Powers

  The bedroom was empty other than Aaron’s discography. They’d moved him out weeks ago, into a two-bedroom over in Summerhill. Deena had teased him about it, ribbing how mama’s boy had been unable to leave the nest. He, in turn, tickled her until she stopped. They’d fallen into bed that night, too, but Aaron Boucher’s music had been the furthest thing from either of their minds.

  They’d been seeing each other for roughly six months, ever since she’d returned for winter break. It had been awkward at first, as most relationships tended to be. But after several dates and a thrilling weekend in the Emory dorms, Aaron and Deena had fallen into a naturally romantic groove. He felt guilty at times, worried about dividing attention between a girlfriend and the law. But she reminded Aaron that she would soon join him on the force, and one day they would solve crime side-by-side. He’d worried about that, too—what it meant for both halves of a couple to place themselves in danger. But they were young. Their hearts and … other parts made the ultimate decision.

  Over a year after the Pilgrim Thanksgiving debacle, Aaron’s career had taken off like a rocket. He’d been promoted to junior detective in the same department as Deena’s father. The gang war had dwindled to pockets of territorial conflict, and the government had reduced the number of sponsored Powers. Unfortunately, Aaron’s meteoric rise had driven a wedge between the Pilgrims and Bouchers; Deena’s dad had bristled long after Aaron’s diatribe in their foyer, and the two detectives barely got along these days. In fact, her father outwardly condemned Aaron and Deena’s flourishing romance, often complaining long and loud to her mother and anyone else willing to listen. More often than not, he bitched to the help.

  The Bouchers, meanwhile, had welcomed Deena with open arms. She felt at home in their tastefully decorated Colonial. Teakettles burbled on the range while Eveline puttered in the garden and the judge tackled crosswords on the porch. They lived within their means, few luxuries standing out to a visitor’s eye. Most of all, their house was filled with laughter and light—sarcasm, sure, but doled out with a twinkle and a smile, not in the bitter, corrosive manner perfected in the Pilgrim abode. Deena felt happy at the Bouchers’. Sure, Ken and Eveline mothered her every chance they got—an experience long abandoned by Deena’s self-absorbed parents. But even more importantly, Aaron felt comfortable here. This was his safe place. And by extension, so it was for Deena, too.

  She stretched against her boyfriend, purring like a cat, cuddling up against his long, lean body. Aaron absently stroked Deena’s hair, tapping against the wall with his free hand. She watched him for a moment; watched him lose himself in the music. The last year, while successful, had been rough on Aaron. The aftermath of the gang war, the effects it had brought on his precinct. He’d confided in Deena that the deputy mayor had failed to prepare for not only a transition from federal hands back to local police but for any oversight of those undertaking the process. It had been bloody, corrupt, and divisive. Several cops and Powers had been locked away following vicious hearings. Aaron warned Deena—especially after she’d abandoned a liberal arts scholarship for a criminal justice track—about the graft lacing his precinct. She’d heard him gripe about it before, but now he’d evolved his theories, pointing fingers at everyone from the captain down to Homicide. Aaron had skirted the issue of her father—no doubt hoping to keep his bias from affecting their relationship—but Deena could tell he was hinting in that direction. She still didn’t believe it. Sure, the Pilgrims had more cash than a detective’s salary should allow, but Waldo—though angry and often broody—was a good man. He protected his city and took care of his family. In the grand scheme of things, where was the harm in that? Deena knew that Aaron wanted to do the same. She didn’t understand why the two most important men in her life couldn’t get along. They were so similar. But then, Deena knew that if she were forced to interact with someone exactly like herself on a constant basis, she’d probably want to choke the bitch.

  She leaned up to kiss him, hoping to draw him into a clinch. He held up his hand, begging her to wait as the rhythm rose and fell across the bedroom. Deena smirked and rested her chin on a hand, propping her elbow atop Aaron’s chest. He absentmindedly rubbed her shoulder as he listened to the song, losing himself in the refrain.

  “See? Right there,” he explained to Deena. “That totally supports my theory.”

