Super (10 page)

D
eke leans back
in his seat and puts a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand on his forehead. It’s shaking like a Chihuahua in winter, and he asks, somberly, “Landers is dead?”

“Yep.” I throw his rental car into reverse, back it up a nudge, and then leave mine behind. Somebody will find it eventually, and that fake bank account has enough in it to cover whatever overdue charges might be coming my way. I’m like that, see, worried about being a good guy even when there are much, much bigger things happening that I need to concentrate on.

“Holy shit.”

“Holy shit is right, and I need you to listen to me, Deke. I need you to tell me everything you know about this goddamn case. I want to know why George Silver wanted Patriotman dead, I want to know why you guys think that one of the S.A.’s in SASS is plotting to kill Palmer and if that’s even a real thing, and above all else, you wrinkled old ball-sack, I want to know why in the immortal fuck a SALCON commando team wanted Eric Landers dead. And before you say a fucking word, you better goddamn believe that I deserve the truth, because I’m sick of playing your little errand boy. I could’ve died back there, and Eric and his wife didn’t deserve to.”

Deke sighs through his nose while I check the mirrors. No tails. We’re in the clear as far as I can tell.

“Well?”

“It, uh… It gets worse, Leo.” The tone in his voice is so downtrodden that I can’t fathom a guess as to what’s coming next.

“How, Deke? How can it possibly get worse?”

“I don’t like being the one to tell you this, but it’s better that you learn now—”

I punch the dashboard. An air vent crumbles and falls out of its slot. “Learn…
what
?”

“They, um, they found…” He clears his throat and I swear, I’m within an inch of punching
him
instead of the dashboard if he doesn’t hurry up. “They found Phil.”

My stomach drops a little. “What does that mean? You mean, like, found him walking down the street in his pajamas? Found him at the casino?” I have an inkling of what he’s about to say, but son of a bitch, I’m trying hard to pretend like it’s not true.

“No, uh…double tap to his chest. Two clean wounds and the locals are running ballistics on the bullets now. Luckily, or maybe not so much… He was on the phone with your mom when it happened. She says they were talking about you, and then he just went silent. If she hadn’t been talking to him, he might still be there.”

I’ve been hit by a lot of things. Supervillains that can swing anvils like boxing gloves. This mammoth bastard named, well, Mammoth, who could use a light pole as if it was a thirty-two-ounce Louisville Slugger. Hell, I’ve even been hit by a few speeding trains and I once had a shell from a tank slam into my shield so hard that it took the wind out of me for a good fifteen minutes. I’ve been bruised, battered, and had my chest pounded on with cinderblocks by a real badass nasty named She-Beast.

But nothing, nothing, has ever hit me harder than hearing that The Oracle, Phil, my father and buddy, is dead.

I haven’t cried in thirty-five years and damn it, I’m not about to start now, but this hurts, bad. My chest heaves. My eyes are watering. I’ve bitten my bottom lip so hard that I can taste the subtle, metallic hint of blood.

That same, bloody lip starts to quiver, and I don’t know how I’m driving like this. My body can’t contain this emotion. My chest is on fire. My legs and arms burn, craving action, any kind of release. I want to kick down brick walls with my bare feet. I want to crush marble statues in my fists. I want to spit acid. I want to grind anything good into a fine mist underneath my bleeding knuckles.

For the first time ever, I think I can truly understand how some people become evil.

I want revenge.

And nothing will stand in my way until I get it.

But first, I need answers.

I grind my teeth together. I could chew through Wolverine’s adamantium claws. “Who?” I growl.

Deke shakes his head. “They don’t know yet.”

“Bullshit.”

“Look, I’m sorry—”

“Yeah, right.”

“Honest to God. I know it hurts, but you know how it works, Leo. Still too early in the game. The two guys running the case, a guy named DiMarco and one named Bailey, they’re good, and right now they’re tagging the scene, and they’ve put a rush on the ballistics. Lisa’s there, too.”

“I thought you guys stayed in the shadows? You’re sweepers, aren’t you?”

“She’s flashing FBI creds for now, trying to throw them off. We were paying attention to you when it came across the wire. Otherwise, we’d might’ve been there soon enough to shut it down. Now it’ll be up to Homicide because we can’t run the risk of blowing our cover to pull rank on them.”

It hits me again. Phil is dead. My dad is dead. “Fuck!” I punch the steering wheel. I try to pull up, but even my light touch bends it. I quickly change the subject because Deke doesn’t know my true identity. I have to keep him talking.

Pull your shit together, Leo. Stable now, mourn later.

