Ernest’s voice is gentle. ‘I would never wear Ed Hardy.’
‘Besides,’ she adds, smiling, ‘You’ve put all the villains in jail.’
‘I know.’ Ernest says, hearing more bleakness in his voice than he’d dare admit.
At last, his wife returns his greeting kiss, lingering deliciously on his bottom lip. Despite the fact that his bride of 18 years has just left him with a small stab wound, he kisses her back. Foreplay can take on so many agreeable forms.
‘Lower that to a simmer and set a timer for 15 minutes,’ she says, indicating the pot of rice. Ernest then watches Phoebe disappear up the stairs, enjoying the sway of her hips, the gears in the undamaged parts of his brain furiously spinning.
You’ve put all the villains in jail.
She meant well when she said it.
Almost everyone does, Ernest thinks, no matter how badly things unfold.
Ten
A Saturday afternoon just after 3pm, and Ernest is running behind. Again.
He was supposed to be at the orchestra concert ten minutes ago to watch his kid perform. Instead, he all but power slides the Camry into a Benjamin Franklin High School parking stall, then sprints toward the front entry. Ernest bursts through heavy green doors while the orchestra is finishing Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor, panting as he grabs a program from the female attendant. The girl smiles through a mouthful of braces. She’s wearing a black dress, and Ernest immediately regrets arriving in a pair of faded jeans. He heads for the auditorium doorway, but is stopped. The attendant points out the space between the first and second pieces in the program. It’s a signal: hold up, old crank: you can’t just barge in mid-performance.
Ernest obeys. Once the attendant signals it’s safe to proceed, Ernest gently opens the auditorium door and slips into an aisle seat about four rows from the back, hoping that darkness supplies adequate cover. From here, he has a good view of the stage, and especially of his daughter.
Flynn Elizabeth Smith is most certainly a genetic combination of him and Phoebe—a human-shaped bundle of DNA that’s been growing and eating peanut butter sandwiches and drinking banana milkshakes for the past 16 years. However, while half of Ernest’s chromosomes were used to decide Flynn’s genetic fate, he figures his were the recessive ones. To the naked eye, Flynn is 90 percent Phoebe, 10 percent Ernest.
Lucky her, Ernest thinks while listening to the first bars of Lacrimosa. Those genetic orders, to this point, have instructed her to be 5 feet 5 inches tall, and 110 pounds of wiry, densely-packed muscle. Flynn doesn’t have shoulders, Phoebe remarked once when Flynn was 12. The kid has freaking deltoids. Ernest only wishes Flynn weren’t caught in an athletic no-man’s land in terms of height: a few inches shorter, and she might be an Olympic-caliber gymnast. A couple taller, and she’d be fielding volleyball scholarship offers all over the Midwest—from Norman, Oklahoma to Normal, Illinois.
Not that she’d accept either opportunity. She’ll hit the gym on occasion, and is more than capable with a kickboxing routine, but the child is positively averse to games involving running, or balls, or sticks. She does like to read, which is good. Likes to read as in, she devours books. Lots of non-fiction. True crime stuff. And especially those damn comics. It’s a wonder Ernest is even here, and that the child is as talented as she’s become on the violin. Keeping her interested has been a struggle, however, of near-Annihilator proportions. In what may be Phoebe’s greatest mediating work to date, Flynn has stuck with violin lessons only by extracting a quid pro quo. Flynn keeps up with her violin, her parents keep up on subscriptions for the following: The Punisher, Sandman, Daytripper, anything written by Alan Moore, anything illustrated by Todd MacFarlane, and anything featuring the word Arkham in the title. Alas, that bargain is set to expire the start of senior year.
So it’s important for Ernest to be here—that Flynn sees her parents throwing full support behind any remaining violin ambitions. And because Phoebe is out of town handling a delicate intellectual property mediation in Austin, Texas, it’s all the more vital he attend.
Ernest sits up. Flynn’s short dark hair bounces as she turns to the audience. She spots her father, who waves hello. Flynn acknowledges by trying to withdraw her head between her shoulders. Phoebe had tried to warn him: to be 16, and spotted by friends expressing any kindness toward a parent, is a fate worse than death.
