Comic Book Hero Chapter 9

The dashboard clock in Tom’s truck said it was just minutes after 3 a.m. He was parked in the woods outside of Lydecker Labs, on a small hill with a clear view of the complex, accessible only by a rutted dirt track few people knew existed. The cooling engine no longer made clicking noises, and the only sounds in the late night was the far off swish of traffic on the highway. Through the windshield Tom could see the lab complex clearly, it’s windows mostly dark, but the outside grounds were well lit by floodlights. Through a pair of powerful binoculars he could see the roof of the complex clearly, and in fact he had been watching it for almost an hour. But now his vigil ended, as a door opened, spilling yellow light out onto the roof.

Tom dropped the binoculars and quickly exited the cab of his truck, hurriedly donning his mask and gloves. Once again he was dressed all in black, but this time had left the sweatshirt behind. He had no intention of doing much flying tonight, and in fact planned to spend most of it indoors, crawling through some tight places. The sweatshirt would have been just one more piece of clothing to get snagged.

Tom launched himself into the air, making a beeline for the light on the roof. He arrived there in seconds, hovering over the opened doorway, unseen by the guard below. At fifty feet up he knew he was invisible, and besides, the guard was much too busy enjoying his illicit cigarette to notice.

Tom had worked at Lydecker for several weeks, running cable from one end of the complex to the other, so he was quite aware of the secret area the building’s smokers had fixed up on the rooftop. Someone had disabled the alarms on the fire door long ago, bringing a few folding chairs and an empty coffee can up to the roof. The can now overflowing with butts gave proof of just how long this security violation had existed. Most of the lower level employees knew about the secret spot, but nobody had ever bothered to inform management. Tom had figured this was his best chance to gain access to the building, all he would have to do was wait for one of the graveyard shift guards to come to the roof for a smoke and unlock the door, and it looked like his plan was working.

Tom could see that the guard had propped open the door with a cement block, probably borrowed from the construction on the next wing. Now the guard paced back and forth across the roof, staring out into the night at the flood lit parking lot below. Tom had originally planned on trying to catch the self-locking door and keep it from closing when the guard went back inside, but now he realized just how dangerous that could be. The door was open now, the guard was facing in the other direction, so he quickly amended his plans and darted inside, his feet never touching the ground. The guard never knew a thing, as Tom disappeared down the stairs to the next floor.

At the landing Tom paused to ease open the stairwell door, peering cautiously out into the top floor hallway. When he saw that the hallway was empty he squeezed through the door, then rose as far up as he could. The hallway, he knew, had a drop ceiling, just like all the rooms on this floor. A suspended framework of acoustical tiles hung down, providing a thirty-six inch space for the building’s air ducts and wiring to be put. A drop ceiling provided a three-foot crawlspace that could grant access to virtually every room in a building, but it was never considered a security risk because anyone heavier than a small cat would drop through the fragile acoustic tiles like they were paper. Of course, that proved no problem to a man who could fly.

Tom eased up one of the tiles and slipped into the crawlspace, replacing the tile behind him. It was a dark world he had entered, here between the true ceiling and the suspended one, broken only by the thin slivers of light escaping from the cracks around the hallway’s fluorescent fixtures. It was also a maze, a jumble of vertical support rods, air ducts, wires and cables, and the faint illumination was not nearly bright enough to navigate the junkyard tumble. Tom slipped a hand into his pocket and removed a small plastic diamond shape, about two inches long and a quarter inch thick. He flicked a switch on the diamond, and from one end a surprisingly powerful beam of light sprang out.

Key chain lights have been around for years, ever since light emitting diodes made it possible to create a light source as small as a 25-cent coin. For a long time they were nothing more than a novelty, something you used to find a keyhole in the dark. But as LED technology progressed and the amount of light they could cast increased, they quickly went from novelty to practical tool. A light such as Tom now held may not be bright enough to read a newspaper by, but it was more than adequate to navigate a darkened room. Quite naturally, the first people to embrace the new technology had been techies like Tom, and professional burglars.

The top floor of Lydecker labs was devoted to administration purposes. He and Ned Politaino had done all the network wiring on this floor, and Tom knew it like the back of his hand. With the aid of the LED light he soon oriented himself, floating through the crawlspace like a skin-diver moving through the wreck of a sunken ship. It didn’t take long for him to make his way to the executive area, and from there it was even easier to find Tony Harmon’s office. It was only twenty minutes after 3 when Tom finally stood before Tony’s desk.

The LED light showed the office to be just about what he had expected of the top on-site executive for a company the size of Lydeckers. In short, it was luxurious. The walls were paneled in oak, waxed to a rich yellow shine. Pictures of Harmon with various celebrities and politicians adorned the walls, along with a couple of framed diplomas and certificates of achievement. The carpeting was a rich pile, thick and springy, and the desk that dominated the room was a good eight feet long. Its surface was all polished cherrywood and leather, either an antique or a damned good reproduction, and the leather chair behind it appeared to have come from the same era. A computer screen and a keyboard set off to the left side of the desk, the main goal of Tom’s nocturnal mission.

Tom pulled the chair out away from the desk and peered into the space underneath, looking for the PC itself. He found it right away, but blinked in surprise when he saw the glowing red light on its face. Experimentally he touched the mouse on the desk and moved it an inch. The blank screen of the monitor started to hum, then lit when it was warmed up. Under the mask Tom grinned. Since it was Sunday morning and the lab was closed, he had been prepared to spend at least a couple of hours trying to hack Harmon’s password, but it looked like he wouldn’t have to. Security protocols were for the little people, big shot bureaucrats like good old Tony Harmon didn’t even bother to turn off their PCs. You just gotta love executives.

