Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen

by Claude Lalumiere

  The stairwell was deserted but for the two men. Locked in step but always separated by two flights of stairs, they went down three floors before the man with the guitar case exited the stairwell on the fifth floor. The door was similar to the one back on the roof, heavy wood with a small square window cut through it at eye level. Through it, Gordon could see the dark-haired man with the guitar case standing in front of the third door from the end of the hallway, fishing in his pocket, presumably for his keys.

  Gordon waited for the sound of the door opening and closing, and a good long minute besides, before easing the stairwell door open and tiptoeing down the hallway. He went just far enough to get a fast look at the apartment number and quickly retreated the way he had come. This was why the guy wasn’t too worried about making a quick getaway; he was already home.

  Gordon knew what to do next.

  When he got back to the roof, he paused, flipped open one of the tubes on his belt, and extracted a pencil wrapped in a small square of paper. Holding the paper up against the side the shed he scribbled down the apartment number while it was fresh in his mind.

  Back on his own rooftop Harvey greeted him joyously. Good ol’ dog! It helped to roll back his anger and sadness a bit. Harvey was good. Some things were good. “It’s a hell of a thing, Harv.”

  He opened the access door into his own building and raced down the four floors to his apartment, Harvey always ahead of him, waiting only when a door had to be negotiated. Pulling a key out of his right glove, Gordon unlocked #8-4 and let them both inside. He checked the time on his clock-radio: 10:45 pm.

  He pulled off the costume and put on his regular clothes: jeans, T-shirt, sneakers, and his ancient and much-loved jean jacket. Not unlike the guy he was looking to see in handcuffs. He picked his tool-belt off the floor and found the note with the bowman’s address . He put it in his wallet. He slowly looked around his apartment, took a few deep breaths, and then gathered up all the parts of his costume that were strewn around the cramped space. He threw them all into a cardboard box and shoved it into a closet.

  Gordon washed out and filled the dog’s water and food bowls to the brim,. He left the large bag of dry food on the floor against the wall of his kitchenette. Harvey could be relied upon not to gorge, taking only as he needed. He was a great dog— uncanny, really. Gordon took an extra minute and gave Harvey a good back rub. Whatever it might’ve done for the dog, it certainly helped Gordon calm down. He stood up and gave his dog a peace sign. “I’ll be back soon, buddy.” At least, he hoped he would; dealing with the police was always tricky.

  He closed his apartment door and locked it. Now he moved quickly again and, eschewing the dilapidated old elevator, he went straight down the stairs, which exited from the side of his building into the same alley that he had crossed earlier and higher up. He hit the broken pavement and started to jog toward the throbbing glow of the crime scene.

  * * *

  “Sir, the man claims to be a witness and to know the current location of the shooter.”

  “Bring him here.”

  As senior officer on the scene, Pierre-Luc was calling the shots, which was always fun. He didn’t mind civilian onlookers taking video; he knew he looked good on camera and welcomed it. He had noticed the blond guy running up to the line and seen him talking to the perimeter guys about something. He wanted to know very much what that was. The boys let the guy through and in a moment they were face to face. The guy had strong body odor, the kind produced by fear and stress. Like a burned battery. The inspector took two steps back.

  “I saw the one who put the arrow in that old guy. I followed him home and got his address. It’s on the fifth floor of the building right in front of us! He has a collapsible bow that he hides in an acoustic guitar case.” The guy with the blond ponytail held out a small piece of paper with the apartment number written on it. The policeman took it, glanced at it briefly and then back to the face of his informant.

  “May I see some identification?”

  The ponytailed guy took out his wallet and found his Québec Medicare card. He handed it to the policeman.

  “My name’s Gordon Kirby and I live in the next building over…”

  * * *

  At 11:42 pm, a small military-grade battering ram propelled by four large, heavily armed men smashed in the door of the apartment Gordon had identified. A small SWAT team flowed in professionally and quickly secured an amazed twenty-something male.

  A quick search turned up the acoustic guitar case and much, much more.

  * * *

  Once again Pierre-Luc was senior officer on the scene, but he knew that it would be short-lived. Some bigger fish would move in and take over once he had filed his initial report. He’d been putting it off for too long already as he racked his brain trying to think of some way to profit from all this.

  The SWAT team was long gone, high-fiving each other as they streamed out of the apartment, jabbering adrenaline-fast about where they were going to party later. Pierre-Luc took note. A few of them were pretty hot.

  All he could think of for now was to clear the place while they waited for the CSI team and couple of young computer forensics to show up. The guy had three seriously overpowered computers with security software up the wazoo.

  As soon as he was alone, Pierre-Luc took out his phone and shot video of the guy’s apartment; the armory of automatic weapons, the huge supply of ammunition. A sword collection that covered two walls. The mirrors on the ceiling in the bedroom. The crazy, obscene black-light posters in the bathroom. Maybe he could sell it later. This was going to be a big case.

