by Nick Svolos
***
The ride on the southbound 405 to Wilmington took a little longer than our trip to my apartment. Early morning commuters and the occasional TV news van added their numbers to the now dwindling stream of emergency vehicles. Herculene reached into a pocket in the back of the seat in front of her and pulled out a little remote. She activated a small television and pulled up a video feed from one of the local television channels so we could watch the coverage. The reporter was broadcasting from outside the refinery and doing the best she could, but it was clear she was dealing with limited information.
Preliminary numbers were starting to come in. According to the reporter, somewhere around one hundred people were working at the refinery last night. The death toll was currently at seven, and another forty were suffering from severe injuries. Twelve people were still unaccounted for. The refinery itself was expected to be a total loss. The overnight evaporation of somewhere around 135,000 barrels of refining capacity was already sending a mild panic through the financial markets, and the various insurance companies that covered the plant’s assets were likely to have a very bad quarter.
The broadcast switched back and forth between the reporter, the anchor desk, a helicopter hovering at a safe distance above the refinery and some of my stills of the fight. In the lower right corner, the superimposed attribution credited the Beacon with yours truly as the photographer.
“Hey, look at that,” Herculene laughed, “You’re famous.”
The news broadcast relied heavily on my report and photos, meaning I was the only reporter on the scene last night. Apparently, Livia put my piece out on the AP wire. Standard practice, it was quite a scoop, after all. I’d soon be getting a lot of calls, though. Most would be from news organizations, looking for quotes and interviews, which would be wonderful if I had time to deal with them. It wouldn’t hurt to promote the Beacon, and my career would probably get a shot in the arm, too. On the other hand, some of those calls would be coming from law enforcement, wondering, like Ultiman, how I knew where to be last night. They wouldn’t take my refusal to give up my source with anything approaching the grace the Angel leader had shown. If they got hold of me, I could expect to spend most of the day in an interrogation room.
“Yeah, lucky me,” I groaned.
Herculene regarded me with curiosity for a moment, pondering my reaction. It only took her a second to work it through, “Oh. Notoriety will be a problem, won’t it?”
“Yeah.” I leaned back in the leather seat. “We’re going to have to move quick and stay ahead of the cops on this one.”
“I’m sure The Angels can pull some strings,” she offered.
I shook my head. “If you do that, this investigation is blown. Word will get around that I’m working with you guys, and the wrong people will put two and two together. The people I’m going to need to talk to will clam up. Thanks for the offer, but let’s keep that card up our sleeve for now.”
“Okay, so what’s the plan?”
“I had a video camera set up last night. Once Phoenix Fire showed up, I put it on her and just let it run. I’m hoping there might be something on it to confirm Ultiman’s version of her death. It’s the only record we have of what really happened. I think he’s got it right, but it’s best to verify things. I’m pretty sure it was blown off the roof, so I figure we should get my car and go over there. See if we can find it.”
She nodded, “Simple enough. What do you want to do if the cops are there?”
I didn’t have a good answer for that. “Not really sure. I don’t spend a lot of time on the lam. I guess we wing it.”
I didn’t say it, but at some point I’d have to give my lovely Angel bodyguard the slip, and I’d need to have my own car for that. I felt bad about ditching her, she was very pleasant to have around, but eventually I’d have to track down my contact. I had an idea of where he’d be, but he wasn’t the sort who’d appreciate an opportunity to meet one of The Angels. To get to him, I’d have to go solo.
My phone began to ring. “And so it begins,” I muttered as I answered the call with a surly “Conway.” The caller was an editor at the Associated Press, wanting to verify some information. I gave him what I could without exposing anything sensitive, told him that the story was still developing and ended the call as quickly as I could. I then called Livia and explained that I was running down a lead and would check in soon. I also told her that I was going to have to keep a low profile for a day or so. She agreed and told me she’d pass this along to the day shift when they came in. I turned my phone off.
