Thin Air

SEVEN

I was up to my neck in suds and blessedly warm water, experimenting with the various controls for the water jets, when I heard the door to the room open and close. I’d shut the bathroom door, so I couldn’t hear or see anything else. I waited, but Venna didn’t knock, and the last thing I wanted was to face her naked and dripping, anyway. I scrambled up, toweled off, and put on the underwear, blue jeans, black shirt and plain flat shoes that had been Venna’s idea of appropriate costume.

I walked out, prepared to find out what kind of trouble I was in now, but it wasn’t Venna.

And the two people I walked in on didn’t even know I was there, at least not at first. I had to give them credit, they were very fast off the blocks-the clothing trail started at the door, with his tie, and finished in a heap at the foot of the bed. They were definitely not paying attention to me, quite, um, vigorously.

I tried tiptoeing to the door, and didn’t quite get halfway there before the woman-leggy, redheaded, with a model’s perfect ass, which had been on major display-caught sight of me and shrieked, falling off of her boyfriend, who thrashed around like a wounded seal in a shark tank. I held up my hands and backed toward the door.

“What the hell are you doing in our room?” he yelled, and came off the bed at me, still stark naked. I backed away, faster.

“Um…sorry, room inspector, I was just…making sure you had toilet paper, and…so, you like the bed? Brand-new bed. Very bouncy.” I was babbling, shaking, and I kept fierce eye contact with him because the temptation for my gaze to wander was…overwhelming. I felt the handle of the door dig into my back, reached behind me, and twisted it open. “Sorry, sir, ma’am. Please, enjoy your stay…”

I barely made it into the hall before he slammed the door on me. I leaned there, puffing for breath, trembling with reaction, and had to put both hands over my mouth to keep from screaming with laughter.

Don’t go out. Yeah, thanks, Venna. Thanks a lot.

And you know, it would all have been just fine, if Romeo hadn’t gotten on the house phone and reported me, but by the time I’d gotten in the elevators the security machine was already in motion.

When the elevator dinged to a halt at the ground floor, I was wondering where the hell I ought to go, and how I was going to get word to Venna.

I didn’t have to wonder about that first part, not anymore. Facing me, blocking my path, were two guys in matching sports jackets, with logos on the pockets. They were the size of minivans, and they didn’t look happy.

“Come with us,” one of them said. Not that I had a choice, because before the third word of the phrase was out, there were hands around my upper arms, and I was being marched off to the side, away from the busy foot traffic and ringing slot machines, to a discreet unmarked door with a key card entrance.

They sat me down at a table and stared at me in silence.

“So,” I said. “Guys, this is all just a…mistake. Okay? I was looking for my…my niece, she’s about twelve, cute kid, blond hair, blue eyes, looks like Alice in Wonderland…”

They kept on staring at me. One of them finally demanded my name. I lied. They kept staring.

After about two eternities, a woman came in and bent over to whisper in one of the guards’ ears. He nodded. She left.

I waited for someone to explain to me what was going on. That was about as successful as you’d expect; these were not chatty fellows. I kept offering conversational olive branches, and they kept snapping them off.

Thirty minutes later, give or take, two uniformed police officers entered the room, escorted by the woman I’d seen earlier. I felt a real, serious chill spread over me.

“Joanne Baldwin?”

I didn’t nod. It didn’t matter.

“Joanne Baldwin, I need you to stand up and put your hands behind your back,” the older of the two cops said. “Are you armed?”

“Armed? No! What’s going on?” I stood up, mainly because there wasn’t any point in not complying. More than enough muscle in the room to enforce the request.

“There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” he said, and spun me around as he grabbed my right wrist. I felt the cold metal pinch of handcuffs on that side, then the other hand, and it was done before I could even react. “I’m going to need you to stay calm, ma’am. I’m sure if there’s a mistake you can work it out, but we have to take you in now.”

