Arthur held her gaze. She only saw his calm blue eyes. It wasn’t that she couldn’t look away—she was sure she could, if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to. His focus, his steadiness urged her to keep looking. Meanwhile, her thoughts ran behind her eyes like a film. Mentis could watch, through her eyes. She felt hollow, invisible. The girl with the see-through skull. It felt strange, but she wasn’t afraid. If it had been anyone else but Mentis doing it, though, she would have launched into a screaming fit.
She’d seen that happen when Mentis searched other people like this.
Appleton finally paused. Without breaking eye contact with her, Mentis asked, “Anything else?”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Appleton shrug. “What the hell—you ever sleep with the Destructor?”
You can’t kill him, she told herself. Can’t even hurl insults at him. He was waiting for an excuse to lock her up. She thought she saw a smile twitch on Mentis’s lips, quickly repressed.
“No. I. Did. Not.” She broke free of Mentis and looked at Mark, who dropped his gaze.
—We’re finished now. Rest easy.—Mentis looked away, and a weight lifted. She could breathe again. Briefly, she brushed his hand where it rest on his knee. He gave her hand a quick squeeze in return before turning to the police chief.
“Satisfied?” he said.
“Yeah,” Appleton said, obviously disappointed.
“Chief Appleton?” Celia leaned forward in her seat. “You have leaders from both the Strad Brothers and the Baxter Gang in custody now, right? Is there any connection between them?”
“That’s what your father keeps asking. He’s convinced Sito’s masterminding this from prison. We’re looking into ways he could possibly be doing that. Maybe that’ll keep the Olympiad off our backs—no offense, Doctor.”
Mentis waved him away.
But what if the connection wasn’t the Destructor?
Appleton kicked them out, apparently satisfied that she wasn’t a danger to society. She was hoping Mark would talk to her. She kept waiting for him to apologize. But he walked out of the room without a glance at her.
It was nightfall when she and Mentis stood on the street outside the police station. He looked thoughtfully back at the closed door.
“Your detective is having a very hard time admitting to himself that he was wrong.”
“I don’t need telepathy to know that.”
“No, indeed. Are you all right?”
She checked herself, wondering how much of her tiredness was genuine physical fatigue or overwhelming annoyance. Or traumatic stress.
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t have to stay at West Plaza anymore, if the robbery’s already happened.”
“Your mother would probably appreciate you staying for dinner.”
He was right, she was sure, but she wanted to run away all the same. “Do my parents think I had anything to do with this because I guessed right?”
“I honestly don’t know. I haven’t spoken with them since the robbery.”
“But they might think it, a little bit.”
“Celia, it’s amazing how little people control what they think sometimes. I can assure you, though, that your parents love you. Without reservation. They always have.”
She chuckled. “Makes me pretty pathetic, doesn’t it? Twenty-five years old and still pissed off because I think my parents don’t love me.”
“Celia, go home. Get some rest. I’ll let your parents know you’re all right. Mostly.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, after he’d turned his back and walked away. She had to have faith that even if he hadn’t heard her, he’d felt the sentiment.
TWENTY
THIS project rang too many alarm bells in her mind. Far from reaching a conclusion, the clues had branched. She had too many questions, now.
The next morning, attaché and growing collection of notes in hand, she headed back to West Plaza. She was going to do the unthinkable: ask her parents for a crack at the Olympiad mainframe. Maybe their database could make sense of the list of lab equipment, cross reference it with their information about the Destructor. In the afternoon, she planned to knock on Janet Travers’s front door. Maybe an eighty-year-old retired lab tech had the inside scoop.
One nice thing about getting fired: she wore jeans and a blouse softened by too much washing. And sneakers. She was the height of comfortable, ratty chic.
She only had two blocks to go between her apartment building to the bus stop and walked that stretch nearly every day without thinking of it because it was a quiet neighborhood, narrow, older streets lined with family grocers and small restaurants.
No reason the sidewalk should open under her feet.
The grating simply dropped. Yelping, she fell with it, she thought into the storm sewer, to concrete and breaking bones. But she landed on something soft, a cushion that protected her—an industrial-size, wheeled laundry hamper, like a hotel would use, filled with foam cushions.
A lid slammed closed over her and the light from above disappeared. A motor started, then movement. Lying on her back, she pushed up on the lid of whatever box she’d been closed in. It rattled but didn’t open. She kept pounding on it anyway, and screaming, because what else could she do?
She hadn’t been so afraid in a long time. She hadn’t been the victim of such an effective kidnapping in a long time.
Movement stopped. She gasped, startled, and then held her breath.
The lid opened.
She sat up, flung herself over the edge of the hamper, and skidded onto the concrete floor, unable to keep her feet.
She’d been brought to a room, pitch-black. She couldn’t see the walls, and only knew it was a room by the way her gasps echoed off walls that were too close. The whole journey, from falling through the sidewalk to ending up here had taken less than a minute. Her superhuman guardians—still in place, after all her complaints—would hardly have time to recognize she’d disappeared, much less be able to find her.
A light, white and muted, came to life. A propane lantern sat on a card table. A man, dressed all in black, his face in shadow, also sat on the table.
