I smiled to myself. I pulled up my shirt a bit. It just proved what I always thought: even Heroes were suckers for a good scar.
CHAPTER 21
After leaving Aurora’s office, I walked down the entire length of the station spoke her office was on. Then, I went back to the Promenade and walked around a bit. After about twenty minutes or so since I left Aurora’s office, I figured enough time had passed.
I went back to the corridor her office was on. When I walked its length before, I had made note with my powers of the water lines that ran through the floors and ceilings. Much as I had in the casino when I fought the woman who killed Eugene, I caused the lines to rupture. Only this time, instead of merely creating fog, I caused steam to fill each of the offices running up and down the corridor. I was careful to not make it too hot. I wanted it to be hot enough to be extremely uncomfortable, but not hot enough to hurt someone. These were my colleagues, after all. In the corridor itself, I created a fog so thick you could barely see past your face.
The effects of what I did were almost immediate. Cries filled the corridor as Heroes fled the steam in their offices. Though my vision was just as obscured as everyone else’s, thanks to my ability to sense the water in people’s bodies, I could “see” where everyone was after a fashion. I easily dodged people as I made my way back to Aurora’s office. Except for when I needed to move around someone, I ran my hand along the walls as I walked, counting the office doors. I had noted earlier Aurora’s was the sixth one on the right.
“Please evacuate Administrative Wing A,” came a loud computerized voice from all around me. I almost jumped, not expecting it. “There is a malfunction in the water system there. Follow the sound of the emergency alert to make your way to the Promenade until we are able to effect repairs.” Off in the direction of where I had come from, there was a loud ping. After a few seconds, it went off again. It reoccurred in a regular pattern. Soon everyone in the corridor was heading toward the sound. I had not expected the space station’s protocols to help me clear the area, but one does not look a gift computerized horse in the mouth.
By feel and count, I located Aurora’s office. My powers told me it was empty. I stepped inside. I closed and locked the door. I quickly strode to the desk and sat down. Though I continued to let the steam come out of the ruptured water line in the room, I created a bubble of clear air and normal temperature around myself and the desk. I did so both so I could see and to reduce the chance of damaging Aurora’s computer. I did not want to stop the steam altogether. I suspected the station’s computer system would be able to detect it if I had. I did not want awkward questions being asked later why the problem in Aurora’s office seemed to miraculously fix itself while the problem still existed in the other offices. I was taking a big enough chance as it was. I did not want to risk drawing further attention to myself.
Fortunately, Aurora’s computer was still logged into the Guild’s records. I was already familiar with the Guild’s record system, so navigating it was not a problem. I never had enjoyed this level of clearance to access the more sensitive parts of it, though.
I worked as quickly as I could. I pulled up the records from the year I stood from the Trials. From there, I found the Guild’s file regarding Killshot. I pulled it up. The information filled the screen along with a picture of her.
Actually, it was not a picture. It was an artist’s rendering of her that was so well done, it made me think it was a picture at first. The file on her told me Killshot unconsciously emitted a low level of radiation from her face that interfered with the ability of electronics to capture her likeness. Hence the drawing the Guild had of her rather than the normal photo it took of all registered Metahumans. The file noted Killshot had the potential to channel that radiation and use it as a weapon in the form of a plasma blast, but that at the time of the Trials, she had not yet realized that potential. She had moderate super strength, heightened physical durability, and could fly. Everything in the file confirmed my suspicions: Killshot was definitely the Metahuman who had killed Eugene. Looking at the drawing of her, there was no doubt of that. Though Killshot’s face was a bit fuller and her hair was different in the drawing than it was now, she was absolutely the woman I was looking for.
I pulled out my smartphone. I took a picture of the drawing of Killshot’s face that filled the screen. I used my powers to check to see if anyone was approaching. They told me the broad corridor and the offices adjoining it were still all clear. At least for now. I needed to hurry up before I got caught. I was under investigation by the Guild as it was. If I got caught accessing Guild records without the proper authorization, I would be on an express train to being defrocked. I went back to reading Killshot’s file.
Killshot’s real name was Brooke Cantrell. She was born in Maine, though her last known address was listed as being in Chicago, Illinois. The file listed her vital statistics and her social security number. I hastily tapped all that information into a note-taking app on my phone. The members of her immediate family were dead. Other than the Hero who sponsored Killshot’s application to become a licensed Hero, there were no known associates listed. Her Sponsor was Arthur Barker, also known as the Hero Scarlet Centurion. While he still retained his license, the Guild listed Mr. Barker as an inactive Hero who had retired from both being a Hero and from his day job as an architect. His permanent address was in Atlantic City, New Jersey. I wrote down Mr. Barker’s contact information.
