Albert Dekker.
CHAPTER
7
S
cott looked down at the spear sticking perversely from this body. His hand grabbed the thick wooden shaft, and he slowly pulled it out. As he did so, the ring on his finger glowed bright green.
After an eternity of pain, the spear, smeared with rich red blood, came loose. What happened next should have shocked Scott, but a presence in his mind made it seem as natural as sleep. As his hand passed over his wound, he could see the puckered skin sealing itself under the spilled, drying blood. Again, the ring pulsated with the rhythm of his heart, and Scott watched his body move from the abyss, and he knew then that the ring and the lantern were the source of his power.
Scott got to his feet, the spear still in his hand.
Dekker stood, his expression betraying no emotion, the pistol at his side. It was impossible for Scott to tell if he intended to use it again. His eyes roamed over the scene in front of him: Faraday’s corpse, Scott smeared in blood but healed, the spear in his hand.
Finally, Dekker spoke slowly and deliberately. “What the devil is this about?”
“You tell me,” Alan said.
“I have no idea. I saw you and Faraday struggling and... and... ” Dekker looked down at the pistol in his hand. He put it on the oak table. Strangely, it seemed to fit in well as a decoration against the rich grained wooden table, under the soft light of the Tiffany lamp.
Scott stared at Dekker. “Who were you aiming at?”
“Why, Faraday, of course!" Dekker replied.
“I felt the bullet pass through my body,” Scott said as he slowly rose to his feet, nursing his wound.
Dekker watched Scott get to his feet. “How could that be? How could any of this be? I thought you’d perished in that horrible accident. And to find you here with Faraday...! But I’m so glad to see you’re well!”
Dekker, smiling, took a step forward but something in Scott’s stance made him stop.
“You had my men killed,” Scott said flatly.
Dekker stopped smiling. “Don’t be ridiculous. That was his doing.” Dekker nodded towards Faraday’s body.
“Easy to say, now that he’s a stiff.”
Dekker looked beseechingly at Scott. “See here, Alan, I shot Faraday because he was out to take over my company. Yes, I hired him because he was ruthless. I need ruthless men working for me if I’m to survive in this world. But he turned against me. I saw that he was about to kill you, so what could I do?”
Scott went to the bar and poured himself a drink. He felt tired in
a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. His soul was weary. He did not want to hear what the old man had to say, but he was compelled to find out, for his men, for Jimmy and most of all for Alyssa. He took a drink of bourbon and braced himself.
Without turning to face Dekker, Scott asked, “What about the bridge?”
Dekker looked shocked. “My God, Alan, how could you think I would do such a thing. That was Faraday’s doing. I swear.”
Scott slammed the empty glass down on the bar. “That can’t be.” Scott looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Worse yet, the ring’s light seemed to be fading. He could start to feel a dull pain growing in his side, where the spear’s wound was.
Faraday took a step towards Scott, his hands out, imploring. “Alan, there’s no reason why we can’t work together. Faraday would have done to me what he was going to do to you. You and I—we did each other a favor tonight. Let’s partner. There’ll be no stopping us.”
“Those men—“
“Yes—I’ve already thought of that.” Dekker pulled small key from his pocket and stepped to a locked wall cabinet. Opening it, he pulled a small satchel from the cabinet and opened it up for Scott.
The bag was filled with bundles of cash: hundred-dollar bills wrapped together like money bricks.
Dekker looked into Scott’s eyes. “When I heard about the disaster, I thought of donating my own money to help. If you don’t mind, I thought that we could use it set up a trust for the families of the men who lost their lives. I can arrange for this straight away.” “Cash, huh? You think of everything, don’t you, Dekker?” Scott
reached for the glass on the bar and took a long, deep gulp. He put his drink down, his head bowed. “Jimmy... ”
Dekker slowly put his arm around Scott’s shoulders. “We’re cut from the same cloth, Alan. I couldn’t trust Faraday. He turned against me. He knew you’d defeat him in business, so he resorted to this sordidness. Not taking the offer shows your integrity.” Scott’s eyes narrowed. “Offer?”
