“No, no, no. I don’t judge. I merely facilitate. And instigate on occasion.” Lulu grinned. “Playing it close to the vest, huh? I can respect that. Will I see you at the annual benefit? We’re joining forces with the police department this year. All the big power players will be there. Can you imagine me chatting up the chief of police?”
“I’m sure you’ll do a great job, and I’ll be there to cover every detail,” I promised.
Lulu dropped her gaze to her computer. Her fingers pounded on the keyboard, and she hunched over the laptop just like Henry. My inner voice whispered.
“Lulu, are you seeing anybody right now?”
Her face grew guarded. “No. Why? You got some loser you want to foist off on me? Some hillbilly cousin from Ashland who’s missing his teeth?”
I gave her a sour look.
“What?” Lulu asked in a defensive tone. “I know how things work down in the South. I’ve seen Deliverance.”
I dug a piece of paper out of my purse and scribbled down Henry’s work number. “Give this guy a call. I think you two would really hit it off. You’re both computer nerds.”
“I prefer the term information engineer,” Lulu retorted. “You’re worse than my mom trying to fix me up.”
“Just give him a call. Tell him I gave you his number. This guy works with me. He writes a computer column. I’m sure you’ll like him.”
And I was sure. The two of them had so much in common. They could talk about data bytes and hard drives for days and days and never come up for air, before getting around to the good stuff like networks and wireless connections and firewalls.
I gave Lulu the paper. She reluctantly took it and slid it into her computer bag.
“Thanks for the info, Lulu. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a superhero to stalk.”
Chapter Six
I spent most of the next day at the Bigtime Public Library, tracking down every newspaper story, magazine article, and research paper ever written on the Fearless Five. I roamed through the stacks of books, and a strange feeling of déjà vu swept over me. The last time I’d done this, I’d been hot on the trail of Tornado, aka Travis Teague. He’d committed suicide as a result. What would Striker do when I discovered his true identity?
I pushed away my guilty thoughts. I wasn’t here by choice. Malefica and her vats of radioactive goo were making me do this. But I’d turn the tables on her. I’d track down Striker, then use him to lead me to her. The Fearless Five would take care of the rest. It would all work out right this time. It had to. For the sake of my conscience, my heart, and my general well-being.
Truth be told, wandering through the library was a pleasant way to pass the day. It was one of my favorite places in all of Bigtime. The library took up its own square city block in the middle of the downtown district. The stone building housed hundreds of thousands of books, magazines, newspapers, and more. Overstuffed chairs and sofas sat throughout the library’s many floors, inviting people to relax and read the day away in some cozy, secluded corner. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked an open-air garden that crouched in the center of the library’s block.
I downloaded every story I found, no matter how inconsequential or trivial it seemed, to a flash drive so I could search through the information on my computer later. I also made paper copies of all the articles, just in case some of them didn’t download correctly. Of course, I’d done this same thing when I’d first arrived in town, but I’d thrown most of the papers away after Travis’s death. By the time I finished, my flash drive was full, I had several reams of paper to go through, the Bigtime Public Library was several hundred dollars richer, and another thousand acres of the Brazilian rain forest had been decimated. All in a day’s work.
I stuffed the papers in a large trash bag and ignored the strange, suspicious looks from the library’s older patrons. When everything was sacked away, I used my cell phone to check my e-mail. A note from Lulu waited in my inbox.
Delivery and show set for midnight. Address is 1313 Good Intentions Lane. Suggested viewing from top of adjacent building. Doorman/escort expecting you. Code word is Striker. Be careful. L.
I sent back a brief reply. Thanks for the info. See you at the benefit. Carmen.
I put away my phone. Then, I hoisted the heavy sack of papers over my shoulder like Santa Claus carrying a bagful of Christmas toys and left the library.
