Powers (14 page)

“Ink this time. With a little paint. Scrawled across the chest.”

Deena leaned forward. “What did it say?”

They turned, possibly having forgotten she was there. The Boucher men traded glances, and to her disappointment, the judge slapped his knees. “Let's get those steaks on a fire.”

A few hours later, they dug into warm, inviting, home-cooked barbecue. Eveline had laid out corn bread with rich gravy, three kinds of seasoned rice, and a bowl of lumpy hominy. The judge, to his credit, had done the steaks up right: a bit of sea salt sprinkled over grape-seed oil, and then a dusting of peppercorn and a sprig of rosemary. Aaron brought cold beers in from the garage, and Deena had whipped up a fresh summer salad with whatever she'd found in the pantry. The food was delicious, the conversation engaging, and Deena felt more content than she would ever be in her own home. After dinner, there was pie and coffee, and they retired with it to the porch to take in the cool night air. The judge eased into a rocker as Eveline measured out his evening's pills. Deena and Aaron sat double on a wraparound bench, nestled in together under soft exterior lights. Judge Boucher rocked a moment, breathing in the smell of trees and chicory, and then he leaned back and answered Deena's question.

“‘
In the Name of Liberty,
'” he said.

“How's that?” She was drifting into a food coma, had barely heard him speak.

“You asked what it said. Liberty's note. That's what it said, what it
always
says.”

“Pop.”

“Hush now, Aaron. She's got a right to know. Despite ten kills, that little detail's been kept from papers and, god love him, Ted Henry. Or at least someone smart enough paid the man to keep him from screaming it over the airwaves.”

Deena's eyes glittered in the moonlight. “What does it mean?”

“S'pose this individual feels his kills are freeing
someone
. All's I know? He's never killed the same way twice. No modus operandi to speak of. Makes him slippery and, frankly, exceptionally clever.”

“‘Mobile' what now?”

Aaron laughed and kissed Deena on the cheek.
“
Modus operandi
.
It means having a method for doing what they do. It's how we catch a serial killer. Most criminals stick to what they know.”

The judge reflectively tapped his coffee mug with a spoon. “Not this guy, though. He's smart. Each murder has been performed using the abilities of a certain Power…”

Aaron finished his father's thought. “But when the cops close in on the likely suspect? He or she is found killed by Liberty, using another method. The method of the next person on Liberty's list.”

Deena thought for a moment. “Who was the first victim?”

“Small-time arsonist. A minnow on the criminal food chain.”

Aaron took her hand. “Look, I don't want you thinking police work is all arsons and serial killers, horrible murders and the like. There's a lot of good in being a cop. Protecting the innocent. Making a difference. This stuff? It's few and far between.”

She rolled her eyes. “
This
is the exciting stuff. The
glamorous
stuff.”

“Not the tenth time, it isn't.”

The porch got quiet after that, the only sound the crickets and a light wind whistling through the trees. Aaron tousled Deena's hair, and she closed her eyes, thinking about Liberty's words, wishing tonight would never end. She was so relaxed; so content drifting on the porch, surrounded by love, laughter, and the scent of coffee and cologne. Then a scrape came from the left—someone walking up the graveled drive. Deena opened her eyes, and Aaron got to his feet. The elder Bouchers craned their necks to see who might be calling so late.

“Sure it is,” the newcomer scoffed at Aaron's last words, a silhouette framed against the neighboring fence. “It
has
to be exciting, especially when you're kicking butt and taking names. Right, Boucher? You like the
excitement
. The
thrill
. Oh, wait. You only
name
names.”

The man stepped into the light, onto the porch. It was Waldo Pilgrim, several cans of Infinity to the wind. Deena set down her mug and joined the detectives at the steps, quickly stepping between them before anything could happen.

“Dad,” she said, careful not to push. “Let's get you home.”

“I told you not to come here, Deena. I forbade it.”

Aaron held out his hand, reaching for her arm. “Hang on a—”

Deena pulled away. “No, Aaron. It's fine.” She smiled and addressed his parents. “Thank you for a lovely dinner. I've never had a steak so fine, Judge.”

Ken nodded without a smile, steely eyes set on Waldo. “Trick is the grape-seed oil. Controls the char.”

