Just Cause Universe 3: Day of the Destroyer

by Ian Thomas Healy

He jumped back from the truck as if he’d been scalded by a hot stove. His eyes widened as he realized he’d been caught red-handed. His face betrayed the terror of someone who knew a far worse fate lay ahead.

  “Easy, kid. I’m not going to do anything. Just leave the tools and stuff alone, okay? My friend needs them to fix the power.”

  The kid narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to turn me in?”

  Gretchen smiled at him. “No, you’re not hurting anything. Just leave the stuff alone and we’ll call it even, okay?”

  He wavered, uncertain what to do. Maybe he wasn’t used to anyone being nice to him, Gretchen thought. She knew a couple kids like him back in Dyersville; kids whose fathers liked to drink and got violent when they did; kids who showed up to school with bruises and haunted expressions.

  “What’s your name?” asked Gretchen.

  The boy looked around as if seeking an escape, and Gretchen had just decided he was probably going to run away when he replied, “Harlan.”

  “Hi, Harlan. I’m Gretchen.” She stepped from the truck and extended her hand in greeting.

  Harlan looked her up and down, from her Keds to jean cutoffs to blue t-shirt. His eyes lingered on her chest before he shook her proffered hand. “Nice to meet you,” he mumbled, as if the words were unfamiliar.

  “Harlan, are you messing with that truck?” The older Hispanic man who’d first talked to Shane hurried up. Harlan’s face tensed up.

  “No, it’s fine,” said Gretchen. “We were just talking.”

  “If you say so.” The man turned to watch Shane work atop the telephone pole.

  “What were you looking for?” Gretchen asked Harlan.

  “Just stuff,” he said. “I build stuff, and I need parts sometimes.” He bowed his head like he was embarrassed.

  “What kind of stuff do you build?”

  “Maybe I can show you sometime.” Harlan glanced up at her to see if she was looking.

  Gretchen realized in surprise that the boy had developed a sudden crush on her. She felt flattered and a little embarrassed—she was much too old for him, but she didn’t see any harm in letting him imagine.

  It was refreshing to have innocent attention for once.

  Chapter Five

  July 13, 1977 1:00 PM

  “At first we thought a bomb went off in it,” said the fleet service manager at the bus station, whose embroidered name tag read Dwayne. The air inside the shop was smoky and made Faith’s throat sore. A fine black film of sooty grime covered everything in the building, and Faith made every effort not to brush against any of it. Dwayne’s hands and face were smudged with it, and decades-old oil was ground into his pores, giving all his exposed skin a stippled appearance. He gave Faith and Irlene a tour of the bus in question. “But there’s no sign of fire or explosion. The seats aren’t even damaged. Whatever it was just blew in the windows.”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted Faith. “Blew them in?”

  “Yeah. We didn’t find any glass on the street at all. I’d have suspected kids with rocks, except there isn’t anything inside that looks like it was thrown.” He shrugged. “I heard when it happened. Sounded like thunder. I thought maybe the heat was going to break and we’d finally get a little rain.”

  “Maybe it was like those Memorex commercials,” said Irlene. “Some kind of loud noise busted all the windows.”

  “The problem with that is that it affected the bus on both sides,” said Faith, deep in thought. “A loud noise would have only caught one side of the bus, and probably damaged other things on the street too.”

  Dwayne motioned for Faith and Irlene to look inside the bus. Irlene shrank herself back down to doll-sized and zipped in past Faith’s head like an eager sparrow. The manager jerked in surprise but then managed to keep his cool. “We already started to clean it up. We didn’t know Just Cause would want to see it.”

  Faith saw a pile of broken glass swept into the middle of the aisle. She marveled that every single side window was shattered. Cracks marred the windshield in a radial pattern, which intrigued her. The way the safety glass had cracked made it look like someone had hurled a bowling ball at it from outside. “Everything was pulled inside,” she said. “What could do that?”

  “And ‘phyx-u-ate someone’s lungs, if it’s the same person,” said Irlene.

  Faith snapped her fingers. “Vacuum!”

