Powers (7 page)

“Aaron, what is it?” Aaron's mother placed a hand against his cheek, and he slid it away, looking past her and into the house. “What's going on?”

“Are you serious?” He gestured out a window. “Have none of you looked outside? Or are you too drunk to care?”

Waldo raised a hand, firmly wrapped around a can of Old Guard. “Hang on. You talking about me?”

Aaron gave him a withering stare. “Go to bed. Sleep it off, okay?”

But Waldo pressed on, shaking off the deputy mayor's wife—his own having melted into the recesses of the house. “What did you mean by that? You, of all people?”

Deena eased herself between the two men. “Dad, how about some coffee?”

Aaron took Eveline's hand. “Let's go, Mom. Say good-bye to your friends.”

The judge deftly removed Eveline's hand from his son's grip. “Officer Boucher,” he started again, adding authority to his tone, “what exactly happened tonight?”

Aaron rubbed the lower half of his face and sharply inhaled, breathing deeply before continuing. “Aside from World War III blanketing Atlanta while half our Powers drink and fly? Besides cops—good cops, mind, not half the badges in this room—dying on the streets while evading heat vision?” The dinner guests shifted uncomfortably, waiting for Aaron to finish berating them. “You mean what's happening aside from all that?” The judge nodded, subtly holding out a palm to block Deena's father from getting close.

“Well, Pop,” Aaron seethed. “Taking all that into account, ignoring the big picture … there's been another murder.”

Deena scanned the faces of her parents' guests as the statement elicited short intakes of breath. Eveline and the judge exchanged glances, the latter's face hardening with concern. He placed a hand atop his son's right forearm. “You're sure?”

Aaron nodded in reply.

“A note? There was another note?”

This too, Aaron confirmed. Deena waited for an explanation, but it looked as if one wouldn't be forthcoming.

“Take it easy,” Waldo said, swaggering forward. “You don't know what it is; who Liberty is. But, listen—”

Aaron whirled, poking a finger into Waldo's chest. “I
know
what it is, and I know what
you
are, Pilgrim. I'll protect my family, and
you
protect
yours
. Course, it's not like anyone here is doing much protecting. Have another beer, why don't you? It isn't as if you're being much help.”

Bristling at Aaron's attack, Deena had to admit that she was also rather impressed. Her father was sneering, his face a dull, brick red … but he made no move to attack Aaron Boucher. She'd never spoken like that to either parent, much less one of her parents' friends.

Eveline quickly bestowed kisses on the gathering, wishing all a good night. Aaron stared down Waldo as the judge made apologies for the abruptness of their departure. The older couple bustled out into the cold, headed for their sedan. Aaron paused on the threshold and then looked back to address the assembled throng.

“You know,” he began, leveling them with a withering gaze. “I love being a cop. Especially in Atlanta. There's something noble about wearing a badge here. Even when we fall, what's our motto?
Resurgens
. ‘Rising Again,' it means. Get knocked down? You get up, despite thousands of blows to your pride and spine.” The room was silent now, apart from muffled gunfire echoing in the distance.

“Tonight, though, I'm embarrassed to belong. Disgusted to be an Atlanta cop if it means sharing the streets with the likes of you. Police, power, politician—makes no difference. This look-the-other-way policy, the bribes, collusion, and goddamn
apathy
that allow you to party while the town burns down around its motherfucking
ears
? While someone slices bodies in the name of what he or she thinks is liberty?
Liberty
?
That
I will have no part of.
That
is something I can't let ‘
rise again
.' You're cops.
Cops
. You carry a badge that bestows upon you a mission to create a safer Atlanta—one that ensures the safety of its citizens. One that builds trust, not betrayal. And you”—he pointed to the Powers in their midst—“what would Uncle Sam say if he could witness this? Don't half of you have government grants to end this violence?
Damn
.”

Aaron stepped onto the porch. “You're a goddamn disgrace.
All
of you. I don't know where your collective head is at, but I want no part of it. I'll be damned if I let my parents feast among this den of weak-willed, do-nothing crooks when at any moment all our lives could be in very real danger.”

