Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen (11 page)

Gordon had a final look around before he returned back to his tiny apartment four floors below. Eastward, downtown Montréal sparkled and blinked like some weird jewel in the autumn night. He loved the older neon signs, they had so much style. When he was younger he used to find himself walking those streets several nights a week, going for some live music and beer at one of a handful of dive bars. These days money was such an issue that it just didn’t make sense to spend it at a bar; when he felt the need he just did his drinking at home. As for music, he wrote songs and played them on his own guitar. That was good, too.

A weird scream. A strange, quavering cry. His dog leapt up and pointed in the direction where the sound had come from. The costumed man crossed the roof and, with care informed by late-onset vertigo, knelt down about three feet from the edge and braced himself, looking cautiously over. Below him was the top of the neighboring apartment, an eight-storey building with a roof garden; assorted plants growing in a multitude of large white buckets arranged in rows. A young man dressed in grey and beige military camouflage came out from behind the roof access shed holding a bow and quiver in one hand and an acoustic guitar case in the other. Moving quickly he laid the case at his feet, took the string off the bow, and broke it down into three pieces. He turned his attention back to the guitar case, undoing the fasteners quickly and flipping the lid open. He placed his weapon and quiver inside, then shrugged off his jacket and pants to reveal a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He stuffed the camouflage outfit into the guitar case and snapped the fasteners shut. All this had taken place in roughly thirty seconds and all to the tune of the strange wail coming from street level.

From the higher roof Gordon concluded he was witnessing the aftermath of a terrible crime. Shooting arrows at pedestrians? Could this be for real? He was stunned.

The young man stood up, guitar case in hand, and was about to pull open the roof-access door when suddenly he stopped. His took a phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He stared at the little screen for a moment then put the guitar case down and typed on his device furiously with both thumbs.

What was there to be done here? Gordon’s mind raced. The two buildings were very close, separated only by a narrow alley. Moving closer to the edge and looking down he saw that the fire-escape stairs of both structures were exactly opposite each other and their landings were level and separated only by a small gap that could be crossed safely. If he got down there quickly then maybe he could get across and back up in time to follow the guy. But here were problems with that plan. Until he got below the level of the neighboring roof he would be exposed to his target. And he always felt intense vertigo going down metal fire-escape stairs because you could see right through them to the ground below.

This is more important than your damn vertigo,
he admonished himself.
Get over it and get over there!

The young man with the guitar case continued texting, moving away from the light by the entrance to the stairwell and turning his back to Gordon. He had earphones on.

Emboldened, Gordon said a couple of words to his dog and, gritting his teeth, set off down the fire escape stairs as quietly/quickly as he could go. He made too much noise, but his quarry was wrapped up in whatever he was texting and whatever he was listening to. He never looked in Gordon’s direction. In under a minute Gordon was where he wanted to be.

So far, so good.

His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he carefully crossed between the fire escape landings on the seventh floor. Sprinting back up to the roof level of the lower building, he climbed a small metal ladder to the rim of the roof and slowly brought his eyes over the edge, just in time to see the stairwell door swing shut.

Gordon pulled himself quickly up and ran to where arrow guy had been standing moments ago, and he heard the sound of footsteps on stairs come to an abrupt halt. He stepped into the shadows on the side of the shed, in case his quarry came back. When nothing happened after a couple of minutes, he risked a quick peek into the small window set into the access door. He glimpsed his target standing halfway down the first flight of stairs, still absorbed in typing on his phone with one thumb. Gordon eased back around the side of the small structure and into the shadows, lost in thought. He could still hear the odd keening, but it was fainter now. He went low and quiet to the street side of the roof, slowly getting into position for a peek over the edge. He took off his mask and let it flop down his neck like the hoodie it actually was. If he was spotted he’d prefer to be less memorable. His long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he was overdue for a shave.

Cautiously he looked over the edge and then backed away after a few seconds, digesting what he had seen.

