Itch: Nine Tales of Fantastic Worlds by Kris Austen Radcliffe Page A

chief-of-staff, stands next to him looking sour and exhausted. Carl’s young, neither sensitive to my kind nor suggestible to our whispers, and does a fine job wrangling the empty vessel that is Robert Santiago.
    The man has no original thoughts. He can edit and refashion snippets with great skill, but he’s not a creator. His wife may be a canary, but the senator is a terrified octopus mimicking his environment.
    “It’s about time you got your ass out of your un-American piece-of-shit car.” Senator Santiago pulls on his cuffs, adjusting his suit under the rain slicker obviously provided by the city’s finest, and glares at his chief-of-staff, not me.
    Behind him, near the wrought iron fence I dare not touch, the three members of his Secret Service detail stand perfectly still, each huge and imposing but still blending into the rain-soaked shadows under the umbrellas they hold over Santiago.
    Carl, to his credit, stands rigid in the rain, his three hundred dollar hair cut flat against his three hundred thousand dollar Princeton brain, and sniffs as if the rain blinding us all was pissed out by Satan himself.
    Santiago seems to catch onto Carl’s posture and yells at the other man as he nods toward me. “Why the hell did it take you seven minutes more to get here than the gunslinger? You’re my head boy. Explain that to me.”
    Carl looks at me, not the Senator. “Reports yet? What happened?”
    Santiago tosses his hands into the air, knocking the edge of Carl’s umbrella. “What do you think happened?” He steps to the side, then back, stopping as if he realizes he can’t stand still. “She was helpin’ . Because she’s always freakin’ helpin’ .”
    Under his breath, I hear, “Always feeding the goddamned poors.” Carl doesn’t hear it, though I suspect at least one of the three Secret Service guards does. The biggest one.
    I can’t see the man’s eyes so I don’t know if he’s blinking the way sensitives do when they look at us. But I sense it on him.
    “I told her not to come down here alone.” Santiago paces. “I told her to take Fitz and the black one.” He jabs his finger over his shoulder, at the big sensitive behind him. “Jeremy, that’s your name, right? You’re a damned linebacker. Secret Service told me you served in Iraq.”
    Jeremy stays impassive. “Yes, sir.”
    Carl’s watching the police cruiser and ignoring his boss. “She was by herself?” Carl still hasn’t moved an inch. “With hookers?”
    Santiago mutters again. “I hate this city.”
    Two stints in the senate and we run him for president. It’s all funded. All good. The people love Texas and he’s an easily controlled suggestible.
    But his wife just became a liability.
    Santiago snarls at Carl. “You look like I got you out of bed. You with your boyfriend?” The Senator steps to the side again and his Secret Service detail steps with him.
    Carl’s eyes narrow. “Were you? Is that why your wife was out here by herself?”
    Santiago’s face tightens, but he keeps his mouth shut.
    Carl looks like he’s about flip off his boss. He’s having a hard time holding it in. His hand twitches.
    I smile to myself. Carl might be useful, in the long run.
    “Stay here.” I wave them off and turn toward the cruiser.
    “It’s not like they’ll let me near her anyway!” Santiago glares at Carl like it’s his fault.
    The city’s finest have their protocols. The detectives will want to talk to Mary but they have to let me talk to her first.
    Carl jogs up. “This is bad.” He turns his back toward his boss and leans close. “Even if she’s just a witness, this is bad.”
    Mary Seenly-Santiago’s handlers can spin what she does the way they need to—until a spotlight focuses on the shelters at which she volunteers. On whom she helps. Why she helps here, and not in some approved church annex.
    So yes, Carl’s right. Mary may no longer play well to the Senator’s base.
    Which will cause problems for his