I was twelve years old when my brother died; I was devastated. I worshipped Nick…wanted to be just like him. He did tae kwon do, so I did it too. When he was a freshman at Carmel High School, he went out for the wrestling team. All of a sudden, I wanted to be a wrestler. During his sophomore year, when he quit the team and started hanging around with the Drama Club, I discovered that what I really wanted was to be an actor. Then, near the end of that year, everything changed.
I thought it was me—that I’d done something to alienate my hero. I begged Nick to talk to me, to tell me what was going on. I didn’t realize he was strung out on drugs until it was too late to save him. My mom was so busy trying to hold our little family unit together that she didn’t even notice. My father? He abandoned us when I was nine. If he cared at all, he sure didn’t do a good job of showing it.
School let out for the summer, and, for the first time in years, I felt totally alone in the world. I had just graduated from the sixth grade and was completely friendless. There’s no way around the fact…I’m a geek. I’m short, dopey-looking, and hopelessly uncool. My English teacher, Mrs. Pearson, she’d say that I need to give my reader more information. Well, I don’t know what else to say. I have a plain face and ordinary brown eyes. The only thing that’s memorable about me is my hair, which is jet-black and totally unmanageable. I always look like I just got out of bed, and that’s just one of the many things the other kids make fun of me about.
I try not to let it bother me, and, up until last year, it didn’t matter what other people said. I had my comics and my hobbies and my big brother.
We live in the suburbs, in a little town in Northern Virginia called Carmel. It’s the kind of place where a kid with a bike has access to everything he could want. I spent my days, and the money I earned mowing lawns, at the comic book store or the video rental place. I would have given up every single comic in my collection, including my copy of New Teen Titans #1, for Nick to start acting like himself again.
Unfortunately, things just got worse.
I got back from the comic store one afternoon and found the front door unlocked. Nick’s Doc Martens were lying in the middle of the living room, and that meant he was home.
I rushed down the basement stairs to his room, but when I knocked on his door, there was no answer. I knocked again, and when there was still no answer, I decided it was okay for me to be the pesky little brother. I opened the door, and it was like I had stepped into a horror movie. The bag of comics slipped from my hands and slapped against my feet.
Nick was curled in the fetal position at the foot of his bed; blood pooled all around him, and his lifeless eyes stared at me in a perpetual apology that I will never forget. On the far wall, above the bed, were a skull and crossbones painted with my brother’s blood.
God, there was so much blood.
I fell to my knees and puked all over the floor. Then I scrambled for the phone and called 911, but it was too late for them to do anything for Nick.
Our house became a crime scene, and my mom and I had to live in a motel for a week while cops dusted every inch of the place. Of course, our fingerprints were everywhere, so the head detective, a man named Bill West, printed us to eliminate us from consideration. West said Nick probably knew whoever it was that had murdered him. He said that the skull and crossbones were the symbol of the Marauders, a big-city gang that had been spreading out into the suburbs, and that the prospect of catching whoever did it looked bleak.
The next eight months were the worst of my entire life. I couldn’t understand how my brother could have gotten hooked up with the Marauders, but we found out soon enough. The toxicology report with Nick’s autopsy said he had traces of marijuana, methamphetamine, and LSD in his system when he died. My mom was crushed. I know she wanted to be there for me, but the bills had to be paid and she was at work more often than not.
I threw myself into a fantasy world where Batman and Superman always got the bad guy in the end. I lived for Wednesdays, the day that new comics go on sale. I felt so helpless—Nick’s murder was still unsolved, bullies picked on me at school, and the closest thing I had to a friend was the guy at the comic shop. I tried to act like I didn’t care, but all I could think about was what had happened to Nick. I missed my big brother. I miss him still.
I turned thirteen on a frozen night in January. I was home alone, hiding up in my room with a stack of comics beside me. Rain pattered against my window as an idea took shape in my mind. Some of my favorite superheroes—Nightwing, Green Arrow, The Question—they didn’t have super powers or fight aliens trying to take over the world. They fought gangsters and thieves and murderers. They fought for vengeance, and for justice.
