Powers

by Brian Michael Bendis

  Deena stood up and got right into her partner’s face. “You think I’m in pain? Dude…” She waved her arms around, taking in the bullpen. “I’m numb to all this already. I’m beyond fucking pain.”

  She stepped away and walked to the middle of the aisle, narrowly avoiding impact with a passing clerk. “This ‘win’? I’m hollow inside, too. I have new contempt for the man I called my father. Now I can add to it the man I’d idolized—a guy I’d have been happy to avoid seeing for another ten years. The man I looked up to, who was, in actuality, a vigilante-murdering-Powers psycho with stained, conflicted principles. Oh! And one of his victims? Yeah, that guy also helped kill a mess of people … and I can’t bring him to justice. So tell me again: How is this a win?”

  Enki watched the byplay, concern spreading across her face. She reached out to Deena but was too far away to take her hand or touch her arm. “Hey,” she said, attempting to verbally step between the partners. “Come on … it may not be a win, and I know it’s close to the heart, but we finally closed the Liberty case. That has to mean something, right?”

  Deena screwed up her face and shook her head. “No, not to me. Not anymore.”

  Walker raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

  “Means I’m done. Been saying all week that I need to talk to Cross about it. But I … this was it, Walker. I’m finished with this shit.”

  “Yeah, you keep saying that. But you always come back. After the virus, and after Chicago. You always end up back behind the badge.”

  She grabbed his shirt, crumpling it in her fist. “Don’t you see, though? I used to have a reason. Something … someone was always out there, pushing me. Inspiring me. First Waldo, and then when he let me down, Aaron. Even though Aaron had been a grade-A asshole and walked away, I still believed him to be a good cop. That’s what brought me back … that and the drive to keep the peace, do the right thing. And now?”

  “Now?”

  “Now I’m finished. Someone else can keep the peace. You do what you want, but once I go deal with the last piece of this, I’m done.”

  Enki opened her mouth, about to pose arguments, but Walker sighed before she could get started. He hung his head and rubbed his eyes with two fingers. Walker was battered and tired—they all were, the last three days having taken an exhaustive toll. The drone of the bullpen washed over the trio, and Enki waited for Walker’s measured response. Finally, the former hero lifted his eyes and stared at his smaller, younger partner.

  “You do what you want,” he told Deena. “I won’t stop you. In fact, if this is what you need, I’ll support it. I’m your partner, but I’m also your friend.” He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “If you’re done, I’ll stand by that.”

  Surprised, Deena dumbly nodded her head and then clasped Walker’s hand with her own. They stood there, and Enki watched them closely, unsure what to say.

  “Before you do that,” Walker continued, “before you walk into the captain’s office and lay your badge on the table … first you have to walk an old man to see the body of his poor, dead son.”

  Deena looked up, tears streaming from her eyes. Walker placed the other hand on her opposite shoulder.

  “First you have to show Aaron’s body to the judge so he can confirm it, and by doing so, condemn it.”

  32

  December. Wednesday night. 7:55 P.M.

  A father sat by the corpse of his son, head lowered, hands clasped in his lap. Eyes closed, lips pursed, he breathed deeply and evenly as two detectives kept a respectful distance. The body was covered up to the chest, naked and cold, lips tinged blue from having been stored in a locker for the better part of two hours. It lay in a bag, zipped down and strategically positioned so that the father couldn’t see the damage inflicted on his poor son’s torso.

  Judge Kenneth Boucher sighed once and then lifted his eyes to meet those of Deena Pilgrim. He looked away, the pain too great to maintain eye contact. Before he did, she noticed that tears clung to his glasses, twin trails coursing down his weathered cheeks. She started to speak, keeping her voice measured and soft, using discretion and restraint in retelling the events of the past three days. The judge listened patiently, taking in the details, nodding every now and then as if unsurprised to be hearing the story of his son’s final days on Earth. Walker glanced from Deena to Boucher, back and forth like a tennis match, gauging the old man’s reaction as the case unfolded. Deena confirmed that Aaron had been Liberty, eliciting yet another knowing nod, and revealed that the partners—and the federal investigators—knew about the secret conspiracy between Aaron, Waldo, and the Citizen Soldier. The judge’s son had killed Joseph Monroe, Malachi Crane, and the remaining members of the original Human Front. He’d poisoned Waldo Pilgrim and attacked both Walker and Deena during the course of his carefully executed swath of betrayal. Deena explained that Aaron had undertaken the recent actions in service of one thing, in her opinion: eliminating any connection to the original Liberty killings through the use of secret powers.

