Powers

by Brian Michael Bendis

  Kirk raised an eyebrow. “You’re okay with that? He is your father.”

  She sighed and smiled. “He is, and I am. I’ll visit at some point. Another ten years should be long enough.”

  “What happens to his stuff? All your family mementos and such?”

  She shrugged and reached for the juice container. “Dunno. Trash? To be honest, rook, there isn’t much left from that life I truly care to remember.”

  “That’s ice cold.” She ignored him and he finished his drink, then settled back against the pillows. She felt gloomy and hoped Kirk wouldn’t pick up on it. I came here to cheer him up, hoping it might cheer me up, too. But rehashing this shit isn’t helping. I’m wallowing; I coulda done that back at the station. Or in a bottle.

  Deena had left the precinct thirty minutes after the judge was arrested. She’d wanted to walk, to clear her head. Loitering around the cop house, finishing the required paperwork … it made her sad. Made her angry. And she was worried that another case might come along. Deena nursed deep wounds and even deeper betrayal, still committed to turning in the badge. She’d considered marching into Cross’s office the moment Boucher had gone but had hesitated. Then other detectives had wandered over to congratulate the partners—Deena, Walker, and Enki—and that had been too much. She didn’t want to be praised. Didn’t anyone get that? She wanted to quit. She couldn’t be a cop anymore—much less a good cop. Not after the lies. Not after another blatant cover-up positioned as a win for the city, its populace, and the well-meaning, hardworking detectives of the Powers Homicide Division. Not after the destruction of what had been the inspiration … the very bedrock of Deena Pilgrim’s law enforcement career.

  So she’d pushed through the doors and lurched into the snow, walking aimlessly in no direction at all. She was searching for definitive answers or maybe some kind of sign. Eventually, she’d found one: It read ELLIS GENERAL. And so Deena had entered a hospital for the fourth time in three days and ridden the elevator to visit her recovering junior partner.

  Kirk reached for a pudding cup he’d missed. A wailing mother clutched a Citizen Soldier doll on the TV. Her little son, awake far past what should have been his bedtime, picked his nose as his mom poured out her heart to PNN. Deena reached out, stole the remote, and clicked it off. Kirk didn’t mind. He was too busy gossiping. “How did Walker take it all? He must’ve been happy, getting his badge back.”

  Deena leaned back and scratched her head. “You’d think … but you know Walker. Well, maybe you don’t. The guy’s a dictionary model for Jewish guilt, despite his atheist leanings.”

  The newborn smacked his lips on the spoon and then slid the cup aside. “Okay, so he feels guilty. Because of the death? The murders?”

  “He feels a sense of responsibility for the Liberty cases … or a lack thereof, as it were. Me too. But he’s getting over it. Typical male, distracting himself with a project.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  She smiled. “He’s aiming to close all the open murder cases from during the period in which he was stationed in Atlanta. Most of them tie to Waldo and the Bouchers, to their fake gang war. But, as with all riots, there are your unsolved strays. Walker figures that this is his way of making up for dereliction of duty. I think he’s an idiot, personally. Best to leave the past in the past. I learned that the hard way … again.”

  Kirk stared at her, face drawn and solemn. “But you’re going to help him, anyway.”

  She stood up. “Not me. I’m done.”

  The rookie’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘done’?”

  Deena fidgeted and stared at the frost-covered window. She could see bulbous Christmas lights across the way, winking at the other end of the hospital. The streets were clearing as midnight approached, apart from bands of pious stragglers heading to mass. Snow fell on the city, blanketing the streets in layers of pure, welcome white.

  “Detective Pilgrim,” Kirk repeated, craning his neck to get her attention. “Deena … you’re going to help Walker, right? On to the next fucked-up case and so on?”

  She faced him again and stuck both hands in her jacket pockets. Her right knuckles scraped against the badge, and she could feel its weight. It was heavy—like her heart—and she toyed with the idea of throwing it out a window or into a garbage chute. She really wanted to fling it at the captain or Walker or maybe use it to smash Collette McDaniels’s dumb face and say good-bye to everything. To dead Powers and lost friends. To innocence, family, and ill-fated romance. To her hope, to faded ideals. To everything and anything. Deena had nothing left that mattered—even her job. Two cops had let her down—both of them, father and former lover, had been the standards of excellence to which she had ascribed. They had inspired her to pick up the badge. And now, years later and after hundreds of lies, she wanted to throw it in their stupid faces.

