Steel City Heroes (Book 1): The Catalyst

by C. M. Raymond

  Elijah broke the hug and stepped back. The man looked down into her eyes and stared without blinking. “You didn’t. You did what you thought was best.” He took a step back and nodded inside. “Come on in.”

  Willa stepped through the threshold and into the foreign apartment. Spartan arrangements were typical for the life of the traveling scholar, but the barren room made her feel empty. Not knowing exactly what to do, she found a seat on the overstuffed couch.

  An empty bottle of Jameson and two tumblers sat on the table. A boozy remnant had congealed on the bottom of the glasses. Willa eyed red lipstick on one of them. Elijah, following her stare, swept the glasses up in one hand and walked toward the kitchen.

  Willa could feel the emotions wrestling in the core of her being. For years she tried to shut out personal feelings, as they only seemed to get in the way of her vocations. The therapist she saw for the years following her mother’s death had told her this was a coping mechanism. Whatever mastery she had achieved wasn’t working in Elijah’s apartment.

  “Listen,” Elijah said, waving his phone, “I just got a message from Brooke…I mean…my boss. There’s some things I need to take care of that can’t wait.”

  The image of the glass and lipstick combined with the memory of Elijah in the restaurant on Mount Washington. Apparently Elijah had no convictions about mixing business with pleasure.

  “Oh, sure. I mean, I’ll be just fine.”

  “No. We won’t be fine. Something big is going on. We need to talk about it. Maybe tonight for a drink at Sal’s? I could get over there by eight.”

  Willa stood, and placed her hand on Elijah’s arm. “Thanks. I guess we’ve been thrust into something together.”

  Elijah flashed a grin that was almost charming. “Yeah, I guess we have. See you at eight.”

  Willa nodded and bit her lip. Walking toward the door, she tried to center herself. But all she could think about was a tall brunette with red lipstick.

  ****

  Willa sat in silence on the unusually empty bus. Her mind raced, oscillating between the death of Sean and the brief interaction with the historian. The image of the glass adorned with lipstick kept coming to the fore. Elijah was an adult, and they hardly knew one another. Willa was at a loss for why she felt so put off by the discovery.

  She tried to push the thoughts of him away, but then she could think of nothing but her student. The undergraduate’s death was a mystery. No way were drugs behind it. Sean wasn’t the type. The boy’s vigor for inclusion, for involvement in the fight for Pittsburgh led to his demise, and she knew it. His chances would have been better if she had taken him in—allowed him to participate. She drove him to this.

  Dammit, Sean.

  Seeking any distraction, she found herself scrolling through social media. The usual mix of juvenile humor and over-the-top complaining filled her Twitter feed. The technology existed to enable communication worldwide, and people found no better use for it than to whine and post the occasional selfie.

  Her high-mindedness provided little comfort, and the bus’s bumpy ride inspired her own criticism. She moved to #61A to find likeminded commiseration. There she stumbled upon a poem crafted by a familiar name.

  Sean Moretti’s final post renewed her tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Chem balanced a Starbucks cup on his padfolio as he pulled the outside door open. This feat of dexterity was a daily event for him. He slid through the gap and swiped his identification at the next set of doors. Beeping, the doors clicked unlocked.

  “Hey, Bill.” Chem nodded to the guard seated at the desk.

  The middle-aged security guard returned the gesture. The man’s arm was still in a sling from a work accident that took place over a month ago. Apparently someone had broken into a medical supply closet.

  The chemist felt badly that his friend suffered, but if you want to make an omelet… “How’s the arm healing up?”

  “It’s okay. You know, occupational hazard ’n’ all.” Bill’s friendly smile only made the chemist feel worse.

  “In the line of duty, right?” Chem grinned.

  “Always.”

  As he paced toward the lab, Chem pushed the guilt out of his mind. It wasn’t hard. The Elijah Formula filled his mind. The project was all he ever thought about, and it neared completion—ready for animal testing. He briefly considered skipping the mandatory lab tests in order to expedite the process. Making little metal monster mice wouldn’t show its effects on humans, and it was the stabilizing compound that needed to be mastered.

