Red and Black

by Nancy O'Toole Meservier

  “Uh-huh,” I said, falling to one knee in front of a file cabinet. “But that’s because there are…gaps, you know, between the rules. The police can’t be everywhere at once, and a lot of people fall through those gaps. Not to mention that someone needs to step in when official channels fail.”

  “As they have here.”

  “Pretty much. It would almost be a crime to have these abilities and not help out. And then there are others like this Mistress, who I’m pretty certain is Empowered in some way. The police aren’t equipped for that.”

  “What makes you think she’s Empowered?”

  Before replying, I pulled the file cabinet open in front of me. It was empty.

  “The way her followers talk about her? That level of devotion? There has to be some sort of…I dunno, mind control or something.”

  “She could be a fanatical cult leader.”

  “Maybe, but I think it goes beyond that. You heard the guy in the alley. She’s not just their leader. She’s their everything. And Sully…” I let my voice trail off and shook my head. “I just felt like someone had really messed with his head. Of course, it could just be confirmation bias on my part.”

  Dana let out a snort.

  “Psych major?” he asked.

  I was taking Intro to Psych this semester, but I was smart enough to keep that one to myself.

  “Regardless, I think it’s safest if we go into this thing assuming that some level of mind control is at play.” I closed the file cabinet. “Anyway, there’s nothing in Mr. Hamilton’s office. The police took all his files and computer. I guess that means if this Mistress is connected to a client…”

  “Then there’s nothing here for us,” Dana finished, then swore.

  I shook my head, resting my gloved hands on my knees.

  “I bet there was important information here,” I said. “Although I don’t know if it was necessarily related to his abduction.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The pattern of dust on the desk. You can clearly see where his monitor, phone, even mouse pad used to be. Mr. Hamilton never let the cleaning lady work in here.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have one?”

  “Oh, he does. I didn’t notice the same dust patterns in the hallway where a phone used to be.”

  “Huh. Well that makes sense if you consider that he had information on clients here. Must have wanted to keep those private.”

  I nodded, then paused, looking across the room. There was a picture of Martha in here, a small four-by-six mounted low on the wall. If Mr. Hamilton had been sitting at the desk, it would be just about eye level. What struck me was the fact that the picture was a duplicate of one of the ones in the hallway. The candid shot in the garden with the middle-aged woman. I moved closer, wondering if maybe it had just been taken on the same day. Crouching slightly in front of it, I discarded that theory. It was the same exact photograph.

  “That’s odd,” I murmured.

  “What is?”

  I reached out for it, immediately discovering that, unlike the other pictures, which had been hung on nails or something similar, this one was fully attached to the wall, corner to corner. If I didn’t use my enhanced strength, it wouldn’t even budge when I pulled.

  “This picture,” I murmured. “It’s…stuck on the wall. Almost as if…”

  I ran my fingers around the edges. When I got all the way to the right, I heard a small click. I blinked.

  “Well,” I said aloud. “Either I just triggered a bomb or found a secret compartment.”

  “Triggered a what?”

  “Fortunately, Mr. Hamilton doesn’t really seem the type,” I murmured, pulling on the picture. It swung out toward me.

  And behind it was the tiniest safe I’d ever seen, not any bigger than the frame.

  “I suppose safecracking is not a skill in your bag of tricks?”

  “Safecracking? What the hell is going on?”

  “I may have just found something important. Hey, can you…”

  I heard the creak of a door opening and froze.

  For a few seconds, my body remained almost perfectly still, the only movement being my eyes as I flickered them up and toward the open door. There was no one there.

  But the front door…

  Mr. Hamilton’s house had been near silent before, the building insulated well enough to keep most of the ambient noise of the city at bay. But now I could hear the passing of a nearby car, the hissing of brakes, and footsteps as multiple individuals made their way in though the foyer and into the front rooms.

  Well, shit.

  Okay, Dawn. Time to think. You probably have thirty seconds before they clear those front rooms and get to the back of the house. Time to crack a safe.

  Not gonna happen.

  Instead, I looked behind me to the room’s one window, partially covered with dark curtains. I rose to my feet and walked toward it. Outside, another tree-lined street ran parallel to the back of the house. I reached up to the top and, as quietly as possible, opened the window just wide enough to fit one newbie Actual with ease.

  Fifteen seconds left. Time to make some noise.

  I moved back to the photograph, attention on the footsteps in the front of the building, where my stalkers were turning their attention toward the back of the house.

  And then I punched through the expensive wood-paneled wall and tore out the tiny safe.

  It was bigger than it had looked, being three times as long as it was wide. Fortunately, thanks to my enhanced strength, it was no more a burden than a particularly bulky loaf of bread.

  I heard shouts of “here!” coming from the front of the house and looked to the doorway just in time to see bright lights bouncing down the hallway. Not wanting to see the people attached to those flashlights, I jumped to my feet and launched myself over the desk, landing right in the window. I adjusted the safe under my right arm, and my body tightened in preparation.

  “Freeze!”

  Oops. Looks like I had underestimated their speed.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see a slim figure pointing a gun directly toward my back. I recognized her instantly.

