Clara did not know the man’s real name. She only knew he went by the alias the Pied Piper. Clara thought the name was lame, but what the man could do was anything but lame.
If Clara had been in charge of her body, her skin would have crawled at the man’s touch. For that matter, if Clara were in charge of her body, she would have exploded again, blowing the car to smithereens and killing the two men inside. She had never deliberately killed before, but causing the death and injury of hundreds that night was more than she could take.
But, Clara was not in charge. So, she merely looked back at the man with the same wooden expression on her face.
“Take us home, Bonebreaker,” the Pied Piper said to the driver.
Bonebreaker nodded, flicked on his lights, and pulled away from the curb. Bonebreaker drove north, towards Astor City, Maryland. Astor City was two hours away. Clara knew Bonebreaker was the Pied Piper’s driver and bodyguard. Clara also knew that Bonebreaker, like everyone who was a part of the Pied Piper’s organization, was a Metahuman. She had previously seen Bonebreaker crumple a steel beam like it was aluminum foil. Normally Bonebreaker wore his costume when out in the field, but his dark blue outfit and mask might draw unwanted attention if someone—especially a cop—happened to glance his way on the road.
The occupants of the vehicle were quiet on the ride back to Astor City. Clara’s mind was anything but quiet, though. Her interior sobbing and wailing mirrored that of the people still in the subway. Their wails of terror and grief still rang in her ears.
They were sounds she would never forget.
CHAPTER 2
“She’s a goddamned filthy supervillain,” John Barton said. “She had better not darken the door of this house again.”
“She’s our daughter,” Meghan Barton protested. She wrung her bony hands anxiously. “You shouldn’t talk about her like that. And, you know better than to take the Lord’s name in vain.”
Mr. Barton turned a bit on the sofa and thrust his face into his wife’s.
“This is my goddamned house, and I’ll say what I goddamned please in my own goddamned house,” he snarled at her. Mr. Barton cursed with the relish and air of being naughty of a little kid who had just learned a bad word.
I had not been talking to the Bartons for long, but I had already developed an enthusiastic distaste for Mr. Barton. I did not like how he spoke to his wife, how he talked about his daughter, or how he talked about us Metahumans. He talked about us like we had been spawned by the Devil himself. According to the Bartons’ religious beliefs, perhaps we had been. But, I did not feel like Devil-spawn. My business card definitely did not read “Truman Lord, Private Detective, Superhero, and Devil-Spawn. Special rates reserved for Satanists.”
I was tempted to tell Mr. Barton I was not Devil-spawn via a right cross to his jaw. But, if I went around punching potential clients, pretty soon I would not have any potential clients. Then, I’d have to shutter my private detective business and find another way to earn eating and ammunition money. Perhaps I could go door to door solving crimes and battling supervillains. Then my business card could read, “Truman Lord: Have gun and superpowers, will travel.”
We were sitting in the Bartons’ home. The Bartons were on their couch in the living room. I was seated across from them in a wooden rocking chair. The house was located in a lower middle-class suburb on the outskirts of Astor City. The house was about a thirty minute drive from my downtown office. From what I had seen of it, the small home was comfortably if somewhat inexpensively furnished, like someone had decorated it on a strict budget. The furnishings had seen better days. Since I was seated across from a Metahuman hater, so had I.
Mrs. Barton had called me days before and asked me to come to their house to talk about their missing thirteen-year-old daughter Clara. At the time Mrs. Barton had called me, Clara had been missing almost two weeks. In the time between us making the appointment and me showing up at the Barton home days later, the explosion in the subway in Washington, D.C. had occurred. Once I arrived at the Bartons’ home, it was clear Mrs. Barton had made the appointment with me without telling her husband. From the way he talked about Clara, it sounded like he would be perfectly happy for Clara to stay missing.
