Sara, I need some help, I say. I don’t see Missy or Joy.
Hold on, Sara says. Man, even her telepathic voice sounds exhausted. Got her. She’s chasing Joy into a shopping center or something.
That would be Kingsport Commons, a high-end open-air mall a mile away from the performing arts center. I swoop down and immediately get a sense of Missy and Joy’s general path when I spot a small pile-up of cars near the Commons’ east entrance — the kind of accident that might result from two girls dashing recklessly through late afternoon traffic.
The trail stays warm as I fly low through the Commons: A person knocked to the ground here, a group of shoppers cowering in a doorway there. I catch up to them as Joy hits an intersection, and in turn is nearly hit by a car as it prepares to blow through a stop sign (that’s a Massachusetts driver for you). Joy skids to a halt before plowing into the car’s front fender, and wastes precious seconds slamming her fists on the hood and cursing out the driver.
Missy doesn’t stop. She doesn’t slow down. She barrels full-speed into Joy, her momentum carrying them both over the hood of the car, which burns some serious rubber getting out of there.
I perch on the roof of the nearest store to play sniper. My intent is to take advantage of any clear shot I might get and put Joy down hard. I’m not out to steal Missy’s thunder but let’s be pragmatic here: Joy has slipped away from us twice. I refuse to let her escape again.
Besides, I’m watching Missy’s back. That’s what teammates do.
Missy and Joy get to their feet at the same time. Joy roars, charges, rakes at Missy, who nimbly weaves out of the way. Joy pivots, comes in for another strike. Missy throws herself back and hits the ground in a reverse somersault. She rolls into a low crouch. Joy, frustrated and infuriated, launches a nasty kick at Missy’s head. Missy tumbles to one side. Joy’s foot finds nothing but air.
So it continues: Joy attacks, Missy evades, Joy attacks, Missy evades. It doesn’t click right away, but I realize Missy isn’t desperately flailing around to avoid being gutted. She’s not panicking at all. Her eyes are dark, intense, focused. There is no fear on her part whatsoever. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She is in full control.
Joy, on the other hand, is losing it fast.
“Dammit, stand still!” she screeches. Missy bobs and weaves around a series of sloppy slashes. She over-commits to a grab for Missy’s throat and Missy finally retaliates, driving a knee into Joy’s ribcage. Joy barks in pain, staggers back, and takes a tiny, bony fist to the point of her nose.
Missy is not a trained fighter. Her moves are fast and strong but graceless and imprecise. None of that matters. Joy’s running on fumes and has nothing left for defense. She takes the full brunt of every punch, every kick, every rake of Missy’s claws. It’s the most savage beating I’ve ever witnessed, yet throughout it, Missy remains in command of herself.
That does not make the beatdown any less scary. On the contrary, when Joy stumbles back, blood dripping from countless gashes riddling her from head-to-toe, I’m sickened, horrified by what Missy has done. Joy may be a murderous whackjob, she was absolutely overdue for some industrial-strength comeuppance, but my God...
“Last chance, Joy,” Missy says with impossible calm. She isn’t even breathing heavily.
“You’re dead, you hear me?” Joy pants, defiant to the last. “I swear to God, I’m going to kill you. I will open you up, bitch!”
Missy gives Joy a tiny smirk. “Go for it, cupcake.”
Joy goes in for one last all-or-nothing assault. It’s pure desperation. She knows she can’t win, but she sure as hell is going to go down swinging and take Missy with her if she can. Missy ducks under the attack, spinning as she drops, and swipes at the back of Joy’s legs. A scream catches in Joy’s throat as she collapses to the ground. She doesn’t stand back up. I don’t think she can.
I don’t think she’ll ever stand up again.
TWENTY-NINE
I never thought I’d say this, but I would love it if Concorde showed up to take over for us.
