“As far as I know, no. John told me the guy always got into touch with him.”
“Well, can you describe what the guy looks like?”
“I can do better than that.” She turned, going to a desk against the far wall. She rummaged around in it while she spoke. “Before I hired Maria to care for my mother while I am at work, I used another nurse named Sharon. While Sharon worked here, I kept noticing things would go missing. I thought at first maybe Mom was hiding things or putting them away and not remembering where she put them, but then I started to suspect Sharon was stealing from us. So, I set up hidden cameras throughout the apartment. Turns out Sharon was stealing, so I fired her and hired Maria. I never did get rid of the cameras though. I figured it would be best to be able to see what goes on while I’m not here. Though I like Maria and Mom seems to too, you can never be too careful when it comes to a vulnerable old person. Oh, here it is,” she said. She turned back around, holding a SD memory card between her thumb and forefinger. Before a few months ago, I would not have had the slightest clue what a SD memory card was. I had been boning up on modern technology. Though I had resisted it for a long time, I was slowly entering the twenty-first century. Before you knew it, I would be coding and tweeting naked selfies. With certain parts elongated via Photoshop, of course. My natural gifts had always seemed adequate enough, but why take a chance? My fans no doubt expected a certain level of virility from me. I would hate to disappoint. “The cameras were still running when that teleporter paid us a visit,” Singleton said. “I often forget to turn them off. Footage from when that Meta showed up here is on this card. You can see him as clear as day on it. You can have it if you want. I’ve already uploaded a copy to the cloud.” The fact I knew what she meant by “cloud” meant that my education in advanced technology was going well. A few months ago if someone had talked about clouds, I would have looked up into the sky.
I took the SD card from Singleton.
“This is fantastic,” I said. “I could kiss you for this.”
Singleton looked almost shy for a moment.
“I might just let you,” she said. It was the sight of my often-broken nose, no doubt. Women love a bad boy, even if he has the soul of a Boy Scout.
“One last question before I go,” I said. “Did you serve in the military at some point?” Singleton looked startled.
“Yeah. I was in the Army. I retired from there when my Mom got sick. How did you know?”
I smiled at her modestly. “I’m a detective,” I simply said. I would not have to eat my gun after all. It was just as well. I had read too much iron in one’s diet was bad for you.
CHAPTER 19
I stepped out of the front door of Singleton’s brownstone. The memory card containing the video of the teleporting Metahuman was burning a hole in my pocket. I went down the short bit of stairs and stood on the sidewalk. I paused in thought. Kids, mostly boys, were still playing in the street. A football was involved in the game they played, but the traditional rules of football did not seem to be. Whatever the rules were, they seemed to be complex and susceptible to interpretation. As I watched, a good-natured shoving match broke out among some of the boys about whether one of those rules was being properly followed. I would have offered to referee, but the boys were having as much fun arguing over the rules of the game as playing the game itself.
The same Yankees hat wearing black man I had seen when I had gone into Singleton’s building was still here, only on this side of the street instead of on the other side the way he had been when I had gone inside. He was still leaning against a streetlight, and still watching the kids. Maybe he was the one who was refereeing the game. If so, he took a very hands-off approach. The man looked at me out of the corner of his eye. He was probably looking for tips on how to be cool. Understandable.
Kierra had tried to give me the ten thousand dollars her co-worker John had paid her to keep her quiet. She had not spent any of it, and it was simply sitting in a bag in her closet. I had told her to keep it. She would need the money if she lost her job at MetaHold. She would most definitely lose that job if she or I told Warden Sakey about what she had done. Permitting someone into MetaHold and allowing him access to Chaos was a serious crime. Though Kierra had not done this herself, she was an accessory after the fact by keeping quiet as long as she did.