“Yes, the job offer.” Dekker pointed to the crumpled contract on the floor.
“But you said Faraday acted on his own.”
Dekker stepped away from Scott, his expression becoming guarded and neutral. “Yes. What of it?”
“You knew about it,” Scott said. “You told Faraday to buy me out. That means you knew about the sabotage.”
Dekker turned away from Scott. “I meant what I said about you being enormously talented. I could use someone like you. But I did not have anything to do with him trying to kill you or your crew.” Scott felt a surge of energy pulse through him-was it anger? It had the form of certainty, truth discovered, the last puzzle piece fitting in to reveal the entire picture.
Dekker stepped away from the bar. He dropped the spear. “I wanted Alan Scott.”
Now it was Scott’s turn to step towards Dekker. “Maybe Alan Scott’s lying dead in that ravine.”
Dekker turned to face Scott. “Then who stands before me?” “Vindication.”
Dekker raised his hand-he once again had the pistol. This time it was clearly pointed at Scott.
Dekker smiled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry Alan. You are a brilliant engineer and I considered your miraculous survival a great opportunity for the both of us. We could have made millions together. But instead you choose to maintain allegiance to that gutter trash, even now that he’s dead. Noble I suppose, but ultimately pointless. You are better than that type, Alan. I recognized that in you and gave you a chance, but you want to squander it for some immigrant trash.”
Scott stepped towards Dekker. “I’ve got something for you and your type, Dekker, and I can’t wait to give it to you.”
Dekker fired all five remaining shots into Scott’s chest. And, like before, Scott felt the slugs pulse through his body, and he could hear them thud into the wall and furniture behind him.
Scott grabbed Dekker by the throat, his gaze burning into Dekker’s eyes, searching his soul.
In that instant, Scott saw into Dekker’s deepest fear...
...a seven year-old boy, innocent, playfully escaping from his nanny. The boy, bright beyond his years, neglected and treated as chattel by his rich, bored parents, out to find trouble. And he did; scampering away in the vast mansion, running as his exasperated young nanny chases after him. He runs to his mother’s room, looking for her and not finding her, he runs to the window. But he is moving too fast to stop himself and he collides with the win-dow-the louvered doors swing open.
And suddenly he is dangling in space, his arms straining to hang on, the concrete driveway thirty feet below him, high enough to kill or cripple the fragile little boy.
He screams with all his might at the first fear that he cannot have his servants remove. Finally his nanny enters the room, rushes to save him.
Then horribly, she stops, a sly grin crossing her young peasant face, the foreign mistress to his uncaring father, and the only person young Albert thought loved him. To see her enjoying his fear, relishing it, her hatred for his wealth and breeding, her laughter and delight at his abject terror: hardens him-and even as he struggles to live something inside of him dies.
His hands hold for as long as they can, but he is a weak child and his perspiring palms slither over the brass latch. He feels himself falling. And with the falling came complete and utter terror. The terror multiplied by the knowledge that
she let him fall.
The child awakes in his bed, both legs in still-damp plaster casts, surrounded by a doctor and fussing nurses. He remembers that his mother (more often than not) is away in Europe, collecting art. His father stands in the doorway of the child’s toy-stuffed bedroom, puffing on a meerschaum pipe, his face devoid of expression as he patiently awaits the doctor’s prognosis. His dark-haired nanny is nowhere to be seen and he never sees her again, nor does he want to. He is done with her and all people like her.
He would experience that same fall countless nights to come. And that dream, the feel of that fall, would haunt him until he could escape the nightmare by waking up, his breath caught in his throat, his heart racing, the rich silk sheets damp with his sweat.
And Scott knew Dekker's deepest fear.
