Superpowers (13 page)

EDITOR'S NOTE

By now you're all thinking one of two things: (1) it's about time for the bad guy to show up, or (2) he should have shown up about fifty pages back.

A superhero story needs a supervillain, that's what you're thinking. Well, there aren't any supervillains in this story. This isn't some pulp novel you pulled off the rack when you thought no one was looking. This is a true story. Journalism. Facts.

The thing about real life is the bad guys are people, too, and by that I don't mean anything touchy-feely about how they have feelings and they love their parents and they stop to pet little dogs on the street. Some people don't have feelings and don't love their parents and go out of their way to shoot little dogs on the street. But most of the bad guys aren't so easy to spot.

All right, I'll grant one point. You can see the dates we're dealing with, and you know what's going to happen eventually. Maybe there is one supervillain here, but he doesn't know that our heroes—and I'm not even going to go into how exactly I justify calling them that, after everything that happened—he doesn't even know that they exist. If he did, then I guess they'd be the villains, as far as he was concerned.

This is the thing about power, I think. To some people—those of us who have none—anyone who has it and uses it is a villain. To those who have it, anyone who tries to stop them from using it is a villain. Because we're all the heroes of our own story, no matter what horrible things we might be doing.

Sometimes people do terrible things with the best of intentions. I don't think that makes them less guilty. But if you understand their reasons, you might find it more difficult to condemn them out of hand. You might find it more difficult to call them villains.

On the other hand, sometimes people do terrible things with the absolute worst of intentions. But even there, I don't think they're supervillains. I think they're just people.

MONDAY

Ray Bishop slapped the table in front of Benjamin Thatcher. Thatcher's lip quivered under his mustache.

"I'll ask the questions as many times as I want, until I'm satisfied. You don't have any say in the matter."

"You can't hold me." Thatcher stuck out his chin and blinked his watery eyes. "I didn't do nothing."

"I've got you on conspiracy, Benjy," Ray said. "Or would you rather I called you Death?"

Thatcher blushed. "Reed shouldn't ought to have told you about that."

"Why not? You wanted to wait until you were a badass to unveil your badass name? Never happen, Benjy. You're not cut out for it. You're pudgy."

"I'm not pudgy! I'm just big-boned."

Those boys in there, they're hard. They didn't plan things—they did them. Things you'd shit yourself just hearing about."

Thatcher's face went stony pale, but he stayed silent.

"Just answer my questions, Benjy, and I'll make it known you cooperated. You'll get a year of parole and you'll be planning another robbery in broad daylight in no time."

Thatcher shook his head. "I ain't never doing that again. It was like those star people knew what I was going to do before I did it."

Ray started the tape recorder in front of Thatcher. "So tell me about them."

"What do you want to know?"

"You said you saw two women and one man, but you heard a third woman. You're sure you didn't see her?"

"I looked. She wasn't there."

"Can you describe the voice?"

"How do you describe somebody's voice?"

"Start with how you knew it was a woman's voice."

"I just know. It wasn't gravelly, like a guy. It was kind of smooth, not too high-pitched. A nice voice. Called me Mr. Thatcher."

"Was that before or after you were punched in the gut?"

"Before, I think."

"What was the first thing she said?"

"She told me not to move."

"She said 'Don't move'?"

"She said 'Don't move, Mr. Thatcher.' She knew my name, dude. I still say it was Alicia."

"Alicia Williams, your ex-girlfriend? Did she know about the robbery?"

"She could have. Maybe I said something when I was drunk sometime."

"Did it sound like her?"

"Not really."

"What else did she say?"

"After she hit me, she told me not to move again. Then she asked the one in blue, the flying girl, she asked her if that was all of us."

"All of what?"

"All of us. You know. Me and Reed and Johnny and Johnny's sister."

"Can you describe the woman in blue?"

"I done that already."

"Do it again."

"She was pretty hot. Not as hot as the chick in the green, but pretty hot."

"That doesn't help me much. What color was her hair?"

"She had dark hair. Short. No, with a ponytail. I mean, a braid."

"Which is it, Benjy?"

"See, it looked short at first, because it was all pulled back, you know? Then I saw her from the side, and she had a braid maybe halfway down her back."

"You're sure."

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"How tall was she?"

"I don't know. She was flying around. And I was sitting on the bench, except after the invisible one kicked me."

"Was she taller than the woman in green?"

"The invisible one?"

"The one in blue, Benjy. Use your head."

"She was about as tall as the red guy. What'd she call him—Red Star. Hey, wait a minute—she called him something else before that."

"What was it?"

"I don't remember. Started with an L, I think."

"Think, Benjy."

"I don't know. La, la, la, la—Jack! That's what it was, Jack."

"Jack starts with a
J
."

