Powers

  Waldo threw a punch. The younger detective dodged and then drove a fist into the elder Pilgrim’s gut. They grabbed one another and wrestled in the dirt, kicking up flowers and trampling Eveline’s vegetables. Deena grabbed Aaron’s collar and tugged him up, shouting for both men to stop as lights winked on along the street. Neighbors stuck heads out of doors as Eveline shrieked for détente from her chair. Aaron backed off, and Waldo pulled away, rising to his feet and brushing soil from his shirt.

  “That’s enough, jerks,” Deena beseeched the squabbling detectives. Aaron stepped forward, and Waldo stumbled to the edge of the light. “This is ridiculous. I don’t know what’s the deal, but you have to—”

  “Let’s go, Deena. Now.” Her father grabbed her wrist. She jerked it away.

  Judge Boucher rose halfway, hands gripping his chair. A stony expression gave him the appearance of a waxwork, shadows cast across his features by the porch light. Deena swiftly shook her head, indicating that all was okay. She gestured for the judge to sit back down, and after a moment, he did. Aaron stepped forward, gallantly coming to her aid. She kissed him on the cheek. “I’d better go,” she said. “Seriously, I’ll call.”

  “You’d better.” He halfheartedly smiled, eyes still watching Waldo.

  She led her father down the driveway and off the Bouchers’ property. He’d driven, of course, and Deena liberated the keys from her old man’s pocket. “I’ll drive you home.”

  Waldo grunted and then folded himself into the passenger seat of his old, green Mustang. She got the motor humming, a low rumble filling the air and intermingling with the sounds of crickets and nosy neighbors. Deena looked at the Bouchers’ house, a final glimpse before heading home. Aaron and his mother were heading inside; she could see her boyfriend carrying plates in from the porch. The judge sat on his rocker, silently watching the Pilgrims’ car. She waved, hoping he could see it through the tinted window, but the old man gave no indication to confirm that he had. Sighing, Deena leaned across and switched on the radio. She landed on a classic rock station playing Battleband, the final chorus of “Give Me Rock or Give Me Death.”

  Deena took in her stewing, drunken father. His arms were folded, and he seethed in silence. She put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

  “Hey, Dad?” She waited until he grunted. “Tell you something interesting. Here’s the thing.” She placed a hand on his knee, and he turned her way.

  “What’s the thing?” He sat there, arms locked, waiting for judgment or grief.

  Deena smiled. He’d get none here. Not like with Mom; not like with anyone who believed that Waldo was a dirty cop.

  “You hear this song?” she asked. “Let me tell you something about the chords that you would never believe…”

  10

  December. Monday afternoon. 5:23 P.M.

  Malachi Crane looked like an aging pumpkin. Wrinkled and rotten, with a mouthful of blocky teeth. He stood with his back to the window, hands clasped and gazing down onto the street. The wide mahogany desk that dominated his office was sparsely decorated; no photos, merely chrome paperweights and a laptop resting aside three stacks of neatly organized legal documents. The walls presented a few near-invisible, generic pieces of hotel room art adjacent to a handful of magazine covers on which Crane and several dignitaries of questionable moral fiber posed and preened. The office smelled of cigarettes and potpourri. The large picture window offered an incredible view of the city, the only thing worth noting other than Crane himself.

  He turned to Deena and Kirk—arranged in chairs, waiting in suite 4A as they’d been for the last twenty minutes in the anteroom below. They’d arrived unannounced, requesting an immediate audience, explaining no more than the conversation required. A brief tussle with guards and a rather insistent secretary ensued; but less than ten minutes later, the two detectives were ushered into Crane’s presence and offered coffee, water, nuts, and fruit. They’d declined them all, focused on the matter at hand.

  And then motherfucking Crane, Deena thought, the Great Pumpkin in an Armani suit and loafers, proceeded to waste ten minutes staring out at rush-hour traffic.