Now back in the present out of Dekker’s mind, Scott knew what to do to get Dekker’s confession. His hand still clasping Dekker by the throat, the two of them began to rise. Scott raised his arms as they smashed through the massive skylight of the mansion and continued to fly straight up in the chilling rain, then into the spongy wetness of the low, heavy clouds. Then they were above the clouds that spread out across the horizon like an ocean, the brilliant stars above them. Scott let them both feel the freezing chill of the rarified air, let them both gasp at the lack of oxygen at that altitude. He could feel his hand around Dekker’s neck, and Dekker’s clawlike hands gripping his arm, terrified of letting go, of falling.
As they went higher, Scott could see Dekker consumed with fright as his fear of heights paralyzed all rational thought.
“Did you sabotage that bridge?”
Dekker said nothing. Scott let go for a second and Dekker plunged to Earth. His scream caught in his throat and he choked on it.
The wind tore at his robe as he fell through the night sky, then into the grayness of clouds, and then coming through to see Gotham below him, growing larger by the second. Dekker’s fear was rampant, his eyes bugged at the sight and the terrifying sensation of his youthful phobia amplified exponentially.
Then in an instant he stopped, his legs dangling in the air. Scott had caught up to him and once again suspended him in mid-air, thousands of feet above the city. Rain pelted the men, soaking both as they hovered above Gotham’s night sky.
Scott looked into Dekker’s eyes and asked again.
“Did you give the order?”
“Yes!” Dekker croaked.
“Did you have my men killed?”
“Yes! Yes! Please don’t let me fall! Please!”
And there he had it: Dekker’s confession. But what to do now?
Turning him over to the authorities would do no good. Dekker would simply buy his way out of the situation, surely to laugh about it at the club later. Scott would not let him slip behind the protection of his cronies at City Hall.
Scott decided that he would make Dekker sign his own confession.
He lowered Dekker slowly to back to the clouds and rain, through the hole in the roof back down to the floor of the mansion. Rain was soaking the Persian carpet, and shattered glass lay everywhere.
Dekker fell to the floor and curled himself in a tight ball. The icy rain continued to pelt him as he shivered from the cold and fear.
Scott felt the energy surge diminish like an adrenaline hit wearing off. He became weary once again and sat down on the leather couch. He stared into the dying embers of the fire, remembering other fires not so long ago. Scott sat at Dekker’s desk and drafted a confession. A noise brought his head up...
...and two meek, uniformed servants ducked their heads from the doorway. Scott heard the clicking of their heels receding as they fled down the long hallway.
“Not me... ”
Scott turned to the old man. He hadn’t moved but his shivering was stronger, more violent.
“Not my doing... ”
Scott went and stood over the old man. He put the confession on the floor next to Dekker and put a pen in his hand. He even poised the pen so that all Dekker would have to do is scribble his name. “You killed my men. You ordered it.”
"... Faraday... ”
Seott grabbed the old man, pulled him up and looked into his eyes.
“You confessed!”
“ I... was... afraid. I... didn’t... ”
And then Dekker’s shivering stopped and his eyes lost focus.
Scott screamed at him. “‘Didn’t’ what? You ‘didn’t’ what? You killed my men! You killed my best friend!”
Scott threw the dead man to the floor. He saw the unsigned confession next to him and picked it up.
He stared at Faraday’s and Dekker’s corpses. He had defeated these men. He’d become judge, jury and executioner, and with him lay the crushing gravity of all that that implied.
He looked at the ring. He could see that the power of its glow had faded with his will for vengeance. Scott saw that the problem with his vengeance was its consequences. He realized that revenge is a hard line of work for anyone less than the righteous. He had just killed a hateful, morally corrupt man who just might be innocent of the brutality that Scott had come to avenge.
As he looked at the confession and the suitcase of cash, he also realized that in this moment, he had more in common with his enemies than their victims.
Voices boomed in the hallway as sirens grew louder outside. Scott snapped shut the suitcase of cash and picked it up. He looked up, took to the air and was gone.
The day of the funeral was cold but beautiful. The sky was as clear and blue as the Colorado blue Scott had stared up into a few days ago.
