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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MIKEY

The white Prius was a gift from Joey's grandmother.

She'd died two years earlier, and the car had been sitting unused in a car lot since then, as Joey felt it was a yuppie car more suited for suburban families than for a surgical intern. Fortunately for Mikey, however, the keys had been left on the drawer under the microwave in Joey's kitchen, and Joey never bothered - if he even had time - to check on the car, so picking it up for the Prophet's use had been surprisingly easy.

Nonetheless, he thought as he parked the Prius next to a dark warehouse, it was kind of an embarrassing car to drive. He glanced over his shoulder at what was laying in the back of the car, the next step of the Cause. He was pretty sure this would take the case to an all new level in the eyes of the police; or he hoped so, anyway. It had been a tiring day - after the nightmare, he'd slept restlessly, never getting back into that deep state of sleep which really regenerates energy, to finally rise around 7 feeling unrested. The breakfast of eggs had been uninspiring, as had been the day's news, from the newspaper which Joey subscribed to but rarely read. There was an article about the incident at the gala the night before, but that was predictable, and Mikey did not bother reading it. He'd already realised that Medea's presence as a threat to his own terror was something he couldn't do anything about; not directly anyway. What he could do was move the Cause on to the next step, so that the city of San Fernando, and all of America, would have its focus jerked back to him, where it belonged. He was real; Medea was only threats.

Driving up to Sacramento had been enough to wake him up a bit, after meeting Joey, who was swamped in dealing with surgeries relating to the victims of a three-car collision. "I'll have my phone off for a few hours" he'd explained, hoping a more extensive explanation wouldn't be necessary. He needn't have worried, though, because Joey was so sleepy from going so long without sleep that he just nodded and gave Mikey a kiss. The kiss made Mikey think about how long it had been since he and Joey had done anything in bed. The idea did not particularly excite him; sex, like so many other pleasures, seemed lacklustre in comparison with the bliss of spilling blood. The Wikipedia page he'd looked up "Psychopath" on had claimed that psychopaths often displayed extreme sexual behaviour, with multiple partners, but this didn't apply to him, he felt - the only person he really could say he felt appealing as a lover in that way was Brett.

That wasn't to say he didn't want to make love with Joey; he did, but like everything else, the feeling did not back up the wanting.

This was the first time he'd be killing outside of San Fernando, but he felt everything was under control nonetheless. His tools were there, on the floor of the Prius; his protective suit folded on top. It would be simple enough. He'd already rubbed the de-scenting solution into his fur, so that like before, no trace of his scent could be found at the kill scene. The stump of his tail was itching where the false one attached. Mikey had learned long ago to control the phantom pain that had formerly burned where his tail had been, so that had faded away with time, but the itchiness still came occasionally, especially when he was driving. Maybe that meant it was time to get on with tonight's killing.

He felt the stump give an excited wag at that prospect. But no, it was still a bit light outside, and he did not want to start until after dark. What a long night it would be! He had to do the deed, then drive home, attend to what he had to do next, make a delivery, and then, finally, probably very close to dawn, he could at last collapse into bed. Of course, he had to work too, so it wouldn't be a long rest, but it would be something, and he'd have the satisfaction of a job done well to sleep on.

So time needed killed. He picked up the newspaper from his satchel, the previous day's edition which he had not yet read. There was a big article about him; questioning "WHO IS THE PROPHET?" and speculating on why the police had not yet caught him. No one would ever guess who I really am, he thought. His friends at work thought he was one person; Joey thought he was another; and the public thought he was something else entirely. And who am I? he thought.

In truth he was none of them; he was just Mikey, a boy who'd once lived in Chicago with a wonderful family, who'd liked football and 1980s rock music and his jock best friend, Brett. No one knows me, he lamented, eyeing the photo on the front, which showed a gathering of cops outside the church where he'd left Carlos Sanchez's body. Only my family.

As if by magic, there they were, except for that they were inside the photo - if it was a photo at all, because through the space in the newspaper where the photo had been, Mikey could see his family, looking the same as they always had. It didn't seem particularly strange that they were inside a newspaper; he had become accustomed to their appearance in strange places.

"I was worried about you guys" he said. "I had one of those dreams again."

Mom smiled the same loving smile she always did when he said that. "Don't worry, Mikey, nothing can hurt us."

Mikey nodded, embarrassed at having doubted her. "I'm halfway through the plan" he told them. "This part is really good, too. The public will love it."

His family all nodded, every one of them. "You always were an obedient son" Dad said. "So good at sticking to schedules."

Dad had loved schedules, partly because of his job, but also just because he valued organisation. "You all look great" Mikey remarked, wishing he could actually walk among them. Francesca, has the baby been born yet?"

The Italian girl raised an eyebrow. "Oh Mikey, that was fifteen years ago! If my baby had been born, he would be almost grown by now!"

He didn't know how to respond to that, so he talked about himself instead. "Joey and I are still getting along great, but I can't stop thinking about Brett."

"That's normal" Dad told him. "When I first started dating your mother, I dreamed about Christy Thomson for a month."

"Bill!" His mom gasped shrilly. "Christy Thomson?" she snorted. "Everyone knew her brain was the size of a walnut."

"Maybe," Dad smirked, "but other parts of her anatomy were bigger. Anyway, the point is son, it's normal to take a while to move on. It will happen with time."

"When you finish the job!" Amy yelled, ears flat. She always seemed more demanding now that she had when he was younger, and more violent, more angry. Maybe she was getting bullied in school again. In the past that had happened once, after which he and Brett had frightened the bully so badly that she had never dared say a word to Amy again.

"I will, I will" Mikey promised. "I'm working on it right now, remember?" His eyes rose to the rear-view mirror, seeing a slight motion. The anaesthetic might be wearing off, which meant it was time to move this show into the warehouse. "I have to go get busy now" he explained to his family, but when he looked back to the newspaper, the photo of the church and the cops was back, without the slightest sign that Mikey's family had ever been in its place.