Powers

  The pleasant scent of grilled meats brought Diamond back to reality, wafting from the kitchen as the food arrived. Tears stung both eyes, and he rubbed them away. He desperately needed a drink and wondered how he might escape the festivities without offending the guests or, more importantly, his host.

  But then, his host hadn’t had a problem leaving Walker to his own devices back in Detroit. He’d walked away without a backward glance, doing his country—and its people—a grave disservice by abandoning the field of battle, allowing the riots to continue for two more days without his valuable help. The Citizen Soldier disappeared after that fateful day in 1967, not to be seen again until 1972, during the height of the Vietnam War. Walker himself didn’t see his friend until the mid-eighties, around the time he was sleeping with both Zora and Retro Girl, getting ready to set the world on fire by partnering with Triphammer and several others. The feds hushed up Joe’s AWOL status—or, at least, it had never become an issue. He was here, wasn’t he? And they’d stuck a patsy into his blue-and-red union suit for photo ops, press purposes, and benefits all throughout the rest of the sixties and the start of the war.

  But the Soldier who’d returned from ’Nam in 1975 was a much different person from the one who’d inspired a generation in the forties, fifties, and start of the sixties. He’d changed; he’d stopped caring, stopped accepting the weight of his responsibilities. That attitude radiated out to all who allied with the Citizen Soldier throughout the latter half of the century, ever since he caught the last copter back from Laos.

  Walker accepted a drink from a passing waiter. He didn’t even know what it was—he smelled it, noting the earthiness of bourbon or scotch. He drained it in a swallow, finding himself close to the whirlwind of laughter, Powers, food, and drink. The whiskey was strong, and he reached for another as soon as he could. He hoped to dull his senses, making it easier to ignore the rattle in the windows and sounds of combat filtering in from outside. I wonder, he thought, if this is how Joe does it. If this is how he turns off his sense of duty, his understanding that terrible things are happening around him, but that rushing to the rescue won’t matter at all.

  It hadn’t mattered in Detroit, where the city burned for five days before the National Guard had ground the anti-Powers movement to a halt. It hadn’t mattered in Korea before that, and it hadn’t in Vietnam a few years later. It hadn’t mattered in the Gulf, or to the victims of the so-called Liberty killer these past few weeks. Their duty, the responsibility that Walker wanted to wear like a badge, made little difference to the people who died on the streets or in the air. The men and women he couldn’t save. At the end of the day, Powers or not, what difference did it make whether Walker was a Power or cop if neither one nor the other could stop a handful of bigots with ion particle disruptors from killing each other in the streets? Better to stay inside and drink. Better to ignore that hollow, horrible, guilty feeling in my gut.

  Walker had reached the tables now, where meats and cheeses were arranged in an enticing buffet. He had a scotch in his hand—his third, perhaps? He’d grabbed it automatically, by force of habit. Joe sat nearby, entertaining a circle of admiring Powers with what seemed to be a fascinating, thrilling, raunchy story. He caught Walker’s eye and then beckoned for Diamond to join the party.

  Standing outside the circle, watching his colleagues file in for dinner with a gaggle of mistresses and cops, Walker wondered what had happened to the world-famous Citizen Soldier between ’67 and ’72. He wondered what had occurred before that day in Detroit, and why Joe had been so emotionally affected, and where his good friend’s head was now. For that matter, Walker wondered—flashing on the riots, thinking about the fires outside and a state of emergency in Atlanta that reminded him so much of Detroit—where his own head was, as well.

  He finished his drink and discarded the glass. Then he plastered a smile on his face and headed over to toast his friend.

  16

  December. Tuesday morning. 9:17 A.M.

  They loaded her into a truck. It wasn’t much larger than an SUV. He watched them from afar, positioning a telephoto lens through the passenger-side door. His car—nondescript, beige, and badly needing a paint job—lingered on the far end of the avenue, blocked from view by the crowd. The mourners had packed the streets in front of the precinct with camping chairs and pup tents, encircled around podiums and shrines riddled with flowers, photographs, posters, and candles. Blockades of news vans and assorted media helped his car blend in; a phalanx of network reporters kept situating themselves in front of the clunker, obscuring it from any particular line of sight. He didn’t worry, though. They wouldn’t get in his way; he wasn’t watching the precinct.

