Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen

by Claude Lalumiere

  Where was the man going? The bridge to Souris was to the south, but the horse’s path was taking Luke southwest. The ground rose slightly, hiding whatever was on the other side, and for a dizzying moment, he felt as if he were going to launch into the starry sky.

  The kerchief whipped against his chin and neck and the sweat poured down his back and down his forehead, kept at bay by his goggles. He should go into Souris and report what he’d found, but his jaw clenched on the idea.

  Too much chance of the bastard getting away.

  Then he topped the slight rise and saw a familiar roof line. There, just below the rise, was Missus MacNeil’s house, and just beyond it the barn that had been his home.

  He paused, both feet on the ground, to survey the scene. Something moved in the darkness by the house and he blinked furiously, trying to focus. Then the shadow whinnied. Tied to the porch railing by the back door was a horse.

  It was pure chance that Missus MacNeil and little Allie were away, and not still sleeping in their beds, like the old couple had been. If not for his damned nose, they’d all still be asleep, vulnerable to this murdering thief.

  His hand gunned the engine without him consciously deciding to. He hung on to the handles as the wheel hit a bump and his bottom left the saddle only to land again with a jar he felt all the way up his spine.

  The horse was nothing but a darker shadow against the moon-bleached wooden porch. The animal panicked at his approach and jerked away from the porch, trapped there by its reins looped around the railing. It whinnied in terror as he approached, unnerved by the high whine of the Harley’s engine, until with a sharp tug it pulled the old railing out of its socket in the post. Suddenly freed, the animal began to run toward the road, the post bumping against the horse’s shoulder. A bag that looked suspiciously like a pillowcase hung from the horn of the saddle and bumped against the saddle with every stride, urging the horse on to greater speed.

  The bastard was now on foot.

  Luke slid the bike to a dusty stop by the back stairs and got off. He ran up the creaky back stairs, not even bothering with stealth, and pushed through the open kitchen door. There was no hope of surprising the intruder, not with the noisy machine he’d just been riding, but the kitchen was dark and empty.

  He took a deep breath through the filter and kerchief and was rewarded with the faint stink of old beer and pickled eggs. The bastard was somewhere in the house, rifling through Missus MacNeil’s possessions.

  His nostrils flared as he stepped further into the kitchen. His head turned to the left, and he realized that the murdering son of a bitch was somewhere on this floor. As his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, he heard scuffling coming from the front room, and then a decidedly unfeminine oath burst forth from a feminine throat.

  Missus MacNeil.

  All the blood left his head to surge to his limbs; he found himself sprinting through the kitchen and down the hallway to the front room. With its curtains drawn, it was even darker than the kitchen had been but even so he caught the movement of two figures struggling by the settee. Then he saw the larger figure raise an arm and Luke’s imagination supplied a knife at the end of that arm.

  With a roar, he launched himself at the figure. His momentum carried them both into the rocking chair by the cold wood stove. The thief lost his footing, falling backward against the heavy stove.

  Luke scrambled to his feet, but the man had stopped moving. He dropped to one knee and felt the man’s neck. The bastard still lived. He’d only been knocked out.

  “Missus MacNeil?” he asked, feeling around on the rug for the knife.

  “Luke?” said Missus MacNeil in the dark. There was a wobble in her voice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

  He heard her take a deep breath and wished he could go to her to check her out for himself, but he didn’t dare leave the man.

  “No,” said Mrs. MacNeil finally. Then, more firmly, “I’m fine. What about him?”

  “Knocked out but alive,” said Luke with regret. “We need to tie him up.”

  “Right,” said his landlady. “I’ll be right back.”

  He heard her leave through the back door and presumed she was heading for the barn to find some rope. At last he pulled the damned kerchief and filter off his face and took a deep breath of the relatively cooler air.

  The immediacy of Missus MacNeil’s fear stink caught at his nose, immediately followed by the stench of an unwashed male body, a smell he had last caught at the old couple’s house. The smell of blood and death clung to the man like a ghost.