  * * *

  Gordon Kirby sat in a jail cell at Station 13, not far from where he lived. There had been no handcuffs but after giving his information to the policeman at the crime scene, he was packed into a squad car and dumped here. It had been three hours since he had seen or heard anyone. They had taken his belt, his wallet, and his shoelaces and then demanded his mobile phone. When he denied having one, they strip-searched him, and then locked him in a cell about the same size as his apartment. He had been escorted on the journey by four different police officers, each one handing him off to the next like a baton in a relay race. Nobody answered any of his questions about why he was being held. Nobody even looked at him, though there had been quite a bit of unnecessary shoving. It appeared that he had once again slipped between the cracks — more like shoved into the abyss — of local police procedure. Not a first and no surprise there. They had a hard job and he sympathized with them up to a point, but he couldn’t help but feel that they were merely lazy and callous That they enjoyed locking up a stranger in a cage.

  His mother had always said that no good deed goes unpunished, and his experience backed that up one hundred percent. He was happy that he had at least thought to water and feed Harvey, but he felt foolish for not eating when he’d had the chance. He was hungry now.

  The holding area seemed deserted, though he imagined that everyone was hanging out by a water cooler somewhere, and if he wanted attention he’d just have to shout. Slow night. A late September Monday was about to turn into a Tuesday and his freedom was off the air temporarily due to technical difficulties. Sorry, folks!

  The cell he occupied had a bare toilet stripped of niceties such as toilet paper. There was a water fountain and a molded concrete bench with rounded edges sticking out of a concrete wall. Through the stout steel bars he could see the wall across the hallway and if he pressed himself close to the bars he could see up and down the hallway and into the three neighboring cells, all of which were empty.

  He couldn’t believe how rancid he smelled, even to himself. The sour acid smell of spent adrenaline and stress, of fear, assaulted him every time he inhaled. It was embarrassing, and on that score he was glad to be alone.

  He had been lost in his thoughts for quite some time when he heard the metal clang of a door opening and the sound of hard-soled shoes approaching. The same officer who had locked him in now unlocked t
he cell door and motioned for him to follow. As Gordon left the cell, out of the corner of his eye he saw the policeman prepare to give him another shove and he danced out of the way. The officer almost lost his balance when he pushed his hand through thin air, and Gordon turned around to face him. He was shocked to see the squat policeman’s hand on his weapon, his eyes squinting in rage and his teeth bared like those of a fat, pissed-off wild animal. It was an unlovely sight.

  Gordon held up his hands in submission. “Sorry, sorry.”

  It took a moment for the policeman to master his temper, and then he impatiently beckoned Gordon to continue down the hallway. Apparently, all the policemen employed here were mute. They went through two security doors and down another hallway, this one painted light blue, and Gordon was herded into an empty interview room. The door was slammed behind him and then ostentatiously locked.

  He took one of the two seats available and wondered how long it would be before whoever wanted to question him showed up. What questions could they ask? And what could he answer that they hadn’t already found out? He knew that the police often kept people waiting in rooms like this for hours to “soften them up.” Gordon catalogued his surroundings; four walls, light blue. Unpainted concrete floor. Ceiling with a single light bulb in a wire cage and a smoke alarm (no doubt housing a concealed video camera). At least three different kinds of insects were flying around. He wished that there was something he could read to pass the time.

  Two hours dragged slowly by. By his reckoning it was about three in the morning. He repeatedly went through his memory of the events that had led to this. Yes, he was going through an inconvenience here (though far less of one than having a barbed arrow through the shoulder) but maybe, just maybe, he had helped nail an insane predator to the wall.

  Finally, footsteps approached, the door was unlocked and in walked the police officer he had spoken to at the crime scene. He slammed the door shut, and it took him two tries to get centered on his chair. Holy shit, he’s drunk! thought Gordon.

  Once he was settled in his chair, he looked up at Gordon and wrinkled his nose.

  “Fuck! You stink!”

  “Thank you.”

  The policeman frowned and took a phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket and spent the next fifteen minutes thumb-typing text messages. Gordon looked on, silent.

  The man in front of him was neatly turned out; slick suit (a different one than he’d been wearing earlier), short hair gelled, and face cleanly shaven. Classically handsome with a tall, trim body. A young prince.

  An over-the-top cologne clogged up the small, vent-less room’s breathable air. The insects that Gordon had been tracking earlier seemed to have all disappeared; he wondered if the cloying smell affected them as it did him. He felt slightly nauseous. It seemed ironic that his rank body odor, while unpleasant, didn’t make him feel half as bad as the perfume did.

  Eventually the policeman put away his phone and looked up at his captive.

  “You’re going to keep quiet about this. You’re not going to tell the media, you’re not going to blog it, you’re not going to say a word to anybody.”

  “No problem. I have no internet. I have no mobile phone, and I have no interest in contacting ‘the media.’ Is that why I’m being held, so that you can control that? Don’t worry. I’m just hungry, and I want to go home. I was only trying to help.”

  The policeman looked at him suspiciously. From inside his suit his phone began playing some electropop tune; he pulled it out and squinted at the small screen before rolling his eyes, shutting it off, and putting it away again.

  “Gee, that’s rough, eh? Sucks to be you, huh?” The sneer on the policeman’s mug reminded Gordon of a llama that he had once seen face-to-face while visiting the Winnipeg zoo as a child. He had approached it in wonder, but the instant he was within range it had spit in his face so hard that it hurt.

