by Jason Austin
****
If there was such a thing as a man’s man, then Madeline Hawkins was a woman’s woman...or man’s woman, or however it would translate. If a basin of hot water was steaming by the sofa when she slipped through the door at 3:00 a.m., it meant Xavier had, again, defied his grandfather and was in the kitchen trying to dump ten pounds of chocolate powder into a single gallon of milk. Momma would ease her aching feet into the basin while she and little Xavier shared a warm, mountainous apple fritter coated in rivers of sugary glaze. The club where she waited tables was next to an Amy Joy doughnut shop and she had hooked Xavier on those glorious pastries from day one. It was that exact memory—the memory of charming his mother senseless—that Xavier indulged in as he walked into the doughnut shop, unable to resist the magnetic aroma. He sucked in even deeper and his mouth began to water.
“Can I help you, sir?” someone asked. An acne-clad teenager had slap-footed behind the counter and was giving Xavier the most awful of stink-eyes.
A handsome row of double-glazed apple fritters were lined neatly in the display case beneath Xavier’s gaze. He carved out a smile as he pined to take a bite. “Yeah. I’ll have one of those,” he said, pointing at the fritters.
The boy took a sheet of wax paper, and grabbed-and-bagged the biggest fritter in the stack. He shoved it in front of Xavier and quickly recoiled. “That’s $2.25,” he said.
Xavier choked. He forgot he wasn’t carrying any money. He ruffled his hollow pockets, avoiding eye contact with the boy. He then paused long as he caught his own dreadfully humbled reflection in the plate-glass. Just grab and run, he thought. That's all he need do. He looked over his shoulder at the only other patrons, seated at a corner booth: three coffee-swilling yo-yo’s in off-the-rack blazers submersed in their conversation. No good Samaritans there.
Just grab and run.
Xavier's soles squeaked as he ground his foot against the tiled floor. One...two...His right leg gave a twitch, and three wrinkled dollar bills floated noiselessly onto the counter.
“There you go,” Bowen said.
Xavier exhaled so heavily, the bills flew apart. He turned around to see a bright silver badge fixed to a young punk, at least half a nose taller than him. The cop was standing there preen and smiley faced, no doubt, just waiting to deal out a little “justice”. Xavier shrugged. Suicide by cop maybe? he thought. At least he wouldn’t have to pull the trigger himself. Who says they're never around when you need them?
“Don’t I know you?” Bowen asked.
“No,” Xavier replied, instantly having second thoughts. He regarded again the three shlubs in the booth, this time as potential witnesses. The teenager looked downright offended as he handed the officer his change; as if it were preferable to let the bum-scum starve. Having finally had enough of the “fuck you” atmosphere, Xavier swerved around the uniform, and walked expeditiously outside.
Bowen pursued his person-of-interest from a safe distance. He didn't want the guy bolting, but if this was the man they were looking for, he would need to be detained. “Hey, wait a minute!” he shouted.
Xavier came to a dead stop. Fuck it. Let the badge have his fun. He was too tired to run and the little punk would have to bruise up his own knuckles pretty good to get Xavier to feel any worse. “I didn’t do anything!” Xavier announced and turned around with chin to chest. He took his hands from his pockets and dropped them at his sides.
Bowen approached him, grinning like a used car salesman. “You forgot this,” he replied, dangling the doughnut bag in front of him.
Xavier hesitated, thinking any hand he extended would be shackled. He took the bag as if it was filled with radioactive waste.
“I didn’t mean to make you nervous,” Bowen said. “I just thought you looked familiar, that’s all.”
“Let me guess,” Xavier droned. “I just 'fit the description', right? Or maybe you were hoping I was the bully who picked on you in the fifth grade.”
Bowen smiled. He liked this guy already. Most homeless would be way too panicked at the sight of a cop to make jokes. Hell, nine times out of ten, they freaked, no matter how unimposing he played it. Normal reaction or not, for a kid who was voted a close second as most popular in high school, it was something Bowen had, yet, to get used to.
