Lafferty, Mur (7 page)

Peter stiffened. Michelle and Keepsie exchanged glances, and Ian slammed his fist onto the table. Clever Jack jumped.

"Now you're speaking a language we can understand!" Ian said. "So you were treated like we were? By the Academy that raised you?"

Clever Jack looked in turn at all of them. "I don't know how you were treated. I was in a cell in the lower levels of the Academy for ten years. But if you tried to get acknowledgment for your lesser abilities from the Academy I'm sure it went about as well as farming tobacco at a mile above sea level."

Peter shook his head in amazement at the comparison. "We were all rejected from the Academy for being of insufficient power, yes. If you didn't know this, how did you know we had powers to begin with?"

"Doodad told me," Clever Jack said. "He'd been out of his cell for a lot longer. I broke out several years ago, but headed home to the mountains of North Carolina."

"To find your mother?" asked Michelle.

Clever Jack looked down at the table. "I suppose. She wasn't there. I don't know where she went after the Academy gave her the 'Get Out Of The Mountains Free' card. She could be dead now, for all I know. Internet searches don’t help much; the Academy didn’t tell us our parents’ names."

"Did most of the women leave their babies to be raised by the Academy?" asked Keepsie.

Clever Jack sipped at his coffee. "All of them."

Michelle choked on a bite of scrambled eggs. "You mean they all just abandoned their babies at the Academy, took their checks and ran?"

"Most of these women didn't want their babies anyway," Clever Jack said, his voice dull. "And the Academy didn't do anything to encourage them to have contact with us. Like those surrogate women who don't hold their babies after they have them -no connection."

Peter was moved, but the image of the violence Clever Jack had brought to Seventh City remained with him. "So instead of going on Oprah, you decided to harm innocent people?"

Michelle, Ian and Keepsie looked at him in surprise. "Dude, that's cold,"

Ian said.

Clever Jack gave Peter an appraising stare. "If you want to look at it that way, yeah, I hurt innocents. I hurt anyone I could in order to escape the cell they threw me in when they realized I couldn't be a hero. I high-tailed it out of town and headed to the only home I could claim."

"And Doodad called you back?" Peter said.

"Yes. He needs that device back, Keepsie," Clever Jack said. He put his hand on hers, and she pulled it back quickly.

"Why did he give it to me in the first place?" she asked, not looking at him.

"He knew you could keep it safe while he had other business to attend to. You were the only one he knew couldn’t be forced to give it over to Timson and her lapdogs - and he knew you were unlikely to be convinced to do it."

"Wait, how much do they know about Keepsie?" Ian asked.

"More than you think," Clever Jack said. "They keep track of all First and Third Wavers, watching for vigilantes. Since your bar is right on their doorstep, you're pretty easy to keep an eye on."

"But heroes never come in the bar," Keepsie said.

"Heroes don't, but they're not the only people associated with the Academy," Clever Jack said. "Now, don't ask me who the spy is, cause I don't know, but Doodad says there are some pretty fat files on all of you."

Peter watched Keepsie carefully. She stared at the table and fiddled with an artificial sweetener packet. Instead of seeming upset, she appeared to be thinking something over very hard.

She raised her head and looked at Clever Jack. "I still need some time.

Come to my apartment tonight at eight o'clock. I'll have an answer for you then."

With his characteristic liquid grace, Clever Jack stood and slid the chair back under the table. "Done.” He pulled his baseball cap low over his eyes and headed out the door.

"What are you going to do, Keepsie?" Michelle asked.

"I don't know," Keepsie admitted, draining her coffee mug and grimacing.

"But I'll know tonight. I'll need your help, though."

"You've got it," Peter said at once.

She smiled at him. "Good. Now, where's Wanda with that coffee pot?"

It turned out that Wanda was approaching them as she said this. As she filled each of their mugs, she said, "Your friend didn't pay his bill, Keepsie, are you picking it up?"

After grudgingly picking up the tab for Clever Jack's breakfast, they left the diner.

"We can go around and around on the villains versus heroes thing all day.

