After fifteen minutes of searching the Ss, Miller pulled Sito’s thick and yellowed file off the shelf. He left her alone with it at a desk in a cubbyhole of a room off the main accounting office.
Nothing to do but start at the front and work her way back.
Sito had been released from the hospital, declared fully recovered and capable of resuming a place as a productive member of society. An experimental treatment involving electroshock therapy had been declared a resounding success. On the contrary, it had been what pushed Sito over the edge—unhinged the part of his mind that held any sort of conscience or moral scruples. He’d fooled them all, told the doctors what they wanted to hear, and behaved how they needed him to behave in order to declare him sane. Who could tell? Maybe he really had been sane when he left. Maybe he hadn’t been planning his campaign of destruction while still under the care of the hospital’s psychiatrists. No one would ever know. The doctor who signed his release had died in the first onslaught, the inelegant but effective firebombing of a medical conference at the university.
Every page under that top one was a catalog of treatments, medications, lengthy reports, and professional musings about this man and what had triggered his debilitating depression. Sito became something of a pet project among the hospital’s doctors. The nurses and orderlies reported that he never gave them any trouble.
With growing anticipation, Celia neared the beginning of the file, the pages that would, she hoped, tell her why Sito had ended up here in the first place, who had admitted him, and how the bills got paid. An insurance ID number, that was all she wanted.
A knock sounded on the frame of the door, which Celia had left open. Startled, she looked up and avoided heaving a frustrated sigh.
A young man in a white lab coat leaned on the door frame. He wore a vaguely predatory expression, staring at her like he might leap at her. She contemplated retreating into a corner.
“Are you Celia West?” he said. His eyes gleamed.
“Yes. And you are—”
He took that as his invitation to rush in, hand extended for her to shake. She did so, confusedly. “I’m Gerald Ivers. Doctor Gerald Ivers. Miller told me you were here.”
Great, she thought. The question was, Why had Miller told anyone she was here? “Can I help you with something?”
He pulled a spare chair from a corner over to her desk and sat on it, right at the edge, leaning forward eagerly. He could strangle her if he wanted. Or she could strangle him.
“I just—well, this is going to sound crazy. But you’re the Celia West? The daughter of Captain Olympus and Spark?”
Just shoot me now … She managed a thin smile. “I’m Warren and Suzanne West’s daughter, yes.”
“Can I ask you a few questions? Let me back up a little. I’m very interested in the psychology of superhuman crime fighters. I’ve written several articles on the subject—I could get copies for you, if you’re interested. You might have a particular insight into this area of study. Purely anecdotal, of course.”
He regarded her, brow raised like he expected her to launch into a personal chat about her parents then and there.
“I’m probably not the best person to ask,” she said. “I’m a little too close to the joke, as it were.”
“You think what your parents do is a joke?”
The last thing she wanted was to have herself psychoanalyzed. “No, of course not. But you should know that I left home on not very good terms when I was seventeen. It wasn’t the best environment to grow up in.”
If he’d whipped out a notepad and started writing, as he looked like he wanted to do, she’d have snatched it out of his hands and beat him with it. But he just stared attentively.
“No, I suppose not. But your perspective on the topic is unique, you have to admit. Why do you think your parents do what they do? Why do any of the city’s crime fighters don costumes and risk their lives?”
He probably wouldn’t go away if she just told him to. If she did that, he’d probably get all kinds of warped ideas about her bitter attitude being a defense mechanism that stemmed from the trauma of growing up in the uncertainty of a household of superhuman vigilantes.
Not that she’d ever thought about this before or anything.
She said, “I think most of them believe their powers are a gift. That because of it they have some kind of destiny, a responsibility to protect those weaker than themselves. It’s a calling.”
“I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than that. Look at the Hawk—I’ve studied his case extensively, and he wasn’t superhuman. He had no powers. What drove him to fight crime? Especially under the guise of a costumed persona?”
The Hawk. The original vigilante. He appeared on the scene in Commerce City forty years ago, disappeared twenty years later—after secretly placing a note on the then mayor’s desk that read, “I retire.” Every five years or so a new book came out discussing his case, speculating on his psychology, and guessing who he might have been, really. Worse than the debate about who wrote Shakespeare’s plays. The evidence was just as sketchy. What intrigued people most about him: he’d had no powers. Perfectly normal, mortal. Everyman.
“Maybe some of them get a rush out of it.”
“But if that were the case, why did the Hawk just retire? In studies of people who participate in extreme sports, their activities come to resemble an addiction. They rarely stop until they’re incapacitated or killed. I have an idea that it’s the same with the vigilante crime fighters.”
She might worry about her father getting killed, except he was the indestructible Captain Olympus and the point seemed moot. He looked after her mother and the others. They’d all had scrapes, sure. But they’d come through, every time.
He continued. “Do your parents ever talk about retiring? Do they show any sign of it?”
None at all. But she didn’t think that was Ivers’s business.
“Doctor, have you ever talked to any of the city’s superhumans?”
His lips pressed into a line. “I’m treating Barry Quinn currently.”