"I know. I'm not stupid. I just got confused.
L
,
J
—they look alike, kind of. His name was Jack, I know it."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Did you hear any other names?"

"No. Just that Red Star, Green Star shit."

"OK, the woman in blue. Was she white, black, Asian, Hispanic?"

"White, I think. She was pretty tan. Could have been a Mex."

"Any distinguishing features?"

"Well, she had a nice body, but I'm not sure I could identify it in a lineup. I'd be willing to try, though."

Ray kept going, but Thatcher didn't have anything more to say. He had given the same descriptions every witness had given, but he had also given him one thing he hadn't had before—a name. Jack.

WEDNESDAY

Halfway through the door Jack realized there was someone in the living room with Charlie: Scott. It took Jack a second to run to his bedroom, change out of his costume, put on jeans and a T-shirt, and run back to the door.

"Did you just say 'whoosh'?" Scott asked. His face looked ashen.

Jack wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd seen Scott. A few weeks, or a few months? Jack himself wasn't at the apartment that much, and Scott hardly came by except to get his mail and drop off his rent check. He rarely stayed for longer than a hello. Jack wasn't sure if that was because Scott felt awkward there, or because he just couldn't bear to be away from Cecilia for long.

Scott had met Cecilia when they were both freshmen. Scott thought it was love at first sight; Jack was pretty sure it was just two kids away from home for the first time looking for someone to have safe and frequent sex with. He and Scott were roommates that first year—randomly assigned by the university—but Cecilia was in their room more often than Jack. Three or four times a week he came home to find Scott's Star of David hanging on the doorknob. That was the signal Jack had agreed to respect, and although more than once he thought about telling Scott to find another place to do his mattress dancing, he never did.

He found other places to spend his afternoons. He went to the library or to dinner. If he needed a nap he curled up in the lounge, and if he needed to relax he visited Charlie in the room next door. They played cribbage and listened to the Who loud enough to drown out any stray moans from the room next door.

Cecilia was prone to dark moods and jealous hysterics, and Scott worked desperately to make her happy. She went home to Kansas City the summer after freshman year, slept with an old boyfriend, and convinced Scott that he was to blame. When the guys had gone out last summer for Jack's birthday, Cecilia called Scott's cell phone, claiming to be sick, and convinced him to head home to take care of her. It was difficult for Jack to be tactful about Cecilia. He thought she needed psychoanalysis more than she needed a boyfriend. Obviously Scott had issues of his own, though, because he wouldn't hear a bad word about her. Scott thought Cecilia needed him to protect her; Jack and Charlie thought Scott needed to be protected from Cecilia. They just didn't know how to do it.

"I didn't say anything." Jack shut the door. Charlie was trying to give him some sort of signal, but Jack couldn't figure out what he meant. Was something wrong with his hair? Was Cecilia behind him with a knife? He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.

"She dumped me," Scott said.

Jack almost said, Not again. The first time Cecilia had dumped Scott he'd been relieved, even though the breakup seemed to have turned Scott into a zombie. In the long run it would be a good thing, Jack was convinced. But three hours later Cecilia had called up in tears, and they hadn't seen Scott again for nearly three months. They'd broken up eight times since, never for more than twelve hours, and by now Jack dared not let himself hope it was really over.

"That's harsh," Jack said. "I'm sorry."

Scott put his head between his legs as though he were going to faint. "What am I going to do?" he wailed.

Charlie was still doing the shimmy with his eyes, and Jack finally looked behind him, to Scott's bedroom. The bed was hidden by suitcases and boxes. Some of them looked like they had been kicked by a mule.

"She threw his stuff out the window," Charlie said.

"I think I'm going to throw up," Scott said.

"You're hyperventilating," Jack said. He grabbed a paper bag from the pyramid of Scott's belongings and dumped the textbooks within on the bed. "Breathe into this."

As soon as Scott's breathing slowed down he ran into the bathroom.

"Is this for real?" Jack whispered to Charlie.

"He believes it is," Charlie said. "I'll try and get a read on her to be certain. But apparently she's been sleeping with a basketball player for a couple of months."

"Unless he's as much of a doormat as Scott, that's not going to last," Jack said.

Charlie nodded. "She'll come back to Scott when it's over."

"And if something doesn't change, he'll take her back."

"This is going to get complicated, with him back in the apartment. He's going to have questions."

"I know."

"But you'd rather take the risk of him finding out than let him get back together with her."

"Quit reading my mind."

"I'm not. We just happen to be thinking the same thing."

Jack looked at the boxes and bags in Scott's bedroom. "We have to get him out of here tonight, get his mind off her. Is there any trouble brewing?"

"Kids playing with fireworks. Couple of teenagers thinking about robbing a pizza shop. The girls can probably handle it on their own."

"It's supposed to be Caroline's night off. I think she has a date."

"We'd better talk to her, then."

