Powers

by Brian Michael Bendis

  “She kill somebody?”

  “Just want to ask her some questions. Malachi Crane sent us. You know him?”

  The weasel and blonde exchanged glances, and then the woman pushed out her glass. “Not personally. You a friend? Prove it. Buy me some holiday cheer.”

  Deena motioned for the barman and slapped some bills down on the bar. “I’ll get your next two if you give me something I can use.”

  The blonde smiled with a predatory leer. She gestured toward a door marked EMPLOYEES. “Willie’s through the kitchen, catching a buzz. She likes to get high before her second set.”

  She thanked the couple and tapped their glasses. The blind bartender hustled over. As he poured, Deena pushed into the kitchen and then out back into a dark alley. The door slammed closed, and she was alone with trash cans, empty kegs, and what appeared to be two people having sex in the snow, based on the moans. After a second, Deena realized the strains of pleasure were actually muffled screams, and she had stumbled onto either a mugging or a murder. Kirk was nowhere to be found. “Hey!” Deena shouted, pulling her sidearm.

  The duo quit scuffling, and one of them looked up—he had no face; or rather, his face was hidden beneath a hood. He wore a leather coat and held a knife in one hand. His other arm was busy at the victim’s neck, securing her in a choke hold. Deena flashed back to her close call earlier that afternoon and then barked a warning. The hooded man flinched, loosening his arm and giving his captive a moment to breathe. The victim was a woman—Quince, ambushed in the dark.

  The hooded man shoved the singer in Deena’s direction, putting her between the detective and her target. Deena tried to shoulder Quince aside, but the man tossed his knife away, pulled a gun, and fired twice. Both shots missed Deena, but one of the slugs found purchase in Wails’s leg, dropping her to the ground. The hooded man took advantage of the distraction and sprinted, heading for the street. Deena yelled for Kirk, wondering where the hell her partner had gotten himself to, and turned to give chase.

  She pounded after the assailant, straining to cover the distance. She could see his coat ahead, flapping as he ran. Deena fired her revolver. All of her shots missed their mark; luckily, the killer stumbled as he hurried to escape. He grunted and then scraped against the wall, faltering and losing ground. Deena tackled him, bringing him down with a meaty, satisfying thump. But before she could cuff and unmask the man, he swung out with his good elbow and clocked her in the temple. Deena saw stars and then a dizzying moment of blackness. By then, it was too late; he grabbed her by the throat, lifted her with surprising strength, and slammed her down into the dirt and filth. Then he straddled Deena, placing both knees on her shoulders, a gun at her ear, and a hand at her throat.

  Déjà vu, she yammered, brain screaming at her to get up. The hooded man’s knees locked down atop her shoulders, and Deena’s vision swam from the blow to her head. Kirk wasn’t here, and Aaron and Walker weren’t, either. She needed to break the hold, but he was too strong. She tried to kick, bite, anything—but the second time she snapped, he placed the revolver at her lips. Her nose filled with the scent of metal and oil; she couldn’t pull back. Seconds ticked away, and he leaned down, panting into her face, weighing her down.

  He squeezed, causing Deena’s vision to blacken. Tears betrayed her at the corners of her eyes, and her mind reeled, flashing on faces. First Aaron, and then Walker and the Soldier. Retro Girl. The captain, and then her mother and the judge. Poor, dead Eveline Boucher and the Powers at her parents’ table as Aaron berated her father. Kirk’s stupid face swam into view and then Walker again, reaching for her hand. She couldn’t breathe, but she refused to cry. She closed her eyes, and Zora floated down from the darkness, her hair a corona that lit the world. The hero held out both arms, beckoning for Deena to float, as well.

  Something popped in the distance, bringing Deena back to reality. A gunshot or fireworks. She couldn’t tell the difference. It may just have been pressure in her head.

  “Walk away,” the man hissed. She couldn’t place his voice—it was deeper than any that she knew. Flat and atonal, electronically altered and with a querulous air. “There’s only a few left, and then it will all be over. I can stop. A few more, and I disappear forever. Stay out of my way until then, Detective Pilgrim.” He pulled the gun away, resting it against her brow.

  Deena hacked and spat. “Over … over my dead body.”

