“We Got Beat.”

“We got beat.” ONE WEEK AGO. . . .

Roy quickly determined that he had never met the young black man staring him down in the middle of the street. He said young because the face underneath the black knit hat couldn’t have been a day over sixteen years old. Roy questioned himself for saying young because the body attached to that face was massive. Bigger than Roy himself, in fact, and that worried him.

Rudy and Echo had given the kid’s name as Juarez; more importantly, they had tagged him as a Meta. And that, even more than the kid’s size, worried Roy.

The fact that there was another Meta in town that Roy had yet to meet wasn’t surprising. Unlike other major cities, like Federation or Jefferson Falls, or even New York for that matter, there were no high profile cape and mask vigilantes running around Washington, D.C. For starters, working outside the law would prove extremely difficult in The District’s alphabet soup of law enforcement: DCPD, FBI, CIA, DEA, OPS, NSA, Secret Service, Capitol Police, Park Police, on and on and on. . . As Roy’s grandmother back in Texas would have put it, you couldn’t swing a dead cat in Washington without hitting somebody involved with law enforcement.

It hadn’t always been this way. The National Guardian was once the stalwart protector of the nation’s capital, but after an errant energy blast in 1986 destroyed a tour bus full of schoolkids from the president’s home state of Illinois, he was driven from the city in shame. The city’s tourism dollars took a serious hit after that tragedy, and, riding a swell of public demand for such a measure, the City Council passed legislation soon thereafter that not only made any acts of masked vigilantism illegal, as they nominally already were everywhere, but also authorized the use of deadly force by any law enforcement official witnessing such an act. And with seemingly every third person in Washington packing official heat, the odds drove most of the masks right out of town.

But just because there were no masks in Washington didn’t mean that there were no metahumans. In their time working for The Snowman, Roy and Deacon had run across quite a few other metas, working on both sides of the law, all of them decidedly, and understandably, low profile. But Roy knew instinctively that given the forced underground nature of their work, he had no real idea of the size of DC’s meta population. So the fact that he and Juarez had never met did not surprise Roy.

What was surprising was how much it hurt when the kid cracked him in the jaw. Roy hadn’t been punched like that in a long time. He felt his jaw give a little, but ultimately hold; he thought absurdly of an old Houston Oilers “bend but don’t break” defense as he spun off the hood of the car and down to the pavement.

“H’oh shit!” Rudy said.

From his seated position in the street, Roy watched as Juarez moved towards the open trunk of the car. On the driver’s side, Deacon dropped down into the seat and cooked the ignition. As Roy stood up, Rudy reached into the trunk and pulled out one of the large duffel bags inside. Echo took off running.

“Go, Deke!” Roy called over the roar of the engine as he threw himself towards Juarez. The big man easily sidestepped Roy’s attempt to spear him into the ground as Deacon pulled the car out into the street. Roy tasted a mouthful of gravel as he landed face-first in the street again. The kid was faster than him, too.

Juarez was on him then, bending over to deliver a quick rabbit punch to Roy’s kidneys that made his eyes water. He rolled over in agony, inadvertently giving the kid easy pickings of the envelope he had stuffed into his inside jacket pocket moments before.

Through the tears in his eyes, Roy saw Deacon hit the brakes at the corner and wheel the car back around. Rudy took off sprinting in the other direction, still holding the duffel bag, the weight of it really hindering his forward progress. A smile crossed Juarez’ face as he bolted after Rudy, catching him less than a hundred feet from where Roy lay. He caught Rudy around the waist from behind, driving him into a thick wooden street lamppost. Roy watched as Rudy joined him on the ground, and could do nothing to stop Juarez from taking the duffel.

Tossing the bag over his shoulder, Juarez turned and waved Roy’s envelope in his direction. “See ya ’round,” he called, and was gone.

Deacon pulled up just as Roy got back to his feet. “We still got the other bag, Roy - should we go after him?”

Roy stared down the street at where Juarez had just been, his kidney pumping fire through his back. “Let it go, Deke,” he said quietly. “We got beat.”

“A moment of your time, if you would.”

The man could not have been more obvious if he had tattooed F-E-D across his forehead.

“Mr. Temple, a moment of your time, if you would.”

At Roy’s side, Deacon spun and faced the intruder, dark glasses hiding the rage in his eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” Deacon said. “The man just buried his wife - give it a rest, would ya? At least for today.”

Roy turned then, placing a massive hand across Deacon’s forearm. His mouth neutralized by Roy’s implicit threat, Deacon removed his glasses so that there was no mistaking the mood in his eyes.

