Hero Engine (11 page)

“A power I’m sure Houston is not soon to forget.”

The next video starts. Cendy is back on her feet, screaming and lobbing little round balls like a grenade pitching machine. Explosions blow out the speaker, too loud for the cell phone’s mic to capture. Gun shots explode from the corner of the screen and hydrant-level water shoots at Tess. Tess holds a hand out and the water, and presumably the bullets, stop ten feet away. Cendy chucks another grenade. With a swipe of the hand, Tess sends the grenade in the direction of the water spray and gun shots. The video cuts off with a large explosion.

“That was Aguamal and Grimfire,” Ann says.

The ability to summon water and never miss a target doesn’t do much when the mark controls gravity. Why is it the
super
powerful hero had to be the one to lose her shit? Why couldn’t it be someone harmless like Medica?

Next video, another cell phone but the picture is clear. The frame rises and falls with the breaths of the person holding it. Cendy is standing next to man in a large parka with a fur collar. The only bit of skin visible is his hands, which are icy blue.

“That’s Icestro, right?”

Ann nods.

Gravitess rises from under a heap of rubble. Her sleeve is ripped. Blood drips from her fingers, but the hood still covers her face. In Cendy’s hand a small, round object grows. It charges like an old video game projectile. Icestro is in a fighting stance, a long bladed icicle in each hand.

Cendy growls and pulls her hand back to pitch the grenade. Tess swipes her hand across the air. Icestro is flung to the side, impacting with Cendy as she releases her bomb. The grenade sails right of Gravitess, landing at the base of a tall building. The explosion blows out a chunk of the building’s bottom floor. Dust and shrapnel fly in every direction. The camera and the cameraman dive behind a car. The video ends.

The last video opens with Gravitess flying away and pans to Icestro and Cendy. Icestro has Cendy curled up against his chest. One of his icicle blades sticks out of her sternum.

“Must have happened when they collided,” Ann says, eyes locked on the screen.

Cendy dies in Icestro’s arms.

The video goes black.

“So, what do you make of all that?” Ann sits back in her chair. Her eyes roll back. The lack of sleep must be catching up with her, too. I’ve been going almost twenty-four straight hours at this point. I have no idea how long she was up before me.

“Another Gravitess attack. The why is still in ‘Who knows’ territory.”

“Why would she attack Houston though? Why Seattle, for that matter?”

I rub my chin. The friction helps me think, keeps me awake. “After watching those videos, I’m not exactly sure she was attacking Houston.”

Ann sits up. “What do you mean?”

I pause to get the words right before speaking. “Think about it: In all those videos, who was she attacking? It wasn’t the city, it was the other heroes.”

“You think she planned to attack them?”

“I don’t know, but she killed Aguamal, Grimfire, and Cendy, and then split. Maybe…I don’t know, maybe she attacked Seattle to draw heroes to her? She killed two heroes there, right? She shows up in Texas and takes out three more.” I scratch my head. I don’t exactly like this theory, but it’s a theory.

“Why would Tess want to kill heroes? River made her sound pretty normal, yeah. She’s kind of quiet, I guess, but I’ve never heard anyone say anything bad about her.”

“It’s the normal ones you’ve got to look out for,” I say. “Do you know how many killers I’ve arrested and heard neighbors say, ‘Well he was the nicest boy. I never would have expected that from the likes of him.’?”

Ann crosses her arms and reclines. “So what now?”

“We need to find out more about Gravitess. Maybe she had a reason to attack these heroes, just in case this is an isolated incident. Maybe we can talk to one of the other heroes about Tess.”

“I’ve heard that Cendy and Flaura are…were good friends. We could talk to Flaura and see if there is some kind of connection there.”

I look out the window at the destruction. Humans work where they can. Heroes lift and fly and heal. “I like it, but we can’t talk to Flaura just now, I imagine she’s out in that mess. Maybe we can catch some shut-eye in the meantime.”

Ann’s jaw drops. “Sleep? Are you mad? How can you think about sleep while that’s going on out there? We need to be working this case.”

As if on command, Adriana pops up on the screen in front of us. “Hello, did you have time to go over what I sent you?”

“Yeah, yes,” I say.

“Make anything of it?”

“We’ve got a couple theories, but none worth airing out loud yet. What about you? Have you got anything for us?”