As it turns out, fate has other plans anyway.
---
The Symphonic Orchestra is just about to start their third piece in this Mozart Showcase—Symphony Number 35. The orchestra teacher—no more than a kid himself in Ernest’s estimation, beard notwithstanding—raises his arms. Utter silence descends. Bows hover over strings of cellos and violas. Hands silence any vibration from percussion instruments. Lips pinch at the ready over flutes, and settle around oboe reeds.
Ernest’s cell phone rings.
Or not rings, per se. It’s the drop from Get Low, by Dillon Francis and DJ Snake. The one made (more) popular by its inclusion in a commercial for a taco chain where an elderly woman lifts up her sweater, much to the delight of her elderly husband.
The ringtone echoes throughout the auditorium’s ideal acoustics.
Fergus! Ernest almost shouts. Thinks it’s sooo damn funny to mess with my phone. Why can’t it just be legal to give your kid a beating when he so often invites one?
The conductor reacts the way a professional golfer does when someone farts during a backswing. As best Ernest can tell, every single head turns in his direction. Flynn, meanwhile, lowers her violin. She recognizes the handiwork as belonging to her brother, and knows at once what hapless parent is in the back, fumbling with his phone.
She shoots Ernest a look of pure, liquid death.
Ernest dismisses the call in middle of the second stanza, if it can even be called that. He then nods to, well, the entire auditorium, and tries to disappear into the seat cushions.
The orchestra conductor holds a finger to his lips to quiet the Symphonic. He then—
The phone chimes again.
God! Damn! Phone! Ernest had dismissed the call, but forgot to silence it. He fumbles in his pocket and presses every available button. To add insult to injury, Ernest hears words ‘Old people. So, sooo stupid!’ escape the mouth of a 10-year-old girl sitting two rows down.
Mercifully, the conductor waves his baton and proceeds. The first few bars refocus everyone’s attention.
Who the hell could have just called? Ernest wonders. Phoebe should be on a plane, and even then knows better than to call right now. Of course, it wouldn’t be Fergus. Fergus is in Combined Orchestra himself. Ernest fishes out the phone and steals a glance before catching himself. The glow. From the screen. He’s tested the patience of these concertgoers enough. Ernest quickly scans the crowd, and is relieved to see only the backs of heads.
With one exception.
The 10-year old girl from two rows down. Cute girl. Pigtails. Freckles. Cute, yet throwing Ernest some serious stink eye, and then drawing a finger across her throat: you’ve just made my potty list, old man. So yeah. Cute like a birdeater spider.
But it’s too late now anyway. Ernest has seen the message, and immediately his stomach dropped. The sickening wave passing through Ernest has nothing to do with the embarrassment of the last minute or so, or the stink eye from the girl, but rather because of the six dangerous letters the message contained. Ernest also knows that in about five seconds, birdeater spider girl is going to be even angrier than she is now.
Because he’s about to stand up and return that phone call.
Her safety, and the safety of everyone else in the auditorium, might depend on it. Because the call came from Ryland Washington. And the police chief followed it up with a one-word text:
STRANG.
Eleven
Ernest shoves the phone back in his pocket.
As quickly as his legs will carry him (short of a superpowered leap), he exits the theater. Ernest clanks down the steel latch of the audi
torium door. He knows Flynn likely noticed. He knows birdeater spider girl likely aimed a fresh scowl his way. He doesn’t care.
Once outside, he hits a button on his smartphone and presses it to his ear.
On the first ring, Ryland picks up. ‘He escaped.’
‘When?’
‘This morning.’ Ernest hears the crackle of a female voice over a police radio in the background. Which means Ryland is already mobile. Unusual. And unnecessary. There’s really nothing Washington can do from his vehicle. He needs to be in his office, exerting command and control of the search. One more car on the road between here and the penitentiary in Marion, Illinois, where Dr. Thaddeus Strang has spent the majority of his last nine years, isn’t going to make any difference. ‘We’re trying to bring him in before the news channels get wind of it,’ Ryland adds.
‘And? You want me at the prison? Isn’t that horse already out of—’
‘No. I want you to get to a school. I’m already headed that way.’
