Hero Worship (15 page)

TWENTY-SIX

The sky is clear and the sun is warm. It's a nice day, but it might as well be pouring rain, the way I feel. I haven't slept a wink. I don't know where I'm going and I don't know what will happen to me. I can't be angry with my friends. I abandoned them for a tryout. Not a spot on the team, but just a tryout with the hope of making the cut.

I walk aimlessly, all the way into Little Saigon, wallowing the whole way in my misery. Street peddlers hawk their goods in the middle of the road, making it impossible for automobiles to navigate the streets. More business is conducted on the bustling asphalt roadways than in the brick-and-mortar stores. I pass a man pushing a wooden cart with dead chickens hung upside down by their feet. A woman sells pirated DVDs on a blanket spread out in the middle of an intersection.

Weaving in and out of the noisy vendors, I head over to an electronics store with a window display of small televisions stacked on top of each other. All of the televisions are tuned to a basketball game. I used to watch this basketball team with my father. It seems like a lifetime ago. Our small-market team has never won a championship. Ever. I once asked my father why he always rooted for a team that never won. He'd smiled and replied, “It's easy to root for a winner, but it takes integrity to root for someone who's outgunned yet stays in the game to the bitter end.”

This is the only thing of value my father ever gave me.

Without warning, the basketball game is replaced by a news report. A police sketch, which is unmistakably me, fills the screen. I feel like an 18-wheeler just hit me as I stare at my face. A crawl line proclaiming
Channel Two News, Breaking Report
runs along the top of the screen, just above the illustration of me. Wanting to hear what's said, I race into the electronics store.

“This is a police sketch of one of the suspects wanted in the murder of Lieutenant Mercury,” the anchorman says.

One of the suspects?

“Authorities say this boy should be considered powerful and very dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend him. If any of our viewers has any information regarding his whereabouts, please call the police immediately,” the anchorman says.

The newscast then cuts to an interview with Sling and Rocket. They stand outside the Core Mansion. “The Core has been collaborating with local law enforcement agencies to help solve this heinous crime as quickly as possible,” Rocket says.

A reporter off-camera asks, “Do you have any idea how many people are involved?”

“We have reason to believe there are three individuals involved,” Sling says. “Maybe more.”

The two costumed heroes end the interview and walk into the mansion, leaving behind a barrage of questions from the media.

A woman holding a microphone steps in front of the camera. “That was members of the Core taking questions regarding leads in the murder of Lieutenant Mercury. The Core and the police are asking for the public's help in bringing the people responsible to justice.”

As if my image wasn't enough, up comes a mug shot of Yvonne. I feel again like I've been hit in the stomach. An illustration, which I can only assume is supposed to be Kent, flashes onscreen too. If I wasn't so freaked out, I'd laugh. His face looks like a plastic doll left too close to a heater. While it might not look like him, it certainly captures his essence.

“These three dirties are wanted for questioning,” the newscaster says. “Again, they should be considered powerful and dangerous.”

The crowd gathers around me. All eyes are on the televisions, transfixed. I cut through the people toward the store exit, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone. I'm almost to the door when I bump into someone. “Watch where you're going,” the man says.

Not glancing up, I say, “Sorry.” I keep on moving.

“Hey, it's him!” I hear the man yell, pointing a finger at me. “It's that kid on the TV!”

As if on cue, the crowd of thirty people or so turn from the televisions and stare at me. “It is him!” someone else yells. The group moves toward me. A chorus of voices rings out: “Don't let him get away!” and “Let's get 'im!”

I run out the door and try to put distance between the angry mob and myself.

“Stop him!” a woman screams. “Someone stop that boy!”

“He's the one who killed Lieutenant Mercury!”

I run through the streets dodging pedestrians and vehicles, their horns blaring. Sprinting through an alley, I come out the other side and barely avoid slamming into a police squad car, which brakes and comes to a jolting stop. My hands rest on the hood of the car as I stare at the two startled officers inside. Making eye contact with the man behind the wheel, I read his lips as he swears at me. For a split second I think maybe they don't know who I am, but then I read recognition on both faces. “It's him,” the driver tells his partner.

