The Calibrationist by Parsons Amanda

Author:Parsons, Amanda
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

When he arrived at the office for his rendezvous with Veronica, he was twitchier than a crack addict who had mistaken his vitamins for Ritalin. His hands remained firmly jammed in his pockets, as though he was trying really hard not to let anyone know his hands had been replaced by lobster claws.

God, even his metaphors were jumpy.

As he made his way through the cubicled office, he would have sworn there were eyes following him. He kept on, convinced that his paranoia would fade once he met up again with his temporary partner. Got down to business.

“Hey,” he called out with a wave, prying his own hand forcefully from his pocket. Veronica was leaning hand-braced on her desk in front of her in immense concentration, splayed over papers whose contents were too far away to make out. As his voice rung out, she peered up, looking over to him. “Glad you’re in already. Do I have some things to share with you⁠—”

He saw her eyes widen just a second before a couple of cops rounded the corners of the cubicle corridors nearby, heading stone-faced in his direction. In an instinct of pure self-preservation, he back-pedaled, but didn’t get too far before his arms were seized from behind. He swore, but they had him, and he thrashed to look around at the other guys.

“Knock it off, buddy,” one of the guys at his arm ground out, and he realized it was the new guy—Barry? No, Berny. Finnegan’s new Steve. This guy hadn’t liked him on sight—he must have been thrilled to be able to haul him around like a muppet. “Special guest needs to have a word with you. And the Chief.”

“Hey—” He heard Veronica make a noise of protest, rounding her desk as he was hauled away, but he was mentally swearing enough for the both of them. He was so fucking busted. He bet it was the damn screwdriver. Somehow.

They took him into the interrogation room, and wouldn’t you know it, there was Chief Mayweather and some schmuck he’d never seen before. He had a pudgy, dimpled face and a thick bush of white hair that might have been a toupee. He peered at Wayne in anticipation with a congenial smile, and his stance was pure cinema: suede-clad foot hiked up on the seat of a chair, Mayweather standing impassively beside the thin judgement of a frail man.

The two blue goons dropped him in the chair, and he drew his arms in instinctively, glancing around the space like it would close in on him like a secret trash compactor any second.

“Pleasure to meet you,” said the smiling man. God, that was a creepy face. Reminded him of Jupiter, come to think of it, but at least he was less convincing. Made it harder to be intimidated by him. The man’s face wrinkled at the eyes—true joy. Jesus Christ. “Mr. Grayson, isn’t it?”

Wayne shrugged the tension out of his shoulders, massaging his armpit where the goon’s carry had been less than gentle.

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