Superpowers, page 12
Don't break her solar plexus. Elbows locked. How many compressions? He couldn't remember. He tried not to rush, tried to remember the old rhythm of his heart, before everything changed. She couldn't keep up with his heart. He had to bring her back at the right pace.
He stopped after ten, checked her pulse again. Nothing. He breathed for her, twice, again. Nothing. He started the chest compressions again.
He wished her eyes were open. At least he would have some idea. Please, cough, sit up, ask me who the hell I am and what I'm doing here. Please.
He wondered if he would know. He wondered if his sped-up eyes and ears would sense it if she died, if the instant she gave out he would see something, a flicker of movement, a change in the light. Maybe a whisper as she left, a good-bye.
Please don't die, he thought.
More compressions, more breathing. He lost count, lost track of time, fell into a trance of compression, exhalation, interrogation. Do you see anything? he thought at her. Is it safe there? Did you believe in God, and is he there with you?
Her heart didn't beat and she didn't breathe and she didn't answer. When he heard sirens and voices he put a hand on her forehead to say good-bye and ran away.
SATURDAY
Hello?"
"Why, Caroline Bloom, as I live and breathe! You do know how to answer the phone. Now if they could just teach you to dial it."
"Hi, Mom."
"Hi yourself. Why haven't you called?"
"I did call, Mom, but you moved."
"I didn't give you the new number?"
"You didn't tell me you were moving."
"Yes, I did."
"I think I'd remember, Mom. Where are you now? Butte, Montana?"
"I'm still in New York, honey."
"Eight months. Has to be a new record."
"I have a cell phone now. I'll give you that number."
"A cell phone?"
"For my new job. Didn't I tell you?"
"Mom, you never tell me anything until after the fact."
"Well, it's more exciting that way, isn't it? Are you still in Wisconsin?"
"Yes, Mom. They won't let me take my classes in Tuscaloosa."
"Did you get your check?"
"You sent me a check dated July 1999. The bank wouldn't take it. I don't think the account was open anymore."
"Uh-oh. I found it when I was moving; I thought I'd forgotten to send it to you."
"You did. Two years ago."
"Don't be snide, Caroline. I'll send you another check. A big one. I got a great new job, honey. Lots of money, great benefits, offices in the World Trade Center! Can you believe it?"
"No, I can't. What'd they hire you for?"
"To keep the books. I told you I got my CPA certification."
"No, you didn't."
"I really think I did. Anyway, I start on Monday, but I wanted to know if you'll come out for the Fourth."
"Mom, that's Wednesday. I can't get a ticket now. Not one I can afford."
"I'll pay for it, honey."
"You mean you'll pay me back. Last time it took you six months to send me the money, and it wasn't enough."
"I'm really sorry about that, honey. But that won't happen this time. I haven't been paid yet, but I'll send you the money as soon as I get my first paycheck."
"Don't you have to pay rent?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Rent, phone, heat—"
"Heat's included, honey."
"—groceries, clothes for your new job that you absolutely can't live without—"
"Stop it."
"You won't have the money right away, Mom. It's OK. I'll come for Thanksgiving."
"That's in November!"
"Mom, summer is when I make my money. And school starts in two months. I don't have money for a plane ticket right now, anyway."
"Use a credit card."
"Oh, here we go. Someone is trusting you to handle their books? Tell me the company's name, so I can tell all my stockbroker friends to divest themselves."
"Caroline, you're pissing me off."
"Mom, credit cards are how you got into trouble. I don't have money for a plane ticket now, I won't have it in a month, and I won't have money for a plane ticket plus interest every month after that. I'm not going to start with that. I'm sorry. I'd like to visit, but it can't be now."
"Fine. How's school?"
"It starts in two months."
"How's work?"
"My boss is a psycho who sees dead people."
"How's your social life?"
"Remember our deal? I don't tell you about mine, you don't tell me about yours."
"That's not much of a deal for me, is it? You'll meet someone, honey. There have to be lots of hunky farm boys there in Wisconsin."
"Most of them are working on farms. And please don't say 'hunky.'"
"This is not the conversation I was envisioning. You haven't even congratulated me on my newjob."
"Congratulations, Mom. Don't screw this one up."
"Honey, I love you, but you're such a bitch sometimes."
"Right back at you, Mom."
"I have to go. Be good."
"All right. Can I—"
"Shit, there's someone at the door. I have to go, honey. We have tickets for Shakespeare in the Park."
"Who's we?"
"Oh, you'll meet him at Thanksgiving."
"Mom, you haven't—"
"Love you, honey. Bye-bye."
"—given me your new phone number."
EDITOR'S NOTE
By now you're all thinking one of two things: (1) it's about time for the bad guy to show up, or (2) he should have shown up about fifty pages back.
A superhero story needs a supervillain, that's what you're thinking. Well, there aren't any supervillains in this story. This isn't some pulp novel you pulled off the rack when you thought no one was looking. This is a true story. Journalism. Facts.
The thing about real life is the bad guys are people, too, and by that I don't mean anything touchy-feely about how they have feelings and they love their parents and they stop to pet little dogs on the street. Some people don't have feelings and don't love their parents and go out of their way to shoot little dogs on the street. But most of the bad guys aren't so easy to spot.
