Once safe in the privacy of Bronson’s conference room, which was windowless and annoyingly devoid of chairs, the Captain began pacing the length of the longest wall.
“He had no business talking to you,” he muttered. He glanced at Celia and frowned. “Mentis, why’d he do it? What did he mean by it?”
“Haven’t a clue. I’ve never been able to read him. That hasn’t changed,” the telepath said.
“You must have made quite an impression on him. At some point,” Bronson said to her.
She had to take a calming breath before speaking. “It’s the same old story. He’s using me to get to them.”
“We know,” Spark said.
“I am definitely not putting you on the stand. Not after that.”
Good, Celia thought. She was a bit panicked that Bronson had ever considered calling her to testify.
Bronson thanked the heroes for being there, for giving their stamp of approval to the proceedings. Maybe now the media would stop asking why the Olympiad didn’t take justice into its own hands. The heroes were servants of the city. Not its judge and jury.
The meeting broke up after that. She was happy enough to leave Bronson’s posthearing war council. The hallway had finally cleared out, and she could navigate it in peace. Almost.
“Ms. West. Celia. I mean … Hi.” Detective Mark Paulson came from the back of the courtroom to intercept her. He had the best aw-shucks grin she’d seen in weeks.
She tried to look encouraging. “Detective, hello. What can I do for you?”
“Well, see, as a matter of fact … I’ve got a couple of tickets to the symphony fund-raiser on Friday. I know this isn’t a good time, but I don’t know when I’m going to see you again—”
“You could call.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“You’re a detective and you couldn’t dig up my phone number?” He was starting to blush. She felt like she was wearing an awfully silly smile in response. “Or you could ask for it.”
“So,” he said. “How about it?”
“My number?”
He sighed. “Yeah. And the symphony.”
“I think I’d like that. It’s formal, right?”
“Right.”
“So I should get a dress?”
“Right.” He smiled with what looked like relief. “Can I pick you up at six?”
“Sounds great.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
He tugged at the edges of his coat as he sauntered out of the room.
Wow. A real grown-up date. That was almost easy. Even the idea of looking for an evening gown before Friday didn’t seem so scary.
“What was that all about?” said a sly voice near her shoulder.
Celia turned to her mother. “I’m going on a date.”
“With Detective Paulson?” That was her father, standing by Spark and scowling.
“Yeah, with Detective Paulson,” Celia said.
All four of them were there now. Mom beamed. Robbie, her surrogate uncle, looked like he wanted to ruffle her hair and crack a joke. Arthur seemed thoughtful, like he always did. Then there was the Captain, who appeared annoyed. He’d worn the same sour, frowning expression before every date she’d ever gone on.
Time to get out of here. “I’ll see you guys later.”
Feeling intensely smug, she strolled out of the courthouse, swinging her attaché case.
* * *
She’d been kidnapped the first time when she was sixteen.
She got the call at home, at the West Plaza penthouse. Back then, no one knew that the top floor served as the headquarters of the Olympiad.
Celia knew, but if she told anyone, who would believe her?
She was doing math homework at the kitchen table when the phone rang. Sighing with frustration—she was actually starting to understand trigonometry and was annoyed at being interrupted—she answered, expecting that it was her mother asking her to start fixing supper, or a friend inviting her to a movie or party that she wouldn’t be allowed to go to.
“Hello?”
“Celia! Thank God! I need your help, come to City Park right now—”
“Dad?” She pressed the phone closer to her ear, as if that would make his voice come through clearer. He’d never sounded like this, harried and desperate. It was enough to make her panic. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t explain. I need your help, please hurry!”
What could she possibly do to help? But there must be something, or he wouldn’t have called. He must be in trouble, him and Mom both. Maybe this was her chance. He was trusting her. She wouldn’t let him down.
“Yes, yes, I’ll hurry. City Park?”
“By the fountain.”
“Okay, Dad. I’m on my way.” She hung up the phone before hearing his response.
It was only four blocks away. She could reach it by bike in a few minutes. She hoped that was fast enough; he must have known she wouldn’t have another way to travel. Maybe he’d called her as a last resort. That would mean that all of the Olympiad was in trouble.
Security let her keep her bike behind the desk in the lobby. The guard on duty, an older guy named Damon, called a friendly greeting to her as she hauled it toward the doors, but she didn’t have time to respond. Her heart was racing. God, this was just like some kind of secret mission. Was this what her parents felt every time the Olympiad’s alarm rang?
She still couldn’t think what her father was doing calling her with a mission. He’d call the city dog catchers before he called her. Nevertheless, he’d called, and he’d said he needed her. That was enough.
On her way to the park, she ran two red lights and didn’t look back at the noise of screeching tires as cars barely missed hitting her. It didn’t really occur to her that her chance at completing a mission for the Olympiad would be utterly destroyed if she were creamed by a garbage truck. She just had to get to the park before it was too late.
Racing from the sidewalk to the park’s main bike path, she swerved to avoid a jogger, cut across the grass, and swooped down to the cobblestone pad circling the park’s central fountain.
No one was there.