Lying on the sidewalk below was an old man in a three-piece suit with an arrow through his shoulder, surrounded by a small crowd of passersby. There was bright red blood pooling beside him but there wasn’t that much yet, and hopefully help was on the way.

Gordon winced, imaging the pain of a broadhead arrow passing through his body. Who could do that to another human?

A young woman was kneeling by the victim and supporting his head while talking into her phone. Everyone had a phone out. No doubt police and ambulance would be there soon and the whole thing was already livestreaming on YouTube.

Returning to the door, Gordon cautiously had another fast look through the small window. The psychotic asshole hadn’t moved at all and was still thumb-typing, without a care in the world

Gordon moved around to the shadowed side of the shed again. The walls were so thin that he could hear the guy breathing and faint hints of the electropop that was being pumped into his earphones. When the bowman started moving again, Gordon would be ready to follow. He put his mask back on.

Scanning the rooftops, Gordon spotted his dog’s head. He was looking in his direction. Gordon gave Harvey a single wave and received a sharp bark in return. He was just beginning to hear distant sirens when the footsteps he was waiting for abruptly resumed; after his quarry turned the first corner, Gordon hurried to follow.

He knew he didn’t need to worry too much about noise, but he tried to be silent anyhow, easing the door open as gently as possible. His boots had crepe soles and made almost no sound as he rapidly tiptoed his way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banisters. He listened for the sound of the footfalls he was following and tried to match them as closely as he could. His problem was not keeping up with the guy while staying out of sight; it was not running into him from behind. He had stopped abruptly to send another text.

The stairwell was deserted but for the two men. Locked in step but always separated by two flights of stairs, they went down three floors before the man with the guitar case exited the stairwell on the fifth floor. The door was similar to the one back on the roof, heavy wood with a small square window cut through it at eye level. Through it, Gordon could see the dark-haired man with the guitar case standing in front of the third door from the end of the hallway, fishing in his pocket, presumably for his keys.

Gordon waited for the sound of the door opening and closing, and a good long minute besides, before easing the stairwell door open and tiptoeing down the hallway. He went just far enough to get a fast look at the apartment number and quickly retreated the way he had come. This was why the guy wasn’t too worried about making a quick getaway; he was already home.

Gordon knew what to do next.

When he got back to the roof, he paused, flipped open one of the tubes on his belt, and extracted a pencil wrapped in a small square of paper. Holding the paper up against the side the shed he scribbled down the apartment number while it was fresh in his mind.

Back on his own rooftop Harvey greeted him joyously. Good ol’ dog! It helped to roll back his anger and sadness a bit. Harvey was good. Some things were good. “It’s a hell of a thing, Harv.”

He opened the access door into his own building and raced down the four floors to his apartment, Harvey always ahead of him, waiting only when a door had to be negotiated. Pulling a key out of his right glove, Gordon unlocked #8-4 and let them both inside. He checked the time on his clock-radio: 10:45 pm.

He pulled off the costume and put on his regular clothes: jeans, T-shirt, sneakers, and his ancient and much-loved jean jacket. Not unlike the guy he was looking to see in handcuffs. He picked his tool-belt off the floor and found the note with the bowman’s address . He put it in his wallet. He slowly looked around his apartment, took a few deep breaths, and then gathered up all the parts of his costume that were strewn around the cramped space. He threw them all into a cardboard box and shoved it into a closet.

Gordon washed out and filled the dog’s water and food bowls to the brim,. He left the large bag of dry food on the floor against the wall of his kitchenette. Harvey could be relied upon not to gorge, taking only as he needed. He was a great dog— uncanny, really. Gordon took an extra minute and gave Harvey a good back rub. Whatever it might’ve done for the dog, it certainly helped Gordon calm down. He stood up and gave his dog a peace sign. “I’ll be back soon, buddy.” At least, he hoped he would; dealing with the police was always tricky.

