Devil's Cape

by Rob Rogers

  He flicked his dark eyes at Zhdanov. “And you are an interesting woman,” he said, though the words came with little inflection, his face empty. “You will do what I wish? I can arrange transportation, passport, papers, compensation.”

  “Passport, papers, transportation, yes,” she said. “I wish to fly to Russia.” Which probably meant that she wished to go anywhere in the world but Russia, but did not want to be traced. “And the compensation. Three million. In euros.”

  He stared at her.

  She waved a hand. “No haggling, please. I am a psychopath, remember? Psychopaths do not haggle.” She ate another spoonful of soup. “If you do not wish to pay me this, I will walk out. I will not kill you today, so it is up to you.” She stared at him and smiled. “I am almost certain that I will not kill you and everyone in this restaurant.” She poked her spoon at him, smile broadening. “Quite likely not.”

  Pericles Kalodimos limped over to his brother’s table, a steaming tray of baklava in his hand. His eyes were disapproving, but then they usually were, when Costas was around. “Everything all right, Costas?” he asked, smiling, though the smile was that of a good host, not of an affectionate brother.

  Zhdanov laid her hand on Pericles’ tanned, scarred forearm, her eyes on Costas. “I would very much like to try a piece of the baklava,” she said. Her smile was still broad, amused. Her eyes were pleased and manic and Costas saw the insanity in them then. He realized that she would not hesitate to kill his brother right there in the crowded restaurant in front of him. She’d enjoy it. Her fingers danced lightly on his brother’s arm. “It smells so sweet,” she said.

  His heart hammering, Costas nodded at her. “I’ll pay,” he said. “I’ll pay.”

  Dislodging his arm from Rusalka’s light grip, giving her a genuine smile as he set a plate of baklava in front of her, Pericles looked quizzically at his brother. “I’ll bring you the bill, Costas,” he said. “Would you like me to pack some up for Agatha?” Agatha was Costas’s wife.

  Costas almost laughed in relief when Zhdanov moved her hand away from his brother and reached for the baklava. Here a monstrous creature had nearly drained the life from his body, and the oblivious, good-hearted Pericles was worried that Costas might be cheating on his wife. “Yes,” he said, “thank you.”

  Three million euros would be hard to pay, but he would manage it. His eyes returning to Zhdanov, Costas thought that he could almost imagine a future without the Robber Baron.

  Eleven years ago, a superhero calling himself the Gray Fog began to fight crime in the streets of Devil’s Cape. For several months, he brought hope to Pirate Town. The Gray Fog publicly exposed corruption in an elite police unit, captured a superhuman criminal called Eightball, and brought dozens of thieves, rapists, and murderers to justice.

  But about six months after he first appeared, his real name was leaked to the media and the front page of the Devil’s Cape Daily Courier ran the headline “Gray Fog unmasked!” in 130-point type. Before breakfast, almost everyone in the city knew that the Gray Fog was actually a Devil’s Cape patrol officer named Malcolm Toussaint.

  This wasn’t the first time that a hero was unmasked. Certainly, “secret identities” had been revealed to reporters before. They often kept that information private, just as undercover police officers or active intelligence agents are protected. But except in the case of masked heroes who actually work for the government, there’s no privacy law in place. Journalists who keep these secrets do so out of courtesy or in exchange for information or favors.

  Such courtesy obviously wasn’t extended to Toussaint. In addition to the Daily Courier, three local news stations, including this one, broadcast his name during their morning reports.

  Toussaint went into hiding immediately after the revelation. Within thirty-six hours, a Devil’s Cape police officer named Jean Blount, who was Toussaint’s roommate and lover, was killed during what Captain Harold Accomando of the DCPD called “a routine raid gone bad.” One police source, who wishes to remain anonymous, says that Blount was ordered into a dangerous situation and that when he called for backup, officers nearby were ordered not to respond.

  Toussaint fractured under the strain. He never returned to his home or to the police force and began to patrol as the Gray Fog nearly nonstop, becoming increasingly violent. Those who encountered him said that he seemed manic and agitated. They said that his eyes were bloodshot, his face was covered with stubble, and he smelled unwashed.

