No Hero

by Tom Andry

  "Bob," Khan's voice rang out over the intercom, "the police officer is on the phone for you, again."

  I sighed, "Tell him we already gave this month."

  "It's not about that. He's says he really needs your help."

  My brow furrowed. Help? With what, fundraising? The last time he had caught me on the phone, before Flamer showed up, I hadn't let him get two words out before blowing him off. "Fine, put it through." A moment later and the phone rang, "Bob Moore here."

  "Mr. Moore?" the man on the other end sounded official and smooth, as if he spent most of his time schmoozing people with his voice. He had that forced informality that people adopt when they don't want to sound too smart. "Mr. Bob Moore? PI?"

  "That's me," I replied.

  "I'm glad I finally caught you. This is Officer Kent of the Hillside Branch?" he said it like a question.

  Hillside is out in the suburbs, nowhere near me geographically or economically. People that live in Hillside spend more money on their cars than I did on my apartment.

  "Sorry to disturb you, but I have a request."

  "What's this about?" If I sounded put out and cautious, it was because that's how I felt. No good ever came out of jobs from cops.

  "Ya see, we've got a problem," the officer began. "We've got a report of a crime but no evidence."

  "Yeah, that's a problem," I replied.

  "The thing is, even our partners say they see no evidence."

  Partner was code for super. The police liked to make it sound like they were working with the supers instead of for them. I'm sure some people out there believed them. I wasn't one of them.

  "Still not seeing what this has to do with me."

  "Well, the bloke who reported the crime," I could almost hear the cop pull at his collar as he came up with the right words, "was insistent. When he wouldn't take no for an answer, I suggested he contact someone else. Someone private. Your name came up."

  "Great, thanks for the recommendation. If you're looking for a commission, I don't generally work that way."

  "Oh, I didn't make the suggestion, I never heard of ya before."

  "Huh? So, if he knows me, what's the problem?"

  "Ya see, he's afraid you won't take the case."

  "What?" Now I was really confused. "Why?"

  "Got me," the cop replied. "Said you two had a history. Said you didn't like him much."

  I started to get a sinking feeling in my stomach. Hillside. History. Crap. "He's not a doctor, is he?"

  "Hey!" the cop exclaimed. "You're pretty good!"

  Damn.

  "Now here's the thing. This guy won't shut up about this supposed crime but we can't find nothing that says there ever was any crime," the cop explained. "All I need ya to do is take his money and look into it. Anything to keep him from calling us out any more. It's been three times in the last month!"

  That was an awful lot. Crimes, in general, had taken on two flavors. Either they were so small that the supers couldn't be bothered or they were earth shattering. There was no middle ground. If the Doc was calling, and calling this much, he must be worried about something. The thing was, I didn't much care.

  "You can tell that son-of-a-bitch to go to hell," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

  "Hey, now!" the police officer blurted. "No need for that kind of language!" He paused for a second, waiting for some sort of reply.

  I was too busy trying to decide whether or not to hang up to pay much attention. I knew no good would come from talking with this cop.

  "Listen, buddy," his voice took on that soothing tone I imagine he used with potential donors and little old ladies who lost their cat, "let's be reasonable. He's a real hero, everyone knows him. He's got good money. I know how you PI types are. Just look into it for a day or two. Just check it out. You two got a history, I get that. But why not use this opportunity to get a little back for whatever happened between you? I'm telling you, there ain't no crime."

  I took a few deep breaths. If this cop knew what he was asking me, he'd shut his mouth. Hell, he'd never have called.

  "What's he say been happening?" I asked quietly.

  "Says a few of his patients have gone missing."

  I paused as I digested that. "What do you mean, gone missing?" I replied.

  "Just that. They've disappeared," I could hear the shrug in his voice. "He treats them, then when he contacts 'em for a followup, they're nowhere to be found." He added under his breath, "Or so he says."

  "Come again?"