Tom took some blank CDs from his pocket, and then fed one into the computer’s CD burner. He knew Harmon had one because he had installed the system himself. The PC was actually about ten times as powerful as someone like the chief executive would ever need, but he had insisted on ‘all the bells and whistles’, so Tom had complied. He knew most of the power of the system and the software options he had installed had never even been used. Guys like Harmon just had to have the biggest and brightest toys on the block, even if they had no idea how to use them.

Tom searched the files for anything on him, the accident, Scarpelli, and the project Scarpelli was working on. There turned out to be quite a bit, as Tony’s PC had administrative access to the network. This meant that he could access all the files on any PC in the building, including private e-mail, and could even bypass any and all passwords. Apparently Harmon was a control freak. Tom skimmed some of the files but didn’t really bother to read them, he just downloaded copies to the CD. There’d be plenty of time to study the files later, when he got back to Murray’s place. In fact, while the files were downloading he went into the security authorizations and added a new password for himself and set it so that he could access it from off-site, thus giving himself a backdoor back into the system in case he missed something tonight. He then highlighted the password and changed the color of the font to white, the same as the background, which in effect made the password invisible to anybody who checked the list of authorized users. Tom didn’t consider himself a hacker like his brother Mike, he had never even broken into a protected system before, but he had been in this business for a lot of years and he had learned some tricks along the way. The invisible writing scam wouldn’t fool a real professional for more than ten seconds, but it should fool somebody like Tony Harmon, at least until he gave Mike the password and got him to do a proper job of camouflage.

There was a lot of data to download and Tom had to use more than one CD. On the second disk, Tom started to scan the security files on the accident, but didn’t find as much there as he would have thought. In fact, for the head of security for the whole complex, Carlton Biggs had surprisingly few files of any kind. Maybe he kept all the important stuff on paper? Considering what Tom was doing right now, he couldn’t really blame the head of security for that kind of paranoia. He decided his next stop would be Biggs’ office.

When the second CD finished loading Tom pulled it, then went into the events log and carefully erased all trace of his activities. There were still traces of him in there, he knew, but once again it would take a security professional to find them. He could always have Mike do his hacker magic when he gave him the password. Tom pocketed the CDs, and then carefully put everything back just the way he had found it. He climbed back into the crawlspace, replaced the tile, and then flicked on his LED light. After quickly orienting himself, he floated off in the direction of Carlton Biggs’ office.

*****

Tuesday morning, and the conference room at Stemple and Associates was already beginning to heat up. Tony Harmon sat on one side of the table with three lawyers from the firm that represented Lydecker Laboratories, two associates and the junior partner. They had taken up supporting positions on his left, and his security chief Carlton Biggs was on his right. A little too close on his right, in the hot room the man was sweating even more than usual. And he still looked like a bag of wet laundry. Tony sighed, comforted himself with the thought that this awkward meeting would soon be over.

They waited there in the sweltering room for another fifteen minutes, until all five of them had begun to fidget. Biggs was grumbling and threatening to take off his suit jacket, an idea Harmon quickly squashed. The idea of having to see those sweat stained armpits was just too revolting.

Finally the door opened and the other party entered, Aaron Stemple and his client, Tom Blackwood. At the sight of them Biggs snorted in amusement, the lawyers glowered, and Harmon felt the beginning of a headache coming. Stemple was in shirtsleeves with his collar undone and his tie loosened, and Blackwood was wearing a black T-shirt with a yellow Batman emblem on it. It was now obvious that the long wait in the sweltering room had been intentional. A tiny, nagging voice at the back of Harmon’s mind wondered at the tactic.

“Gentlemen, oh excuse me, and lady. Sorry for the wait. My client and I are running a little late, but I think we can begin now. Oh, and I must apologize for the lack of air conditioning in this conference room, we’re trying to have it fixed, but it probably won’t happen today. That’s okay, though, we don’t really expect to be here long.” This last was said with a pleasant smile, as he and Tom took their seats. Harmon couldn’t help thinking of a grinning crocodile, just before he chewed your leg off.

Edward Phillips, the senior lawyer of the trio Harmon had brought, made a phlegmatic noise, not even trying to hide his irritation.

“I agree, counselor, the matter before us should not take long at all. And I will simplify it by stating our client’s position. We categorically deny any responsibility in the accident in laboratory #6 at the Lydecker Sacramento facility. The explosion was caused by a defective gas line installed by contractors, and all fiscal indemnities must land firmly on their shoulders. My clients are not liable in this matter, and if you pursue this frivolous lawsuit, you will lose.” So saying, Phillips sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, giving the opposing counsel his most implacable look. In the strange word of legalese, where gestures often speak louder than words, he was making a statement. He was saying that his side had all the big guns, and if Stemple was foolish enough to buck him, then go ahead and be cannon fodder.

Aaron smiled confidently at Phillips, and his own statement was that he had Phillips by the balls, and the old fool didn’t even know it yet.

“Why, Mr. Phillips, that’s a rather rash thing to say. May I ask, on what do you base this assumption?”

It was now Phillips turn to smile confidently. He reached into a file folder and retrieved a document, which he handed across the table and lay in front of Tom’s lawyer.

“We base it on this, counselor. A copy of the official Fire Investigative Report, filed by Eric Souza, an investigator for the County of Sacramento. In his report, he clearly lays the blame for the fire and subsequent explosion on the faulty gas valve, which had been installed less than two weeks earlier. Official and irrefutable proof. I say again, Counselor, my clients are not responsible.”

Stemple’s reply was a sad shake of his head. He looked at the report lying on the table before him but did not pick it up or try to read it. Instead he reached into a file of his own, and started to remove documents. One by one, he handed them across to the two associates.

