Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen (12 page)

The cell he occupied had a bare toilet stripped of niceties such as toilet paper. There was a water fountain and a molded concrete bench with rounded edges sticking out of a concrete wall. Through the stout steel bars he could see the wall across the hallway and if he pressed himself close to the bars he could see up and down the hallway and into the three neighboring cells, all of which were empty.

He couldn’t believe how rancid he smelled, even to himself. The sour acid smell of spent adrenaline and stress, of fear, assaulted him every time he inhaled. It was embarrassing, and on that score he was glad to be alone.

He had been lost in his thoughts for quite some time when he heard the metal clang of a door opening and the sound of hard-soled shoes approaching. The same officer who had locked him in now unlocked the cell door and motioned for him to follow. As Gordon left the cell, out of the corner of his eye he saw the policeman prepare to give him another shove and he danced out of the way. The officer almost lost his balance when he pushed his hand through thin air, and Gordon turned around to face him. He was shocked to see the squat policeman’s hand on his weapon, his eyes squinting in rage and his teeth bared like those of a fat, pissed-off wild animal. It was an unlovely sight.

Gordon held up his hands in submission. “Sorry, sorry.”

It took a moment for the policeman to master his temper, and then he impatiently beckoned Gordon to continue down the hallway. Apparently, all the policemen employed here were mute. They went through two security doors and down another hallway, this one painted light blue, and Gordon was herded into an empty interview room. The door was slammed behind him and then ostentatiously locked.

He took one of the two seats available and wondered how long it would be before whoever wanted to question him showed up. What questions could they ask? And what could he answer that they hadn’t already found out? He knew that the police often kept people waiting in rooms like this for hours to “soften them up.” Gordon catalogued his surroundings; four walls, light blue. Unpainted concrete floor. Ceiling with a single light bulb in a wire cage and a smoke alarm (no doubt housing a concealed video camera). At least three different kinds of insects were flying around. He wished that there was something he could read to pass the time.

Two hours dragged slowly by. By his reckoning it was about three in the morning. He repeatedly went through his memory of the events that had led to this. Yes, he was going through an inconvenience here (though far less of one than having a barbed arrow through the shoulder) but maybe, just
maybe
, he had helped nail an insane predator to the wall.

Finally, footsteps approached, the door was unlocked and in walked the police officer he had spoken to at the crime scene. He slammed the door shut, and it took him two tries to get centered on his chair.
Holy shit, he’s drunk!
thought Gordon.

Once he was settled in his chair, he looked up at Gordon and wrinkled his nose.

“Fuck! You stink!”

“Thank you.”

The policeman frowned and took a phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket and spent the next fifteen minutes thumb-typing text messages. Gordon looked on, silent.

The man in front of him was neatly turned out; slick suit (a different one than he’d been wearing earlier), short hair gelled, and face cleanly shaven. Classically handsome with a tall, trim body. A young prince.

An over-the-top cologne clogged up the small, vent-less room’s breathable air. The insects that Gordon had been tracking earlier seemed to have all disappeared; he wondered if the cloying smell affected them as it did him. He felt slightly nauseous. It seemed ironic that his rank body odor, while unpleasant, didn’t make him feel half as bad as the perfume did.

Eventually the policeman put away his phone and looked up at his captive.

“You’re going to keep quiet about this. You’re not going to tell the media, you’re not going to blog it, you’re not going to say a word to anybody.”

“No problem. I have no internet. I have no mobile phone, and I have no interest in contacting ‘the media.’ Is that why I’m being held, so that you can control that? Don’t worry. I’m just hungry, and I want to go home. I was only trying to help.”

The policeman looked at him suspiciously. From inside his suit his phone began playing some electropop tune; he pulled it out and squinted at the small screen before rolling his eyes, shutting it off, and putting it away again.

