Ghost turned and walked to my closed door. He opened it. He turned back around to look at me. The fabric around his mouth was crinkled a bit again.
“And about your earlier question. The circumcision poll? I’m a no-hood Ned,” he said. There was a smile in his voice. With that, Ghost left my office. He closed the door behind himself.
I fell back into my chair. I was stunned, and not just because I was the subject of a formal Guild investigation. Ghost was a living legend and a pillar of the Hero community. Him saying what he had as he walked out was like one of the heads on Mount Rushmore coming to life and sticking its tongue out at you.
Wow Ghost, I thought. Too much information.
After the shock of Ghost’s parting words wore off a bit, I turned my attention back to the Meta who had killed Eugene. Ghost has inadvertently given me a clue as to who she was. Thanks to Ghost jogging my memory, I even now thought I knew the killer’s alias. Or, at least the alias she used to go by.
Killshot.
CHAPTER 18
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Shadow said. “All we need to do is find this Killshot woman, subdue her without getting our heads blown off, prevent the Heroes’ Guild from taking your license away from you, and keep you from going to prison for assault on the security guard in the casino. That about sum it all up?”
I nodded. Shadow grimaced.
“Sounds easy enough,” she said sarcastically. “What shall we do after we accomplish all that? Part the Red Sea? Walk on water?”
“Sure,” I said. “And after we do that, maybe on the seventh day, we’ll rest.” I winced a bit as I walked on the gym treadmill. Though I was on the mend from my recent adventures, I was still not one hundred percent. Normally I ran, not walked. I felt like the meatheads at the gym were looking at me with contempt for merely walking. Perhaps it was my imagination.
Shadow and I were at the gym we both belonged to. She stood next to the treadmill I was on as I painfully walked. Our gym was not the clean, shiny, machine-filled gym sporting dedicated yoga rooms and juice bars that high-end gyms tended to be. Our gym, located in the basement of a building in the warehouse district of Astor City, had the bare essentials: barbells, dumbbells, plates, kettlebells, benches, weight racks, chin up and dip bars, a boxing and sparring room, a handful of cardio machines, and enough dried sweat over years of accumulation to disgustingly salt every French fry in the world. There was not even a sign outside announcing the gym’s presence to the world. The gym’s owner figured that the people who needed to know about his gym would find out about it through word of mouth. This was perhaps not the world’s soundest marketing plan. He was a punch-drunk ex-boxer, though, not a Wharton Business School graduate with a marketing degree. The people who frequented our gym fit into three categories: dedicated athletes who were not interested in frills; people who operated in gray areas of the law and who appreciated the fact the gym was not a stickler for official identification; and the occasional Metahuman who wanted to be able to use his or her powers without being gawked at. Our gym was the kind of place where members would roll their eyes at you if you dared enter wearing makeup, cologne, or hair gel. If you walked in wearing a headband, they might tar and feather you. After relieving you of your valuables, of course.
This was the first time I had worked out since Clara had died. Before then, I had worked out religiously. A Hero needed to keep up his strength, after all. One never knew when one would stumble across a supervillain in dire need of a thrashing. But, since crawling into a bottle, I had not been going to the gym. In light of the fact that I was the one who had been getting thrashed lately, it was time for me to climb back on the wagon. Or in this case, the treadmill.
I slapped the red stop button on the treadmill. It ground to a halt. I was sweating and breathing heavily, much more than I should have been in light of the vigorous workouts I was able to put myself through when I was healthy and not drinking. I was not yet physically up to leaping back into my normal workout routine consisting of running, heavy weight training, and sparring. One must walk before one runs. In my case, literally.
I gingerly stepped off the treadmill. I was still in pain, but not nearly as much as I had been in days before. Though I was still one big bruise, the marks on my body had faded somewhat.
Shadow looked me up and down, eying me critically. Her fitted workout gear was all black. Big shock.
“You don’t look a hot mess anymore,” she said. “You’re still a mess, but not a hot mess. It’s progress.”
