by Hank Davis
Sullivan read the address, finished his drink, put out his smoke, and left a generous tip. It was time again to go to war.
The address was for an auto parts factory on Piquette. Like many other businesses in the area, it had recently been shut down and the workers laid off. He parked a block away and went in on foot. Between the lousy weather, the fact that most of the surrounding businesses were closed, and that it was late Christmas Eve meant that there wasn’t anyone around. Regular folks were eating hams, singing carols clustered around the fire, or some such thing, not spying on an abandoned factory through a hole in a fence.
After an hour of miserable cold a blue Dodge rolled up to the back door and a man got out carrying grocer’s bags. The lights of the city reflected off the snow clouds enough to give him plenty of pink light to see by. He recognized the lean, broad-shouldered fellow making his way to the back door from one of the sketches Agent Cowley had shown him as one Bruno Hauptmann, a German immigrant and member of the gang. This was the hideout, all right. Hauptmann was walking with a bad limp. He knocked on the back door and a few seconds later it opened and he disappeared inside.
Location confirmed, he debated calling the BI. There was strength in numbers, but the only person Jake Sullivan trusted was Jake Sullivan. The G-men would probably just get in his way, but at the same time, if he got killed, he didn’t want the kidnapping trash to escape. Finally, caution won out and he hurried back to the phone booth he’d parked by. The switchboard put him through to Cowley. He gave them the scoop, then reminded the G-man to make sure the rest of his boys knew not to shoot at him. The cavalry was on the way.
But he’d never been the type to wait around for cavalry. Sullivan removed the Lewis Gun from his car and headed back to the factory.
They might be watching through the long row of windows, so best to move quick. He reached the fence, and using just enough Power to lighten himself, leapt cleanly over the barrier. The door was solid by any measure, but not built to withstand someone like him. Not even pausing, Sullivan lifted one big boot and kicked the door wide open. The interior was dim, lit only be a single shielded lantern. Hauptman and another man with one arm in a sling were caught flatfooted just inside, stuffing candy bars in their faces.
Sullivan leveled the machinegun at them. “Hands up.”
“Cops!” The stranger went for the revolver stuck in his waistband. Sullivan moved the gaping round muzzle over and simply shot him dead. The body hit the cold concrete without so much as a twitch.
The .30-06 had been deafening against the metal machinery surrounding them. Ears ringing, he turned the gun back on Hauptmann. “Your friend was an idiot. Let’s try that again.” Terrified, the kidnapper reached for the ceiling. “Better.” Sullivan looked down the rows of darkened machines, but there was no sign of anyone else inside. He picked up the lantern and lifted the cover, filling the space with light. Sullivan walked around a big hydraulic press. There were several mattresses and blankets on the floor, but the rest of the gang was out.
Damn. “Where’s Fordyce?”
“Who?” Hauptmann asked.
“Don’t play stupid.” Sullivan concentrated. Using Power in big bursts was easy, fine control took more concentration. He gave Hauptmann another two gravities. The German grimaced and stumbled against the wall. “Talk. Where is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You wanna end up a pancake?” Sullivan dropped one more gravity on him. Hauptmann screamed as bones creaked. “Don’t be a baby. I do pushups in that.” The kidnapper was surely feeling it. “Where’s the Healer?”
“I don’t—” Hauptmann’s head sprayed red as the window behind him shattered.
Sullivan instinctively flung himself to the floor. A muzzle flashed outside as someone worked a Tommy gun across the glass. He needed cover, fast. There was a thick steel plate leaning against the hydraulic press. With no time for finesse, he grabbed the plate, surged his Power so hard that it felt light as a feather and jerked it around to use as a shield.
Sullivan cursed himself for turning up the lights. Dummy. The others must have returned and seen them inside. Bruno Hauptmann was a few feet away, missing a chunk of skull, just staring at him while his brains leaked out. At least that guy’s kidnapping days were surely over.
The bullets kept on hitting the plate in a seemingly never-ending stream of hot lead. They’d get tired soon. Sullivan checked his pocket watch. Cowley’s men should be here any minute. Then he noticed the time.
