Super Human (13 page)

“Abby, most people can barely drive a car along the street without crashing. I’m not going to be the one responsible for giving them an extra dimension to mess up in.”

A few moments later they emerged from the network of alleyways. Abby pointed to a large tenement building across the street. “That’s my place there. Thanks. And thanks for the lift too. I’ve never flown before. Apart from being in the helicopter earlier.”

Then a voice came screeching out of the doorway to Abby’s building. “Abigail de Luyando! Where have you been? Do you
know
what time it is?”

Abby sighed. “Great. It’s my sister.”

The girl darted out into the street. “Mom’s been worried sick. Sick
er
. And your manager said you told him you were coming home for an hour and that was ages ago. And he said you’d been there since 8:30 this morning! Why weren’t you in school? How long has this been going on? And who is this guy?” She glanced at Paragon, looked back at Abby, then paused. She bit her lip, then slowly her eyes turned back to Paragon. “Oh.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. de Luyando. Your sister here was witness to a crime and she very kindly offered to help the police with their enquiries.”

“I see. . . .”

Abby recognized the look on her sister’s face: She was considering some sort of plan.
What’s she up to now?

“That’s all very well, Mr. Superhero, but how am I supposed to explain this to our mother?”

“I could come inside and talk to her myself, if that’ll help.”

“Yes. That might be for the best.”

Oh, very good!
Abby tried not to catch her sister’s eye—if she did, they’d both end up grinning.

Abby led them into the building and up the stairs toward her apartment. She felt a little ashamed at how rundown everything was. The wallpaper was long gone, the stairs bare and creaking—especially under Paragon’s weight—and the only light came from a couple of flyspecked yellow bulbs. Abby pushed open the door to the apartment. “Mom?”

She was greeted with another torrent of “Where have you been?” and “What time do you call this?” then her mother saw Paragon and immediately shifted into “important visitor” mode. “Well, look who it is!”

Mrs. de Luyando pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, then expertly steered her chair around the room, fluffing up cushions and straightening the pile of
TV Guide
s on the coffee table. “Will you have something to drink? There’s a beer in the fridge.”

“I don’t drink, but thanks.”

“Coffee?”

“Thanks again, but nothing for me, Mrs. de Luyando. Can’t really drink wearing this armor.”

Abby’s mother nodded. “Of course. You don’t want to remove your visor.”

“It’s not just that,” he said. “More that I don’t like flying on a full bladder.”

“I understand completely!” she said cheerfully, then hissed at Abby’s sister, “Go wake the boys. They’ll be mad if they find out they missed meeting the famous Paragon!” She turned back to him, all smiles again. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He lowered himself into the sofa. “Not at all, no. Actually, it’s been a long time since I had a chance to just sit down for a minute and take it easy. As I was telling your other daughter, Abby’s late because she witnessed a crime. Unfortunately we’re not allowed to talk about the details, but I can tell you that she was extremely brave. If it hadn’t been for her, a lot of innocent people would have been hurt.”

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Abby sat down opposite Paragon. This wasn’t a scene she’d ever pictured happening.

“Brave she might be,” her mother said, “but I’ve just found out she’s been skipping school to go to work.” Her shoulders sagged. “Abby, you should have talked to me.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Not
now
, Mom!”

Then Paragon said, “Forgive me for asking, Mrs. de Luyando—”

“Call me Alison.”

“Alison.” He gestured toward her wheelchair. “You live on the fourth floor. On the way up I saw that the elevator was out of commission, and it looks like it’s been that way for a long time. How do you leave the apartment? If that’s not too personal a question.”

Abby’s mother covered her mouth with her hand and coughed. “Excuse me. I don’t go out often, Mr. Paragon. My girls carry me down. Sometimes our neighbor helps too. But it’s not so bad. Abby’s pretty strong for her age.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, which was broken by the return of Abby’s sister and her brothers. The boys—all dressed in identical pajamas—clustered around Paragon, staring at him with their mouths open.

Abby said, “From left to right: Tyler, James, Elvis, and Stefan.”

“Elvis?” Paragon asked.

Mrs. de Luyando said, “It was that or The Beatles.”

Abby’s sister groaned as she sat down on the arm of the sofa next to Paragon. “Mom, that joke is so old it should be put into a nursing home.”

Abby said, “Oh, and you’ve already met our big sister, Vienna.”

 

 

Half an hour later Abby accompanied Paragon out of the apartment. The superhero’s presence had not gone unnoticed: It seemed that everyone in the building was in the hallways as they passed, many of them shivering and wrapped in blankets but still not willing to miss a chance to see a superhero so close. Some of the people reached out to touch his armor as he passed.

When Abby opened the main door, there was a sudden cheer: The street was packed with people all craning for a better look. They quickly broke into a chant: “Par-a-gon! Par-a-gon!”

“I hate this part of the job,” Paragon said to Abby, keeping his voice low.

A horn blared, and the crowd grudgingly parted to allow a new cherry-red BMW to pull up in front of the building. A thin white woman in her early thirties climbed out. She was dressed for a romantic night out: little black dress, heels, expensive platinum-blonde hairdo. For a moment Abby thought that the woman must be an actress or a pop star.

Oblivious to the crowd, the woman glided over to Paragon. “Mr. Paragon. When I heard you were here I just
had
to come and see you!”

“Thank you,” Paragon said, moving to step around her.

She blocked his way. “You must allow me to introduce myself. Catherine-Jane Avery.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Avery. Now, I must—”

The woman put her hand on his chest. “No, really. One of his tenants told Daddy you were here and I have to say he’s very excited. He wanted to come and meet you in person but he’s a little under the weather at the moment.”