Traffic started to back up as we neared the interchange with the 110. The driver knew his business, though, and got off the freeway in Carson and took us the rest of the way to my car via surface streets.
My car is an old Ford Super Deluxe wood-paneled station wagon. Dark burgundy paint adorned the metal surfaces of the roof, hood and fenders. The doors and rear were made of maple, that I had lavishly lacquered myself. The chrome bumpers gleamed in the light cast by the Lincoln’s headlamps. The tires were classic white sidewalls, and were nearing the end of their life. I’d have to replace them in the next few months, and with the financial hit I was expecting from the broken cameras, that was likely to be an issue. It ran like a dream, though. Every inch of that car, from bumper to bumper, was burned into my very soul. It’s the only car I have ever owned, and with any luck, ever would.
“Is this it, Mr. Conway?” said the driver.
“Yeah, that’s my baby,” I smiled proudly. I started to get out of the car, and was stopped by Herculene’s hand on my arm.
“Reuben, you can’t drive around in that thing. How are you going to stay under the cops’ radar? When you said we’d take your car, I was thinking of something nondescript. This pretty much screams, ‘Hello, I’m Reuben Conway, ask me about my adventure at the refinery last night.’”
The realization struck me. She was right, and any policeman looking for me probably already had a description of my car. She turned to the driver, “Ben, do you think we can do a swap? We take this car and you drive the woody back to the Tower? Park it in the secure lot, too.”
Ben looked to be in his mid to late twenties, black, clean-shaven and with close-cropped hair. He grinned through the rearview mirror, “It’d be a pleasure, Ma’am. Mr. Conway, do you mind?”
I swallowed and reluctantly handed him my car keys. “Be careful with her.” He left the sedan, hopped into my car and started it up. It awoke with a throaty growl and settled into a soft, smooth purr. Ben waved a quick salute with a happy smile, put the old Ford in gear and glided off into the humid pre-dawn gloom.
***
After a quick game of Rock-Paper-Scissors, I won the right to drive the sleek Town Car. It handled well for a car of its size, and I enjoyed driving it. As we made the trip to the office building from which my part in this little adventure had begun, Herculene asked, “So, how does a guy who can’t afford a decent apartment come by a car like that woody?”
She had found the chink in my armor. Well, one of them. I love talking about my ride. “My dad’s a mechanic. Specializes in restoring old cars. I spent most of my time growing up helping him in his shop. Learned the business from the ground up. Eventually I wanted a car of my own. My old man’s not the type to just buy a kid a car. I’d have to earn it. So, I started working at the Beacon when I was fifteen and saved up my money. Found that old 1940 woody in the classifieds and fell in love. I bought it on my sixteenth birthday, right after I got my driver’s license. It was a mess, but it ran, and I knew how to fix it up. After that, pretty much every penny I made, and all my free time, was put into that car. My dad helped a lot, of course.”
She smiled approvingly, “You do good work. That car’s amazing.”
Ah, she knew the way to my heart: compliment my car. “When we get through with this mess, let me know if you’d like a closer look. I love showing her off. Maybe even take her out for a spin.”
She blushed a bit, smiled a
nd affected a southern drawl, “Why, Mr. Conway, I do declare! Did you just ask me out?”
To tell the truth, I don’t know where my last sentence came from. I’m not in the habit of being particularly forward with women, especially super women whom I’d known for less than seven hours. Hell, to be honest, I’m freaking awkward. There was something about her, though. Aside from being just flat-out gorgeous, she had a way about her. She was easy to talk to. I realized I was starting to like her. Maybe asking her out wasn’t such a bad idea after all. My stomach logged in to Amazon and ordered a couple of dozen butterflies. I decided to roll with it and grinned, “When I ask you out, you won’t need to ask that question.” I mildly emphasized the word “when”. “Anyhow, do warrior goddesses even date mortals?”
She laughed. “When you ask one, you’ll find out.”