“Well, yes. That screen name you told me to look up, ‘CapeH8er69,’ we’ve tracked down a name and a location.”

“Brilliant, let’s have it,” Ann says. She’s leans in close to the screen. A vein bulges at the corner of her forehead. Something tells me she wants to give this person a reason to ‘H8’ heroes.

“The name is Jackson McCarthy and he lives in Knoxville, Tennessee.”

“That’s not too far from me,” I say, more to Ann, than to Adriana. “Have you got any information about McCarthy?” Hopefully he’s not as lame a duck as Gagnon was.

Adriana clears her throat. “His arrest record includes manufacturing and distribution of narcotics, three DUIs—his license has been revoked—six charges of assault, and three charges of being in possession of illegal weapons. He was also a prime suspect in the bombing of a Hero-Day parade a couple years back. On top of all this, he is reported to be linked to multiple hero hate groups.”

“How is he not in prison?” Ann clenches her jaw. Heroes probably aren’t used to the ineptitude of the regular ol’ legal system.

“Sounds like a real charmer,” I say.

Adriana shrugs. “I’ve already forwarded the address to your pilot.”

“Thanks, Adriana. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

THE FLIGHT FROM HOUSTON
to Knoxville takes just shy of 50 minutes. We land in a field outside of town where a vehicle is already awaiting us. I’ve requested this one be sans driver. This situation could be a little more explosive than Kevin Gagnon and I’d rather it be only Ann and I.

We exit the plane and get in a black Ford Explorer. No government tags, no big antennas, not even a black front license plate with the little thin blue line. This thing is about as discreet as I’m likely to get, which is a definite bonus for sneaking up on homegrown hillbilly terrorists.

Ann pulls something out of a duffle bag she brought from the plane and sticks it to the dash. “GPS to get us to McCarthy’s place.”

“Uh, I don’t know about that. GPS isn’t too keen on places as country as I imagine we are about to visit. Hell, I doubt these roads are on the map, and I’ve seen driveways in North Georgia that are a mile long.”

“This isn’t a TomTom. This is SHI special equipment. Trust me, it will take us anywhere we need to be.”

I give Ann an appraising look that ends at her duffle bag. “What other kinds of goodies have you got in there?”

She smiles. The gesture is so dark, it’s almost frightening. Like she’s about to list off: Pliers, nipple clamps, acetylene torch, teeth pullers, piano wire, gasoline and matches. Instead, she says, “I’ve got some good stuff, and I even brought a phone book so you can play your badass noir detective bit.”

Our partnership is far too young for me to properly discern whether or not she’s kidding. So I swallow hard and put the car in gear.

From where the plane landed, it’s only fifteen miles to McCarthy’s house. One left turn off a four-lane highway in the south part of the city takes us to a two-lane which narrows to a barely-paved road without yellow lines. Houses give way to well-kept mobile homes. Well-kept mobile homes give way to trees and singlewides. Half of the trailers look abandoned and some are nothing but rectangular burn spots in grass clearings. Vinyl skirting and pink insulation and beer bottles and used shotgun shells litter the landscape.

Eventually, we are surrounded by trees. One last right turn and we’re rattling down a dirt road, patches of grass growing between deep ruts from tires. No car could drive this road; even the Explorer scrubs the bottom at a few spots. Finally, we pull up to a gate with three rows of barbed wire extending as far as I can see in either direction.

We get out to examine the area. There is a padlocked metal gate with a sign that reads, ‘No trespassing. Violators will be shot, survivors will be shot again.’ The air hums with electricity. That’s not an expression – there’s an actual buzzing coming from the fence. I’ve heard a slight sound from electric fences meant to keep cows inside, but this is enough to make my hair stand on end.

“GPS says the house is still a mile that way.” Ann points up the rugged trail behind the fence.

Of-fucking-course it is. These bat-shit conspiracy theorist types can never just live in a normal place. Especially the hate-group, assassination-plot, meth-cooking fuckheads that are one white hood shy of 1920. Like this one.

“Have you got a hatchet in that magic bag of yours?”

Ann walks back to the car and comes out with a machete. “Will this work all right?”

“Heh, yeah.” I take the giant knife from her. “What exactly are you planning on doing here today?”

She shrugs. “A girl scout’s got to be ready for anything, right?”

