I know I should hurry. Be right on his heels. There are still all of Tony’s men, probably looking for their own way out. And Mickey’s men, who must still be trapped in here somewhere. And no telling how many brainwashed soldiers the Dictator has left. Not to mention the Comet. I start to climb, but three rungs up, I freeze and look back.
I just have to know. After all, motive is everything.
“Why are you helping us?” I ask.
The Comet’s sidekick glances over one shoulder, then back up at me. I can’t see anything beyond the mask.
“Because,” she growls, “I know which side you’re on.”
Then she turns and disappears down the hall, leaving me hanging.
My father reaches the hatch and pushes it open, and we crawl up and out into the middle of the cornfield next to the barn. The farmhouse sits empty behind us, the line of black SUVs surrounding it. I catch a large figure looming over me out of the corner of my eye and turn to karate chop it or something, but it’s just a scarecrow, a real one, half of its stuffing spilling from a wound in its chest. Dad closes the hatch, sealing off the sound of the scuffle below. I wonder if the Dictator’s men have all been subdued. If Tony’s men have found a way out. If Zach is all right. Wonder who is winning.
I feel a pair of hairy arms squeeze around me and look up at the man who saved me once.
“I told you not to come,” he says, clutching me so tight that I can count his heartbeats against my cheek.
“You told me to do something. So I did.”
“Listen, Michael,” he starts to say, but I interrupt. If this is about my other father or my mother or his lies or Winnipeg or anything but getting the heck out of here, it will have to wait.
“This really isn’t the time,” I tell him.
I pull him by his torn Hawaiian shirt, and we smash our way through cornstalks toward the house. I just hope one of those SUVs still has the keys in it and that my father is in good enough shape to drive. We’ve made it to the back porch when my father points to the road. We are too late.
The cavalry has arrived.
At least twenty of them, hornets burst from their hive. Flashing blues and reds coming from both directions. I think I can even hear a helicopter in the distance. I scan the clouds, then look back at the barn. Any moment those doors will open, and out will come Tony’s men. Or Mickey’s men. Or the Comet himself. A superhero rock and a whole mess of hard-place cops. We will be cuffed and taken in for sure.
Dad turns to me, a determined look on his face. “Do you have any of that money left?”
“A few hundred dollars.”
“Do you know how to drive?”
“What?”
“You know,” he says. “Put the car in gear. Press on the gas. Try not to hit anything.” He starts running for one of the SUVs. I follow behind, yelling at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Head back to the city,” he shouts. “Cut through the fields. Ditch the car in the first parking lot you find. Stay in the shadows. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Then, first chance you get, take a train.”
“Take a train? Take a train where? What are you saying?”
He opens the door to one of the cars and fumbles around on the floor, finding the keys. He pushes me inside. I push back, but he’s still stronger than I am. Even after everything that has happened. This was the summer I was going to start working out.
“Somewhere safe,” he says. He actually reaches over and buckles my seat belt for me.
“You’re insane. Get in the freakin’ car, Dad. I’m not driving this thing. And I’m not going to leave without you! Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
He reaches over again and turns the key. The SUV purrs to life. The sirens are getting louder.
“It’s all right,” he says. “I’ll be all right now. You came back for me. And I’m glad. But now you have to go. Here. Take this.” He fishes in the bag still slung on his shoulder and pulls out a box. This one is smaller than most of the others, about two inches square. Small enough to cup in the palm of his hand. There are only two buttons on it. Green and yellow. The label says FOR MICHAEL.
“We still have so much to talk about, I know,” he says. Then he looks me in the eye. And I want to tell him to stop being such an idiot and get in the stupid car. Not ask him. Just tell him. But I don’t. Because I promised I wouldn’t. Just like he promised he would look after me. You have to draw the line somewhere.