He stalked down the steps and back to the patrol car, the elder Bouchers having already departed. Deena wanted to go with him, but Dad moved to the door and slammed it in Aaron's wake.

He never said hello,
she thought dejectedly.
He barely even looked my way
.

Waldo had a coppery bloom about his face. Deena gingerly took his arm and led him back into the family room, shooing angry, buzzing guests like cats from a windowsill. One by one, the partygoers ventured out into the night, back to fancy cars or up and away, headed for less conscience-laden environs. The deputy mayor bid his farewell, promising to look into Officer Boucher's claims and smooth the matter with both the mayor's and commissioner's offices. Soon enough, the house was quiet. Father and daughter sat alone in recliners, her mother nowhere to be found for comfort or support.

Deena looked into Waldo's eyes. “You okay, Dad?”

Fuming, he jerked his head, assuring his daughter that all was well. She placed a palm on the back of his hand, and he clapped it with his own, gently caressing her fingers and being careful not to break them in anger. Aaron's speech had stirred something within her father's heart—as it had everyone in the foyer—and she longed to get his read on it. But Deena knew not to press the matter. She never asked questions about her father's relationship with Aaron. Truth be told, she was afraid to know the answers.

Instead, she tugged another thread from the evening's tapestry. “Dad,” she asked. “Dad, what murders?”

His face screwed up in thought, eyebrows beetling as he pursed his lips. “What?”

“The murders you were talking about, Dad.”

Waldo fixed his bleary gaze on his only daughter. “Hm? Whassat, kiddo? You don' wanna know. Just forget it.”

She pressed him. “But there are murders. And a note? Aaron said.”

Her father snorted. “Nggh. Aaron … what he … that kid has some nerve … look. This guy, we guess—”

“You
guess
?”

He slowly shrugged and eased back into his chair. “One guy. Maybe two? A woman? Every time we find a victim, it's different from the last. See? And he leaves a note, right? Or they do. Or she.”

“Dad,” she interjected, keeping him on-topic. “What note?”

He held out his hands, framing it like a marquee. “‘
In the Name of Liberty
.' Sometimes in ink. Sometimes blood. Always—
always
—near the body.” Waldo passed the back of one hand across his nose. “Coulda been part of the, uh, the gang war. Maybe Powers. Maybe Human Front. Someone who hates everyone. I dunno.”

“But you'll catch him? That's what you do.” Deena squeezed his knee, trying to keep him awake. Hoping to pump information she could use to get close to Aaron. To make them equals—anything other than what she currently felt: this weird, needy place where he seemed out of her league and in a different world. She needed to know everything she could about the murders, about the madness that had overtaken Atlanta.

Because it was important to Aaron, and it was important to the Atlanta Powers Homicide Division. And so it was important to her.

“You'll catch him,” she reiterated. “How about coffee, okay?”

Waldo evaded her statement and dismissively waved his hand. Somewhere in the back, Mom tripped over something and broke a glass or vase. Deena hunched on the recliner, unsure how to jar her parents from their drunken cocoons of self-loathing. She desperately wanted to see Dad in action, to see him save the day. To have him be the man Aaron claimed he wasn't. But there would be no resolution this evening. Tonight, she needed to support her father, to repair his ego and assure him that Aaron hadn't been referring to the Pilgrim patriarch. Waldo was a good cop. The best. How else could he be such a good provider, so connected, so famous and respected?

She would listen to whatever he had to say, soak it in, and use it to arm her mission. Sure, Dad didn't know who or what this murderer was. But he was a great detective; she told him so—words her mother should have been the one to say. Tonight was a stutter-step in the war on crime. Tomorrow, he would wake up fresh and follow leads. He'd question suspects and analyze evidence. No one knew anything? He soon would. Deena believed that in her heart of hearts. She had faith in her father, even if Aaron didn't. She knew that Waldo was a good cop, just like Aaron. And if they would only let her, Deena knew she would be out with them both, cleaning up the streets.

