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Post by Cei-U! on May 11, 2014 8:04:01 GMT -5
Chapter 11
I had trouble sleeping that night, especially during the thunderboomer that struck around 3:30. Though the storm centered on the opposite side of the lake, the thunder's echoes shook the glass in the windows of Lash House.
All through my morning routine with an equally exhausted Mark, we barely spoke. Fortunately, we were already so relaxed around one another that the silence was a comfortable one.
“Comfortable” did not describe my encounter with Rip Carter.
Driving into my parents' parlor, I was surprised to find the major breakfasting alone. Ana would be gone, of course — the death of a resident triggered an avalanche of paperwork — but the General wasn't there. Neither was Etta, who customarily took care of him in his wife's absence. Carter was kind enough to fix a plate for me. I sensed little of the roiling hatred in Rip I'd felt the day before.
“I'm sorry I didn't place you yesterday, Major,” I said. “I guess I've been more distracted lately than I thought. I'm honored to meet you.”
“No need for apologies, young man,” Carter replied. “What do you know about those days?”
“Which days would those be?”
“The war years.”
He obviously wasn't interested in small talk. I went along.
“More than most people my age, I suppose. I grew up in a house full of veterans, after all, and my profession requires a certain historical awareness.”
“Most young people think of the Forties, when they think of them at all, in terms of Glenn Miller records and Humphrey Bogart movies. For them, the war is nothing but a romantic backdrop. There was nothing romantic about life at the front, I assure you. It was a dirty, lonely, frightening existence. But we understood what was at stake and we accepted that our sacrifice was a necessary one. We weren't there for fame or glory, we were there to do the job, but we at least thought we'd get a little gratitude.”
“Gratitude? The whole world was grateful to you.”
“In a nice, safe, generic way, yes. But when it came time to reward those who faithfully performed every duty given them, no matter how dangerous, no matter how controversial, we were swept under the rug.”
The light began to dawn.
“You're talking about the Boy Commandos.”
“You're damned right I'm talking about the Boy Commandos. Those kids and I pulled off dozens of impossible missions. We shortened the war in Europe by months but afterward all the blue-haired biddies back home began raising a ruckus about our sending children into combat. Children! As if we snatched Jan and Alfy from their playpens and shoved a rifle in their hands. They were war orphans. Every last one of those boys had combat experience long before I whipped them into a squad. But the brass began feeling the heat from those busybodies who decided the unit's very existence was immoral. At war's end, they ordered us to disband. We weren't to speak to anyone about our unit or its missions.”
“If I remember correctly, all the boys except Dan Turpin found their families still living after the war.”
Carter laughed bitterly.
“That's what they claimed, to quiet the critics. Give the story of the poor little kiddy soldiers a happy ending. It was all a lie. The government paid destitute families to change their names and pose as the boys' real parents. When I objected, they forced me to resign my commission. They gave me enough of a stake to make a fresh start somewhere but not before making it clear that if I ever spoke publicly about the Boy Commandos, I'd find myself locked up in Leavenworth until hell froze over. I thought about spitting in their eye and speaking out anyway, but I was a soldier. Soldiers follow orders, no matter how bitter a taste they leave in your mouth.”
The major abruptly stopped speaking. An uncomfortable silence followed. We sat there for a little while concentrating on our breakfasts. Finally, I decided to try a different tack. Big mistake.
“Isn't the General feeling well, Major?”
“There was too much commotion last night. The General requires a good night's rest. He'll be up later, I'm told.”
“Yes, he isn't as strong as he used to be.”
Carter slapped his hand loudly on the table top, his entire manner changing as though a switch had been thrown.
“He isn't anything like he used to be! The Steve Trevor I knew — not this... this empty shell — that Trevor was a man, damn it, a real man. Look what that woman has reduced him to: a dolly she can dress up when she's in the mood and a drooling spastic she keeps locked away the rest of the time. Can you imagine the humiliation of having a woman dressing you and feeding you and wiping your behind for you?”
“I can imagine,” I said, swallowing my anger.
“It's shameful to make a soldier live like that. If it had been me, I'd have asked another soldier to put me out of my misery when that mine blew me up rather than face life in a wheelchair. But no. She had to keep him alive, his dignity be damned. But that's how they are.”
“They?”
Carter snorted scornfully.
“The superhumans! The goddamned superhumans, who else would I be talking about?”
I'd heard enough.
“Ana is your host,” I replied in a cold fury. “She's never done you a moment's harm.”
“Oh yes, she's nice, isn't she? So very pleasant. Well, I'm not deceived. I don't care how nice she is. I don't care how many lives she's saved or medals she's won. She's still one of them. Everyone just loved them when they first appeared, so noble and colorful and romantic compared to us drab nobodies down in the trenches. While millions of real heroes were fighting and dying in Europe and the Pacific, the press was swooning over those half-naked freaks. Well, if they were so super, why weren't they fighting the war? Why didn't Superman destroy Tokyo or the Flash kill Hitler? I'll tell you why: they didn't want to dirty their hands. So what if ordinary human beings died by the millions? It just meant fewer people to conquer afterward. Yes, I said conquer! That's what they've always wanted: to rule us, to make real people their slaves. Oh, they think they've fooled us. They think nobody can tell it's all a lie, nobody can see that the ‘heroes’ defeat the ‘villains’ according to a script. Well, I can tell, I can see.”
“That's ludicrous. Those men and women have saved you and this planet a thousand times.”
The answering laugh was chilling.
“Saved us? Saved us from what? From dangers they themselves created, that's what! Isn't it interesting that there were no criminal superhumans before there were heroic superhumans to defeat them? They were useless during the war in the face of real danger but then, then suddenly along came energy vampires and genius gorillas and men who could change one element into another with a touch and, of course, only the superhumans could stop them but they never really stopped them, did they, they always came back, they were always breaking out of prison or, if you believed the stories, returning from the dead. Blasphemy!”
He was shouting now and spittle flew from his lips.
“Only one man ever accomplished that and He was no villain! So, you see, it had to be a lie. Why would the superhumans go along with such a lie unless they wanted us to believe it?”
I was no longer there to Carter. His words now were for an unseen and unseeable audience, an audience that had heard it all many times before.
“Oh yes. The superhumans are liars and blasphemers and their power comes from the Devil himself. Even the oh-so-perfect Diana Trevor is a filthy pagan or haven't you noticed that she prays to the Greek gods? That's how they see themselves, you know. As gods. And when they conquer us, they'll make us worship them like gods, maybe even make us sacrifice our children to them. Pagans love sacrifices. They've lost some ground, of course, thanks to their big battle. It's typical that a struggle between their factions would result in the deaths of hundreds of real people. If only they'd all died, the price in lives would have been worth it. But no. They may be laying low, licking their wounds and biding their time, but the plan goes on. First new Wonder Women and Flashes and Hawkmen crop up, then there's a new JLA and then... ”
His rant abruptly ended in mid-sentence. He sat very still and breathed noisily before beginning again in a low, eerie monotone.
“I tried to tell Brooklyn, I could tell he didn't trust them either, but they found out. They were watching me. They saw me go to Jim Olsen. That frightened them. By himself, Olsen was harmless to them as long as their quislings in the press could defame him as an extremist. But if he were allowed to compare notes with me, their plot would be exposed. Superwoman, that musclebound fascist bitch, forced Brooklyn to turn me over to her. She sent me here to this... this gulag, so they could keep me quiet. That was a mistake. They gave me time to think. Now I know it was the superhumans, not the army, who wanted me out of the way after the war. They knew that men like me would someday be a danger to their plans but they couldn't risk just killing us outright, that would tip their hand too soon. Since they couldn't kill me physically, they decided to kill me spiritually. They sent that bastard Hank Haywood after me. He stole my beautiful Cecily from me, brainwashed her into turning on me and stealing my business, into destroying me.”
He put his head down and began to sob.
“Cecily. Why, Cecily, why?”
Now I understood. Hank Haywood, the self-styled “Commander Steel” who underwrote the expenses of the short-lived Detroit-based incarnation of the Justice League, was indeed a superhuman. Haywood's wealth did originally stem from a restaurant chain. Maybe he wasn't totally wrong. Even paranoids had enemies.
Uncertain whether to fear Carter or pity him, I knew at least that I didn't want to spend one more minute in the man's presence than I had to. I left the table as quietly as it is possible to be in a motorized wheelchair and hurried back to my room, locking the door behind me as a cold shudder overtook me. What my empathic sense suggested, the major's ravings confirmed:
Rip Carter was insane.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 12, 2014 7:39:39 GMT -5
Chapter 12
I threw myself into my reading, determined to ignore the issue of Carter's sanity. The rain pattering against the house depressed me. I turned on the small clock-radio on my nightstand. It was tuned to Devereaux Corners' only local station, a tiny AM outfit specializing in “golden oldies”. The deejay's schtick was corny, too corny to make it in a bigger market, but he had a great selection of records. By the time the jock had played classics from Diana Ross, the Maniaks and Little Richard, I was in a terrific mood.
It took the better part of three hours to finish scanning my papers and magazines. Once finished, I played back the tape of my conversation with Pat Dugan and began the odious task of transcription. The interview was short but that was okay. My plan was to collect as many short interviews as possible up front and see if any distinct themes or directions began to suggest themselves.
At noon, I broke for lunch. The annex was out of the question. It was too easy to get distracted there and I wanted to finish transcribing Pat's interview that afternoon. I could have lunch sent up but I needed to get out of my room. Rowena would be in the kitchen. I was sure I could finagle a sandwich and a slice of pie out of her.
The elevator stopped on the second floor on its way down and Karl Byrd stepped on.
“How are you today, Mr. Byrd?”
“Fine, young man, fine,” he responded nervously. “I wonder, might I have a moment of your time?”
“Certainly.”
We stepped into the deserted library.
“It wasn't suicide,” Byrd began without preamble.
“What?”
“Pamela Isley did not commit suicide. She was murdered.”
“How do you know?”
“Miss Isley and I were... allies at one time during the Sixties. Not friends, never friends, but we shared a common interest in larceny. I was the only one here she would talk to, I presume because she never accepted my claims of rehabilitation. Once a crook, always a crook, as it were. She was never serious about killing herself. She had worked out a way to combine the DNA of certain plant species with her own. By doing so, she believed she could grow new limbs as easily and painlessly as a vine repairs a broken tendril. But she couldn't do that here. Her plan was to feign insanity and force Mrs. Stevens to transfer her to Arkham, where she knew certain... acquaintances would help her escape and perform her experiments. When she was whole again, she planned to come back and slaughter everyone here — myself excepted, or so she swore — and to burn Lash House to the ground. She was only days away from seeing her scheme come to fruition. Mrs. Stevens was about to approve the transfer. Someone must have overheard our conversation and decided to make a peremptory strike.”
“Why tell me? Why not of Ana or Chief Grayson?”
He looked down at the ground and slowly wrung his hands.
“Though I can scarcely credit the notion and it seems the height of ingratitude to suggest it, I can't be certain it wasn't your mother who killed Ivy to protect her family and patients. As for Dick Grayson, we... have a history. I'm appreciative of his efforts to place me here at Lash House but I still find it somewhat unnatural to volunteer information to an old nemesis.”
“Old nemesis,” I repeated stupidly. “You... you're the Penguin.”
“Guilty,” the portly ex-convict said with a cackle. “You needn't feel foolish, dear boy. Nobody recognizes me until and unless I tell them. It's the rhinoplasty, you know. A simple nose job. That's all it took to turn criminal genius Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot into jolly old K. G. Byrd. And now, I must be off. The good reverend won yesterday and I must remind him of his place. Would you like to join us?”
“Thank you, not today. I suppose I'd better find Ana and have her call the chief.”
Byrd bowed gravely and toddled off.
I found Ana in her office, staring out the window at the rain, one hand resting on the telephone as though she had just completed a call. I interrupted her reverie and repeated my conversation with Byrd. She didn't look happy.
“I just spoke to Dick,” she said. “He's getting ready to autopsy Pam Isley.”
“I thought autopsies were the county coroner's responsibility.”
“The coroner will be there to sign the paperwork but Dick says he's not about to leave anything this important to a, quote, backwoods country doctor, unquote.”
“Meaning no disrespect to Chief Grayson but is he even qualified to perform an autopsy?”
“You forget, he trained under the most brilliant forensic scientist that ever lived. And he goes down to Chicago a couple of times a year to visit Barry Allen. Barry fills him in on the latest techniques and discoveries.”
“I never understood how one of the world's wealthiest men ended up a small town police chief in the first place. I've toured Wayne Manor. You could fit Grayson's house here in the Corners into one of its bathrooms.”
“You'd have to ask him. I can tell you this much, though: it was Dick — or Wayne Enterprises technically — that restored the brewery and brought this town back to life. The town elders would've done anything for him. I suspect they feel they got off easy when all he asked was to be made police chief.”
“I realize his years as one half or another of the Batman and Robin team make him more than qualified but that's hardly something he can put on his résumé. Didn't anybody question his credentials?”
“Well, Dick was a top trial lawyer. And Bruce was Police Commissioner in Gotham for fifteen years so he knows his way around law enforcement. And, honestly, his money paved over any other rough spots. No matter how he got the job, he's certainly never given them cause to regret their decision. Of course,” she added, her gaze wandering back to the window, “he hasn't faced a challenge like this in many years.”
“So what if Byrd is right? What if she was murdered?”
“Dick already thinks so. This will convince him.”
“Do you think Byrd could have done it himself?”
“And told you all that to divert suspicion from himself? It's possible. Hera knows, in his heyday Karl was capable of some pretty despicable acts. But I don't think so.”
“Neither do I.”
“Dick will question him, of course. If Karl's lying, Dick will see right through it. In the meantime, you and I both have our own work to do so what do you say we leave the chief to his? Oh, and Val? Don't mention this to Doctor Mac, all right? He doesn't like Karl as it is and I don't want to give him a reason to harass him.”
I nodded and left her alone to continue her bureaucratic duties. She was right, I was no detective. Better to let Grayson do what the man did better than anyone else: solving mysteries. But all through lunch, I turned Karl Byrd's story over in my mind.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 13, 2014 7:59:31 GMT -5
Chapter 13
“Do I intrude?”
Deep in concentration over the transcription of Pat's interview, I jumped when this question, voiced in a soft basso profundo, broke the silence. I spun about to see the diminutive figure of the Old Timer standing in my open doorway. It's not easy to sneak up on an empath but I had no warning of his approach until he spoke.
“No, not at all,” I responded after recovering from my surprise. “Please, come in.”
He sat on the corner of my bed, his expensively shod feet dangling above the carpet like a small child's, his queer penetrating gaze absorbing every minute detail of my appearance.
“I fear I caused you some discomfort yesterday,” he said at last. “I fear I do it still.”
He raised an immaculately manicured hand to forestall a denial neither of us would believe.
“I mean no offense, though I recognize that offense is frequently taken nonetheless. It is my way. I am too old to change, nor do I desire to. For that intransigence, I do apologize.”
He stared at my hands intently.
“Why are you deformed? Were you injured in battle?”
“No, my deformities are the result of a birth defect, an accident.”
“There are no accidents. There is a purpose to everything. Have you never considered what purpose your singular condition serves?”
“Well, sure. When I was younger, I used to wonder what I could've done to make God hate me so much. But my parents showed me that my disability had nothing to do with my worth as a human being.”
The Old Timer paused to digest this answer before continuing.
“I have never before seen a Terran with your particular physical configuration. I assumed your people still euthanized their defective offspring. Obviously I was in error. Perhaps you are not the barbarians I thought you were.”
I looked at him dumbly.
“You do not know who I am,” he observed, his eyebrows raising comically. “My true name you would find unpronounceable so I have adopted the designation ‘Old Timer’ given me by my comrades Hal Jordan and Roy Harper. It lacks dignity but humans have a peculiar sense of dignity so I find it most appropriate.”
“You're an alien.”
“I am an extraterrestrial, if that is your meaning. To be precise, I am an Oan, but you may know us better as the Guardians of the Universe.”
My eyes went wide. Everyone with even a tangential connection to The Life knew of the Guardians, the race of inconceivably powerful immortals that organized and supervise the interstellar police force known as the Green Lantern Corps. That one of these godlike beings was sitting in my bedroom was a notion I could scarcely credit. The Old Timer continued talking as if oblivious to the astonishment he had fostered.
“In truth, I am neither Oan nor Guardian presently, having been transformed into a member of your species by my brethren and exiled to this planet.”
“What did you do to merit exile?”
“Approximately thirty of your planet's solar orbits ago, while accompanying the Green Lantern of Sector 2814 — the man you know as Hal Jordan — on a mission, I was forced to choose between saving his life and saving the lives of many other humans with whom I had no acquaintance. I chose the Green Lantern, thus violating my race's sacred code of ethics. He then saved the others himself so that there was in fact no loss of life but that was irrelevant. For my arrogance, I was condemned to become one of you, to live out a mortal lifespan and eventually to experience its cessation.”
“That seems... harsh.”
“So thought the Green Lantern of Sector 2814. He and his companion Roy Harper — the Green Arrow as he was then known — attempted to intervene with the Guardians on my behalf but I accepted my brethren's judgment, for I understood the wisdom of their decision. My people have come to take their immortality for granted. We have forgotten what it is to live always in the shadow of death. It would be my task to...”
“To study the phenomena of aging and death firsthand.”
It was my turn to startle him.
“Yes, that is so. You are telepathic?”
“No, I'm only repeating what Byrna Brilyant told me you said to her once.”
Now, for the first time, the Old Timer smiled, which had the effect of turning the distant little man into a different creature altogether.
“Ah. The joke then is on me, is it not? I am betrayed by my fondness for the fermented beverages of your planet. How my fellow Oans would disapprove of this indulgence! I, on the other hand,” and he lowered his voice as though he feared being overheard, “rather pity them for their inability to appreciate such ephemeral pleasures.”
Miss Brilyant was right: the Old Timer was charming and I liked him. Beneath his cold formality lay a touch of mischief that had likely set him apart from the other Guardians even before he was stripped of his immortality.
“But I forget myself,” he said. “I sought you out on behalf of another. You are documenting the history of Earth's superhuman population, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Lia Briggs respectfully requests the privilege of being the next subject of your inquiry and wonders if you would do her the honor of joining her in her private quarters after the evening repast for this purpose.”
“Please tell her I'd be delighted,” I answered. “You and Miss Briggs are friends?”
“We are. As I am not constrained by human notions of physical beauty, I am not affected by the supposed repulsiveness of her damaged face. This comforts her in some way, though I am not certain exactly how. She and I have spent many pleasurable hours discussing Earth's schools of philosophic and metaphysical thought. Lia Briggs has a hunger for knowledge and enlightenment that I understand the males of your species do not believe the females are capable of.”
“That... may be an oversimplification.”
“Indeed? Then I err yet again. The more time I spend among your kind, the greater grows my wonder at how complex a species you are. The great starfaring races will one day regret their underestimation of the people of Earth.”
He stood up.
“I have taken enough of your time.”
“You will come back and visit me again, won't you?”
“To give testimony for your history?”
“Or just to visit. We have a saying here on Earth: You can never have too many friends.”
He smiled again and bowed deeply.
“That is assuredly so. Until then.”
He departed as silently as he came. I sat staring at the vacant doorway, lost in thought and stricken with awe.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 14, 2014 8:04:49 GMT -5
Chapter 14
For a year and a half or so in the mid-Eighties, Lia Briggs was the most photographed woman on the planet. Buried somewhere in one of the boxes stored in the back of my bedroom closet here at Lash House was a poster of her wearing an open-mesh swimsuit that revealed more than it concealed. Oh, the evenings spent staring at that poster, gazing into those dazzling blue eyes and imagining those long legs wrapped around me. Just the thought of being alone with her turned the sophisticated journalist back into that awkward fifteen-year-old.
I ate dinner in the main house with only my mother and Mark for company. After some good-natured teasing from Mark regarding my “date” with Lia Briggs, teasing that Ana followed with a knowing smile, we lapsed into a companionable silence. It was a simple meal of steaming potato soup and fresh-baked cornbread, washed down with big tumblers of ice cold milk, the kind of farm food that East Coast gourmets turned their noses up at but I'd never lost the taste for. Good as it was, I lingered over it far longer than it merited. Finally, chiding myself for my schoolboy nervousness, I went to see Lia Briggs.
Her suite was decorated unpretentiously. There were no framed magazine covers, no autographed pictures of celebrities whose paths she had crossed, nothing on display to ever suggest that this woman was once the epitome of the term “supermodel.” It could have been the living room of any middle-class suburbanite. The lights were dimmed. Candles burned atop every available level surface.
Lia was as stunningly beautiful as ever, even dressed in a ratty old “I ♥ Gotham” sweatshirt, leotards and her moleskin mask. She was barefoot and spent most of the interview perched cross-legged in an immense overstuffed chair, a can of Diet Pepsi in one hand and a Virginia Slim in the other.
We made small talk as we set up the recorder and donned our microphones. I considered telling her how big a fan I'd been but feared sounding like a teenage dork. Instead we chatted about Ana and the Old Timer and Byrna Brilyant's paintings. Pamela Isley was not mentioned.
“Do you believe in destiny, Mr. Stevens?” she asked as the tape began rolling.
There was that word again. Why did it make my skin crawl?
“No, I don't,” I replied, “but I'm starting to think I'm all alone on that one.”
“I didn't either, when I was a girl. My Grammy on my mother's side was a Calvinist, she believed in predestination, that you were whatever God planned for you to be and that only fools and sinners challenged Him. My parents, on the other hand, taught me that life is what you make of it. I want to show you something.”
She reached over and picked a framed photograph off an end table, holding it close so I could see it in the low light. It was a wedding picture. A handsome man in his early twenties stood next to a plain, almost homely, woman in a bridal gown. There was something familiar about her but I couldn't decide what.
“Do you know who that girl is?” Lia asked.
“A relative of yours?” I guessed.
She smiled.
“In a way. That was Emily Rose Szymszyk on the day she married her sweetheart Greg Briggs.”
I looked again. What she was suggesting was impossible: that this sallow-complected, stringy-haired, flat-chested, pear-bottomed girl with the Coke-bottle glasses somehow became the glamorous Lia. No amount of plastic surgery could have transformed that dull lump of coal into the damaged diamond who sat across from me yet something told me she was telling the truth.
“Hard to believe, isn't it?” she continued, as she replaced the picture, “and harder to explain, though I'll try. I'm Emily Rose. ‘Lia’ was the name I gave my fantasy self when I was a child, the girl I used to dream of becoming when I'd play with my Barbies in my hideaway under the attic stairs in our house in Buffalo. And I was such a dreamer, dreams were all I had for company. Even then, I knew how important looks are, no matter how many people tried to tell me beauty was only skin deep.
“By second grade, Emily Rose had acquired a nickname: Thing, as in ‘Who invited that thing?’ I went through the usual trauma of being picked last for games and getting left off the guest list for birthday parties, all the charming ways children have of telling you you don't belong.
“One girl in particular, Marie, the prettiest and most popular girl in school, made a career out of humiliating me. On any given day, she might follow me up the ladder on the slide and pull my panties down or deliberately push me down into a pile of dog shit. In sixth grade, I got a birthday card in the mail from a boy I liked inviting me out for ice cream. Mom got me all dressed up and I walked down to the soda shop so excited that finally somebody was nice to me but he wasn't there. I waited for an hour until it was obvious he wasn't coming. As I walked out, there were Marie and her friends, laughing. Marie sent the card. She says, ‘How was your date, Thing? Maybe he'll invite you to the senior prom!’ I started to cry and that really got them going. They pulled my hair and slapped my face and tore my dress. Eventually they got bored and let me run home. Dad was furious, he wanted Marie punished, but Mom worked at the factory Marie's family owned. We couldn't afford to have her thrown out of work so instead Mom enrolled me in the school run by Grammy's church.