Mr. Barton worked as a foreman in a local factory. He had a big frame with a lot of flesh on it. Some of that flesh was muscle, but much of it was not. He looked like a former high school football player who might have had some glory days on the gridiron once upon a time. Those days were long gone, though. His skin was pale white. He had blotches of red on his face, like a far less jolly Santa Claus. His brown hair was crew cut, exposing the back of his neck. Excess neck flesh rested on the collar of his shirt, making his big head look bulbous, like a circumcised penis. His thick forearms were covered with wiry dark hair. Though he lived in a lower middle-class neighborhood, his voice betrayed his lower class origins. It still had the slight sound of the gutter in it.
“You’ve seen the same news footage I have,” he was saying to his wife. “That was Clara on the surveillance cameras. And, it was Clara that blew up, killing and injuring all those people.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Mrs. Barton insisted weakly. It did not sound like even she believed what she was saying. “Not even the government knows what caused the explosion. They can’t find evidence of a bomb.”
“They can’t find evidence of a bomb because there was no bomb. Clara did this. You know it just as well as I do. You just don’t want to admit it,” Mr. Barton said. He shook his head. “She’s no good, I tell you. None of those Metahuman filth are. I can’t take dealing with her anymore. This is the last straw. As far as I’m concerned, that little bitch is no daughter of mine.”
Mrs. Barton continued to wring her hands. Her eyes were red. It looked like she was about to cry and, if she had, that it would not be the first time that day. She was a thin woman with a pinched face. Her body was not a toned thin, but rather a skinny-fat thin. She had on faded red Capri pants, a short-sleeved collared shirt, and black flats. A thin gold chain from which hung a small cross hung around her neck. Worry and frown lines were etched deeply into her forehead and around her mouth. She looked much older than she probably was. I could hardly blame her. Living with Mr. Barton would prematurely age me as well. I didn’t know if Clara had run away from home, but if she had, I could hardly blame her.
I considered using my powers of hydrokinesis—water manipulation—to make Mr. Barton’s head explode. No, too messy. I could instead simply pull my gun out of my hip holster and shoot him.
“I’m a Metahuman,” I said. “Am I no good filth, too?” There was a tone of warning in my voice. I did not enjoy being called names. Since I was a shade over six feet two inches tall and was a muscular guy with cauliflower ears and a flattened nose, most people had the good sense to not call me names to my face.
Mr. Barton looked over at me like he had forgotten I was there. His eyes darted over at his wife in an accusatory fashion—“Why did you invite a Metahuman into our home?” the look seemed to say—before they came back to me.
“Look buddy, I mean no offense,” he said. Despite his words, it did not sound as if he cared whether or not I was offended. “Our faith teaches us that Metahumans are an abomination in the sight of the Lord.”
I had learned once I arrived at their home that the Bartons were Jacobites, a Christian sect that believed Metahumans were not in fact human, but rather a subhuman scourge sent by God to punish man for his many sins. Some would say the Jacobites were a cult. Whether they were a religion or a cult was not for me to judge. In my mind, one man’s sensible religion was another man’s cult. It just depended on your perspective: if you were an outsider looking in, anything you did not believe in looked like a cult. To the Romans, the early Christians no doubt looked like members of a cult.
Notwithstanding my progressive live-and-let-live attitude, if I had known the Bartons were Jacobites, I never would have agreed to drive out to meet with them. I wou
ld have been too afraid they would try to smite me, proselytize me, or both.
“How nice for you,” I said in response to Mr. Barton’s nutty Metahuman beliefs. “Shouldn’t you speak more nicely about your daughter, though? After all, doesn’t Psalm 127 say ‘Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward’?” I was impressed I was able to pull that quote out of the recesses of my mind. Thirteen years of Catholic school had not been a waste. I should have had a tee shirt made that read, “Thirteen years of Catholic school, and all I got was this lousy Psalm quote.”
Mr. Barton just set his jaw at my words and looked stubborn. Apparently, he was not as impressed with my Biblical knowledge as I was.
Mrs. Barton’s thin fingers tugged on Mr. Barton’s shirt sleeve.
“Mr. Lord is a private detective and a licensed Hero. I read about him in the news,” she said. I had recently solved a murder that had been widely reported about. As a result, I had been getting more media attention lately than Kim Kardashian. Perhaps I should have taken advantage of my newfound fame and launched a perfume line or come out with a book of selfies or made a sex tape.