  “If it comes to that. But rather than worry about me, focus on your own. There’s a cat in with your canaries, Ms. Pilgrim. You’ve a traitor in your midst.”

  “Monroe…”

  He shook his head, gloved fingers digging into her throat. “No, another. But how is Joe? Not too cold, I hope? I hated to leave him that way.”

  Deena’s eyes widened. She reared to the left and tried to kick the man from behind. He grunted and then smashed the back of her head into the pavement. “Not nice, Pilgrim. Much like your idiot father. Ask Waldo if he remembers me when you wake up, won’t you?” He stood up, stepped away, and kicked her in the ribs. Deena moaned and clutched her side. He kicked again; aiming at her head this time.

  Then everything went black.

  Deena woke in a hospital bed. Her entire body was an inferno of pain. She winced and opened her eyes. Everything was blurry. She wore the same clothes, but her head was bandaged, and tape had been strapped around her torso, probably restraining a broken rib. Machines beeped and dripped, and she could hear the faint sounds of the public address system out in the hallway. Everything smelled sterile. She sat up, but her head spun, and she had to lie back down.

  “Good call. Stay there.”

  Slowly, a shape coalesced into the form of Christian Walker, her worried partner. He sat in a chair, paging through a tabloid magazine with a cup of coffee in his hand, calmly waiting for Deena to find her bearings. He set his periodical aside and edged closer, holding out a hand. She took it, clenching as if afraid to let go.

  “What happened?” she asked. “One minute, my head was bouncing on the ground; the next, I’m off-ramping a coma.”

  “What happened is that I got there too late.”

  “Say again?”

  “Boucher woke me at home. He begged me to come to Nexus, claiming you were taking on a club full of Powers and needed backup. I promised to meet him there.”

  Deena fumed. “I didn’t need that. I asked—”

  “Hang on, because if Aaron hadn’t arrived when he did, Kirk would be dead, and you … well, god knows what would have happened to you.”

  “What did happen?” She rubbed her skull, careful to avoid the tender spots. Her neck stung from where the hooded man’s fingers had dug in; several bandages had been placed there, too. “He got the drop but didn’t kill me?”

  “Did he say anything?”

  She thought for a moment. “He knew about my dad.” She left out the bit about the traitor. She doubted it was true. The guy was a psychopath. “Aaron was there, you said. Where is he? Is Quince alive?”

  “Easy.”

  “Aaron?”

  Walker cleared his throat over the beeping of the machines and the announcements echoing across the hall. “Boucher’s upstairs checking on Kirk. He found the baby struggling with Quince behind the bar.”

  “Struggling? She’d been shot, and he was AWOL. What happened?” Deena tried to sit up again, and blood rushed to her head, making her dizzy. Walker gently pushed her back against the pillow.

  “Stop. Way it sounds, Kirk found her and tried to stop the bleeding, but Willie Wails was scared. Thought he was trying to hurt, not help. Babbled about Liberty.”

  Deena sucked in a breath. She waited for Walker to continue.

  “Quince got the drop on Kirk and took his gun. Fired one in his leg, the other into his ribs. Pistol-whipped the kid until Boucher arrived and snatched the gun. Kirk will be fine, but he’s out of commission. They got Willie at the precinct, booked and in a cell.”

  She frowned and looked down, biting her lip. “I
shouldn’t have let him go back there alone.”

  “It’s not your fault, Deena. This is the job.”

  “I’m his partner. I should have been there.”

  “You were busy.”

  She lifted her eyes, searching Walker’s for answers. “Was it Liberty? Did I let him get away?”

  Walker hesitated. “I got there too late. By the time I did, he was gone. But there was a message on the wall…”

  Deena nodded. “‘In the Name of Liberty.’ Written with what? My blood?” She reflexively touched the bandage at her throat. He must have retrieved his damn knife. She needed a drink. She needed Aaron. She wanted to see Kirk with her own eyes. “Get me out of here.”

  “Captain wants you tip-top before getting back on the street. He’s recommended Boucher take over the case.”

  “Fuck that. I’m not an invalid.”