  “What?” Irlene landed as softly as a butterfly on Faith’s shoulder and perched there.

  “This girl can create vacuums. She created one in that boy’s lungs and killed him. She created one inside this bus and blew in all the windows.” Faith turned to Dwayne. “You said all the tires on one side were flat?”

  “Yeah. That made me think it was pranksters or something, but when we filled them back up we didn’t find any signs of leaks.”

  “Like the air inside them had just vanished,” said Faith. “Is the driver who brought it in still here?” She felt growing concern nipping at her heels. A new, unknown parahuman was always a danger, and this one seemed powerful and had already killed someone. “We need to see if we can get any more information about this girl.”

  Dwayne shook his head. “He’s deadheading back to Chicago. Law says he can’t drive for at least eight hours. They’re a good hour away already. Want me to call the bus and hold it somewhere?” He looked eager at the idea of getting to do the kind of thing reserved for prime time cop dramas.

  He’d have to play Starsky & Hutch some other time. “No, I don’t want to inconvenience any other passengers,” said Faith. “But do tell him we’re on our way. We’ll catch him en route.”

  “But they’re thirty or forty miles away!”

  Faith grinned. “Fastest girl in the world here, remember? I’ll be there in no time.” She turned her head to look at Irlene, perched on her shoulder. “How fast can you fly?”

  Irlene shrugged. “Fast enough. If I can’t keep up, I’ll shrink myself down enough to ride in your pocket.”

  “Better do that now,” said Faith. “I’m planning on hitting three hundred.”

  “Three hundred miles per hour?” spluttered Dwayne as Irlene slipped into the pouch beside Faith’s radio. “What’s that like?”

  Faith winked at him. “It’s fast.”

  #

  Harlan stared wide-eyed at the pretty girl beside the Con Ed truck. She was a real fox, as some of the older boys in the neighborhood would have said. He could see a fading bruise beside one of her eyes that she’d tried to cover by makeup and sunglasses. Harlan felt they must have a lot in common; he’d been punched in the face lots of times.

  At thirteen, he’d never spent any time with girls. Other boys his age, or even younger, had girlfriends in the neighborhood, but Harlan didn’t like being around other people to learn what they really did with each other. He just knew what he’d seen on the television, which struck him as odd and contrived. One thing was certain, though, and that was he wanted to impress Gretchen.

  “Want to see my bike? I built a bunch of things onto it.”

  “Sure,” said Gretchen, not really looking at Harlan. She seemed distracted, like something was bothering her. He figured that at the very least he could give her something else to think about.

  “I’ll go get it.” He scampered across the street and ducked back into Gonsalvo’s shop.

  As Harlan entered the darkened shop, a glint of stray sunlight from a shelf caught his eye. Curious, he went to see what was there; perhaps it would interest Gretchen so she would talk to him more.

  It was a tin box with a fine patina of rust on its surface. A shiny stainless steel crank emerged from one side. That was what had gleamed at him in such an enticing way. Harlan picked it up in wonder, and memories flooded into him.

  When he was only eight, he’d stolen Reggie’s wind-up jack-in-the-box toy and taken it apart to see how it worked. He’d found the clever spring-powered mechanism fascinating and decided to build something else with it. He’d felt a little bad abo
ut taking one of Reggie’s favorite toys, so he built a replacement for her. When he turned the crank, the box unfolded like a flower opening to display an intricate carousel that spun, with horses that went up and down on their wire-thin poles. He’d been so proud of it that he couldn’t give it away. Reggie wouldn’t have been impressed by Harlan’s arrangement of gears, springs, hinges, and pushrods. She’d probably just have broken it playing with it.

  So Harlan had kept it, and showed it to Gonsalvo, who’d delighted in the craftsmanship. Now he was beyond such primitive engineering; instead of springs, he used motors and hydraulics, electricity and combustion to power his creations. He turned the crank. The box squeaked and clattered, but still unfolded the way he’d designed it to. Surely, Gretchen would be impressed. Surely, she’d stick around to talk more with him. He set it in his bike basket and wheeled it back outside.