The thing is," Keepsie said, "that the Academy is full of thugs. But we still don't know what this thing is or what Doodad plans on doing with it."

"He's been spreading mischief for weeks," Peter said. "There was no breaking out of his cell and finding a safe place to be like Clever Jack did;

Doodad stayed here. He may even have a lair or something by now."

Ian nodded fervently. "Dude just tries to make trouble for the heroes, and we get caught in the crossfire."

"But isn't that what I did last night? Make trouble for the heroes because I could?" Keepsie asked quietly.

Michelle looked at her, stricken. "You're not like them, Keepsie!"

Keepsie kicked a rock into the gutter. "Really? I didn't have any affection for Doodad. He scared the shit out of me yesterday. He kidnapped me and used me; he knew exactly how I'd react when the heroes came calling. And still I didn't help the Academy. White Lightning saved my life and I can't do anything but hate him because of how he treated me."

"Yeah, but he's an asshole, Keepsie. No one can like that guy," Ian said.

They walked on toward the bar. It was not yet time to open, but they figured it was a good place to talk in private and discuss Keepsie's options.

Peter had no idea what he would do in her position.

"Pretty day," Michelle said after a while. They made agreeable noises.

"Yeah, real nice, except for the heroes flying around," Ian said. Keepsie snapped her head up.

Peter followed her gaze. White Lightning was flying over them, arms outstretched, cape flapping behind him. He looked as if he was heading for the Academy. The few people on the street called out to him and waved, and a few women blew kisses.

"It's just a hero," Peter said when he saw Keepsie's stricken expression.

"’Just’." Keepsie replied. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "I can't do this, guys. I can't fight them. I'm scared of what the villains will do with the device and I'm scared of what the heroes will do to me."

"It's not like they can take anything from you," said Ian.

"True, but they can arrest me. I can still protect all of my stuff when I’m sitting in jail. I'm going to give it to them."

Michelle put her hand on Keepsie’s shoulder. "We're with you, Keepsie, whatever you decide."

"Thanks," Keepsie said.

Peter looked up the street and his heart fell. "Um, Keepsie. You need to see this.”

People were collected at the top of the stairs leading down to Keepsie's Bar. Police officers. Three tall men, complete with blue hats, badges, doughnut bellies and guns (and one even sported the handlebar moustache), accompanied by a shorter black man in a suit. They stood expectantly and watched Peter, Keepsie, Ian and Michelle.

"Shit. What do we do now?" Ian asked.

"Go talk to them, I expect. They have guns, we don't," Peter said.

Ian pushed up his sweatshirt sleeves. "The hell we don't.” "Ian, chill," Michelle said. "You'll just get yourself in trouble if you attack cops. Come on."

Keepsie hadn't spoken. She stared at the men. Without looking at her friends, she walked forward with a "welcoming a new customer she didn't know" smile on her face.

"Gentlemen, the bar doesn't open for a couple of hours. But I'll be happy to serve you when it does," she said.

"Ms. Laura Branson?" asked the shorter man, pulling aside his jacket to indicate a silver badge hanging on his belt.

"Please, call me Keepsie," she said, stretching her hand out. "And you are?"

"Michael Orson of the State Alcohol Board." He did not shake her hand.

She dropped it after a moment's hesitation, but her smile did not waver. "Ms.

Branson, we are here to suspend your alcohol license; your last report to us listed you making fifty-two percent of your net profits from alcohol sales instead of food sales, which violates Statute 756-A stating that every restaurant must make fifty-one percent of profit from food sales or call itself a private club."

Keepsie's smile evaporated as her jaw dropped. "That can't be, I track the books myself before I send to my accountant.”

Orson hooked his thumbs through his belt and sighed. "Well, Ms. Branson, if that is indeed true, it will show up in your next audit in sixty days time. Until then, we have to suspend your license and close your bar. We'd appreciate your cooperation with us." The officers at his back puffed themselves up menacingly.

"You can't do that, you can't take anything from her without her permission," Ian said.

