The Power Broker

by Nick Svolos

  I drove around for a bit, looking for a place to park where my dad’s truck wouldn’t be broken into. I found a paid lot a few blocks away and decided that was worth the investment. Ten bucks and ten minutes later, I put on my hoodie and pulled it over my head to make me look a little less like a white guy from Santa Monica and made my way over to the housing project. I stepped through a rend in the fence and found the building where Karl Jorgensen’s quest for a cure ended.

  It was the building on the end of the block. The malignant testament to the failure of government loomed depressingly over the corner of Jefferson and Flower, a cut and paste copy of its two sisters. This building differed from the others in two distinct ways. The first was the lack of squatters hanging around. Junkies appeared to come and go as they pleased, but the quasi-homeless folks stayed mainly on the other end of the complex. The other difference was the three young guys loitering on the steps leading up the front door. Their pants were at half mast and they had the general demeanor of people I didn’t want to mess with, so I didn’t. They were absorbed in whatever they were doing and didn’t appear to notice me as I walked past.

  I relaxed a bit as I rounded the corner and got a closer look at the building. A fire escape covered each floor of the building, terminating in a sliding steel ladder, or rather where such a ladder would be if it hadn’t been removed. Most of the windows were broken on the bottom four floors, but those on the upper windows were mostly intact. Only one window was broken on the sixth floor, so I started walking down that way.

  It didn’t take long to find the spot where Karl died. A dirty, rust-colored splotch of what I was pretty sure was dried blood stained the pavement and sidewalk here. Yup, this was the spot.

  I stepped over a ruined section of fence and moved back towards the street to get a better view of the scene. Six stories up was the broken window, and I noticed that some of the remaining pieces of glass were pointed outward. Just outside the window was the fire escape, and my estimation was that the edge of the fire escape would be about six feet from the point of impact if they were at the same elevation.

  I could see why the coroner was going with the suicide angle. If someone had pushed Karl out the window, he’d have landed on the fire escape. If they followed up and shoved him off the fire escape, he probably wouldn’t have traveled the distance to where he’d landed. The splotch would have been a lot closer to the building.

  But, of course, Karl was physically powerful and could fly. Nobody would have been able to toss him around like that unless they had superpowers, too. Assuming whoever did this was super strong, they could have easily tossed the kid a lot farther than the splotch on the ground. In fact, as I examined the angles, it would take a hell of a finesse shot to make the body land where it did.

  I took a look around to make sure I wasn’t being observed and pulled the Nikon out of my hoodie. Call it paranoia, but I didn’t want to be seen flashing an expensive camera around in this neighborhood. I took some photos of the scene while thinking it through, trying to reconstruct the event.

  OK, I ruminated. Let’s assume that somehow, Karl’s lost his powers. Something’s gone wrong, and he’s trying to get out of there in a hurry. Let’s also assume whoever he’s trying to get away from is a normal. Karl breaks through the window and makes it to the fire escape. Where did you go from there, Karl? A normal would try to run down the fire escape stairs, stay ahead of the bad guys until you get to the bottom and make the ten-foot drop to the ground.

  But you didn’t do that.

  Dammit, you still thought you could fly, didn’t you? You climbed up on the railing and pushed straight out, expecting to fly away. Instead, well, you didn’t. Let’s back this up. You came here to get rid of your powers, but something freaked you out, and you bolted. Did you think whatever they were doing to you didn’t work? Or were you just in a blind panic and tried to fly out of instinct?

  I tucked my camera back into my sweater. I had to get up there, see what was in that room. I debated trying to fast talk my way past the gang members guarding the entrance, but I couldn’t come up with anything I thought would work. I walked over to the fire escape, but my best vertical leap came up far short of allowing me to grab the bottom landing. I looked around for something to climb up on and found a discarded pallet. I dragged it over, leaned it against the wall and used it as a little ladder to close the gap. I leaped the from the pallet and got a grip on the steel grating.

  Around about this time I painfully remembered that I hadn’t done a pull-up since high school. I slowly and carefully worked my way up onto the escape and about two weeks later I was lying on the rust-covered bottom landing, arms aching, and gasping for air. I had no idea how much noise I made in my struggle. I was suddenly convinced it must have been a lot, which spawned a quick surge of panic. I looked back at the building’s corner, expecting to see a horde of the gang members pouring around the corner, guns drawn with one hand as they struggled to keep their pants up with the other. Fortunately, this didn’t happen. The street was clear. I tested the fire escape, and it seemed pretty solid. Maybe I didn’t make that much noise after all. I brushed my scratched-up hands off on my pants, got to my feet and climbed the stairs to the sixth floor.

  I tried to make my ascent as stealthy as I knew how, ducking under windows until I was sure nobody was in the room. The rooms on the second floor had people in them, and from the looks of it, they were stoned out of their gourds. This sort of verified my assumption that the gang members at the front door were guards for some kind of drug den. I filed that little tidbit away for future use.

  From the third floor on up, the building was deserted, and I was able to make better time. I emerged onto the landing outside the sixth floor and found the room with the broken window. Shards of glass lie on the fire escape, and drops of dried blood led to the rail where Karl made his final attempt at flight.

