Masked (2010) (36 page)

The events that led up to his being cornered that afternoon were lost to memory, but Marshall distinctly recalled the sensation of overwhelming terror that had swept over him like a pre-op
anesthetic, rooting him where he stood, the moment Wally Briggs strode up to him that fateful day. His friends, of course, had bolted at the first sign of trouble, abandoning him to the not so tender mercies of the playground Fates, they who judged so harshly upon the weak, the overweight, and the awkwardly named. In retrospect, Marshall couldn’t really blame them. But at the time, doubled over by a shot to the solar plexus, his head firmly nestled between Wally’s bicep and forearm, he did blame them. He blamed them a lot. And as he dropped to one knee in a misguided attempt at passive resistance, and Wally countered the move by shifting his weight and tightening his grip, permitting himself a far more effective choke hold, Marshall had felt another sensation suddenly sweep through him—hotter, sharper, more intense than mere fear. It was the devastating awareness of his own utter humiliation. And that turned out to be the trigger. He felt his face flush; the back of his head prickle. Then, the next thing he knew, he was sitting on the grass, fighting to catch his breath while, almost twenty feet away, Wally Briggs lay on his back, clutching his leg and howling in pain. They were the only two in the schoolyard. Confused and more than a little terrified, he ended up running the entire sixteen blocks home.

Later that night, Wally’s father had come calling. He angrily informed his mother that Wally’s ankle was badly twisted, Marshall was responsible, and what the hell was she going to do about it?! What she did was launch into a stunning, expletive-ridden tirade that Marshall had never before and, thankfully, never again, borne witness to, capped by the promise that Wally could expect much worse if he ever bothered her son again. Mr. Briggs, an ogre of a man at well over six feet and built like one of those Saturday matinee wrestlers Marshall used to watch on TV, simply wilted under the verbal onslaught meted out by this four foot eight, one hundred and five pound she-devil, and quietly slunk away.

After which he and his mother had “the talk.” She informed him that he was special, possessed of certain abilities that set him apart from his fellow classmates and that, over time, these abilities
would begin to manifest themselves with greater frequency. Exactly how, however, was impossible to predict. One day, he might be a little faster; another, a little stronger. The thing to remember, she told him, was not to be afraid, but to accept these talents as something uniquely his, and, most important of all, to keep them a closely guarded secret.

Despite his curiosity about his newfound abilities and her willingness to discuss them, there was one mystery she seemed unable (as it turned out, unwilling) to solve for him: Why? Why him? Why was he different? This particular question seemed to cause her great consternation and, after repeated queries, she finally settled on the answer she would offer from then on: It was a gift. And for all intents and purposes, that settled the matter.

Until many years later when a high school biology lesson changed everything.

“What’s with the presents?” asked Marshall, picking up one of the gift boxes and giving it a cursory once-over. It smelled of jasmine and sandalwood. “It’s too early for Christmas.”

“Well, I might not be around for Christmas,” she informed him with a trace of whimsy, getting up and putting on her slippers.

“Mom, you just had a physical. Your PSA levels were fine. Aside from your hip, the doctor said you’re in perfect health.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she countered. “You remember Mr. Rosenfeld from across the hall? He passed away last week.”

“Yeah, I heard. He was kayaking in New Zealand when it happened.”

“That’s my point. You never know.” She moved the boxes off the bed, carefully aligning them on the windowsill. “That’s why you should seize the opportunities when they present themselves. If you wait too long, it may be too late.”

“Too late? Too late for what?”

She sighed wearily and suddenly changed tack, turning to face him. “There comes a time in everyone’s life when they finally stop to take stock. And they ask themselves, What have I accomplished? How will I be remembered? What do I leave behind?” She offered
a melancholy smile. “And I look at you and I have my answers.”

“It could have gone the other way,” he felt the need to remind her. “I could still be in prison, or worse.”

“Is that what’s stopping you?” she asked. “The fear that your children may follow in your footsteps?”

