Grounded (Out of the Box Book 4) Page 2

  And it’s not like those guys were bad! They were good guys, who did good things. Cavanagh had scholarships all through the community now. (I missed them by six months when I was in school. But it’s all good! He was going to pay for my college anyhow, now.) Honestly, I kinda wanted to be Cavanagh. Except for being white. Not really a trade-off I was prepared to make—home, family, all that. Not worth giving up, especially when I was convinced that I could make my own money. Maybe not billions like him, but enough that I’d be happy. That my family would be happy.

  Yes, Mary, I was gonna make it after all.

  What? TV Land played reruns at night, and when I couldn’t sleep, I’d watch them. Mary Tyler Moore was cute, okay?

  Cavanagh walked with a swagger, like you’d expect a billionaire to. I’ll admit it: I watched YouTube videos, and sometimes, I might have practiced walking like he did. Maybe a little bit. Cordell Weldon walked slower, more measured. He was older than Cavanagh by a little, dark skin and all serious. Dude had a bald head, too, and rocked it like Samuel L. Jackson. He smiled for the cameras, but it was a serious smile. Cordell Weldon was all business, man with a mission.

  And I just about crapped myself when they made their way to my line.

  “Right this way,” Lawton said under his breath. The whole line was watching. “They’re coming right over here.”

  “Then you ought to be working,” I said, surprising Lawton right out of his knuckleheaded rubbernecking. I mean, he wasn’t doing anything different than anyone else, but the line was going. Things needed to happen. We’d pretty much halted production, and last I checked we were still drawing pay while gawking.

  “Oh, yes, sir, Mr. High-and-Mighty,” Lawton Evers said, deadpan. He did get back to work, though. Eduardo did the same, and the rest of my line picked it up as things started to move again, and just in time. The first crush of photographers and reporters got to us right then, and they found Augustus Coleman’s line humming along, everyone paying attention to their jobs. Yeah, I can’t really take credit for that one. No one wants to look like they’re slacking off on camera.

  I went to stand ready to greet Mr. Cavanagh and Mr. Weldon, fairly certain they were going to pass us right on by but not willing to risk snubbing them in case they didn’t. I wiped my sweaty hands on my navy overall. Then again. You try and meet a community leader and your billionaire boss without showing some nerves. Yeah, I wiped my hands again and actually let out a quick prayer that they would pass me by because the moisture situation was not improving. Damned non-absorbent overalls.

  I was almost convinced I was going to be safe when Cavanagh and Weldon turned to look at the line across from mine, but then I caught sight of him. Laverne Dobbins. He was about ten years ahead of me in school, but he left some serious noise behind him. University of Georgia, full-ride football scholarship. Six-foot-six, built like a brick shithouse. Made good, didn’t turn pro, went corporate instead, and now he was one of the top VPs at Cavanagh. He was the advance man for Edward Cavanagh, the sweeping usher of doom—no, that’s not right. He was the hammer; Cavanagh was the velvet glove.

  Oh, and you knew he was tough because he went by his given name. Yeah. Laverne. And nobody ever said it to him like it was maybe more commonly a girl’s name, I promise you that.

  Laverne Dobbins came out of the crowd like he was breaking a thousand tackles from those fawning, mostly-white photographers and reporters. He wasn’t, of course, because a) he would have crushed them all and b) they would have been too scared to cross him, but he came right out like he was walking out of the tide.

  I felt my stomach drop, but my natural optimism picked me up. This could be good! A chance to press the flesh with my ultimate boss, hero, a local legend and man of no small influence.

  “You,” Laverne Dobbins said, and I swallowed hard, “Augustus.” Holy damn, he knew my name. It was on my overalls, but … still! He took the time to read it. “Mr. Cavanagh would like a word, and a picture.”

  “Well … of course,” I said, like billionaires and community leaders took pictures with me all the time. Sure thing, gentlemen, step right on over to my line and let’s make this look good.

