by Lucas Flint
“What?” I said. “Did I accidentally steal your favorite chair or something?”
“No,” said Kyle, shaking his head. “I just find it weird that you’re not reacting to the article. It’s been shared over a thousand times on Facebook alone, which is pretty good considering how small the Rumsfeld Journal’s readership is.”
I shrugged. “What is there to read? It’s not like I didn’t witness this event myself.”
“I know,” said Kyle, “but the tide of public opinion is turning against you even more than before. I bet it won’t be long before you end up on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, though probably not at the very top. Probably somewhere in the top ten, though, or top twenty at least.”
“Come on,” I said. “I’m not that bad. I’d have to do something really bad to get on the FBI’s list.”
“Regardless, things are still not going well for you,” said Kyle. “I’m not even sure how much of the article I’m supposed to believe, especially the part about Bug Bite’s giant insects.”
“Nah, that’s real,” I said, leaning back in my seat casually. “Nearly got stabbed by a big wasp.”
Kyle’s eyes widened in shock. “Do you think that means that Bug Man is real, too?”
“I didn’t see him, but who knows?” I said. “Bug Bite seems more like a mad scientist than a superhero, in my opinion.”
“Why can’t he be both?” said Kyle. “Lots of superheroes have scientific credentials, like Doctor Black of Houston.”
“Never mind,” I said. “Point is, last night’s mission was a failure and I didn’t learn anything from it.”
I sipped my coffee and then glanced around the cafe to make sure no one was listening to us, but I didn’t need to worry. Rumsfeld Coffee was always full at breakfast. Almost every table or booth was taken and everyone was busily talking to each other. The loud cacophony of conversation, clinking glasses, silverware against plates and bowls, and waitresses calling out order numbers or names meant that Kyle and I were very unlikely to be eavesdropped here. It helped that we managed to pick a booth in the back corner of the cafe, which made it easy for us to talk freely without being overheard.
When I got up this morning, I still didn’t have any ideas about who could have framed me. So I called up Kyle and asked him if he wanted to have coffee with me this morning, because I was getting tired of talking to TW about this and I figured that Kyle might be able to offer a different perspective I hadn’t considered yet. I also thought that Kyle deserved to know what was going on anyway, given how he had already helped me with the eyepiece.
Kyle also looked around briefly before leaning in and whispering, “So you broke into the Hive to find the dirt on Bug Bite, only to discover it was all a trap?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I always knew Bug Bite was clever, but I underestimated him this time.”
“People always do,” said Kyle. “Lots of criminals think that because Bug Bite is kind of silly-looking, that that means he’s not smart. But he’s probably one of the most intelligent superheroes in the world, or at least in America, anyway.”
I looked at Kyle oddly. “How do you know so much about him?”
“What can I say?” said Kyle. “I want to be a Superpower scientist, which Bug Bite used to be before he became a superhero. I’ve done a lot of research on him and even read his autobiography he released last year. He’s pretty interesting.”
“Only if he doesn’t deem you a threat,” I said. “And if he doesn’t decide to feed you to his bugs.”
“Yeah, that sucks,” said Kyle. “It sucks even more that you didn’t get any proof from it.”
“I know,” I said. I rubbed my forehead. “It’s been very stressful, being blamed for murdering Baron Glory and all. I thought I would find the answers I sought in the Hive, but it looks like I’m back to square one. Only this time, I might stay on square one, because I can’t go anywhere else.”
Kyle readjusted his glasses thoughtfully. “You sure are stuck, huh? I hate feeling that way. It’s so frustrating.”
“Isn’t it?” I said. I sighed. “But maybe this is just the new normal now. Everyone is going to continue to believe that Trickshot is the murderer and I’ll have to be even more careful about my public acts of superheroism than before. If it gets really bad, I might have to stop being a superhero entirely.”
