Powers (39 page)

Ken's chest hitched, and he let out a sigh. The judge wrung his hands and looked down again, hiding his eyes. Walker, curious now, joined Deena by the corpse, coming around to flank the judge.

After a moment, the old man looked up again. “You always were the smart one, Deena. That's why I was thrilled when you and Aaron ended up together.”

“Don't cruise down memory lane, Ken. Start talking, and I'll start taping, and we can get out of here before the dinner rush.”

“Deena…” Walker warned her, holding out his hand. She slapped it away. The judge flicked his eyes in Walker's direction and then nodded his head.

“You were a clever one, too, Diamond. That's why Joe kept you close. Clever and dangerous—too many years in the eyes.”

The judge dusted off his clothes. He sniffed, rubbing fingers over his nose and settling back into the chair once more. “I knew that Aaron had powers. Is that what you're asking? Of course I knew. And no, he didn't act alone.”

Walker raised an eyebrow. “So Joe
was
Liberty, too.”

“Not exactly. But, yes. Liberty was more than one man.” The judge turned to Deena, eyes clear now, somewhat bemused. “Who told you?”

Deena held out the phone. “Live and clear, fifty-five minutes in. Waldo revealed all and confirmed it to the APHD when I called to acquire federal protection for my dad. I know, Ken. I know it all.”

Walker snorted. “I don't. Someone had better tell me what's going on.”

Deena tapped Record on her phone and set it on the tray next to Aaron. She pulled up a chair and sat down and then held out an indulgent hand to Judge Boucher. “Be my guest,” she said, giving him the floor.

Boucher cleared his throat and rested a hand on his dead son's chest.

“Very well,” he agreed. “This has gone on long enough. Here, to clear up all confusion, is the absolute truth about the Liberty killer.”

 

33

July. Twelve and a half years ago.

Saturday night. 9:57
P.M.

They sat on the porch, rocking in faded recliners that wouldn't last the summer. Each of them sipped a tall, cool glass of iced tea. Only two smoked fine cigars. Joe was the exception; he seemed ill-at-ease, constantly checking the street as if he might be recognized by a reporter or ambushed from the darkness. Waldo, of course, was most relaxed. He puffed the last quarter of a Macanudo Maduro and stole swallows from a flask he kept sneaking from his pocket. Joe and the judge pretended not to notice. It was understandable; this kind of conversation allowed for that sort of indulgence. Eveline busied herself in the kitchen, out of sight, and Aaron wasn't home—either on patrol or at the Virgin Megastore on Peachtree, sifting through the racks.

Ken rocked forward, ashing his own cigar, and gazed out into the night. The block was silent, the evening serene. He hated to ruin it by continuing their conversation.

“Who's first, then?”

Joe traded looks with Waldo and shrugged. “Start with someone … someone invisible, maybe? Save the heavy hitters for last.”

Waldo agreed. “Whassat girl's name? Crane's girl, you know the one.”

Joe reached for his drink. “Quince. Willie Quince.”

“Yeah, that one. We'll send her after … I dunno, give her a challenge.”

Ken smiled and leaned back into the chair. “Ernst Rammler.”

Joe scoffed and shook his head. “She couldn't handle a Rammler. No, I want that to be special. Let's save him for later—we'll set Blitzkrieg on his trail. Send a German to fry a German.”

Waldo didn't care. “I'm agnostic. You gents pick the targets. As long as the checks clear, Owens and I will release any con you want.”

Ken placed a hand on his friend's arm. “I appreciate that, son, but despite the appearance of random violence, there's method to my particular madness.”

“I know … I know. We'll only pick targets based on the list you compiled.”

Ken's mouth tightened as if he'd been eating lemons. “Thank you, yes. That list contains all the cases … the defendants who slipp—”

Waldo Pilgrim stood up and held out a hand, flicking the remains of his cigar onto the pebbled drive. “Save it. Honestly, Ken? Point, shoot, and pay me. Your reasons are your own.”

“My son,” the judge cautiously inquired, “has he said anything? Since the last time, I mean.”

