by Adam Graham
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“Okay.” Polk spun to the Chief. “I’ll get you a copy of this mug.”
Sheriff Plato closed the mug book. “The other two aren’t in here.”
Polk frowned. “I definitely want Fournier for questioning. If he’s working for someone, I want to know who.”
The chief grunted. “I’m curious about that myself.”
Sheriff Plato stood, folding his arms, “Rest assured, if they ever again enter the undersea town of Atlantis, I’ll lock them up in my jail.” He yawned. “I must get back to the sea. Being out of the water this long tires me.”
Powerhouse jumped up and slapped his friend’s back. “I’ll fly with you!”
“That’s right kind of you.”
“This way.” Powerhouse jumped out the chief’s window, started up his jetpack, and flew off towards the pier. Sheriff Plato caught up. Powerhouse glanced at the flapping wings on his friend’s sandals. “Do those wings allow you to fly?”
Sheriff Plato shrugged. “Nah, they’re decorative. The rulers of Atlantis done always put them on their sandals, but I couldn’t say why, truth be told. Why, wings this size couldn’t possibly support an aquatic human’s weight.”
“I suppose not.”
“Friend, I’ve most enjoyed this day. I’ll be sure to tell everyone all about it in the stadium. Thank you again, you and that Mr. Delaney have really helped my people. I never knew the Chinese sea captain was cheating us so badly.”
“Oh, that reminds me. I heard back from Mr. Delaney while you were in the men’s room earlier. He thinks he can work things out with the entertainment industry so you get legitimate DVDs, which will mean better viewing quality.”
Sheriff Plato smiled as they landed at the pier. “Sure, and I’ll talk to you again about that contract for that thing you call a comic book. It’d be a mighty fine honor.”
“Cool. You’d be a great addition to the Blue Cat line.”
“Y’all must visit Atlantis sometime, you hear?”
“I would, but a vacation spot where there’s no air other than in one room doesn’t sound very fun for a long trip. My wife definitely wouldn’t like it.”
Plato smiled. “You’re married?”
Oops. That was supposed to be a secret. “Yes, but don’t tell anyone. I have a secret identity and don’t want people to be able to guess.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, but I must get on home. Goodbye, friend.”
“Back at ya.” Powerhouse soared back into the sky. He had a couple hours to rest up in Bryerton before it was time for his regular nightly patrol. Technically, this trip had been a complete waste, what with spending the whole day here and fighting no big battles and making no rescues and all. Well, he’d made a friend. That the most super thing of all.
Mitch Farrow sat erect in Varlock’s office next to Fournier.
The “warlord” grinned like the idiot he was. “This is the perfect plan! I got this fool to believe he was pulling a stunt for a reality TV show and gave him the gun with Dr. Fournier’s remote-controlled bullet. The fool will get that Johnson woman to point the gun at his vital organs so he can win an elimination challenge. When it’s in place, I’ll press the button, and the gun will fire. The stupid police will assume the Johnson woman shot him, leading to her being arrested and sent to a fifteenth century dungeon. Negative publicity will then drown Powerhouse as well as his CEO.”
Who was the fall guy? Farrow glanced at the magic alien wall window.
The wannabe reality TV star was a thin man who looked like he hadn’t shaved since the Last Super Bowl. He stood outside a pawn shop. He sighed and stuffed the gun in his jacket pocket.
The poor schmuck. He’d die for a plan that’d never even work.
Chapter 16
The Stupidest Plan Ever
Naomi wore black jeans and a blue blouse as she pulled her car into a space in the lot of Ann Peyton Park in Bryerton. Where was her contact? Maybe she should’ve waited until Powerhouse was free. Was this the sort of urgent meeting she should be going to?
Too late to think about that now. She climbed out, locked her car, and she strolled through the park down a path paved with red brick and lined with quaking aspen trees and berry bushes.
Ahead on the path, a thin man in a green hoodie stood tapping his left sneaker. He glanced her over and called, “Naomi Johnson?”
