Powers (20 page)

Deena laughed. “Dad, I'm nothing like Mom. I can handle this. Please.”

“You can't. Look, I'm still your father. I'm a
good
man.”

“No, you're not. Not anymore. Not like Aaron.”

Waldo released her hand, spinning her away, and spat on the floor. “Then go be with him instead. Get out of here, and don't come back before I
do
tell you the truth. Leave, like your asshole boyfriend. Get out of Atlanta before you get hurt.”

She stared, wounded and rubbing her bruised wrist. “What do you mean?”

He grinned as he walked back toward the living room. “Oh, he didn't tell you? Detective Boucher put in for a transfer. Effective immediately.”

That didn't make sense. Aaron was the hero. He helped stop the gang war and then effected a series of internal investigations that put five APHD detectives in jail, suspended three of their badges, and removed the Federal Powers' jurisdiction away from Atlanta. Why would he leave? Who would be left that wasn't tainted by the corruption?

And what would become of their relationship? No, fuck that. He wouldn't leave without talking to her about it. This was just more of Waldo's bullshit.

“You're lying.”

He gestured grandly to the door. “Ask him yourself, that son of a bitch.” Waldo dumped himself back into his recliner, grabbing the scotch along the way. “But don't come crying to me when your heart gets broken. Don't come crawling back after you finally learn the truth.”

She backed out slowly and then spun away, heading out the door. She called Aaron on her cell as she walked to her car, careful not to sprint and twist an ankle. He didn't pick up; she tossed the phone in the back before driving like a madwoman to his apartment.

He was packing when she arrived, placing pans into a box already filled with spice bottles and hand towels. Nine MM played on the radio, streaming soulful mercy throughout the tiny kitchenette. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans; the shirt clung to his skin, and Deena was torn between wanting to hit him and wanting to jump his bones. She glanced around and saw other boxes, labeled and secured, ready to ship. So she landed on the former.

“Hey!” he protested, blocking her attack. “What's gotten into you?”

“You're leaving? Were you planning on telling me?”

He seemed surprised, and his face was pale. “Didn't your dad? I mean, I assumed.”

“Yeah, ass. I just found out. But I should have heard it from
you.
” Deena closed her eyes and shook her head. “No, we should have
discussed
it before you made a goddamn decision.”

Aaron turned back to his boxes. “Really? What would that have accomplished?”

She grabbed his arm and twisted him back. “Why are you being such a dick?”

He pulled away and ran both hands through his hair. “I'm not. It's just … look, you know this wasn't just my decision.”

She raised an eyebrow. “They're transferring you?”

“No, I mean … wait. What did Waldo tell you?”

“He told me you were leaving town—that you put in for a transfer!”

“Oh.” He wiped his eyes, and the color seemed to return to his cheeks. “No, it isn't that. It's just … my pop is leaving. Moving to Texas. He got an offer, and I'm going to help them get settled.”

“I don't understand. They can't go without you? Why can't you go and then come back?” He hesitated, and she knew. “Wait. You don't want to come back, do you? You're using this as an excuse to get away from here.”

“No…” He shook his head and sat down at the small foldable card table they'd purchased together on a blissful weekend. “I'm using this whole thing—the war, the murders, the trials. That's my excuse.”

“Pretty shitty excuse.”

He held her hands. “Deena, I can't do this anymore. I can't be the only honest cop in Atlanta. The corruption in this town, it's just toxic.”

Deena gripped his fingers. “You fixed that. Waldo, all the shit in the papers. It's done, right? It'll get easier.”

Sadly, he shook his head. “I don't know. I doubt it. I plugged a leak, but there'll be others. And the murders. I … I failed, Deena. I thought it was someone on the inside, and when we turned the division upside down, all I had was a shitload of rats and traitors. Nothing I did made a difference—nothing I'm doing will change the pit that is the APHD. So I'm done. I can't sit here and wallow in my own failures. I have to start again somewhere else. Somewhere far from the pain affecting my family.”

“Okay. I'll come with you.”

He hung his head. “No.”