“Hey, maybe that’s for the best,” said Kyle. “Not that I want you to stop being a superhero or whatever, but sometimes you just got to roll with life, you know?”
I nodded glumly, but deep down, I couldn’t stand the thought that I would be known to the public as a superhero murderer. Granted, it was technically Trickshot, not Jack McDonald, who would be hated and feared by the public, but there really wasn’t much of a difference between me and Trickshot. The only silver living I could see from this was that I could still train myself for the day when Rumsfeld was attacked, but that day was so ephemeral that it was hardly reassuring.
“So …” Kyle hesitated, like he was about to ask a very personal question he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. “You said you fought Bug Bite once before, right?”
I nodded slowly. “Yep. Back in the apartment where the assassin shot Baron Glory from. Bug Bit nearly got me there, but I managed to get away, though not uninjured.”
“Not uninjured?” said Kyle. “You make it sound like you got beaten up.”
“That wasn’t the worst of it,” I said. I raised my right forearm. “He stabbed my forearm. Blade nearly went straight through the flesh and bone. It hurt.”
“Really?” said Kyle. “How did you heal up so quickly?”
I sipped my coffee again and said, “Went to this old woman named Marge Rumsfeld. She was a friend of Grandfather and has healing abilities from her own superhero days. She healed my arm because I’m related to Grandfather.”
“Marge Rumsfeld?” Kyle repeated. “Is she related to Harold Rumsfeld, the founder of the city?”
“I think so,” I said. “She’s a distant descendant of him. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just curious,” said Kyle. “I didn’t know Harold Rumsfeld had any living descendants. They never mentioned any in history class and none of the adults I know have ever told me about any.”
“Marge lives by herself in a bungalow out in the country,” I said, gesturing in a random direction. “Well, not entirely by herself. Her granddaughter Ashley also lives with her, but other than her, the two of them are by themselves.”
“Ashley, huh?” said Kyle. “I’m not much of a history nerd, but it would be kind of neat to meet her. I bet old Marge has all kinds of stories about her ancestor that would be really interesting to listen to.”
“Maybe I can introduce you to her sometime,” I said. “But not anytime soon. I’m only supposed to go to her house when I need healing. I don’t think she’d take well to me bringing random visitors to her home without her permission.”
“A shame, but oh well,” said Kyle. “We have more important things to worry about at the moment, like trying to clear your name.”
“Yeah, because that’s so simple,” I said. “What I need more than anything is evidence that will prove my innocence or at least make people doubt the official narrative.”
“Like something you could DNA test, right?” said Kyle. “If you had some kind of physical belonging which the real killer had, then you could scan it for DNA and prove that it wasn’t you.”
“Yeah, but where am I going to get … something that belonged to the sniper …” I trailed off as I suddenly realized that I had exactly what I needed.
“Jack?” said Kyle. “What’s the matter? You look like you just had a brilliant idea.”
“Because I did just have a brilliant idea,” I said. “Back when I gave you the eyepiece in the Park, I found a scarf with the letters ‘M.L.R.’ on it in the trees nearby. I completely forgot about it because of everything that happened afterward, but I still have it and think it might have something to do with the sniper.
” I stuck my hands into my pockets. “Actually, I should have it right … here!”
I pulled the remains of the torn scarf from my pocket and put it on the table between Kyle and I. The letters M.L.R. shone under the cafe lights, though it looked rather ordinary despite that. Nonetheless, to me, it looked like the key to this entire case and possibly the one thing I needed to clear my name once and for all.
“Are you sure it belongs to the sniper?” said Kyle, looking at the torn fabric doubtfully. “It doesn’t look like much.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I said. “And I can test it for DNA right now, as a matter of fact. Here, let me show you.”
I looked around again one more time, just to make sure that no one was paying attention to us, but luckily the cafe was as busy as ever, if not even busier than when I last checked. Looking at the scarf again, I pointed the Trickshot Watch at it.
