by Linda Mooney
"Why?" she sobbed. "Why did it have to be you, you stupid jerk! Why?"
Why, out of all the people in the world, why did my heart decide that you would be the only man I would love?
Dropping to her elbows on the sink's rim, she continued to cry, letting herself wail as loudly as she wanted since there was no one to hear her. No one to come to comfort her. No one who was allowed to intrude upon her private life. Even if they did, she made sure they didn't hang around for long.
For years, she'd batted away any man or woman who showed interest in getting to know her better, or more intimately, because she simply didn't feel the same about them. By the time she reached her twenty-fifth birthday, she'd come to the conclusion that she was meant to be a loner in every sense of the word. And in some ways she didn't mind. She liked her privacy. She liked being able to practice her special little idiosyncrasies without anyone berating her for the messes she made. Or the hours she kept that didn't match what the average Joe was forced to keep.
Yet, she hungered to belong to someone. To find that one person who wouldn't mind the fact that she had an above genius intelligence, and a hyperactive streak to create things.
On those occasions when the nights got too lonely, she'd go down to Magnus and scout out the walking erections. Eventually, one of them would pick her up, and they'd either go to his place, or to a local motel, and get their physical fill of each other. Never again to hook up, although several tried.
No one interested her in the slightest...until that day when she turned on the TV just to break the unnerving silence in the place, and saw a man. A superhero matching every definition in the book. A man with a body chiseled from a sculptor's block of marble, and an ability to fuse a broken train rail with his bare hands.
And she'd asked herself how the hell had she missed seeing him before?
Okay. So the guy looked buff. Maybe that skintight unitard he wore was more padding than actual brawn, but there was no denying the man managed to provoke feelings in her she'd never dealt with before.
In the days that followed, she'd watched every news program regarding this man who called himself Quazar. With a Z. She scanned the YouTube videos catching the man in action. Although he never explained how he got his power, or why he was able to do the things he did, listening to him answer questions from the police and reporters and fans who managed to briefly corral him for an autograph verified one fact. As she'd suspected, this was no ordinary guy when it came to mentality. He may not be as smart as she was, but neither was he like those self-absorbed dicks she knew too well.
The more she watched, the more she noticed how his powers seemed to equate those of a quasar from space. Hence, she assumed, his moniker. Of course, since he wore a mask that covered all of his face except for his nostrils, mouth, and chin, it was impossible to tell who he might be in real life. Her inability to surmise his true appearance may have stumped her, but it didn't diminish her increasingly growing interest in him.
An interest that somehow grew into an obsession.
An obsession that evolved into something deeper. Infatuation? A crush? Puppy love? She'd weighed all the options, with only one coming out the sure-fire winner.
Unrequited love.
And thus began her little devil-may-care sprees to garner his attention, in the hope it might lead to something else.
"Fat lot of good that's been," she muttered, back in control. Washing off her face, she took one more gander at her puffy red eyes and shrugged. "So who's going to notice?" she asked the image in the mirror. "It's not like you're expecting any visitors."
Trudging back into the living area, she checked the fridge again, settling on the last container of strawberry yogurt. If she was lucky, there might be a dividend check sitting in her bank account, but right now she was too tired to log on to her computer to see.
Grabbing a spoon from the drain board, she went over to the couch and picked up the TV remote, tuning into the news.
"— the city crews are going to be faced with a major clean-up come morning."
Sherandar smiled as she licked the inner side of the foil lid. Yeah, those little snot spiders she'd created left a pretty sticky residue. There was video of their aftermath, including several large patches of the tar-like substance people were finding out was hard to get off shoes and fingers, and anything else they used to try and scrape off the goo.
"Nice work on those, Sher. Memo to self. Use them again." But not too soon. It was never a good move to repeat one's self within a short amount of time, and thus gain a reputation, or have him think she was establishing a pattern of behavior. Better to keep Quazar guessing as to what she'd throw at him next.
