Forced Betrayal (3 page)

*****

 

When I get to the church basement, the room is full of foul-smelling green smoke. I guess Chimpanzero must have had a secret weapon handy for just such an occasion...and it must not have worked out too well, judging from the sound of his screeching.

Father Obregon is hot on my heels as I follow the sound of the chimp. He'll be registering his objections right down the line, I'm sure.

Like I care. My only concern is putting this effing case to bed while the trail is still warm...giving Hericane the one thing I still don't have to this day. The one thing I maybe could have had if I'd gotten this kind of help right after Jimmy and the kids were murdered.

Closure.

When I find Hericane in the heart of the rancid green cloud, she's holding Chimpanzero up off the floor by the scruff of his neck. His feet pedal helplessly at the green gas drifting around them, and he's screaming his head off.

Pissing himself, as well. Urine's running right down the albino white fur of his left leg.

Poor thing's terrified.

Rightly so. "Why'd you do it?" snaps Hericane, giving him a hell of a shake.

He stops screeching and slumps in her grip. The pee keeps running down his leg to the floor. "I didn't do
nothin'
."

"Put him down!" barks Father Obregon. "That chimp has been given
sanctuary
in this rescue parish! I demand you respect his
rights
!"

I shoot Obregon a look of utter disdain. "
What
rights? The right to throw his own
feces
? He's a
monkey
."

"With a genius I.Q.!" Chimpanzero thrashes when he says it. "I'm the equal of
any
human!"

Who does he think he's fooling? "Any human
moron
." I shake my head in disgust. Chimpanzero's nothing but a ten time loser, and everyone knows it. Even Father Obregon. Brains don't mean much when you've got the common sense of an ape.

Not that Father Obregon will let that keep him from beating the drum. "That's enough." He whips a phone out of his pocket and starts snapping photos. "I'm calling PETA and the Pope, in that order."

Rays of golden light shoot out of Hericane's eyes and fry the phone. "Tell the Pope I said hi," she says innocently as the priest juggles the super-heated phone and drops it.

Should I bother apologizing? Should I take the time to explain to him why it's so important we question the monkey and close the case? Why it's so important not just to Hericane, but to me? Do I think he'd understand?

Understand, maybe. Give a crap, no way.

Keep moving. "As we were saying." I step up to the chimp, keeping just out of reach of his brawny albino arms. Damn things can have the strength of five men--plenty powerful enough to kill me with a single blow. And based on what I saw at the crime scene, this particular monkey's got a lot more strength than that. "We know you were in Mardi Gras' apartment tonight. We know what you did."

"I'm telling you, I didn't do it!" Chimpanzero kicks and thrashes, then slumps again. "Please, I swear it!"

"You're full of it," says Hericane. "We
know
you're lying." She shakes him violently, making him scream.

Father Obregon clears his throat. "Would you like me to step out of the room while you torture this poor soul? I wouldn't want to make you feel like you have to hold back."

I completely ignore him. "Why did you do it?" I inch closer to Chimpanzero--but not
too
close. "You've got one way out of this--
tell
us."

"No, please, no." Chimpanzero flails weakly. His pale eyes are bloodshot, his fur smeared red.

"Where
is
she?" says Hericane. "Where did you
take
her?"

Chimpanzero scowls. "Take
who
? I didn't take nobody
nowhere
."

So Hericane's still in denial. But I can't play along or the monkey won't take me seriously. "
Mardi Gras
, stupid! You went to her apartment to
murder
her, didn't you?"

"All right, that's enough." Father Obregon puts a hand on my shoulder and tries to pull me away. I shrug him off and shoot a little panic buzz into his back-brain. "I mean, uh..."

"Talk, you piece of shit!" I pull out my .45 and point it at the chimp. Meanwhile, I pump up the priest's panic enough to send him retreating through the green fog.

Chimpanzero's eyes flare wide with sheer terror at the sight of the gun. "She was dead when I
got
there! I swear!"

