Arrow

by Marc Guggenheim

  “It’s satisfying.” That seemed appropriate. “Knowing I can make a shot, even a difficult one or one under… pressure,” Oliver faltered at his own words. He hadn’t been able to save William’s mother. “In that way, it makes me feel good.”

  “Do you get scared?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you get hurt?”

  Oliver took the towel from around his neck, revealing his scars and the ugly, still-fading bruises. William’s eyes went a little wider.

  “Yes,” he said.

  William studied his father’s torso, not blinking as he read the map of scar tissue that documented all the injuries Oliver had suffered over the last several years. After a moment he slid off his chair. He closed his comic book, put it under his arm, and picked up his bowl of cereal, nearly empty. He carried it over to the sink, then turned and walked down the hallway.

  Oliver heard the click when he shut his bedroom door.

  * * *

  “This guy doesn’t exist. He’s like the Invisible Man.”

  Felicity turned to Curtis, who hunched over a keyboard on the other end of the computer console. He sipped a fruit drink in a silver pouch made for kids. His hands clicked the keys on the keyboard as he stared at the computer screen.

  “Okay, first of all,” she said, “we don’t have an Invisible Man.”

  “We don’t?”

  “Nope. A Nuclear Man, yes, and Barry and Cisco have an invisible woman. Doctor Light.”

  “Seriously?” Curtis asked.

  Felicity nodded.

  “I’d kill to be able to be invisible,” he continued. “That would be hella cool.”

  “Not as cool as flying.”

  “True.” They’d had the super-powers discussion many times. “Our guy here can’t fly, but he might as well not exist.”

  “He has to exist—we have his fingerprints. And Curtis, seriously, move back away from the computer. You’re going to get cathode ray burn on your eyeballs.”

  Curtis sat up. “First of all, I’ve run that print through the NCIC database, the SCBI database, Interpol, and Run DMC, and found nothing.”

  “Run DMC is a hip hop group, not a database.”

  “Hip hop legend,” Curtis corrected. “Just making sure you were paying attention.” He picked up his juice pouch and took another sip. “Secondly though, this is an LCD screen, it doesn’t emit cathode rays. That’s a CRT monitor, which has never been seen in a state-of-the-art secret base like the Arrowcave—”

  “Oliver hates when we call it that.”

  “And yet we continue to do so,” he said. “But LCD screens only put out low-level EMF fields which are, mostly, harmless.”

  “Nerd,” Felicity said.

  “Geek.”

  “Easy with the insults there, people.” The voice came from behind them. “I’m going to think you two can’t work together.” Dinah climbed the stairs that led up to the dais, toweling off from the workout she’d just completed in the Bunker’s gym.

  “Oh, we were just blowing off steam,” Curtis said. “We get along fine, it’s just how we…”

  “Blow off steam?” Dinah smiled. “Take it easy. I was just yanking your chain, Curtis.”

  “Oh, okay.” He laughed.

  “Any luck tracking down our copycat?”

  Felicity shook her head. “He doesn’t come up in any criminal database at all.”

  “You’ve tried them all?”

  “All one hundred and forty-three of them.”

  “There are that many?” Dinah leaned against the rail.

  “If you include international.”

  “Which you did?”

  Curtis nodded. “Even the Markovian crime database.”

  “Well, there may be your problem.”

  Curtis frowned. “The problem might be that he isn’t a Markovian criminal?”

  “Ah!” Felicity shot up in her chair. “Ah! What an idiot I am.” She spun and began typing. “Our problem is that he might not be a criminal at all.”

  “Wow,” Curtis said. “That makes so much sense.”

  “Dinah, you’re a genius,” Felicity said over her shoulder.

  Dinah waved away the praise. “Not a genius, just a really good detective.”

  “Got him!” Felicity cried.

  “Is he Markovian?” Curtis asked.

