She’s someone’s daughter.
She’s someone’s friend.
Around her neck: a silver necklace. The charm attached is a jigsaw puzzle piece. Ernest would bet next month’s mortgage payment that somewhere in the world, there’s another person wearing a matching charm.
And she used to be a student in a high school, who may have sung in choir, or taken photography, or made the junior varsity basketball team. She was once a teen, just like the two currently living under Ernest’s roof.
Ernest glances back at his clipboard before the look becomes a stare.
He steals a peek at the other one. Darker hair. Sunken eyes. From the markings on the woman’s pale arms he first observed while she was passed out in Jack Rowe’s apartment, Ernest sees a someone who’s likely battled the supervillains of depression and drug addiction, each one feeding the other; each one taking turns playing the role of parasite and host. He’d rather face down Dr. Strang or The Night Monarch any day.
‘If you escape tonight, will you get help?’
The dirty blonde looks up. ‘What?’
The darker-haired one turns, studying Ernest for any hints of insincerity. Or danger.
‘Say the handcuffs weren’t secured properly.’ Ernest directs his question at this second woman. ‘If you walked out of here, would both you promise me you’d both check into a facility?’
‘Yes,’ she says.
Ernest tears off a chunk of the citizen’s arrest report and hands it to the woman on his right. The torn slip of paper contains two phone numbers: both inpatient facilities that accept patients regardless of insurance status. If there is a God above, then surely his work is being done by the people staffing facilities like these.
The blonde woman across from Ernest extends her handcuffs. Accepts the piece of paper. Ernest grabs her hands and gives the cuffs a flick with his thumb. The latch snaps. ‘I think these were improperly fastened.’
He repeats the procedure for the dark-haired woman. The woman’s wrist scars mark her suffering the way Hester Prynne’s clothing marked her adultery. She rubs at the place where handcuffs bit into flesh.
Both stand, but otherwise appear to be in no hurry, as though they’re awaiting someone to enter and reveal that this has all been a practical joke.
Ernest walks the pair to the door. He angles his front pocket at the black-red sensor next to the latch. The badge in his wallet unlocks the security mechanism, and the girls are free to leave.
‘I’ll follow up, you know.’ Ernest says.
‘You won’t have to,’ says the woman with the puzzle necklace.
---
Ernest makes sure both women reach the parking lot in one piece. He hands over two $20s for cab fare and perhaps a quick meal.
On his way back to the holding area, he pauses at reception. Pinned to a corkboard on a nearby wall are several announcements: cars for sale, apartments for rent, a charity walk for MS, and almost a half-dozen flyers for missing pets. Ernest grabs one for a cute terrier gone AWOL, folds it in quarters, and tucks it into his back pocket.
When Ernest opens the door to the holding room, Jupiter is already there, clipboard in hand, his arms spread like a basketball coach protesting a bad call. He’s peppering the intake clerk with several questions, but wheels around as Ernest arrives.
‘The hell, man?’ asks Blackshear. ‘Where are the hookers?’
Ernest takes a seat next to his paperwork. He glances at the broken handcuffs. ‘Hmm. Maybe there was a weak spot in the metal.’
Jupiter tucks his tongue into the corner of his bottom lip, incredulous. ‘I see… is that how it works? Because I thought we enforce the law. Thought we learned all this shit so we could help the police.’
‘Police enforce the law. We try to reduce the number of victims.’
Jupiter frowns. ‘You know what your problem is, dude?’
Ernest sighs. ‘It’s late, Jupiter. I want to get home to my family. So… yeah.’ With his pencil’s eraser, Ernest begins proofreading, touching each section of the form. These things are like tax returns; one missing piece of info can invalidate the whole thing.
Jupiter nods. ‘Right. It is late. Too late for you to strive for an ideal. But not for me.’
Ernest glances up. ‘Wonderful.’
‘I focus on perfection. Perfect is available. Drugs? Prostitution? Those crimes count in my book,’ Jupiter says. ‘And I have the power to stop them now. I have the power to help make St. Louis perfect for its citizens.’
Ernest slams the clipboard against his seat’s armrest.
