Action Figures - Issue Four: Cruel Summer Page 11

  Besides, Bart says, switching to mindspeak in the interest of maintaining secrecy, I think you’re safer with Carrie nearby. We’re going to maintain the watchdog detail, but I’d feel better if you two stuck together. Okay?

  Silence.

  Okay? Bart says.

  Yeah, Sara says. Sure.

  The good thing about working for people who are in the know about my outside interests: Matt and I don’t have to make up excuses for bagging out of work to attend to Hero Squad-related duties. We head into town, reviewing our plan of attack along the way. It’s a shot in the dark, I know that, but hunches have paid off for us before. Maybe we’ll get lucky.

  Maybe.

  We borrow the Protectorate’s Main Street office to suit up, which is a pleasant change of pace from stripping down to our undies in the woods. We step outside and part ways, both us of drawing curious stares as we go. My admirers get a better show when I lift off for the short flight to the offices of the Kingsport Chronicle, one of the town’s two print media outlets. It’s located across the street from the bus depot and en route to Milne’s Woods, and even though I’ve passed it dozens of times I never before realized the building housed a newspaper. It’s a boring white box of a thing with a sun-faded logo painted on the front door, no other signage to speak of.

  As I enter, the receptionist gives me a look I’ve grown quite accustomed to, that mix of amusement and bemusement, then puts on a polite business face.

  “Hello. Can I help you?” she says.

  “I hope so. I’m Lightstorm of the Hero Squad,” I say. She nods: Yes, I can see that. “A few weeks back, one of your photographers covered the bank robbery down on Main Street, the one my team foiled. I was hoping I could take a look at the original photos. It’s for a case we’re working on.”

  The receptionist tells me to wait a minute while she summons the reporter who covered the story, Dorian Shelley (he of the “inexperienced apprentices” crack). Shelley emerges from the back a minute later.

  “Lightstorm, good to meet you,” he says. “Formally, that is. Dorian Shelley.”

  I shake his hand. “Mr. Shelley.”

  “What can I do for you?” I repeat my request. “May I ask what the case is about?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss the nature of the case. It deals with some highly sensitive information and I have to exercise discretion in the interest of maintaining the integrity of our investigation.”

  Ooh, I impressed myself with that one. Authoritative, yet vague.

  Unfortunately, Shelley doesn’t bite easily. “It’d be helpful if you could give me an idea of what you’re looking for,” he says.

  “All I’m looking for is the original photos from that day. I assume you still have them?”

  “Oh, we do, but you have to understand, we generally don’t do this sort of thing. If you need to research something, we have an extensive online archive of our stories and photos, and all our papers are on microfiche at the library.”

  He’s fishing for a story lead, a little quid pro quo. Sorry, buddy, I don’t have the time or the patience for this.

  “What I’m looking for might not be in the published photos,” I say, “and if you’re not interested in helping me, Mr. Shelley...”

  “No, no, I didn’t say that,” Shelley says. “Of course, we’d be happy to cooperate with the Protectorate.”

  The Protectorate? Oh, you rotten little...

  No. Maintain your Zen, girl. Put the ego away. Priorities. Big picture.

  “That’d be great,” I say.

  Shelley leads me through the newsroom, a mini-maze of cubicles laid out with no rhyme or reason. Half of them are empty. Those staffers present stop whatever it is they’re doing to watch me pass. I overhear one reporter complain to a colleague, something about Shelley getting all the good stories. We end up in a back room occupied by a trio of desktop computers and mismatching bookshelves filled with CD cases. The walls are a giant collage of photos, presumably from the paper. Some of them are decades old, others more recent. I spot Concorde in a couple. A photo of Concorde, Mindforce, and Nina Nitro, posing in front of Protectorate HQ, holds a prominent place above the center workstation.

  “Hold on a minute, sweetheart, I’ll find those photos for you,” Shelley says. Sweetheart? Oh, you get more charming by the minute, don’t you? Putz.

