by Matt Cowper
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“As recent events have shown us,” Damien Woodruff’s televised image said, “even the most noble among us can fall into darkness.”
I threw an empty beer can at the television. It clanked against Woodruff’s chin and then dropped to my apartment floor.
“You know all about falling into darkness, don’t you, Woody?” I said.
“Captain Neptune’s life was full of heroic feats,” the chief prosecutor continued. “He defeated dangerous villains on innumerable occasions. He saved Z City from a tidal wave that would have killed thousands, had it crashed into our fair city. He aided marine researchers, and helped clean up our polluted oceans.”
Woodruff looked down at the podium, as if he couldn’t bear to go on. Of course, he did:
“But we now know he was also a drug addict, a power-mad criminal, and an abuser of women.” He shook his head sadly. “Some say we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Some may argue that Captain Neptune’s – Patrick Anderson’s – good deeds outweigh his foul ones. I disagree, on both counts. We should always speak the truth, even if it’s unsettling. Captain Neptune’s myriad flaws throw a shadow on his benevolent accomplishments. We have no choice but to reassess the man’s life.”
“I hope they have plenty of shovels at this press conference,” I said, “so they can clean up all the bullshit he’s spewing.”
“His smile is even more repugnant than it was last we saw him,” Dak rumbled. “Do you suppose he hones it in his spare hours?”
“I know he does,” I said.
“With this reassessment,” Woodruff said, “it becomes clear that I must remove Captain Neptune’s name from the Superhero Registry, and also revoke any awards, citations, and medals he has received. This is painful, but it must be done to ensure the standards of the superhero vocation remain unblemished.”
I cracked open another beer and took a big gulp – not that it was doing any good. Even half-drunk, Woodruff’s spieling still agitated me.
“In addition to the reassessment of Captain Neptune’s life,” Woodruff said, “we must also reassess his death. Through the indefatigable labor of his widow, Julia Anderson, and the private investigator she hired, a common man whom no one expected up to the task set before him….”
“Nice dig, Woody,” I said.
“….we have learned that, although Homer Bollinger, alias Gray Squirrel, unequivocally threw the null-raxite bomb that killed Captain Neptune, there were other forces guiding his hand. Namely, a man calling himself Netmaster, also a drug addict and a megalomaniac, arranged for Captain Neptune to be killed. He provided Mr. Bollinger with the null-raxite bomb, but convinced the poor man it was a non-fatal weapon. In light of this evidence, we have changed the charges against Mr. Bollinger from first-degree superhero murder to first-degree superhero manslaughter.”
I did the math in my head. Homer was forty-two now. First-degree superhero manslaughter meant, if convicted – which he would be; Woodruff wasn’t going to totally let him off the hook – he’d serve a maximum term of forty years. He might get out a few years early on parole, but he’d still be an old man whenever he stepped out of MegaMax.
It was better than life imprisonment, though. I wondered if Homer was happy with how things turned out. I’d have to visit him, if I was still “welcome” on Ironrock Island or the DSC’s headquarters.
“As for Netmaster,” Woodruff went on, “we have charged him with first-degree superhero murder, and I assure all the justice-loving people of this city that I will prosecute this case vigorously. Netmaster will not breathe another wholesome zephyr of free air; he will be found guilty, and he will be imprisoned in MegaMax for the remainder of his days.”
“Should’ve chosen a different path, Netty,” I murmured.
Woodruff turned to his left, and sent a sun-bright smile towards someone. “While Captain Neptune may not have lived up to the standards we expect of superheroes, his widow is beyond reproach. Julia Anderson could have accepted that Mr. Bollinger killed her husband. She could have kept her husband’s inner demons secret.” He pounded the podium for emphasis. “She did not. With a zeal matched only by the most determined truth-seekers, she brought this horrible conspiracy to the forefront of the public’s consciousness, though it cost her much.”
“That’s true, at least,” I said.
“For her integrity, fortitude, and courage, I present Julia Anderson with the Z City Medal of Freedom, our highest civilian honor.” He brandished a glinting gold medal hanging from a red, white, and blue ribbon for the cameras. “Mrs. Anderson, please step forward and accept this honor, on behalf of the entire Division of Superhuman Crime.”
Julia, looking chic in a flowing dark green dress, walked into view and shook Woodruff’s hand. She bowed slightly, and Woodruff deftly put the medal around her neck. There was applause, and both of them turned to smile into the cameras.
Some inane pop song rang out. I dug into my pocket and pulled out my new phone; I hadn’t gotten around to changing the ringtone yet.
“Hello?” I said.
“Have you blown a gasket yet?” Burt Harrison said.
“Why would I blow a gasket?”
“Woodruff is soaking up all the positive press,” he said. “He’s turned this whole thing into a damned ceremony that celebrates his kindness. If anything, you should be up there getting a medal alongside Julia.”
