Seven Wonders (28 page)

  The attendant made a good show of reading a newspaper, but her eyes were clearly following her only customer. Conroy smiled selfconsciously, and moved to browse the shelves. His eyes didn't focus on the groceries − rows of beans and laundry detergent went unseen. He wanted to savor the calm and the quiet, the reassuring purr of the drinks fridge, the dust and pine-fresh smell familiar from childhood.

  But he'd picked the wrong neighborhood, clearly.

  
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

  He reached for a tin of something unappetizing, and found it heavier than he expected. He hefted it in his palm, and noticed that his hand was shaking, just a little. He raised his other arm in front of his face. That hand shivered slightly as well.

  Conroy exhaled loudly. Now he knew what this was: fear. He was terrified.

  The newspaper rustled. Conroy emerged from behind the shelf and saw the attendant watching him. She wasn't that old – possibly kissing sixty, at the most – but she was frail and despite an attempted hardness in the eyes, Conroy could sense something was wrong. She was afraid too. Afraid of him.

  Conroy glanced at the store damage. The wrong neighborhood, all right. And what was this woman doing here, running a store, apparently unprotected? Hoping that lightning doesn't strike twice didn't seem like a sensible business decision.

  He took a step towards the counter and the woman jerked back, fast enough to bump her back into the empty cigarette rack behind her. Conroy didn't need superpowers to estimate her increased heart rate and respiration. She was going to have a damn heart attack.

  Conroy flicked a bead with his right hand and held his left up, in a gesture of what he hoped was peace. The woman didn't seem to notice. She was shaking visibly now.

  The blood, the damage. Given the state of the woman Conroy realized that she probably wasn't the regular attendant. No… something had happened, something had happened
recently
, which had left the regular worker incapacitated, and she'd had to come in and take over. Probably the mother. They had no choice, the shop had to stay open, they couldn't afford to close it even for a day. Conroy just hoped that the blood on the floor hadn't belonged to the shopkeeper. The damage and the burn marks on the floor suggested that a hero had been here. Linear, perhaps.

  "Everything's going to be all right," said Conroy. His voice was suddenly loud in the shop and the woman jumped with a small cry. As Conroy watched, tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

  Conroy felt sick. What right did people have to come in and attack a family-run business? What right did people have to cause fear and terror? People were just trying to live. All of them, everyone in the city. People had a right to freedom and to mind their own business.

  
As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.

  Conroy swallowed and found a lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit. He lowered his hand and walked backwards, towards the doors.

  The Omega gang, out in the park. That was probably as close to a permanent HQ as the group had. Which meant they must have seen something. When he explained who he was they'd give him information, and even help him track down the perps.

  As the woman behind the counter collapsed weeping onto her knees, Geoff Conroy returned to the night outside and ran across the street to the park.

Detachment from the things of the world.

  The park really was dark. The lone streetlight cast a sickly yellow glow over the playground and basketball court, rendering everything a faded monochrome. Conroy could only assume everything was bright and cheerful in the daylight, because right now it was like something out of a Stephen King movie.

  The path through the park led off out of the dull light and towards the trees, vanishing with surprising abruptness as the darkness beyond swallowed everything. Conroy knew that was an illusion, that the yellow streetlight was actually brighter than it looked and that once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, the park would be easy to navigate. But that was also why it was the perfect spot for an Omega gang – they could lurk, maybe dozens of them, near the trees and watch the world go by, safe in the knowledge they were completely invisible to anyone who looked their way.

  A firefly in the dark, a tiny flaring red that grew like a bloodspot in the air and just as quickly shrank back to nothing.

  Hiding in the tree line was no good if you were a smoker.

  Another large bead, another
Our Father
, and Conroy held his jaw up and walked into the black maw.

