Just as I started to think my day couldn't get much worse, I heard a rumble from overhead, and saw that a thick bank of clouds had glided over the top of the mall while I was worrying about how not to get myself thrown in the slammer.
I stretched out a hand. A fat, wet drop hit my skin. It was as chilly as the water that the stagehands had dumped on me in the studio.
"No way," I said, and looked up into the clouds. "You can't be happening."
It peppered me with a couple of drops more for evidence. Marvelous Marvin had been right after all. Somebody-somebody other than me, most certainly-had made damn sure he was right. Looking up on the aetheric, I could see the subtle signs of tampering, and the imbalance echoing through the entire Broward County system. Worse than that, though, was the fact that as far as I could tell, there weren't any other Wardens anywhere around. Just me. Me, who wasn't supposed to be doing any kind of weather manipulation at all, under penalty of having my powers cut out of me with a dull knife.
I was so going to get blamed for this.
And, dammit, I didn't even like Marvin.
INTERLUDE
A storm is never just one thing. Too much sun on the water by itself can't cause a storm. Storms are equations, and the math of wind and water and luck has to be just right for it to grow.
This storm, young and fragile, runs the risk of being killed by a capricious shift in winds coming off the pole, or a high-pressure front pushing through from east to west. Like all babies, this storm's nothing but potential and soft underbelly, and it will take almost nothing to rip it apart. Even as attuned as I am, I don't really notice. It's nothing, yet.
But the weather keeps cooking up rising temperatures and the winds stay stable, and the clouds grow thick and heavy. The constant friction of drops churning in the clouds creates energy, and energy creates heat. The storm gets fed from above, by the sun, and from below, by blood-warm water, and a generator starts turning over somewhere in the middle, hidden in the mist. With the right conditions, a storm system can sustain itself for days, living off its own combustion, an engine of friction and mass.
It's just a few days old, at this point. It won't live more than a few weeks, but it can either go out with a whimper, or with a bang.
This one can go either way.
It moves in a wide, slow sweep over the water. A wall of white cloud, drifting gray veils. No rain makes it to the ocean below; the engine sucks it back up, recycling and growing.
As the moisture condenses inside the clouds, conditions get strange. Intense energy sends water into jittering frenzies, producing even more power. The clouds darken as they grow denser. As they crawl across open water they are getting fatter, spreading, spawning, and that engine at the heart of the storm stores up power for leaner times.
And still, it's really nothing. A summer squall. An annoyance.
But now it's starting to know that it's alive.
TWO
By the time we broke up the Great Mall Trek of 2004 for lunch, Sarah, Cherise, and I had enough shopping bags to outfit an Everest expedition, if the climbers were planning to look really, really adorable and hang out extensively at the beach.
Sarah had always been a natural-born clotheshorse. Not as curvy as me, and with the kind of perfect angular proportions that sparked envy and were held up as examples by plastic surgeons to keep them in the lipo and sculpting business.
Life with the French Kiss-Off (as I decided to title Chretien) hadn't ruined her, except that she had some lines around her eyes, a good haircut gone bad, ugly shoes, and a generally sour attitude about men. A nice toning lotion took care of the lines. Toni & Guy bravely addressed the hair issues. Prada was very willing to practice some accessory therapy. I didn't think anything could possibly help her with the attitude, except massive applications of chocolate, which with her figure she wouldn't accept. After half a day of it, I was ready to send Sarah to the Bitter Ex-wives Club for an extra session of getting in touch with her whiny inner bitch.
"He was a lousy lover," she declared, as she was trying on shoes. She had perfect feet, too. Long, narrow, elegant-the kind of feet men liked to think about rubbing. Even the salesman, who surely must have had his fill of stinky, sweaty toes, was looking tempted as he held her by the heel and slipped her into a strappy little pointy-toed number. Personal service. It only happened at the best stores these days, but then, he was trying to sell her shoes worth more than your average television set.
"Who?" Cherise asked, inspecting a pair of kitten-heeled pumps. She must have missed the entire ongoing monologue about the flaws of Chretien. I stared gloomily at the ruby red pair of sandals I'd been saving up for, which were likely to go out of style and come back again three generations from now before I could actually afford them again, at the rate Sarah was shopping.