Water arced and danced away from a trio of art-deco lily-shaped spouts, splashing into the marble pool below. A couple of pigeons strutted around, searching for invisible bread crumbs. Celia stopped, got off her bike, and let it fall to the ground.
“Dad?” She looked around. Not so much as a jogger or dog walker was in sight.
She heard a hiss and felt a sting in her shoulder. Wincing in pain, she grabbed for it, thinking to find a hell of a monster mosquito. Instead, she pulled out a dart.
She stared at it a moment, a silver pellet with an inch-long needle—terrifyingly long—lying in her hand. A wave of dizziness crashed against her skull, only because she realized what had happened.
The tranquilizer took effect a second later, and she dropped to her knees.
Her limbs went numb, her nerves died, her muscles escaped her control, and she fell. Her eyes remained open, and her mind raced in a futile panic. Lying on her back, staring up, she saw the old man approach. Two black-suited guards flanked him. He wore charcoal gray. He had a fringe of thin white hair and smiled a grandfather’s smile down at her.
He held up a mini tape recorder and pressed the button. “Celia! Thank God! I need your help—”
Her father’s voice, synthesized.
With gentle fingers he pressed her eyelids closed, and his men carried her away.
At some point she gratefully fell into unconsciousness. Didn’t dream. Regretted waking up, which she knew she was doing when she heard a voice.
“You have your mother’s hair, don’t you?”
She opened her eyes and jerked back at the sight of the old man bending over her. Or tried to jerk back. She’d regained control of her muscles, but she was in a dentist’s-type chair, nylon straps securing her arms and legs in place. Even her head was restrained. She felt
tired, weak, but nothing hurt. Except her knotted stomach.
“And your father’s eyes,” he said. “Lovely.”
The room was dark. She squinted, trying to see. A row of computer banks stood along one wall. They gave off a blue-white glow and a faint hum of cooling fans.
“What else do you have of theirs? Spark’s fire, the Captain’s strength? A bit of telekinesis perhaps. The ability to fly, or to see through solid walls. No? Nothing? How disappointing.”
She glared at him, her face contorting in a grimace. It wasn’t any of his business.
But he knew that her parents were the Olympiad.
Had she said anything, done anything to reveal their identity? No, of course not. He’d taken her because he already knew who they were. But when she disappeared the police would think it was a simple kidnapping of the daughter of a wealthy businessman for ransom. They’d be expecting a ransom note. She wondered if they would get one.
She didn’t think so. This didn’t seem right. A “simple” kidnapping involved warehouses and car trunks, not tranquilizer darts and computer labs. What this room reminded her of most was the Olympiad’s command center, gleaming and sinister.
The man reached out, and she drew away as much as she was able, wincing. “Oh, shh, shh there,” he said, like he might calm an animal. He ran his finger along her chin. He had a look in his eyes, intense and clinical, like a child who took pleasure in breaking his toys to see what made them work. He would gladly use people, but he didn’t need any of them.
She managed to whisper, “What are you going to do with me?”
“Well. I’m going to send you back to your parents. After I’ve made a few adjustments to your pretty little mind. A childish sort of revenge, I admit. Enjoyable nonetheless.”
“Who are you?” she said, though in her gut she already knew.
“Can’t you guess? I’m the Destructor.”
Screaming at this point would be so undignified. She swallowed back any noise into her too-tight throat.
She prayed. Dr. Mentis, I’m here, please look for me, please help me. The telepath had only been with the Olympiad a year, but she liked him. He didn’t brush her off just because she didn’t have any powers. He didn’t treat her like a kid. Surely he would hear her.
The Destructor leaned on the chair, an arm on either side of her waist, and stared down at her with a look of such vicious longing she wanted to vomit. Tears welled in her eyes, which she squeezed shut. She had to be brave. She’d be brave, and she’d get out of this.
“It would be so easy to break you. Such a young, innocent thing—a blank slate. I could write anything on you.” He let his body lean close to her, brought his face to her shirt and inhaled deeply through his nose, smelling her. She could feel his breath through her shirt, on her breasts, then on her throat.
“No. Please, no.” Her tears streamed steadily now. She knew what this was, knew she didn’t want it to happen. Not like this.
If only she were strong. If only she had her mother’s power, her father’s strength. Such a disappointment, as he’d said.
He straightened his arms, pushing away from her, and she gasped a sigh of relief. “Hush, my dear. I’m not so gauche as that.”
Moving to the head of the chair, he reached for an equipment stand. In moments, he was pasting electrodes to her scalp, burying them in her red hair, pressing them to her skin.
She’d almost prefer the other. At least she knew what was happening, then. She bit her lips closed and refused to cry anymore.
He’d secured over a dozen of the electrodes, then pulled a device mounted on a jointed arm to the side of the chair. Made of steel and glass, it looked like a gun, a long nose with narrow rings of wires and disks protruding from a complicated mechanism. The Destructor studied it, making adjustments, then aimed the point of it at her forehead.
