Subject 12

by S. W. Douglas

  So that left the other three players. Jackhammer I ruled out immediately. He was about as subtle as a brick wall across a highway. Yes, he was capable of it and had proven it many times over the years; the way he tricked Silver Bullet into exposing himself to the solar radiation that killed him was legendary. The thing was, though, if he wanted me dead he'd have tried himself or gotten The Justice Fiend to try for him. Poison just wasn't his style --- and he wouldn't have risked his wife. If he'd wanted to kill her he would have done it, and I judged him to be a man not only above such things but in love with her, even after all these years. I could envy that kind of relationship.

  It was possible Corrine was working alone and had taken some placebo to make it look like someone had drugged her. That particular bit of logic, however, fell by the wayside when the simplest test was placed on it.

  If Steamroller wanted me dead, why didn't she just crush me into a cube the size of a craps die and flush me down the toilet when nobody was looking?

  Raymond could have done something, but I didn't see as he had any kind of grudge against me or Corrine. It didn't take him out of the running, but it did put a big question mark next to his name.

  That left Wildcard. Wildcard was insane. Nobody doubted that. That made him my primary suspect except for one nagging question: Was he really as crazy as everyone assumed?

  I had my doubts. Then again, I had my doubts about everything. I'd spent too long running black ops to trust what was first presented me when the chips were down.

  Investigational techniques weren't exactly stressed in Alpha Zulu, and my time in the military before I signed on with Kinsey hadn't been spent as military police. Still, I was no dummy, and I could usually be counted on to be a decent judge of character. That's why I wasn't dismissing Raymond out of hand. You didn't get to be a super hero who saves the world without learning how to kill. Or knowing that it's sometimes necessary to do so to achieve your objective.

  I didn't know what I intended to find out by talking to people, but I really didn't have a choice if I wasn't going to just fly the hell away and not look back.

  I wasn't going to do that, though. Alpha Zulu was enough to worry about being on my ass all the time. If I had to keep looking over my shoulder for The Justice Fiend as well I'd go a little batty. If I ditched Jackhammer at this point I'd find myself top of the charts with a bullet on the Heroes' Guild hit list.

  Not exactly being left alone, really. More like the exact fucking opposite.

  Goddamn it.

  Wildcard had been assigned to the multipurpose room in the back. It had an attached bathroom, a fair-sized plasma TV less than a year old with a satellite hookup, a sewing machine, some exercise equipment that looked quite unused and out of place, a computer connected to the household network, a water cooler with a fan-tailed goldfish swimming in the tank, a DVD player with a limited but nice selection of movies and classic TV shows, and a large bookcase that dominated one wall. The view out the windows was spectacular. I was slightly jealous.

  Wildcard hadn't even shut his door, so when I knocked and looked in he just waved lazily in my direction. I came in and looked around for a moment before I said anything. He hadn't taken his breakfast dishes to the kitchen, but otherwise nothing looked out of place.

  "This is nice. Makes my room look like a broom closet, though I think it's a little less cluttered than yours."

  If he appreciated anything I said he made no sign of it. He just laid there and seemingly stared at the ceiling, though he could have been looking at me through those damn green goggles without letting on. His suit continued to change with his breathing.

  "Did Jackhammer tell you he'd given me the run of the place?"

  If he responded it was a nod so subtle it was almost subliminal.

  "I'm sure you heard about what happened over breakfast this morning." I figured what the hell. If he wasn't going to try to interact with me any more than he was already, why bother to make small talk? "Jackhammer says Raymond pointed his finger at Venom pretty solidly over what happened."

  That got his attention. He turned his head and stared at me with those blasted jade bubbles.

  "I don't think she did it. Of course, I don't know her as well as you do."

  He shook his head and gestured in a way I didn't understand. It wasn't any sign language I'd ever seen, not that I knew any of them. Hell, I barely spoke English.

  "Are you saying you don't think she did either?"