“Things got a little better after that. Nobody called me Thing anymore. And there was a teacher, Mrs. Rodriguez, who took a shine to me. She introduced me to the most wonderful books: Hans Christian Andersen and Madeleine L'Engle and Saint-Exupery and a hundred others. I couldn't get enough of them. All through junior high, I lived in a fantasy world of enchanted princesses and magical doors to other worlds where anything could happen, where ugly ducklings turned out to be beautiful swans. When we would pray in class, and you pray a lot in a Calvinist school, I didn't pray for good grades or a boyfriend. I prayed that I would discover that I was the queen of a fairyland and that the minute I stepped across its borders, I would become the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Mom didn't discourage my daydreaming but she died of a brain aneurysm the summer before I started high school. Dad, bless his heart, decided it was time for his little girl to set aside her fairy tales and learn to deal with the real world. He put me back in public school. I was terrified of facing my old classmates, I dreaded becoming Thing again, but it didn't work out that way. Everyone simply ignored me, even Marie, so I accepted my role as a nobody and just concentrated on school.
“I wasn't a particularly good student. I got good grades in English and history but I was terrible at math and science and don't even talk about PE! I didn't play any sports or belong to any clubs and I never, ever dated. I got lonely sometimes, even with my books for company, but loneliness seemed like an improvement on cruelty. Dad did his best to fill in the gaps. He took me to movies and to baseball games and we'd play board games at home when we couldn't afford those. And we'd talk. He had no clue why his daughter was such a mope but he listened and tried to understand, which is more than a lot of parents do. And then, during my senior year, he had a coronary and died.
“That was when I finally stopped dreaming. I realized I was never going to visit a fairyland or discover I was a long lost princess and I was never, ever going to be beautiful.”
I was nonplussed.
“This isn't at all what you used to say about your background in interviews.”
“Duh!” she laughed. “You think I wanted the National Enquirer digging up Emily Rose's school pictures or, heaven forbid, interviewing good old Marie? When I became Lia, I used my first modeling fees to erase all ties between Emily Rose Szymszyk and Lia Briggs. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Where was I?”
“You were never going to be beautiful.”
“Okay, so after I graduated, I decided to go to the local business college and learn to be a bank teller. I paid for my tuition with the money I earned as a clerk at the library. That's where I met Greg. He was researching a paper on the Arthurian legends. I helped him get his materials together. He started coming to the library more and more, even after his paper was finished, and I finally realized he was coming to see me. What that beautiful boy saw in me I'll never know. He could've had any pretty girl he wanted but he wanted me. The day after he got his degree, he got down on his knees and begged me to marry him.”
She stopped talking for a moment and I saw tears glistening in her one exposed eye.
“I'm sorry. I still get misty thinking about it, even after all these years. Greg had a way of making me feel like I was the most beautiful woman in the world and I guess, to him, I was. Right after the wedding, Greg got a job with an accounting firm in one of the Gotham suburbs. I transferred schools, finished my training and went to work full-time at one of the local banks. I couldn't believe how perfect my life had turned out.
“And then everything changed.
“Who was it who said you should be careful what you wish for? The Chinese? The Bible? Either way, they were right. All those years of praying and wishing and dreaming finally caught up to me.
“Two years after Greg and I got married, I met Batman and the Outsiders at the bank where I worked. I'd known there were people like them in the world but to actually see them was... was magical, you know? It suggested possibilities that I'd stopped considering because I thought they were out of reach. But if a man can change his body to hydrogen gas and back, if a teenage girl can repel bullets with a wave of her hand, why couldn't my dreams come true? I'm not sure how exactly it happened any more but somehow I insinuated myself into their world. And they accepted me! They were all very nice people, very accessible, each in his own way, except that horrid Japanese woman, but even she treated me with respect.”
“There were so many of those teams in the early Eighties, I've never been able to keep them all straight without notes. Who were the Outsiders?”
“Metamorpho. Halo. That yummy side of Markovian beef, Geo-Force. Jeff Pierce, or I should say, Black Lightning. Katana. And Batman, of course. Have you ever seen Dick Grayson in full bat mode?”
“Only in pictures. I've seen Batwoman a few times.”
“Not the same thing at all. She's scary, sure, but she doesn't have his authority. Geo-Force was stronger, Katana was faster, but when you looked at Dick in that gear you believed there wasn't anything he didn't know, anything he couldn't do if he put his mind to it. So when all the trouble started, even though I was frightened out of my mind, I knew Batman would make everything all right.”
“Trouble?”
“About three months after I first met the Outsiders, Greg had to go out of town on business. I invited Gaby, I mean Halo, I mean...”
“It does get confusing, doesn't it?” I laughed.
“It's like a Dostoevsky novel: everybody's got three or four names. Okay, so, I invited Gaby to spend the night at my place. The poor kid didn't have much of a social life thanks to her Outsider duties and Katana kept her on a short leash. I figured she could use a break from all that discipline and duty but she got sidetracked by some school event. She sent Katana to apologize. That's when the attack came. It's funny the details that stand out sometimes, isn't it? I remember The Cosby Show had just started when Katana rang the doorbell and it couldn't have been thirty seconds later that they swarmed into my house. They used gas on us before we knew what was happening. I woke up in a dungeon in Abyssia.”
“Abyssia? You mean Abyssinia? What we call Ethiopia now?”
It was Lia's turn to laugh.
“Do I look Ethiopian to you? No, Abyssia is a civilization that lives in caves beneath Switzerland and Austria. Its existence is a secret from almost everyone on the surface. Seventy years ago there was a rift in the royal family, one bunch wanting to declare war on the surface world, the other wanting to reveal Abyssia's existence and rejoin the rest of humanity, and it led to civil war. The rightful king was overthrown by the military and exiled to the surface world, where he eventually created a false identity and moved to America. My Grampy, Ector Szymszyk, was that king. I was the rightful heir to a hidden kingdom, just like in my fantasies.
“And it didn't end there. Buried in my DNA was the gene for amazing mental powers, the power to read minds, to levitate, to command weaker minds. All it would take to stimulate those powers was exposure to this meteor fragment that was Abyssia's most sacred relic. As the last living member of the royal line, I was the underground's last hope of bringing down the dictatorship and restoring the monarchy. At the same time, if the government could force me to work for them, the resistance movement would be shattered. That's why they kidnapped me, exposed me to the meteor and turned me into Lia.
“Can you imagine how I felt, to be suddenly beautiful after all those years of wishing and praying? It should've been the happiest day of my life. Instead they made a slave of me, drugging me and using me as...”
Her hand went to her mouth, as though to block her next words.
“I killed. Soldiers and politicians and complete innocents, women and children and old people: they all died because of me. In between massacres, I was beaten and degraded. They told me that I wasn't really human because my blood was tainted, that only Abyssians had kept our species' bloodlines pure.”
“Did they... were you...?”
I stumbled over the question. She knew where I was heading.
“No. I was spared that, at least. It was considered perverse, like bestiality. They executed the one poor bastard dumb enough to try. But they raped my mind and my soul and that was worse. My most private fantasy had come true and they corrupted it, turned it into something evil and bloody.”
Lia sat for a moment, silently weeping. She took a deep breath and continued.
“Batman and the others rescued me in the end and together we helped the underground drive the dictators from power. All that was left for me to do was claim my crown, but I convinced them to choose the head of the resistance as ruler instead. I didn't want to be a queen, I just wanted to go home and be with my husband, to have my old life back. As if.”
“You became one of the world's most beautiful women and you thought nothing would change?”
“Naïve of me, wasn't it? My first night back, the look on Greg's face told me nothing was ever going to be the same. He wanted his Emily, not the living Barbie doll that walked through the front door. But he tried, God knows he tried to make it work, to pretend my new appearance didn't matter and I tried to pretend too, but I had changed, in ways he just couldn't understand.”
“I know it isn't easy being a super-hero spouse but it can be done. My parents are proof.”
“Oh, please. You've missed the point completely. I wanted to be a supermodel, not a super-hero, a celebrity, sure, but for my beauty. I wanted men to want me and women to hate me for it and magazines to fight over the right to photograph me.”
“Then why did you do it? Why did you stay with the Outsiders?”
“Hello!? My teammates included Gotham City's most eligible bachelor, the crown prince of Markovia, a two-time Olympic champion and the son-in-law of the world's richest man. Where else was I going to find connections like those? And talk about publicity! Let's see Christie Brinkley do the cover of Vogue the same day she helps defeat Kobra!”
“You saw being a super-hero as a good career move.”
My remark wounded her.
“That's not all it was. Batman said that we, that I had an obligation to use my powers to help mankind and I guess maybe I believed that, or at least I believed I owed it to him and the others to try. Besides, they were my friends. Jeff Pierce was like the big brother I never had and Rex Mason, Metamorpho, who has every right to be bitter about his deformities, is the kindest man on Earth. It was Rex who named me ‘Looker’ because of the way my eyes glowed when I used my powers. I remember when he suggested it, half kidding, everybody looked at Batman, like they expected to get chewed out for daring to have fun, but Dick just laughed. He loves puns, it's really the only part of Robin that carried over when he put on the ears. And Gaby adored me, everything I did she copied, which pissed off that constipated little samurai she was living with no end. Katana was all about rules and responsibility. She hated the idea of Gaby enjoying what was left of her childhood, and she wanted to keep her away from me, to protect her from my bad influence because, teammate or not, I was obviously nothing but a whore, which wasn't fair at all. I didn't sleep my way to the top of the fashion world. I thought my way there.”
“I don't know what that means.”
“It means I used my mental powers to, you know, persuade the right people to give me what I wanted. Agents, clients, press: just a little nudge from me and I was the hottest commodity in the country and I didn't have to spread my legs once to do it. I could be faithful to Greg and still have my career. To me, that made it okay.”
“But it's not okay,” I protested. “You brainwashed people, stole their right to make their own decisions from them. Maybe it's not illegal but it's immoral as hell.”
She was suddenly furious.
“Don't you dare judge me, you hypocrite! I know all about your powers. Are you telling me you never abused them, never manipulated people's emotional states to your advantage?”
“No! I mean, yes, but not like you're implying.”
I was caught off guard. My empathic powers were supposed to be a family secret.
“I... I may have chosen a day my boss was happy to ask for a raise, that sort of thing, but I never forced anyone into anything against his will.”
“You had an edge and you used it, I had a different edge and I used that. And everybody I zapped ended up rich, thanks to me, so where's the harm? I wasn't...”
Her anger melted away and she began to sob.
“I wasn't telling them to kill anybody. I just wanted people to love me.”
Lia sat with her head in her hands, crying, while I looked on, seemingly impassive, anything but on the inside. For years, I'd been subtly using my power to trick people into revealing their secrets for my professional benefit, convinced my physical handicaps entitled me to that extra advantage. Maybe she was right: maybe the only difference between us was one of degree.
“I had no right to criticize you,” I said. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be,” she said quietly. “What I did was wrong, I know that now, but then it was ‘all's fair in love and war,’ you know? And believe me, the modeling business is war. So I used the weapons I had and I made it, right to the top. Magazine covers, commercials, my own line of cosmetics. Meanwhile at home, Greg and I were growing farther apart. He hated my new life, at least the modeling side of it, he thought it was demeaning, and nothing I said or did could convince him otherwise.”
“So you didn't use your powers to, um, convince him?”
“Never! Even through all the changes, I never stopped loving Greg and I would never try to manipulate him like that. I never used my powers on the other Outsiders either, even if it would've gotten Katana off my back. There was a line I didn't cross.”
“The public part of your life is pretty thoroughly documented up until the Battle of Metropolis. How did things go with the Outsiders during that period?”
“It wasn't long after I joined that Dick and the others had their falling out. Prince Brion, Geo-Force, took over officially as leader, although it was Jeff who really called the shots. They relocated the team to LA, which was great for my career and bad for my marriage because Greg refused to leave Gotham. The Outsiders did a lot of good, stopped some seriously bad stuff, got a lot of press, and then one day Batman called us and asked for our help in stopping Vandal Savage's super-villain army and of course we went.”
She closed her exposed eye tightly as if she'd been suddenly stricken with a migraine.
“It's so hard for me to talk about the Battle. No one who wasn't there will ever understand. People were dying in the most horrible ways you can imagine. I heard sounds and smelled smells I'll never forget, no matter how much I want to. Worst of all, I found myself killing again, not directly this time but by remote control, using my powers to turn Savage's gunmen on each other. At some point, I got separated from the Outsiders and hooked up with a couple of other strays: Jericho, the mute boy from the Titans, and one of the Challengers of the Unknown, the redheaded one.”
“Red Ryan.”
“Was that his name? I never knew. Okay, so we were wandering through the rubble, cleaning up the few pockets of bad guys the big guns missed. The storm Mark Mardon whipped up was in full swing. Rain was falling so hard you couldn't see two feet in front of you. That's how we missed seeing the barricades and ended up walking right into the middle of one of the last major battles. Firestorm, Elongated Man and Green Arrow, the bearded one, were trying to bring down this... this sixty-foot-tall creature with a clear plastic body full of some gross liquid. I heard Firestorm say he was going to try to neutralize the chemicals in the thing's body one at a time, don't ask me how, I never did understand how his superpowers worked, but he must not have been much of a chemist because he'd barely started when it exploded.”
She rested her hand on her mask.
“I remember a flash and a roar and then I blacked out. When I came to, my face was on fire. Oh God, I never knew there was so much pain in the world! I tried to get to my feet but only made it to my knees. There were bodies everywhere, crooks and civilians and police. I saw the Challenger, Red, laying in the street, the bottom half of his body was gone. Jericho was next to me. His body had blocked most of the chemicals from hitting me. He was burned so badly I wasn't even sure it was him until he tried to tell me something in sign language. I didn't understand what he was saying so I just held him until...”
She started to cry again.
“That's how Rex and Gaby found us after it was all over. In the hospital, I found out that the chemicals burned me so badly they'd destroyed my powers. My career as a model was over, my career as a super-hero was over, my marriage was over, I was uglier than Emily ever was and the worst part was knowing I deserved it.”
“Deserved it? How can you say that?”
“Emily was never meant to be beautiful or famous, she was meant to live out her quiet perfect little life at Greg's side, but that wasn't good enough for Lia, no, I wanted more, I thought I'd earned it because I'd suffered so much, because I was so much kinder and purer than the people who'd tormented me. And this is what my hubris got me!”
She tore away her mask.
“My God,” I gasped.
The right side of her head, neck and shoulder was a mass of raw red tissue. Her eye lay dead and glazed in the gaping socket, the tendons could be seen working in her jaw, and her teeth peeked through the tattered remnants of her lips. Nothing was left of her ear but a ragged hole. What remained of her hair grew sparsely in brittle dead-white clumps. The flesh of her face glistened in the candlelight. I felt the dinner in my stomach lurch but I couldn't tear my gaze away.
Slowly, Lia put her mask back on.
“I'm sorry, but I had to make you understand just how bad it was.”
I regained my shaken composure and soldiered on.
“What happened next?”
“I was in the hospital for months. Dick spent a fortune trying to find some kind of plastic surgery that would help me but the chemicals did too much damage, the tissue was too sensitive even for prosthetics. When they released me, I planned to kill myself but Greg wanted me to... to come home. He never gave up on me, not even during the worst of my Looker days, and now he wanted to take care of me. Maybe if he'd known what he was in for, he'd have changed his mind but I don't think so. I spent those first few months sitting in the dark, not talking, not doing anything but watching for a chance to pull the plug.
“And then I had a visitor. It was my old teacher, Mrs. Rodriguez. Greg had tracked her down and told her everything. She brought me a gift, the complete set of The Great Books, and she stayed with us for weeks, reading to me and talking about what we'd read with me, and slowly she and Greg convinced me I wanted to live after all. Finally my face healed enough to let me wear this mask, so when Brion and Gaby got married I went to Markovia to be a bridesmaid, let myself be seen in public for the first time. Everybody figured I was out of danger, including me.
“Then, two years ago, Greg was driving home from work when he was sideswiped by a tanker truck. He was killed instantly. Rex and his wife came and invited me to live with them but I was thinking about suicide again and I didn't want to lay that on them. Rex must've figured it out because he called Dick and together they persuaded me to try Lash House. I'm glad. Your mother got me into counseling and I got better, made friends like Byrna and the Old Timer, started studying religion and philosophy. But I'm scared.”
“Of what?”
“Is it true, what I'm hearing? Was Poison Ivy murdered?”
“I... I'm not supposed to talk about it, Lia, but it... it's possible.”
She sat back in her chair and lit another cigarette.
“That's why I wanted to talk to you tonight, Mr. Stevens. Ana still has me on suicide watch, even though I'm over all that, and that's what I wanted to go on the record, so that if... if something happens to me and it looks like suicide, you can play them this tape and tell them it wasn't. Promise me you'll tell them?”
I felt a sudden chill.
“I promise,” I assured her, even as I wondered if or how soon I might have to honor that pledge.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 15, 2014 7:14:47 GMT -5
Chapter 15
It was late when I left Lia's suite, late enough at least that none of the other residents were still up and about. I left with mixed emotions. Part of me was still angry with her for putting me on the defensive about my own powers. But something else about our conversation nagged at me, something disquieting. Then it hit me.
She had lied.
Not about everything, to be sure, but my empathic sense had definitely registered some sort of duplicity. When had I felt it? Was it just before she lost her temper? Maybe that was meant to mask the lie. What had my senses told me? Her love for her parents and late husband, her affection for those she considered friends, were genuine enough. On the other hand, she felt no serious remorse for her mental manipulation of others despite her words of contrition. But there was no pretense in her terror of being murdered.
The annex was quiet, the lights dimmed in most of the common areas. The buzz of my wheelchair's motors, normally too low to notice, sounded like a flight of angry hornets in the silence. I caught a glimpse of a white uniform walking down a hallway carrying a tray of medications but otherwise encountered no one as I made my way back to the mansion. I checked the clock in the hospital waiting room as I emerged from the tunnel and was surprised to see it was only 8:30. After a decade of living at the Big Apple's breakneck pace, it was going to take a long time for me to adjust to the slower rhythms of the country.
Lash House's main elevator was installed at the turn of the century when Bat found his aging knees could no longer negotiate the manse's steep stairways. Though Ana had its workings replaced with modern equipment, she retained its open platform and elaborately decorative wrought-iron walls. As the cage slowly passed the first floor, I saw that the library's door was ajar, a warm inviting light spilling into the hall through the crack. Maybe company was just what I needed to rinse the evening's bad taste from my mouth. I reversed the elevator's ascent.
Gently, I pushed the door open with my chair. My mother sat on one of the library's comfortable couches wearing jeans and one of the General's old uniform blouses, a photo album open on her lap. On the antique coffee table sat a large unlabeled bottle of wine, the robust red wine of her homeland. She looked up and smiled as I entered.
“Hola, Val. Join me in a glass of wine?”
“I can't think of anything I'd like more right about now,” I answered, meaning it.
Ana set aside the album and poured me a glass, topping her own off at the same time. She held the glass to my lips. I took a sip and felt my tension melt away as the wine danced crisply across my tongue. A satisfied sigh passed my lips and I sat back.
“I had a visit from the Old Timer today,” I said. “Is he really a Guardian?”
“Yes, he certainly is. I might've known he'd make a big impression on you. I forget at times how little ‘cosmic’ you've been exposed to. Did he tell you he's here to observe the phenomenon of aging and death firsthand?”
I felt a blush coming on.
“What, have I been gullible?”
“Oh, no. The Guardians truly did give him that mission. But when they made him human, they made him vulnerable to human weakness. He may look like a man in his early sixties but he was already ancient when our ancestors were climbing down from the trees. Within months of turning human, the Old Timer became too frail for the kind of travel his mission required and he ended up a permanent houseguest of Hal and Carol Jordan's. They love him but they can't properly care for him so they arranged a place for him here.”
“I wondered how he could live on Earth for thirty years and have learned so little about us.”
“Oh, he's pulling your leg, honey! The Old Timer understands our history and culture very well. He has a dry wit and he likes to use it to remind us that our species isn't quite the acme of creation we like to think we are. The two of you are very much alike in that respect. It's sad, though. He hasn't been in contact with the other Guardians in more than twenty years. They don't care enough about human affairs to listen to his reports anymore. I can't pretend to understand how Oan emotions work but I do know his pride has been shattered and he's trying to glue the pieces together with champagne cocktails.”
Our conversation then turned to my interview with Emily Rose Szymszyk Briggs. As promised, I passed her concern on. Though careful not to criticize Lia in any way, my antipathy must have shown through. Ana abruptly yet gracefully changed the subject, giving me another sip of wine before reaching for the photo album.
The pictures were of Ana and myself as a toddler. We were visiting my grandmother, Queen Hippolyta, on Paradise Island, home of the immortal warrior women known as Amazons. My Aunt Donna and the queen's namesake, my sister Polly, went with us. My presence there was an anomaly, for the island's most sacred tradition forbade any man to tread its soil. I had to be either held constantly or kept securely in my little wheelchair or the bed we brought with us from America lest, in making contact with the ground or even the furnishings, I bring the wrath of the tribe's divine patrons down upon them.
Despite the stringent restrictions, I loved these trips. Thanks to my unique status as the first male Amazon child in three thousand years, I was the darling of the island. Tournaments were held among the warrior women to determine who would be my babysitters during the family's stay. My fondest memories are of sitting on my grandmother's lap listening enraptured as the bards sang the long history of the Amazon civilization.
The Amazons were, without exception, beautiful athletic women. Although many counted their ages in centuries rather than years, none — not even Hippolyta, the eldest — looked older than thirty. Living in a land of perpetual Mediterranean May, it was common for the populace to walk about nude or, in the event of the island's gentle warm rainfalls, wearing the most diaphanous of gowns. As a small child, I'd thought nothing of this but as puberty approached, the queen reluctantly decided that I could no longer be allowed to visit, though it broke her heart to do so. To say that I was devastated by this decision is to wallow in understatement.
And if being denied access to Paradise was difficult for me, how much more so was it for Ana? I looked up into her aquamarine eyes and saw a great loneliness there.
“You're homesick, aren't you?”
“Yes, I am.”
Her voice grew so soft I had to strain to hear her.
“I miss my mother and my Amazon sisters. I haven't been back to the island in years. Hera knows I've wanted to, but I can't take Steve with me and I'm afraid if I go, he... he won't be here when I get back.”
“How long exactly does Dad have?”
She hesitated before answering.
“A week ago, I'd have said his journey across the Styx was very near but since you've come home, he seems stronger. His mind doesn't wander as much. It... it won't last though. I've spent too many years in nursing to deceive myself.”
Her voice thickened.
“He's my whole life, Val. I gave up my heritage for that man. It isn't fair that I'm losing him so soon.”
A solitary tear rolled down her cheek.
“I'm sorry. Forgive me for being such a crybaby.”
“There's nothing to forgive. You know, I've spent so much of my life envying your strength and trying to live up to your example that, honestly, it's kind of comforting to see that you're human after all.”
