Maybe she was stronger than that, she thought. She took Lionheart’s head in her hands. His great paws closed about her wrists and he turned his head to brush hot lips against her palm. It sent shivers all the way down her spine and made a muscle in her ass twitch. “Oh, God,” she moaned as she buried her fingers in his soft mane.
“Rick, you there?” Bobby’s voice from the radio made Faith jump.
Lionheart shook himself and picked up the microphone. “Yeah, Bobby. Go ahead.”
“The Feds kicked down the door into Clemens’ apartment. I guess they don’t believe in warrants when it comes to dangerous parahumans.”
“Did you catch Gumm?”
“No, but she was definitely here. There’s a bag with Elizabeth Hague’s name on it. Wasn’t that the girl Faith interviewed?”
Faith nodded. Lionheart confirmed it to Bobby.
“Listen, we might have just missed them, within minutes. The goddamn shower’s still dripping. Towel is damp and there were long blonde hairs in the drain.”
“You’re a regular Steve McGarrett,” said Lionheart. “Are you sure it was our fugitive?”
“The Feds think so, and I have to say there’s too much circumstantial evidence here when you combine it with what Faith found out. There’s a note here, presumably written by Clemens to his roommate, saying his girlfriend will be staying with them for a few days until she finds work and a place of her own.”
“Damn, she moves fast. Any idea where the two went?”
“No. Kojak and Crocker are knocking on doors, but nobody’s seen anything. Shit, most everybody around here’s watching TV by this time of night.”
“Long as you’re looking around, did they cook anything? Fresh takeout cartons?”
“I thought of that too. Either they did dishes right after they ate and already put them away, or they didn’t eat here.”
“Maybe they’re at a nearby restaurant.”
“Sure, there are only about three hundred in walking distance, and that doesn’t take into account if they took a cab or hopped on a subway.”
“And you don’t want to bring in a bunch of uniformed cops and tip them off if they’re nearby.” Lionheart scratched at his mane. Static electricity popped off it in the dry air.
“Right. The Feds are probably going to wait here to see if they come back. I think I’ve done about all I can do to help. Besides, I kind of think I’m cramping their style. You know, by expecting them to follow the law and shit.”
Lionheart snorted. “Feds. Okay, you may as well come back in.” He glanced at Faith and shrugged. “It’s Wednesday, and people are already starting to show up. Wouldn’t be right to have a party without our Master of Ceremonies in attendance.”
“Ha ha ha.” Bobby sounded anything but amused. “I’m on my way. Set some earplugs out for me.”
#
Harlan sat on his bed, dressed only in a pair of ratty old shorts he used as pajamas. The heat in his room was stifling, even with the window open. Droplets of sweat congealed on his skin and trickled down his chest and sides. Legs folded beneath him, he stared without seeing out at the distant clouds and occasional streaks of lightning leaping between them.
In his hands, he held the only tool Momma had left him, because he’d had it hidden. It was an old Swiss Army knife, the first tool he’d ever owned. Irlene had given it to him as a Christmas present when he was ten. He kept it under the corner of his mattress. Sometimes, when he’d have bad dreams, he’d reach down, feel the cool plastic shell, and know things would be all right.
The knife was a beacon of sanity that penetrated the dull, thick fog in his brain to keep his mind from whirling with barely-repressed fury and creative energy. The very act of destruction seemed to fuel his thoughts, but after Momma destroyed everything he’d worked for at home, as he cradled the knife, he felt composed.
The day’s events seemed to have been pushing him toward a major life change, like a baby about to emerge from the womb. Perhaps this trauma of his lost books was just one more in a series of birthing pains. Fate was making him sever ties to his past—first the carousel he had made for Reggie, then Gonsalvo, losing Gretchen, and now his books.
Put away childish things, he thought; perhaps today he would become a man. Lightning flared again in the distance, a bright questing tendril from the heavens to the Earth. It awakened something in Harlan, vitalized him. He took a deep, cleansing breath and blew it out, feeling an abnormal sense of peace and joy fill him.
