Powers (23 page)

Fragments of metal, wire, and glass impacted the truck's windshield, shattering it inward and embedding itself into the throats, skulls, and chests of the cops. Liberty's potent extra-strength acid had weakened the custom-fitted titanium-alloy chassis, as well as the fibrous-enhanced friction-resistant windshield with which the truck had been fitted. The policemen slumped against the dashboard, and another two leaped out of the back. Liberty exited his car and lifted a long-range silencer out of his pocket. One shot quickly dispatched the cop on the right; the second dove out of view, behind the truck. He opened fire, and Liberty was forced to hide, sliding back inside his car.

No doubt at this point the lone gunman has radioed for backup. This is the third time I've had to act fast before the police arrive. I'm getting old, too, like Monroe.

He reached across and smacked a hand on the final button. This one employed no subtleties; it was clearly made for launching rockets.

A single torpedo emerged from the trunk, blasting the door from his car and setting it ablaze. The rocket hit the truck and lit it up like a candle, sending it off its wheels and forcing it back several feet. The second policeman stopped shooting. Liberty quickly stepped out of the car and strode to the rear of the truck. The remaining cop was dying, gasping on the floor, badly burned and bleeding like a stuck pig.
You should have run,
Liberty regretfully expressed with sorrowful eyes.
I would have let you go.

Then he shot the cop twice in the chest.

Liberty stepped over the body and swung wide the rear doors. Wilhelmina Quince sat cowering in the corner. She was bleeding—a mess of burns and wounds, groaning with pain. But she was alive. He beckoned for her to exit the truck. “Quickly now,” he grunted, “before this thing explodes.”

Head bouncing like an agreeable maniac, she scrambled out of the truck. They hurried down the street, away from the burning vehicles. Liberty took Quince by the collar, dragging her forward. He glanced at a street sign. They were on Avenue F and Bernardin.
No, this won't do,
he realized.
We're one block too far.

“Come on,” he whispered to Wilhelmina. “We're going for a walk. It'll do you a world of good.”

And off they went down Bernardin, stumbling one block north.

Shortly, drawn by the noise, a lone patrol car rolled up beside the blackened husks of both the beat-up sedan and the once-formidable police truck. Lights bathed the scene, shimmering against pools of blood and reflecting against the snow and the billowing smoke. The front door opened, and a detective emerged. She was tall and lean, dressed in fashionable leather that seemed warm enough despite appearances, a ribbon of faux-fur trim circling her collar. She wore gloves but no hat; short hair severely pulled back, she surveyed the scene with an observant, comfortable gaze. The newcomer sighed, tugging at her jacket, and then she reached into the cruiser to retrieve its radio.

“Dispatch, this is 1-Peter-21 answering a distress call on the old inner harbor. Bernardin and F, north side. Two vehicles, abandoned, officers down and out.”

A voice crackled back. “How many officers, Detective Sunrise?”

Enki Sunrise glanced around, creeping unease setting into her bones. She lifted the radio. “Two, Dispatch, maybe three. Front of the truck may hold more answers, but I've yet to approach. Waiting to clear the area.”

“Do you require additional backup, 1-Peter-21?”

Enki nodded to herself, wishing she hadn't abandoned her other assignment as quickly as she did. But she'd known this route meant a prisoner transfer related to Deena's case, and she'd been close by. No one else would have gotten there in time to save Quince's life. But as far as Detective Sunrise could tell, looking around, she was too late. Enki was the only person here. The only person alive, anyway.

“Negative, Dispatch,” she replied. “No additional backup necessary.”

“You sure, Enki? Everything okay?”

She sat back in the cruiser, the wind having been knocked out of her from the sight of the dead men and smoking vehicles. “Not at all, Dispatch. No backup required … but I will need a shit ton of body bags.”

 

17

December. Tuesday morning. 10:48
A.M.