  He nodded emphatically and sat up. His costume rippled radically through three different color schemes before settling down to an annoying orange-based one that probably indicated he was irritated. Mood clothing. What a concept.

  "She struck me as the kind of person who wouldn't betray a friend like that. Besides, if she was actually trying to kill me she had plenty of opportunity last night when she was watching over me in my room."

  The orange shifted to more of a saffron with pink highlights. He tilted his head quizzically. I felt the slightest edge of menace in his posture.

  Interesting.

  "She talked to me for a few minutes after giving me an antidote to whatever she gave me back in Rio. She seemed upset over doping me in the first place, though it took me a while to figure it out. She hates killing, doesn't she?"

  Saffron shifted to an attractive emerald green and the pink faded quickly thereafter. The faces stopped looking angry. He nodded slowly, as if remembering.

  "And she was concerned that without knowing more about my body chemistry she couldn't dope me without risking killing me, so that tells me she objected when the four of you were planning out what you were going to do to me in Rio." I wasn't asking, I was putting pieces in place out loud.

  He nodded again. The shifting was almost deliberate now, the colors and faces reflecting something I couldn't read, but looked almost like an argument between the king of clubs and the queens of clubs and hearts, with the king of diamonds coming along almost as an afterthought. None of the other face cards made an appearance, though I thought I caught a glimpse of the jack of spades once.

  Very interesting.

  "Well, I think we've ruled Venom out as a suspect, don't you?"

  His nod was very emphatic with some thrown in gestures for good measure.

  I smiled. This wasn't as hard as I'd been afraid it was going to be.

  "That just leaves Steamroller, Jackhammer himself, and Raymond. Unless you think I had something to do with it."

  He tilted his head and then his chest started to shake in what I guessed was silent laughter.

  "Right. So, since I'm as innocent as a lamb here," I said with a wry smile that just made him shake harder and his suit shift to a surprisingly mirthful blue, "I guess we have to rule out Jackhammer because when he got in the way of Steamroller's wrath she might have killed him in her rush to kill me. Rather messy way to assassinate someone, I'd think."

  He nodded and the blue faded to a more somber gray. A few gestures that seemed to indicate agreement as well followed.

  "Of course, at this point I have to ask if you had anything to do with it."

  I could almost see his brow furrow with annoyance. He just shook his head. The suit didn't even change color.

  About what I suspected would happen.

  "I guess that means I need to talk to Raymond about things, huh?"

  He shrugged, but there was something in his posture...

  "Before I go, though, would you mind if I closed the door? I had something I wanted to talk to you about that I don't want the rest of the house to hear about."

  He showed no signs of being interested but made no move to stop me as I shut the door behind me.

  "Mind if I sit down?" I didn't feel the need but I wanted what I was going to say to feel more like a conversation between equals than to assume any kind of dominant position. Little points like that had been stressed during interrogation training and I could see the reason for it. I was taking a risk here of being very, very wrong and I wanted to lower
the danger factor as much as possible.

  I grabbed the computer chair and wheeled it across the hardwood floor to sit down in front of the bed. It was a high-backed leather job that probably cost a month's rent for a lot of people. It was also supremely comfortable and even smelled nice.

  "Thanks. I didn't get a hell of a lot of sleep last night." He indicated some form of sympathy with a wave of his hand. "Maybe you can help me. See, there's this guy I know and I think there's something up with him. A few years ago he got hurt, bad. Really messed up his face and covered him in scars. Even took out his voice."

  He shifted nervously and his suit's transformations picked up in speed and intensity. The color couldn't sit still, either. He looked like a mood ring in a microwave, only without all the arcing electricity or flames. Still, for all that discomfort he didn't indicate I should stop.

  "He used to be a handsome guy, too. Great singing voice, kind to animals and small children, the whole nine yards. The worst part is he was just doing his job when he got screwed up, and it wasn't an accident. Someone intentionally hurt him."

