He found Irene’s desk—the only hint of it being a woman’s was a small vase of flowers sitting next to a lipstick-stained coffee cup—but she wasn’t there. The desk was piled high with old newspapers, and sitting on her typewriter was the Tribune article of the train wreck.
Steam rising from the coffee cup told Scott that she was nearby. He turned to the newsman the next desk over.
“Where’s Irene?”
Not bothering to look up from the copy he was editing, the journeyman jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Scott walked to where the reporter was pointing—a bank of glass-enclosed sound-proof booths where the radio reporters recorded their stories.
Scott walked past the booths until he saw her. Irene was at a small desk in one of the little booths, reading news copy into a large Dictaphone in the booth that recorded her voice. Her story was about a factory worker’s strike in Michigan that had become violent. She was reciting the number of strikers killed when
Scott’s face caught her eye. She stopped and stared at the sight of the man she assumed was dead standing no more than ten feet away from her.
He came through the door and she grabbed and hugged him tight. They stood that way for several minutes, not saying a word, just holding each other and taking in each other’s presence.
Finally, he looked at her and asked. “The men... Jimmy... are they all... ?”
Irene hugged Scott again, but softly and with tenderness. The way she did this, her face pressed into his neck, told him that they were all dead.
Then it was her turn to ask questions.
“What are you doing here? They paper said you were missing, but they’re still trying to recover all the bodies.”
“I don’t know how I got here,” Scott said. This was a lie: Scott knew that it was the lantern that had brought him back, but he could not bring himself to say it out loud.
“Alan, I made some calls to my friend at the ICC-he said that the collapse was due to faulty construction.”
“So they’re blaming the design,” Scott said. “My design.” Irene shook her head. “Paul called me this morning. He said that Dekker was behind it.”
Scott looked at her. “How does he know?”
“He said Jimmy left an envelope with him-it said not to believe in any accidents. I’ll call him if you want to tal—”
But Scott was on his feet, not waiting for Irene, nor the elevators, sprinting into the stairwell and down the ten flights of stairs to go confront Jimmy’s brother.
The yellow cab pulled up in front of the storefront bakery on Van Brundt Street. The tiny bakery was dingy but was known to have the best bagels in Gotham. Paul Shustak built the business from nothing, and now he owned both the bakery and the small railroad apartment above it.
Scott burst through the door, almost knocking over a heavyset lady with a dozen fresh bagels tucked in a bag under her arm. As she limped towards the trolley stop, she gave Scott a lingering dirty look but he did not notice: his eyes were locked on Paul, who was dumping a fresh load of freshly baked bagels into the display baskets behind the mahogany and glass counter.
Paul wasn’t surprised to see Scott, nor was he happy. He turned to face him, wiping the flour off his hands on his apron. Scott faced Paul across the glass countertop, and neither offered a hand to the other. Paul spoke first.
“What happened out there?” he asked tersely.
“I want to see Jimmy’s letter.”
“It’s not yours to read.”
“God damn it Paul, let me see that letter!”
With one fluid movement, Paul lunged over the counter and took a roundhouse swing at Scott—his bare knuckles connected with Scott’s temple, knocking Scott to the floor of the bakery. Scott got to his knees, wobbly and shaking his head. A shot to the head was not what he needed in his current state. He wiped flour from his face.
Paul had come from behind the counter and stood over him. “You screwed up and got him killed, didn’t you?” Paul was shouting now, his voiced powered by anger and grief.
Scott could see that although Paul stood in a fighter’s crouch, with balled fists, tears streaked down his cheeks. He felt sorry but was not dissuaded.
“Let me see it,” Scott said firmly. It was more a demand than a request.
Grieving, enraged, Paul came at Scott and Scott sprung to his feet, his fists before him, waist-high, his left hand forward. He did not want to fight, but he wasn’t going to leave without that letter, even if he had to beat Paul into giving it to him.