“Strangely enough, I also have a Fire Investigative Report from Mr. Souza. It was not filed, but it is in his handwriting, as are the personal notes he took at the scene. In it, Mr. Souza clearly lays the blame for the explosion on a fire caused by Dr. Scarpelli’s smoking. Along with that we have a list of the evidence he found, including pictures, and a summary of Mr. Souza’s conclusions. In it, he clearly states that a fire fueled by scrap paper and centered around an ashtray, had been burning for at least thirty or forty seconds before it set off the explosion in the gas valve.”

The two associate lawyers had been reading the documents as Aaron handed them over. One of them, the female, turned reluctant eyes to her superior.

“Mr. Phillips, it looks like…I’m sorry sir, but-” she tried to say. But Phillips cut her off by snatching the papers from her hand. He read them with a fierce concentration, glaring, as if his very gaze could burn away the offending words. He looked up at his client, and saw that Harmon’s ruddy cheeks had turned a pale white, and his eyes where beginning to bulge. Carlton Biggs on the other hand was looking stone faced, his expression completely unreadable. He was, however, sweating even more than he had been earlier. A sinking feeling came to the senior attorneys stomach.

Phillips cleared his throat, “Uh, as you must know, these papers prove nothing. After all, this report was never filed. It could have been written at any time since the accident. Our report, the official record, was obviously written first. This subsequent document has no relevance whatsoever.”

But Aaron was once again shaking his head sadly. Phillips was beginning to hate that expression.

“We also have a copy of the report Mr. Souza did file. These reports are written on forms that come in a pad, and each sheet has its own unique serial number at the top right hand corner. As you can see, the numbers for both reports are sequential, with our report having the lower number. There is no doubt that ours was written first.”

Phillips glowered from under beetling brows, his voice a low growl. “If you are suggesting some sort of collusion between our client and Mr. Souza, I must warn you…”

Aaron handed Phillips another document. “Another report, this one also not filed, we called the Los Angeles Police and checked on that yesterday. It’s on an arrest dated six years ago, in which Mr. Souza had been charged with soliciting the services of a thirteen-year-old male prostitute. As I said, the report was written, but never filed. The arresting officer was detective Carlton Biggs.”

Phillips read the document and swallowed, but he resisted the urge to glance at Harmon and Biggs. He knew what he would see. Those bastards had involved him and his firm in an arson cover-up, and compounded it with extortion of a public official. There were going to be some heads rolling when he brought this before the other partners. He’d have to do as much damage control today as he could, for he sure as hell wasn’t going to get much chance for spin doctoring if the police got brought in. He took a breath, and dove back in again to face the old shark.

“I admit, counselor, that your ‘evidence’, if true, is… persuasive. However, and this is not admitting any malfeasance on our client’s part, even if there was some sort of collusion between Mr. Biggs and Mr. Souza, it really has no bearing on the subject before us. Even if the fire was caused by Dr. Scarpelli’s smoking, our client cannot be held responsible for his actions, especially as those actions were obviously done in secret. There are signs all over that complex, counselor, saying that smoking is not allowed on the premises. My client did everything reasonable to assure—” This time Phillips cut himself short, as Aaron started to pull more documents from the file.

“Twenty-four reports, filed by Lydecker employees in the three weeks he was at that facility, all complaining that the good doctor was smoking in the hallways. A security report, which states that Dr. Scarpelli was warned about smoking, at which point he became abusive and ripped the ‘No Smoking’ sign from the wall of Lab #6 and threw it in the face of the security guard. An e-mail to the security department, instructing them not to bother Dr. Scarpelli about his smoking, and signed by Mr. Harmon himself. Your clients knew about the doctor’s actions, counselor, and they deliberately chose to ignore them. They are therefore responsible for any and all damages caused by those actions.” And with that, Aaron Stemple crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, wearing the exact same expression of self-righteousness as the other lawyer had used before him.

Phillips looked at his client, and any doubt he had harbored regarding the validity of those damning documents was dispelled. Tony Harmon had visibly shrunk in his clothes, and had his face buried in his hands. Carlton Biggs sat rigidly in his seat, staring fixedly at Stemple and his client, a vein in his temple throbbing madly. Neither of them bothered to return Phillips’ look, and the old lawyer hung his head and sighed, admitting defeat.

Phillips sat up in his chair, combing his hand through his hair, straightening a few errant gray strands. He had expected an easy win today, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen. Oh, well, it wasn’t the first time a client had promised him gold and then delivered crap. If they lost on this deal, and it sure as hell looked like they already had, he would just hand them this idiot Harmon and his stooge.

“Very well, counselor. Just how badly was your client hurt?” he asked the old shark.

Aaron’s face was unreadable, as he leaned forward and pressed a button on the intercom. “Mary, can you bring that in now,” he intoned, and then turned towards his client. “Tom, if you’d please?”

Tom Blackwood nodded, and without a word he stood up and faced away from the table, as he removed his T-shirt and exposed his scarred back to everyone there. He knew what the roadmap of pink tissue looked like, but was not in the least embarrassed by them. If he felt nervous about his nudity at all, it was because of the twenty extra pounds he still had to lose.

At that moment the door to the conference room opened, and one of Aaron’s secretaries came in bearing a cardboard box. She smiled at Tom as she set the box on the table, and he responded with a cheerful wave of his fingers. Sourly, Phillips decided that the so-called victim of this case was way too happy about the whole thing.

From the cardboard box Mary removed a hotplate, a digital oven thermometer, and a large plastic pill bottle. She placed the thermometer on top of the hotplate, and then plugged the kitchen appliance into a wall socket but did not turn it on. She smiled once more at Tom, and then left the room. Aaron was already busy passing out more documents from his files.