“But-what kind of warrant?” I asked. Because this seemed pretty excessive for accidental Peeping Tom-age. Or even accidental breaking and entering.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of a police officer,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent…”

I didn’t remember the words of the Miranda warning. It’s possible I’d never even heard them before, at least not directed at me. Murder of a police officer?

Man, you’d think that somebody would have mentioned it to me if I was a cop killer.

I didn’t remember the guy I was supposed to have killed, although they showed me pictures. I suppose that didn’t exactly come as a shock, but what disturbed me was more the fact that I had no idea-none at all-whether or not I’d actually committed the crime. Nothing seemed clear-cut anymore, since I’d done whatever it was I’d done to Marion.

The dead guy’s name was Detective Thomas Quinn, and they had surveillance footage of me with him-or someone who looked exactly like me, who used my name. Like, say, a Demon. How long had she been impersonating me? Could she have been responsible? It didn’t really matter, because as far as the police were concerned it wasn’t exactly a viable defense.

So I went with the truth as I knew it. I didn’t remember. No, I couldn’t recall being in Las Vegas before. No, I didn’t know Detective Quinn. No, I had no idea what had happened to him.

They showed me photos of a blown-up truck in a deserted area to prove that I’d killed him, but all I came up with was a feeling…a bad one. If I had killed the guy, it would have been in some sense necessary, right? Justified? God, I hoped so.

The two detectives interrogating me seemed interchangeable-not physically, but in every other way. No personality to speak of, and all they wanted from me was a confession, which I couldn’t properly give. I asked for an attorney, because at least that would give me time, and the questioning ended for a while.

Which left me stranded in a hot, airless interrogation room that smelled of sweat and desperation, old coffee and vomit. Charming. I fidgeted with the coffee cup they’d given me-it was paper, of course; accused murderers didn’t rate the good china-and tried not to think about the consequences of what was going on.

Look on the bright side, I thought. You don’t have to worry about not having any cash. Free food and lodging.

The door rattled, and a new man came in. I didn’t know him, either. He moved slowly, like he might be in pain. He had a badge showing, so he was another detective, maybe their secret weapon pinch hitter who was known for extracting confessions. Was he going to beat me? I didn’t think so; he didn’t look like he was in any physical shape for hand-to-hand, even though I was handcuffed to the table. I looked at him silently and sipped my coffee as he sank into the chair across the table from me.

And then he waited. I took the opportunity to study him. He was in his mid-to late forties, Hispanic, with graying hair and large, dark eyes as hard as obsidian. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and my feeling of stunned, low-level fear that had been with me for the past few hours, since they’d dragged me in here, was gradually ratcheting up to full-fledged panic.

He finally said, “I’m fine; thanks for asking.”

Great. Another person I was supposed to recognize. Wonderful. “Glad to hear it,” I said. I sounded tired. I felt exhausted, wrung dry by all the uncertainty.

“Your friend left me by the side of the road,” he said. “I was lucky someone found me in time. Twenty-two stitches. Nearly lost my spleen.”

Okay, I was definitely in over my head now. “Do I know you?” I asked slowly. And he actually blinked. His eyes revealed something at last, but nothing that was very comforting to me.

“Hard to believe you’d forget a thing like that,” he said. Not a question. His lips curled, but there was nothing remotely smile-like about the expression other than the muscles controlling it.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but like I told the other detectives, I can’t remember-”

“Amnesia. Yeah, they told me.” He sat back, studying me, arms folded across his chest. “You know how many we get in here a year who claim to have amnesia? Dozens. You know how many actually have it? I’ve never met one. Not even one.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m busting your streak, because I really don’t know you. I don’t know anyone. If you tell me I killed this detective, this Quinn, then maybe…I don’t know. But I don’t remember!” I heard the hard, cutting edge in my voice, and closed my eyes and fisted my hands and fought for internal calm. “Sorry,” I said. The chains fastening me to the table clanked softly when I shifted position. “It’s been a tough day.”

He leaned forward, staring. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you don’t remember me.”