Just as she knew, despite tonight's misstep, that one way or another, she would have a rookie cop's principled, awesome babies.

Just as she knew she had already fallen in love with Aaron Boucher.

 

5

December. Monday morning. 3:57
A.M.

The last of the barflies stumbled out of Der Mann ohne Bier and into the receding dusk. Faint rays of sunlight were visible over row houses and brownstones, painting the slush and streets with flecks of gold. The lights went out inside the beer hall—last call had come and gone—and someone, one of the brothers most probably, flipped the sign in the window from
GEÖFFNET
to
GESCHLOSSEN
. The hooded man listened intently from across the way, detecting the faint clinking of glasses and scraping of chairs against a wooden floor. The proprietors were closing down the pub for the night, as the hooded man knew they would be.

He deftly slipped out of the parked van, locked the door, and took confident strides across the filthy sidewalk. Worn Reeboks slapped against the wet concrete, skidding once in the snow as he reached the wreathed door. The man held out a gloved hand, using it to regain balance by pressing against the darkened glass. Someone noticed; a blurry shadow stopped and stared through the beer hall window.

The hooded man sniffed and then stuck both hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He peered out into the cold, wintry night. The barflies had disappeared; he was alone, a mysterious pedestrian loitering on the streets of the German Quarter at 4:00
A.M.

Truly, though,
he thought,
my presence isn't much of a mystery. They'll know why I'm here. They've been expecting me, or someone like me, for years.

Securing the objects in his left pocket, the hooded man withdrew the item in the right. He rapped against the glass, continuing to knock on the door with his knuckles until a broad, ugly face appeared in the window. The face sneered; Aryan features twisted into regret as the rest of the body—wiry, muscled, dressed in a simple black T-shirt—subtly gestured toward the
GESCHLOSSEN
sign. The hooded man glanced down and then looked up and apologetically shrugged and placed the fist against his chest.
I don't understand German,
it suggested.

The ugly Aryan unlocked the door, cracking it just enough through which he could stick his face and rest a fist against the jamb. The hooded man's attention was drawn to a carving on the frame. Graffiti, dug into the wood. It was a symbol … a snake circling a fist. Three lightning bolts clutched in its grasp. He nodded at the apologetic proprietor, expressing with his hooded eyes that he recognized the mark for what it was. He might not understand German, the look said, but he understood
that
. The face in the door nodded with approval and then tapped against the glass on the
GESCHLOSSEN
sign.

“Closed,” he grunted, barely an accent discernible in the word. “We're closed.”

The man smiled beneath his mask. He reaffirmed his grip on the tool in his right hand. Every tool, he believed, for a specific job. He cocked his head in reply.

“Season's greetings, Dolph,” Liberty whispered.

Dolph—that was his name, the densest of three brothers that Liberty knew loitered inside the pub—opened his mouth, fairly dumbfounded. His eyes widened, and the door started to close.
Idiot,
Liberty scolded himself.
He recognized your damn voice.

Before Dolph could slam the door, Liberty lifted his right hand and held out the item resting securely in his fist. It was a cube—no bigger than a golf ball—black and bristling with electronics. Liberty tapped the back, and an earsplitting shriek emanated from the box, transmitting out to a five-block radius. It was a recorder, equipped with high-decibel playback, and what it currently played was the scream of a dying god. He'd recorded it in Chicago, not so long ago. And now he used it to not only bring Dolph to his knees but also shatter every door and window in and around Der Mann ohne Bier.

Liberty punched Dolph in the face, shattering his teeth. The beefy Aryan fell back and clutched his mouth, blood spraying across the hardwood flooring. Liberty stepped over him, entering the premises, striding toward the long, circular bar. Bottles had shattered, and various types of liquid drenched the floor, so he carefully made his way around the glass and puddles of ale, Jaeger, and brandy. Another man writhed near the bar, rubbing his temple and attempting to dig out his damaged inner ear. Liberty approached just as the man—wearing a suit, slimmer and older—finally pulled himself up and grabbed for a nearby bat.