  I risked a look into the room. A living room and dining area/kitchenette made up the interior with a short hallway off to my right that I assumed led to the bedrooms and bath. It was dingy, dark, and the only furniture in it were a couple of aluminum tables like you’d find in a doctor’s office and a sturdy wooden chair. The room was refreshingly free of junkies and gangsters, so I stepped through the broken window, taking care not to slice myself on the remaining glass in the sill.

  I flipped on my phone’s flashlight app and examined the chair. Constructed from thick pieces of oak, it looked like a prison electric chair from back when they used such things, only without the electrical parts. Thick leather straps were bolted to the arms, legs and top rail on the back, to hold the subject in place, but the strap on one of the arms was snapped, like someone had torn through it by brute force.

  I scanned my light around the room and found a t-shirt on the kitchenette’s counter. I lifted it up and spread it out. It was Karl’s size, so I stuffed it into my jacket’s pocket. Continuing my search, I turned my attention to the tables. They held a variety of medical-looking gear, the biggest of which was something I thought might be a portable EKG machine, hooked up to a gas generator. The rest of the stuff looked like run-of-the-mill medical gadgets, forceps, those little hammers that they use to test reflexes, stuff like that.

  The only thing that stuck out was a cylindrical glass container with a rubber cap covering one end. I figured it might have fingerprints on it and didn’t want to mess them up. Picking it up by the edges, I held it up to the light. It was too wide and short to be a test tube. It looked more like a jar. There was some sort of grey, vaguely metallic dust coating the interior and collecting loosely at the bottom. I carefully wrapped it in Karl’s shirt and put it back in my pocket.

  Not finding anything else of interest in the area, I moved down the hall to check the other rooms. The two bedrooms were empty. Some detritus lay strewn about, probably left by the last residents when they moved out, but nothing that grabbed my notice. The bathroom was just disgusting. The less said about that, the better. I went back to
the living room.

  I worked through my reconstruction of Karl’s last moments, adding the new data. I was considering the implications of the torn wrist restraint when I heard some footsteps and male voices in the hallway. A shock of adrenaline surged through me, and I retraced my path out onto the fire escape. I didn’t like my chances of making it all the way down before I was noticed, so I crouched down in the shadows and hoped nobody felt like stepping out on the escape for a smoke. With shaking fingers, I pulled out my recorder and double-checked which button I was about to press before activating it. It would be high comedy if I accidentally hit the playback button. For about three seconds. Then, nobody would be laughing.

  “... simply broke free?” said one of the voices as the door to the apartment opened. The voice was male, and carried a faint German accent.

  “Yeah, doc, the damnedest thing,” said another voice, this one with a fair amount of bass to it. “The kid said he wanted the procedure, so we didn’t bother to put him under. But once we started, he freaked out and broke loose. We tried to calm him down, but the kid was strong. None of us could get close to ‘im.”

  “I see. The process can be quite… uncomfortable for the subject, which is why you were specifically instructed to administer the neural anesthetic before beginning the procedure, ja? Ach, look at this strap! This one possessed a truly incredible gift.”

  “Yeah. I guess we underestimated him on account he was so young. Won’t happen again, doctor.”

  “See to it that it doesn’t. I will not forgive such an error twice. Tell me what happened next.”

  “So once the kid got out of the chair, he started thrashing around, trying to get the extractor off his back. Glowing like crazy. You know, the way they do when the stuff’s working. Anyhow, he crashed through that window there and tried to fly off the fire escape. I guess the stuff finally took effect because he only got a foot or two into the air before he fell. I ran down there. He was dead, so I collected the sample and told the guys to grab the gear and clear out. I don’t think anyone saw anything, and folks ‘round here know to keep their mouths shut if they did, but we didn’t wanna take any chances.”

  “Well, it appears we were fortunate this time. The Force you collected from this child promises to advance my work considerably, and I applaud your initiative in acquiring it. However, there must be no further mistakes. Follow my instructions precisely, and you will be well rewarded.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  “Excellent. Well, then, on to other matters. The project continues on schedule. You will receive your next shipment of subjects within the next few days. You will be contacted with details in the usual manner. Please be prepared to process three subjects this time. Juveniles. Keep them sedated and you should have no problems.”

  “Will do. I’ll have my guys replace the strap and get this place ready.”

  “Sehr gut. We’re done here, then. Walk me to my car. On the way, we can discuss your role in the next phase of the project.”

  The two men left the room, their footsteps echoing softly from the hallway. I did a slow count to sixty before I got up and took a careful look into the room. Yup, they were gone. I went back in and photographed the scene, limiting myself to just a few shots. The room was pretty dark, and I didn’t want to risk someone spotting the flashes, but I was going to need the photos. Not only for my story, but for what I planned to do next.

  ***

  I made a quick side-trip to the Tower to drop the glass jar at their lab. By rights, I should have turned it over to the cops, but quite frankly, The Angels’ people had a better response time. Dr. Austin wasn’t there, this being late Sunday afternoon, but the assistant on duty told me he’d get right on it. I hoped we’d have some answers later that day or Monday at the outside.

