He takes a deep breath, plants his feet even further into the earth, and tries again. This time, he lets out a shout of exertion.
The earth shifts below his feet.
The bridge slides.
All twenty gabillion or so tons begin to swing around, as though the concrete rectangle were a barn door, and Ernest the hinge. As momentum increases, Ernest turns one hand atop the other, flipping the length of bridge on its side. Ahead of the mass of stone and steel: a sizable wave. Ernest hears another crack from the rifle, and then another, but this time doesn’t hear the whine of the bullet. He’s more likely to be hit by lightning on this sunny day than a gunman at the mercy of the undulating water. If this little stretch of water were a bathtub, then the speedboat might as well be a rubber ducky.
Ernest continues pulling, pivoting, and swinging the bridge toward the hole in the levee. For a man who’s lifted semi-trailers and spoonfuls of anti-matter, this may well be the heaviest thing he’s ever lifted. The water certainly helps; there’s no way he could repeat the feat on dry land.
He also knows that in seconds, the huge speedboat will come into view again, and hopes the angry waters continue to help. Failing that, he hopes his new suit holds up to gunfire.
The bridge continues its arc, nearing the levee break. The boat—
Is gone.
Ernest groans in effort, looking at the boat’s last known location. Ernest stares at a patch of choppy water tinged in red, and realizes he’s looking through eyes that have become bloodshot from strain.
The wave he created must have capsized the boat.
Ernest can now feel the resistance of the river bottom. His entire body burns in the grip of fatigue. His forearms burn with an intensity he’s never felt; surely some part of sinew has torn from bone.
Ernest lets out one final scream of exertion and lets go of the rebar. His hands remain curled, the muscles frozen by cramps.
The rectangle of concrete tilts on its edge, then falls into place. It’s done. The makeshift door has been slammed shut. The bridge that was once over the Moose Run creek is now alongside the banks of the Missouri River.
Not perfect, but it’ll do.
River water crests against what was, until just minutes ago, the yellow line dividing northbound traffic from southbound. The patchwork should save most of the land in the flood’s path until the engineers arrive, bearing sandbags and a backhoe or two. Thankfully, there won’t be any more couples to save today, clinging to life on barn rooftops.
Ernest backpedals, still unable to uncurl his hands. His legs feel like they’re about to cramp on him as well, so he stops backpedaling, and just falls back in the grass of the levee slope, savoring his handiwork.
This is it, Ernest decides. My final act as a superhero. The city will surely find out about it, and for once, that’s fine. Because I ain’t moving.
He lies back in the tall grass, stretching out arms and aching fingers.
I did it. I beat the bad guys. Again.
The end, Ernest thinks.
At any second, my family will arrive in the Camry, ready to join in celebration of this most appropriate retirement. Ninety seconds, tops. Here we go… one, two—
He stops counting when he hears the motorboat.
Forty Five
Ernest bolts upright. To his great relief, Jupiter isn’t the one piloting the boat Ernest sees over the bridge of his nose. Instead, it’s being captained by a much more welcome figure.
Phoebe.
Slowly, Ernest climbs to his feet. Stretches his cramped fingers against the thighs of his supersuit. He waves at his wife, who brushes a few strands of brown hair from her face. The vessel she’s driving is a police vehicle through and through: flashing lights, a simple blue paint job, and the words “Police” stenciled on either side, which is kind of a giveaway. Ernest sees four other figures milling about the deck, and recognizes three—Fergus, Flynn, and Ryland.
Ernest’s sigh of relief turns into a lump in his throat. There they are. If I live to the age of 145, Ernest thinks, I may never see a more beautiful sight.
His son shouts from the bow. Four words Ernest has no interest in hearing.
‘We’re not done, Dad!’
Of course.
---
The police boat reaches shore. Fergus tosses over a grappling rope, and Ernest allows himself a rueful grin. The sixty seconds or so since he spotted his family have given him a chance to compose himself. What’s more, pulling a floating speedboat to ground is orders of magnitude easier than pulling a section of bridge—absolutely no superstrength required.
Fergus looks to his right, inspecting the results of his labor and wearing a look of unabashed pride. Flynn, meanwhile, jumps overboard and helps secure the boat.