I back away from the police car and sprint off. Behind me, I hear tires squeal as the patrol car closes in. I run up the stoop leading into an apartment building right as a little girl carrying a jump rope steps outside. Catching the door before it closes, I dash inside. “You're supposed to enter a code to come in!” the little girl yells.

Ignoring her, I slam the door shut as the police cruiser jumps up on the curb, screeching to a stop. I run up the flight of stairs. When I turn the corner onto the second floor, I see two elderly men wearing shorts, socks, and flip-flops. They sit at a folding table in the hall, playing cards and watching a small portable television. The breaking news is still on the screen. One of the men points a bony finger at me as I run up the stairs again. “It's that kid!”

Reaching the fifth floor, I stop long enough to look up the middle of the staircase. I figure there are at least six more floors to go until I reach the roof. The two police officers are a few flights below.

On the top floor, I find the door locked. Backing up, I get a running start and ram my shoulder into it, breaking it off its hinges and dumping myself unceremoniously on top of it. I scramble to my feet and run to the edge of the roof. The street is eleven stories below, and more squad cars are pulling up to the building. Officers unholster their sidearms as they get into position.

“Freeze! Put your hands up!” I turn around and find the two police officers pointing their guns at me. Their faces are red and sweaty. “Don't take another step!”

Reaching into my pocket, I remove a syringe of the blue go-go juice and slam the needle into my thigh. Squeezing it to release the concoction into my bloodstream, I probe for fear. It's a regular smorgasbord of the stuff up here. Both cops are practically mass-producing it.

Absorbing it, I feel power course through my body. Time seems to slow down, and everything becomes clear, like a veil has been lifted. One of the cops pulls back the hammer on his gun with his thumb. The click rings in my ears, muffling all other noise.
I jump up on the roof's ledge.

“Step away from the ledge!” the other cop yells.

I launch myself into the air with all my might. I fly into the sky, hurtling toward the adjacent rooftop. For a brief moment, it almost feels like I'm a flier, streaking across the skyline, the wind biting at my face, causing my eyes to tear.

I didn't plan my jump well. I'd hoped to leapfrog to safety, but I'm dangerously close to overshooting my landing. As I reach the crest of ascent, I'm already more than halfway over the adjacent rooftop and it looks like I'm cer
tain to overshoot it entirely. Losing balance in midair, I
wave my arms in a feeble attempt to steady myself.

As I begin what will not be a pleasant descent, I hear a high-pitched sound that resembles air escaping from a tire. I don't know where the noise is coming from, but it's getting louder. Something approaches me in a blur. When it's nearly on top of me, I see the unmistakable mask of Rocket. Unable to redirect myself, I'm powerless to move out of his way. He speeds past me, smacking the side of my body and sending me sprawling. White-hot pain shoots through me as I plummet out of control to the rooftop, like a bird picked off by a hunter's gun.

“It would have behooved you to remain on the ground,” Rocket yells, circling around.

I crash onto the roof, landing hard on my back. The impact forces all the air in my lungs out in a rush. Rocket streaks across the sky above me and then makes another large turn.

Everything is upside down and the world is spinning. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Rocket flying a few feet above the rooftop, speeding toward me with his fist cocked. I jump toward him, sidestepping at the last minute and hooking his arm with my own. I use his momentum to whip him around and sling him high into the air. He nearly crashes into the adjacent building. He slows to a stop, steadies himself, and shoots back toward me, arms stretched forward like twin battering rams.

I brace for impact. He strikes with full force into my body. It feels like his fists go right through me. My insides feel like they're puréed. The impact sends the two of us flying in separate directions. He crashes against a wall, sending bricks tumbling to the ground. I'm nearly blasted off the rooftop but I manage to grab a ledge with one hand, which keeps me from tumbling to the street below.

Even with the vial of Dr. Klaus's concoction, I can feel my power draining. I'm losing strength. Maybe my body is building up a tolerance to the stuff.

Hanging on for dear life, I dangle. I try to pull myself up on the ledge but don't have the strength. Things go from bad to worse when Rocket peers over the ledge, smiles at me, and says, “You're like Icarus, who flew too close to the sun.”

