Masked (2010) (35 page)

“Bad dog,” scolded Marshall in a face-saving gesture that convinced no one. “Get over here.” His bad dog responded by scrambling up and bounding off, much to the delight of the kids who hooted, hollered, and gave chase.

“Now you’re never getting him back,” offered Jennifer Hollins from one of the park benches where she sat alongside some of the other neighborhood parents. In her faded blue jeans and halter top, the pretty, raven-haired former model was the unabashed standard for the term “hot mommy” as it applied in most erotic fiction. Her husband, by contrast, a former shortstop for the local Triple-A affiliate whose one and only call-up to the majors was cut short by a line-drive nut shot that had made ESPN’s Not Top 10 Plays of that year, was the quintessential lout. How he’d managed to land her was a mystery that had haunted the town for years.

“If I go back home without Remy, I’ll be the one sleeping in
the doghouse,” Marshall informed her, watching the merry pursuit.

“You and Allison coming Saturday?” asked single father Ramesh Dosanjh, the only male in the group. “I hear Tony is bringing his new girlfriend.” Recently-divorced Tony Salazar was reputed to be dating a stripper from Sweet and Sassy, a gentlemen’s club in nearby Fielding County, positively scandalizing the local community. Durham Falls hadn’t been rocked this hard since that time Mrs. Obershon, the town librarian, had had her secret
Hustler
subscription inadvertently delivered to her place of work.

“We’ll be there,” Marshall assured him. “Here’s hoping she brings her tassels.”

Jennifer threw him a look of mock disapproval. He smiled and watched Remy fake out the fast-closing kids, feinting left then darting right. Devon, Marcie Krutzen’s eldest, pounced and came up short, hitting the ground face-first. A sharp gasp from one of the mothers and, as if on cue, all the parents rose as one. But Devon was quickly back on his feet, spitting up grass and resuming the chase undaunted. Relieved, the adults exchanged smiles and headshakes, retaking their seats, catastrophe averted.

And suddenly, Marshall felt acutely self-conscious standing there, the outsider in their midst playing at fatherhood, doting over his four-legged fur baby while they good-naturedly humored his paternal affectation. Mid-thirties, married, yet childless. Did they ever wonder? Did they even care? Or was he simply allowing his own self-doubt to fuel paranoid imaginings of them, gathered at the local Starbucks, speculating about the relative strength of his swimmers over macchiatos and carrot cake? He tried to dismiss the thought but, once considered, it ate at him like some shameful secret.

In truth, the decision to not have children had been a mutual one, a logical and ultimately difficult sacrifice, and yet, while he had been able to make peace with the situation, he wasn’t so sure about Allison. It wasn’t anything she ever said or did but more the notable omissions—her increasing disinterest in neighborhood get-togethers, her self-imposed exile from family events. Doubtless his
wife already had an excuse in mind for why she wouldn’t be able to attend the Dosanjh barbecue.

“Remy!” he snapped. The tone of his voice instantly commanded the lab’s attention, let it know he was no longer kidding around. Remy trotted over, tail down, chastened. Marshall gave the dog a pat on the head. “Time to go, buddy.” Buoyed, Remy bounded off again, this time toward the boxwood-lined sidewalk of Sumac Avenue. Marshall followed.

“See you Saturday!” Ramesh called after him.

“See you then.” And they headed home.

Marshall spotted the black SUV in the driveway as he turned down Spruce Crescent. Black, tinted windows, government plates. They may as well have landed a helicopter on his front lawn. As he approached, he was suddenly seized by the urge to turn and retrace his steps, wait out the day at the park, and come back after dinner once they’d left. But he knew they weren’t going anywhere.

They met him as he made his way up the walk, two of them in dark suits and standard-issue shades. And it wasn’t even sunny. They flashed their badges and invited Marshall inside, into his own home. They needed to talk to him.

They introduced themselves as Agents McNeil and Bryerson. McNeil was the talker. Slim and youthful, he struck Marshall as atypically warm for a fed, almost amiable in his approach. Bryerson, on the other hand, was more of what Marshall had come to expect from the bureau. A buzz-cut bruiser with a sour disposition, he kept his shades on.

A clearly concerned Allison set down the coffee tray and biscuits, then excused herself and headed upstairs without so much as a backward glance. Marshall watched her go. She was no doubt dreading the prospect of another move, and the thought of putting her through the process yet again filled him with a deep regret that instantly gave way to anger. It wasn’t fair. They should have been free and clear. What now?

McNeil waited until he heard the bedroom door click shut before starting: “Mr. Mayhew, do you know why we’re here?”

Ten years ago, that question would have garnered the type of smart-ass response that usually resulted in an interrogation room beating. But, of course, a lot had changed in ten years. For one, his clothing was no longer fashioned from oscillating molecular fabric, meaning it could tear and stain. So, instead, he asked: “Where’s Agent Palmer? I usually deal with him.”

“Agent Palmer passed away in May,” McNeil informed him. “Heart attack.”

“Oh.” Marshall was genuinely dismayed. “I’m sorry to hear.”

“Are you?” Bryerson sneered from where he sat, arms crossed, seemingly defying Marshall to contradict him.

“Yeah, I am,” said Marshall. “He was a good man.”

McNeil dropped his gaze and adjusted his cuffs. “Yes, he was.” And then, right back to business: “I assume you heard about what happened to The Imperial.”

“Sure,” said Marshall. It would have been impossible to miss the lead news story going on three days running.

“Were you sorry to hear about that too?” challenged Bryerson.