  He observed, instead, the impound lot across the street.

  Several cops had escorted the prisoner through an unmarked service entrance—freight or laundry, the man couldn’t be sure—and kept her inside a circle of plainclothes detectives as they casually strolled toward the lot. He recognized one or two—from television, perhaps, the news over the past few days. To be honest, he didn’t know the cops in this city as well as he’d like. But he hadn’t been in town long enough to match faces to names as of yet. Perhaps in due time, should the need arise. He doubted it would. The work was nearly done, and in a handful of days, he planned to disappear as chaos and scandal swirled around the murders. Just as he had ten years earlier.

  He looked back at the lot. They’d secured the doors to the truck and were preparing to leave. He started up his car, twisting the ignition, and both gawkers and mourners glanced his way. He waved them aside, silently asking them to let him through. They shrugged and stepped away, barely giving the man a second glance. Why would they? He wasn’t wearing the hood. As far as they knew, Liberty was just another yutz with a POS car.

  The truck slid out of the lot and turned left, and Liberty followed, carefully driving through the snow. They wove in and out of traffic. The cops weren’t speeding but were clearly determined to finish their trip as quickly as possible. The Shelf, he thought, or another appropriate, nearby prison. No matter; they won’t reach it, whatever the destination.

  The truck turned into a warehouse district, and Liberty followed, gunning the engine and making his move. Carefully, trying not to attract their attention, Liberty inched up and drove alongside the truck. He casually surveyed the driver and noted a second policeman in the passenger seat. I wonder if that’s all. I’d been looking away, so I didn’t see whether any guards had joined her in the back. I suppose I’ll have to be surprised. Won’t that be thrilling?

  Liberty accelerated again, easing his car in front of the truck, essentially cutting it off while careful not to skid. He wasn’t driving that fast, but the driver of the truck felt the need to pass. The unmarked truck swerved to the left, and the driver pressed the pedal. Liberty smiled and jerked left himself and then back to the right and gave it some gas. He did what he could to make sure the truck couldn’t go around. The policeman tapped his horn, offering Liberty a gentle warning. He nodded and waved in response and then sped up, giving the truck a bit of room. The policeman gave up and slid the truck back behind Liberty’s sedan, and after several blocks, it seemed the chase had ended. Pity, he thought. I rarely get into car chases, no matter how small. Anyway, time is wasting. He reached out and stabbed the glove compartment. There, embedded into the metal, sat a trio of custom controls, each with its own purpose. This is what TV secret agents must feel like, Liberty thought. Eeny meeney miney … He slammed down on the first, flat, green button.

  A trail of gas seeped out of the car’s exhaust, lifted by the wind and fanned toward the front of the police truck. To an outside observer, it might have seemed like another busted piece of an already deteriorating automobile had given way to age and mechanics. But the vapor was no simple emission—it was gaseous acid, toxic and concentrated, and it swiftly ate through the truck’s hood, bumper, and windshield. The policemen noticed something was up and slammed on the brakes. Liberty came to a s
top, as well, and twisted a second button—a red one, rotating like a radio dial. It opened a hatch in the trunk. The dial adjusted the rate at which the sedan ejected a trunkload of volatile shrapnel.

  Fragments of metal, wire, and glass impacted the truck’s windshield, shattering it inward and embedding itself into the throats, skulls, and chests of the cops. Liberty’s potent extra-strength acid had weakened the custom-fitted titanium-alloy chassis, as well as the fibrous-enhanced friction-resistant windshield with which the truck had been fitted. The policemen slumped against the dashboard, and another two leaped out of the back. Liberty exited his car and lifted a long-range silencer out of his pocket. One shot quickly dispatched the cop on the right; the second dove out of view, behind the truck. He opened fire, and Liberty was forced to hide, sliding back inside his car.