  And you know what? she realized. I’m not even properly angry. I’m just fucking exhausted. After all the death and loss, all I want to do is crawl into a corner of my bed and shut out the world. I want to hide from this harrowing, horrible planet on which would-be gods can decimate cities and jealous assholes can kill a heroine trying to make a difference. That’s why I want to quit. Not because of stained principles or a broken heart. I’m just tired of the endless flood of bullshit. I’m tired of thinking that one good cop can make a difference. Because from what I’ve seen, there are no good cops anymore. Only secrets, lies, and bullshit. Why the fuck would I want to be inspired by that? Why would any cop?

  So I’m done. I’m quitting today. She gripped the badge in her sweaty, clammy hand. Kirk can have this piece of empty metal for all I care. He can give it to the captain or Walker. I just want to say good-bye and walk away. Maybe that’s why my feet led me here: because I felt guilty that the newborn got in the path of my drama. That he got himself slugged on my behalf.

  “Hey, rookie,” Deena said, removing the badge from her jacket. “Look, I just wanted to say that—”

  “Uh-uh,” Kirk cut in, interrupting the half-assed speech in which she’d planned to wrap her badge. “Don’t even say it. You were done before; you’ll be done again. That’s how this thing works.”

  Deena laughed at Kirk’s sudden onset of balls. “Seriously? How do you kn … no, listen, you don’t understand.”

  “I think I do fucking understand.” That was the first time she’d heard the baby curse. She wasn’t sure she liked it; it felt like watching grandmas screw. But Kirk kept rolling. “Yeah, it sucks. You got lied to, and lots of people died. The shit with your father, the stuff with Walker and Boucher … sounds like a hectic, painful three days.”

  She nodded and held her tongue, curious to see where he was going with this.

  “But, Detect … Deena—you have to look at the big picture. You closed the Retro Girl murder. You helped save thousands of lives in this city, then again in Chicago and Los Angeles. You faced down mobsters, Internal Affairs, a Federal Powers conspiracy, the Powers virus, a brush with superpowered Ragnarok … and you’re still fucking standing. Sure, this last week was dogshit. Yes, people got hurt and killed. Damn straight, you had personal challenges that tested both your limits and friendships. But that’s the job, isn’t it? That’s what we signed up for. And you’ve been doing it full-tilt since day one after Retro Girl fell into your lap. Hell, you were doing it before. You’ve been at this for so long that they’re studying your cases at the academy.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What’s that now?”

  “Oh, you don’t know?” His hands shook with excitement now. This was the most confident she’d seen Corbin Kirk since the day they’d met—and this with bullet wounds in his gut and legs. “Oh, man. Yeah, that interrogation shit you pulled with Jon Jackson Stevens, the Retro Girl case, and that was case one. You and Walker, you’re kinda like … legends to new cadets.”

  Deena blushed and carefully eased the badge back into her pocket. “You’re joking, right? I used my tits to elicit a confession.”

/>   “Come on, Detective. I’ve watched you work up close. Don’t be modest—it wasn’t only Retro Girl … every situation that followed, every case. The research and legwork you did on the Rammlers? You could have easily leaned on Walker’s reputation. His history and … his abilities, y’know? But you never did. You never took the easy way out. You honed your skills, worked crime scenes, and hunted down leads. A lotta the other detectives on the job … well, I mean … they’re fine and all. But what you bring to the table is something innate. Something that can’t be taught. That’s why I asked Cross to partner on this. That’s why I wanted to work with you.”

  She was confused. “Why? I’m jaded and bitter, dude. I’m two seconds from tossing my badge in the river. Once I leave here, I’m hanging it up to write shitty, self-published fan-fiction. Why the fuck would you want to work with a cop like that?”