  The Con Ed man was down from the pole and rummaging through the back of his truck when Harlan came out of the shop. Gretchen was chatting with him about lunch of all things. Harlan’s stomach rumbled to remind him he was also due for a meal. As he had many times before, he pushed thoughts of food out of his head to focus on the task at hand. “This is my bike, Gretchen.” He raised his voice so she’d be sure to hear. “I built it myself. It has a lot of cool features.”

  “Does it? That’s nice, Harold.”

  “Harlan. I’m Harlan.”

  “I’m sorry.” Gretchen looked at the Con Ed man, who shrugged and said he needed probably another ten or fifteen minutes.

  “So do you want to see it?” pressed Harlan.

  “Sure, I’d love to see your bicycle,” said Gretchen.

  Harlan showed off the gyroscope that kept it balanced even at a standstill, and the electric generator and motor. It even had a headlight he’d salvaged from a Volkswagen Bug.

  “You don’t ride it at night, do you? Don’t you have to stay home and do homework or chores or spend time with your family?”

  Harlan shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Well, it’s a very lovely bicycle,” said Gretchen. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

  Harlan felt his ears burn. She was talking to him like he was a little kid, not a scientific genius! He’d show her something she couldn’t ignore. “Here, look at this.” He pushed the box into her hands.

  “What is it?” Marginal interest flared in her face as she looked at the tin box.

  “It’s a surprise.” Harlan gave her a shy smile. “Turn the crank.”

  Gretchen shrugged and began to turn it. A cheerful little tune emerged from the box. She jumped when it split open and the carousel unfolded. “Oh!”

  “Keep turning it,” urged Harlan. “There’s more.”

  Her bemusement turned to joy. The device clacked and whirred as hinges opened and rods moved into place. The tune changed once the carousel had completed unfolding. Gretchen’s eyes shone and she laughed as the carousel rotated with its tiny horses going up and down. The tune finished and the box folded itself back up once more. “You made this?” She sounded incredulous. “It’s wonderful!”

  Harlan felt like his heart might explode. He knew, deep down, Gretchen would fall in love with him and they’d get married and live together forever. “You can have it if you want.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t. This is something really special.”

  “No, I want you to have it. I can always build another one. A better one, with motors and batteries.” Harlan already had a design in his tireless mind.

  Scattered applause sounded on the street as the power came back on. Harlan turned to see the Con Ed man walking back toward the truck and stripping off his gloves, a big grin plastered across his face. Harlan realized Gretchen was about to be taken away from him. He thought hard, desperate for something that he could say to keep her there with him.

  Then he had an idea.

  #

  “Tell you what,” said Tommy to Miranda. “Are you feeling a little like lunch? My treat.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t,” she protested. “I’ve wasted so much of your time already.”

  “You haven’t wasted any of my time,” said Tommy. “Besides, I get to take a lunch break. I’d love if you joined me.”

  “Well…” Miranda wavered.

  “I know a lovely little cafe in the Village. Outstanding sandwiches and fresh coffee.”

  Her last shreds of resistance blew away like so many scraps of paper in one of Tommy’s gales. “All right, I guess that’s okay.”

  Tommy flew her back to his neighborhood and landed on the roof of his building. “I’m just going to change. I hate eating in my costume.”

  “What, right here?” Miranda blushed.

  “No, I live downstairs.”

  Her jaw dropped open. “You live here? But you just told me that! You don’t even know me. What if I was a criminal or something?”

  Tommy shrugged. “I don’t have anything to hide. I don’t wear a mask. My identity is public record. Anyone who wants to can find me. I want to be an accessible hero.”

  “I thought you were supposed to worry about protecting your loved ones.”

  “Not an issue for me.” Tommy smiled. “I’ll just change. Be right back.”

  He scampered down the fire escape and into his apartment, where he replaced his blue and white costume with a gray Mets t-shirt, khaki shorts, and tennis shoes without socks. He called Bobby to say he was dealing with the potential suicide and would be off the air for a little while. Then he pulled his flowing locks back with a rubber band and returned to the roof.

