Joanne’s eyes settled on Berkley Brighton, the whiskey billionaire, and she strolled away from Sloane without a backward glance. Maybe he just wasn’t rich enough for her.
Morgana Madison also wasn’t a fan of Sloane’s. The two ignored each other all night long, even when they were talking to the same people. According to business reports, they wanted to buy the same computer company and were currently locked in their latest business battle.
However, one person had a very keen interest in Sloane—Fiona Fine. She kept a grip on his arm the rest of the night. It was a wonder the poor man didn’t have claw marks. Evidently, Fiona didn’t want me anywhere near him. I wondered when the fashion designer had become so protective of Sloane. The two were friends but had never been an item. The couple made their way to Chief Newman, who stood next to Lulu and Henry. Lulu said something, and they all laughed. Suddenly, Sam Sloane turned, as if he could sense me staring at him. Our eyes locked. My inner voice whispered.
And I knew.
I knew.
I knew who I’d had incredible sex with. Who had made me feel so passionate, so alive, so vibrant. Who had saved me from my would-be rapists. Who had held me so tenderly while I’d cried.
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact.
Just like that. Out of the blue. The puzzle pieces snapped into place. The picture came into focus. All my research, my encounters with Striker, the folks on the society circuit, the list of the richest men and women in Bigtime—it all finally fit together.
I knew who Striker was. And Fiera, and Mr. Sage, and I had a sneaking suspicion about Hermit too. I could have smacked myself for not seeing it sooner. They had been there right under my nose the whole time, just as I suspected. The irony of it all made me take a long swig of my champagne. The golden bubbles rose to the top of the glass and fizzed out.
So what the hell was I going to do now?
Chapter Twelve
I sat in my apartment and brooded.
Roamed around the library and brooded.
Wandered through the park and brooded.
I spent the better part of the next day brooding in and around the greater downtown area of Bigtime.
To tell or not to tell, that was the question.
After writing a glowing story about the benefit, I stayed up all night filtering through facts, following the money trail, and checking dates and times. There was nothing conclusive, but I could see a pattern, tiny little threads that would lead me to Striker’s real identity and a bona fide Page One exposé of epic proportions. He’d been careful, but not quite careful enough. They never were, in the end.
On my way home from the park, I passed a newsstand. I elbowed my way through the crowd, bought a copy of the day’s edition of The Exposé, and flipped to the society pages. The headline on the front of the section screamed: Yee-haw indeed! Benefit raises more than $3 million for riding program, police department. Story by Carmen Cole. I couldn’t remember the last time a story of mine had made the cover of, well, anything. At least I was going to go out on top, or at least on top of the society section. Plus, Lulu and the chief had a nice chunk of change to put toward their various do-good programs.
I tucked the newspaper under my arm and walked on. An hour later, without meaning to, I found myself at the corner of Seventh and Thirteenth streets. There it was, right over there, an alley that ran between two of the high-rise buildings. I slowed, took a deep breath, and crossed the street.
The alley seemed far less sinister than it had that night. It was just an alley, three brick walls strung together, stone piled on stone. My eyes swept over the scene. They had pinned me to the wall there, and they had all fallen over there when Striker pulled them off me. My body still ached from the brutal assault, and my battered face had turned several interesting shades of green and purple. But no physical trace of the attack remained in the alley, other than the raw memories and jagged echoes in my mind. My fist tightened around the bottle stuck in my jacket pocket. I always kept one hand on my pepper spray now, even during daylight hours.
I took a long, last look at the alley. Then, I stepped back out onto the main street. I squared my shoulders. There was only one thing I could do. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in a number.
“Talk to me.”
“It’s Carmen. I need to meet.”
*
“Are you sure about this? Really, really sure?” Lulu asked.
“Positive.”
The two of us were back in Paradise Park, next to the fountain where the nymphs danced in their never-ending circle. I chewed on a big cone of strawberry cotton candy I’d snagged while walking past one of the carnival vendors. Lulu sat silent, although her laptop hummed like a drowsy bee. Five minutes had passed since I told Lulu what I wanted. The information queen had spent the last four trying to talk me out of it.
But I’d made my decision, for better or worse. I wasn’t going to give up Striker to Malefica, not after he’d saved me. I owed him that much, no matter what else had happened between us. My original plan had been to use Striker’s real identity to lead me to Malefica’s. But with less than twenty-four hours left until the ubervillain’s deadline, I didn’t have enough time to uncover her real identity, unless she ripped off her mask herself for the whole world to see. But I wasn’t just going to roll over for Malefica either. I had a plan. A stupid, probably fatal plan, but a plan nonetheless.
“Can he get me the stuff?” I asked. “I need it by tomorrow. And I need to know how to use it.”
“He can, but it will be expensive on such short notice, especially the lesson.”
Lulu rattled off a prospective price. I winced. It would pretty much deplete my nest egg and ensure a steady diet of macaroni and cheese for the next few years. Then again, if things went wrong, I wouldn’t have much use for money anyway. “I can pay it. Do it.”
Lulu began to type.