  “See,” she continued in the silence of the station morgue, “all Aaron had wanted to do in the first place was clean up your record. That’s why he’d worked with Waldo and Monroe … he didn’t care about the money. He cared about you. But … I think he also felt disgusted by it, which is why he hated my father—not to mention the Powers—and was eventually forced to leave Atlanta.”

  The judge kept his own counsel. He stared at Aaron’s body, sorrowful and humble, barely glancing in either detective’s direction.

  “Or so he wanted us to believe. Isn’t that right, Ken?”

  The judge looked up again as if being dragged from a harrowing daydream. Rheumy eyes bored into Deena’s own. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Ken seemed confused and disoriented—which was fair, having just been presented with his son’s corpse. But Deena’s tone, her determined gaze, set him on edge, and he straightened his back. Walker was confused, too. He glanced in Deena’s direction, but his partner held out a hand, gesturing for the larger detective to wait.

  “Waldo,” she continued, “laid out how he and Monroe used the gang war as a cover to not only remove certain … threats but also managed to clean up your spotty record. They freed criminals you convicted in order to kill those you hadn’t. They did that before Aaron ever even got involved. Before he began tying up the loose ends as Liberty, killing those they’d released. Was it coincidence, Ken, that Waldo’s and Monroe’s enemies … the people they freed, the people they killed … were also your own?”

  The judge finally spoke. His tinny voice, choked with emotion, echoed against the freezer compartments and reverberated throughout the room. “I’m not sure I like your tone, Deena.”

  She headed toward the compartment on which lay Aaron Boucher. “I know. I don’t like it, either, but that’s my problem. Once I open my mouth, it’s hard to stop. Someone closed my mouth a few hours ago, keeping me from singing this song, but see? I have it on the cloud.” She retrieved her phone from a pocket, holding it out so Ken could see. “Every detail, explained by your former friend—my father—and confirmed by APHD in a sworn affidavit by my request. But I’m sure you know the details, Ken. I’m sure you know what I’m driving at.”

  Ken’s chest hitched, and he let out a sigh. The judge wrung his hands and looked down again, hiding his eyes. Walker, curious now, joined Deena by the corpse, coming around to flank the judge.

  After a moment, the old man looked up again. “You always were the smart one, Deena. That’s why I was thrilled when you and Aaron ended up together.”

  “Don’t cruise down memory lane, Ken. Start talking, and I’ll start taping, and we can get out of here before the dinner rush.”

  “Deena…” Walker warned her, holding out his hand. She slapped it away. The judge flicked his eyes in Walker’s direction and then nodded his head.

  “You were a clever one, too, Diamond. That’s why Joe kept you close. Cl
ever and dangerous—too many years in the eyes.”

  The judge dusted off his clothes. He sniffed, rubbing fingers over his nose and settling back into the chair once more. “I knew that Aaron had powers. Is that what you’re asking? Of course I knew. And no, he didn’t act alone.”

  Walker raised an eyebrow. “So Joe was Liberty, too.”

  “Not exactly. But, yes. Liberty was more than one man.” The judge turned to Deena, eyes clear now, somewhat bemused. “Who told you?”

  Deena held out the phone. “Live and clear, fifty-five minutes in. Waldo revealed all and confirmed it to the APHD when I called to acquire federal protection for my dad. I know, Ken. I know it all.”

  Walker snorted. “I don’t. Someone had better tell me what’s going on.”

  Deena tapped Record on her phone and set it on the tray next to Aaron. She pulled up a chair and sat down and then held out an indulgent hand to Judge Boucher. “Be my guest,” she said, giving him the floor.