“Gee thanks,” I said. “You’ll make me swoon with all these flowery compliments.”
“If you’re going to swoon, have the decency to move to the other side of the gym first. I can’t be seen associating with a man who swoons.”
I slowly made my way to the rack of dumbbells with Shadow in tow. I moved past the heavy dumbbells I normally used, knowing I was not up to them yet. I started to pick up a lighter pair. My body shrieked in protest. I put them back down. I eased over to some dumbbells that were of a weight I would have scoffed at in better times. My body shrieked again when I picked them up, but less loudly than before. Better.
I moved over a few steps to face the mirror that took up the entire wall of this side of the gym. I started doing bicep curls. Despite the light weight, I struggled. It felt like my body was held together by chewing gum and paper clips. Ugh. No pain, no gain.
Shadow started doing dumbbell curls next to me. She was doing them with the heaviest dumbbells the gym offered. I have seen anvils that weighed less.
“Must be nice to have super strength,” I said to her through gritted teeth.
“It’s useful in opening pickle jars,” she agreed. Unlike mine, her breathing was unchanged and even. I’m not sure if some of the men around us could have said the same. Shadow’s clothes were tight, and her dramatic curves were on full display. Through the mirror in front of me, I could see several guys checking her out appreciatively. They were careful to not be too obvious about it. Smart move. Shadow liked being stared at about as much as a grizzly bear did. Despite having a body a centerfold would be envious of, there was something about her that hinted of menace, of barely contained violence. Even here at the gym, where Shadow was a fixture and no one was a shrinking violet, people gave her a wide berth. As soon as we had moved into the dumbbell area, the people who had been here almost immediately moved elsewhere. The upside of that was Shadow and I could speak freely with little fear of being overheard.
“So what makes you so sure you know the Meta who killed Eugene?” Shadow asked.
I put the weights down on the floor after completing my repetitions. My arms felt like frayed spaghetti. I told myself I could squeeze a few more reps out. No. I did not want to do more reps than Shadow and show her up. I glanced at her. Her body was rock still with her upper arms tight against her body as her forearms pumped up and down slowly using perfect form. She did not seem worried about being shown up. I did not pick my weights back up, though. Better to be safe than sorry, I thought. I sank gratefully down on a nearby bench. I panted. Don’t want to embarrass my friend.
“When Ghost was in my office and mentioned my Trials,” I said, still catching my breath, “I suddenly realized why that Meta seemed so familiar all this time. The body language, the powers, the height, the weight—it all matches. Though it’s been many years, I am almost certain Eugene’s killer went through the Hero Trials with me using the code name Killshot. She washed out before passing them. I’m not sure why. One day she was there, and the next day she was not. That was not terribly unusual. People who go through the Trials wash out left and right. There is a less than ten percent passage rate. I remember what they said the first day of the Trials—’Look to the left. Now look to the right. There is a high probability both people you looked at will never pass the Trials and become Heroes.’”
Shadow finished her curls. She put her weights down.
“And yet somehow you squeaked through.”
“Probably because of my charm.”
Shadow considered that.
“No, probably not,” she said.
“Just because you seem to be immune to my charm,” I said, “that doesn’t mean the rest of the world is. Anyway, it’s Heroes’ Guild policy to have potential Heroes go through the Trials without revealing their real identities to their fellow potential Heroes. It would never do to have a person’s secret identity blown before he or she even becomes a licensed Hero. Even I had to wear a costume and mask and use a code name during the Trials. As a result, I had never seen Killshot unmasked or out of costume during the Trials, so I had not known back then what she looked like out of uniform. The woman who killed Eugene and the woman I knew as Killshot shared similarities, though. Unless my memory betrays me, they are about the same height and weight. Killshot’s powers had been plasma-based and had given her some super strength and had allowed her to fly. I do not remember Killshot being able to shoot energy beams through her left eye, though.” I shrugged. “So that part doesn’t match up. If the two women really are one and the same, she must have developed that ability after I knew her.”