  “Agreed. And I don’t really trust Boucher, to be honest. But we have to shut this down before the national media picks up the full extent of the damage. It’s getting away from us, Deena. And I’m not sure either of us can ignore the personal context.”

  “No, I meant fuck Aaron taking over. This is still my case, still my neck on the line. What do you mean? You don’t trust him?”

  Walker put both hands behind his head. “Deena, c’mon. This thing has been against us from the start. It forced me away, then dragged in your past—”

  “Which is exactly why—”

  “And this thing with Boucher has affected your judgment. How convenient is it that he shows up right as the killings start again?”

  She contorted her face with disdain. “What are you implying? You know Aaron was with Kirk while Liberty had a gun to my head.”

  “Do I? He may have circled back. All I know is—”

  “—nothing.” She swung her legs off the bed. The beeping intensified as she got to her feet. Walker hurried forward to help Deena, but she slapped his hands away, yanked the IV tubes out of her arm, and stalked toward the door. “Look, don’t worry about me. Go back home, and let me handle things. You’re fucking crazy if you think Aaron is Liberty or involved with the killings.”

  “Think about it, Deena—”

  She whirled, hand on the doorjamb. “No, you think about it. I got jumped twice today, sure. But I’m not distracted by Aaron. I can do my job. Why don’t you do yours?”

  He folded his arms. “You know why.”

  Deena wiped her brow and sighed. “Know what, dude? I really don’t. I can’t keep up with the rising tide of your bullshit. At least Aaron doesn’t give me passive-aggressive three-word answers. You left, man. You picked your ass up and headed home. And what, that’s okay now? That’s how you deal with horrible shit when the chips are down? Since when has that been us?”

  “Since your boyfriend waltzed in and—”

  “No, this is about your moody crap, not Aaron. I have a case to solve. Even if he’s taking lead, I’m going to solve it. Are you in? Or would you rather go back to sleep?”

  Walker stared at Deena. Finally, she threw up her hands. “Fine. Go home. Mourn your friend. Do whatever you have to do, but back the fuck off. Thanks for saving me—again, but I can take it from here. If you’re worried my past is getting in the way of my judgment, then get out of the way of both. You deal with your shit. I’ll deal with mine.”

  And with that, she headed into the ward, stumbling upstairs to find her wounded partner. Walker remained in the room, watching her go, wondering if he should follow.

  Fifteen minutes later, he left the hospital and headed out into the night.

  12

  December. Tuesday morning. 12:53 A.M.

  Deena stormed into the interrogation room. She was in a pissy mood, the incident with Walker and her visit with Kirk having set her on edge. She looked right, a flash of green catching her eye. Well, she thought with a Grinch-like grumble, at least I figured out where they stashed the Christmas tree.

  Wilhelmina Quince sat slumped over a wide, rickety table, arms crossed and cuffed to a metal ring. She hung her head, hair falling into her creased, weather-beaten face, hiding her from Deena’s hateful gaze. Deena grabbed a handful of locks and yanked hard, pulling Quince back and eliciting a squeal. The woman’s leg fell—it had been propped up on another chair, bandaged and splinted—and Quince howled this time, long and loud. Deena clutched the hair and pivoted, swinging it around so that Quince’s face descended now toward the table, smashing hard enough that Deena hoped she’d shattered something essential. Blood squirted out along the table, bathing the metal ring in a crimson coat of gore. The drainer was on, covering the room in a sickly glow. Quince had no powers.

  But better safe than sorry, Deena had decided.

  Though, if I find out this bitch had anything to do with these murders, she’s hardly safe from me.

  Deena left Quince to her noisy recuperation. She dragged a chair to the other end of the table and turned it around. Deena sat, crossed her forearms over the back of the chair, and rested her chin against her hands. Quince scrabbled at her nose, doing her best to stanch the flow of blood, crying and cursing so wetly and thickly that Deena couldn’t tell where the insults ended and the pity party began.

  “You done, cop-killer?” Deena asked the injured, whining singer.

  Wails shot her a wounded look. She wiped away tears, smearing blood across her cheeks. She wore spattered orange—prison couture. PROPERTY OF POWERS HOMICIDE DIVISION offered free advertising across Quince’s back … not that anyone would read it other than the guards and populace of some soon-to-be-decided prison. They had her for assault at least, maybe conspiracy. After visiting Corbin Kirk in his hospital room, Deena was ready to throw the book at Quince—index and all.

