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  ‘So yes. I’m building an or something.’ Strang’s eyes have a faraway look, like an entrepreneur dreaming of his company’s future IPO. ‘I like that. An orsomething.

  ‘But I can’t just go out and buy the stuff I need for my orsomething on my gold AMEX. Especially since I lost the gold AMEX in bankruptcy.’ He shifts his focus, looking directly at Wallace. ‘But you can. Because you don’t have a gold AMEX. You have a black AMEX.’ Strang flashes an amused smile. ‘Huh? Have to spend a cool one mil a year just to keep that one open, am I right?’

  Wallace’s eyes narrow in equal parts confusion and relief. His left arms falls to the table, limp. ‘So you’re here to… rob me?’

  Strang’s eyebrows arch. ‘Ha! Rob me. Says the poor insurance executive, without irony. Says the man who’s built a fortune by signing up healthy clients—’ Strang rises to his feet and starts pacing. His voice grows louder, his eyes wilder, with each passing word. ‘—and then denying claims when those very same clients become sick. And people call me the madman!’ Strang reaches over to a block of Wusthof knives on the countertop next to a stainless steel toaster oven. He deliberates, then retrieves a long, thin knife used to filet salmon. ‘You’ve taken everything! Did you really just ask if I was here to rob you?!’

  Wallace considers the blade, its gleaming edge a warning. He also considers that it’s being brandished by a surgeon. On an operating table, this surgeon has cut still-beating hearts out of men’s chests. Wallace swallows thickly.

  ‘I don’t review claims,’ the accountant pleads. ‘Please. I have a son.’

  Strang pivots, facing Wallace. He adjusts his grip on the knife, and his face appears to soften. ‘Oh? Is that… I genuinely… I didn’t know that.’

  With the same breathtaking speed used during the attack in the entryway, Strang uncoils. In two precise moves that work in savage harmony, he clamps down on Wallace’s exposed left arm, pinning it to the table. The knife whistles forward and down, piercing the patch of flesh between thumb and forefinger, then sinking into the table’s polished wood.

  ‘I HAD A WIFE!’

  Strang’s guttural shout echoes off high ceilings, bounces off stainless steel appliances.

  The nerves in Wallace’s hand have barely had time to sound the alarm. Now that they have, Wallace also screams, albeit for a much different reason.

  ‘Stop. Just breathe. Stop.’ Strang says, applying additional downward force on Wallace’s forearm. ‘Believe me, you're lucky I’m a surgeon’

  Groaning with fright, Wallace looks down at his hand. The sharp edge of the filet knife is facing toward the accountant; pulling his hand back will only rip flesh, not slice through it. After a few moments, the pain and shock have subsided enough that Wallace stops howling, or at least enough to make out Strang’s further instructions.

  ‘Now then: I’m going to walk out of here. Once my plan is complete, I’ll bring the insurance industry to its knees. And I’m going to do that using the very money it makes by denying all those claims.’

  Wallace tries to regulate his breathing. He’s pressed against his chair as though the words were a physical force. He opens his mouth to speak; sticky, dry lips try to prevent the act.

  ‘When the bill arrives for that black AMEX,’ Dr. Strang continues, ‘you’re going to pay. Month after month. If the card is cancelled, I will kill you. If you call the police, I’ll may go to jail. For trespassing. When I get out in a month or so, I’ll come back. I’ll kill your son.’ Strang’s lower jaw juts forward while he observes the impact of his threat. He savors the look of panic in Wallace’s eyes. ‘Then, I’ll kill you. You’ll die knowing your craven love of money led to your son’s death. You’ll die knowing all you worked for will have been for nothing.’

  Strang plucks the filet knife from Wallace’s hand. The insurance exec exhales audibly and cradles the wound. Strang nods at the clump of cloth on the kitchen table.

  ‘That’s why I gave you that towel,’ Strang says. ‘Now then: let’s go get your credit card, sir. Before I carve out your liver.’

  Six

  There. A balcony.

  Ernest’s jump is perfect; he lands three feet behind a poplar tree whose massive trunk stands about 20 yards away from the mansion’s second-floor balcony. He slams against the tree’s base, taking cover. Strang is more the type to choose a bowel-loosening ultrasonic ray over a sniper rifle, but there’s no use taking chances.

  Using the security guard’s gadget, Ernest studies the camera feeds.

  He tries to get a sense of the mansion’s layout, but the cameras inside are only trained on points of entrance and exit. He swipes, changing the view, and spots a flicker of movement. Two figures enter the feed. One is unmistakable: Strang, who enters frame at the top of a staircase, clutching what may be a knife. He trails closely behind the other, a man clutching his left hand to his chest.

  Ernest is about to pocket the device, but then does a double-take. The figure who is not Dr. Strang stops. Turns. His lips move. He drops a dark cloth of some sort, and… peels off his shirt. He wraps the shirt around his left arm, keeping the hand above his heart as before, and only then proceeds down the hallway.

  Weird.

  Ernest pockets the phone and pokes his head out from behind the tree. His only focus now is on the second floor, and where best to enter. Strang and his hostage took a left at the staircase, which means, judging from the positioning of the front door, they should be on the house’s east side.

  Unless, that is, the staircase took a turn, which means they’d be on the west.

  Ernest frowns. He doesn’t have much to go on here. Not that he’s ever had much to go on when trying to stop his old nemesis. All those times Ernest has prevailed have been byproducts of fortune as much as superstrength.