  But, research ethics aside, there was still the question of who the subject would be. Naturally, he couldn’t administer it to himself. He was the scientist, after all. Chem needed to remain disconnected, objective. He considered placing an ad on Craigslist for a test patient. This tactic always drew a hundred college students and a few meth-heads desperate for cash. It could work, but there were too many things out of his control. There was no telling what his compound would do to a person.

  Elijah’s changed form was nearly perfect. If the changing could be replicated and then even altered into diverse enhancements, Chem would be famous. But he needed to proceed with caution.

  The door to his lab was ajar and light seeped into the hall. Chem was always the first to arrive—and the last to leave.

  Someone is against a deadline, he thought, looking at the cracked door.

  The room was empty. Chem scanned for any signs of work taking place but everything was put away and untouched.

  Perfect, he thought, realizing he could get work in on his own project without the prying eyes of the other chemists.

  He settled into his workspace. Pulling out his composition book, he reviewed the notes. Chem considered the stabilizing element he planned to attempt. By introducing additional benzene, he hoped to steady the transition from human into superhuman form. As it was, the change seemed too traumatic for Elijah. If Chem’s improvements worked it would allow the subject to maintain their own consciousness despite the radical transformation.

  Chem turned to his lock box—where his sensitive materials were stored. As he moved the key toward its home, something caught his eye. Scratches. The shiny metal surrounding the keyhole was scuffed. The edge of the box was slightly bent.

  What the hell?

  Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Chem opened the box. Elijah’s blood and the altered serums were gone.

  “No. Shit. No,” Chem screamed into the empty lab.

  He stood and paced.

  “Think, man, think.”

  He turned to run back toward the guards’ desk but first he grabbed the untouched Starbucks and another vial from his lock box.

  ****

  “I don’t know, brother. I’d love to help, but we need to get clearance first to allow you to look at the tapes.” Bill paused and pursed his lips. “You sure you didn’t put your stuff somewhere else? Maybe your partner took it out for further, um, analysis—or whatever.”

  “I don’t have a partner,” the chemist said, through clenched teeth. “And this is not the kind of thing you misplace.” He paused, realizing he was getting forceful. “Listen, Bill, let’s just skip all the bureaucratic bullshit. You know I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  The portly guard laughed. “I know that, Chem. You’re the only egghead who actually treats me like a human. But with the break-in a few weeks ago, I’m kind of on thin ice. I can’t lose this job. You know, with Katie in school and all. Just can’t risk it. I’m sorry.” Bill’s eyes pleaded with the chemist.

  Chem smiled, and nodded. “I get it, man. It’s cool.”

  Bill pulled open the desk drawer and pulled a sheet. He slid it across the table. “Here. Make this report out. I’ll come down and check out the lab, and we’ll get this in today. We should be able to watch the film by this time tomorrow.” He tapped the desktop tower. “This baby’s not going anywhere.” His mouth curled in an uncomfortable smile.

  “It’
s cool, Bill. You know I wouldn’t want to do anything that would hurt your family.”

  Chem nodded and turned to go. He took three steps stopped and turned. “Bill, I almost forgot.” He paced back to the desk.

  “What’s that?” Bill said.

  “I picked up a coffee for you. Black. The only way,” Chem said.

  The two men laughed. “Kind of racist, don’t you think?” Bill winked.

  “Only if you say it.” Chem smiled, placed the coffee on the desk, and walked back toward the lab. Turning the corner, he stopped and leaned against the wall. He pulled out his phone and noted the time, then opened his Facebook app. It always amazed him to see what the people from his childhood were up to. If they only knew the work of his hands. After three minutes, he pocketed the phone, and walked back to the desk.

  Right on time, Bill.

  The guard was slumped in his chair, chin on his chest. Chem slid over the desk and squeezed his legs into the tight space next to his unconscious companion. He pulled out a laptop from his bag and linked a USB cord to the desktop computer. Within two minutes he had the surveillance video downloaded to his hard drive. He dropped his computer into the bag and pulled out a vial and hypodermic needle. Chem rotated Bill’s left arm and gave the antecubital vein a quick slap. Thankfully, Bill had the pipes of a bull. “Sorry, man. Again.”

