Super (11 page)

I
’m driving
Deke’s rental car like I stole it.

This isn’t my best idea ever, but I’m trying to get to…well, shit, I don’t even know where I’m going, honestly. With Deke’s revelation that Charlene is the would-be John Wilkes Booth, I had to get on the move because I felt the need to run away from reality.

Deke’s in the passenger seat, begging me to slow down, telling me that it wouldn’t be smart to get pulled over by the cops. He can pull rank, of course, but will it do any good? All he has to do is flash some creds, and we’ll be on our way, right? Normally, that’s how it works, but since only a handful of people have ever heard of Direct Protection Services, we might get an escort to the local station while the flatfoot radios ahead to have someone check it out.

I slap the steering wheel and shout, “Damn it!”

“Does that mean you’ll slow down?”

“
No
… Yes.” I make a left out of the current neighborhood and then at the stop light I turn right, practically on two wheels, onto Highway 50 and cruise toward Falls Church. I spent some time there in what feels like another life, back when Kimmie and I were playing house and living close to the nation’s capitol. You know, back when we tried to keep up our ‘Real American Couple’ persona.

It’s too early for the sun to be up, but with all the streetlights, traffic lights, lights from convenience stores, illuminated car dealerships and restaurant parking lots, we might as well be driving through in the middle of the day. I liked it here way back when, but I don’t miss it.

I hadn’t given Deke a chance to explain himself before I floored it. Now seems like a good time. Besides, if he loses any more circulation in those white knuckles gripping the door handle, I might have to amputate his fingers.

I ease off the gas pedal as I top a little hill, and it couldn’t have come any sooner. A police cruiser rolls by going southbound. The patrolman gives me a subtle nod. I see his brake lights flash in the rearview mirror and, thankfully, he decides we’re not suspicious enough to tail and call in the license plates. Two reasonably average looking white males driving a rental car—to him, we’re probably on our way to the airport or back home after a business meeting. Regardless, he’s gone, and I allow myself to unclench.

The brakes squeak when we stop at the next stoplight, and the sound feels like my thought processes—in need of some serious greasing. “Deke?”

He clears his throat. “Time to explain, huh?”

“Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to tell me every single fucking detail you can think of. What you know. Who knows what you know. Why Palmer. Why Charlene. Why George Silver. I want it all, Deke, and in exchange—”

“I can’t do it, Leo. I don’t have the clearance to give you—”

The light turns green and I pull away. I grind my teeth together and try to speak as calmly as possible. “Clearance doesn’t matter anymore. You tell me, you walk away, and you disappear forever. Listen to me, man. Think about it. Murdering a president, whether it’s an inside job or not, your head is gonna roll. This ain’t the ‘60s, dude. People don’t keep their mouths shut; someone will find you just because you took a crap in the wrong bathroom stall. You know this. You
know
it. What’re you thinking?
Are
you?
Are
you thinking?”

“Leo, I—”

“Shut up. Just shut up. I like you. I didn’t at first but I do now. Past to present. Didn’t, do. You tell me everything I need to know, and I’ll pay you to walk. I’ve got money. More than I’ll need, more than you’ll need. I always knew something would happen and that I’d need to disappear. You don’t live the kind of life I’ve had and not think about vanishing until you’re ready to meet God Himself. Got it? I’m buying your answers, Deke, then you’re gone. Safe, out, gone. Find yourself a pretty little lady in a hut somewhere, and sip sweet drinks out of coconuts. That’s my offer.”

“And if I say no?”

I jam the barrel of my .45 into his ribs, and I’m not gentle about it, either. “Then we take a different drive, one where I know where I’m going, and you won’t be coming back from it. Don’t make me do that. Not when you’ve got a good twenty years left.”

“All right. Jesus. Just get that thing out of my side before you hit a pothole.”

It’s a sensible request, and I oblige.

He rolls down his window a couple of inches and takes a swipe at his forehead. “It’s hot in here, ain’t it?”

“Deke!”

“All right, all right.” He readjusts himself in his seat and tries to loosen up the lap belt around his beer belly. “This goes way back, you see, like to the Watergate days, back when Silver and Palmer were freshmen senators. Palmer screwed Silver on this Mideast oil deal—remember all those long lines at the gas pumps? Hell, I don’t even recall what committee it was, but anyway, George Silver has been in it for the long game. Almost forty years have gone by, and he’s tried so many different schemes to bring Palmer down, but none of them have worked. None. Not a single one.”