  Then Missus MacNeil came back, carrying a lit lantern in one hand and a coil of rope in the other. She was breathing fast. She set the lantern on the wood stove; they both got their first look at the looter.

  He was a big man, but they already knew that. A week’s growth of salt-and-pepper beard added to the general scruffiness of his appearance. Drying blood caked on his worn denim shirt and pants confirmed his crime, even if Luke hadn’t smelled the old couple on him.

  “He was going to kill me,” said Missus MacNeil quietly, looking down at the unconscious man.

  Luke nodded and stood up. He’d left the man’s feet free for now, until they could put him in the back of the truck. He scouted around the debris of the rocking chair and finally spotted the knife. It was a big knife, the kind Missus MacNeil used for chopping vegetables.

  “He killed the old folks living in the white house three farms down,” he said. He’d searched the man’s pockets and now held up two gold rings, one set with tiny diamonds.

  Missus MacNeil’s eyes filled with tears. “Elsa Rhysling,” she said softly. “That’s her engagement ring and her wedding band.”

  Luke swallowed his rage and handed the rings to his landlady. “Maybe you could give this to her next of kin,” he said.

  Missus MacNeil nodded jerkily. “Yes.” She looked down at the man. “Do you know who he is? A returning soldier, maybe?”

  Every fibre of his being wanted to deny it, but the bastard might well be. He knew a lot of soldiers had found it hard to return to civilian life after the war. But to turn to looting and murder?

  He sighed. “We need to get out of here,” he said firmly. “We’ll tie this bas— we’ll tie him up in the back of the truck. You can take him to the police station in Souris.”

  Missus MacNeil looked at him sharply. “What about you?”

  He shrugged. “I won’t be far behind.”

  * * *

  Harriet drove the Chevy as fast as she dared to Souris, not caring if she hit every pothole on the way. The murderer tied in the back of her truck could stand a bit a bruising.

  She kept an eye on her rear-view mirror and saw when Luke Corrigan peeled away from the road just before the bridge. She wasn’t surprised. He was a strange boy. Nice enough, but he didn’t do well around other people.

  She considered the get-up he’d been wearing when he got on his motorcycle. Whatever that thing was he wore under the kerchief, it gave him a strangely bulbous profile. And with his goggles and his wind-ruffled and ash-dusted hair, he looked like something out of one of those magazines Allie loved to read.

  By the time she saw the lights of Souris, she realized that the fire had changed direction along with the wind. It was now heading further west. Her house would be spared.

  She never made it to the police station. A crowd had gathered on the far side of the river to watch the fire’s progress, including three fire trucks. A policeman waved her to a stop as she got to the other side of the bridge; he climbed up on her running board to talk to her. Behind him, the crowd pressed in closer to hear. She recognized a couple of her neighbors and nodded at them. She didn’t see Sheila Frederickson anywhere. They must have taken Allie to their boy’s place.

  “Everybody get out of your house?” asked the police officer, scanning the interior of the cab.

  He was an older man but still fit and hard edged. He’d taken his uniform jack
et and cap off, and sweat stained his pale shirt in half-moons beneath his arms. His grey hair gleamed in the light of the street lamp. Scully, she finally remembered. His name was Scully.

  “My granddaughter’s already here,” said Harriet, suddenly realizing that Allie could have been left to fend for herself, all because Harriet had wanted to go back for a few things. Her hands began to shake. “I have a man tied up in the back,” she added. “He murdered Elsa Rhysling and her husband, Tom.”

  Scully’s eyebrows rose, wrinkling his forehead, and he craned his neck past her cab to look into the bed of the truck. He studied the sorry figure lying there for a moment, then his lips tightened and Harriet figured he’d gotten a good look at the blood on the man’s clothes.

  “Right,” he said, hopping down from the running board. “You two,” he said, pointing at two younger men in the crowd, “help me get this man out.”

  “Who’ve you got there, Harriet?” called a voice from the crowd. She couldn’t make out who. She opened the door and slid down off the seat. Her knees buckled as she landed and she would have fallen if not for Officer Scully’s steadying hand on her elbow.

