Payoff Read Online Free PDF Page A

an old house in the style of
Gone With the Wind
, with a cluster of huge tall columns, two porches, and a yard that was trampled down so dramatically it was nearly half dirt. It was set far back from the road, down a long dirt path with tire tracks on its sides in long rows. Huge trees, twisted from the pollution and the aftermath of the Tech Wars, shaded the area. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the bright sunlight, even under the trees, was not kind to the house. The paint was peeling in small strips, the columns dented and stained near the base. And the bronzed-lettered square sign on the street had a pair of dirty underwear hanging from its corner and two letters missing.
    Cherabino parked her unmarked detective’s car close to the house, angling the driver’s side for an easy dash back to the car. Since I’d been cut off from the world and seeing only her thoughts these last few weeks—even with her mostly blocking me out lately—I was starting to notice how many things she did, as she put it, “with an eye to officer safety.” Even the way she got out of the car, watching the bushes and the house out of habit and cautiousness, stood in sharp contrast to my normal habits.
    A month ago, I would have been able to tell whether there was someone there from a distance; I was a Level Eight telepath, and even the quietest mind made ripples in Mindspace I could detect through training, power, and experience. But now—now. I still couldn’t feel anything but Cherabino’s mind, the world a wash of static. If someone charged out with a gun, I wouldn’t be able to drop them with a thought. Not now. I looked at the bushes myself, and suddenly felt vulnerable. Not only could I not see danger coming, but I couldn’t take it out. Not even one, lone guy.
    Was this how regular people lived all the time? Was this how I would live now, if my mind didn’t heal itself? Sometimes they didn’t, after the kind of trauma I’d been through, and—
    “Ahem,” Cherabino cleared her throat pointedly. “Let’s get this done and back to the station on a reasonable time schedule, okay? I have other cases to work today.”
    I sighed and closed the car door, a soft
snick
, and I followed her, cautiously, all the way up the front of the house and inside the huge double doors, which were hanging slightly open.
    Inside, a man’s voice called out, annoyed, “Are you back with the carpet cleaner? What did you do, stop at three stores?”
    “Who is this?” Cherabino called back. She was bladed, her shoulder leading, hand close to the gun without making a production of it. She was expecting trouble, and for the first time since my Ability had shorted out, I felt . . . naked. I didn’t have a gun, and for the first time, I needed one. I didn’t have telepathy. I didn’t even have a rock to throw.
    We were standing in an old entryway, ancient wood floors with chips and scratches so deep you could hardly see the grain. A long, Scarlett O’Hara–type staircase went up to the right, to a place we couldn’t see, and to the left, where the voice had come from, someone had knocked out a wall and set up a raised area with tables and chairs, bright disco lights and a dais on the end, presumably for a DJ since there was DJ equipment set up. Shiny mechanical spinners lined the walls, covered in mirrors. More mirrors adorned the tables, so that, at night, with the lights going, it would be a veritable treasure-trove of glittery lights. Here, now, in the daytime with the blackout curtains up and away, letting sunshine in, you could see the layers and layers of faded stains on the small strips of carpet on the outside of the room, and the deep scratches on the tables and dirt on the floor. This was the kind of club that was ridden hard and put away wet, and I felt dirty just standing here.
    Cherabino moved forward, around the corner to the left, toward the voice.
    “You know very well what . . . You’re not Parna,” a dangerous