  Felicity shot him a look and began reading. “Arthur Hallsey, father of two, lives in—lives in a nice suburban neighborhood. Owns a car and a boat, not too extended on his credit cards, bit of money in the bank. IT technician, which explains how he knows where the action is.” She looked up. “This guy is so straight-laced he doesn’t even have a parking citation.”

  “Maybe the system mismatched his fingerprints,” Dinah said.

  Felicity and Curtis laughed in unison.

  “Okay, maybe this guy had the gun, and it was stolen and used by someone else.”

  Curtis fanned his fingers quickly over the keyboard. “Nope. There’d be a police report, if that were the case. Guy like that would report it.”

  “If he isn’t a gun nut, then he might not even know it’s gone,” Dinah offered. “Lot of people have a gun for protection, and just put it in the closet or between the mattresses and forget about it. If it were stolen, they wouldn’t know until it popped for being used in a crime.”

  “Maybe,” Felicity said, turning in her chair, “but Arthur Hallsey did order a paintball mask, several green hoodies, and—the nail in a rather circumstantial coffin, I will admit—a bulletproof vest.”

  Dinah pushed off the rail. “Good enough for me. Text me his address, and I’ll pick him up for questioning.”

  “What’s your probable cause?” Curtis asked.

  “Probably ’cause I want to,” she said with a smile.

  * * *

  Agony seared in a thin line along the bottom edge of his pectoral muscle, causing it to spasm. The convulsive movement seemed to make the needles sink deeper.

  “I know it hurts, Mr. Diggle,” Dr. Schwartz said, her eyes covered with dark goggles, “but I need you to remain as still as possible.”

  He gritted his teeth and tried to relax as Dr. Schwartz lowered the apparatus, moving toward the elbow. The needle it held slid into the thin skin as if it were made of air. He felt every millimeter of surgical stainless steel that pierced him, fully aware as it punctured through skin, muscle, and tendon. He didn’t feel the shaky scrape of it hitting the bone.

  New pain pulsed into his elbow, and immediately he felt it begin to swell even as the machine pulled back, leaving the needle embedded in his arm.

  Another needle cycled into the now empty slot.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Diggle—we’re over halfway done.”

  Diggle turned his head and glanced across his body. A line of needles stuck out of his dark skin, shining in the harsh beam of the exam light. They looked like miniature fence posts all in a row from his sternum, across his chest, and down to the elbow. Thin tubes connected to the top of each needle, gathering in a bundle and running up to a dispenser unit. Under each of them, down deep where the tips were embedded in his flesh, were tiny pools of hot, liquid pain as they slowly released whatever medicinal concoction was being injected into him.

  “It’s okay, Doc.” His voice sounded almost guttural as he forced his words through clenched teeth. “It’s worth it if it works.”

  “Remember our odds,” Dr. Schwartz said. “This gives us only a seventeen percent chance of improvement.” She lowered the device again.

  He turned his head away as another needle pierced his flesh.

  2

  He was a normal-looking man.

  Mid– to late forties, in decent shape by all appearances with a straight spine and wide shoulders. Dark brown hair over dark brown eyes in a fine but forgettable face. He was every man, someone who could blend into a crowd without leaving a ripple.

  Arthur Hallsey sat in a metal chair at the metal table in the small interrogation room. He did
not look scared or anxious. He didn’t even appear to be annoyed. He simply sat, lightly tapping his fingers along the sides of a half-full paper cup of cold coffee from the vending machine down the hall. Tapping to some tune only he could hear.

  Oliver thought about that coffee as he watched Hallsey through the one-way glass. He had drunk that coffee before. It was garbage. The vending machine was a relic of late eighties coin-operated machinery and had been in place probably before he had even been born. The coffee it put out certainly tasted as if the machine had not been cleaned since then.

  He made a mental note to have it replaced.

  The door to the room opened and Hallsey stopped tapping. Dinah walked in. She wore a dark pantsuit, her lieutenant badge swinging from a thin ball-bead chain around her neck. Her hair was tightly tied in a ponytail that gave her a very intimidating look. She sat in the chair across from Hallsey and leaned back, just watching him without saying anything.