“Gee, that’s rough, eh? Sucks to be you, huh?” The sneer on the policeman’s mug reminded Gordon of a llama that he had once seen face-to-face while visiting the Winnipeg zoo as a child. He had approached it in wonder, but the instant he was within range it had spit in his face so hard that it
hurt
.

“I’m okay. Just wondering why you chose to lock me in a cell as if
I
were the one who tried to kill an old man with a bow and arrow. I was trying to
help
you.”

The policeman didn’t respond. His eyes were unfocused as he stared blankly. Minutes went by.

“Did you get him?” Gordon finally asked.

“That’s none of your business. Your business is to shut up and be quiet.”

“What’s your name?”

The policeman looked up at Gordon with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I said to
shut up
and
be quiet
.”

“I’m going to find out who you are and I’m going to give your name to René Marble.”

The policeman’s eyes opened wider. René Marble was a name all dishonest cops were frightened of. The cop’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“I tried to
help
you and in return you’ve got me locked up, obviously trying to run some sort of stupid scam. If you don’t release me
immediately
, I promise you that I
will
be in touch with the media and that internal affairs will come down on you like an old brick wall. I swear.”

“What’s your relationship with Marble?”

Now it was Gordon’s turn to not answer a direct question.

* * *

Pierre-Luc was angry and nervous. Who the fuck was this punk who threw out the one name he was most worried about? The policeman who policed the police. Maybe he should tone it down until he knew better about what was what here.

* * *

Gordie walked out of Station 13 at 5:32 in the morning. His stomach was burning and his mouth was full of digestive juices as he tromped the five blocks home. He was also very angry. What a world! What a poor, shitty, screwed-up world.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and met Harvey’s joyous greeting with his own. He immediately felt better. He squeezed into the tiny kitchenette and began to prepare his long-delayed meal: a can of brown beans dumped into a thin pot, the smallest stovetop burner set to 4. Bread removed from the freezer and six slices liberated, leaving four. Toaster loaded and firing away with margarine on standby. He sat on his favorite chair and waited for the first set of toast to pop as he relived his most recent ordeal. He wished he had some beer. He could use a drink.

* * *

Gordon clawed his way out of sleep, and looked at his bedside clock. It was 3:30 pm. His doorbell was buzzing. His doorbell almost never buzzed. He guessed that it was probably the police. He was right, though pleasantly so.

A few minutes later, René Marble sat in his living room sipping a cup of instant coffee. The head of internal affairs at the Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal surveyed his surroundings with amusement.

“You’re living in a doghouse.”

Gordon smiled. “Thank you.”

“You had a busy night last night.”

“Yeah. Do you know what happened?”

“Sure. We have a fairly thick file on you, Mr. Gordon ‘The Jam’ Kirby, and whenever something comes up with your name on it, I get notified. I’m sorry I wasn’t around last night to straighten things out. It was my wife’s birthday, and we were out of town.”

“No problem. Did they get the guy with the bow?”

René pulled a briefcase onto his lap and undid the fasteners. Opening it, he withdrew a copy of the local English-language newspaper and passed it to Gordon, who unfolded it and read:

BOW AND ARROW ATTACK IN N. D. G.

Lauren Recaule

FAST MEDIA NEWS

(Montréal) A 24-year-old resident of Notre-Dame-de-Grace was arrested and charged yesterday with the attempted murder of Christopher Enos, a 67-year-old pensioner. The attack was allegedly carried out with a bow and arrow from a rooftop in the west-end borough of Montréal.

The alleged attacker, whose name is being withheld by police, had no apparent connection to the victim.

At approximately 8:00 PM Monday evening Mr. Enos, a librarian, was pierced through the shoulder by a barbed hunting arrow while walking home. Bystanders quickly called 911, and police and paramedics arrived on the scene soon enough to save the man’s life. Mr. Enos is currently in stable condition at the McGill University Health Centre and is expected to recover.

Lt. Pierre-Luc Goddard of the SPVM has been credited with discovering the identity of the attacker. At a press conference earlier today he stated that a search of the assailant’s apartment had turned up “many startling things” and that there would be “many revelations to come” with regards to this case.

