After the Golden Age

  Beaming, eyes shining, Suzanne looked over her shoulder at Warren as if to say, Look what she did, isn’t it wonderful?

  Shaking his head, Warren said, “It’s too simple. There has to be more to it.”

  “Investigators say no,” Mark said.

  “Somebody put you in danger to get to us. That’s the way it always is,” her father said.

  Warren’s paranoia had been carefully cultivated over a lifetime. Coincidence didn’t exist in his world.

  “You know, Dad, not everything is about you.”

  “And you think you just happened to be on the one bus that gets hijacked?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” she muttered.

  A knock came on the door frame. Another visitor peered in—a young woman, a purple headband tying back her cornrows. Analise, carrying another bouquet. She must have decided Celia wasn’t so bad, too. If she’d only known that all she had to do was stop a runaway bus …

  “I’m sorry,” Analise said. “I can come back later—”

  “No, Analise, come in. It’s okay. Please,” Celia urged her; she wasn’t letting her friend get away. Cautiously, Analise stepped into the room, eyeing the Wests.

  This was going to get surreal.

  Celia made introductions. “Analise, these are my parents, Suzanne and Warren. Mom, Dad, this is my friend, Analise. And this is Mark Paulson.”

  “Hi, nice to meet you.” Analise kept far enough back that she wasn’t obliged to shake hands with anyone. Her gaze rested on Celia. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. When I saw the news and all…”

  “I’m fine,” Celia said. They couldn’t talk now about what they really needed to talk about, not with the others here. So, without a word, Celia accepted the truce that had been offered.

  Suzanne was studying her. “Have we met before?”

  “We went to school together,” Celia said quickly, before Analise had to start making excuses. “You might have met at graduation.”

  “Ah.” Suzanne accepted the explanation, and Celia breathed a sigh. Analise was too composed to react at all, except with an earnest smile.

  “Hey, looks like we found the party.” Robbie Denton entered, waving at them after knocking on the doorway. Arthur Mentis was with him. The place really was getting crowded.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to see Arthur just yet.

  The telepath said, “If you’d rather I come back later—”

  “No, it’s okay, come in. Unless you brought flowers, because I don’t think there’s any more room for flowers.”

  “No. I brought your attaché. The police released it from evidence.” Arthur lifted her case, and Celia sighed with relief. She didn’t want to have to reconstruct all that information. Hell, she didn’t know anymore what she was going to do with all that information. Her perspective on various recent events seemed to have shifted.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Robbie stood by Analise. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Robbie. This is Arthur.”

  “I’m Analise. Celia’s friend.” Analise looked stricken; she seemed to have realized she was stuck in a room with the entire Olympiad. And Dr. Mentis the telepath had caught her gaze. He studied her a little too closely.

  Celia said, rather brightly, “Thanks for coming, all of you. It’s really nice of you.”

  “Of course we’d come visit,” Suzanne said. “Did you think we’d just abandon you?”

  Mark and Analise both looked away at that one.

  A cell phone twittered. Mark and Warren checked their belts. Mark won. He answered his phone with his name and went out into the hallway.

  Warren glared after him. “The cops are useless. They can’t handle a criminal conspiracy like this.”

  Celia said, “I’d appreciate it if you not talk about what the cops can’t handle around Mark.”

  “Can’t he take a little criticism?”

  “It’s not criticizing, it’s insulting; as bad as that speech the mayor gave.”

  “I’ll keep my mouth shut just as soon as the mayor does.”

  He was a child. A big, spoiled child. What must Analise think of the great Captain Olympus bickering like this? Maybe she’d be a little more understanding when Celia griped about her family the way other people griped about theirs. “Dad—,” she said, the same time Suzanne said, “Warren—”

  Analise looked uncomfortable, inching toward the door like she wanted to leave. “Celia, maybe we can get together for coffee when you’re back on your feet.”

  She didn’t get away before Mark came back in, phone still in hand, his mouth pulled into a frown.

  “They found a pony bottle—an independent air supply for scuba divers—under the front seat on the bus. The driver wasn’t supposed to die.”

  Mentis said, “So it wasn’t the work of a random psychotic. It was an assassination.”

  They all, every last one of them, five of them superhuman, looked at Celia. Her head throbbed viciously. She wondered if the nurse would give her another dose of painkillers.

  “There’s more,” Mark said, his voice growing even more somber, if possible, and Celia wondered what could be worse. “He was granted a pardon for a felony conviction several years ago. Just like the others.”

  * * *

  After Mark’s announcement, Analise made a hasty exit, offering apologies and the excuse that she didn’t want to interrupt. Arthur stared after her. He knew about her, Celia didn’t doubt. She wondered if she should say something. She hoped Analise wasn’t cooking up some heroic adventure based on the fragment of information she’d heard. Mark, a grim set to his face, muttered something about needing to be back at the station and followed after her. Then visiting hours ended, and the Olympiad filed out.

  Celia felt like she hadn’t gotten to really visit with anyone.

  The entire hospital fell quiet after visiting hours. The night shift of nurses and orderlies came on. Celia got another dose of muscle relaxant and painkillers. They wanted her to sleep, now that the initial danger from the concussion was over. Once the lights were off, she was more than willing to do so.