She snatched her fingers away. “Why the fuck not?”

“Deena, you have school. You have roots and a family—”

“Not anymore. Not after tonight.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Deena…”

She moved to the fridge, placing her back against magnets and shopping lists bound for the garbage. “Don't you fucking ‘Deena' me. You made this decision by yourself. That makes me feel like shit—like we had nothing together.”

“You know that isn't true.”

“Then why can't I come? Your parents love me, mine are assholes, and I can transfer to another college or start at an academy nearb—”

Aaron stood up, rubbing his eyes and brow. “Deena, you have to finish college here. You have to live life on your own terms, not latch on to mine. Find a better life—a better man, for that matter. One without attachments and baggage … the baggage of my family and yours.”

“Are you kidding?” She was pissed now, really fuming. “That's what I get after all this time? ‘It's not you, it's goddamn me'?”

“Deen, if you come with me, you're just going to follow my failure. That's all you'll ever see. You need to put this behind you—I know you idolize the cops, the Powers. I know you
glamorize
the Powers. But they'll only hurt you in the end.”

“I don't think you're a failure.
You
do, though I don't know why.”

“Because I am! I did fail—I failed this city, my father—hell,
your
father. I failed
you
.” He moved toward her, taking her shoulders with both hands. His eyes were frightened; she'd never seen him this way before. Never seen the lack of confidence, the anxiety, or pain. Aaron's fingers roamed along her arms, clammy and clutching, and she tried to pull away. He was too strong, though, and leaned forward to lock eyes.

“Don't you get it? Being with you, having you with me in Texas and then wherever … I would always be reminded of that failure. I'd never be able to escape it. Seeing you would remind me of your dad and of the mess I'd left behind. I'd resent you for it, just like you might resent me for leaving.”

Deena felt numb. She felt dead and betrayed. “I don't resent you, Aaron. I think you're a fucking
coward
.”

He let her go and stepped back, wrapping both arms around his body. “Well, at least we agree on something, then.”

They stood there for a moment, listening to a clock tick the minutes away somewhere in the apartment. It was his bedroom clock—she knew it well, picturing it on the left nightstand next to where she normally slept. Deena knew every inch of Aaron's apartment. The contents of his drawers, the nuances of every nook and cranny. She'd helped him decorate it when he'd moved in, and she'd always hoped to help him pack after locating a place large enough to call their own.

But he'd found one without her. And now she had to say good-bye. “Fuck
that,
” she swore aloud, spitting it with venom across the tiny kitchen. “And fuck
you,
Officer Boucher.”

Deena slammed the door as she headed out into the cold Georgian night. The city was quiet now, the wars and battles long having been extinguished. But the city was still broken. A murderer lurked somewhere in the moonlight. The last good cop in Atlanta was pulling up stakes and heading west while his former colleagues—crooks and criminals—scavenged among the ashes. Deena's family was shattered, too, Mom having gone and Waldo a complete disgrace. Deena was fractured, as well, both in her heart and soul. Her two role models, the men who had charted the course of Deena's life, had let her down. They'd perverted and pissed on everything she'd ever believed in. The entirety of her very essence had amounted to nothing in the long run. And so, just as they'd abandoned her, Deena walked out on them both, adrift and alone, without their influence for the first time in her life.

She was broken, sure—wounded and angry, and not for the last time in her life. But despite the pain, she took comfort in one small fact: the steps she took after leaving Aaron's apartment—those first, fateful steps into the cold December night, possibly deeper into sorrow and pain—would at least be Deena's own.

 

14

December. Tuesday morning. 12:53
A.M.

Walker flipped the channel.

“—vigils around the globe, wherein somber orators have draped themselves in blue and crimson and regaled gathered mourners with tales of derring-do and patriotism the like that hasn't been seen for over a decade. Wreaths, tacked to the walls of the police station, painted to match the costumes, are interwoven with handwritten notes—gestures and farewells, perhaps, or simple thank-yous to the man who once epitomized—”

He flipped again, jabbing the remote with an ink-stained finger. This time, Walker landed on a group debate.