He stared at her.
What the hell brought this on?,
he wanted to ask. Instead, in an attempt to curtail further discussion he went with: “It’s more than that. It’s different for me, Mom. You know it is.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “it is different because you’ll provide a stable home for your children. You’ll be there for them.” She lay a hand on his cheek, a gesture reminiscent of bygone heart-to-hearts and, in that instant, he was eight again and alarmingly unsure of himself. “Marshall, you didn’t make bad decisions because you were faster or stronger than other people. You made bad decisions because your father was a deadbeat who wasn’t there for you growing up, and your mother, God help me, tried her best but ended up failing you as well.”

It was a rare admission of failure, and it troubled him greatly. “Mom, you didn’t fail me. Don’t ever—”

She sensed his unease and cut him off. “There’s no reason you can’t start a family. Not anymore. Just. . . talk to Allison when you get back. Will you do that?”

“Okay,” he acquiesced, much to her obvious delight. “When I get back.” And, in the back of his mind, for the first time and only to himself, he acknowledged the uncertainty of the coming days.
IF I come back.

They had to wait for some connecting passengers returning from a Caribbean cruise and ended up leaving the gate forty-five minutes late. Fortunately, the bureau had demonstrated uncharacteristic largesse by booking him in business class so that by the time they finally touched down in Fortune City, he was three scotches and a couple of Chardonnays past caring. He caught a cab to the hotel,
where a message from Agent Bryerson awaited. “He requested you call when you get in,” the woman at the front desk politely informed him.

Marshall headed up to his room, unpacked, ordered a surprisingly good bison burger from room service, and then, after checking in with Allison and assuring her that, yes, he was being careful and that, no, he hadn’t forgotten to pack his shaving gel (he actually had but didn’t want to admit it because she’d made a point of reminding him twice before he left), he decided to walk the five blocks, through the old neighborhood, to Vinny’s Tavern, picking up some shaving gel along the way.

The place was still there, right next door to a nail salon that had once been a wig shop and another wig shop before that. And it hadn’t changed much in eight years, still boasting its original artwork: boxing prints, a stuffed moose head, and the wall-mounted samurai sword bequeathed to Vinny by one-time regular Wakizashi who, tragically, lost his life, not in honorable battle but under the wheels of the crosstown 364 bus. The establishment’s venerable owner, however, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a paunchy fellow with a salt-and-pepper walrus mustache ambled over to Marshall’s table and greeted him with a raspy “What’ll you have?”

“Draft. Whatever’s on tap. Hey, Vinny around?”

Walrus fixed him with a pitying look, the sort you might give a child who’d just buried his pet frog. “No, Vinny ain’t around. Vinny’s dead.”

It was devastating news and, in the back of his mind, a small, irrational part of Marshall claimed a Heisenbergesque responsibility. If he hadn’t come back, Vinny would still be alive and well and just as he’d left him, serving up drinks to the likes of Demolition, The Blue Basilisk, and Damian Fortune. “What happened to him?”

“The Purple Lamprey happened to him. Vinny tried to break up a fight between him and Ray Mephistopheles, ended up catching a neuro-blast for his troubles. Three days later, they took him off life support. I bought the place from Francine, his widow, a couple of years back. Kept the name outta respect, y’know?” Wal
rus looked him over, trying to place the face. “You once a regular?”

“Once,” conceded Marshall, wishing he could get that drink.

“What’d you go by?”

He hesitated, reluctant to say, as though doing so would bring it all back. But the fact was he’d brought it all back the second he’d stepped off that plane. “Downfall,” Marshall told him.

A couple of seconds of careful consideration, and then Walrus’s face lit up. “Shit, yeah. I remember you. You used to run with Princess Arcana and The Plague Zombies. What happened to you?”

“Prison. Prison happened to me. Hey, can I get that drink now?”

