‘You can help by playing soccer. By doing your homework. And by not bringing up the topic ever again.’
‘This is total bullsh—’
Ernest raises his index finger.
The protest stops.
‘I won’t put my family at risk,’ Ernest says. ‘Period. So your mom is wrong about one thing: it won’t be discussed further. And I won’t pass along this job to you.’
Fergus slumps back against the kitchen counter. The freezer kicks into a defrost cycle. For a long moment, its muffled buzz is the only noise in the room.
‘So it gets passed to Jupiter Blackshear?’
All eyes on Flynn now. Until Phoebe speaks up:
‘How’d you know?’
A look blurring the line between disbelief and disdain. ‘I don’t know. Because parents are idiots?’
‘Phone. Gone. One week,’ Ernest tells his daughter.
‘What? Why? Was that really a question?’ Flynn responds, pleading for a commuted sentence from her mediator mother. ‘We are talking about the same guy who “hid” his supersuit in the attic, yes?’ Flynn, too, uses air quotes.
‘Look, Councilman Blackshear is a good guy.’
‘Oh. Right. He’s the good politician,’ Flynn says. ‘What happened, you couldn’t find a lawyer?’
‘Stop. All right? We can discuss this later. Right now I’m late. Right now I have an appointment—’
A plastic crunch. Flynn flattens the water bottle between her hands. ‘We know, Dad. You have to go see Jupiter now.’
‘That’s right. We have to help protect our city,’ Ernest says. ‘Hey! We’re not done here, young lady. Where do you think you’re going?’
Flynn’s already beating a path up the stairs. Without turning around, she says, ‘My room. You can protect the city. But I have to help protect you.’
Twenty Five
Ernest opens the trunk of the Camry.
From a lonely corner of a massive movie theater parking lot, the superhero retrieves two garments from a thick, navy blue duffel. One for himself. One for his new partner, who exits the passenger side with a hand at his crotch, shaking about like he’s trying to get sand out of his pant leg.
Jupiter Blackshear squints an eye as he catches the shirt Ernest tosses. ‘I’ve gotta tell you: this part is a little disappointing.’
‘You were expecting a phone booth?’ Ernest asks. ‘A wardrobe rising up on a concrete slab? Not very practical.’
‘I expected not out of the trunk of a car.’
Ernest has backed the Camry into a small pocket of darkness toward the back of the lot. The spot is easily 100 yards from the theater entrance, and about 10 from the nearest street light. And at this time of night—it’s nearing 1AM—they’re unlikely to draw attention from a stray moviegoer trickling out of a late screening. Just beyond the theater is the outline of a newly constructed, three-level apartment complex. Amber porch lights from the complex’s top floors glow in the night.
Ernest peels off his t-shirt and shrugs into his supersuit top, a new garment that’s part of a two-piece ensemble. Once into the shirt, Ernest swings an arm over his chest, adjusting fit. ‘That’s why you try to change into the pants before leaving. Less time changing.’
Jupiter holds his top up for inspection. ‘Your daughter did a hell of a job.’
‘I’ll tell her. Definitely an improvement over what I designed.’
The thrill of suiting up is palpable. He actually hadn’t worn the old getup that Fergus discovered in, well, more years than he cares to admit. Ernest runs his hand along the new top. The carbon-fiber sewn into the arms and chest match the protection covering thighs and shins—light, and puncture resistant, if not bulletproof. Flynn didn’t just do a hell of a job. She created art.
Under the faint glow of sodium streetlights, Jupiter wiggles into his uniform. There’s a sharkskin quality that causes shirt and pant to move as though a single piece of fabric.
Ernest, meanwhile, fits a wireless earpiece into his right ear. A small mic extrudes from the earpiece, resting snug against his cheekbone. A transmitter the size of a credit card clips onto Ernest’s belt. He hands the box containing the other earpiece to his partner.
Before he accepts the package, Jupiter adjusts his own. Again.
‘Stop. You’re not that large.’
‘These aren’t exactly Wranglers.’ Jupiter grabs the communications device and clips things into place. When he tosses the small box back in the trunk, Jupiter continues rummaging, looking for one last gadget.