  Kirk was in a bad way. Quince had pulped his face, shattering a cheekbone and denting his nose. The rookie’s skull had more bumps than a maternity ward, and he’d lost two teeth. Doctors had retrieved the bullets from his side and leg, but he’d have trouble walking for a bit, breathing more so. The bullet in his rib had grazed a lung. They’d managed to repair the damage, but one thing remained certain: Kirk was off the case.

  The captain had given Deena an earful. Sending Kirk out alone had been a mistake—she knew that—but who knew he’d stop for a piss, as he’d claimed to Aaron? And who knew Deena would have happened upon the killer? Now she was hearing about her fuckup by everyone from the DA on down. IA wanted a word, as did the commissioner. Every news station in town thrust microphones into her business, and a sea of mourners had barely let her pass into the station. The one person Deena did want to talk to was pouting at home. Though at the moment, to be honest, she honestly had no idea what she would even say to him were he around.

  Fucking Walker, she’d thought, seething at Kirk’s bedside. The baby’s breathing was wet and ragged, and Aaron had rubbed her shoulders as she stared at him in silence. Walker, what does he know? Look at this kid, she’d entreated the universe. Did he deserve this? Why the fuck did I send him out alone? What did I have to prove? Did I think I could solve it single-handedly? In this state of mind? Between Walker and Aaron and the shit I heard from Crane … what the hell was I thinking?

  And now I have to solve it single-handedly, she thought, boring holes into Quince with her eyes. Kirk’s out of commission, Aaron is off reporting to a commission of his own, and Walker’s useless. Meanwhile, I get the media extravaganza and am tasked to connect tab A to slot B before the clock runs out.

  But all I can think about is that hood, my throat, and my fucking father.

  None of which boded well for Deena’s only lead, the woman across the table. Cross had balked at the detective’s intentions—no way was he letting her in a room with the possible key to solving a rapidly spiraling murder case. But Deena had employed her heretofore-unused feminine wiles, along with a handful of jokes, stories, and outright deals. That had bought Deena twenty minutes in the interrogation room with Quince, and though all she wanted to do was kick the living shit out of
the woman across the table, Deena knew she had to make every second count. And she didn’t want to be in here any longer than she had to: the smell of pine was driving her fucking nuts. She scooted closer, letting her chair scrape against the floor with an echoing, irritating screech.

  “So. Done?”

  Quince nodded, a tear clinging to an eyelash and a runner of snot dripping from her mangled nose. She was truly filthy, and she rubbed her wounded leg as best she could, wincing whenever she squeezed too hard. Liberty’s slug had struck bone, and though the medics had been able to retrieve the bullet (and were running tests to identify its shooter), it probably still hurt like a motherfucker. I’ll use that, if need be, Deena realized. Sweep the leg, Zabka-style. Nothing like a kick to a bullet wound to elicit the goddamn truth.

  “You put a big hurt on my partner, you know. This precinct doesn’t take kindly to cop-killers. And I definitely hate having to train fresh partners.”

  Quince mumbled through her veil of tears.

  “What was that?” Deena inquired, cupping a hand against her ear. “Didn’t quite catch it.”

  Quince snuffled and wiped her face. “Said I was sorry. Wasn’t trying to kill him.”

  “Coulda fooled me. And his doctor. But I’ll convey the apologies to his mother.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Quince spread her hands in frustration, rattling her cuffs. “Nearly died. Didn’t know who I could trust. Just wanted to get away.”

  “From the Liberty killer or my poor schmuck of a partner?”

  The singer shot Deena a skeptical look. “What? Bitch, I don’t know what you’re on about. Some asshole jumped me with a knife. Hell, I don’t even remember firing a gun, so I want my—”

  Deena leaned forward, laying both palms on the table. “So you had no clue your attacker was the Liberty killer. I know that you know who I mean. Don’t play cute.”

  Quince laughed—a short, joyless burst of air. She hung her head and grinned, hair falling into her face. “Dude, Liberty? You’re so reaching it isn’t funny.”