  (Putz? Never used that word before in my life...)

  Shelley finds the CD, pops it into one of the desktops, and pulls up a folder filled with nearly a hundred photos from the robbery aftermath. He clicks on the first one, pulling it up to full size, and gives me a quick lesson on how to enlarge a given section of the photo.

  I sit down to begin my search. Shelley stands behind me, arms folded. “Mr. Shelley, I’m afraid I must insist on some privacy,” I say.

  “I’m afraid I must insist on staying here,” he says. “We’re not allowed to let non-employees access our photo archive without a staff member present. We don’t want any of our CDs walking out, you understand.”

  “Then could you do me a favor and not hover over me, please? It’s distracting.”

  Shelley snorts, rolls his eyes, then takes a seat next to me. “Look, honey, I’m the one doing you a favor here,” he says, abandoning all pretense of professionalism, “the least you could do is throw me a bone.”

  “First of all,” I say, spinning in my chair to face Shelley, “I don’t appreciate your cute little pet names. You can call me Lightstorm, or you can call me miss, but do not call me sweetheart or honey or anything like that again. Got it?”

  “I’m just trying to be friendly,” he says defensively.

  “It’s not friendly, it’s patronizing, so knock it off. Secondly, if you’re only helping me because you think I’m going to feed you some juicy exclusive, think again. It’s not happening, and if that’s a problem, I’ll happily go visit your friends at the Times or the Report and ask for their help — and give them a scoop just to spite you.”

  Shelley gawks at me stupidly.

  “I’ll leave the CD in the tray when I’m done,” I say. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  He snorts again, glowers at me for a second, then slinks out of the room.

  “Did you catch all that?”

  “Every word, sweetheart,” Matt sasses from a few miles away. “What a douche. Nice bluff.”

  “It was only one-third of a bluff. He didn’t know you’re already at the Times,” I say. “You’re lucky you’re a boy. You don’t have to deal with that condescending crap all the time.”

  “Says you. The receptionist here kept calling me honey-pie.”

  “Yeah, but it’s different when it comes from a woman.”

  “It was a guy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ehn, whatever. It’s kind of flattering to know I have cross-gender appeal.”

  “You’re so progressive,” I say. A different voice rings in my head: Everyone says they’re open-minded about that stuff until it’s actually staring them in the face.

  I start clicking through the photos, skipping over those that don’t feature any bystanders in the background, which make up the majority of the collection. In fact, the first two-thirds or so of the series are nothing but shots of the Squad and the police, and most of those from the same general angle.

  “I’m not feeling too hopeful here,” I say.

  “Neither am I. So far all I’m seeing is us and the cops. Man, you throw off more lens flare than a J.J. Abrams movie.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  Finally, a glimmer of hope. For whatever reason, the photographer changes angles at photo number sixty-seven to catch some shots of the crowd watching from the sidelines. Right away I spot Missy, all adorable and laden with backpacks, and if I could crap gold bricks, I’d be doing it. I zoom in on Missy to confirm what I think I’m seeing. My stomach drops into my feet.

  The King of Pain is standing right next to her.

  TWELVE

  I find
exactly three dozen photos of the crowd. Missy is visible in most of them, which means the King of Pain is also in the shots, looming over Missy’s shoulder, close enough he could have reached out and —

  (No, I’m stopping that train of thought before it leaves the station.)

  In each picture he’s either staring off-frame (meaning at the Squad) or glancing down at Missy. His expression is casual yet engaged, as though he’s studying us very carefully, which he almost certainly was.

  “I found him,” I say. “He was there. He was there watching us the whole time.”

  “I know, I just spotted him too,” Matt says.

  “Why does he look so familiar?” I say, thinking aloud.

  “You recognize him?”

  “Yes and no. I feel like I’ve seen him before, but for the life of me I can’t remember where.”