  His suit flared monochromatic for almost a full second, the intense blood-red-black hue blotting out even the shifting symbols and faces, before shifting back to an unsettled panorama of angry card faces in violently purple hues.

  "He took a long time to heal up, you see. The damage was more than just skin deep. His mind couldn't handle the pain and the loss, or the fear, so he hid from reality for a while. This was a real problem, too, because he was really strong, and hiding embarrassed him, so it made him hide even harder. Fear didn't come natural to him, either, so he went somewhere to finish healing and to talk with some people. Those people didn't know what to do with him so they just labeled him crazy and tried to lock the door.

  "But this guy, he wasn't crazy. He was scared and hurt and had to adjust to his new situation, but even after a while he still couldn't face himself in the mirror. Too many memories, too much pain, and he was angry. Really angry. Angry at the world, at the man who did it to him, at every person who couldn't bear to look at his scars. Even his friends couldn't face him because he reminded them of what they too could lose if they missed a beat, so he makes himself a mask or hires someone to do it for him. See, he's got money, too. He puts this mask on so he can hide from himself and others can almost forget what he he looked like underneath. The longer he wears it, though, the more it becomes a part of him, just like the pain. Finally he can't bear to take it off, so he doesn't. But by then he's no longer a part of the world that so casually cast him aside when he got hurt. All that people see when they see him is the mask, and the memories, and they never try to look beyond it."

  I could see the anger seething beneath the surface.

  "He's forced to step back and look and watch as everything he fought for gets perverted, and yet he's basically powerless to stop it because everyone still thinks he's crazy. Finally he stops trying to fit in, to be accepted. It's easier to play the outsider, the nut. It's even soothing because nobody thinks he's listening or cares if he's around. He's just the silent mental patient, waiting around to die. Who knows what's in his head? Who cares?"

  His fingers curled into fists and the colors had definitely shifted to a much more sanguine scheme. His breathing had become more rapid. I could hear it hissing somewhere under the mask.

  "So he suffers in silence. Even his friends, when they bother to include him, at best treat him like a mental reject. Who can he tell? Who's going to listen to a lunatic who can't even speak?" I had modulated my voice to be as gentle as possible, but I knew I was pushing him to the edge. It was necessary, though. "He can get away with anything, because who's going to stop him? He's a hero. He's batshit crazy, they think, but he's still a hero. But the thing is, you see, he's just as sane as anyone else. Maybe even more so. He's just alone. Lonely."

  He looked at me, the bloody colors fading as a curious and hopeful yellow suffused his costume instead.

  "Unfortunately, anyone he's tried to tell hasn't understood, or been condescending, like they were talking to a child with a favorite bauble. So he's given up that too. It's been years since he last really tried, so by now he doesn't even want that. The familiarity hurts too much."

  A mournful blue overcame the yellow. "So he keeps it his little secret. Just like the pain, it's all inside now. It's still there, just buried."

  I rolled close enough I could touch him and gently patted his shoulder.

  "I won't tell anyone. Not unless you want me to. It's not my place."

  He started to sob. There was no other way to describe the way his shoulders moved, or the quiet whistling sounds that accompanied them. I sat there, unwilling to move my hand from his shoulder for a minute, while the sobs wracked his body. When the sobs stopped he looked at me and patted my hand. I took the cue and removed it.

  I smiled in as as friendly a manner as I could. He made a gesture I couldn't figure out and started rubbing his face.

  "The way I figure it you've got some things to think about, right? So I'll leave you alone now. I really should go talk to Raymond and Venom about what happened this morning anyway, get their sides of things. You going to be okay?"

  He nodded and I stood, pushing the chair back to the computer.

  "I'll see you later, then."

  I had just opened the door when I felt a tap on my shoulder so I turned around. Wildcard hadn't left the bed, but he'd stretched his arms across the room to get my attention. The door closed behind me before he pulled his arm back.

