Villains Inc. (Wearing the Cape)

by Marion G. Harmon

  Holy mother of God!

  I wanted to cross myself. When he sagged, changing into a much lighter person, I almost dropped him.

  “Hope? Willis says you can come back now.”

  “What was that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve been listening through Willis’ earbug and Mr. Jones did something.”

  * * *

  Shelly patched through the LA Knight’s dispatch to alert the LAPD of the incident. I had no certification in California, but they remembered January and responded professionally. I stuck the bag behind Mr. Jones’ couch and re-tucked my hair so no platinum strands showed. Amazingly Willis had a second pair of shades for me, and I managed to be over the shakes before they arrived. They took a plain-clothed superhero completely in stride.

  The LAPD sent a special paddywagon, five squad cars, three ambulances, and two heroes from the LA Guardians since the Knights were still out of town. Most heroes in LA are wannabe Hollywood heroes, and the two they sent were no exception. Warrior, an Atlas-type hero in pressed paramilitary fatigues, liked to loom, while Stasis used her blue and white spandex catsuit to show off her gym-and-trainer curves. Warrior’s black beret set off his Tom Cruise looks nicely, inspiring unheard comments from Shelly.

  As pretty as they were, they got the job done; Blacktop woke up in the wagon wearing hundred-pound titanium body-cuffs, ready for delivery to The Block, California’s main superhuman containment facility. The paramedics offered Orb a ride to the hospital, but with only a torn scalp she declined. The two minions, on the other hand, hadn’t faired so well. The one who’d had her by the hair when I came through the door had a hole in his gun-hand where her orb had morphed into a needle-sharp lance and stabbed him. He’d been lucky; it could have been his eye. Willis had shot the other one, but only, to use Artemis’ favorite phrase “a little bit.” That little bit had been through both knees.

  Statements taken, the cavalry departed (Warrior gave me his card on the way out). Mr. Jones tried to close his broken door, then wandered into his kitchen and came out with two fistfuls of Blue Moon beers. I sat on the old, dusty couch, and politely put the bottle he offered me next to the bag on the stained carpet. Willis took a deep draw on his while Orb sipped hers elegantly. She’d restored her hair as much as possible to hide the bandages.

  “So,” Mr. Jones said. “Thank you?” His voice rasped from the near-throttling.

  “Not yet,” I said. “What did you do?” Blacktop had been sloppy-crying when they closed the doors on him. Mr. Jones had only answered the police with questions.

  “I gave him fear. It’s called Death’s Shadow, I just had to be able to speak.”

  “Death? Fear? You saw the face of God and you’re one of the bad guys?”

  He looked at me over his bottle. “I didn’t ask for it. And death and fear aren’t evil—they’re part of the world. Necessary. I use Kurtael’s energies to balance the Words inside me, to ground me. What are you afraid of?”

  I realized my hands were shaking again. Okay then.

  “Killing somebody,” I said, returning his stare. “Have you ever killed anybody?” I still dreamed about Volt and woke with cold sweats.

  He looked away, taking another swig, but Orb tag-teamed for him.

  “So what brought you back?” she challenged me.

  “Blackstone. He’s going to die because I was nice.” I focused on Mr. Jones. “You said you didn’t think you could help, didn’t want to try, and I accepted it because I was raised that way. But you’re the only real possibility I have right now and I’m so not going to bury my friend. So here’s a carrot.” I shoved the bag across the floor with my foot. “Fifty thousand dollars, enough to float you to nirvana for months. And the stick’s in there too.”

  He opened the bag, pulled out a copy of his police record, and looked at me. Despite my resolve I flushed, but I pushed on.

  “The people of California just passed the Watch List bill, and it puts any superhuman with a police record on probation. With your drug and disturbance arrests, all I’ve got to do is pass the word about your enlightenment and you’ll have the LAPD climbing up your butt. Try and get your prescriptions filled then.”

  Willis took a breath, impressed or ready to fight. Or both.

  “And you don’t think I owe you now?” Mr. Jones asked.

  “I don’t know you well enough to count on gratitude.”

  He nodded. “You’re on somebody’s watch-list yourself. They were here because of you. Wanted to know why you were talking to a PI in LA. And to me. Making someone nervous?”

  He kicked the bag back. “We both have sticks.” Orb made a noise, and he put a hand on her knee.

  “But I owe somebody something now. You can buy me a ticket to Chicago. Two.”

  Willis and I were back on the street five minutes later. The police and the news-wagons were long gone, the neighbors out of sight. Somebody left us a parking ticket.

  Chapter Eleven

  Superheroes aren’t agents of the law, and most of what they do is in the area of emergency response, but since they are known for making citizens’ arrests, engaging in hot pursuit, and exercising warrants where superhumans are involved, the distinction is often lost on the public. Police departments are very aware of the distinction, and even the most professional and diplomatic CAI hero will occasionally find himself having to step carefully with the legal authorities.

  Blackstone, Operation and Procedures.