  "Well, you know how these supers are," he replied, "they're a secretive bunch. This Doc friend of yours?"

  I gritted my teeth.

  "He deals mostly with them."

  "Yeah, mostly," I managed.

  "So, it isn't like there are many records. He says they're missing, but there's no evidence of foul play. There's nothing. Just an empty house."

  I thought for a moment, "So they could just be off on some mission..."

  "Or trapped by their archenemy, or off planet, or God knows where," he continued. "But I can tell you this much, there was no foul play at those homes. Plus, it isn't like it's all of his patients. Just a few. And from what we can tell, they aren't connected in any way. "

  I thought about it for a moment. Doc Arts was one of the foremost doctors to the supers. If some mad scientist came up with a super virus, he's the guy you'd call. But day-to-day, he was also the personal physician to many of the world’s most powerful supers. If he was concerned enough to call the police, that means that The Bulwark and others in the Super State government had already looked into it and passed. Calling me was a big step past desperation. It'd be like asking your gropey uncle to watch your kids; your last resort was five ideas ago.

  "Ya still there?"

  I was so lost in thought I'd forgotten about the cop.

  "Yeah," I took a deep breath.

  "Listen," Officer Kent continued softly, all pretense of informality gone from his tone, "if I had the money, I'd pay you to get him off my back. This Doc, I mean," he stammered for a moment, "I've seen him on TV and all, but he's a real piece of work in person. Sort of talks through you. Plus, he seems to be able to find me anywhere. I walked by a pay phone the other day and it rang. It was him. I mean, how can you even do that? Can you help me out?"

  Seeing Doc Arts again was not something I wanted, no matter what the rest of the world thought of him. My daughter's face flashed through my mind. I blinked it away. Seeing him would bring back all those memories - all the pain from five years ago. I reached down to the lower drawer of my desk and pulled out a bottle of single malt scotch (some stereotypes are true I guess. Never knew a PI who didn't have a bottle somewhere within reach). I grabbed a glass, poured a couple of fingers of amber liquid and looked at it for a moment before answering.

  "You tell the Doc," I practically spat his moniker, wincing at my lack of control, "I'll drop by tonight. But you tell that SOB that I'm not making any promises."

  "Great, oh buddy, you're doing me a solid," the cop blurted. "You do whatever you have to to put his mind at ease. You watch, ya collect a few fat paychecks and suddenly his missing friends start showing up."

  "Yeah, we'll see."

  "Bob Moore huh?" the cop said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Boy, that's a funny name for a PI."

  I rolled my eyes, "So I hear."

  "I thought you guys were all named Mike or Jack or something."

  "Guess not." I hung up and swallowed my scotch in one swift movement. I grabbed the bottle and poured again.

  Khan was at the door before I finished my second. "What did the police want?" he asked, eyeing the bottle and my scowl as the scotch burned its way down my throat.

  "To ruin my day," I croaked. I shook my head, "Damn, I knew I shouldn't have taken that call." I cleared my throat and put the bottle and glass away. "Listen, clear my schedule. I've got something I got to do."

  "Well, that won't be a problem, you don't have anything on the
schedule." Khan leaned over the desk, "Seriously, what's going on?"

  "It's the Doc."

  "Doc Arts?" Khan's mouth hung open. "What? Did you finally kill him?"

  I frowned, "Not yet. No, he wants to hire me."

  "You're kidding."

  I closed the scotch drawer and looked him square in the eye.

  "You're not kidding." Khan stood, "Listen Bob, think about this. You don't want this."

  "You're telling me?" I yelled. "You think I want to work for the son-of-a-bitch that destroyed my marriage?" I dropped my head, took a deep breath, relaxed the deathgrip I had on the arms of my chair and slowly stood. "Sorry. Sorry. Thanks for your concern. I'm just going to talk to him. That's all. I haven't committed to anything."

  "I don't know, man," Khan shook his head as I grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair. The sun was setting outside and the pink and orange light cast vertical lines through the blinds across his face.