And since clipboards tend not to take kindly to being slammed, even when the slamming party doesn’t possess superstrength, the bottom third helicopters through the air. ‘You want to do something for this city? Something citizens will celebrate?’
Ernest reaches into his back pocket. He unfolds the flyer for the missing dog and extends his arm. The JV crime fighter accepts without extending the courtesy of looking it over.
‘Figure out what happened to this dog. Because solving this case will make a big difference for someone. Doing that would make the city a better place.’
Jupiter arches an eyebrow. ‘You want me to track down a Boston Terrier?’
‘I’m a superhero, not a vet.’
‘Well, it’s a Boston Terrier,’ Jupiter says. ‘That’s what a Boston Terrier looks like.’
‘You still don’t see what’s staring you in the face.’
‘An ugly dog is staring me in the face.’
‘That flyer isn’t about a dog.’ Ernest thinks back to his conversation with the women. ‘Learn not just to look, Jupiter, but to see.’
So Jupiter looks. Briefly. ‘Yeah. Missing dog. Got it.’
‘Wrong. Look at the handwriting,’ Ernest says. ‘That flyer is about a kid. A kid who misses their pet.’
Ernest stoops and picks up a chunk of broken clipboard. He takes both clipboard and paperwork to the desk, placing the pile in a clear sliding drawer. ‘Millie, I’m really sorry about the clipboard. I’ll buy five more to replace it.’
‘Her name is Millie?’ Jupiter asks.
‘Yes,’ Ernest says when he turns around. ‘Now, are you taking that case?’
Finally, Jupiter looks down, seeing the missing dog flyer for the first time. He studies it for several seconds. Then crumples it.
‘Worthless little dogs,’ Jupiter says, walking toward the holding room exit. ‘I’d rather find a missing squirrel.’
Twenty Eight
Fergus sits on his hands, trying to warm them.
For the past several hours, he’s been searching and scrolling—page upon page about the Boston Terrier’s habits, about breeders in the area, and about shelters that take in stray dogs. Now, while waiting for the latest pictures to emerge from the printer, he notices how damn cold his hands are. The capillaries in his fingers have emptied, apparently, and a few minutes pinned between thigh and chair is just the remedy.
Fergus swivels and studies the crinkled piece of paper he retrieved from the Smith kitchen table a few days before. Had Dad brought this home as an insult? To mock him for wanting to be a detective?
Was it to challenge him? Was this his father’s version of a test? Some rite of passage? Solve this crime without aid, without prompting, and then, just possibly, Fergus will be handed the keys to the crime-fighting kingdom?
Or was it just some scrap of trash Dad forgot to throw away?
Doesn’t matter anymore. Fergus took the notice to his own personal Batcave, turned on his computer, and rolled up his sleeves. Once he started chewing on the case of Patches and the Missing Boston Terrier, Fergus discovered he liked the taste. Whether test or insult or oversight, Fergus is now determined to return a missing dog to a grateful family.
His hands are now warmer, and the printout is finished, so Fergus gets up. On one of the few remaining plots of corkboard, he attaches the new pic.
As pin crunches into cork, a knock sounds at the door.
Isn’t it odd, Fergus muses, how you can know who’s on the other side of a door just by the resonance of the knock? ‘Go away.’
Flynn Smith opens the door and enters the room.
‘If I invited you in, would you scram?’ Fergus asks.
‘Get over yourself, dickwad.’ Flynn walks over to the corkboard. The pictures, the missing dog flyer, the map of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, the printer is churning out yet another picture of yet another Boston Terrier with flashy markings.
Flynn intercepts the print job. Looks it over. Frowns. The dog is adorable: sad, expressive eyes on a face that looks like it belongs to an animal that would chase squirrels all day if only in an attempt to find a playmate.
‘Meticulous,’ Flynn says. ‘But what on God’s earth is all that other—’
‘Information. I’m sorting through clues. Stuff you wouldn’t understand because it’s not in a comic book.’
‘Says the dork at his bat-computer.’
Fergus turns, wishing he had laser beam eyesight. He swears he wouldn’t injure her permanently.
Flynn ignores his expression and examines the printout more carefully. She takes a step closer to the cork board, looking from map, to flyer, and back to map again.