  She had to struggle to rouse herself and focus on a figure standing in the doorway. Not a nurse. He was wearing a business suit, and leaned on the doorjamb, like all he wanted to do was watch her. Mentis? Had Arthur come back to check on her?

  No, it didn’t feel like Arthur, which was an odd thing to think. He was the telepath, not her. She shouldn’t have felt anything. When this man stepped toward her, his movements were menacing. He saw her stir, and moved out of the glare of the hallway’s light into the darkness of the room.

  “Aren’t visiting hours over?” she said. Her voice sounded creaky. She tried to wake up.

  “I got special dispensation so I could avoid the crowds when I came to visit the hero of the hour.” It was Mayor Anthony Paulson. “So. How is the hero?”

  The bus hijacking—it was an assassination. She’d called Mark with her suspicions, Mark had told his father—and now he was here.

  She wanted to scream. She had to scream. But she just lay there. I know what you are, I know what you’re doing …

  No, she didn’t. She had suspicions, and she still couldn’t guess why. Being mayor should have been enough of a power trip.

  “I’m fine,” she said. Actually, she felt nauseated.

  “You don’t look so good. A little pale, I think.”

  “It’s the bandages.”

  He winced, as if in sympathy. “Still, you’re lucky. It could have been so much worse.”

  It was supposed to have been so much worse. “Yeah.”

  All he’d have to do was put a pillow over her face, or inject something into her, or stab her in the throat with a letter opener. If that was what he was here for, it would only take a moment, and she wasn’t strong enough to fight. No one would ever find out until the on-duty nurse made rounds. And no one would suspect Mayor Paulson of any ill deed.

  “Mark says you two hav
en’t been getting along. I was sorry to hear that.”

  “He came to see me earlier,” she said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I have to say, your testimony at the Sito trial really threw him for a loop. It threw all of us for a loop.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “But it’s water under the bridge, I’m sure.”

  “Lots of water.”

  “You’re one of the good guys now. Isn’t that right?”

  If he was going to kill her, she wished he’d get it over with, since the conversation was making her nervous. Her stomach was churning. She wondered if she could throw up on him.

  “I’m just trying to get through the day, like everyone else.”

  “Ah. Well. So far so good.”

  She reached to the bedside call button and buzzed for the nurse.

  He didn’t react, didn’t flinch at all. His face was in shadow, his expression distorted. He might have been smiling, wincing, snarling. The tone of it slipped and transformed.

  A woman in a nurse’s uniform appeared in the doorway. “Ms. West, are you all right?”

  “I feel a little dizzy. The doctor said I should call if I feel dizzy.”

  The nurse turned on the room’s light. Paulson’s expression was perfectly neutral. Perhaps a little concerned. Maybe he was here for exactly the reason he said, doing his mayoral duty and visiting the hero of the hour.

  The nurse said to Paulson, “Sir, I’m sorry, maybe you should come visit another time.” She turned to Celia and efficiently embarked on a series of tests, shining lights in her eyes, listening to her heart, taking her temperature.

  “Of course,” Paulson said. “Once again, Ms. West, on behalf of the city, thank you.”

  He left, and only then did Celia, slumped back against her pillow, really feel dizzy.

  TWENTY-TWO

  WHEN Suzanne insisted that Celia stay come stay in West Plaza when she was released from the hospital the next morning, she relented.

  The West Corp limo picked her up that morning. Her father rode with her—bodyguard. For the first time in recent memory, she felt safer with him near.

  She still couldn’t think of anything to say to him, though the information about the Leyden Industrial Park burned a hole in her attaché case. Telling him everything had seemed like a great idea when she was almost dead. Now that she was sitting next to him? Later, she’d tell him later. When she had all the pieces.

  Her father’s cell phone rang. He answered, then relaxed, which meant it was probably Suzanne calling. “Really? What channel … okay.”

  Warren turned on the TV in the back of the limo.

  The scene was the City Hall press room, with its familiar podium and flags in the background. The place was crammed with reporters and TV cameras. Mayor Paulson was just arriving at the podium, looking grim and determined. Beside the network logo in the bottom corner, a graphic announced “Live.”

  Paulson launched in on his speech. “I have made a pledge to protect this city. I have pledged to make our streets safe. It is my heartbreaking regret to recognize how far I have to go to make that pledge a reality. Thousands of the city’s residents depend on the bus system to carry them to work, to carry them home again. The buses are the arteries that hold the lifeblood of Commerce City. I fear that yesterday’s tragedy has eroded confidence in our transportation system, just as other recent events have made people afraid to venture out to our museums, our concert halls, our gardens. We fear that nothing in this city is safe, that nothing is sacred.

  “I aim to change that. I aim to once again make our city a place we can be proud of, a place we can feel safe in. It is with that goal in mind that I have taken the drastic step of declaring a state of emergency. Until the masterminds of these plots are taken into custody, until every last member of these gangs is caught, this city is under curfew. All law enforcement officials will be working overtime. All city resources will be directed toward making sure this sort of thing never happens again. Thank you.”

