Powers (42 page)

“Detective!” he called after her, voice carrying into the hall. “Will I see you back at the station?”

But Deena Pilgrim was down the hallway and out the door, barreling into the purifying fall of snow. Kirk's words echoed in her head, cleansing her, she felt for a moment, of pain and anger.

That's not true. I still feel shitty. And I'd like to jam this badge up the ass of the next beat cop I see. But still …

His confession, Kirk's sentiment, had struck a nerve in Deena. Sure, she would always be pissed at her father and at Aaron. She would probably never feel the same way about being a cop. Not like she did back when she'd finished at the academy. Not like she did in Atlanta, before everything went to hell. But what Kirk had said made her realize just how much time she'd spent inside a bubble of cynicism, so much so that she often couldn't see outside. The newborn had penetrated her little cloud of pain and betrayal. Just because she'd lost her inspiration and the roots of her desires to be a detective had been poisoned with wormwood, that didn't take away from her accomplishments.
Deena
had put away Jon Jackson Stevens, not Aaron.
She
had helped shut down the bureau, not Waldo. And
she
had inspired Corbin Kirk to join the force, not the men from whom she'd taken her earlier cues.

I inspired someone. Me. The snarky little midget with an attitude. The jaded cop who accidentally killed a mobster the first time she got herself some powers. Just because my dad and Aaron were awful cops, it doesn't mean that I can't change the cycle. It doesn't mean I can't be the role model that one of them should have been.

Deena hunkered down against a flurry and beelined for her car. She wrapped the jacket around her torso and pushed through the snow, suddenly having places to be.

Besides,
she concluded,
I actually do have a good role model. A good cop, if there ever was one, even if he may not believe it right now. And he's sitting in a records room, no doubt, digging through cold cases and trying to make amends.

Deena grimaced. That seemed to be going around. Making amends, that is. She arrived at her car and opened the door. Easing herself into the driver's seat, she pulled her hands from her jacket to take the wheel. Deena's right fist palmed her badge, tingling from the cold. She looked at it, noting the serial number. The little golden shield had lost its pallor over the years, its edges having rusted and dulled. She smiled, set it on the dash, and started the car. As she steered through the garage, she clicked on the radio and flipped around for an upbeat song. Anything she could find with more than five chords.

Deena Pilgrim drummed against the steering wheel of her late-model sedan, carefully navigating out of the hospital parking lot. She passed the attendant and flashed him the sign of the horns.
Rock and roll
. She head-bopped to the beat as he opened the gate.

The attendant stared at Deena for a moment and then looked back at his cell phone as she sped away. She laughed. He didn't understand.
This right here,
Deena Pilgrim said to herself.

This right here is the high point of my day.

 

38

December. Wednesday night. 11:53
P.M.

Walker sat alone in the interrogation room, boxes spread out across the table. He picked at the remains of a half-eaten value meal, mostly cadging french fries as he pored over documents. He preferred to dig through printed files. Something about the digital archive seemed too easy—like less work. The purpose of this exercise was to avoid cutting corners. This was his penance for Atlanta, and before that, Detroit. This was Walker's way to make up for not getting involved. For literally being an absent badge in a city that sorely needed one.

Maybe it's something more. I'm beating myself up for throwing irresponsible pebbles onto an eight-lane superhighway. Sure, I've had moments of apathy. After that disaster with the bureau, I basically walked away from everything. I didn't give a shit—like I didn't in Atlanta and other times in my life. But let's be fair: I've lived a long fucking life. And yeah, I'm not going to be conscientious the entire time. There
will
be moments of detachment over the years. So why am I beating myself up over looking the other way twelve years ago? It's not like I was alone, right? Why am I the only one dredging up the past, forcing myself to make amends?

That's when he realized the obvious answers: the rest of them were dead or imprisoned. And though there would, indeed, be indiscretion during his never-ending lifetime … guilt would undoubtedly follow.

It's my secret,
he recalled.
My weakness. That, and my friends.

