Impossible Things (Subparheroes), page 5
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Feel free.” I handed it over and reached for the next manilla envelope. “I won’t be able to authenticate it until I make some calls tomorrow and get some more information on it.”
Sam took the journal to the couch, and I went back to work. Every time I glanced at him over the next hour, his brows were knit as he intently studied the pages. It was surprising that he stuck with it, since it wasn’t exactly light reading.
Then again, I was learning there was more to Sam than originally met the eye.
CHAPTER 7
SAM
Surprisingly, Anderson handed over the journal when I asked to take a look at it. This thing was an unknown commodity. Who knew what secrets it might contain? But he didn’t assume we worked for the evil empire like I did, so to him, it probably seemed perfectly harmless.
I spent over an hour trying to make sense of what I was reading. While I could grasp that it had to do with genetics and DNA, it was confusing—both because I didn’t have a particularly strong understanding of that subject, and because the notes were a jumbled mess. They got even worse in the second half, as if the journal’s owner had been writing as fast as he could.
After a while, I started to recognize a formula that appeared repeatedly, each time with tiny changes, as if the scientist was refining it or closing in on something. I flipped ahead and found a page where a version of it was circled over and over again. Next to it, he’d written, “I’ve done it!” Okay, but what exactly had he done?
Anderson pulled me from my thoughts when he got up and said, “I’m ready to call it a night. I’d been planning to stay until nine, but I’ve run out of steam.”
I would have loved to keep reading. Something in my gut told me it was important, possibly even the type of thing I’d been hoping to find when I went to work for SPAM. This wasn’t a tidy, nonthreatening study about demographics, or the psychology of being a superhero, or some shit like that. And I was sure it had been sent to the wrong department. Even with just the flimsiest understanding of what it contained, I knew it probably should have gone someplace way above my pay grade.
Anderson was ready to leave though, so I got up and reluctantly brought the journal to his desk. There was a form at the top of his in-box, and I asked, “Did this come with it?” When he nodded, I stuck it between the journal’s pages, while quickly scanning it for information. I planned to dig into this scientist and his research as soon as I got home.
I plucked my denim jacket from the coat rack in a corner of the office, and as we made our way out of the archives, I asked, “Are you getting here at seven tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I’ll shoot for that, too. I’ve never been much of a morning person, though. Making it here by eight every day is hard enough.”
“What did you do before this?”
“Most recently, I worked as a bouncer at a night club. That was a cool gig, all late nights, zero mornings. Before that, I worked as a bodyguard, and as a trainer at a gym.”
He asked, “What was the plan?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did you want to do when you were younger?”
“Oh. That plan. Well, when it became clear I wouldn’t be able to follow in my mom’s footsteps, my fallback was football. I went to college on an athletic scholarship, but then I ripped my shoulder to shreds my sophomore year. Since I was a quarterback, there was no coming back from that.”
“What were you studying?”
“I hadn’t chosen a major yet. And of course, the scholarship went away the minute I couldn’t play football anymore.”
“That must have been disappointing.”
“You could say that.” When we got outside, I asked, “Which way are you going?” He pointed to the left. “Me, too. Are you headed to the bus stop?”
“No. I’m on foot.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“Go right ahead.”
It was only about eight o’clock, but the Financial District was almost eerily still. All the offices were closed for the day, and we were the only people on the street. That changed, of course, as soon as we left the clusters of skyscrapers behind. The rest of the city was as vibrant and bustling as ever. It got to be a bit much sometimes, but after a full day in the stillness of the archives, I welcomed the noise.
After a few minutes, we entered Chinatown, and Anderson said, “We’re almost there. I live two blocks up.”
“I love this neighborhood. How long have you lived here?”
“All my life. I still live with my mom, because this city is crazy expensive. I’m actually the fourth generation on her side of the family to grow up here.”
“That’s cool. Do you have a lot of relatives nearby?”
“Not anymore. My grandparents used to live three blocks over, but they retired to Florida last year.”
“You must miss them.”
“No.” Anderson quickly added, “That sounds terrible, but I didn’t know them. The only reason I found out they moved is because a gossipy neighbor told me.”
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you know them, when they lived so close?”
“Here’s all my family drama in a nutshell. My mom got pregnant when she was twenty, and she refused to marry my dad, since they’d already broken up by the time she found out I was on the way. This infuriated her parents. So did the fact that he was Korean.”
“What’s wrong with being Korean?”
“Nothing, unless you’re old and closed-minded. They’d had a nice Chinese boy all picked out for her, but getting knocked up wrecked their plans—not that she ever would have agreed to marry that other guy. Long story short, they ended up disowning her, and me, by default.”
“Damn, that’s harsh. What did she do?”
“Fortunately, her great aunt was willing to take her in. Even though she was from an even older generation, she was a lot more accepting than my grandparents.”