“No, sir.”

“And you don’t remember Thomas Quinn.”

I bent over and rested my forehead against my fists. “I have no idea,” I said. “Did I know him?”

He didn’t tell me, not directly. He said, “My name is Detective Armando Rodriguez. I met you in Florida. I followed you. You remember any of that?”

I didn’t bother to do more than shake my head this time.

“You told me things. Showed me…” He gave a quick glance toward the corner, where I was sure audio and video were being recorded. “Showed me things that I didn’t know were possible. And you convinced me that maybe Thomas Quinn wasn’t the guy I’d believed he was.”

The frustration boiled inside me, hot as lava, and I had no place to let it loose. Why couldn’t I remember? I had no idea how to play this, what to say, whether or not he was trying to trap me or even help me. There was simply no way to tell.

So I made it a direct question, looking him straight in the eye. “When I talked to you about Quinn, did I tell you that I killed him?”

Detective Rodriguez was quiet for a few seconds, and then he shook his head. “No. You said you didn’t.”

“Did you believe me?”

“I didn’t drag you back here in handcuffs.” His lips stretched in a thin, hard smile. “But then, I was on vacation. And out of my jurisdiction.”

“Did you believe me?” My fingernails were digging painfully into the palms of my hands, and I leaned forward across the table, willing him to tell me the truth. Or at least the truth as he saw it.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I believed you.”

I let out a slow, careful breath and felt tears sting my eyes. “Then can you help me?” I sounded pathetic. I felt pretty pathetic, too. He seemed genuinely saddened by that.

“No. I can’t.” He stared at me for another dark second before he said, “This isn’t my case, Baldwin. They don’t let detectives who have personal connections work murder cases, so whether I believe you or not, it really doesn’t matter.”

“But you could tell them-”

“I already did,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry. It probably won’t do any good, whatever I say about you. So I’d advise you to start thinking about confessing, if you want a lighter sentence. Make this easy on yourself.”

“I’m not going to confess to a murder I didn’t even commit!”

“I thought you said you didn’t know,” he said. “Didn’t remember.”

“I don’t,” I said. “If I had a clue, I’d tell you. All I know is that I woke up a couple of days ago freezing to death in the forest, and things went downhill from there. Believe me, as bad as this is, I don’t think going to prison is exactly the worst of my problems.”

He gave me a strange smile. “I see. Then it’s more or less the usual for you.”

“Is it? Great. My life sucks.”

He chuckled. I drank coffee. He silently joined me, sipping from his own ceramic mug embossed with PROPERTY OF LVPD. “So what are you doing here?” I asked him. “Minding the store while they decide how to crack me?”

“Somebody’s got to. Watch you, I mean.”

“And they picked you.”

“I volunteered. Look, don’t you want to call anyone? Your friends? What about your sister?”

I’d love to have called Lewis, but I had zero idea how to go about it. I had no idea where my sister was, or if I wanted to have anything to do with her. Though jail was certainly making me feel a lot more familial. “I’d call my sister if I had a number for her.” I left it open-ended, hoping that maybe he’d have more resources than I could think of. Well, of course he did; he was a detective. Finding people was more or less his job description.

He shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do. The way your sister lived, she shouldn’t be hard to track down.” Someone knocked at the one-way glass, and he nodded toward it. “Looks like our time is up. Nice to see you, Joanne.”

“Same here,” I said faintly. He got up slowly, favoring his side, and I saw the lines of pain groove deeper into his face as he took a shallow, careful breath. “Detective? You going to be all right?”

“Yeah. Better every day. You hang in there.”

I watched him head for the door. As he opened it, I said, “You believed me awful fast about the amnesia.” Not that it was going to help me one way or another, but I found that curious. Cops weren’t the most credulous of people, and he had reasons to distrust me, obviously. “Why?”

Rodriguez raised his eyebrows just a bit. “Maybe I like you, Ms. Baldwin. Maybe I think you’re the real thing.”

