Phoebe’s lips flap as she huffs. ‘You’re obviously not Republican.’
‘Nice. I see what you did there.’
Phoebe gives him a smile. She pushes the readers atop her head and studies Ernest with a faraway look. ‘You know who Jupiter was, don’t you?’
Ernest finally notices the little plastic thingie in Phoebe’s lap, the one that doesn’t resemble a dental pick. Her question, however, prevents that particular thought train from gaining much steam. ‘Was? What do you mean, who Jupiter was?’
‘The Roman god. The god of Law and Order.’
‘I… no. You’re saying it means something?’
‘I’m saying maybe it means nothing. But maybe something. I mean Jupiter is a strange name—’
‘Well, he’s not Roman. He grew up in Omaha, as a matter of fact.’
‘Vile place.’
‘Awful. Most boring place on earth.’ Ernest shrugs. ‘And?’
‘And now he wields the power of a god. One who can enforce whatever laws he wants. Or make his own.’
‘And… so I should be scared?’ Ernest slides the dental pick around his eyeteeth.
Phoebe is the one who shrugs this time.
‘Because I’m not. Believe me, I’ve handled a lot worse than Jupiter Blackshear.’ The spaces between Ernest’s teeth have been duly cleared of plaque. A superhero with gingivitis is not one the world is ready for. ‘He’s trying. I mean, if I can handle the two humans living down the hall, I can handle one who’s wound a bit tightly.’
Ernest flips the used floss pick toward the bathroom trashcan. Misses. He retrieves it from the ground, corrects his error. ‘And you’re not doing your job here, by the way. You’re supposed to say that it’s all going to work out, eventually.’
‘OK.’ Phoebe transfers her reading glasses from head to eyes. Stares at the thing in her lap more intently. ‘It’ll all work out, eventually.’
‘By the way, what is that thingie?’ Ernest asks. ‘You have a fever or something?’
Phoebe removes her glasses. ‘It’ll all work out.’ She takes a deep breath, concentrating on the small white wand of plastic in her hands. ‘Eventually.’
Thirty
Blackshear concentrates on a small white wand of plastic.
Or at least it’s mostly plastic, Jupiter thinks. The other parts of it are made from copper wiring and a small LED screen. All things considered, Jupiter expected the thing he’s holding to feel a little more substantial. He expected it to be heavier at the least, possessing the heft associated with an expensive watch.
Jupiter gives the white plastic object another turn. He sees a blue indicator light next to the word “ARMED.” The letters are capitals. At least that part is substantial.
The newly minted superhero slips the wand into his coat pocket and retrieves another device with an LCD display, although this display covers the entire side of said device. Jupiter slides his thumb across its surface. He selects a number from his favorites. While he’s waiting for the person to pick up, Jupiter opens the rear driver’s side door of his sedan and wiggles out of his leather oxfords. Small chunks of gravel are now embedded in the leather soles, and he taps one against the doorjamb. Come on. Pick up, he thinks.
Just as the phone is about to roll to voicemail, the man picks up.
‘Hey. It’s Jupiter. It’s time. Suit up.’
He clicks the “End Call” button, not waiting for a response.
---
Phoebe looks down as though double-checking. But she’s already double- and then triple-checked, with and without her glasses. She rests the glasses on her forehead, then offers the device for Ernest’s inspection.
Her husband reads the small blue letters on the white wand, the letters that will change his life once again. Most of the color promptly drains from his face.
‘You asked if I was scared. But I thought you were asking…’ he leaves the rest of the sentence unsaid, and in truth, doesn’t know what else to say.
He’s scared. He’ll soon be the proud father of a kid in college, one in high school, and one in… diapers. At the same time, he’s elated and breathless, and just a bit mystified. He wonders how the hell his sperm managed to defeat Phoebe’s IUD. The OB-GYN had told them those things were like ninety-nine percent effective. He’d think up a joke if he thought he had the courage to laugh.
Perhaps above all else, he knows how much work he’s facing over the next 18 years, coming at a time when both he and Phoebe had just decided to cut back.