Six blocks down the street, I hit a wall of people. Up ahead, flames and smoke boiled out of a high-rise office building. Soot and ash floated like confetti in the breeze. Police had the area cordoned off. They directed traffic down side streets, blew silver whistles, and shouted garbled information at the crowd through bullhorns. Firemen perched on ladders and hosed the building with powerful jets of water, but the liquid streams had little effect on the hungry flames. An explosion roared. Glass zipped through the air like shotgun pellets. People screamed, shouted, and ducked for cover.
“There go the last of the windows,” an old man said. He sat on a nearby stoop staring at the commotion. “The fire just started about ten minutes ago, but half the building’s already gone.”
His companion, a woman with a tight, white bun and wrinkled face, tapped her chin. “So who do you think will show this time?”
“I’d put even money on the Fearless Five.”
“Nah,” she replied. “Swifte works this part of downtown. Besides, he’s faster.”
“Care to make a little friendly wager?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
“I’ll take that action,” a college kid with a bulging backpack chimed in.
“Me too.”
“Count me in.”
Other bystanders fished out their wallets. Soon, the stoop had blossomed into a mini betting parlor, and the man had a stack of cash three inches thick.
I gave the old guy five bucks on the Fearless Five. Who knew? If they showed up, maybe I could just follow them back to their supersecret lair and abandon my boring research. Yeah, right. My karma could never be that good.
I stood there with the rest of the crowd, gawking. A woman darted past one of the policemen.
“My baby! My baby!” the woman screamed, pointing at the burning building.
“Baby?” the old man asked. “In that big high-rise?”
The old woman nodded. “Yep. There’s a day-care center inside for all the moms who work in the building. Everyone else got out already. I guess the kid got overlooked in the rush.”
A policeman struggled with the woman, trying to shove her back behind the barricade. Suddenly, a multicolored blur zipped by. Swifte stopped. I blinked. One minute he wasn’t there, the next he was.
Swifte was a lean man dressed in an iridescent white spandex suit. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet—all the colors of the rainbow flashed in his opalescent costume. Swifte claimed he could travel faster than the speed of light. I rather doubted it, but he was quicker than anyone else in Bigtime.
“Told you,” the old woman said, elbowing the man.
Groans and grumbles went up from the losers, including me. Five bucks down the superhero drain.
Swifte zoomed over to the frantic woman and grabbed her hand. “Have no fear, good lady. I’ll save your baby.”
He turned his good side to the SNN and other TV news cameras set up on the street and let them get some footage before dashing into the building. Seven seconds later, Swifte sped back out, cradling a small infant in his arms. Once clear of the blazing building, the superhero slowed to normal walking speed to make sure the cameras caught every single moment of his daring rescue. Swifte was one of the superheroes who loved the attention. He was never too busy to chat with fans or pose for a photo. He even kept a daily blog on his website of his latest victories. He worked the press like a pro.
Swifte handed the tiny tot over to the grateful mother. People cheered and clapped and stomped their feet. Swifte put his hands on his hips, sucked in his chest, and stuck out his chin. Behind him, the
building continued to burn. It was the perfect superhero pose.
Superheroes. Always so dramatic.
*
I trudged home with my heavy cargo and spent the rest of the day sorting and organizing the information. I plugged the flash drive into my computer, pinpointed what seemed to be the most important, interesting, and relevant articles, and set those printouts aside. Maybe it was old-fashioned, but I liked being able to mark up and highlight passages on the paper copies. Plus, the sheets of paper almost seemed like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Once I put them together in the right pattern, the picture—or, in this case, the superheroes’ identities—would be revealed.
The number of articles written about the Fearless Five amazed me, as did the sorts of things published in so-called respectable, scholarly journals. I found stories on everything from the superheroes’ powers to their hobbies to their favorite sports teams. A couple of professors with way too much time on their hands had written journal articles about the superheroes’ costumes and what the colors signified about each person’s inner child. Academics. Sheesh.