"And why were you there in the first place?"

"I was there for a job!" says Chimpanzero. "I got a call from a fight promoter!"

What the hell? "A promoter? You mean you're a palooka now?"

The monkey nods, then bows his head, looking embarrassed. "I need the cash. I'm desperate."

I shouldn't be surprised. Chimpanzero's always been a ten-time loser. Makes sense he'd look for work as a palooka--paid by a promoter to go up against super-heroes who need a reputation boost. There's plenty of demand for guys like him, lots of so-called heroes who need a couple of showy bouts to get 'em in the papers. A good palooka needs to be just tough enough to go a couple rounds in the jewelry store or bank or whatever, but not so tough that the headliner can't drop him in high style when the time comes. Chimpanzero's worthless against someone of Hericane's caliber, but I can see him holding his own against some lower tier crusader like Partycrasher or Rx, the Prescription for Crime.

So he gets a call and shows up at the apartment, expecting a bout--only there's no bout. Dumb son of a bitch missed the action, and now he's square in the frame.

I lower the gun. "Which promoter was it?"

Chimpanzero swallows hard. "Fizz Dixon down at Punch-'Em-Ups."

Shit. I hate that guy. "And who ordered the bout? Who's the money?"

"I don't know." Chimpanzero shakes his head. "You'll have to ask Dixon."

"
Who
?" Hericane rattles him around some. "Who paid Dixon to hire you?"

The monkey's just limp at this point, like a sack of tapioca. He stares at the floor with his bloodshot eyes, looking miserable. "Please, I'm begging you..."

Then, suddenly, a gunshot blasts through the basement.

And one red hole pops into being on Chimpanzero's forehead, dead center between his eyes.

 

*****

 

I bring the .45 up as I whirl and crouch, instantly looking for a shooter. But the damn green gas is still too thick for me to see further than ten feet away.

"Hericane!" Even as the word leaves my lips, the red beams of three laser gun-sights zip over and land on my chest.

A man's voice booms from across the room. "Nobody move!" He's a smart guy, targeting me instead of bulletproof Hericane. Now he's got all the leverage he needs.

"Don't worry, Bonnie." I hear Hericane drop the dead chimp behind me. "I got this."

One of the laser sights hops off my chest, and a warning shot blows past my left ear. "I repeat, do not move!" says the same guy as before.

At which point, I recognize his voice. "Watt?" And I can't believe it.

Booted feet scuff toward us, and three dark figures come into view through the green gas. Three men in head-to-toe black bodysuits and goggles--first class stealth gear, plus some serious effing rifles.

And the one in the middle, the leader, I know all too well. When he peels back his goggles and hood, I see the same bald head and long, angular features I've seen almost every day for the past five years.

Because the son of a bitch is my
boss
.

"Bonnie." He nods once and lowers his rifle--but the other two guys don't. "Are you all right?"

"Other than almost getting shot by
you
?" I intentionally take a step toward him. "Fine and dandy."

Watt raises his hand, and the other two laser sights flick away from me. "We got word Chimpanzero was hiding out here. When we arrived, we saw he was about to kill you."

He's so full of shit, I'm surprised he said it with a straight face. But I'm sensing I'm up to my ass in alligators here, so I play the game. The mere fact that Watt McBride, director of the Internal Affairs Division of the Superhuman Protectorate, just marched in and assassinated a suspect right in front of me, tells me I'm in over my head or close enough.

"Thanks for the backup." That's what I say to him. "Doesn't take much for a situation to get out of hand."

I'm hoping Hericane takes my cue and dummies up, too. So far, so good; she isn't saying a word.

Watt gestures, and one of his men runs over and leans down to examine the dead chimp. He comes up with a thin, silver blade, about four inches long.

Which I'm sure he brought with him and only pretended to find on the body.

"That's what he was going to use on you," says Watt. "He could've cut you up good, Bonnie."

"Son of a gun." I stare at the blade, then meet Hericane's eyes. She looks calm and in control, thank God.