She nodded and stopped about six arms’ lengths away from him. “Are you the guy who had urgent information for me to pass on to Powerhouse?”
“Yeah.” He reached into his coat.
Bad sign. Heart pounding, Naomi dug into her purse and whipped out her .38 Smith and Weston revolver in time to meet his clumsily held 9 mm Glock.
“Put that down, now!” Naomi grimaced at her shaking voice. “Unless you want to find out how good a shot I am.”
The guy swallowed. “Um-uh, you misunderstand. I was supposed to show you this.” He poured the bullets out into his hand. “Here you take the gun.”
“Why would I? I’ve got my own.”
“Don’t worry. This one’s not loaded.”
Something was still wrong. Naomi frowned. “Given the way this conversation’s gone so far, that’s actually a downside.”
“Come on! Take it and point it at me. It’s not loaded.”
Disarming this nut was probably a good idea. “Okay, I’ll take your gun, but only if you’ll place it on the ground and take six big steps back.”
“Um . . . I guess that’ll be okay.” The weirdo in need of a shave followed instructions.
Naomi snatched up the weirdo’s gun and stuffed hers back in her purse. “I’m going to give you a free crash course on firearms safety. Rule number one: the gun is always loaded.” She looked in the chamber and smirked. “Case in point, there’s a bullet in your gun’s chamber.”
“No way!”
“See for yourself.” She ejected the bullet and tossed it in her purse.
Savvy Washington women-1, interdimensional fools-0. Mitch Farrow snickered at Varlock. “So whose fault is it besides your own that she’s a gun owner familiar with gun safety rather than a gullible idiot?”
Varlock grinned. “Oh, but that doesn’t matter. The bullet itself is a remote controlled projectile. A simple press of a button, and we’re back on track.”
On the screen, a bullet shot out of the purse and slammed into the stomach of the victim. Varlock rubbed his hands together while clacking his tongue. “Splendid! Now we just turn that tape over to the prosecutor and we have her.”
“For what?”
“She shot him. You saw the bullet go into our victim’s stomach.”
“Fool!” Farrow growled. “What did she shoot him with? Her purse?”
Stupidity from another dimension had topped stupidity from Earth.
Screaming, Naomi dropped her smoking purse and jumped back.
The man in the green hoodie fell onto the grass and writhed as blood soaked the bottom half of his shirt.
Someone had tried to set them up. He needed a hospital quick.
“Momma! Momma, what happened?” He stared wide-eyed, sweating. “Where have you gone? I need you, Momma!”
Guy was delirious. Naomi glanced around. No one else was handy but a camera lens protruded from the bush. Camera, transform into first aid kit for his wound and a stretcher. First aid, stretcher, apply yourselves to the victim.
She blinked. The camera disappeared and first aid compression bandages had wrapped around the victim’s torso as he lay secured to a stretcher.
Good. Naomi picked up the stretcher, held it over her head, and ran to the hospital at maximum speed. Once there, she put the stretcher down, and wheeled the man in.
She rolled up to the admitting nurse. “This man needs a doctor, fast. He was shot a couple minutes ago over at Ann Payton Park.”
The nurse blinked. “Ann Payton? That’s two miles away? How did you get him here so fast? Where did you get the stretcher?”
>
Um, those were good questions. What could she say? She smiled. What Dave would say. “Never mind that now, nurse. This man needs help.”
“Right away, ma’am.” Frowning, the nurse dialed a number.
Dave sat in a police station next to Naomi. Across from them, Bryerton Police Captain Tina Philips sat at her desk. She had bottle-blond hair in a pixie cut. On her desk was a picture of herself with chin-length chestnut hair, her husband, and four kids. The youngest child was Asian.
She twirled her pencil. “We found the casing. It was fired remotely.”
“Figures.” Dave leaned back in his chair. “It was either that or Naomi having bought a semi-automatic purse without telling me.”
The two women glanced at him and frowned.
Captain Philips cleared her throat. “We’ll be investigating who made that bullet. I suspect the motive has to do with your work with Powerhouse.”
