Powers
Page 32
Deena smiled. “Good luck.”
“Wanna help?” Walker held out his hand, sweeping over the contents of the table. “Cold hamburgers and colder cases. It’s like the cop equivalent of Chinese food on Jewish Christmas Eve. Best part? You won’t want to dig in an hour later.”
“Tempting,” she replied, reaching out of sight. “But I have a little Christmas gift for you that could make it that much sweeter.”
Walker rose from the chair. “Oh, hey … I was kidding, Deena. You didn’t hav—”
Deena returned with two steaming cups, purchased from the diner across the street. She handed one over and popped the tab on her own, bending her mouth to lap sweet, sticky foam. Walker sipped his own and then looked up.
“Wait. Where’s the fuckin’ coffee?”
“Hot chocolate. Yum.”
He had to agree. They sat across the table from one another, quietly sipping their drinks. Deena idly paged through a file, barely committing to one before checking out another. She leaned back, tilting her chair onto its rear legs.
“So…”
“So, indeed.”
She set the cup aside. “Seriously, asshole. Do you want my help or not?”
Walker placed his beverage on the floor, careful to move his foot in order to avoid a spill. He laced his fingers and rested his mouth on the back of his hands, elbows placed on the table. A telephone rang. One of the detectives detached from the desk and drifted off to answer.
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“You staying?”
She nodded, sipping her drink. “For now,” she replied, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. “Probably not long enough to get through this library.”
“But you’re staying.”
“Seriously, we should get men in here to sift through it all. Top. Men.”
“Deena…”
She returned his gaze and set the drink aside. She was tired, but Walker noted that she seemed lighter. She seemed at peace. Six years working with the same partner, you got to pick up on things like that. Changes in mood. Adjusting attitudes. Living a mortal life in an immortal body had helped, as well. Taking in his exhausted partner, Christian Walker realized that Deena Pilgrim was going to be just fine. They’d been through the wringer before; they’d experience it again. As long as they trusted one another, all the bullshit, guilt, heartbreak, and pain would be just another set of cases they needed to solve. Just another hardship they’d be able to overcome.
Walker reached for a handful of folders marked DETROIT—1968. His partner snatched files of her own. They sat in silence, reading and sipping, enjoying each other’s company and the inaudible shorthand they’d developed over the years.
“Walker?”
They looked up. The detective who’d answered the phone was standing in the doorway, anxious and armed with information. Walker closed his folder. “Yeah?”
“Got a live one. Call about a giant bookie, tossed off some kind of flying vehicle. Splashed into the fountain in New Vokes Square.”
“This giant bookie’s a heavy hitter? Lots of clients?”
“Uh … no. The dude’s an actual giant. Like, eight feet. The fountain’s shattered to shit. So’s the body. Thought you might wanna take a look.”
Walker finished his drink. He looked up and Deena was following suit. “You can sit this one out,” he offered. “Go home. Catch some shut-eye. We’ll pick it up on Friday.”
Deena balked at the notion. “What—and miss some horrible new shit? Not a chance. What about this?” She waved at the table, indicating the boxes.
Walker grinned and grabbed his jacket from an adjacent chair. “Top. Men.”
“Oh, nice. Excellent call back.”
He stopped her at the door, pausing the banter with an open hand. “Hey, Deena,” he said. “I wanted to say one more thing before we go.”
She stared at her partner, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “What’s that?”
He smiled. “Merry Christmas, partner.”
Deena rolled her eyes and shouldered past, exiting the room with a wiseass smirk. Walker laughed and closed the door behind them, heading into the bullpen, off and running once again. “Bah, humbug,” she replied, slapping Walker on the back.
“And Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Epilogue
June. Ten and a half years ago.
Sunday afternoon. 1:07 P.M.
Birds wheeled above the academy grounds, flying in formation beneath a brilliant azure sky. The sun was shining on the bleachers as row after row of prospective policemen and policewomen filed into seats. Family members milled about on the grass, beaming with pride as they aimed cameras and phones. Bunting and congratulatory banners hung across the aging tree line; the groundskeepers had gone overboard, but that was most often the case when it came to graduation.
