Lafferty, Mur (10 page)

Ian was in considerable pain, but he gave them no information. The pain stopped. A tall woman with red hair said to take him to the eighth floor.

Two men carried him away.

That was all. Peter sat down again, exhausted. What good did it do him to know where or how Ian was? It’s not like he could get out of the room to save him or anything.

He'd had enough. Arrest, betrayal, murder, incarceration. He was sure he'd have enough strength to deal with this if only he could get a little sleep.

He rested his head on the table and closed his eyes.

Someone slapped Peter on the back of the head.

"Wha?" he said, sitting up with a jolt.

The Crane sat across the table from him, withdrawing an extended arm.

His blonde hair was tousled and he looked annoyed, almost frightened.

"You're clearly not too concerned about your situation," The Crane said.

"Oh, but I am," Peter said. "I just needed a rest. It takes a lot out of you, getting abducted and abused by heroes."

The Crane slapped him hard, open handed. Peter's lip split and blood welled up inside his mouth. The harsh copper taste bought him back to reality.

This is really happening.

"How long have you been a part of an illegal vigilante group?" The Crane asked.

Peter stared at him. "You are aware of my power, right?"

"How long have you been a part of an illegal vigilante group?" The Crane's voice was louder.

"I'm not part of a group," Peter said. "I can tell things about people by smelling them. That's not terribly useful for crime fighting."

The Crane slapped him again.

"Look, what do you want from me?" Peter said, dabbing his lip with the heel of his hand to keep blood from getting on his shirt. "You're clearly the more powerful person in this room. I could tell you where you've been by smelling you. You can fly and stretch your limbs out. The right person is fighting crime here. I can do no more than a mundane police officer."

"Then why were you with a group of confirmed vigilante Third Wave and First Wave citizens?" The Crane said, slamming his fists on the table.

Peter forced a grin. "You mean my friends from the bar? We were hanging out at Keepsie's to watch the game." God let there have been some sort of sports game on tonight…

"What game?" The Crane asked, his watery blue eyes narrowing.

"I don't know. I'm not into sports. I was just there to be with my friends."

"I'm getting tired of this," the Crane said, and both of his arms snaked out to wrap around Peter's chest.

"Hey, I -" Peter's words were cut off as The Crane's arms constricted slowly, pushing all of the air out of his lungs.

"Feel like telling me now?" asked The Crane.

Peter fought for breath but his lungs wouldn't comply. His face burned and his mouth opened as he tried to speak. Black flashes bloomed in his vision and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Just as he felt consciousness begin leave him, the arms relaxed and he gasped, filling his chest with what felt like gallons of air. Without the arms around him he fell forward onto the table, arms splayed across the table, content to merely breathe beautiful air for a moment.

"The next time I'll hold on longer," said The Crane.

Peter nodded, still too busy gasping to answer him. There was a clink on the table, and he raised his head with some effort.

The Crane had placed two ice picks in front of him. "Now, my bosses would really like their information soon so that they can go home to their families. I may have to get mean."

Peter eyed the ice picks. "Yeah, you've been a real saint so far, Frank.”

The Crane picked up an ice pick and touched its tip, testing its sharpness. Peter felt reasonably sure it was a bluff, but in a flash the ice pick came down and impaled his left hand.

Peter threw his head back and howled. Instinct warred within him; it demanded he pull his hand away from the hell that was penetrating it, but logic begged him to keep the hand as still as possible, else it will hurt more if he moved it.

"It's illegal to reveal a superhero's secret identity," The Crane said. "How did you know my name?

Peter gritted his teeth against a whimper. He barely heard the hero's words. He couldn't think past his hand. He moved his right hand gingerly toward the left. The Crane watched him, sweat beading his brow. Peter tried to remember something. Something important about The Crane. Something to distract his mind from what his right hand was trying to do.

As his right hand grasped the ice pick, he remembered. He pulled the ice pick from his hand with a cry and cradled his hand to his chest. Blood poured from the wound and he slipped out of his sports coat and then clumsily out of his shirt, scrabbling at the buttons with his right hand.