Well, Merry Christmas to me.
The BI rolled up, ready for a fight. They just hadn’t expected the fight to be ready for them. The first car to arrive was hit immediately. Bullets pierced the radiator, the windows, but luckily not the two agents inside, who bailed out, took cover behind their vehicle and returned fire. A Detroit police car arrived from the opposite direction thirty seconds later. It too took fire from a member of the Maplethorpe gang armed with a stolen BAR. Within a minute two other cars had arrived, and the street collapsed into the a chaotic gun battle that the morning papers would describe as the Detroit Christmas Massacre.
However, Special Agent Sam Cowley was not thinking about how this would play out in the media. That was his bosses’ job. Cowley was too busy being pinned down behind the rapidly disintegrating engine block of his car as an automatic weapon poked holes in it. The Maplethorpe gang had a reputation for using overwhelming force during their robberies, which is what made them such high profile targets. Most of them were vets of the Great War—from both sides—and they knew how to work together. The responding officers were outmatched as the gang moved out of the factory’s parking area, using the low brick walls for cover, taking turns shooting while the others moved or reloaded.
A nearby officer cried out and dropped his pistol. The gun metal gleamed with ice crystals. Cowley gasped in pain as he was hit with a surge of unbelievable cold. Snowball was attacking. Cowley rolled out from under the car but couldn’t spot the Active. He got a bead on one of the gang and emptied his .38 at him. He couldn’t tell if he’d struck the man or not since he ducked behind the factory wall and disappeared.
There was an unholy scream. Cowley turned to see that Johnny Bones had flanked them. The Shard ripped his claws free from an officer’s belly, then he came at Cowley, grinning, his skull flowing and twisting under his skin. Terrified, the agent broke open his revolver, punched out the empties, and tried to reload with numb, shivering fingers. Johnny Bones aimed his Thompson at Cowley.
Then it was as if someone had thrown an invisible lasso around the Shard and yanked him sideways. Johnny flew through the air and collided violently with a light pole. The Tommy Gun clattered away. The Shard got up slowly as his bones returned to their normal shape. “Kill the Heavy!” he ordered.
The parolee, Sullivan, burst through the window and rolled through the snow as a wave of force tossed the criminals every which way. Sullivan rose, cutting down his enemies like an avenging angel, wielding a giant black rifle that ripped an unending stream of thunder.
“The big one’s on our side!” Cowley shouted.
Sullivan ducked. The wall above him was instantly frosted over. Even from across the street Cowley could see the ice particles striking the Heavy, but the Icebox was behind cover and he didn’t have a shot. But cover didn’t matter to Sullivan. Grimacing through the frostbite, he focused in on the Icebox’s position and Snowball Maplethorpe fell into the sky. Sullivan calmly shouldered his machine gun, like a sportsman shooting waterfowl, and blasted the Icebox out of the air.
“Mikey!” Jonny Bones shrieked as his brother was riddled with bullets. Sullivan must have cut his Power, because Snowball dropped back to the Earth, to lay crumpled, staining the snow pink. “You son of a bitch!” Bones took a few steps forward, then realized that the rest of his gang was in a bad way. The Shard turned and ran down the street.
Sullivan dropped his now-empty machine gun and took off after Johnny Bones. Cowley closed the c
ylinder on his Smith & Wesson and aimed at the fleeing Shard. “Stop,” Sullivan ordered, and as the big man ran past he said, “We need one alive.”
He’d fought a Shard in Rockville once. Just another punk with a chip on his shoulder, thinking that if he could off the toughest guy on the block that would somehow make him king. Sullivan had ended his life, just like all the idiots before him, and all that came after, but it had been a valuable learning experience.
Shard magic worked on a biological level. Their skin was remarkably tough and elastic, their bones could change shape and density as they desired. They were rare, and loathed by the public, considered disgusting freaks . . . Sullivan felt bad for them, but that was still no excuse for kidnapping. Disfiguring magic or not, Johnny Bones was done.
