In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition (33 page)

The three of them decided to go for a slice. I opted out. Diana had been good at not saying anything about what had happened, but she was clearly dying to tell someone. It was the first time she’d ever drawn blood, ever hit anyone and ever knocked anyone out. The trifecta. It was also the first time she’d gotten rid of a body, obstructed justice, and violated someone’s civil rights. There’s your double-triple. It was a big day for her. Kim and Terry would be a great audience for it.

I headed home. The first inkling of anything wrong was when lights didn’t go on. Could have been a blown fuse.
 

It wasn’t.
 

The clink of ice in a glass tipped me off, and the scent of Scotch whisky confirmed it.

“To what do I owe this honor?” I almost added, “Mr. Chase,” but if he’d come as Nick Chase, the lights would have worked. Ditto the Murdoch, which he’d somehow extinguished.

“I need a favor.”

“Okay.” I headed toward the kitchen to get a beer. “Fridge light going to be out, too?”

“You don’t want a beer. Drink the good stuff.”

“I don’t have any good stuff.”

“I brought it. Housewarming gift. The bottle’s on the table, next to a tumbler, no ice.”

“You remembered.”

“My curse. I remember everything.” Ice clinked again. “I’ll take the bottle after you’ve poured.”

I sat. My chair afforded me just a bare glimpse of his silhouette. Full mask, hooded cloak, leather boots and trunks, all black, including the spandex. His logo, a bat-winged vampire creature, glowed softly on his chest. The mask, when light penetrated the shadows, was a skullface slightly softened as if he were long dead and returned from the grave.

Good thing he brought Scotch. That vision required strong drink.

It really
was
the good stuff. Fifty years old. Life is good when you get to drink whisky older than you are. I poured and extended the bottle toward the shadows.

It disappeared.

I raised my glass. “To friends and obligations.”

“Salut.”

I sipped, letting the vapors fill my head. “I’m retired, you know.”

“I remember. I still need your help.”

I laughed.

“What?”

“That’s many a little boy’s dream: hearing you say you needed their help.”

“It’s not a little boy I need.”

“It’s a different boy you need.” I lowered my glass. “Greg’s still fit for action.”

“Greg’s not going to help me here.” He sighed. “Greg is a fine man, but he was never truly cut out for what you and I do. Nine years ago he came to me, said he was going to run for mayor. He wanted my blessing and my support. He told me that there was only so much we could do from the shadows. People needed leadership to draw them into the light. He wanted to provide that leadership. He’s done well. If it weren’t for term limits, he’d probably be elected again and again. As it is, he’s out next March.”

“But whatever you want me to do concerns his city, doesn’t it?”

“This was never really Greg’s city, not in the way we know it.” He set his glass down and leaned forward. “Anthropologists and sociologists classify men as primates. They use the label to explain our behavior. They like to point to apes and say we have Alphas and Betas and Omegas just like our lesser brethren. They so much want us to be simple to understand, but they miss how we are different.
 

“Mankind breaks down into four groups. The least of us are the Daisies. They’re harmless. They seek the sun. They feel pleasure and pain, but are intellectually incapable of understanding the depth and complexity of life. If they were, they would live in terror. As it is, they want toys with their happy meals, beer in the fridge, and a good game on Sunday afternoon.”

“That’s not a bad life.”

“They work, they earn their daily bread, they hurt no one.” His cape slipped forward of a broad shoulder. “Next are the cattle. Docile creatures, they
do
see the complexities of life. They know fear, but they conquer it with material things, and things of
consequence
. At least, it’s what they see as consequential. For them the Superfriends checks and a chance to appear on the Murdoch are the highest forms of achievement. Their problem is that they are either of below average intelligence or they willfully under achieve. Self-esteem issues, other insecurities, or the lack of will to conquer character flaws, sabotage them.”

Ice clinked as he drank. “And then there are the wolves, who prey upon them. You know the wolves. Criminals, sadistic bosses, demanding spouses, anyone who can manipulate someone else into doing their bidding. There may only be one wolf for every thousand cattle, but fear allows them to wield power out of proportion to their numbers.”

I sat back, steepling my fingers. “By that definition, you and I are wolves. Rather, you
are
and I
was
.”

“No, my friend, we are wolfhounds. We are the fourth type of Man. We are the elite who have chosen to prey upon the wolves. We know, as President Roosevelt said so long ago, ‘The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself.’ He spoke
for
the cattle, but
to
the wolfhounds. Show heart, destroy the enemy and you redeem all.”

My eyes narrowed. “Surely Greg must be a wolfhound.”

“I wish he was. He is formidable, yes, but merely a bull among the cattle. Some do rise up, but they fail to see that keeping the cattle in the light does not eliminate the wolves from the shadows. Without destroying the wolves, safety is illusion. And the problem is that the cattle, even the mightiest of the bulls, come to believe that illusion is real.”

“I think you do Greg a disservice, or you overestimate me.”

“No, my friend, no. Had that thought ever occurred to me, it would have been dispelled the night we came for you. Do you remember?”

I nodded.

There was no forgetting that night. The Drunken Bandits had been eliminated, but I’d not yet met Selene. I was running around, picking off mid-range villains. They had potential, but needed seasoning. I was a scrimmage before they went big time. I’d tagged a string of them and pulled a wounded cop out of a drug sting gone bad. I even collared the dealers.

I was feeling good about the week and decided to patrol for an hour. If nothing came up, I’d go dancing. I was close to the end of my hour and then, bold as brass, two guys just tossed a garbage can through a jewelry store window and started grabbing. And, in retrospect, I should have known something was up. I’d never seen a jewelry store on that corner before and those tempered glass windows just don’t shatter that easy.

