Powers (21 page)

But here was Deena—and come on, that girl had been through hell and gone—attempting to reconnect with the one good thing in her admittedly shitty past.
And what did I do? I pissed all over it. I forget that she isn't always going to be here. I forget that she hasn't always been. I spend so much time fleeing history and forging onward that I forget to face the present.
What he'd said about Boucher … Walker didn't know if it was true. He hoped it wasn't. Sure, Boucher was an asshole, but even he deserved a slice of happiness. As did Deena and that poor kid lying in a hospital bed. Hell, if Walker really stopped to think about it, so did he. But that didn't look goddamn likely.

I'm too busy wallowing in guilt and a sea of terrible memories.

He abandoned his caseload and wandered the small apartment, trailing a hand over furniture and photographs. He'd hung an abstract near the kitchen a few weeks back, and he absentmindedly wiped the frame for dust. Straightening up, padding around in his bare feet, Walker forced Deena's anger and contempt from his thoughts. He busied himself in the kitchen, washing utensils in the sink as he arranged the day's events, shelving facts in his mind like so many wayward forks and knives. The more Walker concentrated on detective work, the more Deena's flashing eyes swam into view. She'd verbally slapped him, dismissing him as she'd stormed off to Corbin Kirk's bedside.

You left,
she'd said.
That's how you deal with horrible shit when the chips are down? Since when has that been us?

Walker set a spoon down on the counter and hung his head. He took a breath and closed his eyes, allowing the torrent of words to wash over him once again.

If you're worried my past is getting in the way of my judgment, then get out of the way. You deal with your shit. I'll deal with mine.

My shit,
he grimaced.

Since when has that been us?

Since when. Hell, since longer than Walker could remember.
Walker. It's in my goddamn name, Deena.

And finally, after decades—no,
centuries
of soldiering on, of plodding forward without a backward glance, it had caught him by the throat. Hell, it had been coming for a while now. Ever since Zora had died, to be fair. Ever since he'd let her die. Since he hadn't been there to save her life.

The bullshit had finally kept pace; the masks were now gone, his past had surpassed his meager stride, and Walker now had to tackle a flood of hard truths and indelicate indiscretions. Worse than all that, though: he finally had to deal with the
guilt
.

Joe was dead, and the world knew the man's secret. Soon, of course, they'd know them all. What that meant for Walker, who could say? The digital age—the information age—had a way of plucking carefully crafted fabrications apart at the seams and then vomiting on the remains with a glut of hateful insinuations, prejudices, and half-truths. Quite possibly, an elite handful of itinerant hackers already knew it all, biding patiently until the time was right to drop it on the public. Walker himself already knew more than he ever had. Joe had been his friend, sure, and they'd worked together on a number of campaigns. But it was clear now that Joe and the APHD had been in secret cahoots—something Walker
hadn't
known. That was a fact that had been kept out of the papers when Waldo Pilgrim and the other cops had gone down years before. Worse, Joe had been covertly involved in mucking up the Liberty investigation by muddying the waters with fabricated murders, murders that had been used for personal, vindictive reasons. Walker knew that Joe had changed at some point—he'd made that point quite clear in Atlanta and had implied it in Detroit years earlier. But Walker hadn't known the Soldier had condoned cold-blooded murder, especially for purposes of revenge. That was something in which Walker would have taken no part. And he never would have suspected the Human Front or Malachi Crane's involvement. That seemed so far out of left field that Walker couldn't as yet process the information. But then, judging by Joe's arms, what Walker knew about the Soldier was so far out of left field that he was possibly stranded somewhere on the first base line.

Walker felt guilty, sure—guilty for not having known, for not having disassociated at the time. But more so angry with Joe for not having painted an entire picture, for having been deceived by one of his oldest, closest colleagues and gotten in bed—even by means of subterfuge—with the same organization that had engendered so many deaths, so much hate. A group that not only stood for everything that was intolerable and repellent to Christian Walker (and Blue Streak and Diamond and Gora) but also inspired those who had misused the mission of the Human Front, repurposing it into a slogan of their own and killing not only a plethora of innocent cops and bystanders but also one of the brightest stars that had ever flown in the sky.

Retro Girl. That, too, is on me.