  Within three weeks after his identity was exposed, Toussaint was found hanging from a bald cypress tree in the middle of Bullocq Park.

  Police ruled his death a suicide, but some people contend that he was captured and murdered instead. . .

  — From “The Masks of Devil's Cape,” special documentary airing on WTDC News, Jason Kale reporting

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Devil’s Cape, Louisiana

  Nine days after the deaths of the Storm Raiders

  9 p.m.

  There weren’t many hills in Devil’s Cape. The city’s average elevation was only nine feet above sea level. But there were a few gentle slopes here and there, and in the 1850s, an entrepreneur named John Bullocq had made a fortune selling landfill to Devil’s Cape’s wealthiest citizens, transporting dirt into the city by the shipload so that they could have hills to build their mansions upon, from which they could look down upon the world. When the Civil War began, Bullocq’s fortunes fell, and he was left with a tremendous amount of extra landfill with no good place to put it. He dumped it in one general area, creating a half-moon of soft, rolling hills that comprised what eventually became known as Bullocq Park.

  His wings spread wide, his tail flickering behind him, Cain glided the last mile into Bullocq Park, searching the low hills for signs that someone else might be in position to overhear. But he saw no one he didn’t expect to be there.

  Nine o’clock, at the Gray Fog statue, Argonaut had said. Though he’d been hounded and vilified in his last few weeks of life, the Gray Fog had been mourned by many of the city’s residents, Cain included. On the fifth anniversary of his death, a statue of him had been placed in Bullocq Park as a memorial. Cain remembered donating ten dollars to the organization responsible for putting it up.

  He was the last to arrive. Argonaut was standing not far from the bronze statue, in the middle of telling a story about one of the fallen hero’s successes, a battle with Eightball.

  Argonaut had a strong, handsome jaw and was flashing Doctor Camelot a charming smile filled with white teeth. She, in turn was nodding, standing close. At one point, she rested a metal-encased hand on Argonaut’s shoulder. Cain wasn’t certain why the contact and Argonaut’s easy smile bothered him, but it did.

  “Good evening,” Cain called out to them, his voice a carrying whisper in the night. They turned to watch his approach, and he saw Doctor Camelot take a half-step backward, either startled at being spotted so close to Argonaut, or dismayed at the sight of Cain. He was, he knew, a monstrous sight. Sighing, he landed beside them, his clawed feet digging into the grass under his weight.

  “We were waiting for you,” Argonaut said, “before really getting into the point of why we’re here.”

  Cain nodded. He looked at the statue. As omens went, he wasn’t sure that gathering at the memorial to a ruined, dead hero was a good one. He felt on edge. His demonic body made him feel uncomfortable, scrutinized, mocked, counterfeit, as though he had walked into a crowded room dressed in a garish costume or not dressed at all. As it was, he hadn’t been able to think of any kind of shirt that might accommodate his wings, but he purchased a large pair of black pants that fit him in his “Bedlam” form, and had cut a hole for his tail. He felt ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as he had with his suit pants splitting from his transformation. He’d slung a satchel over his shoulder. It held the security guard Cletus’s shotgun and baseball bat.

  Cain felt anxious to start this conversation, anxious to finish it. He felt the weight of
Zhdanov’s freedom, the danger that hung over Jazz like a cloud. He wanted to take action, not strike up a conversation, even with potential allies. He decided to jump right into things.

  “I haven’t always been like this,” he said, spreading his clawed fingers. “This is new to me and, I hope, temporary.” He looked from Argonaut to Doctor Camelot. They were watching him patiently, respectfully. Their demeanor showed curiosity, but any hint of discomfort at his form was gone or hidden. He wondered if, beneath their apparent calm, they were as uncomfortable as he was. “I gather from your uniforms,” he said, “that you both intend to become superheroes.” The word felt odd in his mouth. “I don’t,” he said. “I have just two goals. One is to capture Olena Zhdanov, also known as Rusalka.” His eyes flicked to Argonaut. Argonaut knew Cain’s reasons for wanting to capture Zhdanov, but he was keeping his mouth shut. “The second,” he said, “is somewhat more complicated.” He swallowed. His tongue felt odd in his transformed mouth. “Basically, I need to secure someone’s safety. And doing that is going to mean taking down the Cirque d’Obscurité, the Robber Baron, or both.” He might as well vow to catch the moon, he thought.

