I, Superhero Read online

  ‘Any minute,’ Ryland says, his voice a wellspring of calm. ‘The super man is fast.’

  Four

  Ernest Smith, the super man, races along the sidewalk.

  Right now, however, his race looks more like a casual stroll. Bursting through the estate’s front entrance isn’t exactly the best way to conceal his approach. Ernest figures doing so would give his rival a chance to escape—or worse. So for now, he’s disguised as a health-conscious, 35-year-old Clayton resident, out for an afternoon jog, wearing purple sweats and a white shirt with St. Louis Blues across the chest. Said jogger just happens to have stopped at a sturdy, wrought iron gate to check his running shoes.

  In truth, most of the racing has already transpired. At Chief Ryland Washington’s mention that there was a kid in trouble, Ernest leapt into motion. Frowning at the thought of going after a kid—it didn’t seem to fit Strang’s M.O.—Ernest raced the family sedan down the stretch of I-64 connecting Chesterfield to Clayton. Sure, he’d prefer a Batmobile, but the family Honda can top 90 mph just fine.

  Next to the fence, Ernest crouches, ostensibly to tie his shoe. A lock of reddish-blonde hair falls into his eyes. At his wife’s encouragement, he’s been growing it out—says it makes him look like her favorite soccer star—but the longer it gets, the more the power curl emerges, and he can’t get it to stay back without looking like a gangster from a Scorsese film.

  Ernest fumbles with the lace, keeping his eyes low. He spots a yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked against the curb about 20 yards away. When he rises to his full height of 6 feet 2 inches, he places his hands on his hips and arches his back. Ernest studies the canopy of trees. He twists to one side, completing the fictitious stretch. The trees would make a great vantage point, Ernest thinks, for an accomplice armed with—

  There.

  The kiosk. And within: Ernest can just make out the security guard, dressed in a cornflower blue oxford, hands by his shoulders, palms open.

  And also wearing a red laser dot, painted on his chest.

  Ernest approaches the iron bars, readying for a standing quad stretch. It’s likely he’s been spotted, but he’ll maintain the façade of afternoon jogger as long as possible. He keeps the red laser dot in his field of vision. If it leaves the security guard, then it’s time for plan B—smash through the gate and hope for the best. To be fair, he’s never been much of a planner.

  He locks his fingers around one of the bars, and with a sharp pop, removes a fencepost. Now we’re in business, Ernest thinks. He also thinks that the sudden noise will attract the attention of whoever is perched above, and knows he needs to move quickly.

  Ernest takes a few steps toward the front gate, springs over the iron spires, and lands on the sturdy branch of an oak tree 30 feet above. It may not be a leap over a tall building, but it’ll do.

  ---

  Helpless in the security kiosk, Martin Crowley stares at a red dot hovering next to the badge of his uniform shirt. Several other thoughts dash through his mind at once. The foremost? That he didn’t sign up for any of this.

  All he wanted was a place to write. He figured that life in a security kiosk in sleepy Clayton, Missouri—the town might as well be called Lily Whiteyville—would give him plenty of time to flesh out his ideas. That the height of his duties would be to call in a raccoon to Animal Control. And with all that spare time, there’d be no more stopping after 7,000 words just because life (read: next month’s rent) got in the way.

  Now this. This load of absolute bullcrap, Crowley thinks. A call on the intercom. A red dot on his chest. Then, to rub salt in the wound, a condescending lecture at the hands of a criminal he was (ostensibly) hired to stop.

  The timing couldn’t be worse. Because he’s just, as in just now, right this second, begun outlining a new, blockbuster plot—this one involving a security guard who gets shot by a sniper, but survives his wounds and becomes a vigilante gun control advocate with an addiction to painkillers and ironic vengeance.

  The timing is particularly bad because he’s going to actually get shot before he gets the chance to commit his ideas to paper. On the bright side, he hasn’t pissed himself out of fear. Crowley curses his cowardice. He should have fought harder on behalf of the people he promised to protect. At the very least, he should have been able to send a warning. But he really, really doesn’t want to die, and for that feeling of craven self-preservation, Crowley feels an even greater sense of shame.

  The red dot disappears.

  Aspiring novelist Martin Crowley then notices several things happen in rapid succession.

