Powers (25 page)

After an eternity ticked by, suddenly, the paramedics arrived and shoved her to one side. Confused, emotionally distraught, Deena briefly wondered how they'd managed to get there so fast but decided in the end that it didn't matter. They were
there,
and they could save her father—a man she once loved, a man who had once loved her. Despite the intervening years, the shit that happened between them and as individuals, they were still father and daughter. And though she might arrest and sentence the man at the end of all this, condemn him to serve his time, she would in no way stand back and watch him die.

Aaron returned, whisking her from the kitchen and out onto the sofa. She broke down in his arms—the first time in a good, long while. It all finally caught up to Deena: the murders, Liberty, Aaron, and Kirk. Her father and her terrible, fucked-up past. A childhood spent under blissful illusion, sheltered from the sinister truth, and a flawed prince in white armor who'd come to save her only to abandon her when the façade came crashing down. Everything plowed into her at once. Malachi Crane's pumpkin-headed prophecy. Walker's selfish, frustrating inner turmoil and retreat. And, of course, Deena's own inability to solve this case. The exhaustion, the constant and overwhelming onslaught of death and destruction, and the horrible realization that even if she felt like saving the day, it might already be too little, too late.

Most of all, though, Deena Pilgrim sat in the living room—not the one in which she'd grown up, not the one in which she'd learned for herself what it meant to be a cop—and mourned the life she'd lost. She felt grief for the loss of how it felt to admire a father and build a future. Or how it felt to yearn for something greater than what she had. How to avoid cynicism and reach for something good, maybe even great. No, instead she sat in the end result of the illusion she'd long embraced. This,
here,
is where everything had led—her mother gone, father disgraced, Deena estranged from them both. Moments ago, she'd almost watched one of them die. And now she sat shaking in the arms of the man to whom she'd given her heart instead—the man she'd left them for, who had offered a separate illusion, only to tear it all away.

She extricated herself from Aaron's arms and wiped her eyes. The paramedics had Waldo on a stretcher, carrying him to the street and toward an ambulance. She gathered a few things—his, hers—and moved to follow. Aaron went after her, heading past and down the stairs with the stretcher as Deena locked up the apartment. But as she did, her heart leaped into her throat. Raw and emotional, wounded and confused, Detective Deena Pilgrim froze before the door to her father's apartment and then leaned against the doorjamb for support. Scratched into the splintered wood, glaring like a sneering threat, someone had gouged five accusing words below the bell and the apartment number.

In the Name of Liberty,
they read.

 

18

December. Tuesday afternoon. 5:27
P.M.

Liberty had struck back home, as well.

Numb, Deena cradled the cell phone and listened to Emile Cross's update with half an ear. The captain spoke, relaying Enki's report, but none of it landed. Sitting in Piedmont Hospital's lemon-scented waiting room, crammed amid various midafternoon emergency care victims, Deena slumped into her chair and focused her attention on the cracked television above their heads. Malachi Crane, he of the gourdlike, wrinkled complexion, posed on-screen in a shot taken before the polished steps of 500 Fialkov Way—the Human Front corporate offices. He wore a snap-brim fedora, like a gangster, and a comfortable fleece overcoat. The television's volume had been lowered, so Deena couldn't make out his statement, and the excitable buzz among the patients drowned out whatever she might have heard. Thankfully, Cross managed to break through her emotional daze and explain what was going on: while Deena had been racing to save her father's life, the backstabbing, lying son of a bitch pumpkin held a press conference and tossed a wrench in her ongoing investigation.

“Cap,” she apologized to the frantic voice on the phone, “I gotta call you back.” She ended the call and launched her browser, swiping to PNN's mobile feed. Tapping the featured video, she flinched as Crane's wrinkled puss sprang to life in full-screen, streaming color. The video was dated several hours earlier—around noon, just as she and Aaron had sat down to tacos. Flanked by cronies, Crane gripped a podium as flashbulbs and ambient light filtered in at the edges of the screen. Deena paused the video. She hesitated, wondering if she should put her phone away.