  Kirk stared her down and placed his hands in his lap. “Because you’re honest. You’re a cop with integrity and determination, and so is Walker. You’ve seen and done it all, and you Keep. On. Going. Despite all the horrible shit you’ve experienced on the job, you’re still here. And so are your principles. At least, as far as I’m aware.”

  They sat in awkward silence for a minute, listening to the muted beeps of Kirk’s monitor and a muffled announcement over the public address system. Snow fell harder outside the window.

  “What are you saying? No, you’re way off base. I’m a fuckup pariah, newbie. That horrible shit I’ve ‘experienced’? You think I did it out of a sense of adventure or responsibility. But it just fucking happened. It’s bad goddamn luck, and thankfully, I’ve managed to survive it by the skin of my teeth. But hey,” she offered, “if you want to partner with Walker and ‘experience’ all that horrible shit? Be my guest.” She dug out her badge and held it to her face. “I was two seconds from chucking this at you and walking away.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  He smiled. “Because of Walker. You don’t want me to be his partner. He already has a partner. A good, honest partner. One who inspired a kid named Kirk to pick up the badge himself. You were my example, Detective. You’re one of the reasons I became a cop and then joined up with the PHD. And it would truly suck if this newborn returned to work without having someone around to belittle him and show him the ropes.”

  Deena’s jaw sagged. She was speechless, apart for a short surprised grunt. She quietly returned the badge to her pocket, patting it once to keep it secure. She looked at Kirk, shook her head, and offered a confused, embarrassed smile. “You’re crazy. I’m no one’s role model. This is a huge fucking mistake.”

  He held out his arms, taking in the room, the hospital, the falling snow. “So was heading out behind Club Nexus by my lonesome. But I’m chalking it up to ‘experience.’ And I was glad to have lived up to your reckless ideal … or at least…” Kirk rubbed the back of his head and offered a sheepish smile of his own. “At least to have tried.”

  Deena folded her arms. She tapped a foot and then headed for the door.

  “Hey,” Kirk asked, “where are you going? What are you going to do?”

  She rested her hand on the doorjamb, taking one last look before walking away. “Thanks, Kirk. You did good.” She slapped the wall and slipped into the hallway.

  “Detective!” he called after her, voice carrying into the hall. “Will I see you back at the station?”

  But Deena Pilgrim was down the hallway and out the door, barreling into the purifying fall of snow. Kirk’s words echoed in her head, cleansing her, she felt for a moment, of pain and anger.

  That’s not true. I still feel shitty. And I’d like to jam this badge up the ass of the next beat cop I see. But still …

  His confession, Kirk’s sentiment, had struck a nerve in Deena. Sure, she would always be pissed at her father and at Aaron. She would probably never feel the same way about being a cop. Not like she did back when she’d finished at the academy. Not like she did in Atlanta, before everything went to hell. But what Kirk had said made her realize just how much time she’d spent inside a bubble of cynicism, so much so that she often couldn’t see outside. The newborn had penetrated her little cloud of pain and betrayal. Just because she’d lost her inspiration and the roots of her desires to be a detective had been poisoned with wormwood, that didn’t take away from her accomplishments. Deena had put away Jon Jackson Stevens, not Aaron. She had helped shut down the bureau, not Waldo. And she had inspired Corbin Kirk to join the force, not the men from whom she’d taken her earlier cues.

  I inspired someone. Me. The snarky little midget with an attitude. The jaded cop who accidentally killed a mobster the first time she got herself some powers. Just because my dad and Aaron were awful cops, it doesn’t mean that I can’t change the cycle. It doesn’t mean I can’t be the role model that one of them should have been.

  Deena hunkered down against a flurry and beelined for her car. She wrapped the jacket around her torso and pushed through the snow, suddenly having places to be.

  Besides, she concluded, I actually do have a good role model. A good cop, if there ever was one, even if he may not believe it right now. And he’s sitting in a records room, no doubt, digging through cold cases and trying to make amends.