That was exactly what I decided to do.
My thoughts kept turning to one hero in particular: Robin. He was always my favorite. He didn’t have super-strength; he couldn’t fly; he wasn’t faster than the speed of light. He was just a kid my own age with nothing but his brains, his muscles, and a handful of tricks in his utility belt. The more I thought about it, the more I could relate to him. I could don a mask and begin my own war on crime. I could make the Marauders pay for what they did to my brother.
On that dismal, winter night, the Paladin was born.
• • •
It was fall, nine months after Jared Weiss conceived of the Paladin, and for the past three days rain had drizzled over Carmel. Suburban houses seemed to shiver with cold as the leaves on the trees began to slowly die. Winter was quickly descending on the little town.
A teenage boy in a red hoodie leaned against a streetlight in front of the fitness center at Ruby Welton Park. He jabbed a cigarette between his lips, lit the end, and took a deep drag. Two girls dressed in workout clothes gave the boy a dirty look as they exited the building, and Tom Cole flung a menacing glare back at them.
The girls averted their eyes and stepped up their pace toward their car. Tom stared after them and took another drag on his cigarette. “Bitches,” he mumbled under his breath. “Stupid sluts.”
Greg Carter, Carmel High School’s star basketball player, walked out of the fitness center a few seconds later. Tom gave Greg an almost imperceptible nod. They exchanged a few whispered words and a handshake, and then Greg was headed to his car with a tiny Zip-Lock bag in the palm of his hand. Tom watched him go as he slipped a wad of cash into the pocket of his hoodie. He took a final drag on his cigarette, flicked it into the parking lot, and began a long, meandering walk home.
At the side of the building, obscured by shadows, a figure stood watching.
• • •
I put in months of training and planning before making my first appearance as the Paladin. Every second that I was running or lifting weights, I kept thinking about how great it was going to be once Nick was avenged. I knew I was likely to be arrested, or even killed, but the thought of striking back against the Marauders kept me going.
I spent weeks trying to come up with a codename, something that would scare the hell out of the bad guys, but everything I thought of sucked. Kid Vengeance…Captain Retribution…those are some of the better ones. Finally, I remembered playing Dungeons & Dragons with Nick. We made up characters and pretended to fight dragons and stuff. My character was a wizard, but Nick’s was this special class of knight, sworn to battle evil at any cost, even his own life. He was a Paladin. The name gave me chills; it seemed the perfect tribute to my brother.
Once I had the name, I needed a costume. I dug out a black Halloween mask, a long-sleeved black tee shirt, and a pair of tae kwon do gloves, then rummaged through Nick’s stuff. I found a pair of black cargo-pants and a dark gray hooded cloak that he’d worn in the Drama Department’s production of Robin Hood. I took those, shoved some newspaper into the toes of his Doc Martens, and took them as well. Then I cut the shape of a chess piece—the knight—out of a white undershirt and sewed it onto the chest of my black tee shirt. The knight would be my symbol—like Superman’s S-shield.
With my cost
ume complete, I moved on to my arsenal. I bought a utility belt from the local army surplus store, and stuck everything I might need in my war on crime—flash bombs, throwing stars, a pair of metal handcuffs, a slingshot, and an old can of pepper spray—in its canvas pouches. Once I had everything together, I spray-painted Nick’s red BMX a more suitable black. Now I finally felt ready to face the world as the Paladin.
• • •
The Paladin mounted his bike and followed Tom Cole. I’ve heard all the rumors about him, Jared’s thoughts churned as he pedaled through one of the nicest neighborhoods in town. Tom should be a freshman at Carmel High, but he’s still in the 7th grade. He’s the oldest kid at Carmel Middle School; he’s always got the coolest clothes and the newest gadgets, and whenever he leaves the room, the other kids whisper that his money comes from selling drugs. I don’t know how much of that I believe, but I know what I saw when we were changing clothes after gym three days ago—a red skull and crossbones tattooed on his shoulder.