He closed his apartment door and locked it. Now he moved quickly again and, eschewing the dilapidated old elevator, he went straight down the stairs, which exited from the side of his building into the same alley that he had crossed earlier and higher up. He hit the broken pavement and started to jog toward the throbbing glow of the crime scene.

* * *

“Sir, the man claims to be a witness and to know the current location of the shooter.”

“Bring him here.”

As senior officer on the scene, Pierre-Luc was calling the shots, which was always fun. He didn’t mind civilian onlookers taking video; he knew he looked good on camera and welcomed it. He had noticed the blond guy running up to the line and seen him talking to the perimeter guys about something. He wanted to know very much what that was. The boys let the guy through and in a moment they were face to face. The guy had strong body odor, the kind produced by fear and stress. Like a burned battery. The inspector took two steps back.

“I saw the one who put the arrow in that old guy. I followed him home and got his address. It’s on the fifth floor of the building right in front of us! He has a collapsible bow that he hides in an acoustic guitar case.” The guy with the blond ponytail held out a small piece of paper with the apartment number written on it. The policeman took it, glanced at it briefly and then back to the face of his informant.

“May I see some identification?”

The ponytailed guy took out his wallet and found his Québec Medicare card. He handed it to the policeman.

“My name’s Gordon Kirby and I live in the next building over…”

* * *

At 11:42 pm, a small military-grade battering ram propelled by four large, heavily armed men smashed in the door of the apartment Gordon had identified. A small SWAT team flowed in professionally and quickly secured an amazed twenty-something male.

A quick search turned up the acoustic guitar case and much,
much
more.

* * *

Once again Pierre-Luc was senior officer on the scene, but he knew that it would be short-lived. Some bigger fish would move in and take over once he had filed his initial report. He’d been putting it off for too long already as he racked his brain trying to think of some way to profit from all this.

The SWAT team was long gone, high-fiving each other as they streamed out of the apartment, jabbering adrenaline-fast about where they were going to party later. Pierre-Luc took note. A few of them were pretty hot.

All he could think of for now was to clear the place while they waited for the CSI team and couple of young computer forensics to show up. The guy had three seriously overpowered computers with security software up the wazoo.

As soon as he was alone, Pierre-Luc took out his phone and shot video of the guy’s apartment; the armory of automatic weapons, the huge supply of ammunition. A sword collection that covered two walls. The mirrors on the ceiling in the bedroom. The crazy, obscene black-light posters in the bathroom. Maybe he could sell it later. This was going to be a big case.

* * *

Gordon Kirby sat in a jail cell at Station 13, not far from where he lived. There had been no handcuffs but after giving his information to the policeman at the crime scene, he was packed into a squad car and dumped here. It had been three hours since he had seen or heard anyone. They had taken his belt, his wallet, and his shoelaces and then demanded his mobile phone. When he denied having one, they strip-searched him, and then locked him in a cell about the same size as his apartment. He had been escorted on the journey by four different police officers, each one handing him off to the next like a baton in a relay race. Nobody answered any of his questions about why he was being held. Nobody even looked at him, though there had been quite a bit of unnecessary shoving. It appeared that he had once again slipped between the cracks — more like shoved into the abyss — of local police procedure. Not a first and no surprise there. They had a hard job and he sympathized with them up to a point, but he couldn’t help but feel that they were merely lazy and callous That they enjoyed locking up a stranger in a cage.

His mother had always said that no good deed goes unpunished, and his experience backed that up one hundred percent. He was happy that he had at least thought to water and feed Harvey, but he felt foolish for not eating when he’d had the chance. He was hungry now.

The holding area seemed deserted, though he imagined that everyone was hanging out by a water cooler somewhere, and if he wanted attention he’d just have to shout. Slow night. A late September Monday was about to turn into a Tuesday and his freedom was off the air temporarily due to technical difficulties. Sorry, folks!