Ana put her hands on my cheeks and gave me a big kiss.
“How'd my little boy get so wise? By Hera, I'm glad you're home!”
We continued looking through the album and reminiscing for another half-hour before we grew drowsy. If I had slept fitfully, Ana had not slept at all. I turned my chair on and told her goodnight.
“I'll be up in a few minutes,” she said. “If Mark has already turned in, I'll help you into bed. Otherwise, I'll see you at breakfast.”
“About breakfast, Ana. I thought I might join Doctor Mac and the other houseguests down in the breakfast nook for the next few days. I'll still make a point of dropping in to see the General in the evenings.”
Her face clouded.
“What did Rip say to you, Val?”
I ought to have known I couldn't tap dance around the truth with Ana. Briefly, I outlined the morning's encounter with Major Carter, omitting only the venom spewed at her in particular.
“He's right about one thing,” Ana said, forcing herself to stay calm. “Haywood was a bastard. Stealing another man's wife and livelihood is exactly the kind of shabby stunt he would've pulled.”
“It's not hard to see how Carter could project his hatred for Haywood onto all superhumans.”
“I suppose. I hadn't realized how deep his hatred for us ran. Frankly, if he's saying these things to Steve, I may have to reconsider just how therapeutic their constant togetherness really is. Go ahead and eat with Charles in the mornings. He'll be delighted. I'll square it with your father.”
I kissed her goodnight and headed upstairs once more. Time spent with Ana (and two glasses of Amazonian wine) had dissipated my foul mood so completely that I caught myself humming a snatch of “I Write the Songs.” Bob Tinker would be proud.
The door to Mark's room was open. Voices were coming from within. I peeked in and found Mark and several other staffers seated around a card table. Two of the men and the lone woman I recognized as the personnel Ana had sent in search of Snapper Carr at lunch yesterday. The other was a muscular black man in his late thirties.
“Kind of late for a staff meeting, isn't it?” I asked.
“Hey, Val, how was the big date?” Mark responded with a grin. “Come on in and meet the gang.”
I shook hands with Danny Ikeda, the chubby RN who Mark was grooming as his second in command.
“I'm honored to meet you, Mr. Stevens,” he said in a thick Japanese accent. “When Mark told us of your impending visit, I read some of your work. Your article on the trade imbalance was very perceptive... for a gaijin.”
The twinkle in his eye let me know he was kidding.
“That's no way to suck up to the boss's kid,” Mark scolded mockingly. “I thought I trained you better than that!”
Danny bowed and scraped comically.
“So solly, massa. Prease to fo'give this mis'able coolie, fuck you velly much.”
The room rocked with laughter.
“You'll have to forgive Danny,” giggled Zoe Gage, a big-boned Nordic girl with close cropped hair. “He's convinced that all Americans have distorted notions of what Asians are like, thanks to Charlie Chan and Fu Manchu.”
“At least we think that's what he believes,” added Larry Collins, the fortyish man with the acne-scarred face. “We can't be sure because he's so...”
“He isn't going to say it?” wailed Danny.
“...inscrutable.”
“He said it!”
Danny dropped his head in defeat.
Laughter again filled the room.
Rounding out the quartet was Victor Stone, the Lash Center's physical therapist. His bodybuilder physique and milk chocolate skin were tauntingly familiar but something seemed missing. Up close, I saw that both of Stone's hands and the left side of his head were in fact prosthetics, made of artificial flesh so lifelike it was only when I noticed the lack of pores that the illusion was shattered. A flash of memory replaced the plastic skin with gleaming metal. I made the connection immediately.
“We've met before, Vic,” I said. “You're the Cyborg, aren't you? You were one of my sister's teammates in the Young Titans.”
The big man's laugh came easily.
“Used to be, anyway. Been a long time since I heard that name though. I remember you. You were just a punk kid last time we saw each other.”
“Earl Crawford wrote a ‘Whatever Happened To...?’ column about you a few months ago. He offered the usual mix of dull fact and outrageous bullshit but he didn't even come close.”
“Good! I had enough of publicity back in the day. Vic Stone likes the normal life Cyborg couldn't have. And hiding's easy. Who'd look for a big city kid out in the boonies? Sarah and I are happier here in the Corners than we ever were in New York. Better for the kids too.”
“Watch out, Val,” laughed Zoe. “Vic's said the K word. He'll be hauling out the pictures in a second if we don't head him off.”
“Now, Zoe, you know you want a few of your own,” he teased back. “And you know poor Larry here is dying to play daddy for you.”
Everyone laughed uproariously but Collins, who turned a deep red.
“So what's going on here anyway?” I asked. “Poker game?”
“Actually, we're here to drink a toast to Pamela Isley,” Mark answered. “It's kind of a tradition I started for those among the staff who know the true nature of the Lash Center to observe the passing of a resident. I suppose Ivy isn't very deserving but, well, it's not our place to judge.”
“Showing respect is good karma,” said Danny, “even for a fallen enemy.”
“Don't let me stop you,” I said.
The others raised their glasses and looked to Mark expectantly.
“To Pamela Isley. May she find the peace in death she never had in life.”
“To Pamela,” they echoed, draining their drinks.
The group chatted for a bit longer, mostly shop talk and amiable teasing, until one by one they wandered out, heading for their homes in town. Eventually only Mark and I remained. I told him about Rip Carter's delusions.
“The scary part,” Mark said, “is there's some truth to what he says. The super-heroes did sit out the war for the most part, though I don't for a minute accept his interpretation of it. I always thought that was why Vandal Savage was so sure his plan would work: he didn't think the good guys had the balls to play for keeps.”
“So why did the heroes stay out of the war?”
“Truthfully? I think FDR ordered them to stay stateside, just like the press releases claimed, but not because of civilian morale. Keeping the good guys home left the government free to conduct the war without interference from the super-villains who were already popping up, despite what Carter thinks. But that was all before my time. You'd have to ask one of the JSAers to get the straight skinny.”
Ana stopped in the doorway.
“Hey, you two. It's late.”
“We were just turning in, Ana,” Mark answered.
In bed later, I tried to summon the ghost of Bat Lash, curious how he might interpret Poison Ivy's death. He didn't respond. Normally that wouldn't worry me — Bat's behavior could be capricious at the best of times — but I felt a strange tingling at the edges of my empathic senses like static on an unoccupied radio wavelength, a static I had never noticed before. Assuming exhaustion was the cause, I let myself slip off into sleep, confident that I would see Lash tomorrow.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 16, 2014 7:17:12 GMT -5
Chapter 16
Next morning, with the skies clear again and a good night's sleep under our belts, Mark and I went cheerfully through our morning routine. Though his to-do list included clearing out Pamela Isley's room, Mark was laughing and joking as though he hadn't a care in the world. His attitude was contagious.
Dr. McNider and Etta were already in the breakfast nook when I arrived. Joining us was a frail little man with a thin, steel-gray crewcut and a perpetual dreamy expression. He was listed in the center's records for security reasons as Mr. J. T. Bolt but remembered with affection, if not respect, by the public as Johnny Thunder. Etta sat next to him throughout breakfast, feeding him and sitting him down when he would suddenly take a notion to wander off. For the most part, he sat docilely muttering to himself.
“So how's the book coming?” McNider asked.
“It's only been two days, Charlie,” giggled Etta. “Just 'cause you used to knock out them pulps overnight don't mean everybody writes that fast.”
“I forgot you were a pulp novelist, Doctor Mac,” I said.
“It's not something I'm terribly proud of.”
“I've read your stories. They're very clever. If you didn't enjoy writing them, why did you bother?”
“It was necessary. Doctor Mid-Nite Adventures was going to be published with or without my input. That was the drawback to secret identities: we couldn't stop anyone from using our names and pictures however they pleased without revealing our real names in open court. At least by writing the novels myself, I could make sure the accounts of my adventures stayed within the realm of good taste... and steered away from the fact of my blindness.”
“So you lied to forestall bigger lies?”
“Something like that. The pulp publishers were viciously competitive in the Forties and they weren't above outright fabrication if it gave them a sales edge. So their stories became more and more sensationalistic until Superman was juggling planets and the Flash was running at light speed. Of course, it wasn't all bad. You wouldn't believe how many crooks surrendered to us on sight, precisely because they read and believed the pulps.”
“It's funny,” I mused. “I thought I was well-informed about superhumans and costumed adventurers because of growing up listening to all your stories. Now I realize that, though I know the names of most of the players and have a dim sense of the order in which things happened, I have almost no understanding of them within the larger context of history. I'm struggling to see the big picture.”
“Perhaps I can help. They're putting the hospital in order for tomorrow's inspection and I'm sure Diana would be happy if you kept me out from under foot. Shall we get started?”
“That'd be great! Aunt Etta, could you please help me set up my tape recorder?”
Etta reached into the backpack hanging from my wheelchair's handlebars. Years of running medical equipment gave her a sure hand with electronics. She had the recorder up and running in seconds. Bolt watched her every move with an absurd fascination.
“So,” I began, “I know Superman was the first super-hero, debuting in, what, 1938?”
McNider smiled and shook his head.
“Not exactly. There'd been masked adventurers throughout history, from the original Hawkman of ancient Egypt to the Silent Knight in medieval England to El Diablo in the Old West. There'd been plenty of superhumans too, though history remembers them mostly as fairy tales, myths and legends. But Superman was the first of us in modern times to both hide behind a costume and operate openly.”
“Who came next? Sandman, wasn't it? Wesley Dodds?”
“No, Wes came fourth after Batman in Gotham and the Crimson Avenger in San Francisco. Wes got press coverage before Bruce did, though. That's probably what confused you.”
“Meaning no disrespect, Doc, but what possessed you guys to put on costumes and fight crime? It's so... odd. I know Bruce Wayne's story but surely you weren't all orphaned by criminals?”
“Odd, eh? I'll try not to take that personally. Each man had his own private reasons for donning his costume. If there was a common thread among those pioneers, it was that they were all well educated, athletic and had a strong moral sense.”
“And each was filthy rich,” I noted drily.
“Wildcat used to refer to them as the Bored Billionaires Club,” the old man chuckled, “but he knew there was more than thrillseeking at work.”
He paused to take a sip of his coffee.
“Let's test your knowledge, Val. How many super-heroes debuted between 1938 and Pearl Harbor?”
I did a quick mental inventory.
“Around thirty or thirty-five, I'd say.”
“Try two hundred and seventeen.”
“What?” I blurted. “You're kidding.”
“I'm quite serious. Once Batman and the others started getting press, people were jumping into tights all over the country. Some did it for attention, some for excitement, some were delusional, and supposedly some did it as a sexual thing. Most ended up in jail or a psychiatric ward or the morgue. At least eighty were killed their first time out. A few had modest careers in towns like Texarkana and Boise but never got any national attention. Eventually, the field was weeded out until only the professionals, the thirty-odd heroes you recalled, remained.”
“I had no idea. So what separated the amateurs from the pros?”
“It was this that made the difference,” he answered, tapping his chest. “Heart. Every one of them, even the oddballs like Johnny here, genuinely wanted to make the world a better place and devoted themselves to that goal, often to the detriment of their personal happiness.”
“They did good for its own sake.”
“Exactly, Val. They were heroic. The others weren't.”
“Why did the law give them such a free hand? You'd think the authorities would frown on your sort of vigilantism, all the costumes and secret identities.”
“And frown they did. For a long time, we were all wanted by the law, even Superman. Especially Superman. But you have to understand the times. America was still trying to get back on its feet after the Crash of '29, everyone was worried by the war news coming out of Europe and the Pacific, men like Huey Long and Father Coughlin were threatening to bring fascism to our own shores and corruption was endemic in the cities. People were desperate for heroes. When Superman first flashed across the sky in his bright colors, flexing his muscles in the name of justice and championing the average man, it struck a chord in people's consciousness. But there were elements of society, both criminal and legitimate, who would stoop to any level to stop or co-opt the mystery men. Masks and aliases were necessary to keep those forces from putting us under legal or economic pressure or from threatening our family and friends. The greatest danger was from the military. They were desperate to get their hands on the superhumans, our civil rights be damned, to figure out how our powers worked and apply them to others.”
“What, if they could find Superman, they were going to dissect him?”
“Or Flash or Plastic Man… or your mother. There were people, influential people, advocating exactly that. So you see, if our own government was contemplating such things, there was no limit to what Hitler or Stalin would do for that kind of knowledge.”
“Of course! That's why Roosevelt kept the JSA and the others out of the war, isn't it? He was afraid a super-hero would fall into enemy hands.”
“If the Axis could analyze and duplicate their powers, we were doomed. The All-Star Squadron was the President's cover story, the justification for our sitting out the war, but the Squadron only existed on paper. There was no grand alliance; the JSA, the Seven Soldiers and the others continued just as before. Unfortunately, our reputations were hurt badly by our inactivity.”
“I'd like to back up just a bit. Super-heroes were tolerated, if not exactly condoned, pretty widely for some time before Pearl Harbor. What happened to make their acceptance possible?”
“Prepare to be disillusioned, kid. It was money, pure and simple. The Dodds and the Roosevelts were old friends. When it looked like the law was preparing to crack down on us, Wes went and had a talk with FDR, millionaire to millionaire. The administration brought enormous pressure on the city governments of New York, Metropolis and Gotham to back down and look the other way. The other cities followed their example. To be fair, though, if the President hadn't believed in what we were doing, no amount of money or old school ties could have moved him.”
“I suppose it was inevitable that your paths would cross but what specifically brought the Justice Society together?”
“The answer to that is a lot more prosaic than you'd think. By the end of 1940, even the more secretive heroes like Batman were becoming known nationally, thanks to the pulps. Public response to our kind was enthusiastic enough that when our paths began to cross, conversation naturally turned to the possibility of a team. Finally, Jay Garrick, Alan Scott and Carter Hall — or Flash, Green Lantern and Hawkman, if you prefer — decided to do something about it. The JSA formed around that nucleus.”
“Wait,” I protested. “I thought the JSA first teamed to prevent a German invasion of England.”
“There, you see? Even you have fact confused with fiction. That ‘first mission’ never happened anywhere but within the pages of All-Star Tales. Do you really think ten men, even those ten, could turn back an entire invasion fleet? No, the truth is much simpler. The three founders looked at the activities of all but the most obvious amateurs and began issuing invitations to those mystery men they found impressive.”
“In talking to Pat Dugan, he implied there was a hierarchy within the heroic community with the JSA at the top. True?”
“I wish I could say it wasn't, though I don't think it was quite as rigid as Pat probably does. It's undeniable that the Justice Society represented the best of the best, just as the Justice League and Justice Legacy would later. If we were really all that elitist, though, how do you explain the induction of this young man?” he asked, indicating Bolt.
“Comic relief?”
McNider smiled.
“Well, Johnny was that, all right, but again there was more to it than that. And it wasn't just because of his Thunderbolt's sorcery either. Johnny in his prime may not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer but there wasn't anybody braver in a battle. He saved the life of nearly every JSAer at one time or another, putting himself in harm's way even when T-bolt was unavailable. Take my word for it, he earned his spot on the roster.”
“So what broke the team up in '51? It surely wasn't just because of your war records.”
“Times had changed. Roosevelt was dead and Truman didn't trust anyone who operated behind a mask and a false name. When the House Un-American Activities Committee started looking for Communists under the administration's beds, the President threw us to them as a distraction. Clark and Diana were beyond reproach by that point, and Bruce and Dick were so firmly entrenched in the Gotham establishment that they were more or less untouchable, but the rest of us were under suspicion. We were given the choice of publicly unmasking or disbanding. Many of us were married by then and starting families, we couldn't assume our enemies would consider our wives and husbands and kids off limits. With our backs against the wall that way, we had no choice but to split up and retire.”
“That must've been a bitter pill to swallow.”
“You would think so, wouldn't you? But I think most of us were relieved. The party'd been winding down for some time. Most of the mystery men had hung up their hoods by then. We'd become an anachronism, like victory gardens.”
“Everyone remembers a clear demarcation between the First and Second Heroic Ages,” I said, “but there were really only a few years separating the end of the Society and the start of the League, weren't there?”
“Nine years, to be precise,” McNider agreed, “and all during that interim, new heroes like Captain Comet and the Martian Manhunter were popping up to keep what remained of the old guard company. But you're right: as far as the public was concerned, super-heroes had fallen off the radar.”
“Excuse me,” said a soft voice from behind us.
We turned to see a petite brunette nurse standing in the doorway.
“Mrs. Stevens asked me to find you, sir,” she said to me. “She'd like you to join her in the library.”
“Well then, I guess we'll continue this later, Doctor Mac,” I said as Etta put my recording equipment away. “This is really helping, thank you.”
I followed the nurse to the library. She let me in then closed the doors behind me. Ana wasn't alone. Chief Grayson was with her, looking grim and tired.
“You rang?”
“It's official,” Grayson answered. “Pamela Isley was murdered.”
“You're sure?”
“There's no doubt about it,” he said, gesturing at a pile of lab reports on the table in front of Ana. “I've run every test four and five times each, backward and forward. The toxicology work-ups show Ivy ingested three times the amount of poison it would've taken to kill her. There's also every indication that she was dead nearly a half an hour before she finished eating.”
“Before she...? So someone force fed her the remaining leaves?”
“No, think about it, Val,” Ana urged. “Another person could've stuffed them into her mouth but how could he make her chew them and swallow them?”
“There's no sign of a struggle,” Grayson added, “either on the body or at the crime scene. If she was being physically forced, Ivy of all people would've put up a fight. The only thing I can conclude is that she was compelled to kill herself somehow, probably by someone who wasn't actually physically present and couldn't tell when the poison took effect. Death by remote control.”
“Oh my God,” I gasped, thinking back to last night's talk with Lia. “If she was mentally coerced... What if Looker's been lying all this time about losing her ESP powers?”
Grayson frowned.
“The thought has crossed my mind. I've known Lia a long time, though. I can't believe she'd do anything so willfully malicious, not even if she thought Ivy posed a danger to her.”
“It could've happened magically or technologically instead of psychically,” Ana cautioned, “and plenty of telepaths are capable of this kind of thing. Don't jump to conclusions just because Lia rubs you the wrong way.”
“You're right. I'm sorry. It really didn't make any sense to me anyway. I can't imagine what her motive would be, and anyway, her fear for her own safety was genuine.”
“What concerns me most,” continued Grayson, “is whether this was an isolated incident or merely the first strike. This house is filled with vulnerable old people, every one of whom has a dozen enemies who'd love to see them dead. Until I'm satisfied this mystery is solved, I'm marshaling every resource at my disposal to get at the truth without compromising Lash House's security. That's where you come in, Val.”
“Me? What help can I be?”
“Ana's told me about your book. I couldn't ask for a better cover for an investigation. People will be much more forthcoming to you than they will to a policeman, even when he's one of their own. I'm not asking you to interrogate anyone. It would be better, in fact, if you steered away from the subject of Pamela Isley's death. All you have to do is carry on as you were and report back to me not only what you learn but any significant impressions your empathy picks up.”
“My what?”
“I've told Dick about your powers, Val,” Ana explained. “There's too much at stake to keep secrets between us. Forgive me?”
I nodded, despite the anger I felt. After twelve years of keeping my powers hidden, it stung to see them exposed so offhandedly, even by my mother. No, damn it, particularly by my mother. I would've appreciated the courtesy of making the choice myself. If Ana was going to treat me as a child, no matter how benignly, we were going to clash sooner or later.
Grayson asked, “Will you help us?”
“Of course I will, Chief. But if you don't mind my asking, why not use some of the other talent around here? Doctor Mac and Eel O'Brian were both fine detectives in their prime.”
“Setting aside for a moment the fact that they themselves are suspects, there are a couple of reasons. First, they're old men, and McNider is blind.”
“I'm not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger myself.”
They laughed.
“True,” Grayson went on, “but you have the energy and alertness of youth, not to mention your training as a journalist. Second, Charles and Eel are too close to The Life to be objective. No, Val, I'm convinced you're my best bet.”
“Shouldn't you be thinking of me as a suspect as well?”
“You are a suspect,” said Grayson amiably. “So is Diana. But I have to trust somebody and I trust the people in this room.”
“Okay, then,” I said, flattered by the chief's confidence in me. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Byrd's invited you to visit Don Hall with him, right? Accept the invitation. Get whatever you can out of him, and out of Don too. I don't really think either of them is involved but Karl still has connections to the underworld and Don's played confessor to nearly everybody in the vicinity at one time or another. Either or both of them may have heard something useful without knowing it.”
“Well then,” I said with a shrug, “I guess I'll go rustle up an invitation to lunch.”
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Post by Cei-U! on May 17, 2014 7:22:14 GMT -5
Chapter 17
The second floor of Lash House was reserved for terminally ill or vegetative residents. I was forbidden to play there as a child. Consequently, I grew up with an irrational fear of the place and its inhabitants, a fear that came rushing back when I got off the elevator. Even at mid-morning, it was as quiet as a tomb. In my imagination, the heavy air seemed tainted with the stink of impending death.
I'd forgotten to ask for Byrd's room number. I drove slowly down the hallway, looking for anything that might give me a clue. Without warning, I was suddenly overwhelmed by pain, like a red-hot poker being thrust in one ear and out the other. Wave after wave of agony flowed through my brain, a searing torrent of the vilest emotions I had ever vicariously experienced, dominated by rage and hatred. I tumbled from my chair, an agonized cry bursting from my lips. Despite the pain, I tried to sift through the impressions but they flew by too fast to interpret them. Whatever mind I was locked with detected my presence and focused all its power on me. The previous level of pain was nothing compared to this: my every muscle went rigid, my bladder let go and my teeth bit into my tongue. Everything went black.
* * * * *
“...epileptic?”
“... don't know ... for Mardon ... hope he'll be ...”
I returned to awareness slowly, reality washing over me like the tide creeping up a beach. The pain was gone, but a mental lethargy remained. My empathic sense wasn't functioning. I wondered detachedly if the assault had burned it out.
I was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room. Standing over me, their faces wreathed with concern, were Karl Byrd and a stunning young woman with platinum blonde hair. Dampness at my crotch and the stench of urine reminded me that I had wet myself in the extremity of my agony. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Ashamed to meet the blonde's gaze, my eyes darted to one side.
Another man lay on a bed identical to the one I occupied, surrounded by IV bottles and other medical paraphernalia. This man was as still as death, only the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest proving he lived. Though his eyes stared fixedly at the ceiling, he was fully dressed in white shirt, slacks and houndstooth jacket, a cheerfully patterned bow tie knotted at his throat. He even wore freshly polished wingtips. Despite his emaciation and the whitening of his carefully combed hair, I recognized Will Magnus, arguably the Twentieth Century's foremost roboticist.
If this was Magnus, the girl must be Tina Platte, the platinum robot. Looking at her steadily, I saw the same inhuman precision in her movements the Tinkers exhibited. Tina, however, covered herself with artificial skin not unlike what Vic Stone wore. A wig of human hair and colored contact lenses added to the illusion. She wore the uniform of a Lash House nurse.
“What happened?” I asked in a husky whisper.
“You tell us,” replied Byrd kindly.
“I heard you scream and fall from your wheelchair,” Tina said, her voice rich and resonant. “Mr. Byrd and I found you passed out and brought you to my room. We sent for Mark.”
“You had us frightened, young man,” Byrd added. “I feared for a moment you had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage or similar episode but you seem to be yourself again.”