Ernest’s eyebrows crease. ‘Wait. What school? And why?’
He listens, and the color drains from his face. The sickening feeling in Ernest’s stomach is compounded by a cold sweat on his brow. Ryland Washington is headed for a school because of a bomb threat, one planned during a performance of kids playing Mozart for their parents.
‘That’s your kids’ school, yes?’
Ernest turns toward the auditorium, listening to the crackle of static in his ear. He sees hundreds of cars in the parking lot. Three buses lined up against the sidewalk, waiting.
‘Smith? Are you anywhere in the vicinity?’
Ernest wipes a palm over his face. It comes away covered in a thin film of moisture. ‘Yeah. I’m pretty close.’
---
Ernest bursts in through the auditorium doors.
‘Out! Everyone out! NOW!’ He doesn’t use his inside voice.
The sound from the Symphonic is similar to the bagpipes at the end of Scotland the Brave. The orchestra conductor wheels around, wearing a look of confusion. The audience grumbles. The 10-year-old in pigtails looks as though she longs for a butcher knife.
But Ernest’s shout has produced the desired effect. More or less. He now has the floor. ‘There’s no need to panic, but…’ Ernest swallows, momentarily unsure about how to deliver the news which should cause any rational person to do exactly that. The direct approach will have to do, he supposes. ‘There’s been a bomb threat. You need to evacuate. Parents, just get to your cars. Do not try to find your kids. Kids, just get to the buses!’
Every single human in the theater looks to those nearest to them. Is this a drill? Should we really leave? Or is the person shouting some lunatic who just finished their 900-page manifesto about the End Times? This is one instance, Ernest thinks, when the full getup might’ve come in handy. A guy in jeans shouting from the back of a theater is just that. But a guy in a red and blue spandex, cape flapping about? That guy might be worth listening to.
On stage, the person nearest to Flynn Smith is a fellow violinist named Victoria, and she lowers her violin while squinting up toward the top row.
She nudges Flynn. ‘Is that your dad?!’
Flynn answer follows a noise that’s equal parts groan and throat clearing. ‘Unfortunately.’
---
Outside the auditorium once again, Ernest spies a silver Ford Taurus just pulling up. To his dismay, it leads a small phalanx of police cruisers, which means that the bomb threat is probably very credible indeed. The driver of the Taurus steps out, his straight black hair scarcely sticking above the door frame.
Ryland Washington then approaches, pointing at the police cruisers and then at the children; a man in a tremendous hurry, but never rushing.
‘Find anything?’ he asks Ernest when he arrives.
‘No,’ Ernest answers, scanning the parking lot, then the school, then the trees lining the drive leading up to the school grounds. With Strang, you never know. ‘Those kids—’
‘To the buses. Then away.’ Of course the evacuation is proceeding apace, Ernest sees. The man can give orders without uttering a word.
Ryland nods, then looks around. ‘This is one school?’
‘Uh, no. Us and a visiting orchestra from Lincoln. Why?’
At this, the St. Louis police chief raises his eyebrows. ‘Lincoln Academy? That explains all the Mercedes in the parking lot.’
Ryland scans the mass of students again. Ernest notices a shadow fall across Ryland’s eyes. His boss looks from the students to the cluster of parents headed for luxury sedans. He’s puzzling on something, and Ernest can tell Ryland doesn’t like how the puzzle shapes up.
Then Ernest sees it, too: the suits.
This isn’t about the kids. It’s about their parents.
‘I don’t think there’s a bomb in the school,’ says Washington.
‘There’s no bomb, period.’ Ernest says, and feels yet another wave of nausea because of two additional realizations, both crashing into him simultaneously: first, he’s badly underestimated Strang’s capacity for revenge. And second, a bomb isn’t Strang’s weapon.
The kids are.
Ernest springs away. Ryland reaches for the walkie-talkie attached at his hip, watching Ernest dash for the three buses, each now loaded with the children of fabulously wealthy parents, a few of whom are wealthy health insurance executives.
Twelve
Three yellow school buses, parked side-by-side in the faculty parking lot.