What the fuck just happened? My father nearly died. And the man I once loved may have tried to kill him.

Still processing the events of the last several hours, Deena envisioned the words that had been carved into the door.
There was no other logical explanation. It had to have been Aaron
. Unless she wanted to question Waldo's pantsless neighbor, that is.
No,
she decided,
you'd have to wear at least a modicum of pants when killing a man.

So, Aaron. It had to be, right? It would make a weird sort of sense…… and Walker had all but implied something along those lines back home. She would have confirmed his suspicions, but unfortunately, her partner wasn't answering his phone. Probably because he'd been dragged into the media shit storm that had taken place outside 500 Fialkov Way.

God, it would be so easy to hand off this bag of crap, to give it to those better qualified—anyone, really—to finally solve it.
Another, better detective. The FBI. No one would blame Deena. She wouldn't have to feel the soul-crushing guilt anymore. She could walk away, like Walker. She could recuse herself, because she was just way too close to it now.

Which, of course, is why I
can't
walk away.
She restarted the stream and kept the volume low.

“—understand this is a time of reflection, mourning, and great personal turmoil,” Crane spoke to the cameras. “Every man, woman, and child in America, and perhaps around the world, has been touched by the passing of Joseph Monroe. During this season of goodwill, this time of holiday and celebration, we find ourselves bereft of joy and hope. But we at the Human Front, advocates for those without unusual gifts or talents, see salvation in the passing of a great man. Yes, we may have previously—and publicly—appeared at odds with the Soldier … but we equally respected the man. We understood his cause, and though it may have been one in which we did not find common ground, the members of our august body”—at this, Crane gestured to those at his side—“mourn the passing of a hero whose commitment to the common man were nothing short of legendary.”

Deena snorted, and a matronly woman gave her the stink-eye. She returned the obnoxious look and shifted left, blocking the video from the lady's view. Crane continued, adjusting a tie beneath his wattled neck.

“I mention the common man not in passing but to create distinction from that of the powered man—or woman, yes; let's not create gender imbalance. You see, Joseph … a military hero, a speaker for those with privilege and power … he had
two
secrets. The media and the world were stunned to learn that the late Mr. Monroe used to be the celebrated costumed vigilante known as the Citizen Soldier. Tributes have been posted; testimonials and messages of gratitude pass from one hand to another. His death has brought both powered and non-powered people of all nations together in harmonious sorrow.”

Crane frowned and scratched his collar. He reasserted his grip on the microphone and gestured to a minion. A folder was passed up, and Crane removed a photograph from within.

“However, the truth, as they say, sets us free. And while the powered community may feel a particular kinship to the masked figurehead Monroe had been, take heart; you may conclude your mourning. You may cease to feel anything but disgust or perhaps heartbreak. For the Citizen Soldier felt no such affinity. In fact, he never felt part of your community at all.”

Crane held the photo up to the camera. A black-and-white image of Monroe, dead on a slab, Human Front tattoos plain and center, filled Deena's screen. “Joseph Monroe, a god-fearing man from middle America … a dreamer, a patient and forgiving Christian who wanted nothing but to serve his country … was enslaved not to the spirit of the nation but to the whims of those who'd broken it to serve their needs. Monroe had been forced—nay,
manipulated
by our government to join the Citizen Soldier program. He'd been muzzled, shackled, and silenced by his superiors. And now I stand here, a private individual, a man with ties to no military entity or self-serving office other than my own, to finally reveal the truth.”

Crane set the photo down on the podium. “Joseph Monroe, also known as the Citizen Soldier, was one of
us
—not
you
. He hated his powers; he feared those who controlled him. The man was frightened into submission; fearing for his life, he refused to come forward and tell the truth, after being conscripted into a costume during the heyday of the Cold War. But I am free to confirm that Joseph, the mouthpiece for the Powers movement, was in fact an active and vocal member of my Human Fr—”

Deena turned off the video. She'd heard enough; she knew the rest. And it explained the heightened tension in the waiting room as injured patients debated and gawked while the news played Crane's video on loop. She rested her head against the wall, staring at nothing, wondering what to do next.