“What happened to your dad?”
“He was here to attend college. As soon as his parents found out about the pregnancy, they made him drop out and return to Korea.”
I asked, “Have you ever met him?”
“Yeah, once. He came for a visit when I graduated from high school, and it was painfully awkward. He’s not a bad guy, though. He paid child support for eighteen years like clockwork, and he always sends me a card for my birthday.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, he’s doing a hell of a lot better than my dad. He took off right before I was born.”
Anderson stopped walking and turned to me with sympathy in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Don’t be. He was obviously a shmuck, and we were better off without him.”
“Did you ever try to find him?”
“My lawyer tracked him down after my mom died. I was eleven at the time. He still didn’t want anything to do with me, so fuck him.”
“What did you do?”
“My uncle moved in with me and took on the role of my guardian.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, not really. He ended up stealing most of the money my mom left me.”
“Oh, no!”
“It all worked out in the end. When I was seventeen, I became an emancipated minor. I’ve been taking care of myself ever since.” I grinned at him and tried to put an end to this conversation with, “Anyway, I’m sure that’s more than you ever wanted to know about Samaritan J. Miller.”
“Sam is short for Samaritan?”
“Yeah. Go figure.” I gestured at the sidewalk ahead. “Anyway, do you want to keep going, or—”
“We’re here.”
“Where?”
“My apartment.” He nodded at the compact, yellow building behind him. “Would you like to come in for some tea? I always make myself a cup after work.”
“Are you asking just to be polite?”
“I’m asking because I thought you might like some tea.” He was always so matter-of-fact.
“I’d love some. Thanks for the offer.” It wasn’t like I was in a hurry to get home.
I followed him upstairs, and when he unlocked the door and we stepped into his apartment, several cats came running. As I scooped a white cat into my arms, I asked, “Did you use your power to call them?”
“No. This group just gets excited when we have visitors.”
“There are more in here!” I hurried into a sitting room on our left, where five more cats were lounging on a large area rug. The room was cozy and welcoming, with pink walls, a fireplace with photos and tchotchkes on the mantle, and a bunch of mismatched, comfortable-looking furniture. I crouched down and held my hand out to the cats as I exclaimed, “Hi, buddies!”
Suddenly, two women appeared on the couch, literally out of nowhere. The white cat jumped out of my arms as I yelped and fell back onto my ass, and the rest of the cats scattered. Both women were adjusting their clothes, and their hair was tousled—especially the redhead, whose curls looked like she’d been in a wind tunnel.
From the doorway, Anderson exclaimed, “Oh my god, Mom!”
The woman with a graying bob grinned and told him, “You’re early. You usually don’t get home until nine-fifteen, nine-thirty.”
“You have a bedroom! Why are you two messing around out here?” He looked completely mortified.
His mother shrugged, while the redhead smiled at me and said, “Sorry to startle you.”
“No worries.” I shifted around so I was sitting cross-legged and asked, “Did you two just beam in from somewhere, or were you invisible? Either way, it’s a cool power.”
“Neither. My girlfriend has the ability to shift the perception of people who are nearby, so it’s impossible to notice her,” the redhead explained. “She can also apply it to anyone she’s touching.”
“The ability to hide in plain sight,” I said, and she nodded.
“We weren’t expecting company, so we had to duck out of sight while we got dressed,” the dark-haired woman told me, while Anderson lightly and repeatedly whacked his forehead against the doorframe. “I’m Linda Chen, by the way, and this is my girlfriend, Julie O’Hurley.”
“Sam Miller. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I leaned over and stuck my hand out, but both women hesitated. “We, um, we should probably wash up. We’re a little sticky,” Linda said, which caused a strangled exclamation to slip from her son.
They leapt off the couch and quickly left the room, and Anderson mumbled, “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s totally cool. And good for your mom, right? Way to make the most of a Monday night.” I got up and told him, “I guess I should probably go, but let’s do this again sometime. Not the part where we walk in on your mom having sex, obviously. But the tea, that part.” I hurried to the door, before I discovered it was possible for someone to actually die of embarrassment.
It was only about a ten-minute walk from his place to mine. I lived in a cute little house with a vaguely Art Deco style, which was almost the same shade of yellow as Anderson’s building. On my way up the front steps, I noticed the paint on the windowsill was starting to chip. I’d have to take care of that soon.
Once I was inside, I kicked off my sneakers and went into the front room. The size and layout was similar to the sitting room in Anderson’s apartment, but the only piece of furniture in it was a blue beanbag chair.
I took a seat and played some music on my phone to break up the silence. An internet search for the scientist who’d written that journal produced plenty of information, and I started to read an article from the local paper.
But my mind kept wandering to another home just a few blocks away, where Anderson Chen was living a life very different from mine.