Deena mounted the steps, ignoring the smell of day-old marinara and an assortment of cleaning supplies. Aaron followed, climbing one step at a time to her two. The staircase was drafty, and she thanked her lucky stars that Waldo lived on the third floor of a six-floor walkup. Neighbors peered into the hall—elderly retirees, shut-ins, and grandparents whose family never came. Deena could understand why; if she didn't have a murder to solve, and Waldo hadn't been an important piece of the puzzle, the last place she'd be found was in this building, visiting family.

They'd taken the first flight out, ejecting a couple from Cleveland who'd been happily diverted to first-class seats on another plane. Aaron had fidgeted the entire way, grumbling beneath his breath and then fitfully snatching an hour of sleep. Deena, for the most part, had flown in relative peace. A tall coffee and a cell phone packed with files had kept her company. But his constant shuffling had eventually gotten to her nerves, and so she'd swapped seats with a kid she'd convinced that Aaron was a rock star. Deena had felt bad about that, but truthfully, she needed time to herself. Aaron felt this was an unnecessary trip, one that could have been solved with a phone call—and the captain had agreed. But Aaron had insisted on coming when she'd refused to back down, explaining that she wanted to look her father in the eyes, force him to finally tell the truth. So here they were: flying south to brace him in person, a man she hadn't spoken to in over ten years. A stranger, though connected by blood, whom Deena was fully prepared to arrest and be done with.

They reached the third-floor landing, and Deena looked over her shoulder at Aaron, who brought up the rear.
He's more nervous than I am. He's afraid that he might punch dear old Dad. Honestly? I might, as well. But I'll at least have the decency to hear him out first. Putting these guys in a room together after all this time? There may be nothing left of my father to hear.

Not that time and circumstance hadn't already taken their toll. The apartment building …
let's call it what it is,
Deena thought.
Six stories of dementia and decay.
She knew that he had fallen on hard times. Waldo still had the old house, the one in Tuxedo Park. But he couldn't afford to live there anymore—not on the money he made working security or guarding banks or whatever it was he was doing now. The old place, her home, was rented. Waldo used the money to subsidize a few places. A modest condo in Miami; a loft in Chicago, which had unfortunately been obliterated; and, apparently, this shit box situated north of Atlanta, miles from what might be considered a decent neighborhood. After all this time, Deena wasn't sure whom she might find behind the door. She didn't really care; all she wanted was answers. All Deena needed was to shine a light onto the past.

She raised a fist, about to knock, but Aaron gingerly took her wrist.

“You sure you want to do this?”

She smiled and sighed. “I'd rather do it alone.”

He smirked and caressed her hand. “And deny me the chance to see how far Lucifer has fallen? Come on. I deserve little else, but I deserve that.”

He released her, and she knocked. The door across the way cracked open, holiday decorations drooping from where they'd been tacked on. A curious septuagenarian peered out through thick-rimmed bifocals. The man wore flannel pajama tops, fuzzy slippers, a deerstalker cap with earflaps, and nothing more. Thankfully, before he engaged, a shuffle arrived at Waldo's door, the tumbler clicked out of place, and Deena found herself facing the only other man she'd ever truly loved.

“Yeah, what do … Deena?” He was shorter than she remembered, which was a neat trick, as Deena Pilgrim wasn't much taller herself. He'd allowed a beard to flourish, cultivating it into a thick, majestic drape of hair. Waldo wore khakis and a tee—the kind they called a wifebeater, a fact in which Deena saw a private irony; he'd never actually struck her mother, but his verbal abuse alone warranted the garment's name. He pulled open the door, giving the detectives a clearer view of the apartment's interior. Small, sure, but well appointed and tastefully decorated, decidedly contrasted with the building in which he lived. A small foyer opened into a common area filled out by a sofa, recliner, modest television, and coffee table—the leather kind, the one that looked like an expensive ottoman but could be purchased in any mall. Just beyond, Deena spied a small kitchen. Steam billowed into the hallway; he'd been cooking, preparing lunch when he should have been at work. Perhaps they'd found Waldo between jobs? She wouldn't be surprised. Staying in Atlanta, even with ten years under his belt, hadn't done much to help his reputation. The past lingers, even when you're trying to move on and forget. Deena knew that. She'd been drowning in the past. And every step forward she'd taken over the last two days had only brought her five steps back.

