“What’s the MLF?” I asked.
Stan looked surprised.
“I’m a bit surprised you haven’t heard of them,” he said. “They are a relatively new group, but in light of their goals, I would have thought you would have run across them before now.
“The MLF is the Metahuman Liberation Front. They’re adorable,” Stan said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “They believe Metahumans are both superior to us normal humans and oppressed by us. How you can be so thoroughly oppressed by your inferiors is beyond me. They say the Metahuman registration requirements of the Hero Act are a violation of Metahumans’ civil rights and establish a Metahuman/normal human caste system. They also say that the Hero Act’s requirement that Metahumans be licensed in order to legally use their powers is a violation of God’s natural law. God wouldn’t have given them powers if He had not meant for them to be used, they say. How they can be so certain of what God’s intentions are is beyond me.”
“Every nutty group seems to think it has special insight into God’s innermost thoughts,” I said. “For some reason, God always seems to approve of what that group does and thinks, but wants the rest of us evildoers to change our ways.” I thought of John Barton and his anti-Meta religious attitudes.
Stan smirked.
“Yeah, funny how that works,” he said. “In MLF’s case, not only do they think they have a direct line to God’s true intentions, but they also believe their powers are a sign they are blessed by God and are his chosen people. Normal humans are but a rung on the evolutionary ladder, with Metahumans being the final destination, of course. To the MLF, we are as much an evolutionary dead-end as the Neanderthals. They call us Unevolveds.”
“What’s this ‘we’ and ‘us’?” I asked. “For I, apparently, am one of God’s chosen people. Not one of you Neanderthals.”
Stan grinned at me.
“How’s being one of the chosen feel?” he asked.
“Feels good,” I said. “I wish being one of the chosen came with an ammo discount, though. Crime-fighting is expensive.”
Stan snorted.
“I wouldn’t know. I go after evil-doers with my keyboard. Fortunately, the alphabet is free,” he said. Stan sobered. “Despite everybody and his brother claiming credit for the D.C. explosion, the authorities do not yet know who actually caused it.”
“Well, another set of eyeballs on the case certainly couldn’t hurt,” I said. “Do you guys have the footage from the surveillance cameras? I’ve only seen bits and pieces of it on TV. I’d like to take a look at it.”
Stan heaved himself to his feet. It took longer than it really should have. Perhaps I should have paid Stan back for his information by volunteering to be his personal trainer.
“We’ve got everything the government has released to the media in our library. Come with me,” he said.
I got up out of the way. Stan wobbled out of the cubicle, and I followed. He escorted me out of the newsroom and down a long hallway. A couple of people we passed on the way glanced at me with curiosity. I didn’t know if they recognized me as a Hero, or if they thought I was a famous fashion model in light of how well-dressed I was.
“Excuse me, Miss,” I said to the next person who looked at me. “Do you think I’m a famous model? Would you like my autograph?”
“No,” the woman said without breaking stride. She was pretty and full-figured, and wore a tight black skirt and red high heels. She undulated as she walked. I turned to examine her backside as she moved past us. Perhaps she would commit a crime later and the police would need me to pick her out of a lineup. A true Hero was ready for every contingency.
“Would you stop clowning around?” Stan said.
“She is desperate for my autograph,” I said. “She’s just shy, is all. Her mouth said no, but her eyes screamed yes.”
Stan snorted.
“Guess what my eyes are saying,” he said.
I looked at them carefully.
“They’re saying things you can’t print in a family newspaper,” I said.
“Perceptive. Wow, you really are a detective,” Stan said.
We arrived at a large rectangular room that had a sign reading “Library” on the door. Using my keen deductive abilities, I concluded we had arrived at our destination. Rows of metal filing cabinets took up one long wall of the room. A row of computers, monitors, and microfilm readers were lined up on desks against one of the short walls.
“You guys still use microfilm?” I asked. “How quaint. I would have thought everything would be digitized by now.”
“Those microfilm machines were cutting edge technology when I started here,” Stan says. “We still have a bunch of stuff on microfilm. Those machines will probably still be here when I retire.”
While I watched, Stan waddled over to a file cabinet, opened it, and rifled around within it. He retrieved a CD-ROM in a case, and took it over to one of the computers. I followed him. First microfilm, now a compact disk. Next Stan would be pulling out a telegraph machine.
He popped the CD into the computer’s drive, and showed me how to use everything.
“I’ll leave you here to watch this,” he said. “I’ve got to get back to work. Don’t steal anything.”
“I can’t make any promises,” I said. I sat in front of the computer. “After all, there is a pretty hot black market for used microfilm machines. Before you go, though, can you get me a list of the casualties?”
“Would you like me to bring it over on a silver platter?” he groused before waddling back to the row of file cabinets. In a few moments, he brought me clippings from the Times.
“Remember,” he said before he left, “if you find out anything, I should be your first and only call.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I also might give you a ring to gossip about cute girls.”
Stan snorted at me again and left.
