Scott swallowed. “It was sabotage. By... ”
Dekker. We figured you’d say that. You got any proof of that?” Scott thought of Jimmy’s letter, but it didn’t prove anything. The bridge was burned, hiding the damage from the charges. Dekker had hidden his handiwork well. And the fact that he couldn’t explain his miraculous return to Gotham made Alan look very guilty indeed.
Barnes pulled up a chair and sat on the other side of Scott, breathing his stale coffee-and-cigarette-breath into Scott’s face. “Look, just tell us what really happened. We’ll get it all down and
sort it out. The only thing we want to know is, did you know it was going to give way, or did you believe your own claptrap?”
Scott couldn’t picture himself telling them about the lantern. At best they’d be insulted that he’d try such a tall tale on them. At worst they’d believe he meant it and he’d spend the rest of his life in an asylum.
Like his mother. Scott knew that that was not acceptable to him.
As Barnes and Avant continued to grill Scott, two men slipped in through the door and stood quietly against the wall. Both were dressed impeccably in dark pinstriped suits and held their hats in their hands. The older, more distinguished-looking man looked very comfortable in the dingy surroundings and listened intently to the conversation. The other man was younger-about Scott’s age, and, though dressed elegantly, he carried himself like an athlete. He stood on the balls of his feet, his eyes fixed on Scott.
Scott had no idea who they were or what they were doing there. Finally, the two cops took notice, stopped their interrogation and turned to face the two men at the back of the room. They said nothing, but Barnes’ arched eyebrow revealed that he knew exactly who they were.
The younger, athletic-looking stranger nodded to Scott. He seemed to know him but Scott had either forgotten or blocked the memory of their meeting.
Barnes leaned back in his chair. “Looks like Scott’s got friends in high places.”
The distinguished man smiled. “Yes, indeed.”
“You’re here for him?”
“We’ve been authorized to post bond for Mister Scott should he be arrested. We also have some documents that we think you gentlemen will find interesting.”
The older man opened his alligator-skinned briefcase and placed two folders on the scarred-up table.
“The first is the plan submission. You’ll see that the signature is Mister Shustak’s. Also, the purchase order, equipment chits and payrolls are all signed by Shustak.”
Avant stubbed out his cigarette. “Who is this character?”
Barnes smiled humorlessly. “Avant, this here is Frederick Woodhull. He’s the priciest lawyer we got in Gotham; the well-heeled hood’s best friend. Not a back room deal goes by that doesn’t have his big fat thumbprint on it.”
Woodhull smiled indulgently back at Barnes. “Now, now, let’s have none of that, shall we?” he said, a benevolent uncle coddling a pouting, unreasonable child.
The younger man stepped forward and did something that no man had ever done to Scott—he wrapped his arms around him and gave him a long hug. He looked Scott in the face and smiled warmly.
“Glad you made it back okay, brother,” he said, “We were worried about you.”
He pulled a silver case from his coat pocket and snapped it open, offering Scott a cigarette.
Scott realized he had no choice but to go along with whatever was being played out. He took the Woodbine from him and, while sharing a light off of the guy’s gold-plated lighter, Scott looked into his face. The man was in his early thirties, dark hair, expensive haircut and evenly tanned face, not from work but from outdoor
sports. The man smiled at him, but his eyes were black. Scott instantly did not trust him.
“Bet you’re ready to get the hell out of here, huh? Let’s go get a steak and some beers.”
Scott shrugged. “Sure. Why not.”
Woodhull stepped forward.
“Mister Scott, we have a car waiting to take you home. Mister Faraday will... ”
Avant perked up at that name. “James Faraday? Of Dekker Industries?”
“One and the same.”
Avant turned to the cop next to him. “Something stinks here, Barnes. Stinks bad.”
Woodhull spoke up. “If anything smells foul, it’s the ham-handed investigation that’s wasted my client’s time during a period of mourning. The man’s just lost his friends, and you drag him in here on hearsay not even strong enough to be called circumstantial. I’d say your careers are on the line, gentlemen. This won’t look good for either of you.”