Ernest shakes his head ‘You’re gonna be on the ground. This is a shadowing exercise only, remember?’
‘Eh. You never know.’
‘Trust me. In fact, I don’t think you’ll need a grappling gun, like ever.’ Ernest tucks a small, octagon-shaped GPS device into his boot.
Jupiter clips in the grappling gun. ‘Says the guy who can jump fifty feet.’
‘Fair point.’ Ernest says, and closes the trunk.
---
‘So, you really have to know the city codes before you say that,’ Jupiter says.
The two men are headed for the back alleyway between the theater and apartment complex. A single light bolted to the theater’s upper corner provides illumination. An occasional rock or shard of glass crunches under black boots. Their footwear is what would happen if combat boots had offspring with Air Jordans. They serve as a reminder that both men are now properly equipped for the crime fighting ahead.
Not prepared, Ernest reminds himself, but simply equipped. As was the case with Ernest, becoming fully prepared will be a path Jupiter travels for many, many years.
‘The way the codes work,’ the new superhero says, ‘is that you need enough parking to meet peak demand. Not Tuesday at 11PM demand. So, to answer your question, that’s why the parking lots seem too big. Most days, they are.’
Ernest’s head is angled toward the apartments. Searching for a light on the third floor. ‘All these spaces? Just in case they fill up the day after Thanksgiving?’
‘Or December 26th. Look, dude, I’ve told you what they thought of my ideas.’
With that, Ernest leaps forward. Then up. He hoists himself over the rooftop ledge, stands, then dusts his hands.
Not bad for an old man.
Ernest peeks over the ledge, sees Jupiter jogging into the shadows, then signals: hold there. Keep an eye on the apartments.
From a crouch, Ernest retrieves the GPS from his boot. The positioning gadget confirms his ground observations: this is the place. Across the street, holed up on the top floor of the apartment, resides the subject of this training exercise. A small-time meth distributor. Someone called in an anonymous tip, and apparently, small-time has just taken delivery of a big-time shipment, and the SLPD hopes to apprehend the tweaker with a large enough stash to make ratting out his supplier a preferable option to doing a dime in Lansing.
Ernest looks for an access point. They could just knock, of course, but that would give the suspect plenty of time to flush evidence down the crapper. Bringing in a forensic team to sift through an apartment complex’s plumbing is a step taken only when the crime is murder.
Ernest squints into the gloom. He sees—
A sharp snap interrupts his concentration. It sounds like someone stepping on a tree branch. It nonetheless echoes in the artificial canyon between apartment and theater. Ernest quickly checks behind him for signs of a mugger with a gun. Or perhaps DeathStryke has escaped from his underground prison cell, grafted new weapons to his forearms, and has tracked him to the rooftop. But the coast is clear. The snapping sound is followed by a hiss, which in turn is followed by a lower-pitched whoosh of air. The final noise of the sequence is a grunt of effort from someone trying not to grunt with effort.
Ernest now turns back in the direction of the apartment complex, except now he scans only the edge of the roof. He sees a small puff of dust rising from the ledge, which is soon followed by a human body. When Jupiter tumbles up and
over the ledge, Ernest stares, letting his eyebrows ask the question: Didn’t I tell you to stay on the ground?
‘And besides,’ Jupiter says in a loud whisper, duck-walking toward Ernest, ‘what do you care? You in the asphalt business?’
‘Seems like a huge waste is all. And keep your voice down.’
Blackshear re-chambers the grappling gun, clips it back against his waist, and takes a position next to his mentor. ‘Job creation. All governments do shit like this so douchebags like Rowe have something to brag about at election time.’
Ernest consults the GPS again. ‘Look, I need you covering possible exits so—’
‘Yeah. I figured. I can see better up here. Plus, I just fired a grappling gun. Thing’s awesome.’ Jupiter winks and clicks his tongue. ‘So what’s the plan, boss?’
Ernest stands. Glances at Jupiter, who awaits an answer.
Ernest sprints toward the rooftop’s edge.
Twenty Six
The threadbare couch is the color of rust.