See Arrow on A3

Gordie put the newspaper down. “‘Many startling things’? René, what’s the deal here?”

“Gordon, your information has led to the apprehension of a homemade terrorist who was ready to make a much,
much
bigger mess. In his apartment they found three military-grade fully automatic weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition. Plus grenades. Explosives. Swords. They got into his computer and found a diary where he mentions staging an attack at a rock concert at the Bell Centre, eight days from now. We also recovered email indicating that he was part of a larger group. This is going to be big.

My question for you is: how were you involved? Why did Lieutenant Goddard detain you for over six hours? He pretends that you don’t exist.”

“I guess he wants the credit for himself. I don’t care. Actually, I prefer it that way! I just happened to be in the right place at the right time and witnessed this asshole making his getaway. I followed him but didn’t have to go far; he lived in the building right next to mine. I got down to the crime scene and gave them my story, and then they put me in a squad car and stuck me in a cell down at Station 13.”

René winced. “They are not famous for their humanity.”

“Yeah, I got that. Nobody even spoke to me when I asked why I was there. I was cooped up for hours before Goddard came to see me. And he was drunk as a skunk. He threatened me with jail if I told anyone I was involved in the bowman thing. Sketchy, all very sketchy.”

“That sounds like our Lieutenant Goddard. He is indeed poorly drawn. We have a rather large file on him in my department. His time will come, but not the way he thinks.” René smiled grimly.

Harvey sauntered in from the kitchenette and, after a mandatory sniff of the policeman’s shoes, lay down between them and closed his eyes.

Gordon asked the policeman, “So, I did good?”

“Yes, you did good.”

* * *

A mainstay of the Montréal comics scene, Bernard E. Mireault is the creator
Mackenzie Queen
,
Dr. Robot
, and
The Jam
.

In the Name of Free Will

A. C. Wise

Her bones ache with the promise of rain. That’s what comes of having them shattered, sawed through, pieces of her pinned like doll parts to the wall of the Freedom Tower. That’s what comes of being a message for Captain Freedom, showing him his vulnerability and his inability to protect those he loves. Giving him a reason to suffer. To seek vengeance. To grow into a stronger man.

Bullshit. Utter fucking bullshit.

She flexes stiff fingers. She’s been waiting just over an hour, in the park’s pre-dawn gloom, outside the glow of lampposts lining the path. Her skin, greyish now, blends with the shadows between trees. Her bones may ache, but death has taught her patience.

When the predator finally passes, he doesn’t notice her. These are his hunting grounds— six women so far, their bodies left for hapless joggers to find. Always this park. He’s a local, choosing convenience over discretion. So much for don’t shit where you eat.

She steps out smoothly behind him, uses his shirt to haul him off balance. Once he’s down, she settles her weight over his midsection, knees pinning his arms so he can’t reach for any weapons.

She looks him in the eye. Panic turns to a sneer and back again; seeing her, then really seeing her.

She could do it quick and quiet — a knife between the ribs — but she owes him this: looking him in the eye as she chokes the life from him. Because she knows what it feels like to die.

She’s strong, another thing death gave her. Force of will, the ability to make a decision and stick to it. The will it takes to come back from the grave, to put yourself back together after you’ve been cut into pieces and pinned to a wall.

Her cold hands squeeze his throat. He thrashes, fighting to live. She’s right there, looking him in the eye as he goes slack.

She stands and wipes her hands on her pant legs. There’s only time to step into the shelter of the trees again before the shaking starts, her whole body wracked with violent tremors. She remembers how it felt as her blood left her body, the terror as the world narrowed, then winked out. She knows exactly what she did to the man lying on the pathway behind her, what she took away from him.

Her stomach heaves, bile between chattering teeth. She doubles over, making herself small, fetal. Her vision narrows, tunnelling. She lets it, closes her eyes, breathes shallow and waits. Eventually, the shaking stops.