Before I could respond, Mark appeared in the open doorway, his brow creased with worry. He hurried to my side. Sitting on the bed, he took my pulse and checked my other vital signs as Karl and Tina recounted what they knew. Satisfied that there was no permanent damage done, Mark asked how I had been stricken. When I said I'd been the victim of psychic assault just outside Room 2B, Mark and the others exchanged startled glances.
“Is it possible...?” Byrd mused.
“What?” I asked, an alarm sounding in the back of my mind. “Who's in 2B?”
“Val,” Mark said quietly, “can you remember anything concrete about the mind you contacted?”
I thought for a moment.
“Not really. There was so much coming at me. No, wait. There was a particular image, quick but definitely more vivid than all the others. I remember flame and noise and a sudden crushing darkness. There might have been pain too but I couldn't tell if it was theirs or mine.”
“What about emotions?” Mark persisted.
“Yes, they were much more prevalent than the memory fragments but...”
“But what?”
“But they didn't seem... human.”
“Do you mean they were like a robot's?” asked Tina.
“Or an alien's, perchance?” Byrd added.
“No, it was just, well, that there was so much anger and hatred. It can't be possible to carry all that inside you and not be consumed by it. What's this all about? Who is in Room 2B?”
“I know how this sounds but we don't know. His records list him as John Doe.”
“Those of us of a dramatic bent have taken to calling him Patient X,” Byrd laughed.
“Doe's been here longer than I have,” Mark continued. “He's as brain-dead as Doc Magnus — sorry, Tina — but considerably worse off physically. He was burned to a crisp years ago, every bone in his body crushed almost to powder, yet something keeps him alive. For the longest time, his condition never seemed to change. But a few months ago he began to show evidence of healing on the microscopic level, healing so slow we mistook it at first for calibration problems with our instruments. There's never been any sign of consciousness until now but if what you sensed is accurate, he must be awake.”
“Where did he come from? How come you've never identified him?”
“How? He has no teeth for us to match against dental records and his tissue damage is so extensive we can't take fingerprints. We aren't sure of his race or hair color or even his original height. All we know for sure is that Patient X was dug from the rubble after Metropolis. There were thousands of these kinds of casualties. Somewhere along the way, the records of when and where he was found were lost. By '91, all the others had either been claimed by relatives or buried in potter's field but this stubborn cuss kept holding on. Finally, the hospital he was in asked Kara Kent to make other arrangements for him because they needed the bed.”
“It's only fair,” said Tina. “It is our fault he was hurt.”
“It wasn't my fault,” protested Byrd. “I sat out that fiasco, thank you.”
“Not to scold,” Mark broke in, “but why were you on the floor at all? Ana doesn't allow anyone up here, even family, without permission.”
“I had permission. I came to ask Mr. Byrd if I could visit Reverend Hall with him today. Frying my brain wasn't exactly on my agenda.”
Byrd beamed.
“I would be delighted to have your company, good sir, if you still feel up to it. I dare say you'd prefer to change your clothing first, though, eh?”
I'd forgotten my embarrassment but now it came creeping back. Mark lifted me into my wheelchair, which was parked just inside the door, as though I weighed no more than a feather. It was the first time Mark had to lift me and I was surprised by his strength.
“We'll get him showered and changed in no time,” Mark promised. “Thank you both for taking care of him.”
“Yes, thank you,” I hurriedly added. “I'm pleased to meet you, by the way, Miss Platte, regardless of the circumstances.”
“Me too, Mr. Stevens,” the robot beauty answered. “Bob and Naomi mentioned having you to dinner at the cottage Saturday night. I hope you won't let this prevent you from joining us.”
“If Naomi cooks as well as she bakes, nothing short of armageddon could keep me away,” I promised her. She responded with a dazzling smile that stayed with me for hours.
There was an anxious moment as Mark and I passed Room 2B en route to the elevator but nothing happened. My empathic sense, now beginning to function again, detected life within the room but I received nothing more than the white noise I got from Doc Magnus.
“Anything?” Mark asked.
“No,” I answered. “I don't sense it now. He's just broadcasting static.”
“Just broadca...? Wait a minute. You can sense whether John Doe is conscious from out here in the hall? How is that possible?”
Oops. I hadn't shared the secret of my psychic gift with Mark. Sheepishly, I explained what empathy was and how it worked.
“Any other superpowers you want to admit to?” he asked, the air about him humming in tune with his irritation. “Or would that spoil the surprise?”
“My not telling you was never a question of trust. It's become second nature over the years to keep it secret. The thought of my power makes most people uncomfortable.”
“Of course it does! Nobody wants to be read like an open book. Are you doing it now?”
“I can't turn it off completely but at this level I can only skim the surface of your emotions. Anything deeper takes a hellacious amount of concentration. And you have to understand something here: I hate my power. I hate the way it makes me feel and I hate how it affects my life. If I could have it surgically removed, I'd do it tomorrow and no regrets.”
Mark smiled.
“Okay, bud, I'll accept that. Thanks for leveling with me. I hope you know by now that you can always be totally honest with me.”
We returned our attention to the matter at hand.
“So,” Mark said, “Patient X is comatose again, is that right?”
“Yeah, but is that possible? Slipping in and out of a coma, I mean? I thought that only happened on trashy crap like Melrose Place.”
“There are theories that comatose patients, even those who've been out of it as long as Doc Magnus or John Doe, may unpredictably experience short moments of lucidity. Most doctors scoff at the idea but that could explain what you felt.”
“Possibly,” I agreed. “I did detect disorientation along with all the rest.”
“Still, maybe it would be better if you stayed off the floor until we have more answers.”
I wasn't about to argue. It was okay with me if I never had to experience that kind of pain again. At that moment, I would never have believed that in just a few days, countless lives would depend on my doing exactly that.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 18, 2014 7:47:33 GMT -5
Chapter 18
“I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance. Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it? And when she hath found it, she calleth her friends and her neighbours together, saying, Rejoice with me; for I have found the piece which I had lost. Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.”
The clear, confident voice of the Reverend Donald Hall hung in the stifling air of his rectory study like a San Francisco fog, the words almost tangible. Summer was back with a vengeance, the temperature rising above 100º by noon. The room's small windows stood open but no breeze blew through to provide the slightest relief. My hair lay matted and damp on my scalp. My clothes clung to me in the most uncomfortable places. I glanced unhappily from time to time at the empty glass from which I'd drained even the melted ice and pondered the paradox of a hellhole in a House of God.
Nose job or not, surely none of Karl Byrd's old acquaintances would recognize the kneeling, sobbing figure at the minister's side as the infamous Penguin. Even I found it hard to equate this pathetic old man with the proud and preening gentleman I had accompanied from Lash House only ninety minutes before.
For a time, Byrd had walked the mile and a half to the small non-denominational church that lay along the main road to Devereaux Corners. As his cancer advanced and his endurance lessened, he began driving the distance instead. His preferred ride was Etta's old Lincoln but today, for my benefit, he drove one of the home's lift-equipped vans. However bold he had been in his criminal days, Karl now drove with the timidity of the octogenarian he was. This gave us a chance to chat on the way.
“If you don't mind my asking,” I said as we pulled out of the driveway, “why did you sit out Vandal Savage's attempted coup?”
Byrd squawked with laughter.
“Prescience, dear boy. I foresaw exactly how his bid for power would conclude and I had no desire to sacrifice myself on the altar of futility. He invited me, of course, even offered me a position as one of his lieutenants, but for all his gracious proclamations of respect and admiration, I knew I was naught to him but cannon fodder.”
“You must have been one of the few who turned him down.”
“There were others who shared my capacity for enlightened self-interest. Most of the naysayers saw, as did I, that the proposition was simply a fool's crusade. You'd prefer I name names, of course?”
“If you're comfortable with it.”
“Why not? None of the survivors mean anything to me or I to them.”
“So you don't stay in touch with your fellow super-villains, I take it?”
Karl looked at me askance, one eyebrow raised quizzically, before clucking, “That's Dick Grayson talking, young sir. Really, you must learn some subtlety if you expect to succeed as an undercover man.”
I tried to bluster my way past my chagrin but Byrd merely patted my leg reassuringly.
“It's quite all right. Let me think for a moment. Deathstroke was one of them; his mercenary soul detected no profit in the venture. Some — the Shade, the Blue Lama, the Key, one or two others — decided it was a good time to be out of the country. Amos Fortune said his horoscope bade him refuse. The Puzzler was recovering from open heart surgery. The Huntress and Sportsmaster feared orphaning their children. Eclipso wasn't invited at all, too unpredictable. A number of minor crime lords and small time costumed villains, whose names would likely mean nothing to you, also passed on the opportunity but almost everyone else active in the States jumped aboard the bandwagon.”
“Where were you when the invitation came?”
“Where so many of us were: in prison. You may recall that Savage's first public move was to free as many of our kind as possible, his forces striking all the major correctional institutions simultaneously. Fortunately for the reticent among us, our liberation was not contingent on joining him. I went underground and stayed there, following the news reports avidly, needless to say. When Savage issued his challenge to the Justice League, I knew the arrogant fool had made his fatal mistake.”
“Mark says Savage didn't believe the heroes would shoot to kill.”
“He is absolutely correct. Savage never did understand the psychology of the opposition. He mistook their customary eschewment of deadly force for weakness of will. The heroes didn't kill because they didn't need to. But when faced with an unambiguous declaration of war upon America by the super-villain community, how else were they to respond? Also, however unlikely it seems in hindsight, Savage overlooked the response of the government to his threats.”
“What, he left law enforcement and the military out of his plans? That's not arrogance, that's monumental stupidity!”
Byrd laughed so hard, he nearly steered the van into a ditch.
“Well said, young Valentine, well said! Monumental stupidity, indeed, but not so surprising upon reflection. Contempt for the common man is a notable failing among my kind. We have been so consistently opposed by the super-heroes that we forget the police inevitably stand ready to step in — with extreme prejudice if necessary — should the heroes fail. Savage often boasted of either advising or actually being such military masterminds as Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great. His calculation that the authorities would allow the battle to go forward solely as a duel between costumes suggests that such claims were naught but sheer hokum. Or perhaps, after thousands of years of life, senility finally caught up to him.”
“What was your reaction to the outcome?”
“Part of me felt a perverse satisfaction at Savage's failure, but in truth...”
A change came over him. The Penguin persona fell away, exposing the true face of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, the man behind the bird. It was a sad, almost tortured, face.
“In truth, all that death horrified me. Some of the fallen were my good friends. I liked the Riddler and the Prankster very much, to name but two. I spent a lovely week in Monte Carlo back in '66, carousing and womanizing with Clock King. Shakedown saved me from gang rape during my last prison term. And I had tremendous respect for many of the slain on the other side as well. The old timers had earned the right to die peacefully abed, not in some squalid street brawl.
“But it was the civilian casualties that preyed upon my conscience most. In all my years as a master criminal, I never caused the death of an innocent. Even though I declined to join Savage's band, I felt tarred by that brush nonetheless. I determined to retire from crime. I surrendered myself to Batman two days after the Battle and led him to my horde of ill-gotten gains, begging him to return what he could and sell the rest, the proceeds to go to the Metropolis Victims Fund. He must have sensed the sincerity of my repentance because he recommended me for parole. I didn't have to go back to jail.
“I inherited a small trust fund as a youth. At the time, it was nothing and I had my sights set on bigger game. I never touched the interest, let alone the principal. Fifty-five years later, it was worth a little under nine million after taxes. I used a part of it to buy an entire section of cemetery plots outside Metropolis and gave all the fallen super-villains a decent burial, even Monsieur Mallah.”
“The talking gorilla with the French accent?”
“Yes, and what a jolly squabble with the health authorities that was! But if he had a mind, he had a soul and merited the dignity of a headstone. As for the rest of my fortune, I gave it over to Dick Grayson's financial advisors — he had retired the Batman name by then and honored me with his true identity — keeping only a small monthly stipend for my own support. The Cobblepot Foundation has since become the single largest source of private funding for bird sanctuaries around the world. Even that didn't bring me peace.”
As we drove into the gravel parking lot of the Lakeside Church of Redemption, a thin man in dirty coveralls straightened up from the flowerbed where he had been working. Don Hall, for the gardener was the minister himself, was in his late forties. His white blonde hair was slowly retreating up his scalp. His sunburned face was deeply seamed by laugh lines and frown lines alike. A black silk patch covered his right eye. I vaguely remembered that Hall was a veteran of the Battle of Metropolis but couldn't think which costume he had been.
“Who have we here, Karl?” Hall asked as he relieved Byrd of the task of running the van's lift.
“This estimable young man is none other than Princess Diana's son, the celebrated newspaper commentator V. C. Stevens. Val finally had the good taste to accept our invitation.”
“Welcome, Val. I've been looking forward to meeting you since the first time Karl spoke of you. I'm very excited to hear about your book. People's minds and hearts have been clouded for so long. Perhaps through your writings, mankind will see at last that super-heroes are part of His divine plan.”
“Thank you, Reverend...”
“Don, please.”
“Thank you, Don. I appreciate your participation and, of course, your hospitality. I should warn you I'll be looking at all sides of The Life so I can't promise the audience will respond the way you'd like.”
“I'm not anticipating a mass conversion, no,” he laughed in reply. “Report the truth. That's all I ask. Those of true faith aren't afraid to hear the opinions of others voiced. If comparisons are made, we're confident that the pure light of God's love will shine brightest. Shall we go out back? I have a lovely lunch laid out.”
The church itself, through which we passed on the way to lunch, was architecturally unpretentious, severe in its simplicity inside and out. Its pews were of unfinished oak, its candlesticks and other fixtures of tarnished brass and it had only an ancient upright piano for music. This was not the sort of house of worship that created a sense of awe in its congregation — or so I thought until I saw its stained glass windows. There were a baker's dozen of them, the windows on the aisles representing the Twelve Apostles and that behind the altar portraying the crucified Christ. Each was exquisitely detailed, a testament to both consummate craftsmanship and a generous benefactor. Prominently positioned at the apex of every window was the haloed bird symbolizing the Holy Spirit. It was this image that solved the mystery of Hall's heroic alias.
“You were the Dove, weren't you, Don?” I asked as we sat down at a picnic table set up in the shadow of the steeple, its shade providing little but psychosomatic cooling. “As in the Hawk and the Dove. You were Teen Titans alongside my Aunt Donna in the late Sixties.”
“That's me. How is Donna, by the way? What's she doing these days?”
“She's fine, happily married, still winning awards for her fashion photography and still glad to be out of The Life.”
“So am I, more than you'll ever know. And I suppose,” he added with a wry smile, “that's your cue to play Barbara Walters.”
I laughed.
“I would like to get your story on tape if I could.”
A moment later, the recorder was up and running.
“Just out of curiosity, you aren't by any chance related to the Hawkman Halls?” I asked.
“Afraid not,” Don replied. “My great-grandfather came from Sweden in the 1880s. Our name was originally Holstrom but Dad Americanized it just before he entered law school. Too bad. Maybe if I were a relative, I could get a fat donation out of your brother-in-law.”
“You obviously don't know Hector. It would take a command from Jesus Himself to pry open his wallet.”
I suddenly remembered the tape was running. Discretion suggested we rewind and start on a less contentious note.
“The transition from super-hero to man of the cloth is a singularly uncommon one,” I began. “Were you always of a religious bent?”
“Not really. I was always interested in spirituality, just not necessarily in Christianity, or not the version offered at the First Presbyterian Church of Elmond anyway. My parents dragged my brother and I to church every Sunday when we were growing up but once we hit puberty, we fought it. Hank simply wanted to stay home and watch sports but it was a matter of principle for me, in that I wasn't willing to have my belief system just spoon-fed to me. Dad was furious with my constant questioning and doubt. He saw it as an attack on him, I think.”
“Where is Elmond?”
“In Oregon, about 65 miles southeast of Salem. It was the proverbial sleepy little college town, though by '68 its sleep was restless. Oh, Elmond never experienced the kind of campus discord that plagued Berkeley or Kent State. But there were plenty of students, townies too, who decided that growing their hair, listening to Jefferson Airplane and smoking dope was a pretty groovy way to pass the time. The fact that it outraged the locals was just a bonus. And nobody was more outraged than my father, or was in a better position to act on it.”
“How so?”
“He was a criminal court judge. Dad always insisted he was ‘tough but fair’ but the truth is that Judge Irwin Hall was a notorious hardass. God help you if you got brought before his bench, especially if you fit his idea of a hippie. And since his idea of a hippie was Pat Boone, the would-be radicals of Elmond didn't have a prayer.”
“A college town in Oregon sounds like a pretty unlikely place to find a mystery man, let alone a pair of them. How did you and your twin brother end up in tights fighting crime?”
“Hank and I weren't twins. He was a year older than me but he missed a year of school because of scarlet fever so we were in the same class from third grade on. That was just one of many reasons he used to beat me up on a regular basis.”
“You were rivals, then?”
“I didn't want to be, but yes. Hank was fanatically competitive in everything. It wasn't enough that he was better at sports than I was, or that he made Eagle Scout while I barely made it past Tenderfoot, or that girls hung on him and snubbed me. He couldn't stand that I got straight A's all through school without seeming to work at it where he had to sweat blood to maintain a C average. So he bullied me every chance he got. What's worse, Dad encouraged it. He said it would make a man out of me.
“But to get back to Hawk and Dove: Dad got on the bad side of some local political boss up to his neck in graft and corruption. The guy ordered a hit. Hank and I accidentally overheard the conversation. They caught us and threw us in a meat locker to freeze to death. We were so scared, not only for ourselves but for Dad. Just as we were about to pass out from the cold, we heard a Voice offer us great power, power enough to save Dad, if we would swear to only use these gifts in the name of Justice. Of course, we swore. That was the first time we were transformed into Hawk and Dove.”
“Transformed,” I repeated in surprise. “I thought you were simply exceptional athletes with a flair for tactics. I didn't know you had superpowers.”
“Oh yes. We had four or five times the strength, speed and agility of normal men and our endurance was practically limitless. You'd never know it from the media accounts of us, though. Most people around Elmond, including the editors of the local paper, thought Superman and the others were some sort of media hoax, kind of like pro wrestling.”
“I interrupted you, I apologize. Did you stop the assassins?”
“Did we ever! We kicked down the locker door, ran to the courthouse at nearly 90 miles an hour, and grabbed the bad guys just seconds before they pulled the triggers.”
“You just waded into them? I thought you were a pacifist.”
“If by ‘pacifist,’ you mean someone who allows evil things to happen that he has the power to prevent, no, I was not a pacifist. It's true I always tried to reason with our enemies first, to defuse the situation without violence. If they attacked me or threatened innocents, I relied on a martial art style that emphasizes immobilizing your opponent without harming him. And if, once in a blue moon, I had to throw a punch, then so be it.”
“This would've been before the whole Bruce Lee/Richard Dragon/Kung Fu craze. Where'd you learn martial arts in Oregon?”
“I didn't. The knowledge just... appeared in my head when I turned into Dove. I didn't retain it when I changed back. I don't remember it now.”
“Another childhood illusion is shot down in flames. Next you'll be telling me Hawk wasn't the maniac he seemed in the news clips.”
“He was worse,” Don sighed. “Hank was always quick with his fists. After he became Hawk, he had what seemed to be divine sanction for the beatings he handed out. What's worse, the powers gave him the knowledge to hurt his opponents without fatally injuring them. Hawk loved to straddle that line. I was... I was scared of him, even though I knew I could defeat him. The Voice told me so.”
“Did the Voice identify itself as God?”
He smiled wearily.
“An astute question. No, it didn't. Hank and I assumed it was the Voice of God. That assumption caused us years of misery. As time went on, the Hawk and Dove personas began taking over Hank and Don's lives. It was as if the powers reduced us to broad caricatures of our true selves, with all the subtle nuances that made us individuals stripped away. Dad saw what was happening to us and tried to steer us away from the most extreme of our beliefs but he couldn't match the strength of the spell we were under.”
“Did he know of your other identities?”
“No. In fact, he agitated constantly for the arrest of Hawk and Dove. He considered their vigilante activities more of a danger to the public than the crooks they fought. In Hawk's case, he had a point: Hank hospitalized almost everyone he fought and civilians sometimes got hurt during those fights. Dad loved the law above all other things. He wouldn't have let his feelings for us prevent him from seeing us prosecuted and sent to prison.”
“How did you hook up with the Teen Titans?”
“By accident. Hank and I had graduated from high school and we were in San Francisco for the summer. We'd become Hawk and Dove, I forget why, and blundered into the middle of a Titans case. They invited us to hang out with them afterward. So we were there when Mister Jupiter contacted them.”
“Jupiter? It seems like Aunt Donna mentioned him once or twice.”
“Loren Jupiter was one of the world's richest men. After years of being a playboy wastrel — his words, not mine — he decided on his fiftieth birthday to spend the rest of his life and his fortune serving mankind. Jupiter believed that super-heroes squandered their gifts fighting super-villains when they should be focused on the true evils of the world: racial and ethnic intolerance, political and economic oppression, environmental degradation. He wanted the Titans to act as his operatives. I wasn't so sure it was a good idea.”
“You didn't agree with his goals?”
“Not fully. I thought he was rather naïve. Hawk and Kid Flash were vehemently opposed to Jupiter at first but eventually they came around. We all did. Mr. Jupiter was the most persuasive man I ever met, or at least the most manipulative, but somehow you never resented him for it. He had a way of seeing into your heart and saying just the right thing to get you to go along with whatever he wanted. But he was wrong. The problems he wanted us to deal with couldn't be solved with muscle and that's really all super-heroes are in the end is muscle.
“When Hank and I didn't come home in the fall, Dad decided we'd been brainwashed, that Jupiter was running some kind of cult. He made a very public stink about it. He shouldn't have. Three months after he made his accusations, Dad was the focus of a political scandal that cost him the bench and nearly sent him to jail. We went back to Elmond and stood by Dad through all his troubles, not knowing Jupiter had arranged it all just to silence him. If we had known, we never would've gone back to the Titans.
“Eventually, the Titans and Jupiter parted company anyway. By then, all the ‘Teen’ Titans were in their twenties, except for Beast Boy, and we all had different directions to go in so we broke up the team.”
“You dropped out of sight then, not reappearing until the Battle of Metropolis. What happened to you during those intervening years?”
“Hank and I both liked San Francisco so we stayed there for college. He eventually became a civil engineer and I became head of public relations for an environmental lobby. We both got married. But you're wrong about Hawk and Dove vanishing. Hank continued to make the change at every opportunity and petty crooks in the Bay Area lived in constant terror. At first, I went along with him and tried to keep him in line but after a while, my marriage was in trouble and I couldn't spare the time. The Dove retired.
“Finally, in '81, Hawk went too far. He killed a local druglord. It was an accident, the guy stumbled and fell off a rooftop, but Hawk terrorized him into it. The druglord's father was a Mafia don back in Gotham. He came to San Francisco for revenge, unaware Batman Number Two was following along behind. The big boss captured Hawk and, before long, me and Batman as well.
“That was what the Voice had been waiting for. It stripped us of our superpowers, then revealed itself to us in its true demonic form. In causing the unjust death of another — Hank directly and me through indifference — we had forfeited our souls. Once we were executed, we would roam the Earth as the Undead, undermining true justice by committing atrocities in its name.