He extends a hand, and for a moment I think he's offering me his help. But he grabs my wrist and takes off flying again. The ground disappears far below us as we speed past the arriving television helicopters.

“Where are you taking me?” I yell.

He doesn't offer an explanation. With a firm grip on my wrist, he flies over the city. As he follows the Loganstin River, I realize he's taking me to the Core Mansion.

This is confirmed when he comes to a stop in midair, directly over the mansion. “Buddha said: Even death is not to be feared by one who has lived wisely.”

“I don't understand a word you're saying,” I snap.

Rocket pulls me up so we're face-to-face. “Lad, you have not acted wisely,” he says with a sneer. Then he lets go.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Everything is black, and I can't even tell if my eyes are open. I try to raise a hand to my face, but I can't.
Where am I?

A woman's voice answers from the darkness. “In our mansion,” she says, as smooth as silk. “The Core Mansion.”

Mystic's face emerges over me. So, she's reading my mind.

“Yes, I'm reading your mind,” she says. “I've been probing around in your head while you slept for the last thirty hours. And let me just say, you're one interesting young man.”

Lifting my head as much as I can, I find myself bound to a gurney with thick leather straps that securely fasten my ankles, wrists, and torso to the hard surface.

“I extracted the location of your home in the overpass,” Mystic continues. “But once we got there, your friends were nowhere to be found.”

I smile, happy that Yvonne and Kent bolted. Good for them.

“I know now that your friends weren't involved,” she says, “but my colleagues have painted themselves into a corner on that one, so we're going to have to bring them in.”

Even though they're innocent?

“It's more complicated than being innocent or not.”

“Please stop reading my mind,” I say. “It's freaking me out.”

“You should be grateful I've been probing your head,” Mystic says, “because I've discovered the truth about Eliza's involvement with this whole debacle.” She slips away and I hear her flip a switch. We're bathed in a flood of bright light. Mystic wears a lot of makeup, but it can't cover up the wrinkles around her piercing blue eyes or the tiny scars on her cheeks. This just reinforces the idea that has become more and more clear to me recently—up close, nobody is perfect.

She pulls a chair over and takes a seat, crossing her legs and studying me for a moment before saying, “You were
not trying out for the Core. I'm sorry. I know how much
that meant to you.”

It feels like I've just had a winning lotto ticket snatched out from under my nose, or discovered that a wonderful dream is just a dream and didn't really happen.

“Eliza didn't have the authority to extend that offer,” Mystic adds.

It's like all my hopes and dreams have come crashing down around me. I gave up everything I hold dear for a lie. I quit my job, quit my friends, and played fast and loose with my sense of right and wrong—for absolutely nothing.

“Marvin, I think you're being a little hard on yourself,” Mystic says. “You had no way of knowing.”

“I should've known,” I say. “It was too good to be true. Something like that doesn't happen to a nobody like me.”

“Marvin, I think Eliza underestimated you, which is something I'll never do.”

“Where is she?”

“No clue. She upped and vanished,” Mystic says. “None of this would've happened if I could read her mind. I have difficulty piecing together the thoughts of people with mental health disorders. She's been diagnosed with Schizotypal personality disorder.”

“What's that?”

“She experiences psychotic episodes. She's a troubled girl.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” I mumble.

Mystic glances back at the closed door. She leans in close and whispers, “So, about the Core—”

“You all belong in prison,” I say.

She puts a finger to her lips. “Shush. Keep it down. Someone might be listening.”

“I was so wrong about you guys. I thought you were heroes.”

Mystic appears to consider this. “I haven't been a hero since the summer of 2008. That was when I went to the other side, crossed the line. I've been trying to get back ever since.”

“But why?”

She motions around the room and says, “Who do you think paid for this place, this mansion? Or pays for the fuel for the Flame of Truth? Or all those ridiculous vehicles in the garage?”

“I don't know.”

“We do,” she says. “We pay. The Core. And crime fighting is pro bono work. It's done without pay.”

“Then how do you make money?” I ask.

