Powers

  “Deena, you recall the time I caught you sneaking out the side door at 3:00 A.M., clutching a shirt and wearing nothing but shorts and a smile?”

  She cocked her head and leaned on her elbow. “So retirement, huh?”

  “From public service, yes; not from embarrassing my son.”

  “Okay, Pop.” Aaron stood to clear the table. “Time for bed.”

  “How d’you like that?” the judge said, turning conspiratorially to Deena. “He lives in my spare bedroom, and I’m the one with a bedtime.”

  Deena quaffed a swallow of beer and then wiped her mouth. “Well, once you venture into nekkid territory, all bets are off.”

  “Perhaps so,” the judge returned, negotiating an escape from the table. He pushed himself to his feet, a bit more shakily than Deena would have liked. “It’s been a pleasure. I hope we’ll see you soon for more small talk and gleeful humiliation.”

  She patted his hand. “Get some rest. Still wanna hear more about your travels along the panhandle.”

  The judge grimaced. “That topic makes me sad, much like our time in Atlanta. Much like these killings. Too much bad road, not enough happy recollections.” Aaron stacked the tiny dishwasher, plates and glasses clinking in the background. “Seems to me you’ve got enough sadness to bear as it is. Best to hold on to the good memories, especially when dealing with trials and tribulation of another’s making. You’ve a challenge on your hands, Detective. A national tragedy. A steadfast fanatic. Murders most foul, rearing their ugly head once more. You need to catch this man—or men—not just for yourself but for every poor soul who lost his or her life back in Georgia.”

  He stole a glance at his son, busy at the sink, head down and focused on the dishes. Then he leaned down and kissed Deena on the forehead—a soft, moist peck that felt comforting and protective at the same time. “But don’t do it alone. You have friends. And possibly more, so be forgiving if you can.” Ken’s gaze slipped past Deena’s eyes, off into some unknown horizon. He might have been thinking of Eveline, because his eyes watered, tears slipping to his cheeks. “Lost loves don’t show up out of the blue, Deena. Some are never meant to be. Others take work. But sometimes the work might surprise you. Now good night. I’ll leave you youngsters to your sleuthing and such.”

  “Night,” Deena returned in kind.

  The judge tottered off and down the hall, shuffling into the farthest bedroom. He closed the door behind him. Aaron finished with the dishes and, absently toweling his hands, turned back to the table. Deena stood up and grabbed the empties, set to carry them to the trash. He stepped between Deena and her destination, placing the towel aside and removing the bottles from her grip. He trashed them and then took her hands in his own.

  “Long day,” he said, gently massaging her fingers.

  Deena rolled her eyes. “Seriously, dude?”

  “What?” he asked, taken aback. “It wasn’t? Four murders and a standoff. Busy coupla hours for any girl.”

  “The chili and conversation took my mind off it, so thanks. But I really should go see what kinda trouble the baby got into.”

  Aaron locked eyes with Deena and toyed with her hair. “You sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I really have to go, Aaron.”

  “I don’t believe that, either.”

  She tried to pull her hand away. He wouldn’t let her, and part of Deena was curious to see why. The other part—the part that dealt with countless moments of pain and betrayal over the last five years, the part that sheltered her from letting anyone get close—forced her to back away. He dropped a hand and placed the palm at her back, sliding it ungentlemanly low. Deena blushed, tucking her hair behind an ear. The beer had made her light-headed, and all thoughts of the last several hours seemed fairly unimportant. She reached around and removed his hand. This was unlike her; Deena Pilgrim didn’t drop her guard this easily. Not even for the man she once loved. Especially after the way they’d last left it. Deena had never forgotten; the wound still festered.

  But still. He smelled really good. They had history.

  And she’d been alone for a long time.

  “C’mon,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

  Aaron grinned and leaned in. “Investigating.”