  “A murderer,” she said out loud. “A looter. He killed Elsa and Tom Rhysling and was set to murder me. I don’t know if he hurt anyone else.”

  Those nearest to her relayed her words and soon the crowd was buzzing and pressing closer to see who the man was.

  Officer Scully looked down at her, frowning. “You managed to knock him out, tie him up, and put him in the back of your truck? All by yourself?”

  Harriet shook her head tiredly. “No,” she said. Then she hesitated. Luke would hate to be the centre of this kind of attention. And she owed him her life.

  “There was a man,” she said finally. “A masked man. He saved my life.”

  Officer Scully looked back at the bridge. “Masked? Where is he now?”

  Harriet shrugged. “I don’t know.” But she hoped she’d see him again.

  * * *

  Based in the Yukon, Marcelle Dubé writes fantasy and crime novels for Carina Press and Falcon Ridge Publishing.

  The Jam: A Secret Bowman

  Bernard E. Mireault

  Gordon sat with his arms wrapped around his knees near the wall of the ramshackle shed. It housed the roof access stairwell of the ancient apartment building that he now called home. The building was one of a group of five in a tight cluster, but his was the tallest at twelve storeys. The view was good; a million things to look at, some illegal.

  His dog, Harvey, a Labrador-sized mixed breed, was asleep beside him with his black nose on his paws. His business had been done an hour ago but the dog knew the routine and seemed happy with it. Harvey didn’t seem to need much exercise to stay fit; he had the physical trimness and reflexes of a ninja. Gordon wished that he could claim half as much.

  He scratched the top of the dog’s head for a minute and then slowly stood up and had a good stretch. He wore a loose-fitting costume: dark green jogging suit with an inverted orange triangle sewn onto the chest and a hood that had been modified into a mask. There were other little bits of orange sewn onto the forehead and cheeks and the clumsy hand stitching showed plainly. The hood covered the back, top and sides of his head and face, with large square holes for the eyes. It split at the bridge of his nose and fell to either side of his head where it eventually attached to the shoulders of his outfit, leaving the lower half of his face visible and creating a dark cave on either side of his neck. His gloves and boots were dirty white, as was the jury-rigged tool belt that he wore around his waist, with four small tubes on either side of a large rectangular interlocking buckle. Most of the costume’s components were regular athletic wear. The boots and gloves bore large cuffs, custom-made by his sister.

  Gordon had a final look around before he returned back to his tiny apartment four floors below. Eastward, downtown Montréal sparkled and blinked like some weird jewel in the autumn night. He loved the older neon signs, they had so much style. When he was younger he used to find himself walking those streets several nights a week, going for some live music and beer at one of a handful of dive bars. These days money was such an issue that it just didn’t make sense to spend it at a bar; when he felt the need he just did his drinking at home. As for music, he wrote songs and played them on his own guitar. That was good, too.

  A weird scream. A strange, quavering cry. His dog leapt up and pointed in the direction where the sound had come from. The costumed man crossed the roof and, with care informed by late-onset vertigo, knelt down about three feet from the edge and braced himself, looking cautiously over. Below him was the top of the neighboring apartment, an eight-storey building with a roof garden; assorted plants growing in a multitude of large white buckets arranged in rows. A young man dressed in grey and beige military camouflage came out from behind the roof access shed holding a bow and quiver in one hand and an acoustic guitar case in the other. Moving quickly he laid the case at his feet, took the string off the bow, and broke it down into three pieces. He turned his attention back to the guitar case, undoing the fasteners quickly and flipping the lid open. He placed his weapon and quiver inside, then shrugged off his jacket and pants to reveal a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He stuffed the camouflage outfit into the guitar case and snapped the fasteners shut. All this had taken place in roughly thirty seconds and all to the tune of the strange wail coming from street level.

  From the higher roof Gordon concluded he was witnessing the aftermath of a terrible crime. Shooting arrows at pedestrians? Could this be for real? He was stunned.