Not that I hadn't asked for it. And it was in a good cause. But I really needed to introduce her to the concept of outlet malls.
"The ex, of course," Sarah replied, and tilted her foot to one side to admire the effect of the shoe. It was, I had to admit, very nice. "He had this terrible habit; he'd do this thing with his tongue-"
Okay, that was too much information. I shot to my feet.
"I really don't think I'm ready for this level of sister-bonding. I'm going to get a mocha. You guys-shop."
Sarah smiled and waved. As well she should. She had my Mastercard in her purse, and I had exactly ten dollars and change in mine.
Being the younger sister sucked.
As I walked away, Sarah was amusing the shoe salesman and Cherise with an account of something having to do with her husband, a Spider-Man costume, Silly String, and Velcro sheets.
I walked faster.
Outside, the mall was starting to buzz. It was packed with moms, squealing kids, harassed-looking singles clutching shopping bags, and a grim flying squadron of gray-haired mall walkers in heather gray sweats. Some had canes. I had to hug the wall to avoid a rumbling wagon trail of mothers with strollers, and then a flock of businesswomen with scarves and briefcases.
Men, apparently, no longer malled. Or at least, not alone. Every one that I saw had a female solidly by his side, like a human shield.
The coffee shop was busy, but efficient, and I walked away with mocha gold. As I sipped I window-shopped, and I was admiring a dress that was very, very me-and very, very not my budget-when I caught sight of someone in the mirror-reflection of the glass, watching.
I turned and looked. LVPD Detective Armando Rodriguez smiled slightly, leaned against a convenient neon-wrapped pillar, and sipped on his own cup. Smaller than mine. Probably black coffee. He looked like an uncomplicated sort of man, in terms of his caffeine tastes.
I walked right up to him with fast, impatient clicks of my heels.
"Look," I said, "I thought we were sort of done."
"Did you?"
"You need to leave me alone."
"Do I?" He sipped coffee, watching me. Big eyes with warm flecks of wood brown in an iris nearly as dark as his pupil. He was wearing a jacket, and I wondered if he'd worn the gun inside-a pretty big risk, these days-or had stashed it in his van. Not that I thought he'd particularly need it. Even his casual moves seemed graceful and martial arts-precise. He'd probably have me on the ground and handcuffed inside of five seconds, if he were given the least excuse. In the harsher light of the mall, he had rough skin and a pockmarked face. Not a pretty man, but an intense one. Those eyes didn't blink.
"If you keep following me, I'm going to have to call the cops," I said, and was instantly sorry I had when he smiled.
"Yes, do that. All I have to do is flash my badge and ask for professional courtesy. Or I might possibly show them the surveillance photos, and request their assistance. I'm sure they'd be happy to help me out in questioning a suspect." He shrugged slightly, never taking his eyes off me. "I'm a good cop. Nobody's going to believe I've driven all the way here to stalk you. And a word of advice: I don't think a drowning person really ought to be flailing around in the water. Could draw some sharks."
I didn't say anything for a few seconds too long. A runaway five-year-old darted between the two of us, brushing my legs; I took a step back as the mom charged after and veered around us, yelling out the kid's name. Both Rodriguez and I watched as she caught up to the escapee and marched him back toward the Food Court, where evidently a firing squad of fast food awaited.
Rodriguez said, still looking away from mother and child, "Quinn was my partner. He was my responsibility. Do you understand?"
I didn't like what I was understanding.
"I'm not going, sweetheart. Mira, you and I are going to get very, very friendly until you tell me what I want to know." He finally turned his gaze back on me.
Dead-eyed and intense.
"Don't you have a job? Family? Someplace to be?" I was used to handling difficult situations, difficult people, but he kept throwing me off my stride.
"Come on, this is ridiculous. You can't just-"
"Quinn had a wife," he cut in. Those eyes were glittering now. "Nice woman. You know what it's like, living with that kind of uncertainty? Knowing he's probably dead, but you just can't move on because you can't really know? You can't sell the house, you can't get rid of his clothes, you can't do anything, because what if he's not dead? His insurance won't pay out. His pension's locked up. And what if he comes walking in the door and there you are, in a brand-new life you made without him?"
"I can't help you," I said around a sudden lump in my throat. "Please leave me alone."