The cleanup process is a long, tedious affair that keeps us on the scene until early evening. We have to coordinate extensively with the police to formally arrest and charge Joy and her minions, and then with Byrne to arrange transportation for the prisoners, and then with the fire and building departments as they inspect the arts center for structural damage that could compromise the auditorium’s integrity, and in the middle of all this, we have to stand guard over Team Bad Guy as EMTs treat their wounds.
Two members of Team Bad Guy get to join the injured cops for an ambulance ride to Kingsport Hospital: the boy Matt took down, a kid named Kurt Martens, who suffered serious head and neck injuries, and Buzzkill Joy, who no longer has functional hamstring tendons. The EMTs dope both of them up and take them to the hospital under the watchful eye of a quartet of armed Byrne guards. The rest of the gang gets off light with a lovely collection of bumps and bruises, all of which are treated at the scene before they’re whisked away to Byrne.
“This your first time handling the post-game show, huh?” Chief Bronson says to me at one point.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re doing all right. Don’t worry, this’ll become second nature soon enough.”
Oh, yay.
Chief Bronson’s next statement has a more positive effect on my mood. “You did good work here today.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I say. I’m not being modest. “A lot of your guys got hurt, the fight spilled over into a civilian area...”
“My people know the risks of the job. None of them were killed, and no one will be out of action permanently, so that’s your silver lining there,” Chief Bronson says. “And yeah, it would have been nice to take these jokers down nice and tidy-like, but that’s not always how it works. Years ago, when I was still on the street, I got called in to a liquor store hold-up...I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice to say I understand what it’s like for a situation to get away from you. All you can do is learn from it and do better next time.”
The chief gives me a look that isn’t quite a smile, but I take it as such.
“We’re just about done here. You want to go make a statement to the media?” he says, jerking a thumb toward a clump of reporters and photographers hovering at the edge of the parking lot, corralled behind a rambling barricade of yellow sawhorses. There’s even a news van here, its telescoping satellite dish at full extension. I count eight people total. Not exactly a media circus, but I do not relish the thought of dealing with them.
“And rob you of the pleasure?” I say. “They’re all yours, chief.”
“Gee, thanks. Right then, you kids go home, grab a shower, get some rest. You’ve earned it. We’ll make sure the civilians get home safe.”
Civilians? Oh, right, as far as the police know, Missy was kidnapped along with her father and is not now, nor has ever been, a super-hero.
“I’ll let them know,” I say. I gather the team around Dr. Hamill and Missy, who sit together under a blanket on the bumper of a police cruiser. “How are you doing, Dr. Hamill?”
He takes his time answering what is, I admit, a tricky question. “It’s been an interesting day.”
I’m not sure, but I think Dr. Hamill just cracked a joke.
“Interesting for you, maybe,” Matt says. “This is what passes for normal for us.”
Dr. Hamill nods. “At least I know Missy is in good hands,” he says. “She’s very fortunate to have friends like you.”
Oh, God. He knows.
Well, duh, Carrie, of course he knows. He’d have to be rock-stupid not to have figured it out by now.
“Daddy,” Missy begins.
“I’m not going to say anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Dr. Hamill says. “You might not have noticed, but I excel at keeping secrets.”
And that would be joke number two. Man, I guess trauma does change a person.
But as I look at Dr
. Hamill sitting there, hugging Missy to his side in the first display of genuine, open affection I’ve ever seen from a man I’d come to regard as aloof, detached, distant, even cold, I can’t help but think that it’s a change for the better. This was Dr. Hamill’s crucible, and he’s emerged a better man — a better father.
The journey may have sucked, but I can’t complain about the destination.
“What did you tell your mother?” Edison says.
“A version of the truth,” I say. “The incident made the paper, so it’s common knowledge Missy’s father was kidnapped by a group of super-villains, so I told Mom that we were with Missy all night comforting her.”
Edison nods. “Not bad, as cover stories go.”
The elevator doors slide open and we step out. Trina is nowhere to be seen. It’s just us up here.
