Powers (13 page)

“But that's normal to me,” she said. “That isn't jackal-headed cosmic gods wanting to judge humanity. It isn't a psychopathic criminal choosing to melt your face.”

“True,” he agreed. “I can't get everything you've been through. And maybe you can't relate to my too-human foibles and frustrations. But…”

“But…?”

“
But
I'm willing to listen. And I'm willing to talk. I know you've lost the passion for police work—a passion that I believe I helped inspire.” He squeezed her hand, running his thumb over Deena's and offering a smile. “I know I have plenty of apologizing to do. And though you're busy with the case of the century, I hope you'll let me rediscover the wonder, the unmitigated joy I believe to be Deena Pilgrim. A girl I've never stopped thinking about. A girl for whom I feel a great, unconstrained passion.”

Now Aaron took her hand in both of his own, caressing it between the two. “And, Deena, if you'll let me … I promise to help you rediscover yours.”

Her heart was floating. It was an unfamiliar feeling—one she hadn't felt in a long time. Sitting on her partner's desk, relinquishing her right hand to the man she'd once loved, Deena understood that her life was about to become needlessly complicated.

Well … more needlessly complicated than usual.

 

9

July. Eleven and a half years ago.

Sunday afternoon. 2:38
P.M.

Music filled the room, folding Deena and Aaron into its lyrical embrace. She smiled, leaning against his chest as Carbon Copy wailed about a boy who didn't notice because she was one of a million clones. She stole a glance at her boyfriend; his eyes were closed. Deena took advantage and pinched his nipple.

“
Damn
! Cut it out, Deen.” He swatted her hand and then took it in his own. She grinned and let him be, happily intertwining their fingers. She looked around the room (
his
room, the room in which he'd grown up), staring at old posters and various high school trophies. His closet was empty, but the wall was lined with CDs, filling a bookcase and several shelves. He'd dug out an old Discman—dusting it off, praying it would work—and they'd settled against his childhood headboard to wait out dinner with a playlist and a bit of light petting.

The bedroom was empty other than Aaron's discography. They'd moved him out weeks ago, into a two-bedroom over in Summerhill. Deena had teased him about it, ribbing how mama's boy had been unable to leave the nest. He, in turn, tickled her until she stopped. They'd fallen into bed that night, too, but Aaron Boucher's music had been the furthest thing from either of their minds.

They'd been seeing each other for roughly six months, ever since she'd returned for winter break. It had been awkward at first, as most relationships tended to be. But after several dates and a thrilling weekend in the Emory dorms, Aaron and Deena had fallen into a naturally romantic groove. He felt guilty at times, worried about dividing attention between a girlfriend and the law. But she reminded Aaron that she would soon join him on the force, and one day they would solve crime side-by-side. He'd worried about that, too—what it meant for both halves of a couple to place themselves in danger. But they were young. Their hearts and … other parts made the ultimate decision.

Over a year after the Pilgrim Thanksgiving debacle, Aaron's career had taken off like a rocket. He'd been promoted to junior detective in the same department as Deena's father. The gang war had dwindled to pockets of territorial conflict, and the government had reduced the number of sponsored Powers. Unfortunately, Aaron's meteoric rise had driven a wedge between the Pilgrims and Bouchers; Deena's dad had bristled long after Aaron's diatribe in their foyer, and the two detectives barely got along these days. In fact, her father outwardly condemned Aaron and Deena's flourishing romance, often complaining long and loud to her mother and anyone else willing to listen. More often than not, he bitched to the help.

The Bouchers, meanwhile, had welcomed Deena with open arms. She felt at home in their tastefully decorated Colonial. Teakettles burbled on the range while Eveline puttered in the garden and the judge tackled crosswords on the porch. They lived within their means, few luxuries standing out to a visitor's eye. Most of all, their house was filled with laughter and light—sarcasm, sure, but doled out with a twinkle and a smile, not in the bitter, corrosive manner perfected in the Pilgrim abode. Deena felt happy at the Bouchers'. Sure, Ken and Eveline mothered her every chance they got—an experience long abandoned by Deena's self-absorbed parents. But even more importantly, Aaron felt comfortable here. This was his safe place. And by extension, so it was for Deena, too.