A dais ran against the main building, looking out and onto the grass. Several dignitaries and special guests climbed a staircase, dressed in tailored uniforms and carrying speeches and documents of distinction. One of them approached center stage and tapped on the microphone. The family members ceased their milling and drifted toward waiting white seats. After they’d settled, the president took his place at the podium and began the official ceremonies. The graduating cadets fidgeted in their seats, ready to join the ranks of those who chose to uphold the law. They searched for their families, spying parents in the crowd, husbands and wives happily cheering from the seats positioned on the lawn.
Deena searched the sky instead. She watched the birds, dress hat nearly falling from the back of her head. She caught it, setting it right. The starched, ironed uniform felt perfect against her skin. She clasped both hands in her lap, anxiously tapping one thumb against the other, ready for the formalities to be complete and the work to begin. The afternoon’s festivities were the culmination of five long, hard months. A little over nineteen weeks learning the ropes, immersing herself in a world of which she’d always longed to be part. Waldo had refused to include Deena in his work life. He’d refused to help her see this through, and Aaron had disappeared; she had no idea where the Bouchers had gone. Last she’d heard, the judge graced a bench in Dallas, and Austin before that. Aaron was undoubtedly at his side. He definitely wasn’t in the crowd, waving and cheering in Deena’s direction as he snapped pictures.
That’s fine, she had decided, putting on a confident face. I did this on my own. And no one can take credit for that. No one else can take this from me.
She stared at the birds and clouds one last time. A contrail streaked across the sky—a jet, perhaps, or a commercial airliner. She squinted into the sun; it wasn’t either. It was a man in scarlet armor. He carried a large, metallic hammer, and his face—though it would have been a blur at this distance—was hidden beneath a bullet-shaped helmet. Several other cadets raised their heads to watch him go by, as did a handful of spectators. The Power must have sensed their attention; he glanced down and saluted them with his hammer. Moments later, the unknown Power rocketed into the distance, tattered clouds and a tinny burst of sound left in his wake.
Deena lowered her head, adjusting her cap once more. A memory stirred, and she closed her eyes, drifting back to November two years before
when a noise captured her attention, the sound of war coming from the city. Cops and Powers joined her on the porch, investigating the commotion without leaving the house.
Fuck, she’d thought. I’d be off like a rocket. If the APHD allowed, I’d be out there myself, fighting the good fight. But that would be a long time coming. Deena had to start college, hadn’t even lived on her own. She had to abide her father’s rules, follow his word. Not for long, she’d promised herself. Before you know it, I’ll be out of college and deciding shit for myself. What to think. What to eat. Where to live. And no one will tell me what to be. I can be anything I want. Even a cop. Especially a cop.
Deena opened her eyes. She found herself in the moment, within a sea o
f cops sitting at attention, clad in their dress blues. She watched the reactions of her fellow graduates. Many were smirking, grab-assing with their friends. Several were quietly conversing with family in the audience. Only a select few were listening to the speeches, faces drawn and solemn, rapt with attention.
Even fewer had their eyes closed, as Deena had, lost in private thought, overwhelmed by the moment, the pomp, the ceremony. This was her family now. These were her people, the men and women with whom she couldn’t wait to serve. With whom she couldn’t wait to partner.
It had been a long, painful road from Atlanta. But here Deena stood, beneath a hopeful sky, less than an hour from succeeding. She had done it herself but was far from alone. She felt her colleagues in the crowd: the solemn cops, those with something to prove. And the honest ones, dedicated to being just and true. They were everything that Deena hoped to be. Everything that she’d longed to be.
She had done it by herself, arriving beneath the clear, blue sky. She’d endured five months of heartache and hardship and planned to savor the moment forever: the exact moment that Deena Pilgrim could refer to herself as a good cop. Maybe the last good cop she knew.
First, though, she would have to endure the rest of the speeches.
But that was fine. Deena was on point. And she had survived worse in order to become a good cop, to accomplish her mission.
And everything she’d survived, she’d survived in its name.