“Nah,” I said. “You know how I feel about the spotlight. Let Julia have her moment – she deserves it.” I took another gulp of beer. “And just think what would happen if I was up there. Combined with that handshake crap I did with Woodruff, the whole city would know who I am. Godlike Investigative Services would be swamped with people wanting me to work miracles. I don’t need that aggravation.”
I heard grunting on the other end of the line. “You’re awfully mellow for someone who’s gotten his ass handed to him these past few days, and who is still, I gather, poor as a church mouse.”
On the television, Julia was still smiling. Her smile was open, genuine, infectious; I found my own lips turning upwards.
“Some things are worth more than money or prestige,” I said. “I solved a difficult case, beat up a bunch of powerful enemies, and I…well, I may have something with Felicia again.”
“Congrats, Casanova,” Burt said. “You two belong together.”
“Well, we’re not technically together…we’re, ya know…talking.”
“Of course,” Burt said. “Talking. Nice euphemism.”
“No, I really mean talking – just talking.”
“There’s actually a lady in my life now, too,” Burt said. “You know her fairly well.”
“Who is she?”
“Julia.”
“Julia who?”
“Julia Anderson, numbnuts,” Burt snapped.
I spit out a mouthful of beer, drenching the newspaper on my coffee table. “What?! How?!”
“We’ve been working together preparing for Woodruff’s medal-giving ceremony. I asked her out, and she accepted. Had a few dinner dates, a few walks in the park.”
“That’s…fantastic, Burt,” I said. “Does, uh, Woodruff know about this?”
“Yeah, but he thinks I’m just using her – you know, latching onto her publicity, and then dumping her when she’s no longer in the spotlight. Of course, that bastard approves of that sort of manipulative relationship.”
“What about our…um…special working relationship?”
“Yeah…that. Someone needs to tell her we aren’t really enemies – well, there is some mutual animosity, but…hell, you know how it is. Maybe we can both sit down with her and explain the situation?”
“That works,” I said. “So – sounds like things are going good.”
“Yeah, they are. She’s a classy gal. That kid of hers is cute, too. Julia’s figure is a bit too thin for my taste, but I can live with it.”
I rolled my eyes. “She’s a good woman. Don’t break her hear
t, Burt.”
“I won’t,” he replied. “Burt Harrison knows how to treat the ladies.”
“I hope so. You know how women can get when you break their hearts.”
Burt chuckled. “Yeah, hell hath no fury, etcetera.”
“Exactly. Just remember what happened when I broke up with your sister.”
“You bastard!”
Laughing, I ended the call before Burt could get going, put the phone on silent, and resumed drinking in earnest. On the television, the ceremony was over, and the national news was being delivered by a dour newsanchor. I flicked through the channels until I came across an action flick. A bunch of muscle-bound men were fighting some alien in the jungle.
The jungle reminded me of Deathrain and Waverush fighting a crazed Captain Neptune. I pulled up my shirt and looked at the white scars crisscrossing my torso. Deathrain’s stitches had absorbed into my body a few days ago. I told myself I was glad to see them go, but truthfully, they’d been the only mementos I had of the mercenary. I’d felt a few pangs of regret watching them fade.
“Do you think we’ll ever see them again?” I said, more to myself than Dak.
“To whom are you referring?” Dak rumbled.
“Deathrain and Waverush.”
“We shall indeed. We have unfinished business with both of them.”
“I guess we do.” I finished my beer, burped, and started on another one. “And Netmaster and Baldwin….”
“What about them?”
“Well, one of them’s dead, and the other’s in prison,” I said. “It just feels…wrong. After all we went through…the PI cases, the battles back when I was the Daring Destroyer….”
“They betrayed us, and they suffered the consequences,” Dak rumbled. “Do not concern yourself with them any more.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe I’ll be a couch potato for a week, not worry about anything. How does that sound?”
I expected Dak to say “I yearn to destroy,” or something similar, but he let out a god-sigh, which sounded like wind rushing through a tunnel.
“That sounds satisfactory,” he said. “We have earned a respite.”
I chuckled and settled down into the couch. On the television, a man with arms the size of beer kegs told someone to get to the chopper. I stopped thinking about the recent past, and drifted into the violent world of the movie.
Thanks for reading my novel! I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or wherever else reviews are posted. Every review helps us indie authors build up that all-important social proof.
If you didn’t like the novel, might be a good idea to keep it to yourself – you wouldn’t want Dakroth’gannith’formaz to assail you with his pitiless rage.
To keep track of me and my writing, direct your browser to mattcowper.com. Be sure to sign up for my mailing list while you’re there. Also, follow me on Facebook or Twitter if you want, but know I abhor both platforms, and use them rarely – damned social media.
Thanks again! If I see you around Bootheel, I’ll buy you a few shots of Neo Jack Daniels, and we can reminisce about the good ol’ days of superheroing.