Deena. Enki. Kirk. Joe. Each had suffered; one of them had died. And though Walker wasn't the reason for any of that, a possibility existed that he could have changed events by simply giving a shit.
Too late now,
he mused.
But that's why
I'm
here. To quell the guilt and do right by my friends, even if they're dead and gone.

Walker had seen too many friendships wither and die over the years, whether due to the passage of time or some dumb-ass thing he'd said or done. Joe was gone. Harley was gone. Zora, Calista, Janis, Z. He'd lost them all, and time marched on. Soon he would lose the rest. Cross. Enki. Even Deena. One day, he would turn around and the world will have changed. But the guilt would remain, the overwhelming feeling of loss … and there was nothing he could do about it.

So he pored. He filed. He checked and cross-checked as some small measure of looking back. He could try to solve the past—do right by those who'd fallen along the way—even if he had to do it alone.

He looked out the open door. The bullpen was dim, few lights other than those strung around the rafters. A gaggle of detectives lingered by the duty desk, sipping coffee and exchanging gifts. Walker smiled. He swallowed a fry and spread his hands across the table, shifting stacks of folders. He lifted a paper cup from his side, sloshing with coffee, and downed it with a swallow. He crumpled it and tossed it at a nearby trash can. The ball missed, hitting instead a foot wedged into the doorway. Deena Pilgrim lingered in the hall. She glanced at the throng of detectives and then to Walker, curiosity radiating across her face. Her hands were in her pockets; a coat of muddy snow caked her feet.

Deena thumbed in the direction of the bullpen. “What's going on? Not-So-Secret Santa?”

Walker pointed at the neglected, forgotten tree, quietly sitting in the corner. “That's right. And I'm in charge of decorating. This year, I thought we'd use cups of swill and stockings full of case files.”

“Ho fucking ho.”

“I believe ‘ho fucking ho' is in section 653 to 653.28 of the penal code.” Walker cast about, dragging his hand through a random box. “It's in here somewhere. I'll find it, I swear. Maybe by Easter.”

Deena smiled. “Good luck.”

“Wanna help?” Walker held out his hand, sweeping over the contents of the table. “Cold hamburgers and colder cases. It's like the cop equivalent of Chinese food on Jewish Christmas Eve. Best part? You won't want to dig in an hour later.”

“Tempting,” she replied, reaching out of sight. “But I have a little Christmas gift for you that could make it that much sweeter.”

Walker rose from the chair. “Oh, hey … I was kidding, Deena. You didn't hav—”

Deena returned with two steaming cups, purchased from the diner across the street. She handed one over and popped the tab on her own, bending her mouth to lap sweet, sticky foam. Walker sipped his own and then looked up.

“Wait. Where's the fuckin' coffee?”

“Hot chocolate. Yum.”

He had to agree. They sat across the table from one another, quietly sipping their drinks. Deena idly paged through a file, barely committing to one before checking out another. She leaned back, tilting her chair onto its rear legs.

“So…”

“So, indeed.”

She set the cup aside. “Seriously, asshole. Do you want my help or not?”

Walker placed his beverage on the floor, careful to move his foot in order to avoid a spill. He laced his fingers and rested his mouth on the back of his hands, elbows placed on the table. A telephone rang. One of the detectives detached from the desk and drifted off to answer.

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“You staying?”

She nodded, sipping her drink. “For now,” she replied, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. “Probably not long enough to get through this library.”

“But you're staying.”

“Seriously, we should get men in here to sift through it all. Top. Men.”

“Deena…”

She returned his gaze and set the drink aside. She was tired, but Walker noted that she seemed lighter. She seemed at peace. Six years working with the same partner, you got to pick up on things like that. Changes in mood. Adjusting attitudes. Living a mortal life in an immortal body had helped, as well. Taking in his exhausted partner, Christian Walker realized that Deena Pilgrim was going to be just fine. They'd been through the wringer before; they'd experience it again. As long as they trusted one another, all the bullshit, guilt, heartbreak, and pain would be just another set of cases they needed to solve. Just another hardship they'd be able to overcome.