She stretched against her boyfriend, purring like a cat, cuddling up against his long, lean body. Aaron absently stroked Deena's hair, tapping against the wall with his free hand. She watched him for a moment; watched him lose himself in the music. The last year, while successful, had been rough on Aaron. The aftermath of the gang war, the effects it had brought on his precinct. He'd confided in Deena that the deputy mayor had failed to prepare for not only a transition from federal hands back to local police but for any oversight of those undertaking the process. It had been bloody, corrupt, and divisive. Several cops and Powers had been locked away following vicious hearings. Aaron warned Deena—especially after she'd abandoned a liberal arts scholarship for a criminal justice track—about the graft lacing his precinct. She'd heard him gripe about it before, but now he'd evolved his theories, pointing fingers at everyone from the captain down to Homicide. Aaron had skirted the issue of her father—no doubt hoping to keep his bias from affecting their relationship—but Deena could tell he was hinting in that direction. She still didn't believe it. Sure, the Pilgrims had more cash than a detective's salary should allow, but Waldo—though angry and often broody—was a good man. He protected his city and took care of his family. In the grand scheme of things, where was the harm in that? Deena knew that Aaron wanted to do the same. She didn't understand why the two most important men in her life couldn't get along. They were so similar. But then, Deena knew that if she were forced to interact with someone exactly like herself on a constant basis, she'd probably want to choke the bitch.

She leaned up to kiss him, hoping to draw him into a clinch. He held up his hand, begging her to wait as the rhythm rose and fell across the bedroom. Deena smirked and rested her chin on a hand, propping her elbow atop Aaron's chest. He absentmindedly rubbed her shoulder as he listened to the song, losing himself in the refrain.

“See? Right there,” he explained to Deena. “That totally supports my theory.”

“Which theory are we talking about? Is it the one where your girlfriend believes you're avoiding sex because you're afraid your mom might hear?”

He laughed. “No, seriously. Listen. Don't you hear?”

Deena rolled her eyes and sat up. “Dude, I hear a lot of guitars and the moment passing you by. That's it.”

“The
chords
.” His eyes twinkled, reflecting the sunlight streaming through the window. “The same chords again.”

Deena flopped back on the bed, arms flailing against the pillow. She groaned. “God. The
chords
again? This may be way on the nose, bro, but you're like a broken record with those things.”

This time, Aaron sat up. He ticked songs off on his fingers. “Nine MM's ‘Antihero.' Teleportland's ‘Red Flannel Cape.' Gorilla Mod's ‘Inside Your Mind.' Battleband's ‘Give Me Rock or Give Me Death.' And now Little Doomsday's ‘Under the Macroverse.'” He spread his hands, wiry arms stretching against his cotton tee. “You gotta hand it to me, lady. There are five songs topping the charts with the same BEEBA chord structure. B-E-E-B-A. Even more when you page through the annals of rock history—”

“Oh, the annals. Yes. I quite like the annals.”

This time, he playfully swatted her on the ass. “Seriously, you don't see it? That chord structure, it's like musical magic. It's like an earworm.”

“Excuse me? Earworm?”

“Yeah, like that movie where they stick a worm in that dude's—”

Deena scrunched her eyes and stuck both hands against her head. “Agh. No. Stop, stop, stop—la-la-la. I'll be dreaming of worms in orifices all night long.”

“I'm just saying. Five songs. Same chords. Tall stacks of American dollars.”

They smiled at one another; another sound pervaded the room, a faint hissing from the teakettle in the kitchen.

Deena felt hot. “Stop,” she begged him. “You look so serious.”

He shrugged. “Happy, I guess.”

“Come here.” She held out her arms, and after a brief moment, he did. Little Doomsday filled the room, drowning out everything else.