As she always concurred, a girl couldn't become too predictable, or else the guys could get the mistaken notion they were the Alpha.
"This just in," the female reporter announced after reading a note that had been handed to her. "Preliminary reports say the power grid appears to have been deliberately compromised. Traces of an explosive material may have been found at two of the power plants, but authorities are not saying for certain. Whether or not the same material will be found at the other power plants remains to be seen."
Sherandar froze, spoon inside her mouth. An explosive material?
"Mark the date, Sherandar. You'll answer for this mess."
"You thought I was responsible for the blackout!" she mumbled around a mouthful of yogurt. "How could you?"
But she understood why he would think her capable of such a thing. And Lord knew she'd debated with herself about doing just that kind of dirty deed. But not using an explosive! Dear God, not when she went to such great lengths to make sure people didn't get hurt from any of her toys!
And here, all this time, she'd thought the blackout was one of those unavoidable accidents that just happened to coincide with her next planned attack on the Q man.
She leaned forward to catch the last of what the newswoman had to say. "So the police will make a statement at one tomorrow?" she repeated, and took a quick glance at the wall clock nearby. "Make that one o'clock later today. Hmm. Maybe I should be there to see if I can't scrounge up a bit more information. After all, Sherandar has a reputation to uphold. Can't let someone with a dark streak pull that kind of shit and expect me to take the blame for it."
Hot anger replaced the despondency she'd been wallowing in, and she quickly finished her yogurt. Following a quick shower, she plugged in her vibrator and allowed herself to envision a hard fuck with the man who wore a midnight blue costume with a pattern of stars across his chest before she managed to fall asleep.
But in the darkest hour of the night, when she awoke because the aching lump in the middle of her chest had yet to ease up, she went up the short flight of steps to the roof and watched the moon make its way across the heavens. Remaining there until her weariness became impossible to ignore, and forced her to return to her twin size bed until morning.
Chapter Four
Clues
"Why not, Paul? Why are you fighting me on this? Oh, come on! Just think of the revenue!"
"Dee, no, and I'm staying firm on this," Paul argued.
He heard his agent huff her indignity. "Paul, just think about it, okay? Promise me you'll at least consider it? Paul! Your own TV show! You already have two major networks fighting over the rights!"
"Deidre." He used that tone of voice she would recognize as his I'm-not-budging-an-inch ultimatum.
"Give me one reason. Just one good reason!" she demanded, her anger evident.
"I can give you three. First, doing my own show would seriously cut into my time. I rather like the freedom to come and go as I wish. Second, I'm working on that new cookbook—"
"How's that going, by the way?" Dee asked.
"Good. It's going good."
"Excellent. Any idea when it might be finished? I've had to field a couple of anxious phone calls from the publisher."
"I don't know, Dee. I'm debating on how many recipes to include in t
his one."
"Speaking of, did you know The Decadent Diner Does Desserts just went into its third print run? And the book's only been out a little over a year!"
Paul heard her ecstatic squeal. She sounded like a little girl who'd won a lifetime supply of cotton candy. But, to be honest, he got a personal thrill from hearing the news.
"That's great, Dee. It'll keep those royalty checks coming in for the both of us."
Suddenly, the woman was all business again. "All right. You gave me two reasons. What's the third one?"
I need to solve the mystery surrounding those sabotaged power plants, he thought to himself. "Third, I'm still doing those reports for the paper."
"Paul, you do those on a blog. If you worked this TV show, you'd have enough down time between set-ups to do that," the woman argued.
"True, but when would I have the time to hit the restaurants and diners? You know I like to check out the morning and lunch bunches. See how long it takes for place to serve me when they're jammed with customers. You read my blog. I'm not just about scoping out the late night dinner crowds."
There was a moment of silence as Dee let that filter through. Paul started to say more when his phone bleeped, indicating he had a text. He quickly scanned the message.
Are u watching this? It was from Cheyenne.