Xavier only half-looked at the officer, waiting for the proverbial next shoe to drop...or kick him in the ass, depending on whether the kid's momma raised him right.
“I’m not here to roust you, man,” Bowen said showing his palms. “In fact, I thought I might have to say thank you.”
Xavier cautiously looked up, cocking his hat above the hairline.
“You see, we had an incident happen yesterday in an alley downtown. A woman was attacked by some psycho with a knife. She thought she was done for until some guy just came out of nowhere and saved her life, went toe-to-toe with the guy who jumped her. Unfortunately, he—the guy who saved her—disappeared before we could talk to him. As it so happens, you do kind of fit the description...of the guy who intervened, that is.”
Xavier averted his eyes. This is where he would be offered an opportunity to fess up. He didn’t bite.
“You sort of look like you’ve been in a scuffle,” Bowen said. He pointed awkwardly at the lumpy purple giveaways on Xavier's face. “You okay?”
“I'm fine.”
Bowen nodded. He jutted the same finger at the Army shoulder-patch on Xavier’s jacket. “You serve?”
“Yeah, but I’m sure I’m not the only one who wears one.”
“Oh, no, I know. Military surplus stores always carry them. Guy I mentioned before was wearing one just like it, though.”
“Uh, huh.” Xavier surveyed the nothingness around them, trying to appear as if he had better things to do.
“So what’s the deal?” Bowen asked. “Am I in the presence of a real American hero, here?”
Xavier took a good look at the young man. A rookie. Had to be. He had the smile of a kid who hadn't yet seen his first dismembered body or a crazed father of three gun down his entire family before blowing his own head off. Nor, had he just rushed Xavier like an angry preacher about to set fire to a whorehouse. Any other cop, by now, would’ve demanded everything from Xavier's shoe size to his mother’s maiden name. And all just to make him think he was a suspect and therefore better off cooperating. By the same token, cops were also trained in weaving a false sense of security for potential suspects. While he did pick up on the use of the word “hero” to play to Xavier's long dead ego, Xavier was also forced to acknowledge an air of sincerity coming from Bowen—something Xavier wanted desperately and to summarily ignore in regard to his own best interests.
“I suppose since you bought me lunch, you think I owe you something,” Xavier said.
“Not at all,” Bowen replied. “I would like to talk to you for few minutes, though. You can consider that repayment if you like.”
****
Lou Percy approached the squad car with his mouth in high gear. When he saw it empty, it kicked him into duty mode and he radioed Bowen justly. “Ham, come in. This is Percy.”
Bowen tapped at his chest-plate and answered Percy’s call. He knew it might have been a mistake to leave the unit, but he was only a few strides away and he thought it best not to roll up to Xavier in a jail cell on wheels. “Yeah, Percy, go ahead.”
“Where the hell are you? Is everything okay?”
“Sorry, Lou. I should have radioed. I’m just around the corner. I ran into somebody I thought might be able to help us out.”
“You’re not a detective yet, kid. I...” Percy had more admonishments, but stopped in mid-thought. He scanned the area of the motel like a storm cloud had just dropped over it. “Come on back here, Ham. I’m going to run upstairs and check on things.”
“On my way.”
****
Satellite signals crossed miles of ether in milliseconds. Gabriel checked, double-checked, and then triple-checked the orders to the cybernetic uplink. If t
his went off without a head exploding—the unit’s or Gabriel’s—it would be nothing short of miraculous. When all was displayed on the screen correctly, Gabriel punched in the final order to the unit and the center of the screen ignited with a single word in bold red letters: “INITIATE”.