The Paladin kept to the shadows as he pursued his target to a run-down apartment complex called Carmel Commons. He ducked behind a dumpster and watched Tom enter one of the buildings. A minute later, a light flicked on inside a second-floor apartment.
“I’ve got you,” the Paladin whispered.
• • •
I was crazy with excitement. In just a few hours I’d witnessed a drug transaction and found out where the dealer lived. I wondered if I might become a detective someday, or an FBI agent. I began to dream about the future, and after so many months of depression, it felt great. Then tragedy struck again.
Two days after I followed Tom to his apartment, a story spread through Carmel Middle School like a forest fire. Greg Carter was dead of a drug overdose.
I felt like I’d been hit by a truck; this was exactly the kind of thing I wanted to prevent. I should have done something that night, but I just crouched in the shadows and watched Greg throw his life away. My feelings of guilt were matched only by my furious anger. I wanted revenge for Nick, and for Greg. I wanted justice.
A plan was already forming in my mind.
• • •
It was a brisk Friday night in early November, and Jared was home alone; his mother was working late, as usual. Around ten o’clock, he donned his costume, slipped into the night, and pedaled toward Carmel Commons. When he arrived at the apartment complex, he parked his bike between two cars, took a quick look around, and crept toward the building.
“This is the end for you,” he muttered as he closed in. “Tonight I’m going to make you wish you never heard of the Marauders.” His cape rippled like a gray flag as he leapt onto the building’s fire escape and climbed to Tom’s apartment.
The Paladin peered through a dirty window and spotted Tom, dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a black Metallica tee shirt, walking toward the living room with a bag of microwave popcorn in his hands. The Paladin tapped on the living room window as Tom stuffed a handful of popcorn in his mouth and started to sit down.
Tom’s eyes narrowed and he spun around. “Who’s out there?”
The Paladin backed out of sight and waited.
A few seconds later, Tom opened the window, stuck his head outside, and glanced around. The Paladin drew back his fist and punched him right between the eyes. Tom’s nose shattered, and he crumpled to the floor.
The Paladin climbed through the window, swept the apartment with his gaze, and then crouched over his fallen adversary. He grabbed Tom by the shirt collar and growled into his face. “Tell me where I can find the Marauders.”
“Wh-who the hell are you?” Tom coughed.
The Paladin slapped him hard across the face. “Answer me!” Tom’s body went limp as he passed out from the shock of his broken nose. The Paladin let go of his collar and straightened up. I came here for information, he thought, and so far I’ve got zilch. I have to make Tom talk before someone comes home and finds me.
He pulled the handcuffs from his utility belt, dragged Tom into the kitchen, and cuffed him to the handle of the refrigerator. Then he removed a dirty glass from the dishwasher, filled it with water, and dashed the liquid in Tom’s face.
Tom’s eyes fluttered open. “Wh-what the hell are you doing?”
The Paladin jammed his forearm into the older boy’s throat. “Tell me where I can find the leader of the Marauders, or I swear to God I’ll…” Jared paused. There was one constant among all the comic book heroes that he admired—they never killed.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If I kill this guy, I’m no better than the people that murdered Nick. For all I know, Tom could be the very person that cut Nick’s throat. Rage overwhelmed him, and Jared glared at Tom with cold fury. “Tell me where they are,” the Paladin’s voice was a low, menacing growl, “or I’ll kill you.”
Tom groaned and ignored him.
The Paladin’s expression twisted into a snarl and he increased the pressure on his prisoner’s throat. “Th-the Majestic,” Tom croaked as he tried to force Jared’s arm away with his free hand.
The memory of an abandoned movie theatre on the outskirts of downtown Carmel sprang to Jared’s mind; he nodded. He released his chokehold, rose to his feet, and dialed 911.
“Emergency assistance, how can I help you?”
“I’ve captured a drug dealer. He’s a member of the Marauders.”
“Is this your idea of a joke?”