Then, before I can even say good-bye, he slams the door, turns, and runs toward the approaching police cars, pulling out another box from his bag and pressing the red button before pitching it overhead toward the convoy. It hits the ground, rolls several feet, and then explodes with a force much bigger than its size could ever suggest, creating a crater that the first patrol car unwittingly rolls into. He reaches into his bag and pulls out three more boxes, activating their self-destruct and rolling them toward the oncoming cruisers. He isn’t trying to hurt anyone. If anything, it’s just the opposite. He is only trying to buy me time.
I gun the engine and throw the SUV into drive, squealing and kicking clods of mud before catapulting forward, plowing through the field. Out my side window I see the doors to the barn open and at least a dozen men pour out, Tony’s and Mickey’s both, punching and kicking each other, not even realizing whose hands they are tumbling into.
And in the rearview mirror I see my father. One of several and yet the only one I’ve ever really had. All out of boxes. Standing there with his hands up in surrender as a swarm of cops surrounds him.
UNDER THE STARS
New Liberty welcomes me quietly.
I make it to a part of the city that I am at least familiar with before ditching the car. I’m surprised I made it this far. Surprised that I didn’t crash into anything, or at least anything that didn’t give easily, mailboxes notwithstanding. Surprised the police helicopter didn’t track me down. Surprised I wasn’t followed by sirens. Then again, they probably had their hands full. A mastermind and his army. A vigilante hero and his sidekick. Two criminal organizations at each other’s necks. I was the least of their worries.
I find a parking lot and leave the keys in the ignition—first come, first served. Let someone else steal it and create another trail. I tuck the box—my father’s last box—into my pocket and do my best to clean my face. The knuckles on my left hand are skinned raw from my unfortunate attempt at boxing. I have chafe marks around my wrists and ankles. There’s a scratch beneath my chin where the knife got too close, but otherwise I look normal. For me, anyway. I look up to see that I’ve parked right across the street from a White Castle. Not the White Castle, just a White Castle, but I still can’t help but feel like I’m back at the beginning.
I start walking, away from the sun that has nearly finished setting behind me. Heroes always ride into the sunset, I tell myself, and sure enough, there it is in the sky—the big blue smudge set against the bright orange-and-pink backdrop. The Comet. His work is finished. Which means the worst of it is over. I half expect him to just land right in front of me. Materializing from out of nowhere like a magic trick. But he doesn’t. Maybe I’m the least of his worries too.
I rub my raw wrists and shuffle down the sidewalk, keeping my head low. I don’t want to draw attention. I need to find a television. Just to see. Just to make sure he wasn’t hurt. The last time the cops surrounded a father of mine, I ended up an orphan.
I pass a group of people coming out of a restaurant called the Fighting Irishman. One of them holds the door open for me. I say thanks, then stop him just as he is about to leave. “Hey, did you watch that big announcement?” I fish. “I’m afraid I didn’t get home in time.”
“Total bust,” the guy says, snorting and shaking his head. “Some big spiel about pledging our allegiance or some crap, then all of a sudden the camera cuts out. Apparently the Comet showed up, took down the Dictator and a whole mess of other guys. It’s all over the news.”
&
nbsp; No doubt. I thank him and slink through the door. Restaurants like these always have bars and the bars always have televisions. The hostess looks at me strangely. Probably they don’t get a lot of teenage boys with swollen fingers and torn clothes smelling like sweat and gun smoke on a Monday night. I force an innocent smile. “Just one,” I say.
She lets me seat myself, and I find a booth right across from one of the four television sets, all of them tuned to the news. Most of the faces are tuned to it as well, soaking it in eagerly. Tragedy and triumph. Hard to resist. When the waitress comes, I order a diet soda just so she will leave me alone for a minute.
There’s live coverage from the news chopper hovering over the scene. It’s a mess. There is smoke coming out of one of the windows of the farmhouse. One police car sits in a ditch, riddled with bullets. Another sits belly up. There is a giant chasm in the side of the barn, with an SUV wedged into it—a getaway attempt gone awry, I guess. There are cops of every kind swarming the field, probably looking for clues. And that’s just what is happening on the surface. Imagine what they found underneath.