Pilgrim sighed and breathed in the secondhand smoke. “Yeeeah … he's been sniffing around. Interested in why I'm partnering with the Soldier, other Powers. I set him straight. I mean, APHD can always use extra hands, ain't that right?” He grinned in Monroe's direction, but Joe looked away into the trees.

“Once you get a few on the street, and the fighting begins…”

“The kid'll change his tune. Hopefully, Officer Boucher will be an asset to us in the coming gang war.”

Ken frowned. “I don't want him to know about this. Him, Eveline, no one else.”

Pilgrim belched and started down the steps. “Mum's the word, Your Honor. Now, if you don't mind, I have a date with a faulty prison cell. Then home to check on m'girls.”

“Give Deena my love.”

Waldo returned the nod, lifting his thumb and cocking an index finger, firing an imaginary bullet in assent. He moseyed down the driveway and into his car. Moments later, a pair of headlights stretched away from the Boucher home.

They sat there, just the two of them. The smoke drifted away, and an evening breeze ruffled their hair. Ken settled back again, whistling softly. Joe sipped his drink and listened to Eveline putter around in the kitchen. Finally, Ken had endured the silence for too long.

“You think he knows?” the judge asked the incognito legend.

Joe held out his hands, unsure. “Could be. He's paid well enough to keep it to himself. Who wants to ruin a good thing, right?”

Ken smiled and placed a soft palm on the back of Monroe's broad, veiny hand. “Exactly.”

Joe snatched the hand away, glanced back through the window. “Are you an asshole? She's right there.”

Ken smirked. “Live a little.”

“I thought the whole point of this war was to keep our secret, well, secret.”

Ken chuckled and lifted his sweating glass of tea. “Relax, hero. Your masculine, American façade is safe with me. Remember? I'm the guy who jailed all your fascist playmates. I'm also the guy paying to have them killed.”

“Seriously, keep it down. The wind carries here.”

Ken scoffed and looked around, gesturing to the silent, darkened homes. “To who? Retirees and eccentric millionaires? There's nobody listening. No one who cares that the Citizen Soldier and his lawyer are fucking like bunnies. I'd be more worried about keeping your other secret.” He pointed to the Soldier's open-throated shirt, revealing vivid, lurid tattoos. Monroe started and looked down, reflexively palming the symbol on his arm. He rolled down a sleeve, hiding the Human Front colors from sight.

“I mean it, Ken. I love you and all, but I have a lot more to lose than you do.”

Boucher drained his glass and set it down on the floor. “Not according to the drunk that just left. He thinks we're doing this to settle up my ‘spotty' record. Never thinkin' for a minute that even judges might throw a case for the right man.”

Joe smiled. “That's sweet. I'm the right man?”

Ken leaned over, surreptitiously checking the window before pecking the Soldier on the cheek. “The right one for me.”

 

34

December. Wednesday night. 8:18
P.M.

“Wait, wait, wait … hang on.” Deena massaged her throbbing brow, struggling to keep up with the latest bombshell. “You and the Soldier were lovers?”

The judge nodded in reply. “Joe's tie to the Human Front wasn't his only secret. Yes, he'd allied himself with that gargoyle Crane's campaign of intolerance. In fact, Joe had originally been recruited to the Communist cause during Korea. They were quite convincing, and he saw an argument against the global policing that America—and the fledgling United Nations—was doing in other parts of the world. He resented the government for turning him into a figurehead, and so … he sought ways to rebel. It was Crane who convinced Joe that it would be more effective to fight from the inside.”

“That makes sense,” Walker interjected, the curtain drawn away from so many shady memories. “That's why Joe was odd in Detroit. He was already working with Crane and the Communists.”

“Not to mention any and all anti-Powers, antigovernment movements he could find, short of the Nazi Party. He worked with the Black Panthers and then Vietnam protestors. He helped them flourish—in secrecy, of course—but most of the key fomenters faded away, keeping their heads down and simmering in silence as they started families or a new beachhead from which they could strike via the middle class.”

“But the Soldier kept fighting?”