“As you can see, counselor, my client was quite badly scarred by the explosion, although fortunately, thank God, there was no serious damage to his spinal column or his nerves. And as you can also see from these medical reports, except for the scarring my client is expected to make a full recovery. Tom, you may put your shirt back on now.”

Phillips and his two associates quickly perused the newest reports while Tom donned his shirt, and then returned to his seat. Without being told, he reached out and picked up the pill bottle, the same one that Dr. Somerville gave him the day he checked out of the hospital. He opened the bottle and shook out three of the tiny pieces of plastic that had been taken out of his back, each about the size of a BB. One by one he placed the three pieces in the center of the hotplate.

Phillips looked up from his reading, raising an eyebrow. At last, something that looked promising. If the plaintiff in this case had nothing more than cosmetic damage, and only to his back at that, then they could probably get off with little more than a token out of court settlement. Some plastic surgery, some emotional distress, and maybe the legal fees, but that was it. Probably $50,000 at most. Silently, he cursed Tony Harmon for the fool he was. Five figures was a drop in the bucket to a company the size of Lydecker, but the potential harm that these people could cause was astronomical. The scandal alone would drop the company’s stock into the basement, not to mention all the very lucrative contracts that would be canceled if the public lost faith in the companies’ management. This had to be swept under the rug. There was no doubt about it, Harmon had shown an amazing lack of judgment in this whole affair, and no matter what today’s outcome, he and his hired thug Biggs would have to go.

Aaron continued, once more passing out documents from the apparently bottomless folder. “As the medical report also shows, my client’s back was literally ‘shotgunned’ with particles of a hard, plastic-like substance, composition unknown, most of which are still there. They imbedded themselves not only under the skin, but also in the bones of his ribs and the vertebrae of his spine. Because of the great numbers and small size of the particles, plus the fact that they seem to be almost invisible to both x-ray and sonogram, it is deemed impossible to successfully remove all of them.”

“Wait a minute,” asked Phillips. “Are you suggesting that these particles might be poisonous? If so, counselor, I find that hard to reconcile with your statement that you don’t know what these particles are.”

Aaron cocked an eyebrow. “What I said, counselor, was that the ‘composition’ was unknown. I did not say that we didn’t know what the particles are. If you’ll take a look at this next page?

“Now the project Dr. Scarpelli was working on was for a new, room temperature super conductor, or SC for short. This was an outbreak of the research he did for Bell Laboratories, in the development of polythiophene, an organic SC. For organic, you can read plastic.” Aaron paused, to reach over and turn on the hotplate. As he continued his speech, he kept a careful eye on the thermometer that now displayed the rising temperature of the hotplate’s surface.

“No one knows just what the formula was that Dr. Scarpelli was working on, that day in Lab #6. He kept that close to his vest, and as far as anybody knows, all of his notes were destroyed in the explosion. But he did file regular progress reports with Mr. Harmon’s office, reports in which he carefully detailed the properties of the substance he had created. This next document was Dr. Scarpelli’s last such report. In it, he stated that his current formula SL-137 was highly promising, and that it had all the characteristics of a room temperature SC. It did, however, have two flaws, which he was still working on.

“The first flaw was SL-137’s operating range. The new SC would only act as a super conductor until it’s temperature reached 106 degrees Fahrenheit, at which point it stopped conducting at all. And when it reached 120 degrees…” Aaron paused, looking at the thermometer, trying to time it just right, “At 120 degrees Fahrenheit…”

Boom-BOOM-BOOOMM!

Like a string of firecrackers the three particles of SL-137 exploded, causing all the representatives from Lydecker Laboratories to jump in their seats. Being prepared from the experiments they had done the previous night, Tom and Aaron were able to restrain themselves, but they still noticeably flinched. Tom especially had a strained look in his eyes, and it was some time before he could tear his gaze away from the dimpled surface of the hotplate.

“As Dr. Scarpelli put it,” Aaron said dryly. “ ‘At 120 degrees Fahrenheit, SL-137 exhibits a highly dynamic response’.

“Gentlemen, and lady, my client may or may not have a toxic substance buried in his back. No one knows just what this stuff is made of, or what the long term effects of having it inside your body may be. But we do know that my client is now a walking time bomb.

“This is northern California and the climate is supposed to be pretty mild, but last summer on at least three occasions, the temperature in this city rose to over 110 degrees. If he wants to live, my client will have to spend the rest of his life constantly watching his surroundings. No more suntans at the beach, no more saunas at the gym. He can’t even take a hot shower anymore. For the rest of his life, my client has to live with the fact that he could explode,/I> at any—”

Tony Harmon leaped up from his chair, looking like he was the one about to explode. His voice broke as he shouted stridently at Aaron and Tom.

“Damn you, where the hell did you people get this stuff!!”

Aaron Stemple looked at him from across the table. When he answered, it was with all the measured coldness only achieved from thirty years in a courtroom.

“Mr. Harmon, my offices served your company with a subpoena deuces tecum several weeks ago. That is a subpoena for records, sir. With it, you are required by law to surrender any and all documents regarding this case to us. By law, Mr. Harmon. Which means you would have been liable for prosecution if you had not produced them, or had concealed their existence. Therefore, Mr. Harmon, we must have gotten these documents from you. Isn’t that right?”

Harmon collapsed in his seat, totally defeated. Edward Phillips was shaking his head, disgusted, while his two associate lawyers shuffled papers and looked uncomfortable. Aaron Stemple was keeping his professional demeanor, but a small smile of triumph played at the corners of his mouth. And Tom Blackwood was grinning smugly from ear to ear.

Carlton Biggs did none of these things. He glared, from under beetling brows, at the author of all his problems. There was only one place where those files could have come from, and only one way they could have fallen into the hands of this punk and his lawyer. Someone had burgled his office to get those files, and a lawyer like Stemple would never have been a part of that, so it must have been the punk.