“But the Voice made a mistake. It underestimated God's power to move men's hearts. Seeing Hank and I without our masks, scared and vulnerable, and seeing how much Hank regretted killing his son, the mob boss began to cry. If he hadn't raised his son to be a criminal, he said, Hawk would never have bothered him. It was his fault his boy was dead, not ours. And then something really extraordinary happened: he forgave Hank and let us all go. His forgiveness and show of mercy shattered the demon's spell and destroyed its ability to manifest itself on Earth. It vanished, never to be heard from again. We were free, in every sense.”
“Yet five years later, Hawk and Dove were back.”
“Through some quirk of magic, the powers were ours to keep, demon or no demon. Even better, we retained our normal personalities when we transformed. But we rarely invoked Hawk and Dove after we defeated the Voice. Free of its influence, Hank and I finally grew up. Our personal and professional lives thrived. Linda and I had just decided to start a family when the Justice League contacted us and asked us to help them stop Vandal Savage.”
“You were injured in the Battle. How did it happen?”
Hall's entire face began to tense as he spoke.
“Hawk and I were among the heroes assigned to work with the National Guard and Metropolis Police containing and neutralizing Savage's shock troops, the common criminals he used as infantry. It was the bloodiest, most numbing kind of urban warfare. We fought block by block, building by building, inch by inch. The crooks were staggered by the ferocity with which we fought and began retreating in disarray. Savage sent some of his costumed cronies to rally them. One of those he sent was Deadshot. Deadshot... blew Hank's head off with an explosive bullet. A sliver of his skull pierced my eye. I went down, but not before I saw Deadshot riddled with rifle fire from the Army troops. When I awoke, I was in the Batcave and the Battle had been over for more than a day.
“I went back to San Francisco after taking Hank home to Elmond but things weren't the same: I had terrible nightmares that led to me becoming addicted to tranquilizers. I lost my job. I filed for bankruptcy. Linda divorced me.
“One day, just when it seemed things were at their darkest, I dropped to my knees and begged God to help me find the way back to the light. He answered my prayers with a simple but powerful insight: I suffered because I had served the forces of Hell all those years. To atone for it, I must now serve Him. I've since devoted my life to spreading the good news of the Lord's infinite capacity for forgiveness. And no one, I found, needs that message more than my fellow superhumans. That's why I came to Devereaux Corners. Dick Grayson persuaded me to come and serve as spiritual advisor to the community that sprang up around the Lash Center.”
“How large is your congregation?” I asked, as the pastor began to gather up the dishes.
“About eighty-five, not counting children. That's a deceptive figure, though, because I counsel many people connected to The Life who don't attend my services, many of whom live far from Wisconsin. As far as actual parishioners go, Victor Stone and his family are with us, Clark Kent, Stretch Skinner... oh, and Larry Collins just joined us last month. Chief Grayson drops in every few weeks, though he just stands quietly in the back of the church, and Etta Candy attends on Christmas and Easter. All our other members are from town except Karl, of course. Speaking of whom, if you'll excuse us for a few minutes, Karl and I need to speak in private. The church library has a fine collection. Perhaps you'd enjoy browsing through it while we talk?”
“Actually, Reverend,” said Byrd, “I'd like Val to join us. He's been asking how I came to the Lord and I thought we might use our Bible study time to answer him.”
And so I sat stricken with heat prostration as Karl Byrd continued the story of his quest for spiritual guidance.
“My parents died when I was quite young,” he was saying, “so young I cannot remember anything of them. I was raised by my father's maiden aunt, Miranda Cobblepot, a no-nonsense daughter of the Adventist church. Perhaps it was her constant stream of ‘Thou shalt nots’ that drove me to crime.”
He paused.
“No. No, that isn't true. She was a dear old lady trying her best to raise a child thrust upon her by circumstance. She wanted nothing less than the best for me. It was I who was ungrateful and cruel.”
“How did you come to be the Penguin?” I asked.
“When my high school held a formal dance, I rented a tuxedo even though I attended sans escort. The school newspaper ran a photograph of me the following week over a caption reading ‘Behold The Penguin!’ I began wearing the tux to school, as a joke. Oddly enough, my classmates treated me differently after that. For the first time, I detected a measure of respect amidst the derision. That was when I decided to be the Penguin always.”
“But why was it necessary for the Penguin to be a criminal?”
“An excellent question but easily answered. I was already a criminal. I had been a shoplifter at age six and soon graduated to planning larger crimes for the local ruffians. Had I not adopted the Penguin identity, I would probably have stayed behind the scenes but my newfound confidence led me to bolder and bolder blows against society. And once I had crossed swords with the elder Batman, there was no turning back.
“Ah, what jolly days those were! My adversaries within the underworld were no match for my formidable intellect, but Batman! No matter how labyrinthine I made my plans, his razor-sharp mind cut through them as if I had telegraphed him every detail. How I enjoyed matching wits with that man! I dare say it became an addiction, dueling with him, and like many an addict I became reckless in pursuit of my fix.”
“I never met the original Batman. Tell me about him.”
“Where do I begin, dear boy? He was a magnificent brute! He looked as if he were carved from marble, so resplendent was his physique, yet he moved with a speed and grace any cheetah would envy. His athleticism was breathtaking to behold. I can't tell you how often I was utterly mesmerized watching him. His fighting prowess, too, had to be seen to be believed. It was not uncommon to see him incapacitate ten opponents, each larger than he, in as many seconds, trading quips with the boy all the while.”
“With Robin, Chief Grayson.”
“Yes. He would leap about the edges of his mentor's battles, chipping away at the crowd, a flashing dervish with a pun ever ready on his lips. Woe betide the felon who underestimated the Boy Wonder! Even as a nine-year-old, he was a better combatant than most of my criminal brethren. Indeed,” he continued as he absentmindedly rubbed his jaw, “his little fists challenged the skills of more than one prison dentist.”
“Your criminal career spanned four decades. Did you ever cross swords with anyone besides the Batmen?”
“I occasionally clashed with the first Green Arrow when I worked the West Coast and I had a very odd encounter with the Martian Manhunter in the summer of '57 but they couldn't compare to the thrill of dueling the so-called Dynamic Duo. I confess I had trouble adjusting when Grayson took over as Batman and Wayne's daughter became the second Robin. I had always prided myself on my gallantry towards the fairer sex. A female opponent meant a rethinking of my customary modus operandi. In my confusion, I even foolishly cooperated in one of Doctor Destiny's byzantine plots against the Justice League. That escapade landed me behind bars once more. By the time I merited parole, Robin had gone solo and I could resume my pursuit of victory over her pointy-eared mentor.”
“A victory you never achieved, Karl,” noted Reverend Hall.
“Praise God it was so,” Byrd replied. “Batman was a tremendous force for good. To destroy him would have been sin indeed. Even so, as I passed middle age and grew old, I began to fear for my soul. I sought to redeem myself through good works after abandoning my criminal ways but that didn't seem to fill the void growing within. Then came the cancer and I knew I would die. A childhood full of Adventist threats of fire and brimstone caught up to me and I realized that, if I didn't make my peace with God, I was bound for the Fiery Pit.”
He began to weep, falling to his knees as he struggled to speak.
“I deserve Hell, I don't deny it, but I'm so afraid of the pain, so afraid of the finality of His judgment. I do repent my sins, I do accept Jesus Christ's gift of atonement, I do believe in Our Father's divine mercy, I do, I do, before God I do.”
His sobbing grew uncontrollable.
Don knelt at his side and held the old man in his arms.
“Tell me again,” Byrd whispered, like a child asking his mother for a favorite bedtime story. “Tell me again His parable of the Prodigal Son.”
The words began to fill the rectory's stifling air:
“And he said, A certain man had two sons...”
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Post by Cei-U! on May 19, 2014 7:34:55 GMT -5
Chapter 19
We rode back to Lash House in uncomfortable silence. Karl was deeply embarrassed by his display of emotion. After sixty years of playing the Penguin, it was difficult to reveal his inner self. As for me, my head was throbbing. Still not fully recovered from Patient X's psychic assault, I wasn't strong enough to experience Byrd's torment without physical consequence. If the old man wasn't feeling talkative, that was all right with me.
Byrd reluctantly consented to my recording his history but I sensed his hesitation. I repeatedly assured him that his account would be disguised so that his former colleagues wouldn't recognize him. This apparently still didn't satisfy him. He shifted his weight in the driver's seat and showily cleared his throat.
“Listen,” he ventured, “about what you heard in there...”
I sighed and rolled my eyes.
“Karl, for the last time, I'm not putting anything about you in the book without your written permission. I don't know what you want me to tell you that'll... Jesus Christ! Watch out!”
Byrd answered the shout in kind, swerving the van to avoid the man walking unconcernedly toward us down the middle of the narrow road. He stomped on the brake and frantically spun the steering wheel, fighting to retain control. The van did a pair of 360s before leaving the road and mowing down a row of corn. Scared and furious, Byrd leaned out the window ready to hurl a stream of invective at the oblivious pedestrian but I stopped him.
“Karl, wait,” I said in a low voice. “That's Snapper Carr.”
The old man adjusted his pince-nez before answering, “Why, so it is. What's he doing so far from the Center?”
Fortunately, the van was undamaged. Byrd restarted it and drove back onto the road. He pulled alongside of Carr and paced him as I tried to talk to the smiling stray.
“Snapper,” I called, “do you need a ride?”
Carr looked up at me and smiled.
“Hello! Have we met?”
“It's Val Stevens, Snapper, Ana's son. We met at lunch on Tuesday, remember? With Eel O'Brian and the Sidekicks?”
His brow furrowed as he struggled to remember. He decided to bluff.
“Oh sure, Mr. Stevens. What are you doing in Happy Harbor?”
It took me a second to remember that Happy Harbor, Rhode Island, was both Snapper's hometown and the site of the Justice League's original headquarters. I realized the best way to get the befuddled ex-mascot back to Lash House was to play along.
“Wonder Woman sent us out to find you,” I said, as Karl chuckled beside me. “You're late for the meeting and she was starting to worry.”
Snapper stopped walking, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looked around uncertainly.
“I can't find my jalopy,” he admitted, “so I decided to walk but I... I think I'm lost.”
“Don't worry about it, Snap. Hop in and we'll have you there in no time.”
He got in through the side door, satisfied that we'd ferry him safely to JLA HQ. As we drove, he happily chattered on about the League's “recent” victory over Doctor Destiny, a reference that made Byrd wince. What might have happened to him if we hadn't come along? I didn't care much for the possibilities.
As we pulled up to the front gate, we saw a reception committee waiting: Etta, Doctor Mac, Larry Collins and a visibly annoyed Ana. From the chastened look on Collins' face, it wasn't hard to guess from whose leash Snapper had slipped. Ana walked up to Karl's door, asking, “Have either of you seen...?”
She stopped as she noticed Snapper smiling at her from the back seat.
“Thank Hera, you found him. Where was he?”
“Wandering down the center of Lakeside Drive,” answered Byrd. “We almost hit him.”
“Hi, Diana,” Snapper called cheerfully. “Sorry I'm late. These cool cats let me hitch a ride. Are they new members?”
Ana wanted to be angry but there was no point.
“It's cleaning day, Snap. You were supposed to dust the trophy room. Atom had to do it instead.”
This hit him hard, for he took his JLA duties seriously. He scrambled down from the van and stood at solemn attention.
“I'm awful sorry, WW. If it's all right, I'll go see if there's something else I can lend a hand with.”
Ana sighed again and nodded. As Snapper walked away whistling, Larry practically glued to his side, Ana said to Etta sotto voce, “I just want him to live in the present once in a while. Is that so much to ask?”
He heard. He stopped in his tracks and turned back to face her, anguish and anger written on his features.
“The present?” he replied, his voice gaining a mature timbre. “What's so great about the present? You think I don't try to understand what's happened to me, that I don't care about what's going on around me, but you're wrong. You're all wrong.”
“Snapper,” Ana began hesitantly, “I...”
“Let me tell you what the present means to me, Diana. It means my parents are dead and I can't remember saying goodbye. It means the women I fell in and out of love with are just faces in a photo album. It means the people I respect most treat me like a joke one minute and a pain the next. In the past, in the times that are clear to me, I was a hero, maybe not a big kahuna like you and the doc but I did good. In the present...”
Tears began to roll down his face.
“In the present, I'm the family fruitcake who has to live in an old folks' home because his brothers and sisters don't want the responsibility for him. In the present, I'm nothing.”
Now Ana was weeping too.
“Oh, Snap, you're not nothing. You're our... you're my friend. I love you. We all love you. And you are a hero. You're here because you're a hero. And if we seem to forget that, I'm truly sorry.”
“It isn't just that,” he continued after furiously wiping away his tears. “You don't know what it's like to wake up in the morning and look in the mirror and see a stranger looking back. My head tells me that flabby old geezer is me but my heart says it's a lie, that I'm still seventeen-year-old Snapper Carr, boy mascot of the JLA. So I listen to my heart and become that boy again because anything's better than facing the truth.”
“I know it's painful to think about what's happened to you, Snapper,” answered McNider, “and I know it's comforting to live in a dream. But surely you see that life must go on.”
“That's right, Snap,” Etta said. “It ain't healthy to waste your days in a fantasy world. Wishin' Merlyn hadn't shot you won't never make it so.”
He smiled sadly and shook his head.
“You don't understand, Miss Candy. I don't wish Merlyn hadn't shot me. I wish he'd had better aim.”
He turned his back on us and began the walk back to the house.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 20, 2014 7:16:51 GMT -5
Chapter 20
There was a note on the desk in my room telling me that Trish Blum had phoned. I returned her call immediately. After this afternoon's angst, Trish's forthright brashness would be a refreshing change.
“Val, sweetie, I've got good news.”
“You found a publisher?”
She laughed gleefully.
“Babe, you have no idea! I mentioned your project to a couple of my more reliable connections and suddenly we've got a fucking feeding frenzy on our hands. Everybody wants this book. We can name our own price.”
“That's great,” I said with less enthusiasm than I actually felt.
“Hey, kiddo, you okay? You aren't backing out on me, are you?”
“Don't worry your mercenary little head about it, Trish. I'm fine and the book's still a go. It's just been a long day, that's all.”
“Oh sure. I know how it is. A couple hours with my family in Teaneck and I'm wiped out. But hey, maybe this'll cheer you up. I not only found you a researcher, she's already got stuff to send you.”
That caught me by surprise.
“That's fantastic! But how?”
“Well, see, I was so excited that I couldn't wait for an advance. We've got this great college kid interning with us, Tonya Karenin, you'll love her, and as it turns out, she was already studying superhuman history for her thesis. So I hired her on the spot. I, uh, I'm paying her out of my own pocket for now.”
I was speechless. If Trish was nothing else, she was frugal to a fault. She was still driving the '82 Honda she'd had at CCNY, though she could easily afford anything from a Porsche to a Rolls. This was a true vote of confidence.
“So Tonya has a big stack of clippings and notes to send you. You want me to Fed Ex 'em to you?”
“I've got access to a fax machine here. Why don't you have her send what she has this evening, I'll look them over in the morning and call her afterward, get our efforts coordinated.”
“Sure, doll, no problem. Anything else?”
“Now that you mention it, yeah. Do you still talk to that curator at MOMA?”
“Bernie? Yeah, we occasionally have a nosh. Why?”
“I stumbled on an artist here, Byrna Brilyant, whose work you won't believe. If I can get some decent slides made, can you persuade Bernie to look at them? If we can get her paintings into a respectable gallery, people are really going to sit up and take notice.”
“Hon, I could persuade Bernie to run naked through the Guggenheim if I wanted him to. Send me those slides and I'll make sure they circulate. Who knows, maybe I'll try being an artists' agent for a change?”
We chatted a bit longer before I gave her Ana's fax number and said goodbye. Trish inevitably brightened my day but her news was better than I had any right to expect. My mood was completely reversed. I turned on the radio and settled in to my transcription chores. Time flew by. It seemed I'd barely begun when Mark stopped by three hours later on the assumption that, given the sweltering heat, I might like a quick shower before dinner. He was right.
With Ana and the other staffers scrambling to get ready for tomorrow's inspection, I decided to eat in the annex. Victor Stone, forced to work late, was walking in at the same time and invited me to keep him company.
As we looked at our menus, Vic said offhandedly, “I'm not going to go on the record about anything so don't bother asking for an interview.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Look, you're a good guy and all but I know the press and you've got that reporter gleam in your eye.”
One of the dining hall staff came and took our orders. As the waiter walked away, a shout rose from the Sidekicks' table as the old boys, every one three sheets to the wind, whistled and waved and vied for my attention. I smiled and nodded, which was all they wanted. Turning back to say something to Vic, I saw his face awash in cold fury.
“What is it?”
“That nasty old fool knows a hundred different ways to say ‘nigger’ without ever saying a word.”
I looked from him to the Sidekicks and back in confusion.
“Who?”
“Toylan. He actually calls me ‘boy,’ can you believe it?”
“Bigot or not, I've never seen him be deliberately rude to anyone.”
“Yeah? Well, you haven't been around for a few years. That man's just hateful.”
“Noddy's not alone, not in the Corners. Maybe they rode the Klan out of town on a rail but they still get hung up on certain things. Nobody's given you or Sarah any trouble, have they?”
“Damn, son,” Vic laughed, “give the hometown folks some credit! What'd you think they'd do, meet me at the train station with a flaming cross and a noose?”
I felt foolish, like some naïve Radical Chic liberal of the Seventies, all condescension and ignorance. Vic continued to chuckle and shake his head as our meal was being served. I was having the veal scaloppini and he had a plate of barbecued pork ribs with cornbread. He caught me eyeing them longingly.
“Surprised to see me eating ribs? Well, guess what? I like ribs. Fried chicken and watermelon too. So what? I also eat Tex-Mex and Thai and sometimes French. Escargot. Yum. Hell, I even like rice cakes. But nobody in the Corners knows jack about barbecue except the chefs here at the Center. This is a real special treat for me so I'd appreciate you keeping your white liberal guilt out of my dinner.”
“That was a moving speech there, Vic, but I just wanted to know if I can have a rib.”
Vic threw his head back and laughed loud and long.
“Excuse me,” he said once he got his breath back, plopping a seductively gooey rib onto my plate. “I didn't mean to go all Malcolm on you. Really, I'm not usually this uptight but I always get an attitude when cops are sniffing around. I know Grayson's righteous but it still raises the hackles on my neck.”
“Where does that come from?”
“From being busted for trespassing while playing in my own front yard.”
“You were what?”
“My mom and dad were famous scientists. Every college and research institute in the free world competed to hire them. We were rich, man, maybe not Rockefeller rich but pay-your-bills-on-time-and-in-full rich, which ain't half bad. When I was seven, we moved into Ivy University's faculty housing. The next afternoon, a neighbor saw a little black boy playing in the yard next door and assumed I was looking to break in and steal the TV. The police wouldn't listen when I said I lived there. One of them shoved me with his nightstick when I started to cry. ‘That won't save your sorry black ass, boy,’ he says. Luckily my folks came home from work and set things straight. They were some kind of mad. They demanded, and got, those officers' badges. I got justice, I know, but I've never forgotten that lesson.”
“At the risk of sounding like a reporter, can I ask you something?”
“Try it and see.”
“Was it a tough adjustment to your robotic parts? I know Cliff Steele had a hard time getting used to his.”
“Yeah, but Steele became all robot, except for his brain. I was still me despite all the shiny metal. Still, it took me a while to put things in perspective and quit hating the world for my injuries. In fact, you deserve some of the credit for that.”
“I do?”
“Remember summer of '81? When Polly invited the Titans to Lash Center for a luau? That's when I first met you. You were just a kid but you were so full of life that it made me ashamed of myself for wallowing in self-pity. If you could face life with a smile despite your handicap, who was I with my millions of dollars' worth of hi-tech prosthetics to complain? That was a real turnaround for me. So I thank you.”
“Wow, Vic, I don't know what to say.”
“I'm sure you'll think of something, Geraldo.”
I laughed.
“Tell me about the Young Titans. You were the first new super-team to pop up since the Teen Titans in the Sixties. What was the connection between the two teams, besides the Titans name?”
“Your family, mostly. Your Aunt Donna was the first team's Wonder Girl and Polly was ours. Oh, and that lettuce-headed Logan clown belonged to both teams.”
“You didn't like Garfield Logan?”
“I'm kidding! Gar was the best friend I ever had. Sure, he was an idiot, thirty years old going on fourteen, but man, could he make me laugh! The man lost two sets of parents and was stuck with green skin in a world that can't even deal with the usual shades of brown but he always had a smile on his face and some bonehead joke to tell. Changing his name from Beast Boy to Changeling couldn't hide the fact he had the dumbest fucking superpower of all time. He turned into animals. Green animals. So he laughed. Didn't make him any less brave though. He saved all our asses more than once. And when I was down, he always stood by me, even when I yelled at him for it. I love Gar, man. I miss him.”
“You haven't stayed in touch?”
“We try but he's out doing his thing, him and Cliff Steele, fighting the good fight and all that, and I'm just a physical therapist in a small town in Wisconsin. Our paths don't cross much anymore.”
“You really like it here, don't you?”
“All I ever wanted was a normal life with a wife and kids. When I became Cyborg, that didn't seem possible anymore so I threw myself into The Life. Don't get me wrong, those were good times but I still felt I was missing out on the things that matter. When Shimmer evaporated the silicon in my circuitry during the Metropolis rumble, she actually did me a favor. I designed new, more lifelike prosthetics without all the fancy hardware. It was the perfect time to walk away from The Life. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have Sarah and the kids, a nice home and a good job where I actually get paid to help folks. I have no regrets.”
“I know Zoe was kidding the other night but do you have a picture of your kids?”
He grinned wickedly.
“Fool! You've fallen into my trap!”
He opened his wallet and pulled out a 5x7 color glossy, unfolding it lovingly on the table. It was a studio portrait of Vic, a plump pretty blonde I assumed was Sarah and a veritable United Nations of children: five girls, four boys; an infant, two toddlers, a kindergartner, three preteens, two teens; white, black, brown, yellow, red; East Asian, Middle Eastern, Native American and I could only guess at the rest. Three — a little blind girl with beautiful curly hair, an older girl with Down's Syndrome and a five-year-old boy in a big car seat, his mind trapped beneath many layers of cerebral palsy — had handicaps. My admiration for Victor Stone grew by leaps and bounds.
“They're all adopted, obviously,” Vic chuckled. “Not everything can be replaced with prosthetics. Love 'em like they were mine. Hurts as much to lose one. Jomo, our boy from Kenya,” and he pointed to a smiling thin child in the second row, “died of AIDS last Christmas.”
“I'm sorry.”
“It's okay. We were blessed to have Jomo for almost seven years, seven years of living with dignity instead of starving to death in some Third World slum. He died surrounded by his loving family. If you got to go, that's one of the better ways. Huh. Jomo. He had this hamster he called America, that damn thing would...”
Vic paused, lost in his memory for a moment, his broad smile and the tears forming at the corners of his eyes betraying its bittersweetness. I felt myself tear up in empathy.
“Sorry,” said Vic a second later, “I do that sometimes.”
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“I, uh, I meant to ask you,” I said, “if, when you have some time, you could recommend a few neck exercises? I'm tightening up a lot these days.”
“Finally admitting you need professional help? No worries. Let's get together at lunch tomorrow and I'll fix you up. I do good work. Ask around. In fact, you can ask this guy here.”
He stood up and pulled a chair out for the figure approaching.
The old man moved at a snail's pace, advancing his walker in half-inch increments. Though what was left of his hair was pure white and his whippet-thin physique was now bent and wizened, the elegant mustache and mischievous twinkle in his eye were unmistakable.