Acknowledgments
Mike Oeming drew my first-ever convention sketch in 1994. He was working on Judge Dredd, and as a hopeful artist at his first con, it was a genuine thrill to interact with one of the guys “behind the curtain.” Mike’s austere linework made me a lifelong fan, and I was lucky enough to get a second sketch at my first con as a pro in 2001, shortly after the debut of Powers. The sketch? Brian Michael Bendis, Powers cocreator, ordering Mike to return to work.
Since that show, I’ve been lucky enough to work with Mike on an X-Men comic and maintain both a personal and professional relationship. I’d never met Brian, though I’m equally a fan of his work and story: balding Midwest Jew writer made good, a fortune and glory tale I’d hoped to re-create if not best (I’m still coming for you, Bendis). Thankfully, fate and opportunity brought we yidden together and I’m proud to say that I’ve met and worked with one of the most exciting, endearing writers in my field, a creator who is generous to collaborators and offers a unique (and dialogue-rich!) take on sequential art. With Mike, Brian has created one of the most engaging female protagonists in comics today in Deena Pilgrim. Her voice and presence ride between confident and broken, determined and despairing, loyal and lost, and both boisterous and neurotic. Deena goes the distance, personality-wise, with another famous comic book hero, a web-slinging hero upon whom the Bendis stamp has long been imprinted. But unlike Spidey and some in her immediate circle, Deena wears her enthusiasm, guilt, and turmoil for all to see. She is Bendis and Oeming unfettered by masks, honest and open, offering a grounded point of view in a world where the impossible is just another Monday. Thanks, guys, for allowing me the chance to speed through your world and expand the history of an amazing character I’ve very much come to know and admire.
Thanks, as well, to Nicole Sohl at Macmillan Books for making the editing process a breeze, and to Brendan Deneen, who was my agent, then my editor, but always my friend. An additional high five to Charlie Olsen, who always has my back. Special acknowledgment to Tony Lee for putting Brendan and me together at a Comic Book Legal Defense Fund gathering, emphatically stating how we had to work together. Well, here you go, Tony. That’ll be $25.99 hardcover, please.
And last, but by no means least, extra-special thanks and love to Laurie, Jack, Owen, Olivia, and Connor. It’s never fun when Dad suddenly drifts away, staring into space during a family outing because he’s plotting new ways to make poor, unsuspecting characters suffer. It’s even worse when he disappears each night to orchestrate the horrific results on the printed page until 2:00 A.M. Thank you for being my amazing, supportive partners-in-crime, and for giving me another shot to make good every time I return from the struggle. I love you all. You are MY Powers.
Neil Kleid
About the Authors
Brian Michael Bendis is an award-winning comics creator, New York Times bestseller, and the current writer of All New X-Men and Uncanny X-Men, which debuted at number one on national sales charts. He is one of the premier architects of Marvel’s Ultimate comics line and has also consulted on many film projects, including the Iron Man trilogy and Guardians of the Galaxy. He has won five Eisner Awards, including two for Best Writer of the Year, and was honored with the prestigious Inkpot Award for comic art excellence. He lives in Portland, Oregon. You can sign up for email updates here.
Neil Kleid is an Xeric Award–winning graphic novelist and authored Ninety Candles, a graphic novella about life, death, legacy, and comics, as well as the graphic novels Brownsville and The Big Kahn. He has written for nearly every comic book publisher in the industry, adapted Jack London’s Call of the Wild into sequentials for Penguin Books, did the opposite for Marvel Comics’ seminal Spider-Man story line “Kraven’s Last Hunt,” and collaborates on the digital creator-owned series Kings and Canvas, with artists Jake Allen and Frank Reynoso for Monkeybrain Comics. By day, Neil is the art director for the Topps Company’s digital suite of trading card apps. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and four kids, where he roots for the Tigers, grills like a king, and writes like a champ. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
POWERS. Copyright © 2016 by Jinxworld Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio
Cover photographs: woman and heroes © Shane Rebenschied; buildings © Getty Images; street © Paul Gooney/Arcangel Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
&n
bsp; ISBN 978-1-250-07407-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-8564-6 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466885646
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: March 2016