I found myself grinning at her answer, but forced some professionalism back into my attitude as we neared our destination. The refinery-facing windows on several of the top floors of the building were all broken and maintenance trucks were already on the scene, assessing the damage. There were no cops in sight, so I parked on the street beside the building.
Herculene volunteered to search the roof while I scouted the area behind the building where the falling camera would have most likely landed. I watched her leap from the ground to the top of the tower in a single jump. Amazing. I work around these people all the time, and I still find myself thrilled by the things they can do. I’m such a fanboy.
I directed myself back to the task at hand. Behind the building was a loading dock for deliveries, a short, wide alley and a three-story parking structure, connected by a walkway to the main building on the roof top parking level. Beyond that was a chain link fence dividing the property from some kind of warehouse or something. I made a guess that my best bet would be to check the top of the parking structure first. The blast had enough force to knock me a good ten or fifteen feet into the satellite dish, but had also torn the AC unit off the roof, which had to have weighed several tons. I walked to the parking structure and started making my way up the stairs. As I climbed, I tried to remember my high school physics classes to calculate the force of the blast, the weight of the camera and how far such an object might fly. I gave up as I remembered I had received a C in that class. I made a mental note to smack the next kid I heard say “Why do I gotta learn this? I’m never going to use it!”
As it was, I got lucky. As I climbed the final flight of stairs, my foot came down on something with a crunch. I turned my phone back on and activated the flashlight. My video camera lay strewn in various heaps of disassembly on the steps. It had apparently hit the top of the parking structure and bounced into the stairwell. I gathered up pieces as I continued up the stairs, stuffing them into the sling holding my left arm. Who knew an injury could be so useful? Near the top, I found the twisted remains of the tripod and the rest of the camera. Emerging onto the top level of the structure with an armload of ruined camera parts, I walked over to a trashcan, set my load down beside it and started rummaging through the bin. After a few false starts, I found a reasonably clean and intact plastic grocery bag. My phone rang, and I cursed silently, I had forgotten to turn it off after using the flashlight. I checked the number. I didn’t recognize it, so I sent the call to voicemail and turned it off.
I knelt and started rummaging through the wreckage of my camera, looking for the piece that housed the memory card and placing the rest into the bag as I worked. A loud wrenching sound, like tearing metal filled the air and I looked up in time to see the remains of the wrecked satellite dish sail from the office building’s rooftop to crash on the roof of the neighboring warehouse. Moments later, Herculene followed it in a single, powerful leap.
I just knelt there, gaping, with no idea what was going on. Then the sounds of shouts and running, booted feet came to me from below. That got me moving. I got up and ran to the edge of the parking structure. Looking down, I saw a police squad car parked in the loading area. It must have arrived while I was looking for the camera. I didn’t see the cops, but I could hear them. It sounded like they were coming up the garage’s stairwell.
Crap. It was well past time to leave. I ran back to the camera debris and scooped the rest of the pieces into the bag. Looking around for another way off the roof, I saw another stairwell in the opposite corner of the structure. I stuffed the bag into my sling and sprinted for it, sneakers slapping on the hard surface. Something was crashing around on the roof of the warehouse, followed by something that sounded like a rocket, but I ignored it. The building was taller than the parking structure, so I couldn’t see what was going on up there anyway. I just kept heading for the stairwell and hurled myself down the stairs just as the cops emerged onto the roof. I heard a commanding male voice shout, “Freeze,” but that only motivated me to keep plunging down the steps, recklessly taking them two at a time.
I heard one of the cops chase across the top of the structure in pursuit, and the other started down the stairwell opposite me. Dammit, they split up. They’d have me cornered in a few more seconds. I slowed my steps as I reached the second level and went into the parking area. It was deserted. I ran across the deck to the street side and looked down, wondering if I could make the jump down to the sidewalk and make a run for the Angelmobile.
