Powers (22 page)

He'd blamed fatigue,
Walker recalled as he turned down a passing plate of hors d'oeuvres.
I understood. I mean, the guy had been fighting every sort of insurgent since 1951.
Hell, if anyone could understand exhaustion following a long, protracted period of time, brought on by never-ending conflict, it would be Christian Walker. That's why he'd gravitated toward Joe Monroe in the first place. That's what drew Walker to the old soldier, and he imagined Zora, as well.

But when the two heroes stepped out of the Shaft, slightly inebriated and after a fruitless argument about principles and duty … when they returned to the smoldering streets of Detroit, Walker hadn't been prepared for Joe's changed attitude toward saving the innocent.

Joe grabbed Walker's arm and spun him around. Several dancers had followed them out of the Shaft, tits bouncing in the wind, hoping the broad-shouldered man who'd thrown hundreds around like candy might return to the comfort and decadence of the club. But Walker was already fixing his skewed mask, and Joe's face was florid and purple. They faced one another, there on the empty street. A phalanx of cops lined the avenue, backs to the bar, guns raised and pointed toward an oncoming crowd of looting, rioting Detroiters.

“Hey!” Joe yelled, drunk and belligerent. “Where do you think you're going?”

“To do my job while I still can.” Walker tugged Blue Streak's mask into place and then started off across the street to join the cops. Joe followed, too inebriated to remember his mask was down and askew.

“Oh no you don't. Your job is finished. So is mine. So is theirs.”

Walker scowled at his friend. “What are you talking about?”

Joe jabbed a finger at the approaching mob. “They won, Walker. Don't you fucking get it? This is what the world wants now. Not us—not someone willing to protect their city in order to make it a better place. Oh, no. They want someone willing to burn it down instead.”

Walker dismissed the old soldier with a thick, gloved hand. “Come on, you're drunk. This is about something completely different.”

“Is it, man? Because I've been doing this a long while now—”

“As have I.”

“And far as I can see?
No one
wants or appreciates my help. They'd rather throw in with guys like Crane or any of the other fanatics with a penchant for tearing down the Establishment. Any why shouldn't they? Look around, Walker.”

Joe held out his arms, gesturing as if to take in the city, the nation—hell, maybe even the whole damn world. “It isn't as if the Establishment is willing to negotiate peaceably. It isn't as if they're willing to help. Because if they were, big guy? They'd be walking the streets handing out jobs, not bullets. They'd be turning their Powers into teachers, not weapons. And they sure as shit wouldn't be standing here watching people die. Lord knows I don't want to do that anymore.”

Walker held out a hand. “Then why wait? Let's do all of that. Let's start by stopping any more death here today.”

Joe closed his eyes and placed both hands on his hips. He took a deep breath, sighed, and faced the sky. “I'm just tired, Walker. It never works. There's always going to be another Crane or Wolfe or god knows. And the powers that be—my bosses, your boss—aren't going to negotiate to stop the bloodshed. I'm just exhausted, man. It didn't happen in Korea. It didn't happen before in Europe and Japan. And it sure as shit isn't going to happen in Detroit—on our home soil, for fuck's sake, where we should be offering flags instead of rifles. Where we should be looking for solutions, not furthering the bloodshed.”

Some of the cops were listening to Joe now, ignoring the rioters as they hesitated, rifles unsteady and unsure. The dancers and a handful of barflies hung on every word, ignoring their revels for the moment. Joe had an audience. Everything hinged on what happened next. But before the heroes could make peace between the authorities and the anguished, a shot rang out from Blue Streak's right. Nervous, one of the policemen had accidentally fired into the approaching crowd. A body fell, and the wave of screaming, indignant civilians surged forward, waving bats and weapons. Walker hustled over to help, doing his best to separate combatants without further bodily harm. Joe, meanwhile, just stood there and seethed.

“Come on!” Blue Streak shouted, indicating the violence spreading out in front of the Golden Shaft. “Soldier—help us! Get over here!”