“Captain Andre!”
Andre Blanc-Dumont was the quintessential Frenchman, a charming mix of Gallic chauvinism, romantic eloquence and an unquenchable joie de vivre. He was also a hero a dozen times over, beginning with his days as a hotshot aviator in a Provençal air show, continuing through his anti-Nazi activities with the French Underground and climaxing spectacularly with his recruitment into the Blackhawks, the legendary squadron of freedom fighters whose daring and resourcefulness was equaled only by their unmatchable skill as pilots.
The Blackhawk team, each member an expatriate from an Allied or Axis-conquered nation, was a product of World War II that attempted to outlive its time. After the war ended, the squad focused on the threat of “international Communism,” which they combated by insinuating themselves into the internal affairs of dozens of Third World countries. In 1959, their activities were denounced by the United Nations General Assembly. The Blackhawks tried to rehabilitate their public image by becoming crimefighters instead of soldiers of fortune, even making a pathetic stab at becoming conventional super-heroes before finally giving in to reality and disbanding in 1968.
Many of the former Blackhawks invested their money wisely and lived out their lives in comfort. Andre, however, never caught the knack of thrift. When Janos and Zinda Prohaska, Blackhawk himself and his wife, converted the team's Mediterranean island headquarters into a playground for Europe's decadant rich, they hired Andre to maintain the fleet of Lear jets that ferried guests to and from the resort. A year later, corporate raiders shunted the Prohaskas aside and Andre was forced to stand down as head mechanic and turn elsewhere for his support. Finding himself banned from his homeland by order of the Pompidou administration, he wandered the world, repeatedly endangering his health through prolonged bouts of homelessness until Aquaman discovered Andre in a Singapore jail on charges of petty theft and vagrancy. Aquaman persuaded the local gendarmes to drop the charges and sent the old man to America and Lash House.
I was too young when Andre first arrived to remember his initial mental state. By the time the Frenchman took an interest in me, his health had been restored and his mind, once dulled by malnutrition and malaria, was again as keen as in his Blackhawk days. Captain Andre spent a great deal of time with me. He taught me French and geography. We spent hours poring over maps and globes. He also cut a swath through the Corners' supply of single women until a triple bypass eight years ago put an end to his pursuit of l'amore. Since that time, Andre had become morose and uncommunicative until he unexpectedly married a local woman two decades his junior. Marriage obviously agreed with him.
“Valentine,” he crooned (as always, pronouncing the name “Valenteen”), “it is how wonderful to see you again. You have make me proud when I read your name in the newspapers. I point to your name and tell the people, ‘He is like my own son to me, that one.’ Applause, applause to you, my old friend.”
“Applause to you, Captain,” I countered. “I hear someone's finally made an honest man of you.”
“Ah yes, the news of marriage takes you by surprise, did it? Andre, the lover of all women, now content with but one! If I had known the worth of marital bliss, I should have, how do they say, taken the plunge long ago.”
He winked lecherously.
“She keeps me young!”
“She must be quite a woman.”
“See for yourself, for she is arrive,” he said, his arm feebly waving in a brave attempt at a flourish. I turned to greet Mrs. Captain Andre and was stunned at her identity. Though the years had not been kind, there was still no mistaking those mournful brown eyes that had long ago stared forth from newspapers and wanted posters throughout the Midwest. Mrs. Andre Blanc-Dumont was Suzette Devereaux.
In 1949, fourteen-year-old Suzette, great-granddaughter of Hercule, was snatched from her bedroom in the dead of night. A ransom of $50,000 was demanded and paid. Five weeks later, the badly decomposed body of a teenage girl was found in the woods not far from Lash House. It was assumed to be Suzette. As the town mourned, two masked strangers appeared in their midst: the original Batman and Robin, hot on the trail of a jewel thief and con man named Michael Baffle. Persuaded by the town elders to give an opinion on Suzette's murder, the world's greatest detective soon revealed the awful truth. Suzette Devereaux was not dead and had not been kidnapped. The sexually precocious teenager had become Baffle's mistress and they planned the fraud together. It was all little more than a romantic practical joke to her until her lover strangled an anonymous runaway he'd picked up somewhere and left her body behind to throw off the investigators while they fled the country. The FBI caught the fugitive duo in Miami. Baffle died in the subsequent shoot-out and Suzette was returned to Wisconsin to face justice.
If the nation was shocked at this young girl's depravity, the citizens of Devereaux Corners — its name now inextricably linked with one of America's frequent “crimes of the century” — were doubly so. Her wealthy family disowned Suzette even before she was sentenced to 35 years in a federal penitentiary.
Defying the town's hostility, she tried to come home after being paroled in 1969, old before her time and with a nasty morphine monkey on her back thanks to an accident in the prison laundry. Still snubbed by her family, she lived innocuously in a cheap boarding house and waited tables at Lucky Pierre's. On weekends, Suzette drove into Milwaukee where she turned tricks in a massage parlor to pay for her drug habit. She was arrested again and given six months in the city jail. There were rumors that she gave birth to a child during her sentence but she didn't come back to the Corners after her release so nothing definite was known. At the time I left home for college, Suzette had not been heard from in nearly twenty years.
Now she stood next to one of my dearest friends, a 65-year-old ex-convict trying to pass herself off as a sex kitten. Andre's wife was a grotesquerie. The overdone make-up, the teased and tinted hair and the exposed cleavage seemed more appropriate to Times Square than a nursing home. I felt an immediate loathing for the woman.
“Mon cheri,” the old aviator was saying, “at last you are to meet the young man of whom I am speak so often. My good friend Valentine and my so beautiful Suzette face to face. Truly a happy day this is for Andre.”
“How do you do, ma'am?”
She looked at me intently, as if she were searching her drug-befuddled memory for a connection between us. That stare made my skin crawl. There was something in her eyes that...
“I know what you're thinking, kid,” she said, her voice a whiskey-soaked rasp, “but you're wrong. There's no angle, no ulterior motive. I love this old frog, it's as simple as that. When I came back to the Corners this last time, I thought maybe my family would take me back now that I was off the dope. I didn't want their money, I just wanted to...”
She stopped to cough violently.
“Sorry. I just wanted to belong somewhere again. But they couldn't just say no. My brother Jules had to shove me down the steps of Daddy's house, screaming at me, calling me an old whore. Well, I can't blame him, I guess. I mean, look at me. I am an old whore. And everywhere I went in town, I got that same look of disgust you're wearing, kid. Everywhere but here. Your mama gave me a roof over my head and work to do and treated me like I was just as much a lady as her. Then I met Frenchy here. I don't know why he loves me but he does. Nobody's ever been so good to me. Yeah, he knows all about my past — my time in the joint, the dope and the hooking — and he still wanted me...”
She had another, more violent coughing fit and I realized she had an advanced case of tuberculosis.
“Sorry, sorry. He knew everything about me and he still wanted me to be his missus. And I wanted to be too. Andy isn't rich, he's not famous anymore, he's sick and he can't get it up and I don't care about any of that. With him, I've got love and respect and companionship and I'm never letting go. And if you have a problem with that, Mr. Big Shot Reporter, you can go straight to hell.”
“Suzette!” Andre protested.
“It's okay, Captain,” I said. “You're right, ma'am, those were all the things I was thinking. I grew up hearing stories about you that... well, it doesn't matter. I jumped to conclusions about you and I'm sorry.”
Once I'd pulled the stick out of my ass, the rest of dinner was delightful. Suzette Blanc-Dumont was a warm and vivacious old charmer who, over the course of the evening, revealed the graceful and motherly lady beneath the gaudy facade. I couldn't help but be touched by the affection and solicitude she displayed toward her fragile husband.
We stayed at the table long past completing our meal, availing ourselves of Lash House's superb wine cellar. Vic begged off early, reminding us that he hadn't yet finished sprucing up his therapy rooms for tomorrow's inspection. For another hour, Captain Andre told a series of hair-raising stories about his Blackhawk days which, with his permission, I recorded to enjoy again later. When the octogenarian aviator began to tire, Suzette politely cut the evening short.
“I still can't believe it,” I teased, as they said bon soir. “The legendary Blackhawk roué a married man. It really is the millennium.”
“It is most strange to me as well but I am loving it,” Andre answered.
He raised his glass of champagne in salute.
“To my darling Suzette. Though I have had a thousand women, she is the only one to have me.”
I mulled things over as I took a cart back to the mansion. If Lash House represented anything to its residents, it represented a final chance to make peace with oneself and the world. Ana spent hours teaching me exactly that when I was a kid. I'd thought she taught me well, yet I had judged and condemned Suzette Devereaux on sight.
Vic Stone was still working when I stopped by.
“Let me ask you something, Vic.”
“Fire away.”
“Am I shallow?”
Once again, I heard the big man's distinctively raucous laughter.
“Shallow? No, you're not shallow. Self-absorbed, maybe. That, and you have a bad case of tunnel vision. I can remember when you were a kid, you soaked in everything around you. And you cared about people, you genuinely were interested in them.”
His smile faded as he continued.
“But you've lost that. Now you're a journalist 24 by 7. You care about our stories, not about us. When we talk, you're not really listening 'cause you're too busy editing what we say into good copy. You can't break the whole world down into two columns of print. Life's more complex than that, man.”
I sat stunned. For a split-second, I was furious at Stone but then I began to wonder if he was right. Had I really come to see the world in terms of possible columns? That was going to take some serious thought.
“Remind me not to ask you for the truth anymore,” I said after a moment.
“Yeah, you're welcome,” he chuckled.
We talked for a moment or too longer before I said good-night.
“You want to hear something funny?” Vic called after me as I drove down the hall.
I stopped and made a quarter turn.
“What's that?”
“During that whole drama between you and Andre's old lady, all I could think of was how much you looked alike.”
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Post by Cei-U! on May 21, 2014 7:19:13 GMT -5
Chapter 21
“I'll get you for this, you Amazon bitch! You hear me? I'll get you if it's the last thing I ever do!”
Rip Carter wasn't having a good day.
I could hear him screaming long before the elevator reached the third floor. Even as the cage door opened, I saw the major being carried bodily out of the parlor by Mark, Danny and two other orderlies I didn't recognize. He was struggling mightily, tossing himself about with surprising strength for so old a man. I stayed in the elevator, fearful of getting in the way, until Rip began to weaken and lose consciousness. With whatever sedation he'd been given in effect, Danny and the others had no trouble carrying him back to his room.
“What in the world happened?” I asked as I pulled alongside of Mark.
“I'm not sure,” he replied, wiping the sweat from his brow with the heel of his hand. “He and your father had some sort of falling out, from what I can tell. Ana and Etta are putting him to bed.”
“I'd better see how he is,” I said before entering the suite.
Etta was sitting in one of the easy chairs, panting in exhaustion. A hypodermic and an empty medical ampule lay by her feet. She saw me and gave me a tired grin.
“I'm too old and too fat for this stuff, kid,” she said.
“How's the General?”
“Madder'n a wet hen! Whatever Rip said to him musta hit a nerve 'cause he ain't yelled at nobody like that in years. By the time your ma an' I come runnin' in, they was in each other's faces, swearin' at the top of their lungs. For a minute, I thought Steve was gonna get up outta that chair and kick Rip's ass.”
The door to my parents' bedroom opened and Ana stepped halfway out.
“Oh good, Val,” she said, “you're already here. He'd like to see you.”
I drove in and parked at the General's bedside. The old soldier's face was flushed but his eyes were alert, glistening with a fire so long banked I'd nearly forgotten how brightly it could burn. He gave me a smile and a wink before turning to Ana and saying, “Give us a minute alone, angel, will you please?”
No sooner had the door closed than he leaned toward me as best he could.
“Time is short, son, so just listen. It isn't long now until you take command as the man of this family. It won't be easy. They're aren't many families on Earth with womenfolk as strong as this one's. That's not a bad thing, God knows I couldn't be prouder of Diana and Polly, but a healthy family needs a balance. That balance must be maintained if the Trevor family is to survive.”
“I... are you sure you don't want Hec to...?”
“Hector's weak, Valentine. Oh, he's strong enough to wear his father's wings and beat up on super-villains but he's weak where it counts. When the going gets really rough, all you can depend on Hec to do is piss and moan. Not like you. I'd like to say your mother and I made you strong but I can't. There's steel in your spine, boy, there always has been. The Good Lord's given you the Job treatment and you're still here with head held high.”
He began to tire and his words gained a desperate urgency.
“The family's going to need that steel spine soon, son. Promise me...”
He was running out of steam now.
“Promise me you'll take care of your mother. Promise me you'll take care of Lash House. I need that promise or I can't... go... in peace.”
His voice gave out at last but his eyes continued to plead.
“I promise, Dad. I promise.”
The General nodded in satisfaction and leaned back onto his bed, his features relaxing. I sat quietly, watching him sleep and pondering his words. Did I just lie to my father? I wasn't prepared to be head of the family. It'd been years since I'd considered myself a part of the family at all. My father had faith in me. If only it were justified.
Ana sat alone in the parlor. She gathered me into her arms as I entered and held me for a long minute. We sat together, speaking in low tones.
“What happened here?” I asked. “I know you were rethinking Major Carter's prominence in the General's life but...”
“I had nothing to do with it,” she protested. “Rip said he hated super-heroes and your father exploded. Steve's always admired the heroes since long before I came to Man's World. And through me, of course, he's met nearly all of them and they've done nothing but confirm his opinion. So he was hardly receptive to Rip's screed and when Rip got personal...”
“Don't tell me he badmouthed you to the General!?”
“Can you believe it? He gave him that line about pagans sacrificing children and...”
“...and the shit hit the fan.”
“It did indeed,” she said, laughing despite her anger. “Your father ordered Rip from the room, calling him a fool and a traitor and a disgrace to the service, and Rip yelled back, saying Steve was the fool and that I'd brainwashed him, took advantage of his disability to turn him against his own kind. And then it got mean. “When Etta and I got here, Rip had your father by the lapels, had him lifted half out of his chair. Mark and Danny came in then and pulled him off. I didn't dare touch him. Furious as I was, I might have hurt him without meaning to. Of course, in Rip's eyes, it was all my fault and, well, you heard the rest.”
“So what happens now? To Rip, I mean?”
“He'll be kept lightly tranquilized for a couple of days, or until after the inspection anyway. After that, I'm transferring him to the annex. Maybe I'm being petty but I think his days of wandering the mansion unsupervised are over.”
“I don't see where you have any choice. I feel bad for the General though. He's lost a friend just when he needed one most.”
“I know.”
She buried her face in her hands and wept.
“I'm so tired, Val. Tired of sickness and tired of death. Sometimes I wish they'd all die and get it over with so I can be free, free to wander the world as I please with no one depending on me, free to be an Amazon again.”
She looked up again and blushed through her tears.
“Don't mind me. That's just exhaustion talking. A few hours of sleep and I'll be as good as new.”
I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“Sure you will. Get some rest and I'll talk to you in the morning.”
Mark was still attending to Carter. While I waited for his return, I sat in front of the mirror in my room trying to analyze my features objectively, trying to see what Vic Stone saw. I had to admit there were some similarities around the cheekbones and jawline but beyond that, I saw no resemblance. Maybe all white folks looked alike to Vic. Or maybe I couldn't see it because I didn't want to.
Would it be so terrible, I asked myself, if it were true? If my mother were a prostitute and my father some anonymous john? Yes. Yes, it would be terrible. I would rather be a mystery, rather never know than have that be true, rather...
“Making sure you're still you?”
I turned hurriedly from the mirror as Mark came in.
“I was just... Never mind, it's too hard to explain. Did you get Major Carter all tucked in for the night?”
“That son of a bitch. I could cheerfully have tossed him down the elevator shaft for saying those things about your mother. Well, when he next wakes up, he'll be in the annex with Zoe as his nurse. If he tries any of his redneck bullshit on her, he'll end up on the wrong end of an ice water enema.”
I burst into laughter. It seemed there was no mood so bleak that Mark Mardon couldn't jolly me out of it. We took turns describing the horrible tortures Rip would endure at Zoe's hands as Mark got me ready for bed.
“Don't forget we're hitting the bar circuit tomorrow night,” Mark said as he turned out the light.
“I can't wait. Good night, Mark.”
Tired though I was, I tried once more to summon the spirit of Bat Lash. The only response I got was the same strange static I'd sensed the night before. When I tried to probe this phenomenon further, a blinding headache resulted. I should have known better. It had been years since I'd exercised my empathy as deliberately and extensively as in the last few days and, after Patient X's assault earlier, I was in no shape to be doing so now. The pain subsided as soon as I relaxed. I gave a resigned shrug of my shoulders before falling into a deep dreamless sleep.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 22, 2014 7:09:44 GMT -5
Chapter 22
The weather system responsible for the previous day's heat and humidity drifted south into Illinois overnight. The morning lay lightly over Lash House, promising to ripen into one of those halcyon August days I remembered so vividly from childhood.
Mark entered, more overburdened than usual. In addition to the usual clutter of magazines and so forth, he also bore a stack of fax pages courtesy of Trish Blum and Tonya Karenin. He shook his head in astonishment as he sat the pile on the desk, saying, “One of these mornings, I'm going to simply drown in a sea of paper.”
“Sorry.”
“Actually,” he said with a smile, “I enjoyed looking through the stuff your researcher sent. He found things I'd never even heard of before. There's one in particular that, well, I won't spoil the surprise but I left it on top.”
This, of course, did nothing but tantalize me. Even while Mark was outlining his proposed plan for our big night out — we'd start at the Saddle Tramp then move on to either the Starlight Lounge or the Amvets Hall, depending on our mood — my eyes crept back to the clippings. When Mark left, I made a beeline for the desk.
It was an article from the October 7, 1943, edition of the Metropolis Morning Pictorial, copied so clearly I could almost smell the yellowed newsprint. Next to a grainy photo of two caped and masked figures, an adult and a boy, and another of a pleasant looking but visibly frightened man in a dark suit and handcuffs, ran the following:
"20-Year Sentence for Sodomite Mystery Man
"Thomas N. Thomas, 28, better known to the public as the costumed vigilante 'TNT,' was sentenced today to 20 years at hard labor in Metropolis State Prison for the crime of sodomy. Mr. Thomas pled guilty to the charge on advice of counsel with the understanding that, in so doing, the charge of unlawful carnal knowledge of a child would be dropped and a recommendation of leniency made by the district attorney's office. The presiding judge, the Honorable Ezekiel Talbott, characterizing the defendant as 'the lowest order of life' and 'unworthy of this court's normal standard of compassion and mercy,' denied the recommendation and handed down the maximum penalty.
"Mr. Thomas, a former schoolteacher, was accused of seducing a 12-year-old male student and committing repeated acts of sodomy against the child over a two year period. The boy, an orphan whose name has been withheld from the press, lived in the defendant's home and acted as his sidekick under the name 'Dyna-Mite.' The duo intermittently fought crime in Metropolis and neighboring cities with some success. Despite rumors of superhuman powers, neither Mr. Thomas nor his young victim has displayed any such abilities since the former's arrest.
"The true nature of their relationship was uncovered by an investigator for the city's Department of Child Welfare, Mr. Edsel Comstock, who told the court at the sentencing hearing, 'Mr. Thomas represents the worst case of pederastic predation I have encountered in my eighteen years of experience.' Mr. Comstock's diligence in the case resulted in his recent promotion to supervisor of investigations.
"Mr. Thomas's attorney, Mr. James Dexter, told reporters after the hearing, 'Judge Talbott's decision to hand down the maximum penalty in the case is clearly a political one. His Honor is a close friend and business associate of [United States Senator] Miles O'Fallon, whose hostility towards mystery men is well documented.' Mr. Dexter further stated that he will appeal the decision, saying, 'The judge had an obvious conflict of interest in the case and should have recused himself from hearing it.' The office of Judge Talbott declined comment.
"The defendant has received innumerable death threats since his arrest and remains under heavy guard while awaiting transport to the penitentiary. The child has been placed in the custody of relatives in Chicago, Illinois, where he will undergo intense psychiatric treatment."
Hastily penciled in a margin was the notation, “Can't find any corroboration for this. Will keep digging. – T”
Around the time the Justice Society disbanded, a child psychologist named Frederick Wertham published a book titled Seduction of the Innocent. Dr. Wertham claimed that there was a strong homoerotic element to the mystery man phenomenon — particularly in the many man/boy relationships that popped up in the wake of Batman and Robin — and therefore super-heroes were inappropriate, if not dangerous, role models for America's youth. The JSA felt answering these allegations so important that the entire membership appeared together at a press conference, the only time in its history that it would do so, to issue a vehement denial. Wertham attempted a rebuttal but his “evidence,” derived largely from the pulps, proved laughable on closer scrutiny. By the time the good doctor appeared before HUAAC, his credibility was nil.
That was the conventional wisdom among my fellow newsmen. The Morning Pictorial clipping suggested otherwise. If true, it gave an entirely different spin to both Wertham's allegations and the JSA's denial. Admittedly, the MP was one of the sleaziest of the era's sleazy tabloids but something about the article rang true. Many of the heroes wielded tremendous political and economic influence. A cover-up was not beyond their reach.
I had to know the truth.
I wasn't going to learn it right away, though. I had barely left my room when Ana intercepted me. Once again, despite a late and traumatic night, she looked as fresh and invigorated as if she'd just returned from two weeks on Paradise Island. Still, there was something agitated about her.
“Walk me down to my office, sweetheart,” she suggested.
“You seem nervous this morning,” I observed as we boarded the elevator. “It's not like you to get flustered over an inspection.”
“This probably sounds silly but something doesn't feel right about this one. It's only been four months since the last one and we only got a week's notice. Very irregular procedure. It's almost as if they were investigating a complaint.”
“Who'd file a complaint? And why?”
“I don't know and I don't know. Maybe it's some leftover scheme of Pam Isley's or... Oh, forget it, Val. I'm probably just imagining things.”
Etta and Mark were waiting in the office.
“Are we ready?” Ana asked.
“Ain't a surface in the place you couldn't eat off of,” Etta answered.
“The residents are squared away,” Mark added, “and the staff is looking sharp.”
Ana gave them a game smile.
“Very good. Let's have some breakfast then.”
It was only then that I noticed the serving cart parked at the far side of Ana's desk. I considered begging off, anxious as I was to ask Doctor McNider about Tonya's discovery, but sensed I was there as moral support for my mother. I put my curiosity and impatience aside and joined them.
Whatever was bothering Ana bothered the others too.
“I still don't get why they're comin' today,” Etta said between mouthfuls of fruit. “It ain't like anythin's changed since May.”
“It's harassment, pure and simple,” said Mark. “We're the only private nursing home in Wisconsin that consistently turns down state funds and it kills them not to have that hold over us. They probably think we're laundering drug money or something.”
“That's silly, Mark,” Ana chided. “My books have been open since I first started the Center. They know perfectly well our funding comes from respectable sources.”
No argument there. They didn't come more respectable than the Wayne Foundation. The charitable arms of such powerful corporations as Tyler Chemical, Ferris Aviation and Dayton Industries also contributed to the cause. A private grant from the Stagg family bought the hospital's MRI machine. Every dime received from these sources could be accounted for. Given the true nature of Lash House and its inhabitants, however, there were expenses that couldn't be justified to an auditor without serious, perhaps fatal, repercussions. Hidden costs, such as the security system, were covered by Ana's otherwise untouched personal fortune, among the world's largest as befits the heir apparent to the Amazon throne.