The two men squared off. The oak shelving surrounding them, cluttered with canned goods, and the tin ceiling above them gave the space a dark, enclosed feeling; not a proper place for a fist fight. Scott realized that Paul’s busines^might suffer and considered suggesting that they take it outside.
“Uncle Paul?”
Both men turned—standing in the curtained doorway was an eight year-old girl with long curly dark hair and dark eyes. Skinny as a beanpole, she was already radiating a future beauty.
Scott’s arms dropped to his sides, his hands opening up.
Paul, still ready to fight, barked at the girl without taking his eyes off Scott.
“Go upstairs Alyssa.”
The girl did not move. Scott could see that she was as tough and smart as her father, but had a softness and woman’s wisdom that was her mother’s. Her mother had not liked Scott, typing him as the man who always came to take her Jimmy away to some strange, dangerous jungle or wind-swept, snow-covered mountain. She saw Scott as the harbinger of a thousand chances at a sudden death for the man she loved. And she had been right.
Scott saw what Jimmy’s wife had done for Jimmy and although he did not have any real reference for it, he understood Jimmy’s love for her. But he did not envy it: he did not want the responsibility that love brings.
Scott smiled at the girl. It felt like the first time he’d done so in a hundred years.
“Hiya kid.” It was all he could come up with.
“Hi Uncle Alan.”
She pulled a rumpled envelope out of the pocket of her plain skirt. Even though she’d had it for a short while, Scott could see that the envelope was wrinkled and creased from having been opened and read many, many times. She held it out to him.
Scott turned to Paul-he too had dropped his fighting stance, and the anger creasing his face was replaced by grief. Scott wondered if his face bore the same absent, haunted look.
Scott took the letter from the girl’s outstretched hand and opened it up.
Pauly -
If you’re reading this, it’s because the worst has happened. I never wrote anything like this before, but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have a bad feeling about this job.
Alan’s convinced that this new bridge structure will be aces. I’m not so sure. I don’t even really care anymore. To tell you the truth, I’d rather be off fighting the Nazis. Maybe after this job is done I’ll join the Foreign Legion or that American brigade over in England. But Alan and I have been through hell and high
water, so until we agree to call it quits, I’m in all the way with him.
I want you to know that Dekker is a bad character, worse than anything you or I ever dealt with, even when we were growing up. I can see in his eyes the same hate that Warden and Patterson and all those other bastards at Willoughby House had for us. But the difference between him and those other louses is that he’s got the juice to do something with his hate.
If this job ends bad for me, I don’t need to tell you and Rachel to take care ofAlyssa. You know how rough it was on her when Beth died, but I know you love her like I do, and she’ll need everything you can give her.
But that’s not why I’m writing this letter.
I’m writing this to tell you that if something does happen to me, you can be sure that Dekker is behind it.
Don’t let him and his kind get away with it.
See you in the funny papers, brother.
Jimmy
Scott realized that he was off his feet, sitting in the wooden bench along the wall. Paul leaned against the counter, head down and eyes lost in grief.
Scott looked into the girl’s eyes, who seemed to be searching for an answer.
“Yes, sweetheart?” he replied, his voice no more than a whisper.
She asked the question honestly and without accusation. Her expression was one of hurt, as if Scott’s presence was an
undeserved slap or a cutting remark. She was sad and wounded and she simply wanted to understand. The girl asked plaintively, “How come you’re the only one that’s still alive?”
CHAPTER
6
Someone was ringing Scott’s apartment buzzer. First a polite ring, then short staccato bursts, then finally leaning on it steadily until Scott dragged himself off his couch, staggered to his apartment door and cracked it open, leaving the chain lock in place.
He could see Irene’s worried face through the crack and vaguely wondered if the way he looked justified Irene’s expression of deep pity and concern.
“Go away,” he said hopelessly.
“What happened out there Alan?”
“I don’t know. Just go away.”
“You can’t just lock yourself away. Talk to me. How did you get back to the city?”