  “Mr. Crane,” she began again, for what had to be the sixth time. “This really is a pressing matter. If you can offer anything at all—”

  A low chuckle was her only answer. Dry and wheezy, the kind an old man gives on his deathbed. Truth be told, at his advanced age, Crane should have been resting comfortably in the dementia unit of a place with the words “Sunrise” or “Pleasant” on the door. Not heading the corporate arm of the world’s largest anti-Powers political organization; not sucking in one raspy breath after the other while men of higher ethical caliber had finished drawing their own. This was a man the papers had labeled “the Abbie Hoffman of intolerant humanism.” A man who had faced everyone from the Soldier to Olympia to Diamond to Retro Girl … and often lost. This was a man who, if he and the backward-evolutionary drones shuffling through the Human Front offices had their way, would not hesitate to euthanize the entire powered population and then order high tea.

  In a word, Malachi Crane was evil.

  But in America, even evil could legitimize with proper legal representation.

  Kirk tugged his collar; Deena could see the sweat rolling down the rookie’s neck. Just keep it together. Keep your mouth shut, baby. Okay? For the thousandth time, she waffled between missing and cursing Aaron Boucher. Damn his stupid investigation. Walker would be here now, taking point. He knows the history; hell,—he lived it. I know only so much, and Kirk’s going to be no help if it comes to dragging this joker downtown past an army of jackbooted thugs.

  To be honest, she thought, even Aaron would be help here. He was there when Crane got rolling. He was on the ground down in Atlanta.

  Twelve years ago, the Human Front had been a collection of intolerant thugs banded together because they were frightened of what the Powers represented. After flashpoints in Detroit, Arizona, Moscow, Berlin, and Seoul, Earth’s non-powered citizenry had a legitimate fear of what effect individuals with powers—unchecked, operating on their own terms—would have on the rest of the populace. There had already been post–World War II hot zones that had evolved into full-fledged political conflagrations. Not to mention irresponsible Powers who simply wanted to use their gifts for a life of crime or what they felt to be the greater good: themselves. And so, Powers Divisions sprang up in police stations across the globe. The fledgling United Nations and various unassociated governments around the world put peacekeeping solutions into place. And, of course, Congress began drafting bills that formed the bare bones of an eventual, much-debated Global Powers Registry.

  Still, vigilantes gonna vigilante.

  And so, a grassroots movement popped up in decaying urban areas throughout the country … unofficially labeled “the Human Front.” They began with the death of a powered boy in Wichita—strung up, skinned, bloodied, and left for dead. From there, it caught fire, at first only turning gangs of bigots into cells of organized fanatics. As their ranks bolstered, so did their access to resources. Eventually, the Human Front grew from pockets of angry, non-powered zealots into a thriving, dangerous regiment of technologically advanced, well-armed militants. With Crane at their forefront, supported by a legion of radical lieutenants, the Front spread across the globe, attacking powered individuals they felt were undermining humanity; which, they feared, had a good chance of becoming extinct. So they rabbled. They roused. And the Powers fought back, eliciting the help of local, federal, and global authorities.

  Eventually, other extremists with a grudge—afraid of what the Powers meant, as well—adopted their mission. The Klan, of course, and what would turn into an underground confederation known as Kaotic Chic. But the remaining arm of the Human Front—nearly eliminated following the violence of the Atlanta gang wars and the original, deadly series of Liberty murders—decided to reinvent itself. As the world marched away from revolution and rage, it donned suit and tie in order to reassert
itself in boardrooms across the nation. So, too, did Malachi Crane. He redesigned the Front’s sigil—the fist, snake, and bullets—into a slick corporate logo, polishing the edges and retaining the fist. He put his people to work drafting petitions, influencing legislation, and organizing in communities—a quieter form of infiltration, possibly even deadlier than the first. But the Front, now encompassing four of six floors at 500 Fialkov Way, wasn’t breaking any laws. Not any laws that Deena could see. No laws at all, save perhaps the law of looking way too much like a rotting, leering root vegetable.

  Crane returned to his desk, placing both palms on the blotter as he eased into his chair. “Detective … Pilgrim, was it? I assure you, if I had information that might help your investigation, I would provide it. The Human Front is long known for peacefully cooperating with recognized authorities such as the Powers Homicide Bureau.” He grinned, his face pulling into a horrible, creased rictus. “A fact your … father? Yes. Waldo, no doubt, would be able to corroborate.”

  Fuck you, pumpkin. Deena’s face felt hot, and she had to force herself to grip her chair. Kirk gave her a brief, quizzical sidelong glance, which she ignored. Crane had said that to get a rise—his history and knowledge of Deena’s own made her vulnerable here, a fact she’d kept from Kirk.