He holds his wife’s eyes with his soft brown ones. Phoebe’s are shiny with tears, although whether they’re tears of joy or sadness or fear, Ernest can’t say. Phoebe opens her mouth to say something that will hopefully help Ernest react with something more appropriate than stunned silence.
His phone rings.
Phoebe startles, the reading glasses slip. Compared to Ernest, however, her reaction is mild. The vibration against Ernest’s thigh may as well have come from a cattle prod. He spasms, then jams his hand into his gym shorts to silence the ringing phone. The goddamn ringing phone.
Ernest glances at the screen. It contains the name of the person he least wanted to hear from. Husband and wife exchange a look of concern.
‘I gotta take this.’
‘No, you don’t. You want to take it.’
Fine. You win. And I’m answering it anyway. Ernest holds phone to ear. ‘Yeah?’
Ernest listens, nods at the instructions given. He watches Phoebe’s expression change from one of concern to one of anger. She’s right, Ernest thinks. He can’t lie to her, even with his mouth closed. And she’s well aware what he’s about to do.
The call ends. Ernest carefully inserts the phone back into pocket. He looks at his wife, his face pleading. ‘I’ll call.’
‘No, you won’t.’
‘He needs help.’
‘Not from you.’
Ernest looks at the phone. The call has already ended. He addresses his wife, fumbling around for the right words. Phoebe's stare carves a hole in her husband, a preemptive strike for risking his life yet again, especially in the wake of the recent news delivered by a white plastic wand.
‘Look: I’m sorry. And happy. And scared.’ Ernest takes a deep breath. ‘This… thing. It’s bigger than us. If Jupiter’s hunch is right, this could affect hundreds of innocent lives. If I can help stop it and don’t? I can’t live with that.’
By the time he’s done offering his rationale, Ernest is already in motion, stepping into the walk-in closet and grabbing a duffel bag. When he exits, Phoebe has risen. She intercepts her husband before he gets to the bedroom door and places one hand against his chest.
She then grabs his hand. And places it on her belly.
‘If there’s a knock on that door later tonight and it’s not you…’ she shakes her head. Her jaw clenches shut over the unspoken parts of her sentence.
Ernest steps back to behold his spouse.
Good, strong, caring, funny, and beautiful Phoebe Smith. If there’s a knock on the door tonight and it’s not me, you’ll be just fine, he thinks. The kids—and especially the one growing inside you—need you a lot more than they need me.
And I need you more than all three of them combined.
But I also need this… this thing I do, he thinks. It’s the thing that gives me purpose. Besides this family, it is the one thing from which I draw strength.
Ernest removes his hand from Phoebe’s tummy. Places it on her cheek.
He kisses his wife, and is gone.
---
1:40 a.m. Silence in the Smith home.
A crescent moon shines a photographer’s key light on the front lawn. Stars provide the fill. On quiet, warm, clear nights like this, Phoebe and Ernest would sometimes delay tucking into bed, opting instead to sit on the deck, tucking instead into a glass of wine (or two), talking about life and the universe and the stars. They were far enough from the lights of the city that they could see just a hint of th
e Milky Way. Ernest had confessed to Phoebe one evening that anytime he felt overwhelmed by the task of protecting the entire city of St. Louis, all he had to do was look up at the Milky Way. It always reminded him how insignificant both he and his city truly were. The bedroom stayed empty past 10 p.m. on those nights because husband and wife’s love for each other was as infinite as the cosmos they contemplated.
The bedroom is empty past 10 p.m. on this night because husband and wife still love one another, but one is out trying to maintain his place in the cosmos, and the other, sick with worry, cannot sleep.
The doorbell rings.
Phoebe sits bolt upright. She covers her mouth, eyes shimmering with fear.
She rises from the couch, then turns toward footsteps coming from the stairwell.
Flynn appears. ‘Mom? Who is it?’
‘Go to your room, Flynn. Go!’
Flynn obeys her mother as all teens do: she remains rooted to her spot. Phoebe is too preoccupied to enforce her order. She pads to the front door, unlatches a lock, and turns the knob.
Phoebe covers her mouth once again, this time choking back a gasp of fright.
Standing on the doorstep is a battered, bloodied figure.
