Powers (26 page)

He ran fingers through his hair. “I don't know—maybe someone who saw us go in? Maybe we'd been followed from the airport, or hell, even from the city. Deena, you can't believe that I would do this!”

“Can't I?”

He lowered his voice and took her aside, holding Deena by the arm. She pulled away and gave him a warning look. A passing nurse shot them a quizzical glance, slowing her pace to make sure everything was all right. Deena silently encouraged her to keep walking. She recognized the woman. They might have been in high school together. This whole town was filled with memories and people she'd sooner forget.

“Look,” he said, “there's a lyric from the song ‘Secret Warmonger' by Rocket to Planet X that goes—”

“No!” she cried. “Shut the fuck up with your music and your lyrics and your fucking universal chords! I don't give a shit about BEEBA or which rock superstar had pearls of wisdom to share. We're talking about my father here, Aaron. Did you or did you not try to kill him?”

“Deena,” he whispered, hoping to contain the conversation, “you of all people know how much I fought and scraped to solve the Liberty murders. I staked my career on it—it was the reason, the failure that forced me to leave Atlanta. Why would I have done that to myself?”

“Sounds like a decent cover story to me. A great reason for leaving town.”

He smiled. “You always were the better detective … but answer me this: there were murders after I left. How could that have been me?”

“Are you kidd—? Waldo just admitted that he and other cops adopted Liberty's MO and name to—”

“Yeah,
before
I put an end to it.
Before
we put them on public display and locked half of them away. The Soldier, the Rammlers … it wasn't me, Deen. You have to know that. I wasn't there.”

She grimaced. “But you were, out of the blue, right as the killer surfaced again. Seems mighty convenient.”

“Deena, what do you want to me to say here? If you won't believe me, how can I convince you of the truth? Lie detector test? Cut off my right arm?”

“Just fucking tell me”—she'd gotten loud, and he tried to calm her down—“did you or did you not attempt to kill my father?”

“I swear I didn't.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Then who did, Aaron? He was fine when we got there, and there wasn't a tag on the door. Who put it there, if not
you
? You left the room—”

“To call 911! Deena, you have to believe me. I'm
not
Liberty. I've been trying to put him away for twelve fucking
years
! I love you—”

She folded her arms. “You
love
me? You don't even
know
me. You're not in my life, and I sure as hell don't know
you
.”

Aaron grabbed her forearms, and she struggled to free herself. The nurse eyed them again and picked up her phone, weighing whether or not to get involved. Finally, Aaron let Deena go. “Don't you feel anything here?”

“I don't know what to feel. I haven't felt anything but numb in the last five years.”

He stopped and cocked his head, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“Forget it. Just let me wait for Waldo in peace.”

“No,” he pushed. “Tell me what you mean.”

Deena whirled around again, eyes blazing. “I mean I'm done. I can't do this anymore; it's too much, okay? Walker, then you and my dad? It's just enough already.”

“Deena, this will pass. We'll solve it, and—”

“You're not listening. I don't
want
to solve it. I want to disappear, Aaron. I don't want to be a cop, not if it leads me here. Not if I have to watch the people I know and love—or
once
loved—die before my eyes. I just want out, and after I get my father back on his feet, that's what I'm gonna do. You, Walker, Kirk, Cross … you can finish this thing, but I'm fucking
done
.”

“Deena…” He held out a hand, and she slapped it away. “Deena, you can't quit on this. You've got to finish this case, at least. Get closure. Help me find the same.”

“Why? I'm not you, Aaron. Liberty hasn't eaten away at my soul, followed me around for the last twelve years.”

“But he will now that your father is involved, now that your name will be dragged into it. Trust me. My father tried the cases … his judgments were overturned by your dad and the Soldier. His good name was slandered, his rulings, and it nearly killed him.”

“I don't care.”

“You will, and then you'll
have
to finish it. I'll help—we'll put this to rest, and if you still want to quit, I'll throw your goddamn retirement party. But not until we put this to bed. I'll be there—I swear—and I'll help you make that transition … but I have a feeling once this is done that you'll want to be a cop more than ever. I know it.”