“Like what?”

“Paying off sexy interns, bribery, teamster scandals. Everything you can think of. Palmer’s too slippery. So, now we’re down to one second on the clock, and Silver is trying to throw a Hail Mary.”

“By
murdering
Palmer? Seriously?”

“The man holds a grudge. I think he’s so fed up and pissed off that none of his shitty schemes have worked: he’s finally ready to kill the poor bastard and be done with it. And, he’s doing it all under the umbrella of DPS so we can be the ones to run the investigation behind the scenes and clear everybody involved. Sure, the other top agencies will be all over the news, but they’re there to tell the media that we have solid leads and we’ll eventually arrest Charlene as a patsy. The conspiracy nuts will still be digging through the case files a century from now, but they’ll never find the truth.”

It occurs to me that I should pull over, detain the guy, and turn him over to the feds, but if I do that, how am I going to explain my end of the story? I’m not exactly an innocent snowflake given the contracts I’ve accepted. Now that Eric Landers is dead, and likely the heads of the CIA and FBI, Joe Gaylord and Conner Carson, I don’t have that top layer of protection. If I go anywhere near a federal building, claiming to have knowledge of a plot to assassinate the President, I’m wearing an orange jumpsuit and a black hood in Guantanamo within twenty-four hours. I won’t have to worry about SALCON—I’ll be at the mercy of good ol’ Uncle Sam.

Damn. It looks like I’m in this until I can clear my name.

Should I bother? Why not disappear now?

I recall that George Silver wanted Patriotman dead, due to reasons unknown. Does Deke have that answer? I’m not one to hold grudges for very long. I react and get shit done before it festers. If I run, if I hide, he gets away with everything.

“So George Silver is like Lex Luthor and Palmer is Superman? ‘Rats, foiled again’?”

I wonder how my buddy Supes would feel about me comparing him to Palmer, but he’s probably heard worse.

“Something like that, yeah.”

This is big. Real big. But it all seems too easy. “So what I’m hearing from you is that George Silver has been holding a grudge against Mike Palmer for forty years and the only way to get some piece of mind is to off the dude.”

Deke nods. “Yup. It’s not that glamorous, but this ain’t Hollywood.”

“And you and Agent Kelly are willfully following orders? What the fuck, Deke? Are you kidding me? It’s murder, man. You’re murdering a president.”

“Says the guy who kills heroes for a decent paycheck.”

“That’s different, and you know it. They deserve what they get. Palmer doesn’t deserve to die because of some petty, forty-year-old grudge, does he? I’ve met the guy. He doesn’t seem all that bad.” As soon as I hear the words come out of my mouth, I know that I’ve slipped. I was caught up in my mini-tirade and didn’t think it through.

“You’ve
met
him? When? How?”

Oops. No sweat. I can lie my way out of this. You know how nobody has ever figured out that Clark Kent is Superman? In real life, Clark is this bumbling, goofy,
aww-shucks
kind of guy—a nerd, if you will—and only a select group of people know that he slips on the red and blues to become Superman. I know, Lois knows… Steve Rogers. Bruce Wayne. Maybe a couple of others. Anyway, same goes for me. Other than Kimmie, Mom, Phil, Clark Kent, and Bart Alonzo, my double, not a single person knows that I’m Patriotman.

“I, uh, I met him at a fundraiser about ten years ago.”

“Oh, gotcha.” Deke seems to accept this, with only a hint of suspicion, and I let out a miniscule huff of relief when he doesn’t pursue it further.

“I don’t… I don’t get it. This is—it’s insane. How can somebody be that bitter for forty years?”

“If you’re surprised by that, then you don’t know people very well.”

“I thought for sure that it was the VP wanting to get into Palmer’s seat. To save face, or whatever, you know? Like get Palmer out of there before his shitty approval rating drags Thomason down with him.”

“I’m sure it’s crossed the Veep’s mind a time or two, but nope.”