  “I’m okay. Just wondering why you chose to lock me in a cell as if I were the one who tried to kill an old man with a bow and arrow. I was trying to help you.”

  The policeman didn’t respond. His eyes were unfocused as he stared blankly. Minutes went by.

  “Did you get him?” Gordon finally asked.

  “That’s none of your business. Your business is to shut up and be quiet.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The policeman looked up at Gordon with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I said to shut up and be quiet.”

  “I’m going to find out who you are and I’m going to give your name to René Marble.”

  The policeman’s eyes opened wider. René Marble was a name all dishonest cops were frightened of. The cop’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “I tried to help you and in return you’ve got me locked up, obviously trying to run some sort of stupid scam. If you don’t release me immediately, I promise you that I will be in touch with the media and that internal affairs will come down on you like an old brick wall. I swear.”

  “What’s your relationship with Marble?”

  Now it was Gordon’s turn to not answer a direct question.

  * * *

  Pierre-Luc was angry and nervous. Who the fuck was this punk who threw out the one name he was most worried about? The policeman who policed the police. Maybe he should tone it down until he knew better about what was what here.

  * * *

  Gordie walked out of Station 13 at 5:32 in the morning. His stomach was burning and his mouth was full of digestive juices as he tromped the five blocks home. He was also very angry. What a world! What a poor, shitty, screwed-up world.

  He unlocked the door to his apartment and met Harvey’s joyous greeting with his own. He immediately felt better. He squeezed into the tiny kitchenette and began to prepare his long-delayed meal: a can of brown beans dumped into a thin pot, the smallest stovetop burner set to 4. Bread removed from the freezer and six slices liberated, leaving four. Toaster loaded and firing away with margarine on standby. He sat on his favorite chair and waited for the first set of toast to pop as he relived his most recent ordeal. He wished he had some beer. He could use a drink.

  * * *

  Gordon clawed his way out of sleep, and looked at his bedside clock. It was 3:30 pm. His doorbell was buzzing. His doorbell almost never buzzed. He guessed that it was probably the police. He was right, though pleasantly so.

  A few minutes later, René Marble sat in his living room sipping a cup of instant coffee. The head of internal affairs at the Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal surveyed his surroundings with amusement.

  “You’re living in a doghouse.”

  Gordon smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You had a busy night last night.”

  “Yeah. Do you know what happened?”

  “Sure. We have a fairly thick file on you, Mr. Gordon ‘The Jam’ Kirby, and whenever something comes up with your name on it, I get notified. I’m sorry I wasn’t around last night to straighten things out. It was my wife’s birthday, and we were out of town.”

  “No problem. Did they get the guy with the bow?”

  René pulled a briefcase onto his lap and undid the fasteners. Opening it, he withdrew a copy of the local English-language newspaper and passed it to Gordon, who unfolded it and read:

  BOW AND ARROW ATTACK IN N. D. G.

  Lauren Recaule

  FAST MEDIA NEWS

  (Montréal) A 24-year-old resident of Notre-Dame-de-Grace was arrested and charged yesterday with the attempted murder of Christopher Enos, a 67-year-old pensioner. The attack was allegedly carried out with a bow and arrow from a rooftop in the west-end borough of Montréal.

  The alleged attacker, whose name is being withheld by police, had no apparent connection to the victim.

  At approximately 8:00 PM Monday evening Mr. Enos, a librarian, was pierced through the shoulder by a barbed hunting arrow while walking home. Bystanders quickly called 911, and police and paramedics arrived on the scene soon enough to save the man’s life. Mr. Enos is
currently in stable condition at the McGill University Health Centre and is expected to recover.

  Lt. Pierre-Luc Goddard of the SPVM has been credited with discovering the identity of the attacker. At a press conference earlier today he stated that a search of the assailant’s apartment had turned up “many startling things” and that there would be “many revelations to come” with regards to this case.

  See Arrow on A3

  Gordie put the newspaper down. “‘Many startling things’? René, what’s the deal here?”

  “Gordon, your information has led to the apprehension of a homemade terrorist who was ready to make a much, much bigger mess. In his apartment they found three military-grade fully automatic weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition. Plus grenades. Explosives. Swords. They got into his computer and found a diary where he mentions staging an attack at a rock concert at the Bell Centre, eight days from now. We also recovered email indicating that he was part of a larger group. This is going to be big.

  My question for you is: how were you involved? Why did Lieutenant Goddard detain you for over six hours? He pretends that you don’t exist.”

  “I guess he wants the credit for himself. I don’t care. Actually, I prefer it that way! I just happened to be in the right place at the right time and witnessed this asshole making his getaway. I followed him but didn’t have to go far; he lived in the building right next to mine. I got down to the crime scene and gave them my story, and then they put me in a squad car and stuck me in a cell down at Station 13.”

  René winced. “They are not famous for their humanity.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Nobody even spoke to me when I asked why I was there. I was cooped up for hours before Goddard came to see me. And he was drunk as a skunk. He threatened me with jail if I told anyone I was involved in the bowman thing. Sketchy, all very sketchy.”