  For all the chaos that the recent spate of criminal activity had caused, none of the incidents had been deadly. That had changed now. Six people had died on the bus: the driver, the man who’d been shot, and four in the crash. A couple of the injuries were critical, so the number could go up. The police assured Celia that if the bus had gone into the water, that number would have been much higher. They really did want to give her a medal.

  Paulson didn’t linger to answer questions. An aide stayed behind to announce specific measures involved in the state of emergency declaration: a curfew, a requirement of all residents to carry identification and proof of employment, such as a recent pay stub, while traveling to work. All events where large groups of people would gather were canceled.

  The news report continued with talking-heads commentary and man-on-the-street interviews. Public opinion seemed to support the mayor’s declaration. News had leaked about the breathing equipment under the front seat, which turned the incident from a random act of violence into a terrorist act. Another mastermind seemed to be laying siege to the city; the Destructor’s days of terror had returned.

  Warren was a short breath away from a rage when the limo pulled into the West Plaza parking garage. Celia was almost afraid to move.

  “Twenty-five years,” Warren muttered. “Half my life I’ve been protecting this city. Do I get any credit at all?”

  “I don’t think that’s what he’s saying. It’s an election year, he has to sound decisive.”

  “Are you defending him?”

  “No, of course not. This is overreacting. This state-of-emergency thing won’t fly for long. People won’t put up with it. He—Paulson came to see me last night, after visiting hours.”

  “Why? What’d he say?”

  “Nothing. Small talk. But it felt wrong.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He’d asked her that twice this week. She might get used to it. “Yeah.”

  He sat back against the seat and sighed. “You have to listen to that. Listen to your gut when it tells you something’s wrong. My gut’s screaming bloody murder about that guy. No one’s going to observe a curfew.”

  “We still don’t have proof that he’s behind anything.”

  “Maybe you could have a look at his credit card statements, see if he’s bought any scuba gear.” He said it like it was a joke.

  She glared. “I’d need a warrant for that.”

  By then, the limo had stopped near the private elevators. Michael, the chauffeur, opened their door. Warren wasn’t so angry that he didn’t nod a greeting at the driver. Celia pulled her bag over her shoulder as she climbed out—then Warren took it from her. She resisted an urge to grab it back.

  “I can get that, you know,” she said. “I’m not an invalid.”

  He ignored her.

  They began another silent elevator ride.

  I should say something, Celia thought. She really almost died this time. She should stop being angry at him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. It was all she could think of.

  “For what?” He glanced at her sidelong.

  She shook her head and scuffed a shoe on the carpet, feeling like a teenager all over again. “I don’t know. For everything.”

  “Oh. Right.” Now he looked down. Was that him scuffing the toe of his Italian leather shoe? “Your testimony the other day … I know you took a lot of flak for it. But you did good. You held up. I thought you should know.”

  She stared. “Why tell me this?”

  “Can’t I give my daughter a compliment?”

  “You never have before.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “When?”

  He didn’t answer—couldn’t. They hadn’t had a civil conversation in years.

  This clinched it, though. She couldn’t accept a compliment any more than he could accept an apology.

  “I’m sure I have,” he said finally. “I’ll ask your mother, she’ll kn
ow.”

  The elevator opened up at the penthouse.

  Suzanne came to Celia to give her a hug. She drew back to touch the bandage on her forehead. “How are you? Does it still hurt?”

  “I’m fine. The doctors gave me some of the good stuff. If it gets bad I’ll take a pill and sleep for a while.”

  “Do you want something to drink? Juice, water?”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  Suzanne looked at her, like all she really wanted was to be able to do something for Celia.

  Celia repressed a big sigh. “Some breakfast would be nice. I skipped the hospital food.”

  Suzanne greeted Warren with a kiss, and he bear-hugged her back until she laughed. He didn’t ask her about any compliments he’d given Celia.

  Over a meal of French toast, Celia’s parents gave her the updates. Mentis was at City Hall, trying to see the mayor, both to speak to him on behalf of the Olympiad, and to read what he could of his mind. If Paulson really was up to something, Mentis would learn it—assuming the telepath could get close to him. Robbie was trying to find the city’s other vigilantes, so they could coordinate their activities. At least she wouldn’t be subject to surveillance duty anymore.

  Since cultural activities and events in the near future were canceled, they couldn’t guess what the conspirators’ next target would be. The Sito trial jury was still deliberating—Paulson couldn’t cancel that. It seemed as likely a target as anything. Warren and Suzanne would stake out the courthouse, just in case something happened—and to be on hand when a verdict was reached. “I just smell trouble,” Warren said, more than once.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?” Suzanne asked.

  Celia nodded. “I’ll call security if I need anything, or I don’t feel well. You need to be out there.”

  An hour later, Celia had the place to herself. And she had her own work to do.

  She tapped in the code and pressed her thumb to the scanner on the security panel outside the Olympiad’s command room. It hummed warmly against her skin, and the door slid open.

  The Olympiad’s analytical mainframe was almost magical. You poured information in, and patterns emerged. Connections became clear. A mass of raw data became a conspiracy. Like her father, the computer found conspiracies everywhere.