by LE Barbant
“Backyard syndrome,” Rhett said.
“What?”
“Like all the other libs, your concern is solely for yourself.” Rhett sipped on his lager and cleared his throat. “Did you use your heat this winter? Turn on the AC yesterday? Did you drive this year? Everybody wants to consume and then bitch about where their energy comes from. Natural gas will prove to be cleaner, cheaper, and more efficient than coal or oil. It will be locally sourced—keeping employment inside our boundaries and dollars from flying overseas. Fracking is already putting money in the pockets of the farmers selling right of ways across their land.”
“But, Rhett, the fluid. You’ll be drinking it in under a year.”
“Slippery slope. The regulations will develop with the industry, particularly because people like you will be keeping an eye on it. Have there been a few accidents? Sure. But there always will be. With oil, we either consume less or pay more. But the people who complain about Exxon gouging prices still want to keep out fracking. It makes no sense. Cheap. Efficient. Safe. You get to pick two.”
He laughed as Paul shook his head. Rhett was stubborn, and he knew he could hold out on his big brother forever if necessary.
“I mean,” Rhett continued, “we wouldn’t even be talking about this if the drilling was going on somewhere else. Hell, as long as we can’t see it, it doesn’t matter. We’ve been reaping the benefits of fracking for decades. You only care now because it’s happening in our new back yard. That’s called hypocrisy, brother. You realize we never had this conversation back in D.C., right? Why do you think that is?”
Rhett could see the frustration mounting in his brother’s face as Paul stood up from the table. “I gotta piss.”
“Classy.” Rhett smiled as he watched Paul pace to the back of the narrow bar. “You can run away from me, but you can’t escape my logic.”
Rhett knew that Paul would return to the table with vigor, ready to defend his point as obstinately as a teenager. But Rhett didn’t mind. He was glad his older brother followed him around the country. Technically, Paul was the one who pointed the way, but the direction was always for and about Rhett.
He flipped through his phone, analyzing local reports. Pittsburgh buzzed with November’s political race, which was already heating up. Headlines floated across the screen as he tried to find something worth giving a few minutes to. But a better object for his attention entered through the door. A brunette, a bit on the short side, walked into the bar.
She took in the room, then glanced at her watch.
“Waiting for someone?” Rhett asked, pulling up next to her.
“No,” she said. “I have a meeting at the church across the park. Had a few minutes, so I thought I could just, you know, land here.”
“Hitting the bar before the church meeting,” Rhett said, flashing his perfectly white smile—“my kind of girl. A holy hell-raiser.”
She laughed. “It’s nothing like that. Just a meeting that’s taking place in their offices. It’s about my mom…” The girl stopped short and bit her lip. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear all of this. I don’t know why I even started.” A tear broke and rolled down her cheek.
Rhett pulled a handkerchief from his blazer’s breast pocket and handed it to her.
“Is that a hankie?” she asked.
“A lost art.” He grinned. “And it’s clean.”
The girl dabbed her eyes. “Thanks. It’s been a rough day.”
Rhett rested his forearm on the bar and leaned in toward the young woman. His brow was knit with concern. “Looks like it. Can I buy you a drink? Let me guess.” He looked her up and down. The skirt suit was classy, though not wealthy. “Red wine. Cabernet? No, pinot.” He waved to Lenny and placed the order.
Her eyes smiled at him. “Thanks. That should help.” She extended her hand. “I’m Zoe.”
Rhett took hers in his. “Zoe. Beautiful name. Filled with life.”
“You into names?”
“I’m into a lot of things. Zoe’s actually from Eve, you know, the mother of all. You can use that over at your church meeting.”
“I don’t feel very filled with life today.”
Lenny placed the glass of red in front of her. She thanked him.
“Be careful around this one,” Lenny said, nodding at Rhett.
“Nothing to fear, here.” He winked at the bartender, then turned back to the woman. “Now, Zoe, want to tell me about your mom? Sometimes we just need some human connection—to help us through the dark times. You can trust me, I’m a good listener.”
Rhett eased onto the barstool as the woman vomited her history at him.
He used every active listening tool in his box: smiling, nodding, and saying, “Uh huh,” or “Is that right?” But he heard virtually nothing of her story. Mostly, he focused on the local news report from over the bar.
“Rhett,” he heard Paul calling from their table.
Rhett held up an index finger in his direction.
He placed his hand on Zoe’s arm. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Listen, my brother, he’s waiting for me.”
“Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.” The woman’s eyes scanned the bar, then narrowed as they landed back on Rhett. “I just went on and on, didn’t I?”
“Human connection, Zoe. Right? Seemed like you needed some.” Rhett pulled out his cell phone. “Why don’t you give me your number? I’ll give you a call later tonight and hear how the meeting went. I expect you’ll need to debrief.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Of course. Actually, even better. Let’s have dinner.”
“Rhett,” Paul’s voice again, ringing in his ears.
Rhett turned and nodded at his brother. “What do you say?”
The girl fell all over herself giving her information to Rhett.
“You’ll do great. Talk soon,” Rhett said, returning to his brother’s side.