He went to the computer banks. “I call this process Psychostasis. A freezing of the mind. You won’t feel anything, I promise. You’ll start to forget, and you won’t even notice that you’re forgetting. You’ll go on without a care in the world. And when you’ve forgotten enough, then we’ll stop. It only becomes really dangerous if your heart forgets to beat. But I won’t let that happen.” He smiled at her over his shoulder.
No, no, no—her thoughts narrowed to that simple, desperate pleading. If she thought hard enough, maybe she could make it happen. Maybe she could give herself powers through sheer will.
No, she couldn’t, because then she’d have had powers a long time ago.
“Doctor! Something’s happening outside!” A man wearing a black suit ran into the room.
The Destructor paused, frowned. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“But I think it’s the Olympiad!”
She couldn’t see the villain’s expression, but his voice turned cold and determined. “Never mind. I only need a few moments.”
He turned back to his computer. A vibration passed along her skin, like the hum of a voice close to her ear.
“No,” she whispered, crying. Only a minute, she only had to hold on for one more minute. Don’t forget, never forget.
A fireball roiled through the doorway, tossing aside the Destructor’s goon, who rolled to the protective cover of a computer console.
The Destructor frowned and stepped back.
“Mentis! She’s in here!” Her mother’s voice, ringing clear.
A wall of flame erupted, a shield between Spark and Celia, and the Destructor and his computers. In the next moment, Dr. Mentis was beside her, holding her face, looking into her eyes.
“Celia, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she said, because she couldn’t nod.
More than hear him, she could feel him prodding in the corners of her mind, like an extra voice, a thought that wasn’t hers, a dream that she didn’t know the origin of. An odd smell of sage filled her nose. She couldn’t stop it or respond—she didn’t have that power. But she didn’t struggle. Whatever the Destructor had done to her, Mentis would find it and fix it.
He must have been satisfied with what he found in her mind, because he grabbed the wires, all of them together, and tore them away. Her hair and skin ripped; she braced and didn’t cry out. Calmly and methodically, he pulled loose all the straps, then put her arms over his shoulders.
“Hold on,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
He lifted her out of the chair. She clung to him, pressing her face to his shoulder as he carried her away. Her thoughts filled with panic and gratitude, and Mentis didn’t let go until she was safely inside the Olympiad’s hovership.
Safe. She was safe now.
The Destructor escaped, like he always did. He always planned a back door for himself. Despite his disappearance, he wasn’t finished inflicting damage this time. The headlines in the newspapers the next day said it all: “The Olympiad, Unmasked! Commerce City Socialites Warren and Suzanne West Don’t Deny It! They Are Captain Olympus and Spark!” The anonymous tips the paper had received included completely verifiable photographs. Their secret identities were ruined.
And their daughter was fair game.
SIX
SEVERAL mornings after Sito’s preliminary hearing, Celia entered the maddeningly serene lobby of the Greenbriar Convalescent Home, a long-term mental health care facility. The carpet was plush, sound-absorbing, and the walls were a calming shade of blue. Soft, inoffensive music played. The place was aggressively calm. She hurried to the receptionist’s desk.
“Hi, I’m Celia West. I have an appointment with Ian Miller in accounting.”
The receptionist was a young woman with a gentle demeanor and a voice that could talk people down from rooftops. “Yes, he’s expecting you. His office is just around the corner.”
Celia followed the directions and soon found herself seated before the desk of Ian Miller, Greenbriar’s head of accounts receivable. He sat rigid in his chair, leaning toward the desk, picking up one item after another and rearranging them: stapler, penc
il, file folder.
“You’re here about the Sito case?” he said.
She considered him a moment, then nodded.
“You know our records don’t go back that far. Not the accounting records, at any rate.”
One might think she was investigating him directly.
Before donning his criminal persona as the Destructor and beginning his reign of terror, Simon Sito had spent over a decade at the Greenbriar mental hospital. By all accounts he had suffered a severe nervous breakdown as a result of his job as a research scientist. The records during this time were hazy, as if he suddenly appeared at the hospital one day. All her leads into his past ended there. The rest had been lost, or buried.
“I’m trying to find out how he paid for his stay here,” she said. “Did he have insurance? Who was the insurance with? Is there anyone alive from that time who might be able to help me?”
“I really don’t know. Our personnel files don’t even go back that far.”
“Do you have anything that does go back that far?”
He nodded, quick and birdlike. “The medical records. Our doctors use them for research data. Anonymously, of course.”
It was something. “Could I take a look at those, do you think?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
The people who asked that watched too much television.
She pulled a business-size envelope from her attaché case and handed it over. DA Bronson had written it up and had it approved especially for her.
Most of the trails she followed in her line of work were very well hidden, but recent. Phony bank accounts, fraudulent expense reports, laundered income—the records showing the truth about where the money came from and where it went still existed.
Thirty years was a long time for such records to stick around. She couldn’t hope to be lucky enough to find a canceled check showing the account number that held Sito’s original fortune. But if she was lucky, she’d find some thread to follow, however tenuous.
Miller let her into a musty basement room that held the hospital’s archives: rows and rows of shelves crammed with medical records in brown pasteboard folders. The place was lit by bare bulbs clipped to the ceiling’s naked boards, and smelled of fermented dust.