"I'll be out of your hair soon enough," Ed said.
"That's not what I want," Norman said. "I'd rather you not have screwed up in the first place."
"Norm!" Gwen said.
"I'm sorry, years of dealing with thugs has left me less diplomatic than I used to be."
"Sorry everything doesn't go from fucked to perfect just 'cause you're on this side of the bars," Ed said.
"That doesn't mean we can't try," Norman said.
"What is it you want me to do this time? Since you got out it's been Ed do this, Ed, stop doing that, Ed, pretend you're an angel."
"Would a little civility kill you?"
"Would a little respect kill you?"
"Respect is earned." A silence fell over the living room. Ed hung his head and slumped back in the chair. He was too worn out to argue again. They'd done that too much of late.
"Norm, do you have to be so hard on the boy?" Gwen asked.
"He's too much like I used to be. I only wish I'd had someone to knock sense into me back then," Norman said.
"Is that why you're making my last free weekend Hell?" Ed asked.
"Please don't fight," Gwen said. Norman smiled at his wife and nudged the corner of her mouth into a smile with his thumb.
"Because you asked nicely, I'll let it slide," Norman said. With a roll of his eyes, Ed stormed to his bedroom. The couch was right on the other side of the wall, and the door was where most people would have wanted an end table. He could hear everything that went on in the living room, so he hadn't gained any reprieve from them. He plopped down on his bed and buried his head in his pillows. He fumed, trying to throw the blame for his rage at any target where it would stick.
Time ticked by before light spilled in from the living room. He pulled his head from under his pillows to glare at his father. Norman grabbed the chair from the desk where Ed's computer used to live and sat down beside the bed. The computer now sat in the dining room, where his use could be watched.
"I've been tinkering," Norman said, opening the small mint tin he was holding. Strips of something metallic were stuffed into slots in ill-cut foam. Norman pulled one out and held it up. It looked like a small adhesive bandage in plasticized metal. The pattern of circuitry on its face made little sense to Ed.
"What is it?"
"A voice modulator," Norman said. "Apply it to your throat by the voice box and it shifts the pitch and timbre of your voice. It can't impersonate specific people, but it will disguise yours. I've heard too many people attempt to growl and grumble their way through not using their real voices. It makes them hard to understand. With this you don't risk damaging your vocal cords. Just speak normally."
"You made this since they let you out?"
"While you're at school and your mother's at work, I have to stay out of trouble somehow."
"So why are you showing me?" Ed asked.
"Not even those blockheads at the Community Fund have this tech. I can tell who they are by their voices. I have a perfect memory for sound, so I might have an advantage there."
"You sound like you've unmasked them before."
"I was a different man back then. The point is, I don't want you to run the same risk. I might have made enough for your teammates too. I had to make sure there were spares."
"Who was it?"
"What?"
"Who was it you unmasked?"
"I'm not telling you war stories about my misdeeds, I don't want you fixating on that facet of my life. I recognized a man's voice and it got a little kid killed. A five year old boy. When I heard, all I could think about is what would happen if one of my old enemies had decided to get at me by killing you. That's when I realized I couldn't go back to my old ways when I got out." Norman shook his head.
"So it wasn't prison that turned you around."
"When I thought about it, I realized I was there because of my own actions. I had no one to blame but myself. I'd been hating the Community Fund, but that hate turned me into a monster. I couldn't live with the man I saw inside me anymore."
Ed was silent for a moment. "I think I understand."
"Try to get along with your teammates, and don't antagonize the costumed heroes. The fact that they're not holding my history against you is a miracle in of itself."
"So... if I figure out who it was on my own, will you tell me if I'm right?"
"No! Not even then." Norman closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. It will always be no." He took a few more breaths to calm down and reopened his eyes. "I'm not used to this full-time fatherhood thing. And I know I haven't been doing all that well at it."
"Come Sunday you get to go back to being part-time," Ed said.
"Don't think of it like that, because I won't."
"Don't expect me to get sappy."
"I'd settle for a little civility."
The sky had turned a burnt ochre hue as the sun marched towards the horizon. Yellow police tape and flashing lights cordoned off an entire block of Fourteenth Street. A short, solid man in a raincoat fitted for a much fatter person stared at the tarp covering the bloody mess on the pavement. A gold badge hung from the pocket of his shirt. "Detective?" One of the officers asked. "What do you want done with the tights?"