The biographical part of Killshot’s file did not contain any more information that seemed relevant. I moved on to skim the Guild’s assessment of Killshot during the Trials. Her psychological evaluation was of particular interest:
Hero candidate Killshot, while a proficient martial artist and Metahuman combatant, does not have the proper temperament to be granted a Hero’s license. Despite her pleasing demeanor, charisma, and surface equanimity, our testing indicates she has a low level of empathy, sociopathic tendencies, delusions of grandeur, and is overly aggressive and violent. In the opinion of this writer, Killshot will almost certainly abuse the rights and privileges accorded to her should she become a Hero. I recommend that she not be permitted to complete the Trials. If she is allowed to proceed with the Trials and successfully completes the non-psychological portion, the Guild ultimately will have to deny her a cape because of her unsuitable and unstable psychological profile. I further recommend that the Guild closely monitor Killshot’s future activities and whereabouts as there is a high probability she will use her powers despite not being licensed.
After reading Killshot’s psychological profile, I was tempted to pull up my own. I already felt like I had been too long in Aurora’s office, though, to give in to curiosity about what the Guild had thought of me when I had stood for the Trials. Besides, what if what they had said was not flattering? In light of my recent failures, I did not think my ego could stand any more blows.
I returned Aurora’s computer back to the screen she had it on when I entered. I got up, adjusted the chair, and took a couple of steps back. I took a careful look at the desk. Everything looked the way it had when I had walked in.
I went to the door. My powers told me no one was coming. I opened the door. I walked out into the still fog-filled corridor. I walked back towards the Promenade. When I arrived there, people were milling around. No one seemed to pay me any untoward attention as I joined them. I then broke away from the group, and went to walk around the Promenade some more. After a while, Administrative Wing A was out of the range of my powers. Though I could not see it, I imagined the fog in the corridor slowly dissipated while the steam hissing into each office stopped immediately and was replaced by a trickle of water. I suspected the Guild would have the water pipes repaired soon enough.
As innocent seeming as a babe in the woods, I eventually made my way to another transporter. I stepped inside and stated my destination to the computer. I stood still, preparing to have the atoms of my body torn apart and transported back down to the Guild’s Was
hington, D.C. building. It looked as though I was getting away with looking at Killshot’s records. Perhaps it is true what they say, I thought. In space, no one can hear you steam. That was my last thought before I dematerialized and faded out of existence for an instant. In my defense, transporter technology was known to cause a short-lived impairment of judgment. I did not know if I would have come up with such a terrible pun left to my own devices.
I arrived back in the transporter chamber in D.C. without incident. I walked back around to the front of the Guild building. The protesters across the street were still picketing. There was a sign carried by one of the protesters that either was new or that I had not noticed before. It read “We don’t want Big Brother watching over us!” If they only knew.
I got into my car. I pulled out of the parking space, and started the drive back to Astor City. Had I gotten away scot-free? Until I was on the interstate heading north, I felt like a Hero might land in front of my car and take me into custody. Since one did not, I must have gotten away with my little intelligence gathering operation. For now, at least. Though there were no surveillance cameras on the space station, some sharp Hero—Aurora or Ghost, maybe—would surely realize all those water pipes would not fail all at once on their own. In addition to Aurora having spoken with me, a transporter log was kept of everyone who beamed into and out of the station. Though the Guild might not be able to prove I was the cause of the incident, they might suspect I was because of my powers.
Oh well. The Guild could just add this incident to the list of charges it was investigating me for. Frankly, I did not care. If the information I got off of Aurora’s computer led to me finding Killshot, it would be completely worth it.
CHAPTER 22
“There’s an invention two brothers named Orville and Wilbur Wright came up with over a century ago,” Shadow said as our Amtrak train pulled out of Astor City Central Station. “It’s called an airplane. Metal tube that flies through the sky? It saves loads of time. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“I have,” I said. “But with airport security as tight as it is, smuggling my gun onto a plane would be difficult. On the other hand, there are pizza places that have better security than Amtrak.” I kept my voice low so our fellow passengers would not hear us. Amtrak’s northeast corridor was a busy one, and the train was packed. I felt the comforting weight of my gun under my jacket. Having to take a firearm off of the security guard in the Golden Horseshoe Casino had taught me to not go around unarmed if it could be avoided. On Amtrak, I had been able to board the train without going through any security precautions. There had been a few drug-sniffing dogs and their handlers wandering around Astor City Central Station, but since I was carrying a gun and not drugs, they had not bothered with me.
“Besides, a nice long train ride will give us a chance to chat,” I said to Shadow.
Shadow reached into her overnight bag under her feet. She pulled out a Kindle. With a pointed look at me, she flipped open its leather cover. She began reading. So much for us chatting.
I felt and heard the train ease out of the station. I leaned back in my aisle chair, settling in for the over three hour ride from Astor City Central Station to Atlantic City, New Jersey. We were on our way to pay a visit to Killshot’s Hero Sponsor, Scarlet Centurion. It was the last lead we had based on the information I had gotten out of the Guild’s records. The other leads had proven to be dead ends.
Shadow and I had already looked into the last known address the Guild had for Killshot. It was for a small apartment complex in Chicago. According to the apartment’s manager, Brooke Cantrell had moved out of it around ten years before. Shadow and I had also spoken to some of Killshot’s former neighbors, at least the ones who still lived in the apartment building. Most had not remembered anyone named Brooke Cantrell; the handful who had remembered her had no idea of how to locate her.