  First, he hears the sharp clank of metal.

  Next, the crack of a broken tree branch.

  Then another.

  Crowley looks up, sees a rustle of leaves. One of the branches overhead shakes violently. He hears a few clanging thwacks. Then a grunt. Then a thud.

  The security guard ducks out of sight, not knowing what other threats might be lurking. He’d like something a little more lethal than the yellow-and-black stun gun clipped into his utility belt, which is the only weapon a security guard like him is allowed. He frantically rummages through a low shelf, looking for something, anything he might use as a weapon.

  All he can find is a ballpoint pen.

  ---

  Dr. Strang’s henchman lands almost perfectly on his back, absorbing the force of the impact, distributing it evenly across his spine, ribcage, and feet. Whatever the opposite of a belly flop is, the henchman has just executed one perfectly.

  Lucky, Ernest thinks. The man will be badly bruised, but alive.

  Ernest wishes he had broken something, however. An arm. Maybe even a finger would have done the trick. As he’s discovered after years of experience, searing pain tends to drain the fight out of a man.

  Ernest leaps down from the tree, landing beside Strang’s associate. Any attempt to flee can be met with a foot to the chest. He then considers the device he’s just taken from the grubby man: a laser pointer.

  Ernest pockets the device. ‘Where’s the gun?’

  The henchman’s smile pokes out from between cracked lips. ‘You think he’d kill a security guard?’ Teeth—what teeth remain—stained from either too much coffee or tobacco. Probably 25. Looks 45. Brown eyes set too far apart, one of them a tad lazy. And dirty. Not the kind of dirt one picks up after falling from a tree, but the kind of dirt one picks up after falling from a tree and then not washing or changing clothes for a week. Ernest decides that even at a height of over six feet above the prone man, the smile stinks of overripe cheese.

  ‘Strang only punishes the guilty,’ the henchman concludes.

  ‘Guilty? There’s a kid in that house.’ In his anger, Ernest steps over the henchman, straddling the man so that Ernest can then yank him upright. It’s an error in judgment. ‘Now, where’s the gun?’

  The henchman replies by kicking at Ernest’s groin. Ernest tries to dodge, but the man is faster, and less injured, than Ernest figured. The man’s combat boot finds pay dirt.

  Ernest doubles over with a grunt. He loses his grip on the henchman’s filthy sweatshirt. But the man then commits his own error in judgment. He should have run. Instead, he retrieves a curved blade from his boot. The blade either reflects no light, or is just in a very bad mood. In a fluid motion, the grubby man wheels and strikes. His arm traces a wide arc; the blow aimed for Ernest’s neck.

  Ernest flinches. The blade misses neck, but lodges deep into his left shoulder.

  The henchman stares, as though he didn’t really plan for what comes next. So few do, Ernest thinks. To the henchman, this is how the fight ends: blade bites into flesh; the opponent yields. So rather than running away, the stinking creature just maintains his grip on the blade’s hilt.

  Ernest recovers. Snatches the henchman’s hand.

  ‘You. Stupid! Fuuuu—’

  A low growl swallows up most of Ernest’s f-bomb. He wrenches the hand and the henchman yelps—a squirrel’s panicked squawk—before dropping to a
knee.

  Ernest lowers his voice. ‘Did you not see what I just did up there? Huh? And now I’ve got you in a thumb lock. You don’t even need super strength when someone’s in a thumb lock.’

  Ernest grimaces. He hears a soft pop. The henchman bellows.

  ‘Although it is easier.’ Ernest drops the man’s arm. No doubt about it: the man smells like cheese. ‘Stop yelling.’ The henchman collapses, clutching his hand. As predicted, the fight and color drain from his face.

  ‘Freeze, motherfucker!’

  Ernest pivots to the sound of a man’s shouted cliché. The security guard with the light blue shirt stands three feet away, stun gun in hand, pointing it back and forth. Ernest raises his arms in surrender.

  ‘May I?’ Ernest asks. He motions in the direction of the knife.

  Crowley’s breathing is labored. He nods. Bad guys probably don’t ask permission to care for stab wounds, Crowley figures.

  Ernest extracts the knife from his shoulder. Blood oozes down a left arm surrounded by dense muscles Crowley usually associates with Olympic gymnasts. Ernest wipes the blade on his pant leg, then offers the knife to Crowley, handle first.