All right, I'll grant one point. You can see the dates we're dealing with, and you know what's going to happen eventually. Maybe there is one supervillain here, but he doesn't know that our heroes—and I'm not even going to go into how exactly I justify calling them that, after everything that happened—he doesn't even know that they exist. If he did, then I guess they'd be the villains, as far as he was concerned.
This is the thing about power, I think. To some people—those of us who have none—anyone who has it and uses it is a villain. To those who have it, anyone who tries to stop them from using it is a villain. Because we're all the heroes of our own story, no matter what horrible things we might be doing.
Sometimes people do terrible things with the best of intentions. I don't think that makes them less guilty. But if you understand their reasons, you might find it more difficult to condemn them out of hand. You might find it more difficult to call them villains.
On the other hand, sometimes people do terrible things with the absolute worst of intentions. But even there, I don't think they're supervillains. I think they're just people.
MONDAY
Ray Bishop slapped the table in front of Benjamin Thatcher. Thatcher's lip quivered under his mustache.
"I'll ask the questions as many times as I want, until I'm satisfied. You don't have any say in the matter."
"You can't hold me." Thatcher stuck out his chin and blinked his watery eyes. "I didn't do nothing."
"I've got you on conspiracy, Benjy," Ray said. "Or would you rather I called you Death?"
Thatcher blushed. "Reed shouldn't ought to have told you about that."
"Why not? You wanted to wait until you were a badass to unveil your badass name? Never happen, Benjy. You're not cut out for it. You're pudgy."
"I'm not pudgy! I'm just big-boned."
Those boys in there, they're hard. They didn't plan things—they did them. Things you'd shit yourself just hearing about."
Thatcher's face went stony pale, but he stayed silent.
"Just answer my questions, Benjy, and I'll make it known you cooperated. You'll get a year of parole and you'll be planning another robbery in broad daylight in no time."
Thatcher shook his head. "I ain't never doing that again. It was like those star people knew what I was going to do before I did it."
Ray started the tape recorder in front of Thatcher. "So tell me about them."
"What do you want to know?"
"You said you saw two women and one man, but you heard a third woman. You're sure you didn't see her?"
"I looked. She wasn't there."
"Can you describe the voice?"
"How do you describe somebody's voice?"
"Start with how you knew it was a woman's voice."
"I just know. It wasn't gravelly, like a guy. It was kind of smooth, not too high-pitched. A nice voice. Called me Mr. Thatcher."
"Was that before or after you were punched in the gut?"
"Before, I think."
"What was the first thing she said?"
"She told me not to move."
"She said 'Don't move'?"
"She said 'Don't move, Mr. Thatcher.' She knew my name, dude. I still say it was Alicia."
"Alicia Williams, your ex-girlfriend? Did she know about the robbery?"
"She could have. Maybe I said something when I was drunk sometime."
"Did it sound like her?"
"Not really."
"What else did she say?"
"After she hit me, she told me not to move again. Then she asked the one in blue, the flying girl, she asked her if that was all of us."
"All of what?"
"All of us. You know. Me and Reed and Johnny and Johnny's sister."
"Can you describe the woman in blue?"
"I done that already."
"Do it again."
"She was pretty hot. Not as hot as the chick in the green, but pretty hot."
"That doesn't help me much. What color was her hair?"
"She had dark hair. Short. No, with a ponytail. I mean, a braid."
"Which is it, Benjy?"
"See, it looked short at first, because it was all pulled back, you know? Then I saw her from the side, and she had a braid maybe halfway down her back."
"You're sure."
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"How tall was she?"
"I don't know. She was flying around. And I was sitting on the bench, except after the invisible one kicked me."
"Was she taller than the woman in green?"
"The invisible one?"
"The one in blue, Benjy. Use your head."
"She was about as tall as the red guy. What'd she call him—Red Star. Hey, wait a minute—she called him something else before that."
"What was it?"
"I don't remember. Started with an L, I think."
"Think, Benjy."
"I don't know. La, la, la, la—Jack! That's what it was, Jack."
"Jack starts with a J."
"I know. I'm not stupid. I just got confused. L, J—they look alike, kind of. His name was Jack, I know it."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Did you hear any other names?"
"No. Just that Red Star, Green Star shit."
"OK, the woman in blue. Was she white, black, Asian, Hispanic?"
"White, I think. She was pretty tan. Could have been a Mex."
"Any distinguishing features?"
"Well, she had a nice body, but I'm not sure I could identify it in a lineup. I'd be willing to try, though."
Ray kept going, but Thatcher didn't have anything more to say. He had given the same descriptions every witness had given, but he had also given him one thing he hadn't had before—a name. Jack.
WEDNESDAY
Halfway through the door Jack realized there was someone in the living room with Charlie: Scott. It took Jack a second to run to his bedroom, change out of his costume, put on jeans and a T-shirt, and run back to the door.
"Did you just say 'whoosh'?" Scott asked. His face looked ashen.
