Just Cause Universe 3: Day of the Destroyer (16 page)

Almost, she reminded herself.

“Okay, I guess that would be all right. But no funny stuff or
kapow
.” She pointed at him for emphasis.

He jumped a little at that. “It’s cool. I’ll just chill out. Let me check and see if someone else can take this call. You know that place we were at this morning? They’ve got lines down now.” He checked his watch. “Swing shift guys are out now. Maybe one of them can pick it up.”

“Shane, I need to go back there to see if that kid came through with those Just Cause passes,” said Gretchen. “That’s the whole reason I came to New York.”

“Oh, right, right,” said Shane. “That’s cool. We’ll stop by and see if he brought them, and then go turn in the truck and grab a shower before dinner. Uh, separately, that is.”

Gretchen laughed.

Chapter Nine

July 13, 1977, 5:00 PM

“So as you see, it’s pretty cut and dried as far as we’re concerned,” said Dyersville’s Chief of Police, a sweaty, rotund man named Swensen. “Don’t know why you ladies felt like comin’ all the way out here to hear it, but we’re satisfied with our interpretation of events.”

Sundancer grumbled something offensive under her breath. Faith agreed with her. Chief Swensen had been condescending and smarmy under his veneer of polite helpfulness. If it wouldn’t have gotten her in a world of trouble, Faith would have dumped him on his copious ass hard enough to make a point. “Nevertheless, Chief, this is a federal murder investigation, and we’d like to question the friends and family of the suspect and victim.”

Swensen smiled without the slightest trace of humor. “Of course. Here’s the list of everyone we questioned.” He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. “Good luck, ladies.”

Faith and Sundancer fled the small police station like it was on fire. “God, I’d love to give that man a sunburn on his lily-white ass,” muttered Sundancer.

“Amen to that, sister,” said Faith. She looked at the list. Only six names. She folded it, then tore it in half and handed part to Sundancer. “Stay in touch,” she said. “Steel’s listening in. He’ll come if we need him.”

Sundancer’s aura brightened even in the afternoon sun and she flew off in search of the first name on her list.

Faith looked at her own list. The first name was Robert Milbrook, the victim’s father. He worked at the corn mill by the railroad tracks. After a quick foray across town and a brief conversation with a hero-dazzled foreman, Faith learned Milbrook’s shift was already over, but he might be found at a bar in town. Another jaunt down Main Street brought her to Harryhausen’s Tavern.

The tavern stank of sour beer and old whiskey and sweat. A film of dust coated the windows and the mirror behind the bar. Faded posters of Western movies decorated the walls and a jukebox in one corner struggled with the crackling strains of country music. The bar’s interior was darkened against the late afternoon sun, and a large, loud man was holding court against a well-varnished counter. He held up a glass brimming with beer and with tears in his eyes, shouted, “to Donny!”

“To Donny,” repeated the other men in the bar with reverence. They slammed their empty glasses down on the bar and someone called for a subsequent round.

Conversations died out as Faith walked across the bar. The only sound was the jukebox belting out a Conway Twitty tune. She could feel the men’s eyes on her as she strode toward Milbrook. “Mr. Milbrook?”

He looked her up and down, undressing her lithe form with his eyes, unconsciously licking his lips. “Yes?”

“I’m Pony Girl from Just Cause. May I speak to you about your son?”

He shrugged and slammed down another glass of whiskey. “Sure,” he mumbled. He nearly fell as he slid off the barstool. Faith reached out a steadying hand but he brushed her off. “C’mon, too noisy in here fer a fella to hear hisself think.” In spite of his complaint, nobody in the bar spoke a word as Faith and Milbrook made for the door. She sensed strong antipathy in the room. She could understand why; one of their own had been murdered by a parahuman like her. In their eyes, she was the enemy.

Milbrook led Faith behind the bar where crates of empty bottles towered in a neat stack. He lit an unfiltered Pall Mall and glared at her. “What do you want to know? I already talked to the police.”