  “Even still, Mr. Crane—”

  “Please,” he responded in an indulgent manner. “Call me Malachi.”

  “Mr. Crane, your association and enmity with Joseph Monroe is, of course, a matter of public record.”

  He nodded, eyes watering and cast downward, coupled with a sorrowful frown. “Indeed. I was sorry to hear of his passing.”

  “Were you?”

  “Of course. Despite our … cultural differences, the Soldier was a hero. He battled the Nazis, held off the Viet Cong, saved us from the threat of countless alien invaders. How could I not respect the man’s accomplishments?”

  “Because one of those accomplishments was tossing you in jail.”

  Crane’s lips thinned. “Yes, the Soldier and I oft found ourselves on opposite ends of the battlefield … but you must understand, Detective, that we were political warriors. And in any war, though you may fiercely admire your enemy, he is an enemy still.”

  “Enemy enough to frame and kill him?”

  Crane frowned again. “That I did not do. Did I want the Soldier and his kind—enhanced and undisciplined—neutered in some manner? Did I want them restrained from running rampant across the globe?” Crane stood up, voice rising in pitch. He spread both hands out across the desk, looming over Deena and Kirk like a bird of prey.

  “Did I wish them,” he continued, “to abandon their oppression of we true humans, those armed only with the gifts that God gave us? You’re damn right. And as a soldier for true humanity, did I attempt to subdue, maim, kill, and destroy the Citizen Soldier and his friends on the field of battle to ensure that happened? Yes, I did.”

  He turned to the window again, cracking his knuckles, wiping spittle from his rumpled face with the back of his hand. “But if you’re asking whether or not I tied him to a chair and beat the shit out of him? No. That I did not do. What would be the point?”

  Deena pushed her cell phone across the desk. The crime scene photos were open as a slideshow. She paged through them, displaying the Soldier’s corpse to his greatest enemy, taking care to pause at images that highlighted the Front tattoos.

  “And these?” she asked Crane, tapping against Monroe’s veiny, bloodied arm. “Who might have something to gain by framing Joseph Monroe? Someone who may have marked him with your logo and colors?”

  Crane cast an amused glance at Deena’s phone. He chuckled again, an awful sound echoing from the base of his throat. “Why, Detective Pilgrim … whatever makes you think that it wasn’t Joseph himself?”

  “So you’re confirming he was a traitor? That Monroe was a member of the Human Front?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You just implied—”

  “No, my dear. I played devil’s advocate to your inference. I will not comment one way or the other as to Mr. Monroe’s involvement with our organization, not yet, but…” Crane drifted toward the door. He pointed a finger at Deena, beckoning for her to follow. She got to her feet and gathered her phone and partner and then headed after Crane.

  “I will tell you this. The past holds more secrets then we dare know. It reveals truths and … liberties.”

  Her eyes widened at the mention of the word, staring into the bigot’s own. He smiled, the cracks on his face splintering into a spider’s web of creases and divots. She’d reached him now, and Crane held out his hand to shake Deena’s. When she ignored it, he used it to open the office door.

  “You want the truth regarding Joseph Monroe? I suggest you revisit the sins of the past, Detective Pilgrim. Both his and yours.”

  She glared at him. “And if I suggest you’re facing obstruction charges by not telling me the truth, here and now? The truth regarding Monroe’s death and, if I understand your passive-aggressive bullshit, possibly the related Liberty killings?”

  Crane smiled and held out his wrists. “Then I would suggest, in return, that you arrest me, charge me, or speak to my attorney when you have some form of legal documentation. Until then, enjoy your day, Detectives.”

  Deena headed out of the office and stopped, placing a hand on the doorframe and turning back. “One last thing, Mr. Crane. Can you tell me anything about the Rammler Brothers or the whereabouts of Wilhelmina Quince, also known as Willie Wails?”

  Crane smiled again, this time with none of the usual charm. “I’m sure I cannot. Any information I have on the Rammlers is classified. Should you desire I share it, I suggest you produce the aforementioned documentation urging me to do so. As to Ms. Quince, I haven’t had the pleasure of her company for quite some time. If I had to venture a guess? Wherever the bottom-feeders of this world bide their time until death.” He closed the door to suite 4A, shutting them out. “Good day to you both.”