“I’m certain of it.” Dave grimaced. It hardly took Neil Worthington to figure that out. Why had Naomi gone to the park alone like that?
Naomi gripped his hand. “Captain, if you have any more questions, let me know.”
“We will.” Captain Philips rose.
Dave and Naomi got up, too. They shook hands with Captain Philips, headed past the rows of desks to the front desk, and deposited their visitor passes at the receptionist’s desk.
Out in the parking lot, Dave unlocked their minivan from behind it and hugged his wife. “Why did you go? You could’ve been killed.”
“He said it was urgent.” Naomi drew back. “It sounded genuine.”
“Oh yeah, it was real urgent.” Dave snorted. “That stunt was a test he needed to qualify as a contestant on a phony reality show called The Next Prince of Monaco. He seriously thought any country’s ruler would choose an heir that way?”
“I can handle myself, Dave.” Naomi spun around to the driver’s side of the minivan and climbed in behind the wheel. She slammed the door hard.
Sighing, Dave got in on the passenger side. “Honey, that had trap written all over it and you walked into it.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t have.”
“Sometimes, it’s my job to walk into traps—and to get out of them. I would’ve flown over the area and X-rayed the guy.”
“You’d have found the gun and taken it to disarm him. It would’ve fired the bullet in the chamber.” Naomi frowned. “The only reason I’m not facing some gun charge is I knew how to check a gun to see if there was a bullet in the chamber and remove the bullet. Do you know how to unload a gun?”
Um. Biting his lip, Dave leaned back. “I know how to crush it in my bare hands.”
“Oh yeah, that’s always the best approach. I’m a big girl, Dave, I can take care of myself.” Naomi started the car.
Maybe, but I’d appreciate it if you’d let me protect you. Dave swallowed and moisture touched his eyes. “What if someday you can’t?”
Her expression softened. She turned the ignition off. “Oh, Dave.”
“I hate that being Powerhouse’s CEO has put at you risk. It undermines the point of me having a secret identity. My enemies tried to get at me through you. Sometimes, it feels like I should give up being Powerhouse so you and the kids can be safe.”
Naomi put an arm on Dave’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare! You have a whole city depending on you, not just us.”
“My first obligation is to you guys.”
“This time, we knew the risks when we got into this and accepted them. What you’re doing is important.”
Dave smiled. “I just worry about you.”
Naomi chuckled. “The self-taught jetpack pilot worries about us?”
“That’s the risk I assume, but do me a favor. Take your risks, not mine.”
Naomi sighed. “Fine.”
What was this all about?
Mitch Farrow held a newspaper as he sat in his underground lair. Halfway down the page, a headline read, “Powerhouse CEO Saves Gunman from Deadly Con Game.”
Ha. Smirking, he slapped the paper in front of Varlock and Fournier. “Oh how are they ever going to live down such negative publicity?”
Varlock scowled. “You own this paper! Explain this positive publicity?”
“Look, I’m an old journalism hack myself. If I lean on them too hard for too long, someone will eventually try to make a name for herself by blowing the whistle on me. I lacked sufficient excuse to kill it outright, so I settled for putting it on Page A-25.”
Fournier picked up the paper. “You know, I think I’ll just read this section of the paper from now on. It looks like this is where all the good news is. All two pages of it.”
Note to self: Get a story from the AP on a war or famine for that section of the paper tomorrow. Mitch cleared his throat. “The point is your plan failed.”
“It’s all Fournier’s fault. His bullet was defective. It should’ve had remote control navigational capabilities.”
Fournier grimaced. “You didn’t ask for it.”
“You needed to take initiative.” Varlock curled his tongue twice.
Fournier turned red. “It would’ve made no difference. No one would ever blame her when she didn’t have a gun in her hand.”
Varlock stuck his hand out like a chick. “Talk to the hand. I’m not listening to your negativity. I’m off to complete plan four on my own. My research indicates magic can defeat superheroes, and you have some in a place called Ireland, which I hear is populated by magical, tiny, red-haired people who like to wear green.”
