by Hal Bodner
“Tell me about it,” I muttered. Then I added briskly, “Well, I’m finished here so I should get going.”
“Back to peddling flesh?”
My eyes darted from side to side with no small hint of alarm.
“Relax, Alec. There’s no one around to hear.”
“Quit it anyway,” I grumbled. “Humor me.”
“You are so touchy. How Peter puts up with you…”
“These tights squish the family jewels and put me in a bad mood. I’m a very nice person when I’m wearing cotton or linen.”
“And such a queen sometimes.” Before I could bristle, she added, “By the way, I hope you didn’t plan anything fancy for dinner tonight.” With all this going on…” She spread her palms to take in the rubble-strewn courtyard and crushed grandstand. “…I have no idea whether or not I’ll be able to make it.”
“The roast will keep for another day or two in the fridge,” I told her.
“If I can, I’ll call you and maybe drop by for a late nosh if that’s okay?”
“Just don’t expect Beef Wellington.”
“Thanks for understanding.” She quickly surveyed the surrounding area and, after assuring herself that no one was watching, she rose onto her tiptoes to give me an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Now, go on. Get out of here before you get mauled by the press.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
Chapter Five
“The next time you decide to take a casual stroll through an oven, could you try and remember to take the gloves off first?”
Travis examined the singed gauntlets critically and shook his head.
“Your skin seems to be more resistant to heat than this new compound. Pity. I had such hopes for it. Modified Teflon, an innovative type of asbestos, non-toxic…” His voice deteriorated into an incomprehensible mumble while he continued talking to himself.
“News flash. Fire on bare skin hurts.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
He reached for an expression that was supposed to be childlike innocence mixed with hurt feelings. Since Travis looked like a cross between Ernest Borgnine and a water buffalo with indigestion, the effect fell flat.
“Here I am, working my fingers to the bone to stay on the very cusp of scientific innovations specifically designed to make your life easier, and all you can do is whine when things get a little dicey. This is all experimental stuff, here, I’d like to remind you.”
“You’re right. I don’t deserve you.”
He seemed to take my words at face value and deliberated for a long moment.
“Probably not,” he agreed.
In a completely just universe, sarcasm would never be trumped by sincerity. Since the universe is unfair, I changed the subject.
“I’m expecting a call from Gretchen.”
Travis turned the gloves over and probed at the seams with surprising dexterity for a guy who has fingers like bratwurst.
“She telephoned this afternoon after you went back to the office.”
“And…?”
“That is one helluva fine woman.” He didn’t quite smack his lips.
“Forget it, Travis. She’s in love with her husband.”
He shrugged with a movement of his shoulders that was strikingly reminiscent of a walrus I’d seen in a National Geographic special.
“Husband’s been gone for almost ten years.”
“She’s still in love with him. What did she want?”
Travis delights in playing stupid sometimes. He’s not, but he gets a kick out of misleading people.
The silence dragged on while he examined the charcoal-stained gauntlets minutely. From experience, I knew that if I revealed the slightest impatience, he was quite capable of delaying even longer. He claims that patience builds character. The truth is simpler; he likes making me wait. Given that the subject of our conversation was Gretchen, he was quite capable of a twenty-minute soliloquy praising her womanly attributes. As a gay man, it wasn’t something I was particularly interested in hearing about.
“The explosion at Greene Genes…” He spoke just as I was about to snatch up the nearest reinforced metal, super-sonic, ultra-whatever thing-gummy from his work bench and brain him with it. “The fire department is pretty sure it was arson.”
That revelation sure as hell took the breath out of me.
“The thing was set?”
“That’s what arson usually means. Hey, lookit that! Super strong and super smart.”
I ignored him. Often, when the Whirlwind is about to embark on one of his adventures, I get a distinctive tingling sensation at the base of my spine. I mentioned it to Travis once but his hypothesis about the cause was pretty crude so I never brought the subject up again. I don’t think it has anything to do with my powers or abilities. I think it’s simply my subconscious picking up on things that my conscious mind overlooks. The result is a weird combination of excitement and an impending sense of doom.
Most often, that feeling presages the appearance of some new costumed kook who fancies themselves the ultimate in supervillains. Whether it’s our balmy weather, the plethora of museums and cultural venues, the general friendliness of our citizens, or an as-yet-undiscovered cosmic convergence of forces deep in the bedrock below Monroe Park, the crazier the bad guy, the more likely he or she will find their way to Centerport. In this case, my instincts were already clamoring that the arson was part of some bigger plot germinating in the twisted mind of a former foe or, possibly, a brand-new arch villain.
I must have smiled because Travis had to fight against a grin of his own.
“Got your attention now, eh Alec?”
Just like any profession, being a hero has its ups and downs. In spite of the constant battle to remind myself that civilians generally don’t deliberately get into trouble to piss me off, in those weeks where the only things the Whirlwind does is stop drunk drivers from plowing through schoolyards, and rescue stupid teenagers who climb electric towers on a dare, I go out of my mind with boredom. Boredom, as Gretchen would happily tell anyone who asked, makes the Whirlwind even grumpier than usual.