CHAPTER 5
After Stan left the library, I picked up the clippings he had given me. I examined them for Clara’s name. Some people had been all but vaporized when the explosion first occurred, but those people were the minority of the ones killed. Assuming Clara had not been one of the ones vaporized, I thought I would not find her name on the list of casualties as the authorities would have notified her parents had they found her body and been able to identify it. But, it pays to be thorough.
I checked three times. As expected, I did not find Clara’s name on the list of casualties. I found little satisfaction in her absence from the list, though. Reading the list of names depressed me. Even if Clara was not there, everyone on the list was somebody’s child.
I turned to the computer screen. On the compact disk was footage from Dupont Circle’s surveillance cameras immediately before and after the explosion from several different angles. I ran the footage in slow motion until I caught sight of Clara. I recognized her immediately from pictures her mother had given me. Even if I did not have the pictures, I still would have recognized her. She was like her mother in miniature: the two shared the same rail-thin body and small, pinched features.
I zoomed in on Clara, looking for anything that might be useful. One thing I noticed was despite the fact it had been cold in D.C. the night of the explosion, Clara was dressed inadequately in a thin shirt. Her face was entirely without expression. She did not look like someone who was about to explode and kill dozens and injure hundreds more. Then again, how does such a person look? Anxious? Excited? Frightened? Who knew? Clara did not look like a terrorist, but that did not mean she was not.
Then, the explosion occurred. I could not tell if Clara was the source of the explosion. But, I also could not tell that she was not. From taking a careful look at the shock wave that ran through the crowd after the explosion and from looking at where the ceiling cracked and then collapsed, it certainly appeared the explosion occurred in Clara’s vicinity even if it did not originate from her. If the explosion did not come from her and yet it happened near her, why had she not been
killed, or at least injured? No one matching Clara’s description had been treated at any of the hospitals the injured had been taken too. I had already called each of the hospitals before coming to the Times.
I paid careful attention to the madhouse that was the subway station after the explosion occurred, alert for any sign of Clara. I did not spot her in the mob after the explosion, but that did not mean she was not there. That was especially true since the explosion had destroyed several of the surveillance cameras, limiting the angles at which I could now view the recorded pandemonium.
Although it made me sick to watch the footage, I watched it several times from each of the angles afforded by the surveillance cameras. It was like viewing a snuff film. I felt dirty watching it. I wanted to shut it off and go take a bath. But, I forced myself to watch it over and over, alert for anything that might point to what had happened to Clara or where I might find her. I found myself thinking of ways to locate the people who had committed this horrific act and daydreaming about what I might do to them once I found them. But, I tried to shrug away those thoughts. I had been hired to locate a teen girl, not to bring terrorists to justice.
After watching the footage more times than I could stand, I shut it off. I leaned back in the chair and stared at the tiled ceiling, thinking about what I knew so far. Clara had clearly been near if not at the center of the explosion. That meant she was either the cause of it or she, like so many others, had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time. If the latter, she either had been vaporized, or she miraculously had managed to escape without injury since there was no record of her being treated at any of the area hospitals. If the former, why had a young Metahuman used her powers to become a mass murderer? If her mother was to be believed, Clara would not hurt a fly.
If Clara was dead, there was nothing I could do about it. So, I had to proceed on the assumption she was still alive. It was the only assumption that gave me something to do. If Clara was alive, where would she go? Where would she stay? Would she seek out friends or family? Was she capable of killing and hurting a crowd full of strangers? What motivated her?
I stood up. I felt older than I had when I first sat down. I had a bunch of questions, and few answers.
I navigated my way out of the Times building and back to my car. It was nighttime by then. I drove home. I wanted a drink to help me forget about the images I had seen. But, I did not drink and had not for years. Drinking and the accompanying loss of control did not mix well with superpowers, or at least they did not for me. Still, sometimes I missed the numbing medicinal effects of alcohol. Alcohol never made anything better, but it could make you feel better. For a while, at least.
Though I normally showered, I instead took that bath I had thought about earlier.
It didn’t help. I still felt dirty. I went to bed to face troubled dreams.
CHAPTER 6
The next morning, I drove to Anderson High School, the school Clara was enrolled in. I had not enjoyed my own high school experience. My powers had manifested when I was in high school, and that fact layered on top of the usual teenage angst and hormonal changes had not made my high school years a joyful experience. But, I was now a fully grown man and licensed Hero. I had eaten a breakfast of champions consisting of three jelly donuts and two cups of expensive coffee, and was armed with a nine millimeter Remington in a hip holster. I was fully prepared to face the blackboard jungle. Principals with delusions of grandeur and schoolyard bullies had best beware.
I walked in the front door of the school. I was confronted with sights and smells that took me back several decades. Regardless of how high schools were built or where they were located, they all had a monotonous sameness to them. They reeked of confinement, forced conformity, and an eagerness to escape. They were like prisons that way. Prisons and high schools also served much the same purpose: civilizing semi-savages enough to face the world.
I made my way to the principal’s office. I had an appointment to meet with Amy Fatica, the school guidance counselor. I told one of the secretaries in the office so. I was told to have a seat and wait. The little boy in me, the one who had spent quite a bit of time in principals’ offices back in the day, wanted to tell the secretary she was not my mother and she could not tell me what to do. I decided the impulse was childish and beneath me, and I resisted it. I sat.