Biggs knew it was all over, and not just the cushy job at Lydecker. If they had these files, they had to have the others, and there was enough dirt in there to send Mrs. Biggs’ little boy to jail for twenty years. He’d have to run, leave it all behind and disappear, change his name and live like a freakin’ animal for the rest of his life. And all because of this sorry assed punk with the scarred back.

In his head, Carlton Biggs was busy making his plans for getting out of town. But in the back of his mind he was also making plans for his return. Watch your ass, punk. You know what payback is.

*****

It was three days later, and Mike Blackwood was pacing across the floor of Pablo Murray’s workshop. His jerky movements testified to his agitation, which seemed to emanate off of him in waves. From his place on the couch Tom shared a look with Murray, who shrugged his shoulders in response. Hey man, he’s your brother, not mine.

Tom sighed. This was the first face-to-face meeting he and Mike had had since his trip to San Francisco. Tom had kept in contact with a few conciliatory phone calls, but mostly by e-mail, because he found it easier to hide the truth from his brother in writing. He hadn’t wanted to tell Mike about the fight at the Reisbach’s dojo, or saving the little Chinese girl, and he definitely didn’t want to tell him about his decision to take up the superhero biz. He knew for sure that would make the elder Blackwood freak out. But everything was ready now, and the time for secrets was past. He needed Mikes’ help, and what’s more, he truly wanted his brothers’ support.

Mike finally stopped his pacing and looked at Tom as if he had never seen him before, then threw up his hands, an act more of incredulity than acceptance. He took a seat in a chair halfway between his brother on the couch and Murray at his desk, perching his body on the edge of the worn out cushion. He looked briefly back and forth between the two men who had conspired to keep him in the dark, and then said something both foul and anatomically impossible.

“Now let me get this straight. You broke into Lydecker Labs and you burgled not only the CEO’s office, but also the chief of security’s office as well. You sneak past dozens of guards and a million bucks worth of electronic security, hack their computer system, steal some files, and by some miracle manage to get out of there without getting caught or even getting your picture taken by a surveillance camera.”

“Actually,” put in Murray, “Tom didn’t break into the security office. He never got that far, ‘cause the guy hid all his good stuff in a file box up in the crawlspace. He didn’t have to break in so, technically, Tom just sort of found them.”

Mike ignored him, kept pressing on, his voice dripping scorn. “But dodging the bullet like that isn’t enough for you. So you take those files, the proof of your little break in, and you wave it like a flag in a court of law and say ‘look Ma, look what I did’. Is that about right, Tom?”

“Actually,” Murray once again pointed out, “It wasn’t a court. It was just a conference room in his lawyer’s office.”

“Shut up, Murray,” Mike snapped, “ I’ll get to you in a minute. Right now I’m talking to the other idiot.”

“Look, Mikey,” Tom began, but his brother rolled over his words like a runaway truck. His anger was showing itself as a barely contained tremble in his sneering remarks.

“But you know, that’s not the worst of it, oh no, not by a long shot. I’ve gotten used to you pulling these bone headed, dangerous stunts, and then telling me about it later. I’m not surprised that you committed about a dozen felonies, and get this, this time I actually kind of approve of what you did. Those guys were trying to hose you, and you turned it around on them. Bully for you, Tom, the little guy takes on the evil empire and kicks their ass. Simply wonderful.

“What’s got me so pissed, you asshole, is that you’ve got a goddamned bomb in your back. You’ve got this plastic explosive tattoo, you could blow up and die at any minute, and you wait a whole friggin’ week to tell me about it! You tell Murray, you tell Aaron, you tell the whole world before you tell your own goddamned brother!”

Mike spat the last words like a curse, and then was on his feet again and pacing. Tom sighed. This was going to take some serious explaining, all complicated by the fact that he agreed with Mike. His brother was a part of the secret, and what’s more he was a part of Tom’s life. He had a right to know if something important happened, when it happened, and not to be the very last guy in the loop.

“Look, Mike, will you stand still for a minute? All right, mea culpa, I screwed up and I’m sorry. You’re right, when I found out what was in those files, I should have called you. Murray knew about it first only because he helped me go through all those reports, but I should have told you before I did Aaron. I should have picked up that phone and called you as soon as I knew, and I’m real sorry now that I didn’t. Honest to God, Mikey, I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you, I swear I wouldn’t do that.

“But Mike, a lot of strange stuff went down last week, when I was away. Stuff that I didn’t want to talk to you about until I got it straight in my own head. I had some decisions to make, and I’m ready now to tell you about it. So will you listen to me?”

Mike stared at him, his face still hard with resentment. But his eyes softened a little, and he finally gave Tom a tight little nod. He asked, “This ‘stuff’ you want to tell me about. Does Murray already know it?”

Reluctantly, Tom nodded. “A little of it, but not much. What he knows about involves something that happened to two friends of his, so I had to tell him before he heard it from them. But most of this is new to him, too.”

Mike thought about it for a while, and then nodded. “Alright. So I’m listening,” he said, crossing his arms and sinking back into his chair.

Tom talked. He talked for over an hour, pouring out more than just a tale of events. He told them about the nights on the roof top watching the dojo, following the Reisbachs back to their home on Portrero Hill, and then afterward the joyous exploring of San Francisco from the night time skies. The excitement, the total freedom, the thrill and exhilaration that no one else in the world was capable of feeling. The awesome feeling he got walking down a street passing people, knowing just how special and unique he was, how different his secret made him from everybody else. God, how he’d loved it.