"So what brought you here, exactly?" Watt raises his eyebrows. "I thought you were working the Mardi Gras case."

"I was, until I got the tip for this one." I look down at the dead chimp on the floor.

"What about you?" He casts his gaze at Hericane. "I thought you'd be helping the cops with the Mardi Gras investigation by now."

"She agreed to help with this first." I keep doing the talking for both of us. "We had reason to believe Chimpanzero was holding hostages, and time was running out."

"Which it wasn't." Watt nods. "You say this tip was anonymous?"

"Something like that," I tell him. Good thing he doesn't have a lie-detecting power. He's in the Protectorate, so he's superhuman, but his power's limited to controlling the growth of fungi. "Maybe the same tipster called us both. Plenty of folks aren't fans of the rescue parish."

"So what did he say to you?" asks Watt. "Did Chimpanzero give you any intel before he died?"

"Zero," I tell him. "Absolutely nothing."

Watt watches me carefully, taking my measure. Then, he shakes his head. "Maybe it's just as well. That chimp was a notorious liar."

I nod once and slip the .45 back in my shoulder holster. "Nothing worse than a liar, sir."

 

*****

 

It takes a while to get clear of Watt and his men. At least we don't have to sweat Father Obregon; Watt answers his threats and demands by locking him in a confessional.

When Watt insists on taking me back to the Protectorate offices, I make up an excuse about having to escort Hericane to the police station.

"The most powerful woman on the planet needs an escort?" That's what the asshole says to me.

"She needs a shoulder," I tell him. "Now that the action's over, things are starting to catch up to her."

And so we get a pass--mostly because Hericane
is
the most powerful woman on the planet. We get in my car and drive off in the direction of the police station, as if we have any intention of going there.

As if we aren't going to double back and head straight for Fizz Dixon the promoter's place instead.

What do we talk about on the way? It sure ain't the weather, let me tell ya.

"Holy shit." My hands are shaking on the wheel. "My own people are in on this. The Superhuman Protectorate's covering this up."

"Why would they do that?" Hericane frowns from the passenger seat. "It doesn't make any sense."

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to steady my hands. "It has to." Another deep breath. "Maybe we'll see the connection after we talk to Dixon."

Hericane's frown deepens. "You think the SP took Mardi?"

Her denial continues. I'll let it go a little longer. "I don't know what's going on anymore. All I know is, my world just turned upside-down."

Hericane watches me for a moment, then looks out the window. "I know the feeling."

 

*****

 

I half-expect to find Fizz Dixon dead. Things seem to be heading in that direction.

But he's alive and kicking and burning the midnight oil in his storefront office down on Claremont Street. He doesn't look up when we walk in, but that's not because he's dead; it's because he's sitting behind his big, red desk hunched over his smartphone, texting like a lunatic with his mangled fingers.

"Fizz?" I weave around the boxes of memorabilia stacked all over the floor. Dixon's got a hot sideline selling souvenirs online from the bouts he promotes--bullets that have bounced off chests, gun barrels twisted into pretzels, that sort of thing. When it comes to super-heroes, he's got all the angles figured out.

Which he should. Because ol' Fizz Dixon used to be a hero himself before the accident.

"Be right with ya." He's got a Southern drawl, as you might expect from a guy who used to dress in a Confederate flag costume and call himself Dixieman. He was the premiere super-hero of the Deep South, based in Birmingham, till he overestimated his indestructibility and got chewed up by an out-of-control power plant turbine he was trying to stop from exploding. "All right then." His fingers make one last flurry over the onscreen keyboard, and then he drops the phone in his lap and smiles up at me with his disfigured features. "What can I do you for?"

"I'm Bonnie Taggart with the Protectorate." I nod politely, then gesture at my companion. "This is Hericane."