Ernest leaps, mid-sprint, aiming for the back of the rightmost transport. He risks being seen, of course, but anonymity will have to take a backseat to the rescue. Besides, with most of the kids headed in one direction, most of the parents headed in another, police cars descending on the parking lot, and cops fanning out across the school grounds looking for a bomb, no one’s exactly on the lookout for a dad who might be performing some superheroic feat such as leaping 40 yards toward the back of a school bus. Ernest peels away a small strip of pavement as he lands, like a bandage being ripped from skin. Moving quickly, he hops up on the bumper’s corrugated ledge. The rear door, situated in the center of the bus frame, is aptly labeled: Emergency Exit. As long as the door is open, passengers from either side can head down the aisle and leap to safety.
Ernest rips the door open, snapping the handle off in his haste. When he shouts down the aisle of bus number one, he hopes he can also be heard on buses two and three.
‘Change of plans, kids. Off the buses!’
As they were in the auditorium, all eyes are fixed on him. ‘Dad?!’ asks a voice from just beneath one of those sets of eyes. ‘Jesus Christ! What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘Flynn. Move, now! It’s not safe.’ Ernest turns to shout in the direction of the other buses. ‘Everyone, OUT!’ Thankfully, four uniformed officers have arrived and are lending a hand, opening the emergency exits on the other vehicles. Also thankfully, the vehicles manage to empty faster than they filled.
While the last of the students on Flynn’s bus hops down, Ernest takes a quick peek under the chassis, just to make sure. As he figured, nothing. He climbs back on the wide bumper to make sure everyone has been evacuated.
One figure remains. From behind, Ernest sees an older, frail-looking man hunched over the steering wheel. He wears a burnt-orange, button-down short sleeve shirt, and khaki pants. Long wisps of grey hair reach almost down to his shoulders.
‘Hey! You too, old timer,’ Ernest says.
The driver remains hunched over the wheel, offering no response. Is he taking a nap? Then, a darker question pops into Ernest’s mind: Is he alive?
Ernest swings through the bus’s rear doorway and takes a few steps down the aisle. To his relief, Ernest can now see movement—a slight heave of the man’s ribcage. At least he’s not dead. So is he just hard of hearing? Then he sees it:
‘Hey! Pal! Take your headphones off!’ Ernest shouts.
Damn headphones! Is that even allowed? Can bus drivers wear head
phones in the first place? Ernest is quite used to having his instructions ignored, just not from people who aren’t his offspring.
‘Sir! I said take those—’
Ernest stops in his tracks.
Slowly, Dr. Thaddeus Strang turns. The years in prison have not treated him kindly. Or maybe men just age poorly between the years of 50 and 60. Hair that was once thick and black has now grown out, yet thinned. The grey that once accented his temples has now taken over his entire scalp. He looks gaunt, the cheekbones prominent, the skin between cheek and jowl furrowed with deep lines. Strang removes his headphones and tucks them into his shirt. Even at this distance, Ernest can hear something classical and bombastic from the tiny speakers.
‘You know,’ Strang says through teeth that also seem to have had it hard these last 10 years, ‘I was going to drive them up to the Eads Bridge. Longest bridge in the world. Or was. In 1874.’
‘Yes. I know it,’ Ernest says, realizing something. He’s hardly proud of this, but the moment of seeing his old enemy face-to-face gives him a sudden jolt. It’s the thrill of feeling blood coursing through the veins, the electric thrill of being alive in the presence of death, a tingling that momentarily chases away the dread.
‘So beautiful. A gift,’ Strang says. ‘People don’t appreciate the legacy of James Eads and all he contributed to St. Louis because his bridge ended up in the shadow of that stupid arch.’
‘The arch you tried to eradicate. With the black hole.’
‘Except that’s not even… never mind.’ As Strang’s voice trails off, his face looks wistful. ‘Anyway. I was going to drive out over that bridge. And then, take a left.’ He pantomimes a steering wheel in the air. ‘My gift. For the entire city. The next generation of white-collar thieves and murderers and con men. Off the streets, once and for all.’
Strang’s gaze settles on Ernest. The doctor gives him a deranged smile. Ernest takes another step forward, jaw clenched. ‘You said a man would kill to protect his family. You were right.’
I, Superhero Page 5