Avant’s jaw dropped open but Barnes waved his hand. “Stuff it, Woodhull. Save your malarkey for your mobster clientele and those stacked decks of rubes you call juries.”
Woodhull waved his finger—the slightness of the gesture showing a sureness of personal power.
Avant had been reviewing the documents Woodhull presented. “He’s right about the signatures, Barnes. It’s all Shustak.”
Barnes turned to Scott. And, although he was a full five inches
shorter, did his best to get into Scott’s face. It would have been comical if Barnes’ posture weren’t so taut and ready for violence.
“I thought maybe you were a screw-up. Maybe you got sloppy and killed your men with your greed. But having this snake in the room tells me that you’re low, Scott. You’re blaming this on your dead partner. I know the score on this one. I’m going to see to it that you bum.”
Scott felt Barnes’ rage hitting him like heat from a blowtorch. He welcomed it. “I think you’re right, Barnes. And I deserve everything coming to me. In spades.”
Faraday cut between the two men. “Okay Barnes, you’ve had your say. Let’s go home, Scott. Come on—you’ve had a long day, buddy.”
Faraday gently but firmly steered Scott out of the room.
Faraday walked Scott out of the police station and down the steps to a waiting black limousine. As they approached it, someone inside flung open the door. Scott saw that there was another vehicle behind the limo, and it appeared to be filled with four large men, sitting in the darkness of the car, smoking. Scott could see the glow of the cigarettes as they took deep drags.
Scott turned to Faraday. “Think I’ll walk home, if that’s okay with you.”
Faraday smiled at Scott.
“I’d prefer that you ride with me. I have something I wish to discuss with you.”
Something in Faraday’s tone made Scott accept his offer.
Faraday and Scott sat alone in the back of the limo as it streaked through the streets of Gotham. Faraday reached into his open briefcase behind him and handed him a document. Scott looked at it-it was a contract for employment at Dekker Industries.
“We understand you’ve been through a tremendous ordeal but we’d like you to consider an offer to come work for us.”
“My bridge just fell down. Seems like an odd time to bring me on board.”
“On the contrary. We saw your talent when you bid against us for the job. And now that you’ve fallen on hard times, we see this as an opportunity to bring your tremendous skills to Dekker Industries.”
“And to shut me up. I wasn’t supposed to survive that crash, and now that I’m alive you’ve got a problem.”
“Alan, we can arrange it so that Jimmy takes the blame for this horrible incident. He’s dead—in a few years no one will remember. But you’re still alive, Alan. And you’ve got to consider your future.” “You think I’d let Jimmy take the rap for this? Let me tell you something: I’ll take prison over Dekker Industries any day of the week. I don’t care if I end up locked up forever-I’m going to make sure that Dekker pays for what he did to my partner and my crew.” “That’s jake with me, you cocky son of a bitch,” Faraday snarled. “I’ll retract that offer now.”
Faraday pulled Scott’s Webley pistol from his pocket and pointed the business end at Scott’s gut.
“I took the liberty of removing thi
s from your apartment after the authorities had taken you in,” said Faraday.
The shiny black and chrome limo looked out of place as it tore through the dead-end ramshackle blocks of Gotham’s loading docks. The streets were deserted and a heavy mist clung to the air.
Scott sat across from Faraday in the limousine, Faraday still pointing the pistol at him, occasionally gesturing casually with it, as if it was a drink or a cigar.
“No one saw you get in this car with me,” Faraday said, ’’and when your body washes up in river after the spring thaw, they’ll assume you walked down to the river and, overwhelmed by guilt, used your own gun to kill yourself. If we can’t buy your silence, we’ll guarantee it in this manner.”
Faraday rapped his leather-gloved knuckles against the glass partition. The driver had been waiting for this signal and pulled the car over in a desolate cul-de-sac bordered by empty warehouses.
Faraday moved so he was sitting next to Scott, and pressed the barrel against Scott’s chest.
Scott felt rage building within himself. Sabotage was the case, and here was the man who caused it. Scott had only one thought: revenge.
