by Lou Anders
They met him as he made his way up the walk, two of them in dark suits and standard-issue shades. And it wasn’t even sunny. They flashed their badges and invited Marshall inside, into his own home. They needed to talk to him.
They introduced themselves as Agents McNeil and Bryerson. McNeil was the talker. Slim and youthful, he struck Marshall as atypically warm for a fed, almost amiable in his approach. Bryerson, on the other hand, was more of what Marshall had come to expect from the bureau. A buzz-cut bruiser with a sour disposition, he kept his shades on.
A clearly concerned Allison set down the coffee tray and biscuits, then excused herself and headed upstairs without so much as a backward glance. Marshall watched her go. She was no doubt dreading the prospect of another move, and the thought of putting her through the process yet again filled him with a deep regret that instantly gave way to anger. It wasn’t fair. They should have been free and clear. What now?
McNeil waited until he heard the bedroom door click shut before starting: “Mr. Mayhew, do you know why we’re here?”
Ten years ago, that question would have garnered the type of smart-ass response that usually resulted in an interrogation room beating. But, of course, a lot had changed in ten years. For one, his clothing was no longer fashioned from oscillating molecular fabric, meaning it could tear and stain. So, instead, he asked: “Where’s Agent Palmer? I usually deal with him.”
“Agent Palmer passed away in May,” McNeil informed him. “Heart attack.”
“Oh.” Marshall was genuinely dismayed. “I’m sorry to hear.”
“Are you?” Bryerson sneered from where he sat, arms crossed, seemingly defying Marshall to contradict him.
“Yeah, I am,” said Marshall. “He was a good man.”
McNeil dropped his gaze and adjusted his cuffs. “Yes, he was.” And then, right back to business: “I assume you heard about what happened to The Imperial.”
“Sure,” said Marshall. It would have been impossible to miss the lead news story going on three days running.
“Were you sorry to hear about that too?” challenged Bryerson.
“No,” Marshall responded truthfully. “Not really. He was an asshole.” And, when all was said and done, and all personal animosity set aside, that pretty much summed him up, although “petty,” “spiteful,” and—as Marshall had discovered firsthand—“incredibly vindictive” would’ve done in a pinch. Whereas other heroes tended to simply crash the party and arrest you, only resorting to violence when absolutely necessary, The Imperial seemed to derive sadistic pleasure in punishing offenders. He never just hauled you in. He had to humiliate you first, whether it was a bitch-slapping, a literal ass-kicking, or his patented “forced freefall” that had reduced even the chronically stoic Dr. Disastro to tears. All things being equal, a primetime takedown by the buffoonish Captain Spectacular at his grandstanding best would have been preferable to the self-proclaimed People’s Protector who, amusingly enough, ended up needing some legal protection of his own the time Ray Mephistopheles brought that civil suit against him.
“Sounds like motive,” noted Bryerson.
That remark won him a bemused look from Marshall. The Imperial was a heavy hitter. He’d thrown down with the likes of Star Father Celestio and Shatterdam. To suggest that Marshall could have had a hand in taking him out was beyond ridiculous. It was downright flattering.
“Marshall, we’re not accusing you of anything,” McNeil was quick to clarify, sparing his partner the briefest of glances. “We’re here because we think you can help us find out who killed him.”
Marshall eyed them uncertainly. He’d had his suspicions, but never expected to have them officially confirmed. He elected to play it coy. “Killed him? They said it was an accident.”
“Yeah,” said McNeil. “That is what they said. But we know better, don’t we? The Imperial was damn near invincible. It would’ve taken a hell of a lot more than that midair collision to take him out. He was compromised.” McNeil threw Marshall a meaningful look, waiting for him to ask. He didn’t. So the fed went ahead and answered him anyway. “A spectral analysis detected traces of ferenium-17 on his remains.”