Tom got up to pace, a wild emotion humming like electricity through his veins, his eyes fixed on events that had already happened. As he walked he swung his arms nervously. He told them about the night of the fight, about the sound of the motorcycles when the Union Square Psychos came roaring in, intent on shedding the blood of the people he was supposed to be protecting. He told them about the horror he’d felt when the cell phone didn’t work, the sick, sinking feeling when he realized that Dieter and Holly would probably die and that it would be his fault. And he told them of how he had taken up Dieter’s cane, and went to do hopeless battle to defend two innocent people who he didn’t even know.

Tom stopped his pacing and slowly sat down, his gaze still inward, a bemused look now on his face. He told them about the fight, and how incredibly easy it had all been. The strange sensation when he had taken hold of the cane, of the biological computer that had seemed to take over and calmly steered him through the panic and fear. Slipping through the night, never seen, the cane flashing like a scythe mowing down grass. So easy.

He told them about the gang leader and the shotgun he’d held to Holly’s throat, how he’d distracted him by trashing his car, and the roar of the blast that shattered a headlight just below his foot. He told them about Holly’s bravery when she grabbed the bastard’s gun, and her savagery when she beat him to a bloodied pulp. And he told them about the look in her eyes, those incredibly blue eyes, when he’d shown himself to make sure they were alright, and then swore them to secrecy about his involvement.

The two listeners were enthralled, drinking in every word of Tom’s story. In a small voice Murray assured him, “They didn’t talk, man. They didn’t say a word about you, not even to me.”

Mike just urged him to continue, with a soft “Go on, Tom.” His brother obviously knew that there was more to the story.

Reluctantly, embarrassed, he told them about landing on the downtown roof, and the roller coaster of emotions that he had endured. He told them about the rush, the feeling of power and invincibility he had felt, after his absurdly easy win against the gangbangers. He related his thoughts, the urge to relive the thrill of the fight by finding another crime, and the search of the tenderloin that followed. And then for several minutes Tom was very, very quite.

He sat there on the couch, once more lost in the past, trying to deal with the final events of that night. Mike and Pablo were respectfully silent, sensing the turmoil he was feeling, but it was their impatient fidgeting that finally roused him. He apologized for his distraction, and then continued the story.

He told them, then, in a subdued voice, that was nonetheless tense with emotion. He told them about the alley and the two cars, the two so different men making an exchange. And about the little Chinese girl, drugged and stuffed in the car trunk, like a piece of unfeeling luggage. He told them about the white communion dress, and of how beautiful she looked, how fragile, and innocent. And then in a choked voice he told them about the buyer, the toad who had bought her, fondled her, violated her unconscious body. And then he told them about the white hot rage that had sent him down into that alley, and what he had done to the perpetrators of that horrible crime.

The rest of the tale was almost anticlimactic. Searching the unconscious men, taking their weapons and ID and the envelope with its money, the flight to the hospital and leaving the girl for the medics to find. And then the final act, leaving the money with the priest, with instructions to give it to the young victim whose body it was supposed to have bought.

Tom paused, exhausted, closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the couch. He opened them at the sound of approaching steps, found Murray there with a cold Tuborg in his hand. Gratefully Tom accepted the beer, drank it half down, his parched throat soaking up the cold liquid like a sponge. He felt totally drained, and a pounding ache behind his eyes was making it hard to think. Murray passed another beer to Mike, opened a third one for himself. For several long minutes the three men drank in silence, each one alone with his thoughts.

“I called them,” Tom said suddenly, the words spoken so quietly that the other two had to strain to hear them.

“Who, Tom?” Mike asked. He talked with the same soft voice he used to calm down his daughters, when they woke at night from a bad dream. “Who did you call?”

“The hospital,” he replied, his voice a dull monotone, relating the event without really touching it. “The one were I left the little girl at. I used a payphone downtown, told them I was with Child Services. I wanted to know what her condition was.

“Turns out I was too late. She’d already been molested. They said she had suffered ‘repeated forced sexual intercourse’. Probably for at least a month. Some of it was rectal.”

Tom turned, finally looked at the faces of his brother and best friend. If they had been shocked by his words before, they were stunned now by the haunted look in his eyes. “All of this power,” he said, his voice gone hollow. “All the things I can do that nobody else can. And I can’t take back one minute of what happened to that little girl. I wish I’d killed the bastards.”

In the shocked silence Tom set down his drink and stood up, nervous energy once more flooding through his body like overheated blood. He felt the urge to move, and did it without thought, in his own unique way. With a bestial snarl he launched himself into the air, up into the rafters of Murray’s warehouse. With a resounding CLAA-NNG, he slammed his shoulder against the corrugated metal of the roof, grunting as he rebounded like a rubber ball, only to come back to kick at the metal again and again in a white rage. The noise of his blows echoed in the huge building like cannon fire. Bang, bang, bang-BANG-BA-ANG!! With a roar and one final last kick he finished abruptly and turned away, lunged to the side and swung from the I-beams, threading his way through the supports. He performed somersaults like a circus aerialist, impossible gymnastics moves that defied belief, just as he had done a week ago beneath the span of the Golden Gate Bridge, only now with a manic speed. He did this for several frantic minutes without explanation, an incredible display of agility and power, a freedom of movement that mankind had always dreamed of, but could never realize. Below him his audience of two looked on, amazed, unable to speak or just unwilling to intrude on a young God’s rage.

Finally Tom came down, landing hard enough to make a slapping sound with his running shoes. Sweat poured down his face and darkened his shirt, and his breath came harsh as a bellows. Without a word to the others he picked up his bottle of beer and drained it, and then viciously threw it against a wall, where it shattered into a million pieces of sparkling glass. The sudden violence brought both Mike and Murray to there feet, but Tom ignored them. Once again he stared into nothing, his breathing slowed but still whistling in and out of his nose like a valve on a steam engine, while he fought tooth and nail with his personal demons.