He got up from his bed and went to his open window. Great clouds towered in the distance like the engines of the Earth, sparking with power. Down below on the street, people performed their intricate ballet of errands, games, and socializing. Harlan shook his head in sadness. It was all well and good to see the organization, but it was from chaos and disorder that society evolved. Like Harlan had taken his broken bicycle and built something newer and better, society’s potential for improvement was vast.
Something—or someone—just needed to break it first.
Harlan left his room and went to look in on Reggie. She slept on top of her sheets in a thin cotton nightgown. Her hair was pulled into clumps so Momma could style it in the morning and she clutched her stuffed elephant like a raggedy security blanket. He listened to her soft, rhythmic snores. She was at peace; nothing ever bothered Reggie. Even in the middle of the crisis Momma had caused, Reggie had kept a cool head and saved some of Harlan’s prized possessions.
He reached out and touched her cheek with a tenderness he didn’t know he’d possessed. She moaned and murmured something in her sleep but didn’t awaken. Something about her vulnerability moved him, and he made a promise that somehow, some way, he would always look after her.
In the new world, the one he would create, she’d have a real elephant if she wanted it.
He wished he knew more about love and affection. Perhaps he could find Gretchen and she could teach him. He didn’t know where she was now, but sooner or later she’d be at Just Cause, and Harlan would find her there. Until then, he touched Reggie’s cheek once more and stole out of the room.
Momma had fallen asleep in front of the television, as usual. She sat in her recliner, feet up, a drink at her elbow. On the flickering screen, Grizzly Adams talked to his bear. Every time Harlan noticed that show, the man was talking to his stupid bear. Harlan couldn’t understand the appeal. Most shows that masqueraded as entertainment mystified him. Maybe someday there would be something worth watching. In the meantime, television was as effective an opiate for the masses as religion was. He’d read something about that in a book by Karl Marx, who had some interesting ideas even if most of them were still over Harlan’s head.
Momma’s head was tilted back and her mouth open. She either snored or gurgled in the back of her throat. Harlan stared at her, reaching deep into his soul to see if he felt the least bit of compassion for the woman who’d birthed him. No. He hated her. She’d taken everything he cared about and ruined it: his tools, his books, Gretchen. She’d never loved him, or understood him. She hadn’t even tried. He was never good enough for her. He closed his eyes. A tiny voice in his mind begged him to reconsider his choices, but he squashed it like a bug underfoot. He’d never been one to listen to his conscience, anyway.
With one swift, decisive motion, he drew the blade out of his Swiss Army knife and slit Momma’s throat.
#
The boy left the bathroom ahead of Tommy, which suited him just fine. He’d gotten what he’d needed, and the boy’s name didn’t fall in the realm of need-to-know information. He had been pliant and willing to please Tommy for his fifty dollars, and Tommy could still taste the boy’s sweet skin on his lips. He fixed his hair and tied it back again into a neat ponytail. A splash of cool water on the back of his sweaty neck helped to rejuvenate him.
He overheard another sound of flesh on flesh outside the door, but instead of the noises of lovemaking, this was the timbre of fists beating in anger. He was tempted to stay hid
den in the bathroom, but Tommy couldn’t help but remember his tirade from earlier in the day.
“You’re a goddamn superhero,” he said aloud to his reflection in the spotty mirror. “It’s about fucking time you acted like one.” He straightened up, took a deep breath, and kicked open the bathroom door.
Four burly men stinking of beer had the curly-haired boy up against the wall. Two held him while a third, wearing a Skoal t-shirt, pounded him in the gut. The fourth exhorted them on from under a trucker hat, shouting words like homo and faggot. A few onlookers stood nearby watching, but like those who’d observed the murder of Kitty Genovese, weren’t willing to get involved.
Tommy’s ire rose with the speed of a tornado. Blasts of wind down the corridor sent dust and trash whirling. “What is this?” he growled, breezes spiraling around him like flowing armor.