“The real thing.”

“Innocent.”

“Oh,” I said softly. “I doubt that. I really do. Come on, tell me. Why do you believe me?”

“Quinn,” he said. “I know how you felt about him, and there’s no way you could say his name like that if you remembered him at all, especially after what he did to you. You’re good. Nobody’s that good.”

Rodriguez didn’t go into detail, and I didn’t ask. I was almost certain that was yet another memory I was better off not having in the total-recall file. He nodded once to me, a kind of comrade’s salute if not actual friendship, and stepped outside. There was a murmur of conversation in the hall, and then the door opened again and the first two detectives came back inside and shut the door. They took up seats on the other side of the table, facing me.

“Detective Rodriguez,” I said. “Mind if I ask what happened to him?”

“Stabbed,” Tweedledee said. “Dumped in a ditch, left to die. He’s a tough bastard, though. Wouldn’t want to be the guy who shivved him in the long run.” He studied me closely. “You seemed chummy, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering he was partners with the guy you killed. Thomas Quinn.”

My lawyer arrived, some recent law school graduate with the ink still wet on her diploma. We chatted. I explained patiently about the memory thing. She didn’t seem optimistic. Well, she probably didn’t have reason to be, and she certainly wasn’t being paid to be, since she was court-appointed.

And then they took me to arraignment, which was an efficient sort of in-and-out procedure. I barely had time to draw breath between when my case was called, I was shuffled up to the dock, and my attorney filed a not-guilty plea. There was bail, but I didn’t hear the amount, and it didn’t much matter anyway. Nobody was going to be rushing to my rescue, I figured. If Venna did, she wouldn’t need collateral.

I was right about that. I went to jail. Long process, humiliating and nerve-racking, but in the end the cell wasn’t so horrible, if you could get over the lack of privacy. My roommate was a big girl named Samantha-the strong, silent type, which was fine with me. I just wanted to lie still and let my head stop aching for a while.

David, where are you? I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. I was some kind of supernatural weather agent. Supernatural weather agents didn’t get arrested and dressed in tacky bright orange jumpsuits. Supernatural weather agents kicked ass and took names, and they did not, ever, end up with a criminal record and a jailhouse address.

I was leery of falling asleep, but staying awake was too much of a struggle. I was exhausted, and even if the cot was no feather bed, it was at least horizontal. The pillow smelled of industrial soap, but it was clean. Even Samantha’s snoring seemed less like a disruption and more like a white-noise generator to lull me into a coma.

I woke to a clank of metal, and opened my eyes to see that it was still artificially dark out in the hall, but a guard was opening up my cell. I sat up when she gestured at me. “Let’s go,” the guard said. “Baldwin. You’ve made bail.”

“I have? How?”

“No idea,” she said. “Maybe somebody got you confused with one of those actor people; we’ve had one in here before.”

I tried to get my head around that, but not for long. Bail sounded like a great idea, even if it seemed suspiciously miraculous. I followed the guard out, and we marched down the center of the prison hallway. On both sides of the hallway were rows of bars and dimly lit rooms. Snoring. Mumbling. Crying. The guard was short, round, and jingled with keys. Her name tag said, ELLISON. “Who posted for me?” I asked as we arrived at the sally port gate. She gave a high sign to the guard on the other side, and we were buzzed through.

“Don’t know,” she said. “Let’s go, honey; you may have all night, but my shift’s over in twenty.”

Processing me out took nearly as much time as it had spent to lock me up-the wonders of bureaucracy-and it gave me plenty of opportunity to wonder who, why, and how. I tried to decipher the forms they had me sign, but the light was poor, I was tired, my head hurt, and those things were complicated anyway.

So by the time I’d changed back into street clothes, it was getting near morning. Or at least, the indigo horizon was turning more of a milky turquoise. I’d hardly been in the big house long enough to get nostalgic about freedom, but still, that breath of cool, fresh air was sweet. Even if I still had to go through two more gates, some steely-eyed guards, and a final intrusive pat-down on my way out of the yard.