Chapter 20
Perry Jones watched Glenda stand before the bathroom mirror. She tenderly smoothed her fingertips over the anti-inflammatory bandage concealing the knot on her head. It was the first time she had gone in there for a reason other than taking a pee. She had already taken four of them in the last hour and would be pissing green tea for a week, at the rate she was slurping it down. She exited the bathroom and returned to the futon. The room's webscreen played in the background and a stray word from its broadcast clamped on to Glenda’s ear. A news station was reporting the downed plane of Cleveland businessman Peter Simonton, President of SiPlus Steel. It was also announced that Simonton was wanted for questioning by federal authorities. The company had recently filed for chapter eleven and potential fraud and embezzlement charges were formally being sought. Simonton was an amateur skydiver and licensed pilot, but he had not flown in nearly a year. He’d chartered a plane at Hopkins International Airport less than twenty-four hours ago. Glenda missed the initial reports of her former employer’s errant plane, as she was involved in her own drama. Only now, was she catching up with the details and news of a possible crash site found in the Adirondacks. “Oh, my god.”
The door to the motel room buzzed and Jones gripped his MAG. He walked over to the view panel and tapped its screen. An image of officer Lou Percy staring nakedly into the outer camera appeared before him.
****
“So what’s the deal, man?” Bowen asked. “You just like going around doing the Batman thing?”
Xavier finally cracked a smile. He was, by no means, a vigilante nor a hero. In fact, that had hardly been the case. He'd simply crawled behind a dumpster to sleep off his afternoon drunk. The alley was quiet; the big brick buildings stifled the sounds of the street. There were no pedestrians to trip over him and no cop would have found him and ordered him to move along. He licked at his still swollen lip. He didn’t want a thing more to do with that alley business—no cops, no interviews, no lawyers; none of it. But Bowen was so damn affable it was easy to forget he was a cop. In fact, Bowen was doing so well winning him over that Xavier found himself having quite the time keeping his mouth shut. Bowen had them on course to the motel now, hoping to get an impromptu I.D. from Glenda. So far, Xavier’s version of the incident squared completely with hers and, selfish as it was, Bowen couldn't wait to see the look on her face.
“Personally, I happen to like Batman,” Bowen said. “He was one of my favorites as a kid. He’s the only superhero a regular guy could actually become with enough training and discipline.”
“And billions of dollars,” Xavier said. “Don't forget the billions of dollars. It would never work, though. Tabloids would have his secret identity exposed in less than a week.”
“Ha. Yeah, guess they would.”
As they entered the motel, Xavier started to look more nervous, almost claustrophobic. Bowen sensed it and realized he was still on shaky ground with the guy.
“Seriously though, to hear her tell it, that was really something you did back there,” Bowen said. The admiration in his voice was at full volume. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating that ordinary citizens go out on the streets acting like vigilantes. But I figure we’re in this thing together. If one of us is helped, all of us are helped. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Xavier said.
Bowen nodded. “So, how long did you serve?”
Xavier hesitated. “Five years. I did my last eighteen months with the 447th MP company out of Zanesville. Good bunch of guys down there.”
“No stuff!” Bowen flared with awe and defused in the same breath. “Well, I don’t get it. What happened?”
Shit, Xavier thought and scratched a nonexistent itch under his stubble. He had no mind to sing his hard luck sonata. Never did. But maybe he could stomach the short version as long as it didn't lead to more questions. “We got transferred after things started getting hot in Syria. When I came back, I tried...well, I tried. You’re just never the same after...” Xavier inhaled, already fatigued from the short version. “Well, just had trouble...never the same.”
Bowen stopped them as they turned onto the second floor interior hallway. They were just a few doors down from Glenda’s room and Bowen saw Lou Percy standing in front of it. The room door was open.
“Listen, I know it wasn't easy for you to come here,” Bowen said. “The guys in my club aren't very popular these days. Everyone thinks we're a bunch of self-righteous thugs, who beat innocent people into a coma for jaywalking. And this whole scandal thing isn't helping any. I thank you for trusting me.”
With that, Xavier finally felt his gut relax. As trusting as Bowen was, part of him had still been expecting a make-out session with a nightstick. Xavier was just about to say as much when officer Lou Percy was shot straight through the head from inside the room.
“Percy!” Bowen screamed. He combined his forward motion with a lightning draw of his sidearm. He ordered Xavier to stay down and raced to the doorway.