  “Which theory are we talking about? Is it the one where your girlfriend believes you’re avoiding sex because you’re afraid your mom might hear?”

  He laughed. “No, seriously. Listen. Don’t you hear?”

  Deena rolled her eyes and sat up. “Dude, I hear a lot of guitars and the moment passing you by. That’s it.”

  “The chords.” His eyes twinkled, reflecting the sunlight streaming through the window. “The same chords again.”

  Deena flopped back on the bed, arms flailing against the pillow. She groaned. “God. The chords again? This may be way on the nose, bro, but you’re like a broken record with those things.”

  This time, Aaron sat up. He ticked songs off on his fingers. “Nine MM’s ‘Antihero.’ Teleportland’s ‘Red Flannel Cape.’ Gorilla Mod’s ‘Inside Your Mind.’ Battleband’s ‘Give Me Rock or Give Me Death.’ And now Little Doomsday’s ‘Under the Macroverse.’” He spread his hands, wiry arms stretching against his cotton tee. “You gotta hand it to me, lady. There are five songs topping the charts with the same BEEBA chord structure. B-E-E-B-A. Even more when you page through the annals of rock history—”

  “Oh, the annals. Yes. I quite like the annals.”

  This time, he playfully swatted her on the ass. “Seriously, you don’t see it? That chord structure, it’s like musical magic. It’s like an earworm.”

  “Excuse me? Earworm?”

  “Yeah, like that movie where they stick a worm in that dude’s—”

  Deena scrunched her eyes and stuck both hands against her head. “Agh. No. Stop, stop, stop—la-la-la. I’ll be dreaming of worms in orifices all night long.”

  “I’m just saying. Five songs. Same chords. Tall stacks of American dollars.”

  They smiled at one another; another sound pervaded the room, a faint hissing from the teakettle in the kitchen.

  Deena felt hot. “Stop,” she begged him. “You look so serious.”

  He shrugged. “Happy, I guess.”

  “Come here.” She held out her arms, and after a brief moment, he did. Little Doomsday filled the room, drowning out everything else.

  Later, after they’d showered, the couple ventured down to the living room. Eveline was still outside, finishing up in her vegetable patch. The tea had long stopped hissing, and the judge nursed a cup of chamomile in his wide, impeccably upholstered recliner. He frowned at the television, index fingers gently tapping the mug in his hands. He turned as they entered the room and swiftly plastered a smile across his face as he set the cup aside. He gestured toward the plush sofa, and they arranged themselves across from him where they could both see the TV.

  “Your mother’s taking in her cucumbers. Then we’ll start dinner.”

  “Pop,” Aaron replied, “don’t go to any trouble. We’ll drop by Tacotown on the way back to Deena’s.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. There are several club steaks thawing in the sink. And my Weber could use a test run, make sure it hasn’t died during the night.”

  “Pop…”

  But the judge wouldn’t hear otherwise. “It’s done. ‘Tacotown’? That’s a fine way to get tapeworms, I’m sure. But edible? Hardly.”

  Deena enjoyed the byplay and lost herself in the cushions. The sun washed the living room with a suffused glow, daubing the furniture and brushing against Judge Boucher’s cheek. He winked at Deena, doing his best to elicit a smile. He turned his attention back to the television, where Ted Henry railed against the nation on his popular broadcast, Powers That Be.

  “Ted Henry rules,” she declared, snuggling into Aaron’s body.

  The judge snorted. “Overpaid, overblow
n windbag with an agenda. Would sell his own teeth for exclusive dirt.”