"Did either one say who dropped this guy?"
"No, sir."
The detective walked over to the side of the street. "Oh look, it's the demons," he said. "Razordemon and the royal pain in my ass."
"Nice to see you too, Detective Esposito," Shadowdemon said. Dressed in black and charcoal gray, Shadowdemon was about the same height as Razordemon, only not as wiry. Despite his additional muscle mass, he still had a lean build. Instead of a full-face covering, he wore an oversized domino mask and kept a pair of goggles on his forehead. His black hair rustled in the breeze.
"Stuff it," Esposito said, then turned to Razordemon. "Why are you two here?"
"We have a five lane road, two story buildings on either side, and someone who clearly fell from a great height in the turn lane. We already checked into the possibility of aircraft, and there were none on radar over this area all day. Either we have a stealth plane, or he was dropped by someone who can fly. That puts it well within our area of expertise."
"Do you have a name?"
"We were hoping the Metro PD would be willing to work together with us on this one. Instead of running parallel investigations again."
"That did not answer my question."
"We do not have a name. But you will want the community's help on this one."
"Why don't you go back to fighting aliens? We've got our terrestrial killers in hand."
Razordemon looked skyward, causing Esposito to follow his gaze. "Doesn't look very terrestrial to me. Looks more... aerial."
"Wise ass," Esposito said, heading back to where the body lay.
"I don't recall you joking this much when I was younger," Shadowdemon whispered.
"I got a small dose of optimism lately. It'll wear off, I'm sure."
"Should I call the rest of my team?"
"No, I think I'll take this one. Dealing with Esposito will require patience. That's something your team is short on."
"Oh come on."
"If Esposito doesn't come around, then his captain or the chief of detectives will realize they need us for this. Afterwards whichever one of us runs this will have to work closely with Esposito. I'm pretty sure you know why it shouldn't be you."
"All right, point taken. But some of our friends are out of town, and you can't fly. Who are you going to call in?"
"I was thinking the Junior Redemptioners."
"You're actually going ahead with that program?"
"Which would you rather we do? Help them get their lives together now? Or fight them wh
en they're older and meaner?"
"I get the premise," Shadowdemon said. "But..."
"But you and your team has fought three out of the four of them."
"Yeah, while they were in the middle of committing crimes."
"I was a Redemptioner," Razordemon said.
"I know, I know. But that was before I was born. I never saw that side of you."
"Still, that's why I'm going to try to help them reform."
"You don't have to sell me on it, it's not like I'm going to try to stop you."
"Good, because I can still kick your ass. You have to watch that tendency to play to the audience whenever there are spectators."
"I'm working on it."
Part 3
The halfway house was white, with gray asphalt shingles and peeling paint, showing faded wood underneath. Part of the building was three stories, but the third floor only ran for two-thirds of the house's width. A veranda ran along the entire front and down the side with only two floors. There didn't appear to be much of a lawn attached to the plot. The space behind the building where one could have gone was taken up by a driveway and a detached garage. It sat on a corner lot, the veranda facing the streets. Looking up at the edifice, Ed frowned.
"There are bars on the windows," he said. Burglar bars had been fitted to every entrance save the front door, which was steel-clad wood.
"This isn't exactly a great neighborhood," Errol said. "It keeps the neighbors out."
"No, it keeps us in."
"There were bars on the window at Stone Ridge too," Lazar said. "You hardly see them from the inside anyway."
"Are you going to come inside, or are you going to stand there staring at my house?" To Ed, the man at the door was shockingly old. Errol saw instead the signs that he was still relatively healthy. His spine was still upright, his hands lacked the telltale signs of arthritis, and his skin was relatively clear if thin and papery. The crown of white fuzz around his bare scalp had been allowed to grow too long and puffed out to the sides.
Errol picked up his two cases and proceeded through the door. Despite the obvious care that had been lavished on maintaining the interior, its age was showing. None of the furnishings looked like they were newer than the seventies or eighties. They weren't high-end antiques either, just the sort of things a working man might afford. Each room had a different color of faded wallpaper, all of it trimmed in hardwoods. The old man pointed up a staircase at the core of the building.
"Just pick an unoccupied room on the second floor."
"Who are you, anyway?" Ed asked.
"This is my house, I volunteered the extra space for the Community's program."
"That didn't answer the question."
"I am Gabriel Derleth, Kaiju Killer. I'm guessing you're Edwin Wilson."