Barry Quinn, also known as Plasma. His affinity for electricity made him immune to electric shock. In fact, when he absorbed enough of a charge, he could throw back bolts of lightning at any chosen target. A human capacitor. He’d spent a couple of years as a celebrated hero, made the front pages of the papers. He was also a paranoid schizophrenic who believed his medication dampened his powers. It had only been a matter of time before he ended up here. Mentis had consulted on the case originally. He’d passed along a summary, and an unhopeful prognosis.
“How is that going?”
He started to say something, then shook his head. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. I really can’t say. On the other hand, there’s your father. Successful, healthy—he’s been at this for a quarter of a century.”
Her father, healthy? To her credit, she didn’t laugh. “You should talk to him yourself.”
His eyes went round; he looked stricken. “But how would I find him? How would I contact him? Vigilante crime fighters don’t exactly have phone numbers.”
“His identity’s been known for years. The number for West Corp’s central offices is listed. You could set up an appointment with my dad’s secretary.”
“I suppose … I hadn’t really considered … I can see you’re busy, Ms. West. I ought to leave you to it. Thanks for your time.” He retreated, backing out of the room as he stammered his excuses.
If she wanted to give the guy a heart attack, she could ask Arthur Mentis or Analise to give him a call.
She finally reached the first entry in Simon Sito’s medical file. This was a five-page report detailing a laboratory accident that had precipitated Sito’s nervous breakdown. At least, Celia assumed the report detailed the accident. Great swaths of it were blacked out, censored by government order. Sito had been working on government research. None of this was new information. She might be inclined to assume that Sito had been cared for by a go
vernment or military pension. But that wouldn’t have paid for a stay at a place like Greenbriar. He’d have been placed at Elroy or some other public or military hospital.
According to the report, or what was left of it, Sito hadn’t been physically injured. The project wasn’t of a kind that could cause physical injury. Instead, the failure of the project had unbalanced him. That was why he’d been placed in a psychiatric ward. The hospital bills had been paid by a trust fund set up on his behalf—the source of the fund wasn’t listed.
The information that had been blacked out involved the substance of the experiment—what exactly Sito and the research team had been trying to accomplish—and the other parties involved. There was another party involved. Sito was working for a private lab, and that lab was under contract to the government. That lab had probably provided Sito’s trust fund.
The censors had left her one scrap of information. They had been most concerned with people, with the research, anything that could be used to figure out what Sito had been working on. But they’d left her the name of the building where the lab had been located: Leyden Industrial Park. That was enough of a scrap to keep her moving.
In the meantime, she had a date to get ready for.
SEVEN
CELIA felt like the belle of the ball, strolling into the lobby of the symphony hall on the arm of Detective Paulson. He wore a dark suit with a band-collar silk shirt, smelled pleasantly of aftershave, and had not a hair out of place. He was slickly handsome, in an international spy kind of way.
She wore a strapless black cocktail dress accented with a silk shawl, beaded midnight blue and silver that shimmered and changed color when she moved, and carried a clutch too tiny for anything but a couple of condoms and cab fare home, because you just never knew. She wore her short hair fashionably ruffled, and had silver dangling earrings.
The two of them turned heads when they passed by. Celia wasn’t used to people paying attention to her for any other reason than her being at the center of some disaster. It was a nice change. Mark liberated a couple of glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and gave one to her with a slight bow. Grinning, Celia toasted him.
The evening had a theme: Italian villa at twilight. Fake marble pillars draped with ivy had been set up in the corners, and strings of white lights decorated lattice arches under which people could sit on carved benches next to neoclassical statues. The gathered company was a who’s-who of Commerce City’s elite, politicians and businesspeople, actors and sports figures, all eager to show themselves great patrons of the arts. They were a mass of designer gowns and tuxedos, expensive perfumes and jewelry. Mark had revealed that he’d gotten his tickets for the gala from his father.
A string quartet played Vivaldi. As part of the fund-raiser’s draw, the musicians played rare Stradivarius instruments, the best in the world, brought together for the first time to play in concert. They were worth millions. Celia honestly couldn’t tell the difference. Beautiful music was beautiful music.
She still felt like she didn’t belong. She could have, if she’d wanted to, once upon a time. This was the kind of thing her parents had done during their young socialite days.
“This is pretty swank, isn’t it?” Mark said.
“Sure is. I feel like a million bucks.”
“Wait a minute—aren’t you the heir to the West fortune? You are a million bucks.”
She masked her grimace by sipping her champagne. “Maybe, on paper. I kind of try to ignore that. I have a nice, normal job, and a nice, normal apartment.”
“And then some joker kidnaps you off the midtown bus.”
She shrugged. “I try to ignore that, too.”
He huffed, looking like he was about to counter with some pragmatic quip that might have come from her parents, when they were interrupted.
“Mark! You actually made it. There’s hope for you yet.”
Striding toward them, flanked by ever-present aides, reporters, and sycophants, was Mayor Anthony Paulson. He was tall—as tall as Mark, even—with a rugged, weathered face and thick salt-and-pepper hair. He was a charismatic force, his smile wide and genuine.