Beyond, there were a couple of taxis parked, complete with sleeping drivers. I wondered at the desperation involved in ferrying around criminals for cash, but remembered just in time that not all of us were, in fact, criminals. Some of us were just alleged criminals.

I looked around, wondering who would bother to bail me out and then leave me standing by the side of the road. I didn’t have to wonder long. A sleek black car pulled out from behind one of the taxicabs and ghosted up next to me. The passenger window power-rolled down, revealing a pale, tired face. I didn’t recognize her for a second, and started automatically cataloging features. Like blond hair that needed a root touch-up. Like an inexpert, hastily applied makeup job that didn’t conceal the discolored bags under her eyes.

Like eyes that seemed a lot like my own blue shade.

I blinked. “Sarah?” I asked, and took a tentative step closer. It was the woman from Cherise’s memories, rode hard, put away wet.

She gave me a thin, tired smile. “Jo,” she said. “Need a lift?”

I nodded and opened the back door of the car. No surprises lurking back there, just clean dark upholstery. My sister rolled up her window, and the driver-I couldn’t see him-accelerated the car smoothly away from the jail into traffic. No matter what time of the day or night, there was traffic in Las Vegas, at least near downtown, where we were. I saw a confusing blare of neon up ahead, and had a strong, wrenching sense of déjà vu.

“How’d you find out I was here?” I asked.

“A detective called me, and Eamon and I pulled together the bail money.” She looked kind of defiant. “Can’t say we don’t care, can you?” Like I was going to?

“Of course we care,” said the driver, in a low, musical accent that I could only vaguely identify as British. I saw his eyes in the rearview mirror, couldn’t tell what color they were in the glare of passing headlights and ambient neon. He was watching me as much as he was watching the road. “You’re looking better than I expected-a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you. Feeling all right?”

I opened my mouth to reply, something polite and nonconfrontational, because I had no idea what my relationship was to this new guy. I didn’t get a chance to be evasive.

“Before you start,” Sarah said, “Eamon wants to apologize. So let him, please. He’s the one who insisted we come and get you. You owe him, Jo. Give him a chance.”

Who was Eamon, and what did he have to apologize for? What was I holding against him? God. Welcome to Brain Damage Theater. I was tired of confessing ignorance; I decided that maybe dignified silence was the best defense. They must have taken it for assent.

“I know you told me to stay away from Sarah, but I couldn’t do it,” the driver-Eamon-said. “I won’t apologize for that; whatever she and I do is between the two of us. But I do apologize for making that promise to you in the first place.”

Okay, so whoever Eamon was-and nice voice, by the way-I hadn’t approved. But since I had no idea why I hadn’t, and Eamon and Sarah weren’t likely to give me an unvarnished explanation, I just nodded. “Water under the bridge,” I said. Aphorisms were made for moments like these. Saved me from saying anything that might be proven wrong. “Are you two okay?”

Eamon’s eyes focused on me in the rearview for so long that I thought he might drive over a curb. Or another car. He was one of those avoidance drivers, though-either great peripheral vision or awesome luck. Or something else. Maybe he’s a Djinn. Except I didn’t get any Djinn vibe from him.

“Us?” Eamon said, and raised his eyebrows. “Of course we’re all right. Sarah, tell your sister you’re fine.”

“I’m fine,” Sarah said. She didn’t look it. She looked tired and puffy and not in the best possible state. Hungover, maybe. Or worse. The way she said it sounded hollow, but not as if she were really scared of him. Just…submissive. Wonderful. I had a wet rag for a sister. “Jo, you need to understand, I love Eamon. I know you didn’t want us to stay together, but…”

Oh, God. The last thing I needed was to be the relationship police for a sister I’d barely met and-based on Cherise’s memories-hadn’t had much in common with to begin with. “I’m over it,” I said. “Eamon and Sarah, sitting in a tree. True love. Trust me, I’m more worried about the fact that I was sitting in jail for a murder that I didn’t commit.” I left it there. I wanted to see what they’d have to say. Which was nothing, apparently. Eamon braked for the light at Fremont Street, and we all stared at the explosion of dancing lights during the pause. “Thanks for bailing me out.”