“Leave me alone! I’m not one of your goddam man-on-the-street interviews.”
Scott slammed the door and leaned against it. At first he heard
nothing and knew that she was standing there trying to figure out what to do. Finally, he heard her footsteps as she walked away.
He stared at the lantern sitting on his coffee table.
He knew what happened, what the lantern had given him, but did not want to believe it. But it had happened: Scott was sure of that. The lantern had saved him, given him freedom and brought him back.
In one swift motion, Scott picked it up and smashed it into the brick fireplace. Not satisfied, he grabbed the iron poker and beat on the lantern as hard as he could.
He was furious at it for saving him, and at himself for asking to be saved. Finally, his rage spent, he fell back on the floor, the poker slipping out of his hand and clattering beside him.
He stared at the lantern, dusty from the fireplace ash but otherwise unmarred by his assault. Scott did not know how long he sat there-it could have been minutes or hours.
Scott realized what he had to do. It was simple and perhaps he always knew it, but it took his will to drive him to the solution. He stood up and went to his bookcase. He moved three books-a collection of essays from Darwin, The Golden Bough by Frasier, and The Holy Bible— aside to reveal a small wall safe. Scott quickly dialed the combination and snapped open the safe.
Inside, resting on a few documents was a .38 caliber Webley revolver. Scott pulled it out and flicked open the cylinder-the six shiny brass shells of the bullets were nestled in place, confirming the pistol’s readiness to Scott.
He would find Dekker and kill him. No matter that he had no hard evidence; evidence wasn’t necessary—he knew Dekker had
done it. But afterward he would leave Gotham forever. The only person in the world that would miss him was Irene, and he knew the selfishness of this act would hurt her, but probably not for long.
His eyes sought out a faded photo of his crew, standing and kneeling in the mud before a bridge they had built on a new road through the Honduran jungle. His eyes played over the men’s faces, dirty, tired but all with expressions of pride for the work well done.
Then Scott’s gaze settled on the lantern, sitting in the Fireplace. It was glowing. It pulsated as if feeding off Scott’s pain and confusion
He picked up the lantern. It spoke to him.
“Three times shall I flame green... ”
As he held it, the lantern became malleable, not so much softening but becoming plasmatic and pure as energy. Like a cell breaking off from a host being, a lump of soft metal separated from the lantern into Scott’s hand.
Scott molded, shifted and rolled this soft metal between his fingers. With very little effort the piece of metal seemed to be making itself into something. Scott continued to roll it between his fingers until it slowly formed and hardened into a ring. He slipped it on his finger. And then...
...nothing.
“You have been given life,” the lantern told him. “Now you have been given power.”
Scott could take no more of the lantern’s riddles. “Tell me why!” he screamed at it.
“To avenge death,” it replied.
The death of his crew. He believed it, but the ring gave him a dose of cold sanity.
“I must have been mad,” Scott said. “I wanted to kill a man... Dekker! No! I must fight him another way... ”
The pounding on the door startled Scott, but this time he was glad to hear it. Irene would be the one person he could share this with. He rushed to the door, clacked off the locks and threw it open.
But it was not Irene. Instead, two hard-case men in heavy dark suits with stone-chiseled faces stood in the doorway. The buzzer ringer was short, fat, dark and sweaty; the other leggy and gaunt. Scott could tell that the buzzer ringer was a flatfoot, and as he looked him over, Scott also knew that the tall one was no city cop: standing hunched in the doorway, he didn’t know what to do with his hands and was acting like a sinner in church—out of place and keenly aware that he was being judged.
The two men looked over Scott with poker players’ neutral eyes. The short one spoke first. “Alan Scott?”
“Who wants to know?”
The buzzer ringer flashed a badge. “Lieutenant Barnes. Gotham P.D. This is Inspector... ”
The taller man looked annoyed. “Chief Inspector Avant with the Denver bureau of the Interstate Commerce Commission.”