The bullies let go of the boy, who sank to the floor blubbering and bleeding from a broken nose. Trucker Hat, the one with the big mouth, wasn’t fazed at all.
“What’re you, the faggot’s boyfriend?” Trucker Hat challenged. “You fuckin’ homos come in here like you own the place, pullin’ each others’ dicks in the restroom, while decent folks are just here to watch the game.”
“Then go watch the game,” said Tommy.
“You fuckin’ sissy boy,” yelled Trucker Hat. “You and your boyfriend oughtta be locked up! It ain’t right what you’re doin’. It’s against Jesus.”
“I’m sure he’d approve of you four bull dykes ganging up on one helpless boy,” said Tommy, loud enough to be heard above the crowd noise. “Maybe later you can have a nice circle jerk to celebrate.”
“Oh, now you’re gonna get it, homo,” Trucker Hat said. “Come on, guys.” He took a deep breath as if in preparation to exhort them to do their worst, but no words issued forth. A look of confusion crossed his face, which melded into one of terror. The man clawed at his throat and his face, making only the slightest gasping noise.
The man’s companions gaped at him in surprise. “Joey?” asked one who was missing a front tooth. “You okay?”
Tommy concentrated, using his power to keep the air in Trucker Hat’s lungs despite the man’s repeated attempts to exhale. He wasn’t going to kill him, but he was going to teach the loudmouthed bigot a lesson.
A hard blow crashed into the side of Tommy’s head. He lost his grip on the air in Trucker Hat and the man collapsed, gasping for breath. Stars danced before Tommy’s eyes and he staggered. “Take that, you faggot!”
“Hit him again, Rick!” cried Skoal T-Shirt.
“Gonna fuck you up,” said the man with the huge beer gut, and prepared to punch Tommy again.
Tommy had been training with the best in the world for years. These amateur thugs had nothing to bring against him. He shook off the effects of the blow and offered a specialty blow of his own.
A concentrated blast of air struck Beer Gut in his prominent belly, lifting the man up and away to skid down the concourse, shedding bits of clothing and skin. Tommy whirled and hit Skoal T-Shirt the same way, flinging him into a cement pillar. The man groaned and sank into a pile.
“That’s him, that’s Tornado!” called one of the onlookers. “Get them, Tornado!” Several of the others started to cheer.
Gap Tooth took a hesitant step toward Tommy. Tommy called up winds to swirl around the man, buffeting him this way and that, spinning him around until his eyes crossed and he fell. Vomit leaked from the corner of his mouth.
Tommy gestured at Trucker Hat, the loudmouth of the bunch, with a distinct come-hither motion. The man’s nerve failed and he fled. “You better run,” Tommy called after him. “Because this faggot is about to beat your ass some more.”
The onlookers applauded and hooted their approval, but then the stands exploded in cheers when somebody hit a deep ball and most of the people milling around hurried back out to see what was going on.
Satisfied he wouldn’t have any more trouble from the men, Tommy turned his attention to the injured boy. “You’re him,” mumbled the boy through swollen lips. “Tornado. I didn’t recognize you before.”
“Hush,” said Tommy.
“I’d have done you for free,” said the boy. “If you want your fifty back, you can have it.”
“None of that nonsense, now.” Tommy helped the boy to his feet. “Look at you. Those assholes really did a number on you. A real crime for a face like yours.”
“I’m not anything special. Just another whore.”
Tommy put a finger to the boy’s lips. “Tonight you were mine, and that made you special to me. Are you going to be okay?”
The boy nodded. “I been beat up before by professionals. Those guys were amateurs.”
Tommy laughed. “That they were. What’s your name?”
“Moondoggie.”
“What?”
“Marvin.” The boy blushed. “But everyone calls me Moondoggie.”
Tommy squeezed his hand. “Look me up sometime.” He walked away from beautiful Moondoggie and returned to his seat. He found it much easier to face John and Gloria after the skirmish in the concourse below.
“Where’ve you been?” asked John.
“Jesus, what happened to your face?” added Sundancer. She reached out to touch Tommy’s cheekbone, which felt bruised and swollen.