“Ferenium-17?” Marshall was stunned. Although Planetary Judicial Enforcement had officially denied its existence, the criminal underworld had long held that the fabled element did, in fact, exist. According to those in the know who had heard from those with an intimate knowledge who had been informed by reliable sources, ferenium-17 was a low-level radioactive mineral, extraterrestrial in origin, that, while reputedly harmless to humans, was rumored to have devastating effects on certain ultracapable individuals. No specifics on what, exactly, those devastating effects could be, but speculation ranged from mild disorientation to molecular degradation.
“You’ve heard of it,” said McNeil. It was more a statement of fact than a question.
Marshall nodded.
“Not many individuals have the knowledge or the resources to get their hands on ferenium-17,” McNeil continued. “In fact, I’d say there are only four we know of. One is busy serving ninety-eighty consecutive life terms on terrorism-related charges at Bathgate. Another quit the planet last year after getting his ass kicked by the Confederacy of Justice. Another was presumed killed in the explosion that destroyed that particle accelerator last fall. And the fourth… well, the fourth is someone you know.”
“Someone I used to know,” Marshall corrected him, well aware of where this was going. “A long time ago.”
Agent Bryerson leaned in, forearms on knees, cocked his head and smiled. He reminded Marshall of that cartoon shark from the Freshwater Tuna commercial. “Yeah, well—we’re going to need you to reconnect. Help us out, right?”
“And why would I want to do that?” But, of course, Marshall already knew the answer.
“Because,” Agent McNeil reminded him, “the terms of your conditional release require you to.”
Marshall sat back and had a shortbread cookie. Allison was in luck. It looked like they wouldn’t be making the Dosanjh barbecue after all.
He stopped by the hospital on his way to the airport and found his mother up in her room, rereading one of her favorite Maeve Binchys while Joanie, her nurse, sat at the foot of the bed, wrapping presents. The plump Filipina spotted him first. “Emma, look who is here!” she announced, setting aside the red and gold Chinese-themed gift boxes his mother had no doubt picked up from the stationery shop in the facility’s main lobby. “It’s Marshall!”
His mother patiently finished the passage she was reading, bookmarked the spot, and set her well-worn copy of The Glass Lake aside before greeting him with a “Hello, sweetheart.” Then quickly over to Joanie—“That one’s for Jeffrey, the weekend intern,” indicating one of the boxes. “Better mark it now or you’ll mix them up.”
“I come back and finish these later. You spend time with your son.” Joanie hopped up, grinned, and cocked her head back toward the bed. “Maybe she can tell you about the handsome man who came to visit her last week. Very distinguished looking.”
Marshall threw his mother an amused look. She frowned back, clearly annoyed, and dismissed the suggestion with a flick of her wrist. “He had the wrong room. He was looking for Mrs. Henry in D wing.”
“Then I hope you got his number before he left.” And with that, Joanie was out the door.
His mother gave a sad shake of her head. “Poor girl. Her husband has the shingles, you know. She’s here all day taking care of me, then goes home at night and takes care of him. What a life.” Then, as if suddenly realizing: “Where’s Allison?”
Allison, he informed her, was at work. No, they hadn’t argued. No, nothing was wrong. He was alone because he was heading out of town for a few days and wanted to make sure he got to see her before he left. This seemed to satisfy his mother, who, as a rule, was predisposed to worst-case scenarios, reading domestic strife into the most innocuous things: a missed appointment, a passing comment, that well-worn copy of Chicken Soup for th
e Soul Allison had been carrying around with her the last time they’d come to visit.
Of course, Marshall had to remind himself that past experience excused a lot. His mother had raised him as a single parent with little in the way of an education or vocational training, her days spent booking discount getaways at a local travel agency, her nights devoted to editing the letters section of what she termed “a saucy gentleman’s rag.” And yet, despite the long odds and even longer hours, she’d always found the time to be there for him. Like the time fellow third-grader Melanie Fincher broke his heart. Or the day his abilities first manifested themselves in the heat of an afterschool bullying incident.