  Ernest fishes in his jeans pocket. ‘The police are going to want to take the knife, and this, into evidence.’ Ernest tucks the laser pointer into the security professional’s shirt pocket.

  ‘But… uh, aren’t you the police, uh… hurt?’ Crowley stammers out two questions at once.

  Ernest motions to the henchman. ‘If he tries to get up… do something bad.’ He takes a few strides toward the house. Crowley calls after him. ‘Wait!’

  Ernest turns.

  ‘Take this.’ Crowley retrieves a widescreen phone from his back pocket, gives it two taps with his thumb, and tosses it over. ‘You can see all the camera angles on that.’

  Ernest catches the gadget and looks at the display. ‘Perfect.’ He strides away.

  The new assistant calls after him again. ‘Wait!’

  Ernest turns again, annoyed. Kinda busy here, dude.

  ‘If you’re not the police… who the hell are you?’

  Ernest shrugs. ‘Ernest?’

  He then turns to the house, knowing full well the look now settling onto the guard’s face. It’s a look Ernest has seen countless times, one that registers when people hear his name, and are expecting to hear something like Captain Fantastic, or Supernova, or The Harbinger of Retribution.

  Crowley turns to his captive. ‘Huh. Disappointing.’

  The henchman frowns his agreement.

  Maybe when Crowley finally gets home and starts writing about it, he’ll give his characters different names.

  Five

  A languid knock echoes through the mansion’s front entryway.

  Standing on a kitchen chair next to custom cabinetry, Austin Wallace startles. He replaces the cover of a white shoebox that once held Jimmy Choos (a gift for his 24 year-old au-pair and eventual mistress; so worth it on every conceivable level, including the subsequent divorce, as the stunning brunette wore those pumps for every occasion), and tucks the cold iron the shoebox now houses into the waistband of his black gym shorts.

  Wallace hops down, scurries over to his kitchen’s six-burner Viking cooktop, and turns a dial. Just in case he has to resort to Plan B, a plan which began with another dial, the one next to an oversized gas fireplace in his basement man-cave. With his son cocooned in the panic room and safe from everything short of a nuclear bomb, Wallace is ready to unleash hell. He inhales, filling his lungs, feeling his chest expand.

  Dana Wallace’s father stands all of five foot nine, but after working out most every day since leaving his wife, he’s dropped a good 30 pounds, clocking in now at a svelte 150. The CFO of Alturia Health has even cut back his legendary 90-hour workweeks in order to prioritize 90 minutes of exercise. P90X, Krav Maga, kickboxing — all part of his daily routine.

  The new fitness regimen has been driven neither from a desire to complete a Spartan race, nor because of a high cholesterol number on a recent physical. Although a man working in his industry should have more intrinsic reasons, he’s been training purely out of fear. He’s been training because he tracks headlines of several national newspapers. And because some of the more recent alerts have him scared for his life.

  Item: United Health’s Stephen Hemsley, drowned after falling into a two-story vat of beer while taking a walking tour of an Amsterdam brewery.

  Item: Amerigroup’s James Carlson, bled out and died on the famed 17th fairway at St. Andrews, Scotland, after his driver snapped in half, the jagged shaft severing his femoral artery.

  Item: Aetna’s Joseph Zobtresky, beheaded by the wing of a single-engine aircraft while standing on the top deck of his yacht, taking in a Red Bull airplane race in Abu Dhabi.

  Item: Cigna’s H. Edward Hanway, flung over 200 yards through the air while on an amusement park ride in Branson called the Ozark Trebuchet. Death by splatting.

  Wallace recalls being particularly shocked while digesting this last bit. After all, what the hell was a guy like Hanway, who pulls in over $10 million per, doing slumming around in Branson?

  In the newspapers, all of these incidents were reported as accidental deaths, of course. In each case, there was no evidence to suggest otherwise. But you don’t exactly need to believe the moon landing was faked in order to realize that all these mishaps bear the mark of a genius and twisted mind—one belonging to a man who’s sworn a blood oath against the insurance executives who destroyed his life.

  The same man now knocking at Wallace’s door.

  ---

  Wallace’s chest deflates as he exhales. He can’t keep from shaking.