  Her mind briefly flashed to Walker, Aaron’s raison d’etre for being in town. But invasive thoughts about her partner while so close to Aaron made her feel uncomfortable. She needed to think about something else, anything other than Walker, and feel something other than guilt and horror. Their knees were touching, and Aaron’s breath wafted against her nose, sweet and inviting. This is such a bad idea, she thought. Twenty-four hours ago, you hadn’t given Aaron Boucher a second thought. You’d gotten over it, numb to the pain. He was a distant memory, one of many bad moments in a lifetime of painful, harrowing recollections. That silly girl you were isn’t you anymore, Pilgrim. That isn’t your life. Your life is the work now, the badge and ever-present dread.

  But if so, why am I nearly in his throat and pants, halfway to humping him up against the range?

  I have a killer on the loose. I have an inexperienced partner who needs me—two, in fact, the second of which I’m remembering what it’s like to trust. So why can’t I walk away?

  Aw, hell. This is such a bad idea.

  Aaron pressed against her body. She breathed him in and then cautiously reached up to run her fingers through his hair. They tentatively kissed. Once, twice, and then they dove into it, teeth getting in the way. He slipped a hand down to her ass and drew her near, the other sliding up to caress her cheek. Deena hooked fingers into his belt. They danced around the table, pawing at one another like teenagers, and landed with Aaron’s back against the fridge. She broke the kiss, flushed and warm and hoping to grab a breath, get a quick read on a different perspective. This was insane; they’d reconnected hours ago and were now jockeying for position in each other’s mouth in his father’s kitchen. Aaron had walked out on her years ago, left town without a backward glance. She’d put it in the past, had a new life, a new everything. But everything seemed less important. The Monroe case, spiraling out of control by the nanosecond. Walker’s complicated past and uncertain future. The captain and the rookie, eager to solve the case, barely understanding the history shackled to its pedigree. And Deena herself—her father, her hatred of what she’d become, and the life she’d led. The danger of where it might take her from here.

  None of that mattered. Only the kiss. His belt. The bedroom. The lights.

  Afterward, as they lay tangled in his sheets, it all came rushing back. Dead men in the morning. Deena’s near-miss with mortality at midday. The audience with Crane during the late afternoon. Fighting off sleep, she recounted her interview with Crane to Aaron—cryptic remarks included—and wondered whether or not she should call her father in Atlanta.

  “Fuck no,” he vehemently replied, rubbing Deena’s back. “Is that something you really wanna do?”

  “Of course not. But Crane mentioned my dad. He urged me to revisit the past.”

  “Yeah—his and yours. With what happened in Atlanta, I wouldn’t be surprised if Waldo did have something to do with Monroe. But Crane could have been referring to Walker. It’s common knowledge you’re partners, and he and Crane share history. Maybe he meant Walker’s ties to the Soldier. Oh, and let’s not forget you’re talking about a raging fanatic psycho bigot pumpkin who may want nothing more than to discredit the very famous, very dead hero in your cooler. Who just so happens to be said psycho bigot pumpkin’s sworn enemy.”

  She looked up. “You don’t believe any of that, do you?”

  “Would make my job easier were it true. I gotta be honest, Deen, I’ve never trusted Walker. Or your father. I was right about Waldo. Who knows what Walker might be hiding.”

  Not me, she thought. She’d shared a great deal with Christian Walker over the years, but even still, they had secrets fro
m one another. Her pregnancy, for instance, until he’d found out. And he’d kept his third power set from Deena—cosmic abilities gifted to him by a race of meddling aliens. She’d only discovered later on. She didn’t know anything about Walker’s family or where he’d come from. She knew he was old from some of his stories and that he dug tacos and bourbon. He favored strong cologne and light jazz. But his mother’s name? Number of siblings? Had he ever been married? Deena didn’t have a clue. And for a girl whose job it was to uncover clues, that was slightly worrying.

  I haven’t seen Aaron in ten years, and I know more about him in a single day than I learned about Walker in a month. Apart from breaking my heart, Aaron has never led me wrong. And I’m sure he had his reasons for leaving. It’s only day one now. I bet I get those reasons long before I find out Walker’s mother’s name.