A blue light scanned the scarf and then I heard TW’s voice in my head say, “I can’t believe I also forgot about this. I feel so sheepish.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Just scan the darn thing and tell me its results. And do it fast, because this might be just what I need to prove my innocence.”
“Hold on, hold on,” said TW. “It takes a few seconds for the Watch to finish scanning the DNA and then running matches against online databases, but … yes, we’re done!”
“Awesome!” I said. “What are the results? Who is the sniper?”
“I’m looking at the data now,” said TW. “It’s … oh my.”
I paused. “’Oh my’? What does that mean?”
“It means that the results are … unexpected, to put it lightly,” said TW. “Or, as you kids put it nowadays, stuff is about to hit the fan.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Just tell me the danged results. I’m listening.”
“All right,” said TW. “According to the Trickshot Watch’s DNA results, the sniper is Margaret Rumsfeld.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I froze, unable to believe what TW just told me. “Margaret Rumsfeld? Do you mean Marge? Or is there another woman around here who happens to have the same name as her?”
“It’s the same Marge who healed your wounds,” said TW. “As far as I can tell, there is no other.”
“Jack?” said Kyle, who sounded worried. “You went awfully quiet all of a sudden, like you’ve just seen a ghost or something.”
I shook my head and looked at Kyle. “I’m fine, Kyle. It’s just that, uh, my friend scanned the fabric and found out who it belongs to.”
“And who is it?” said Kyle.
I looked around again, just to make sure that no one was eavesdropping on us, before I leaned in and whispered, “Margaret Rumsfeld. The old lady who healed me, remember?”
Kyle’s eyes widened. “What? But you said she’s an old bedridden woman. How could she be the sniper?”
“No idea,” I said, shaking my head again. “That’s just what the DNA scanner says. There could be another explanation, but—”
“This is serious,” said Kyle. “We should make an anonymous call to the police, let them know that we think we’ve found the sniper. I’ll pull out my phone right now and call them.”
Kyle reached for his pocket, but I held up a hand and said, “Wait, Kyle, don’t do that just yet.”
“Why not?” said Kyle with a frown. “If we know who the killer is—”
“But we don’t,” I said. “Not for sure, anyway. DNA evidence is not necessarily proof, after all.”
“Then what are we supposed to do about this information?” said Kyle. “Just sit back and do nothing?”
“No,” I said. I tapped the face of my watch. “I’ll go to Marge as Trickshot and talk to her. I doubt she’ll admit to having any involvement in the assassination, but I might be able to find more evidence if I snoop around her house here and there.”
“By yourself?” said Kyle dubiously. “If she’s really behind the sniper, like you think, then going by yourself could be dangerous.”
“You can’t come with me,” I said. “I’m in a far better position to take care of myself than you are. If she really is the bad guy, then I don’t want to put you in harm’s way.”
Kyle bit his lower lip, but said, “Okay. Still, I wish I could be of more help. I hate feeling so useless.”
“You’re not useless,” I said. “You helped me with the eyepiece, after all. And anyway, you can be backup. If something happens to me or I don’t come back, you can call the police and tip them off about her. How does that sound?”
Kyle sighed, clearly not enthusiastic about it, but he did say nonetheless, “All right. I’ll be on standby to call the police for backup if you need it.”
“Great,” I said. “Now, I think, it’s time for me to go. The longer we put this off, the harder it will be to do later.”
-
A couple of hours later, I landed outside the main gate to Marge’s house. Marge’s bungalow looked pretty different in the daylight. It looked a lot friendlier, more inviting, but at the same time, there was an element of danger to it that I couldn’t quite explain. It was probably just my own nerves getting the best of me. After all, I was about to confront Marge about something very serious. Accusing anyone of assassination was always a serious thing and I had no idea how she would react if I did.