Oh no. He was not hearing this. Mitch coughed. “Le-lepre-cha-chauns?”
“Yes, exactly!” Varlock waggled his tongue. “I’m off to recruit the leprechauns to destroy Powerhouse.” Varlock bounded out the door and slammed it behind him.
Seriously? Mitch slapped his forehead.
Fournier groaned. “Why did we have to import an idiot from another dimension? We already have a surplus.”
“I share your pain.” Mitch cupped his hands together. “Though, is he an idiot by nature, by nurture, or due to arrogance-driven ignorance?”
“Aren’t you philosophical today?”
Mitch scratched his chin. “Why would a vast interdimensional intelligence send us a total moron? I think he’s too arrogant to give a careful study of our culture and simultaneously spending too much time ‘researching’ superhero media that isn’t grounded in reality.”
“Hey!” Fournier glared. “You seem to think that’s where I get my designs from!”
Mitch waved it away. “You at least know science fact from science fiction when you attempt to build a real Spider-Slayer, be it an intentional or unconscious inspiration. Varlock apparently doesn’t. We have to snap him out of it before he makes real trouble.”
Sighing, Fournier muttered, “What’s your plan?”
“We’ll break into his office and steal back everything he stole from me as well as disabling his cable TV. Hopefully he’ll stop rehashing the silliest comic book plots and start thinking for himself.”
Fournier raised his left eyebrow. “Let me get this straight. You want us to break in to the secret hideout of a powerful interdimensional alien with high tech security, risking life and limb to recapture your DVD and Comic Book collections?”
When said that way, his plan didn’t sound like a great idea. “Well, yeah.”
Fournier grinned and clapped. “How fun! I’ll bring the crowbar!”
Dave Johnson slouched on his living room couch as he read from The Superman Chronicles Volume 10, a soft cover collection of comic books.
The door to Derrick and James’ room creaked open.
Dave called, “Is your homework done?”
“Not yet,” Derrick crept into the living room. “I promise I’ll get it done before bed. I need to talk to you before you go back to the city.”
Should he? The only way Naomi would let him play with the kids when they got home from school was if they got their homework done after dinner. If it was i
mportant, it’d be okay. Dave put away The Superman Chronicles. No need to rush. He’d have to wait years to read the next one. “What is it?”
“I have a job for Powerhouse.” Derrick rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s a kid at school, Joanie Burns. She’s always getting picked on by this jerk Jordan Reno and nobody does anything.”
“You want me to go beat up a fifth-grader?”
“A really big one! You’ve helped some kids in Seattle.”
“Son, this is the kind of thing where all I can do is try to set a good example for others to follow. I don’t want everyone to become dependent on me to take care of things they should really be doing themselves.”
“What does that mean?”
“This isn’t a job for Powerhouse.” He patted his son’s back. “It’s a job for Derrick Johnson. It sounds like she needs a friend.”
“Not me! Everybody’d tease me and say I had a girlfriend.” Derrick shuddered.
Thank goodness his son wasn’t the sort of fifth grader already checking out girls and wanting to date. It couldn’t be healthy for kids to grow up so fast. “No one ever said being a hero was without its risk.”
“Guess so.” Derrick gave Dave a hug. “Thanks, Dad.”
“No problem, son, but you’d better go finish your homework.”
“Kay.” Derrick went to back his room.
Dave opened the comic book collection. He had just enough time to finish reading Action Comics #54 before heading back to Seattle.
Mitch Farrow sat in his underground lair.
Fournier stood by the file cabinets. He peered at a pocket watch. “According to my calculations, Varlock has been to his office, noticed the missing items, screamed like a girl, and caught a taxi over here.”
“Impressive.”
“He should be coming through that door in three, two—”
The door swung open.
Fournier sighed. “I was close anyway.”
Nah, Varlock was right on time. Mitch flashed his best fake smile. “Why, it’s my favorite interdimensional warlord! How is every little thing?”