  The young man stood up, guitar case in hand, and was about to pull open the roof-access door when suddenly he stopped. His took a phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He stared at the little screen for a moment then put the guitar case down and typed on his device furiously with both thumbs.

  What was there to be done here? Gordon’s mind raced. The two buildings were very close, separated only by a narrow alley. Moving closer to the edge and looking down he saw that the fire-escape stairs of both structures were exactly opposite each other and their landings were level and separated only by a small gap that could be crossed safely. If he got down there quickly then maybe he could get across and back up in time to follow the guy. But here were problems with that plan. Until he got below the level of the neighboring roof he would be exposed to his target. And he always felt intense vertigo going down metal fire-escape stairs because you could see right through them to the ground below.

  This is more important than your damn vertigo, he admonished himself. Get over it and get over there!

  The young man with the guitar case continued texting, moving away from the light by the entrance to the stairwell and turning his back to Gordon. He had earphones on.

  Emboldened, Gordon said a couple of words to his dog and, gritting his teeth, set off down the fire escape stairs as quietly/quickly as he could go. He made too much noise, but his quarry was wrapped up in whatever he was texting and whatever he was listening to. He never looked in Gordon’s direction. In under a minute Gordon was where he wanted to be.

  So far, so good.

  His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he carefully crossed between the fire escape landings on the seventh floor. Sprinting back up to the roof level of the lower building, he climbed a small metal ladder to the rim of the roof and slowly brought his eyes over the edge, just in time to see the stairwell door swing shut.

  Gordon pulled himself quickly up and ran to where arrow guy had been standing moments ago, and he heard the sound of footsteps on stairs come to an abrupt halt. He stepped into the shadows on the side of the shed, in case his quarry came back. When nothing happened after a couple of minutes, he risked a quick peek into the small window set into the access door. He glimpsed his target standing halfway down the first flight of stairs, still absorbed in typing on his phone with one thumb. Gordon eased back around the side of the small structure and into the shadow
s, lost in thought. He could still hear the odd keening, but it was fainter now. He went low and quiet to the street side of the roof, slowly getting into position for a peek over the edge. He took off his mask and let it flop down his neck like the hoodie it actually was. If he was spotted he’d prefer to be less memorable. His long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he was overdue for a shave.

  Cautiously he looked over the edge and then backed away after a few seconds, digesting what he had seen.

  Lying on the sidewalk below was an old man in a three-piece suit with an arrow through his shoulder, surrounded by a small crowd of passersby. There was bright red blood pooling beside him but there wasn’t that much yet, and hopefully help was on the way.

  Gordon winced, imaging the pain of a broadhead arrow passing through his body. Who could do that to another human?

  A young woman was kneeling by the victim and supporting his head while talking into her phone. Everyone had a phone out. No doubt police and ambulance would be there soon and the whole thing was already livestreaming on YouTube.

  Returning to the door, Gordon cautiously had another fast look through the small window. The psychotic asshole hadn’t moved at all and was still thumb-typing, without a care in the world

  Gordon moved around to the shadowed side of the shed again. The walls were so thin that he could hear the guy breathing and faint hints of the electropop that was being pumped into his earphones. When the bowman started moving again, Gordon would be ready to follow. He put his mask back on.

  Scanning the rooftops, Gordon spotted his dog’s head. He was looking in his direction. Gordon gave Harvey a single wave and received a sharp bark in return. He was just beginning to hear distant sirens when the footsteps he was waiting for abruptly resumed; after his quarry turned the first corner, Gordon hurried to follow.

  He knew he didn’t need to worry too much about noise, but he tried to be silent anyhow, easing the door open as gently as possible. His boots had crepe soles and made almost no sound as he rapidly tiptoed his way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banisters. He listened for the sound of the footfalls he was following and tried to match them as closely as he could. His problem was not keeping up with the guy while staying out of sight; it was not running into him from behind. He had stopped abruptly to send another text.