“What does Agent Kelly think?” I feel a tear building at the corner of my eye. I rub at my face with a sleeve to disguise the fact that I’m wiping it away before it falls.

“From the looks of it, she says it’s a clean elimination. Professional. Given what went on back there at the Landers place, I’m inclined to believe it might be a well-orchestrated SALCON hit, but I’d need to call Lisa to discuss it. That’s the only thing that indicates a professional job except…” He almost continues, then catches himself.

“That what?”

“They found a long red hair.”

“So? Dad, er,
Phil
had all kinds of girlfriends. Or hookers, or strippers. Could’ve been the pizza delivery girl.”

“I’m only suggesting…”

“Oh, I know what you’re suggesting, and it sounds like total horseshit to me. Charlene?
Charlene
? Are you kidding me? She works with the DPS, doesn’t she? She’s on our side, right? Nope, not a chance, Deke. Not unless…” That flicker in the back of my mind becomes a flashing distress beacon. I whip the car into an empty spot along the sidewalk. It’s quiet still, but early enough that some lights are coming on. Early morning risers trying to beat the insanity of the northern Virginia commute. “It’s a stretch, but what if
Dallas
planted the red hair?”

Deke shrugs. “I’m not going to say yes to that, because anything’s possible, but Leo, c’mon, she was removed from DPS two months ago. She’s got no knowledge of any inner workings.”

“That doesn’t mean that she’s not a puppet for someone else outside of the organization. Jesus, it’s starting to make sense, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“Give me a sec.” I see that the windows are fogging up from our body heat inside and the cool, moist temperatures outside. If we were followed, it’s a disadvantage to us without being able to spot someone on the approach, but at the same time, it’ll be good to hide ourselves as targets while I process this.

Phil is lingering there in the back of my mind, blocking clear thought processes, and I can feel that lump in my throat, refusing to go away. I swallow, hard, and say a small prayer to the roof of Deke’s rental car.

Dad…damn it. Yes,
Dad
. I love you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. You stepped up when you didn’t have to. You helped, you cared, and you were around. You were a good man. So good. You couldn’t keep your dick in your pants around Mom, and she was never enough for you, not by herself, but you loved her in your own dumbass way, and I can’t fault you for that, I guess. We’ll talk about this later, but for right now, I gotta get shit done, man. I love you, I’ll miss you, and I’ll see you on the other side.

I picture hanging up the phone to the afterlife in my imagination, and that helps clear my mind a little, helps me focus on the present. I can do nothing for Phil at this very moment—Agent Kelly is there to ask questions—so it’s my job to solve this whole goddamn thing, which, in turn, will avenge Phil’s death.

A long red hair, huh? Whether it was Charlene, Dallas, or that comedian, Carrot Top, or someone entirely different…it’s time to pay the Patriot.

Deke fidgets in his seat and clears his throat. Leaning forward to check the side mirror, in that last little spot where the window hasn’t fogged over, he says, “Not that I’m questioning your motives here, bud, but this is just a smidge dangerous, huh? SALCON commandos out there running around. Remember?”

I ignore him. I’m reasonably confident that we’re safe where we are, five miles from the dead bodies of Eric and Dolores Landers, and I hadn’t spotted a tail on our exit. “We’re good for now,” I say. “Tell me something—you know what, forget that, tell me everything, but what I want you to do is start with Dallas. Why’d you kick her out of DPS?”

Satisfied that we weren’t followed, and that nobody is slipping up to pierce his neck with a bullet, he shrugs and says, “Because she’s nuts. You know that.”

The .45 I took off the dead SALCON commando has been waiting patiently in my lap. I slowly turn the barrel around so that it’s facing Deke, his left side in particular, then I impatiently tap the grip. “Be specific.”

He sees what I’m doing, but he doesn’t have anywhere to scoot, so he just looks at me with a mixture of fear, contempt, and mild annoyance. He knows I won’t shoot him.

Or will I?

“Put that thing away,” he says.

“Be…
specific
.”

Deke rolls his eyes. “She wasn’t offing her marks like she was supposed to. She was collecting the money but splitting it seventy-thirty with the heroes she was supposed to eliminate. Some took the payoff and disappeared. Others? They’ve done the, ‘You’ll believe a hero can die’ thing, vanished, probably on an extended vacation with Dallas’s thirty percent, and then when the money ran out, they’ve been resurrecting themselves. I mean, did you know that Billie Bombshell used to be Queen Crush?”

“No shit? I thought she looked familiar.”

“Yep. Anyway, it was Lisa that caught on. Sent memos up the chain to get Dallas out, and she didn’t handle it too well. She’s been terrorizing poor Charlene ever since.”