That lying pumpkin. I asked him, point-blank, and he evaded. Well, wait until I get back. Wait until Aaron or Enki drags his ass to the precinct and tosses him into a cell.

Of course, Enki was dealing with another crisis: Quince was dead. She'd been shot in the throat, killed during a prison transfer on Bernardin and Avenue E. The dead bigot parade continued, and the biggest bigot of all obstructed their investigation live on national television. It wouldn't be long before someone broadcast Liberty's words—painted across a flaming truck, surrounded by dead guards who'd been taking Quince to the Shelf or whichever prison for which she'd been bound. And once that made the news, it wouldn't take long to connect Quince to Crane, and then it was a short line from Liberty to Monroe. Where would her investigation be then? Even now, the division was in media lockdown; no statements, no information until they had something tangible. Everyone had been dragged back in. Enki had been recalled to oversee the investigation surrounding Willie's death, and even Walker had been given a call—though, according to Cross, he'd yet to return. Deena had attempted several calls herself, but no answer. Wherever Walker was, whatever he was doing, he was making it clear that he wanted to be left alone. Meanwhile, as Enki and her team analyzed the gruesome Liberty crime scene, Deena puzzled out the one that had landed in her lap several hours earlier.

How could Aaron be Liberty
? she wondered.
How could he have killed Willie when I was sitting by his side at my father's table, spooning soup down my gullet? Maybe the rumors
are
true—Liberty is more than one man. Waldo had all but admitted it, that he and the other cops had co-opted the name to cover their tracks. But that would mean … no, if that's true, and …

If that were true—if Aaron had tried to kill her father—then not only had they been colluding the entire time, but he was also in bed with Monroe and possibly Crane.

Deena laced her hands behind her head and tried to make sense of it all. He'd denied it. Aaron had looked into her eyes and denied everything, right before he'd left.

They sat in the ER, huddled against a wall as doctors hurried past. Sodden, ancient Thanksgiving decorations lined the walls and chalkboards, left there by a staff too busy or lazy to swap them out. She stared at a hastily illustrated Tom Turkey and fought back tears. She'd finished crying; Deena had no more use for tears, refusing to be vulnerable in the face of what was to come. Her mind reeled; she'd fought down any raw emotion, the burning questions she needed to ask so that she could be strong for Waldo. But she needed to breathe, and Aaron's arms felt like a prison, so she pushed him away.

“What? Deena, talk to me,” he said, all eyes and hands and heart. Had it been only hours since they'd been together in his bed, lying in each other's arms? Deena didn't know him at all. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have let down her guard? That was so unlike her. Since when did Deena Pilgrim let a guy lead her around like a lovesick idiot? And why did she allow Aaron to accompany her to Atlanta under the pretense of support when, in fact, what she'd been doing was giving him access to his oldest, greatest rival? Deena had been acting as accessory to the attempted murder of her father.

“Deena,” Aaron repeated, reaching across the sterile, whitewashed hallway. “Look, Waldo's going to be fine. The doctors will do everything in their power to—”

She whirled on him, daggers in her eyes. “Are you Liberty, Aaron?”

He was taken aback, shocked and confused. He moved away and stared, stammering for a defense, “What? What are you talking about?”

“There were two of us in that apartment. Waldo was fine when he opened the door, and unless one of the geriatrics in his building has been harboring vengeance, or my father invented spontaneous suicide, it was either you or me. Despite vivid fantasies over the last ten years, I
know
it wasn't me.”

“Come on. The APHD are combing every inch of his apartment. They're testing the food and beer. Maybe someone slipped something into—”

“And the tag? It wasn't there when we arrived. Who carved Liberty's tag into the door, Special Investigator?”