  What started as a whistling whisper soon found some awkward form that worked. It was barely audible, even in the quiet that dominated the room, but I could make out what he was trying to say. It made me smile.

  "You're welcome," I said.

  Venom had a room to herself, of course, though from the looks of things it had originally been designed to hold two adults, possibly two plus one. That, of course, brought to mind the possibility that regular visits were probably on the menu for friends of the family.

  The bed was a Queen-sized affair with a pillowtop mattress that looked like it was either too soft to be comfortable or a pad of foam on top of a brick that would hurt the back. The frame was a good match to the woodwork, very rustic, and had been used enough it looked slightly worn, though probably the proper phrase was broken-in.

  Another bookcase sat against one wall, though this one had a fair number of children's books gracing the shelves. A second bed hid behind the open door, though this one looked disused and was only a twin.

  The rest of the decor was what I'd come to expect. A mid-sized flat-screen TV with two game systems plugged into the side sat next to a top-end DVD player. They were current-generation systems, though they looked bigger and chunkier than the ones I'd seen in store windows in Reno. Probably a couple years old, then. The DVD library was much more family-friendly than the one in Wildcard's room as well. There was no computer, however. A wireless router sat under the TV, the ready lights blinking steadily, but that was as far as it went. A clock radio sat on the nightstand and was playing some crap with a lead singer that set my teeth on edge, but other than that nothing else seemed turned on except the overhead fan.

  "Jackhammer told me you were allowed to wander the house, but I didn't expect you to come here so soon."

  I had somehow missed her on my first look around, though how that was I couldn't fathom, and I tried to ignore the creeping worry that started in my gut from it. She'd changed from the rather plain outfit she'd been wearing at breakfast, probably what she'd prepared the food in, for something a little more striking and probably more comfortable.

  The pale-blue jeans clung to her legs and the light-red sweater left little to the imagination. It wasn't particularly low-cut, but it did allow a little cleavage to show through and play peekaboo with the mind. It clung and slid around sensuously, making me wonder if she was wearing a bra under it.

  Considering the situation that was a very dangerous distraction indeed
.

  "Yes. He and I had a nice chat about a few things. When it was over he and I had reached an agreement."

  "That's nice," she said, setting the book she had been reading on the nightstand next to the green leather chair she was sitting in. She reached for a glass of something brown with several ice cubes and a sprig of mint floating in it and took a healthy swig. "Are you feeling better than you were last night?"

  "Yes, I am. Thank you for whatever you did." Okay... this was a little awkward.

  "You're welcome." She took another swig. "Would you mind shutting the door? I think there's a bit of a draft. That's a dear."

  I shut the door. I was standing right in front of it, after all.

  "Thank you." She sighed and stretched languidly, her sweater and chest doing very interesting things with each other. "I imagine you're here to talk to me about something more... immediate than the hug last night. Take a seat if you'd like."

  I took a seat. There was another chair next to the one she was sitting in, though I quickly found it was a little too deep for my comfort. Whoever it had been built for had been taller than I was.

  "Yes, actually. He told me that Raymond had fingered you for whatever the hell it was that hit Steamroller this morning."

  She snorted in disgust. "He would."

  I raised an eyebrow. "I take it there's some friction between you two?"

  "No, and that's the problem."

  "I don't follow you."

  "Hypnotico," she spat, clearly defining her feelings on the subject by using his hero name instead of his given name, "has a thing for large breasts." She gestured toward her ample chest. Yeah, like I really needed another reason to look at it. "He also has a thing for control, the homophobic bastard."

  "Oh," I said, annoyed with myself for missing the obvious entendre. "I think I see."

  She crossed her legs and cracked her knuckles loudly. "Ever since I first turned him down he's been pissed at me, and that was about fifteen years ago or so. Maybe more. He married that one-off heroin addict just to piss me off, though that didn't work. Come to think of it, he's always been annoyed that we didn't add him to the rolls when he retired."