It didn’t hurt when Paul jabbed him in the ribs. “You’re terrible.”
“Says the mouse to the cat.”
“Here it is.” Rhett followed Paul’s eyes to the screens.
“The mystery is unfolding today as Pittsburgh police release further details on the gruesome murder in Springdale last night. The victim has now been identified as Rob Vinton, Mayor Dobbs’ Chief of Staff. Vinton’s body was found in an alley behind an abandoned storefront on Porter St. Still no word on who, or what, caused his death.
“We’ll keep you up to date as the story develops.”
Still glued to the news, Rhett could see Paul in his peripheral vision, wringing his hands. He whispered in Rhett’s ear, “This is it. It’s happening.”
Rhett couldn’t contain his smile. “Just liked you called it, brother. And it’s going to be perfect.”
Rhett dropped cash on the bar for Lenny.
“See you next week, Rhett?” the barkeep asked.
“We’ll see, Lenny. We will see,” Rhett replied, stepping out into the afternoon sun.
CHAPTER THREE
The air was thick with condensation in the dank, low-ceilinged basement. A single bare bulb compensated for the dim light filtering in from outside. The cellar was empty except for a Pittsburgh toilet in the corner, an old-time single-speed bicycle with deflated tires, and Willa’s new gear.
She had set up a gym, small enough to fit the fifteen-by-twenty footprint, large enough to transform her into the woman she needed to become.
Standing in front of an old full-length mirror salvaged from the back alley trash, she inspected the work accomplished in eight short weeks. The academic had always been rail-thin. Some might have mistaken her physique for fitness, but that was woefully inaccurate. She was simply built like a waif, a fact that had never bothered her. But Willa’s security in her body shattered, along with many other things, during the melee at PPG Place. Afterwards, the magician dedicated her time into shaping her frail body into a killing machine.
Killing was always on her mi
nd.
May marked a pause in her nearly ten years of teaching. After her final class last semester, she had said goodbye to Elijah and left a note and her cat at Chem’s apartment. The message was simple: She needed to get away, to clear her head. Between the death of her prize student, Sean Moretti, the revelation about her mom’s brutal murder, and her grandfather’s sacrifice to save her and her friends, the men understood her melancholy. They let her go without protest.
“Where’re you heading?” Elijah had asked.
“I don’t know. Pretty sure I’m going north. Rent a cabin near the Finger Lakes. I always liked it up there.”
She had forced a smile and the lie. She had no desire to leave the city.
Willa moved into her grandfather’s tiny apartment in Squirrel Hill. Sitting in the alley on the back side of a larger house, it was modest but reflected Edwin’s tastes and temperaments. He had moved there soon after finding his daughter-in-law, Willa’s mother, dead in his own home. The man couldn’t stomach returning to the scene of the heinous crime. Although Edwin was secular, the Jewish neighborhood of Squirrel Hill made him feel at ease and connected to his roots.
The poet-magician squeezed her fists and tightened her thighs. Muscles appeared in places they had never been before. Bending her right hand up to her chest, she felt the biceps tense up and burn. Patches of red, darkest on her elbows, bled up toward her wrists. Her knees and shins were similarly marked—an inevitable consequence of the training.
Willa should have been dead.
Marching into the office tower was a suicide mission. If it weren’t for the others, she’d be six feet under with nothing to show for it. Her life would be marked only by a Dickinson poem on her tombstone and another stray cat roaming the streets. But her hand had been forced. Rage, elicited from the knowledge that the Alarawn henchman had killed her student, was too much to control. Everything came loose. And Willa was arrogant enough—or foolish enough—to trust in her undeveloped abilities.
If it weren’t for Edwin Weil’s final show of magical strength, she and her friends would have been killed. After her grandfather’s death, she went dark—underground. She needed focus, not only to develop her magic, but also to craft her body and hone the skills necessary for fighting. She imagined herself as a battle mage of old. And when she was ready, she would seek revenge—for Sean, for Edwin, and for her mother.
Tae kwon do was the first of the arts she tested, but it wasn’t right. Its flair might have reflected a beauty she once appreciated, but her desire transcended aesthetics. Then she moved to aikido and one form of karate but found them too passive. She discovered a match in Muay Thai—a martial art brutal enough to fit her purposes like a glove.
Her knees and elbows grew sore from the jutting attacks she performed day after day. The heavy bag swinging from the old wooden rafters took a beating, yet remained faithful to the task. The poet-magician enacted the progression, habitually grinding it into her bones: jab, spin, knee, elbow—turn for a spell. Her magic and her hate sustained her. She found the ancient dictum accurate: mens sana in corpore sano. A sound mind in a sound body.
She practiced her movements over and over, Rex’s large, bald head filling her mind. Sweat ran down her back. This rote practice, the liturgy of attack, was a construction. She knew it was only the beginning of programming her body and mind to react together as she traded her calling as a teacher for the guild of martial arts. She knew that she could never hope to master both, but modest physical skills coupled with her unique gifts made her an effective weapon.