Fiera was the most frequently mentioned member of the Fearless Five, and her impressive attributes were the most frequently mentioned thing about her. I flipped through glossy photo after glossy photo of Fiera in all her flaming glory. Long legs, small waist, huge breasts, a fiery cascade of silken hair, smoldering eyes. She looked like a doll somebody had poured gasoline on and lit up. She was smokin’ hot. Literally. It was no wonder I couldn’t get a date to save my life. Every male in Bigtime from fanboys to professional journalists sang Fiera’s praises in their stories. Drool practically dripped off the pages. She even had her own pinup calendar, with the proceeds going to a charity to help burn victims. Naturally.
Tornado was second on the most-written-about list, with the articles being of two different sorts—before and after death. Before his death, Tornado had been a whirlwind of energy and exuberance. Most of the articles dealt with his work with charities for victims of natural disasters and appearances as a guest meteorologist on various weather channels. However, in the past six months, the articles almost exclusively dealt with Tornado’s real identity as Travis Teague and his sudden, unexpected suicide. I stared at a picture of Travis taken a month before his death. He looked straight into the camera, his brown eyes boring into mine. A smile curved his lips. He looked so happy, so carefree. Now, he was dead because of me. A giant fist of guilt squeezed my heart. I put the article aside. I couldn’t bear to look at it.
Mr. Sage came in third in the popularity contest. He dispensed wise, moderate advice to the down-and-out and lovelorn in a number of self-help and humor columns in various publications. He also appeared at several events, reading people’s futures to raise money for various Bigtime charities.
Striker rarely appeared in print, except to growl at nosy reporters who had gotten too close to a battle scene.
I could only find a few passing references to Hermit, including one that referred to him or her as the greatest technological wizard ever.
By the time I finished, I had five stacks of papers, one for each superhero. I put the Striker stack on top of the coffee table and shoved the others under the sofa. Time to go see if I could spot the man, the hero, the legend in person.
I threw on some jeans, a T-shirt, and a black fleece jacket. I pulled my auburn hair into a short ponytail and grabbed my pepper spray and stun gun. I also locked and loaded the tranquilizer dart gun I’d purchased a few months ago and tucked it in the back of my jeans. Despite its name, Good Intentions Lane wasn’t in the best part of town.
I took a taxi to the specified location, arriving about thirty minutes early. Good Intentions Lane squatted about twenty miles past the wrong side of the tracks. The street looked like a war zone or the epicenter of the most violent superhero-ubervillain battle ever. Abandoned buildings covered in graffiti and gang symbols lined the street. Broken windows and busted-down doors grinned like dark, gaping maws. A few fires smoldered in overflowing trash cans that dotted the cracked sidewalks. Flickering traffic lights swung in the breeze.
“You sure you want to get out here, miss?” the taxi driver asked. “This doesn’t look like the safest place to be.”
“Unfortunately, I must take the road less traveled. I’m afraid that I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep,” I quipped.
The driver gave me a funny look, like I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Maybe I was, quoting Robert Frost at a time like this. I paid the man and got out of the taxi. The driver put his foot to the floor, and the yellow car sped away into the dark night. What a gentleman.
I looked up and down the street. Nothing moved or stirred in the night, except the foot-long rats that made their homes in the deserted buildings and alleyways. I put my hand in my jacket pocket, clutched my pepper spray and stun gun, and walked down the lonely street. Garbage and empty fast-food cartons crunched under my feet. I moved as fast as I could. I checked the address Lulu had e-mailed me and jogged up the steps to a rickety-looking building, the only one on the whole block that still had a door attached to it.
My knuckles cracked against the steel door, shattering the chilling silence. I fought the urge to duck for cover.
“What’s the word?” a low male voice asked from the other side.
“The word is Striker,” I replied.
Several locks clicked, and the door creaked open. A short, fat man glared at me. Suspicion darkened his eyes.
“You here for the show?” he asked. “You’re early.”