“That's the billion-dollar question,” she says. “When I joined the Core, we got a stipend from the federal government. It wasn't much, but between that and getting Loganstin to pony up for the construction of the Core Mansion, we did all right. Then the economy took a nosedive. There were budget cuts across the board. Our funds actually dried up altogether. It didn't make sense for the federal government to fund a group that pretty much only operated in one city, but Loganstin wasn't going to offer up any more money after coughing up the funds to build our mansion. The Core was broke.”

She explained that the only money to be made in this line of work was being made by the criminals. Crime fighting doesn't pay the bills.

“What Darren suggested we do to support ourselves made a lot of sense at the time,” she says. “We'd fund ourselves by confiscating the criminals' money.”

“You robbed them.”

“We considered it a tax for services rendered. We ate what we killed, so to speak. If we apprehended a drug dealer, why should the police department get to confiscate the money? The Core did the work, so shouldn't we get the financial rewards?”

I don't know if Mystic is waiting for me to reply, but I don't say anything. I don't know what to say.

“I know it's hard for you to hear this. It's hard for me to admit it.” Mystic looks down at the floor. “A few years back, we got word of a large drug deal happening in the harbor. All of us were there for that one. The whole team. After everything was said and done that day, fifteen people were dead. And there was an entire shipping container filled with black tar heroin. But no cash.” She shrugs, as if giving a response to a question only she can hear. “Merc wasn't going to leave empty-handed.”

“You took the drugs.”

She looks up at me, as if surprised to find me bound to the gurney and listening to her. She nods her head. “The whole container. Merc hoisted it into the air and flew it here to the island. It took us nearly a month to sell it all. Pocketed nearly a hundred million. That was the summer of 2008. That's when the dream died. Everything was different after that.”

Everything's been building to this moment for the last few weeks. The clues and red flags were there. Some I saw, but others I ignored. I'd hoped it was all wrong. I tried to convince myself I was just being paranoid. I wanted more than anything to discover that it was just a big misunderstanding—or, at the very least, that it was only Eliza who was responsible. But the criminal activity went all the way to the top. All the way up to Lieutenant Mercury.

Police Chief Earl Wooden was wrong about the Core. They're not ceremonial crime fighters—they're nothing more than a cartel in tights.

“It wasn't always like this,” Mystic repeats. “In the beginning, we did right by the citizens of Loganstin. We were heroes,” she says.

“But that hardly matters now,” I say.

“Yeah,” she mumbles.

“What do you know about Mercury falling out of the sky into a house, killing a husband and wife? This was about seven years ago. Their young daughter survived.”

She looks at me. I don't have to be told that she's foraging around in my head like a raccoon in a garbage can. “Her name is Yvonne,” she says. “She's the one who drugged Streak.”

I curse myself for allowing her to pickpocket my mind.

“Don't worry. It's our little secret. Streak's an asshole. God knows I'd drug him if I could get away with it. But to answer your question, yes, that's how Yvonne's parents died. The Mercury-industrial complex went into overdrive to contain that story.” Mystic spots a smudge on her costume and tries to scratch it away with her fingernail. “There's a whole industry out there that benefits, both monetarily and politically, with the Core operating. There's too much on the line to allow something like killing Yvonne's parents to ruin a good thing.”

“Where does Eliza fit into this whole scenario?” I ask.

“She tried to circumvent the system, leapfrogging to the head of the class. But that's what we get for allowing a sociopath to join the team. She'll be dealt with.”

“What's going to happen now?” I ask.

“Oh, haven't I been clear? You're going to join the Core,” Mystic says.

“What?”

“Eliza's spot on the team has just opened up. Think of all the adventures you're going to have! Your dream has come true.”

“After everything you've just told me, why on earth would you think I'd want to join?” I say. “You're all corrupt. You're worse than the criminals you put away.”

“But you and I are going to change the Core from the inside,” Mystic says. “We can make it better. We can actually be the team people think we are.” She stands up. “I'll give you some time to mull it over.” She walks to the door, her high heels clicking on the floor.

“What if I say no?”

“Right now, you're wanted for the murder of the most beloved man to ever wear a cape.”