  Quit being such a pansy! he mentally berates himself. Wallace beats his chest with a right fist, grunting. This is no different, Wallace thinks, than the time he stood up to Brent McKensie, that bastard. The one who’d begun puberty sometime during the fifth grade. The Cro-Magnon who turned the eighth-grade locker room into some kind of Turkish prison back when it was sorta cool to bully other kids. The same one I finally stopped with a fist aimed straight to the jaw. If I could do that, I can do this.

  And if I can manage the finances of an insurance firm that did $19 billion in revenue last year, I sure as hell can handle one of my former insured, the one who just picked the wrong insurance exec to mess with.

  Wallace strides to the entryway. With his right hand, Wallace reaches behind his back, gripping the pistol. With his left, he swings open the tall maple front door.

  ‘Dr. Strange, I presume.’

  ‘Strang. There’s no E, and no magic cape.’ The former cardiologist waves a hand. ‘Also, it’s not even the right answer.’

  ‘Is that right? Then who the hell—’

  ‘I am your…’ Strang pauses, searching for the right word. Snaps his fingers once he finds it. ‘Recompense. The adjustment to your ledger.’

  Wallace draws the Beretta px4 sub-compact from his waistband and points the barrel at Strang. ‘Let’s try this answer: I’m not scared of you.’

  Strang sucks his teeth. ‘I’ll change your mind.’

  He looks deep into Wallace’s eyes. Strang has seen such bravado from men made of sterner stuff than this glorified accountant. It’s one thing to posture. To practice spin kicks, or do one-armed pushups, or purchase a semi-automatic from a gun show. But it’s a hell of a thing to cock the gun and kill a man, and deal with all that follows in this life and the next. Simply put, men like Wallace have too much to lose. They hesitate, perhaps thinking of jail time, loss of income, family reputation, and so on. Beyond that, there’s a simple logic governing moments like these: The man who prevails is the man most willing to die.

  Wallace relaxes the tension in his arms for just a moment.

  But a moment is all Strang needs.

  Wallace doesn’t see the first blow. The second one—delivered to his larynx—is so painful that he’s already lost control of his bladder by the time he squeezes the trigger, which would have be
en just fine of the gun were still in his hand.

  The third blow is a clap of thunder next to his ear.

  Strang eases Wallace to the floor while the CFO spasms in pain and surprise.

  ---

  Dr. Strang dabs blood from the knuckles of his right hand with a thick kitchen towel.

  ‘You’ll probably want to hang onto this.’ Strang tosses the towel into Wallace’s lap as the CFO’s senses return. He is propped up in one of the kitchen’s heavy chairs. Strang stands a few feet away, a predator sizing up prey.

  Wallace plucks the towel from his crotch, begins wiping blood from his face. The butt of the 9mm probably fractured Wallace’s zygomatic, Strang figures, labeling the cheekbone the same way he has since his first anatomy class. Strang opens his mouth to say something, then reconsiders. Just don’t start drying off your urine-soaked shorts, Strang thinks. That would be gross. You’ll see.

  ‘You left the burner on,’ Strang adds, gesturing at the Viking stove. ‘Good way to blow up a nice house.’

  So is an unlit fireplace, Wallace thinks, staring over the towel.

  As though sitting down over a cup of tea, the cardiologist pulls up a seat at the smallish kitchen table, planting himself across from the CFO. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking, Mr. Wallace. I’ve been… reading about the untimely deaths of so many of your colleagues these past few months. Very tragic. And then suddenly—’ Strang inhales sharply, ‘I had a much better idea.

  ‘But in order to pull off my new plan, I’m going to need capital. Millions of dollars, in fact. I need heavy equipment. Access to old weapon dumps. Rare earth metals. Gemstones of various industrial use. An underground lair. You know: the usual stuff.’

  ‘You’re building a bomb or something?’

  Strang squints one eye, thinking. ‘You remember the black hole thing under the Arch?’

  Wallace licks blood from the corner of his mouth. ‘Everyone does.’

  ‘You know I didn’t even mean to do that? What I was really trying to do was… actually, never mind; it’s not important. Edison stumbled on the light bulb by accident, too. Penicillin, Velcro, Teflon. Science is full of happy accidents.