  Deena arched an eyebrow. Ken’s reaction surprised her; it had been growled from behind his mug, delivered with animosity she usually recognized in her own father. The judge was generally easygoing—as he’d been during the gang war, presenting opinions and judgments in a calm, even manner. What did he have against Ted Henry? The guy invented Powers news. Powers That Be had been the first to report on news of the gang war, the first to break any news regarding the Liberty murders—and there hadn’t been much, thanks to police lockdown. Henry, graying and brusque, found angles and exclusives where none could be found. This had many believing he either had powers of his own or an inside track with those that did. Deena didn’t care; she idolized the Powers, even if Aaron hated their level of free rein. She’d seen many in action, especially after starting at Emory. Many local Powers were friendly with Waldo and the judge, as evidenced by that horrifically awkward dinner. Maybe that’s why the judge had a beef with Henry. Powers That Be bulldogged those with powers, playing devil’s advocate for those without the courage to ask hard questions. Deena felt, as did Waldo, that someone needed to ask those questions; otherwise, who was to stop Powers from abusing their gifts? Who opened debate about the Powers Registry being bandied about in Congress? Who pointed the finger of truth at those purporting to serve it but who actually dragged it through the muck? Ted Henry, advocate for the people. Ted Henry, that’s who.

  “I don’t know,” she countered, clasping both hands in her lap. “He makes salient points about the Powers Registry.”

  “Hmph. Terrible idea.”

  Deena frowned. “But you said—”

  The judge waved a dismissive hand. “Big Brother, that’s all it is. Good foundation, born of necessary times. Now used by jackboots and bureaucrats.”

  Aaron sat up. “Come on, Pop.”

  Ken pointed a finger at his son. “Tell me I’m wrong. If they truly cared, they’d have done it before the gang war. Long before people died in the streets for no reasons but blood and money.”

  Aaron grimaced. “You know it can help. It might prevent the next Liberty killer.”

  Ken snorted again. “As it is, we can’t prevent the one we have now.”

  “That’s not fair, Pop.”

  The judge held his hands out in appeasement. “You’re right. I know the police are doing everything they can.”

  “It’s up to ten now.”

  The judge cleared his throat and drank some tea. Deena took her boyfriend’s hand, squeezing it for support. “You’ll catch him, Aaron.”

  “Not me. I’m a junior. They keep me off the big cases.”

  The judge’s mug clanked atop an end table. “How’d he do it the last time?”

  “Bludgeoned. Riddled with holes. They’re thinking rivets, not bullets. Wounds are machined. Mostly along arms and legs. His head was pulped, like a grapefruit.”

  Deena’s mouth went dry, parched as she listened to the grisly details. Her father barely gave her the goods regarding small-time cases. This, however, was the scandalous stuff—behind-the-scenes details that never made it to the papers. She hung on every word.

  The judge went on. “And the tag?”

  “Ink this time. With a little paint. Scrawled across the chest.”

  Deena leaned forward. “What did it say?”

  They turned, possibly having forgotten she was there. The Boucher men traded glances, and to her disappointment, the judge slapped his knees. “Let’s get those steaks on a fire.”

  A few hours later, they dug into warm, inviting, home-cooked barbecue. Eveline had laid out corn bread with rich gravy, three kinds of seasoned rice, and a bowl of lumpy hominy. The judge, to his credit, had done the steaks up right: a bit of sea salt sprinkled over grape-seed oil, and then a dusting of peppercorn and a sprig of rosemary. Aaron brought cold beers in from the garage, and Deena had whipped up a fresh summer salad with whatever she’d found in the pantry. The food was delicious, the conversation engaging, and Deena felt more content than she would ever be in her own home. After dinner, there was pie and coffee, and they retired with it to the porch to take in the cool night air. The judge eased into a rocker as Eveline measured out his evening’s pills. Deena and Aaron sat double on a wraparound bench, nestled in together under soft exterior lights. Judge Boucher rocked a moment, breathing in the smell of trees and chicory, and then he leaned back and answered Deena’s question.

  “‘In the Name of Liberty,’” he said.

  “How’s that?” She was drifting into a food coma, had barely heard him speak.

  “You asked what it said. Liberty’s note. That’s what it said, what it always says.”

  “Pop.”

  “Hush now, Aaron. She’s got a right to know. Despite ten kills, that little detail’s been kept from papers and, god love him, Ted Henry. Or at least someone smart enough paid the man to keep him from screaming it over the airwaves.”

  Deena’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. “What does it mean?”

  “S’pose this individual feels his kills are freeing someone. All’s I know? He’s never killed the same way twice. No modus operandi to speak of. Makes him slippery and, frankly, exceptionally clever.”

  “‘Mobile’ what now?”

