Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel (36 page)

Niobe hurled the pages at the wall. They broke free of the paperclip and flew apart like a snowstorm, slipping under the bed and behind the bedside table. The first sob caught her by surprise, but soon they were tumbling over each other on the way out of her throat. Niobe curled up on the bed and let her tears trickle onto the sheets.

23: The Devil in the Details

Skinwalker

Real name:

Unknown

Powers:

Doppelgänger/shapeshifter.

Notes:

The only Manhattan Eight member whose original identity is unclear. It is possible that he himself cannot remember. Skinwalker infiltrated Hitler’s inner circle near the end of World War II, and later did the same in several supercriminal groups, often simultaneously. Distrusted by the American public and even other metahumans, he was the only member of the Manhattan Eight never to be interviewed by the media. Following their disbanding, rumours began to surface that he engaged in deviant sexual practices, including impersonating women to sleep with their unsuspecting husbands. Whereabouts unknown, but presumed dead.

—Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0006]

Solomon picked Niobe up just before noon. The daylight was harsh, and even the birds were hiding from its heat. She wore civilian clothes—the gun in a holster beneath her jacket—and carried her coat, mask, and bodysuit in a bag. She felt like a corpse. She looked like one too, if the mirror had been any indication. Her eyes were sunken, her cheeks marred by deep wrinkles. She’d never felt so old.

Solomon eyed her as she pulled the passenger door shut. He looked like he’d actually managed to get some sleep. Lucky bastard.

“I thought you might’ve convinced Gabby to come along with us today,” he said as he started the car. “Would’ve been fun to actually work alongside the Silver Scarab.”

Her stomach tied itself into a knot, and she stared straight ahead. “Not today. Let’s go.”

She could feel him looking at her, but he kept quiet and drove. They headed out of the Old City, the hot wind blowing through the open windows.

“I talked to my guy at Met Div,” he said. “The reporter, John Bishop, he’s at St. Helen’s.”

“The hospital? He didn’t look injured.”

He shook his head. “Physically, he’s fine. Just a couple of scrapes, probably from some overzealous arresting on Met Div’s part. They gave him a Stanley test to make sure he wasn’t a doppelgänger or anything, then sent him off to the quacks to give him the once over. Probably worried about a repeat of the Cobraman incident.”

She nodded. That had been just before she left the Wardens. After the coppers locked away the supercriminal Cobraman, they started to debrief his hostages. It wasn’t until the hostages started screaming that the coppers discovered Cobraman had surgically implanted vials of acid under the hostages’ skin, set to release on a timer. Only one of the hostages died. He was probably the happiest of all of them, by the end.

“Have Met Div talked to Bishop yet?” she asked.

“Only an initial debriefing, I think. As far as they’re concerned, this thing’s wrapped up. They’re supposed to be talking to him at three in the afternoon to get a formal statement once the head-shrinkers have made sure Quanta didn’t steal his marbles.”

She checked her watch. That didn’t give them much time. Why’d they always have to do this stuff during the day? “Guards?”

“Just one copper posted on the door. Private room on the ward. Sounds swanky.”

“They always did like to impress the media.” She sighed. “Disguises again, I suppose? I don’t think you understand how much I dislike makeup.”

“It gets better.” He leaned over and reached into the backseat, fumbled for a minute, then dropped a paper bag in her lap. “
Pour vous, mademoiselle
.”

She unwrapped the top and peered inside. “Carpenter, I think I hate you a little more every day.”

The wig was blond, permed, and hideous. The net inside felt like sandpaper coated in itching powder. She turned it back and forth in her hands, trying to see if the light made it any better, but she couldn’t shake the feeling someone had skinned a Yorkshire Terrier and stuck it in curlers.

Solomon grinned like an idiot. “Aren’t you going to try it on?”

“One of these days….” She sighed, pulled her own hair into a loose bun, and slipped the wig over the top. She’d underestimated the itching. It felt more like a nest of army ants crawling across her scalp.

“You know,” he said, “you look a bit like my wife when you wear that.”

“I swear to God, you get fresh with me and you’ll find out just how painful ten thousand volts can be.”

They’d switched seats partway to the hospital so the Carpenter could fix his false beard to his face. By the time they pulled into St. Helen’s hospital car park, Niobe’s skin was several shades lighter, her lips were pinker, and she wanted to throw the wig into the Black Golem’s bottomless pit. Her sunglasses would cover the shape and colour of her eyes, and with a bit of luck she’d be able to pass as a white woman—or at least half-white—from a distance.

They got out and crossed the car park. Whoever designed St. Helen’s must’ve had something against corners, because each edge was rounded with a series of curved glass windows. The only concession to flat space was the north end of the roof, and that wouldn’t have been there if the architect could figure out a way to make helicopters land on a slope. Knots of patients in gowns stood on the lawns outside, enjoying the fresh air in a cloud of cigarette smoke. The smell made her hand clench around the new packet of Pall Malls in her pocket, but they didn’t have time to sit around while she indulged herself.

The doors slid open on an automatic mechanism as they approached. The lobby looked like it belonged in a hotel, not a hospital. The effect was spoiled by the old people shuffling along holding IV poles.