That was the last thing he'd said—it was hours ago, before they'd stabilized her father. Cross had phoned to tell them about Quince and Crane, the murder and press conference, and Aaron had raced to the airport to lend his support. They'd kissed—briefly, awkwardly—and he promised to call the moment he knew anything. She wasn't looking forward to the conversation. The only man that Deena wanted to speak with wouldn't take her calls. So she sat in the ER waiting room, replaying Crane's statement in her head, fading into the crowd as it buzzed and blabbed about Joseph Monroe, the American traitor. She toyed with her phone, rehashing the day's events and the bitter fight with Aaron, wondering if he was telling the truth and whether or not he might be trusted.

It had to be him. Who else?

Crane, perhaps? A slow-acting poison and a silent henchman at the door? Or maybe one of the other detectives, one who hadn't gotten off like Waldo? They might have connections in jail, used an outside party to set it up. Or maybe her father had arranged it himself—an overly dramatic playact to win back his daughter and put the finger of blame on Aaron Boucher. No, that seemed unreasonable … she would have known if he'd been in town, killing Monroe and the Rammlers, and Waldo had seemed genuinely surprised to see her. Her mind reeled, spiraling as she waited for some kind of news, something she could use. Another hour lapsed until, finally, a surgeon called Deena's name, and she followed him back into the ward.

They evaded gurneys, slaloming through the ER until they arrived at a small anteroom in the far-right corner. A jolly-looking two-dimensional cartoon snowman winked down from above the door, giving Deena the thumbs-up. She ignored it, focusing instead on labored breathing from within. She knew that her father lay just beyond the threshold. She turned to the doctor, forcing out all other emotional quagmires, folded her arms, and tried to peek at her father's chart.

“Is he going to die?” she asked. “Am I here to sign a DNR or some kind of living will? Because, I'll be honest, if—”

“Your father will be fine, Detective Pilgrim. He's been cooperating with local police and the APHD. He's responding well to the medication.”

“What happened?”

The doctor held up a vial of blood. “We ran several tests, searching for known toxins and possible allergens. The gamut of potential reactants, you know. We checked his food, drink, and the police have swept the entire apartment—they'll grant you access, I imagine. But we found only this.”

Deena took the container. “What is it?”

“Hep B.”

She raised her eyebrows and nearly dropped the flask. “Excuse me?”

The doctor laughed. “I thought that might be your response. Well, strictly speaking, it isn't hepatitis B, exactly, but a concentrated—and highly mutated—strain. We found traces in his bloodstream, particularly around the arms and a number of minuscule tracks across his right forearm. Someone injected this deadly little cocktail. It was working its way toward your father's liver—it might still, though I believe we've flushed most of it out. In the meantime, it infected his respiratory and circulatory passages, eating at his nerves and deteriorating glands and arteries. We're lucky we caught it when we did; we were honestly concerned it was just a bad allergic reaction at first.”

“I thought he was poisoned.”

The doctor nodded. “Technically, he was. Did you see anyone puncture his arm, administer something into his bloodstream in any way that might lead you to believe he could have been infected?”

She paused to consider, her mind a whirlwind.
The fight. Aaron and Waldo, arms locked at the table, angry and resentful. Could Aaron have…?

Deena put it out of her mind, shaking her head. He
couldn't
have. She would have seen. He'd held no injector, no needle. It hadn't been Aaron, despite her various theories otherwise. “No. No, I didn't. What now?”

“Now he recuperates and receives a series of antiviral medications—accelerated interferon and the like. I may zap him with something, depending on what this”—he retrieved the vial and gave it a shake—“turns up. Meanwhile, APHD will continue their investigation and bring you in whenever you like.”

“And can I see him?”

The doctor smiled. “You can. He's resting, but I believe he's ready to receive a visitor who isn't wearing a badge … well, wearing a badge and is family. I'll let you know what the lab turns up.”