  My next stop was the Beacon. Westbound traffic on the I-10 at five PM is never good, not even on a Sunday, but at least it moved tonight, albeit slowly. I spent the time listening to a news station. In the aftermath of yesterday’s giant robot attack, tensions were high. North Korea declared the incident a false-flag attack, accusing the United States of attacking itself in order to justify aggression against the Democratic People’s Republic. The Sunday news shows had Senators and Congressmen lining up to make scathing denouncements of North Korea or the Administration, depending on which side of the aisle they sat on. A U.S. Navy carrier task force had been dispatched to the Sea of Japan and another was steaming toward the Yellow Sea. A protest at the North Korean mission to the United Nations in New York turned violent, and apparently somebody brought a Molotov cocktail. It splashed against the outer wall and caused a small fire, which was quickly extinguished. This was particularly embarrassing because the DPRK mission was in a building complex where a lot of other small countries house their diplomatic missions. The State Department was going to have its hands full for the foreseeable future, soothing ruffled diplomatic feathers.

  Nobody seemed to be considering that there might be a third party involved. It would have been funny if so many people weren’t going to get hurt if this thing didn’t get resolved, and quick.

  I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot at the paper and headed in. While it wasn’t as big as an impending war, I had my own crisis to resolve. Three kids were going to suffer fates similar to Karl Jorgensen’s, and the clock was ticking.

  The Sunday crew at the Beacon is pretty small, and nobody paid me much attention as I made my way to my cube. I transferred the photos from my camera to my computer and sent them to the printer. The machine hummed as it began its warm-up cycle.

  Since there were a couple of rogue supers on the loose, I figured Captain Dawson would be at his office to coordinate things between his people and The Angels. I picked up the phone and punched in his line. He answered on the third ring.

  “Task Force Eleven, Dawson speaking.”

  “It’s Conway. I have something you’re gonna want to see. Can I come down there?”

  “I thought you were dead.” It sounded like he might be joking, but you could never tell with him.

  “They sent me back to take revenge on my killers. Seriously, though, it’s about the Jorgensen kid. I have evidence.”

  “Sorry. I don’t have any time for that right now. I got two supers in the tank and their stories don’t make any sense. Maybe tomorrow. We’re probably gonna be working on this all night.”

  “Wow, The Angels got them already? They work quick.”

  “Wait a minute, I didn’t say anything about them. How’d you know about it?”

  “I know everything, Dawson,” I joked, enjoying my momentary advantage. “I’m not kidding, though. The people who killed Jorgensen are going to do whatever they did to three more kids in the next few days. You need to get your team on this. I suppose I could take this to The Angels. They could use some more good press…” I let the thought trail off from there.

  “Dammit, Conway,” he groaned. I could almost hear the cogs turning in the cop’s brain. I was giving him a major break in this case. This was right in his wheelhouse, and his team could use a win. But, if he wasn’t going to move, I was prepared to call in the big guns. It would be like driving a nail with a meteor, but I wasn’t going to let any more kids die.

  “Alright, let’s make a trade,” he said. “We’ve been interrogating these guys, but nothing’s adding up. Maybe a fresh set of eyes could help. You do that for me, and promise to keep it out of the paper, and that’ll give me time to look at your stuff.”

  “Deal. I’m on my way.” I grabbed the photos from the printer on my way out to face Los Angeles’ freeways yet again.

  VII

  I headed south on the 405. Dawson’s team worked out of the Harbor Division in San Pedro. That was the only place the department had room for them. It also put them at arm’s length from downtown and departmental politics, which could be both an advantage and a detriment. They were close enough so the brass could take credit for their success, but far enough away to disavow them
if they failed. Like I said, the brass knew this was a low-percentage play. If this blew up, they wanted to make sure it wasn’t in their faces.

  I stopped by a sandwich shop before I got to the station, and picked up a sub for myself and a few extras. It sounded like Dawson’s team was pulling an all-nighter. To my way of thinking, cops are basically smart dogs in human form. With guns. It never hurts to come before them bearing the gift of food. It greases the wheels. And so, laden with a heart-unhealthy sack of chips and hoagies, I pulled into the Harbor Division’s parking lot at about seven thirty.

  I checked in at the front desk, and the officer on duty buzzed me through. I took the stairs down to the area in the basement assigned to Task Force Eleven. Like most police offices, it smelled of long hours, sweat and paperwork. Two clusters of four desks sat facing each other in the center of the room—two of which were occupied by plainclothes detectives—with a small office at one end. The door hung open, the glass panel mounted in its top half declaring in stencil that it belonged to Captain Dawson.

  One of the cops at the desks gave me a suspicious eye as I crossed the bullpen to Dawson’s office. The plainclothesman must have been new to the team. I hadn’t met him yet. He went back to his work with a grunt after I identified myself and asked if his Captain was in. Dawson was at his desk, pouring over some notes. He looked tired. I knocked on the doorjamb, and he waved me in.