“That’s why I asked him here,” Mrs. Barton said. “If anyone can find Clara and return her to us, he can.”
Mr. Barton continued to look stubborn.
“I told you, I wash my hands of that little Meta bitch,” he said to her. He turned to me. He looked me up and down. I was dressed that day in thick waterproof boots, jeans, and a heavy cotton red and black plaid shirt. It was my Hero as lumberjack look.
“If you’re a licensed Hero, where’s your costume? Where’s your mask?” Mr. Barton demanded.
“My dog ate my costume and then took a dump in the mask,” I said. In truth, I had neither a dog nor a costume. I was one of the rare Heroes who did not hide his identity. But, I did not feel like explaining that to Mr. Barton. I disliked him more with each passing minute.
Mr. Barton blinked at my response. It confused him. I suspected a lot of things confused him. But, he soon rallied.
“Since you came all this way, I guess I can at least listen to your sales pitch,” he said. “Why should I hire you?”
I shook my head. My patience for Mr. Barton’s attitude had worn threadbare.
“I don’t have a sales pitch,” I said. “I just came out here to bask in your charm. It’s everything I’ve heard of and hoped for. You should go to work at the United Nations. You’ll have charmed everyone into declaring world peace inside of a week, easy.”
Mr. Barton gave me a hard look. Perhaps it worked on his wife and the people who worked under him. I, however, managed to stand up under it without passing out in fear.
“You being smart with me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Mr. Barton blinked at me again. My answer caught him off guard. I did not think he was used to dealing with someone who did not recoil in fear when he was trying to be firm and intimidating.
“How much do you charge?” he asked. He was shifting the subject to something he felt comfortable talking about, money.
“To work for you?” I asked.
Mr. Barton nodded impatiently.
“Well,” I said, “I normally work for a few hundred dollars a day plus expenses. But, once I factor in the ‘you’re a pain in the ass’ surcharge, the total comes to . . . .”
I looked up at the ceiling as if I was making a calculation. I looked back down at him.
“Four billion, three million and thirty-seven dollars and twenty-six cents,” I said firmly. “And not a penny less.”
The blotches on Mr. Barton’s face got redder. He stood up and pointed at the front door.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” he ordered.
The devil in me wanted to say “Make me.” Mr. Barton was a big, strong-looking guy. But, if I was right about him having played high school football, that had been years ago. I was no nerdy high school student who was intimidated by a jock. Mr. Barton’s size had fooled him over the years into believing he was a tough guy. Maybe he was in some circles. I, on the other hand, was a licensed superhero and a former mixed martial arts fighter. I was a professional tough guy in every circle imaginable. If Mr. Barton tried to physically throw me out, he was in for a nasty shock.
But, I was a guest in his home. I believed in the adage that a man’s home was his castle. Plus, as much as I disliked Mr. Barton, I was unwilling to embarrass him in front of his wife by manhandling him. Embarrassing a guy in front of his wife was about the worst thing you could do to a man.
So, I stood and took the high road.
“I’m very glad to have met you Mrs. Barton,” I said to her. “I hope you find your daughter.”
I got my jacket from the back of the chair I had been sitting in, turned, and walked toward the front door. I put my jacket on. Once I reached the door, I considered turning to stick my tongue out at Mr. Barton. I realized in the nick of time that would be beneath my superheroic dignity. Plus, Mr. Barton might have thought I was making an offer of fellatio, confirming his conviction that Metahumans were filthy degenerates. I did not want to add any fuel to the fire of his bigotry.
So instead I simply opened the front door, and walked out. I did not exactly slam the door behind me, but I did close it firmly.
That would show him.
CHAPTER 3
Once out of the Bartons’ house, I started walking back to my Nissan Altima which was parked on the side of the road the Bartons’ driveway emptied out onto. My Altima was old and beat up, but I deliberately kept from getting a new car. In my line of work I often had to follow people and do stakeouts. My Altima did not stand out. It would be harder to be inconspicuous in a convertible Porsche or in the Weinermobile.