  Laverne raised an eyebrow at me, like he was looking over every word of my sentence for sarcasm. “You just hold tight right there. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

  I decided to just nod rather than fawn or add what could probably have been a considerable bit of drooling stupidity to the floor. Quit while you’re way ahead, that’s what I say. Except I wasn’t actually saying anything right now.

  Before I could really do anything else, Edward Cavanagh broke away from the crowd and walked right up to me. Full head of slightly curly hair, a five o’clock shadow that looked more like it was ten o’clock at night, and he took my hand in a grip so commanding I almost made a very girly giggle as he shook it. “Augustus. I’ve heard a lot about you. How are you doing today?”

  “Ah, very good, sir,” I said, taking great care not to stammer. Okay, I mostly was lucky on that. Clean living. That’s what I’m chalking it up to. Clean living and optimism.

  “Good to hear,” Cavanagh said, breaking eye contact with me. I followed where he was looking and got blasted by a thousand flashbulbs. I wondered how he saw through things like this. “Smile through the searing pain on your eyeballs, Augustus. You’re doing great.”

  I spent a moment trying to decode that remark. Was he talking about my job performance? Or my ability to smile wide while the cameras were snapping away? Because I’d been waiting for this moment my whole life. I always dreamed it was gonna come in a football locker room when I was younger, and when that passed, I thought maybe by me inventing something, and finally settled on the day I stood before a bunch of cameras to announce all the amazing things I was going to do for my town, to make my city proud through my own business—

  “Keep smiling, son.” The low, deep voice of Cordell Weldon was unmistakable. I’d heard the man speak at dedications to parks, at school events, at my high school graduation—I’d shaken hands with him that day, waving my diploma up at my mom up in the bleachers. “You’re a natural.” The man breathed inspiration and encouragement. He and Cavanagh were like my binary universe—black and white inspiration all in one.

  I realized at this point they were talking so low the cameras and reporters couldn’t hear them. “This is Augustus Coleman,” Cavanagh said, raising his voice and surprising the hell out of me. I’d thought this was a photo op, something to make him and Weldon look good in the papers, taking pictures with nameless line workers. “He’s one of our success stories since opening the plant here—a young man with a bright future, on track for management. Without people like him, and the countless workers we’ve hired, we couldn’t be doing what we’re doing here—plowing ahead with projects that will reshape the country, the world, and revitalize the area.” Cavanagh pumped up. “And if weren’t for my friend Cordell and his efforts,” he reached across and punched Mr. Weldon in the shoulder, leaning across my body to do so—oh, dear Jesus, “I think we would have ended up setting up in Florida or Texas instead. Which goes to show you how much of an impact one man of real influence can have on a community.”

  There was applause from the press, and it was more than polite, it was nearly deafening. I was just standing there in the middle of it all, swept up by the feeling in the epicenter. It was like a nuclear blast went off, and I was a feather blowing on the currents above, untouched by the fire and heat. I knew I had a grin on my face because I saw it in the paper the next day.

  “Keep up the great work,” Cavanagh said as he smiled at me one last time and gave my hand one last pump.

  “I’m expecting big things from you, son,” Cordell Weldon said as he grabbed my shoulder with strong fingers and squeezed it again, his face letting just a hint of smile through his normal mask of seriousness.

  And I just stood there as they moved on, the flashing lights of the cameras trailing behind them, the crowd like a mob moving wi
th them in lockstep. I felt like I’d been swept up in a tornado and set back down gentle as could be. Like I needed to look down and make sure my clothes were all still intact. I did. They were.

  As the noise subsided, I felt like my heart was glowing in my chest, like it was about to explode. Not in a painful way, but from pride. Pride that all the work I put in that I thought would go unnoticed except by my immediate bosses didn’t. I showed up early, I stayed late, I outworked any other person in that factory as best I could.

  And they noticed.

  The noise of the line came back to me as Cavanagh, Weldon, and the whole media frenzy surrounding them headed off through massive steel doors to another part of the factory. I just stood there like I could see them through the wall, though, just watching like they’d come back and give me another moment in the spotlight.