Between the cops and the reporters and the mob of eager onlookers, it’s hard to make out any one face in the crowd. I see a few of the men who Mickey brought being cuffed and stuffed into the backs of cruisers. I see one gloved officer carrying a stack of steel masks, carefully tucking them into plastic bags. At one point I think I even catch a glimpse of Zach glancing out the back of an armored van. If these are Tony’s cops, they aren’t doing their job. Everyone is being rounded up, taken in, no matter what group they belong to. Tony will have to rely on his paid judges to get him out of trouble now.
Nowhere do I see the Dictator. Nor do I see my father. My only hope is that he was one of the first ones taken. The camera cuts to the on-scene reporter, the same blonde I’ve been watching off and on all week, the one with the overly dramatic pauses and too-large teeth. I ask the passing waitress if she minds turning the volume up a little.
“Yes, John, I am here . . . live . . . on the scene of what is, undoubtedly, the biggest bust in New Liberty’s history. Turns out this simple farm right behind me sits on top of the huge underground lair of the villain known only as . . . the Dictator. The same man who vowed to change the world has been brought to justice by the city’s latest . . . and perhaps greatest hero . . . who has once again left his calling card for all to see.” She points, and the camera pans up to show the streak of blue starting to blend into the darkening sky.
I look toward the windows of the pub instinctively, but all the blinds have been closed. It’s all right. I’ve had my fill of that big blue stain.
The reporter continues. “It has been confirmed that the Dictator is in police custody, along with thirty of his personal henchmen and at least twenty other known criminals, including Tony Romano and Mickey ‘Six Fingers’ Maloney. In fact, the first to be arrested was this man . . .”
The camera cuts to footage of a man with bushy orange hair being loaded into a patrol car. As they shut the door on him, my father turns and smiles at the camera. Smiles at me.
I take a deep breath and let my whole body go limp. I reach for my glass to take a drink.
“. . . a self-proclaimed inventor who is currently believed to have been working for the Dictator and may even be the mastermind behind the whole operation. . . .”
And snarf it, the bubbles burning their way up my sinuses, the soda squirting out of both nostrils, splattering the table in a fizzy mess.
My father. The mastermind.
The waitress comes back to the table, towel in hand. Her name is Darlene. She looks glumly at the puddle I’ve waterfalled through my nose but wipes it up anyway. “You okay?” she asks.
I’m not about to answer that question for real, so I just nod.
“Crazy, ain’t it?” she says, following my gaze. “I tell you, I’ve lived here for fifteen years and I’ve never seen anything like this. That Comet is somethin’ else. Can you believe he did that all by himself?”
I shake my head.
“I guess we were lucky to have him. Though between you and me,” she says, leaning down and whispering, “I kinda wish I knew what else that fella in the silver mask was going to say.”
“You really don’t,” I tell her.
She gives me a dirty look and then asks me if I’m going to order something to eat. I shake my head and she pulls out her pad, writing up the bill for the soda that’s still burning my nostrils. On TV they’ve cut back to the news desk for more updates. It’s all stuff I already know, of course, but to them it is late breaking. The weapons found in the lair, along with all the equipment the Dictator used to create his little army. Details about the nature of the shootout itself. Then they say something that gives me pause.
“Authorities say that at least one suspect, a young Caucasian male in his early teens, managed to flee the scene in a black SUV. They are currently looking for any clues regarding his identity or whereabouts.”
I swallow hard. I’m a wanted man.
It feels strange being wanted. Sort of sickening and awesome at the same time. I look up at the waitress, but she is oblivious. She slaps my bill on the table.
“He’s a hero, I guess,” she says. I can only assume she is referring to the Comet. I wait for her to go, then take a look. I owe a dollar seventy, but I don’t have any small bills. I guess tonight Darlene will have two heroes.