It was dark, and it was quiet. The trees moved constantly, their leaves a faint curtain of white noise that added to the odd feeling that he was walking into a soundproof chamber. Conroy listened to the trees and listened to his own footsteps; glancing down, the pale concrete of the path managed to capture the dregs of the yellow light from the playground, and was practically the only discernible object around him. Glancing back, the playground and basketball court were a tiny faded vignette. Beyond, the street and the convenience store. The store was brightly lit, the white of the interior and the red of an advertising sign for soft drink in the window the only color in Conroy's field of vision.

  Conroy turned back to the darkness, bunched his shoulders, and took one step forward before stopping, quickly. The cigarette flared ahead, much closer now. Above the sound of the trees came the suck and crackle of someone taking a long drag.

  "Nice suit, my brother," said the smoking man. Conroy could see him vaguely – a washed-out gray figure in a puffer jacket and wide jeans. There was no sign of any costume or uniform or insignia that he knew the Omega gangs wore, but it was too dark to see clearly, and the chances were such an emblem was on the back of his jacket anyway.

  "You got a quarter for a coffee?"

  Conroy glanced to his left. There was another person there, tall and thin, the voice young and deep. As the cigarette flared again, Conroy heard the trees rustle, too close to his back. He turned on this heel, carefully. There were two more men – youths – behind him. They were silhouetted sharply by the yellow light at the end of the tunnel formed by the tree-lined path. One was wearing a baseball cap. Conroy watched as its outline moved, the wearer looking him up and down.

  "Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins. Save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls to Heaven. Especially those most in need of thy mercy."

  Someone laughed and Conroy felt his mouth dry out completely. He hadn't meant to speak that out loud. The smooth wood of his rosary beads cut into the knuckles of his hand as he squeezed it into a fist.

  "You on your way to church, mister?"

  Three of the youths laughed. The fourth, the one with the cigarette, sniggered in an unpleasant falsetto and waved the hand holding the smoke. The dry-leaf smell of the park was joined by the strong, sweet aroma of weed. Conroy watched the end of the joint glow faintly as it was dragged through the air, and wondered whether this really had been a good idea.

  He rolled the next rosary bead over a knuckle, and sucked in a breath that brought with it the tang of marijuana.

  Time to take control. He didn't need superpowers to take charge. He was better than them, and they knew it.

  "You're one of the Omega gangs, right?"

  The men ignored the question and Conroy saw the outline of the baseball cap move again as they muttered among themselves. Conroy puffed his chest out, possibly for his own benefit more than anything. He dropped his voice to a growl that should have been familiar to the two million people living in the city.

  "I'm the Cowl, and I need information."

  The laughter sprang up again, louder this time. Conroy winced at the sharpness of the sound, the noise of four men high as kites getting a fit of the giggles.

  The baseball cap moved forward enough for Conroy to see the man's face. It was thin and spangled with heavy acne.

  "Your money," the youth said, eyes narrow. He glanced down at Conroy's shoes. "And duds. You picked the wrong park to jerk off in, my friend."

  More laughter, more giggling. The two that hadn't spoken suddenly exchanged words, loudly but too quickly, all street slang and abbreviations that Conroy couldn't follow. The gang members were kids and Conroy was twenty years out of date.

  "Smokes and money and make it quick," said the apparent gang leader.

  Conroy frowned. "I don't have any cigarettes."

  The leader shook his head. "Wallet, my man, wallet. Or we'll fuck you up, and then you'll know who the Cowl is."

  The three kids around Conroy exploded with mirth. Conroy knew that he'd made a mistake. There was no way he could convince them who he was – and, perhaps more importantly, it didn't matter anyway. The Cowl, the omega symbol, were an excuse for anarchy. As the city's resident supervillain, he'd given license for the lowlife of San Ventura to think they had some kind of purpose and the freedom to act upon it.

  "Too slow, brother Joe. I said give me your motherfucking money and your motherfucking smokes, bitch." Clearly, the concept that not everybody smoked was completely alien to the youths.

  A fresh sound, a click and then something soft sliding on something hard. Conroy didn't turn but he knew that one of the kids behind him had pulled a knife of some kind.