  Argonaut smiled ironically. “As long as you’re starting small.”

  Cain could see that he’d repaired or replaced his damaged uniform. His wound was healing, but it hadn’t set yet. Cain could still smell a hint of blood. And, Cain noted with grim amusement, he’d changed his aftershave.

  Doctor Camelot’s armor was bright even in the thick, dark evening air. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that I also intend to stop the Cirque d’Obscurité,” she said. Her voice held a touch of a British accent, but there was something slightly off about it, the cadences not quite right. Had his hearing not been so sharp, he probably wouldn’t have been able to detect the distortion. She was using some mechanical means to alter her voice, he realized. “They murdered my predecessor,” she said. “And they murdered the Storm Raiders. They’re the reason I’m here in this city.” She nodded at Cain. “I’ve read a number of reports about Rusalka and her abilities. I’ll be happy to help you capture her, as well.”

  Argonaut nodded. “And on that note,” he said, “I think I might have an idea who can tell us where to find her.”

  “You won’t have to look far for him,” said a voice behind Cain.

  All three of them turned suddenly. It was Scion. He stood, arms crossed, leaning against the bald cypress from which the Gray Fog had hung himself. Or been lynched. Scion was smiling smugly, pleased with himself.

  Beside him, Doctor Camelot raised one of her arms. A soft electric whir came from inside her armor—she was preparing one of her weapons. “This is Scion,” she said. “I have visual ID on him. He’s wanted for aggravated assault, homicide . . . a string of others.”

  “You weren’t there a moment ago,” Cain said to Scion, spreading his arms again, preparing to tackle him.

  Scion shook his head. “Nope,” he said, still leaning against the tree, unconcerned. “The speed of Aethalides, the stealth of Autolycus.”

  Cain didn’t recognize the names.

  After a pause, Doctor Camelot said, “Argonauts. They were Argonauts.”

  Even through the distortion of her voice alteration, her words crackled with tension and doubt. Her arm still pointing at Scion, she turned her head to look at Argonaut. Behind her faceplate, her eyes were wide and agitated.

  Argonaut held up a hand. “Let’s just hold it for a second,” he said. “We don’t want to escalate this. Scion can provide us with the information we need.”

  Scion raised an eyebrow, his grin mischievous. “Ah, the tactics of Theseus,” he said.

  “Stop it,” said Argonaut.

  Cain looked from Scion to Argonaut and back. No wonder he’d mistaken one for the other, he thought. They were brothers. They were twins. “Castor and Pollux,” he said.

  “Aha!” said Scion. “A classicist! Though I think ‘Polydeuces’ is in favor more than ‘Pollux’ these days.”

  “I said stop!” Argonaut shouted. He stepped toward Scion, fist raised.

  “Oh, like that’s going to do a lot of good,” Scion said. “You might as well punch yourself.”

  Argonaut lowered his arm slowly, though his gloved fingers were still clenched. “Tell me what you’re doing here,” he said. “And what you want. It’s not like you to volunteer information.”

  Scion stood straight, pulling away from the tree and uncrossing his arms.

  Cain stepped slowly to one side. He wasn’t prepared to rush Scion yet. The man apparently had information to share and Cain was willing to let him say his piece. But he wasn’t going to give him an opening to get away, either. Off to the side, he could feel Doctor Camelot circling in the other direction, the same thought on her mind, though she kept looking back at Argonaut, her distrust obvious. Cain could hear her rapid heartbeat through her armor.

  Scion had to notice them circling around him, but he didn’t react. “My, um, avuncular employer,” he said, the words drawing some further reaction from Argonaut, “has managed to hack me off. He and I have a few rules in place, and he’s broken one of them.”

  “What do you mean?” Argonaut asked. He was growing tenser.