*
An hour later, I knocked on the door of one of the nicer brownstones in one of the nicer neighborhoods in Bigtime. An intercom crackled to life, and a security camera swiveled around to focus on Lulu and me.
“What’s the word?” a gruff, male voice asked.
“The word is boom-boom,” Lulu replied.
The door buzzed open. A tall, thin man waited inside. A diamond twinkled in his ear, while glasses perched on the end of his hawk-like nose.
“Jasper, what’s going on?” Lulu asked.
The two engaged in a complicated handshake.
“Not much, L. This your friend?”
“Yeah. I told her you could help her out.”
Jasper peered at me. “You got the money?”
“I’ve got it,” I said. “You got what I want?”
“Always. Follow me, ladies.”
Jasper walked farther back into the house. To my surprise, the inside of the brownstone was just as nice and normal as the outside. Overstuffed, slightly chintzy furniture crouched in the spacious rooms, along with cabinets full of crystal knickknacks and several bookcases.
Jasper came to a metal door and stopped. He punched in a series of codes, and we went down some steps and through several more doors before reaching a small, cramped workroom. Twisted bits of metal and wire littered a long table, along with tools of every shape and size. I didn’t even know the names for most of the devices. Jasper pulled a heavy lead box from a safe underneath the table. He opened it, revealing some small metal balls and even more wires.
“You sure you want to do this?” Jasper asked. “This stuff is pretty potent.”
“Teach me everything you know. By the way, will you take a check?”
Lulu waved her hand. “Forget it, Sister Carmen. Your money’s no good here. I’ve got this one.”
“But—”
“But nothing. That story you did was terrific. Calls have been pouring in, and we’ve raised more money than ever before. I owe you this and the next three favors. Deal?”
“Deal,” I sai
d, not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I just hoped I’d be around long enough to collect on our bargain.
*
I did absolutely nothing that night. I played hooky from work, took a catnap, and whiled away the hours in whatever manner I saw fit.
I finished the thriller I’d been reading. I solved all of my Rubik’s Cubes and snapped the final piece of my latest jigsaw puzzle into place. I ate deep-fried, fatty foods and didn’t even think about exercising. I didn’t bother with makeup and wore the most comfortable pair of sweats I owned. I was a condemned woman, and I thoroughly enjoyed my last free hours on earth.
Mostly, though, I thought about Striker and his alter ego. About our passionate night together. About how he’d held me so gently when I needed it the most. I thought about what this strange thing was between us and tried to puzzle out my attraction to him. I wanted to know if I’d meant more to him than just a one-night stand. Striker had come to mean a lot more than that to me, whether he realized it or not. Despite my best intentions. Despite everything.
Finally, the day arrived.
The day.
I went for a walk early the next morning to check out the scene of my impending demise. Laurel Park perched on the outskirts of Bigtime. It was a small area that catered to families and senior citizens who liked to explore the many trails or feed the pigeons that populated the grassy lawns.
I strolled through the winding paths until I found the bench Malefica had mentioned. Children shrieked and played on a wooden swing set nearby while their parents kept a watchful eye on them from under the shelter of a picnic awning. I stretched and did jumping jacks until they left, then did a little more exploratory work and put my plan into action using Lulu’s generous gift. I power walked through the rest of the park and headed back downtown. There was one more thing I needed to do.
I bought a dozen red roses from a street vendor and made my way to Bigtime Cemetery. A row of pines separated the cemetery from Paradise Park and muted the wild, calliope music of the carousel. A wrought-iron gate surrounded the lush, green expanse, and tombstones and angel statues dotted the manicured lawn. Old women wearing towering hats and gardening gloves planted purple pansies in a bed of dirt. Nearby, a man clutched a tattered picture and stared at a fresh grave twenty feet away. Tears ran down his wrinkled face.
I headed for my destination. My stomach twisted. It always did when I came here. Row 17. Plot 325. An ordinary grave, topped with a simple, white marble tombstone that read Travis Templeton Teague. Beloved by all. Tornado action figures marched across the top of the stone, while flowers, teddy bears, and cards clustered around the bottom. Six months had passed since he’d died, and people still left mementoes on his grave. I laid my roses next to the others.
I stared at the tombstone, my heart aching. After Travis’s suicide, I’d dug deeper into his past, frantic to understand why he’d killed himself. I learned Travis was an only child. His parents had died when he was a teenager, and he’d been raised by an uncle. Travis had worked three jobs to put himself through Bigtime University. Eventually, he’d founded a company specializing in wind power and other alternative sources of energy. The company’s innovative technology had made him rich, but Travis didn’t forget his struggles. He’d given gobs of money to charity and started college scholarships for inner-city kids. Travis always paid his taxes on time, and had never gotten so much as a parking ticket. Everyone described him as kind, caring, and considerate.
Travis aka Tornado Teague had been a good man. And I’d killed him.
Even now, I wondered why. Why had he done it? Had Travis snapped because of the exposure? Been unable to handle the rabid media attention? Worried about the anonymity of his fellow superheroes? Whatever Travis’s reason, my exposé had been the catalyst. Guilt tightened my chest, making it hard to breathe. Tears streaked my face.