  Shivering on the street, Deena fumed while Kirk allowed her to calm down. They stood on the top steps of the office building, shuffling in the snow, eyes darting to the scarved, burly security guards flanking the doorway. “Goddammit,” Deena seethed. “I let him get my goat. Stupid move.”

  “Detective,” Kirk answered forgivingly, “you’re only human.”

  She pointed five flights up. “That’s just it. Not to that guy. I had powers; so did Walker. So did Monroe. That rutabaga up there—”

  “Pumpkin, you mean.”

  She’d made clear her impressions to Kirk on their way down the elevator. She appreciated his playing along and rewarded him with a smile.

  “Thanks, pumpkin up there sees us as less than human—which, I gotta be honest, is fucking ironic. Even still, no way he sticks his wrinkly neck out to sacrifice someone with a snake-and-bullet tattoo. Even if said sacrifice might be the victim himself.”

  Kirk blew warm air into his hands. “Look, it’s no big deal. We just focus on Wails and move to the next name on the list … something will turn up.”

  She closed her eyes and hugged herself. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of what will turn up, new fish. Fuck Crane. Rubbing my nose in history best left bottled. Why the shit did he bring up my dad, of all people? Deena’s head was all turned around. She hadn’t had a minute to think since walking into Monroe’s apartment early that morning. And now the only things she could think about were Crane’s parting words, Aaron Boucher’s eyes, the Liberty murders old and new, and of course, her goddamn father.

  “I’m gonna be useless for a while,” she explained to the baby. “Need a breather, okay? Can you go back and work Wails’s whereabouts, as well as the guitar string angle? See if Walker turned up any leads. Avoid the media circus and Captain Cross. I’ll owe you a Coke.”

  “Uh, sure. I can’t tell if you’re serious. There’s a clock on this, remember?”

  She clasped his shoulder. “How could I forget? I am se
rious, and I may have another angle on this, but it’s rife with personal attachments. I promise to fill you in over the Coke, maybe a taco or four. Let me work it on my own, okay?”

  He eyed the hand on his shoulder, color rising to his cheeks. He agreed, happy to help. “This have anything to do with what Crane said up there?”

  Glumly, she nodded in confirmation. “Everything.”

  An hour and a half later, Deena sat down to dinner in Judge Kenneth Boucher’s spacious eat-in kitchen on the corner of Delsante and Lee. A third-floor walkup adjacent to a lovely park, the judge’s apartment was filled with mementos that enveloped usually wary Deena in a welcome, nostalgic hug. Near retired, somewhat shrunken with age, Ken had lost none of the twinkle in his eyes … though they now peered from behind glasses twice the thickness to which she’d once been accustomed. Aaron, working tieless in shirtsleeves, hovered at the stainless steel range, putting final touches on a dinner consisting of two-alarm chili (laden with short ribs, three kinds of pepper, and two types of bean), honeyed corn bread, sautéed zucchini, and a mango-strawberry salad. The judge was thrilled to see Deena after so long, though his exuberance was somewhat tempered by the news about the resurfaced Liberty killer and annoyance at having been left in the dark as to her presence in the city.

  “Mighty sore I’m just finding out you’re in town.” He took her hand in his own, beaming with happiness for having caught up with an old friend.

  “I’m in the book.”

  Aaron grinned over his shoulder, never pausing in his stirring. “Pop can barely read the book these days, though he hasn’t lost his knack for throwing it at criminals.”

  The judge raised a hand in dismissal. “Hush, Special Investigator. If that chili’s anything less than two-alarm, you’re sending out for curry.”

  Aaron laughed and finished up and then carried the food to the table. They dug in, and Deena felt herself relaxing—not only due to the comfort food but also by easing into the old, familiar intimacy she’d always enjoyed at the Bouchers’ table. She rarely felt at ease these days—always looking for the next tragedy, more often than not wallowing in the pain of her past. But spending an hour catching up on small talk, feeling the years fold back, helped strip away the bullshit … and despite herself, Deena set the day’s horrible events aside. She ignored her pressing case, the four murders, and Walker’s sidelining to toast Aaron’s mother and then Deena’s own. The Bouchers listened to her few humorous case stories and then related their experiences keeping the peace in Texas. Finally, to Aaron’s chagrin, the judge reminisced about the various states of undress in which he’d caught them over the years.