The figure laying on the couch startles at the commotion coming from the tiny balcony, then startles further when he sees a large shadow at the door.
Through the gauze of the thin curtains, and by the dim light of the cheap floor lamp beside the couch, Ernest sees that the prone figure can do little more than stare, wide-eyed with fear. However, the person on the couch can’t get up, or pick up a baseball bat, or open the door, or even shout at whoever just appeared at the apartment deck. That’s because the figure on the couch is bound and gagged, an orange strip of cloth is pulled tight across his face.
Ernest tries the handle of the sliding glass door. Locked. Even criminals fear break-ins. The figure on the couch – it looks like a man – tries to sit up.
Ernest reaches for the small glass cutter tucked into his boot—these come in much more handy than grappling guns, he thinks—but then reconsiders. Sliding doors are no match for superstrength. He grabs the edge of the outermost door and gives it a short yank. Up and out. The door pops loose from its track like a wisdom tooth extracted by a skilled dentist. Ernest gently places it against the other glass door, allowing just enough space to slip inside.
The carpeting inside is beige and contractor-grade; a perfect complement to the curtains. New things that look ready to be thrown away. The place smells of body odor and incense and microwaved pizza.
Directly in front of Ernest: the kitchen. To his left: a television. An infomercial featuring an exercise routine bathes the room in bluish light.
Ernest strides over to the bound male. A rather large male. Perhaps six foot four, but also hunger-strike skinny. Ernest holds a finger to his lips, then removes the man’s gag. The man stretches his jaw in obvious relief, his eyes still wide. Glassy. Ernest catches a glimpse of the man’s bottom teeth, brown and held in place by receding—no, make that receded—gums. Ernest makes a conscious effort not to breathe through his nose.
‘Thanks, man,’ the man says in a whisper. Despite his attempt not to inhale, Ernest catches too much of the man’s exhaust fumes.
Ernest also whispers. ‘What happened?’
‘Robbed. The Big Guy. Second bedroom.’
‘Armed?’
The man nods.
Damn, Ernest thinks. The arrest of small-time meth—supposedly just a shadowing exercise for Jupiter—has just become something much more complex. ‘Wait here.’
Ernest steps toward the glass door and glances toward the theater roof. He presses a finger behind his ear, opening a communication channel to Jupiter. ‘Hey. Situation’s changed. Hold position. Eyes and ears only.’
Ernest releases the tiny button and heads for the apartment hallway. Before he gets there, however, the man on the couch reaches for Ernest’s arm. His whisper is much louder than it should be. ‘Hey. Dude!’
Ernest turns, annoyed. What?
‘Nice suit, brother.’
Ernest shakes his head. Pads down the hallway, silent. It’s only a few steps to the second door of this apartment hallway, but this gives Ernest a moment to consider what’s he’s just left behind, stewing in a chemical haze on the living room couch.
As expected, a petty tweaker. Through and through. Probably late 20s, with a body and brain of someone in their late 60s, and only then if that someone had spent 20 years touring with Pink Floyd. Guy probably got started back when he was… a teen.
Jesus. What would he do if Fergus or Flynn were to get hooked? The heartache would be unbearable. I can lift farm machinery, Ernest muses, but I can’t fathom the strength required to deal with a child addicted to drugs. What would he do? How do parents deal with this? And what did this man’s parents do when they first discovered he was headed down this dark path?
Ernest hopes never to have to answer these questions.
When he arrives at the second bedroom, though, the only pressing question is what danger he’ll face once he opens the door.
Gunshots from nervous suspects tend to be fired at chest level, he’s learned early in his career, so Ernest crouches. He pushes open the door.
No gunfire. He pokes his head around the doorframe, squints in confusion, then stands and enters the room.
Two women, early 20s by the looks of things, lie side-by-side in bed, half-naked, and half-covered by a tangle of thin bed sheets. One on her stomach. The other on her back. They don’t react. Nor do they appear to be bound. Ernest locates the bedroom closet and slides the door open. Nothing. Almost literally. No Big Guy. Just a single backpack. And a lot of extra space for shoes.