  “If he’s been stalking us, any one of us could have walked right by him and never realized it.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “Okay, so we have confirmation that he’s been in Kingsport for at least the past month. What do we do with that information? It doesn’t help us track him down now.”

  “Maybe not, but maybe we can turn the heat up on him. Grab copies of the clearest photos.”

  “On it.”

  I grab a USB drive out of a desk drawer (I swear, I’ll return it). As I click and copy and paste, I switch channels to give Edison a shout.

  “I’m clear, go ahead,” he says.

  “Got something for you, boss. Trenchcoat and I found some photos you’re going to want to see,” I say. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Shelley isn’t eavesdropping. “The King of Pain was at the scene of that bank robbery last month.”

  “What?”

  “He was there, in the crowd, watching us. We’re making copies of the photos for you. Hope you can do something with them.”

  “I have an idea or two,” Edison says.

  His idea is to flush the sicko out into the open.

  The six o’clock news on every channel features among its lead stories a piece on a wanted fugitive, identity unknown, who is a suspect in several murders across several states over a period of approximately six years. The media is quick to label him a serial killer, even though the official statement issued by the Protectorate, along with several photographs, is careful to avoid that term.

  I have mixed emotions about this plan. On the one hand, one of the King of Pain’s greatest advantages is his anonymity. There’s no DNA evidence on-file, running the photos through facial recognition software tied to state and federal criminal offender databases proved a dead end, and until today, few people knew what he looked like. Pasting his improvised mug shot all over the news robs him of that protection; everyone in New England now knows his face, and Concorde expects the national news outlets to pick up the story in time for their seven o’clock broadcasts. While there’s no guarantee anyone will spot him (“Whitey Bulger evaded the law for sixteen years,” Concorde reminds me), we have made the King of Pain’s life a lot harder.

  The immediate effect of this strategy is that it should, in theory, chase him out of Kingsport. It’s only a matter of time before Shelley and his counterpart at the Times put two and two together, and when they do, it’ll be a race to see which of them will be the first to report that the fugitive in question was spotted in town, which will make Kingsport the last place he’ll want to be.

  And that is my issue with this idea: we’re not stopping the King of Pain; we’re making him someone else’s problem. Sure, he might be spotted by some diligent citizen, and that might lead to his capture, and hooray, the good guys once again triumph over evil. It also might lead to a bunch of dead police and/or super-heroes. I can’t imagine the King of Pain will go down without one hell of a fight.

  But, as is too often the case, we’re forced to choose the least terrible option from a list of terrible options.

  “The important part is that it removes you as a target,” I tell Sara as we pick at our dinners, some leftover manicotti I had the privilege of microwaving after Mom got stuck working late. “He isn’t going to show his face if everyone in town knows what it looks like, especially when there are two super-teams ready to pig-pile on him. He can’t take the Squad and the Protectorate.”

  She isn’t convinced. “It doesn’t take more than a few seconds to snap my neck,” she says. “No one can respond that fast.”

  “I can. And maybe the Entity. He has a way of popping up right when we need him.”

  Sara shrugs.

  “Did you talk to Bart today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “We talked. Then he talked to your mom. She said I can stay here as long as I need to.”

  “See? We’re looking out for you. I’ll watch your back, Mom will fatten you up,” I say, gesturing at Sara’s plate, which she’s barely touched. “It’s all good.”

  “Carrie, I know you’re trying to look on the bright side,” Sara says, “but I’m having a hard time seeing the light at the end of the tunnel as anything but an oncoming train.”

  I reach across the table and take her hand. “It’ll get better. I promise it will.”

  “You can’t keep that promise.”

  “Watch me.”

  Sara gives me a weak but joyless smile.

  “Are you up for company tonight?” I ask. “I told Matt I’d give him a shout if you were, but I told him not to hold his breath.”

  “Good call. I’m not ready to see him yet.”

  “You’ll have to talk to him eventually.”

  “I know. Not tonight. Not until things have calmed down.”

