The Temporary Hero

by Nick Svolos

  Meanwhile, I had my own projects to work on. Assuming Pixel accepted the offer to join The Angels, I was working up a background piece on her. Reviewing what I had, I made some notes for a follow-up with her. Hobbies, hometown, favorite movies, and other personal but not really personal things like that. When I was just starting out, I avoided these details like the dentist. If someone was digging me out of a pile of rubble, I really didn’t care how they took their coffee—and I didn’t think anyone else should either. Harry disagreed, and kicked my butt back to the street to get those details. He said our readers, the people who kept us in business, loved those little personal facts. My job was to think like them. It took a while, but I learned my lesson. Now I made sure to collect enough sappy factoids to keep everyone happy—from my editor to the casual superhero fan.

  Now you know where those little side panels with bullet points come from.

  I also had the upcoming interview with Ultiman. It seemed like a day didn’t pass without me thinking up another question to ask him. You can cover a single lifetime in a book. How do you interview a guy whose life story could fill a library? This would be a hell of a piece, if I could just figure out how to write it.

  There were other little projects to juggle, not to mention the daily deluge of emails, half a dozen voicemail messages, and all the other things I tended to let pile up. Somehow, I fit in some time for these, as well. But the Backdraft thing was at the top of my list, not only because I was staring down the barrel of a deadline, but something about it just didn’t fit. Ratna had it right. Los Angeles was a terrible place to be a supervillain. We had more vigilantes than any city had a right to and they’d done their jobs well. All the villains were in jail. Any bad guy showing up around here would find himself the lone duck at a pond full of hunters. Backdraft had to have a damned good reason to put himself in a situation like that, and I’d be willing to bet my rent money it wasn’t to steal DVD players.

  It was getting close to lunchtime when Ratna came back to my cube. Her face was almost pale, which was saying something for a woman whose family came from Bangalore.

  “You gotta see this.”

  I followed her back to her cube, where she had several windows open on her pair of huge, widescreen monitors. Photographers get nice workstations.

  “I stumbled across this while I was checking the missing-person report. David has a sister.” She pointed at a window showing a fourteen-year-old girl, Susan Winters. “She went missing the day before he did.”

  “My God. What happened?”

  “Nobody knows.” She pulled up a clipping from the Tucson Herald. “Two days later, they found her at a bus station. No memory of where she’d been or even what day it was. She lost two whole days.”

  I pulled a spare seat over and read the report. The cops took her to a local hospital and had her checked out. No signs of physical or mental abuse.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Talk about a bad week for their folks. But that’s not the worst of it. Check this out.” She brought a SuperPedia article into focus. “Found this when I was running down the protégé angle.”

  The article looked to have been written by someone whose caps lock key was stuck in the “on” position and didn’t have a lot of training in the use of punctuation. In between innuendo and supposition, of which there was plenty, the gist was clear. This guy was saying the ERD was in town at the same time the Winters’ kids went missing. Several sightings were listed, along with a grainy photograph of someone purported to be one of the agents. It was hard to make out, but I could see the outline of a man flying overhead. On his left breast was something that might be the embroidered badge of the FBI’s superhuman agents.

  “Holy crap,” I muttered. Good thing I was already sitting down.

  “Yeah. Does this mean what I think it means? What if this is how they recruit?”

  I had to take a beat before responding. The official story—the one they had up on the FBI’s website—said the ERD was composed of brave superhumans who joined the Bureau out of a sense of duty and patriotism. Sort of a super-powered SWAT team. “Nothing to see here,” screamed the site. “Go back to sleep.”

  I had some pretty solid reasons to doubt the official story. My working theory held that the ERD included convicted felons, serving as agents of the Justice Department in a form of indentured servitude. I’d never been able to prove it, although not for lack of trying. My only piece of evidence got himself shot the previous summer. He disappeared from the hospital before I could get anything out of him. Nobody in the Bureau would talk to me, of course. My FOIA requests were complied with, but all the documentation backed up the official story. I eventually had to file my suspicions away, hoping that I’d eventually find something solid to validate them.