“From potential Hero standing for the Trials to assassin,” Shadow said. “That’s a pretty big change. Are you sure it’s really the same person?”
“No,” I said. “But the similarities are too big to be ignored. Besides, neither you nor I have been able to find through our contacts anyone who knows who this woman is. It’s the only potential lead we’ve got.” I shook my head at myself. “The female Meta seemed familiar from the moment I laid eyes on her in the Perk Up coffee shop. I’m shocked it took Ghost mentioning the Trials for me to make the connection between her and Killshot. I must have killed off a bunch of my brain cells in my recent walks down alcohol lane.”
“Dunbar’s number,” Shadow said.
“What?”
Shadow shook her head at me in mock sadness.
“You know, you ought to do more with your free time than just working out and ogling girlie magazines,” she said. That just showed what she knew. I did not ogle girlie magazines. I read them for the articles. “Dunbar’s number refers to the concept that the human brain can only retain a limited number of names, faces, and relationships. The number is theorized to be around a hundred and fifty. You meet and deal with a lot of people. Maybe Dunbar’s number is why you did not think of Killshot until Ghost triggered you.”
“Dunbar’s number, eh? Hmmm. I learn something new every day. Maybe that is why.”
“So what’s the next step? Slap a photo of Killshot from the casino’s cameras on milk cartons with the caption ‘Have you seen this Metahuman?’”
“No, but we’ll save that as our backup plan,” I said. “First I’ll go to the Heroes’ Guild and see what information they can give me on Killshot. Her real name, last known address, that sort of thing.”
“Wait, I thought that kind of information about Heroes and potential Heroes was held in the strictest of confidence. How else can Heroes with secret identities preserve them? The Guild is not allowed to give that information out to just any Tom, Dick, or Harry who asks for it. Even when a Hero is asking for it.”
“What you’re saying about that information being confidential is true,” I said. I smiled. It did not hurt nearly as much to do so as it had days before. “But you’re forgetting about my fabled charm that you’re inexplicably immune to. I’ll use it to smooth-talk the info we need out of the Guild.”
“I see,” Shadow said. She looked dubious. “And when that doesn’t work, then what?”
I stood back up. I had rested long enough.
“Yea of little faith,” I said. I sighed. “Doctor Watson never doubted Sherlock Holmes this much. I need to upgrade to a more trusting sidekick.”
“Sidekick? Surely you mean partner.”
“Whatever.”
CHAPTER 19
The day after my workout with Shadow, I pulled into a parking space reserved for licensed Heroes near the building that housed the Heroes’ Guild National Headquarters in Washington, D.C. I felt strange parking there, probably because I was allowed to park there. Generally, I made a habit of parking in whatever parking spot was closest to where I was going, even if the parking spot was reserved for someone else. The only exception I made to that was spots designated for the handicapped. I never parked in those. I considered those spots to be off-limits to the non-handicapped. People who were genuinely handicapped had a hard enough time without me taking their parking spaces. What Ginny had said about me at the Astor City Museum of Fine Art was probably correct: I had a juvenile problem with authority. It was one of the reasons I was self-employed. God help me if I lost my Hero’s license and was forced to go to work for someone else. On my resume, under relevant job skills, I would have to list insubordination.
Washington, D.C. was only two hours south of Astor City. Since I had left Astor City before sunrise, the Heroes’ Guild building was just now opening its doors to the public for the day. I got out of my car and walked to the front of the building. The gleaming white marble building sparkled in the bright morning sun. Since the exterior of it was designed along the lines of an ancient Greek temple, it looked a little like the Lincoln Memorial. I paused in front of it and drank it in. On top of the building was mounted a huge bronze statue of Omega Man. Omega Man was widely to be considered the greatest Hero of all time. He had died in 1966. He had sacrificed himself to destroy the spaceship containing the V’Loth queen back when that alien race had invaded Earth and nearly conquered all of humanity. The queen controlled the V’Loth telepathically. Her death had put the aliens’ invasion to an end.