  * * *

  I flew in late enough to count as early, and crept into bed without waking Mom and Dad. Graymalkin’s whiskers woke me the next morning, tickling my chin. Stretching, I winced. Gray protested when I put him off the bed and got up, and I wanted to yowl too when I looked in the mirror. A beautiful blue shiner looked back at me. It matched my bruised knuckles; hitting Blacktop had hurt.

  I considered makeup for two seconds, and sighed. It wouldn’t fool the parentals.

  Putting my hair in a quick pony-tail, I threw on jeans and a t-shirt and bolted downstairs, headed for the door. No luck. “Hope?” Mom called from the kitchen as I reached the open front door.

  “Gotta run!” I yelled over my shoulder, then yelped as I ran into Dad. I hadn’t been pushing it, but he oofed as I bounced off him. He dropped the paper and grabbed me for balance.

  “Dad!”

  “Hope!” he mimicked, chuckling, then froze in the act of reaching for the paper. His grip on my elbow tightened and he closed the door, leaving the paper on the porch.

  “You should see the other guy?” I quipped desperately.

  “I think I should,” he said. And meant it.

  “No! He’s in LA, in the Block!”

  “I have lots of frequent-flier miles,” he replied. The floorboards creaked as he started to change.

  “Darling, don’t embarrass Hope,” Mom said from behind me, putting a stop to that. Rescued!

  My family’s big on sports, but Dad had hated my playing field hockey. Once I’d gotten kneecapped in the middle of a scrum and the referee had ignored the foul. Dad had carried me off the field, which had been embarrassing enough when I remembered it later, but then he’d been all over the ref once my knee was wrapped. It’s not often parents get banned from games.

  Dad reversed himself before going full Iron Jack—a good thing since he was dressed for the office and the change would have burst his buttons and blown out his shoes. Still holding my elbow, he turned me about so Mom could see. She touched my cheek, and sighed.

  “Shelly said you’d gotten in a fight. Let’s all sit down.”

  “Shelly?” Dad said, lost.

  “Yes, dear. Shelly’s come home,” Mom said, as easily as if she’d said Toby’s moving back in. She steered us back to the kitchen, where her laptop lay open on the table, and sat Dad down in front of it.

  “Hi Mr. C!” Shelly said. Priceless.

  By the time the conversation came back around to my shiner, Dad had calmed down. I was able to pass off the LA trip as rese
arch for Blackstone, and he even nodded approvingly when he heard how the fight went. But the idea of my getting into fights where there was no ready backup didn’t sit well.

  Mom stepped in before he could scold me.

  “You really must be more careful of your secret identity, dear,” she said. I sighed, nodding; she was right—the only thing Blacktop didn’t know about me now was my name and hair-color. That sidetracked Dad; he still hoped I’d get tired of it and give up the superhero life, become a reservist—a lot harder to do if my civilian identity got out.

  “No worries, Mrs. C.” Shelly said. “I called in a favor. A friend paid a visit to the Block, and Blacktop remembers her as an older brunette now. And lots chestier.”

  “Shell…”

  “Not a big deal, really. He didn’t remove any memories. It’s like remembering you had the banana cream instead of the apple pie for lunch.”

  Mom and Dad nodded agreement, but I resolved to have a talk with Shelly later. There were boundaries.

  * * *

  After that I got away with minimal fuss and aggravation, but there was no way I was going to classes. My superhuman healing ability would clear up the bruises before the day was out, but till then a battered little Hope Corrigan would raise way too many questions. So instead I changed into costume, using makeup to cover the bruising where it crept out from under the mask, and flew out to see Detective Fisher. A phone call might have worked, but what I was going to ask for probably broke half a dozen department regulations.

  Shelly found him for me, hanging out at the corner of Clark and Taylor. He stood in the empty lot south of the AMLI 900 luxury apartment tower, beside the Mid-Am “for lease” signs.

  “Astra,” he said when I landed. “You’re not on duty today.” For a miracle, he didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth—probably because of the Starbuck’s Coffee cup in his hand.

  “Good morning, Detective Fisher—”

  “Call me Don.” With his free hand he indicated the complete absence of other detectives or patrolmen. A few morning commuters saw us and slowed as they drove by. I waved, turning back to him.

  “I don’t think so. Fisher?”

  “That’ll do. What can I do for you?” He finished his coffee and lit up as I rolled my eyes. “And what happened?”

  “What—oh.” I touched my made-up cheek. “A little fight out of town. Anything on the Moffat case?”

  “We’re still looking for Mr. Ross. He might be able to tell us if Moffat was more involved in the robbery than we thought.”

  “But you thought he was dead.”

  “So we’ll find a body that could tell us something. Much as I’d like to talk shop, this is just my breakfast stop.”

  I nodded. “I need access to Mr. Moffat’s apartment, for me and three others. Is it open?”

  He looked at me. “It’s been swept and cleaned. The department turned it loose last Friday, so you could always just ask the building super.”

  Who’ll probably say no. Neither of us said it. An impossible murder? Superheroes poking about? The last thing the apartment management would want was their tenants getting the idea that the building was superhuman-murder central.