“Bathroom,” said Tommy. “Some guy opened the door into my face. Accidents happen.”
John shrugged. “You look awfully happy considering that.”
Tommy smiled. “I’m having a good evening.”
#
Gretchen couldn’t believe how tall the World Trade Center towers were. To her small-town eyes, even a ten-story building stretched to unimaginable heights. “I bet there isn’t even enough air to breathe that high up,” she said.
Shane let out a laugh. “It’s not even half a mile.”
“It looks like it goes on forever,” said Gretchen, craning her head back to look at the skyscraper in the waning sunlight. The top floors gleamed orange while the lower floors were gray and shadowed. They could have taken a subway beneath the monstrous towers, but Gretchen wanted to see them from the outside, so they’d gotten off one stop early and walked, hand-in-hand, toward the building that housed Just Cause headquarters.
The proprietor of the Greek café where they’d dined had fawned over her like she was a movie star. Shane had whispered that the heavyset woman had been trying to set him up with all her daughters and nieces forever, less to bring him into the huge family than to see him happy and married. The food had been wonderful. Gretchen had liked the spanakopita and baklava, which were almost as much fun to say as to eat.
And now, with a full belly and Shane’s callused fingers wrapped around her own, Gretchen stared up at the towering building. Somewhere up there, she hoped she would find answers to what her powers meant.
“Ready?” asked Shane.
Gretchen squeezed his hand. “Yeah, I think so.”
They walked across the plaza toward the tower that housed Just Cause. Other partygoers were drifting in from various directions to coagulate around the tower’s main entrance. A couple of large bouncers waited at the door, checking people as they reached the head of the line. More often than not, they told would-be attendees to take a hike. Every once in awhile, they’d allow someone they deemed hip enough past the doors where another bouncer would escort the guest to the elevators and presumably up to the team’s headquarters.
“Wow, they’re really tight on security,” muttered Shane. “And we’re really under-dressed. They might not let us in even with your passes.”
They watched as the doorman gave a man in a glistening white disco suit the heave-ho, while admitting a young woman in full Indian garb complete with beaded headdress and moccasins.
“Maybe we should go back and change,” said Shane. He looked at his plain white t-shirt and jeans in dismay. Gretchen wasn’t dressed any fancier, wearing cutoff jean shorts and a tank top.
The bouncers seemed
to be admitting more people who were dressed in provocative or bizarre fashions than those who dressed for dancing or partying. It gave Gretchen an idea. “Do you have a pocketknife or something?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Take your shirt off.” Gretchen dug in her pocket for her lipstick.
Shane shrugged and pulled the shirt over his head. Gretchen took the lipstick and drew a heart over one of his nipples. Then she loaded up her lips with the color, pursed them together, and pressed a well-defined kiss mark on his taut belly, just over his belt line. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “That ought to get you in, pass or not.”
Shane snickered. “I look like a male hooker.”
“You look delicious,” said Gretchen.
“What about you?”
Gretchen took Shane’s pocketknife and carefully cut around her cutoffs until they more resembled a denim bikini than shorts. She handed Shane the passes and cut out the pockets. She cut her underwear up each side and pulled it out of her cutoffs. With a sigh, she balled it up and tossed it away. She slit down the front of her tank top and retied the loose halves in a few strategic locations. Then she cut her bra straps and pulled it free, tossing it after her cut-up panties. She cut a strip from Shane’s t-shirt, put eye-holes in it, and tied it around her head like a mask. “There, how’s that?”
Shane was speechless as he looked her up and down like a child with a new toy.
Gretchen laughed and blushed. “I can’t believe I just did this, but it ought to get us in the door, passes or not.”
“You look astonishing,” said Shane as if his tongue had swelled. “What should I do with this?” He held up the remains of his t-shirt.
Gretchen shrugged, and then laughed as Shane balled it up and tossed it after her discarded clothing. “Let’s go get in line.”
Just Cause Universe 3: Day of the Destroyer Page 16
