Powers (40 page)

Deena stood up and paced the width of the morgue. “Okay, so we've established that you and Monroe were Liberty, along with my father, who adopted the name to do some of your dirty work for money. And since we're all history students, we know you got away with it and left my dad holding the bag. So why come back? Why resurface? And how did Aaron get dragged into it? He told me to my face that he was Liberty, but Waldo told me it was you and Monroe.”

Boucher's face flushed a bright red; he was obviously embarrassed about what came next in the story. “Well, after we left Atlanta, my plan had been to disappear. Aaron knew about the gang war at that point—I'd told him, brought him in on the plan. He thought, like Waldo, that we were killing people to protect my reputation. And he knew that Crane was gunning for me for killing Human Front soldiers, which is why he was all fired up to protect me that Thanksgiving night. You remember, Deena?”

The vision on the porch came roaring back, as did the uneasy feelings Deena associated with her family and heartbreak. She nodded, and the judge went on.

“After Eveline died, rest her soul, Aaron and I bounced from town to town, constantly checking our shoulders. The Liberty murders had never been solved, and we left a lot of baggage in our wake.”

Walker interrupted. “Joe couldn't protect you?”

“After the events in Atlanta, we felt it best to table our relationship for the sake of putting distance to the past. Joseph and I still had feelings, but he was already on a slow, downward spiral, and I had a family. We saw each other a few times after that, but it was never the same. Then, of course, I didn't see him for years. Not until last week.”

“When you killed him.”

Boucher turned to Deena, noting her expression, measuring every inch of angered disappointment. “Yes, child. When I killed him.”

 

35

December. Saturday morning. 3:00
A.M.

Joseph thrashed against his bonds, too weak to snap the ropes. Ken, hooded and silent, knelt by his side. A handheld drainer rested on the toolbox, emitting a faint, green glow. Ken didn't believe it was really necessary—Joseph's powers had long since faded, as had his will. It had been that way for years now. Maybe even since Atlanta.

He secured the ropes, pulling them tight. Joe grunted and moaned, possibly trying to beg for mercy. Maybe doing his best to pledge a love they'd both long forgotten. Ken didn't know; he'd decided to remove Joe's tongue, along with most of his teeth. This way, Ken wouldn't be swayed by his former lover's pleas of mercy.

This way, it would be easier. His heart and the memories wouldn't get in the way. He would do what needed to be done. He didn't want to listen to Joe—seeing him this way brought back painful memories. A life they could have had instead of this one. A world that could have been different if Joseph hadn't been too chickenshit. And if Ken, scared and taking Joe's lead, hadn't been the same.

He leaned forward and whispered to his prisoner. Ken reminded Joe about the past—why this had to happen. He spoke about Aaron and Malachi Crane, and all the loose ends they'd left behind in Atlanta. Joseph didn't respond to any of it. All he cared about was pain and mercy. Ken understood that. The events leading to the night's proceedings were not as important as Joseph's pain, betrayal, and shame.

I loved you
, Ken thought, spitting venom at the former hero inside his mind.
But you abandoned me. You abandoned yourself. And you chose the coward's route. Now you've decided to change that? Fuck you, Joe. If you ever truly loved me, you'd know that your sudden reversal would only engender the end of everything I hold dear.

But he said none of that to the bound, captured hero. “That's it,” Ken said instead. “Not so bad. We're nearly done. Just two things left, and it will all be over.”

He tore open the front of Joe's shirt and leaned over to roll back his shirtsleeves. He arranged Joe's arms so that both hands rested palm-up. Then he stepped away. “There,” he announced. “That's one.”

He took a moment to look around. He'd been too focused to appreciate the ambience of the apartment, such as it was.
Look at this dump
, he thought to himself.
How the mighty have fallen
. Served Joseph right. He'd allowed this to happen—just as Ken had allowed himself to go from a beautiful home in suburban Atlanta to grubbing for condos in Texas, Illinois, and now here. Nothing suggested the beauty and gravitas of the man Ken once knew. Nothing at all, except his ornate shield.