  “Look at Augustus,” Lawton said from behind me, drawing me back into the moment, “looks like he been touched by God or something. Yo, Edward Cavanagh is a man. He’s your boss. Get your head out of your ass.”

  “You sound a little jealous, Lawton,” I said, turning to him with a smile. That was the problem with a man like Lawton Evers, see—he’s not a bad guy, he’s just determined to find the cloud around every silver lining, especially the ones that aren’t directed at him.

  “I ain’t jealous,” Lawton said, making a face that said he was lying, obvious as hell. “I ain’t no kiss ass. I don’t got to impress anybody.”

  “Well, you kind of need to impress your boss to keep working,” Eduardo said.

  “Shut up,” Lawton said, blowing it off.

  For a man who didn’t know shit, Lawton Evers sure did talk a lot of it. But that was just him, and I was used to it by now. I shook it off, and watched Laverne Dobbins make his way after the crowd with the rest of them, trailing behind, and I gave him a nod like I knew him or something. Very subtly, he nodded back at me before he disappeared. I thought that was cool.

  I looked down at the factory floor and let out a breath, then blinked. Something was a little strange about what I saw …

  Dust blows through the factory all the time. Not a ton of it, but it gets in. Wind brings it in through the loading docks, and big, heavy fans that keep the floor cool move it around subtly throughout the day.

  All that dust that usually spread out around the factory floor was in a neat little berm around my feet, a little line of dirt circled around me in a rough ovoid like it had been drawn in by magnetism.

  I blinked, staring at the phenomenon, like it was some kind of strange coincidence. I moved my hand toward it and the dirt moved with me.

  “Ah!” I jumped in the air a little as I stepped back, and it followed. I caught the looks of Lawton and the others as they stared at me, waving my hand in the air and jumping like a fool, and I smiled. You got to smile at a moment like that. “I just shook hands with Edward Cavanagh and Cordell Weldon!” I said, weakly triumphant. I was lucky it had happened just then, because any other day, I wouldn’t have had anything else to cover my shock with.

  “Yeah, yeah, we saw,” Lawton said, like he couldn’t even muster up the energy to rain on my parade. He went back to his work.

  As for me, I just stood there until I was sure no one was watching. Then, very slowly, I lifted my hand and concentrated, and watched the dirt follow every single movement I made. Like I had … power … over it.

  Power.

  Metahuman power.

  Whew-eee.

  Like I said, I always knew I was gonna be somebody … special.

  3.

  Sienna

  I left Minneapolis without anything other than my gym clothes, my wallet, phone, badge, and the Sig Sauer I had tucked into my waistband under my workout jacket. Okay, so I actually had enough to be getting along with. Frankly, the gun and the badge were enough for me. Western Union could always wire money from my accounts in Liechtenstein; I’d done it before in a pinch.

  Still, flying off the campus in a rush was not my best planning ever, but by the time I realized that I was at least halfway to Atlanta and didn’t want to humiliate myself by turning around or chancing a conversation with Ariadne. I also didn’t really want to tell anyone else where I was going. Then my boss might have expected me to report in regularly or something.

  I landed somewhere in north Georgia and bought some different clothes at a factory outlet mall. I tossed my gym clothes into a dumpster like Jack Reacher and took flight again, a little more slowly this time. The skies had been clear for the last few hundred miles, but I didn’t want to mess up my suit before I met with Detective Calderon.

  This part could have been tricky if I hadn’t known exactly where Calderon’s office was. Fortunately, I had Reed’s file, and imprinted on the windblown pages was the department’s address. Okay, it was actually still tricky because it’s not like Google map view is designed for when you’re flying a thousand feet above the city. The roads aren’t labeled, so I had to sweep down and stare at them, then stare a little more, then hit a cross street. Finally I just gave up and looked for government buildings. Those are usually pretty easy to spot. I figured out the right one on my third attempt.