Ah! But when a supervillain comes along, I love it!
I’m perfectly aware that a bad guy showing up usually goes hand in hand with a lot of death and destruction. I certainly don’t mean to dismiss any of the carnage as trivial. Unfortunately, the mere existence of a supervillain virtually guarantees that someone is going to get hurt. With that as a given, is it so terrible that I enjoy pitting my talents and skills against their machinations and delusions? Besides, it’s a public service. How many normal people would willingly subject themselves to the sex-starved psychosis of a mutated mermaid like Erica the Eel, or risk being disintegrated by one of Professor Apocalypse’s contraptions?
Then again, I’m not normal. Not by any means.
My parents were Born Again cultists. Though they believed that alcohol was a deadly sin, they had no problem owning a nightclub like Ale Mary’s so long as they assuaged their guilt by sending a percentage of the profits back to their snake-handling “minister” down south who, presumably, used the money to purchase bigger snakes. They never really recovered from having brought a faggot into the world. Worse, their cockamamie church taught that it was possible to drive away the “gay demons” by physical and often violent means. Had it not been for my augmented constitution, my body would be covered with scars. Had it not been for my parents hiring an eccentric and brilliant handyman named Travis, my psyche would have been in the same condition. In his own gruff, grizzly bear fashion, Travis saw that I grew up with a strong moral sense and a commitment to using my gifts for the purposes of good. Had it not been for him, I might very well have ended up dressed as a sea captain or a salamander and robbing banks.
I literally rubbed my hands together, eager to get to work.
“First things first. I need you to find out if any of Centerport’s usual Parade of Horribles have recently gotten out of jail or escaped from whatever m
ental institution they’ve been in.”
Travis handed me a print-out. I knew he expected me to be impressed that he’d anticipated my request, but he looked entirely too pleased with himself so I said nothing. I felt my frown deepening as I scanned the list. I even shuddered with disgust when I saw one of the names.
“The Aphid? I thought he was deported.”
“Check the notes at the bottom. A few months after we shipped him back to Borneo, the authorities lost track of him. I really, really hope he’s got nothing to do with this. That sticky goo he spits…” He made gagging noises. “The memory of what it was like to scrub that crap out of your costume makes me want to spew.”
“How about Destructo?”
He considered the suggestion for a moment before shaking his head. “Arson isn’t his style. He’d have torn apart the whole building by hand. Besides, from what I hear, they got the lobotomy right this time. He’s supposed to be as gentle as a kitten now. Works in a landscape supply place over on Parsons Boulevard. I guess if you need to hire someone to move fully grown trees around…”
“Are any of these names on here going to be helpful?”
“Nope.”
“Then why did you bother…?”
“Because I knew you were gonna ask.”
I tossed the list aside and discovered that paper flutters. No matter how much force you put into throwing it away in order to make the point that the information it contains is useless, it mocks you by drifting gently to the ground.
“Okay, Einstein, where the hell do you suggest we start?”
He made a great show of scratching his head to indicate deeply profound thinking. Since Travis is a pretty hairy guy, it looked like he was rooting for fleas.
“I think,” he said slowly, as if he knew what my reaction would be which, of course, he did, “we should wait for Gretchen to question Peter.”
“Peter?”
“Don’t fly off the handle. Think about it. Who knows more about the inner workings of Greene Genes than Peter does? This lab explosion…” He shook his shaggy head. “Something’s not right. It’s only a gut feeling but…” He patted his rather prominent stomach. “…I got a pretty big gut to trust. Then again, it could be something as mundane as corporate espionage. There’s no law that says stuff like this is always part of someone’s master plan for something horrible.”
“But you don’t think so.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t. But even assuming I’m wrong, I can still only think of three reasons to destroy that particular lab.”
“A fanatic,” I said. “Someone with a higher cause who thinks that mayhem is okay so long as they’re saving the world.”
Travis nodded and looked impressed. “That wouldn’t have been my first choice but, you’re right. I was thinking more along the lines of stifling the competition. Edison used to do that to Tesla all the time.”
“The guy who invented electricity?”
Travis sighed. “He didn’t invent electricity, Alec. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how you figure out which way to turn the doorknob when you want to leave the house.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“To cover up another crime,” Travis continued. “Arson is great for that. You can steal information with no one the wiser because they think it’s destroyed. You can conceal embezzlement. You can even cover up a murder. My money’s on something like that.”
I was still smarting from the doorknob comment when I saw an opportunity to show Travis that I was far from an ignoramus.
“There’s one problem with your theories. The only thing–well, the major thing–happening on the fifth floor is Feed the World. Nothing to steal. No money to embezzle. I can’t speak to murder of course but blowing up a building seems like overkill, doesn’t it? I’ll also bet we can rule out a crime of passion. They were lab techs. I doubt there was a single paid-up gym membership on the whole floor.”
“You haven’t by any chance heard anyone use the word ‘shallow’ around you recently, have you?”
I motioned brusquely for Travis to be quiet while I pursued a thought.