“Sure, sure,” chuckled an oblivious Walrus, shaking his head and ambling off. “Downfall. Shit. I’ve got to get you to sign something.”

The place was empty save for a bunch of college boys out celebrating a big sporting win and a businessman passed out in a booth at the back. A far cry from the old days when Vinny’s was “the” gathering place for the city’s underworld elite and ordinary, an egalitarian refuge from the perils and uncertainties of the cape and cowl daily grind where the law steered clear, adepts rubbed shoulders with amateurs, and all were welcome regardless of gender, social status, or planet of origin.

Marshall sighed out his disappointment. In all likelihood, this was a waste of time. Still, he was on the bureau’s clock and it was kind of late to be launching a blind search for old friends and coconspirators. He’d probably be better served taking the night off and starting fresh in the morning. So decided, he eased back and helped himself to the complimentary bowl of salty snacks, fishing out the lone pretzel amid the sea of predominantly stale cashews. He smiled inwardly and held it aloft, its shape vaguely reminiscent of a double helix.

Basic genetics. Dominant alleles. His mother’s refusal to discuss the father who’d abandoned him. Over the course of a high school biology lesson, the seemingly unrelated pieces had coalesced to form a theory of revelatory significance. His mother was right.
In many ways his newfound abilities
had
been a gift, one determined by hereditary predisposition, passed on to him by a man he never knew. He truly was, it turned out, his father’s son.

Of course, that had only opened the door to a host of other questions, questions he never dared put to her. So, instead, he watched the news reports, read the papers, and formed his own theories based on indicators such as like abilities, physical similarities, timeline opportunities, and his mother’s frustratingly all-too-subtle reactions to the numerous costumed heroes who would grace the evening news and Leno’s couch. Dynamix was a possibility because he was quick and his eyes were green, while Star Drive was an early scratch because it turned out he was just a regular human whose powers were derived from a form-fitting exosuit. Nantech seemed an interesting candidate because he was strong
and
fast and, according to an interview in
People
magazine, shared Marshall’s affinity for Hawaiian pizza and extra-thick chocolate shakes, while DataStorm seemed less likely because he was rumored to be Asian and then actually turned out to be a Caucasian woman with a voice calibrator built into her helmet mic. Ansible, Zero-G, Paradrive, and Moon Shift were definite maybes. Major Singularity, Neuromatik, Hyperjump, and Dionysus Jackson were not.

He kept a running list in a dedicated notebook that he continually updated and revised, adding names, striking others, rearranging the prospects in order of likelihood. But eventually, the speculation became less important to him as other aspects of his life began to intrude and command his attention. Girls, school, friends, and, of course, girls. He lost his notebook on a school trip to the Grand Canyon and never bothered replacing it. In the end, he never stopped wondering. He just stopped caring.

Marshall popped the pretzel into his mouth, effectively snuffing the memories.

It turned out to be a relaxing couple of hours. He knocked back a couple of drafts while watching a late college game on the tavern’s big screen, politely turned down an offer from a tipsy cougar out celebrating a friend’s engagement, and even signed the back of a
Budweiser poster for Walrus: “To Jermaine, Keep the dream alive. Your pal, Downfall.” It was just after midnight, as he was finishing up what he’d planned on being his last beer, when he heard someone call his name. Assuming he’d misheard because whoever it was couldn’t possibly be addressing him, Marshall didn’t even bother acknowledging the speaker. But the second “Marsh!”, emphatic, almost indignant, made him turn.

And the sight that greeted him when he did was a prospect so bizarre, so altogether wrong, that it took Marshall several seconds to convince himself that he hadn’t lost his mind and that, yes, it was Terry Langan standing there, fists on hips, grinning at him like he’d just cracked the sentinel system to the real Fort Knox beneath the Lincoln Memorial. Clean shaven, roughly twenty pounds lighter, and sporting a stylish tan leather jacket over a white cotton dress shirt and black slacks, he looked, thought an amazed Marshall, much better in death than he had ever looked in life.