  Oliver waited, watching. Whenever they did speak, he would hear it all through the intercom on the wall to the left of the window.

  Hallsey resumed tapping on his cup. After a few minutes he picked it up, shook it slightly, and tossed back what was left. He grimaced as he put the empty cup on the table.

  “Your coffee is terrible,” he said.

  “That’s how you want to start?” she asked.

  Hallsey shrugged. “You could tell me why I’m here.”

  “You know why you’re here.”

  “I was working on my screenplay when you showed up at my house, put me into a car, and brought me here.”

  “What’s your screenplay about?”

  “About two acts long at this point. I was starting the third when you arrived.” Hallsey smiled at his tiny joke.

  Dinah didn’t.

  “Is your screenplay about a man who dresses in a costume and goes out trying to find crime to stop?”

  “No,” he said. “I think that story’s been done.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “The idea that it’s been done before? Doesn’t bother me in the slightest. All ideas have been done before.”

  “How do you feel about vigilantes?”

  “We have a lot of them here in Star City.”

  “Do they help stop crime, or do they just get in the way?”

  “Well, officer, I think you could answer that better than me.” He leaned forward. “But it does seem like no matter what they do, crime keeps rising.”

  “So you think they get in the way?”

  He considered it. “Not so much ‘get in the way’ as more ‘don’t go far enough.’” He frowned slightly at the thought.

  “So, you think normal people should put on costumes and try to fight crime?”

  “I’m saying it’s not the worst idea.”

  “Are you a vigilante, Mr. Hallsey?”

  “That seems pretty silly,” he responded. “What do you think? Don’t I look like a normal citizen with a normal family and a normal life?”

  “That is not a denial.”

  “It’s not a confession, either.”

  “Do you hate criminals?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Other criminals don’t.”

  Hallsey chuckled. “Oh, I bet they do. The only reason you police get any crime solved is that they hate each other and turn on each other like rats. They do your job for you.”

  Dinah raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like police?”

  “Police are fine. Mostly good people.”

  “Fine?”

  “Someone has to clean up after a vigilante stops a criminal.”

  Even though her face and body language did nothing to give it away, Oliver could feel Dinah’s frustration through the glass. He understood her predicament. There was nothing with which she could charge Hallsey, so she couldn’t use her normal interrogation tactics. She was handcuffed by circumstance because she was a police officer.

  Good thing I’m not, he thought. I’m just the mayor.

  He turned toward the door.

  * * *

  Oliver knocked and stepped inside the interrogation room.

  “Lieutenant Drake, could I speak with Mr. Hallsey, please?”

  Dinah stood without answering and walked out through the door, shutting it behind her and leaving the two men alone. Oliver knew she would go to the observation room, primarily to keep anyone else from listening in.

  Oliver crossed the room, his hand extended. “Hello Mr. Hallsey, I’m—”

  “I voted for you.”

  Oliver stopped short, then moved to the chair Dinah had just vacated and sat down. The metal legs scraped on the concrete floor.

  “Thank you for that.”

  Hallsey waved it away. With a twinge of resentment, Oliver noticed that he didn’t seem to suffer any physical discomfort, even after the explosion.

  “The reason you’re here today is that the police think you are dressing up and going out at night to be a vigilante.”

  “You say that as if you’re very sure of it.”

  “Mr. Hallsey…” Oliver leaned forward. “I’m not a police officer. I cannot arrest you. But I am in touch with the Green Arrow, and so I know a thing or two about vigilantes.”

  “If you’re so close to him, you should ask him why he went soft on crime.”

  “Soft? The Green Arrow and his team have helped the police put an end to several major crime organizations.”

  Hallsey shrugged. “That was last year. This year he seems to be letting criminals get away with a lot more. Even murder.”

  “I assure you, he’s fighting as hard as he can.”

  “Criminals go to jail and come back out doing even more. They need to be stopped—permanently.”