No, it wasn't funding that made the Lash Center vulnerable. It was the fact that every document associated with its operation bore the signatures of fictitious people. Ana Stevens didn't exist, nor did many of her patients. The falsification of these records was inarguably illegal. Disclosure would almost certainly be the end of the center. With so much to lose, it was a wonder my mother wasn't a nervous wreck all the time.
We were finishing up when one of the younger nurses stepped into the open doorway and announced, “They're here.”
Etta and the nurse hurriedly took the serving cart out the office's side door as a man and a woman entered through the other. They introduced themselves as Mr. Caspar Rittenhouse and Mrs. Flora Quesenberry. He was a mousy little fellow in a baggy polyester suit, stiff and officious as only a low level bureaucrat can be. She was large of bone and domineering in tone, despite her alleged subordination to her companion. They had never been to Lash House before and they were obviously intimidated by its size and luxury. They got quickly down to business.
“I do apologize for the lack of notice regarding our visit, ma'am,” Rittenhouse began, in a voice so like Pee Wee Herman that I had to bite my tongue to avoid laughing, “but there's been a reorganization at Health and Family Services and we've just been assigned your file. Please don't think of this so much as an inspection as a courtesy call.”
“Though we will need to inspect the facility,” Mrs. Quesenberry added loudly.
“Of course,” Ana reassured them. “Everything is in order. We can begin now if you like.”
“If you won't be needing me anymore, I'm going to find Doctor Mac,” I said, my anxiety over the Morning Pictorial article reasserting itself.
“All right, dear,” Ana answered. “Thank you.”
I found Dr. McNider alone in the breakfast nook. This meant no tape recorder but it was just as well. The subject I was about to broach was a sensitive one. Doctor Mac might be more inclined toward candor if his comments were kept off the record.
There was no point in beating around the bush so I jumped right in.
“Tell me about TNT and Dyna-Mite.”
The old physician turned ashen-faced but otherwise remained implacable.
“A pair of minor leaguers,” he answered, “with a career measured in months. Why do you ask?”
I told him. McNider's shoulders sagged and the familiar nervous tapping of his cane subtly quickened. After a long minute of awkward silence, he sighed.
“I was afraid of this. You should give your researcher a raise. We all thought the TNT case buried forever. I suppose there's nothing I can do but tell you everything and trust you to do the right thing with the information.”
His grip tightened on the cane, turning it, twisting it, almost throttling it.
“It's all true. Thomas was a pederast. He died in prison in '46, knifed in the shower by an old foe.”
“Then why the cover-up? Wouldn't it have been better to have publicly condemned his actions instead?”
“Yours is an infinitely more tolerant world than the one we grew up in, Val. In my day, even the most liberal elements of society turned a blind eye to the persecution of so-called deviants. The merest hint of such behavior could destroy a reputation. Proof could get you lynched. There was no way in hell the mystery men would've survived even a hint of such things. Nothing would have pleased our enemies more than to be able to paint us all as perverts. That was why the TNT affair had to be hushed up.
“It was easy. The JSA persuaded President Roosevelt to declare a news blackout on the subject in the name of national security. Only the Morning Pictorial refused to back down so Bruce Wayne and some of the others pooled their money and bought the whole shooting match. That took care of the only surviving evidence, or so we thought. I admit it wasn't our finest hour but we believed it necessary in order to continue our work. We had to protect ourselves, especially those most vulnerable.”
He stopped talking. It was apparent he was struggling with himself as to whether he should say more. My first instinct was to go for the jugular, to press for more detailed information, but I thought back to Vic Stone's words of the night before. I had known Charles McNider my entire life. He was the closest thing I had to a grandfather. If ever there was a time when I needed to back off and let things unfold at their own pace and in their own way, it was now. I sat patiently and waited for the old man to finish his internal debate.
“You see,” he continued, “there were a handful of mystery men who were... who had certain... tendencies. They kept it to themselves, of course. It was hardly the sort of thing you discussed in mid-battle. I'm not so sure some of their fellow heroes wouldn't have seen them as just as dangerous as the Axis spies and super-villains they were fighting. They didn't even admit it to each other. But they knew. They knew which of their comrades were their own kind without anyone saying a word.”
Another silence. More waiting.
Suddenly he stopped tapping his cane and sat up straight.
“I'm talking about myself, you know. I was one of those... those heroes with... with tendencies. When TNT was exposed, I was terrified that the rest of the JSA would discover my secret or, worse, that it would mean shame and ruin for us all. So I persuaded them it was in all of our best interests to sweep it under the rug. I told them we couldn't afford the stain on our reputations. And they listened. I used the others' trust in me to make a mockery of the very values we were fighting to preserve, all so no one could tell the truth about us. About me.”
“You may have had a personal motive, Doctor Mac, but I think you did the right thing. Why should you have to suffer because of one bad apple in the barrel?”
He patted my hand and said, “That's generous of you but I'm afraid you've missed the point. It's the means I'm ashamed of, not the ends. I should have told my friends what my stake in the matter was. That would have been the honorable thing to do. But I was a coward. And I've stayed a coward right up to this day. You're the first person I've admitted this to in over fifty years, Val. The others who shared my secret are dust.”
“When did you first realize you were gay?”
“I'd known it from the age of fourteen. I grew up in a mill town in the Pacific Northwest. My family was timber aristocracy, part of the nouveau riche, and their expectations for me were high. I was to be a doctor or lawyer and lead my generation into respectable society. There was no room in their plans for me to be... different.
“I was different, though. Maybe the other boys sensed it. I was always duking it out with someone. My father made me work in the sawmill summers and weekends to toughen me up so I usually won. I figured the only way to keep myself safe from persecution was to be the toughest bastard in town. But knowing what I was was a curse because I also knew I didn't dare act upon it, not even once.
“So I made the only choice I could. I took a vow of total and permanent celibacy. What else was I going to do? The very texts I studied in med school assured me that my impulses were unnatural and perverse. I became a surgeon, a goddamned fine surgeon if I do say so myself. By my thirtieth birthday I had a national reputation, powerful friends in high places and a penthouse apartment in Manhattan, none of which meant a thing when Killer Moroni's goons tossed that grenade into my office.”
“You were treating a material witness against him, weren't you?”
“That's right. Moroni was a two-bit punk from Little Italy who fancied himself the next Lucky Luciano. His pathetic little protection racket was falling apart, half his gang was already in jail and if he didn't silence the sweet old Swiss baker who had defied him and gone to the police, he was going to join them. The gang tried to kill old Shultz once but my operation was going to restore him to health. Moroni couldn't allow that. The witness, his police escort and my surgical team were all killed in the explosion. I was the only survivor but I was blind. Permanently, hopelessly blind.
“It was during my rehabilitation that I met the man who would be my first and only lover. His name was Randall, Randall Puck. He was the paid companion my family back in the Northwest arranged for me. He... he was so gentle and tender, he knew about music and poetry and many other fine things I'd never made room in my life for. It was I who made that first hesitant move. It was a spring night, I remember, and we were...”
“Doc,” I interrupted, “maybe it's not...”
He smiled for the first time.
“I'm sorry, Val. It's just... I wanted you to understand that I loved Randall, as he loved me, and that our relationship was based on more than just sex. I didn't mean to embarrass you.”
“It's not embarrassment, really. I wouldn't want to share intimate details about my love life with you either. Those kind of memories should stay private, don't you think?”
“Why, Val, you're a prude!” he laughed. “I thought the species extinct among your generation. How wonderful! How refreshing! All right then, we'll skip the moonlight and roses but it's important that you understand it was Randall who first encouraged me to write. He intended it as therapy at first, a way for me to work out my anger and frustration. We were both startled to find I was good at it. I started selling true crime stories to the pulps. I was dangerously close to becoming a public figure and that meant my private life wasn't going to stay private for long, especially with Moroni still on the loose and anxious to shut me up. Randall decided it was time to go. He moved to San Francisco.
“That was when I hired Myra Mason as both nurse and secretary. Poor Myra. She loved me so. She must have invited me into her bed a dozen times but I never accepted. And still she stayed with me, for over ten years. I think she honestly believed that if she was just patient, I'd finally realize what a wonderful wife she'd make. I suppose I ought to have told her when I discovered my night vision. I started to, actually, when Moroni forced his way back into my life. It was to save yet another witness against him that I first became a mystery man. Moroni arranged a power outage during the witness' lung surgery. The only thing that would save him was a surgeon who could see in the dark. Enter Doctor Mid-Nite.”
“It must have been glorious to get your sight back.”
“Glorious, yes, but frightening too. You see, what I had was only an approximation of true vision.”
“You saw in the infra-red spectrum, didn't you?”
“No, that was the explanation for my pulp counterpart's night vision. Here's how my ‘sight’ worked: imagine seeing the world in sharp focus, every shape clearly outlined but all in the same evenly lit monochrome, no shadow, no color. It had its limitations. I couldn't read a book or watch a movie, for example, because although I could see the page or the screen clearly enough, I couldn't see the images on them. In fact, I was taking a terrible risk operating on that witness because if I cut in the wrong place, well, a sighted surgeon would immediately notice a change in the color of the blood. I wouldn't. I got lucky and the patient lived to testify against Moroni, who got the chair. But I've never again taken that risk.”
“Did you ever see Randall again?”
“Oh yes, we wrote regularly and vacationed together. He knew about my restored vision and Dr. Mid-Nite from the beginning. When the JSA broke up in '51, I retired Mid-Nite and moved to Los Angeles. Randall and I set up housekeeping there. Nothing suspicious, just a blind man and his caretaker. Sylvester Pemberton approached me about adapting my pulp novels for television. I owned the rights to the Mid-Nite character by then so the arrangement garnered me a substantial sum in royalties and merchandising. We lived idyllically on that income until... until he died of heart disease in '61. Randall smoked, you see, despite my warnings and...”
“That was shortly before Dr. Mid-Nite returned, wasn't it?”
“I loved him, Val. Losing him nearly destroyed me. Getting back into The Life was the only thing that kept me going. Others were coming out of retirement by then: Jay Garrick, Alan Scott, all the old gang. I tried to get them to put the Society back together but there was no point, not with the Justice League up and running.”
“Ana always said the League was open to any JSAers who wanted to sign up.”
“I know. In fact, if you think about it, the JLA was in many ways the Society reborn. It was Diana and Clark and Bruce who organized it, after all. Carter Hall eventually joined. The rest of us, especially those of us without true powers, felt uncomfortable with the League. Most of its heroes were half our age. Even Bruce felt it, I think, considering the League was only four years old when he stepped down and let Dick take his place. No, we old-timers stuck to fighting crime in our own communities and attending the annual JSA reunions sponsored by the League.
“It wasn't the same. Being Mid-Nite didn't fulfill me the way it once had. Neither did writing. I began to think about returning to medicine. I started reading every textbook and medical journal I could find in Braille editions to bring myself up to speed, eventually getting recertified by the AMA. I couldn't perform surgery, of course, but I was always a first rate diagnostician so I started a small but profitable consulting service. Then in '68, your mother opened Lash House and invited me to head the medical staff. I've been here ever since.”
“Thanks for trusting me with your secret, Doctor Mac. It goes no farther than this room, you have my word on it. But...”
McNider smiled.
“But what?”
“But damn it, Doc, I have to ask this. You said there were others with your, uh, tendencies. Who were they?”
“Of course you have to ask! I'm not going to tell you though. Those I referred to are all dead now. I don't have the right to reveal any secrets they chose to take with them.”
“Can I ask you one more question?”
“Certainly.”
“The Justice Society did get together one last time to fight in the Battle of Metropolis. You still had your night vision and I know you kept in condition yet you stayed here. Why didn't Dr. Mid-Nite come back?”
As soon as the words left my lips, I regretted them. The pain that swept across the old man's features was unbearable to look at. When he answered, his voice creaked like a rusty hinge.
“I'm the oldest living mystery man, Val, did you know that? I'm 91. That made me 77 in '86, too old to be much use in that kind of fight, night vision or no night vision. I would've gone anyway and they knew that so, with your mother's connivance, they kept Savage's challenge a secret until it was too late. They meant well. I understood that even then but when... when the death toll started to climb, when Hourman and Atom and Spectre and so many others who'd been my friends for half a century were killed, I cursed them all, cursed them for leaving me behind, for not letting me stand with them one last time. They went out as heroes while I just go on and on, blind, feeble, a grotesque caricature of everything I once was.”
“I know how you feel, Doctor Mac, but...”
He sprang to his feet, his chair overturning as he did.
“You know? What can you know about it? You think you understand, boy, what it is to outlive your time, to watch helplessly while everyone and everything that ever mattered to you crumbles to dust all around you? You think you understand loss... ?”
Suddenly he was calm again. He reached forward with one hand until his fingertips brushed my cheek, then tenderly patted it.
“Forgive me, Val,” he said. “What a stupid thing for me to say. Of course you understand. That's your gift, isn't it? I'm... I'm very tired. I think I'll go to my room and lie down for a bit.”
I watched silently as Dr. McNider walked away. For the first time since I'd come home, he seemed crushed beneath the weight of his years. Maybe he was right. Maybe I didn't understand. Maybe I couldn't understand because, no matter what I experienced empathically, it didn't happen to me. After so many years on the outside looking in, I'd finally forgotten the difference being watching life and living it. I was nothing but a voyeur.
Alone there in the deserted breakfast nook, suddenly overwhelmed by sorrow, I wept.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 23, 2014 6:38:37 GMT -5
Chapter 23
Too distraught to face anyone and too distracted to work, I decided to take a drive around the grounds. The weather was glorious. I wandered aimlessly, reveling in the sights and sounds and smells of nature. My colleagues back in the Big Apple would no doubt laugh derisively to see me absorbed in the flight of a blue jay but their values seemed remote and immaterial to me.
Without conscious intent, I found myself at the horse barn. I'd loved riding as a boy — my ability to levitate kept me safely in the saddle regardless of pace — especially after Aunt Donna bought me my own pony for my sixth birthday. Donna and Ana trained her with infinite patience until I could guide her through verbal commands alone. Macaroni (“Yankee Doodle” was my favorite song when I was six) escaped from the compound seven years later and was struck by a passing semi. I was inconsolable for months afterward, so much so that I hadn't ridden in all the years since. The rich, pungent aroma of the horses filled my nostrils. I wanted to go for a ride.
“Would you like me to saddle one of these beauties for you, Val?”
Startled, I spun about to see Naomi Tinker standing atop an old butter churn, lovingly currying a handsome Arabian gelding.
“Good morning, Naomi,” I answered with a smile. “No, thank you, not today. I don't think it would be safe for me to ride alone, not on an unfamiliar horse anyway.”
“You'd be perfectly safe. Mrs. Stevens often has groups of disabled children from all over the county come for special weekends of riding. Every horse has been trained to be gentle and patient and to respond to the same signals you used when you were a child.”
I was convinced. As she put the saddle and other equipment on the gelding, Naomi reminded me of tomorrow night's dinner, asking if there was anything special I'd like served.
“Whatever you and Bob normally have is fine with me.”
She laughed, a hauntingly musical tinkle like wind chimes on a summer night.
“I'm afraid you'd find the petroleum paste we eat rather unappetizing. How about a nice Yankee pot roast instead?”
I agreed that might be better.
My steed was ready.
“Do you need me to lift you on?” Naomi asked. “Don't let my size fool you, I'm really quite strong.”
“I don't think that'll be necessary,” I answered, giving her a wink as I began to float out of my chair. “All I need is a little push or two in the right direction.”
The look of wonder on the little robot's face was priceless. She actually clapped her hands in delight, a sound that echoed through the barn's rafters.
“Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I wish I could do that.”
“Why don't you saddle another horse and come riding with me, Naomi?”
“I can't today, I'm afraid. Mr. Tinker had to drive into Oshkosh to get some tractor parts and I need to do his chores as well as mine. Do ask me again another day. We love a good ride, don't we, Sirocco?”
She scratched the horse behind its ears affectionately.
“I saw Mr. O'Brian earlier heading for the boat ramp with his fishing gear. I'm sure he'd welcome some company.”
“He might at that. What should I do about unsaddling Sirocco when I'm through?”
“I'll be here for at least another two hours. If I'm not, I'll be at the cottage. Just ride over and get me.”
It felt fantastic to have a horse beneath me again. I rode around the barn interior a bit to get a feel for the Arabian before thanking Naomi for her help and heading outside. I was halfway out the barn door when I turned back to look at her.
“Naomi,” I said, “you aren't stuttering.”
The little robot stood absolutely motionless for a minute, anxiety written on her metallic features.
“Oh dear, oh dear. I hadn't realized... Val, you mustn't say anything to Mr. Tinker about this. You won't, will you?”
“I don't understand.”
“Well, you see, when Bob built me, he copied some of his own programming for my baseline personality. I had a stutter like he does but then Doc Magnus started working with me until I lost mine. Heaven knows Doc tried to help him overcome his but he just couldn't. Bob's so self-conscious of his impediment and it comforts him that I stutter too so I pretend to stutter when I'm with him. I'm usually careful about it but when I'm grooming the horses I just forget everything else.”
I promised that her secret was safe and again took my leave of her.
Sirocco was high spirited. He would gladly run full out at my slightest nod. But it had been nearly twenty years since I'd last ridden the property. I could no longer count on my familiarity with the land to keep me out of trouble. Instead, I put the gelding through its paces. He shifted from walk to trot to canter and back with an effortless grace. Now that we understood each other, we could roam the estate.
There had indeed been changes in the terrain. The little stream that bisected the property, for instance, had both widened and changed course slightly. I also noticed a significant increase in the number of cameras and other security devices secreted about the landscape. It felt ominous. I shook off the feeling and guided the horse toward the beach.
A long pier extended out onto the lake from the boathouse, providing slips for up to a half-dozen medium-sized pleasure boats. Many a resident had taken up fishing off the end of this dock over the years but it was the last place I would've expected to find a city slicker like Eel O'Brian. Yet there he sat, bare feet dangling over the water like a septuagenarian Huck Finn with a half-smoked Chesterfield hanging from his lower lip, a fishing pole in one hand and a Michelob in the other. His socks and shoes lay tossed atop his rumpled jacket and discarded tie. A cooler groaning with beer on ice rested beside him.
Eel heard me riding up and waved his beer to indicate I should join him. Sirocco obediently walked out to the end of the dock. As I got closer, I realized that what I had taken for fishing gear was actually Eel's right hand. The pole consisted of his index finger, his middle finger was impossibly elongated into a nearly invisible line and his thumb served as the reel. A simple flick of his wrist and he cast his lure — too distant to see if it too was formed from his body — into a new patch of water.
“That's amazing,” I said.
“You shoulda seen me in the old days, kid,” he replied. “Back then, I'da just turned into a net and scooped fish up by the hundreds. The old joints, they ain't quite that flexible anymore. Rhuematism. Some days, I can't even do this.”
He glanced appreciatively up at the sky.
“Today's a good day.”
“Somehow, Eel, I never pictured you as a fishing kind of guy.”
“It's a kick in the head, ain't it?” he agreed, tossing the butt of his cigarette into the lake. “Useta be I never saw a fish didn't come from Fulton's Market. When Ana first took Woozy in, I had to make myself come to visit. I thought I hated the country, see? Not enough action, I says. But something about this joint gets under your skin after awhile. I'm not gonna get all misty and talk about communing with nature and all that happy horseshit but... but there's a peacefulness to fishing that really soothes the old savage beast.”
“Woozy's in bad shape, isn't he?”
“Woozy's dying, kid. Let's call a spade a spade. His kidneys are shot and dialysis ain't doing him much good anymore. That's where he is now. I usedta keep him company during but it takes so long now and he's so doped up, he doesn't know the difference if I'm there or not. It kills me to watch him suffer so I go fishing instead.”
“It doesn't seem possible. He never seemed to get sick when he first came to Lash House, even during the worst flu outbreaks.”
“He couldn't get sick then. See, back before I first met him, Woozy saved the life of some sorta witch doctor who put a kinda reverse curse on him. Nature itself was obliged to protect him from mortal harm, see. At first, that meant that wind or lightning or a flock of birds would appear outta nowhere and bail him outta trouble but that part of it didn't last for too long, don't ask me why. Instead, it sorta internalized so that he couldn't catch diseases or be poisoned or gassed. It also meant he could drink and smoke and eat anything and everything he wanted. But the goddamned Battle of Metropolis changed all that.”
“Woozy didn't fight in the battle. He was here the whole time. I remember.”
“Kid, you ever hear the story of how they killed the Spectre?”
He didn't wait for an answer.
“Out of all the good guys, it was Spec that Savage was most afraid of. Those of us in the groove knew that Corrigan's rep was based on the whoppers they published in the Spectre pulps — whereas in real life most of his tricks were just hypnosis and illusion — but what powers he did have coulda still put a serious crimp in the bad guys' plans. That creep, the Wizard, spent years looking for a spell powerful enough to stop Corrigan. It was Savage who provided it. When Spec showed up during the Battle, Wizard and four other sorcerors, I forget who, cast this spell, not knowing it would destroy them too. It was a trick, see, 'cause Savage didn't trust the magicians amongst his followers, but even Savage didn't know how wide-ranging the effects would be. The backlash alone killed Sargon and Zatara and knocked Doc Fate and a buncha the others outta the fight. No magic powers functioned on the battlefield after that. What's more, hundreds of thousands of other spells all over the world were broken—including the one protecting Woozy.”
“You know, I interviewed a demonologist named Blood a few years ago. He said the Battle permanently disrupted Earth's intrinsic mystical fields but I never really understood what he meant. That must've been what he was referring to.”
“Yeah, well, I don't understand it so good myself but there it is. Magic that comes from other dimensions, like the Olympian magic that protects your ma's people, still works but Earth magic, whatever that is, don't. At least that's how Fate explained it to us later. So Woozy lost all his immunities but we didn't know it. He kept right on boozing and what not like nothing had changed. All those toxins hitting his system in such big doses were bound to wreak some havoc and they sure as shit have. I suppose some guys would walk away from a pal whose health went south but I'm not made that way. Woozy and I have been partners for sixty years and we'll stay partners till the end.”
Eel broke off the conversation when he thought he had a bite but when he retracted his fingers, all he found was a clot of rank-smelling algae. He smiled ruefully and lit another smoke.
“The Bass Master I ain't,” he laughed.
“I saw your grandson on the news the other night,” I said. “You must be awfully proud of his induction into the Justice Legacy.”
“Bet your ass, kid. To finally have a Plastic Man on a Justice team, well, it feels just fine, like a validation of my career. I sorta always figured the big boys didn't respect me because I had silly powers and I liked to have fun on the job. Times change, I guess. Little Donny — that's what the family calls Plas Three — he seems to fit right in and yet he's sillier than I ever was.”
“Is there a Big Donny? You, perhaps?”
“Not me. I am and always will be the Eel. Naw, Big Donny is my tightassed son but we don't dare call him that to his face. He's ‘Kyle’ again now. Him and Penny live in your neck of the woods. Ever since Little Donny inherited Ruby Ryder Enterprises, his old man's been running the place for him. I gotta give Junior credit. He's a better executive than he ever was a super-hero.”
I knew the Gotham business community's labyrynthine inner workings pretty well. There had been rumors for years of legendary robber baroness Ruby Ryder having a child hidden away but they had long been dismissed as urban legend. That Kyle Morgan, Ryder's mysterious CEO, was the father of that child was sensational in itself. That Morgan was really the Plastic Man of the 1960s, and his son the media-savvy current Plas, was the icing on the cake.