“It seemed the thing to do.” Eamon was being just as uninformative as I was. Not helpful. “Did you speak with the good Detective Rodriguez while you were in the precinct house?”

So he knew my friendly-or, at least, not adversarial-cop. “Yeah, I saw him.”

“Ah. How is he?”

“Healing up. He had some kind of accident.”

Eamon nodded. He kept watching me, and there was a tight frown grooved now between his eyebrows. “Did he say anything about what happened?”

“No.” I felt a weird surge of alarm. “Why?” Please don’t tell me that I’m responsible for that, too.

Was I crazy, or did he look oddly startled for a second before smiling? “No, nothing, don’t worry. Listen, love, are you all right? You don’t seem…quite yourself.” His voice was low and rich with concern, and man, that was seductive. I wanted somebody to care whether or not I was okay, and obviously that wasn’t going to be my sister. Disappointing, but there it was.

Sarah twisted in her seat again to look at me. Her pupils were huge. Bigger than they should have been, even in the dark. I wondered if she was on some kind of pain medication. “Well, she did just get out of jail,” she said. “Of course she’s not quite herself. She’s scared, and there’s nothing wrong with that. God, what are you doing in Vegas, Jo? You came looking for me, didn’t you? I told you I didn’t need your help. I told her, too.”

“Her?” I repeated blankly.

Sarah’s pointed chin lifted so she could look down her thin, patrician nose at me. “You know who. Imara.”

My heart thudded hard against my rib cage, rattling to be free. Oh, that hurt. My sister had seen Imara. Imara had been part of my life. Had tried to help Sarah, evidently, for all the good that did. “When did you last see her?” I asked. Because if Sarah had seen her recently, maybe everybody was wrong about Imara. Wrong about her being…gone. Come on, Joanne, say it. Wrong about her being dead.

What, even David? some part of me mocked, more gently than the question deserved. Surely David would know if his child was alive. I didn’t have to know a lot about the Djinn to understand that much.

Sarah avoided my gaze this time, turning back to stare out the windshield as Eamon navigated the car through the neon pinball machine of the Strip. “I haven’t seen her since I told her to leave me in Reno,” she said. “I know you both meant well, but honestly, Jo, she was getting on my nerves. And besides, she was worried about you. She wanted to get back and check on you, even though I told her you’d be okay. You’re always okay.”

Ouch. That stung, especially delivered in a tone so bitter it could have stripped paint. Apparently having a superhero wizard for a sister wasn’t the party-in-a-box that you’d assume. Well, I wasn’t finding it all clowns and puppies on this side, either.

“Jo,” Eamon said, drawing my attention back to him. “I’m guessing that perhaps in this instance your sister might not have been exactly correct. Right? Things haven’t gone as planned?”

“No,” I said, and turned to look out the window at passing strangers who didn’t notice me, or care. “Not exactly. Where are we going?”

“It’s best if we don’t tempt fate and stay in the city,” he said. “Sarah and I have a small place a couple of hours down the road. If you don’t mind?”

I shrugged. I had no money, no transportation, and no real alternatives; seemed like I was stuck with Sarah and Eamon. At least Eamon seemed like a decent kind of guy.

A better person than my sister, anyway.

I wondered if maybe I was internalizing the dislike Cherise had felt for Sarah; probably I was. After all, I didn’t have the normal family bonds and memories, nothing that would let me overlook Sarah’s flaws and love her anyway. I didn’t know her, except on the surface, and the surface wasn’t looking very pretty.

Besides, it was fairly clear how she felt about me.

But she bailed you out.

Interesting.