Dead Waters - Anton Strout [95]
“Who are you people anyway?” he asked.
I collapsed my bat down and slipped it back into its holster at my hip. “We’re the good guys,” I said.
“All right,” Connor said, grabbing the student by the rope still tangled around him and heading back toward the door we came in. “He’ll live, but he’s coming with us.”
The dazed student stumbled along after Connor, slamming into desks and knocking over chairs as he went. “I’d move faster if I were, you know, untied,” he said.
“What’s your name again?” Connor said.
“Trent,” the student said.
“Okay. . . well, then, Trent,” Connor said, “shut up.”
Trent turned and looked at me as Connor dragged him off again. “Is he always this way?” he asked, fear in his eyes.
“No,” I said, following after them. “Sometimes he’s actually mean.”
24
By the time we hit the street, we had untied Trent, but Connor and I rode on either side of him once we had hailed a cab, the Inspectre riding up front. When we pulled up outside the Lovecraft Café, Trent looked confused. The Inspectre got out of the front seat of the cab and held the back door open as we pulled the student out.
“You’re taking me out for coffee?” he said.
“Inside,” Connor said, shoving him toward the coffeehouse doors. Once through the doors, the Inspectre went over to one of the big comfy chairs and collapsed into it.
“Sir?” I asked. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
“Just winded,” he said. “See to our young prisoner, won’t you?”
“As long as you’re okay . . .”
“Trust me,” he said. “Besides, if I expire, at least I’ll be doing it in a comfy chair, which is quite preferable to death at the hands of those tiny Harpies and skeletons.”
As the Inspectre flagged down a waitress, we left him and escorted Trent back through the movie theater, which was still not operational since Mason Redfield’s reincarnation. We kept going and entered the door marked H.P. at the back right corner, but as soon as we entered our secret offices, Trent stopped in his tracks.
“What the hell. . . ?” he said, but words left him as I watched him trying to take in the bustle of activity back here. He looked up and noticed the warding runes carved into the walls of the main bull pen.
“You guys aren’t normal police, are you?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “The normal police vacillate between laughing at us and fearing us. It’s frustrating.”
“Come on,” Connor said, grabbing him by the shirt. He pulled at Trent and the boy started walking again, still taking in everything around him as we went.
“Are you, like, Men in Black?” he asked, addressing me.
“No,” I said. “They’re fictional. You know how I know that?”
Trent shook his head.
“Because they have a huge budget and unlimited resources.”
The three of us continued walking back through the bull pen before passing through the curtain that sectioned off most of Other Division from the main work area. We were approaching our partners desk when Trent started to get back some of his focus.
“I think maybe I should call my dad,” he said. “He’s a lawyer.”
“Sit down and shut up,” Connor said, throwing the kid down onto the extra chair at our desks.
“Ow,” he said. “I thought you said you were supposed to be the good guys.”
“So?” Connor asked, sitting down at his desk. “Doesn’t mean were the gentle guys, now, does it? So, let’s get back to what you were talking about earlier. You mentioned there was a problem with your little operation over at NYU.”
Trent shook his head. “Problem?” he asked, trying to feign ignorance. “What problem?”
“Knock it off,” I said. “You’re not that convincing an actor.”
Trent looked hurt. “In all fairness, I am only a first-year. They won’t even let me pick a specific school of acting until much later on.”
Connor leaned down over him. “There’s not going to be a later on if you’re thrown out of NYU or stuck in jail, is that clear?”
Trent ran his fingers nervously through his hair. “Okay, okay. . .” he said. “You know, come to think of it, I do remember what we were talking about earlier.