Ernest turns to the women. He’s relieved to hear breathing. The two are clearly stoned, or tweaked, or whatever you call someone high on something you cook up in a basement. Unless they’ve OD’d—which looks possible—they’ve just passed out. Ernest approaches. He grabs the wrist of one, checking the pulse—first for a heartbeat, and second for a steady one. A heart rate that’s too rapid or slow can spell imminent trouble. He looks for signs of struggle—bruising, cuts, or broken fingernails. He sees the scar from a previous battle with other demons, but nothing that suggests violence that may have occurred tonight. Finally, he rolls the one lying face up to her side, and pulls the bed sheets over her shoulder.
There. At least if you puke, you won’t drown.
The Big Guy both he and Jupiter are ultimately seeking is surely long gone. Ernest needs to finish his sweep of the apartment and call paramedics. Each woman will need further examination by people with higher expertise. As Ernest has learned, to his great regret, just because he can’t see any evidence of violence doesn't always mean none has occurred.
Then Ernest remembers the other door in the hallway. The first bedroom door.
Stupid, drugged-out tweaker.
Just as quietly as he entered, Ernest exits.
When the door opens, though, he finds himself face to face with the tweaker from the rust-colored couch. The man’s mouth is open in a mixture of anticipation and delight.
Ernest looks up. The tweaker is a good two inches taller than he. Get out of my way, Ernest thinks, and wipe that grin off your face, or so help me: I’ll give you something to laugh about. He tries to whisper. It comes out more as a rasp. ‘I told you to wait out there!’
The tweaker’s teeth are in desperate need of sedation dentistry. ‘But from out there, I can’t see the look on your face.’
‘What? What look—’
The tweaker holds up a small canister for Ernest’s inspection. Ernest tilts his head sideways to read the label.
Suddenly, his eyes well up with tears.
This is actually a blessing, as the tears offer some small measure of relief. They’re his body’s natural, biological reaction, after all, to being engulfed in flame. Whatever imperviousness to pain he’s acquired, this tweaker has discovered a loophole—the soft tissue of his eyeballs and sinuses are still chock-full of working pain receptors.
In another small relief, Ernest realizes in the next instant that the fire is from a chemical burn. Otherwise,
there’s no further relief to be had. What remains is agony. Ernest feels like someone may as well have removed his eyeballs from his skull and dropped them into a fast-food fry station.
A maniacal screech: ‘That look!’
The tweaker keeps his finger on the can of pepper spray until liquid drips from his index finger. Until the fumes start to affect him as well.
What happens next, from Ernest’s perspective, is hard to say. What he senses is that the tweaker takes a step back, retrieving something that’s not a can of pepper spray. And when the thing that is not pepper spray is brought to bear on Ernest’s torso, Ernest has a pretty good notion that the thing is a baseball bat.
Ernest shields his face. If doing this for 20 years has taught him anything, it’s that most injuries—no matter how severe—will heal with time. Unless, that is, the severe injury is to the brain.
One, two, and then a third blow hits pay dirt. Fortunately, the impact of the blows is dissipated somewhat by the ribcage and spinal armor in Ernest’s supersuit. Fortunately, Ernest feels the impact more than the pain.
Ernest is on the move. The best way to escape further harm is just to escape. Without having to see, he knows which way is out. As he hurtles down the hallway toward the living room, he hears more maniacal screeching.
‘Probably should have mentioned… I’m the Big Guy.’
With tears and snot streaming down his face, Ernest feels his way past the couch and stumbles toward the balcony. He takes another blow to the shoulders and counts himself lucky. The tweaker was aiming for his head.
Ernest heads for a translucent white blob in his field of vision, confident that the white blob is the curtains on the sliding doors. He plans to exit the apartment the same way he came in.
He stumbles onto the balcony, just evading a final, wild swing from the baseball bat.
Ernest pitches over the balcony and falls.
Two stories below, he lands with a thud.
---
From his perch above, Jupiter surveys the commotion on the balcony with a cool detachment, as though he were a jaded critic watching an action scene inside the movie theater rather than atop it.
I, Superhero Page 14
