LITMIR.BIZ

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leadership with all the additional stress of that, you seem to be well-adjusted.”

      Emphasis on seem, Dekka thought. You’re not there when I wake up at three in the morning screaming with my bed damp from terror sweat, mister.

      Or maybe they are, Dekka added, mentally scrolling through her memories, looking for any sign that the privacy of her little apartment had been violated. Not that the FBI would leave traces.

      “Yes, I am a great big bundle of happiness and adjustment,” Dekka said. “Are we done?”

      “Ms. Talent,” Peaks said, “May I call you Dekka?”

      “Sure, Tom.”

      “I would imagine you’ve tried to put all that behind you. You’re looking to get back to normal. Four years on, and you’re still trying to find normal.”

      That was too close to the bone for a smart-ass response, so Dekka stayed mum, watching those intelligent, slightly lens-distorted eyes as they stared frankly at her.

      “You are, in fact, among the least affected. Lana Lazar spent time in a mental health facility.”

      “I know, she’s a friend of mine,” Dekka snapped. “She’s fine now.”

      “Others, like Sam Temple, the supposed hero of the FAYZ, have had—”

      “Hey!” Dekka’s finger was instantly in Peaks’s face. “Supposed hero? Screw you. You don’t disrespect Sam Temple where I can hear it.”

      She reached across Green for the door handle and popped the latch.

      “I apologize,” Peaks said quickly.

      Shaking her head, as if disagreeing with her own choice, Dekka closed the door again and rounded on Peaks. “If you’d lived through one tenth of what Sam Temple lived through, you might start drinking too, if you ever nerved yourself up to crawl out from under the bed to start with.” Then in a calmer tone, “Anyway, he’s on the wagon. Sober for sixteen months.”

      “Fifteen months, twelve days,” the FBI agent said from the front seat. Then in an actual moment of humanity, he added, “I’ve got nine years, four months and nineteen days myself.” He superstitiously rapped his knuckle on a piece of wood trim.

      “So you people do still keep an eye on us,” Dekka accused.

      The FBI agent Carlson and Homeland Security’s Green both nodded. Peaks said, “Of course the government keeps track of you. At one time you possessed extraordinary powers. You, Ms. Talent, were able—as a simple act of will—to cancel the effects of gravity. Incredible! Sam Temple could fire killing energy beams from his hands. There was a girl who had the power to move at speeds just short of breaking the sound barrier. And—”

      “Brianna,” Dekka said softly. Then with a wistful smile, “The Breeze.”

      “You were friends,” Green said, not quite a question.

      But Dekka was no longer listening. She was seeing Brianna’s wild, reckless grin; hearing her fearlessly proclaim that she was off to this fight or that; feeling a sudden gust of wind and catching just a glimpse of ponytail standing straight back as Brianna blew past.

      Other memories were there too, dark and awful images, but Dekka brushed those aside. Four years and she still could not think about Brianna without crying. It was an unrequited love, maybe a ridiculous love, but love just the same, and it still warmed Dekka. And sometimes it burned her.

      Dekka took several deep breaths and cursed herself for the need to wipe at tears.

       You were brave one too many times, Breeze.

      “Our point is,” Peaks persisted, “you are almost uniquely normal, stable. No alcohol or drug issues aside from the occasional joint or beer. No psychological breakdown. No wild or reckless behavior—other than speeding violations on your motorcycle. Of all the people who gained—and then lost—these supernatural powers, and endured the PBA, the FAYZ, you, almost alone, seem to have avoided going . . . becoming . . .” He searched for the right word, so Dekka supplied it.

      “Crazy. That’s the scientific term: crazy.” Dekka felt a sudden longing for her dinky apartment and especially its tiny shower. Four years on, the FAYZ left its marks: she ate too much, a common problem for people who’ve been close to starvation; she still had nightmares, though less frequently; and she took two long, hot showers—drought be damned—every single day, reveling even now in the luxury she’d been denied for that one-year lifetime in the FAYZ.

      Peaks nodded, accepting the word. “You didn’t go crazy. There’s something about you, maybe genetic, maybe psychological, that made you particularly resistant to whatever the powers do to those who possess them.”

      “It’s not about the powers,” Dekka said. “It’s all of us who were there. It was a whole lot of bad things we had to do to survive.”

      “No,” Peaks said flatly. He shook his head by millimeters so that it was more a vibration than a back-and-forth. “The numbers don’t lie. Among survivors of the Perdido Beach Anomaly, who did not have any mutations, thirty-six percent have had serious psychological or behavioral problems. Among those with major powers? The number is closer to ninety percent.”

      Dekka stared at him. Then at Green. And at the eyes of the FBI man watching her in the rearview mirror. “What is this? What is this about? What do you people want?”

      “We will be happy to tell you.” Green again. She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen a few times. “There’s a document on this screen. Read it, sign it—thumb print will do—and we can tell you everything.”

      Dekka took the phone and read, flicking down the page. “This swears me to secrecy.”

      “Under penalty of law, and we are very serious about prosecuting unauthorized statements,” the FBI agent said without turning around.

      “Yeah?” Dekka said with a short laugh. “Well, it’s been fun, folks, but I’m sweaty and I smell like the vanilla almond milk some brat spilled on me. So, goodnight.”

      Again Dekka reached for the door and when Green didn’t move aside a hard look came over Dekka’s face.

      Peaks leaned into her, to an intimate distance, an uncomfortable distance that conveyed just the hint of threat. “We need one of you, preferably you. But if you refuse, our next stop is Sam Temple. And I think we both know he’ll agree to help us.”

      “Hey, Sam’s sober, and Astrid’s got her head screwed on straight, so leave them the hell out of this. Leave them both alone.” Peaks met her gaze, unflinching, and Dekka sighed. “Ah. So it’s like that.” She shook her head, realizing she was trapped. “You have any idea how many times that boy, that man, saved my life?”

      “Many times.” Peaks again, and now the pitch was lower, lending an almost compassionate tone. “I’ve read all the published stories, Ms. Talent, and many unpublished statements. So I know as well that you saved him. Many times. I know that you were his strong right arm whenever things turned dangerous.”

      Then Green spoke up, sounding disapproving. “You’re a lesbian, and black, and yet you’re inevitably referred to as the ‘strong right arm’ to a white male. Doesn’t that grate on your nerves? Aren’t we supposed to be past that—”

      Dekka let go a snort and sat all the way back in her seat, willing herself to remain calm. “A white male?” she echoed, her voice vibrating with suppressed anger. “He’s not a white male, he’s Sam freaking Temple. You can read all the accounts you want, but you don’t know what he did, and how . . .” Tears threatened to well again. Dekka stabbed a finger at Green. “Every single person . . . every single one . . . who came out of that hellhole alive is alive because of him. Sam Temple’s strong right arm? You can chisel those words on my tombstone, lady, and I’ll be a proud and happy corpse.”

      “We’d

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