Wearing The Cape: Villains Inc. (29 page)

“It might,” Fisher said at last. “One thing I’ve been asking myself since the Dome attack is why this
Kitsune
is still in Chicago. She’s got the bonds and everybody’s after her, but how can you stop a
shapeshifter
from skipping town?”

Now I felt
really
stupid.

“Blackstone talked like
Kitsune
was playing his own game.”

“Mm-hm. Any reason why you’ve switched to ‘he’?”

And
then
I knew what it was about. Part of it anyway.

Thunk
.
Thunk
.
Thunk
.

“Kid?”

“I think I might have
met
him again last night.
Yoshi
Miyamoto.”

“Who?”

“Sakura Wind’s band manager.”

“Their manager is a
Ren
Katsu
, and he wasn’t there. Kid?”

“He
introduced
himself as the band manager.” I pulled my voice back down. “And he had to know who I was, but he didn’t give me his
business card
. And his English was too good and he knew
Keats
. Blackstone was
wrong
.”

“Wrong?”

I waved hands he couldn’t see.

“Not about—I mean—what he said made sense, but he didn’t know
Kitsune
was
there
!”

“Whoa, slow down, kid. Deep breathes now.”

I counted to five. Okay. “Blackstone assumes Nemesis was a nut-job who targeted us pretty much randomly so he could go out big. Suicide by cape. He’s not
saying
that’s what Nemesis was—just starting there. But if
Kitsune
was at our table last night, he could have been the target. At the Dome he—she—said ‘they’ were tracking her somehow…”

“And if they still can and want her dead,” Fisher finished for me, “it makes sense to use someone like Nemesis that nobody would link to them. Kid, you might be onto something. We didn’t find anything pointing that way in Nemesis’ apartment lair, but we’re going to look closer at everything. Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“Better. Phelps interviewed him while I was talking to you. Ask him—I can’t believe I missed it. I’m going to hang up and be stupid now.”

Now Fisher really was laughing.

“Don’t beat yourself up. And thanks, kid. If you’re right, this gives us a lead to follow. And anything that adds to our psych-profile is good.”

We hung up, but was too late to go back to sleep so I showered and dressed, leaving the mask and wig off while my hair dried. I’d never get used to being in uniform nearly 24/7, and was already missing Shelly’s novel wakeup visits. On the plus side of everything, I’d had no nightmares last night. After being so close to a kill I’d been splashed, from past experience I’d expected my dreams to be no fun at all. Maybe the Word of Healing had changed the way my brain processed mental trauma.

Either that or I was getting hardened to violence.
 
Mental note: talk to Dr. Mendel about it at our next session.

I called Dispatch to learn that Shelly was still on “sick-leave.” No surprise—it had been less than a day. Biting my lip, I called downstairs and got Vulcan, who cheerfully reported that her transfer was “going very well” and I shouldn’t worry.

Yeah, right
. I couldn’t help feeling like my BFF was undergoing an elective and risky medical procedure. To become a
robot
? When
Shelly’d
gleefully announced her plan, I’d flashed back to the horrible, world-ending moment when Mom told me her body had been found, that she’d jumped off an apartment building. Nearly four years ago now, and I still remembered the shock—like I’d run into a wall that hadn’t been there. Why hadn’t I tried to talk her out of this?

Because being a ghost can’t be enough for anyone.

I sat and brushed my hair and tried to convince myself the situation wasn’t the same. Vulcan knew what he was doing. And if something
did
happen, Shelly was backed up, right?

Enough.
Worrying about Shelly did no good. Worrying about Chakra, or about what Villains Inc. might do next, did no good. But there
was
something I could do while I waited for Artemis to green-light our little expedition.

Picking up my cell, I saw a message I’d missed when fumbling to call Fisher. Dane had texted “AB
sd
ys
!” Good boy—he’d probably only waited long enough to get the ring. Grinning ear to ear, I replied with multiple exclamation points and, on that good-
omened
note, made a quick call of my own.

One of the pivotal moments in the history of the Sentinels was their decision to create a junior division. The Young Sentinels, under their slightly older leader, seized the public imagination after a rocky start and went a long way to recapturing the early post-Event enthusiasm for superheroes. Which makes it interesting that the steps leading to that historic decision were accidental ones.

Terry Reinhold,
Years of Service
.

It’s amazing how fast you can get stuff done when you have juice, and even with the public beating we’d been taking lately, the Sentinels still had lots with the city government. Jamal’s caseworker was a pinch-voiced man with zero tolerance for personal discretion, but once I verified the foster situation,
Quin
called a judge who called him and that was that.

Blackstone had further relaxed Def-1 conditions; still minimal civilian contact (especially after last night), and still a full
 
in-base presence, but we didn’t have to be in uniform—just take them with us. So when I told Willis we were mounting a rescue mission he produced caps and shades, even a pair of wigs better than the one I’d worn last year, and politely suggested I take Artemis with me to get some sunshine. Jacky hadn’t gone to bed yet, and I talked her into a surfer-blonde wig to compliment my new brunette curls.
Quin
gave me the address of Jamal’s temporary juvenile home, promised to call ahead for us, and gave us New Tom and the armored Caddy since we were still at Def-1 (we stashed our uniform packs in the back).