“Damn. At least her compulsive lying thing is legit, huh? I thought for sure she was faking it just to sit around SASS humble-bragging. Hang on a second, though, why’s Charlene in that group with her? You’d think…”

Deke pauses long enough with a “cat that ate the canary” look on his face that I have to remind him of the pistol in my hand and its highly effective accuracy at two feet by tapping it again. Beads of sweat roll down his temple where I can see a vein throbbing beneath his aging, thinning skin. “Um…”

“Tell me!” I yell.

He jumps and throws both hands out, pleading. “Charlene’s not really an assassin. Never killed a fly. Just some greenhorn DPS agent that we slung into the lion’s den without really knowing how far Dallas would take her revenge.”

“What? Why?”

“We didn’t have a replacement, not until you came along, and it was easier to get Dallas out the door if she had somebody to direct her anger toward. It fit her profile. Give her an outlet, and she’ll take the bait.”

“Not smart, Deke.”

His shrug is so heavy it’s almost cartoonish. “I tried to tell ‘em. Anyway, Dallas leaked a fake story to Don Donner, and now Charlene has every muscled freak in tights after her. Brave girl. She’s made it this long, but we’re not sure how much longer we can protect her.”

“The hell is she still doing out in public, then? Get her out. Hide her, for God’s sake, because between Dallas and every hero gunning for her head, she’ll be dead in a month unless you put that girl on an invisible island somewhere in the South Pacific.”

Deke pulls a flask from inside his jacket pocket. He unscrews the lid and takes a long, long swig. When he’s finished, he wipes the top and offers it to me.

When in Rome.

It burns going down. Wild Turkey, maybe.

“Seriously, Deke. Get her into hiding.”

He says, “I wish it was that easy. We’ve got her prepped to kill President Palmer in three days.”

T
his LearJet is
big enough to hold my entire tiny ass apartment inside of it, which is why Kimmie sits so far away from me that I’d need a telescope to see the pissed-off frown on her face. After I tossed Daddy Oilbucks halfway across the hangar—and thankfully for him, into a pile of boxed up pillows—it took a little while to calm her down. Him, too, once he shook the cobwebs out. Luckily for me, he was too dazed to get all crazy and rage out on me, but he did throw a couple of wild swings that spun him in circles and sent him back to the ground.

We eventually came to an understanding: after this trip, in which something would be accomplished that would satisfy all involved parties, I was to never, ever, never, ever see his little girl again.

Fine by me. She’s got a butt fine enough to chew like bubble gum, but truth be told, Kimmie (or Polly, or Blue Baroness, or White Cloud) is more trouble than she’s worth. It’s always the hot ones, you know? Crazier than a yard full of escaped mental patients.

Okay, so we’re flying, and we’re on our way to the Maldives. The inside of this jet is an ugly beige color, but damn if the seats aren’t cozy. I’m melting into this thing, and I’d love to take a nap if it weren’t for the fact that Kimmie is subconsciously showing every indication that she’ll murder me in my sleep. It’s a long flight, too. I hope the flight attendant has enough coffee in storage to keep me going.

I take another look at Kimmie. She’s got her legs crossed, and her toe is doing that bouncing thing it does when she’s annoyed. She’s staring out the window with her chin propped up on one hand, hair in a ponytail, ignoring the copy of
Cosmo
in her lap. I wonder what she’s thinking about. I can read microexpressions like they’re a flashing neon sign, but believe me, deconstructing the mind of a woman is not part of that skill set.

I mentioned how I mentally marry a woman the moment she says hello. It was no different with Kimmie—Polly, then—and she was the same way. About five years ago, we were at this superhero fundraising event in West Palm Beach called
Miles of Muscles
where we walked around a track for a week to raise money for cancer. It was a noble cause, and I was happy to do it, but when I found out that the Monster Masher, the superhero who organized it, had used all those funds to buy a mansion in Miami instead of granting wishes for sick children—let’s just say that I didn’t hesitate for a second when the FBI called me one evening with a new contract.

Kimmie and I met while we were walking around the track in hundred-degree weather and fifty-thousand percent humidity on the third day. By the end of the event two days later, we had The Preacher marry us on the spot. (Sad side note: he died in an epic battle with Fallen Angel last December. The world mourned. Even the Pope.)

Kimmie and I thought we knew what love was.

Or, maybe our love was true, but she wasn’t.

She’s not a good person. However, that doesn’t mean that I’m not drawn to her like an innocent fly to a bug zapper. I should know better, and I get electrocuted every time.