‘This is the dog you’re looking for?’
‘Yes. A Boston Terrier. And also a dog named Patches. If I find Patches, I’ll crack the case.’
‘How do you know its name is Patches?’ Flynn asks.
‘Because, idiot sister, I’m investigating the crime. And because unlike you, I tend to do my homework.’
‘I’ve seen your grades. I wouldn’t brag about that.’
‘And because I visited the park. And because I talked to people about the last time they noticed the Boston Terrier. And because Mrs. Ramos says she saw him at the little park playing with another dog. And that dog’s name was Patches. So that’s why I’m looking for a dog named Patches.’ The pride Fergus has taken in doing all this legwork all but oozes from his pores. ‘Now, don’t you have a comic convention to be getting ready for or something?’
Flynn ignores the jab. ‘Patches. Kind of a weird name.’
‘Yes. Well, actually Ms. Ramos said she saw the missing Boston Terrier “playing with Patchy.”’ Fergus sighs. ‘But I was able to deduce that Patchy meant Patches. She’s got a pretty thick accent. Anyway, now it’s just a question of tracking down Patches and its owner. I find the owner, I find the missing terrier.’
Flynn tilts her head at the corkboard again. Her head matches the angle of the dog’s in the flyer. A smile creeps up one side of her face. ‘A dog. Named Patches.’
‘Yes. What? You look like Dad when you do that stupid sideways smile.’
Stupid or no, Flynn leaves the smile right where it is.
’I know what you’re thinking, dumbass,’ Fergus says. ‘And I haven’t ruled out that Patches could be a cat. Yes. Cats have patches. Yes, they are given names because of how they look. But cats and dogs typically don’t play together at the park. So my hypothesis is that Patches is a dog, and moreover a dog with flashy white markings, likely a boxer, or some Jack Russell terrier. I’m cross referencing with intakes at the local shelters—’
‘God, you watch too much TV, Fergus.’ Flynn lets out a small chuckle. ‘Patches isn’t a dog. Or a cat.’
‘I see. What is it then, inspector? A ferret?’
The sideways grin still hasn’t terminated its lease. ‘A girl.’
‘A… what?’ Fergus sits back in his chair, regarding his sister with a look that’s a mix of horror and pity, as though she had just suggested that Patches was a secret plot hatched by the Illuminati. ‘A girl with the name of a terrier? You’re literally the dumbest person I know.’
‘Mrs. Ramos. The old lady from Brazil. Lives in this house, yes?’ Flynn places her index finger on the map.
‘Yeah. Speaks Spanish. Didn’t I just say that?’
‘You did. Which is how I know it’s a girl. A girl named Patricia, a name Mrs. Ramos can’t pronounce through her thick Portuguese accent.’ Flynn crosses her arms. ‘Dickwad.’
Fergus thinks this over. ‘Whatever,’ he says, but it’s too late. A sideways frown has already signed lease papers and it making itself at home. Fergus turns back to the not-bat-computer and squints at a few more images of dogs.
‘Because I’m smarter,’ Flynn says, setting the printout in her hand on Fergus’s desk. ‘That’s the answer to the question you’re trying not to ask right now.’
Fergus considers how best to respond. ‘I hate you.’
Twenty Nine
Phoebe finishes up her business, the stone tile cool under her bare feet.
When the toilet flushes, Ernest hears the roar and gurgle of water being rushed along, rapidly as one’s fate. His focus is diverted. On Ryland’s advice, he’s reading Of Mice and Men for the second time (the first time was during his junior year of high school). He’s enjoying it even more this time.
He splays the book on the bedside table, then heads through the open portal separating master bed and bath. He takes up a position at the right-hand sink. Loads his toothbrush. Under the left faucet, Phoebe splashes water on her hands and then shakes off the excess before reaching for a hand towel. If Ernest notices the cylindrical item Phoebe has placed next to the sink, he shows no sign.
‘So? Things getting any better with the superhero-in-training?’
Ernest slows his brushing. He arches his eyebrows and nods, trying to signal that everything is going as good as can be expected. He then stares at the mirror, working his molars.