There was a longstanding rumor among the superstitious that the Omega Man statue would come to life if the Earth again faced an existential crisis. I knew that was not true. Despite our powers, we Heroes were still merely men and women, not gods. If I actually were a god, God help us. My first divine decree would probably be to ban women from wearing clothing. Well, some women.
I felt a lump in my throat as I looked at the building and the massive statue of Omega Man on top of it. I had been here several times before, but the building and what it stood for never ceased to instill a sense of awe in me. The building reminded me that I belonged to a group of men and women who, often at great personal cost, had saved the world more times than the average person even knew about. Though I had a hard time taking myself—or much else—seriously, I knew I belonged to an elite group of powerful men and women who used their powers for the public welfare rather than to enrich themselves. I was proud to count myself in their number. I tried to live up to the ideals of the Guild. I often fell short. Me letting Eugene get killed was but the most recent and dramatic example of that. But, I did try. I would keep trying.
My thoughts were interrupted by raised voices. Across the street, a handful of picketers marched up and down the sidewalk. I squinted, peering at some of the signs they carried. “Heroes are Zeroes,” “We can save ourselves!” “Heroes are tools of the police state,” “Superhero=Gov’t Sanctioned Supervillain,” “Heroes are evil,” “America is for Americans, not Freaks!” “One man’s god is another man’s devil,” some of the signs read. Or at least, that was what it appeared the people who had written the signs had been trying to say. In some cases, it was hard to tell. The spelling on some of the signage was creative, to say the least. If any of the protesters was a closet Meta with the superpower to spell everything correctly, he was keeping that ability on the down-low.
Protesters often marched outside the Guild building. They were walking proof not everyone held Heroes in high regard. The ranks of the protesters usually swelled when there was a Hero in the news. Though my run-in with Eugene’s killer had made Astor City local news, I doubted if the encounter had been reported on this far away from Astor City. This group had probably never heard of me. Their loss. Rather than this group marching for any specific reason, it was probably composed of Hero-haters with nothing better to do w
ith their time than to protest.
Protesters used to march directly in front of the Guild building on the large lawn in front of it, intimidating potential visitors. They did this despite being arrested and carted off repeatedly by local police for trespassing. They would simply come back as soon as they got out of jail, their numbers augmented due to the free publicity their arrests got them. Then, the Guild had one of our members with the power of teleportation start to teleport the trespassers off the lawn into the vats of the nearest sewage treatment plant. Though that had not been my idea, I wished it had been as it was the sort of tactic I would come up with. After a day or two of that, the protesters learned to do their marching across the street and not on Guild property.
I knew the good work many Heroes did, often at great personal sacrifice. The protesters irritated me. Seeing them and their signs, I could not help myself. I walked across the immaculately manicured lawn in front of the Guild building. I stopped on the sidewalk directly across the street from the picketers. Most of them looked like they were in need of a bath and a high school education.
“You all holding a Mensa meeting over there?” I shouted over to them. Some of them stopped marching back and forth and stared at me. It was like looking into the dumb eyes of cows whose grazing was interrupted. “I hate to intrude on your festival of ignorance, but the word ‘evil’ some of you have on your signs is spelled with an i, not an a. It’s an easy mistake to make. You all are probably distracted with thoughts of the intricacies of quantum mechanics, after all. Kinda makes you look foolish, though.”
“When gods walk the Earth, mortals are trampled underfoot,” a dark-skinned man dressed only in dirty jeans yelled back at me. I was taken aback for a moment. What he said was unexpectedly both intelligent and poetic. Then the man crowed like a rooster. Genius and crazy are close cousins, and often share the same residence.
“You trying to be funny, mister?” one of the other protesters shouted at me. She was a white woman with dreadlocks. Perhaps I was not culturally broad-minded enough, but I thought dreadlocks on white people always looked terrible. This woman looked like she had a particularly messy rat’s nest on her head.
Superhero Detective Series (Book 3): Killshot Page 14