Walker had turned a blind eye, too selfish and caught up in his personal struggles—with Wolfe, with Royale and all the others who'd blocked his interminable, plodding path—and the remorse and sorrow fell squarely on his own broad, slumped shoulders.
I am responsible for what happened to the Citizen Soldier. I am culpable, and what do I do—run? Stick my head in the sand? No, this is on me as much as it is on Joe or Crane or Deena's father or even whoever is wearing Liberty's mantle. This is my burden—I was there back then, and I did nothing. I am here now and am being forced to do the same. Deena is right. She's
right
, and maybe so is Boucher. The Powers were as crooked as the villains we fought—and those who weren't should have known better. We should have been the role models we purported to be and not got caught up in the trappings, the perks and packages of being masks and heroes.

We are worthy of Boucher's disdain and his commission. We are worthy of Deena's rebuke, her ire and insult. We should have known better. We should have asked.

Drifting back toward the couch, snapping on the television, Walker continued flipping the channels while wallowing deeper into memories and remorse. He idly watched the media waffle between equals part tribute and condemnation of a man the world thought a hero, but the man formerly known as Diamond and Blue Streak worried might possibly be a traitor.

And as he worried, sitting in the dark with another beer in his hand, Christian Walker wondered if the same might be said about him.

 

15

November. Twelve years ago.

Thursday afternoon. 4:05
P.M.

“Too hot for you?” Joe asked Walker, nursing their drinks at the long, mirrored bar. “Maybe you're in the wrong goddamn business.” They laughed and turned their attention to the girls, naked bodies writhing across a glistening stage as flashes of hammering gunfire winked outside the only window. The streets burned, riots flared, and people died, but here in the Shaft, the golden gods lived.

Detroit had always been billed as a city with more going for it than any other major city in the North. A powder keg of politics and racial divides, stoked by the Vietnam conflict and a growing black voice from the South, Detroit had long been primed to blow. The city's first major league baseball pennant in a while and the burgeoning scene buzzing about Motown's Hitsville, USA, had turned D-troit into the place to be for ambitious folk who hoped for something better. To the north of the city, automobiles thundered off the factory lines, offering work to those willing to put in the elbow grease and security to those looking to settle down. On Twelfth Street, however, in the summer of 1967, the residents of Motown were burning their city to the ground.

Walker smiled—he was glad he'd abandoned the full-face mask long ago, adopting a simple domino so that he could drink without interference. He turned to Joe—a vision in primary colors and draped in American finery, every inch the poster boy who'd raced through enemy lines in Seoul and Inchon. Walker raised his drink in salute to his friend. “Plenty hot, sir. But from where I sit, business is good.” It was the fourth day of the riots, and both Blue Streak and the Citizen Soldier were supposed to be leading a vanguard against the disobedient mob.

“Hey, Walker. You still with us?”

Blinking, Christian looked up from his shoes into the dancing, steely-blue eyes of Joseph Monroe. For a second, Walker had to remember where he was—moments ago, he'd been stealing drinks in the safety of the Golden Shaft, a Powers titty bar off Woodward on Detroit's West Side. Joe had been there too. He'd been masked, as had Walker. But it had been a different mask, a different party. He shook the cobwebs from his mind and focused his attention on the circle of laughing, drinking, celebrating friends.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just got lost for a year, is all.”

Joe snickered and slapped him on the back. “Well, if it's next year, make sure to tell me who won the Super Bowl. I'd wanna bet it all.”

The group broke into sycophantic laughter and drifted back into the dining area—Joe had rented the top floor of Parker/Cooper, one of Atlanta's finest and most expensive Argentinean steakhouses. Beer and booze, cigars and beautiful women filled the room as a handful of the city's top cops and federally affiliated Powers toasted the health of one Joseph Monroe, also known as the Citizen Soldier. Joe was currently attired in a lightweight suit and open-throated white shirt, around which the aging hero wore a ridiculous blue tie riddled with adorable yellow ducks.

The birthday boy grinned and took a puff on his Cohiba. “Seriously, you didn't have to do this, man,” he said to Walker. The Soldier slid two fingers down the tie, testing the material, letting it slip through his fingers. “Really. It was unnecessary.”