‘I’m fine, Phoebe. Really. There’s no need…’ but then his voice trails off.
‘Are you—’
She doesn’t get to finish the question.
Ernest collapses to the ground.
Flynn rushes from the stairwell. Mother and daughter drag the unconscious Ernest into the entryway. Flynn stands and shuts the door.
Ernest’s eyes flutter. He manages a small grin that looks like relief. ‘You were right.’
Ernest’s wife applies gentle kisses on his forehead; wipes away her tears from the small creases in his brow. ‘I know, dummy. I know.’
Thirty One
Earlier that night
Ernest cuts the headlights of his TARDIS.
Sure, it’s disguised as a 2008 silver Toyota Camry, but it does help the Smith family travel through time and space as well as any phone booth. Plus, it’s a lot less conspicuous, especially at night, with just the parking lights on. And easier to put in reverse. So after taking a wrong turn—they haven’t even gotten all the street signs up yet in this new development in westernmost Chesterfield—Ernest finds the cul-de-sac Jupiter identified as the source of the trouble. He cuts the Camry’s engine, steps out of the car, and checks his phone one last time.
The app locates Jupiter’s position: just a few hundred feet away.
Ernest crouches beside his sedan just in case the threat he and Jupiter are there to forestall is perched on some rooftop, armed with some scope-mounted rifle. There are only two things he can detect from this distance, however:
One is Jupiter’s black Mercedes, parked along the curb for all to see. Hmm. He’ll have to speak to Jupiter about that. Two is a small orange glow, flickering from somewhere behind the three garages of the cul-de-sac’s mostly complete middle house.
The house is massive. Hell, all the houses in this development are massive, each with space to shelter more cars than Ernest has kids. He could never afford a house this size. If crime doesn’t pay, then fighting crime doesn’t pay much better.
From his crouch, Ernest leaps forward. Two massive, three-car-garage steps later, he finds himself tucked behind the Mercedes. He draws a labored breath.
He listens for several seconds, then hears the crunch of gravel underfoot. Footsteps. Yet not ones belonging to someone in a hurry.
Ernest peeks around the Benz’s wheel well. Jupiter. He’s supersuited up for battle, save for his right arm, which is left naked and exposed. Why is it, then, that the most menacing aspect of Jupiter’s outfit is the thing that seems most vulnerable?
Maybe it’s because Ernest knows how the nakedness of Jupiter’s right arm is really a threat—the rattle of a poisonous snake. Speaking of threats: if there were a sniper somewhere, Jupiter would have been picked off 20 or 30 feet ago.
Ernest stands, knees cracking. He approaches his partner. ‘What do we got?’
‘We got someone yanking our dicks. A couple of teenagers and a bonfire. The word I got is that it was a bomb. Maybe several.’
‘Word? From who?’
‘Remember Rowe’s kid? I told you he—’
Ernest’s mouth creases in frustration. ‘And I told you… Godammit, Jupiter. You’re following him?’
‘Been following him. For weeks now. And when I confronted him—’
‘Wait. Confronted how?’ Ernest shakes his head. ‘Actually, I don’t want to know.’
‘Excuse me for following a lead. He mentioned explosives, OK? An eco-terrorism group or something. Some plot against his dad’s developments.’
‘So you know.’
Jupiter Blackshear does a sideways eye roll. His mouth makes an equivalent gesture. ‘Of course I know this is Rowe’s development. I cast a dissenting vote when the City Council zoned the land. Your point?’
Ernest jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the orange glow. ‘My point is that if a couple of his houses burn, couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, right?’
‘Will I lose sleep over Douglas Rowe and his meth-head kid? The answer is no.’
Ernest takes a cleansing breath. Makes it about halfway. ‘He’s an addict, Jupiter. He needs—’
‘Yeah. A tweaker. With father issues. Big time. Like wants-to-destroy-his-father’s-empire-as-revenge-for-sending-him-to-military-school issues.’
Ernest starts toward the garage, whose doors face the left side of a circle drive. Jupiter stays behind. ‘Now where you going?’
Ernest stops. Pivots. ‘There’s a fire.’
‘But no bomb,’ Jupiter says. ‘We’re not Rowe’s damn security detail.’