  Boucher cleared his throat and rested a hand on his dead son’s chest.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “This has gone on long enough. Here, to clear up all confusion, is the absolute truth about the Liberty killer.”

  33

  July. Twelve and a half years ago.

  Saturday night. 9:57 P.M.

  They sat on the porch, rocking in faded recliners that wouldn’t last the summer. Each of them sipped a tall, cool glass of iced tea. Only two smoked fine cigars. Joe was the exception; he seemed ill-at-ease, constantly checking the street as if he might be recognized by a reporter or ambushed from the darkness. Waldo, of course, was most relaxed. He puffed the last quarter of a Macanudo Maduro and stole swallows from a flask he kept sneaking from his pocket. Joe and the judge pretended not to notice. It was understandable; this kind of conversation allowed for that sort of indulgence. Eveline busied herself in the kitchen, out of sight, and Aaron wasn’t home—either on patrol or at the Virgin Megastore on Peachtree, sifting through the racks.

  Ken rocked forward, ashing his own cigar, and gazed out into the night. The block was silent, the evening serene. He hated to ruin it by continuing their conversation.

  “Who’s first, then?”

  Joe traded looks with Waldo and shrugged. “Start with someone … someone invisible, maybe? Save the heavy hitters for last.”

  Waldo agreed. “Whassat girl’s name? Crane’s girl, you know the one.”

  Joe reached for his drink. “Quince. Willie Quince.”

  “Yeah, that one. We’ll send her after … I dunno, give her a challenge.”

  Ken smiled and leaned back into the chair. “Ernst Rammler.”

  Joe scoffed and shook his head. “She couldn’t handle a Rammler. No, I want that to be special. Let’s save him for later—we’ll set Blitzkrieg on his trail. Send a German to fry a German.”

  Waldo didn’t care. “I’m agnostic. You gents pick the targets. As long as the checks clear, Owens and I will release any con you want.”

  Ken placed a hand on his friend’s arm. “I appreciate that, son, but despite the appearance of random violence, there’s method to my particular madness.”

  “I know … I know. We’ll only pick targets based on the list you compiled.”

  Ken’s mouth tightened as if he’d been eating lemons. “Thank you, yes. That list contains all the cases … the defendants who slipp—”

  Waldo Pilgrim stood up and held out a hand, flicking the remains of his cigar onto the pebbled drive. “Save it. Honestly, Ken? Point, shoot, and pay me. Your reasons are your own.”

  “My son,” the judge cautiously inquired, “has he said anything? Since the last time, I mean.”

  Pilgrim sighed and breathed in the secondhand smoke. “Yeeeah … he’s been sniffing around. Interested in why I’m partnering with the Soldier, other Powers. I set him straight. I mean, APHD can always use extra hands, ain’t that right?” He grinned in Monroe’s direction, but Joe looked away into the trees.

  “Once you get a few on the street, and the fighting begins…”

  “The kid’ll change his tune. Hopefully, Officer Boucher will be an asset to us in the coming gang war.”

  Ken frowned. “I don’t want him to know about this. Him, Eveline, no one else.”

  Pilgrim belched and started down the steps. “Mum’s the word, Your Honor. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a date with a faulty prison cell. Then home to check on m’girls.”

  “Give Deena my love.”

  Waldo returned the nod, lifting his thumb and cocking an index finger, firing an imaginary bullet in assent. He moseyed down the driveway and into his car. Moments later, a pair of headlights stretched away from the Boucher home.

  They sat there, just the two of them. The smoke drifted away, and an evening breeze ruffled their hair. Ken settled back again, whistling softly. Joe sipped his drink and listened to Eveline putter around in the kitchen. Finally, Ken had endured the silence for too long.

  “You think he knows?” the judge asked the incognito legend.

  Joe held out his hands, unsure. “Could be. He’s paid well enough to keep it to himself. Who wants to ruin a good thing, right?”

  Ken smiled and placed a soft palm on the back of Monroe’s broad, veiny hand. “Exactly.”

  Joe snatched the hand away, glanced back through the window. “Are you an asshole? She’s right there.”

  Ken smirked. “Live a little.”

  “I thought the whole point of this war was to keep our secret, well, secret.”