He wrapped the shirt around his bleeding hand and stood up from the table. The Crane still watched him. How does this guy manage to fight crime?

"I need to go to a hospital," Peter said through clenched teeth.

"Sit down, Peter," The Crane said.

"No. I need to go to a hospital," Peter said, mind focused only on his small rebellion, his ruse. He really did need to go to a hospital, but focusing on that instead of The Crane's torture and questions that would be too easy to answer was his only defense. And if he could get close enough for another whiff of the hero… The Crane was sweating enough, but his scent felt just out of Peter's reach.

The Crane picked up the ice pick and his arm elongated quickly and stabbed Peter's left arm, going deep enough to cause pain but not going through his arm. He withdrew it quickly. Peter hissed and took a step back. The ice pick then pierced his abdomen.

"What is the vigilante group's plans? How can we get the device from your friend Laura Branson? When was the last time you had contact with the known villain Clever Jack?" The Crane punctured Peter in a new place with each question. He shrank back, trying to protect himself. Blood ran freely from his chest and arms.

Peter collapsed and mumbled, "Hospital."

The Crane got up and approached Peter’s fetal body. "This is getting us nowhere." As he bent down, his wings brushed Peter's face, and the pain receded as The Crane's life filled his mind.

"Goddammit, Crane, you're completely useless if you get a speck of dirt on you," Pallas was saying, her face twisted into a look of disdain. Blood coated her white uniform, some her own, some belonging to someone else.

From the Crane's viewpoint he saw a wing outstretched and desperate hands scrubbing blood from the feathers.

"You don't understand." The Crane sounded like a nebbish. "You don't have wings."

"Well if I did have wings, they would have been torn off by Doodad's robot once you left the fight," Pallas said as people in white Academy coats tended to her few wounds. "I thought you were getting treatment for that OCD."

"I don't have a disorder!" The Crane yelled, his hand pulling feathers in his panic to remove the blood from his wings.

Peter unraveled his shirt from his hand and grabbed the wing brushing his face. The hand was still bleeding heavily, and blood soaked the white feathers.

The Crane screeched and leapt back. His arm stretched out and he punched Peter. Darkness brought blessed release from the pain.

Peter woke up in the room alone. He tried to move and discovered he was tied to a chair. He could feel blood trickling from his wounds. His right eye was swollen shut and the left was blurry.

The door opened with a click and Peter squinted.

"Man, you guys are a mess of trouble," said Clever Jack.

Keepsie was aware of chaos around her before she opened her eyes.

"Stop pulling him, you fool, it's not going to work," a woman's voice said.

Keepsie’s eyelids felt welded shut. She took a deep breath and forced them open.

She screamed.

White Lightning hovered above her, his blue eyes wide in surprise. He didn’t move. Tattoo Devil had grabbed him by his foot and was struggling to pull him away from her.

Oh. She looked beyond White Lightning and Tattoo Devil to see the hero Heretic, dressed in black flowing robes, looking positively murderous. Dr.

Timson sat beside her near the door, tense and quiet.

"Keepsie, let him go," she said quietly.

Keepsie sat up, holding her head in her hands. She wanted to shake it to clear the ringing in her ears, but the headache wouldn’t let her. She reached up and pushed the hero away from her - he moved as if he were merely a manikin, drifting until she stopped pushing.

"You tried to kill me," she said.

The heroes surrounding her didn't flinch. Their faces showed hostility and anger, but no understanding, no pity.

"Keepsie, you need to let him go," Timson said again.

"Or what? You'll try to kill me again?"

Timson took a deep breath. "We have other ways. We have your friends.

Their powers will not serve them quite as well as yours. Give us the device and release White Lightning and your friends will come to no harm."

They had Peter, Michelle and the others. Keepsie reconsidered her defiant stance. She stood. White Lightning moved with her, gliding over the floor as if he were made of Styrofoam.