  Aaron laughed and kissed Deena on the cheek. “Modus operandi. It means having a method for doing what they do. It’s how we catch a serial killer. Most criminals stick to what they know.”

  The judge reflectively tapped his coffee mug with a spoon. “Not this guy, though. He’s smart. Each murder has been performed using the abilities of a certain Power…”

  Aaron finished his father’s thought. “But when the cops close in on the likely suspect? He or she is found killed by Liberty, using another method. The method of the next person on Liberty’s list.”

  Deena thought for a moment. “Who was the first victim?”

  “Small-time arsonist. A minnow on the criminal food chain.”

  Aaron took her hand. “Look, I don’t want you thinking police work is all arsons and serial killers, horrible murders and the like. There’s a lot of good in being a cop. Protecting the innocent. Making a difference. This stuff? It’s few and far between.”

  She rolled her eyes. “This is the exciting stuff. The glamorous stuff.”

  “Not the tenth time, it isn’t.”

  The porch got quiet after that, the only sound the crickets and a light wind whistling through the trees. Aaron tousled Deena’s hair, and she closed her eyes, thinking about Liberty’s words, wishing tonight would never end. She was so relaxed; so content drifting on the porch, surrounded by love, laughter, and the scent of coffee and cologne. Then a scrape came from the left—someone walking up the graveled drive. Deena opened her eyes, and Aaron got to his feet. The elder Bouchers craned their necks to see who might be calling so late.

  “Sure it is,” the newcomer scoffed at Aaron’s last words, a silhouette framed against the neighboring fence. “It has to be exciting, especially when you’re kicking butt and taking names. Right, Boucher? You like the excitement. The thrill. Oh, wait. You only name names.”

  The man stepped into the light, onto the porch. It was Waldo Pilgrim, several cans of Infinity to the wind. Deena set down her mug and joined the detectives at the steps, quickly stepping between them before anything could happen.

  “Dad,” she said, careful not to push. “Let’s get you home.”

  “I told you not to come here, Deena. I forbade it.”

  Aaron held out his hand, reaching for her arm. “Hang on a—”

  Deena pulled away. “No, Aaron. It’s fine.” She smiled and addressed his parents. “Thank you for a lovely dinner. I’ve never had a steak so fine, Judge.”

  Ken nodded without a smile, steely eyes set on Waldo. “Trick is the grape-seed oil. Controls the char.”

  Deena kissed Eveline on the cheek and squeezed Aaron’s hand. “I’ll call you,” she whispered. Waldo jerked forward and
grabbed her arm, dragging her down the stairs. He unkindly nodded to the judge. “Ken. Eveline.”

  The judge continued to stare. Then, very imperceptibly, he nodded in return. “See you at the hearing, Wald.”

  Her father’s face flushed a deep, embarrassed red, and he briefly glanced at Aaron Boucher. “Just leave her be. You understand?”

  “She’s a grown woman, able to make her own decisions.”

  “Not while I pay her freight. I’m still her father.”

  “Among other things.”

  Waldo chuckled, a low and evil laugh. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. “Least I’m honest with who I am. Least I ain’t the kind of man who informs on his friends.”

  “Oh, we’re not friends, Pilgrim.”

  “We could’ve been. I tried to be a friend to you, Boucher. But you’re too righteous and idealistic to go along. Too proud to understand how it works. So instead, you rat cops out to the press—good men earning honest livings.”

  “We both know there’s nothing good or honest—”

  “End of the day,” Waldo spat, getting right up into Aaron’s face. “End of the day, you’re worse than Judas, Boucher. You know what I’m talking about. I could name names, too. I could, but I won’t. I’m loyal that way.”

  “Dad, Aaron. Come on.” She tried to get between them but couldn’t find daylight. Eveline fretted on the porch; the judge’s nostrils flared.

  “I’d rather be a Judas than a dirty cop,” Aaron shot back, looking down at her father, fists clenched.

  Waldo cracked a smile. “Now ain’t that ironic. Judas died hard, didja know?”

  “Yeah? If I gotta go, at least I’ll go knowing that you’re off the street.”