  Ken chuckled and lifted his sweating glass of tea. “Relax, hero. Your masculine, American façade is safe with me. Remember? I’m the guy who jailed all your fascist playmates. I’m also the guy paying to have them killed.”

  “Seriously, keep it down. The wind carries here.”

  Ken scoffed and looked around, gesturing to the silent, darkened homes. “To who? Retirees and eccentric millionaires? There’s nobody listening. No one who cares that the Citizen Soldier and his lawyer are fucking like bunnies. I’d be more worried about keeping your other secret.” He pointed to the Soldier’s open-throated shirt, revealing vivid, lurid tattoos. Monroe started and looked down, reflexively palming the symbol on his arm. He rolled down a sleeve, hiding the Human Front colors from sight.

  “I mean it, Ken. I love you and all, but I have a lot more to lose than you do.”

  Boucher drained his glass and set it down on the floor. “Not according to the drunk that just left. He thinks we’re doing this to settle up my ‘spotty’ record. Never thinkin’ for a minute that even judges might throw a case for the right man.”

  Joe smiled. “That’s sweet. I’m the right man?”

  Ken leaned over, surreptitiously checking the window before pecking the Soldier on the cheek. “The right one for me.”

  34

  December. Wednesday night. 8:18 P.M.

  “Wait, wait, wait … hang on.” Deena massaged her throbbing brow, struggling to keep up with the latest bombshell. “You and the Soldier were lovers?”

  The judge nodded in reply. “Joe’s tie to the Human Front wasn’t his only secret. Yes, he’d allied himself with that gargoyle Crane’s campaign of intolerance. In fact, Joe had originally been recruited to the Communist cause during Korea. They were quite convincing, and he saw an argument against the global policing that America—and the fledgling United Nations—was doing in other parts of the world. He resented the government for turning him into a figurehead, and so … he sought ways to rebel. It was Crane who convinced Joe that it would be more effective to fight from the inside.”

  “That makes sense,” Walker interjected, the curtain drawn away from so many shady memories. “That’s why Joe was odd in Detroit. He was already working with Crane and the Communists.”

  “Not to mention any and all anti-Powers, antigovernment movements he could find, short of the Nazi Party. He worked with the Black Panthers and then Vietnam protestors. He helped them flourish—in secrecy, of course—but most of the k
ey fomenters faded away, keeping their heads down and simmering in silence as they started families or a new beachhead from which they could strike via the middle class.”

  “But the Soldier kept fighting?”

  “Well,” Boucher explained, “he still had Crane. The Human Front wasn’t going away—they hadn’t yet begun to evolve into the corporation they are today, but Crane was starting to organize. His troops were maturing from being uneducated, grassroots thugs into well-trained, well-armed, sophisticated killers. And the more Crane preached hatred regarding all things ‘nonhuman,’ fighting new Powers and operating in public … the more Joseph fought to publicly distance himself from the organization.”

  Deena understood. “Yeah, makes a ton of sense. That’s why the Soldier was the Human Front’s biggest enemy. That’s why he put them away.”

  “Well,” Boucher tentatively corrected, “that was mostly to keep them locked away. He wanted to maintain his cover and live in peace, and who would the public believe? The word of jailed, bigoted, rhetoric-spewing militants … or one of the nation’s greatest heroes?”

  Deena snorted and folded her arms. “Fucking ironic.”

  The judge agreed. “Truth be told, I was surprised it took Crane this long to play his cards. See, Malachi quickly discovered Joseph’s other little secret. Yes, he was a traitor to his own kind, but he was also … he was also, well … you get it.”

  Dawning realization smacked Deena in the face. She was transported back in time, years ago, to a brisk Thanksgiving evening on her parents’ porch.

  The judge grinned. His cigar blazed, enveloping his face in a cloud of smoke. “Love—or hell, even lust—is nothing to hide. Don’t be embarrassed or keep it secret. Never be afraid to seize love. You’ll regret it when it’s gone and mourn after it’s far too late.”

  Deena’s face felt hot, and she nervously played with her hair. “I’m not in love.”

  “I’m just happy for the company, dear.”