  Scion hesitated. Despite his nonchalance, he was tense, too, reluctant to reveal whatever he was about to reveal. When he got to it, the words flowed out of him quickly, in a rush. “I put him in a position where he could contact Rusalka and make a proposition to her. I have no problem with the proposition itself. I encourage it. I think it’s a grand idea.” He was being flippant, working himself up to the gist. “But he decided to meet her someplace that displeases me. I can’t really do anything about it directly. It would be far too complicated. But you fine fellows—you could intervene. You could do something about it. And I could wash my hands of the damn thing.” He shook his head. “It’s where he’s meeting her, you see, that bothers me.”

  Argonaut’s voice was ice-cold. “Where is he meeting her?”

  Scion wetted his lips with his tongue. “A restaurant called Zorba’s,” he said. “Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

  Cain knew that Argonaut was fast. He’d seen him move quickly over the building that had collapsed. But he had no real concept of the scale of the man’s speed. Argonaut simply erupted into the air. He flew unseeing through the branches of the cypress tree, shattering one of its limbs, which fell heavily to the ground. Before it landed, Argonaut was out of sight.

  “Yep,” said Scion. “I thought that that might do it.” He looked at Cain and Doctor Camelot. “Well, come on, heroes,” he said. “What are you waiting for? You want directions?”

  “No,” Doctor Camelot said. “I can find the way.” Her arm was still pointed at Scion’s chest. She looked at Cain. “I clocked at him more than three hundred miles per hour,” she said. “He’s in a big hurry to get to her.”

  Cain nodded at the spot where Argonaut had been standing. “I trust him,” he said. He gestured at Scion. “We could try to capture this one,” he said. “But it would take us a while.”

  Scion smiled. “Cocky,” he said.

  Cain looked after Argonaut again. “No matter how powerful he is,” he said, “if she touches him, he could die.” He thought of Thomas Dickerson’s withered corpse.

  Doctor Camelot nodded. “So we go.”

  And they flew into the air after Argonaut, the flap of his wings and the jets from her armor faint whispers in the air.

  Little progress again today. Even when she’s at her most engaged, it’s clear to me that the bulk of her attention is elsewhere. Her fantasy worlds hold more substance for her than reality does.

  — From Dr. Cain Ducett’s session notes on Olena Zhdanov, six months earlier

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Devil’s Cape, Louisiana

  Nine days after the deaths of the Storm Raiders

  9:02 p.m.

  Olena Zhdanov’s mind was not like other minds. She could effortlessly juxtapose
numerous conflicting impulses and plans, switching without hesitation or even awareness from one absolute resolve to another. Stepping past the late dinner crowd on her way out of the restaurant, Olena was exultant. Her mind cascaded with images of the things that three million euros might bring to her. She saw fur coats, diamonds, a lushly decorated condominium overlooking the Black Sea.

  At the same time, she was drawn to the people she was walking by, their hunger and anticipation for their meal, their vibrant chatter, the sweat of their bodies, their smiles. Just one, she wondered. Couldn’t she take just one of them without someone noticing, without bringing about her own capture or death and any hopes of experiencing the three million euros that Costas Kalodimos had promised her? Without thinking about it, she scanned the line of people waiting, selecting as though from a smorgasbord. What about that fat one, she thought, with the panama shorts and the green T-shirt and the patch of sunburn on his balding head? Or the black child with the videogame clutched in his hands, thumbs working the buttons in a flurry, eyes intent? Or the athletic blonde woman in the short black dress, her tanned thighs flashed to all around her every time a gust of air blew down the street?

  And even while deciding on floor plans for her Black Sea condo, even while picking out a potential victim from the line, she was playing through an imaginary conversation with her father in her mind. Oh, Papa, she would say, I have missed you. You look tired from your days on Lake Baikal, Papa. Let me rub your feet.

  She was wondering, too, about Costas Kalodimos and his brother, the one with the tray of sweet baklava. Wouldn’t it be fun, she thought, to kill two brothers at once? She began to turn back into the restaurant.

  And then she saw the rush of dark blue and gold in the air.

  * * * * *