by Mark Gardner
Silas sat at a picnic table with an umbrella beside an aluminum carport, and shoved his hot dog into his gaping maw. His dark eyes flickered along the line of patrons. The stand was a regular fixture in front of the lumberyard on Sixth Street. Some people appreciated the wit of Pat, the proprietor. Magnets adhered to the metal sides of the trailer proclaiming, “We cheat the other guy and pass the savings on to you,” and “Best hot dogs in this parking lot.” There was even a plaster dachshund nestled in a hot dog bun with ketchup and mustard on top. Others came for the premium ingredients that Pat used, or the friendly smile from a man who prided himself in offering a quick, tasty meal for less than a fiver. A few years ago, the city had even tried to make Pat pay a ridiculous fee on top of his business license by passing an ordinance. Their reasoning was that too many food carts and trucks were hurting the ambiance of the city. The outcry from Pat’s regulars and a local AM radio station just down the street put an end to that particular piece of legislation.
Anne watched Pat pull a bottle of mustard out of a cooler and draw two straight lines on her monster dog, followed by a zigzag line of ketchup. He produced a pair of tongs and dished out onions, tomatoes, and neon green relish onto her monster dog.
“Celery salt, and pepper?” Pat asked, the hot dog resting in an aluminum foil embrace. A boom box played hard rock softly in the background.
Anne tilted her head and rolled her eyes at Pat. “Oh, Pat, you incorrigible tease, you know what I like.”
Pat grinned and dusted the spices on her hot dog before carefully folding the aluminum foil and placing the package neatly on the table in front of him.
Anne opened her coat and reached into her red clutch. She offered Pat a five-dollar note.
“Meal deal?” Pat asked.
Anne smiled and nodded.
Pat stepped around the corner, and the telltale sound of a cash register sounded over the boom box. He held up a pair of quarters, but Anne waved him off and lifted the door to the soda bin and rummaged around to find the can she wanted. She examined a selection of chips and cookies behind a plastic sliding door, eventually selecting a bag of name-brand corn chips.
“How exactly do you know Joaquin?” Silas asked after Anne sat at the picnic table across from him.
Anne rolled her eyes and bit into the hot dog. The strong smell tickled her nose.
“Come on now. Sharing is caring.”
Anne turned to look at Silas. His lips quirked hinting at a smile. He already knew.
“I tried to recruit him a while back. He was too stubborn, then shit happened, and Joaquin disappeared.” She emphasized the last word by cracking the pull-tab on her soda.
“Such an unsatisfactory story, Anne and I’ve heard that you are quite the storyteller. Or was he not that memorable of an acquaintance? Were you not his type?”
The joke made Anne grit her teeth, but Globe rang again saving her the effort to flip off Silas. She was ready to tell Globe to fuck off politely as well because she was doing all she could to locate Joaquin, but his voice cut through her like a knife, quick and cold.
“Anne, sweetheart. Are you enjoying your playtime with Silas? Listen... I have some news that might cheer you up.” The pause in his voice was long, and Anne shifted in her seat. She could just catch his breathing from the other end of the line—fast, heavy, like he’d been panting. He was furious and trying to steady himself. “Batiste called earlier spoiling my already shit day with news that some hateful SPD whore stole the Jensen case and passed it to Massey.” His laugh was brisk, raspy. “Now comes the fun part, are you ready? I told Batiste to deal with that and eliminate the little problem, but it turned out our dear detective had plans to take the file somewhere else, so naturally, I had Batiste follow up on that. Well—and this is the punch line dear—it turned out some young boy was running the old detective’s errands. And not just any ordinary boy. Can you guess who it was?”
Anne sighed. “I have no idea, Jacob. Who was it?”
“Think a little harder!” The shrill yell filled Anne’s ear, and she pulled the phone away for a moment. She could feel Silas watching her. He wasn’t eating anymore.
“I can hear you’re eager to tell me yourself, so spill it out,” she cooed at Globe.
“IT WAS JOAQUIN!” The laughing was not far from maniacal, but it was a forced one, and it didn’t entertain her or Globe who was splitting his lungs out of fury. Silas hovered above Anne, eager to hear more.