  “Could you…” Lean on the building super? Get permission to go back in? I so didn’t want to do a B and E.

  “What is this about?”

  Sighing, I told him.

  He lit his second cig when I finished, exhaled.

  “Blackstone. That explains a lot. Called me last week, asked for the case file. Didn’t want to go through Garfield.” The deputy superintendent of the Bureau of Investigative Services didn’t much like superhumans, and didn’t like having superheroes affiliated with the CPD even as private contractors.

  I held my breath while he looked at me. Finally he nodded.

  “Okay. When?”

  “Tonight? Two of them are flying in from LA this afternoon, and Artemis has to wait till after dark.”

  “I’ll call the super, and there’ll be five of us. Otherwise Garfield will have my badge.”

  “Thank you!” I felt a million pounds lighter knowing I wouldn’t have to skirt the law. Giving him a mock-salute, I started to lift off, then stopped. “Detect— Fisher? What are you doing out here?”

  “I’m looking for the man who wasn’t there.”

  * * *

  I had to be satisfied with that cryptic comment. Back at the Dome I settled in to write up an after-action report of Sunday’s fight. Since it hadn’t happened in the team’s jurisdiction or on Sentinels business, I didn’t have to explain why I’d been in LA, and now I got to be cryptic. I called the LA Guardians and got the file number on their report of the incident to append to mine; the review board that read my after-action reports could contact them or the LAPD, get their official write-up, and wonder about the rest. Then I pulled out my homework; the investigation had to wait till nightfall, but Thomas Paine’s Common Sense couldn’t if I was going to finish the essay on time.

  When Artemis rose from her grave—actually a queen-sized bed with sheets of absurdly high thread count in rooms as nice as mine—we set off to meet Orb and Mr. Jones at the scene. I’d offered them the hospitality of the Dome while we waited for sunset, but they’d have had to go in the front doors and Mr. Shankman’s mob pretty much covered it with a sea of pickets and slogan-chanting drones right now. My favorite protest sign was Stop worshipping false idols! I’d never felt like a golden calf, and only hardcore fans stuck with me now. The ones calling Chakra the “Whore of Babylon” were less funny.

  Fisher opened the lobby door and waved us all in when Artemis and I landed. The man standing behind him, playing with a ring of keys, had to be the building super.

  “Ladies,” Fisher said. “Mr Osburne has graciously agreed to cooperate with the investigation.”

  The man twitched a nod and waved us to the elevator. We all fit, and I gratefully noted that Mr. Jones had bathed, even found some way to get his star-studded coat laundered. He cleaned up pretty well; even his gaunt eyes looked brighter. Orb looked as stylish and cool as if the fight yesterday hadn’t happened, in black tonight to match Jones.

  I bit back a nervous laugh. All in black, we could form our own team. Nightwatch? Beside all of us, unlit cig ready, Fisher looked like he’d wandered in from a different movie. Maybe an indie-film from the Sundance Film Festival?

  The super got us out of the elevator and down the hall without any residents noticing, making me wonder why he hadn’t simply opened the balcony door for Artemis and me.

  Mr. Moffat’s apartment had been completely cleared, the walls repainted, even new carpet laid out. Whatever had killed Mr. Moffat hadn’t left anything that couldn’t be carried away in garbage bags, but the building owners weren’t taking chances. The new-paint and carpet smells left nothing of the original scene.

  “Well?” Fisher said after the super left, closing the door behind him.

  Mr. Jones looked over my shoulder at Shelly. “I said it may have been a thought-form?”

  “Yes,” Shelly said.

  “Excuse me?” Fisher looked where Shelly wasn’t.

  Jones chuckled. “Sorry, detective. Conferring with spirits. One, anyway.”

  “This isn’t filling me with confidence.”

  “Please,” I said. “I’ll explain later.”

  Orb smiled. “If you can.”

  Fisher nodded, not even blinking at her hair-veiled face and lips that didn’t move when she spoke.

  Mr. Jones reached into his coat and pulled out a bundle of sticks wrapped in silk. Reciting to himself, what sounded like Latin to my church-trained ears, he unwrapped the sticks, draping what looked like a ceremonial stole, russet-red embroidered in silver with eyes and astrological signs, over his shoulders. The sticks unfolded to socket together into a narrow rod with measured notches and numbers.

  He kept reciting. I couldn’t call it chanting—he wasn’t doing it for us—and my Latin was bad but I kept catching what sounded like a nam
e: Umibael. I looked at Shelly and she shook her head. Fisher cocked an eyebrow at me, looking amused. I found myself holding my breath.

  Then the sound changed. Any ear can tell the difference between indoor and outdoor sound; outdoors there’s no reflection, no echo. We stood in a mid-sized luxury apartment, and my ears told me the walls were gone, that infinite space had suddenly moved in with us. I blinked, and blinked again. Shelly had become transparent, remote, and Fisher looked… gray-toned. Like a film-noir gumshoe on the silver screen.