Free Trick of the Light by Rob Thurman

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    “Pups”—Zeke shifted closer—“boys, they just can’t help themselves, no matter how many times you remind them, ‘not so much. I’m not fifteen anymore.’ ” He immediately winced at the thought, big and bright, I shot at him that stopped his last word and thought in their tracks. “Ow. Big sister. Hands off. I hear you. You’re loud .” He rubbed it away. “But there’s only six years . . . ow. Okay. Stop. Someone out there won’t think of me as a little brother. I’ll find them.” Great, a mission. Zeke on a mission. That was not good. I didn’t call him on the prying as I usually would have, not with this subject. And I knew how to keep my surface thoughts casual and basically bullshit. Griffin had needed lessons; some of us are born with natural bullshitting skills.
    “An innocent,” I said, warningly. Zeke didn’t hurt those who didn’t deserve it, but once again . . . with that black and white view of the world, up until now that may have been a case of pure luck. He had to be careful. Who among us was honestly completely innocent? Who among us hasn’t deserved a little punishment once or twice? Trouble was, Zeke wasn’t so good at doing “little.” And with an innocent he would be pushing that luck somewhat less.
    “Innocent.” That’s what I said and “thought” very casually in case Zeke was eavesdropping. At a much deeper level I sent the absolute dead-on emotion of utter denial to his partner. If “never” could be an emotion, this was it. Only for a man, any man—even one as unique as Zeke—there was no such thing as “never” in this department. Zeke was no virgin. He’d had his share of one-night stands, and those women had been fortunate. Either as innocent as I told him to look for now or not bad enough to set him off. I wasn’t quite sure what Zeke would do if he ever picked up a murderer, caught a stray thought of something ripe with evil, yet purely human.
    Zeke turned to look at his silent partner. “What?” Silent to any onlooker, but not to Zeke. “Oh.” His gaze drifted down to his own hands—hands that could kill with or without a weapon. “I get it.” His eyes clouded for a moment, then cleared as the obvious solution came to him. “I won’t read them. I won’t look. Okay?”
    “Yeah, partner, that’s okay. That’s good.” Griffin, who’d obviously had the same thoughts I had, sighed and pushed his glass of OJ back toward me for another screwdriver, because both of us knew it was never that easy. “I changed my mind. Load me up.” As I did, he leaned back and stretched, muscles no doubt stiff from digging Zeke out of that deeper and deeper hole he’d gotten himself into. No wonder he didn’t want to think about any future ones lurking out there. “So?” he asked me. “Going?”
    “Maybe,” I conceded. “Leo’s out today, so he can cover for me tonight. A little hunt might be some fun.”
    “Good. I can break this in.” Zeke, his thoughts of women and one-night stands vanishing instantly in favor of something he loved far more, pulled a revolver the size of an antiaircraft gun out of his jacket and laid it on the bar. “They confiscated my Glock, so I had to get a new gun from the House armory.” The armory where they didn’t keep grenades, and I was guessing that Zeke actually had authorized access to. “Isn’t it something fucking else?” He smiled down at it, grim and satisfied at the thought of all the demon damage that could do. He was like a kid at Christmas . . . a homicidal kid maybe, but . . . “A Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum. The muzzle flare is vented out the muzzle and the sides,” he said, as proudly as if he’d designed the gun himself. It looked like it was as big as my car. I leaned closer and corrected myself. It looked bigger than my car.
    I gazed at it, then at his savagely content face, and bit my lip. Patting his arm, I managed to say solemnly, “Oh doll, it couldn’t be that small, I promise