Waiting in the principal’s office for someone to deal with me brought back memories from childhood. I felt far more comfortable this time around, though, being armed and all. If someone tried to chastise me or tell me I would never amount to anything, I could always pull out my Hero’s license and stick my tongue out at them.
After a while, one of the secretaries came from around her desk and asked me to follow her. She escorted me out of the office and through the halls of the school. A period bell had rung, and the halls were full of students. They reminded me of colts: big, but not yet fully grown and mature. Despite the fact many of them were old enough to drive, drink, go to war, and procreate, they were still children, both hopeful of and in fear of the future. The boys swaggered around in forced and self-conscious machismo; the girls chattered and gossiped and flirted. Both sexes were hyper-aware of, but not yet comfortable with, their burgeoning sexuality.
A few of the girls stared at me with hungry eyes as I swept past them with the secretary. I could hear them whispering about me as I walked by. Since I was older, taller, and bigger than all the other males there, I stood out like a wolf among puppies. There was a time when young girls talking about and looking at me like that would have made my day. As it was, though I had done nothing wrong, it made feel like a pedophile. Fortunately, we arrived at the guidance counselor’s office before I needed to draw my weapon and brandish it at some Lolita.
Amy Fatica stood when I entered, and I shook hands with her. She was a short woman in her thirties with shoulder-length blonde hair that was in tight curls. We told each other to call the other by our first names and sat down on opposite sides of Amy’s desk.
Assured I was not going to sneak away and steal books out of the school library, the severe looking secretary who had escorted me to Amy took her leave.
“An escort?” I said to Amy once the secretary was gone. “You all afraid I’ll pull some students aside and tell them calculus is useless in the real world?”
“Shhhh!” she said. “One of them might overhear you. Are you trying to ruin the educational scam we’ve got going?”
Amy smiled at me. I smiled back. I liked her immediately. If I had not been dating a law student named Ginny Southland, I would have been interested in finding out if the absence of a wedding ring on Amy’s finger actually meant she was unmarried. Though she was a bit bigger than was considered fashionable these days, she was attractive with eyes that sparkled and a curvy body her dark pantsuit could not hide. She exuded a warmth that must have helped students open up to her.
Amy eyed me as I eyed her.
“Well, this is a new one for me,” she said. “I’ve never met a private detective before.” Her eyes twinkled. “Is it something I should tell my students to aspire to be?”
I smiled at her.
“You work for yourself, which is the upside. The downside is you get shot at from time to time,” I said.
She looked at me somewhat uncertainly. She did not know whether or not I was kidding. I was not.
“You wanted to talk to me about Clara Barton?” Amy said. “Her mother has authorized me to tell you anything you want to know. So, what do you want to know?”
“As I mentioned to you on the phone, Clara is missing. I’m trying to find her. Since I’ve never met her, I’m trying to get a sense for her. I’m hoping it will give me a clue as to how to locate her.”
Amy shook her head.
“I wish I knew where she was, but I’ll tell you everything I can about Clara,” she said. “Though she is troubled, I like her. I hope nothing bad has happened to her.”
I thought of all of the bodies in the Dupont
Circle subway caused by the explosion, with Clara seemingly at the center of that explosion.
“You and me both,” I said. “What kind of student was Clara?”
“Indifferent. She is actually a very bright girl, but she does not apply herself to her school work. She does little more than the bare minimum to skate by.” Amy sighed. “Kind of a waste, actually. She has a lot of potential. Unless she changes her ways, that potential is never going to be realized though. Part of the problem is that it seems education is not really emphasized in the Barton household.” She hesitated. “Have you met both of Clara’s parents?”
I nodded.
“I have,” I said. “Mrs. Barton seems nice enough, though completely eclipsed by her husband John. As for John himself, he’s—how shall I say?—difficult.”
“Mr. Barton is an ass,” Amy said frankly. “He’s small-minded, bigoted, ignorant, and still believes a woman’s only true place is in the home. I don’t know if his religion makes him that way, or if he joined the religion because he was already that way and the religion’s views appealed to him as a result. Though Clara and he did not get along and she largely rejected everything he believed in and stood for, growing up in that environment must have seeped into how Clara views the world and her place in it. I think that’s why she doesn’t really apply herself. Deep down, I think her father has her convinced she would never really amount to anything because of her sex, and that her sole purpose in life is to find a man who will support her while she has babies.” Amy shook her head. “Living in the Barton household must be like living in the Middle Ages. Clara developing Metahuman abilities must have made it infinitely worse in light of how Mr. Barton and his religion view Metahumans.”
I was surprised. I had not known Amy knew about Clara’s abilities. I said as much to Amy.
“Oh, sure I knew Clara was a Metahuman,” she said. “Clara told me so herself. I think she was desperate to talk about it with someone who would not condemn her or think she was a freak. Lord knows she couldn’t talk to her parents. Her father thought she was some sort of subhuman, and her mother just wanted to pretend the whole thing would blow over.”
Superhero Detective Series (Book 2): The Missing Exploding Girl Page 4