"Or comic book conventions. Or"--he curves quotes with a finger--" 'media conferences. ' And I don't talk with people who use the word special. Or supernatural powers or superhero. Town's back there, you can get going. " "You take people fishing, " she says. "They just want to go fishing. " It's been his cover for the past forty years: ice fishing. Up here, northern Maine, the lakes region. He doesn't do summers, never joined the Ice Fishing Association, doesn't have a Web site. People hire him, they don't, it's all the same to him. Back when Lana was alive, he pissed clients off regularly, so none of the fishermen kept coming long enough to notice that Lana got old and he stayed young. Now he pisses folks off out of habit. "They want to go fishing with you. " He stands in the doorway, keeping her outside. "They're Talents, " she says. "No, they aren't. Those days are gone. " "They are real Talents. " "What do they do?" he jeers. "They don't know. " This tugs at him. He knows about that kind of talent. Strength and special powers don't cure AIDS or end a war, and they don't keep a woman from dying. What does a Talent do, these years? "I heard the story, " she says. "I heard about you and the other superheroes going fishing, once. " For a moment he visits a worn old place in his perfect memory. He's among old friends, laughing friends. Let's go fishing like superheroes, boys. And they did, for the only fish worth having. "Yeah? So?" "They've heard, too, " she says. "We were showing off. " "Talents were heroes once, " she says. "Talents knew what to do with their powers. " Super cleanliness isn't one of his talents. He points back into the cabin at the pile of gear in the corner. "Auger, " he says. "Ice adze. Ice saw. That thing in the box, portable cabin. The ice gets thick. Fisherman bores holes in the ice. Cuts a bigger hole. Shines a flashlight through the hole. Waits for a fish to come investigate. Ice fishing. Boringest thing known to man unless you fall through the ice. 'S what I do now. That's what I know to do with myself. They want to go ice fishing? I'll take 'em ice fishing. " She crosses her arms, purses her lips a little, disappointed. "No, " he says. "They want pow, bang, thump. Big fights with big fish. Superhero fishing. There's no fishing like that anymore. " "Let's just say they want pointers, " she says. "They're looking for advice. " "I don't give advice. "
"What's your rate?" she asks. "For Talents? There's a special rate. " She nods. "They have money. "
"Not money, " he says. He knows what he wants. It's what Atom got, the Captain. What Lana got. "I want somebody to kill me. " The little cabin gets airless. She opens her mouth to protest. Shakes her head. Closes her mouth. "All right, " she says. "It's a deal. " He pads over to the stove, leaving her at the door. Pours cold coffee, scratches his bristly chin with his white china diner mug. (What does the last superhero drink his coffee out of? A diner mug. They really are unbreakable. ) "Yeah?" he says. "I promise you. You will die. " "Who'll do it?"
"Me, " she says. He figures he has a foot of height on her, a hundred pounds, a thousand years. "You and who else?" "Me. " "How?" She shakes her head. "No proof until it happens. " He figures he's being scammed. Life is a scam. Remembers his manners belatedly. "You want coffee?" "Do you have tea?" "Nope. " She looks around. The back ends of her hennaed hair waterfall to her shoulders. Green eyes, strange for Chinese, a green that reminds him of the color of the cloak gathering dust in his closet. He becomes suddenly conscious of dirty laundry on the sofa back and a winter's worth of mud on the floor. He moves molecules, sorting for dirt, inching it toward a corner. He wonders where he put the laundry basket. Special powers. Hah.
THE Fort Kent airport has the welcoming charm of a VA hospital morgue. She's set up a chartered plane for them. The engines chatter like false teeth. They're alone in the passenger cabin. "So where do you fit in this?" "I'm their travel agent. " "Talents need travel agents?" "It's not a full-time job. " "You fly up on this?" he says. He's asking if she can fly. She smiles and shakes her head. "Yes, I took the plane. " No, she can't fly. "Hope it's safer than it looks. " Green eyes and red hair: Back then, if she wasn't the Oriental villainess, she would have been the sort of girl he'd have rescued from an airplane crash. Back then, he'd have cradled the plane in a force field, smiled for the cameras, never worried about air traffic controllers or incident reports or finding another identity someplace even farther off the map than the unincorporated townships. Back then, he wouldn't have been in the plane. He hates flying. "So what's your Talent?" he asks. "Nothing really. " He waits. "Organization. " He makes a noncommittal noise. Her cheeks go a little rosy. "You try parking a tour bus outside Rockefeller Center at noon. Organization helps. " "Helps to kill me?" "Maybe. " "You do lots of tour buses?" He thinks about tour buses parked at the end of the driveway and shudders. See Mr. Green at home. See Mr. Green do his laundry. See Mr. Green tie one on. She can't help him. But she could blow his cover. "One thing straight, " he says. "It's--" "Only this once, " she says. "Right? You do this one thing, and even if I can't help you, except I can, I never bother you again. That's OK. There won't be any more kids like these. " She reaches into her purse, brings out a compact, powders her nose. He can't remember the last time he saw a girl do that; no call for powder in the townships. She smiles up at him. "Organization is the ability to foresee the future. Just a little. " "I foresee they'll be bored and you'll be pissed off and I'll be cheated. " Her eyes turn from green to the color of smoke over the woods in fire season: dangerous, challenging. "Do you want a real foreseeing?" Out of the purse--it's a little purse--she pulls a wooden flute. An old flute, dark and smooth with fingering, so long and thin and curved it looks like a piece of the edge of the world. Too big to fit in the purse. She puts it to her lips and begins to play. He looks out the scratched green plane window, out at the snowy fields. Barren lines of black. Dark and sparse like her music. The landscape of loneliness. "Stop that, " he says. But she keeps playing. The flute song changes, creeps around him like green tendrils. "Stop. " She takes the flute away from her lips. "I won't cheat you, " she says.