Though what Kierra had done was not right, it was not nearly as bad as what her co-worker John had done. And, she was genuinely contrite and was trying to make it right now. Plus, anyone who busted her butt to care for her elderly mother the way Singleton did could not be a bad person. Too many people institutionalized their sick parents, visiting them only on holidays. If then. Punishing Kierra would not bring Avatar back to life. What kind of justice would it be for Kierra to lose her job and maybe go to jail? Who would take care of Mabel then? I needed a way to keep John away from Chaos—I could not permit him to let someone gain access to Chaos again—without simultaneously blowing the whistle on Kierra and getting her into trouble both with MetaHold and the law. Perhaps I would pay a visit on John and convince him to take an early retirement from MetaHold. My right cross could be quite the convincer when I wanted it to be.
I thought about the threat the teleporting Meta had made to Kierra and her mother. Someone with the resources to get into MetaHold and drain away some of Chaos’ energy without getting caught was not the kind of person who went around issuing idle threats. If he found out Kierra had spoken to me, I suspected she and her mother were indeed in danger. Since I needed to stay mobile to track down Avatar’s murderer, I did not have time to play guardian angel to Kierra and her mother. I knew of some Heroes who operated in New York City who owed me some favors. I would ask them to keep an eye on the Singletons until this situation got resolved.
Through my reverie, I was faintly aware of the approach of someone. It was the guy in the Yankees hat. He was tall and thin. His jeans sagged enough that I could see the top of his underwear. His skin was the color of stained wood and he wore stylish glasses with thick black frames. The frames of his glasses matched both the color of his hat and his underwear. I was not envious, though. The color of my gun matched the color of my underwear. This guy was not the only one with a love for color coordination.
“Hey man, you got the time?” he asked me as he approached. His hands were in the pockets of his sagging dark jeans. Since he had no hips to speak of, perhaps he was holding them up. His Yankees hat was still on backwards. I wondered how cool I would look if I wore my fedora backwards. I would have to try it out. Fashion trends had to start somewhere.
“Sure,” I said, lifting my left arm and glancing down at the watch on it. I saw a flash of blue light out of the corner of my eye. If I had not already been a little suspicious about seeing the man twice outside of Singleton’s brownstone, I might not have been alert to it. I brought my left arm back down sharply, grabbing the man’s right wrist as his hand darted towards my gut. He was holding a knife, thin and fang-like. It glowed, surrounded by a blue nimbus. I shoved his arm away from me as I twisted away. The knife sliced through the side of my shirt, nicking my waist. It could not possibly have been a serious cut. Nonetheless I gasped, feeling like my side had been shot by a cannonball dipped in poison. The entire left side of my torso went numb.
At the risk of sounding like a hypocrite, non-costumed Metas really ought to be forced to wear warning signs.
I jabbed my right fist at the man, simultaneously twisting his wrist sharply with my left hand. He let out an “oomph” sound. The knife dropped, clattering on the sidewalk. The man drove his head forward. Its crown caught me square on the jaw. I saw stars. I bit my tongue. The taste of blood filled my mouth. I let go of the man, stepping back, shaking my head to clear it. The man pulled something out of his left pocket. A thin blade snicked out of the base, glowing blue. A switchblade. “Be prepared” was the Boy Scout motto. Maybe this guy was the Boy Scout, not me. I really needed to try to have run-ins with less prepared Metas who did no
t carry spare knives. The man brandished the knife at me with his left hand. I had disarmed his right hand before. Was he ambidextrous? Fantastic.
The man and I circled each other. I had a longer reach and was almost certainly stronger if Yankees Hat did not have super strength. On the other hand, Yankees Hat had a glowing knife that made a pinprick feel like a gunshot wound. Each of us feinted at the other, neither willing to yet commit to a full-scale attack. Though it was bright out, the man’s bobbing and weaving knife left patterns of blue light in its wake, like a glow stick in a nightclub. It would have been pretty had it not been so terrifying. When the man drew closer to jab at me, I parried the thrusts with my hands and forearms, shooting low kicks at his legs, making him withdraw. I favored my right as my left side was still numb from where his other glowing blade had nicked me. Time slowed. I had been in knife fights before. If I had known I would get into one the streets of New York, I would have brought a knife. I had brought a gun instead. It was not the knife fight advantage one would think it would be. By the time I drew it, Yankees Hat would skewer me on his blue glowing blade.