I leave the hundred on the table and head back outside, making it a point not to look anyone in the eye. Who knows what Tony’s or Mickey’s men are telling the police right now. And the Dictator. There’s no way he’s going to let me off the hook. The authorities may have him now, but guys like him, they find a way to get free. To start over. I need to find someplace to go, at least for the night. At least until I figure out what to do next.
Someplace safe.
I run my fingers along the box in my pocket, hoping that it is what I think it is. Hoping that I still know the way.
It takes almost two hours on foot. I don’t want to risk taking a bus or a taxi. After what they said on the news, I’m thinking the fewer people I meet tonight, the better. I keep to the shadows and alleys, feeling every bit like I’m up to no good. I only pass one police car, headlights shining but its driver looking the other way. All the rest are probably either at the barn, back at the station, or somewhere in between. Still, I give a wide berth to every stranger I pass. Every dog bark, honked horn, and slammed car door makes me jump. Only when I get to the neighborhood just past the baseball diamonds do I calm down a little.
Everything here is still just as it should be, untouched. I keep to the rows of manicured bushes and evergreens, dodging the pools of gold cast by the streetlamps. The houses are all quiet, and I marvel for a moment at how peaceful it is, how the driveway lights automatically bloom when you pass them, how there are no cars parked anywhere along the street. I retrace my steps till I am standing right outside her house. I circle around the back, sneaking through the fence left open, remembering which room she said was hers. The master bedroom. Her light is on. It takes some scrounging to find a rock the right size. I don’t want to break the glass.
For once my aim is spot-on.
I wait for a few seconds, holding my breath, until finally a hand pulls back the curtains and opens the window. Arise, fair sun, I think, and please, for the love of god, let me come in. Her face appears in the window.
Viola.
The instrument, not the cross-dresser. This isn’t Shakespeare. I look up at her and smile, but she just stands there for a moment, as if she doesn’t recognize me, as if we’ve never even met, and I suddenly feel like I’ve made a horrible mistake.
Then she leans out the window, propped up on her elbows, chin in hands.
“What are you doing here?” she whispers.
“I brought you something,” I say. I already told myself I wouldn’t use my powers. I won’t force my way in. She’ll either have me or she won’t. I reach in my jacket and p
ull out the box.
She bites her lip, then glances behind her, and for a moment I think I’ve lost everything. My house in ashes. My father in police custody. And now she’s going to turn me away. But then she points to the giant recycling bin by the corner of the house.
“Climb,” she says.
So I do. It’s a bit of a struggle—the bin buys me only an extra five feet—but Viola reaches over the ledge and takes both of my hands in hers, hoisting me up without much apparent effort, though she seems to wince a little just as she pulls me inside. She puts a finger to my lips as I get to my feet.
“Shhh. My mother will kill you if she finds you here.”
I look around. It looks like a typical teenage girl’s room. Pastel-flowered bedspread. Purple walls spattered with peel-off butterflies. I notice the telescope in the corner and one shelf lined with softball trophies. There are posters of a few pop bands and a vampire heartthrob from the latest trilogy. A stuffed animal—Mikey the Chickopotamus—watches me from the bed.
“You kept it,” I whisper, pointing to the prize.
“Of course,” she says.
Viola comes up and stands beside me. She is wearing pink flannel pajamas with satin cuffs, decorated with peace signs. Her hair is damp. She smells like soap, and perhaps the faintest hint of smoke. Or maybe that’s just me. I can’t even imagine what I must smell like, what I must look like, what she must think of me.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask.
“Working late,” she whispers. She sits on the edge of the bed and pats the comforter, and I take a seat next to her. I listen for sirens. For helicopter blades. For her mother’s footsteps or the sound of her father opening the door. A few hours ago I was strapped in a chair, surrounded by men with guns, about to be forced to brainwash an entire city; yet sitting here, next to her, I am just as nervous. Maybe more.
But I had to come. I didn’t know where else to go.
“I won’t stay,” I say. “I just wanted to give you this.”
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