CHAPTER 8
ANDY
When I arrived at work shortly before seven the next morning, Sam was already there. I was still embarrassed about what had happened the night before, but he was all smiles. He raised a carrier with two paper cups and said, “I brought tea, since we didn’t get to it last night.”
I thanked him as I unlocked the doors, and he went inside ahead of me and flipped on the lights. When we got to the office, he went straight to the journal and settled in on the couch with it. “I read up on Dr. Mercanti when I got home last night,” he told me. “It turns out he died three years ago, in a fire that destroyed his lab. According to the newspaper, the cause of the blaze is unknown.”
“What was he working on?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but his areas of expertise were genetics and biochemistry.”
I didn’t understand why he was so interested in the journal. The only reason I could think of was because he was bored to death in the archives, and getting to do a bit of detective work made the job more interesting.
Sam studied it intently for the next hour. I was sure I’d have to tell him to get to work when his shift started, but a chime sounded on his phone at a minute before eight. He got up and returned the journal to my in-box before flashing me a big smile. “I’ll be in the stacks if you need me.”
I nodded and watched him leave my office. As usual, his dark blond hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and he was wearing what I’d started to think of as his uniform—jeans, sneakers, and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a T-shirt. The outfit was so blatantly wrong for an office environment that it came across as a declaration—he might work here, but he’d never conform.
A part of me secretly envied his rebelliousness. All my life, I’d tried so hard to blend in, even before my awful superpower showed up. At that point, all I’d wanted was to disappear. If only I’d inherited my mom’s power. It would have been great to make it impossible to notice me.
When Sam returned to the office a couple of hours later, he raised a brow and said, “No offense, but your musical taste sucks.”
“I’m on hold and have the phone on speaker. This is what they’re forcing me to listen to while I wait. I’ve been trying to get through to the science division for the last two hours.”
“Why isn’t anybody in the office?”
“They are. Every time I try calling back, they answer with, ‘Science division, please hold,’ and then they never come back on the line. They’ve done that to me six times already.”
“Maybe you should go see them in person.”
I got up and hit the button to disconnect the call. “I was just thinking that. It’s only three or four blocks from here.”
As I carried the journal to the funky old copy machine in the corner, he said, “You mentioned you need to authenticate the journal. What does that mean, exactly?”
“There’s no name on it. Right now, all I know is that it was in Dr. Mercanti’s lab, not that he actually wrote it. I need verification on who the author was before I can enter it into the system.”
After I photocopied the first five pages, I returned the journal to my in-box and slipped the papers into a large, manilla envelope. Sam watched what I was doing and asked, “Aren’t you going to take it with you?”
“No. As far as I can tell, the first few pages don’t contain anything that would require a high security clearance. I’m not sure that can be said for the journal as a whole.”
“Can I come with you?”
“Why?”
“Because field trips are fun.”
“Sure, come along.” I figured Sam might actually have better luck getting someone to help us than I would. He was charismatic, outgoing, and hard to ignore. None of that could be said for me.
I locked the doors behind us on the way out, and as we headed to the elevator he asked, “Can we get iced coffees?”
“We’re supposed to be working.”
“Right, but this is when I’d normally take my fifteen-minute break. Usually, I go up to the sixth floor for a cup of coffee, but since we’re already going to be out—”
“Fine. We can do that on the way back, as long as it doesn’t take too long.”
Sam perked up when we got outside. He took a deep breath and flung his arms to the sides as he announced, “The fresh air feels fan-fucking-tastic after being trapped in that windowless prison.”
“You could always transfer out of the archives if you hate it that much.”
“I don’t hate it. But you have to admit, it can feel stifling down there with the recirculating air and the total absence of daylight.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” That wasn’t true, but I felt protective of the archives and didn’t like hearing them criticized. He shot me a look but let the subject drop.
SPAM’s west coast science division was housed in a 1980s-era building at the edge of the business district. We went into the modest lobby, and I told the woman at the reception desk that we were here to see Dr. Silverton. As she typed something into the computer, Sam asked me, “Who’s that?”
“He’s the head of the genetics research department. I did a search online before I tried calling, and he sounded like someone who’d be familiar with Dr. Mercanti’s work.”
The receptionist told me flatly, “I’m sorry, but there’s no record of your appointment.”
“I don’t have one. I work in SPAM’s archives and just have a quick question for him.” I held up my employee ID, in case that made a difference.
“Perhaps you should try calling him.”
“I did, but I kept getting put on hold.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll need an appointment if you want to see Dr. Silverton.”
Sam leaned on the desk and flashed her a smile. “But we’ve come all this way.” It was only three blocks, but sure. “Maybe if you tell him we’re here, he can pop out to the lobby. It’ll take two minutes of his time, no more.”
Her resolve waivered a bit, and she admitted, “Actually, he’s off-site with some of his colleagues, but he should be back any minute.”