Later, after they'd showered, the couple ventured down to the living room. Eveline was still outside, finishing up in her vegetable patch. The tea had long stopped hissing, and the judge nursed a cup of chamomile in his wide, impeccably upholstered recliner. He frowned at the television, index fingers gently tapping the mug in his hands. He turned as they entered the room and swiftly plastered a smile across his face as he set the cup aside. He gestured toward the plush sofa, and they arranged themselves across from him where they could both see the TV.

“Your mother's taking in her cucumbers. Then we'll start dinner.”

“Pop,” Aaron replied, “don't go to any trouble. We'll drop by Tacotown on the way back to Deena's.”

“You'll do no such thing. There are several club steaks thawing in the sink. And my Weber could use a test run, make sure it hasn't died during the night.”

“Pop…”

But the judge wouldn't hear otherwise. “It's done. ‘Tacotown'? That's a fine way to get tapeworms, I'm sure. But edible? Hardly.”

Deena enjoyed the byplay and lost herself in the cushions. The sun washed the living room with a suffused glow, daubing the furniture and brushing against Judge Boucher's cheek. He winked at Deena, doing his best to elicit a smile. He turned his attention back to the television, where Ted Henry railed against the nation on his popular broadcast,
Powers That Be
.

“Ted Henry rules,” she declared, snuggling into Aaron's body.

The judge snorted. “Overpaid, overblown windbag with an agenda. Would sell his own teeth for exclusive dirt.”

Deena arched an eyebrow. Ken's reaction surprised her; it had been growled from behind his mug, delivered with animosity she usually recognized in her own father. The judge was generally easygoing—as he'd been during the gang war, presenting opinions and judgments in a calm, even manner. What did he have against Ted Henry? The guy invented Powers news.
Powers That Be
had been the first to report on news of the gang war, the first to break any news regarding the Liberty murders—and there hadn't been much, thanks to police lockdown. Henry, graying and brusque, found angles and exclusives where none could be found. This had many believing he either had powers of his own or an inside track with those that did. Deena didn't care; she idolized the Powers, even if Aaron hated their level of free rein. She'd seen many in action, especially after starting at Emory. Many local Powers were friendly with Waldo and the judge, as evidenced by that horrifically awkward dinner. Maybe that's why the judge had a beef with Henry.
Powers That Be
bulldogged those with powers, playing devil's advocate for those without the courage to ask hard questions. Deena felt, as did Waldo, that someone
needed
to ask those questions; otherwise, who was to stop Powers from abusing their gifts? Who opened debate about the Powers Registry being bandied about in Congress? Who pointed the finger of truth at those purporting to serve it but who actually dragged it through the muck? Ted Henry, advocate for the people. Ted Henry,
that's
who.

“I don't know,” she countered, clasping both hands in her lap. “He makes salient points about the Powers Registry.”

“
Hmph
. Terrible idea.”

Deena frowned. “But
you
said—”

The judge waved a dismissive hand. “Big Brother, that's all it is. Good foundation, born of necessary times. Now used by jackboots and bureaucrats.”

Aaron sat up. “Come on, Pop.”

Ken pointed a finger at his son. “Tell me I'm wrong. If they truly cared, they'd have done it before the gang war. Long before people died in the streets for no reasons but blood and money.”

Aaron grimaced. “You know it can help. It might prevent the next Liberty killer.”

Ken snorted again. “As it is, we can't prevent the one we have
now
.”

“That's not fair, Pop.”

The judge held his hands out in appeasement. “You're right. I know the police are doing everything they can.”

“It's up to ten now.”

The judge cleared his throat and drank some tea. Deena took her boyfriend's hand, squeezing it for support. “You'll catch him, Aaron.”

“Not me. I'm a junior. They keep me off the big cases.”

The judge's mug clanked atop an end table. “How'd he do it the last time?”

“Bludgeoned. Riddled with holes. They're thinking rivets, not bullets. Wounds are machined. Mostly along arms and legs. His head was pulped, like a grapefruit.”

Deena's mouth went dry, parched as she listened to the grisly details. Her father barely gave her the goods regarding small-time cases. This, however, was the scandalous stuff—behind-the-scenes details that never made it to the papers. She hung on every word.

The judge went on. “And the tag?”