“It’s good that you’re going to kill me Faraday, because that’s what it’s going to take to stop me. “
Faraday cocked the gun. “I aim to please.”
Faraday pulled the trigger.
The shot of the pistol rang out loud and flat like a slap in the enclosed space of the limo. The smoke cleared and Scott sat smiling at Faraday. Faraday, thinking he’d missed, fired again. And again and again, until all six shots were spent, each one of them entering, slipping through and exiting Alan Scott’s body as if were cutting through gelatin.
The gun smoke cleared, and Faraday sat stunned, staring at Scott. The two men stared into each other’s eyes, one reflecting vindication and pure malicious revenge, the other’s confusion and deep fear. After the shots, silence hung in the air like a shroud.
Faraday called out to his men. “He must have on bullet-proof vest. Club him down!”
Scott lunged forward.
His first punch caught Faraday on the nose-both men heard the queasy snap of breaking cartilage and bone.
Scott could tell that he possessed normal strength, yet he had been immune to the bullets.
Scott felt the rush of cold air as the door of the limo swung open. Two of Faraday’s men grabbed at Scott.
He rolled onto his back and kicked at the men as they reached into the car. His kick caught the first one in the throat, the man’s hand instinctively flying to his Adam’s apple as he struggled to breathe. Scott was about to connect with the testicles of the other man when the car door he was leaning against opened, sending him tumbling backwards onto the wet pavement.
Two more of Faraday’s men, bull-like in their ill-fitting suits, stood over Scott and kicked at him with all their might, one stabbing at him with a stilletto, the other hitting him with a heavy wooden club. The blade broke against Scott’s skin, but the club’s blow made Scott see stars. Scott thought that the lantern’s powers of immunity apparently worked only against metals.
Scott felt remarkably calm. He knew the ring was giving him these powers, driven by his will. The men had expressions of shock and incredulity, but they continued to do their best to lay into Scott.
As he balled his hand into a fist, he saw that the ring on his hand was throwing off a strange green light. He swung his fists at the men and although he was not stronger, his punches took the fight out of them, and the others lay unconscious on the far side of the car. Scott stood surveying the results, breathing and sweating heavily. Then he looked into the limo.
There was no sign of Faraday.
Scott sat heavily on the curb, looking at his hands, the green ring glowing fiercely now, pulsating with eveiy beat of his heart and every breath he took.
His mind could not sort out all that had happened. Only one emotion occupied his mind, blocking out all reason. He wanted revenge. Dekker was responsible for the death of his men and his partner. Faraday had tried to kill him. Scott had lost too much, and the only images that filled his mind as he made his way uptown was the battered corpses of good men and the grief etched in the face of a little girl.
Again he looked at the green ring on his finger. His will fed it. He wanted to get Faraday. He willed this in his heart.
And in doing so he felt his body rise and fly, above the waterfront, until he was hundreds of feet in the air. By willing it, he flew over the magnificent city, towards that which he wanted.
And within minutes he landed in front of the city mansion that he knew belonged to Dekker. He looked at his hand-the ring from the lantern had done this, brought him here, protected him from others and even himself. He knew he had but to will what he wanted and the ring would make it happen.
So he willed himself inside the mansion, passing like a ghost through the heavy, dead-bolted doors into the majestic marble foyer, then floating up the massive, curving stairs, over the floors of the thickly carpeted hall to the huge study. A fire burned in a large fireplace, and the mantle was covered with memorabilia from safaris and hunting trips around the world: stuffed animals, mounted snarling heads of bagged big game, flayed skins as rugs and along walls.
Mixed with this were dozens of antique globes showing flawed perceptions of the world, polished brass fittings from whaling ships, and a wall of antique weapons: blunderbusses, spears, bolos, flintlock pistols and machetes. It revealed a personality of a man well traveled and firm in the belief of his own superiority and dominance over other animals, cultures and men.