He glanced at the clock on the microwave. 1:06. The news conference.
Hurrying into the living room, he reached for the remote. "Hey, Dee, I need to go. Talk to you later, okay?"
"Promise me you'll think about it!" the woman half-begged.
"I'll talk to you later,'' he agreed, and hung up.
Bernie Matheson, the official spokesperson for the HPD, was at the bank of microphones, reading a statement. "—take questions at this time."
"Damn. I missed the pertinent stuff," Paul chastised himself. But he wasn't worried. Cheyenne would fill him in on what he needed to know.
"Is it possible a terrorist organization could be behind this?"
"We are looking into every possibility," Matheson responded, pointing to another reporter off-camera.
"Do you believe this is the work of Sherandar?"
Paul smirked, hearing his sister's voice.
The spokesperson gripped the podium. "Anything is likely," he answered. "We haven't ruled out anything or anyone, as yet."
"Have you called on Quazar to aide you in this investigation?" Cheyenne hurried to add.
This time Matheson shook his head. "No, but we would very much appreciate his help."
"Which means the cops have nothing," Paul translated.
Muting the TV, he sent a text back. What did I miss?
On the screen, Matheson looked to be wrapping up the news conference. Paul un-muted the broadcast just as the cameraman turned his lens on Cheyenne.
"It seems we have more questions than answers at this point," she remarked. "Quazar, if you're listening, how about offering your services to the police? This is Cheyenne Cox for Channel Two Eyewitness News."
The TV station went directly back to the anchorman, but not before Paul caught a glimpse of someone in the background, walking past his sister. Hitting the satellite's rewind button, he backed up one frame at a time until he could see the semi-blurry figure again.
It was a woman, her thick dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She was wearing sunglasses as she walked by, her head down as if she was deep in thought, but that wasn't what had gotten his attention. It was the blue jean jacket that sparked his interest.
"Son of a bitch. She was there." Which begged the question, Why?
"The police all but ruled you out as the cause, Sherandar. So why were you there? Is it because you really aren't responsible for the blackout? But because there was the likelihood you'd be blamed for it, you want to find out as much as I do about who the real culprit is?"
His phone bleeped again. Cheyenne's reply was to the point. Get ur ass over here! Chuckling, he quickly went downstairs to get dressed.
It took him less than two minutes to reach the Main Street station. By that time, most of the TV vans were gone, as well as the crowd. Striding into the building, Quazar stopped at the front desk where the clerk blanched in surprise to see him.
"Quazar! Can I help you?"
"I understand the police are looking for me," he answered stoically, then gave the cute redhead a wink. She blushed, nodding.
"Yes, sir. Let me call Captain War—"
"Never mind, Officer Brighton. I was expecting him." Smiling, Captain Janet Warkowski stuck out a hand. "Glad you accepted our invitation," she told him as they shook. Gesturing for him to follow, she silently led the way into the adjoining hallway and two doors down to her office. Once inside, she waved at a chair. "Take a seat."
Quazar obliged, crossing his booted feet at the ankles and lacing his fingers together over his abdomen. "Fill me in," he requested.
Warkowski gave him a morose grin. "For the most part, we got diddly."
"For the most part? Other than the C-4?"
She lifted an eyebrow. "How did you... Never mind. I should know better. Here." Placing her fingertips on a folder on her desk, she shoved it toward him. Quazar picked it up and opened it to read the scant contents. When he was done, he glanced up at her.
"Yeah, that's all of it," she replied before he could ask. "No prints. No clues. No possible leads. Nothing."
"Any idea how the stuff was triggered?"
"We're still combing the area, but so far we haven't been able to find anything resembling a timer or trigger. Mac's come up empty, too."
He tossed the folder back onto the desk. "How can I help, other than keeping an eye out for anything suspicious?"
"Well, first of all, I'd like to eliminate the most probable suspects."
"You mean Sherandar."