‘This isn’t exactly a safe place to be roasting marshmallows.’
‘Dude, I can’t figure you out. Prostitutes are OK, but a couple of slackers from a Simpson’s episode start a campfire and we’re gonna swoop in—’
Ernest interrupts with a raised index finger. ‘We keep people safe. Just do that, and there’s never anything to figure out. Now: you gonna help or not?’
Jupiter remains where he is. Gestures with an open palm: lead the way, old timer. ‘Man, this shit is beneath us. I’m not teaching a teen fire safety course.’
With a shake disbelieving of his head, Ernest resumes his progress toward the middle house. He’s never felt the generation gap so acutely. His partner is 28, but Ernest may as well be arguing with his own 17-year-old teen.
When Ernest reaches the garage’s backside, he’s now standing in the unfinished back yard. He sees a kidney-shaped pool dug in the ground. About three-quarters filled with water. Low shrubs and vegetation skirt the pool’s back edge. Ernest is at the shallow side. Next to the pools’ deepest end, between the stamped concrete and stairs leading to the deck, is what will eventually be a small sitting area.
Right now, the area is just a concrete slab and a fire pit made from decorative stone. And even though it shouldn’t be, the fire pit is active. A large pile of scrap wood burns, sending flames leaping six to eight feet into the clear, clean night air.
Ernest scans the edges of the pit, expecting to see a gathering of teenagers he’ll tell to disperse. But there are no teens here. As Ernest closes the distance to the fire pit, he sees a solitary male striding away from the fire with a burning 2x4 in his hand. It’s hard to make out much detail by the available light, but Ernest can see that the man is quite tall. He’s dressed in a dark sweatshirt and wears a close-fitting stocking cap. As he strides toward the house frame, Ernest notices that his movements are halting, lumbering. The dark shadow seems to drag his left foot as he walks.
‘What the hell, man?’
The voice comes from behind Ernest. It belongs to Jupiter, who has let curiosity overpower his defiance.
Ernest glances behind him. When he turns back to address the lone figure with the makeshift torch, he sees flames slowly lickin
g up a support beam for the wooden deck overhanging the pool area. Furthermore, Ernest sees why the support beam is on fire: the male figure is pressing his torch against the large column of wood. Occam’s old problem-solving razor at work.
Ernest breaks into a non-superhero jog. ‘Hey! Stop. Stop!’ Ernest calls out while closing the distance.
The man with the torch continues his work, oblivious to Ernest’s voice.
Ernest turns back to Jupiter, shuffling his feet. ‘What the hell is wrong with him? Did you see this guy?!’
Jupiter shrugs. He continues his slow stroll toward the crime in progress.
Ernest turns from Jupiter to the man again. The flames are climbing higher now. In a matter of moments, the fire will have reached the point of no return. He runs at the figure, holds out his hand.
‘Hey! Hey!!’ Ernest yells as he reaches the arsonist. He grabs a handful of shirt and yanks. Using a small dose of superstrength, Ernest picks the man up and sets him down where he can’t reach the support beam. The torch falls harmlessly away, and Ernest spends the next few seconds dousing the fire.
Ernest spins around, livid. He gets his first decent look at the man, half-illuminated by the glow room the fire pit. As suspected, the man turns out to be a good two inches taller than Ernest—but also less of a man than a glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, drooling thing whose chest heaves with every breath.
‘Hey. Can you hear me?’ Ernest asks.
No response. Ernest’s anger gives way to bewilderment. The hulking man is most certainly human, but carries himself like some inhuman… zombie.
‘Do you know where you are?’ Ernest asks.
The man-thing opens his mouth. Perhaps to answer. Perhaps to—
BOOM!
---
Ernest Smith, along with whatever was about to speak, have careened across the newly stamped concrete, each tracing separate trajectories.
He doesn’t know how far he’s been thrown, or where he lands, or, for a moment, if he’ll survive. All Ernest is aware of is that he’s bounced off of something unforgiving—a retaining wall, the house foundation of the adjacent sub-lot, or perhaps even the Caterpillar backhoe across the street.
I, Superhero Page 17