  I walked into the police precinct where Detective Calderon hung his hat and took a slow look around the place. It wasn’t in bad shape, as far as police precincts went. It had new paint, probably very recent, and a quiet hum of activity that wasn’t too nuts for lunchtime on a weekday, but busy enough to tell me that the area it served wasn’t Mayberry. Reception was a little backed up, so I subtly butted in line. “I need to see Detective Marcus Calderon, please.”

  The lady at the counter looked me up and down. “You look familiar.”

  I paused. “I was on a reality TV show once.” That was technically true, in an annoying sort of way.

  “Oh!” She looked me up and down. “Wait, are you Giada?” She frowned. “No, I’m sorry, you don’t really look like her, do you?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Detective Calderon?” I flashed my badge.

  She gave it a glance and then looked back at the line behind me. “Oh, he’s through there.” She waved at the entry doors past her. “Just ask anyone in there for help if you can’t find him.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and started past the counter.

  “Were you on that one show where they match people up with the right diet plan—”

  “No,” I said and slid through the door, glad to be leaving that conversation behind. I’d only been on one show, for a few minutes, and it had been pretty much against my will. They had used my likeness because I’m a public figure, but it had been a still frame picture of me during a phone call. I was still really annoyed about it, and it hadn’t done a ton to improve my image.

  It just totally exposed what I had thought was a private conversation by airing it in public, that’s all.

  The room I’d walked into was a crazy frenzy, a police bullpen like other ones I’d been to around the country and the world. Cubicles, police officers, and the strong smell of coffee. It was a universal thing. “Marcus Calderon?” I asked a patrolman passing by, and he pointed me toward the middle of the room.

  There was a guy in a silk shirt with dark skin. He had his badge hung around his neck and was standing up while talking on a phone, gesticulating like the person he was speaking to was inches from his face. “Maurice, so help me God, if you’re lying to me on this, I’m gonna find you. I’m gonna come knock on your door—front and back, Maurice, front and back—and I know you’re an idiot, so I’m gonna knock on the front first, leave a big ol’ flaming—not even a little bag, but like a grocery bag, like a paper grocery bag, filled with like horse crap—I’m gonna light it on fire and just leave it for you on your front porch. Then I’m gonna drop ’round back and squat down while you’re dealing with that front porch situation, and I’m just gonna leave you a little souvenir for the next time you step out back to smoke, okay? Unscrew the lightbulb out your back door so you can’t see it coming. Squish! Maurice
needs new shoes!”

  I made my way over to him slowly. The hand gestures alone were screwing up my resolve to keep me from laughing.

  “You know why I’m telling you this, Maurice?” Calderon asked. “Because now that I’ve told you, I’m going to have to come up with something even worse to punish you if you’re lying to me. It’s like my version of a promise, coming up with something worse than—yeah, you believe that. Believe that. Something worse. It’ll happen, if you’re lying to me.” He pointed his finger in the air, like he was sticking it into the face of an invisible man just in front of him. “Promises, Maurice. You believe me?” He paused. “Damn right you do.” He pulled the phone away from his ear, pressed the red button and tossed it back to his desk in a spin and looked right at me. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “More like investigated, if you’re dropping flaming deuces on the porch of your CI’s,” I said.

  “CI?” He snorted. “Maurice is my brother-in-law. Idiot said he could get me tickets for the Falcons on the fifty yard line, lower deck, against the Titans this fall.” He stared straight at me. “Yeah. Now imagine how my conversations with snitches play out.”

  “So much worse,” I said, and extended my hand. “Sienna Nealon.”

  He looked at the hand with smoky eyes. “I know who you are.”

  “That why you’re not sure you want to take the hand?” I started to pull it back slowly.

  “Oh, no, I hear I could live a few seconds after shaking your hand,” Calderon said, “I’m just so honored to be in the presence of American royalty, that’s all. Just shocked. Especially since a year ago your office didn’t give me the time of day, and now—now, miraculously! Here you are, like two hours after I sent your people the file.” He folded his arms, made a little hrm noise.