“—so despite the communal uproar, and ignoring the widespread call for some kind of public service, we enter the second day of what's been referred to as ‘CitizenWatch.' I, for one, ask the forum: What is Captain Emile Cross playing at here?”

“Oh, agreed, Lynette. And I want to take a moment and point out your choice of words—‘playing'—because, as with most matters pertaining to Powers authority via local civic authorities, it truly presents itself as some sick game of cat-and-mouse.”

“You mean between Cross and the district attorney, Melvin, or Cross and—”

“And the public, Mike. The public. I mean, it possibly goes even deeper, beneath Cross and into something seedier. Are you aware, for instance, that the PHD employs no fewer than six—count that, six—former Powers on staff? And of those formerly gifted … and really, Lynette, who's to say they no longer
have
those gifts?”

“Who, indeed?”

“But I digress. Of those six, no less than two have direct ties to the Cit—”

Jab. Flipped a third time. To a commercial, at least. Walker reached for a bottle of Infinity and settled back into his lumpy, poorly stuffed couch. A modestly choreographed seduction played out on his television set—leading, no doubt, to a titillating climax that would be used to hawk perfume, jeans, or perhaps a car. He tuned it out, still listening to the phantom debate trail slanderous accusations in his ear. He swallowed. Walker couldn't sleep. But that was hardly new. He'd been having trouble sleeping, off and on, since Chicago.

The commercial had long moved on (it had tried to sell him on a new kind of sandwich, actually), and now a yammering late-night host in a fashionable suit spewed jokes about local politics, the upcoming holiday, and—of course—the death of the Citizen Soldier. Walker tuned that out, too. He'd mastered that trick over the years, only taking in what he felt important to the matter at hand. It was a valuable skill, one that made him an exceptional detective. Unfortunately, it had made him a lousy superhero.

A good hero, Walker knew, not only focused on the pressing case but also the interconnected multitude of emotional repercussions and possible aftershocks emanating out from whichever decision he or she happened to make. A good hero, he mused while lounging in the common space of his two-bedroom apartment, kept tabs on every facet of every scenario, inspecting all sides before making the right choice. Zora had been excellent at that kind of thing, as had Retro Girl. They both had innate sensitivities for the way their actions—or reactions—would affect people and places that were around them. Triphammer, on the other hand, while having a firm grasp on the inner workings of the most intrinsic and detailed micromachinery, mastering atoms and nanites down to their core molecular structure … Harley, Walker had to admit, barely noticed anyone or anything that didn't directly connect to his goal of making the world a better—more powerful—place.

And Walker? He'd landed somewhere in the middle. He always hoped that he was like Zora, empathetic by nature and blessed with the ability to say or do the right thing. But the truth of the matter was that he was more like Harley. Long years spent compartmentalizing his life, gravely understanding that he'd soldier on after everyone else would be dust in the ground, had made Walker cold. He'd worn a mask for that very purpose—not to protect his identity from the public, because when you got down to it, whom was he really protecting? No, Walker had worn a mask because it was easier that way. He didn't have to form personal attachments—Blue Streak, Diamond … they'd both been easy deflections from letting anyone get close. No one really knew who he was, no one really cared. And those who did—those who got close—well, that had only proved his point. Anyone who knew that Diamond had been Christian Walker—before Deena had outed him, of course—was now dead. And the joke, the ultimate joke here was that “Christian Walker” himself had been a disguise. Just another name and face he wore to protect his true self from those around him.

Of course, that hadn't worked, either.

Walker finished the beer. He snapped off the TV, plunging the apartment into darkness, and halfheartedly thumbed through the files on his coffee table. But he couldn't focus. He was too busy thinking about Deena, thinking about what she'd said back at the hospital. She was right, of course. She was absolutely right. He'd spent so many days trying to escape the past … so much time going
forward,
that he sometimes forgot the need to embrace where he'd been.
That happens when you're immortal, of course. Looking back can be painful.
You can't see past the bodies that have dropped in your wake. And there have been plenty of bodies.