  Detective Bronson, the officer who had forced her way into my house just days before.

  How was she caught up in all of this?

  I heard what sounded like a crash in the hallway behind her. The detective’s chin jerked toward the source of it.

  And I used that moment of distraction to throw myself out the window.

  As I passed through, I heard two sharp bangs, the sound of gun blasts, but felt no pain. I hit the ground and fumbled my landing, trying to tuck myself into a roll, a decision my right shoulder immediately regretted. I gritted my teeth, doing my best to ignore the pain, and made my way to my feet.

  Shouts could be heard from the house, letting me know I needed to make my exit a quick one. I crouched, then jumped, landing on the roof of the house across the street.

  Of course, I had no time to linger. I needed to get myself across that river as soon as possible.

  “And then what happened?”

  “Oh, I just hung out around the Tonkin Bridge for a bit, waiting for things to die down before heading over here.”

  I watched as Dana deflated at my quick sum-up of the events. He had been sitting, almost literally, on the edge of his seat for the duration of my story. And given that his seat was a rolling desk chair, that seemed kinda dangerous.

  “Well,” he said with a frown, “that was anticlimactic.”

  He turned back toward his computer, which looked more expansive than my little laptop. Two flat-screen monitors sat on top of a beat-up wooden desk, a glowing keyboard perched in front of them alongside a wireless mouse. A headset had been hung over one of the speakers, a few external hard drives piled up near the back.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if this room was often referred to as a “man cave.” Next to the desk sat a low coffee table with various computer parts, their tentacle-like wires st
icking out in all different directions. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the know-how to judge if they were any good, or merely the discarded graphics cards and power supplies that had accumulated as Dana upgraded his machine. A small TV had been set up on a stand on the perpendicular wall to the right, an old Xbox and several controllers piled nearby. A second chair sat across from the television, but given that it was covered in what looked like dirty laundry, I suspected it was rarely used. There was a single narrow bookcase, mostly covered in games and DVDs, including what looked like every James Bond movie ever made. No wonder he had thought about the earpiece.

  Dana stood up from his chair and moved over to a closet, which took up a big chunk of the wall on his left. The door was already open, revealing a squat filing cabinet and a hodgepodge of other non-clothing items.

  I hadn’t been completely honest with him. Yes, I had chosen to hide out near the bridge for a bit, but as Dawn. After transforming, I had headed into a coffee shop filled with people staring at their laptop screens, probably writing the next great American novel/screenplay/blog post. As I drank a single cup of coffee, I watched two slow-driving police cars pass in front of the wide windows of the cafe. Each time I had tensed up, thinking about the safe I had stashed in the alley. But they had continued on, not connecting the Asian co-ed in the Batgirl sweatshirt and Keds to the Costume who had been jumping around on rooftops.

  I wondered if Detective Bronson had been in either of those cars, and what role she played in all of this. She was working on the Arthur Hamilton case, so it would make sense for her to show up when someone broke into his house. At the same time, we knew now that there were crooked cops in the city. Could she be one of them?

  I shook my head, not knowing where to start with that one.

  “So,” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “About those safecracking skills?”

  In response, Dana held out a crowbar. I raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t try to tell me you’re not strong enough to open it,” he said.

  “I was more going for ‘why do you have a crowbar in your home office, Dana Peterson?’”

  “For protection,” Dana replied. “Do I seriously look like the type of guy who would know how to handle a gun?”

  “Most people go with baseball bat.”

  “I had an unfortunate event involving said sport as a child.” Dana jerked the bar toward me. “So, you gonna open it? I’d hate for your reputation with the BCPD to be spoiled for nothing.”

  I accepted the crowbar with a smile and headed toward the safe on the table.

  “It’s probably just his collection of porn,” Dana muttered.

  “Ew. I’m pretty sure that was on his computer.”

  “Ha! Now I know you’re not old enough to be my grandmother.”

  “Because she doesn’t know about internet porn?”

  “Can we not discuss the relationship between my grandmother and internet porn right now?”

  “You were the one who started it!”

  Dana’s next comment was cut off as I shoved the crowbar in the too-narrow slit between the door and the rest of the safe. What followed was a screech loud enough to wake up the neighbors. I removed the crowbar and blinked at it. The end had been warped slightly, as had the section I had been holding, leaving behind an imprint of my gloved hand. Guess I had kind of overdone it. I handed it back to Dana with an embarrassed grin.

  “Great,” he said, “how the hell am I supposed to explain that one to Bonnie?”

  I was about to ask how often Dana’s wife went for the crowbar buried in his closet when I realized just what was in the safe in front of me.

  “Is that a jewel case?” Dana asked as I pulled it out.

  “It’s the only thing in here,” I said, studying the clear CD case. Inside was a silver recordable CD with two letters written on it in sharpie.

  D.P.

  “I…think it’s for you,” I said, handing it to Dana.

  “What?” Dana accepted the case with a frown. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know the guy.”

  He moved to the computer tower and popped out the DVD player. He took the disc out of the case, then flipped it over with a frown. Once the disc was in the computer, a small video player popped up on the right-hand screen.