  He thrust the needle into the vein and shoved the plunger with one swift move. Chem was able to dislodge the needle and drop it into his open bag just as Bill opened his eyes.

  “What…what…what happened?”

  Chem raised his eyebrows. “Beats me. I just came back—I left my phone.” He waved his smart phone in the air. “You were all slumped down. I thought I was gonna have to give you CPR. Looking at that mouth of yours, I decided to pray instead.”

  Bill shook his head and rubbed his hands across his face.

  “Your face is pale as shit,” Chem said. “You want me to call an ambulance?”

  Bill pushed his palms against his eyes. “No. I think I’m all right. Just a little groggy. My shift’s almost over.”

  Chem nodded, and stared at his friend. “Alright. But be careful, okay?”

  The chemist grabbed the sedative-spiked coffee and paced toward his lab.

  ****

  Back at the lab, Chem sat in a cubicle facing the door. He wore his earbuds. The video didn’t include sound, but it was a barrier to keep his colleagues at bay. Chem pulled up the file and scrolled the time stamp to the moment he left the lab. The video player ran at 10X speed; nothing happened for nearly thirty minutes. Finally, a figure entered the room.

  Walking across the camera’s line of vision, the figure blacked out the screen. A few seconds passed and the screen washed out white, as the light filtered back into the lens. The man strode with intention directly for Chem’s work area. He knew what he was doing. The man turned; his lips started to move. Almost immediately following, a second figure blacked out the screen. Same progression.

  What the shit damn fuck? Can’t be.

  Chem rubbed his eyes and then squinted, only inches from the screen. He pulled his glasses from his nose and then put them back in place.

  Sean Moretti stood in the lab, stealing his life’s work.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Ma’am, you just need to calm down and think this over.”

  A single pulsating vein stood out from Brooke’s forehead an eighth of an inch. It was her tell, and it only revealed itself when she had a hand to play. “No time to think, Rex. Just get me there. Get me there now.”

  He licked his lips and stepped on the gas. “Alright. But busting in there isn’t going to do a thing.”

  “If what Laurie texted me is true, it’s already done. Now stop talking and start driving.”

  Rex threaded the needle between two cars going the opposite direction as he sped down Stanwix Street. Horns blasted from every direction. She should have been nervous, but Brooke’s mind fixated on something else.

  Someone else.

  Van Pelt.

  She slid a hand into her purse and fingered the smooth plastic within. She smiled.

  A drop of sweat ran down Rex’s temple. Making it from Squirrel Hill to downtown in nine minutes flat, he ran the Lincoln up onto the curb directly in front of the PPG Tower’s massive glass doors.

  Without a word, she stepped from the car and toward her destiny.

  ****

  “Eight months. You gave me eight months—and now this.” The scream was animalistic. Brooke Alarawn shoved through the boardroom doors with the strength of a heavyweight, startling the collection of suits inside.

  “Ms. Alarawn, this is a closed meeting.” Van Pelt tugged at his collar. “You need to leave, before we call security.”

  Brooke laughed. “Who? My security? You’re going to ask my security to come and take me away?”

  A man with a soft face at the end of the table stood. “Brooke, please. Don’t make this worse for yourself. Your father wouldn’t want things to end this way.”

  “Smitty, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Brooke spat at the man. “My dad would take you out back and kick your ass if he knew what you were up to.”

  The man stared at an invisible dot on the table. “Would he?” the man whispered.

  Van Pelt grew an inch and stepped toward her. “Your father is the one who started all of this, Brooke. Your memory is selective. He put us here to make these kinds of calls—he trusted us to make the right decisions. This is the company’s process.”

  “Fuck the process. He was desperate. Desperate men make mistakes. This is my damn company, and I have seven more months left.”