The apartment manager did not have a forwarding address for Brooke, or an emergency contact listed for her. Registered Metas were required by the Hero Act to keep their current address on file with both the federal government and the Guild. It came as no surprise to me a Metahuman assassin like Killshot did not strictly adhere to the law. She probably did not come to a complete halt at stop signs, either. Cheeky scofflaw.
Knowing Killshot’s legal name and social security number had not led to useful information, either. She did not have a criminal record. That was not evidence she had not committed crimes, of course; it showed merely she had not been caught committing crimes. I hoped to make a change in that very soon. Thanks to some contacts I had with the United States Internal Revenue Service, I learned Killshot had not filed a tax return under her legal name and social security number since she had been asked to leave the Trials.
In short, it looked like Brooke Cantrell had dropped off the face of the Earth once she had washed out as a Hero candidate ten years before. The fact she had not filed a tax return since then told me she was not making a living legally. In light of the calmness with which she had killed Eugene and how adeptly she had fought me off, I had a feeling Killshot had not spent the past ten years picking up cans on the side of the road and taking them to recycling centers to pick up spare cash. If she was not a full-time professional Metahuman mercenary and assassin, I would eat my hat.
Shadow and I got off the train in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. After a brief layover at the Philly train station, we got on a New Jersey commuter train heading to Atlantic City. In a short while, the Atlantic City skyline—such as it was—came into view. The skyline consisted pretty much exclusively of casinos and hotels. Atlantic City was on the ocean. In its heyday, it was a bustling resort town, with visitors from all around the country coming to the town to enjoy its beaches and to do some gambling. This was not its heyday. Thanks to casinos springing up like mushrooms after a rain in surrounding states—like the Golden Horseshoe in Maryland, for example—the gambling monopoly Atlantic City had once enjoyed had been dealt a crippling blow. Many of the casinos, which had once thrived and printed money, now flirted with bankruptcy. I had no idea what would happen to the city if all of the casinos went under. It looked like they would do so sooner or later if something did not change. Since the casinos were the main source of employment for locals, them going under would devastate the area. Something needed to be done to avert that economic disaster, and soon. But I was a Hero, not a city planner. Preventing a region’s economy from collapsing was well outside of my area of expertise. As it was, I was having enough trouble tracking down a single Metahuman. Perhaps if I managed to find Killshot, I would then tackle saving Atlantic City. Then maybe I would wipe out malaria and address climate change. One thing at a time.
After arriving at the Atlantic City train station, Shadow and I took a cab to a cheap hotel I had reserved a room in near the Tropicana Casino. We left our bags there, and then hailed another cab. I gave the driver the address for Arthur Barker, formerly known as the Hero Scarlet Centurion.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to not make an appointment to meet with Mr. Barker?” Shadow asked in the cab. “What if he’s not at home?” Shadow looked out at the dilapidated homes we were passing. Homeless people dotted too many corners. “What if he flew to Las Vegas to do some gambling in a non-shithole? For that matter, what if he is home? He might not react well to two strange Metas showing up on his doorstep. I know I wouldn’t. Especially if one of those Metas is you.”
“If he’s not home, we’ll wait for him,” I said. “As for why I did not tell him we are coming, what would you have me say if I called him first? ‘Mr. Barker, you don’t know me, but I illegally gained access to your secret identity. I’m looking for the woman you sponsored to take the Hero Trials. Be a peach and tell this strange voice on the phone where I can find her.’”
“And if you tell him the same story in person, you expect him to believe you why? Because of your trustworthy face?”
“I was planning on relying on my charm again.”
“You rely on yo
ur charm a lot,” Shadow said. “As far as I can tell, it usually does not work out so well for you.”
I sighed.
“Unfortunately, you’re right,” I said. But, today could be the day my luck turns around.”
“Hope springs eternal.”
The cab dropped us off at the address I had for Mr. Barker. The home at the address was a two-story, white clapboard, well-maintained house with a small front yard. It seemed to be in a nice neighborhood, something Atlantic City had too few of. The yard was enclosed by a small, black iron wrought fence. Shadow and I walked up the stone walkway to the front porch. I rang the doorbell.
“Let me do the talking,” I said to her.
“Of course,” she said. Her dark eyes sparkled. “I wouldn’t dream of missing the chance to see your charm in action. Maybe I’ll learn something.”
No one answered the door at first. I was beginning to think no one was home. Then I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. The door opened. Since the Guild’s records had told me Mr. Barker was 79-years-old, I was expecting a shriveled old man. The man at the door was anything but shriveled. Though the man’s almost white hair and the wrinkles on his face were a testament to his advanced age, he stood ramrod straight with posture that would be the envy of a drill sergeant. He was a bit taller than I, and had broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist. Since he had on shorts and a tee shirt, his arms and legs were bare. They were corded with muscle. On the top of each of his forearms was a large horizontal lump under the skin about six or seven inches long. If it was some kind of tumor, it was the weirdest looking one I had ever seen.
The man’s clear blue eyes looked at me and Shadow with curiosity and a hint of caution. His eyes were the color of robin eggs.
“Can I help you two with something?” the man asked.
“We’re looking for Arthur Barker,” I said.
Superhero Detective Series (Book 3): Killshot Page 16