  It was Arthur Hamilton, or at least his face, as he leaned in close to the camera. Clicking noises emitted from Dana’s speakers for a few seconds before the lawyer took a few steps back, revealing that he stood in his office at the Commerce Center. His full body now in view, I couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that Mr. Hamilton looked about thirty pounds lighter and a lot less gray. How old was this footage? That question was immediately answered as I noticed several yellow numbers near the bottom of the screen.

  “Is that the date?” I asked.

  “Yeah, just formatted differently then we’re used to,” Dana replied, sitting back in his chair. “This video is almost ten years old.”

  “Why would he have such an old video in a safe?”

  In answer to my question, Arthur Hamilton began speaking.

  “I am not in the habit of videotaping myself, especially with any footage that may prove to be incriminating, but I must be prepared in case the rumors about Amity Graves are true.”

  Dana yanked the top drawer of his desk open, pulling out a ballpoint pen and piece of paper. He scribbled furiously as the lawyer spoke.

  “The fantastic has expanded beyond the realm of fiction,” Mr. Hamilton continued, speaking in a clear, calm voice. “Of comic books and popcorn flicks. We know now that superheroes are real. It has been six weeks since Silver Shot and Golden Strike have been officially recognized by the US Government, not just as vigilantes but as people with unique abilities that defy known science. They have officially been labeled ‘Empowered Individuals.’”

  “E-Day,” I whispered. I had only been ten years old, my interest in superheroes a tiny flame that had yet to be coaxed into a full-on blaze, but E-Day was still firmly implanted in my mind. It was the day when stories became reality, where people like Kitty Pryde and Peter Parker became more than just figures on page and screen. Superheroes were real.

  “From following news reports over the past year, it has been made clear to me that Silver Shot and Golden Strike are merely the first of many,” Arthur Hamilton continued. “In fact, I suspect that their official recognition will spark an interest in masked vigilantes, encouraging the media to seek out others that may already exist and inspiring more Empowered individuals to embrace the cape and cowl lifestyle.”

  He paused for a moment, resting his hands in front of his stomach, lining up each fingertip on his right hand with the corresponding one on the left. His gaze was focused on the ground.

  “But while the first to arrive appear to be magnanimous, it is clear that there are villains as well as heroes, monsters as well as hunters. And unlike the iconic figures on-screen, these are all regular people, with their own agendas.”

  He took a step toward the camera and looked at the lens.

  “Bailey City is safe for now. Maybe safe for years. But eventually, the villains will come. In preparation, we must choose to act, to establish our city as one that cannot be preyed upon by those who will do so just because they can. As cliché as it sounds, the best defense just may be a good offense.”

  I blinked, surprised to find his words similar to the ones I had said to Dana not even two hours ago. Arthur Hamilton had also realized that eventually, people like the Mistress would come, and how dangerous that might be for an undefended Bailey City. The coincidence was…unnerving.

  Mr. Hamilton paused in his speech, ducking his head until he was looking at his fingertips again.

  “While I haven’t been too open about these thoughts, I have let a few of my colleagues in on my concerns. One of them, a politician by the name of Edison Kent, has let me know about a young man —a very young man—who not only thinks along the same lines, but has plans for how he can prepare for
such an event. You see…he claims to have the ability to manufacture Empowered individuals.”

  I felt my chest tighten at the word “manufacture.” What could that mean?

  “I…do not like this man. In truth, he, and the others around him seem like the type of people I am trying to protect my city from. People who will put their own agendas above what is best for all. And as someone who has made this mistake in the past, I have seen what the consequences to that can be.”

  There was a slight hitch in his voice as he spoke. He began to fiddle with his wedding ring.

  “I now have a difficult choice in front of me. Do I ally myself with potentially dangerous individuals? Or do I let them go about unchecked?” He shook his head. “My answer, unfortunately, is all too simple.”

  He paused again before speaking.

  “This brings us to why I am recording this. Because the young man in question has also warned me of another Empowered person that has come to Bailey City, an Empowered woman by the name of Amity Graves. Ms. Graves, it appears, has the ability to erase and rewrite memories.”

  Dana froze in his furious scribblings.

  “It is clear that were I to encounter this woman, I would not be able to trust my own mind. Therefore, I must keep a diary of my thoughts, and it must be in video format. This way, even if my mind has been altered, the truth will not be.

  “Now, in about, oh…fifteen minutes.” He raised his hand to check his wristwatch. “I am to have my first meeting with Mr.—”

  He was cut off by a muffled knock. He paused, looking toward, if my memory of the room was correct, the door that led out of his office and into the sitting area. His eyes drifted back to the camera.

  “It appears that he has arrived early,” he said softly, then raised his voice. “Just a second.”

  I watched the feed as the lawyer walked toward the camera. His hand came toward the lens, and it shook for few seconds as scraping noises filled the air. He backed away, and I noticed that his office seemed slightly askew, with a large shadow taking up part of the screen. Had he tried to hide the camera?

  “Ah, I apologize,” I heard Mr. Hamilton say, his voice slightly muffled. “I did not expect you so soon.”