  “Okay.”

  I call Matt after dinner, and then Sara and I settle down for what feels like the longest night of our lives. We sit on the couch for a while and watch the news, and sure enough, the national broadcasts run the story (not as a lead story, but they run it). After that I flip over to New England Cable News, which has already picked up on the Kingsport angle.

  “That was fast,” Sara remarks.

  “But that’s good,” I say. “It means the King of Pain will be getting the hell out of Dodge all the sooner.”

  We switch off the news, fire up Netflix, and run through a couple of Sara’s favorite happy-making cheer-up musicals (Singin’ in the Rain and Hairspray, neither of which succeed in making with the happy or bringing the cheer). Mom comes home, joins us for a little bit while she eats dinner, then heads up to bed.

  Neither Sara nor I follow suit. We’re not on speaking terms with sleep tonight.

  The eleven o’clock newscast gives us cause to be cautiously optimistic. It looks like the King of Pain keeps an ear on the local media because multiple civilians reported spotting him at the Blandford Service Plaza along the Massachusetts Turnpike. Almighty Google tells me Blandford is a half-hour-ish east of the Massachusetts/New York state line. Concorde called it: the King of Pain can’t take the heat, but he’s not just getting out of the kitchen — he’s fleeing the house.

  Hearing this, Sara doubles over and moans. She grabs her knees and pants heavily, as though fighting the urge to vomit.

  “Are you all right?” I say.

  Sara nods. “He’s gone,” she says. “He’s really gone.”

  “Yeah, he is. You’re safe now.”

  Safe or no, Sara and I keep our little precaution in place. We’re not ready to return to a paranoia-free life quite yet.

  We are, however, ready to return to school. I’ve come to appreciate the benefits of getting back to a normal routine after a traumatic experience — although I’m reminded that the healing process can be slow and not without the occasional regression. In being the first in line for the shower, Sara unwittingly takes Granddad’s traditional spot in the morning bathroom rotation, and that’s enough to set Mom off. She pads around the kitchen, sniffling and blinking away tears, all the while insisting she’s suffering from a mild attack of hay fever (which, for the record, sh
e does not have).

  I give Edison a call during the walk to school, hoping to hear that the King of Pain has been captured, or at the very least has continued his flight from justice into New Jersey or Mexico or Antarctica. I hear Mars is nice this time of year.

  Nothing new to report, he says. The King of Pain was last spotted leaving the rest stop in a green Buick (reported stolen from Kingsport) around 10:30 last night, heading west. If he stayed on a westerly track and stuck to the speed limit to avoid undue police attention, he could have easily made it past Pennsylvania, but there have been no further sightings to confirm that.

  “Which means he could be anywhere,” Sara says.

  “Anywhere but here,” I say. “That’s the important part.”

  I feel Sara relax a little, but she’s spent the last two days at an eleven on the stress-o-meter. Inching down to a nine is a negligible improvement.

  Once I’m off the phone with Edison, I send out a quick text to the gang, letting them know Sara’s back today. I tell them they should act like everything is perfectly normal — no special treatment, no asking her how she’s doing, no drawing attention to what a spectacularly craptacular week she’s been having. To his credit, Matt does his level best to avoid being extra-attentive, but in light of recent revelations, any attention from him is too much. His mere presence is enough to make Sara squirrelly.

  Matt picks up on it. He can be clueless at times, but he’s not that clueless. “There’s something else going on here, isn’t there?” he says on our way to homeroom.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Wow, insult my intelligence some more, why don’t you? Come on, you two are best friends. You tell each other everything. That’s how it works.”

  Like I said: not that clueless. “It’s not my place to say. It’s something personal, something Sara needs to talk to you about.”

  “But she won’t.” I stop. “Sara doesn’t talk to me anymore — not like she used to. Things have been kind of weird between us ever since her powers manifested,” Matt says, lowering his voice, “and I don’t know if it’s me or her or what.”