Spitting Image by Patrick LeClerc Page B

petty. So he deserved some of my anger.
    But he didn’t really deserve all of it.
    I grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the side of the ambulance. Every ounce of worry about Caruthers’ clan and loss of Sarah and fatigue of the long, thankless shift and every itch on every square inch of skin from twenty-four hours in a sweaty uniform boiled over.
    I saw his eyes widen as I leaned in close, forcing my words through clenched teeth. Only an act of will kept me from trying to beat his nose out the back of his head.
    “Listen to me, you one-way, seven- oh- one piece of shit. I was working bloody trauma before you learned not to piss your own pants, and I showed vast restraint by not choking you out five minutes ago, but if you ever,” I shook him, just so he didn’t miss my point, “ever go and cry to mommy about me I will fucking end you.”
    I released him with a shove, spun on my heel and walked out.
    The whole thing had been cathartic. I felt cleansed. Whole. Satisfied.
    I was almost certainly screwed.

Chapter 12
    I WALKED INTO THE APARTMENT like a zombie. I was numb. Emotionally paralyzed. I was at a total loss as to what to do.
    You’ve been through worse , part of me said. But that was different. The worst times, I was just trying to survive. Trying to escape. To talk or sneak or shoot my way out of a mess. And while it was terrifying, and not something I wanted to do again any time soon, it never lasted very long, and was nothing that quick reflexes, and a quicker tongue, paired with a well honed nose for danger couldn’t get me through.
    This was bad. I probably wasn’t going to get shot or hanged, but there wasn’t going to be a quick escape. I wasn’t looking for the opening, trying to get clear of the catastrophe, I was trying to solve a problem and resolve issues for Sarah. I didn’t know if I ever could. I didn’t even know what other dangers were lurking in the shadows.
    I suppose nobody really knows, but most people have to contend with things like infidelity or alcoholism or somebody getting religion, or chronically fired. Sarah had been beaten up once and kidnapped once. And, maybe kinda had been cheated on, but that wasn’t my fault.
    It occurred to me that while I would have to be cautious of everyone, make sure they were who I thought they were, my friends hadn’t gotten the warning. One of these people could pass as me and ask a favor, find out information or lead them into an ambush. Or even just do something awful and blacken my name.
    I called Pete.
    “Sean!” he answered. “You ok, man?”
    “I’ll live. I’m going to be away for a few days. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”
    “You’re not gonna threaten me, are you?”
    I ignored the jab. “I just wanted to warn you, somebody might try to talk to you, saying it’s me. Or maybe posing as somebody else you know.” Damn. This was complicated. The more I thought, the more possibilities for bad things seemed to open up. “I guess...you should ...we should maybe...”
    “Why don’t I come over,” he said. “You can beat around the bush and stare into the middle distance and agonize while I drink beer and watch your struggle. That loses so much over the phone.”
    “Sounds good. I’ll call Nique. She should hear this too.”
    I called Nique and she agreed to come over as well. Soon they were both sitting in my living room.
    “So what’s going on?” asked Pete. “I mean, apart from you losing your shit on Armstrong. Is it that dickhead we saw yesterday at the college with your girlfriend?”
    “It’s more than that,” I said. “You remember the trouble last winter?”
    “You mean the drug dealing supervillains who tried to kill us all?” he said. “No, I’d totally forgotten, because shit like that happens all the time.”
    “Be nice,” said Nique.
    “Easy for you to say. Nobody cut your throat.”
    “I’m sure there are plenty of reasons people would cut your throat that have