  No doubt at this point the lone gunman has radioed for backup. This is the third time I’ve had to act fast before the police arrive. I’m getting old, too, like Monroe.

  He reached across and smacked a hand on the final button. This one employed no subtleties; it was clearly made for launching rockets.

  A single torpedo emerged from the trunk, blasting the door from his car and setting it ablaze. The rocket hit the truck and lit it up like a candle, sending it off its wheels and forcing it back several feet. The second policeman stopped shooting. Liberty quickly stepped out of the car and strode to the rear of the truck. The remaining cop was dying, gasping on the floor, badly burned and bleeding like a stuck pig. You should have run, Liberty regretfully expressed with sorrowful eyes. I would have let you go.

  Then he shot the cop twice in the chest.

  Liberty stepped over the body and swung wide the rear doors. Wilhelmina Quince sat cowering in the corner. She was bleeding—a mess of burns and wounds, groaning with pain. But she was alive. He beckoned for her to exit the truck. “Quickly now,” he grunted, “before this thing explodes.”

  Head bouncing like an agreeable maniac, she scrambled out of the truck. They hurried down the street, away from the burning vehicles. Liberty took Quince by the collar, dragging her forward. He glanced at a street sign. They were on Avenue F and Bernardin. No, this won’t do, he realized. We’re one block too far.

  “Come on,” he whispered to Wilhelmina. “We’re going for a walk. It’ll do you a world of good.”

  And off they went down Bernardin, stumbling one block north.

  Shortly, drawn by the noise, a lone patrol car rolled up beside the blackened husks of both the beat-up sedan and the once-formidable police truck. Lights bathed the scene, shimmering against pools of blood and reflecting against the snow and the billowing smoke. The front door opened, and a detective emerged. She was tall and lean, dressed in fashionable leather that seemed warm enough despite appearances, a ribbon of faux-fur trim circling her collar. She wore gloves but no hat; short hair severely pulled back, she surveyed the scene with an observant, comfortable gaze. The newcomer sighed, tugging at her jacket, and then she reached into the cruiser to retrieve its radio.

  “Dispatch, this is 1-Peter-21 answering a distress call on the old inner harbor. Bernardin and F, north side. Two vehicles, abandoned, officers down and out.”

  A voice crackled back. “How many officers, Detective Sunrise?”

  Enki Sunrise glanced around, creeping unease setting into her bones. She lifted the radio. “Two, Dispatch, maybe three. Front of the truck may hold more answers, but I’ve yet to approach. Waiting to clear the area.”

  “Do you require additional backup, 1-Peter-21?”

  Enki nodded to herself, wishing she hadn’t abandoned her other assignment as quickly as she did. But she’d known this route meant a prisoner transfer related to Deena’s case, and she’d been close by. No one else would have gotten there in time to save Quince’s life. But as far as Detective Sunrise could tell, looking around, she was too late. Enki was the only person here. The only person alive, anyway.

  “Negative, Dispatch,” she replied. “No additional backup necessary.”

  “You sure, Enki? Everything okay?”

  She sat back in the cruiser, the wind having been knocked out of her from the sight of the dead men and smoking vehicles. “Not at all, Dispatch. No backup required … but I will need a shit ton of body bags.”

  17

  December. Tuesday morning. 10:48 A.M.

  Deena mounted the steps, ignoring the smell of day-old marinara and an assortment of cleaning supplies. Aaron followed, climbing one step at a time to her two. The staircase was drafty, and she thanked her lucky stars that Waldo lived on the third floor of a six-floor walkup. Neighbors peered into the hall—elderly retirees, shut-ins, and grandparents whose family never came. Deena could understand why; if she didn’t have a murder to solve, and Waldo hadn’t been an important piece of the puzzle, the last place she’d be found was in this building, visiting family.