  But just like with Aaron, there’s history with Walker. And that history is fresh, affecting me on perhaps a deeper level than a college romance ever could. I mean, Walker and I have saved each other so many times. We saved the world.

  But if they’d truly saved the world together, why was Deena here without her dreadnought of a partner, mired in the shit of quadruple homicides with no end in sight? How come Deena didn’t know why this case was so damn personal that it fucked with Walker’s emotional and professional perspective?

  She nestled back against Aaron’s chest. She drew his arm over her breasts and gently caressed his palm. “So you think leave Waldo out of this?”

  “I think leave Waldo out of everything. Double down on your suspects. Let me help, and maybe we’ll have a chance to finally solve this thing.”

  “The Liberty murders, you mean?”

  He nodded. “That, Monroe, everything.”

  “And Walker?”

  Aaron shrugged, rustling against the pillows. “I mean, I hope for the best. I’ll try him again in the morning. Meantime, you have Kirk … and maybe I can take time off from my job to lend a hand.”

  Her eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Yeah? Mr. Special Investigator, deigning to slum it with—”

  Something vibrated on an adjacent nightstand, positioned between Aaron’s bed and an elliptical machine. She craned her neck and, noting the source, reached out to silence her cell phone. Beating her to the punch, Aaron checked the caller ID.

  “It’s Kirk.”

  She snatched the cell away and jabbed to accept the call. Deena listened for a moment and then slipped from the sheets and onto the floor, headed for the dresser, upon which her clothes had been strewn. “Great. I’ll meet you there.”

  Deena silenced the phone and danced into her jeans, hopping on one foot and then the other. She tightened her belt and shot Aaron an apologetic look.

  “Got a hit on Wails. She’s at the Nexus, apparently.”

  Aaron moved to join, reaching for a shirt that had been tossed onto the floor. “A Powers-hater at a Powers nightclub? That seems unlikely, and could get dicey. You may need backup.”

  She snorted. “For an aging hippie whistleblower? I can handle it. Besides, I’ll have Detective Toddler by my side.” She thought for a moment, a pang of guilt stabbing into her side. “Actually, you want to help? Call Walker. Have him meet us at the precinct. We’ll bring Wails and grill her quietly. Hopefully, depending on what she knows, we can have Captain Cross’s suspect and a signed confession by the morning.”

  Aaron wheeled around to locate pants, bumping into Deena midway across the room. They stared at each other, faces reddening as they remembered what they’d been doing moments earlier. He stammered, unsure what to say, understanding that time was of the essence.

  “Hey, look, Deen … I just…”

  She clutched the front of his shirt, pulled him close, and kissed him hard enough to rattle his back teeth.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “That’s for saving my life this afternoon. This one,” she stated, moving in to kiss him once again. “This one’s hoping it’s worth having been saved.

  Now let’s move. I’ve got a case to solve.”

  11

  December. Monday night. 10:03 P.M.

  Fifteen people writhed along the bar, grinding their bodies to a thrusting, hypnotic beat. They periodically vanished, timing their disappearances to the music. Hundreds of Powers joined them on the dance floor below. Nearby, waitresses dipped into teleportation portals, retrieving arrays of cocktails and exported platters of stalactite sticks and buffaloed space whale. Mistletoe and tinsel hung from skimpy dresses as hostesses led VIPs to sectioned tables in the back. Bouncers, lined along the walls, watched for teleporting undesirables, making sure that any didn’t sneak in to Club Nexus through its intimate, darkened corners.