  I threw my jacket over my shoulder, "Is the car ready?"

  He nodded, concern etched in his face.

  "Good. Don't wait up."

  * * *

  The drive from my flat was uneventful. The sun had set and the stars, such as you could see over the city lights, were out. I drove the speed limit, not really wanting to rush to my appointment with the doc. The area around my flat was industrial, busy with people on the streets shopping and eating after a long day's work. Traffic wasn't bad, considering. A whoosh of air past the passenger side door indicated that someone with super speed was using the super lane. Above, a streak of flame and a cloud of darkness revealed that whomever it was wasn't alone. Patrolling for villains, on their way to a meeting, or just late for dinner - you couldn't tell. All around, people barely noticed.

  The area directly adjacent to the city center was more run-down. That's always been the case. Either you have the money to live in the city or you have the money to live someplace nicer. In between fell everyone else. Multifamily apartments were omnipresent, cut only by a few single-family dwellings that looked like they should be condemned, and a few general stores with teens sitting outside drinking out of paper bags. Many of them nodded at me as I drove by. I'd employed more than one of them for information, stakeouts and other less desirable jobs. They were more than happy to help, though the money was definitely a plus. They loved spying on the supers.

  As I exited the city proper and drove into the suburbs, you could see the difference. There were more single-family homes, larger yards and more strip malls. The roads were rough all over, neglect obvious. It was hard for the local police and government to keep up. Anytime there was a major battle between the supers you'd end up with major city damage. Of course, the Super State would pay out most claims, but a lot of that money would end up in the pockets of the politicians, shady developers, and others. The Bulwark and the government of the Super State didn't care as long as the money left their hands. With their superior technology and intelligence, all they needed to do was release a new patent to replenish their coffers.

  The City Guide - full of maps of the city and the suburbs - sat unused on the passenger seat. I knew just where I was going. I'd been there plenty of times before. The car sounded good - better than before actually. The new side panel didn't match, but Khan knew I didn't care about that. The engine purred as the houses and yards got progressively larger as I entered Avondale. The streets weren't any better but the yards were. On more than one, I saw small signs near front doors and in flowerbeds. I smiled as I recognized some of the names of the protection companies. "This house protected by CyberTec," by "VeloCyn," or by "The Axiom Consortium." Depending on the package, the protection could be as little as insurance that would replace or repair damages to full-fledged force fields. I'd heard that the uber-rich even paid to have anti-bug/temperature control fields installed. Would be nice on a buggy summer night I suppose.

  The sad part was that half the corporations were fronts for super-villains. This didn't mean that the protection was any less valid, it just meant that they left in a backdoor. Well, you'd never convince me the heroes didn't do that as well, but you never heard about it. What does happen is that, occasionally, some villain will decide to make his power play and will tap all his clients for the capital they'd need. Within a day or so there would be some sort of invasion or major attack and The Bulwark and others would be called in. Everyone who had been protected by the phony corporation would have a claim. They'd probably get paid off by the Super State and they'd look for another protection company. The cycle continues.

  Of course, there were no signs on the lawn of Doc Arts. I slowed my car and parked in front. I hadn't been this close to his home in four years. I glanced down the street at the bend in the road where I used to park, thinking about - well - just thinking. And drinking. More drinking than thinking now that I thought about it. There was a big part of me that wished I'd had something to drink right now. Another, smarter, part was glad that I didn't. I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I grabbed my notebook out of my glove compartment, stepped out of the car, and headed up the front walk.

  Ignaro Medico, or Doc Arts as most knew him, didn't live in Hillside proper. He lived just down the road in Avondale. A slightly less affluent suburb, it was filled with the upper middle class for the most part. For a super, especially one of his status, this was slumming it. He lived in a fairly routine six bedroom, seven and a half bath house. Though I couldn't tell now that it was night, it was a light brown stucco number with large bay windows, all the upgrades and a three car garage. I'd seen the blueprints and it had a large theater room, a huge master bath, and a spa out back. While I knew how to access his lair intercom, I decided to just knock on the front door.