“Tell me about Donny. What kind of boy was he?”

“He was a real good boy. The kind what grows up to make his father proud. He played football in high school, ya know. Could have gone pro if he hadn’t tore up his knee.”

“What was he doing? Working?”

“He was doing carpentry work around town to pay for stuff on his car. He loved that car. I’m sure that bitch took it.”

“She took his car? What was it?”

“A ’73 Camaro. Cops haven’t been able to find it. He was driving it the night he …”

“Easy, Mr. Milbrook. I know your loss is still fresh. Can you think of any reason someone would want to harm your son?”

Milbrook dashed his arm across his face to hide his unmanly tears. “He was a popular boy. Everyone liked him. Sure, he’d go out and raise a bit of a ruckus on the weekends, but we all did that. Boys will be boys. I can’t imagine why anyone would hurt him.” His face grew hard. “You catch that little whore and you bring her back here, Pony Girl. I’ll see to it she gets what’s comin’ to her.”

Faith was taken aback at the venom and underlying violence in the man’s words. Nevertheless, she handed him a card. “I promise you, we’ll do everything in our power to track down your son’s killer, Mr. Milbrook.”

“You better,” he grunted. “Shouldn’t be too hard. He was killed by a freak like you.”

Faith shut her mouth with a snap before she uttered a cutting remark that wouldn’t help the local situation at all. The man was distraught at the death of his son. Surely he couldn’t hate her just because she was a parahuman, could he?

Maybe he could. The thought was a bitter pill to swallow. Racism was alive and well in America, and some people would always feel that way, whether about Asians, blacks, or parahumans. She spun on her heel and walked away, leaving Milbrook behind to stew in his juices. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of the bar. Someone without super speed might have missed it, but Faith saw the young woman’s face peeking around the edge of the building. The young woman ducked out of sight but not before Faith had a chance to commit her face to memory. It could have been simple hero worship or curiosity, or it could have been something more.

Either way, Faith had more questions to ask. She picked up her radio. “Pony Girl, moving on to the next name on my list. Steel, you listening in?”

“Affirmative.”

“Think you could find a missing 1973 Chevrolet Camaro in the area with your super-duper sensor thingies?”

“I shall implement search protocols immediately.”

“Groovy. Pony Girl out.” With one last look in the direction she’d seen the mysterious watcher, Faith headed across town.

#

The first Con Ed truck pulled up, but it had some strange man in it. Harlan chewed on his lip. They couldn’t have sent somebody else, could they? But then he saw another Con Ed truck round the corner and stood so fast that he knocked over the stool. Gretchen was returning to him! He hurried out to the street as the truck stopped. Through the windshield, he could see the surprise in Gretchen’s face as she noticed the cuts and bruises on his face. He shrugged it off but before he could call to her, a Plymouth screeched to a halt in front of him.

“Boy, you are in a world of trouble.” His Momma stepped out of the driver’s seat and slammed her door. “Get your sorry ass in the car.” She marched around the front, and with each step Harlan knew she was getting angrier and angrier.

“No, Momma!” He wanted to run, but knew that would only get him into worse trouble.

“Don’t you
no, Momma
me,” hollered the woman. “The school done called me at work, said you hadn’t been in today. I had a hunch you might be here, wasting time.”

“Momma, I’m not—” started Harlan, only to be silenced by a cuff upside his head. Fingers like a steel vise closed on his ear and she began to drag him to the car. In spite of wanting to appear grown-up and macho for Gretchen, he squealed in pain. “Please, Momma, I need to—ow!—get something inside!”

“Boy, the only thing you need right now is a good whipping,” hissed his mother. “Now you get into that car this instant or as God is my witness I will beat you right here on the street.”

Harlan looked around, desperate for a way to escape or someone to intervene on his behalf. People along the street were staring at the spectacle Momma had created, but he only sought one sympathetic pair of eyes. At last, he saw Gretchen staring at him, her face a mixture of sympathy and dismay. “They’re on the workbench,” he shrieked at her just before Momma slammed the door shut.