****
The likelihood of running into Elijah or Chem on the streets of Oakland was slim, but she refused to chance it. Heavy sunglasses and a Pirates hat pulled low masked her identity. Stepping off the bus, she made a beeline for the closest alley. Avoiding the main arteries of Forbes and Fifth, she meandered over to the Cathedral of Learning—the University of Pittsburgh’s sanctuary for the religion of knowledge.
Summer in Oakland brought change. While the university offered more between-term classes than most small colleges did throughout the entire year, the campus—in comparison to the school year—felt empty.
Willa slid into an elevator on the Cathedral’s ground floor. She pulled the key from her bag and ran her finger against its cold, jagged teeth. Fitting it into the elevator panel, she pressed forty-two and watched the number light. Few had access to the top floor of the Cathedral, and since the battle at PPG, its only permanent resident was gone. Edwin, who’d held emeritus status at the university for years, occupied a tiny hidden office at the end of the hall, nested at the Cathedral’s peak. He had occupied that space for longer than she could remember. In Willa’s mind, he had always been an old man in that place.
Standing before the office door, she drew another key. This one was new, at least to her. Edwin had left her everything, including his office and personal affects. She had no plans for it, and wasn’t even sure what drew her there that summer day.
She touched the knob, feeling for the familiar tingle of magic.
There was nothing. Edwin was gone.
The office still smelled of his aftershave.
Her eyes cut to the massive bookcases leaning in from the outer wall. She smiled. As usual, his library had a new arrangement. She wondered if Edwin had determined one last iteration before his final battle. It wasn’t chronology or geography and it certainly wasn’t alphabetical. She guessed the rows of books conveyed some subtle theme, masked to even the most astute readers. She laughed, wondering if his constant reordering indicated pride or mere whimsy.
“What were you up to, Grandpa?” she whispered into the empty office.
She shuffled through the documents scattered across his desk. Her grandfather’s familiar handwriting filled reams of paper, mostly personal notes on books and poems. She sifted through the pages trying to find something out of the ordinary—whatever that meant for the eccentric man.
Willa’s fingers ran across the littered workspace as she paced the desk’s width. Terminating at a bookshelf, she took time to admire the photographs—the aging professor shaking hands with the luminaries of the literary world. The size of his collection never failed to impress her. Her grandfather had gotten around. Scanning the frames, she stopped at a picture she hadn’t previously noticed. Most of the heirlooms were of Edwin and the greats, but this one was a rare group photo. Edwin stood off to the side, his dour countenance in place. The others smiled broadly. She squinted trying to discern if any of the faces were recognizable.
They weren’t. Or at least she didn’t think so.
She lifted the frame from its shelf and collapsed into her grandfather’s wooden chair. With shaking hands, she turned the latches on the back and eased the aged particleboard out of its place. Flipping the frame, she gave it a little shake. The backing and photo dropped out into her hand.
Sliding her glasses onto the bridge of her nose, she inspected the back of the photo. All it said was: Vox Populi, 1984.
Willa had found the clue she had been searching for.
****
“No, I’m fine really. I’m glad it’s summer, I just need a little space to decompress from everything,” Willa said into the phone.
Simon Weil’s voice chirped through the speaker, spanning thousands of miles in mere seconds. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t make it out for the service. You know that, well, your grandfather and I had our issues.” The voice on the other end of the phone paused. The tension grew. “And, with the circumstances, it was all just a little too hard to come to terms with.”
“He’d understand, Dad,” Willa said.
“What?”
“Grandpa. He got it. He always blamed himself for what happened to Mom.” Willa stopped, wondering just how much she ought to tell her father. “Dad, after Mom, um, died, he changed. Grandpa threw himself into his studies—his academic studies. He told me I needed to not get involved in the affairs of the world, that it was all too dangerous.”
An uncomfortable snicker came across the line. “Well, that’s something. You should listen to him.”
“That’s the thing. I can’t. I know you hate it, but I’ve been given a power, a power few people have. And I intend to use it.”
“Willa…”
“No, Dad. Listen—for once.” Willa bit her lip. Her eyes burned. “Bad things have happened. They happened to you, to us. Hiding won’t make them stop, but maybe I can. I’m not going to let the bad things continue.” Willa’s father was unresponsive, so she continued, “Look, I called because I have a question for you. Do you know what Vox Populi means?
The phone stayed silent. “Dad?”
“You break my heart, you know that? I think you might just be a little too much like your mother.”
She could feel his smile from miles away.
“OK, I’ll tell you what it means. I know I can’t stop you, but I want you to consider this more before you jump headlong into something that could get you hurt—even killed.”
“I will, Dad.”
“OK.” Another long pause. “Vox Populi was a group your grandfather formed. They were crazy, arrogant men who considered themselves the guardians of Pittsburgh. Mostly wizards. All faculty. And nearly all dead.”
Willa paused, praying for the right answer to her question.
“What do you mean nearly?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Welcome to Voodoo,” Tim held his hands high, showing off the brew pub. An old fire hall turned bar, the building had double roll-up doors that opened the industrial layout to outdoor seating. “Helluva a place to drop some good coin on a hand-crafted pint. Naturally, there’s plenty of dollar draft dive bars around if that’s more your style, but this is a homecoming party. Let’s get bent in style.”