Walker reached for a handful of folders marked
DETROIT—1968
. His partner snatched files of her own. They sat in silence, reading and sipping, enjoying each other's company and the inaudible shorthand they'd developed over the years.

“Walker?”

They looked up. The detective who'd answered the phone was standing in the doorway, anxious and armed with information. Walker closed his folder. “Yeah?”

“Got a live one. Call about a giant bookie, tossed off some kind of flying vehicle. Splashed into the fountain in New Vokes Square.”

“This giant bookie's a heavy hitter? Lots of clients?”

“Uh … no. The dude's an
actual
giant. Like, eight feet. The fountain's shattered to shit. So's the body. Thought you might wanna take a look.”

Walker finished his drink. He looked up and Deena was following suit. “You can sit this one out,” he offered. “Go home. Catch some shut-eye. We'll pick it up on Friday.”

Deena balked at the notion. “What—and miss some horrible new shit? Not a chance. What about this?” She waved at the table, indicating the boxes.

Walker grinned and grabbed his jacket from an adjacent chair. “Top. Men.”

“Oh, nice. Excellent call back.”

He stopped her at the door, pausing the banter with an open hand. “Hey, Deena,” he said. “I wanted to say one more thing before we go.”

She stared at her partner, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “What's that?”

He smiled. “Merry Christmas, partner.”

Deena rolled her eyes and shouldered past, exiting the room with a wiseass smirk. Walker laughed and closed the door behind them, heading into the bullpen, off and running once again. “Bah, humbug,” she replied, slapping Walker on the back.

“And Merry Christmas to you, too.”

 

Epilogue

June. Ten and a half years ago.

Sunday afternoon. 1:07
P.M.

Birds wheeled above the academy grounds, flying in formation beneath a brilliant azure sky. The sun was shining on the bleachers as row after row of prospective policemen and policewomen filed into seats. Family members milled about on the grass, beaming with pride as they aimed cameras and phones. Bunting and congratulatory banners hung across the aging tree line; the groundskeepers had gone overboard, but that was most often the case when it came to graduation.

A dais ran against the main building, looking out and onto the grass. Several dignitaries and special guests climbed a staircase, dressed in tailored uniforms and carrying speeches and documents of distinction. One of them approached center stage and tapped on the microphone. The family members ceased their milling and drifted toward waiting white seats. After they'd settled, the president took his place at the podium and began the official ceremonies. The graduating cadets fidgeted in their seats, ready to join the ranks of those who chose to uphold the law. They searched for their families, spying parents in the crowd, husbands and wives happily cheering from the seats positioned on the lawn.

Deena searched the sky instead. She watched the birds, dress hat nearly falling from the back of her head. She caught it, setting it right. The starched, ironed uniform felt perfect against her skin. She clasped both hands in her lap, anxiously tapping one thumb against the other, ready for the formalities to be complete and the work to begin. The afternoon's festivities were the culmination of five long, hard months. A little over nineteen weeks learning the ropes, immersing herself in a world of which she'd always longed to be part. Waldo had refused to include Deena in his work life. He'd refused to help her see this through, and Aaron had disappeared; she had no idea where the Bouchers had gone. Last she'd heard, the judge graced a bench in Dallas, and Austin before that. Aaron was undoubtedly at his side. He definitely wasn't in the crowd, waving and cheering in Deena's direction as he snapped pictures.

That's fine,
she had decided, putting on a confident face.
I did this on my own. And no one can take credit for that. No one else can take this from me.

She stared at the birds and clouds one last time. A contrail streaked across the sky—a jet, perhaps, or a commercial airliner. She squinted into the sun; it wasn't either. It was a man in scarlet armor. He carried a large, metallic hammer, and his face—though it would have been a blur at this distance—was hidden beneath a bullet-shaped helmet. Several other cadets raised their heads to watch him go by, as did a handful of spectators. The Power must have sensed their attention; he glanced down and saluted them with his hammer. Moments later, the unknown Power rocketed into the distance, tattered clouds and a tinny burst of sound left in his wake.