Didn’t matter. I was out of the Chaser and into the alley. I pulled a shock-rod, set it and flung it. In a narrow alley, with a couple of ricochets, I could get both of the morons with just one toss. It was going to be simple.

Then the big guy in the back turned. His eyes blazed red and my shock-rod evaporated.

My good week was turning into a very bad day.

It got worse. I spun. A third guy was cutting me off. I figured my father had set this up, which took my chances of survival down to zip point nada. So I reacted, somewhere down below the primate level. Fight or flight, and I had to do one before I could do the other.

I barreled into the third guy. I clipped his jaw with my head and surprised him. That gave me a moment to shove him off, then I was out of the alley. I ran away from the Chaser, but used the remote to send it home, hoping they’d chase it. One of them did, flames flaring from the bottoms of his boots.

And the other guy was just on the edge of the alley, so they were all behind me.

Or so I thought.

I bounced straight off a guy’s chest. The guy with the glowing eyes. Had to be. Couldn’t be two of them that big. But that was okay, because I rolled to my feet, leaped away and caught hold of a passing truck. Nearly dislocated my shoulder, but I was away.

Nighthaunt rubbed at his jaw. “You led us a merry chase that night. You really lived up to your totem animal. You ran, you fought, you did everything except the
one
thing Greg would have done.”

“And that was?”

“Wait to be rescued.” He fell silent for a moment. “That tendency was my fault. He got used to it. It’s a hard habit to break, waiting for someone else to fix things. It’s worse when you choose to ignore the offers of help.”

“So Greg isn’t listening to you.”

“No.” He drank and set down an empty glass–though it remained neither empty nor down for very long. “I won’t bore you with details or get cryptic. There is a link between the Hall of Fame and the Little Asia massacre. I’m not sure what. I don’t know who, but it is out there. I’m amassing information. I’ve offered it to Greg, but he thinks everything is under control. He trusts too much in the illusion.”

I shrugged. “It could be he thinks you trust in a different illusion.”

“And it could be he’s right.” Again Nighthaunt sighed, this time wearily. “I just… you don’t do this this long, you don’t live in this city this long, and fail to feel what’s happening.”

“I’m hardly in a position to judge.”

“True.
And
you are retired.
If
you truly can be.”

“I am.”

“Nothing calls out to you? You don’t hear the people in pain and fear?”

“Sure, but, you know, it’s like being at the scene of an accident. I can see people in pain, I can feel them being afraid, but I’m not a doctor. I’m not an EMT. I would hurt more than I can help. “

“But you still have to feel the desire…”

“I suspect I always will, just like Grant and Terry. But they’ve worked it out. While I think you’re right on the mix of wolves and cattle, maybe eliminating the wolves isn’t just a matter of apprehension. Maybe it’s prevention. Maybe education and opportunity will give someone a chance at something other than a life of crime.”

“There will always be a need for wolfhounds.”

“Funny thing about wolfhounds. They don’t tend to live very long.”

Nighthaunt chuckled. “I was right about you.”

“How so?”

“You could have been my heir.”

“I’m flattered, but I don’t see it.”

“No one else would have had the stones to argue with me, especially when, philosophically, we are so alike.” He swirled amber liquid in his glass. “You know that’s the truth. You may be retired, but you wish you could be hunting wolves, not cultivating daisies.”

I drank.

“I’ll leave the bottle for you. There’s a second in your cupboard.” Nighthaunt stood slowly. “If anything happens to me, drink to my health, will you?”

I stood and offered him my hand.. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

He grasped my hand, his grip firm and strong “Why would I start now?”

“There are people who would think our entire careers were acts of stupidity.”

“The lowing of cattle concerns me not at all. I care only to hear terrified wolves howl.” He pumped my arm, then let go. “My best wishes to Selene, Grant and Terry. Please pass on my regards.”

“Come back and we’ll finish the bottle.”

He paused for a moment, considering. Time weighed. His voice softened. “I would like that.”

And then he was gone.

Chapter Thirty-one

I didn’t touch the bottle stashed in my cupboard. Nighthaunt was of my father’s generation. If they were characters in some novel, they’d have been twin orphans, split up, raised apart only to be drawn together in some sort of self-destructive death spiral. There would be something about that bottle or on the label or in it that would be a clue. He wanted me to have it in case something happened to him.

It was the age they were raised in. More black and white, full of courtesies layered over insincerity and duplicity. Everyone played nice in public, but seethed behind the scenes. They learned to express themselves in subtle and oblique ways, which, if you weren’t watching, seemed quite innocent.

When I was growing up, no one committed suicide. They always accidentally overdosed. Or the one I loved: they had an
accident
while cleaning a gun. That one used to make sense until I learned how to clean a gun. No way you could have an accident doing that, not by
accident
, anyway. But accidents make details easy to politely ignore when the casket has to be closed.

That doesn’t mean people weren’t genuine or sincere. They were, and had greater freedom to be so because everyone understood there was a social order. You could rise or fall, provided you didn’t push. You had to earn what others now would demand as their
right
. That was why the Deuteragonist Society ran into so much trouble–they demanded what others didn’t think they’d earned.

After that running battle with C4, when I was finally winded and bruised, at bay in an alley but still defiant, Graviton just nipped in and grabbed me in the blink of an eye. I recognized him from that move–his pulling off the ski-mask just confirmed what I knew in my heart. Nighthaunt, Colonel Constitution and the Golden Guardian rounded out the quartet.