"I go by Ed."
"You may call me Gabe."
"And that whole Kaiju Killer bit?"
"We hadn't gone full bore into the codename thing yet," Gabe said. "It was more of a nickname than a codename. I retired before alter egos became a matter of life and death."
"So what's your part in all of this?"
"We can't leave four boys unsupervised," Gabe said. "Even without powers, that'd be asking for trouble. Razordemon has his regional coordinator duties. I've got nothing but time and a big empty house. It gives me something to do."
Errol climbed the staircase, noting that the air was a little musty. One hallway ran the length of the second floor, ending at a bathroom on either end. The door nearest the top of the stairs was open, but Kevan lounged on the iron-framed bed inside. He kept walking. Each of the bedrooms looked identical, an iron-framed bed, a short chest of drawers, and a small closet. None had a desk. There were six of them. What Errol couldn't find were the stairs to the third floor. With the rooms more or less equal, he picked one with fewer windows. It sat in the middle of the hall.
"Okay, where's the third floor?" Ed asked. "We saw it from the outside."
"Third floor is off-limits," Gabe said. "And I don't mean 'shame on you, here's some negative behavior points' off-limits. I mean pound you into the ground and boot you from the program off-limits. That's my space, and you will stay out of it. Got me?"
"Okay, I got it. Is there anyplace else you don't want us to go?"
"I'd prefer you stayed out of the fridge and cabinets if you're not cooking. And the basement workshop is restricted access. Tinkering time is earned through good behavior and is supervised work only. And don't wander into my room, especially when I'm sleeping. I get cranky." Gabe hobbled back downstairs.
"What do you think he has up there that he's so sensitive about?" Ed asked.
"Dude, don't push it," Lazar said. "I know you see a 'Keep out' sign as a challenge, but this has 'bad idea' written all over it."
"How did you know I was-"
"Oh, come on, I know you."
The wails of pain faded to a whimper as the morphine began to take hold. The gurney crashed through a set of swinging doors amidst a gaggle of medical professionals clad in pastel scrubs. Esposito kept a discrete distance behind the patient as they rolled him into an operating theater. One of the orderlies held up a hand to stop the detective from following them inside. "Right. Sterile environment and all that crap," Esposito said.
"He's not going anywhere, Detective," the orderly said.
"Mercy was closer," Razordemon said. Esposito jumped, startled.
"What do you want?"
"I was wondering why Vanguard?"
"Suspect is Jerome Claybrook, age nineteen. Has known gang affiliations. Normally uses guns or blunt objects. Not known to have any powers," Esposito said. "This afternoon, however, he goes and punches a black-and-white in the hood. Demolishes the engine block and his arm. Something gave him super strength, and if he's still got it, Mercy can't handle him."
"If?"
"Normally when one of you guys has enhanced strength, you can take the punishment from dishing it out. Claybrook pulped his arm with that punch. Something isn't right."
"Like a body dropping on Fourteenth Street?"
"No one saw him falling until he hit; we haven't ruled out someone dropping him."
"But you have another theory?"
Esposito grumbled. "What if it was Huff who was flying and the 'flight power' ran out?"
"You're thinking that somehow these guys are getting temporary abilities?"
"It would explain Claybrook. I wanted to ask him questions in the ambulance, but he couldn't stop screaming. Both he and Huff fit the same profile. Residents of Riverside, known gang members, but not exactly the alpha dogs of their group. The sort of person who might try something drastic to increase their status."
"If you're right, does this mean you will accept our help?"
"I want to see what Claybrook says after he finds out his new nickname is 'Lefty.' It's funny how the whole 'snitches get stitches' culture doesn't hold up when they're missing body parts."
One of the orderlies stepped out of the operating theater. He held up a small glass vial containing maybe a milliliter of blue fluid. "This was on the gurney after we moved the patient to the operating table."
Esposito produced a plastic bag from his pocket and held it open. "Drop the evidence into the bag." The orderly did so before heading off.
"So what is it?"
"I don't think it's window cleaner."
"The lab here--"
"Is not a forensics lab and would break the chain of evidence. I have to take this downtown and log it in." Esposito sealed the bag and wrote on the label. "I know you want answers. We both do, but I also want to keep them from getting off on a technicality. As investigators, your people are sloppy, and easy targets for lawyers in the courtroom." Esposito tucked the evidence bag into his pocket.
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Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus) Page 50