“Well,” Boucher explained, “he still had Crane. The Human Front wasn't going away—they hadn't yet begun to evolve into the corporation they are today, but Crane was starting to organize. His troops were maturing from being uneducated, grassroots thugs into well-trained, well-armed, sophisticated killers. And the more Crane preached hatred regarding all things ‘nonhuman,' fighting new Powers and operating in public … the more Joseph fought to publicly distance himself from the organization.”

Deena understood. “Yeah, makes a ton of sense. That's why the Soldier was the Human Front's biggest enemy. That's why he put them away.”

“Well,” Boucher tentatively corrected, “that was mostly to keep them locked away. He wanted to maintain his cover and live in peace, and who would the public believe? The word of jailed, bigoted, rhetoric-spewing militants … or one of the nation's greatest heroes?”

Deena snorted and folded her arms. “Fucking ironic.”

The judge agreed. “Truth be told, I was surprised it took Crane this long to play his cards. See, Malachi quickly discovered Joseph's other little secret. Yes, he was a traitor to his own kind, but he was also … he was also, well … you get it.”

Dawning realization smacked Deena in the face. She was transported back in time, years ago, to a brisk Thanksgiving evening on her parents' porch.

The judge grinned. His cigar blazed, enveloping his face in a cloud of smoke. “Love—or hell, even lust—is nothing to hide. Don't be embarrassed or keep it secret. Never be afraid to seize love. You'll regret it when it's gone and mourn after it's far too late.”

Deena's face felt hot, and she nervously played with her hair. “I'm not in love.”

“I'm just happy for the company, dear.”

“I mean…” She searched for the words, feeling them slip away. “I don't know that it's love. But I will say … I'm excited about his passions—the music and being a cop.”

The judge playfully poked her arm. “And what do
you
like? Don't get lost in another person's passions, Deena. Have your own beliefs and principles—desires and dreams independent of the man you love.”

Back in the morgue, Deena goggled at Judge Boucher, one of her father's oldest friends. “You didn't become Liberty to clean up your record. You became Liberty to cover up your
affair
.”

The judge smiled tightly and stared at his feet. He nodded slowly. “You always were the smart one, dear.”

Walker was still putting it together. “So, wait. Who else knew? Joe was handsy with the ladies, and I never heard word one about Crane opening his mouth or any form of blackmail.”

“No,” Boucher confirmed. “Malachi found out somehow. He knew that Joe had begun an affair with the man helping put his colleagues away, and while he never openly revealed our secret, Crane felt deceived. He could abide Joseph's betrayal of the Human Front but not the thought of a notable Power in an—at
that time,
you understand—‘perverse' relationship with a Power-lovin' liberal.”

“But he never said anything,” Walker reiterated. “Not even while he was in jail. I was there; I would have heard.”

“No, Crane never did squeal. But he
did
put a price on our heads. That's why we started the gang war—to fight money with money.”

Deena cut in, already picking up on the thread of the judge's narrative. “Liberty … the killings were put into effect so you and Monroe could have an excuse to kill Crane's associates. That way, once-convicted Powers—happy to get paid in order to kill Powers-hating bigots—took out the Human Front one by one.”

Boucher dipped his head again. “That was the plan, yes. And we asked your father to mix the pot, to free some Front soldiers to go after the Powers, as well. This would give Atlanta the illusion of—”

“—an out-of-control gang war. During which you could pick your enemies off with ease, keeping the secret safe by killing the folks Crane may have blabbed to.”

“More importantly,” the judge clarified, patting Aaron's corpse on the cold, pasty arm, “it kept our secret safe from family and superiors who wouldn't understand. Eveline, especially; I
never
wanted to break her heart.”

Walker cocked his head. “But Crane knew. And he never took Waldo's deal.”

Boucher nodded, wringing his hands in dismay. “No, he never did. And he hung it over our heads, threatening to expose us when we least suspected it. He was safe in prison—protected from Liberty and our plan. We had no way of getting to him, nor could we try without revealing ourselves. And he used it to leverage special privileges from Joseph, as well as an early release.”