Edison opens his office door for me, closes it behind us, and he joins me at the small table in front of his desk. “I won’t keep you long,” he says, “but we need to discuss a few things.”
“Okay,” I say.
“I spoke to Chief Bronson this morning. He filled me in on what went down last night,” he says. “On the bright side, there were no fatalities, the injuries were relatively minor, all the collateral damage was restricted to a building no one cares about, and the charges against Joy and her gang look like they’re going to stick.”
“You’re welcome?” I don’t know what else to say; I’m not used to Edison praising us. Ah, but I worry for naught, because here comes the criticism and recrimination portion of this afternoon’s program.
“However...seven police officers injured, significant damage to the special response team van and to the arts center property, countless civilians who had the snot scared out of them, and one juvenile offender who’s been crippled for life.” Edison sighs and shakes his head. “You kids are going to have to do a lot better if you’re going to be part of the team.”
“Edison, look, we did the best we could, and I’m sorry if we —” Wait. Back up. “Part of the team? What team?”
“The Protectorate.”
What? No. No, I can’t be hearing him correctly.
“Not as full members, of course. The Hero Squad would be a formal associated organization,” Edison says. “That means you’d remain a separate, independent team, you’d operate without any interference from us, but you’d have full access to our resources, we’d provide any training you want or need...”
“Is this for real?” I say.
“Yes, Carrie, it is. This is a sincere offer, with no strings attached and no catches, save for one: The Squad will be subject to periodic performance reviews, to be conducted by the entire Protectorate, not just me. If you fail to live up to our expectations, we will shut you down, and Mindforce, Natalie, and Catherine are all in agreement on that point. You wanted a fair chance to succeed or fail on your own merits? You got it.”
Wow. Holy wow. Holy frickin’ WOW.
“If you’d like a few days to think about it —”
“No!” I blurt out. “No, I don’t — okay, I should pitch it to the others, but I don’t think they’ll — I think they’ll be okay with it.”
Okay with it? If that’s not the understatement of the century...
“Now that that’s settled, I have one more thing I’d like to discuss, and it concerns you and an internship opportunity,” Edison says.
“Oh, for — Edison, seriously, please stop,” I groan. “I appreciate the offer, I’m flattered that you think I’d do well here, but this company isn’t for me. I don’t want the internship. Really. Give it to someone who wants it, someone who deserves it.” A light bulb goes off in my head. “Since you’re all into giving people a fair chance to succeed or fail on their merits, why not give Matt a shot at it? Make him apply for the position, interview him, the whole routine, but give him a chance.”
I get ready to hit Edison with You owe me that much, because I can and will milk my wrongful incarceration for all it’s worth. Hey, that’s money in the bank and I’m in a spending mood.
“All right. That’s a fair request,” Edison says. “However, I wasn’t talking about the internship here.”
Edison takes a business card out of his pocket and places it on the coffee table. It reads SULLIVAN CRENSHAW, ESQ.
“Explain?”
“Sullivan was very impressed by you back at Byrne, the way you cited, accurately, case law in your defense, and he said he could use someone like you at the firm. You see,” Edison says, folding his hands in his lap, “the law as it applies to super-heroes is a very specialized field. Sullivan is the only member of his firm versed in super-hero law, and he’s the only one who knows all our secret identities, which means he has to handle all business with us personally, even if it’s something as simple as getting our signatures on a legal document. That can be time-consuming.”
“And he wants me to, what, be his assistant?”
“Basically. It wouldn’t be anything glamorous — filing, processing paperwork, that sort of thing — but you’d get to learn about super-hero law hands-on, and you’d get a respectable paycheck out of it.” He smiles at me. “You’re right, Carrie, Bose Industries wouldn’t be a good fit for you, but I think the Law Firm of Crenshaw and Associates would. Something to think about.”
Yes, because if my life is lacking anything, it’s weighty, potentially life-altering decisions.