Jack wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd seen Scott. A few weeks, or a few months? Jack himself wasn't at the apartment that much, and Scott hardly came by except to get his mail and drop off his rent check. He rarely stayed for longer than a hello. Jack wasn't sure if that was because Scott felt awkward there, or because he just couldn't bear to be away from Cecilia for long.
Scott had met Cecilia when they were both freshmen. Scott thought it was love at first sight; Jack was pretty sure it was just two kids away from home for the first time looking for someone to have safe and frequent sex with. He and Scott were roommates that first year—randomly assigned by the university—but Cecilia was in their room more often than Jack. Three or four times a week he came home to find Scott's Star of David hanging on the doorknob. That was the signal Jack had agreed to respect, and although more than once he thought about telling Scott to find another place to do his mattress dancing, he never did.
He found other places to spend his afternoons. He went to the library or to dinner. If he needed a nap he curled up in the lounge, and if he needed to relax he visited Charlie in the room next door. They played cribbage and listened to the Who loud enough to drown out any stray moans from the room next door.
Cecilia was prone to dark moods and jealous hysterics, and Scott worked desperately to make her happy. She went home to Kansas City the summer after freshman year, slept with an old boyfriend, and convinced Scott that he was to blame. When the guys had gone out last summer for Jack's birthday, Cecilia called Scott's cell phone, claiming to be sick, and convinced him to head home to take care of her. It was difficult for Jack to be tactful about Cecilia. He thought she needed psychoanalysis more than she needed a boyfriend. Obviously Scott had issues of his own, though, because he wouldn't hear a bad word about her. Scott thought Cecilia needed him to protect her; Jack and Charlie thought Scott needed to be protected from Cecilia. They just didn't know how to do it.
"I didn't say anything." Jack shut the door. Charlie was trying to give him some sort of signal, but Jack couldn't figure out what he meant. Was something wrong with his hair? Was Cecilia behind him with a knife? He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.
"She dumped me," Scott said.
Jack almost said, Not again. The first time Cecilia had dumped Scott he'd been relieved, even though the breakup seemed to have turned Scott into a zombie. In the long run it would be a good thing, Jack was convinced. But three hours later Cecilia had called up in tears, and they hadn't seen Scott again for nearly three months. They'd broken up eight times since, never for more than twelve hours, and by now Jack dared not let himself hope it was really over.
"That's harsh," Jack said. "I'm sorry."
Scott put his head between his legs as though he were going to faint. "What am I going to do?" he wailed.
Charlie was still doing the shimmy with his eyes, and Jack finally looked behind him, to Scott's bedroom. The bed was hidden by suitcases and boxes. Some of them looked like they had been kicked by a mule.
"She threw his stuff out the window," Charlie said.
"I think I'm going to throw up," Scott said.
"You're hyperventilating," Jack said. He grabbed a paper bag from the pyramid of Scott's belongings and dumped the textbooks within on the bed. "Breathe into this."
As soon as Scott's breathing slowed down he ran into the bathroom.
"Is this for real?" Jack whispered to Charlie.
"He believes it is," Charlie said. "I'll try and get a read on her to be certain. But apparently she's been sleeping with a basketball player for a couple of months."
"Unless he's as much of a doormat as Scott, that's not going to last," Jack said.
Charlie nodded. "She'll come back to Scott when it's over."
"And if something doesn't change, he'll take her back."
"This is going to get complicated, with him back in the apartment. He's going to have questions."
"I know."
"But you'd rather take the risk of him finding out than let him get back together with her."
"Quit reading my mind."
"I'm not. We just happen to be thinking the same thing."
Jack looked at the boxes and bags in Scott's bedroom. "We have to get him out of here tonight, get his mind off her. Is there any trouble brewing?"
"Kids playing with fireworks. Couple of teenagers thinking about robbing a pizza shop. The girls can probably handle it on their own."
"It's supposed to be Caroline's night off. I think she has a date."
"We'd better talk to her, then."
"I'll talk to Caroline," Jack said. "You get him out of the bathroom."
When Jack opened the door to go downstairs his sister Grace was just climbing the last step.
"What are you doing here?" Jack asked.
"I'm going to the fireworks with Nathan. I came up early."
"Nathan Carswell? Does Mom know you're seeing that loser?"
"Mom likes him," Grace said. "Speaking of Mom, you owe me for not telling her about your superpowers."
Jack stepped into the hall and shut the door. "I told you to keep it quiet."
"I am. Charlie knows. Is he around?"
"Scott doesn't know."
"You mean your other roommate? What's he look like?"
"He looks like hell. His girlfriend dumped him. Which means he'll probably be around a lot more, which means we can't have you shooting your mouth off here. It'd be best if you just forgot all about it."
Grace crossed her arms. "Not happening. You promised me you'd let me come with you sometime."
"I shouldn't have said that. It's too dangerous."
"I just want to watch. I can stay with Charlie."
"Charlie doesn't need the distraction. This isn't a game, Grace."
"I'll tell Mom."
"No you won't. You've never been a squealer, Gracie, and you're not going to start now. I'll make it up to you some other way. I'll get you something great for your birthday."