The funeral itself was simple but elegant. Hundreds had turned out to pay their respects to Albert Dekker. Employees, shareholders, board members, politicians, heads of charities, and the curious who had come to see what it looked like when a great man was laid to rest.
Scott stood anonymously in the crowd, his hand clutching the suitcase he had taken from Dekker’s mansion.
The crowd watched as the procession walked from the open grave. Scott could see a young girl Alyssa’s age, weeping and being held by beautiful woman. The woman had to be Dekker’s daughter and the girl his granddaughter. Scott saw that the little girl knew nothing of the world at this moment other than the man who doted on her, made her laugh and brought her beautiful things-that man was taken away from her forever.
Scott turned his back and pushed his way through the crowd.
CHAPTER
8
Irene Miller pulled a strand of her long black hair away from her face and bent down to inspect the ragged, fleshy grapefruitsized hole in the saxophone player’s stomach. Parts of internal organs, along with fragments of bone, were scattered on the floor of the cold-water flat. She could hear the hacking coughs of the beat cops in the hallway behind her, retching at the sight of the kid’s body. He’d been there for a couple days, and what hadn’t congealed was rotting in the humidity of the cramped studio apartment.
Fletcher Beasley stood across from Irene, not so much interested in the stiff as Irene herself. The young, immaculately groomed detective gave a little smile as he watched her look over the dead musician. New to the crime beat, Irene was focused on Beasley’s cases and had an eye for clues. She’d even helped him break a few. When it came to homicides, the lady was better than a telepathic bloodhound.
A frown crossed her face and Beasley knew she’d seen something unusual.
“What’s the matter?” Beasley asked.
“This kid wasn’t at D’Amico’s,” Irene replied.
“My dear, what you’re looking at right here is the oldest story in the world. Of course he was.”
“How so?” she asked.
“I have a witness,” Beasley smugly said. “It was a lover’s quarrel. She was ending it with him because the hubby got wise. Upset, he comes home but the jig is already up-jealous husband is waiting here, ready to ventilate him with his scattergun.”
“When did this lover’s quarrel take place?”
&n
bsp; “After his gig at D’Amico’s last night. Where else?”
“That’s what I’m telling you, Fletch. This kid wasn’t at D’Amico’s last night.”
“You wanna clue me in?” Beasley said.
Irene pointed. “Look at his guts—what’s pourin’ there out of his stomach?”
Beasley bent down to examine the body, pulling back from the stench of the death. Irene tapped him on the head.
“No, knucklehead, not the stomach cavity, the actual stomach right there on the floor, next to the lamp. That’s moo goo gai pan spilling out of it. The kid was in Chinatown, probably playing Madame Wong’s.”
The detective leaned into the puddle of guts, blood and bits of food. The beat cops, still shaky from their last bout of heaving, watched in disbelief.
Beasley got to his knees and practically buried his nose into the stomach that had been ripped from the dead man’s body from the force of the shotgun blast.
“That does look like pork fried rice... ” the detective mumbled. Irene leaned in over the entrails with the detective. “May I?” she asked.
“By all means.”
Irene plucked two pencils from the detective’s coat pocket and, using them like chopsticks, carefully fished a small crescent-shaped piece of half-chewed nut from the dead man’s spilled stomach. She held it up for Beasley to see.
“Cashews!” Irene exclaimed. “Who puts cashews in their fried rice? Only Madame Wong's.”
Beasley frowned and shrugged as if to say “You’ve got a point.” Irene continued. “That makes your witness a suspect. My guess is that lover-boy here ended it with her, and she wasn’t the type to take rejection, uh, lying down.”
Beasley mulled it over, then nodded. “The forensics are kinda shaky, but the M.O. holds together nicely. I’ll check it out.”
Irene gave a sudden girlish smile of giddy triumph. She handed the blood-smeared pencils back to Beasley.
The detective huffed to his feet. “You’re good at this kind of thing, Irene. You know that?”
Green Lantern - Sleepers Book 2 Page 8