Edison glances at his watch and jumps to his feet. “Carrie, sorry to give you the bum’s rush, but I have to meet with security in ten minutes,” he says as he escorts me back to the elevator. “We have to have what I expect will be a very lively discussion with the head of my nuclear micro-cell production facility.”
“About his future with the company?” I ask. “Or, perhaps, lack thereof?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss possible security breaches and the unauthorized distribution of proprietary Bose Industries technology with anyone outside the company. Privileged information, you know,” he says, the wink and nod implied.
“Have fun. And you’re welcome. Again.”
Edison puts me on the elevator. Before the doors slide shut, he hands me Crenshaw’s business card.
“Think about it,” he says.
“What’s there to think about?” Matt says. “Yes! Tell him yes! Call him now and tell him yes!”
“Hold on,” I say, waving for Matt to sit down. He flops down on the couch — Missy’s couch, I should note, which has at last been freed from its plastic cocoon, along with all the other living room furniture. Matt waves back at me to get on with it. “Let’s get a group consensus first. Sara?”
“You kidding? I’m in,” she says. “Let’s do it.”
Stuart doesn’t wait for me to call his name. For a guy who possesses a shockingly comprehensive knowledge of Robert’s Rules of Order, the boy has no respect for protocol. “Hells yeah. Let’s do it.”
That’s four in favor and one yet to weigh in. The majority may already rule, but I would prefer a unanimous vote.
“Missy?”
“Okay,” she says, but without a flicker of enthusiasm. “Look, it’s a great offer and I don’t want to be the only one to say let’s not do it, but...”
“It’s okay, Muppet,” I say. “You can be honest with us. No secrets, right?”
She nods. “I need a break from the team. I’m not quitting or anything,” she adds quickly, “and I’m not saying I’ll never be a super-hero again, but after everything that happened I feel like me and Dad finally have a chance to be a real father and daughter, and I want that, but I feel like if I don’t, you know, put in the time I won’t get it. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does,” Stuart says, taking her hand.
“Maybe to you,” Matt says. “Missy, your dad lied to you. He’s been lying to you your whole life. How can you forgive him for that? Why would you want to?”
Missy shrugs. “Why would I not want to?” she says. “He’s my dad.”
; “What about me?” Dr. Hamill says as he shuffles in from the den. He’s in a bathrobe and slippers instead of his usual suit-and-tie combo. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to Casual Ken Hamill, but I’d be very happy if he forced the issue.
“Nothing, Daddy,” Missy says. “We’re almost done with homework, they’ll be leaving soon.”
Dr. Hamill holds up a hand. “Take your time, kids. No hurry.”
“No, it’s cool, we’re actually all done,” I say. The others take the hint and we start to gather up our schoolbooks and laptops. “Are you taking tomorrow off too?” I ask Missy, who — with her parents’ consent — skipped school today for some well-deserved family time. I wouldn’t blame her for ditching a second day, especially since her ordeal (as it exists on the public record) has become a hot topic at school, and the poor girl is going to get slammed with uncomfortable and intrusive questions when she comes back.
“No, I’ll be there,” she says. “Mom thinks it’ll be good for us all to get back into a normal routine.”
“Your mother is a wise woman,” Dr. Hamill remarks.
“Right? Keeps us in line.”
“That she does,” Dr. Hamill chuckles. “How about some warm milk before bed?”
“And cookies?”
Dr. Hamill smiles. “And cookies.”
Missy beams at us. “I’m going to go have milk and cookies with my dad.”
Enjoy it, Muppet. You deserve it.
EPILOGUE
“There you are, Nemo. Not like you to be late.”
“My apologies,” John Nemo says to the man who, like himself, does not exist as far as the world at large is concerned. To those who do know of him he is, simply, the Foreman. “I was awaiting a report from our man inside Byrne.”
“Good news, I hope, for your sake,” the Foreman says. “She’s quite displeased with how this operation has played out. She’s looking for someone to blame.”
“There are several people in line ahead of me to take that hit,” Nemo says.
Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect Page 26