The background noise of the street faded mostly away as I concentrated on my opponent. I was only faintly aware of the kids in the street shouting. It could have been because of the game they were playing, or because they had noticed me and Yankees Hat fighting. I did not know. I was too busy to pay attention to their cries. In my heightened state of concentration, the only things I really heard were the sounds of me and my opponent breathing and grunting. There definitely was not the sound of fingers snapping. There was far less finger-snapping in a real knife fight than there was in fictional ones. West Side Story had misled me. I wondered if I was a Shark or a Jet.
The breathing of my opponent soon grew loud and ragged. Mine was still free and easy. I clearly was in better shape than he was. I would make my move to disarm him soon. Too late. The man finally rushed me, committing to an all-out assault. I succeeded again in grabbing the wrist of his knife-wielding arm, but not before getting my right hand cut in the process. Pain rippled up my arm. My right hand went dead, but it was already clamped around the man’s wrist. I smashed my left forearm down on the man’s arm near where my right hand held him. Yankees Hat cried out, dropping the knife. I then shot my left forearm up and out. It collided with the man’s jaw, snapping his head back. The man fell back, pulling free of my deadened grasp. He staggered. Both knives were on the sidewalk slightly behind me. The man would have to get past me to get to them. He must have not felt up to it. He took one more look at me, turned tail, and ran. I guessed he had not come prepared with a third knife. Thank heaven for small mercies.
I glanced at my right hand. A bloody gash ran diagonally from slightly above my wrist to under my index finger. It bled like a stuck pig. The cut did not appear too deep, though. More troubling was the fact my fingers were curled into a claw. I could not straighten them. I hoped it was not a permanent. Something to worry about later. I took off in pursuit of the man.
It flashed through my mind to draw my gun. Normally I was a good enough shot to just wing and stop Yankees Hat and not kill him. But, my right hand was my primary gun hand. I was afraid to take the shot with my left hand. I might kill the guy. I had questions, he had answers, and dead men told no tales. Worse, I might miss and hit one of the neighborhood kids. It also occurred to me to use my powers to stop the man. There were water pipes under the street plus fire hydrants. But, why damage public property when good old-fashioned shoe leather would do as good of a job without the expensive cleanup afterward?
My feet pounded the sidewalk after the man. He kept glancing over his shoulder at me. I was slowed down a bit by my numb side. It, along with my right hand, tingled like it had been shot full of Novocain. The numb feeling threw off my running gait. Even so, I started closing the distance between me and the man. I did not work out as much as I did just so I would look good in my birthday suit. The fact Yankees Hat had to run with one hand holding up his baggy jeans probably helped a bit too. I would have laughed at him had I not been a combination of mad, worried about my numb body parts, and intent on catching this guy and finding out why he had attacked me.
Yankees Hat glanced over his shoulder at me again. His eyes widened in alarm when he saw how close I was to catching up to him. He abruptly turned left, disappearing down an alley. I slowed in caution as I approached the mouth of it. I was not interested in taking a shovel or a bat or a two-by-four to the head. I would love to say it was my Heroic training that made me cautious, but really it was my television viewing. I had seen too many Tom and Jerry episodes to fall for the smack to the head when you turn the corner trick.
I drew my gun with my left hand. It was like eating with a fork using your non-dominant hand: it felt strange, but it was doable. My powers told me Yankees Hat’s water signature was receding deeper into the alley and not lying in wait as I feared.
I turned into the alley, gun at the ready. The alley was shrouded in shadow thanks to the tall building on the left. A blue car was parked near the end of the alley. There was barely room for it with the trash bins and debris that lined the alley’s sides. Yankees Hat was running towards the car and was almost there. I ran towards Yankees Hat. The car’s engine roared to life. Someone was in the car, perhaps waiting for Yankees Hat. I did not want him to get away. There was no one else in the alley. No innocent bystanders. I skidded to a halt. I took careful aim. I fired my gun once, twice, three times, aiming a little low. I wanted to make sure my clumsier left hand did not hit anything vital. Yankees Hat cried out and staggered, but did not go down. Tough little bastard. He opened the car’s passenger door, throwing himself inside. The car was on the move before he was in all the way. The car hurtled forward, slamming the open door closed.