"I'll talk to Caroline," Jack said. "You get him out of the bathroom."

When Jack opened the door to go downstairs his sister Grace was just climbing the last step.

"What are you doing here?" Jack asked.

"I'm going to the fireworks with Nathan. I came up early."

"Nathan Carswell? Does Mom know you're seeing that loser?"

"Mom likes him," Grace said. "Speaking of Mom, you owe me for not telling her about your superpowers."

Jack stepped into the hall and shut the door. "I told you to keep it quiet."

"I am. Charlie knows. Is he around?"

"Scott doesn't know."

"You mean your other roommate? What's he look like?"

"He looks like hell. His girlfriend dumped him. Which means he'll probably be around a lot more, which means we can't have you shooting your mouth off here. It'd be best if you just forgot all about it."

Grace crossed her arms. "Not happening. You promised me you'd let me come with you sometime."

"I shouldn't have said that. It's too dangerous."

"I just want to watch. I can stay with Charlie."

"Charlie doesn't need the distraction. This isn't a game, Grace."

"I'll tell Mom."

"No you won't. You've never been a squealer, Gracie, and you're not going to start now. I'll make it up to you some other way. I'll get you something great for your birthday."

"That's not what I want, Mortimer."

"Gracie, I can't do it. What if you get hurt?"

"I won't."

"If you do, Mom and Dad will never speak to me again. I'll never forgive myself."

"It's my life! I can take responsibility for myself."

"That's good. But I'm not doing it."

Grace spun and tromped down the stairs. "I'll tell Mom," she called back.

"I doubt it," Jack said.

_______

Harriet knew she shouldn't have told them she could handle it on her own. Jack could have stopped them, or Mary Beth, but the only advantage she had was that of surprise. The fact that no one could see her wasn't an advantage. It had nearly gotten her killed tonight. If only Dad hadn't been working, she'd have been watching fireworks in Sun Prairie, far away. If only.

An hour and a half, she'd waited. Charlie had said there would be two, maybe three of them, depending on how many friends the kid talked into the robbery. There would be one gun. That's what Charlie had said.

If she'd waited outside, it might have worked. But it was a cool night for July, and despite Caroline's claims that Lycra was insulating, Harriet had been shivering out on the street. After waiting nearly an hour she'd slipped in the door behind a customer, certain that there would be a chance to slip out again. But there hadn't been any customers since, just phone orders, and the delivery guy used the back door. She didn't think she could get into the kitchen and out the back without being noticed, so she stayed where she was, crouched in the corner, waiting.

There were three cooks on duty, and they were listening to Stevie Wonder and Sly and the Family Stone and making fun of one another and generally having a good time until the door opened and two kids stepped in with masks, one of a gorilla and the other of Richard Nixon.

"What'll it be, boys?" asked a balding black man whom Harriet had decided was the owner, or at least the manager.

The kids in masks didn't answer. They fidgeted in the pockets of their light jackets, and Harriet tried to figure out which one had the gun.

"You need some time? Take your time." The manager wiped his hands on a towel and cracked open a can of root beer. "You going to a costume party or something?"

The gorilla whispered something to Nixon, and Nixon turned, shaking his head to indicate he hadn't heard. Harriet moved between them and the counter. She still couldn't tell which one had the gun. Both had large bulges in their jacket pockets.

The manager had noticed them, too. "If you boys aren't going to order something, you'd better move along. I don't want trouble. Logan, maybe we better call the sheriff's office, tell them their pies are ready."

"Don't." Nixon pulled a gun on the manager. Harriet grabbed his hand and twisted the weapon out of his grasp. It fell to the floor, and she picked it up. To Nixon it must have looked as though it simply fell to the ground and disappeared.

When she straightened, though, the gorilla had a gun of his own, and it was pointed at her. "What's happening?" he said, his voice cracking. "Who's there?"

"I don't want trouble," said the manager.

"How'd you do that?" asked Nixon.

Harriet tucked Nixon's gun into her belt and lunged for the gorilla. She couldn't break his hold—he had both hands on the gun. She shoved his arm up, but before it was pointed harmlessly at the ceiling, it went off, the muzzle flash catching the edge of her vision. She kicked the gorilla's legs out from behind him and went down on top of him. He let go of the gun, and Harriet rolled away with it, blinking her eyes to clear away the powder.

Somebody was shouting. Nixon ran out the front door, and the gorilla struggled to his feet and followed. Logan was on the phone, but she couldn't see the manager or the other cook.

"They shot him," Logan was saying.

No,
Harriet thought. She ran around the counter. The manager lay on the floor, his shoulder oozing bright red. The other cook was putting clean rags over the wound.

She left the guns on the floor and ran out, ignoring the bells and Logan's panicked glance at the door. She looked up and down the street, but Nixon and the gorilla were gone.