Project Northwoods (18 page)

Her eyes occasionally flicked up to the television broadcasting a neutral news program. Every once in a while they’d do a segment on the Heroes’ Guild election, usually with a picture of Desert Ranger looking dashingly handsome as he gave a speech. Neutral media loved him. He was, after all, a hero. But then they’d show Arbiter looking furious about something, or some dipshit pundit would offer ‘analysis’, or they’d run a commercial paid for by some reactionary committee, and Talia would go back to her novel.

They ran the gamut from ridiculous to stupid, each a ham-fisted effort to generate fear. Her personal favorite, if by ‘favorite’ one meant ‘detested’, was a scene depicting two kids in a back alley. They looked around to see if anyone was watching, then produced… gasp… a package of smokes. The all too serious announcer would provide exposition with his gravelly voice: “Do you want your children to smoke? Of course not. But Desert Ranger never supported the public banning of cigarettes. Your children, once addicted, will then try… drugs.” It then flashed a picture of Desert Ranger, cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Ask your Guild representative to say ‘no’ to underage smoking, and ‘yes’ to morality.”

It was depressingly hilarious to Talia, so much so that she pulled her eyes up from her reading when it played in the bar. How anyone could take such crap seriously was beyond her, but still, they ran the ads. And every week Arbiter would dip just a bit further behind in the polls, looking more and more washed up and desperate to be relevant.

“I hate that ad,” a familiar voice said beside her. She didn’t even have to look at him to realize that Weston Marsh had found his way to the bar.

“Yes, well, I hate the man it supports more.” She spun on the stool to look at Marsh with his bandaged nose. He was gesturing to the balding, heavyset bartender to have the same as Talia. She gestured to her nose. “That looks great. It really suits you.”

He arched his eyebrows. “Yeah, I’m thinking that it’ll be a great help when I audition for Lord Byron next week,” he muttered wryly. Talia stared at him for a moment as the bartender dutifully provided the requested beverage. Weston paid by slapping a twenty on the counter and sliding it toward the other man. “All yours, buddy,” he said with a wink.

“So, of all the scummy dives in the city, why did you choose this one?” Talia asked.

He had already started slamming his vodka when she began talking, and he continued until the glass was empty. “I have contacts who know people who know where people hang out,” he said, leaning on the bar. Marsh looked at her. “And I wanted to apologize for earlier.”

She couldn’t tell whether the sincerity was heartfelt or an act. “Is there a camera crew with you? Am I on a show I don’t know about?”

He shook his head. “No, Talia. No joke.”

A pause wafted into the conversation. Without breaking eye contact, she took a drag off her cigarette. “You want to apologize to me… for being punched in the face… by me?”

Weston’s head bobbed undecidedly. “In a way, I guess.”

She shook her head and returned her attention to the book. “You’re a strange man, Mr. Marsh.”

“Is that an acceptance?”

“No.” She looked at him again, his face still oddly sincere. “This would be acceptance,” she said before clearing her throat. She adopted a stereotypically shallow American accent and breathed, “Of course, Weston. You’re just so dreamy, I forgive you for your support of a reactionary sociopath.” Talia returned to her book. “Are we done here?”

“What if I told you that things weren’t so simple?”

Talia wasn’t paying much attention. “Things are simple, Mr. Marsh. We choose to make them difficult.”

He waffled silently for the faintest of pauses. “I spent the last half of the morning, early afternoon and evening thinking about how I was going to say this to you without it ruining my career.”

“If a pop star can flatten pedestrians with her SUV and still perform the next day, I think you’ll be alright.” She still hadn’t taken her eyes off her book. “I know our interaction earlier today may have guided you in the wrong direction, but I’m not an entertainment interviewer.” Her eyes flashed up to his, assertively disinterested. “I don’t care.” She went back to her book.

Weston nodded, got up from the stool, and moved closer to her. He leaned his back against the bar and waited for her eyes to flit up from her book. “My sister was sick.” He swallowed, hard. Talia squinted. Something was definitely weird about this situation. “And it was much worse than anyone knew.”

