s got me laughing now, despite the shit-storm no doubt descending on the FC-P. “You realize how gross that sounds, right?”
“Other people’s emotions usually are,” he says. “Point is, you gotta work on keeping that shit to yourself. Cause your job isn’t about paintin’ happy trees or retarded looking faces. It’s leading the damn world against a monster who also happens to be a little girl. Now git out of my chopper and go face the music. I’ll be down in a few.”
I was so intent on listening to Woodstock that I hadn’t even noticed we’d landed. After removing my headset, I give him a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Ayuh,” he says, and that’s the end of it. Everything he just told me amounts to a few weeks worth of talking to an old Mainer like Woodstock. Means he cares. And ‘Ayuh,’ means it’s time to shut the hell up about it.
I find myself running toward the roof exit. I’m not sure why. There shouldn’t be anyone here. The rest of the area will stay evacuated for 24 hours, but Cooper, Watson and Collins will come back sooner, along with other emergency services. The evacuation alone probably caused more than a few accidents, heart attacks and violence. The police, fire department and hospital are going to have their hands full for a few days at least.
As I drop down the stairs three at a time, the dirty window returns to my thoughts. I’d stared out that window this morning. There wasn’t a spot of dust or a smudge anywhere on it—well, except the line I drew. So what had smeared all over it while the Crow’s Nest and everyone else for ten square miles was busy evacuating?
For some reason I’m not consciously aware of, I draw my sidearm upon reaching the bottom of the stairs. When I shove through the door to the Crow’s Nest, I have the gun up, sweeping back and forth, looking for trouble. The first thing I notice is that there’s no one here. That’s a good thing, because they’re supposed to be gone. The second thing I notice is that it looks like someone rolled a giant bowling ball down the middle of the space. Chairs are overturned. Two workstations have been obliterated. And the water cooler is slowly bleeding to death through a crack in the blue plastic. But it’s the third thing I notice that holds my gaze. The smear on the window is fluid—and brown. It’s either a chocolate milkshake or Kaiju blood.
My gut says it’s the latter.
Seeing no one inside, I head for the main stairwell and slide to a stop. There’s a big, round hole in the wall directly across from where I’m standing, ten feet up from the first landing. My first thought is rocket-propelled grenade, but there is very little debris on the stairs, meaning that whatever punched the hole in the wall, came from inside.
I descend the stairs like a peregrine falcon, shrieking out names, “Ashley! Watson! Coop!” Part of me is relieved when I get no reply, but silence often means one of two things: they’re gone or they’re dead. Detecting no signs of life or trouble on the second and first floors, I sprint over the dark hardwood floor and make for the home’s rear exit. The wooden door is open.
While we don’t have a ton of security here, we still follow the basic rules of a mansion living on the fringe of an urban city. The door should be closed and locked. Whatever happened here, it led outside. Of course, the rhinoceros-sized hole in the wall told me that, too.