Scott stood in the middle of the room, standing in front of the fire. Faraday was at the huge bar, sloppily pouring himself a tumbler of vodka and drinking it down like water, the glass trembling in his hand. He had tried to wipe the blood from his broken nose, but much of it remained caked on, discoloring the vodka in his glass as he tilted back another swallow.
Scott was disappointed to see that Faraday was a coward. Cowards were pathetic: inflicting pain on them, killing them, gave no satisfaction. But then again, killing was never satisfying. That’s why Dekker could not stop with just one bagged animal.
Scott stepped out of the shadows. “It’s time to pay, Faraday. You and Dekker.”
Faraday froze, the glass still at his lips. Very slowly, he lowered the glass and turned to face Scott.
Scott took a step forward.
Faraday reached for something—anything to protect himself. And as he did so he kept talking, trying to buy himself a few seconds. “It was business, Scott.”
“Business?” Maybe inflicting pain on Faraday would bring some satisfaction after all.
Faraday continued to move backwards, along the wall, keeping up his nervous patter to Scott. “You think we wouldn’t do everything in our power to beat you? You were arrogant enough to outbid us with your precious new design, so we were happy to let you think you’d won. Until, of course, the moment you lost.”
“This isn’t a game. Those men are dead.”
For once, Faraday’s laughter and expression were utterly sincere. “Of course it’s not a game. Business is war, Scott. And wars have casualties.”
Scott’s face became hard again. He moved towards Faraday, his hands now clawlike. “And in business there are no prisoners, right, Faraday?”
Faraday reached up behind him. His hands found and gripped an antique Mongolian spear. In one swift motion Faraday pulled it off the wall and swung it blindly at Scott, the wooden spear making a whooshing sound as it cut through the air, Faraday emitting a high-pitched wheeze of panic and fright as he desperately fought for his life.
The tip of the wooden spear caught Scott in the temple, sending him reeling back and stumbling against the leather chair.
Faraday saw that he had an opening and, like a good fighter, pressed his attack. He leapt at Scott, smashing the spearlike a club against Scott’s upraised arms, neck and forehead.
Scott, still reeling from the first bl
ow to the temple, fended off Faraday as best he could. He could feel the strikes of the wooden spear against his wrists and forearms. They were as real as any he’d ever suffered, and he winced in pain.
Faraday, surprised at his advantage, turned the spear in his hand and quickly tried to drive the wooden tip into Scott’s heart.
But just as quickly, Scott deflected Faraday’s lunge, rolling away from the attack and thrusting his arm in the way of the needle-sharp tip, which deflected off Scott’s arm and drove deeply into his right side, just above the third rib.
Scott grimaced as the shock of the stabbing rippled through him. But before Faraday could pull the spear out and stab again, Scott turned to Faraday and with both hands grabbed his neck and began squeezing with all his strength, his thumbs searching out Faraday’s eyes. Slowly Scott gained an advantage, pushing himself off the floor until he and Faraday were locked in a stalemate.
But as they struggled Scott could feel the blood surging out of the wound to his side. He didn’t know how long he could hold against Faraday, and did his best to jam his thumbs into Faraday’s eyes, betraying nothing but primordial determination to kill before being killed. Scott jumped from the pain as Faraday desperately jammed the spear deeper into his body, then tried ripping it back out.
Scott could feel himself graying out from the pain, and saw Faraday’s grimace turn into a triumphant grin. Scott’s grip on Faraday slowly loosened as Faraday dug the spear deeper into his body.
A loud bang echoed through the large room, and Scott felt something push through his body. He felt Faraday’s body snap to rigidity, as if shocked, then instantly fall limp. Faraday slumped over, his head cracking against the polished marble, eyes frozen wide open, blood pumping out of a small hole in his back, then settling to an ooze.
Scott looked down at the dead man, then turned to see who fired the shot.
At the doorway stood a slight, gray-haired man whose face looked to be in his seventies, but whose body seemed as fit as a younger man. He held an antique .45 Smith and Wesson revolver in his right hand, the wisp of smoke from the fired round still curling from the barrel.
Green Lantern - Sleepers Book 2 Page 7