Still. Look at her. She literally activates the salivation glands in my mouth.

Leo. Get yourself under control.

Do not forget the glee in her eyes when you told her the plan to off Patriotman. I’m not so sure that she wouldn’t try to do it for real. Keep an eye on her.

There are times where I wish we could go back and start over, or not even start to begin with. Those first couple of months, I was married to America’s Sweetheart, the lovable, cheery, ass-kicking superhero that everyone loved.
That
was the person I wanted to go to bed with every night. Instead, once she felt comfortable enough to pull back the curtains, I saw that the wizard was really a bitter, self-entitled, petty, jealous, spoiled brat who thought she could get away with whatever she wanted.

That’s the thing, see, just like all the other evil good guys that I’ve eliminated, we have our faults. Some are worse than others. I drink straight out of the milk carton, while Kimmie should be spending ten years behind bars for illegal international trading and a host of other offenses. She’s cost the US government billions and they’re kindly passing those losses on to you in the form of tax dollars.

She’s not so bubbly now, is she?

We may be superhuman, but at our nucleus, we’re still
human
.

And that’s an imperfect creature.

W
e don’t speak
through much of the flight, not even when we hit turbulence so bad that I’m wishing one of my powers was flying, like my buddy Superman, and we don’t speak in the car on the way to the resort. She’s fuming so viciously that I can feel the heat coming off of her skin. The steam pouring out of her nostrils is like an angry dragon’s snout, and I’m positive that she’ll spit fire at me before long.

Okay, that’s not really true. She’s not emitting vaporized water from her nose, but she’s pissed.

She ignores me when we check in. She ignores me when we drop our stuff off in the room. She ignores me for the next three hours while we sit on the deck and drink our own individual bottles of mango vodka, waiting on my
doppelganger
, Bart Alonzo, to show up for dinner. We’ve invited him over to discuss the plan after my “death,” and he’s dragging his feet down at one of the marinas, waiting to catch a charter out for some kind of fish that are running. I told him to hurry because I sure could use a buffer.

It’s not until I follow Kimmie down to the white sands and blue water that she finally decides to grace me with her voice.

“Did you have to throw him?”

“That’s what you’re pissed about?” I know that’s
exactly
why she’s mad, but I can’t resist poking the badger a little more. This isn’t a vacation—it’s business—and I spent enough time ruminating over our rocky past to realize that there will be no horizontal muscle flexing underneath the covers, so I figure I don’t have much to lose. Anything, really. I add, “I thought you’ve might’ve been mad at me for killing off Patriotman. I mean, come on, he’s—I’m—a national icon.”

“I would kick your spleen into next February if I didn’t know you well enough to realize that you’re an idiot. He’s my dad, Leo. I know you’ve never gotten along, but don’t you dare pull that super shit on him again, you understand me?” She takes her finger out of my chest long enough to slap me on the shoulder, then resumes poking. “He’s an eighty-year-old man, and you could’ve killed him.”

I scoff at this and look away. We’re in a gorgeous spot—absolutely stunning—like the water is so clear I can see fish swimming on the bottom fifty feet away. The breeze pushes palm fronds around. Small waves lap against the beach. It’s hot, but it’s paradise, and here we are squabbling about her jerk of a dad.

So what if I tossed his ass? He deserves every—you know what? Never mind. It’s not a battle I’m going to win and yeah, maybe it was wrong.

I try not to roll my eyes when I say, “I’m sorry, okay? It was a gut reaction. You saw him. I thought he was coming after me.”

She crosses her arms and does that chin waggle thing like she’s insinuating,
So? And?

“He spooked me. I reacted. And besides, he used to run around with The Hulk, didn’t he? I thought he had some of the super juice himself.”

“Dad’s just a meathead, moron. I don’t even—oh my God, forget it. How long have we been doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Having the same arguments. You don’t like him, he doesn’t like you, and it won’t matter after the next couple of days, will it?” She turns away and walks down the beach about five yards before she flops down and begins to dig her toes in the sand. She takes her hairband out and lets her golden hair fall down around her shoulders.

I’ve hurt her feelings, and I should be ignoring it. Damn it all to hell, now I feel bad.

She puts her forehead on her knees. That makes it worse.

I’m not really seeing her in a new light like this, but it’s a shame, you know?

Woulda, coulda, shoulda.

This is how I get into trouble with her. I can see how people get caught up in those abusive relationships and are never able to walk away. Those infamous words, “You don’t know what it’s like when it’s good,” keep too many people in chains.

Chains that even superheroes can’t break sometimes.