Slowly, deliberately, Talia closed her book and gave him her full attention. “What? Did she have Schizophrenia? Cancer? AIDS?”

Marsh started to bounce slightly in place, clearly agitating himself. “No… she…” His eyes flicked toward the door. Suddenly he smiled and waved, pushing himself off the bar with his free hand. “Boys, I told you to wait outside!” He turned and leaned in to Talia’s ear. “I’m at the Hilton, penthouse.” Marsh laughed bawdily as he turned around. “Arbiter needs his celebrity MC!” He clapped his hands. Talia turned slightly, trying to keep her face hidden. She saw him disappear in between two suited men who quickly followed him out the building.

She returned to her book. Had the entire lead-up been just to drop his hotel room number? She wouldn’t have been surprised, really. He did seem the type to try and use his dead sister for a pity lay.

Talia nearly jumped when she felt her cell phone vibrate against her leg. She rolled her eyes and reached into her pants pocket. She had a new text message: ‘Talia – Get to the Heroes’ Guild as soon as possible. Come alone.’ It had been sent from an unknown number.

How odd
.

She typed out the reply, ‘Who is this?’

Several seconds later, another message bade her, ‘West side entrance. Pass key 068477.’

‘This is not convincing me you’re serious,’ she offered in response. It suddenly struck her as very odd how excessively formal this exchange was.

Another moment, and a picture message arrived on her phone. She opened it and nearly gasped at the sight. A member of the Italian Mob, battered and looking amazingly dead, lay slumped on an office floor. The lighting was bad, but the glassy stare was perfectly captured. Stunned, Talia’s eyes flowed downward, taking in the detail until a final phrase remained undigested at the bottom.

‘I am serious.’

BREAKING POINT

ARTHUR LED THE WAY
through the subway tunnel, his childish need for vindication pulling him well beyond the reach of such paltry notions as survival instincts. Looped around his wrist and clanking along merrily with him was the bag containing the cans of spray paint, or rather, the incrimination devices. A single headphone dangled from his ear to the Home Drive clipped to his breast pocket, connecting him to Mollie. Her LED light meekly carved through the darkness ahead of them, a small comfort against the gloom. Tim glowered five feet behind him, casting glances backward every minute or so, coming up with some way to metaphorically throw Arthur under the bus the moment they got caught.

“Think of it like the obligatory sewer level in a game,” Arthur offered after a fair amount of silence.

“The thing about sewer levels, Art, is that they all suck,” Tim muttered as he cast a glance over his shoulder. “Are we there yet? This is starting to creep me out.”

“The entrance should be fifteen yards up and to your left,” Mollie chimed.

“Thanks, Mol.”

“What’d she say?” Tim was walking backward, sure that someone would be following.

“She said grow a spine,” Arthur chided. He looked at his friend. “And then she asked, ‘When did Tim become such a shriveled ballsack?’”

“I did not say that,” squeaked Mollie. Arthur imagined a distinct whine into her higher intonation. “Tell him I did not say that.”

“I have a career to worry about, you dildo,” muttered Tim. The crunch of gravel slowed, and then stopped in front of a caution-barred door, lit by a tiny red light. Timothy cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It seems weird that this exists at all.”

“It was a part of the first Guild in New York.” Arthur put his hand on the door latch and pressed downward. The rusted metal groaned loudly enough to make them both wince. “Back when only a few groups of heroes worked together.”

The door squeaked open with some degree of effort. Mollie’s LED revealed a thick layer of dust covering the floor of the long corridor beyond. Arthur walked on ahead, leaving Tim to debate for a moment before coming along with him.

The abandoned hallway was long, but spacious. It was hard to imagine what it would have looked like back when it was still in use. Anything still functioning or of artistic value had probably been grabbed and moved when the new Guild was publicly commissioned after the fall of Desecrator in 1965. After a fairly long walk, the monotony of the hall was broken up by rooms on either side: the shell of a kitchen with unwanted sinks and ovens, several bedrooms with merely the metal frames remaining, a lavatory, and what had probably been a library. At the end of the hall, double doors stood defiantly closed.

