“An interesting hypothesis.”
He went back to studying Sullivan. “No. Not a Brute… You have the morphology of a Heavy. All known Heavies are physically robust, big-framed specimens.”
Sullivan nodded. “I prefer the term Gravity Spiker. It’s more dignified.”
“And I prefer the term psychologist over the term alienist; however, most Heavies wouldn’t care. Statistically, Heavies tend to score rather low on the Stanford-Binet intelligence scales. They’re slow. You’re an oddity. More than likely a self-taught man… Don’t look at me like that. Your pronunciation of hypothesis suggests that you’ve read the word, but not heard it spoken very often, which means you’ve not attended school. It isn’t hypo-thesis… It’s hýpothésis.”
Sullivan shrugged. “I’ll have to remember that.” He hadn’t had much schooling, and frankly, some of the dumbest sons of bitches he’d ever met had been the ones with the fanciest educations and the most degrees framed on the wall. Despite that, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who’d read more books in their life than Sullivan had. It helped that he could put down a fat tome in the time it took most men to read a newspaper.
Wells talked fast. His brain ran faster. “Your clothing is new, expensive, but you seem unused to it. It would suggest that you make a good salary, but that isn’t right. Nice suit, but you didn’t care enough to shave today, nor does your hair reaching your collar suggest you care much for grooming. But I have been out of circulation for a year, so I may have fallen behind on what is fashionable. You strike me as a man too busy to care about his appearance. The clothing was purchased for you so you’d look presentable, perhaps by an employer?”
“Close, but no cigar.” Francis Stuyvesant, knowing that Sullivan was going to be doing a lot of recruiting for his mission, had ordered one of his legion of functionaries to hook Sullivan up with a good suit. It was nice to have something tailored and not bought from a secondhand store.
“But I’m close. It was a gift. Your shoes were not. Your shoes are too sturdy, picked for comfort and durability rather than style.”
“A man never knows when he’s gonna have to chase somebody down.”
“Chase, rather than run from… The choice of words demonstrates your mindset. Either way, they don’t match your suit.” Wells’ eyes darted back and forth, then he took a few steps to the side. “Though you don’t have it on you now, your coat has been tailored to hide a firearm on your right hip. Something rather large apparently. So you are in the habit of carrying a large handgun, not a little gentleman’s pistol, but a serious working weapon. The clothing is too nice for a policeman’s salary.”
“Maybe I got a rich uncle?”
“You don’t talk like a man with an inheritance. You have less-refined enunciation. You don’t strike me as nouveau riche. You have the face of a boxer.”
“I’ve stopped a few fists with my nose.”
“A fighter then. Your knuckles are scarred.” Sullivan unconsciously clenched his fists. “And you are a former soldier. You can always tell by how they stand when they are being made uncomfortable…”
“I’m starting to see how you end up in so many fights around here.”
“Yes. It’s a good thing I’m indestructible.”
“Virtually indestructible,” Sullivan responded. “Everybody dies, Doc. Some folks, you just got to try a little harder.”
“Great War, judging by your age… The most likely use for the common Heavy during the Great War was as manual labor. Heavies are a dime a dozen.”
“Yeah. Lots of us around. Not so many of your kind.”
“Odds are you’ve never met another like me,” Wells said with a bit of false modesty.
He resisted the urge to smile. Wells was a smart man, just not as smart as he thought he was. Sullivan was one of the only Actives alive who’d learned how to blur the lines between different types of magic. He was no stranger to manipulating his own mass. “Naw. I met a Massive once. No big deal. They squish like anybody else.”
“However,” Wells said sharply, “you were no laborer during the Great War. Your combative stance suggests the second most likely statistical probability for a Heavy, which was mobile automatic rifleman.”
Wells was as astute in his deductions as the OCI file had suggested. “Machine gunner,” Sullivan corrected.
“First Volunteer then,” Wells said, noting Sullivan’s surprise. He waved one filthy hand dismissively. “AEF used different terminology. Machine gunner there would suggest having worked on a crew-served weapon, but nobody would waste a Heavy in that role when they could be used as walking fire support on their own. General Roosevelt used Heavies as machine gunners. I’d wager you were no stranger to a suit of armor either.”
“I should’ve said I was a blimp mechanic, just to see what you’d say then.”
“Lying, and the types of lies the subject chooses, only help me understand the subject’s thought processes.” Wells was circling him now. “You’re not a Rockville employee, but you don’t have the nervousness that an outsider to Rockville would normally have. No… You’re used to this place, but for reasons—Convict!” Wells suddenly bellowed, using a command voice like a guard would have.
Sullivan raised an eyebrow.
“Hmmm… A slight reaction. Maybe I was wrong, or maybe you are just not the sort given to dramatic reactions. But I’m never wrong… I know who you are… Mr. Heavy Jake Sullivan.”
That was impressive. “Very good, Doc. You do that trick at parties?”
Wells gave a little bow. “It’s nothing. You’re a legend in Rockville.”
“Beating a dozen men to death will do that.”
“Only a dozen over six years?” Wells’ smile was utterly without emotion. “Why, I’m halfway to your record in only one.”
It was only an estimate. In actuality, he’d hadn’t really kept track. “Congratulations?”
“So, Mr. Sullivan, would you like me to figure out what brings you all the way back here to beautiful scenic Montana to speak with me? I will admit, I was expecting to reason out the why of this visit long before I reasoned out the who. I wasn’t expecting a celebrity.”
“Save your parlor tricks. I’ve got a job to do and I think I might need somebody like you on my crew.”
“A Massive? My type of Power is incredibly scarce.”
“That could come in handy, but no. I need an alienist.”
“Psychologist,” Wells corrected.
“As long as you keep calling me a Heavy I’ll keep calling you an alienist.”
“Why pick me, Mr. Sullivan? Sure, I’m the best, but I have many capable peers who aren’t incarcerated for the next twenty years. That could pose a logistical problem.”
“You think you know about me? Well, I know a bit about you, too. I know you got bored, screwed over a bunch of gullible patients, and lost your medical license. Then somehow you wound up making a million bucks running cheap Mexican hooch across the border before you got caught. According to the Rockville doctors, you’re what they call a sociopath. I know you don’t give a shit about anyone other than yourself. I know that you’ll kill somebody the minute it’s convenient for you. You think life’s a game and everybody else is just pieces on a board. Normally, none of those things would sound like attractive qualities to an employer.
“But the important thing is I know you’re a genius at predicting folks’ behavior. Word is, as long as you think it’s a challenge, nobody is better at guessing an opponent’s moves than you. You come highly recommended in that regard.”