After a moment, I wiped them away. I couldn’t change the tragedy I’d caused, but I could prevent another one from happening.
Or die trying.
*
I went back to my apartment and took a long shower, as if the water could cleanse my soul and wash away my guilt. I put on my makeup with care and slipped into my favorite pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt that read I’m smarter than I look. I hoped the logo would be true tonight. I wanted to look my best, even if I was going to my own funeral.
I took a last look around my apartment at all my books and puzzles and knickknacks. It had been my home since I’d come to Bigtime. It was a cozy space, and I was going to miss it. I ran my fingers over the finished jigsaw puzzle on the kitchen table. The peaceful scene of floating water lilies did little to soothe my taut nerves.
I took the notes I’d written to the landlord and Chief Newman and propped them up on the kitchen table. The letter to the landlord instructed him to donate my clothes and books to local charities, while the missive to the chief explained what had happened to me.
I picked up the final note I’d written. To Striker. The superhero had been conspicuously absent the last few days. I had neither seen him nor felt him watching me. I wasn’t sure whether I was grateful or annoyed over the lack of attention. I left the note for him on the coffee table among all the papers and articles I’d collected on the Fearless Five.
Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. Thanks again for the rescue the other night. Carmen.
It was terribly short, but for once, I hadn’t known exactly what to write. What could you say to a superhero you’d slept with? Thank you? Atta-boy? Keep up the good work? Striker had been unbelievably kind to me, despite the fact that I was trying to uncover his identity, despite the fact that I’d driven his friend to commit suicide. Despite everything. Words couldn’t express how grateful I was for my rescue. Perhaps what I was about to do would. It might even help my karma a little bit. Maybe I’d come back as a bird or a butterfly, instead of a cockroach.
I grabbed my supplies and stuffed them in my jacket pockets. I let out a long breath.
Time to go to work.
*
I took a taxi to the park, got out, paid the fare, and checked my silver watch. Eleven forty-five. Right on time. I walked slowly through the park and scanned the shadows. But my friendly neighborhood ubervillains were nowhere to be found. I kept my hands in my pockets, made my way to the appropriate bench, and sat down.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” I whispered.
The birds didn’t sing. The bugs didn’t chirp. All was quiet and still and hushed, but they were out there in the shadows watching me. I could feel their eyes on me.
At exactly midnight, they appeared. Scorpion lumbered out of the shadows to my left. His bald head gleamed under the faint moonlight. He cracked his knuckles together and grinned. Frost appeared from the right and crossed his arms over his skinny chest. Malefica came at me straight on, her enormous, thigh-high, red boots crushing the dewy grass with every step, as if she were Bigfoot lumbering through the forest.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our good friend, Carmen Cole,” Malefica purred. “Right on time. I do so like punctual people.”
I shrugged. “It’s a habit of mine.”
She turned to Frost. “You owe me a million dollars. He didn’t think you’d come. Didn’t think you were smart enough to realize it was your only option. Or that you had the spine to show up.”
“Really?” I said. “And here I thought he didn’t have a brain.”
“I have more of a brain than you’ve ever dreamed of,” Frost snapped back. “I’ve been educated in the finest schools on the East Coast. Where did you graduate from? Hillbilly High?”
“Enough,” Malefica interrupted. “We all know why we’re here. Let’s get down to business. Your month is up, Miss Cole. What I want to know is this: Did you find the answer to my question?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“So you know who Striker is?” Breathy excitement colored Malefica’s voice. “His true identity?”
“Yep. I know his name, age, marital status, and shoe size. It’s eleven and a half, if you’re curious. I know just about everything about him except whether he prefers boxers or briefs. Is that enough information for you?” Striker liked to go commando under his black leather suit, but I wasn’t about to share that little tidbit with Malefica.
She licked her ruby red lips in anticipation. “Who? Who is he?”
“I’m afraid I’m not going to tell you.”
Malefica laughed. The gleeful chuckle grated on my nerves. “Oh please. You’re going to tell us. Either now, when you can still pass for a moderately attractive woman, or later, after Frost has dipped you in his freezeterium like an overgrown Easter egg.”
The three of them started toward me.
“Ah, ah, ah. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I took my right hand out of my pocket, exposing a small metal tube. A blue light glowed on top of the device.
Malefica’s eyes narrowed. “What is that?”
“It’s a remote-trigger device,” I said. “A bomb switch, in layman’s terms. You see, I’ve rigged myself, this bench, and the entire area where you’re standing with enough explodium to kill us all.”
The three ubervillains looked at the ground beneath their booted feet.
“You’re bluffing,” Frost sneered.
I turned my gaze to him. “No, actually, I’m not. I’m not much of a scientist like you, but I’ve learned quite a bit about explodium in the past few days. It’s a radioactive isotope. Makes dynamite look like a firecracker. Packs enough punch to take down entire city blocks with just a few ounces. Just imagine what it would do to those icy good looks of yours. Shatter them in an instant, I imagine.”
Frost gave me a, well, frosty look. Scorpion clenched and unclenched his hands into giant fists, as though he wanted to pound me into oblivion.
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