Tim and Arthur each pulled at a separate door, the bag of spray paint cans clattering along with Arthur’s struggling movements. When they stepped into the old conference room, the two were greeted by another deserted chamber. The only details they could make out were an overturned table cast off to the side and surrounded by a stack of chairs, opposite an out-of-place metal door illuminated by a red glowing panel to its immediate right.

“A locked door? Tough luck. Maybe it’s a sign,” Tim said rapidly.

“Can you see it, Mollie?” Arthur asked as he jogged toward the door.

“It looks like a Securiton 2004 High Security-Class Door and Card System,” she offered.

“Please say she can’t break it…” Tim was chanting softly as he scanned behind them.

“As ill-advised an action as it is, I can break through,” she said.

“Sorry, Tim,” Arthur said as he took the Home Drive out of his shirt pocket. He ripped off the panel by the card slide and threw it to the ground.

“Make a little more noise, why don’t you?” Tim kicked at the metal panel.

Arthur futzed in his jacket pocket and produced a jury-rigged set of wires with a USB plug on one end. He fed the flash drive into it, stuck the wires in the diagnostic panels, and waited a moment.

“Connected. It is not a part of main Guild security, so it should be a snap. Please wait.” Mollie’s eye went dim.

“Didn’t you make that in high school?” Tim asked.

“The prototype, yeah.” Arthur nodded, barely noticeable in the darkness. “Ms. Wahlig’s shop class.”

The mention of a time and place other than the dark underground was something Tim could cling to. “Man, she was hot.”

“Yeah, she was. And brilliant.”

Tim snorted. “No one’s listening Art.”

Arthur turned to him and glared, a gesture which was wholly meaningless without the light to see him. “I’m not kidding.” He turned back to the USB drive, the light now flickering weakly. “She made lock picks in the Silver Age for all the greatest villains of the era.”

“Damn. I just thought she had a nice ass.” Tim rolled his eyes. “Didn’t mean to impugn the love of your life.”

“Tim, shut up.” Something whirred and clicked inside the door lock, but the light did not change color. A few more moments passed. “I wasn’t her type, anyway.”

Tim snapped to attention. “No way.”

“Yup.”

“Damn,” he muttered. “Figures,” he said as he kicked the dirt.

“I thought you knew.”

“I don’t like to stereotype people, Art.” He waved his hand dismissively. “She’s a human being, not just a shop teacher.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and laughed. “Yeah, but I told you when I was invited to her wedding in Dallas.”

Tim coughed a laugh. “You didn’t tell me she was marrying a chick.”

“Didn’t I?” Arthur looked over his shoulder. Tim crossed his heart with two fingers and held them in the air. “Huh,” Arthur muttered. The door clicked and the light turned green. “Thatta girl, Mollie.” Arthur waited until the blue iris returned to the USB drive before disconnecting from the door.

“The light will turn back to red in a moment, but shall remain unlocked until you exit the Guild. Then it’ll run a system diagnostic, giving you about ten minutes before the door is usable again,” Mollie sighed.

“You just have all sorts of plans, don’t you?” Arthur smiled and clipped the Home Drive back onto his shirt.

“What did she do?” Tim asked.

“This is our way out, no fuss, no muss.” Arthur put his hand on the door, then whipped around to face Tim. “Just don’t go running through it without me.”

Tim threw his hands in the air. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course.” He shook his head and twisted the door latch. There was a hiss of air, a click, and the crack of a seal. “I just trust you more when you aren’t scared of your own shadow.”

Tim squinted in annoyance as Arthur pulled the door open. Some dust pulled off the floor as the hinges creaked and the sudden, albeit small, intake of air rushed into the room beyond the empty chamber. The two stepped inside, pushing aside some folding chairs which had taken up residence directly in front of the door. Arthur kicked them out of the way before closing the door behind them. He turned the latch and was greeted by a hiss before the door made a kind of ‘fwoomp’ noise. The light turned red and bathed them in an uncomfortable glow.