“All along he’s been safely under Frank Massey’s wing. How did we not think to look there? What do you say, Anne? You were acquainted with Massey, were you not?”
“I don’t know. Too obvious?”
“Don’t be coy with me, Anne. I’m sending you the address where Joaquin went. Apparently there’s been a fire and one of Batiste’s men barely made it out alive. We have Sindi to thank for that. She managed to nearly burn Joaquin alive. Find him, would you? I’m sure I’ve narrowed his location down.”
“Do you want me to clean your other mess or will that be a PR, propaganda stunt too?”
The line went dead as soon as she said that and seconds later Silas’s phone buzzed. Anne tutted at that. Globe didn’t trust her completely. She found it equally amusing and annoying. Nonetheless, the call ruined her hot dog heaven.
Joaquin’s eyes scanned the street. He knew if Globe’s men found him, it would be his end. The way that Anne and Frank talked about the man, he was a genocidal maniac. A well-connected genocidal maniac. The FBI was in Globe’s pocket. They were his puppet army. The local police wouldn’t trust a young black man with a rap sheet as impressive as his. His only ally, Detective Frank Massey, seemed to only trust him with unimportant tasks. He only clutched the package to his chest because everything turned to shit today. Even if he were to get the proof to someone outside of Globe’s influence, he doubted that they’d listen to him.
His enemies were everywhere. It was a hopeless situation. But, he reminded himself, Andy’s good people.
Betty’s eyes softened when she looked at him. She didn’t see a thug; a carjacker; a purse-snatcher. She seemed to see beyond his past. She saw the same future that Peter saw. Joaquin sighed, remembering the firefight at the cabin in the Canadian wilderness. He cursed himself for running away from the team of mercenaries that took down Peter and Kristof. He flinched as the crack of a handgun echoed in his memory.
Globe’s men took Peter alive. Anne told them as much. Frank and Andy worked to expose Globe for the villain that he was. Joaquin could only hope that everything would turn out the way Frank and Anne planned. But still, he would never forget her cackle and the blood smeared across her face as Anne murdered the Seventh Street Kings. He wondered if she was any better than Globe.
Joaquin took a deep breath and stepped off the curb. He would see his task completed. He had hope that some higher power would set things right. Joaquin allowed a smarmy grin. And if that power decided not to…well then, Joaquin would do his damnedest to do it instead. He squared his shoulders and walked confidently onto the seedy Seattle street. He had hope in the face of hopelessness. He had righteousness in the face of wickedness. He had to stop Globe at any cost.
He wondered if that was enough to make him a hero.
“It was somewhere near Whidbey Island, but I don’t know where. I don’t know if Joaquin even went there. Shit, Detective, it was my idea. After we found out Miles Jensen might be innocent, I suggested to Joaquin that we go and search for more proof. I told him it would be best we don’t call you right away.”
Massey pulled the blinds aside and squinted to see the traffic. He searched for black dots with flashing blue and red lights, but there were none. The bad guys would arrive incognito. Sighing, he pulled away from the window and sat on the chair beside Andy’s bed. “It’s alright, Andy. You couldn’t have known things would go sideways so quickly.”
Andy nodded, his good eye filling with tears. “Detective, are you sure this Anne can be trusted? I know what you said about
the plan and all, but...” He blinked his eye several times to clear the moisture.
“I trust her. That’s all you need to know for now. You just focus on getting better.” Massey’s smile to Andy was sad. He dragged him into this. Andy would argue that he was involved long before Massey even understood how much the city and its people had changed. Frank, Anne, Joaquin, and Betty were the only ones who stood by his side, and they all gazed over a precipice of genocide and war. A necessary war that would prevent this insane extinction Globe was trying to unravel. Massey put a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “I hate to ask this, especially right now, but how long do you think it’ll take you to get Last Regiment back up?”
Andy’s stare was calculating, his mind on the game even when his body was beaten and burned. Torn between feeling sorry for the young man and feeling strange, Massey was frightened of how obsessed he was.