  “I’m sorry,” Van Pelt said, though it was clear that he was anything but. “We voted to amend the agreement. It was three to four. With a majority vote the board is taking full control of Alarawn Industries. We discussed keeping you on to be the,” Van Pelt cleared his throat, “pretty face, but that was voted down as well. You’ll be receiving a severance package large enough to buy the Hill District. Graciously step down, and go enjoy yourself. Have some kids, for God’s sake.”

  Brooke slammed her fist on the table. Everyone—except Van Pelt—jumped. “Who was it? Who sold me out?”

  The board stared blankly. She scanned the room, reading guilt in most of the faces. She locked eyes with Fong on the screen. 8,000 miles away and he still looked nervous.

  Van Pelt grinned. “You need to leave, Ms. Alarawn. Really. This is embarrassing.” Van Pelt had regained his cool—as if he held a perfect hand.

  “I’m not leaving until I know who voted against me. You owe me this!”

  Van Pelt’s grin turned into a wolf’s snarl. “I owe you nothing, Brooke. Nothing.”

  Brooke’s response was cold as ice. “You fucking cowards.”

  “It was me, Brooke. I was the deciding vote.”

  A freight train ran through her head. She turned toward the slight African-American man at the end of the table.

  “Vince?” Her tone pleaded.

  The man stood. His eyes glassed over. “Brooke, I have a fiduciary duty to our shareholders. I take that seriously. A duty to this company—to this city. I took another look at the books, and it was impossible. You couldn’t do it—no one could have. I wish you had that kind of power but we need to salvage what we can, and that can’t wait seven months. Fong has a deal with the Chinese that won’t last.”

  Her eyes were frozen daggers aimed at her father’s best friend. “Vince, you told me you were in. You had my back.”

  Vince Charles’ Adam’s apple rose in slow motion, then sank. A tear broke from a glassy eye, its trajectory halted by the wire frame of his glasses. “This is having your back, Brooke. Someday, maybe a long time from now, you’ll understand that.”

  Brooke scanned the room, looking each board member in the eye. “You’ll pay for this.”

  Van Pelt started to laugh. “How pathetically cliché. Just when are we going to pay, Brooke? Huh? We’
ve been paying our dues for years. And all you’ve done is continue to drag your daddy’s company down. And for what? Pittsburgh?” He paused, waiting for her to look up. “Fuck Pittsburgh. It’s just a burned-out has-been of a city. Just like the Alarawn family. And we’re finally laying that family to rest.”

  Brooke walked toward the door and stopped at its threshold.

  Snapping open her handbag, she withdrew a plastic syringe.

  “Alarawns never rest, you motherfucker.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The IKEA clock read 7:04—almost an hour before Elijah was supposed to meet Willa at the bar. The afternoon had been largely unproductive. His mind, occupied by fantasy, was unable to make sense of the facts. He sighed, looking at the notes in front of him. Though they were written in his own hand, they struck the academic as the ravings of a madman. He grimaced at the self-deprecating insinuation.

  Maybe I am crazy.

  Closing his notes, he walked toward the tiny bedroom. His pants and socks dropped into the growing pile of dirty laundry littering the floor. The chaos of the week bled into his usually ordered domestic habits. He turned toward his bathroom and flicked on the harsh overhead light. The tile floor was pleasantly cool on his bare feet. Elijah took off his button-up and gingerly pulled the white tee over his head. The motion was painful. Cuts and bruises proved, at the very least, that something traumatic had happened the other night.

  He surveyed his battered body in the bathroom mirror. The bandage on his chest was dark with aged blood and pus from the wound underneath. Clenching his teeth, he peeled back that cloth.

  What the hell?

  The most curious aspect of his injuries was the large burn centered on his upper torso. He struggled to imagine where it could have come from. Staring at himself in the mirror, its origin now became clear.

  An intricate scar, a square with two intersecting ovals, was branded onto his body. It was a perfect facsimile of Thomas Alarawn’s medallion. Elijah’s stomach turned. He ran his index finger over the distinct, symmetrical design—its harsh lines aggressively displayed in the fluorescent light.