He picked the shield up, remembering how he had once used it as a coaster to Joseph's chagrin. This wasn't Ken's first time holding it, but it would be his last. The thought made him sad for a moment, and then it was time to move forward. “Now,” he began, speaking from beneath Liberty's hood. “Just one more thing.”

He had to do this. For Aaron and for himself. It had to be done.

“You know I have to do this. Right?” Ken said it out loud, to himself as much as to Joseph. He started to cry, as did Joe, and Ken realized that they had nothing left to say. It was one or the other. Joseph had been unreasonable. Crane was out there. It had to fucking be done and over with.

Ken swallowed beneath the hood and reached down for the shield.

 

36

December. Wednesday night. 8:49
P.M.

“I wanted to retire,” the judge revealed. They'd been talking for nearly an hour, and everyone needed a drink. Walker didn't want to go, and Deena didn't, either. So they sat and listened, waiting for Boucher to explain how his son had been involved.

“Aaron was concerned, you see. We'd built a career out of watching each other's backs. Eveline had never known the truth—oh, she knew that Aaron had clashed with Waldo and that a fresh start was necessary. But she went to her grave believing her son was a hero and her husband a good man.”

He cleared his throat. “Following her death, I decided to retire. That's when Crane reappeared in the form of a nasty e-mail—he'd caught wind via the politician's grapevine. He knew, and he threatened to reveal my secrets. Crane wouldn't let me retire—no peace for the men who'd killed his friends. So, I came to the city and met with Joseph.”

“Wait,” Walker said, attempting to clarify, “you met with Joe before showing up on his doorstep Sunday night?”

“Briefly. We had coffee, and I asked for his help. But Joseph was no longer connected to anyone or anything and felt he could weather the blow. Who would care that we'd been lovers? He was a nobody at this point, and my wife was dead. Our relationship would be celebrated now, no longer taboo. But I choked. I was too burdened with my past. I was afraid my secret relationship and the ensuing media spectacle would ruin my good name, overturn my decisions, and destroy what was left of my family.”

“So instead,” Deena snarked, “you beat Joe to jelly with his own shield.”

Boucher ran a hand across his face, cheeks flushed. “I reassumed the mantle of Liberty to engender confusion … and, as I had in Atlanta, to cover my tracks. I planned to tie up all loose ends, eliminating the remainder of the Human Front members that had been involved in our Georgian deception. And I would finish with Crane, killing him before the man could make good on his threat.”

Walker frowned. “You hoped that Joe's secret would be more important than your own. If you worked fast, you could tie up every loose end before disappearing again. This time for good.”

The judge smiled weakly. “Gold star, Diamond.”

Deena's face was as red as the judge's now, but for different reasons. “That still doesn't explain Aaron's involvement, Ken. You admit to killing Monroe, but Aaron did the same as he lay dying. Which of you was
actually
Liberty?”

Boucher sat back and steepled his fingers by his lips. “Both of us.”

“Not Monroe?”

He shook his head. “Eleven years ago, my son discovered my secret. Waldo Pilgrim, being an untrustworthy drunk—no offense, dear.”

“None taken.”

“Anyway, Pilgrim's loose lips sank Aaron's opinion of his father. He knew that I was working with Liberty, but only to clean up my inconsistent record. He knew nothing about my relationship with Joseph or the Soldier's ties to the Human Front. He pleaded with us to end the gang war, to put a stop to the corruption and murder. You would have liked him that night, Deena. It was a great speech.”

Deena remained stoic, unwilling to give the judge an inch. She twirled her finger, urging him to get on with it. Boucher continued, “Aaron suggested we leave Atlanta, despite your relationship, dear. He wanted to start over far from where I could tarnish the family name and the good work that he'd been doing. So I agreed. As we put it together, Aaron looked the other way, continued the charade we worked up with Waldo and Monroe until I went into seclusion. Both Aaron and I abandoned our lovers and our city, hoping that the burgeoning Human Front would forget that either of us existed.”