“I can call some people, get it running within a few days. It won’t be functioning at a hundred percent at first, but all the primary subjects...er, sorry—supers will be in the data with names and locations. You have a burner on you? Mine got kind of...burned.” Andy tried a cheeky grin, and Frank didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was more of a strange leer.
Massey shook his head. “Not now. Now you need rest. We can talk more about this tomorrow.” He held up a placating hand when Andy tried sitting up to protest. “Listen, Andy, there’s something else. I’m pretty confident Globe has already figured out Joaquin was in that apartment with you.”
Ignoring the pain, Andy sat up, his eyes full of alarm. “What does that mean?”
“He’s been looking for Joaquin. Anne told me. And with Joaquin in the wind, Globe’s men will try to get any information on Joaquin from you. You’re the last person who saw him. That’s why we need to get you out of here.”
Andy eased back onto the hospital bed, sighing with exasperation and resignation. “How are you going to do that?”
Right on queue, Betty walked in with a red-headed nurse.
Massey nodded at Betty and her companion with his chin. “Officer Patterson will take you to another wing and stay with you for the night. I’ll come for you in the morning.”
The nurse wheeled Andy away to the elevator. Every clunk and rattle had Andy’s eyes darting to the elevator walls and doors like a frightened animal. When they reached the floor above they stepped into an identical corridor covered by soft lights dispersing evenly across the avocado green walls. They darkened as Massey and Betty’s shadows chased Andy’s and the hospital bed. The squeak of the wheels was the only audible sound outside the gray hospital doors.
The nurse met Massey’s eyes. “At the end of this corridor, there’s an empty room. Your friend should be comfortable enough there, Detective.”
Massey thanked the nurse and gave Andy’s shoulder a squeeze before they entered the room. When the door clicked closed and he and Betty were alone, he sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.
Massey leaned against the avocado walls and met Betty’s stare. “I can’t thank you enough, Officer Patterson. You’ve been a lifesaver today and a good friend. It means a lot to me what you did. I just want you to know that.”
Betty blushed and turned her head aside, eyes pinned to the ground.
“Just don’t make it a habit, Detective.”
As Massey walked down the corridor, Betty stood sentry in the middle of the hallway, the fingers of her right hand tapping on the leather holster on her hip. He was confident that she knew the old rules didn’t apply anymore. He was sure that Betty would do what was necessary to protect Andy. It made him proud to have her on his team.
Massey descended the steps of the hospital building and dialed Anne’s burner. The call went straight to voicemail. This was nothing unusual. After all, Anne had to tread carefully with Major Globe.
Massey sighed and started to record his message. “Anne, I’m going to Harlow Island. I think our mutual friend might have gone there. I’ll explain when...” The ratcheted slide of a pistol was audible enough to make Massey pause.
He heard falling footsteps, heavy boots on cement. The static of a police radio overrode the white noise that was his city trying to slumber. The noise was a mirage replacing common sense. Their flashlights awoke the night, basking it in a cruel bluish light. It was a light that blinded him for a moment, and then he blinked, bringing the beams back into focus.
Black, glinting riot visors glared at him, hiding their eyes to prevent him from gauging their resolve. Black rifles aimed at him, ensuring no confusion at who they were after.
One of them spoke, his voice muffled by the mask. “Detective Frank Massey of the Seattle Police Department! You are under arrest for harboring a dangerous super, withholding and interfering with private information belonging to The Federal Bureau of Investigation. “
Massey dropped the phone and smashed it with his boot before kneeling on the ground with his hands behind his head. He doubted his efforts to conceal his secret communication would survive even the most cursory inspections. He hoped that Anne had the sense to dispose of her own burner.
At the entrance to the hospital, Silas pulled Anne back. “Wait. And...watch,” he told her. A scandalous wink betrayed his lust for showmanship.
He leaned against a wooden telephone pole. His eyes narrowed at the scene unfolding a few yards away. Time began to bend when he clicked his fingers, but it didn’t stop completely. It slowed down, so all surrounding movement was a prolonged explosion of colors and distorted sounds. People’s voices still carried in the space between, ricocheting and overlapping. The cacophony was as beautiful as it was horrifying.