I flew over the gate and landed on the other side. I expected the guard dog, Sammy, to show up and start barking at me or even outright attack me like the last time I was here. Oddly enough, however, I did not see or hear any sign of the dog whatsoever. Very strange. Perhaps it was taking a late morning nap or maybe Ashley had taken it out for a walk or something. Not that I was complaining, of course, because the dog’s absence would make it much easier for me to confront Marge.
I walked up to the front door of the bungalow and knocked on it a few times. “Hello? Marge? Ashley? This is Trickshot. Anyone home?”
No response. I glanced at the garage next to the house and noticed that the ancient truck was still there. Of course, the truck looked so old that I wasn’t sure it even could drive anymore. Still, I took it as a sign that the two of them were probably home, though the dog’s absence made me feel uncomfortable.
Knocking again, I said, in a loud voice, “Hello? Anyone? This is Trickshot. I’m here to see Marge. I—”
The door suddenly opened right while I was in the middle of knocking on it. Ashley stood in the doorway, though unlike the last time I saw her, she was unarmed. Her hair was in a ponytail, but it was better, like she’d had more time to work on it, with fewer loose strands than before. She also wore a pink t-shirt with jeans and tennis shoes, which didn’t make her look that much better than she did the last time I saw her, to be frank.
But it was her eyes that caught my attention. She looked like she had just been crying, which both puzzled and worried me, because she had not come across as a crying kind of girl when I saw her a few nights ago.
“Ashley?” I said cautiously. “What’s the matter? Did something happen?”
Ashley wiped away the tears in her eyes and said, “I … Trickshot, Grandma is dead.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Your grandma?” I said in surprise. “You mean Marge, right?”
Ashley scowled as me like I was an idiot. “Of course. It isn’t like I have any other grandparents, you know.”
“Ah, well …” I trailed off awkwardly. “When did she die?”
“Last night,” said Ashley. She sniffled. “She passed away in her sleep. I didn’t realize it because she usually sleeps in late, but when I went to her room to check on her a few minutes ago, I found …”
Ashley apparently couldn’t finish the sentence, because she just sniffled and looked away.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be,” said Ashley. “Grandma was in her nineties and her health was bad. I always expected her to pass away sometime soon, but that still doesn’t make it easy to take
.”
I was now starting to rethink the wisdom of coming to Marge’s house to accuse her of framing me for murder. It would have been tough enough knowing that Marge was an old, bedridden woman who couldn’t defend herself. It was even worse now that I stood before a crying girl who had just lost her grandma not more than five minutes ago, if that. I felt like the biggest jerk in the world right now, despite the fact that I hadn’t even mentioned the reason I was here.
“Can I, uh, come in?” I said. “If you need someone to talk to—”
“Okay,” said Ashley, sniffling again. “I still have some toast leftover from breakfast, if you want anything to eat.”
Ashley stepped aside, allowing me to walk inside. I took a seat on the couch, feeling a bit out of place in the cheery bungalow living room while Ashley went into the kitchen to get the toast. She reappeared less than a second later with a floral-patterned plate of buttered toast in one hand, which she put on the coffee table between us as she sat down on the chair opposite me.
“So …” I tried to think of a way to start the conversation. “She passed away in her sleep?”
Ashley nodded. “Yes. Like I said, she was getting on in years and both of us expected her to pass away any day now, but I thought I would get one last chance to talk to her before she died. The last thing I said to her was ‘Good night’ when she went to sleep last night. I wish I could have said more.”
I shifted uncomfortably in the couch. To some degree, I understood why Ashley felt the way she did. After all, I had lost family members before, with my older brother Thomas being the most recent one. Even though I had gotten some degree of closure over Thomas’ death, I still thought about him sometimes and could get emotional at random times when I wasn’t paying attention.
The reason I was uncomfortable was because I was wondering when or if I should mention why I was here. I decided I would bring it up if Ashley asked, not before.
“I know,” I said. “I lost a close family member of mine, too, not very long ago. I didn’t get to give him a proper goodbye, either.”