  I didn’t have a particularly high opinion of the government, or for that matter, the FBI. I sure as hell didn’t trust the ERD. But never, not even in my wildest scotch-fueled conspiratorial dreams, would I have considered something like this: the forcible conscription of young supers. Ratna might have stumbled onto something huge. Something that could launch her career or destroy it before it got started.

  Something that could kill her.

  She waved a hand in front of my face. “Hey, you in there, buddy?”

  “Huh?” I snapped back to the present. “Yeah, sorry. Kind of got caught up in my thoughts.”

  “I can see that. Did one of those myself when I saw this. What do you think?”

  “Well, you can’t use it. Can’t take anything from SP too seriously. You’d have to get some credible witness statements to establish this as fact.”

  She frowned. “That’s not gonna be easy. This all happened twenty-five years ago. Any ideas on where to start?”

  I hesitated, struggling with a decision I’d rather not make. How can you ask someone to do the exact opposite of what you’d do? “You’re not gonna like it.”

  “I already don’t like it. You’re gonna tell me to back off, aren't you?”

  I sighed. “Yeah.”

  She blurted something in a language I didn’t understand. Something dark. Something that probably involved a multi-armed deity making me his hobby for the next few thousand years. “I don’t believe this. You think I can’t handle it?”

  “No,” I said, avoiding her gaze. “I’m afraid you can.”

  She stood up. “Oh, so that’s what this is about. The white knight stepping in to protect the poor, weak little girl?”

  “Look, I just—”

  “Oh, no, you don’t get to talk your way out of this one.” Her voice ratcheted up a few decibels, and we started getting some looks from colleagues in nearby cubicles. “What is it with you guys and this sexist, macho bullshit? Need I remind you that you’ve been doing this job for twelve years, and you’re not all that much harder to hurt than I am?”

  She had me dead to rights. I was entirely full of crap, and it didn’t feel good. At least she wasn’t blowing my ID. Yet.

  “You’re right. As much as I hate it, that’s exactly what this is. Sexist, macho bullshit.” My confession took some of the steam out of her stride, and she sat back in her chair. “I’m sorry about that, but it doesn’t change my advice because it’s advice I’d give to anyone, man or woman. I’ve gotten it myself a thousand times. The sexist part is that I expect you to have better sense than me. I expect you to take it.”

  I took a breath. It was hard, crushed as I was by my own hypocrisy. All the times Helen tried to get me to back off a dangerous story came at me in a rush. The frustration in her eyes when I wouldn’t back off. I never expected to be on this side of the conversation.

  “Look, people in power know how to hang on to it, and they have lots of people willing to get their hands wet—”

  “I’m aware of that,” Ratna said. “You never let that stop you.”

  “You didn’t let me finish. Yes, they could do away with you in a lot of ways, but they won’t need to. They have armies of lawyers and spi
n doctors that will exploit each and every angle you leave open, and if you don’t, they’ll manufacture them. In their world, ad hominem attacks work. You don’t have a rep. You don’t have the experience. Sure, you’ve got a couple of stories under your belt, but you’re just starting out as a reporter. They’ll use that to rip you apart.”

  “That’s why I have you.”

  “What you have is an idea. An accusation you can’t prove. It’s not a story. A story has to be bulletproof. With something like this, even that may not be enough.”

  “So, let’s prove it.”

  I felt myself sag. Dammit, she wasn’t going to let this go. The worst thing was, she was right. I wasn’t going to let it go, either. “Okay. Let’s say you manage to find two credible witnesses to say they saw the ERD in Tucson when the Winters kids went missing. What do you have?”

  “That links them to the disappearances, right?”

  “No, you have two disconnected facts. The ERD could’ve been there for any number of reasons.”