She’s right, though. This will be over with in a couple of days, and if I’m going to get away from her and this continuous cycle, I might need to gnaw off my own foot. It has to be done. We can’t keep going on like this.

I stroll over to her and sit down, resisting the urge to put my arm around her and at least pretend like I care enough to comfort her. Don’t get me wrong, I do. I simply don’t want to send any more mixed messages. Come on, I should be out fighting crime, whether it’s as Leo Craft the superhero assassin, or as Patriotman, instead of sitting next to my stewing ex-wife who’ll likely murder me in my sleep later this evening.

No matter the level of self-importance, or
real
importance to the human race, we’ve got our problems like everyone else.

I sigh and nudge her shoulder with mine anyway. Some small gesture of regret or care might keep me alive in her presence, and I’m only half-joking about that. “Let’s walk over to the yacht. How’s that sound? I called ahead a couple of days ago and had them get it prepped for us.”

She doesn’t answer in the affirmative, but she gets up and heads in that direction. The resort staff has even brought it around for us, and
Misery’s Fortune
rocks gently against the small pier.

It’s an ancient forty-footer that I picked up years ago when I wanted to “get away from it all,” but I love it like a child. We board it and give ourselves a couple of minutes to get our legs adjusted. Kimmie stays silent, pouting, while I check for wear and tear.

Satisfied that everything looks to be in good shape, I encourage her to come up front with me. I roll out a couple of towels, and we sit, side by side.

“So,” I say, “what’re you going to resurrect yourself as this time? I think all the good colors are taken, you know? I mean, the Mauve Maiden probably doesn’t strike fear in the hearts of criminals.”

There it is. A smile. An ear-to-ear grin that she struggles hard to keep from turning into a laugh. She’s unsuccessful. Kimmie doesn’t really laugh. She has this sort of cackle mixed with a honk that sounds like a cross between a blaring car alarm and a donkey with its tail on fire.

Most people find it annoying. Count me as one of them, but damn, it’s good to hear it after so long. I’d say it’s been years, and for about thirty seconds, this really feels like old times. This almost feels like our honeymoon all over again.

See? It’s like I have a stretchy rubber band tied to a belt loop, and every time I try to run away, it drags me right back.

She’s not good for you, Leo. Business only. She’s your witness. Accept and move on.

I don’t say anything else yet. I let her laughter die out until she’s wiping her eyes and cleaning the joyful tears off her sunglasses before I say, “Thanks for coming. You know, for doing this. There aren’t many people I could trust with this kind of information.” I wait a beat, then add, “I
can
trust you with it, right?”

“Oh, please, Leo. If it means getting Patriotman out of the game—just for spite—and getting my ass back in it, whether it’s as the Mauve Maiden or something else, I’m all for it. I’ll carry your secret to my grave. And
excuse
me,” she says, sounding increasingly annoyed, “but who’s kept your ‘Leo Craft is Patriotman’ secret for the past three years, even after you dicked me over and ruined my career? Who, Leo? Who?”

“You did,” I answer, sheepishly. She has a point, and it’s not one I’d considered, now that I think about it. In all this time, I’ve never thanked her for keeping quiet. I “killed” her to keep her safe and as much as she hates me for it, I suppose there’s some small measure of gratitude, or the fact that she has feelings for me, that remain underneath her vicious exterior because yeah, she’s right, my face isn’t plastered all over
Tonight with Don Donner
under some headline reading, “Guess Who?”

“A little thank you would go a long way.”

I watch a seagull drift blissfully on the breeze. I envy his freedom. “Thanks, Kimmie. Polly. Whatever. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I mean, yeah, I guess I owe you big time, huh?”

She fiddles with a piece of dried seaweed.

There’s so much unsaid between us.

“Is it enough that my identity is dying and yours will be resurrected?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you sound, uh, sad?”

Kimmie tosses the seaweed into the water and brushes off her hands. She pushes her sunglasses higher on her nose and sniffs. It
could’ve
been a sniffle. Hard to tell. I’ve never seen her cry before. She says, “It’s weird, huh? So many years ago, we were the ‘it’ couple. God, we looked good, didn’t we? You in that red, white, and blue suit, me in those stretchy tights?”

“Your camel toe outfit?”

“Stop,” she says, grinning. “I’m being serious. We could’ve been legends
together
, if you hadn’t gotten all righteous and mighty. But here we are, chatting like an old married couple. It feels like the end of something, and it feels so strange to not hate your guts.”

“You don’t?”

“No, because it’ll feel so good to make your idiotic plan a reality.”

The knife slides through my ribs before I have a chance to ask her what she means. Only trouble is I don’t have to. I’m learning the painful way.