But Joe never looked up. He turned his back on Walker and the rioters, heading east and away from the deadly altercation. One of the militants among the crowd of rabble-rousers—an oafish thug, adorned with the colors of both the Human Front and the Black Panther movement—lunged for several of the Shaft's entertainers. They squealed, and Walker leaped to stop him. The man was inches away from the Soldier's iron grasp, but Joe simply kept walking. Step by step, leaving the fight. He could have stopped the mammoth bigot with a single blow, done something to turn the tide, but instead, he allowed the man to escape when Walker couldn't reach him. Joe ignored more than four, if not six members of the Human Front who raced around the tumult, heading deeper into the city and toward the waterfront, running free to spread the violence.

The pleasant scent of grilled meats brought Diamond back to reality, wafting from the kitchen as the food arrived. Tears stung both eyes, and he rubbed them away. He desperately needed a drink and wondered how he might escape the festivities without offending the guests or, more importantly, his host.

But then, his host hadn't had a problem leaving Walker to his own devices back in Detroit. He'd walked away without a backward glance, doing his country—and its people—a grave disservice by abandoning the field of battle, allowing the riots to continue for two more days without his valuable help. The Citizen Soldier disappeared after that fateful day in 1967, not to be seen again until 1972, during the height of the Vietnam War. Walker himself didn't see his friend until the mid-eighties, around the time he was sleeping with both Zora and Retro Girl, getting ready to set the world on fire by partnering with Triphammer and several others. The feds hushed up Joe's AWOL status—or, at least, it had never become an issue. He was here, wasn't he? And they'd stuck a patsy into his blue-and-red union suit for photo ops, press purposes, and benefits all throughout the rest of the sixties and the start of the war.

But the Soldier who'd returned from 'Nam in 1975 was a much different person from the one who'd inspired a generation in the forties, fifties, and start of the sixties. He'd changed; he'd stopped caring, stopped accepting the weight of his responsibilities. That attitude radiated out to all who allied with the Citizen Soldier throughout the latter half of the century, ever since he caught the last copter back from Laos.

Walker accepted a drink from a passing waiter. He didn't even know what it was—he smelled it, noting the earthiness of bourbon or scotch. He drained it in a swallow, finding himself close to the whirlwind of laughter, Powers, food, and drink. The whiskey was strong, and he reached for another as soon as he could. He hoped to dull his senses, making it easier to ignore the rattle in the windows and sounds of combat filtering in from outside.
I wonder,
he thought,
if this is how Joe does it. If this is how he turns off his sense of duty, his understanding that terrible things are happening around him, but that rushing to the rescue won't matter at all.

It hadn't mattered in Detroit, where the city burned for five days before the National Guard had ground the anti-Powers movement to a halt. It hadn't mattered in Korea before that, and it hadn't in Vietnam a few years later. It hadn't mattered in the Gulf, or to the victims of the so-called Liberty killer these past few weeks. Their duty, the responsibility that Walker wanted to wear like a badge, made little difference to the people who died on the streets or in the air. The men and women he couldn't save. At the end of the day, Powers or not, what difference did it make whether Walker was a Power or cop if neither one nor the other could stop a handful of bigots with ion particle disruptors from killing each other in the streets?
Better to stay inside and drink. Better to ignore that hollow, horrible, guilty feeling in my gut.

Walker had reached the tables now, where meats and cheeses were arranged in an enticing buffet. He had a scotch in his hand—his third, perhaps? He'd grabbed it automatically, by force of habit. Joe sat nearby, entertaining a circle of admiring Powers with what seemed to be a fascinating, thrilling, raunchy story. He caught Walker's eye and then beckoned for Diamond to join the party.

Standing outside the circle, watching his colleagues file in for dinner with a gaggle of mistresses and cops, Walker wondered what had happened to the world-famous Citizen Soldier between '67 and '72. He wondered what had occurred before that day in Detroit, and why Joe had been so emotionally affected, and where his good friend's head was now. For that matter, Walker wondered—flashing on the riots, thinking about the fires outside and a state of emergency in Atlanta that reminded him so much of Detroit—where his own head was, as well.