  “Okay, then we need to connect the dots. Maybe get someone in the Justice Department on record.”

  “Good. I’ll let you go work your extensive network of contacts in Washington and get myself some lunch.”

  The fervor drained from her face. “Alright, I see your point. So, what do we do?”

  “Save it for later. For now, we go to Harry with what we can prove, namely the missing-persons reports and the twenty-five-year gap. See if he wants to run it. Maybe we can get an interview with the parents to fill out the piece. In the meantime, be a journalist. Get out there and get solid stories. Get to know people. Cultivate a set of contacts you can trust. Build your reputation so when the time comes, they can’t touch your credibility. Play the long game.”

  “And just hope something falls into my lap?”

  “Some things you can’t force.”

  So, she printed out what she had, and we headed to our editor’s office. We got halfway there before I noticed two men in black suits step off the elevator. I stumbled as my foot caught on the carpet.

  One of them was LaBlanc.

  ***

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Conway,” LaBlanc said as he and his partner flashed their badges. “I hope we’re not catching you at a bad time.”

  “It’s never a bad time to meet an agent of the federal government,” I lied through a grin. “Can I see your IDs again? You flashed those a little quick for me.”

  “Of course.” He and his partner handed over their badge wallets. I took my sweet time examining them, and while he waited, he turned to Ratna. “May I ask who you are, ma’am?”

  “Someone who’s surprised to find the FBI here.” Well, she had the attitude down, at least. This is why we don’t have any contacts at Justice. “May I ask why?”

  “We’re just here to ask Mr. Conway some questions. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Having learned that the other agent was named Jerome Forney, I handed the badges back before my young apprentice could make another snarky comment.

  “Go on ahead,” I told Ratna. “I’ll catch up when we’re done.” She gave me a questioning look, which I returned with one of those wide-eyed nods that says “Just do it, okay?” She took the hint and disappeared into Harry’s office.

  “Will you come with us, Mr. Conway?” LaBlanc gestured toward the elevator.

  I didn’t move. “While I’m eager to help you, I’m afraid I’m on deadline. Can’t afford the travel time today. We have a conference room where we can talk privately. How ‘bout we use that?”

  Forney gave me a glare, but LaBlanc just shrugged it off. “Of course. We won’t keep you long.”

  “I appreciate your understanding.” I led the way to the little collaboration center. “I’d offer you guys some coffee, but that might constitute an assault on a federal officer,” I joked. When it was fresh, the coffee at the Beacon was like hot water with a brown crayon dipped in it. By lunchtime, it had boiled down to battery acid.

  “We’re fine, thanks.” LaBlanc took a seat across from me while Forney assumed a position by the door. I gave him a once-over. Square-jawed and muscular, he looked like your standard, stalwart G-man, straight out of central casting.

  “So, how can I help you?” I asked.

  “Are you familiar with the events Friday night that led to the capture of Backdraft?”

  “A little bit. I didn’t cover the capture.”

  “Isn’t that unusual? My understanding is that's your beat.”

  “It is, but we’re bringing up a new reporter and she got the assignment. It was nice to have a night off for a change.”

  “I see. And that would be…” he checked his notes for effect, “…Ratna Bannerjee?” I nodded. “The young woman with you when we met?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” He made a mark in his notebook. “So, she was the source of the information that prompted Captain Dawson to set up the capture.”

  He didn’t ask it as a question. Instead, he just looked at me, letting the silence oppress the room, expecting me to fill it with words. I just returned his gaze and let the silence hang.

  Eventually, he gave up on his little game. “Is that correct?”

  “No, Dawson got the tip from me.”

  “Oh, good.” Another mark in the notebook. “I was beginning to think we might have the wrong guy. How did you come by the information?”

  “From a confidential source on deep background.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s ‘deep background’?”

  “A source who doesn’t want to be identified or quoted. As a condition of receiving information from that source, I have to agree not to use it in such a way that indicates where it came from.”

