"That detective crossed every line! We need to file a complaint about that whole circus!" Dad declared, still fuming after our ordeal at the police station. He crumpled a napkin in his fist, glaring at Henry McAllister, who sat across from us. Our lawyer, by contrast, looked completely serene, smiling and shaking his head.
"Calm down, Danny," Henry said, raising his fork. "You should try this pasta! The seafood is incredibly fresh, the taste is divine. Old man Luigi still has his standards. He has to negotiate directly with the fishermen on the coast, now that the city's fishing fleet has practically stopped going out to sea."
"Listen, that was an abuse of power!" Dad slammed the napkin on the table. "Threatening us like that!"
"Let me tell you something, Danny." Henry McAllister leaned back in his chair and set his fork aside. "You can't build a case on threats. Even if you had a recorder… which, I hasten to add, you didn't… it would still require expert analysis, and who knows what they'd prove. Was it his voice or not? Now, if that little prick Jimmy-boy had actually followed through on one of his threats… then, yes. We'd have grounds. But everything he said in that station was nothing more than a bluff. He was just trying to intimidate you and your daughter. To your credit, you both stood your ground magnificently, right to the very end. Like the defenders of the Alamo. And as for his comments about throwing you and your daughter into a cell with criminals—well… how do you prove that? Personally, I believe our country's justice system is fundamentally broken, and the local police are little more than the personal guard dogs for the local bigwigs, but who listens to an old Irishman? So, from my years of experience, I'll give you some advice: let it go, Danny. Calm down and forget about it. But the next time you see old Jimmy hanging from a skyscraper ledge—step on his fingers. In this city, you'll definitely get your chance. As the old saying goes: just sit by the river long enough, and you'll see the body of your enemy float by."
I sat listening to the adults, poking at my "divine pasta" with a fork and thinking that for a place with "magnificent cuisine," this Italian restaurant had far too many insects and pests in its back rooms. And the number of mice in the crawlspace between the concrete foundation and the floor! A whole mouse city. You could stage The Nutcracker in here, and you'd have enough mice and rats for the entire Rat King's army.
It wasn't that I was squeamish, not anymore. Tucked carefully in my hair was my "Omega Squad," my last line of defense: small but extremely venomous ant queens. Besides, I was actively studying the possibility of controlling tardigrades and skin mites… I could feel them, but the difficulty in controlling them was that neither had any sense of direction… they didn't need one. They knew roughly where it was warmer and where there was more food, and… that was it. Nothing else interested them, and they lacked the organs for it. In theory, I could boost their metabolism, accelerating their consumption of skin and directing them deeper into a human body, but in practice, it would take weeks before the person even felt they were being eaten. After all, every human being is already a grand buffet for a multitude of organisms, and that's not even mentioning larger parasites like liver flukes or worms.
What a lovely topic for dinner conversation. I stared at my plate, at the twirl of spaghetti, and resolutely pushed it away. I'd lost my appetite.
Speaking of which, the local sous chef had a literal nest of those same worms inside him, and he was Luigi's right-hand man. Good thing Luigi didn't let him near the actual cooking.
Besides the worms in Luigi's assistant, I could sense something else that was bothering me. Maggots. The city was always full of them, and I usually tried to ignore their sensations as they squirmed in rotten meat or a dead cat in some dumpster. This time, however, the piece of rotting meat was unusually large. And it was very carefully hidden, practically encased in concrete. If it weren't for a small crack, a tiny opening, the flies would never have gotten in. But the ants… the ants had found this large piece long before the flies.
And I knew for a fact that it wasn't a cat or even a dog. Because neither of them wear gold rings. Or shoes. Or perfume.
Meanwhile, the adults continued their conversation.
"…which is why I advise you, Danny, to focus on the attack. The best defense is a good offense. Taylor was subjected to a systematic bullying campaign, and the school is obligated not only to cover the medical bills but also to compensate for emotional distress. They should also drop the incident with Miss Barnes and guarantee certain accommodations for your daughter," McAllister said, raising his wine glass and peering through it. "A remarkable color, isn't it? Reminds me of a summer in Andalusia. You must visit sometime, a very peaceful and quiet corner of the world, even in these troubled times."
"I… I'm sorry, Mr. McAllister…" Dad began, but was immediately cut off.
"Henry, please. Call me Henry. Mr. McAllister is my father."
"I'm sorry, Henry. I'm afraid we don't have the money to hire a specialist like you. I'm grateful for what you did at the station, and if you send me a bill, I'll be sure to pay it as soon as I can. But I'm facing some financial difficulties right now, and I'm afraid I'll have to use the Union's lawyer."