  Medico lived in a brand new, planned community. It wasn't gated but it could have been. There were all the usual amenities - pool, gym, golf course, etc. - though I was sure he never used them. In fact, chances were none of his neighbors actually knew what he looked like. As the door opened, my suspicions were confirmed.

  The man standing in front of me was most definitely not Doc Arts. Every bit the butler, the balding man with the thin mustache, tight vest, white shirt, and dark slacks looked like he stepped right out of a fifty's flick. At first it seemed that he was a bit taller than me, but as he motioned me inside, I could tell that he was just a hair shorter.

  "Ah, Mr. Moore," the butler stepped aside as I entered, "the Doctor is expecting you. Please follow me."

  I stood in the foyer for a moment, taking in my surroundings. The house was immaculate. Cream carpets, white walls, minimalist furniture - the place reeked of a hospital waiting room. As I followed the butler through the house I noted that the low couches were white leather with chrome accents, the coffee table was a chrome and glass affair with magazines perfectly fanned across the top, and even the fireplace brick was painted white. The few pictures on the wall were abstract art pieces obviously meant to add color to the place. I guessed that the good doc had hired an interior designer. I also guessed that he almost never stayed up here.

  "So, Jeeves," I said to the back of the butler's head, "what are you, a hologram or something?"

  Without missing a beat, the butler replied, "Very good sir. Yes, a hologram. I've been mated with a force field that allows me to interact physically with my environment. If I may ask, sir, how did you know?"

  I nodded at his feet, not that he was looking at me, "Your feet, no footsteps and no indentation in the carpet."

  He continued into the kitchen, "Ah, very good. Doc Arts said you were astute...for a tippy. I'll have to put in a request during my next scheduled maintenance." The butler stopped in front of a standalone freezer, "Here we are sir." He opened the door.

  The freezer looked packed with food. Frozen meats, ice cream, vegetables - everything you'd expect to see in a freezer. He reached inside, near the roof by the door, and I heard a switch click. In place of a freezer full of food, I now saw a set of descending steps.

  I looked at t
he butler whose neutral expression conveyed years of waiting patiently on others. Whoever created this thing did a great job.

  "How very quaint." I started down the stairs, "I'm surprised the doc didn't spring for an elevator or teleporter."

  The butler's voice rang out from the bottom of the stairs, "Oh, the Doctor doesn't mind such inconvenience. I believe he finds it stimulating."

  "Stimulating?" I exited the stairs where the butler was now waiting.

  "The walk, sir."

  The butler turned and led me through a series of doors, which snapped open and closed with the whirring and clanging of machinery as we passed. You could bet I wouldn't get past one without the butler. The level of protection of the doctor's lair was impressive. He could probably survive a direct nuclear blast. Finally we exited the last door, which was as thick as a baby's arm.

  "Your guest has arrived, sir."

  "Oh, thank you, Butler," Doc Arts' head popped up from behind what looked to be a corpse on a table. "Could you get me some water?"

  Before Butler could leave I turned to him and added, "I'll take a scotch, neat, thanks."

  If the upstairs house was a study of organization and cleanliness, the lair was the polar opposite. Though I had seen the plans, I couldn't tell you how large it was from where I was standing for all the equipment and clutter. While my terminal linkup to The Bulwark's database was no larger than a keyboard connected to a small desk, Medico had floor-to-ceiling devices with screens, lights, and paper feeds. There were instruments connected by wires that hung free as well as what looked to be a huge chandelier, which not only provided light but also had a number of retractable devices. I didn't recognize any of them. There were piles of printouts, discarded boxes and even a few portable coolers with markings indicating that they were used for organ transport. The place smelled of antiseptic, mostly, but there was another sweetly sour undercurrent that didn't sit well with me. I immediately regretted my choice of beverage.