  “I thought it was called ‘off the record’.”

  “‘Off the record’ is even more restrictive. I can use a deep background quote in a story if I can find enough corroborating statements to make my editor happy. I can’t use an OTR quote at all.”

  He smiled. “Well, I guess we learn something every day, eh, Forney?” The other agent just grunted. “And do you have a lot of ‘deep background’ sources?”

  “I try to avoid it, since it’s pretty hard to sell a story based on something ‘some guy’ told me. But from time to time, the information lets me get ahead of a story and be at the right place at the right time.”

  “I see. But you turned this one over to Captain Dawson.” Rather than play the silence game again, he added, “Is that correct?”

  I shrugged. “Dawson asked for help on the case.”

  “I see. Does he do that often?”

  “When he needs it.”

  He wrote a quick line. “I see. Who was your source?”

  I smiled. That was a nice switch. Get me on one subject, then hit me with what he really wanted to know, hoping to catch me off-guard. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.”

  He fixed me with the hard cop glare. “I’m afraid I must insist. This is a matter of national security.”

  Again with the “National Security” card. That’s a heavy card to play and this guy was tossing them around like nickels. “I’m sorry to hear that. I want to help you, but I can’t reveal my source. Maybe there’s another way I can assist. Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “I’m afraid the matter’s classified.”

  “We seem to be at an impasse, Agent LaBlanc.”

  “Not really,” he said. “Agent Forney.”

  I heard the distinctive rip of a Velcro pouch opening and the clink of a pair of handcuffs from the man standing by the door. I forced myself to remain calm as I put my hands behind my back.

  Forney advised me, “Reuben Conway, under the provisions of the Espionage Act, I am taking you into custody for questioning as a person of interest.” His voice sounded familiar somehow. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I was sure I’d heard him before.

  I’d have to figure that little puzzle out later. Forney hoisted me to my feet, and
the pair led me through the newsroom. I held my head high as my co-workers gazed at the spectacle, their eyes filled with questions. A couple of the sharper ones recovered enough to throw those questions at the agents, only to be met with silence. I could hear Harry in his office, placing a call to our legal department. But the sound that pleased me the most was the clickclickclicking of Ratna’s camera as she caught up to us.

  I couldn't help but smile with pride. She was going to make a hell of a reporter someday.

  VIII

  The interrogation room—the government calls them “interview rooms”, but they’re not fooling anyone—was white and silent. In the hours I spent in the place, cuffed to the stainless-steel table, I had a lot of time to stare at my reflection in the one-way glass and wonder why it wasn’t orange.

  If Ultiman was right—and he usually is—these guys knew how I’d been spending my nights. They knew what I could do. The handcuffs might as well have been made of cardboard. I actually had to be careful not to move my right arm too much out of fear that I might accidentally break them.

  LaBlanc never came in to ask me any questions. Neither did Forney or anyone else. Usually, they want to let you sweat for a while. It softens you up. When they finally come in to question you, all you want to do is get out of there, so you give them what they want. It’s standard procedure, and I’d been through it enough that, other than the soreness in my backside from the hard aluminum chair, it no longer bothered me. It wasn’t going to work.

  Only this time was different. They never came in.

  That left me to ponder what their game was. Why were they were treating me like a normal? Some kind of test, maybe? Get me to slip up, reveal my abilities, and then threaten exposure as leverage to get me to reveal my source?

  Possibly. I rolled the idea around in my head. I had plenty of time to kill and not much else to do. They’d taken a big risk in dragging me down here. Arresting a reporter in the middle of a newsroom was going to have repercussions. Whatever they were after had to be something big. Big enough to make the risk worth it.

  What the hell could that be? Reggie was a small-timer. A thug for hire with a preference for supercrimes. When he wasn’t doing that, he was a bouncer for a dance club in the Valley. He was a good source of leads for a guy like me, but nobody trusted him with anything big. Hardly the sort of fish that could make the FBI take notice.