“I take it you and your son aren't close.”
“I didn't even know I had a son until he was sixteen.”
As he spoke, he began transforming his fishing pole back into a normal hand, a slow process that brought an occasional wince to Eel's face.
“Hell, I barely remember his ma. Her name was Gracie, Gracie Morgan. She's dead now, I think. Gracie was just another starstruck skirt I had a one-night stand with. There's been a hundred broads just like her, all convinced Plastic Man must be awesome in the sack. She probably didn't figure out I was the father until Junior's own plastic powers developed. Once I found out about Kyle, I tried to be there for him, to make up for all the years I wasn't. That's why I gave up being Plas.”
He smiled, a warm smile altogether different than the smirk he usually wore.
“He was so proud of being my son. Until then, he'd been nobody, just another punk mick from the East Side. When he turned twenty-one, he legally changed his name to Donal O'Brian, Jr., and tried fighting crime as Plastic Man. He even changed his face to look like me. But some muggs just ain't cut out for The Life. After awhile, he got tired of people laughing at him. He felt like a freak. So he went back to being Kyle Morgan. That's when he met that bitch Ruby Ryder. The kid was too wet behind the ears to handle a maneater like her. Ruby chewed him up and spit him out like a wad of gum that lost its flavor. She even tried to have him killed but your pal Grayson put the kibosh on that. Junior, he fell hard. He ended up panhandling on the streets of Gotham until Grayson strongarmed him into rehab. But he was never the same.
“I guess some of it's my fault. I been a piss-poor excuse for a father, I know that. Tough love wasn't gonna work on Kyle but that's my style and we're stuck with it. Hell, we didn't talk for eight, nine years. I wasn't even invited to his wedding. But when Ruby died and Junior found out about Little Donny — and how it feels to meet a son you didn't know you had — he decided it was time to mend our fences. We ain't ever gonna be bosom buddies but we made our peace.”
He stood up, polished off his beer and tossed the empty back into the cooler.
“Kyle hates that Little Donny took up the Plas name, partly because he's afraid for his boy but mostly cause the kid's so much better at it than he was. They squabble about it constantly. My sympathies are with Little Donny but I stay the hell out of it. That's half the reason I moved into Lash House, just to avoid having to take sides.”
“And the other?”
“I don't know if you noticed or not, kid, but I'm an old man. My health is good but not perfect. Last couple of weeks, I been having blackouts, losing five minutes here, ten minutes there. The docs say they can't find anything physically wrong but... Ah, the hell with it.”
Eel began putting his socks and shoes back on.
“Woozy's about done by now so I'm gonna head back and meet him for lunch. What about you?”
“I'm going to ride for a bit longer. See you later.”
I rode along the shoreline until I reached the life-sized bronze statue of Bat Lash that sat atop a wooded hill, demarcating the northwest corner of the property. It depicted Lash as the respectable burgher and secret debaucher of the 1900s, fattened by success and softened by excess, a vivid contrast to the virile young gunfighter he chose as his physical manifestation in the afterlife. The citizenry of the Corners weren't particularly proud of Bat's role in their community's history. Some took Ana's decision to erect this monument as a slap in the face. It was much ado about nothing. Thirty years later, the statue stood forgotten, bright green with tarnish and drenched in dried-on bird excrement, a crude post-and-barbed-wire fence its only companion.
In purely physical terms, the sculptor captured Lash's image perfectly but cold metal couldn't capture the wicked gleam in his eye that defined him to all that knew him in life. Or could it? Something about the statue had changed, something subtle and disquieting. It was an illusion, no doubt, fed by the eerie way the statue looked, as if at any moment it might speak.
And then it did.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 24, 2014 7:10:53 GMT -5
Chapter 24
“Vvvvvaaaaaaaaaallllenntiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinne... ”
I tried to tell myself it was a trick of the wind as it soughed through the trees but in my heart I knew better. Slowly, reluctantly, I looked up into the statue's face. There was no mistaking it this time: the bronze features had somehow changed expressions, its well-fed complacency become an urgent cry for attention. I had never been afraid of Bat Lash, not even as a small child, but now the hair stood up on the back of my neck and my mouth turned to cotton.
“Bat? Bat, is that you?”
The statue seemed to blur as though it had grown a skin of gauze and suddenly he was there in the soft afternoon shadows. His voice was distorted, as if echoing through a maze of concrete tunnels, and he had to speak carefully to be understood.
“Cain't materialize,” the ghost gasped. “Somethin' in house... tears me apart... faster'n I kin form. Takin' all m'strength... to talk t'you now. Lissen up. Cain't hang on long. Be... beware... beware the sleepin' man... Valentine... the sleepin' man...”
Bat was gone. The statue was once again a statue.
Sirocco pranced anxiously beneath me, whinnying in fear. I felt like whinnying myself. I gave a high whistle and the horse flew across the property until we arrived back at the barn. Naomi met us at the door.
“Gracious sakes, Val, what's wrong? You look as if you'd seen a ghost.”
I gaped at her for a second before bursting into hysterical laughter. I laughed until tears ran down my face, until my throat was raw and I was gasping for breath, and still I laughed. Naomi saw I was in trouble. She ran to a phone and called for help. In a couple of minutes, Mark was there.
“I'm frightened, Mr. Mardon,” the little tin woman said. “What's wrong with him?”
“I've seen this sort of thing before, Mrs. T,” replied Mark, “and I've been half expecting it. The poor guy thinks we can't tell but he's been through hell lately. My guess is this trip home was supposed to be a rest cure but I don't think Val's much good at resting.”
The laughing fit passed, leaving utter exhaustion in its place.
“Stop talking about me like I'm not here,” I muttered. “I hate when doctors and nurses do that.”
Mark stepped forward and began releasing my feet from the stirrups.
“Are you disputing my diagnosis? A few seconds ago, you were carrying on like the Joker on nitrous. Don't tell me you're not stressed out.”
“I'm... yeah, okay, I'm stressed out, but it's not what you think. I'm going through a little identity crisis, that's all, I haven't ‘been through hell lately.’ I can handle it. It got away from me for a minute, that's all. I'm sorry if I scared you, Naomi. I'm okay now.”
Slowly and shakily, I floated off the horse and, with Mark steadily guiding me, back into my chair.
“Listen, Val, I know I can't tell you what to do but can I suggest something?”
“Go ahead,” I sighed. I appreciated his concern but just now he was getting on my already frayed nerves.
“When we get back to the house, let me give you a sedative, something mild to help you sleep for a while. I think all you really need is a couple of cold beers and a night on the town, and we'll take care of that tonight, but you'll enjoy it a lot more if you spend the afternoon napping.”
I was feeling too burned out to put up a fight.
“Okay, Mark, we'll do it your way. Some extra sleep might be good at that.”
As soon as we were out of Naomi Tinker's hearing, Mark asked me, “This has something to do with those strange psychic powers of yours, doesn't it?”
“Something,” I answered. “Don't press me about this, okay? Please?”
Mark reluctantly nodded agreement and we completed the walk back to the mansion in silence.
Whatever it was Mark gave me did its job well. I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. My mind needed the rest. I had been away too long. Ghosts, robots, shapeshifters, aliens, remote control killers: weird was the status quo at Lash House. I'd forgotten how to deal with weird. The stress of that amnesia was putting me through a wringer.
There was a dream.
I stood on the highest widow's walk of Lash House at sunset, Bat Lash next to me atop Sirocco. Bat and the horse were singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky.” I heard my mother's voice call from behind me but when I turned it was Donna standing there in her old Wonder Girl outfit.
“Beware the sleeping man,” she said.
“I told 'im awready,” Bat answered between verses.
Donna rolled her eyes.
“Beware he who watches the sleeping man, then.”
Sirocco melted away from beneath Lash and reformed himself into Plastic Man.
“FBI taught me that the truth was out there and usually right under your nose,” Plas was saying even as he morphed into Naomi Tinker. “The answer's in this house. Someone isn't who they say they are.”
Nobody's who they say they are around here, my dream self thought. That's no help.
A column of fine black smoke swirled up from between two shingles, quickly dissipating to reveal Charles McNider, dressed in his Dr. Mid-Nite gear, at its center. Tears were running down from beneath his smoked goggles.
“It's too late,” he shouted. “They found us!”
He turned and glared at me balefully behind an outstretched hand.
“It's your fault,” he growled. “You showed them the way. Look!”
Screaming through the sky mere yards above us, an El Dorado convertible with a flaming Jose Delgado at the wheel plunged into the waters of Lake Winnebago like Icarus cast down from the heavens. As the Caddy hit the water, a painfully bright light flared out, followed by a deafening roar, staggering heat and a concussive blast of wind that stripped the leaves from the trees, the shingles from the roof and the flesh from my companions' bones. McNider's corpse turned to me, the charred flesh of its face peeling away to reveal a saturnine countenance I knew but could not name.
“Save me, my son,” it said. “Save me and I will lay the world at your feet.”
Then he too turned to dust and blew away on the atomic wind. I opened my mouth to scream, knowing I would be dead before I could make a sound. The next second, I was sitting straight up in bed, soaked in cold sweat and frantically gasping for air.
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Post by Cei-U! on May 25, 2014 7:15:18 GMT -5
Chapter 25
The last thing I wanted to do was go back to sleep. I decided to poke through the rest of the material Tonya Karenin had faxed to me. I'd been so shaken by the TNT clipping that I'd never even glanced at the other documents.
It was an eclectic mix: news reports covering one super-battle or another dating clear back to the mid-1930s, wildly speculative (and often laughably inaccurate) biographical sketches of dozens of mystery men that originally ran in Life magazine during World War II, transcripts of the HUAAC/JSA hearings, quotes from and reviews of Jon Law's book Altered Egos, a long list of articles touching on the Battle of Metropolis, even the notorious Playboy interview with Automaton — Cliff Steele — in which he bitterly blamed the Justice League for the deaths of his teammates in the original Doom Patrol, a claim he renounced years later.
I was impressed. Not only had Tonya done some excellent research, she showed a gift for organizing and presenting the results. I decided to call her and tell her so. Her answering machine said she was in class. I left her a brief message, thanking her for her work so far and promising to call again later.
It would be several hours before Mark went off duty. If I was going barhopping tonight, I ought to put some food in my stomach first. A quick trip over to the annex sounded like a good idea. Driving out of my room, I was surprised to see a bathrobe-clad J. T. Bolt standing in the hallway looking lost and forlorn. The door to his tower room stood open. Whoever had been with him last had carelessly left it unlocked.
“Mr. Bolt, do you need some help?”
“Pudding,” he answered in a pubescent squeak. “Etta promised me some tapioca pudding.”
I was perplexed. Bolt had Alzheimer's Disease and couldn't be trusted to roam freely without hurting himself. I couldn't physically herd him back upstairs. Maybe I could get Bolt to follow me down to the kitchen, where Rowena could distract him with some pudding while I tracked down a staffer to take charge.
“Come with me,” I suggested, “and I'll get you your tapioca.”
Bolt turned to me gratefully, pleased to have someone to tell him what to do. An unexpected spark of recognition flared in his eyes.
“Say,” he said, “you must be Diana's boy. My, you've certainly grown!”
No sooner had he spoken than the air pressure in the hallway dropped dramatically, the stink of ozone filled the air and every hair on our bodies stood straight up. I realized immediately what was happening: I was about to meet Bolt's partner in adventure, that strange electrical lifeform known only as the Thunderbolt.
A second later, there was a bright soundless flash that almost instantly resolved itself into humanoid form. The Thunderbolt floated in the air at eye level, the contours of his nude, sexless body blurred in the soft pink glow he emitted. Three tiny forks of lightning danced on his brow in a constant confusion. He regarded Johnny with an affectionate grin.
“You rang, O master of the muddled and mundane?” the creature asked in a sibilant buzz.
Bolt smiled toothlessly. What had he done with his dentures?
“T-bolt! Where've you been? I haven't seen you in ages.”
“I was just here last night, boss,” answered the Thunderbolt. “Are you slipping gears again?”
He noticed me.
“Oh. Hello. Are you a friend of Johnny's? Permit me to introduce myself. I am the Sacred Thunderbolt of Bahdnisia.”
“I'm Valentine Stevens and I'm pleased to meet you.”
The Thunderbolt and I shook hands. It was like touching boiling water, only cool and dry. A thrill of pleasure ran up my arm.
“Can you help me get him back into his room?”
“Not unless he orders it, I'm afraid.”
Johnny tapped his magical servant on the shoulder.
“Say, Thunderbolt, as long as you're here, could you make me some tapioca pudding, please?”
“Your wish is my etcetera, ace,” the living lightning bolt said.
He snapped his fingers. Instantly, a table and chair appeared in the middle of the hallway. In the center of the table sat an enormous bowl of fresh pudding. Bolt plopped himself down and began sloppily spooning the dessert into his mouth while grunting with pleasure. I watched the Thunderbolt watching his master with furrowed brow.
“I made the bowl bottomless so he should stay occupied long enough for you to find help,” he told me.
“You really care about him, don't you?”
“I've served many masters in my long life but he is the first I've called friend. The others demanded wealth or power or pleasures of the flesh but Johnny only wanted to help other people. I don't think he ever appreciated how extraordinary that was. And it was fun! Do you know how seldom I've had fun?”
“Dr. McNider told me what a good team the two of you made. It's not easy to win Doctor Mac's respect.”
“Thank you, but Johnny deserves the credit for that. I know people think that I'm the brains of the outfit but it was still Johnny who called the shots. The good we did was the product of his big heart, not my little magic tricks. I am merely a humble servant.”
“What will happen to you when...?”
I couldn't bring himself to say it.
“When he dies?” the bizarre creature answered evenly. “The same thing that always happens. I'll go into hibernation until bound to a new master. Although,” and he paused, a thoughtful scowl on his face, “there may be no one left with the knowledge or skill to perform the ritual. The most learned of the Bahdnisian priesthood were executed as subversives during the Japanese occupation.”
“How did a kid from the Bronx end up commanding an Asian deity?”
“Oh, I'm no god!” the Thunderbolt insisted. “Far from it. I'm an extradimensional entity, possibly the last of a breed that came close to ruling the Earth, until our power was broken by the magi serving King Solomon.”
Childhood memories of The Arabian Nights came flooding back.
“So you really are a genie.”
“Genie, djinn, affrit, demon, elemental, even angel: we've been called all that and more. My kind began our existence as beings of pure magical energy, bodiless, immortal, without desire or need. Then, around the time your last Ice Age ended, a plague swept through my native dimension. Billions of us died before we found the gateway to your world of time and matter. Less than 500 of my people survived to seek refuge on Earth. To exist in this reality, we required material form so we clothed ourselves in bodies of smoke, flame...”
“Lightning?”
He smiled.
“And lightning, sometimes. We discovered that as extradimensionals we wielded enormous mystical power, power that seduced the eldest and mightiest of my people. Their ambition, their hunger for mastery, led in time to war with the natives of your world. In losing that war, our ranks were decimated. Only a handful of us survived, our power chained and our spirits broken. Solomon condemned us to an eternity of imprisonment, alleviated only by periods of servitude to whoever should find and master the occult objects in which we were imprisoned. Those objects became scattered across the face of the earth. I was condemned to a scroll of parchment bearing an invocation written in Solomon's own hand, a parchment that centuries later found its way to Bahdnisia by way of Alexander of Macedon.”
“As in Alexander the Great?”
“The same. Alexander considered himself an intellectual because Aristotle tutored him as a child. He plundered the cities he conquered of any document that looked at all important. Somehow the king of Bahdnisia recognized my scroll for what it was and persuaded Alexander to trade it for some ancient Sanskrit manuscripts. It's just as well, I suppose. With my power at his command, Alexander might well have achieved his dream of ruling the world. Instead I served the Bahdnisian priesthood, whose ambitions remained within the borders of their homeland.”
“The priesthood? Why not the king?”
“Because Solomon decreed that only a person born under very exacting astrological conditions could command me, and even then only after undergoing a series of rituals that took months to complete. He believed he had made those conditions so hard to fulfill that I would never find release from the parchment.”
“What had you done that made him hate you so?” I asked, finding it hard to imagine this affable being committing any sin, let alone a sin enormous enough to merit such a punishment.
“I liked human beings. I liked them from the moment I first met one. I saw no reason why we couldn't share the planet with you in peace and friendship. I certainly didn't want to see you all slaughtered or enslaved. So I betrayed our leaders' plan to the humans, giving them time enough to prepare their defenses.”
“King Solomon punished you for helping him?”
“Solomon was of the opinion that a creature who would betray his own kind would betray anyone, including him. That made me more dangerous than any of my fellow djinn in his eyes. But he miscalculated. It was true that the odds of a person who would meet the spell's criteria randomly crossing paths with the scroll were so high as to be virtually impossible but the priests had a plan. They dispersed their followers across the planet with a single goal: to locate any person who fit the astrological profile and return with them to Bahdnisia, where my purported master would be forced by the priests to command me at their pleasure, not his own. This went on for over two thousand years.”
“Until Johnny spoiled their plans somehow.”
“His father, actually. After Johnny was kidnapped, Simon Thunder spent every penny he could earn, beg, borrow or steal to circulate descriptions of his baby in every embassy and waterfront dive on the planet. Not long after the bonding ritual had been completed but before he was old enough to begin the indoctrination, some merchant marines recognized Johnny by a birthmark and none too gently rescued him from the priests' clutches. Because I couldn't be bound to another master as long as Johnny lived, the Bahdnisians pursued him for years but they didn't catch up to him until after his twenty-third birthday, in other words, after he'd gained the power to command me. Even so, they might have eventually had their way if Imperial Japan hadn't invaded their homeland.”
“So where is the scroll now? Does Johnny have it?”
“I don't know. It still exists, I think, or else I doubt I'd be here but beyond that...”
“Oh my goodness!”
We turned at this exclamation to see Etta stepping out of the elevator carrying a tray on which sat a small bowl of pudding.
“Did I forget to latch his door? I must be gettin' senile,” she said, shaking her head in dismay. “Hello, T-bolt. Accident or on purpose?”
“Accident,” he replied. “It's always by accident these days. If Johnny didn't still start every other sentence with ‘say’, I'd never get called. It's the invocation,” he explained, sensing my befuddlement. “To call me, he just has to say the mystic word ‘cei-u’ — that's spelled ‘see-ee-eye-hyphen-you’ in your alphabet.”
“So when he said, ‘Say, you must be Diana's son...’ ”
“Voila! Instant Thunderbolt.”
“What do you say we take your puddin' upstairs, Johnny?” Etta suggested. “You can watch Oprah while you eat.”
His eyes lit up.
“Is it time for Oprah already?”
“In just a few minutes,” she assured him as she helped him to his feet and guided him toward the tower door. “If we hurry, we can catch the openin' theme song.”
She turned to the Thunderbolt.
“Comin'?”
“I'll be along in a bit,” he answered. “Sooner if he calls me, of course. I thought I'd clean this up first,” and he indicated the table and chair he had materialized.
His eyes followed his master's progress up the stairs solicitously. Once Bolt was out of sight, the creature snapped his fingers and the furniture vanished back into the empty air it had appeared from. His cleanup done, he lingered, as if there was something he wanted to say, something important. I waited expectantly for him to speak.
“What are you?” he asked at last.
“I don't understand.”
“I've never told anyone about my history before. I wasn't even sure Solomon's decree allowed me to reveal such things to anyone but my masters, and then only if they asked. It was as if I were compelled to tell you everything.”
I was stunned.
“I'm an empath, it's true,” I admitted, “but I don't know anything about any compulsions.”
The Thunderbolt gazed at me intently. I felt as though my very soul was under scrutiny. Was there something to what he said? Did people open up to me because I was a sympathetic listener or because I subconsciously forced them to? Was this what Lia had sensed? Is that how she knew about my powers?
“Ah, I see you aren't ready yet,” the creature said with a graceful shrug of his shoulders. “You've run from your gift. How sad. No matter. If you are what I believe you to be, you will fulfill your destiny regardless of your current hesitation.”
Christ, another one yammering about me and my destiny. That word was popping up too often for comfort. I didn't want to hear it any more. I decided to change the subject.
“With all that magic at your beck and call,” I began, “why can't you...?”
“Cure Johnny? I can, but only if he commands it. By Solomon's decree, I can't act on my own initiative, no matter how worthy the cause.”
“So he could live forever if he wanted to?”
“No. My magic can't prolong human life beyond its natural limits but it can prevent injury and disease from shortening it. Johnny could potentially live another twenty or thirty happy, productive years with my help. But the Alzheimer's crept up on him. Johnny's always been such a screwball that his normal eccentricities masked the symptoms. By the time I knew anything was really wrong, he was too sick to understand.”
A tear rolled down his cheek, spitting and crackling like a tiny ball of lightning.
“The sweet little idiot. I'm going to miss him. I... I'd better get upstairs and see if he needs me.”
I wanted to comfort this gentle creature but struggled to find the words.
“Keep your chin up,” I told him as he drifted toward the tower stairs. “Maybe there's still a miracle or two to go in the story of Johnny Thunder.”
The Thunderbolt turned for a moment, a knowing smile on his face.
“Maybe there is. The very essence of magic is faith and hope. Thank you for reminding me of that.”
I decided against going to the annex. The Thunderbolt's cryptic remarks about my empathic powers had killed my appetite completely. Why was everyone around here so anxious to talk about my destiny? Especially when I didn't have the faintest idea what it was supposed to be? Determined not to think about it, I turned to my work.
For the next ninety minutes, I concentrated on transcribing the tape of my conversations with Don Hall and Karl Byrd. It was a grueling but mindless task and before long the day's worries slipped away. I had just begun the minister's account of his brother's death when the phone rang.
It was Tonya returning my call.
“I'm thrilled to be working for you, Mr. Stevens,” she said. “My professors are all so impressed. I'm sure my MA is a done deal now.”
“I'll try to make sure they don't end up too disillusioned,” I laughed. “Listen, Tonya, I'm delighted with what you've sent me so far. Your instincts are right on the money, so I'm not going to give you any specific instructions other than to keep digging. Oh, and don't try to edit yourself. I want to see everything you turn up, no matter how insignificant you might think it is. Okay?”
“Yes, sir. Then I assume you want to see the rest of the material I've put together? I only sent you about a fourth of what I've got.”
“You bet I want to see it. Send it all. And if you'd like, you can send me your notes for your thesis. Maybe I can give you a little editorial help. There's no reason we can't both benefit from this project.”
“That would be terrific, only...”
I could sense her embarrassment through the connection.
“Would it be okay if I waited 'til Monday to send it? I've been using Ms. Blum's fax machine and she's out of town for the weekend and...”
“And as a struggling grad student, you can't afford to pay some copy shop to fax it? Believe me, college wasn't so long ago that I don't understand your problem perfectly. Monday is soon enough.”
On impulse, I added, “There is something you could do for me over the weekend, though, if you're willing.”
“Sure. What?”
“I'd like you to dig up anything you can find on the country of Bahdnisia, particularly its indigenous religion and mythology, rituals and spells, that sort of thing.”
I could hear her pencil scratching as she hurriedly made notes.
“Bahdnisian magic, got it. Is this for the book or something personal?”
“A little of both, I guess. You could say I'm testing a theory.”
“A theory? About what?”
“About the power of faith and hope.”
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