Scott stared blankly at them.
Barnes filled in the blank. “You’re under arrest,”
“What are the charges?”
Before Barnes could speak, Avant smoothly replied. “Twenty-four counts of negligent homicide and aggravated manslaughter.”
Scott grinned tightly. “You ICC boys work fast.”
Avant smiled back. “We aim to please.”
Barnes, annoyed by the banter and the fact that he wasn’t part of it, cut in. He stepped into the apartment, pulled Scott’s overcoat off the wall hook and tossed it at him. “Get dressed, Scott. You’re going downtown.”
Scott put on his coat and watched as his hand wearing the Green Lantern ring emerged from the Burberry’s sleeve. The ring was no longer glowing.
At the station house, Barnes showed Scott their evidence. The 8” x 10” photos of the wreck spared no detail. Impersonal and unflinching, they showed bodies as they lay. The fires were out, but smoke could be seen in the background from the smoldering wreckage. Worse yet, the photos showed that the fire had severely burned the bridge trestles, erasing any evidence of sabotage.
Avant peered over Scott’s shoulder at the photos. “Quite a wreck,” the inspector said.
Scott said nothing.
“How is it you got back to Gotham so fast?” Avant asked.
Scott tossed the photos on to the table and looked up at Avant. “I don’t know.”
Barnes leaned back in his chair, looking over Scott. “Uh-huh. The only survivor, back at his apartment less than twenty-four hours after the crash.”
Avant sipped his coffee. “What went wrong?”
Scott thought about telling them about the sabotage but he had no way of proving it. All he could reply was, “I wish I knew.”
Barnes scowled at Alan. “Look, Scott, the way we figure it, at the very least you’re a screw-up.”
Barnes thrust the photos of the collapsed bridge in front of him. “Something made that bridge fall down. There’s no crime for stupidity. But your being back so fast smells like you knew more. Maybe you cut corners to get the job done, but knew better than to be on it.”
Avant calmly cut in. �
��Why weren’t you on the train?”
“I was,” Scott calmly replied.
Barnes, his anger working up, was getting impatient. “There’s no way you coulda’ been on the train and then back here,” the detective tensely uttered. “What, did you just up and walk away from this? Show me a plane ticket. You knew that bridge was gonna fail, so you high-tailed it out of there.”
Scott sighed and picked up a photo—it was of the log he was trapped under, the spilled tar. There was no indication that he was ever there.
Barnes shot a look at Avant. Scott had all the looks of a perpetrator about to break: a confession was around the comer and Barnes silently cued Avant to push Scott there.
Avant sat down next to Scott. He wasn’t so much playing the good cop but the weary one; far from his house in the woods, his favorite chair and favorite bourbon, tired by the whole process of whittling down a man to get to the real story. Yet in his exhaustion he exuded an inevitability that he and the ICC would not be denied the truth. The only issue would be how long it would take.
“Alan, I went over your plans for the bridge with some of the structural engineers. If you’ve worked at the Interstate Commerce
Commission as long as I have, you’ve seen a lot of designs, both good and bad. I must say that yours are good-ingenious in many ways. But you took chances with this design, didn’t you?”
He glanced sideways at Scott, expecting Scott’s reply.
Scott shook his head. “It’s a sound design,” he said. “You’re blaming the wrong guy.”
Barnes cut in. “What were you and Jimmy arguing about at the Flamingo Club?”
“We were celebrating.”
Avant leaned back in his chair once again. Barnes paced. Scott stared down at the table. The silence of the deadlock hung heavily in the interrogation room.
Finally, Avant sighed. “Well, you’ll never work as an engineer again. Whether you do time or not, you’re washed up.”
Barnes tried rushing the confession. “Just admit it, Scott. You wanted this contract bad, so you fudged some numbers to create this ‘revolutionary’ design. Then you rushed the job and this happened. Why don’t you come clean?”
Green Lantern - Sleepers Book 2 Page 6