“No,” Marshall responded truthfully. “Not really. He was an asshole.” And, when all was said and done, and all personal animosity set aside, that pretty much summed him up, although “petty,” “spiteful,” and—as Marshall had discovered firsthand—“incredibly vindictive” would’ve done in a pinch. Whereas other heroes tended to simply crash the party and arrest you, only resorting to violence when absolutely necessary, The Imperial seemed to derive sadistic pleasure in punishing offenders. He never just hauled you in. He had to humiliate you first, whether it was a bitch-slapping, a literal ass-kicking, or his patented “forced freefall” that had reduced even the chronically stoic Dr. Disastro to tears. All things being equal, a primetime takedown by the buffoonish Captain Spectacular at his grandstanding best would have been preferable to the self-proclaimed People’s Protector who, amusingly enough, ended up needing some legal protection
of his own the time Ray Mephistopheles brought that civil suit against him.

“Sounds like motive,” noted Bryerson.

That remark won him a bemused look from Marshall. The Imperial was a heavy hitter. He’d thrown down with the likes of Star Father Celestio and Shatterdam. To suggest that Marshall could have had a hand in taking him out was beyond ridiculous. It was downright flattering.

“Marshall, we’re not accusing you of anything,” McNeil was quick to clarify, sparing his partner the briefest of glances. “We’re here because we think you can help us find out who killed him.”

Marshall eyed them uncertainly. He’d had his suspicions, but never expected to have them officially confirmed. He elected to play it coy. “Killed him? They said it was an accident.”

“Yeah,” said McNeil. “That is what they said. But we know better, don’t we? The Imperial was damn near invincible. It would’ve taken a hell of a lot more than that midair collision to take him out. He was compromised.” McNeil threw Marshall a meaningful look, waiting for him to ask. He didn’t. So the fed went ahead and answered him anyway. “A spectral analysis detected traces of ferenium-17 on his remains.”

“Ferenium-17?” Marshall was stunned. Although Planetary Judicial Enforcement had officially denied its existence, the criminal underworld had long held that the fabled element did, in fact, exist. According to those in the know who had heard from those with an intimate knowledge who had been informed by reliable sources, ferenium-17 was a low-level radioactive mineral, extraterrestrial in origin, that, while reputedly harmless to humans, was rumored to have devastating effects on certain ultracapable individuals. No specifics on what, exactly, those devastating effects could be, but speculation ranged from mild disorientation to molecular degradation.

“You’ve heard of it,” said McNeil. It was more a statement of fact than a question.

Marshall nodded.

“Not many individuals have the knowledge or the resources to get their hands on ferenium-17,” McNeil continued. “In fact, I’d say there are only four we know of. One is busy serving ninety-eighty consecutive life terms on terrorism-related charges at Bathgate. Another quit the planet last year after getting his ass kicked by the Confederacy of Justice. Another was presumed killed in the explosion that destroyed that particle accelerator last fall. And the fourth. . . well, the fourth is someone you know.”

“Someone I used to know,” Marshall corrected him, well aware of where this was going. “A long time ago.”

Agent Bryerson leaned in, forearms on knees, cocked his head and smiled. He reminded Marshall of that cartoon shark from the Freshwater Tuna commercial. “Yeah, well—we’re going to need you to reconnect. Help us out, right?”

“And why would I want to do that?” But, of course, Marshall already knew the answer.

“Because,” Agent McNeil reminded him, “the terms of your conditional release require you to.”

Marshall sat back and had a shortbread cookie. Allison was in luck. It looked like they wouldn’t be making the Dosanjh barbecue after all.

He stopped by the hospital on his way to the airport and found his mother up in her room, rereading one of her favorite Maeve Binchys while Joanie, her nurse, sat at the foot of the bed, wrapping presents. The plump Filipina spotted him first. “Emma, look who is here!” she announced, setting aside the red and gold Chinese-themed gift boxes his mother had no doubt picked up from the stationery shop in the facility’s main lobby. “It’s Marshall!”

His mother patiently finished the passage she was reading, bookmarked the spot, and set her well-worn copy of
The Glass Lake
aside before greeting him with a “Hello, sweetheart.” Then quickly over to Joanie—“That one’s for Jeffrey, the weekend intern,” indicating one of the boxes. “Better mark it now or you’ll mix them up.”

“I come back and finish these later. You spend time with your son.” Joanie hopped up, grinned, and cocked her head back toward the bed. “Maybe she can tell you about the handsome man who came to visit her last week. Very distinguished looking.”

Marshall threw his mother an amused look. She frowned back, clearly annoyed, and dismissed the suggestion with a flick of her wrist. “He had the wrong room. He was looking for Mrs. Henry in D wing.”

“Then I hope you got his number before he left.” And with that, Joanie was out the door.

His mother gave a sad shake of her head. “Poor girl. Her husband has the shingles, you know. She’s here all day taking care of me, then goes home at night and takes care of him. What a life.” Then, as if suddenly realizing: “Where’s Allison?”

Allison, he informed her, was at work. No, they hadn’t argued. No, nothing was wrong. He was alone because he was heading out of town for a few days and wanted to make sure he got to see her before he left. This seemed to satisfy his mother, who, as a rule, was predisposed to worst-case scenarios, reading domestic strife into the most innocuous things: a missed appointment, a passing comment, that well-worn copy of
Chicken Soup for the Soul
Allison had been carrying around with her the last time they’d come to visit.

Of course, Marshall had to remind himself that past experience excused a lot. His mother had raised him as a single parent with little in the way of an education or vocational training, her days spent booking discount getaways at a local travel agency, her nights devoted to editing the letters section of what she termed “a saucy gentleman’s rag.” And yet, despite the long odds and even longer hours, she’d always found the time to be there for him. Like the time fellow third-grader Melanie Fincher broke his heart. Or the day his abilities first manifested themselves in the heat of an afterschool bullying incident.