After the Golden Age

ELEVEN

THIRTY laps. She could swim thirty laps without thinking about it. It would wear her out enough to make sure she slept well that night without exhausting her. Then she wouldn’t lie awake dreading impending testimony that was still a week away, at least.

She was going to be swimming a lot of laps in the foreseeable future.

By the end of the session, she had the pool to herself, which was nice. The only noises were hers, and if she didn’t see anyone spitting she could pretend like the water really was clean.

The lifeguard had stepped away for a moment. He knew her as a regular, knew she wasn’t likely to suddenly drown, and must have taken the opportunity for a break while no one else was around. She could pretend she had the whole building to herself.

When she found the locker room empty as well, her neck prickled. Closing wasn’t for another three hours. She’d have heard any announcements in that regard over the PA. She pulled her towel tightly around her, skipping the showers, and going straight to the lockers. She could shower at home. She wanted to get out of here.

Three men in ski masks were waiting for her, standing by the bank of bright orange lockers, terribly out of place. She didn’t scream, didn’t panic. Just turned around and walked out again.

A fourth man blocked the passage that led to the pool.

This is not happening. Even worse than getting kidnapped was getting kidnapped soaking wet, wearing only a swimsuit.

The men closed in, moving toward her from either side. Two of them held handguns. She hadn’t noticed the weapons at first; they were black and blended in with the gloves and jackets.

She looked for anything that might double as a weapon. The hand dryers were heavy enough to clock someone, but were bolted to the wall. She could break the mirror, use a shard as a knife. And what would she use to break the mirror, her elbow? Action-hero Celia?

If they just wanted to kill her, they’d have shot her already and it would have only taken one of them. She just had to take a deep breath and wait for rescue. Again.

The subtle, gurgling noise was barely noticeable—it might have been a shower left running. But the kidnapper in front of her took a step, and his boot splashed. He was standing in an inch of water. It lapped over Celia’s toes, and was pouring in faster. The floor outside the row of shower stalls had a drain in it. The locker area had two more drains. Water started backing up from all of them.

“Come on!” the one in the front said, grabbing her arm.

By then, the water was ankle deep and still rising. No longer just covering the floor, it flowed toward them, in opposition to the law of gravity.

The kidnappers crowded her out of the women’s locker room, to the pool annex, and toward the door to the men’s locker room. That must have been how they snuck in here, and how they planned on spiriting her away.

A tidal wave, a wall of water, rose up from the swimming pool and fell toward them. It might have had a mind of its own, the way it homed in on them.

In fact, Celia was sure it did. Typhoon.

She turned her back to the wave and hunched over, not hoping to keep her feet but trying to protect herself. It slammed into her—and it slammed into the kidnappers. They screamed, she noted. She thought she hit the wall. She hit something, then she was floundering, splashing across the cement of the pool deck, which scraped her up as she tumbled.

The water carried her toward the pool, then set her down at the edge as it spilled away, over the side, back where it came from. The four kidnappers ended up dunked in the middle; every time they tried to swim for the edge, a wave surged over them. The surface of the water churned and thrashed, like the ocean in a storm, and they were using all their effort to keep their heads clear.

Typhoon leaned on the wall near the annex by the locker rooms, arms crossed, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied glare. Her suit shone with condensation, her mask was slick and gleaming, and her hair was swept back, like an extension of her costume. Celia only recognized Analise because she knew what to look for.

Celia stayed sitting on the pool deck, catching her breath, and glowering. Good thing she’d still been wet when this happened. It would have been just her luck to have dried off and dressed, then gotten picked up by one of Typhoon’s waves.

“You okay?” Typhoon said. Her tone was cautious.

Celia supposed she expected a thank you. It had been too much to hope for, to get out of here without talking to anyone.

She said, “How is it I always get caught in whatever offensive you guys use to take out the bad guys?”

“Nonlethal force. You don’t have to be too careful about bystanders.” She shrugged. “And you always seem to be standing in front of the target.”

“They put me there.”

“Kinda dumb of them, trying to kidnap you at a swimming pool,” she said.

“Not really. They knew to find me here. You’re the only one who could have soaked them like that, and what are the odds you would have been within easy range to get here and—”

What were the odds, indeed? The familiar hint of anger crawled through her heart and tightened her gut. “You’ve been watching me. Following me.”

Typhoon looked like she was going to deny it—she set her jaw in a scowl and returned Celia’s glare. But she waited too long to say anything.

Finally, she said, “We all have. We’ve been taking turns.”

Celia’s voice caught, and she had to swallow the lump in her throat before trying again. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me you were … were babysitting me?”

“It wasn’t babysitting. You were bait. We were hoping they’d try for you again, and we could catch them. If you knew, you’d have acted differently. Word might have gotten out, and they might not have tried.”

The four in the pool looked caught, to say the least. There was her hidden talent. Celia West: Bait Girl. Hostage Lass. The Captive Wonder.

The police arrived then, right on schedule, a dozen of them stomping out of the locker rooms, guns out and pointed at the would-be kidnappers.

Of course, Mark was with them. How could he not be? She didn’t want him here. She didn’t want him to see her angry.

Before any well-meaning officers could try to help her, she got to her feet. Her towel was gone—probably a sodden mess washed up in a corner somewhere. Never mind. She’d stand under the wall dryer if she had to.

“Celia!” Mark called and ran to her. She took a deep breath and was calm by the time her counting reached seven. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice flat. “Just a little shaken up.”

He held her arms, studied her, then kissed her forehead. She let him, but her skin crawled. She just wanted to get out of here.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Really. I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight.” She tried a brave smile. He was trying to be nice. Being very gentlemanly, really.

The surface of the water had settled; the kidnappers dog-paddled awkwardly to the ladder, and the cops fished them out. Typhoon gave Mark a haphazard salute.

“I’m out of here, boys. ’Til next time.” She ducked out through the locker room. She’d be out of the building and out of her costume in minutes.

“She sure got here quick,” Mark said.

“They’ve been following me. My parents, the other supers—they thought this would happen again.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I’m … never mind.”

“Give me ten minutes. I’ll drive you home.”

Then he’d want to stay with her. She had to think of a way to tell him no without hurting his feelings.

She found a dry towel, dried off, and changed while Mark arrested the kidnappers. She finished before him, and went to wait in the front lobby of the rec center.

Meeting Arthur Mentis on the way in was almost the last straw. Presumably he was here to scan the kidnappers before they could get their thoughts in order. He saw her; she couldn’t hide. Not that he had to see her to see her.

She turned her back to him, as if that would make him disappear, or hide her thoughts from him.

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave you alone,” he said, continuing through the lobby to the pool area.

Almost, she called out to him. Almost, she begged him to wait. She could tell him how she was feeling; he’d understand.

But he kept walking, and she kept her mouth shut.

Mark brought her dinner to her place. It took three hours to convince him to leave. He couldn’t understand that what she most wanted—the best way to handle days like these—was to get back to normal as quickly as possible. No coddling, no special treatment. Just normal. Was it so hard?