The car vroomed towards me. The driver was a shadowy figure behind the wheel. Even if I shot him, the car’s momentum would still smear me like a bug. No time to back out of the alley. I instead surged forward, towards the approaching car. I leaped on top of a metal trash can, bounding from there to the taller and bigger green and black dumpster. Thank God the plastic lids were closed. I tucked and rolled on top of the dumpster right as the car whizzed by. Its side smashed into the metal can I had been on an instant before. The collision sounded like an explosion in the enclosed space. Trash went flying. My nose filled with the smell of rot, gasoline, and burning rubber. The car swerved straight, rocketing towards the mouth of the alley.
I rolled on top of the dumpster. My forward momentum caused me to tumble off of it. I dropped towards the ground. I would like to think if my side and hand were not numb, I would have landed in true Heroic fashion: on my feet like a cat, raising my gun to calmly shoot out the back tires of the escaping car like a modern day Annie Oakley.
I would like to think that. That was not what happened. I landed not like an agile cat but like a sack of dropped potatoes, hard on my stomach on the cement alley surface. The air whooshed out of me. It felt like my brain rattled in my skull. I looked up in time to see the blue car roar out of the alley, turn left with a protesting squeal of tires, and disappear from view. The car was moving too fast and my mind was moving too slow for me to act on the bodies of the men in the car with my powers. I soon lost their water signatures in a sea of other bodies and the water that ran through the city’s pipes.
I dragged myself to my feet. My mouth was full. Not sour milk, I hoped. I spat. No, blood. Good. On second thought, when you were happy to be spitting out blood, you were perhaps not having the best of days. I still clutched my gun. I holstered it. A lesser Hero would surely have dropped it. Then again, a superior Hero would not have let the car get away. Overall, if I had to grade myself on my performance, I would give myself a C minus. A C minus performance was not the stuff of legends. I sighed. I immediately regretted it. My chest hurt.
I reached for my phone with my right hand, remembered that it was useless, and pulled it out of my pocket with my left instead. It had not cracked in my fall from t
he dumpster. My body felt slightly cracked though. Maybe I should have cocooned myself in whatever the phone was made of. I wedged it into the stiff fingers of my right hand, and tapped into a notepad app with my left hand the letters and numbers of the New York license plate on the car that had just zoomed away. Even in the middle of all the chaos I had gotten a glimpse of it and made a mental note of it. An old and useful habit. I wrote it down before I forgot it. I was blessed with hydrokinesis, not a photographic memory.
Who was that knife-wielding Meta? Who was his driver friend? Had the first Meta followed me to Kierra’s place, or had he had the place staked out? Why did he attack me? Was he somehow related to the teleporting Meta who had drained some of Chaos’ energy and later threatened the Singletons? Would my numb hand and side return to normal? I had a bunch of questions and no answers. Story of my life. I was almost used to it.
I twisted and turned a bit, seeing if anything on me was seriously hurt. Aside from a bleeding tongue, a bleeding and numb hand, a numb left torso, and feeling like I was a well-shaken martini, I seemed relatively okay. Aside from all that, how was the play Mrs. Lincoln? My numb hand and side were tingling more now, like sleeping body parts circulation was slowly being restored to. Maybe that was a good sign. Hope springs eternal. On the plus side, the wound from where I had shot myself in the ear had sufficiently healed days before that I no longer wore a bandage on it. Just once it would have been nice to stay injury-free for longer than a couple of days. I supposed I was in the wrong line of work for that to happen. Switching to accounting was looking better and better.
I slowly walked out of the alley and back towards where I had parked my car. I thought of my encounter with the bee-spitting Buzz in that Astor City alley. Long before that, before I had stopped drinking, I had once awaken in the rain, drunk, lying in an alley.
Superhero Detective Series (Book 4): Hunted Page 22