Waldo stepped out of the apartment. His face had brightened once he'd recognized the visitor in his doorway, and something like hope glimmered in his eyes. He awkwardly lunged, attempting to embrace her, but Deena flinched and stepped away. Waldo backed off, holding up his hands as if he'd been expecting that to happen.

“Hey, I get it,” he said as if in response to her thoughts. “No offense taken. But it's like a Christmas miracle. Just happy to see you after all this time.”

She folded her arms and sniffed, making a point of looking away. “I suppose one of us should be.”

Waldo nodded, as if expecting that, too, and shuffled in his doorway. He rested a hand on the brass doorknob. “Heard from your mom?”

“Not in a few months. I'll probably call her over the holidays. Don't worry. She won't say hello.”

Waldo pursed his lips and stared at the floor, embarrassed and uncomfortable. He looked up suddenly, and as if remembering his manners, gestured toward the interior of the apartment. “D'you wanna come in? Have a drink?”

Deena stared for a moment and then silently moved past him as if to enter the apartment. He moved aside to let her pass. Only then did he notice that she had an escort. “Oh, I'm sorry. Nice to meet you, I'm … and…” He'd begun to lift his hand, an automatic gesture of welcome, but slowly reeled it in after finally recognizing the other visitor.

“I might have known,” Waldo said, nodding and smiling as if confirming his worst fears. “So you two are still together.”

Aaron chuckled, and Deena's face bleached of color from inside the foyer. A flash of annoyance spasmed across her father's face, but Waldo quickly allowed it to pass. “Something funny? I just imagined you were married at this point, a mess of kids who'll never call me Grandpa.”

“No, Dad,” Deena replied. “I haven't seen Aaron in ten years. Same as you.”

“Then why're you here? Ten-year anniversary of the time he ruined my life? Oh, I know. I know what this is. He finally told you, didn't he?”

“Not exactly. Come inside. You too, Aaron. We'll tell you all about it.”

They arranged themselves in the common area. Aaron had needed a moment in the hall—a flood of emotion had overcome the special investigator upon seeing his old friend, his worst enemy. Now they sat on the sofa, side-by-side, and Deena wished again that he'd stayed home to manage the captain and handle the press. Twenty-four hours later and Captain Cross was losing his cool; the DA wanted a name, and media relations was worried that with every passing second, the Soldier's guilty secret had a better-than-average chance of getting out. Deena tended to agree; old, forgotten familial wounds had no place in this investigation. She couldn't allow herself to become further distracted by the history shared between the three individuals sitting in the living room. And, if she was honest with herself, Deena had to let go of the niggling guilt she felt over having left both Walker and Kirk at home, close to the action but momentarily sidelined. No, Deena couldn't afford to be deterred … but who knew what unstable emotions this unlikely reunion might unearth? If not for her, then for Aaron. If he needed a moment, a minute to deal and move on, by all means:
take the fucking moment,
she thought. Meanwhile, she looked around. No family photos. No holiday decorations. She felt sad for her father, and then angry.
This was his fucking choice,
Deena reminded herself
. He made this happen
. Then, after Aaron had handled his shit, they sat across from Waldo and readied to dig him a hole.

Unfortunately, he opened his mouth before they could begin.

“You know,” Waldo directed at Aaron, “I never blamed you, even after the money ran out and I had to sell the house.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, curious. “Is that right?”

“It's clear that my anger was misplaced. Look, kid—”

“Don't call me that. I'm not your kid.”

Waldo held up a palm as if in supplication. “Fair enough. You did your job. I get that. You did what you had to do, and you played the game. I used to do the same, back when I started out—before I had mouths to feed, you know.”

Deena sat forward, clasping both hands between her legs. She felt hot and light, embarrassed but also angry. “So all things being equal, Dad, if I hadn't come along—or my brother—if we hadn't been such a … a … burden, I suppose.”
Now
she was pissed;
now
she knew that there
was
no avoiding the distraction. “If you had been carefree and swinging single, you would've been the Eliot fucking Ness of greater Atlanta?”