“You betcha. I brought popcorn and soda and everything. I always come early to get the best seat in the house.”
The man frowned, failing to see the humor in my joke. Most people did. He turned and walked deeper into the building. I followed him, keeping a tight grip on my stun gun. Graffiti scrawled across the walls, and worn-out mattresses covered the floor. The whole building reeked of greasy French fries, wet dogs, and human excrement. I wrinkled my nose.
We worked our way up a couple flights of rotted stairs to the top of the building. The man unlocked a metal door and held it open.
“This goes to the roof. Enjoy. I’ll be waiting downstairs to let you out when the show’s over.” He turned and disappeared back down the hall.
A wave of fear and doubt washed over me. What was I doing here in a strange building in a bad part of town in the middle of the night? I was going to get myself killed—or worse. Surely, there had to be an easier way, a safer way, to uncover Striker’s identity. Visions of my body covered in fur with eyes the size of golf balls danced through my head. I swallowed. I didn’t have time to be overly concerned with my safety. Besides, if I got killed, I would cheat Malefica out of the chance to turn me into a monster. There was a small glimmer of satisfaction in that thought.
I squared my shoulders, stepped through the door, and climbed another flight of stairs. I emerged on the roof and gulped in the cool night air, trying to get the building’s sickening stench out of my nose and mouth. The fresh air also helped settle my jangled nerves. A breeze ruffled my hair. The moon shone like a huge lantern in the night sky and bathed everything in a silvery glow. Stars twinkled like fireflies far above. There was plenty of light for the lens of my night-vision digital camera. Good.
I walked to the side of the roof that overlooked the street. Silence. Even the rats were quiet and still for once. I dug my camera out of my purse. It was no larger than a deck of cards, but could do all sorts of things, like take photos, record video, and even pick up sound three hundred feet away. Henry had given the gizmo a rare, five-star rating in his technology column. I switched it on and set the device on the three-foot-high wall that ringed the roof.
My tool of the trade ready, I sat on the ledge, leaned up against the side of a chimney that jutted up from the roof, and settled down to wait.
*
Thirty minutes later, a pair of headlights popped on at the far end of Good Intentions Lane. Midnight. Right on s
chedule. Another set of headlights lit up at the opposite end of the street, and the two cars flashed their lights several times in some sort of code. The vehicles crept toward each other.
I sat up and grabbed my camera.
The cars stopped, and several men of varying ages and ethnicities emerged. One group favored designer business suits and glossy wingtips, while the others opted for sweatshirts, pricey sneakers, and baggy pants. Drugs brought people together no matter what their socioeconomic backgrounds might be. How comforting.
Both parties hauled thick, metal briefcases out of their respective vehicles and put them on the hoods, which faced each other.
“You got the stuff?”
“If you’ve got the money.”
Voices floated up to me, and the briefcases snapped open. The case on the designer suit side brimmed over with the aforementioned money, while the other on the sweatshirt side contained large white packets of what I assumed was heroin, cocaine, or some other nasty, illegal substance. I snapped a few pictures with my super-duper night vision lens. Even if Striker didn’t show, Chief Newman would find the photos interesting.
The money and drugs exchanged hands. Once the deal was done and the briefcases safely stowed away, the men relaxed. They joked and talked and laughed about bitches, basketball, and various other topics.
I scanned the street and the surrounding alleys. Nothing. I bit back a growl of frustration. Striker wasn’t going to show. I had come down to Drugs R Us and put myself in danger for nothing, not to mention wasted precious hours I could have spent researching Striker and his cohorts. For once, Lulu’s information had been wrong.
I switched off the camera and glanced over the edge of the roof. Both groups drifted back to their respective vehicles. The party was breaking up. I turned to go.
Suddenly, I stopped. A feeling swept over me, and I knew, just knew, I shouldn’t leave yet. I listened to that inner feeling, that voice whispering in the back of my mind. It had never let me down before. I flipped my camera back on and resumed my position.