And with that he turned around and walked down the hallway that led to the backdoor. His brother and his friend could only stand there, watching him go.

*****

Mike found him a half hour later, still in Murray’s parking lot, sitting in the back of his pickup. He had a small pile of gravel in the truck next to him, and was pitching it one stone at a time against the sheet metal walls of the warehouse. For a while Mike stood there and watched his little brother, then without a word he climbed into the pickup truck with him. He sat with the pile of gravel between them, and now Mike too picked up the stones one at a time, and threw them at the metal wall.

For a while the double clanging of rock against metal was the only sound, echoing across the parking lot. The two men said nothing, content in the moment with just each other’s company. Finally, while still throwing his stones, Tom spoke.

“I acted like an idiot in there, didn’t I?” He tossed another rock extra hard, to emphasize the last word. Clang!

Mike shrugged, tossing one of his own. “Pretty dramatic exit, if you ask me. But hey, you just found out you’re not God. Must’ve been tough.”

Tom snorted, picked up and tossed another rock. Clang.

“I never thought I was God, you moron. I just thought I was special, and that maybe I should do something with it.”

“Unique and special’ are two different things, Tom. Just ‘cause you can do things no one else can, it doesn’t mean that what you do can change the world. Flying is a nice trick, but it’s not like it can end poverty, or cure cancer. And you certainly can’t turn back time and undo something bad. This is real life, man, not some old Superman movie.” Clang.

“Thanks for the reality check, but it’s not necessary. I’m not deluding myself, Mike, but last week showed me something. This power, maybe it can’t change the world, but it can change a lot of lives, help a lot of people. It can make a difference.

“I know, I can’t fix everything, and I’m not going to start feeling guilty when something happens that I couldn’t predict or can’t repair. I’m not responsible for all the pain in the world. But Mike, if you’d only have seen her! She was so beautiful, and tiny, and, and defenseless. She looked like Desiree will look in a couple of years. I keep seeing her, every night in my dreams, ever since it happened. I can’t stop.

“I got her away from it all, Mike. I saved her. But what about all those other little girls out there who are still in it? I may not see it, but I know this shit exists. And if there is something I can do to help, and I do nothing, doesn’t that make me responsible for the bad stuff that I do let happen?” Clang.

Mike snorted. “Seems to me Mom and Dad had this same conversation with us about twenty years ago, man. You called it the Spiderman speech, remember?” Clang

Tom laughed, remembering. “Oh, yeah. Like what he was always saying in the comic book, ‘with great power comes great responsibility’. Yeah, they were always giving us the same speech about taking responsibility for more than just the things we do in life. They said we also have to be responsible for the state of the world we live in, and what we pass down to our own kids. ‘Course, I think they were talking about recycling and planting trees and stuff.” Clang.

“Hey, same principal. If they knew you were out saving karate instructors and rescuing slave girls, I think they’d approve. I know I do.” Clang.

Tom raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You approve, huh? So just what do you approve of? Me getting shot at by a street gang?”

Clang. “Stop acting so surprised, you jerk. I was raised by the same parents as you were. And I have kids of my own, remember? Hearing you talk about that little girl, Christ, Tom, I would have done the same thing. At least, I hope I would have.”

“Well, thanks. It means a lot, having you say that.” Clang.

Mike grunted, an inarticulate acknowledgement. The two brothers sat in a companionable silence for several more long minutes, each one alone, but only in his thoughts. The pile of stones gradually got smaller, neither one breaking the silence until it was almost gone. Finally, Mike spoke.

“So, we’re actually going to do this, aren’t we? I mean Murray’s crazy superhero idea.” He asked the question mildly, as if it was of only passing importance. Clang.

Tom nodded, answering in the same manner. “Yup. At least I am. I’ve got to, I’m the guy with the ‘great power’, but you don’t have to get involved, you know. You can just sit this one out.” Clang.

“Ha! Just try and keep me out. I’m in, but on one condition. No more secrets. I swear, Tommy, if you hold back a single thing from me, I’ll pick up the phone and spill my guts to Mom and Dad. They’ll be down here all over your case before the phone cools. Let’s see you play Captain Invincible with them camped on your doorstep”. Clang.

Tom stared, shocked, the rock in his hands totally forgotten. Slowly he began to grin.

“Now let me get this straight. I’m thirty-two years old, and you’re thirty-four. And you’re threatening to tell Mom and Dad on me.”

Mike’s face lost its glower, and a smile tugged at his lips. Tom started to chuckle, triggering the same response in his brother. Before long, the two young men were holding their sides and roaring with laughter.

Clang!

*****

“They paid you how much?!” Mike said, his incredulous voice echoing in the cavernous space of Murray’s warehouse.

“Keep your voice down. I said they paid me $2.7 million, but the settlement was actually closer to five. This was after taxes and paying off Aaron. Now gimme another slice of the pepperoni.”

Stunned, Mike passed over the flat box that still had almost a whole pizza left. The fast food was quickly becoming the meal of choice for meetings of what Murray had already dubbed ‘the planning committee’. The committee of three was now convened in the warehouse later that same night, the beer long put away, and instead Murray’s kitchen had provided cans of soft drinks. By unspoken consent, the three members had decided that they all needed the clearest heads possible for tonight’s business.

Now Murray waved a piece of crust like a baton, emphasizing each point as he spoke it. Every now and then he sprayed crumbs in his excitement.

“Hey, that’s not so much. I cleared about the same on the last picture I did. But it is enough so Tom doesn’t have to waste his life working a nine to fiver, and instead he can do the crime fighting shtick full time.”