‘Told you so.’ Phoebe palms the cylinder and heads toward the bedroom.
Ernest stops brushing. Turns. Through a mouthful of toothpaste foam: ‘Ow? Eyee yiyn’t uvoen—’
Phoebe holds up a hand. Points toward the sink.
Ernest spits. ‘I didn’t even say—’
He’s met with another raised palm. ‘You can’t even lie with your mouth shut, dummy. That’s why I love you.’
‘It’s going fine. He’s young. I’m not. You forget—well, I forgot, I should say—what it’s like to take your powers out for a first spin.’
‘Which is how?’
‘I don’t know. It’s like getting your driver’s license, I guess. Or getting your driver’s license the same day you win the lottery.’ Ernest slurps a mouthful of water. Spits. ‘I mean, all this possibility. There’s a temptation to go out and, I don’t know, buy a Ferrari. But eventually you figure out that a Ferrari is just a car, and you have to drive the speed limit same as anyone else. I guess.’
Phoebe slides into bed, sitting against the headboard Indian style. She grabs her reading glasses off the stack of legal pleadings on the nightstand. ‘Are you justifying this to yourself, or to me?’
Ernest gestures to Phoebe with the toothbrush. ‘The last six weeks have gone well. No outbursts. No beating suspects. He’ll mellow. Is mellowing.’
‘You and Ryland hope.’
‘Maybe. He can be a little…’
‘Want me to finish that sentence?’ she asks over the top of her glasses.
---
The tires of Jupiter Blackshear’s black Mercedes E-class sedan crunch through the gravel topdressing that’s been left to settle in fine cracks and crevices of a newly paved street. He checks his phone’s map application. The blue pulsing dot is now adjacent to the red pin on the map.
Jupiter exits the sedan and stretches.
He surveys a landscape that reminds him of some great archeological dig from the CGI dinosaur movies of his youth. All this digging, however, eventually unearths skeletons made from wood and brick and glass, rather than the bones of ancient beasts. But that’s why they call these multi-acre tracts housing developments. They are, after all, still works in progress, much like Jupiter Blackshear’s superhero career.
He retrieves a smallish, olive-green box from the trunk of the Mercedes and tucks it under his left arm, heading for one of the houses in p
rogress. He passes larger boxes on the way: crates full of windows, electrical wiring, ceiling fans, bathroom fixtures, and the like, all protected by yard after yard of industrial-strength bubble wrap.
More gravel crunches underfoot. At this very second, while others are no doubt considering Jupiter’s recent job performance, he’s considering the last-minute details of a plan he’s spent the past month putting in place.
Jupiter mentally kicks himself. The current task in his master plan is a layman’s job: he needs to drill holes in thick beams of wood. He remembered his supersuit as he packed for tonight, but forgot to throw his cordless drill in the trunk. Damn. Jupiter looks around. Maybe one of the electrical contractors has left one lying in one of the crates of wiring, just underneath the bubble wrap. He then considers the right arm swinging free at his side. Oh, yeah. This’ll do just fine.
After circling around to the backyard, molding his right arm into a drill bit, and boring several holes into support beams of three structures, Jupiter opens the smallish box and finishes the tasks at hand. Once done, he walks back to his Mercedes and clicks a button on his key fob. The Bavarian trunk swings open with the precision of a Swiss watch. Jupiter tosses the dark green container inside, now empty of its contents. He clicks the fob again. The trunk closes as though it were nodding its approval.
Jupiter leans against his car, inspecting his manicure.
All that’s left now is the waiting.
---
‘Severe.’ Phoebe says after her husband tries in vain to choose the right word. ‘The man is severe.’
Ernest frowns, considering the adjective. He deposits the toothbrush back into its cup holder. ‘Petty. That’s the word I was about to use.’
‘For example?’
While retrieving a package of nearby dental picks, he relates the story of Jack Rowe’s arrest, interrogation, and Jupiter’s anger over letting the two women go. ‘The women I let go about a month ago. Turns out they’re both waitresses. Trying to save money to take classes at the vo-tech. They just fell in with a guy offering free rent. And meth.’ Ernest inspects the pick. ‘But it’s not a crime to be poor.’
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