Silas took Anne by the hand through the cluster of sight and sound and led her up the steps. She caught sight of her friend as he left the hospital. His footsteps fell lazily, the look on his face content. Anne understood what Silas had wanted to show her. The hidden observers were quiet as shadows of ten men fell upon Massey. The time bubble caused the images to jump like snapshots from an instant camera coated with a filter of high contrast and exposure. People moved like ghosts, but they were so very much real only Anne couldn’t reach out and touch, nor warn. She watched a progression of heavily-armed men glitch through Silas’s volatile world of living mannequins. One black-clad image left behind a trail of slowly fading copies. At the final stage of action the ghosts coalesced into a solid image.
She sighed, her throat parched. She thirsted for action but was forced to play her role. Silas’ display was unexpected and inconvenient, though perhaps she should have considered it was happening since Globe had been so furious on the phone. He couldn’t blame himself for neglecting obvious clues. It annoyed him to be foolish. So he took it out on Massey and put him in the spotlight of a political and federal scandal. Discredit was a tool to divert focus from more than just a rebellious detective and his motley crew of misfits and fringers. No, Anne thought, misinformation was weaponized long before today.
The resignation on Massey’s face was evident to observers outside and within Silas’ time bubble. Massey sunk to his knees. Ghost images handcuffed and carried him away in a bulletproof van. After they were gone Silas twisted time even further, completely stopping it. Even sound seemed to give up against his power. Anne wiggled her jaw back and forth, trying to clear the pressure in her ears.
Silas grinned. “Batiste actually came through with his plan! From our brief encounters, I was left with the assumption that the rotund man was all grease inside and out. I guess he has some brains in that thick head of his. Now that Massey’s acts of rebellion have been concluded, let’s interview Mister Kitz and get this whole sordid affair over with.”
Time snapped back to normal, and Anne felt the pressure behind her eyes dissipate. She looked forlornly at the spot where Massey was arrested. Globe still didn’t have Joaquin, but like wood that resisted flame, eventually the flames of genocide consumed everything.
When they arrived at the room that Andy Kitz was assigned to, they found a missing
bed and a doctor who couldn’t explain how his patient disappeared. His babbling was unbecoming but was something Anne had come to expect in her long life. From blue-collar workers trying to make it through their day, to immigrants yearning to be free, to the highest levels of the aristocracy frowning at the actions of those they deemed beneath them, when confronted with the impossible, humanity was quick to assign blame and denounce responsibility.
Silas nodded in grudging appreciation of the tactic. “Massey works fast, I’ll give him that. Do we have time to question him about where he’s hidden, Andy Kitz? Or do we just search this entire hospital?”
In the pocket of her peacoat, Anne’s fingers brushed her burner. There was a message. No doubt the waiting message was from Massey. This choice-making ordeal was starting to get on Anne’s nerves, but still, she had to play the chess game she and Massey had begun. Of greatest importance was that she had to get him out of whatever shithole he was currently in.
Silas was ignorant of the undertow of thoughts and feelings that boiled below Anne’s calm exterior. Oblivious to Anne dodging his question, Silas answered his own question. “I doubt a guy on painkillers would be very good at communication right now even if we found him.” He smiled. “Massey, however, is a different cookie. His daughter works for Globe. He’ll talk.”
All Flags Fall
Joaquin was lost. He hated to admit it to himself but sneaking around large containers with the constant splash of the bay behind him was tiresome and he hadn’t been able to find the street corner with the camera where Jensen had been spotted. Luckily for him, there weren’t other people this late in the working day and Whidbey Island was dead and dark to all. The security guard was nowhere to be seen—but there had to be one. Joaquin was cautious, watching for stretching shadows and echoing footsteps, the flashlight running up and down dark corners. He snuck around the back of the main building, a narrow and long warehouse housing a few offices and machinery. With every advancing step Joaquin found it harder to keep away the stench from himself: he couldn’t battle off the sudden inhalation and every time he tried to turn his head away and breathe a little clear air the lingering odor found a way down his pipes, filling his body with gaseous foulness mixed with seaweed and stale fish.