She nodded, and the doctor hurried away, carrying the vial of her father's blood. Deena steeled herself, breathing deeply while processing the new information. Liberty—or someone pretending to be Liberty—had poisoned Waldo, and now once again, she was stuck holding a bag of crap. There were too many connections, too many threads between this case and the ones back home for it to be coincidental. Despite her exhaustion, Deena had to draw them together. Walker, fuck him, wasn't returning calls. Kirk was laid up; Enki had her hands full; and Cross was overwhelmed by a maelstrom of lawyers, government officials, and reporters.

And Aaron … she didn't know what to do about Aaron yet. She didn't trust him; still couldn't believe that he was telling her the truth. In her heart, Deena was worried she'd let her father's killer board a plane to kill again—maybe Crane this time, unless they were in cahoots. Maybe Kirk, to wrap up loose ends.

Maybe Walker.

Walker can take care of himself. He's made that perfectly clear.

Deena rubbed her eyes, putting it out of her mind. She stepped inside, toward the bed. Waldo, frail and hooked up to wires and blinking machines, slowly opened his eyes. His throat was red. Heavy bags weighed down his eyelids, and an IV tube snaked into his pasty wrist. Deena locked the door, shutting out the world, and double-checked to confirm it was secure. It was the two of them now—the first time they'd been alone in ten years.

Waldo focused his gaze, staring at Deena, and then struggled to sit up. She moved to his bedside, pulling up a chair, gesturing for him to rest. She removed her coat and sat down. He settled back against the pillow, hair splayed out against the crisp, white sheets. Deena shifted in the chair, looking around for a chart. Some data or information she could use or with which she might distract herself. But there was nothing; it was just the two of them.

The two of them alone.

Waldo wet his cracked, bleeding lips, dryness having been induced by an intubation tube that had already been removed. He attempted to build up saliva, and his voice emerged from a crackling, reedy place deep inside his throat.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey, Dad.”

He reached out, hoping to take her hand. She hesitated and then decided to let him. He'd almost died, and though she hated what he'd done, he was still her father. Waldo seized her hand, clutching it in his clammy fingers, flexing, squirming as if unwilling to let go.

Finally, he gathered enough strength and lifted himself off the pillow. She encouraged him to lie down, not to exert himself, but he waved her off. “No,” he wheezed. “No, I'm done taking it easy.”

He glared at Deena, staring with fierce, clear-eyed determination.

“There are things you need to hear, and things I need to say. So, Deena … Detective Pilgrim … I'm done avoiding this conversation. A discussion we should have had long ago. Before I pissed off your mom, before you headed off to college and I lost my little girl.”

“Dad…”

Waldo gripped her fingers. “No. No more bullshit. No more
lies
. For once in my misbegotten life…… it's time I told you the truth.

“It's time I told you about the Liberty killer.”

 

19

December. Tuesday night. 7:48
P.M.

“Joseph Monroe was Liberty.”

The words hung between them for a moment. Deena sat back in her chair and assumed a skeptical expression. “Come on. Really?”

Waldo adjusted the IV drip, moving the tubes aside. “Swear to god. The Soldier wasn't the patriotic hero the media made him out to be. In fact, he was secretly aligned with
other
governments. In 1954, for instance, he joined the Communist Party.”

Deena rolled her eyes. “Bullshit. This is just sad. You're trying to pin this on a dead man?”

“I'm fucking
serious
. Ask your pal Boucher; he knows.”

Deena's heart leaped. “What does
that
mean?”

Waldo peered under the curtain, making sure no one was eavesdropping. “It's like this: Monroe was a Commie; he wasn't spying for the Russians or anything, nothing illegal, but he aligned himself with their beliefs through the remainder of the Cold War. Even after he returned to the home front, the Soldier surreptitiously fraternized with dozens of anti-American and anti-Powers organizations, mostly in defiance of the assholes who filled him full of experimental drugs.”