He finished his drink and discarded the glass. Then he plastered a smile on his face and headed over to toast his friend.

 

16

December. Tuesday morning. 9:17
A.M.

They loaded her into a truck. It wasn't much larger than an SUV. He watched them from afar, positioning a telephoto lens through the passenger-side door. His car—nondescript, beige, and badly needing a paint job—lingered on the far end of the avenue, blocked from view by the crowd. The mourners had packed the streets in front of the precinct with camping chairs and pup tents, encircled around podiums and shrines riddled with flowers, photographs, posters, and candles. Blockades of news vans and assorted media helped his car blend in; a phalanx of network reporters kept situating themselves in front of the clunker, obscuring it from any particular line of sight. He didn't worry, though. They wouldn't get in his way; he wasn't watching the precinct.

He observed, instead, the impound lot across the street.

Several cops had escorted the prisoner through an unmarked service entrance—freight or laundry, the man couldn't be sure—and kept her inside a circle of plainclothes detectives as they casually strolled toward the lot. He recognized one or two—from television, perhaps, the news over the past few days. To be honest, he didn't know the cops in this city as well as he'd like. But he hadn't been in town long enough to match faces to names as of yet. Perhaps in due time, should the need arise. He doubted it would. The work was nearly done, and in a handful of days, he planned to disappear as chaos and scandal swirled around the murders. Just as he had ten years earlier.

He looked back at the lot. They'd secured the doors to the truck and were preparing to leave. He started up his car, twisting the ignition, and both gawkers and mourners glanced his way. He waved them aside, silently asking them to let him through. They shrugged and stepped away, barely giving the man a second glance. Why would they? He wasn't wearing the hood. As far as they knew, Liberty was just another yutz with a POS car.

The truck slid out of the lot and turned left, and Liberty followed, carefully driving through the snow. They wove in and out of traffic. The cops weren't speeding but were clearly determined to finish their trip as quickly as possible.
The Shelf,
he thought,
or another appropriate, nearby prison. No matter; they won't reach it, whatever the destination.

The truck turned into a warehouse district, and Liberty followed, gunning the engine and making his move. Carefully, trying not to attract their attention, Liberty inched up and drove alongside the truck. He casually surveyed the driver and noted a second policeman in the passenger seat.
I wonder if that's all. I'd been looking away, so I didn't see whether any guards had joined her in the back. I suppose I'll have to be surprised. Won't that be thrilling?

Liberty accelerated again, easing his car in front of the truck, essentially cutting it off while careful not to skid. He wasn't driving that fast, but the driver of the truck felt the need to pass. The unmarked truck swerved to the left, and the driver pressed the pedal. Liberty smiled and jerked left himself and then back to the right and gave it some gas. He did what he could to make sure the truck couldn't go around. The policeman tapped his horn, offering Liberty a gentle warning. He nodded and waved in response and then sped up, giving the truck a bit of room. The policeman gave up and slid the truck back behind Liberty's sedan, and after several blocks, it seemed the chase had ended.
Pity,
he thought.
I rarely get into car chases, no matter how small. Anyway, time is wasting
. He reached out and stabbed the glove compartment. There, embedded into the metal, sat a trio of custom controls, each with its own purpose.
This is what TV secret agents must feel like,
Liberty thought.
Eeny meeney miney …
He slammed down on the first, flat, green button.

A trail of gas seeped out of the car's exhaust, lifted by the wind and fanned toward the front of the police truck. To an outside observer, it might have seemed like another busted piece of an already deteriorating automobile had given way to age and mechanics. But the vapor was no simple emission—it was gaseous acid, toxic and concentrated, and it swiftly ate through the truck's hood, bumper, and windshield. The policemen noticed something was up and slammed on the brakes. Liberty came to a stop, as well, and twisted a second button—a red one, rotating like a radio dial. It opened a hatch in the trunk. The dial adjusted the rate at which the sedan ejected a trunkload of volatile shrapnel.