The girl must finish because the people in front of me applaud, and after a nervous smile she steps away from the podium, replaced by the leader. “Would anyone else like to share?” he asks, voice far away.
“I would,” someone with my voice says.
“Come on up,” says the leader.
I rise from my seat before I realize I’m actually doing it. I don’t look at anyone on the walk down the aisle. Not until I reach the podium. Then I only have eyes for one person. The coward in the back who bows his head and pretends to find the floor fascinating.
“Hello, my name is J-Missy, and I’m an alcoholic,” I begin.
“Hello, Missy,” says all but one.
“Until about a week and a half ago, I was 442 days sober. Not a single slip. And it wasn’t until Day One that I thought I had a problem. My mother was an alcoholic. She could down a fifth of Jack in an hour, but she passed out in her own vomit. She finally burnt herself to death in her apartment. That wasn’t me. I never broke my kid’s arm for playing the TV too loud one morning. I never forgot my daughter’s name or make her pay the bills when the utilities were cut off. I was top in my profession. The people closest to me could always rely on me, even when they didn’t fucking deserve it,” I say with a titanium edge. “I drank. Sure. Got into minor trouble when I did, sure. Slept with the wrong people. Went to work when I wasn’t a hundred percent, but I wasn’t hurting anyone. It dulled the pain. It dulled the anger. It made it possible to watch my best friend, the man I loved, flirt and fall in love with women who weren’t me. Really that was my only problem. I just liked to drink. I had it under control. Until the man I loved, who I trusted, abandoned me. Left me alone to clean up his giant mess. Let me think I was responsible for his death. The man I loved. My supposed soul mate,” I say, voice cracking.
Keep it together. Don’t you dare fucking cry. I literally swallow my emotions as best I can. My audience of one bow his head lower. His leg twitches a mile a minute. Uncomfortable. Good.
“So, I lost it. I lost everything. My job, my boyfriend, my fucking mind and will to live. And I’m not blaming him. Not fully. I chose to drink. He didn’t force it down my throat. But a person can only take so much. The alcohol felt like my only lifeline in the ocean of shit and pain and guilt he’d left in his wake. Thank God I still had people in my life, true friends who knocked sense into me. Got me into rehab. Supported me. Forgave me. And slowly but surely I found my feet. Got strong enough to help other lost people. Fell in love with a man who returned that gift. I was the happiest I’d ever been in my life.
“Until he came back. The Radioactive Man.”
Justin finally looks up. Looks at me. His face is as stony as mine, as my words. He’s breathing heavily, almost shuddering with each intake.
“Because that’s what he is. Radioactive. He can power cities. Help people survive the worst. Stop wars. He’s a goddamn marvel without question. But God forbid you get too close. Because he also infects everyone around him with poison. Mutating them into monsters. Riddling their lives with cancer until they’re praying for death to ease the agony. Maybe he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I don’t believe he sets out to hurt us. He doesn’t set out to be purposely cruel, but that almost makes it worse. He justifies his actions and worse convinces others he’s right. He convinced my fiancée to betray me. He opens a fucking door and my life explodes. Again. And I’m sure he’s sorry. That he never meant to hurt me. But he has. He has hurt me more than anyone. More than my mother. More than the fucker who murdered my father. More than the psychos who have threatened my life. My best friend. My soul mate. My devil. The Radioactive Man. He’s taken everything again. And I will hate him until the day I die.”
I wish I were holding the microphone because if ever a moment was perfect for a mic drop, this is it. Instead, I finally break eye contact, curl my lip in a snarl, and step away from the podium, and stalk down the aisle with my trembling chin stuck out. They were right, sharing does unburden the soul. Only a hundred tons to go.
*
Of course he follows me out. I barely make it out the church door when a stiff hand clamps on my shoulder. I spin around, my snarl rivaling a lion’s. “Touch me again and I’ll chop your head off. Not even you could survive that.” He jerks it away. “Now do what you do best. Fuck off.”
I turn on my heel again and continue down the city sidewalk. The bastard didn’t take the hint. In the storefronts reflections I see him tailing me about six feet behind. Fine. I warned him. I turn down the first ally with my shadow doing the same. Halfway down, I change course charging toward him. Justin puts up no resistance as I grab him by the lapel and shove him against the piss soaked brick wall. He even holds up his gloved hands in surrender. Jem did say he lost his hand. Must be a prosthetic. “Go back to the hole you crawled out of and leave. Me. Alone,” I growl through gritted teeth.
“I can’t do that.”
I release him. “The fuck you can’t. That’s been proven.”
“Ryder’s loose. You’re not safe.”
I release him and take a step back. “Now? Now you’re worried about my well-being?” I ask incredulously. “Where the hell were you when I was drinking myself to death? When Jordan Ambrose was trying to kill me and half the city?” I shove him again. “Every fucking night when I cried myself to sleep?” I shove him again. “When the guilt was crushing me so hard I literally couldn’t breathe? Then. Then I needed you. Justin. And you abandoned me.”
“I had no choice.”