New Tom was as quiet and inscrutable as the old Tom. Since the Platoons that I knew were all perpetually Just Business Ma’am (except for Willis, who had a
funnybone
you could actually detect), were there secret Platoons somewhere who just lived in eternal
Margaritaville
, who caught the waves, sunshine, beer, and girls for the rest of them?

I tried to picture a Platoon in sandals and a floral shirt, sipping coolers under a cabana, and my imagination shut down.

Jamal’s temporary home sat on South Buffalo, not the best place, but not the worst; the kind of place that had curfews and checkouts and routine searches, but let the kids out for school and play.
Jamal’d
had no juvenile record before the Puccini’s fight, but they’d still low-jacked him with a GPS anklet that went off when he “sped.”

It wasn’t right, and somewhere between the Dome and the home, an absurd spirit took over. When we pulled up, I yelled “Keep the engine running, Tom!” as Jacky and I jumped out. We dashed to the door and I flashed my Sentinels ID at the man standing by Jamal. He
was
pinch-faced, and he gaped like a fish when Jacky slung Jamal over her shoulder and ran for the car.

I
bit
down and managed a “company” face as I shook his hand.

“Thanks for all your help, but we’ll take it from here,” I blurted. “Of course we’ll have to beat him, so pay no attention to the bruises. He falls down. Lots.” And, grabbing Jamal’s bag, I ran for it.
Quin
was
so
going to hate the next phone call she got.

I actually heard laughing in the front seat as I threw myself into the back and yelled “Punch it, Tom!” He peeled away with a gratifying squeal of rubber while Jacky
giggled
, something I hadn’t believed possible. Scrunched between us, Jamal just looked, well, stunned. And Shelly hadn’t even thought this one up.

Mom and Dad bought me a car and a stun-gun when I turned sixteen, but before I finished Drivers Ed and got my license, they enrolled me in the most brutally practical self-defense course Dad could find. Master Li taught the course.
A master of
Bagau
born in Philly, he’d studied in China before opening his school in Oak Park to sell graceful meditation to soccer moms and serious self-defense and discipline to kids. A Buddhist, Master Li taught that the path to wisdom was Mountain Dew—that and knowing what you didn’t know and whether it was important to know it. Really, if he’d been a guru on a mountaintop, any eager acolytes who scaled the peak in search of enlightenment would have been handed a six-pack and advised to go study something useful.

Looking t
hrough the round street windows, we could see a beginner’s class in the
gun
(the school’s training hall). They were going through basic form drill under a junior instructor, and we stopped for a moment to watch the children pace, with intense concentration and occasional catch-up hops, through the graceful and fluid palm changes.

“I’m going to stay
here
?” Jamal asked, looking at me.

“
Mmhm
,” I confirmed, hoisting his bag. “
Sifu
—Master Li—is cool. He and Debbie are registered foster parents, though they normally host Chinese kids over here for school.”

“Did he teach you to fight?”

“Actually, he taught me to run. I didn’t learn much of
that
.” I waved at the window. “I learned how to use pepper spray, a stun-gun, and in a pinch, a small baton. The fanciest move he drilled into me was a knee-sweep—kick your attacker in the knee and then run like the wind.”

I laughed at his disbelieving look. “When you’re my size, self-defense means situational awareness, personal preparedness, and bugging out if there’s any way to. He also made me promise to get a concealed-carry permit and a gun as soon as I was old enough. I think I can pass on that one.”

Jamal looked disappointed, and I reassured him that Master Li was much more likely to teach
him
all the secrets of
Bagau
. I didn’t think he’d be interested in the Asian culture lessons Master Li also taught (they’d been good towards my AP Comparative Culture credits), but he’d probably get them anyway.

We took the weapon-hung hallway to the back, past the tiny office and out the back door. A yard divided by a gated wall separated Master Li’s home from the school, and in good weather his students used the school side of the yard for outside instruction. The family side of the yard was Debby’s garden, now bare soil and budding bushes, and both the yard and house were as ornately Chinese as the school.

We went through the gate without buzzing and Master Li met us at the door to lead us into the open family area, decorated mostly by wall-scroll replicas of inked landscape paintings and lacquered bamboo furniture. I’d learned my love of Asian art here.

He’d laid out his prized
gongfu
tea set (two red and unadorned clay teapots and matching cups and water bowl, heating pitcher, and utensils) on the table where he had taught me the strategy of
Go
. We sat, he nodded, and I prepared the tea while Jacky and Jamal watched.

Rinse the smaller teapot with hot water. Fill it to one-third with oolong tea leaves. Rinse the tea leaves by filling the pot to half full, then drain it completely into the water bowl. Pour more hot water into the teapot, carefully so that no bubbles form. Silently contemplate the
whichness
of what while the infusion steeps for thirty seconds. Pour into the cups with the remainder poured into the second teapot so again only the leaves remain for further infusions.