“Uh-huh.” I walk down the perimeter of the fence until I find a tree that’s about eight feet tall and as wide around as my forearm at the base.

I roll my sleeves up and start hacking at the tree. Vince’s shirt was most definitely not meant for this kind of work. Bark chips away. I hack again. Woodchips fly at my face with every swing. The sun burns down on me, even through the cover of the trees. Sweat rolls off the tip of my nose and down my back. I can feel splinters stuck to the sweat on my face. One last swing and the tree falls.

The heft of the tree lands on the top wire, with the branches extending down to entwine the bottom rows. There’s a loud snap and a couple pops, but the buzzing goes flat.

Ann comes from the back of the SUV with a pair of bolt cutters and gloves. She snaps off all three layers of electric wire and then the lock on McCarthy’s gate. I swing it open.

“He probably already knows we’re here. A guy as kooky as this one will have alarm sensors or some shit. If not, the dead electric fence will give us away.” I open the car door.

Ann reaches in the backseat and pulls out two Kevlar vests. “Here.” She throws one across to me, along with a couple of ceramic inserts for extra protection.

I figure Vince’s shirt has seen enough of my DNA from all the sweat, and it’s hot. I take it off and put on the vest over my white undershirt. Ann puts her vest on over a tank top. She straps a pistol into a holster on her thigh and grabs a shotgun out of the back seat of the car. I still have my gun and tuck the holster into my waistband. As I take my seat behind the wheel, I notice a matching shotgun on the floor in between the seats. This is one well-prepared ride.

“You ready?”

Ann stares at me with her jaw set and a cold look in her eyes. “Are you?”

My answer comes in the form of pulling the car into gear and tromping on the gas pedal.

The Explorer kicks and wiggles as the tires spin from my burst of machismo. I back off the accelerator enough to let the wheels catch. Tires find traction and pull us deep into the meth-head hundred-acre woods.

The crappy dirt driveway continues on for what feels like forever. At three-quarter miles in I pull up the bank on the side of the road and park. “Walk from here?”

Ann bends forward. “Yeah, right then.” She takes her bag and hops out of the car.

I grab the pair of shotguns and follow behind her. The air smells like cat piss and paint thinner. My nose twitches at the smell. It’s nothing new to me. On the opposite side of the car, I hear Ann retch and cough. When I get around to her side, she’s wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“What the bloody hell is that smell?”

“That would be the aroma of a well-cooked batch of meth. Heisenberg’s lair must be close.”

She angles her head. “You hear that?”

“Crickets?”

“No, listen.”

I copy her. Crickets buzz and frogs croak occasionally. There must be a creek on the property somewhere. I listen closer. A distorted something is vaguely audible in the distance with a high-pitch whine on top of that.

“I hear it, but I don’t know what it is. You want me to take that?” A nod to her oversized duffle bag. She’s standing straight, military rigid, but the bag is sagging with the weight of its contents.

“I’m a big girl. I can handle it myself.” She hikes the bag a little higher on her shoulder and starts up the dirt road.

I catch up to her, a shotgun in either hand. “Come on, let’s not take this one right up the middle.” The woods next to the road will offer a little more cover. These vests are sturdy, but I’d rather not test their strength today. Even through a vest, getting shot hurts like hell.

Ann and I creep through the woods. A clearing opens as the noise shapes into a recognizable vague form of music: AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill
”
at a subtle ten
thousand
decibels. The high-pitched wail is an alarm signaling our entrance.

“You think that alarm is for us?” Ann drops the bag, reaches for one of the shotguns in my hand.

I pass her the gun. “I think that’s a pretty safe assumption.”

“Do you think he’s waiting for us?”

“I don’t know if he can hear the alarm over Angus and crew.” I crouch-walk to the edge of the clearing and survey from behind a thick tree.

In the middle of the space is a small motorhome with a permanent porch built on to the side of it. An Impala parked out front has a tree growing through the engine bay. A Nova is little more than a rusted shell of a car, and a Grand National is missing all the glass with a charred black interior.

To the left of the clearing is a brand new F-350 truck. The tailgate is down and a tarp covers something bulging from the back. A vintage Harley rests next to the truck. The bike isn’t one of those leather-tassel-mid-life-crisis bikes, but one of those I-deal-with-people-who-kill-with-a-smile bikes.