“Wait here a sec,” Solomon said. He disappeared into a gift shop while she hovered awkwardly near the wall, watching people come and go. A fat security guard stood near the doors, but he looked half-asleep, and he hadn’t taken any notice of them. The hospital’s ubiquitous antiseptic smell had seeped out here, and it was giving her a headache. She checked her watch again. More than an hour until the cape coppers were supposed to talk to the reporter, if Solomon’s man was right. Should be plenty of time, but no one was stupid enough to rely on the timetables of public servants.

Solomon emerged a minute later, carrying a huge bouquet of gerberas and chrysanthemums. “Think our patient will appreciate them?” he asked.

“You’re a thoughtful soul. What floor?”

“Eighth.”

They went straight to the lift like they knew where they were going. She pressed the button for eight, and jabbed the button to close the door before they had to share the lift with anyone else. It started moving upwards with barely a shudder.

He passed her the flowers. “Want to do the innocent family member routine?”

“I don’t suppose we could switch roles this time?” she said.

“You’re not strong enough to do my bit.”

He was right, but that didn’t stop her scowling at him. He winked and patted his fake beard to check it was still in place. The elevator bell rang once, and the doors slid open on the eighth floor. Solomon stuck his head out. “Clear.”

He went out first, strolling down the corridor to the left. She gave him ten seconds while holding the door open, then followed. The corridor was the same clean white as hospitals everywhere. Judging from the leisurely way the nurses and young doctors moved, this wasn’t a high-pressure ward.

She spotted the Met Div officer in the corridor a few doors down from the nurse’s station. There was a chair beside the door, but he’d taken the more professional option and decided to stand. He wasn’t carrying a rifle, but she could make out the bulge at his hip where his sidearm was concealed. He gave Solomon the hard eye, his fingers flexing, but he relaxed when Solomon went right on by and continued towards the four-bed room at the end of the hall.

Niobe felt ridiculous in her get-up, but at least the heels gave her an extra inch or two. She cast a quick glance around as she walked past the nurse’s station, but only two nurses were there, doing paperwork. Neither took any notice of her. She peered at the holders outside every door that listed the patients’ names, furrowing her brow as she did so.

The officer saw her, but he didn’t tense up the way he had when the Carpenter passed. He was young, lean, with a haircut so straight he must have used a spirit level to get it right in the morning. Holding up the flowers so they partly obscured her face, she stared at the empty name holder beside the copper.

“Excuse me,” she said, putting on the sweetest voice she could manage. “Is this Michael Kane’s room?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you sure?”

He frowned. “You’ll have to move along, ma’am. This man is in police custody.”

“Oooh.” She stood on tip-toes to try to peer through the glass in the door. “Is he dangerous? Could I just have a quick peek? It sounds exciting.”

“Ma’am—” His voice cut off as a hand snaked out from behind him and clamped around his mouth. He went bug-eyed and tried to turn, but the Carpenter’s other arm appeared around his throat and started compressing the arteries in his neck.

“Little help?” Solomon said. He’d slipped on his mask, but she could still see the strain in his face as the copper struggled.

She snatched her plastic cuffs from her jacket pocket and grabbed hold of the man’s hands long enough to slip them over his wrists. With a jerk, she pulled them tight.

She glanced over her shoulder, but the man’s muffled grunts hadn’t roused any of the nurses. While the man’s movements grew slow and his face became drowsy, she took off her glasses and the hated wig and pulled on her mask.

Solomon nodded at her, and she bent down to get a hold of the copper’s ankles. The man went floppy. The only movement was the slow rise and fall of his chest. She tucked the flowers under her arm and hefted his legs while Solomon backed into the door, and together they carried him into the room.

It was swanky all right. A huge window covered the entire wall, bathing the room in the early afternoon light. There was only one bed in the room, with a curtain running around it. A pair of comfy chairs and a table with an unfinished lunch tray sat in the corner.

“Who’s there?” someone called from behind the curtain. They ignored him and dropped the unconscious copper into a chair. The Carpenter stuck his head into the corridor, then ducked back inside and quietly closed the door.

Niobe pulled back the curtain to find the portly young reporter reaching for the call button hanging from the corner of his hospital bed. She snatched it away before he could get to it and tossed the flowers in his lap. “We couldn’t find you a vase,” she said.

John Bishop shrank back on the bed, raising his hands as if to fight them off. A curious mix of bravery and cowardice. He wore hospital pyjamas; his normal clothes sat in a neat pile on the set of drawers beside him.

“I’m not done.” John spoke with a Yorkshire accent. “You can’t kill me yet.”

“Relax, kid,” the Carpenter said. “We don’t work for Quanta.”

“What?”

“I thought reporters were supposed to be good listeners,” she said, a little harsher than she intended. “We’re the good guys.”

Solomon shot her a look. “Maybe we should give the kid a break. He’s been through a lot.”

She opened her mouth, then checked herself. She must be more tired than she thought. Her thoughts kept wandering back to Sam’s blood on the floor of that cell, and Gabby’s perfect handwriting as she tore her heart in two.
No, focus. One thing at a time.

The reporter stared at them for a few moments, then his gaze went past them and his eyes widened. “What did you do to the policeman?”

She glanced back at the copper. His head hung to one side, mouth partly open. “He’ll be fine. Look, he’s breathing.”