I flick on my blinker and make a left. I feel too exposed out here on the main highway now that I’m sitting with an accomplice to a Presidential assassination. Just being in the same car with him—and hearing talk of the plans—could put me away for life. “Unbelievable.”

“What?”

“That it’s so simple.”

Deke shrugs and frowns. “Never underestimate the power of…well, the power of being a petty bastard. Some people never grow up.”

“Okay, two more questions.”

“That’s it? Only two?”

“No, I’m just getting started, but let’s tackle these two first.”

“Let me guess the first one. Why am I telling you?”

“Yes.”

He allows the moment to soak in anticipation before he answers in a softer tone. “Second thoughts. It’s not right. It hasn’t
been
right, Leo, and if anybody can put a stop to this, it’s you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but Jesus, man, this is way bigger than me. Second question—why’re you and Lisa going through with this? Why help Silver assassinate Palmer?”

“A man will agree to just about anything with a gun to his head, Leo. You know that. I tried to say no. Lisa, too, but you don’t get to refuse when a bunch of goons dressed in black show up at your house at three in the morning. Made it seem like an ‘offer you can’t refuse’ thing. Silver himself was standing there beside my bed. Can you believe it? Guy makes house calls to get what he wants. Matter of fact, if this car’s bugged or if I’ve got a micro-device on me somewhere, I got a bullet sandwich waiting for me the minute I’m alone.”

“And Agent Kelly? How’s she feel about this?”

He pauses, makes a face like it pains him to answer. “She’s not on board with me yet. Said I shouldn’t tell you, not until we figure out how to save ourselves first, but I’ve been telling her all along that you can help.”

“Jesus.”

We’re driving through another sleepy, quiet neighborhood, yet the sun is starting to give the eastern sky a warm glow and more dutiful citizens are coming to life. Leaving to beat the traffic, walking their dogs, and squeezing in a quick run before it’s off to their cubicles, working for the man. In the meantime, I’m cruising around with a guy who’s been coerced, by the Secretary of Defense, into facilitating an assassination of the President of the United States.

Just another Tuesday morning, right?

The general public likes to believe that there are massive conspiracies underfoot when it comes to anything dealing with the government. Like, aliens are real and the government is hiding the truth. Or maybe Lyndon Johnson personally had Lee Harvey Oswald shoot Kennedy from the Texas book depository. Or that 9/11 was an inside job, giving us a reason to invade Iraq for cheaper oil.

The truth is, the simplest explanation is often the correct one. There are no grand conspiracies—I’d
like
there to be, because it would make more sense than the fact that one idiot with a gun can change the course of history. We like to create stories to make up for the fact that a simple act of shitheadedness can alter our lives for the next fifty years. We don’t like being out of control on that level. We don’t like knowing that our world can be thrown into upheaval by something as simple as a grudge.

When bad things happen on a substantial scale, it’s easier to believe that humongous groups of secretive people were driving the school bus to Hell, rather than accept the fact that Fate, or Chance, or one guy with a bad idea can fuck things up for the rest of us.

I ask him, “And you want
me
to fix this? Is that what I’m hearing? You suddenly decide that you’ve got a conscience, and you’re dumping it on me to stop it?”

Deke exhales a long, pitiful, exhausted sigh. “That’s about the size of it. I’m too old. Too slow. And I can’t die with this on my shoulders. You’re a good man, Leo. I know you’ll do the right thing. In some ways, you remind me of Patriotman. Could be the way you sorta look like him. Maybe that’s why I’m asking you to do some good.”

How can you say no to that?

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good. I appreciate it. It’ll mean the world to me if—”

“Hang on, we’re not done here yet.”

“We’re not?”

“Back, like, three weeks ago, when we went to visit Silver at the black site in the mountains?

“Yeah?”

I explain the entire story to him. What Silver said, why he claimed he wanted Patriotman dead, and that Eric Landers, right before he died, had mentioned that the Secretary of Defense had never liked me—although I didn’t say me, as in Leo, because Deke doesn’t need to know. Maybe I’ll tell him one of these days if any of us make it out of this alive.

“What I want to know, Deke, is why did Silver make up that bullshit story? Why did he
really
want Patriotman dead? You have to know.”

Deke’s answer confounds me. After all I’ve seen, done, and heard, I honestly thought I lacked the ability to be truly surprised.