‘Not a bad idea, huh?’ Fergus says to his dad.
Ernest glances over at the temporary dam, and more specifically, at the water now trickling through rather than gushing through. ‘You know, son, it would have been OK to say something before just driving off.’
‘I wasn’t sure it would work. I was planning on driving back for you, but got ambushed instead,’ Fergus says, and then jumps over the boat himself, splashing in shallow water. ‘It’s Jupiter. And he’s—’
‘I know. Not alone. He’s got some kind of henchman working with him, and the henchman might be more dangerous than Jupiter is.’
‘So let’s go get them,’ Fergus says.
Ernest looks up at Ryland, who is busy positioning a gangplank on the bow of the police boat. Behind him, another policeman wearing a navy windbreaker and baseball cap is occupied on the radio. Ernest looks twice. There’s something vaguely familiar about this other cop, but Ernest can’t quite place it. He lets it pass.
‘Us?’ Ernest asks. ‘What about the police?’
Ryland steps out onto the gangplank and makes his way to level ground. ‘The police are in hot pursuit right now.’
Ernest arches his eyebrows.
‘It’s a process.’ Ryland dismounts the gangplank and motions toward his partner, who is saying things like “all available watercraft,” and “possible terrorist action” into the radio’s black mouthpiece. Beyond that, he seems to be echoing much of what Ryland explains to Ernest:
‘We have a suspect who is armed and dangerous, and I’ve just authorized the use of deadly force.’ Ryland takes a breath. ‘But we could always use extra eyes on the water. He did escape via the riverway, after all.’
‘If he didn’t drown when I swung that section of bridge.’
‘If he didn’t drown.’ Ryland lips pinch together. ‘While on a boat.’
While on a boat. Ernest now sees the foolishness in thinking he would have capsized a boat. With a wave. That’s what boats do, isn’t it? Ernest thinks. They encounter waves. They keep floating.
I truly am a big dummy. ‘OK. Fergus and I will help.’
‘Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about!’ Fergus says.
Flynn clears her throat. ‘And Flynn. Flynn will go, too.’
Ernest glances at his daughter. ‘Who’s gonna watch after Mom?’
‘Mom can watch after herself, thank you very much,’ Phoebe interjects.
‘Honey, come on’ Ernest stammers. ‘You know what I meant. I don’t want you out there on a boat in case… you know, in case…’ Ernest makes a half circle around an imaginary baby bump created by his imaginary uterus.
Flynn: ‘What? What the hell?’
Ernest: ‘Look, it was an accident.’
Phoebe angles her head. A what?
Ernest: ‘Not an accident, I mean. I just meant unexpet—look, there really isn’t time to get into it right this second, OK?’
Phoebe: ‘Kids. We were gonna tell you when the time was right. Which I guess your father decided was now.’
Ernest: ‘That part was the accident. Not the other—’
‘Absolutely disgusting,’ Flynn interjects. ‘You’re like, way too old to be—’
‘Flynn! Shu
t your piehole. We’ve got work here.’ Fergus says.
‘Enough,’ Ernest says. ‘Look, Phoebe, I’ll go with the kids, who are staying in the boat. You help Ryland with the efforts on land, while you are staying in the car. Everyone clear?’
‘Fine. Just help me get off this thing,’ Phoebe answers.
Ernest steps forward. Phoebe swings a leg over the boat’s guardrail and onto the gangplank. As soon as she manages to place her other foot on the slab of wood, Ernest raises his arms and latches them under his wife’s shoulders. Looking like a pair of ballet dancers, Ernest eases his wife to solid ground.
‘You can drive a boat?’ Ernest asks.
‘I put up with you, don’t I?’
Ernest wears a sideways smile, his eyes sparkling. ‘I suppose you do.’ He holds his wife’s face in his hands. Kisses her like they were on a first date.
‘I’m going to vomit,’ Flynn says.
‘Dad, Jesus! Come ooon,’ Fergus adds, walking back up the gangplank.
Ernest detaches and looks toward the police boat. Wait! He’s got it now. The officer on the radio, now offering to help his kids back on the boat…
‘Hey. Are you… Martin Crowley?’