The woman paused to smile. "Yes, Sherandar."
He liked Captain Warkowski. She had worked her way up the ranks through sheer hard luck. She was tough but fair, and extremely capable. Her one flaw, however, was her heart. Sometimes the job got to her. Sometimes she felt compassion for a particular person or victim. But on the whole, she had a sharp mind and a sharper wit. And she loved Italian food. He'd seen her several times coming or going from the Little Italy Restaurant when he was on patrol.
Quazar watched as the captain went over to the far wall where a whiteboard displayed notes and pictures of the crime scenes, including one very prominent photo of a certain dark-haired villainess.
"Janet, I don't believe Sherandar is behind this."
The captain froze where she stood. "Why not?"
"Why not?" That seems to be the catch phrase of the day, he silently mused.
"Because last night when I confronted her, she seemed genuinely perplexed when I accused her of that very thing. Plus, explosives aren't her standard modus operandi. She's more of an Erector Set kind of girl."
Warkowski slowly nodded. "Regardless, I'm not crossing her off our list until we can prove otherwise."
Quazar agreed. It was the logical thing to do.
"All right. Here's what we have," she commented, pointing to the wall, then turned to face him. "Let's say we eliminate Sherandar from our short list. What's left? The C-4 could have come from anywhere."
Getting to his feet, he sauntered over to examine the photos. One in particular caught his attention. It was a close-up of a fried electrical box. He pointed to it. "Don't you find this odd?"
"Odd how?" She leaned closer to stare at the picture.
"The perp had C-4. That's a known. We also know that he or she had enough of the stuff to do some major damage. Then why would he use so little of it to blow just a few terminals? He'd know the city would get the power back on within a few hours. Why not take down the whole power grid, and keep us in the black for the next month, or longer?"
Warkowski tapped a forefinger to her lips as she mulled over it. "Are you thinking this whole thing was a diversion?"
"That, or maybe a portent of things to come."
/>
"You're talking a 'first strike' approach, aren't you? Testing our strengths. Checking for vulnerabilities." Her face hardened. "You suspect more attacks like these will occur, like we do."
"I think we'll see more, yes. And they'll escalate. Each one more ruthless than the last. There could be loss of life."
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "Guess that's my cue to have the S.W.A.T. team on standby. Anything else you care to add, Quazar?"
"For now? No."
"All right. What's the best way to reach you if we get wind of anything about to come down?"
Quazar hesitated. He'd never given the police, or any law enforcement official, his real name or identity. Nor did he hand over a phone number where he could be contacted. His own cell phone remained at home whenever he had to make an appearance in his super persona, to prevent any accidental exposure.
"Contact the news media," he told her. "I keep an eye on the broadcasts." It was not an answer he knew she'd like, but she had no choice.
"Very well. We'll continue our investigating on our end. Any idea what you'll be doing?"
"Yeah. I have one. I just hope it pans out," he cryptically answered. Giving the woman a little salute, he left the office and the building.
Once outside, he took a deep breath of air. A bank of low hanging gray clouds filled the sky, bringing with them the scent of ozone. Quazar wondered how much rain they'd get. Undeterred, he lifted into the air, keeping between the coming storm and the tops of the buildings. Somewhere in this mass of humanity was Sherandar, and by her presence at the news conference, he suspected she was anxious to clear her name.
"Where are you, woman? We need to talk." He scanned the ground for any glimpse of a blue jean jacket. "I have a proposition for you that I think you'll go for."
Remembering the news conference, and knowing approximately where Cheyenne had been standing during the newscast, Sherandar had walked east. Quazar banked, looped back to the police station, then slowly floated in the direction the woman had taken, hoping for a clue.
He crossed Eighth Avenue and its multitude of shops, but dismissed them. The woman didn't seem the type to attend a media get-together, then go shopping afterwards. "You're more the type who would hurry back to your workshop, or wherever it is that you come up with all those gadgets."
