Powers (37 page)

“So you lied about everything. The Powers and hunting down Liberty to put him away. Everything about you was a lie.”

Aaron shook his head again. “Not everything. Not the way I felt about you.”

“Bullshit. How can I believe that? And why did you even come back? If you got away with it, all the murder in Atlanta, why start again?”

He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, holding back gasps and coughs. Then he turned to her, eyes overbright, and quietly launched into his story.

“I … I never ‘got away' with the murders. They haunted me, following me from place to place along with what I did to you. I had to leave; don't you understand that now? If I stayed … you might have found out … and … and—
koff!—
and you might have hated me for it.”

“Damn right,” she hissed.

He nodded. “But I had to come out of exile … out of ‘retirement,' if you will. Had … had to assume the name one last time to protect my father.”

“Why is that?” she asked with a quizzical look, “What does the judge need protection from? All his enemies are dead or retired.”

“Exactly … and Pop wanted to do the same—retire, not die. But with Crane out there, your dad … he kept looking back. He … he was too afraid, with all our secrets hanging over his shoulder.”

“So you took it on yourself to tie up loose ends, is that it?”

He dipped his head and took a minute, hands roaming against his wound, as if trying to locate the source of his troubles. “I did it … I did it in the name of Liberty. In
his
name. The villains, your father … everything in Liberty's name. N … never meant to hurt you … but I hurt you most … most of all.”

She stared at him, head throbbing and heart blazing.
Don't you fucking put this on me!
she shouted at Aaron inside her mind.
Don't blame your sins and troubles on your relationships with other people. You did this—not the judge, not me—and you won't win sympathy or absolution by asking for forgiveness on this makeshift deathbed. You
did
hurt me. You hurt a lot of people with your secrets and lies. I once thought you were a good cop, Aaron Boucher, and the man of my dreams … but I know now that you weren't even a decent human being.
She said all these things to herself and more, raging into the whirlwind behind her eyes. But in the end, she took his fingers and simply held them, realizing that telling him those things would solve nothing. Monroe would still be dead, as would Quince and the Rammlers, Crane and all the rest. He still would have attacked her father, as well as her partner. Nothing could change the past, despite their existence in a world with those who might. She felt betrayed, her sense of self had taken a hit over the last three days. Deena had originally patterned her life and career on the choices and decisions that Aaron Boucher had made. He'd been an early hero, and to a lesser extent, the man she'd thought her father had been. Aaron was a role model when Waldo had failed to live up to the task. Now she knew that the two were more alike than she'd ever before realized.

Now what?
How could she go back to being a cop, justifying her actions when the examples she'd followed turned out to be the wrong ones? When Aaron had turned out to be no better than the crooked cops and criminal Powers he'd railed against so many years before? He'd lied to her at every step. He'd lied, and now he expected Deena to forgive him in death. To be the better person. Be the
good
person.

Well, fuck that. I'm also not the person I once was. I've killed men, as well—and I've done things I'm not proud of. These last few years, working with Walker, surviving the beat and the bureau
 …
it changed me. The virus, the pregnancy, Chicago—I'm not a good cop, either. I don't know that I ever was.

The difference is this: I was always trying to be. I never lied, and the masks I wore were for me alone. Not for my friends, partners, or family. I'm not a good cop. But I wanted to be. And my life, my
history
, never really gave me that chance.

So she sat by his side, letting him ramble on about devotion and love. He confessed to killing the Rammlers and Quince. He admitted to poisoning Waldo and attacking Deena in the alley across from Nexus, having digitally altered his voice to avoid being recognized as he had been by the Rammlers. He felt bad about having deceived and beaten Deena, but he'd had to commit to the role in order to throw her off his tracks, and buy himself time to get away without being forced to shake her on foot. Aaron had also shot Kirk and butchered Crane, of course. And he'd always known about Monroe's ties to the Front … what he did back in Atlanta and how the hero had lived his life.

“Is that why you killed the Soldier?” she asked, dimly realizing that she should have been recording his confession this entire time.