“$2.7 million. And he can fly, too,” Mike muttered, still trying to wrap his mind around the enormous sum.

“Considering the fact that your brother has a bomb imbedded in his back, and that they bribed a city official to cover it up, I think they got off easy. Too bad they made him sign a non-disclosure, it rubs me wrong to think that they got off scot-free. I mean, that really sucks.”

Tom washed down his last bite of pizza, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, I wouldn’t say they got away scot-free, Murray. You see, I never told them about the rest of Biggs’ files. That slob did a lot of dirty work for Tony Harmon, and he kept some pretty accurate records about all of it. I guess he wanted some insurance in case Harmon ever felt tempted to throw him to the wolves.

“Anyway, I took out all mention of me, and as soon as the check cleared I dropped the rest of it at the Fraud Division of the Sacramento Sheriff’s Department. Anonymously, of course. I think Lydecker Labs will still have some explaining to do.”

Mike and Murray both laughed, raising their soft drink cans in salute. For a while they basked in the warm camaraderie of the moment, three friends who had just scored a victory against a supposedly all powerful opponent. It felt good, and for now they were content just to milk it for what it was worth. Finally, Mike broke the silence.

“Alright Tom. You’ve got us here, and we’re all on board with this thing. It’s your butt that’s gonna be on the line, so I guess you’re in charge. So what’s next?”

Murray nodded his agreement, and Tom found both men contemplating him expectantly. He paused, considering the step that they were about to take, then sighed and took it.

“Okay, here’s what I’ve been thinking about. First off, I need to settle my affairs up here, and move down to San Francisco. That’s where all the action is, and I can’t do much good if I have a hundred mile commute. I also need a cooler climate. Aaron was right about that, I’ve got to stay away from really warm places, or situations where I might get exposed to too much heat. Like he said, no more saunas, hot showers, or days at the beach. And remember, not only does SL-137 explode at 120 degrees, but it also stops superconducting at 106. I think we’ll have to do some tests, but I’m guessing that means I stop flying when that happens.

“I also need some sort of cover, an occupation to explain to people what I do for a living. We don’t want anybody knowing the details about the accident if we can help it. I’ve already talked to a couple of kids I know who work at one of the comic stores I buy from, and I’m going to put a lot more money into the business, and train them on how to operate it. Once I get it going, I can pretty much keep track of everything by computer, and just stay in touch with these guys by phone. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours a week, and it will give me a legitimate source of income if somebody asks. It’s not really necessary, but with a little luck I think I can even make a decent profit off of it.

“I’m going to need you guys to work on the technical end for me. Weapons, radios, gadgets, anything you can think of that will help me out. Murray can manufacture some, but I think most of it you’ll have to buy. Don’t get anything that can be traced back to us! Don’t have anything shipped through the mail, or overnighted by courier. Buy from retail outlets, or even better, get what you can from swap meets or flea markets. And don’t use credit cards, use cash. Anything I might drop or leave behind in a fight has to be totally anonymous.

“Murray, you’ve made a lot of costume for the movies, so I want you to see if you can come up with something a little more practical than the sweats and stuff I first threw together. I’m not talking about capes and Spandex and big red letters on my chest, either. I’m talking about something with a little camouflage that will keep me warm and won’t get in the way when I’m tripping off into the wild blue. But no costumes, understand?

“I don’t want to just fly around hoping to find a crime. I think we can do more than that. The Lydecker sneak proves that I can break into most buildings that have drop ceilings, totally bypass most of their security without leaving a trace. We can search files, tap phones, bug offices, the works. We don’t need warrants, and we don’t have to use ten year old, out of date equipment like the cops do. I checked some of the stuff available online, and it’s amazing what’s out there. We’re all techies, we should use that as much as possible.

“Mike, you used to be a pretty good hacker. I want you to get back into it. Find out all the new hacks, get the numbers and URL’s for anything we might ever want to investigate. License plates, financial records, criminal backgrounds, the works. See if there’s a safe way to access some of the police networks. Remember though, don’t get caught, or leave any footprints that might lead back to us. I know nobody’s looking for us now, but we’ve got to take it as a given that someday somebody will, so don’t stick your neck out.

“As far as weapons go, I’m open to anything that isn’t lethal. No guns, or anything that can be mistaken for a gun. I figure the cops probably won’t search too hard for a vigilante, but only as long as he doesn’t flash a firearm. Look into tasers, stun guns, tear gas, stuff like that. Try searching websites that deal in police riot equipment and martial arts supplies.

“Mike, we have to square things with Cathy and the kids. If you’re going to be spending a lot of time with this, you have to have an excuse, so we’ll tell her it’s business, and I’ll pay you your going consulting fee for every hour you work. And no objections, dammit, you know that I can afford this easily, and it’s the only way to explain what’s going on to Cathy. Besides, I intend to have you working so many hours for me, you won’t have time to work on anything else. For tax purposes we’ll have Murray hire you, we’ll say you’re doing some top secret programming for some special effects he’s creating. That will explain why you can’t talk about it.

“I’m going to be gone for a few weeks. I’m going to Japan to work things out with Miko. For the first time since she started working for Asana Industries, I’ve got more money than she does, so she can’t use her bank account to beat me over the head with anymore. I don’t want to take Benny away from her, but I damned well will get to see my own son whenever I want to.

“I’ve already got my bag packed, and my flight leaves in a couple of hours, so as soon as we’ve finished here I’m taking off. I’ve got a laptop in my luggage, so I’ll keep in touch by e-mail. Don’t talk too much about the flying, though, we’re going to be using some tight security procedures, and we need to get used to it now. I’ll give you a call as soon as I come home, but in the meantime see what you can come up with. If you have to spend any money let Murray front it, and I’ll square things when I get back.”