"That may be true for Ms. Branson's possessions, but an alcohol license is something that belongs to the state, and can be taken by the state, just like a driver's license," Orson said.

Keepsie eyed him warily. "If you know that, then you must have friends at the Academy."

"Academy officials are acquainted with many other government agencies, ma'am," Orson said. "We do talk on occasion."

Cold comprehension washed over Peter. This was the only thing they could take from her, and possibly the thing that meant the most to her.

Keepsie allowed Orson to lead her mutely down the stairs into the bar.

They came out with the alcohol license - Keepsie had removed it from her frame -and Orson instructed her to lock the door. One officer came downstairs with a drill and a padlock and quickly installed another lock in Keepsie's door.

"They can't do this, can they?" Michelle asked.

"They can do anything they want," Peter said. "I'm sure if Keepsie has a change of heart about the device, then the audit will show no such numerical errors."

"But she was going to give it to them anyway!" said Ian. "Hey, Keepsie!" he called down the stairs. "Tell them you were-"

Keepsie looked up at him and shook her head sharply, her eyes cold and dry.

"Oh dude," he said. "She is pissed."

They watched as the officer finished his work and the three came up the stairs. Orson handed Keepsie his card and said, "We'll be in touch. And, if you wish to tell me anything, I'll be available to listen."

"This is bullshit!" Ian cried. "This is utter bullshit! You can't do this to her just cause she pissed off the heroes! She didn't break any laws, you're just Academy puppets!"

"Sir, I'll appreciate it if you keep calm," Orson said, but the officers behind him exchanged nervous looks.

They must have read the files on all of us, Peter thought.

"Ian, don't-" said Keepsie, but it was too late.

Ian raised his fists and his terrible talent spewed forth. Filth and excrement shot from his hands with firehose-like pressure, coating the men in feces and knocking them back.

"Oh no," groaned Michelle.

Ian laughed as he effortlessly kept the scrambling men at bay, slipping and falling again in the shit. He allowed them to get up only to knock them down again with a fresh stream.

Peter held a handkerchief to his nose, gagging. Keepsie lifted her arm to her face. She and Peter exchanged anguished looks, but before they could do anything, they heard a voice behind them.

"Thanks for finally giving me an excuse," said White Lightning, and he punched Ian in the back of the head. Ian fell forward. Peter leaped to try to catch him but he had edged too far away to avoid the stench. Ian was already unconscious as he hit the pavement.

"You're under arrest," White Lightning said to the prone Third Waver. He lifted him into his arms and flew toward the Academy.

Dimly aware that Michelle was ranting and Peter was escorting them both down the street, Keepsie walked. The world was a flat image; a picture of the Seventh City Main Street that she walked twice every day, rain, shine, snow, heroes, villains, or, apparently, shit. There was shit on her pants and shoes.

"They took him, Keepsie, they took Ian, what are we going to do?"

Michelle said. “They’ve gone too far this time!” "Come on, Michelle, calm down, it'll be OK," Peter said, still pulling both women along by their elbows. "Keepsie, I believe you live closest, can we go to your apartment?"

Her apartment. They couldn't go to her apartment; it was locked. Her bar was locked; they couldn't go there either. They couldn't go anywhere. She felt Peter's hold tighten on her elbow.

"Keepsie, you have to hold it together, I can't take care of both of you,"

Peter said, desperation seeping through cracks in his usually calm voice.

Keepsie shook her head. No one had barricaded her apartment -she'd locked it herself. "Right, sorry, yeah, let's head back to my place. We can, uh, wash up." She lifted one leg and then the other, grimacing at the foul splatters covering her sneakers and her jeans.

Still feeling as if she were acting in a movie, moving stiffly through blocking set by a director, she helped Peter urge the enraged Michelle down the street. Other people on the street were the actors who took their cues and turned their heads to stare at them: a concerned, well-dressed man, a furious tall woman with cornrows and a Keepsie Branson, the star of the show who was horribly miscast by a woman who couldn't for the life of her remember her lines.

Michelle had calmed down to grumbling by the fourth block and was only fuming in silence by the time they got to Keepsie's apartment.