Paragon tilted his head toward her. “His tenants? Your father owns these buildings?”

“Oh yes. Daddy owns a
lot
of properties. Terribly wealthy. Self-made man, like yourself of course!” She laughed at her own joke.

“And is your father a
good
man, Ms. Avery?”

“Certainly. Generous to a fault.” She gestured toward her car. “My birthday present. Gorgeous, isn’t she? Now, Daddy’s told me that he’d love to meet you. A sort of man-to-man thing, I suppose. Two influential men sitting down to solve the problems of the world, I would expect.” She handed him a business card. “I’m sure you’d have plenty to talk about—you have so much in common. And he’d be willing to pay you handsomely for your time, of course.”

Without even looking at the card, Paragon passed it to Abby. “Ms. Avery, did you know that there is a woman living on the fourth floor of this building who is in a wheelchair?”

Avery’s perfect smile slipped a little.

“And did you also know that the elevator has been broken for over two years? Your father has apparently refused to have it fixed because he claims that it’s not cost-effective.” He moved closer to the woman. She stepped back. “Instead of buying you a new car—which I imagine it’s safe to say you didn’t actually need—he could have spent those thousands of dollars repairing the elevators in all of these buildings. He could have fixed the heating, replaced the antiquated wiring, repaired the plumbing, installed wheelchair ramps . . . or sorted out any of a hundred other areas of neglect.”

She looked down at her feet. “I’m sure that any oversights can be explained.”

“Explained?”

“I mean, rectified. Fixed.”

“They can. And they should have been fixed years ago. Ms. Avery, your father is
not
a good man. He is a selfish, greedy, uncaring man. Please do not compare me to him.”

 

 

The apartment room was small and dark. The windows’ heavy blinds were down, the only light coming from their rectangular outlines. The air was warm and stale, tinged with the lingering scent of bitter incense. There were no pictures, ornaments, or any fixtures. The floor was bare wooden boards.

At the center of the room, an old woman sat on the only piece of furniture: a basic wooden chair. Her hands were clasped together in her lap, and she sat straight upright. Her face was mostly in shadow, but there was just enough light coming from the windows to see that she was skeleton-thin.

“So. It is done. Everything that you were instructed to do has been accomplished.” The woman’s voice was rough, but strong. Slaughter nodded.

“Speak up, girl.”

“It’s done. Just as you instructed.”

“The men performed adequately?”

She nodded again. “Considering that they were under-equipped and didn’t even have the new body armor, yes. I still think we should have waited.”

“Your opinions have little value, Slaughter. Do not waste my time with them. The early completion of the power plant forced our hand. There was superhuman interference?”

“Maxwell Dalton and his sister, then two others. Both in their early teens. Dalton has been incapacitated.”

The old woman paused. “This is not expected.” Another pause. “I see. These children—could they pose a threat?”

“It’s unlikely. They have very little experience.”

“Unlikely, but not impossible. You will disable them.”

“As you wish,” Slaughter said.

Again, the woman paused as though she were listening to a voice no one else could hear. “There is another matter. A human boy witnessed the capture of Marcus by Paragon and later broke into the warehouse in Fairview. We believe he may have stolen information that could undo our plans. The boy is with Paragon now. His name is Lance McKendrick. You will find him and kill him.”

Inside the cramped FBI operations truck, Lance leaned back in the padded swivel chair. He felt like he’d been telling the same story for hours.
Do they think I’m lying; is that it?
“I was running for my life. They were shooting at me.”

Colonel Morgan looked away from Lance and cleared his throat. “We don’t have time for this, Paragon. What makes you think there’s a connection with the attack here?”

“Because Lance said that the men in the warehouse talked about their plans being moved forward.” Paragon had his back to them. On a desk in front of him was the stolen jetpack. He had removed its cover and was doing something to the circuits inside. Over his shoulder he added, “Could be just a coincidence that the power plant was finished ahead of schedule, but . . .” He stopped what he was doing and turned to face the colonel. “Two secret organizations discovered on the same day? We have to assume there’s a connection—and we don’t have much else to go on. Lance, is there anything else you can remember that might be useful? Sure they didn’t call each other by name?”

“Not that I remember.” He yawned. “When can I go home?”

“That’s not up to me,” Paragon said. He returned his attention to the jetpack. “Kid, you’re lucky to be alive. I’m not even sure how those guys managed to get this thing to fly at all. The afterburner control looks like it was put together by someone working in the dark and wearing boxing gloves. This thing is a death trap.”

Lance looked at the colonel. “Am I under arrest?”

“No. You’re helping us with our investigation.” The colonel sighed, and rubbed his neck. “From the top, Lance. . . . The only name they mentioned was Marcus, you said.”

Lance began to swivel back and forth in the chair. “Yep. One guy said something about how the plan was a wash-out if the cops could get Marcus to talk, and the other guy said something about how they’re going to be in big trouble.” He stopped swiveling and slightly chewed on his lower lip while he tried to remember the men’s exact words.

The most important skill when running a con wasn’t sleight of hand but the art of cold-reading, the ability to instantly evaluate a mark and pick up on tiny clues about his or her personality. Lance had practiced this over and over: He was now almost always able to tell just how far he could push someone. The key to cold-reading was observation: watching and listening.

Now, Lance felt certain that back at the warehouse he had heard and dismissed something vital.
OK, think. . . . What was it they said? A mixed metaphor—one of the guys said something and got it wrong. . . . Lead bricks, that was it!
“‘Like a ton of lead bricks,’” Lance said aloud.