Walker smiled and stuck his own Monte Cristo between his lips. He took a drag, enjoying the corona of ash flaming at the cigar's tip, and then exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I know,” he parried back at his friend. “That's why it's such a great gift. You have no use for that tie.”

“That I do not.”

“Same thing goes for the condoms. I mean, Magnum size? Come on.”

“True,” the Soldier returned. “Too small.”

Walker ashed his cigar. “Ha. Screw you, man. And happy fucking birthday.” They shared a brief, brotherly hug, and then the Soldier ventured out into the crowd, welcomed into a grasping, shouting throng of hangers-on and well-wishers. Walker reached for a drink—a gin and tonic from the bar—and then leaned against a lonely wall, idly staring out a window onto the city below. Flashes of light, pulsing beacons littered the skyline. He stared down from thirty stories above the street, noting it less interesting than when he soared even higher and stared down from fifty.

Something exploded. Windows rattled, and the building shook, but the party never stopped. Joe barely noticed, too engrossed in the festivities to care. But then, that was his general attitude these days. As it was for most of the Powers—and, to be honest, the cops—in Atlanta.

But from where I sit,
Diamond mused, feeling ash and regret at the back of his throat
, business is good
. He set his drink aside. He'd been on assignment in Atlanta for over a month now, asked here by the Soldier and his government handlers. He really hadn't considered making the trip until Zora had encouraged him to go. Triphammer was here, as were Olympia and Z, so at least he didn't feel like an outsider. And this obviously wasn't Walker's first time working with the Soldier, a man he'd known since the Korean War.
A lifetime ago,
he realized. His head began to pound.
Back when we were both very different men.

He folded his arms and turned to the window, giving his full attention to the firefight taking place between shuddering skyscrapers. A handful of weaponized gangsters had engaged several police copters and an independent team of criminal Powers. Unfortunately, the Powers had underestimated the number of technologically advanced mafioso filling the air and hadn't seen a contracted ion-powered thug floating in their midst until it was too late. The thug charged his fists with electricity, and before Walker could make a move or open the window, a piercing flash of light bathed the city, enveloping it in radioactive sunlight despite the weather and time of night. The partygoers in the steakhouse shaded their eyes and glanced outside, but when darkness returned and only the thug was left standing, they shrugged and went back to their meal. Walker placed his hand against the window, feeling heat, now fading, left behind by the explosive discharge. He watched as the Power swiveled around, reveling in victory and destruction, and then soared away and into the distance.

Why didn't I do anything?
Walker wondered
. What is
wrong
with me, with us? They brought us here to rein in the violence, but the cops and feds don't seem too eager to end the gang war. And Joe … I get that it's his birthday, but he seems like he just can't be bothered anymore. Which, I suppose, it about par for our last encounter.

He returned his attention to his party, noting the way Joe circled the room like a shark, drawing minnows into a deadly, charming wake. The Soldier showed not one iota of concern about what had just transpired outside the window. And this was Walker's team leader, the man who gave the orders. If he didn't give a shit, why should any of the rest of them? Why should Walker, for that matter?

Why do I care? They're criminals. Let them tear each other apart.

Was that how he felt? Walker hadn't been this way ten years ago, even five. And he definitely hadn't back in '67, the first time he'd truly partnered with Joseph Monroe.

Joe had been detached back then, as well. That's why we were in the Shaft that night. That's why we'd been drinking our troubles, ignoring the Guard and riot gear and mobs of anti-Powers radicals filling the streets with fire, crowbars, and blood.
Sometime around the second or third day of the Detroit Powers Riots, Joe had shouldered his shield and dragged Walker to a bar. And though he'd racked up an impressive list of victories in his time, something about the Soldier's demeanor forced Walker to defer to the elder statesman. And so, despite the chaos outside, Walker—as Blue Streak, still, before he'd once again swapped identities—straddled the nearest stool alongside the thirsty, grinning legend. Joe had ordered a row of gins and tequilas, encouraging Walker to match him drink for drink as Crane and the Human Front jackbooted their way down Grand Street. Joe showed little interest in returning to contain the civil disobedience—in fact, after their last shared drink in the Shaft, they'd argued long and loud. Walker, as Blue Streak, had wanted to continue assisting the National Guard. Joe, meanwhile, desired another round.