Dixon turns his wheelchair and slides a wider smile in Hericane's direction. "Of course I know
you
, Ms. Hericane." His face is a mess of gnarled scars and lumps, like the knobby surface of a glazed fritter. He wasn't indestructible enough to escape damage from a power plant turbine, but his hide was too tough for plastic surgeons to repair with conventional instruments or even lasers. "Does this mean my wildest dreams have come to pass? Would you consent to be recruited for one of my bouts?"

"No, thanks," says Hericane.

"Maybe you'll change your mind." Dixon's features twist around in what might be his version of a wink. A bubbled eyelid drifts halfway down over his one visible eye, then pops back up. One thing's for sure: there's a wicked glint in that eye of his. "Just think of all the
money
you'd make."

Hericane shrugs. "If I want money, I can just compress some coal into diamonds."

"
Another
business venture I'd very much like to discuss with you, ma'am," says Dixon.

Enough with the pleasantries. "We're hoping you can provide some information, Mr. Dixon. Information about one of your clients."

"Wish I could, Bonnie." His features roll into an expression that's either a smirk or a grim frown. Hard to tell with all that scar tissue. "But that'd be covered by a li'l somethin' called promoter-client privilege."

There's no such thing, but I'm not going to argue about it. "I hope you'll make an exception," I say. "Seeing as how one of your palookas got framed for murder because of you."

His smirk or frown changes, shifting into a look like a fist clenched around one dirty eyeball. "Which palooka?" His voice is more serious all of a sudden.

"Chimpanzero," I tell him. "You made the call that set him up. When he got to the site of the bout, he found himself in the middle of a murder scene."

"Shit." He reaches down for the big wheels on either side of his chair, then slowly rolls out from behind the desk. "Where's the monkey now?"

"Dead." Hericane says it tonelessly.

While that sinks in, I step over and stand in front of Dixon's chair, blocking him. "So you see why you might want to help us?"

I can't read his expressions too well, but I'm guessing he's racing through the mental math in record time. If they killed Chimpanzero to shut him up, how long till they come for him, too?

Dixon's eye slides from me to Hericane and back. "I don't know anything. I swear to God."

I raise my palms in front of me and shake my head. "We're not here to hurt you. We're here to help. We want to stop these people before they go any further."

Dixon burps softly--from nerves, maybe? His eye locks on me, flicking up and down in its socket. "I meant what I said. I don't know who hired Chimpanzero. It was all done anonymously, by e-mail."

I fold my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes. "Somebody paid you, didn't they?"

Dixon burps again. I think he farts a little, too. "The funds were wired from an offshore account."

Shit. I don't think he's lying. "You're telling me you've had no direct contact with the client?"

Dixon shakes his head. "Nope. I get an e-mail saying there's a need for an opponent on such and such a day at such and such a place at such and such a time. I set up the fighter, and the money's wired to my account."

"Wait a minute." I frown. "Sounds like you're saying this has happened more than once."

Dixon shrugs. "Well, twice. Second time happened just before you got here, in fact."

So maybe this isn't such a dead end, after all. "A second request came in from the same e-mail account?"

"Yes, ma'am," says Dixon. "Client wants an opponent for a job one hour from now, in fact. I haven't gotten back to him yet."

I turn and look at Hericane, who's standing silently with hands on her hips. "Mr. Dixon, you're in luck. My friend here might be interested in a bout, after all."

Hericane scowls. "I would?"

"Hot dog!" says Dixon. "
Hericane
working a
contract
bout
for me? My business will go through the
roof
!"

I shake my head and place an index finger against my lips. "No names, Mr. Dixon. Just say you've got someone lined up. Give a fake name if they press you."

"Whatever you say." Dixon makes with the maybe-it's-a-wink again. "Everyone'll still know who it was after the fact. They'll know
Hericane
is working for
me
."

I sigh and point at the phone in his lap. "Just answer the e-mail and tell us when and where, Mr. Dixon." Then hide in a very deep hole till this is all over, I should tell him. If
we
found you, the
Protectorate
can't be too far behind.

But I think he already knows all that.