A police car roared into the next intersection, sirens blaring. Johnny slid to a stop in the middle of the street. He looked around, but there was nowhere left to run. He saw Sullivan coming with a .45 raised in one hand. Desperate, Johnny spread his arms wide. “I ain’t got no gun. You gonna shoot me down like a dog in the street, Heavy?” His breath came out in a cloud of steam.
“Where’s Arthur Fordyce?”
“You killed my brother!” Johnny struck himself in the chest. “Come on, finish it. I ain’t going to Rockville and I ain’t going to the chair.”
Sullivan’s Power had burned too hard for him to do anything fancy with it. He didn’t dare try the trick he’d done to Hauptmann. He’d probably just accidently splatter Johnny all over Detroit. “Tell me what you did to Fordyce.”
Johnny Bones started walking toward Sullivan. “If you don’t got the balls to shoot me down like a man . . .” The Shard’s fingers were suddenly twice as long as normal and ended in points like needles. “I’ll just take you with me.”
Sullivan sensed that there were G-men coming up behind him. “Hold your fire and stay out of this,” Sullivan ordered, and even though he wasn’t in charge of these men in any way, when he used his sergeant’s voice, men knew not to question. None of the cops said a word as Sullivan put his Colt back in the holster. “I’ll kill you clean, Johnny, but not until you tell me what I want to know.”
The Shard swung. His Power-fueled body was a killing instrument. Sullivan ducked away, narrowly avoiding the claws. Johnny slid sideways as Sullivan twisted gravity, but his own Power was overheated and scattered. It lacked force, and Sullivan couldn’t risk giving him a good spike without killing the man. Sullivan raised his fists and the two Actives circled, looking for an opening.
Johnny came at him with a flurry of potentially lethal jabs. It would have been intimidating to anyone else. Calm, Sullivan timed it, cocked his fist back, and slammed the Shard square in the face. Johnny’s entire skull seemed to squish to one side. He reeled away and Sullivan saw his chance. He slugged Johnny again and again. The Shard wasn’t the only one with a magically hardened body, but Sullivan’s came from years of exercising in increased gravity until his bones were dense as stone, and now he used them to beat Johnny down.
He pressed the attack and drove a fist deep into Johnny’s guts, knocking the air right out of his opponent. “Not used to somebody who can fight back, huh?” When Johnny went to his knees, Sullivan circled, came from behind, wrapped one arm around Jonny’s throat and used the other to pin the Shard’s elbows to his side. Sullivan hoisted the much smaller man into the air and choked the shit out of him. “Where’s Fordyce?” he shouted in Johnny’s ear.
There was a sudden piercing heat through Sullivan’s left forearm. He grunted and let go, stepping away as the bone spike pulled through his muscle. Blood came gushing from the wound and splattered the snow. Johnny raised his arm. A narrow shard had extruded from Johnny’s elbow and it was painted red. Sullivan looked at the hole in his arm. “Haven’t seen that before.”
“You killed my brother, you bastard . . .” Johnny gasped, blood running freely from his nose and down his shirt. He charged and Sullivan struck him square in the throat. Johnny hit the ground with a gurgle.
“Yeah. Your Power don’t do much for the soft bits . . . Where’s Fordyce?”
Johnny Bones’ face was purple as he staggered to his feet. “I don’t know who you’re yappin’ about. You keep saying that name. Means nothing to me.”
“The Healer you kidnapped.”
Johnny stopped and started to laugh like Sullivan had just said the funniest thing ever. “Him? You think I took him?” The laugh grew harsh and desperate. Johnny knew his time was up. “You been played, Heavy. Check my boys. We ain’t had no Mending . . .”
The man he’d shot in the factory . . . His arm had been in a sling. Hauptmann had been walking with a bad limp. This crew had never had a Healer . . . Sullivan had played the chump.
People had come out from somewhere into the street to see what was going on, kept back only by the circle of lawmen. They stood there, two Actives, having fought like gladiators for the crowd. Sullivan surveyed the cops and the witnesses, sighed, and let his injured arm hang limp at his side.