The events that led up to his being cornered that afternoon were lost to memory, but Marshall distinctly recalled the sensation of overwhelming terror that had swept over him like a pre-op anesthetic, rooting him where he stood, the moment Wally Briggs strode up to him that fateful day. His friends, of course, had bolted at the first sign of trouble, abandoning him to the not so tender mercies of the playground Fates, they who judged so harshly upon the weak, the overweight, and the awkwardly named. In retrospect, Marshall couldn’t really blame them. But at the time, doubled over by a shot to the solar plexus, his head firmly nestled between Wally’s bicep and forearm, he did blame them. He blamed them a lot. And as he dropped to one knee in a misguided attempt at passive resistance, and Wally countered the move by shifting his weight and tightening his grip, permitting himself a far more effective choke hold, Marshall had felt another sensation suddenly sweep through him—hotter, sharper, more intense than mere fear. It was the devastating awareness of his own utter humiliation. And that turned out to be the trigger. He felt his face flush; the back of his head prickle. Then, the next thing he knew, he was sitting on the grass, fighting to catch his breath while, almost twenty feet away, Wally Briggs lay on his back, clutching his leg and howling in pain. They were the only two in the schoolyard. Confused and more than a little terrified, he ended up running the entire sixteen blocks home.
Later that night, Wally’s father had come calling. He angrily informed his mother that Wally’s ankle was badly twisted, Marshall was responsible, and what the hell was she going to do about it?! What she did was launch into a stunning, expletive-ridden tirade that Marshall had never before and, thankfully, never again, borne witness to, capped by the promise that Wally could expect much worse if he ever bothered her son again. Mr. Briggs, an ogre of a man at well over six feet and built like one of those Saturday matinee wrestlers Marshall used to watch on TV, simply wilted under the verbal onslaught meted out by this four foot eight, one hundred and five pound she-devil, and quietly slunk away.
After which he and his mother had “the talk.” She informed him that he was special, possessed of certain abilities that set him apart from his fellow classmates and that, over time, these abilities would begin to manifest themselves with greater frequency. Exactly how, however, was impossible to predict. One day, he might be a little faster; another, a little stronger. The thing to remember, she told him, was not to be afraid, but to accept these talents as something uniquely his, and, most important of all, to keep them a closely guarded secret.
Despite his curiosity about his newfound abilities and her willingness to discuss them, there was one mystery she seemed unable (as it turned out, unwilling) to solve for him: Why? Why him? Why was he different? This particular question seemed to cause her great consternation and, after repeated queries, she finally settled on the answer she would offer from then on: It was a gift. And for all intents and purposes, that settled the matter.
Until many years later when a high school biology lesson changed everything.
“What’s with the presents?” asked Marshall, picking up one of the gift boxes and giving it a cursory once-over. It smelled of jasmine and sandalwood. “It’s too early for Christmas.”
“Well, I might not be around for Christmas,” she informed him with a trace of whimsy, getting up and putting on her slippers.
“Mom, you just had a physical. Your PSA levels were fine. Aside from your hip, the doctor said you’re in perfect health.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” she countered. “You remember Mr. Rosenfeld from across the hall? He passed away last week.”
“Yeah, I heard. He was kayaking in New Zealand when it happened.”
“That’s my point. You never know.” She moved the boxes off the bed, carefully aligning them on the windowsill. “That’s why you should seize the opportunities when they present themselves. If you wait too long, it may be too late.”
“Too late? Too late for what?”
She sighed wearily and suddenly changed tack, turning to face him. “There comes a time in everyone’s life when they finally stop to take stock. And they ask themselves, What have I accomplished? How will I be remembered? What do I leave behind?” She offered a melancholy smile. “And I look at you and I have my answers.”
“It could have gone the other way,” he felt the need to remind her. “I could still be in prison, or worse.”
“Is that what’s stopping you?” she asked. “The fear that your children may follow in your footsteps?”
He stared at her. What the hell brought this on?, he wanted to ask. Instead, in an attempt to curtail further discussion he went with: “It’s more than that. It’s different for me, Mom. You know it is.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “it is different because you’ll provide a stable home for your children. You’ll be there for them.” She lay a hand on his cheek, a gesture reminiscent of bygone heart-to-hearts and, in that instant, he was eight again and alarmingly unsure of himself. “Marshall, you didn’t make bad decisions because you were faster or stronger than other people. You made bad decisions because your father was a deadbeat who wasn’t there for you growing up, and your mother, God help me, tried her best but ended up failing you as well.”