  Deena grimaced. That seemed to be going around. Making amends, that is. She arrived at her car and opened the door. Easing herself into the driver’s seat, she pulled her hands from her jacket to take the wheel. Deena’s right fist palmed her badge, tingling from the cold. She looked at it, noting the serial number. The little golden shield had lost its pallor over the years, its edges having rusted and dulled. She smiled, set it on the dash, and started the car. As she steered through the garage, she clicked on the radio and flipped around for an upbeat song. Anything she could find with more than five chords.

  Deena Pilgrim drummed against the steering wheel of her late-model sedan, carefully navigating out of the hospital parking lot. She passed the attendant and flashed him the sign of the horns. Rock and roll. She head-bopped to the beat as he opened the gate.

  The attendant stared at Deena for a moment and then looked back at his cell phone as she sped away. She laughed. He didn’t understand. This right here, Deena Pilgrim said to herself.

  This right here is the high point of my day.

  38

  December. Wednesday night. 11:53 P.M.

  Walker sat alone in the interrogation room, boxes spread out across the table. He picked at the remains of a half-eaten value meal, mostly cadging french fries as he pored over documents. He preferred to dig through printed files. Something about the digital archive seemed too easy—like less work. The purpose of this exercise was to avoid cutting corners. This was his penance for Atlanta, and before that, Detroit. This was Walker’s way to make up for not getting involved. For literally being an absent badge in a city that sorely needed one.

  Maybe it’s something more. I’m beating myself up for throwing irresponsible pebbles onto an eight-lane superhighway. Sure, I’ve had moments of apathy. After that disaster with the bureau, I basically walked away from everything. I didn’t give a shit—like I didn’t in Atlanta and other times in my life. But let’s be fair: I’ve lived a long fucking life. And yeah, I’m not going to be conscientious the entire time. There will be moments of detachment over the years. So why am I beating myself up over looking the other way twelve years ago? It’s not like I was alone, right? Why am I the only one dredging up the past, forcing myself to make amends?

  That’s when he realized the obvious answers: the rest of them were dead or imprisoned. And though there would, indeed, be indiscretion during his never-ending lifetime … guilt would undoubtedly follow.

  It’s my secret, he recalled. My weakness. That, and my friends.

  Deena. Enki. Kirk. Joe. Each had suffered; one of them had died. And though Walker wasn’t the reason for any of that, a possibility existed that he could have changed events by simply giving a shit. Too late
now, he mused. But that’s why I’m here. To quell the guilt and do right by my friends, even if they’re dead and gone.

  Walker had seen too many friendships wither and die over the years, whether due to the passage of time or some dumb-ass thing he’d said or done. Joe was gone. Harley was gone. Zora, Calista, Janis, Z. He’d lost them all, and time marched on. Soon he would lose the rest. Cross. Enki. Even Deena. One day, he would turn around and the world will have changed. But the guilt would remain, the overwhelming feeling of loss … and there was nothing he could do about it.

  So he pored. He filed. He checked and cross-checked as some small measure of looking back. He could try to solve the past—do right by those who’d fallen along the way—even if he had to do it alone.

  He looked out the open door. The bullpen was dim, few lights other than those strung around the rafters. A gaggle of detectives lingered by the duty desk, sipping coffee and exchanging gifts. Walker smiled. He swallowed a fry and spread his hands across the table, shifting stacks of folders. He lifted a paper cup from his side, sloshing with coffee, and downed it with a swallow. He crumpled it and tossed it at a nearby trash can. The ball missed, hitting instead a foot wedged into the doorway. Deena Pilgrim lingered in the hall. She glanced at the throng of detectives and then to Walker, curiosity radiating across her face. Her hands were in her pockets; a coat of muddy snow caked her feet.

  Deena thumbed in the direction of the bullpen. “What’s going on? Not-So-Secret Santa?”

  Walker pointed at the neglected, forgotten tree, quietly sitting in the corner. “That’s right. And I’m in charge of decorating. This year, I thought we’d use cups of swill and stockings full of case files.”

  “Ho fucking ho.”

  “I believe ‘ho fucking ho’ is in section 653 to 653.28 of the penal code.” Walker cast about, dragging his hand through a random box. “It’s in here somewhere. I’ll find it, I swear. Maybe by Easter.”