Aaron smiled, blood leaking out the sides of his mouth and coursing down his chin. He coughed, spewing spittle and gore. “H … H … his name,” he repeated, the words fading. “All of it … in
his
name.”

“Whose name?” she shouted, voice carrying across the square. “Whose name do you mean? Liberty? If he wasn't Monroe, then who? Crane, Waldo … come on! Say it so I know it's true!” Deena grabbed the sides of Aaron's head and shook it, begging for answers. He just kept smiling, eyes rolling back to reveal the whites. Her face was hot, and she started to weep, shaking with rage.
You don't get to die!
she demanded.
You don't get to die while I'm still here, miserable and alone with failed purpose and a shattered heart. You don't get to die until I know why.

“You don't get to die!” she screamed aloud, but he wouldn't respond. His mouth opened, and his body went limp. “Not while I'm alive.”

“I can't tell you how many times I've thought that very same thing.”

A calming presence appeared at Deena's side—a broad hand on her shoulder, offering consolation and support. She looked up, and of course it was Walker. Deena took his hand and squeezed. He helped her stand, and she brushed dust from her tattered clothes. They looked down at the body beneath the beam, pinned by the remains of the man he'd come to kill.

“Backup arrived,” Walker announced. “Enki's fine. Pounding headache and a broken leg, though.”

Deena nodded and looked around. The smoke was starting to dissipate, and the blur of the barricade could be seen from where they stood. “We'll get a team in here to clean this up,” Walker said. “Gather Crane's remains; get him and Boucher to the morgue. The rest of the guys are corralling the last of the Human Front security team, confiscating illegal weapons and charging them with a loose variety of creative violations. That should be good to start. Then we'll have to deal with reports, media blowback, parsing the truth about what really happened.”

“I know what really happened. He pretty much confirmed it.”

Walker looked down on Boucher's body. “Did you record it?”

She glared at him, eyes hooded and embarrassed.

He understood and nodded. “Then we still don't know, do we?”

Grateful, she took his hand as he led her from the wreckage. She glanced back, taking in her former boyfriend one last time. Aaron looked so small from far away, receding into the distance as she walked. Receding from her life as she moved on, left with the same mysteries and questions as before, but this time having added several murky, distressing answers. Alone and adrift, Deena Pilgrim walked away from Aaron Boucher—the man she'd thought she loved, the man she'd thought had inspired her life—left with nothing now but pain, heartbreak, and heroes with feet of clay.

 

31

December. Wednesday afternoon. 5:35
P.M.

“Joseph Monroe wasn't Liberty.”

Deena nodded, bent over on a chair in the captain's office. She'd been sitting in silence for half an hour, sipping lukewarm coffee, cleared by the medics to attend this debriefing. Walker and Enki flanked her seat, arms folded and nursing wounds of their own. The doctors had balked when the trio of detectives refused to stay for further testing—Walker especially, having survived two falling buildings in a matter of days. But Deena's larger, male partner—
did she have two now or three, assuming one added absent, recuperating Corbin Kirk into the mix?
—Walker, in any event, seemed to be healing just fine. He leaned against the window, as per usual, and glowered as Emile Cross clued them in on the current state of affairs. Enki, meanwhile, sat beside Deena. Her leg had been fitted for a cast, and a pair of crutches rested against the captain's desk. The blinds were closed, and Deena spied frantic activity just between the moving slats. She could see a handful of curious coworkers lingering by the window, hoping to glean a bit of confidential information.

Deena didn't care. She sipped the coffee, which was terrible, and stared at nothing in particular. Until this moment, the captain's words had filtered in through one ear and out the other. She didn't want to hear it; she just wanted to go home and fall into bed. But then Cross had mentioned Liberty, and his phrasing so closely mimicked a portion of Aaron Boucher's final worlds that she had no choice but to perk up and pay attention.

“Whassat, Cap?” she inquired.

Cross turned her way, paging through a catalog of digital reports on his tablet. “I said Monroe's clean of the murders, as far as the public knows.”