It had snowed a couple of days before, and the snow had mostly melted in the slightly above freezing temperatures, turning my slog through the Barton’s yard into a wet, muddy mess. I knew I would survive my trek back to the car, though. I was tough. If the men and women who tamed the American West could survive their ordeals, I could survive this one. Besides, if I could put up with Mr. Barton as long as I had, I could put up with anything.
I thought about whether Clara had reached the end of her rope with her father, and whether that was why she was missing. I also thought about whether she really had been responsible for the Dupont Circle bombing. I thought about looking into those things just to spite Mr. Barton, but that seemed to be just as childish as sticking my tongue out at him, not to mention more time-consuming and expensive since no one would be paying me. I also thought about how the Bartons were able to afford the sparkling new, high-end BMW silver sedan parked in the Barton’s car port next to a beat-up old Honda Civic. Amidst the Bartons’ otherwise modest possessions, the BMW stuck out like a Fabergé egg at a yard sale. I had noticed it when I had first arrived at the house, and I looked at it again as I walked away. It hardly seemed fair a turd like Mr. Barton was tooling around in a high-end luxury car while I, a dashing and fearless Hero, sputtered around in a Nissan which had seen better days. I had learned long ago that life and fairness did not always go hand-in-hand, though. It often seemed like they were not even acquainted with one another.
The license plate frame on the Barton’s car was from Taylor BMW, a luxury dealership in Astor City. How nice of the Bartons to leave the frame in place. I never understood why people did that. Was it not enough they had just ponied up a bunch of money to buy a car? Did they have to give the dealership free advertising, too? It was like letting a hooker write her name and number on your forehead in lipstick after you availed yourself of her services.
But, just as nobody was paying me to look into Clara or the Dupont Circle bombing, nobody was paying me to think about luxury cars or license plate frames or the habits of car buyers. So I dismissed all of them from my mind. I continued my slog to my car. As I trudged through the muck, I wondered if this was how the forty-niners had felt.
“Mr. Lord!” came a cry from behind me. I turned
to see Mrs. Barton walking quickly through the yard towards me. She had not put a coat on, and her small bare arms were folded tightly against her small chest.
“You should go back inside,” I said. “You’ll catch your death of cold.” I felt like I was channeling my grandmother. Perhaps I should also have offered Mrs. Barton some Vick’s Vaporub and milk and cookies.
Mrs. Barton shook her head.
“I’m fine,” she said. She was crying, and unsuccessfully trying to hide that fact. “I wanted to catch you before you left and apologize for my husband’s behavior.” Despite her protest that she was fine, goose flesh puckered her arms. She was shivering slightly. Her nipples poked out through her thin shirt. Mrs. Barton was not my type, but even so I normally would have been titillated by the sight. I had a healthy appreciation for female flesh, even female flesh I was not attracted to. I wasn’t titillated, though. Between Mrs. Barton so obviously being cold, her tears, the fact her kid was missing, and the knowledge she had to deal with her husband on a daily basis, I felt nothing but sorry for Mrs. Barton. She looked sad, scared, and miserable as she stood before me.
The cold, at least, I could do something about. At the risk of the Jacobite god reaching out and smiting me for using my powers on the property of his followers, I used my powers to warm up the water vapor in a bubble of air around us. In seconds, the air around us was noticeably warmer. Mrs. Barton stopped shivering. I felt a bit of sweat on my brow, which I wiped away. It was a small price to pay to keep Mrs. Barton from getting pneumonia. If the whole detective thing took a turn for the worse, I could always hire myself out as a portable sauna.
Mrs. Barton unclenched her arms. She glanced around like someone looking for a ghost. Wonder and fear playing on her face.
“Are you doing that?” she asked in a hushed tone. I wasn’t sure if it was her god or her husband she did not want to overhear her. Both, maybe.
Superhero Detective Series (Book 2): The Missing Exploding Girl Page 2