I’ve often wished for a photographic memory. How cool would it be to read something once and have the information at your fingertips forever? Sadly, that’s not one of my skills. The only reason I knew anything at all about Feed the World was because it was one of Pete’s pet projects. The details had featured prominently, if obscurely, in many of our conversations at dinner when he was unwinding after work. If I had a photographic memory, I could have dazzled Travis with my intimate knowledge of every detail or, at the very least, I could have repeated enough of the scientific mumbo jumbo to make him think I knew what it all meant.
But my husband has very green eyes with just enough hazel to make them look olive, and they sparkle when he gets excited about something, which makes it difficult for me to concentrate. Peter will start in about some new drug that will cure a rare tropical disease, or a test that’s supposed to make toe fungus a thing of the past. The more enthusiastic he gets, the more he seems to glow. The more he glows, the better he looks. The better he looks, the more I get this tingly feeling in my stomach and a twitchy feeling below the waist. These involuntary responses make it very difficult for me to focus on whatever it is he’s talking about.
Once again, the thought of Peter being mixed up with anything remotely dangerous did not sit well with me.
“Travis, you know I have only one rule when it comes to the Whirlwind…”
“No cowls.”
“Two rules then. We keep Peter out of it.”
“I’m sorry but no can do.” To his credit, he actually did look sorry. “It’s his company. Don’t worry. Gretchen’s probably going to want to interview all of the executives so Peter will just be one in the crowd. Nothing can connect him with you–with the Whirlwind, I mean. Besides, to a hammer, everything looks like a nail, right? Maybe Gretchen’s wrong and this explosion was just an accident after all.”
He shrugged but it was clear he didn’t really believe what he was saying.
“Some intern could have accidentally started the whole thing by spilling coffee onto a hunk of potassium. It’d look exactly like arson. I did that once in high school. Singed my eyebrows off. I looked like a carnival freak for a couple of months. Come to think of it, that was the last straw before they expelled me.” His brow furrowed as he tried to remember. “Or was it that thing that happened in the metal shop?”
It didn’t make me any less uneasy when Travis reassured me that Peter’s involvement would be minimal. The thought of Peter being anywhere near a situation that might require the Whirlwind to make an appearance, caused the butterflies fluttering around my gut to collide in panic. Most of the time, I’m in complete command of my life. Though Randy thinks he runs the agency, when he screws up, he always looks to me to take over and fix things. And I do. But when it comes to Peter, I’m a complete marshmallow.
The minute he comes home from work, even though we’ve only been apart for eight hours, my knees go all googly. When we get into bed each night, I marvel at my good fortune in slipping beneath the same sheets as this amazingly beautiful man. Nor am I talking about mere physical beauty, though Pete certainly has that in abundance! He’s a beautiful person inside as well. I know what a terribly flawed person I am. It’s a mark of Peter’s wonderfulness, not mine, that lets him see past all that and still care for me.
He also shows it better than I do. Though I consider myself a romantic, I have to admit that I’m lousy at the heartfelt stuff. Not Pete. Every so often, he surprises me with a little gold foil box of marzipan. It’s my favorite, but I never eat it for fear of having to crowbar myself into a size thirty-two jeans. Pete claims he’d love me even if disaster overtook me and I developed love handles. I know it’s sappy but, when it comes to my feelings for Peter, even the most saccharine of Hallmark sentiments seem profound.
“If he gets mixed up in this,” Travis went on, “I’ll do
whatever I have to do to protect him. I swear.”
I sank into a chair, glum and more than a bit anxious. For once, I didn’t have the emotional strength for a smart-ass comment or clever quip. I knew what I looked like. I could feel the tears brimming, filling my eye sockets and threatening to spill over.
“If anything–anything!–were to happen to him, Trav…”
Momma Deadly. The Green Gecko. Captain Dirigible. The thought of Peter even being in the same room with any of them made my skin crawl. My mind balked at what could happen to him should any of them uncover my secret identity. I dashed aside the tears with the back of my hand. My macabre fears penetrated deeper; my feeble attempts to maintain my dignity proved useless; I started to sob in earnest.
“Aw, come on Alec. You know I can’t stand to see you cry. Where’s that plucky kid I raised? You know the one I mean. Remember when you first left home and ran into that street gang?”
I nodded through the sniffles.
“They had bottles and knives and lord knows what else…”
“Chains,” I sniffed.
“Exactly!” Travis practically crowed. “You see that? They had chains. What did you have? Nothing other than your wits and a bitchy attitude.”
Actually, I had quite a bit more going for me. But I rather liked the picture Travis was painting of me as the valiant underdog and I didn’t want to ruin it.
“We’re talking about Pete. Where Peter’s concerned, I’m not at all brave.”
I felt his hand on my shoulder and a reassuring squeeze from his thick, calloused fingers.
“Yeah, Alec. You are.” He sighed. “You can be a complete asshole when you’re trying to be the Bitch Queen of the Universe, but your soul’s always been in the right place. Whatever you are, whatever else you might be…” He grunted with the effort of kneeling in front of me so he could place his hand over my heart. “…You’re brave. In here. Where it counts.”