“Mr. Temple, I’m Special Agent Harris Creighton.” Creighton reached into his black wool topcoat to produce a badge identifying him as a part of the FBI’s Metahuman Affairs Division. Creighton was tall, athletic, an unruly mop of sandy blond hair his only deviation from the Bureau’s standard buttoned down Wall Street professionalism. The ramrod posture of the self-righteous made him seem even taller than he truly was. He removed his own glasses, a gold-framed pair of aviators, so that he could meet Roy’s eyes.

Roy didn’t blink.

Creighton broke first, looking away, over Roy’s shoulder towards the open grave where Flora would soon be lain to rest. “We’re very sorry for your loss, Mr. Temple.” Creighton shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his topcoat. “She was a beautiful woman.”

“Oh, go to hell, you sanctimonious sonofa - ”

One look from Roy stymied Deacon again.

Creighton looked past Roy once more, finding an impressive floral arrangement standing beneath the green funeral tent. Countless yellow roses, in the shape of a St. Andrew’s Cross. “Nice arrangement from the boss,” Creighton said. “Must be hard on the whole family.”

Creighton shook his head, frowning. “Was sorta hoping he’d be here today. Wanted to finally meet him.”

Creighton stopped, fishing for a response from Roy. Nothing.

“Your boss? The Snowman?”

“It’s Mr. Frost,” Deacon said. “No one calls him the Snowman.”

“I’m sorry,” Creighton lied. “Didn’t know that. Like I said, I’ve never met him. Can you believe that? Been chasing the guy for almost six years - never even seen him.”

Creighton turned back to Roy. “Have you ever seen him, Mr. Temple?”

Across the cemetery, Roy saw his son climbing into a black town car, flanked by Flora’s parents. They had hustled Graham away from Roy as soon as they noticed Creighton approaching, shielding him from the certain confrontation. Roy had intended to spend the whole day with Graham; they had hardly spoken two words to each other since the accident. Roy had hardly spoken two words to anyone since the accident.

Roy watched until Graham disappeared into the back seat. The sleeves of his suit coat barely grazed his wrists, and his pants hiked up well above his ankles when he sat down. When had he gotten so tall?

Roy looked back at Creighton. “I really don’t have time for this today, Agent Creighton.”

Creighton nodded gravely. “Of course. Didn’t mean to intrude. We’ll try you again later in the week, maybe? We would really like to talk to you.”

“How ’bout we call you?” Deacon said.

Creighton ignored him, pressed an embossed business card into Roy’s large palm. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Temple.”

“Oh Lord, grant me vision.”

The funeral service itself had been an understated affair, as was Flora’s wont. A church service was eschewed for a simple graveside memorial, the accident mandating a closed casket.

Roy had found an old cemetery on a small bluff in Northwest, the highest point of which afforded a distant glimpse of the Potomac. Flora would like the spot, he knew. Water always made her smile. When he had found it, his memories had turned to a houseboat in Galveston that had been their home for a few months, a lifetime ago. Flora had loved that place; she’d like this one, too.

Flora’s entire family had flown in from Texas, and a cousin from Laredo had delivered a stirring version of Gram Parsons’ “In My Hour of Darkness,” one of Flora’s favorite songs. Oh Lord grant me vision, Oh Lord grant me speed. It was a lovely service, but Roy was glad that the day was through.

When they got home, Roy offered to cook dinner for Graham, anything he wanted. It was the first words Roy had spoken directly to his son all day. Graham declined with a quick shake of his head and disappeared into his room, shutting the door softly behind him.

Roy collapsed into his ratty old easy chair, his suit rumpled from the long day, an open beer in his hand. He sat that way for hours, never even bothering to raise the bottle to his lips.

Several times he thought he heard the sounds of tears behind Graham’s closed door - sighs, sniffs, sobs. Roy wanted to go to his son, to be with him, to comfort him, but he didn’t know how. So he stayed there in his chair, holding the beer.

A little after midnight, Roy was jolted from a fitful doze by the chirping of his cell. Roy was startled, and the condensation that had formed on the by-now warm beer sent the beer sliding right out of his hand and spilling onto the carpet. He ignored it.

Roy recognized the number on the Caller ID right away. He rolled his head back, staring at the ceiling as he hit TALK.

“Roy, it’s Deacon.”

“I know.”

“Just calling to see how you were - ”

“What do you want?”

“You see? I should be offend - ”

“What do you want?”

“All right, look. The boss called. He needs us.”

Roy looked back down, finding the wall clock about the TV, as if to confirm that it really was just past midnight. It was.

“I don’t think so, Deke. You tell him my son needs me tonight.”

“Look, I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, I understand. Perfectly. I’m feelin’ for ya, buddy. But I don’t think we can afford not to come in. After the way we screwed things up with that Juarez kid?”

Roy stared at the wall clock, watched the second hand make a complete revolution.

“Roy.”

Roy watched the clock do another circle, then stared at Graham’s bedroom door.

“Roy, I think - ”

“Gimme ten minutes.”




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