  “The Arrow is trying very hard to not kill anyone,” Oliver said, doing his best to keep his face calm and his voice even. “He works in extreme situations, but he and I agree that killing isn’t the solution.”

  “Some people need to be killed.”

  Oliver leaned forward. “Yes, sometimes they do. And sometimes it’s the vigilante who loses their life. Laurel Lance, for example. People still honor her death as Black Canary.”

  “So criminals are dangerous? Hmmm… I never thought of them that way.” Hallsey rubbed his chin as if contemplating, “Sounds as if Green Arrow needs to be more… thorough. You know, get them off the streets for good.”

  “You think he should kill these people.”

  “Mayor Queen, I think the most important thing is for my daughters to grow up in a safe time, a safe place. If some of the bad guys need to go down to make that happen, well then, so be it. I’d applaud anyone who makes that happen.”

  “You should think about your daughters,” Oliver said, “and your wife. They need you to go home to them.”

  “I didn’t say I was a vigilante.”

  “No, Mr. Hallsey, but you didn’t deny it.”

  “Look, Mayor Queen.” Hallsey shifted in his seat. “Your friend the Green Arrow is a good guy. I’ve felt inspired by him for a long time. But you should tell him I was more inspired when he used to give the bad guys the justice they deserved.”

  “Justice is more than killing.”

  “If there is harm, then you shall pay life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,” Hallsey said flatly. “Burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.”

  “Did you just quote the Bible to me?” Oliver asked.

  “It’s the truth,” Hallsey said. “You can nail that to the cross.”

  * * *

  “I can’t charge him with anything.”

  They watched Hallsey through the one-way glass. The man had turned his empty cup upside down and was tapping on it like a miniature drum.

  “I can’t even hold him much longer,” Dinah said.

  Oliver took a deep breath, held it, and then let it slide out through his nostrils.

  “Cut him loose,” he said.

  “He�
�s the one.”

  “I know.” Oliver didn’t turn. “He couldn’t resist at the end there, dropping Cross’s name. He’s the copycat.”

  “What are we going to do about that?”

  “First thing is to take Cross off his list.”

  3

  “Hello, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your main event! It’s Shock-and-Awe Night in Star City! Bad guys beware, drug dealers be scared. You can hide but you’d better not run, because—” Felicity rolled up the volume on the comms link, leaning into the microphone she had chosen over her normal ear bud unit. Her voice deepened in her closest impersonation of a movie trailer announcer.

  “—We. Are. Bringing. The. Justice.”

  The push of a button caused the sound effect of a bomb dropping to roll out over the comms. As it faded, Wild Dog’s voice replaced it.

  “You are having way too much fun with this.”

  “Hush,” White Canary’s voice said. “She’s adorable when she’s cute.”

  In the Bunker, Felicity ignored them both as she started a playlist and cracked her knuckles. Frantic drumming under sleazy guitar chords came over the cave’s speakers where she could hear it, but it wouldn’t go over the comms to distract the teams as they worked.

  As a bonus, it would help her ignore the danger they might face.

  She brought up the appropriate screens and leaned into the microphone.

  “First up, Team Wild Terrific is a go for launch.”

  * * *

  “Don’t call us that,” Wild Dog growled over the comms.

  “I don’t mind it,” Mister Terrific said.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  They crouched beside a runny dumpster, the entire thing glistening black in the harsh sodium lights of the alley behind Wo Fat’s Chicken And Waffles. The stench was stifling, a combination of stale fat, old meat, and rotting vegetables. In the late summer heat, there was a shimmer in the air around it. And flies. Hundreds of flies.

  “Okay,” Felicity’s voice said in their ears. “Fire alarm is disabled. Whenever you’re ready.”

  “We’re going now.” Wild Dog stepped out. “This dumpster is killing me.”

  “That’s excessive hyperbole,” Curtis said.

  “Hyperbole my ass, you try having that smell trapped under your mask.”