“Hang on,” Deena asked. “Aaron didn't kill anyone in Atlanta? He wasn't involved, didn't take bribes from Waldo? All he did was keep quiet?”

Walker cleared his throat. “Which is bad enough, in and of itself.”

“Dear,” Boucher interjected, “I don't know what your father told you or what Aaron told you. But what
I'm
telling you? This is the truth. Why hide it now?”

Dammit,
she thought.
They lied to me again. And none of Waldo's testimony will ever see the light of day or be useful to anyone. Thanks for nothing, Dad.
Boucher continued, speaking to Walker while Deena covertly reached over to her phone and deleted Waldo's recording. The testimony he'd lied about in order to get in good with his daughter.

Fat lot of good it did him,
she seethed, setting the phone back on the cooling slab.

“Joseph threatened to expose our relationship,” Ken was saying, “and I killed him to hush it up. And I told Aaron the truth because, well, I'm his father, and I needed his help. I'm sure you can understand that, Deena.”

“So Aaron wasn't Liberty when he arrived in the city. He was legitimately here to investigate and prosecute Walker?” The big detective stared bullets at the old man, waiting for an answer.

“Yes, oh yes. Aaron donned the hood only recently. He may have already felt like part of the legacy, due to his knowledge of our decades-old conspiracy, but now he officially accepted the mantle. He was younger, more agile, and willing to internalize my secrets—as he had his own secret powers and personal turmoil.”

Walker pressed the judge for an admission of guilt on behalf of the deceased. “So Aaron killed the Rampage Brothers. Then Willie Wails. He poisoned Deena's dad—”

Boucher cut him off. “No, I killed Ms. Quince. That night in the alley; that was Aaron. But the one who pulled the trigger? That was
me,
Deena.”

She bristled. “I still can't believe Aaron put me in the hospital.”

“You nearly put him in the morgue. And he tried throwing you off track, pointing the finger of doubt in another direction. Hoping it would save your life. We never meant to hurt you, dear … but then, I suppose he had to in order to escape.”

“You both had me believing it was Walker.”

The judge spread his hands. “You believed what you wanted to believe.”

Undeterred, Walker continued to press. “So Aaron attacked Waldo, even though the man didn't know the full extent of the lies.”

“That may have been personal—as were you, Walker, when we tag-teamed you the other night. Aaron … his powers … he got carried away. But I killed Quince, after which I planned to eliminate Crane, once and for all. Unfortunately, Aaron beat me to it before I could reveal myself. He was one step ahead of everyone—even me. He wanted to end things on
his
terms, planning to do exactly what he accomplished. He killed Crane and Liberty at the same time, ensuring that I remained a mystery … as did my relationship with Joseph Monroe.”

“Not anymore. We have the truth—
your
truth—saved to the cloud now.”

Boucher grunted with exertion as he got to his feet. He leaned over and kissed Aaron's brow, a tear splashing against the side of the corpse's cheek. “You do. Aaron took my secrets to the grave, but thankfully I've been able to reveal the truth about the men I loved—Joseph and my son—to the detectives who knew them best. What you do with that truth is not for me to decide. I'm finished holding lives in my hands.”

He patted Aaron's cheek and stepped away, turning to Deena and holding out his wrists. “Now … my son is dead, and I'm an old man who has lived too many years and lied for most of them. Please,” he asked the partners, his soft pleading echoing around the empty room, “finally, do your job.

“Arrest me,” Kenneth Boucher begged, “in the name of Liberty.”

 

37

December. Wednesday night. 10:48
P.M.

“So, then what happened?”

Corbin Kirk shifted toward the window, careful not to interfere with his dangling IV tubes. The rookie's face, bloated and unshaven, had come alive with interest and concern as Deena related the tragic events of the last two days. The door was closed, and the room's television tuned to a muted newscast—Collette McDaniels, live from the PHD station.

One day,
Deena warned the bitch on the television.
One day, you and me.

Kirk stole a quick sip from a crumpled juice container on his dinner tray and then waggled his fingers for more of the story. “Come on, I'm dying here.”