“No. Bullshit. No. You had a choice. A phone call. An e-mail. A message through Lucy or Jem. Something. Anything. One word. But you let me go on thinking I was responsible for your death. You convinced my fiancée to lie to me. You ruined my life. James Ryder may be a monster, but I meant it. You’re my fucking devil.”
“I know,” he says, hanging his head. “You think I don’t know that? Marnie. Daisy. Rebecca. Aunt Lucy. You.” He shakes his head. “You’re right. I am radioactive. Anyone close to me gets hurt. I knew you’d be better off without me. And I was right. You flourished, Jo. You conquered the world. Saved millions of lives. You fell in love. You came back better. Stronger. I was holding you back. Making your life miserable. I could sense it. I could. I just didn’t want to face it. Because I needed you. Jo, I needed you a hell of a lot more than you needed me.” He takes a step toward me. “I did what I did to save you. From me.”
“Just like you never told me about Justice. Just like you had Jem betray me. It was for my own good. Do I seem good, Justin? Do I?”
“No. And that’s on me too.”
“Then leave.”
“I can’t,” he says quietly. “He’s out there. Planning God knows what. Jem can’t watch you. You’re not safe, Jo.”
“James Ryder has better things to do than terrorize me. And even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t touch a hair on my head. A lot’s changed since you abandoned me. Ryder and I are…colleagues of sorts.”
“What?” Justin snaps, finally getting angry.
“He helps me. On cases. Hell, just in general.”
Justin’s jaw drops in horror. “Yo-You’re friends with him?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. He’s my informant. But unlike you, the great hero, he’s never lied to me. Not once. He respects me. He has no reason to hurt me. Unless you give him reason to.” I take the final step, bridging the small gap between us and catching his eyes with my hard ones. “Do us both a favor. Crawl back into your empty grave and pull the dirt back over yourself. Because you got one thing right: I don’t need you. I don’t want you in my life. I wish I’d never met you. And I’m not going to waste another minute of my life on you.” I turn my back on him and start walking away. “You’re not worth it.”
If he follows, I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t look back. Nothing but agony there.
For us both.
CHAPTER TEN
Third Degree Burns
Jesus, it’s been awhile since I’ve set foot in
here. Nothing’s changed. Same bullpen with overworked cops in either rumpled suits with coffee stains or barely out of puberty uniformed officers answering phones or running around. Priority Homicide: my home away from home for almost two amazing years. I closed almost fifty cases, had a seventy percent clearance rate, and made lifelong friends within these walls. I always got a tiny thrill walking in here. Guess it’s different when you enter as a potential perp. Now I feel like throwing up.
A hush comes over the room when Martin and I stroll in. A few mouths even drop in nervous surprise. The joy of infamy. I spot Kowalski reviewing the white board with Cam in the corner, and the momentary lull in conversation draws their attention my way. Their faces aren’t as friendly as I’d like. Both quickly smile at me before returning to the board. This must be awkward for them as it is for me. Of course, they don’t run the chance of leaving in handcuffs.
Harry steps out of his office with two suited men holding files behind him. Feds. I can always tell. Same dark blue three-piece-suits, same stiff posture, same scowl. I’d swear they’re all clones save for the one of the left has red hair and the other is African American. “Joanna,” Harry says without a hint of pleasantry. “These are Marshalls Devitt and Jackson. They’ll be conducting your interview.”
“Wish I could say it was a pleasure, gentlemen. This is my attorney Martin Ferdman. Shall we get this over with?”
“You’re in Interview Two,” Harry says.
“I remember the way,” I say with a smile.
With my head high and shoulders straight, I start toward the back of the office. People try not to stare but most can’t help themselves. I catch more than a few gawkers before they gaze back to their desks. I wonder what they’re thinking. I do look formidable. Martin made me change from my jeans and hoodie to a black suit with white button down shirt. I even took time to do my hair and make-up. If my mugshot is going to be distributed worldwide, I want to look good.
When I enter Interview Two I almost sit on the interviewer’s side, the one without the ring used to handcuff the bad guys. Force of habit. The small white concrete room, barely the size of a bathroom and just this side of cold, does its job. The door hasn’t even closed and I want out. Not that I’ll allow these men to glean that, not even the ones behind the mirror. Head and shoulders locked, back straight, and legs crossed. This is just an interview. I’m innocent. I’ve done nothing wrong. Perhaps if I keep telling myself that we’ll all soon believe it.
“For the record,” begins the red headed Fed Devitt, “this is the interview of Joanna Fallon in regards to Federal Case 15-5436A9. Marshalls Matthew Devitt and Griffin Jackson conducting, and we are joined by Ms. Fallon’s attorney Martin Ferdman. Ms. Fallon is here voluntarily and at this time has not been read her rights.” Devitt opens his file then smiles at me. “Let me just start by saying it is an honor to meet you, ma’am. My wife was on Pendergast Bridge the day Emperor Cain blew it up. She wasn’t hurt but five seconds either way and she could have been. This city owes you several debts of gratitude.”
Hello, Good Cop. “And yet here I am having to defend myself against claims against my good character.”
“You have to understand, ma’am,” the African American Jackson says, “we need to pursue every lead. A name comes up, we follow the thread. You of all people can appreciate that.”