Deena kissed Eveline on the cheek and squeezed Aaron's hand. “I'll call you,” she whispered. Waldo jerked forward and grabbed her arm, dragging her down the stairs. He unkindly nodded to the judge. “Ken. Eveline.”

The judge continued to stare. Then, very imperceptibly, he nodded in return. “See you at the hearing, Wald.”

Her father's face flushed a deep, embarrassed red, and he briefly glanced at Aaron Boucher. “Just leave her be. You understand?”

“She's a grown woman, able to make her own decisions.”

“Not while I pay her freight. I'm still her father.”

“Among other things.”

Waldo chuckled, a low and evil laugh. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. “Least I'm honest with who I am. Least I ain't the kind of man who informs on his friends.”

“Oh, we're
not
friends, Pilgrim.”

“We could've been. I
tried
to be a friend to you, Boucher. But you're too righteous and idealistic to go along. Too proud to understand how it works. So instead, you rat cops out to the press—good men earning honest livings.”

“We
both
know there's nothing good or honest—”

“End of the day,” Waldo spat, getting right up into Aaron's face. “End of the day, you're worse than Judas, Boucher. You know what I'm talking about. I could name names, too. I could, but I won't. I'm loyal that way.”

“Dad, Aaron. Come on.” She tried to get between them but couldn't find daylight. Eveline fretted on the porch; the judge's nostrils flared.

“I'd rather be a Judas than a dirty cop,” Aaron shot back, looking down at her father, fists clenched.

Waldo cracked a smile. “Now ain't that ironic. Judas died hard, didja know?”

“Yeah? If I gotta go, at least I'll go knowing that you're off the street.”

Waldo threw a punch. The younger detective dodged and then drove a fist into the elder Pilgrim's gut. They grabbed one another and wrestled in the dirt, kicking up flowers and trampling Eveline's vegetables. Deena grabbed Aaron's collar and tugged him up, shouting for both men to stop as lights winked on along the street. Neighbors stuck heads out of doors as Eveline shrieked for détente from her chair. Aaron backed off, and Waldo pulled away, rising to his feet and brushing soil from his shirt.

“That's enough, jerks,” Deena beseeched the squabbling detectives. Aaron stepped forward, and Waldo stumbled to the edge of the light. “This is ridiculous. I don't know what's the deal, but you have to—”

“Let's go, Deena. Now.” Her father grabbed her wrist. She jerked it away.

Judge Boucher rose halfway, hands gripping his chair. A stony expression gave him the appearance of a waxwork, shadows cast across his features by the porch light. Deena swiftly shook her head, indicating that all was okay. She gestured for the judge to sit back down, and after a moment, he did. Aaron stepped forward, gallantly coming to her aid. She kissed him on the cheek. “I'd better go,” she said. “Seriously, I'll call.”

“You'd better.” He halfheartedly smiled, eyes still watching Waldo.

She led her father down the driveway and off the Bouchers' property. He'd driven, of course, and Deena liberated the keys from her old man's pocket. “I'll drive you home.”

Waldo grunted and then folded himself into the passenger seat of his old, green Mustang. She got the motor humming, a low rumble filling the air and intermingling with the sounds of crickets and nosy neighbors. Deena looked at the Bouchers' house, a final glimpse before heading home. Aaron and his mother were heading inside; she could see her boyfriend carrying plates in from the porch. The judge sat on his rocker, silently watching the Pilgrims' car. She waved, hoping he could see it through the tinted window, but the old man gave no indication to confirm that he had. Sighing, Deena leaned across and switched on the radio. She landed on a classic rock station playing Battleband, the final chorus of “Give Me Rock or Give Me Death.”

Deena took in her stewing, drunken father. His arms were folded, and he seethed in silence. She put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

“Hey, Dad?” She waited until he grunted. “Tell you something interesting. Here's the thing.” She placed a hand on his knee, and he turned her way.

“What's the thing?” He sat there, arms locked, waiting for judgment or grief.

Deena smiled. He'd get none here. Not like with Mom; not like with anyone who believed that Waldo was a dirty cop.

“You hear this song?” she asked. “Let me tell you something about the chords that you would never believe…”

 

10

December. Monday afternoon. 5:23
P.M.