It was a rare admission of failure, and it troubled him greatly. “Mom, you didn’t fail me. Don’t ever—”
She sensed his unease and cut him off. “There’s no reason you can’t start a family. Not anymore. Just… talk to Allison when you get back. Will you do that?”
“Okay,” he acquiesced, much to her obvious delight. “When I get back.” And, in the back of his mind, for the first time and only to himself, he acknowledged the uncertainty of the coming days. IF I come back.
They had to wait for some connecting passengers returning from a Caribbean cruise and ended up leaving the gate forty-five minutes late. Fortunately, the bureau had demonstrated uncharacteristic largesse by booking him in business class so that by the time they finally touched down in Fortune City, he was three scotches and a couple of Chardonnays past caring. He caught a cab to the hotel, where a message from Agent Bryerson awaited. “He requested you call when you get in,” the woman at the front desk politely informed him.
Marshall headed up to his room, unpacked, ordered a surprisingly good bison burger from room service, and then, after checking in with Allison and assuring her that, yes, he was being careful and that, no, he hadn’t forgotten to pack his shaving gel (he actually had but didn’t want to admit it because she’d made a point of reminding him twice before he left), he decided to walk the five blocks, through the old neighborhood, to Vinny’s Tavern, picking up some shaving gel along the way.
The place was still there, right next door to a nail salon that had once been a wig shop and another wig shop before that. And it hadn’t changed much in eight years, still boasting its original artwork: boxing prints, a stuffed moose head, and the wall-mounted samurai sword bequeathed to Vinny by one-time regular Wakizashi who, tragically, lost his life, not in honorable battle but under the wheels of the crosstown 364 bus. The establishment’s venerable owner, however, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a paunchy fellow with a salt-and-pepper walrus mustache ambled over to Marshall’s table and greeted him with a raspy “What’ll you have?”
“Draft. Whatever’s on tap. Hey, Vinny around?”<
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Walrus fixed him with a pitying look, the sort you might give a child who’d just buried his pet frog. “No, Vinny ain’t around. Vinny’s dead.”
It was devastating news and, in the back of his mind, a small, irrational part of Marshall claimed a Heisenbergesque responsibility. If he hadn’t come back, Vinny would still be alive and well and just as he’d left him, serving up drinks to the likes of Demolition, The Blue Basilisk, and Damian Fortune. “What happened to him?”
“The Purple Lamprey happened to him. Vinny tried to break up a fight between him and Ray Mephistopheles, ended up catching a neuro-blast for his troubles. Three days later, they took him off life support. I bought the place from Francine, his widow, a couple of years back. Kept the name outta respect, y’know?” Walrus looked him over, trying to place the face. “You once a regular?”
“Once,” conceded Marshall, wishing he could get that drink.
“What’d you go by?”
He hesitated, reluctant to say, as though doing so would bring it all back. But the fact was he’d brought it all back the second he’d stepped off that plane. “Downfall,” Marshall told him.
A couple of seconds of careful consideration, and then Walrus’s face lit up. “Shit, yeah. I remember you. You used to run with Princess Arcana and The Plague Zombies. What happened to you?”
“Prison. Prison happened to me. Hey, can I get that drink now?”
“Sure, sure,” chuckled an oblivious Walrus, shaking his head and ambling off. “Downfall. Shit. I’ve got to get you to sign something.”
The place was empty save for a bunch of college boys out celebrating a big sporting win and a businessman passed out in a booth at the back. A far cry from the old days when Vinny’s was “the” gathering place for the city’s underworld elite and ordinary, an egalitarian refuge from the perils and uncertainties of the cape and cowl daily grind where the law steered clear, adepts rubbed shoulders with amateurs, and all were welcome regardless of gender, social status, or planet of origin.