A high velocity MAG shot had completely torn away the southwestern section of Percy's face and head. Blood and tissue spattered the nearby walls and the formerly eggshell carpeting was becoming a seabed for the ocean of crimson pooling beneath him. “Aw, god,” Bowen exclaimed, his cheeks bloating. He sucked it up as best he could and flattened himself against the wall. Seeing Percy like that did him damage, but it didn't override his more immediate concern for Glenda Jameson. He leveled his gun and entered the room with the typical slice-the-pie technique. He was instantly relieved to find Glenda Jameson still alive. However, he was not so relieved to see that Perry Jones had her clutched in front of him with the barrel of his MAG lodged in her spine.
“Jones?” Bowen said breathless. He couldn't take his eyes off Jones's gun. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Don't get in my way,” Jones said.
Bowen's eyes went thin. “What are you talking about, don't get in your way? What are you doing? Who shot Lou?”
“He did!” Glenda shouted. “Help me!”
Jones tugged hard on the arm he had around Glenda's throat—a signal to keep quiet.
Bowen thought immediately of the department's corruption scandals. Was Jones dirty? he asked himself. He sharpened his aim on Jones’s right eye—the only part of Jones exposed. “I don't know what's going on, but I won't let you hurt her, Jones.”
Jones sensed the shift in Bowen's aim and compensated.
“Don't get in my way,” Jones said again.
Abruptly, another room's door opened from across the hall. The commotion had attracted another guest. A hefty man in a Rock & Roll Hall of Fame commemorative sweatshirt screamed girlishly at the sight of Lou Percy's half decapitated corpse.
“Get back inside,” Bowen shouted.
Perry Jones seized on the distraction. He fired once, hitting Bowen just above the right collar bone, where body armor was absent. The screaming sweatshirt ducked back inside, slamming his door and engaging locks.
Jones's shot had propelled Bowen out into the hall. His back hit the wall behind him and he tumbled sideways in Xavier's direction. He seemed determined to stay on his feet until he reached him. Xavier closed the distance between them and collected Bowen as his legs gave out. The rookie slumped into Xavier's arms, softening his landing onto the floor. Xavier tried to pull him farther out of range of the doorway, but he didn't have the strength. Bowen lay on his back wheezing and squirming like a fish out of water.
“Oh, God, kid,” Xavier said mournfully. Bowen's wound was spouting blood like a drinking fountain. Xavier passed glances between Bowen and the doorway. He had witnessed everything. In fact, he fully expected Jones to appear in the hallway any second to finish
them off. “Hang on, kid, I’m gonna get an ambulance.”
“No time,” Bowen coughed.
“Aw, come on, now,” Xavier said, a lump swelling in his throat. “Don’t get like that on me. I know your type; you're not gonna quit that easy.” Nightmare visions of Syria tumbled through Xavier's head and he saw Hugo Rafferty take a sniper's bullet in the chest from over a thousand yards out behind the border. The shot passed less than a centimeter from Hugo's heart. With a collapsed lung and massive blood loss, he held on for nearly three hours in the sweltering desert heat before a Medevac became available.
“Stay with me, kid,” Xavier insisted.
“Glenda...h...h...huuuhh. My gun...h...h...huhuh...take my gun.”
“What?”
“Protect...h...h...protect her!”
“But I...”
Bowen thrust his gun at Xavier's chest. “Go!” he said, somehow finding the strength to push Xavier away. In fact, he almost made it seem like he’d kick Xavier's ass if he didn’t follow orders like a good soldier. His head then fell to the floor and he was gone.
Xavier stood up, trying to catch his breath. More images of Syria...and of Elana played in his mind. He had now fully reverted to his days of hitting insurgent hideouts in abandoned shanties. Protect, his mind shouted. He took to the outside of the doorway and tried to get a visual on Jones and his hostage.
Perry Jones was angling to get a view of the hall. He now knew someone had accompanied Bowen, but he hadn't seen who. His left hand had migrated to Glenda's throat while his right kept steady aim at the doorway. “Don't get in my way!” he hollered again, as if all other verbiage had abandoned him.