  Miranda did a double-take when she saw him. “Oh my God, you look so different without your costume! You look so ordinary.”

  “That’s what I’m shooting for,” he said. He led Miranda to the rooftop access to the main stairwell and down to the street below.

  Geno’s was only a block away. Tommy frequented the place both for lunch and in the evenings, when it turned from a bohemian-style cafe into a full-blown meat market. Geno, a butch Italian with a chest full of hair and an ass like two hams side by side, waved at Tommy and bade him sit anywhere. Miranda deferred to him to order, so Tommy requested two Monte Cristos and cappuccinos, which Geno produced with a flourish.

  “So…” Tommy blew on the steaming coffee. “Who’s this man who drove you to jump off a bridge?”

  Miranda looked scandalized for a moment, until she realized that was exactly what had happened, and she folded in on herself, looking glum.

  “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.” He reached out and touched Miranda’s hand on the tabletop. “I’m not very good at this kind of thing.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re doing fine. It’s just me being stupid. He’s my boss. I’m his secretary. It’s a really small brokerage. Just the two of us, really, except for an occasional temp. I’ve been there for two years.”

  “And somewhere along the way, you fell in love with him?”

  “Yes.” She sniffled and stared down at her sandwich. “But we can’t ever be together.”

  “Is he married?”

  Miranda raised her eyes up to meet Tommy’s. “No. He’s gay. Tommy, I fell in love with a gay man and didn’t know it.”

  Tommy didn’t mean to laugh; it just slipped out between bites of his sandwich. It started in his belly like an explosion of fireflies and built into a burst of guffaws that made Miranda’s cheeks turn bright red. Geno came over to see if he was all right but all Tommy could do was wave him away. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he gasped to Miranda. “Honey, you and I are more alike than you know. You’re in love with a gay man, and I’m in love with a straight man. There, I said it.” Tommy’s laughter abated as quickly as it had begun. “I’ve been lying to myself for so long, it feels good to stop.”

  Realization washed over Miranda’s face. “Wait, you’re gay too?”

  That set Tommy off in another gale of laughter. “Oh my,” was all he could manage for a couple of minutes.

  “I mea
n, after that feature in Life magazine, I thought you and Sundancer were an item.” Miranda looked like she was ready to sink right into the floor.

  “Sundancer is a dear friend of mine,” said Tommy. “But she doesn’t do a thing for me, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well, maybe you haven’t met the right woman yet. Or you were abused as a child. Or whatever makes you gay.”

  Tommy smiled. “Nothing makes me gay. I just am, like you’re not. I had a wonderful childhood and was very close to my parents before they died. Car crash. I was nineteen and had just joined Just Cause. They were so proud.” He finished his cappuccino and signaled Geno for another. “They didn’t really get that I was gay, but other than that we got on famously.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. I still miss them. But here I took you to lunch to talk with you about your problems and I’m talking about mine.”

  “No, please do,” said Miranda. “It helps to know I’m not the only one stuck like this. Is it someone on the team? I bet it’s Lionheart.” She sighed. “With all those muscles and that mane. He’s so fab.”

  Tommy shook his head. “It’s John Stone.”

  Miranda crinkled up her face. “John Stone? But he looks so lumpy. Like a statue or something.”

  “Love looks deeper than skin,” said Geno. Tommy hadn’t realized the man was standing behind him. He looked up and Geno smiled at him from behind his stubbly jaw. “Even if that skin is made of stone. I’m so happy for you, Tommy. You’ve been miserable for so long. It warms my heart to see you really smile. Lunch is on me.”

  “Wisdom from behind the counter, Geno?”

  The hefty Italian man winked at him. “All we restaurateurs are wise beyond our years, Tommy. It’s why I make such good sandwiches.” He shot a pointed glare at Tommy’s untouched plate. “You really ought to eat that before it gets cold. Free or not, I hate to see it go to waste.”

  Tommy picked up the Monte Cristo and took a gargantuan bite. Cranberry sauce ran down his chin. Miranda giggled.