  Deena and Kirk didn’t worry; their badges were ticket enough. A bouncer waved them past velvet ropes where lines of already inebriated partygoers streamed from six parallel dimensions. He offered to flag down a manager or anyone who would keep the commotion a police presence might elicit to a minimum. Deena assured him it wasn’t necessary, but if he felt like pointing out one Wilhelmina Quince, possibly singing that evening, the PHD would be most obliged. The name didn’t register, and they didn’t have anyone scheduled to perform, so the detectives took their own tour of the popular multidimensional club—brainchild of Christian Walker’s ex-girlfriend Zora, the controversial superheroine who’d given her life to save Walker’s years before. Noticing a theme, Deena mused. Hadn’t Triphammer also died while helping Walker save Chicago? What does that mean for me, I wonder? Deena was momentarily back in the precinct with her throat in a man’s hand, sweating and anxious. Kirk gave her a searching look, and Deena shook him off, throwing herself back into the search.

  At midnight she came to the conclusion that Quince was nowhere on premises. Back on the street, bracing against the biting December wind, the detectives weighed their options. Willie Wails may have exited through any of the dimensional portals. She may, as Kirk pointed out, never have been there at all. Perhaps their information had been wrong. That’s when Deena noticed the dive bar.

  Situated at the mouth of an alley, the bar glared at them from across the street. A handful of filthy signs winked from filthier windows, advertising brews and concoctions by means of vibrating, partially broken, lascivious neon logos. Deena tapped Kirk’s arm and gestured. He followed and then furrowed his brow. “You think?”

  “One way to find out.”

  Bits of graffiti had been gouged into the door. Kaotic Chic, one read; next to it, a winding, threatening serpent. Between both, a crude fist clutching three bolts. Deena stepped inside, the rookie tagging along in her wake.

  The bar’s interior offered the reverse of Nexus’s ambience and class. Drunks littered the room, grumbling into beers. The drinks looked murky, as did the patrons, and Deena didn’t want to be here longer than she had to. I think I got scurvy by glancing at the menu.

  The bartender was lean and grizzled, with one blind eye. He wore a sleeveless vest and a droopy Santa hat. His arms were riddled with syringe tracks. He looked up as they entered and then hurried away to polish a glass. Three men sat at the window, staring across at Nexus, each burlier and more intimidating than the last. One spat and then swallowed a whiskey. His arms were covered with tattoos—as were half the clientele’s. One lady wore a swastika above her left eye; another a trio of thick, interlocked Ks around her bicep. Two men had draped themselves in motorcycle jackets, each festooned with Kaotic Chic rockers. And, finally, a sullen couple watched the detectives from the bar, forearms covered with Human Front colors. A microphone waited at the far end of the room, placed near an empty stool. A guitar case rested on the floor, lying open for the audience to toss in cash. Three quarters and a condom were the evening’s ultimate take.

  Deena leaned over to Kirk. “Head out back,” she whispered. “Flank the alley in case someone bolts. Make sure it’s covered.” The rookie nodded and exited the bar, letting the door slam shut along the way. She stepped up to the coupl
e—a weaselly, red-haired punk and a bottle-blonde cougar in denim. Deena slapped her badge down on the counter, careful to avoid hitting pools of beer and discarded limes.

  “Looking for someone,” she announced, projecting for all to hear. The men at the window glanced her way; the spitter sneered and then returned to his vigil. They’re watching the club, she realized. Keeping an eye on Powers, plotting against them. They’re too drunk or fucked up to actually do something. But what happens when Crane discovers this place … or places like this where one man can buy another’s hate for a shot of Drambuie? How will the partygoers across the street react when the patrons of this resentful dive come at them with everything they’ve got—everything Crane and his people choose to provide?

  She wiped her eyes. I’m not here to prevent a war between Powers and normals. I’m here to solve a murder.

  Deena pointed at the guitar case. “Willie Wails? You know her?”

  The ginger massaged his chin. “Who’s asking?”

  “Homicide.”

  The bottle-blonde sneered. “Wrong answer.”

  “Easy. Everyone chill.” The men at the window had started her way. “I’m investigating a murder. Everyone go back to your drinks and … window.” Slowly, the barflies backed away, returning to drinks and neutral corners. The bottle-blonde tittered, and Deena gave her full attention.

  “So. Willie Wails? That’s her guitar case up there, isn’t it?”