Oh, so we’re going with the “One of Us” tactic. Oldie but goodie. “So please tell me about the thread with my name on it. You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with the prison break considering how hard I worked, and how much I sacrificed, to get some of those men in there in the first place.”
“Well, while conducting our investigation, you know its customary to review the financial records of anyone suspected of having involvement in the crime. In this case that included the prison guards assigned to the Hardcore and Super-Max Units. During that review we uncovered monthly payments being made, beginning approximately a year and a half ago, to all guards in Super-Max. We traced the funds to a bank account linked directly to you.”
“Linked?” Martin asks. “Is it her personal account?”
I’m not that much of a moron. “The payments come from a charitable organization, the Lock-Up Foundation, and when we examined their financials we found nothing beyond a bank account and basic documents with the city,” Jackson says. “Your name appears all over those documents. And you’re the sole contributor to the fund Ms. Fallon.”
“My client lends her name, time, and money to multiple charitable organizations,” Martin says.
“Sixty million last year alone,” I add with pride.
“We also have a sworn statement from Guard Kemp who claims you had been in direct contact with him and the others,” Devitt says. “First a year and a half ago to offer them bribes, then again six months ago to set-up a weekly video chat with James Ryder.”
“Do you have any other proof of these allegations beyond this man’s word?” Martin asks.
“How about the word of two other guards?” Jackson asks with a half grin.
Dicks. I manage to maintain my poker face but inside my stomach flips. Prison orange is not a good color on me.
“My client fiercely denies any allegations of wrongdoing,” Martin answers for me.
“What I don’t understand,” Jackson continues, looking directly at me, “is why you’d want to talk to the man who tried to kill you and did kill your best friend. All we could come up with was phone sex. He is a handsome man.”
“I’d fuck him,” Devitt adds.
“Or maybe you’re actually grateful to the man. He killed the bastard who screwed with your emotions for twenty years. Maybe your way of thanking him was to break him out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap.
“Joanna—” Martin says.
“Or maybe love and gratitude had nothing to do with it,” Jackson continues. “Maybe you saw a chance to wash away all the scum in one stroke. Abduct and kill the very kind who’ve made your life hell?”
“What else are we supposed to think, Ms. Fallon?” Devitt asks. “Regardless of the motive, the mastermind of this break would have needed massive funds, a way inside the infrastructure of the prison, and underworld connections. Does that sound like anyone in this room?”
“You’ve also recently undergone some drastic personal changes. Gave up your empire, dropped your boyfriend. Gives you plenty of time to focus on a new project. Perhaps that’s the kidnapping and torturing of over a dozen men.”
“If I wanted them dead, and if I had men inside the prison, why would I take all the trouble, not to mention money, to abduct them when I could just have them shot in the head in their cells?” I counter. “And how dare you bring my personal life into this? People break up all the time, and they don’t take it out on the prisoners either.” I turn to Devitt. “As for my empire, it wasn’t mine. I never wanted it. And I left it in more than capable hands to build something of my own. Which is precisely what I was doing while those men were sieging the prison. Bennett Stone and I were out to dinner at Komodo before retiring to his hotel room to begin work on our new foundation, The Guardian Society. The press release just went out this morning.” By design. “I was with him from nine until I received a call about the prison break when two GFPD officers escorted me home.”
“When you promptly gave them the slip and haven’t been seen since that morning,” Jackson adds.
“If the man who kidnapped, maimed, and tried to kill you suddenly was walking the streets with fifteen other madmen, you’d keep a low profile as well.”
“Ms. Fallon there’s at least one man dead,” Devitt says. “Tortured. A man with direct ties to you. A man who died so the psychopath who killed your best friend could go free. I would think you, of all people, would want to be helpful.”
“With the corroborating stories of the guards, the paper trail, bank accounts, we have enough to charge you with bribery, fraud, and possibly even accessory to murder and kidnapping,” Jac
kson says.
“And I’m sure we’ll be adding tampering with investigations, data theft, hacking Federal Databases and vigilantism when we execute our search warrants and impound your computers.”
“I can’t wait to get my hands on the infamous Justice computer,” Jackson adds.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “I—”
There’s a knock on the door, and a moment later a familiar masked man steps in, much to everyone in the room’s surprise. As if this day could get any worse. Of course he’s here. I just cannot shake superheroes. Justin never halted his guard duty. I refused to look back, but I could sense him all the way to the hotel. To my lawyer’s office. To the apartment. Here. I don’t think he came inside here but can’t be sure. For all I know he’s behind the glass with Harry and the others. Doesn’t he have a new city of his own to protect? It needs him a hell of a lot more than I do.
Jem, in full dark blue and yellow Captain Moonlight regalia, commands the room’s attention without a single word needed. He does seem to become a totally different person when he dons the costume. Strong. Capable. Intimidating. Even I have the urge to shrink in my chair when he closes the door. Martin glances at me, but I shrug like I don’t know why he’s here. Devitt and Jackson seem equally surprised though their reaction’s real.
Galilee Falls Trilogy (Book 3): Fall of Heroes Page 13