Malachi Crane looked like an aging pumpkin. Wrinkled and rotten, with a mouthful of blocky teeth. He stood with his back to the window, hands clasped and gazing down onto the street. The wide mahogany desk that dominated his office was sparsely decorated; no photos, merely chrome paperweights and a laptop resting aside three stacks of neatly organized legal documents. The walls presented a few near-invisible, generic pieces of hotel room art adjacent to a handful of magazine covers on which Crane and several dignitaries of questionable moral fiber posed and preened. The office smelled of cigarettes and potpourri. The large picture window offered an incredible view of the city, the only thing worth noting other than Crane himself.

He turned to Deena and Kirk—arranged in chairs, waiting in suite 4A as they'd been for the last twenty minutes in the anteroom below. They'd arrived unannounced, requesting an immediate audience, explaining no more than the conversation required. A brief tussle with guards and a rather insistent secretary ensued; but less than ten minutes later, the two detectives were ushered into Crane's presence and offered coffee, water, nuts, and fruit. They'd declined them all, focused on the matter at hand.

And then motherfucking Crane,
Deena thought
, the Great Pumpkin in an Armani suit and loafers, proceeded to waste ten minutes staring out at rush-hour traffic
.

“Mr. Crane,” she began again, for what had to be the sixth time. “This really is a pressing matter. If you can offer anything at all—”

A low chuckle was her only answer. Dry and wheezy, the kind an old man gives on his deathbed. Truth be told, at his advanced age, Crane should have been resting comfortably in the dementia unit of a place with the words “Sunrise” or “Pleasant” on the door. Not heading the corporate arm of the world's largest anti-Powers political organization; not sucking in one raspy breath after the other while men of higher ethical caliber had finished drawing their own. This was a man the papers had labeled “the Abbie Hoffman of intolerant humanism.” A man who had faced everyone from the Soldier to Olympia to Diamond to Retro Girl … and often lost. This was a man who, if he and the backward-evolutionary drones shuffling through the Human Front offices had their way, would not hesitate to euthanize the entire powered population and then order high tea.

In a word, Malachi Crane was
evil
.

But in America, even evil could legitimize with proper legal representation.

Kirk tugged his collar; Deena could see the sweat rolling down the rookie's neck.
Just keep it together. Keep your mouth shut, baby. Okay?
For the thousandth time, she waffled between missing and cursing Aaron Boucher.
Damn his stupid investigation. Walker would be here now, taking point. He knows the history; hell,—he lived it. I know only so much, and Kirk's going to be no help if it comes to dragging this joker downtown past an army of jackbooted thugs.

To be honest,
she thought
, even Aaron would be help here. He was there when Crane got rolling. He was on the ground down in Atlanta.

Twelve years ago, the Human Front had been a collection of intolerant thugs banded together because they were frightened of what the Powers represented. After flashpoints in Detroit, Arizona, Moscow, Berlin, and Seoul, Earth's non-powered citizenry had a legitimate fear of what effect individuals with powers—unchecked, operating on their own terms—would have on the rest of the populace. There had already been post–World War II hot zones that had evolved into full-fledged political conflagrations. Not to mention irresponsible Powers who simply wanted to use their gifts for a life of crime or what they felt to be the greater good: themselves. And so, Powers Divisions sprang up in police stations across the globe. The fledgling United Nations and various unassociated governments around the world put peacekeeping solutions into place. And, of course, Congress began drafting bills that formed the bare bones of an eventual, much-debated Global Powers Registry.

Still, vigilantes gonna vigilante.

And so, a grassroots movement popped up in decaying urban areas throughout the country … unofficially labeled “the Human Front.” They began with the death of a powered boy in Wichita—strung up, skinned, bloodied, and left for dead. From there, it caught fire, at first only turning gangs of bigots into cells of organized fanatics. As their ranks bolstered, so did their access to resources. Eventually, the Human Front grew from pockets of angry, non-powered zealots into a thriving, dangerous regiment of technologically advanced, well-armed militants. With Crane at their forefront, supported by a legion of radical lieutenants, the Front spread across the globe, attacking powered individuals they felt were undermining humanity; which, they feared, had a good chance of becoming extinct. So they rabbled. They roused. And the Powers fought back, eliciting the help of local, federal, and global authorities.