“Celia West,” he said in a flat voice. “You really should vary your route. I thought the daughter of Captain Olympus and Spark would know better.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing hysterically. She waited for the rant to follow—when the villain announced his ominous plan to hold her hostage, to manipulate the Olympiad, to threaten her.
He just watched her.
“You finally got me,” she said. “What now?”
“I wasn’t behind those other kidnapping attempts,” he said. “I’m competent. I succeed on the first try.”
This wasn’t the Strad Brothers, not by a long shot.
“What—what are you going to do with me?”
“Talk. That’s all. Do you know me?”
She stepped a little closer. If he’d lean in, let part of his face show in the aura of the lantern, she might see him. But she didn’t want to get close enough for him to touch her, grope her, strangle her—
He set something on the table beside him. He’d kept it hidden behind his back. As he produced it, he leaned forward, and she saw his face: older but fit, frowning but with the wrinkles of laugh lines around his eyes, as if he waited to see how she’d react to a joke.
Her voice almost failed her. “Damon Parks.”
The West Plaza security guard.
Beside him, on the table, his hand rested on a leather gauntlet with a silhouette stitched in gold onto the back of the hand: a hawk in flight, wings stretched back, ready to strike. The History Museum’s permanent exhibit on vigilante crime fighters had one of those gloves on display.
“Oh my God,” she murmured.
“I knew you were smart,” he said.
“I don’t understand.” Her heart raced, making her dizzy. She had to focus on every breath.
“I have some information for you.”
“What, me? But why—I mean, you’re the Hawk; if you have information, why don’t you do something about it?”
“Because I’m retired.”
“Then you should give it to my parents, the Olympiad—”
He shook his head. “They won’t admit it, but they’re not at the top of their game anymore. It’s time they pass the job to the younger generation, like I did.”
“But I’m not the younger generation. I’m not heir to anything, I don’t have any powers—”
“Neither do I.”
That came like a punch in her gut. A judgment. Proof positive that not having powers wasn’t an excuse for anything. “I can’t take on that mantle.”
“You’ve been looking for a connection between these robberies. Between the gang members who committed them.”
“Not really—”
“And you think there’s a connection—maybe even a mastermind—Simon Sito, maybe?”
“I don’t know. If it is, he’s changed his MO.”
“But you’ve been digging.”
Celia didn’t have to wonder how much he knew about what; as Damon Parks, working at West Plaza’s front desk, he probably saw a hell of a lot more than anybody realized. He’d have seen the logs; he knew she had a key card to the West Corp archives. He was good at his job. Both of them.
“I’ve been digging into Sito’s case, not the current crime wave. If there were a connection between them, somebody should have found something by now.”
“Fair enough. So maybe it isn’t Sito.”
He reached behind him. On the table, in the dark, lay a manila folder. He offered it to her, and she accepted. Inside, she found dozens of newspaper clippings. She’d expected something more high-tech: stolen spreadsheets, classified files. Not data available from vending machines on every corner of the city.
In all of the articles he’d cut out, he’d highlighted names. She recognized a couple, and she was sure if she checked they would belong to gang members arrested during the recent robberies and kidnapping attempts.
“Not quite retired,” she said, eyeing him. “You’ve been busy.”
“This is just a hobby,” he said.
The headlines of all the articles were some variation of GOVERNOR SNYDER ISSUES PARDONS.
She looked through the clippings again, to be sure she hadn’t missed something. “That’s the connection? All the gang members were convicted felons who received executive pardons?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a coincidence. They all got out on the same day and hatched the plan together.”
“Everything you’ve seen, everything you know, do you honestly believe that?”
She didn’t, not for a minute. “What are you saying? That Governor Snyder is the mastermind?”
“It’s a lead. I thought you’d be interested.”
“You’re crazy; this is crazy. The Hawk retires, then gets a job working for the next generation of vigilantes as a security guard? You didn’t retire, you traded down.”
He hopped off the table, fished her attaché case from the laundry hamper, and gave it to her, then picked up the lantern and his glove. He wore a cocky smile, like the afternoon had gone exactly as he’d planned.
She said, “People have been trying to guess who you are, who the Hawk is, for forty years. Why reveal yourself to me?”
“Because I trust you.”
She laughed. “Then you’re the only person in Commerce City who does.”
“Celia, I saw you during those years. I saw what you were going through. I might even understand it. I know Dr. Mentis does. I bet he trusts you, too.” He handed her the glove. Absently, she crushed it in her hand.
As the light moved, a passage became visible, an open tunnel that presumably led out. He prepared to walk away.
“Wait—where are you going?”
“Me? I’m retired. I’ll go play bocce or something.”
“What about me?”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way out.”
“Why couldn’t you fucking mail this to me?”
“Maybe I wanted to show you what a real kidnapping looks like.”
He and his lantern walked away.
She followed him. She didn’t have a choice. When he left, so did the light.
Damon Parks was the Hawk, the city’s original hero, who’d kept his secret identity secret for forty years. What could she do with that information? How much would the Eye pay for it? Not that she had any proof. Not that anyone would believe her.