  "Hey, hey, hey," said one of the group. At once, the other three turned away from Conroy. There, in the yellow spotlight of the playground, was someone else. The black outline was long and flowing – a woman, long hair and long coat, carrying a bag. She strode towards the group, either not seeing them or determined to make some statement about how the citizens of San Ventura could walk through any damn public place they liked at any damn time of day.

  Or, thought Conroy, perhaps she had a death wish.

  "Hey, hey, hey," repeated the gang leader. The group of four moved away from Conroy slightly. Conroy relaxed, the tension suddenly evaporating as he realized he was no longer of interest. Money and the possibility of fresh cigarettes was nothing compared to the allure of a woman.

  
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

  The group jogged forward to meet the newcomer, who now came to a complete stop. Conroy heard the giggling come again and watched as the four men circled the woman like vultures. He was now forgotten, completely irrelevant.

  One of the men reached out and pulled the strap of the woman's bag. She shrieked, and the men giggled. She snapped the bag strap away from the hand easily. They were playing with her. Another orbit and another hand, or the same hand, reached out and pulled at the lapel of her coat.

  Conroy blinked. Although it was cooler between the trees he felt the sweat crawl under his hair. He felt the subcutaneous fat over his knuckles roll as he squeezed the rosary beads in his fist.

  
Contempt of Riches. Love of the Poor.

  Conroy walked down the path towards the light.

The street was quiet, and the convenience store was still there with its white lights and red neon sign. Conroy turned, and the playground and basketball court were still there, bathed in the nicotine yellow of the streetlight. The world was dreamlike and Conroy's head was full of cotton wool. Any second he'd wake up, and walk downstairs to the Lair, and look over that night's automated surveillance report on the computer while he sipped freshly brewed coffee.

  Any second now. Any second.

  It was still hot. Conroy blinked and was surprised to find everything exactly as it was when his eyes opened again. He raised his hand to wipe his face, to get the funk of the night off him, but stopped and changed his mind. He stared for a moment at the blood smeared over his fingers. Confused for a second, he raised the other hand. In the light cast by the convenience store that hand was dipped in scarlet. He moved his fingers and stretched them out, watching the rosary beads shine wetly. The blood went almost to his elbow, and none of it was his.

  He felt sick and euphoric and afraid and excited. Then he clutched his stomach, covering his jacket with the blood as a nauseating pulse of adrenaline coursed through his body. His chest felt like it was on fire, his lungs underwater.

  What had he done? Oh, what he had done…

  He straightened and checked the street. It was deserted, he was alone, and nobody had seen.

  He'd saved a life, that's what he'd done. And there was now one less Omega gang in the city. Well… that was… good, right? The woman had run and the kids wouldn't be bothering anyone in the park – or anywhere else – ever again.

  But… this wasn't his plan. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. The ends had justified the means but… Jesus, what had he done?

  
True Wisdom and True Conversion, Piety, Joy of Finding…

  Conroy wiped his hands on his jacket as best he could, then slipped it off and dumped it in the gutter. He glanced down at his shirt, keeping his gore-soaked hands far away from it. He felt dizzy and cold and almost staggered but managed to keep himself upright as he realized his mistake.

  The sigil. He wasn't wearing the Cowl's suit, but more importantly that meant he wasn't wearing the sigil, the complex array of runes which, when placed over his heart, removed him from God's sight. With the Cowl's suit on he was invisible, free to move and act as he pleased and as he needed. But without it, God could see him.

  God could
see
him.

  Conroy retched and spat a mouthful of bile onto the street. How could he have been so
stupid?

  That was it. There was nothing else left for him to do.

  He needed to talk to someone, one man in particular, and it wasn't far.

It was open, of course. It was open all night, every night, and Conroy wasn't alone. Three people sat at the back, one sat at the front, and there were at least two that he'd seen lying on the pews, asleep. Around the edges of the cathedral lurked a priest, somewhere. Conroy had seen him when he'd come in but the man had vanished with no more than a cursory nod. Maybe he'd recognized Conroy.