Yet closing off her mental storage unit did nothing to reverse time and reengineer his intent. Reprogram his response—
“Am I okay?”
The bouncer in the grass-green shirt and the shit-brown pants was bringing his hands to either side of his face, going Kevin McCallister in a cautious way, as if he weren’t sure whether his head wasn’t going to pop off his spine, like, well, a dandelion.
“I don’t know… if I’m okay,” he said hoarsely.
Closing his eyes, Lassiter had the urge to run out in front of a car. It wouldn’t kill him, but maybe if he broke a couple of bones, got a concussion, and bled out a little, he might be able to atone for what he had almost done.
“You’re all right, Pete,” he muttered.
“Oh.” The guy shook his head. “Hey, how do you know my name?”
“I know everything.” And he wished he fucking didn’t sometimes. “Your father is Ted. Your mother is Marilyn. They almost got a divorce last year. Your sister married an asshole—she’s pregnant, by the way, and not sure how she feels about it. Your car needs to go back to Midas. They put in the wrong kind of oil, but you’re probably not going to do anything about it because you can be a lazy sod—no offense to your uniform. And yes, your girlfriend likes that kid you went to high school with, but she hasn’t cheated on you and she’s not going to. If you didn’t get so extra with the jealousy, you two could be really happy together, but like the oil, I don’t think you’re going to work on that, either. Oh, and your roommate used the rent money to buy seven hundred dollars of hash this afternoon. He’s not going to share any of it with you. If I were you, I’d sign up for extra shifts.”
Peter Phillip Markson, who had gone as Poopson in elementary because he’d had diarrhea at school once—and didn’t that seem like a predicator for this job’s uniform—blinked like he was fact-checking the run and shocked to find that it was all correct. And Lassiter could have gone on with how Pete had lost his virginity at sixteen in the back of his first cousin’s car with his first cousin’s best friend, and then continued with the bout of mono he’d shared with five other members of his frat because he was always drinking out of soda cans whether they were his or not. And also mentioned the STD he’d gotten last summer. But really, that would just be showing off, wouldn’t it.
“Jesus… Christ.”
“Yeah, still not me.” Lassiter glanced at the club. “Look, can you just chill with the attitude out here? You’re not exactly protecting the Presidential motorcade.”
And it had almost gotten you killed.
“That’s what Franny says,” Pete mumbled.
“You should listen to her.”
“Thanks…?”
With a nod, Lassiter turned away and just started walking. He didn’t care where he was going, as long as the inevitability rule didn’t pivot him back around and replant him on the threshold of the club again—
As he came up to the end of the block, he stopped at the curb even though the pedestrian signal was counting down to a light change so he should have hurried across the intersection while he could.
He pivoted and raised his voice. “Check your watch, Pete.”
Pete, who was still looking stunned, did as he was told. “It’s eight-twenty. Well, two. Eight twenty-two?”
There was a pause. And then Lassiter said, slowly and clearly, “In thirty-two minutes, a car is going to come around this corner.” He pointed to his feet to emphasize the location. “There are going to be two guys in hoodies in the front seat. As soon as you see it, I want you to hit the concrete and stay there. Cover your head and do not look up. Let it pass you by and take off. It’s not you they’re after, but bullets don’t use discretion when they’re flying through the open air.”
“Wh… at?”
“You heard me. Thirty-two minutes from now. Thirty-one, actually.”
Lassiter resumed his ambling, aimless stride, stepping off the curb and heading into the intersection even though the pedestrian warning system was beeping like it was about to explode.
But that was the thing with free will.
You were free to make bad decisions.
And better ones.
* * *
“This makes no goddamn sense.”
As V made his pronouncement over the roar of a powerful engine, his brother-in-law, Dr. Manny Manello, was leaning across the treatment table in the back of the mobile surgical unit, examining a six-inch-long horizontal throat wound that had somehow magically healed up.
Like the anatomy had knit itself back together, sui generis.
The evac from the bookstore had been quick. V and Xcor had extracted Balz from the grimy storeroom, hand-and-footing the fighter out the back and into this operating room on wheels. As Manny had hooked up the monitoring equipment to their comrade, and Xcor had hopped behind the wheel, V had gone back and picked the human woman up.