Ahead, the circle of white light bobbed along, traveling down the damp, concrete tunnel. Parks turned left, passed the next intersection, then turned left again. Celia kept on twenty or so paces behind him, trying to avoid puddles even though her loafers were already soaked. He had to know she was following him. Maybe he was leading her into another trap. Maybe this was a test. A heroic initiation. Can she survive the maze?
But she already had the folder of information tucked into her attaché, along with the Hawk’s glove. Parks didn’t care about testing her. He’d just thrown her into the deep end and expected her to swim.
The light faded, and for a moment she was afraid she’d let him get too far ahead. But no, the lantern light faded because a brighter light came in from above—sunlight through a sewer grate. Parks climbed a ladder that went up, jostled loose the grate, and disappeared to the street level.
She hurried after him, climbed the same ladder, awkwardly tucking her attaché under her arm. Just as she reached the top, the grate closed back over her.
“Bastard!” she shouted at him. “Inconsiderate bastard!”
The grate wasn’t that tightly set in. A quick push with her shoulder knocked it aside, and she managed to wriggle through to the outside. She was in an alley, hidden behind a garbage Dumpster. No one passing by on the sidewalk even looked twice at her.
She hurried to her feet, quickly moving to the end of the alley and looking down the sidewalk in both directions, but Damon Parks—the Hawk, bane of criminals and one-time guardian of Commerce City—was gone. Of course.
A sudden breeze pushed her, causing her to step back to keep her balance. In the blink of an eye, seeming to appear from nowhere, Robbie Denton stood before her. The Bullet, actually, wearing his skin suit and mask. He’d run so quickly from wherever he’d been, she hadn’t see him approach.
“Hi,” she said.
“Celia, where have you been? Breezeway saw you fall through the grate—that wasn’t an accident was it? Did you escape? Who did it? What happened?” He was almost dancing in place, arms half-raised and fists clenched, like he wanted to grab her.
She could give Damon Parks away. He had to know that. Did he trust her not to, or was he prepared to have his identity exposed?
Or did he know that she’d keep his secret, because it was one piece of information she had that no one else did? Information was power, and she had so little of it.
“I’m okay,” she said, trying to sound reassuring instead of tired. “I don’t think I was in any danger.”
“Your folks are going to want to hear about this.”
Right now? she thought. “Yeah, I bet they will. How about I come over to their place this afternoon?”
He hesitated. He probably had meant right now.
“Really, Robbie, it’s okay. It wasn’t what you think.”
“Okay,” he said finally. “This afternoon. I’ll let them know.”
“Thanks.”
He stepped back from her, watching her with that worried frown that had never really gone away since her teenage years. Then, with the gust of a vagrant breeze, he disappeared.
Her mother left three messages on her cell phone. Arthur left one. Everyone knew about the kidnapping, its speed and ruthlessness, its frightening effectiveness, and its puzzling outcome. It didn’t match the Strad Brothers’ MO. There hadn’t been any robberies reported.
She went home and showered. Her subterranean trip made h
er grubby and cranky. A hot shower cured all woes. Or, most woes. When she returned to the living room, the folder of newspaper clippings still sat on the table, staring at her. What did that psycho expect her to do with this? She wouldn’t, wouldn’t don a mask and start rappelling from the tops of buildings in a quest for justice.
What would she do if this was part of her job? Well, that was easy. She went to the city library.
A true skeptic would question whether the newspaper clippings were even legitimate. They could have been faked—the Hawk might have a grudge against Governor Snyder for some reason and could be trying to frame him. So Celia needed to both verify that the news articles were genuine, and find out if there was a connection between the Hawk and Snyder. That seemed so unlikely as to be ridiculous. The Hawk had retired decades ago, and Snyder had only been in office a year. Not to mention that Snyder had trouble getting through a press conference without offending someone—usually hitting on one of the female reporters—or committing some ludicrous verbal gaff. Celia had trouble seeing him as a criminal mastermind. But maybe that buffoonish politician image was a front. She’d heard weirder theories.
She spent an hour with a microfiche machine and the last two years’ worth of the Commerce City Banner. She didn’t need much time to confirm the articles—Parks had annotated them with dates and page numbers.
She also confirmed what Parks hadn’t been able to, double-checking articles listing the names of the men who’d been arrested for the recent crime sprees and cross referencing them to the list of pardons—all of the identified perpetrators of the Baxter Gang and Strad Brother jobs had been pardoned by the governor.
Then she found the photo of Governor Snyder, looking goofy in his pin-striped suit and too-shaggy toupee, shaking hands with Commerce City Mayor Anthony Paulson. It had been taken about eight months earlier and accompanied an article about Paulson negotiating with newly elected Governor Snyder for state funding to help with his epic revitalization program. Paulson had campaigned heavily for Snyder, and apparently called in a ton of favors upon Snyder’s election. Among the proposals Mayor Paulson had offered to help pay for the rebuilding of Commerce City’s industrial area: furloughs and pardons for a chunk of the state’s lesser criminals. Snyder was apparently happy to comply.