Momma weaved through the streets of Harlem in her sweltering car, lecturing and screaming at Harlan until she wedged her big Plymouth into a parking space by their tenement building. “Now get your sorry ass inside and think real hard whether or not you want to keep living under my roof.”

Harlan stomped off to his room, threw open his window, and sat on the sill. Outside on the street below, children played in the hot sun with kickballs and double-dutch jump ropes. He watched them without really seeing. Instead, he replayed the scene of Gonsalvo’s death in his mind over and over again. The man’s death had been an accident, and Harlan absolved himself of any responsibility because Gonsalvo could have prevented it with more caution on his part. It comforted Harlan to know that despite the loss of his friend, it wasn’t really his fault.

As the scene repeated, Gonsalvo’s face transformed into that of Harlan’s mother. He imagined the blade-wand splitting her throat and a slow smile crept across his face. Pulling the trigger on her wouldn’t be an accident. Like the man who’d broken into his junkyard the night before, his mother’s death would be on purpose. The thought cheered Harlan like a suit of armor against the upcoming tongue-lashing he’d get at the dinner table.

“What’s so funny, Harlan?”

Startled, he whirled in the window, coming close to falling out. Reggie stood in the door, cuddling her stuffed elephant.

“You little brat, you almost made me fall,” said Harlan.

She sniffled a little and hugged her elephant tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“What do you want, Reggie? I’m busy.”

“I was just wonderin’ what was so funny. You was sittin’ there laughin’.”

“Oh. One of those kids down there fell down. I thought it was funny. That’s all.”

“I wish I’d’a seen it.” The little girl’s expression grew wistful.

“Reggie, I’m on punishment. You ain’t supposed to be talking to me.”

“I know. Momma said not to.” She rocked the elephant like a baby. “Harlan? How come you hate us so much?”

He looked at her. “I don’t hate you, Reggie. You and Momma and Irlene just don’t understand me. That’s all.”

She thought about that, struggling to understand concepts that Harlan knew were far above her. “Okay,” she said. “I don’t hate you neither. I’m a-scared of you when you get mad though.”

Harlan shrugged. “Sometimes I get mad. You don’t have to be scared of me. Unless you’re the reason I’m mad,” he said in a low voice. “Then you better look out.”

Reggie’s eyes grew wide. Before she could say anything else, Momma called from the kitchen. “Regina Washington, you best not be talking to that no-account brother of yours!”

“No, Momma,” called Reggie. “Bye, Harlan,” she whispered, and then skipped down the hall.

He reflected on his relationship with Reggie, which was different than the one he had with Momma and Irlene. She was always curious about him and his ideas. He could tell her about an invention, and she’d listen with honest interest, even if she didn’t understand a word he said. That was why he’d made her that wind-up carousel, even though he never gave it to her. Sometimes he felt bad about that, and even felt sorry for her growing up in the shadow of their overbearing mother and superhero sister. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he cared for Reggie, but he tolerated her.

That goodwill did not extend to the other members of his immediate family, and Harlan amused himself by imagining them at the mercy of his giant robot.

#

“Are you going to be okay, Javier?” Tommy and John stood over the Puerto Rican man as he lay amid pillows and rumpled sheets on his circular bed.

Javier nodded, wincing at the pain that must have shot through his skull. An ice bag sat atop his head, covering his eyes. “I’ll live,” he grunted. “I might wish otherwise later.”

“I’m borrowing some clothes,” said Tommy. “Two costumes in one day. The laundry’s going to love me.”

“If it fits, it’s yours,” said Javier. He was four inches shorter than Tommy and of a slenderer build.

Tommy grimaced at the outfits hanging in the closet. “You got anything that won’t make me look like a male prostitute?”

John burst out laughing and even Javier managed a weak chuckle. “Listen,” Javier gasped. “Clothes make the man.”