“Even if Boucher's testimony—unrecorded hearsay—is found admissible,” Walker argued, “it conflicts with Waldo Pilgrim's, which is captured and on the record.”

“And Waldo's aligns with the public hearings they held in Atlanta ten years ago,” Enki pushed, “which only continues to prove that Monroe was Liberty.”

“Yeah,” the captain replied, settling into his chair, “but we're taking the testimony of a known liar, a crooked cop, and putting it up against that of a detective known for impeccable service—”

Deena rose up, flushed. “‘Impeccable'? He brought down a building! He killed nearly thirty people in the last week alone. We have eyewitness testimony from—”

“From who?” Cross asked, innocently swiveling in his chair, lacing his fingers. “Human Front guards? A handful of gun-toting receptionists? Hardly individuals with strong moral character … plus, they could be continuing the smear campaign begun by their late, martyred leader.”

Deena sat down, astounded. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Relax, Pilgrim.” The captain leaned over the desk, splaying both hands on its surface. “Nobody is glossing over what Boucher did, nor are we going to ostrich it under the table. Aaron Boucher killed Malachi Crane and destroyed 500 Fialkov Way. He murdered Wilhelmina Quince and three of the Rammler Brothers, and he attacked Detectives Christian Walker, Deena Pilgrim, and Enki Sunrise … not to mention Waldo Pilgrim, formerly of the Atlanta Powers Homicide Division. Aaron Boucher was Liberty. We're only saying that Joseph Monroe was not.”

Deena was confused. “But he was—my father's testimony—”

“—can never leave this room.”

That statement, delivered with forceful finality, stuck a pinprick in the room and let the air out of the conversation. The four cops sat there, processing Cross's declaration, until Deena stood up and slammed her cup on the desk.

“This is
bullshit
.”

“Deena, this is what the country needs right now.”

“‘
Needs
'? America
needs
to be lied to about—”

Cross pointed to the chair. “Goddammit, Pilgrim, sit down!”

She fumed, but complied after a moment of indecision. Cross continued, “Look, this didn't come from me, okay? I get it—Monroe was involved, even if it didn't come out until ten years later. But you have to understand the larger picture, and what this does is condemn the actual Liberty killer, while still providing a hero to our nation.”

Deena scowled and started to speak, but Walker interrupted her unspoken diatribe. “What do you mean, ‘hero'? Joe was still a traitor. The tattoos, Crane's press conference. The guy was a discredit to other Powers, no?”

Cross's face flushed a dull red, and he wiped a hand across his gleaming skull. “Not anymore. Official reports will declare his tattoos part of a recent undercover sting. The Soldier's plan to infiltrate the Front, befriending Crane in their old age, in order to destroy it from the inside. Crane, angered, had the Rammlers kill Monroe when he discovered the truth and hired Boucher—as Liberty—to clean up the loose ends. He used Joe's tattoos against the man in order to destroy the legacy of the Citizen Soldier.”

“Why would Boucher go along? He was a Power. He hated the THF.”

“Officially? To avenge the Soldier's death, but also to finish Monroe's final mission. That's why he killed Crane, attacked the Human Front, and decimated 500 Fialkov Way. Illegally, mind you—as a vigilante and not working on behalf of the PHD or any known federal agency.”

Deena's head was throbbing. This was so much contrived bullshit. “And unofficially? What about my father? Not to mention Walker and me?”

Cross gazed into her eyes. “The two of you got in his way. And Liberty was a vigilante. He killed a bunch of people for reasons of his own, a fact that had been covered up—and taken advantage of—by your father, Pilgrim. Could it have been secondary revenge? Beats me. Point is, Boucher takes the fall. Malachi Crane is worm meat and the Human Front disbanded. Joseph Monroe is a national hero again. The guy's dead already; arresting him will do no good. Why prosecute his legacy? It will only do more harm than good. This way, Boucher and Crane are the bad guys, the Liberty cases are finally closed, and everybody wins.”