"What are you talking about, Danny? I'm with you to the end, and it won't cost you a cent. My firm has committed to taking on ten cases a year pro bono. For the public good. Your case is exactly that. My firm and I will represent you for free, because this kind of dereliction of duty by school officials is a threat to our entire society. You have to understand, Danny, the most important jobs in the world aren't lawyers or even dockworkers. The most important jobs are doctors and teachers. The first are responsible for our health and lives now, and the second are responsible for the health of the entire nation. Because teachers shape our future in the schools. And what is Winslow High and its principal teaching? That you can bully the weak with impunity? I'm sorry, Danny, but this case is personal for me, too. You wouldn't know it by looking at me, but… I was bullied in school, too. I know that sharp feeling of helplessness and weakness. And in my school, there was no one to stand up for me, not a single student or adult. My parents were powerless; I had to transfer. That's why I decided to become a lawyer. And Taylor's situation is even worse—she'll have to keep going to that school, at least for a little while."
"What?" I snapped. I had no intention of going back to school. Enough was enough. And if I did go back to school, there might not be a school left… there would be a catastrophe and a pile of corpses in the ruins. Going to school was a waste of time. And nerves. And I didn't have many of those left. These petty schoolyard squabbles were distracting me from exploring my own power.
"Taylor, it's necessary," McAllister coaxed. "Not for long, I swear. I'll get you transferred to Arcadia, but for now—just for a week or two—you need to pretend to be a model student. I'll take care of your physical safety, you don't need to worry about a thing. Just go to school, try to act like a good student, and leave the rest to this old Irishman. I was playing these games before you were even a blueprint."
"But…"
"It'll play right into our hands. The Barnes family will try to prove that you're a threat to society and should be isolated. If you lock yourself at home and don't show up at school, you'll be feeding them exactly the evidence they want. 'See? She's antisocial and aggressive.' But if you keep going to school this week, just like before, they won't have that argument. We can always point out that you are in control of yourself and that you were provoked."
"Well…" I had to admit, there was a kernel of truth in McAllister's words. I had acted rashly, reacted with extreme aggression, and escalated the conflict. But when it came to bullying, there was no other way. Diplomacy is only possible when the diplomat has cannons at his back. Ultima ratio regum—the final argument of kings. Otherwise, no one will negotiate with you. Cats don't negotiate with mice. Predators don't bargain with prey. So I still believed I did the right thing. Although, of course, there had been the option of not going to school anymore, of hiding out in the library or setting up my own lair, renting a cheap apartment on the outskirts and lying to Dad about it. Nobody would have noticed, and he wouldn't have found out for six months. I had seriously considered it… until Emma poured that juice on my head.
"Fine," I said. "I'll try. But if those bitches keep provoking me…"
"Oh, I'll make sure that doesn't happen," Mr. McAllister replied, and I looked at him, skeptical. What could an adult man do at a school? They wouldn't let him past the front office. But he said it with such confidence…
"Taylor," Dad sighed. "Tell me… was Emma… one of the ones involved… with the locker?"
"Dad?" I looked at him, questioning. Dad was no fool, not by a long shot. So why had he been acting like he was on antidepressants from morning till night all this time? Great love, I guess, is a great vulnerability. After Mom died, he'd been like a pale shadow of himself.
"Taylor, please, enough. No more performances," he said, his voice soft. "Just nod. I knew it. I just knew it. You… did the right thing. You have to be able to stand up for yourself. You're… so much like your mother. She would have never forgiven something like that… and she would have handled it her own way… Excuse me, I need a moment." Dad averted his reddened eyes and stood up from the table.
McAllister watched him go, then turned to me.
"While your father is in the restroom." He placed a cell phone on the table. A brand new, latest model. "This is from my employer," he explained. "She told me to pass it along, 'so that next time, you don't have to dial my number from inside someone else's pocket.'"
"Thanks, Mr. McAllister," I said, pocketing the phone.
"And one more thing… she told me to tell you that you don't owe her anything. And that you're free to choose your own 'form of cooperation,'" he said, his eyes tracking my pupils.
"Tell me, Mr. McAllister…"
"Henry, please. Mr. McAllister is my father."
"Tell me, Henry… are you an expensive specialist?"
"Very. And for this case, I'm charging a triple rate. First, for the urgency—I hate being pulled away from my family late at night. Second, I don't like getting involved in parahuman affairs. It's not my specialty."