“No, ma’am. This is my idea of community service.” He set the receiver on the counter and headed for the window. The front door of the apartment opened before he could escape, and a dark-skinned man strode in. He caught sight of Jared; their eyes locked, and time screeched to a halt.
The man lunged forward as the Paladin yanked a throwing star from his belt and threw. The star whirled through the air in a perfect arc and sank into the man’s forearm. He screamed. The Paladin made a beeline for the window, but before he could make good his escape, the man ripped the star from his arm and rushed across the room. Sharp pain exploded through Jared’s midsection as the man’s fist connected with his ribs. He collapsed, gasping for breath.
“You ain’t gettin’ out of here alive, punk.” The man reached for him, but Jared rolled onto his back and kicked him in the balls. The man’s eyes widened and he crumpled to the floor, cradling himself and whimpering like a dog.
You never see them do that in the comics, Jared thought as he scrambled to his feet. The sound of a gun being cocked captured his attention, and he froze.
“Wh-who are you?” said a quavering, female voice.
The Paladin felt his muscles ripple as adrenaline rushed through his veins.
“Answer me, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you.”
Jared’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment under his mask. “I’m…the Paladin.”
“Turn around. Slowly.”
Jared obeyed and found himself staring down the barrel of snub-nosed revolver. A small woman in a hot pink sweat-suit held the gun with two trembling hands. God, Jared thought, Tom looks just like his mother.
Ms. Cole’s dark hair fell in strands around a face that was almost pretty. “You’re just a kid.” she squinted her terrified eyes. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to have seen my brother murdered by the Marauders!”
The strange man staggered to his feet. “Kill that little fu—”
Ms. Cole turned the gun on him. “Is he telling the truth? Did your gang murder his brother?”
The man stopped moving and his eyes fastened themselves to the gun. “H-how the hell sh-should I know?” Tears spilled from the woman’s eyes and her aim wavered.
The Paladin kicked the gun from her hand. She shrieked as the weapon clattered to the floor and discharged into the sofa.
The Paladin dashed for the window, dove through it, and scrambled for the fire escape. As he started down the ladder, sirens sounded in the distance. He panicked. His foot slipped on a wet rung and he fell toward certain death, but his cape caught on
something as he neared the ground and arrested his plummet. It tightened around his throat and began to strangle him. Jared kicked frantically, and the fabric ripped loose; he dropped the remaining five feet and landed in some thick bushes. Climbing from the scrub, Jared gritted his teeth and rushed through the shadows toward his waiting bike. He climbed onboard and shoved off, pedaling frantically into the night as blue police lights turned into the Carmel Commons parking lot.
• • •
When I got home, I stashed my bike and costume in our shed. I was climbing back through a window I’d left unlatched on the ground floor when my mother spoke from the darkness. “Jared? What on earth are you doing?”
My heart sank when I realized that she was sitting in the dark on the corner of Nick’s bed, waiting for me. Her face was almost indistinguishable in the darkened room, but I could feel her anger. I stared at her and couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Do you think I’m stupid? When I got home and you weren’t here, the first thing I did was check all the doors and windows. Imagine my surprise to find that Nick’s window was unlatched.” She stood and drew in a deep breath, like a dragon about to spit fire. “You saw what happened to Nick! Now you’re acting just like him!”
“Mom, I…”
She stormed over to me and grabbed my face. “Listen to me, Jared.” Her voice was low and quavering. “I know I’m not around as much as I wish I could be, but I love you more than anything. I loved Nick too, and now he’s gone. What he did, that wasn’t my Nicky. It was the drugs. And now you…you’re…”
She started crying and I reached out to her, but she shoved my hands away. “Jared, you need to tell me what’s going on.”
A thrill of fear shot up my spine. “What do you mean, Mom?”
She leaned over Nick’s desk and flipped a switch on the wall. The lights came on, burning my eyes. Then she produced a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and shoved it in my face. “You used to be a good student, but now your grades are terrible. This is your report card, Jared. You have C’s and D’s in every subject but gym. How in the world do you get a D in art?”
It's A Bird! It's A Plane! Page 8