“You have my friends. But I have your hero. I guess that makes it a standoff?”

Tattoo Devil tugged again at White Lightning, who didn’t move. "You know, you Third Wavers are pretty pathetic. We’re sick of your bitter conviction that you're just as good as a hero." His voice was muffled slightly from behind his Japanese mask.

“And yet you still can’t get what you want from me,” Keepsie said.

Tattoo Devil dropped his hand from White Lightning’s leg and glared at her. His eyes narrowed and he raised his right hand.

A katana-wielding samurai shimmered along Tattoo Devil’s palm and wrist. The tattoo turned its head and looked straight at Keepsie. He streamed out of Tattoo Devil's hand to take shape next to him.

“Take care of her,” Tattoo Devil said.

Keepsie didn’t have time to duck as the samurai, clad in bulky Japanese armor, aimed his strike at her neck.

She fell back onto the cot with the force of the blow, White Lightning falling with her. She closed her eyes and coughed until she retched.

After what felt like several minutes, she staggered to her feet. She opened her eyes and failed to see blood streaming down her chest. The katana lay on the floor. Keepsie felt her neck, and although there would be a significant bruise, the sword hadn't pierced her skin.

Tattoo Devil - and his tattoo samurai - were frozen in place, glaring at her.

"Heretic?" said Timson in her calm voice.

Keepsie couldn't gather her thoughts well enough to defend herself, to think of something quick to do. Heretic was one of the Academy's strongest heroes.

Flames billowed up around her, and she thought she heard Timson scream to keep White Lightning, Tattoo Devil and his warrior safe. The fire was hot, unbearable, and she screamed as it seared her flesh. She collapsed, and the flames went out.

"What happened, Heretic?" Timson said. "Go on and finish it!"

Heretic didn’t answer. She was frozen in place, hands raised, manic look plastered on her face.

Keepsie had covered her head in her hands, but realized that the burns on her skin were superficial. First-degree sunburn, if that. Her hair and clothing were untouched. In the back of her mind, away from the animalistic panic, a rational voice demanded her attention. They had tried three times to kill her, and they failed. Why?

Timson’s feet scraped along the floor, and Keepsie looked up. The scientist stood over her, frowning at a cell phone. "This is getting ridiculous.

Get in here."

A woman entered the room so quickly she must have been right outside.

She had her brown hair tied into a severe bun, and wore tortoise-rimmed glasses attached to a chain around her neck. A nondescript blouse, a red silk scarf around her neck, a knee-length skirt and sensible flats completed the ensemble.

The woman glared at Timson. "You know I was almost here. You didn’t need to yell.” "I needed you, Librarian," Timson said. "This woman is proving to be more trouble than she's worth, and we don't have all of her powers on file.

What can you tell me about her?"

The woman walked over to Keepsie and appraised her with a cool stare.

She looked at Timson and said, "Laura Branson, better known as Keepsie. Third Wave. Her power level was set at 2 when she applied to the Academy in 2025.

She is able to keep anything she owns. She cannot be stolen from. Anyone who attempts to steal from her will be trapped in stasis until she releases them, which she can do with a thought. A very useful power when it comes to keeping her own belongings safe, but useless for crime fighting."

"And that's it?"

"That is all that is in the Academy's records about this woman's power.

There is considerably more about her bar and her secret cabal of Third Wavers," the Librarian said. Keepsie guessed she didn't like being questioned.

"Nothing about invulnerability?" Timson asked.

The Librarian shook her head slowly, still staring her icy stare at Timson.

Timson slammed her fist onto the table and glared at Keepsie. "How could we have missed this? Our strongest heroes can't take her out."

She walked over to where Keepsie lay in a fetal position and kicked her.

"Damn you, give us the device!"

Keepsie reacted without thinking and caught Timson's foot after it had connected with her forearms. She gave a jerk and Timson toppled with a cry, falling heavily on her hip. The Librarian just watched.