The officer in the navy-blue jacket smiles. ‘It’s been a while, Ernest Smith. Ten years, to be precise.’
Ernest follows Flynn up to the boat. He takes Crowley’s hand and steps on board. ‘Holy… what are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, I suppose. In fact, you kind of inspired me to do this. After that attack, I decided to join the force, rather than sit in a security kiosk, waiting for something to happen with my life.’
‘I’ll be damned,’ Ernest says. ‘Still working on your stories, I hope.’
The two men regard each other for a long second, each admiring the presence of the other. ‘In a way,’ Crowley answers. ‘Kinda decided to become the protagonist in my own story.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ Ernest says.
‘Daaad!’ Fergus again. His kids aren’t any better about male bonding moments than they are about long smooches between husband and wife. ‘Good Christ on a pogo stick, Dad, let’s go!’
Ernest addresses the two people on the shore. ‘Hey, Phoebe. This is Martin Crowley. He helped me defeat Strang way back in the day.’
‘Yeah. By staying out of your way.’
Phoebe waves. Nice to meet you.
Ernest turns from Phoebe to Ryland. ‘Hey, did you know Crowley’s a writer?’
Ryland Washington blinks.
‘Of course you did. Sorry. So, how am I gonna get word to you if we see Blackshear?’ Ernest asks.
Ryland points at Crowley. The radio, dummy. ‘Or just use the cell phone.’
‘This thing? Are you kidding?’ Ernest reaches into his back pocket and retrieves the old flip model. ‘Ryland, you realize I’ve been in the Missouri River for most of the last hour or so, yes? Ever spilled tea on your laptop? This is like a billion cups of tea. I’m gonna need a walkie talkie or—’
Ryland nods at the phone in Ernest’s hand. ‘Perhaps we should try.’
Ernest presses the green power button of the ancient device and presses the phone to his ear.
And hears dial tone.
‘Well. Would you look at that,’ Ernest says.
Forty Six
Hot pursuit looks so much different on TV.
Right now, actual police pursuit looks like a 24-foot walkaround police vessel, cruising at a leisurely seven knots down the Missouri. But it’s hot pursuit nonetheless. And while both kids have their eyes peeled on either sides of the shore, looking for docks or boat ramps or supervillains, Ernest educates his children on the concept, first explained to him over fifteen years ago.
Hot pursuit has roots in English Common Law of the 1300s—it’s the doctrine of damage feasant—whereby property owners could detain an animal if the animal was causing damage (i.e., eating crops) to ensure said property owner was compensated for said damage. It essentially means stopping someone or something from doing harm. Right now, the someone in question is named Jupiter Blackshear.
At the boat controls, Crowley nods. Matters of criminal law continue to feed Crowley’s insatiable curiosity, as they have from the instant he signed up for the Academy.
In terms of how hot pursuit law governs Ernest’s life (and how it’ll affect Fergus’s going forward), hot pursuit grants police officers powers they otherwise wouldn’t have. Meaning, essentially, that when apprehending a suspect, police have the power to run cars off the road, or use pepper spray, or billy clubs, or stun guns.
Or superpowers.
The three Smiths and Sergeant Crowley have done a drive-by of the first boat ramp they encountered. They found only an aluminum skiff towed by a 20-year-old pickup—just a pink-cheeked, Ozark-bred fisherman readying for a day hunting for blue catfish.
Crowley steers the police boat around a crook in the Missouri. The iconic arch of downtown St. Louis comes into view, tiny on the horizon. For a few seconds, Ernest enjoys this picture of his city so few get. Even the smell of the water here is clean. It’s the ozone smell of air before a thunderstorm.
‘Boat dock. Port side,’ Flynn announces. ‘Speedboat. A big one.’ Fergus and Ernest make their way to the left side of the walkaround. Ernest squints into the distance.
There, amidst a small clearing, he sees a wooden jetty nestled against the shore, big enough for maybe one other vessel besides the one currently anchored. Resting about twenty feet behind the dock: a small, corrugated metal shed. Ernest can just make out the edges of another boat inside the shed, sitting atop risers. The place is essentially an old-timey gas station for fishing vessels; a repair garage for boats along the banks of the Missouri, where someone cobbles together a living doing outboard engine maintenance, or hull repair, or just filling the tank with gas.