  They’d taken the first flight out, ejecting a couple from Cleveland who’d been happily diverted to first-class seats on another plane. Aaron had fidgeted the entire way, grumbling beneath his breath and then fitfully snatching an hour of sleep. Deena, for the most part, had flown in relative peace. A tall coffee and a cell phone packed with files had kept her company. But his constant shuffling had eventually gotten to her nerves, and so she’d swapped seats with a kid she’d convinced that Aaron was a rock star. Deena had felt bad about that, but truthfully, she needed time to herself. Aaron felt this was an unnecessary trip, one that could have been solved with a phone call—and the captain had agreed. But Aaron had insisted on coming when she’d refused to back down, explaining that she wanted to look her father in the eyes, force him to finally tell the truth. So here they were: flying south to brace him in person, a man she hadn’t spoken to in over ten years. A stranger, though connected by blood, whom Deena was fully prepared to arrest and be done with.

  They reached the third-floor landing, and Deena looked over her shoulder at Aaron, who brought up the rear. He’s more nervous than I am. He’s afraid that he might punch dear old Dad. Honestly? I might, as well. But I’ll at least have the decency to hear him out first. Putting these guys in a room together after all this time? There may be nothing left of my father to hear.

  Not that time and circumstance hadn’t already taken their toll. The apartment building … let’s call it what it is, Deena thought. Six stories of dementia and decay. She knew that he had fallen on hard times. Waldo still had the old house, the one in Tuxedo Park. But he couldn’t afford to live there anymore—not on the money he made working security or guarding banks or whatever it was he was doing now. The old place, her home, was rented. Waldo used the money to subsidize a few places. A modest condo in Miami; a loft in Chicago, which had unfortunately been obliterated; and, apparently, this shit box situated north of Atlanta, miles from what might be considered a decent neighborhood. After all this time, Deena wasn’t sure whom she might find behind the door. She didn’t really care; all she wanted was answers. All Deena needed was to shine a light onto the past.

  She raised a fist, about to knock, but Aaron gingerly took her wrist.

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  She smiled and sighed. “I’d rather do it alone.”

  He smirked and caressed her hand. “And deny me the chance to see how far Lucifer has fallen? Come on. I deserve little else, but I deserve that.”

  He released her, and she knocked. The door across the way cracked open, holiday decorations drooping from where they’d been tacked on. A curious septuagenarian peered out through thick-rimmed bifocals. The man wore flannel pajama tops, fuzzy slippers, a deerstalker cap with earflaps, and nothing more. Thankfully, before he engaged, a shuffle arrived at Waldo’s door, the tumbler clicked out of place, and Deena found herself facing the only other man she’d ever truly loved.

  “Yeah, what do … Deena?” He was shorter than she remembered, which was a neat trick, as Deena Pilgrim wasn’t much taller herself. He’d allowed a beard to flourish, cultivating i
t into a thick, majestic drape of hair. Waldo wore khakis and a tee—the kind they called a wifebeater, a fact in which Deena saw a private irony; he’d never actually struck her mother, but his verbal abuse alone warranted the garment’s name. He pulled open the door, giving the detectives a clearer view of the apartment’s interior. Small, sure, but well appointed and tastefully decorated, decidedly contrasted with the building in which he lived. A small foyer opened into a common area filled out by a sofa, recliner, modest television, and coffee table—the leather kind, the one that looked like an expensive ottoman but could be purchased in any mall. Just beyond, Deena spied a small kitchen. Steam billowed into the hallway; he’d been cooking, preparing lunch when he should have been at work. Perhaps they’d found Waldo between jobs? She wouldn’t be surprised. Staying in Atlanta, even with ten years under his belt, hadn’t done much to help his reputation. The past lingers, even when you’re trying to move on and forget. Deena knew that. She’d been drowning in the past. And every step forward she’d taken over the last two days had only brought her five steps back.

  Waldo stepped out of the apartment. His face had brightened once he’d recognized the visitor in his doorway, and something like hope glimmered in his eyes. He awkwardly lunged, attempting to embrace her, but Deena flinched and stepped away. Waldo backed off, holding up his hands as if he’d been expecting that to happen.

  “Hey, I get it,” he said as if in response to her thoughts. “No offense taken. But it’s like a Christmas miracle. Just happy to see you after all this time.”