The cop in the stairwell passed the second floor and continued down to the bottom. Even if I did risk the jump, he’d cut off my escape. The cop on the roof was almost to the stairwell I’d fled down. I didn’t have a lot of time.
Adrenaline surged through me, and I decided to make use of it. I ran to the opposite side, the side away from the street, looked over the low concrete wall of the garage and caught a stroke of luck. The AC unit that saved my life the night before was lying on the ground, just below me, an easy drop. Well, it would have been an easy drop if I had the use of both of my arms. It was a little harder with one arm in a sling full of camera bits. Still, I managed to negotiate my way over the wall, dropping almost silently onto the wreckage and then down to the ground.
I ducked and peered around the corner. On the other side of the structure, I saw the policemen conferring with each other, trying to figure out where their quarry had gone. As I watched, I saw Herculene drop to the ground next to them, drawing their attention.
That was the break I was looking for. I broke from cover and ran as fast and low as I could for the office building. I made it to the alley and the loading docks, and ducked down beside the squad car.
I could hear Herculene talking with the officers. “Yeah, there was a guy with a rifle on the warehouse. I thought he was aiming for you guys.”
“More likely he was after the perp on the roof. Did you see anyone over here?” one of the cops said.
“No, officer. Are you sure we’re talking...wait! Did you hear that?”
Both cops tensed and readied their weapons. “Where?” one of them said.
“Up there! On the roof,” Herculene said, “Here. Let me help you get up there.” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed them both around the waist and leaped to the parking structure’s roof over the cops’ protests.
I chuckled and shook my head. That girl was something else. Fumbling in my pocket for the keys, I ran for the Lincoln. I opened the door and as I was getting in one of the cops shouted, “No, he’s down there! Freeze!”
I slammed the driver’s side door shut as Herculene exclaimed, “Oh no! He’s stealing my car!”
Hoping the Angelmobile was bulletproof, I started the engine and pulled the car around the corner just as Herculene landed beside it. She was laughing as she climbed in. As her door closed, I pushed down on the accelerator and took off down the street.
Herculene struggled and finally got her laughter under control. Well, “under control” might have been an overstatement. Her face was turned towards me, reddened from the effort to stifle another outburst. I looked at her and lost it, completely cracking up, which caused her to lose control and double o
ver in another spasm of laughter. I had to pull the car over to the side to avoid plowing into something.
It took a minute or so for us to regain control. I wiped a tear from my eye and observed, “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
She leaned back in the passenger seat and sighed, “Yes. Yes I did. My name’s Herculene, and I’m a prankoholic.”
“Hi, Herculene,” I responded in mock support-group fashion. “So, you want to tell me what happened back there?”
“Right, back to business. There was a guy on that warehouse with a rifle. Looked like he was drawing a bead on you. He was quick, too. Dodged the antenna and took off on a jetpack with wings. I tried chasing him, but I lost him.” She looked at me, “Reuben, is there something going on that I don’t know about? Why’s this guy trying to kill you?”
My blood chilled at the news. I shook my head. “No idea. If he was waiting there for me, it’s gotta have something to do with the refinery. Maybe he knew about the camera and figured I’d come back for it.”
She sighed, “That’s as good a theory as any, I guess.”
I noticed spinning red lights on the road behind us. I’d forgotten about the cops. I put the car in gear and floored the gas pedal. “We’ll have to take that up later. Looks like someone’s holding a grudge.”
Herculene’s head spun around to look at the squad car behind us. “Crap! Think you can lose them?”
“I can sure try. I grew up watching The Dukes of Hazzard,” I answered. “Keep an eye out for a crick to jump over. That usually works.”
Herculene frowned, “Let’s try an alternative. Just hold her steady, and for God’s sake, don’t panic.” She pressed the dashboard GPS screen and it popped open. She put her finger over a button that had an upward-pointing arrow embossed on it. “Them Duke boys never had nuthin’ like this,” she drawled.
She pressed the button, and my stomach lurched as the Angelmobile rose into the air.