A man emerges from the corrugated shed and makes his way toward a bare patch of ground to the tied-up boat. He carries a wooden crate, and doesn’t appear to be in any particular hurry. Ernest reaches for his flip phone, but then leaves it in his pocket. The man with the crate appears to be alone; they’re on the lookout for two men. What’s more, this man has thick grey hair, and is dressed in a light grey suit. He doesn’t look anything at all like Jupiter Blackshear.
Then again: there’s a what’s-wrong-with-this-picture quality, and Flynn puts a voice to it: ‘Why’s a man who looks like he’s dressed for a court appearance loading cargo boxes from a dingy riverside garage onto an expensive speedboat?’
‘It’s called a runabout.’ Ernest says, describing the 21-footer, and trying to match it up with the brief mental snapshot he took of the craft he saw piloted by Jupiter. That the sun was in his eyes was a stroke of bad luck.
‘Also,’ he adds, ‘It’s a good question.’
---
The man in the grey suit steps onto the runabout and disappears below deck for a few moments. He re-emerges at the stern, hops over to the wooden jetty, and walks its length, heading back in the direction of the shed.
He stops.
He must notice the police vessel. Sure enough, he places a hand over his forehead, shielding his eyes against the low afternoon sun. He waves. No. Not a wave, exactly, Ernest sees.
He’s motioning.
The suited man’s hands cups around his mouth. ‘Help! Hey! I need help!’
Ernest feels a tap on his shoulder. ‘Dad. Here.’ It’s Flynn. She holds a chunky, copper-colored gun that looks like it belongs in a steampunk novel. It’s about three times the size of the 9mm weapons worn on the hips of most of the police officers. And just underneath the barrel of the contraption are two wide cylinders. Canisters of compressed air, perhaps. And curiously, sticking out of the barrel is a barbed hook-like… ah, now he sees it.
‘Uh, it’s a grappling gun, Dad. I made a new design,’ Flynn explains, a slightly patronizing tone to her voice, as though helping her father send his first email.
‘I know what it is, Flynn.’
> ‘OK. It’s just, for a second there, it looked—’
‘I know what a grappling gun looks like,’ Ernest says, ‘and what they’re for. I’m just trying to figure out… Never mind. For now.’
‘This one’s better,’ Flynn explains. ‘It doesn’t need batteries. Just point and shoot. The top button retracts, the bottom—’
‘Flynn. Thanks. Not my first rodeo here. Plus, I don’t need a grappling gun.’
‘Why not?’
‘Quads.’ Ernest steps to the edge of the walkaround. He faces the dock and crouches down into a deep squat. ‘You might want to move to the center of the boat.’
The three of them comply with the request, and huddle around the boat’s navigation console. Flynn and Fergus stand behind Crowley, who takes the ship’s wheel in his hands.
From the gunwale of the police boat, Ernest turns to look back at his kids. ‘Do not come to shore. Period. Crowley, just keep the boat in range. And if these kids disobey, you have my permission to use your stun gun on them. Got it, you two? Stay here, no matter what happens.’
Ernest exhales. Then jumps.
The boat sways violently. Water sloshes onto the deck.
Officer Martin Crowley holds the steering mechanism firm. After almost ten years on the force, this isn’t his first rodeo either. He turns to give instructions to each of the kids, and then lets out a grunt of surprise. ‘What the—’
The reaction sheds some light on the Crowley household demographics. Crowley remains a single man, childless. After all, if the police sergeant had any teens living under his roof, he wouldn’t be at all surprised by the fact that both had just vanished.
Forty Seven
Ernest lands on the dock with a heavy thud.
He hears a crack of wood; one of the cross planks, weak from age and moisture, has tried pushing back against Ernest’s aerial assault, but is losing the fight. It takes a few seconds, but Ernest extracts his shoe from the split in the wood, and looks up into the eyes of the man who was shouting for help just moments ago. The man in the grey suit.
I, Superhero Page 25