The Shard faced him, eyes desperate, seething with Power as more stabbing chunks of bones stretched his skin. Nothing left to use, he was going to burn it all. Misshapen and jagged, Johnny no longer looked human.
“Stand down, Shard. It don’t have to be like this.” Sullivan drew his .45.
“Maybe before you used my brother as skeet . . . Ain’t got nothing to live for now.”
Johnny Bones bellowed as he charged. Sullivan extended his hand and fired three times.
Sullivan gave the BI his statement. He got read the riot act by Special Agent in Charge Price, who was more upset about having to talk to the bloodthirsty press than he was that three police officers had been severely wounded. It was going to take some spin to say that a running gun battle in the streets was a good thing, but at least he did have a pile of dead gangsters to show for it. Surprisingly, Agent Cowley stuck up for Sullivan, said that they’d been unprepared for how much firepower the Maplethorpes had brought to bear, and that they shouldn’t have driven right into a bullet storm.
Sullivan was kicking himself for calling the BI to begin with—he should have just handled it himself—but he was even more mad that he’d been set up. They plugged the hole in his arm and wrapped it in a bandage. Just a new scar to join the constellation of old scars . . . There would be no fancy Healings on the taxpayer’s dime for some dumb Heavy.
Cowley had come up to him at one point and thanked him for saving his life. Sullivan wasn’t used to gratitude from official types and didn’t really know what to say in return. The exhausted agent took a seat across from him. “Sure has been one heck of a night. Not just for us, but all over town . . . Sounds like one of your local gangs decided to clean house too. One of them Purples got hit. Abe Something-witz.”
“Horowitz?”
“That’s the name. Tough guy from what I was told. Had to be an inside job since they got him at home. No sign of forced entry, so he let them in. Pow. Single bullet right in the back of the head. Found him in the kitchen with a bottle of wine open and a glass in each hand.”
Sullivan clammed up on the topic. Cowley thanked him again for saving his life and left to send a report to his superiors. Then after another few hours of answering the same questions over and over again, Sullivan was free to go.
About damn time. He had questions of his own that need to be answered.
“Mae found your body. You owe me twenty-five bucks and a present.”
Sullivan was in a phone booth not far from the police station. “Dead or alive?”
“Not just dead, but sliced into pieces dead,” Bernie answered. “That’s why it took Mae so long to find him.”
Sullivan groaned and rested his forehead on the cold glass. It had all been for nothing. “Where?”
“All over the city. Five, maybe six different places so far. Maybe more she hasn’t found yet, but I told her that was good enough. Mae found the first piece in a deli uptown. She says most of him had already been
eaten.”
Chopped into pieces and . . . “Did you say eaten?”
“Yeah. Of course. People ate him.”
What kind of sickos was he dealing with here? “Bernie, you’re telling me somebody chopped up Arthur and ate him?”
“Yeah . . . Why’s that so weird?” Bernie chuckled. Sullivan didn’t see what was so damn funny, since there was a gang of cannibal lunatics on the loose in Detroit. “Huh . . . Arthur. That’s a funny name for a porker.”
“Porker?” Fordyce hadn’t been fat.
“Porker. Pig. You know, oink oink, pink with a curly tail . . . Oh . . . Wait . . . Mae says he was one of the white with brown spots kind.”
The blood in Fordyce’s car . . . He hadn’t given Bernie any details about the case, just asked him to find the body that the blood had come from. “Thanks, Bernie,” Sullivan mumbled as he returned the earphone to the cradle.
The Fordyce home was the nicest one on a very nice street. The sun hadn’t been up for very long when Sullivan arrived, left arm bandaged and throbbing, to bang on the door. The butler tried to shoo him away, but Sullivan pushed his way inside and told the man in no uncertain terms what would happen if he didn’t get Mrs. Fordyce. The butler threatened to call the police. Sullivan said good.
After being escorted into the study, he took a seat on an overstuffed couch and waited, reading the spines of the hundreds of books on the walls. The collection made him envious. Emily Fordyce joined him a few minutes later, still tying the waist sash of an oriental silk robe. Her hair was undone and hung to her shoulders.
“Late night?” he asked.