“Hi, Dad.” Father and son shook hands, firmly and warmly, clearly happy to see each other.
Mayor Paulson looked expectantly at her.
“Dad, this is Celia West. Celia, my father: Mayor Anthony Paulson.”
Celia braced for the wide-eyed flash of recognition that usually accompanied these introductions. Then the awe, the hesitation, and the impossibility of being treated normally.
It didn’t happen. Paulson offered his hand; she placed hers in it and they shook politely. “Ms. West, it’s a pleasure.”
“Likewise, sir.” She smiled, secretly relieved. She was going to have a good time this evening after all.
“Please, call me Tony.” The mayor glanced conspiratorially at his son. “I don’t believe it. You not only found someone who’ll be seen in public with you, but she’s lovely and charming as well. Good work.”
The group chuckled politely. Mark smiled an apology at her, but at the same time he seemed pleased with the approval. He stayed protectively close to her through the introductions his father insisted on making, showing off his son to the people he wanted to show off to. Mark needed a date, she realized, to be acceptable to his father in this setting. An accessory to increase his status, like an expensive watch. She was nearly flattered that she qualified as a trophy date. At least, she couldn’t be angry.
This was what it’d be like to be a politician’s wife, she thought vaguely. To have a life in the public eye. Might not be so bad. Then again …
Tony Paulson looked back to his entourage, searching for someone. He finally found her and had to coax her forward. “Andrea? Andrea, come meet Mark’s date.”
Andrea Paulson, the mayor’s wife and Mark’s mother, didn’t look much like she wanted to be here. She held a half-empty glass of champagne and still managed to cross her arms. In her designer gown, sparkling black and silver, and perfect hair, she blended into the crowd. She gave Celia a tight-lipped smile.
“Nice to meet you.” She turned to her husband. “Tony, I still have the headache, I’ll just have one of the boys drive me home—”
“Not now, Andrea. I need you here.”
Both of them were speaking through their teeth. Andrea turned her back on her husband and walked away. She always looked happier in the campaign photos.
Mark let out a breath he’d been holding. “I think after eight years in office she’s a little tired of this.”
“She’s fine,” Mayor Paulson said. His smile had turned static. “Another glass of champagne and she’ll be all smiles, you know how she is. So Mark, have you thought about my offer?”
“I told you, Dad. I’m happy where I am.”
The mayor provided the explanation. “I’ve got a place in my office all wrapped up with his name on it—Legal Affairs Administrator. It’s a short step from there to the DA’s office. You’ll be after my job in no time!” He beamed.
“He thinks I want his job,” Mark said in an aside to Celia.
The light in the mayor’s eyes dimmed. “You might listen to me for once. I’m only trying to help.”
This must have been a long-running argument. Celia’s heart went out to Mark. She was actually encouraged that this sort of thing went on in other families. She said, “I’m sure Mark appreciates it.”
That diffused the tension that had begun to mount, which was good, because Celia didn’t know what she’d do if Mark stalked away, as his mother had done, and left her there alone.
“He’ll come around.” The mayor winked at Celia.
Tony Paulson returned his attention to his entourage of personalities, all of whom pretended not to notice that Andrea had left, or that they’d narrowly avoided a family squabble.
“Your father’s a bit of a force,” Celia said, grateful when Mark guided her away.
“Yeah, I haven’t decided yet if he’s l
ike that because he’s the mayor, or if he’s the mayor because he’s like that.”
“It’s tough being in that kind of shadow.”
“Tell me about it. I guess you could, couldn’t you?”
“Only thing you can do is make a break and move on.”
“Easier said than done.”
In the end, it hadn’t been that hard at all. She’d stayed away from her parents for four years during college. Built a life for herself that had nothing to do with them. Pretended to be some other Celia West. Worked two jobs—bookkeeping in the evenings and shelving at the university library on weekends—to pay her tuition and expenses, and it had all been worth it. She’d even started swimming again, able to do so without dwelling on old disappointments.
The time for speech-making arrived. She lingered with Mark in the back of the hall, growing pleasantly tipsy on her third glass of champagne, leaning on him, and drawing stories out of him—amusing anecdotes about the mayor from his childhood, harrowing tales of his years on the police force. Not so many of them. He’d only made detective six months ago and was young for the rank. He tried to turn the conversation back on her. Deftly, she avoided his questions. It didn’t seem right, telling amusing stories about Captain Olympus from her childhood. He was going to throw me off the roof to see if I could fly.…
The first speech came from the symphony’s musical director, profusely thanking everyone for their support and subtly digging for more donations. Next, the mayor stepped up to the podium. He went on about the city’s cultural heritage, managing to work in some stumping appropriate for the venue. She was fuzzily not paying attention.
At least, she wasn’t paying attention to the podium. Movement at the edges of the hall caught her notice. The crowd of socialites and symphony patrons stood in the center of the foyer, faces turned attentively to the front. But here and there, a half-dozen people wearing catering staff uniforms moved purposefully along the walls.
One of them drew a handgun from under his apron.