“You're threatening me?”

“Just think about it.” She flips off the lights as she steps into the hall, shutting the door with a clang. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes throughout the room.

In the darkness, I struggle against my restraints, which hold me firmly in place. Letting my mind probe for fear, I find nothing. If there's anybody close by, they're not scared. Without my power, I'm helpless to free myself. I'm stuck like a rat in a trap. Wherever Yvonne and Kent are, I hope they don't surface. The best thing for them is to get out of the city and never look back.

“Pssd. Maavin.”

I swivel my head to look toward the barred window. “Who's there?”

“Id's mae … Keed.”

“Where?”

“Bay dea windoo,” he whispers. A stream of goo drips onto the floor. It kind of looks like spoiled milk, clumpy and uneven, as it flows over the windowsill. The sound of the dripping stops, and no sooner than it does, Kent forms out of the puddle of goo on the floor. He emerges by the side of the gurney, smiling through his limp flesh. “I've come to the rescue.”

“How'd you know I was here?” I ask.

“We watched Rocket fly you away from the rooftop, on television,” he says.

“Um … Kent,” I mumble, “are you naked?”

He glances down the front of his body and smiles. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I just dripped my way in here. How am I going to do that with clothes?”

The lock on the door slides open.

“You've got to get out of here. Right now,” I whisper.

“Not without you,” Kent says, looking for a place to hide. But there isn't any. The room is empty except for the gurney and chair. He crosses the room and stands in front of the wall, running his hand over it. As he leans flat against it, arms and legs outstretched, his flesh spreads across the surface as if a rolling pin is flattening him. He melts into the cracks and pores of the wall, like water being absorbed by a sponge.

Just as he vanishes from sight, a flood of light enters from outside, but is quickly gone as the door shuts again.

Streak limps toward me. He's wearing a leg brace. “Well, well, well,” he says, smirking. “What do we have here?” He removes a tiny silver flask, unscrews the cap, and takes a plug. “So, your name's Marvin, huh? Marvin. Maaaarvin. Maaarrrviiiinn,” he says, as if taking my name out on a test drive. He takes another drink and screws the cap back on, replacing the flask inside a pocket in his red suit.

“What do you want?” I say.

“An apology, to start with.”

“For what?”

He starts to laugh, a little too loudly. “For what?
For what?
You killed Mercury!”

“There's been a big misunderstanding.”

“Liar!” he screams.

“I … okay … I'm sorry, then,” I say. “Sorry. I'm really super sorry.”

He's close enough that I can smell the booze on his breath. “Oh, it doesn't work like that. An eye for an eye.” He removes a box cutter from his pocket. With his thumb, he extends the blade. He slides the dull side of the blade across my cheek. “This is gonna hurt.”

Kent emerges out of the wall, peeling off like wallpaper. His body inflates and takes shape as he tiptoes toward Streak, who's pulling back his arm, poised to jab the blade into me. “This is for Mercury!”

Before Streak can slice me, Kent jumps into the air, spreading out like a blanket and wrapping Streak up. The Core member struggles to get out, but he's like a fish caught in a net. The more he struggles, the more Kent appears to ensnare him, until Streak goes limp.

When Kent removes himself, Streak collapses to the floor, the blade clanking out of his hand. Kent's form reshapes back to normal. He bends down and retrieves the box cutter, using the sharp blade to cut the straps that hold me.

“Thanks, Kent,” I say.

The light from the hall outside floods into the cell as the door swings open. Mystic scurries back into the room. “We don't have much time,” she whispers, glancing at my friend. “Hi, Kent.”

“Um … hi,” he says.

Mystic does a double take at Streak lying in a heap on the cold floor.

“He's just taking a little snooze,” Kent says.

“The rest of the Core will be here in a minute,” she says. “I'm afraid of what they'll do to you if they find you here.”

“I'm getting Marvin out of here, one way or the other,” Kent says.

“Trust me, if I'd wanted to stop you, I would've tipped off my teammates when you set foot on the island,” she says.

“You knew I was here?”

“Of course I did. I was probing your mind even before you floated to shore.”