"And… what is your specialty, if you don't mind me asking?" I was becoming intrigued. Mr. McAllister was no simple man. He looked like he'd just been pulled out of a washing machine—a frayed tweed jacket, wrinkled pants, scuffed shoes, a bald spot carefully hidden by his combed-over hair. The only thing that didn't fit was the very expensive watch on his wrist. And yet, it was clear this man could afford a new suit from any brand, the finest leather shoes, and hair implants. But he chose to look like this—harmless.
And just like that, with two sentences, he let me know that he was aware that one of us—me or Tattletale—was a parahuman. At the same time, he made it clear that it would stay between us. And I believed him—not just because unmasking someone is a federal crime. No, this was deeper. Mr. McAllister was establishing an attorney-client relationship, the kind where the client cannot lie to their lawyer. You can lie to your colleagues, your friends, your loved ones, your parents, your country, but you cannot lie to your lawyer. Mr. McAllister was creating a "safe environment" for our communication. Trusting your lawyer is essential, and for the awkward event that you confess to murdering more than thirty people at once in a conversation with him—for that awkward event, the concept of attorney-client privilege exists. Even if the lawyer himself reported his client, it wouldn't be admissible as evidence. Oh, of course, if a lawyer wanted to, he could always find a way around that prohibition, just by dropping a hint or a piece of advice to the other side, but Henry McAllister wasn't like that. All Henry McAllister had was his reputation. And he would not risk it, under any circumstances.
"Oh, I handle arbitration disputes and tax optimization," he answered. "The young folks say it's boring, but I don't complain. There's a certain appeal to columns of numbers and percentage calculations. A certain romance to it, a sea breeze, salt spray in your face, and the crack of wooden timbers during a boarding action." He laughed, and it was the laugh of a kind, old uncle telling stories of his reckless youth from a rocking chair by the fire. I had to shake my head to clear the illusion. Was McAllister a parahuman himself? Or was he just a very good specialist? Too good.
"So, I cost your friend a pretty penny," he finished, looking at me intently. "But it doesn't seem to bother her. You have good friends, Taylor. Friends in the right places. How you ended up where you are now, I don't know. But all you have to do is reach out."
"Right," I snorted, crossing my arms. "That manipulator… you just don't know what's at stake. I'm afraid I'll have to pay for all this."
"And why wouldn't you?" he shrugged. "Nothing in this world is free, and as for me—I've already told you, I'm a very expensive luxury. Of course you'll have to pay, Taylor. But… I suspect you won't be paying in dollars. Besides, I got the impression that my employer wants to make an impression on you. To put it bluntly, you're the one who can set the price. In your partnership, you're the one on top. They won't be making demands, only requests."
"Is that so?" I sized him up again. The man was smart. That was clear from the start. The question was whether he was too smart… people like that could be dangerous.
"Let me give you a piece of advice, Taylor," he said, ignoring my scrutiny. "If fate turns its back on you, you slap its ass and grab it by the hair. And once you have a hold, you don't let go. Your friend is constantly walking a tightrope. In just one short conversation with me, she managed to nearly insult me and my late father, hint that she knew about certain 'allegedly illegal transactions,' leverage my relationship with the young Miss Lambert, my secretary, and threaten to set the IRS, the ethics committee, and the arbitration review board on me."
"Really? Damn it. I'm sorry." Damn it, Lisa! She can't talk to people normally. I needed a lawyer, but not like this!
"Oh, it's quite alright," he chuckled. "She even reminded me of my younger days. I used to negotiate the same way. I understand her perfectly. And that's precisely why I want to give you this advice, Taylor." He smiled. It was a smile you wanted to believe. After all, I had already planted a couple of ant queens on his tweed suit. Not that I wanted to poison him, but having my venomous insects on someone always made me feel a little better. I was a control freak, after all.
"What advice is that, Henry?" I tilted my head.
"Very simple. That little hellion is afraid of you," he shrugged. "She's afraid and she wants to impress you, to make you like her. That's why I'm certain of two things. First, you absolutely should pay her back, compensate her for her losses. And second—as for that compensation, all you'll need to do is say 'thank you.'"
"I see. Thanks for the advice, Henry." I looked at him and wondered.
Was it worth telling him that there was a woman's corpse entombed in the foundation of this very restaurant, being devoured right now by ants and maggots? A corpse that was relatively fresh, since there was still something left for them to eat.
After all, Henry McAllister was my lawyer, wasn't he?