  Keeping a low crouch, Ernest emerges from behind the poplar tree and looks toward the balcony’s iron railing. He springs forward, then up, easily covering the distance. He reaches out for the horizontal length of iron.

  Ernest hoists himself up and over. Not too shabby. He smooths his jogging pants—only then discovering the tear. The acrobatics have exacted a toll his pants couldn’t pay. Superheroes need to shop for boxer briefs just like everyone else, and Ernest’s pink-and-white striped undies show from underneath a ripped seam.

  Damn, Ernest thinks. I should have worn the suit.

  ---

  Martin Crowley keeps his stun gun trained on Strang’s henchman.

  The smear of dirt who defeated Crowley with a laser pointer kneels in the grass, hands laced behind his head. Crowley’s weapon reminds him, in more ways than one, of a large hornet. Speaking of: he still feels the sting of shame over his own ineptitude, and for a dark moment, considers using the stun gun just to make a point.

  A chime of broken glass derails Crowley’s train of thought. He listens a few more seconds, but hears only birds chirping, wind rustling through trees—the soundtrack of a tranquil spring afternoon. In his peripheral vision, he notes that the henchman is also listening, although probably not out of appreciation for nature’s song. Instead, Crowley decides, he’s running several escape scenarios through his grubby mind.

  Crowley re-aims. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  Glass breaks again.

  When Crowley looks up toward the mansion this time, he sees a pair of shorts being laid over a broken, first-level windowsill. Crowley squints into the distance. Crawling out of that windowsill is a solitary man.

  It’s his boss, Austin Wallace.

  And he’s naked.

  Which at this point isn’t really a surprise.

  Crowley’s boss stumbles over some low shrubbery lining the house, then commences dashing across the lawn.

  Crowley forgets all about aiming the stun gun.

  “Get down! Get down!” Wallace screams.

  Instead of obeying, however, Crowley simply watches, armed with a new and terrible knowledge—some things in life can’t be unseen.

  He also not
ices the tall front doors swing open. From within the house, a man who Crowley recognizes as the instigator of all this mayhem steps into the doorway, and raises his right arm.

  Shit, Crowley thinks. A gun. The security guard seeks cover. No doubt the pistol is one of Wallace’s, who keeps at least four scattered throughout the house in old shoeboxes.

  The figure at the front door adjusts his aim.

  In the space between one heartbeat and the next, a second figure barrels into the man wielding the gun. Both men disappear from view just as the sound of a sharp “crack” reaches Crowley’s ear.

  A loud, low WHOOMP follows.

  Wallace dives forward like a baseball player trying to steal a base, sliding in the grass. Crowley has a fraction of a second to wonder about what happens to a man’s manly bits when sliding head first. He’s then hit by the explosion’s concussive wave. It rattles every organ of his body. He drops to a knee, then looks up to check on his employer.

  The house behind him seems to inhale.

  Then hold its breath.

  Crowley watches the white stucco of the house’s front side give way. It reminds him of the way his favorite author describes falling in love: slowly, then all at once. The house buckles, then folds in on itself. With a boiling rumble, great chunks of white concrete and shards of broken glass splatter to the porch. They throw huge splotches of neutral color on a canvas of green, manicured grass.

  A second wave of energy passes. Dust and the smell of natural gas wash over Crowley, Wallace, and the henchman kneeling—

  Shit. The henchman has possibly vaporized, but probably just escaped amidst the commotion.

  Crowley spots Wallace scrambling to his feet, looking back at what's left of his home.

  The security guard notices the reflection of blinking red and blue in the bare flesh of Wallace’s back. The cops are here. Finally. From the sirens, Crowley guesses at least two police cruisers and a fire truck. He heads for the security kiosk in search of some kind of clothing for his boss, who, aside from being naked, looks like he wants to shout something.

  He watches his employer cover his mouth instead, and a tear drags a thin streak through the dust on Wallace’s cheek.

  Crowley knows why: somewhere, under that pile of rubble, is Wallace’s son.

  ---

  The frame that used to hold the front door has somehow survived more or less intact. It’s like photos he’s seen, taken in a tornado’s aftermath. Like most living in the Midwest, the only tornados Crowley has seen have been on TV.

  Then: movement from somewhere deep within the dusty heap. It looks as though a mole is trying to burrow its way through the destruction.

  The super man staggers out of the debris.

  Crowley wonders if it’s simply hardwired human behavior to want to exit a structure through a threshold, even when there’s no actual structure from which to exit. Maybe humans just naturally gravitate towards things that endure while all else goes to hell.

  He also wonders how the man who called himself Ernest has endured the blast. He wonders further how Ernest has the strength to carry two humans out of the wreckage.

  In his right hand, Ernest drags a very unconscious Dr. Thaddeus Strang.

  Without a word, Crowley approaches his boss and drapes a large utility blanket over his shoulders. He’s fairly sure Wallace won’t want to go running up to his house dressed the same way he was running out of it. It’s not out of an abiding sense of decorum; especially given the circumstances, Wallace wouldn’t be the least bit shy about being seen by the man striding through the doorway of his shattered home.

  But he will want to maintain some sort of dignity in front of the other figure, the one being carried in Ernest’s left arm, an arm that Crowley sees, even from this distance, is a bloody mess.

  In that arm is a very conscious five-year-old boy.

  Seven

  Smoke crawls skyward from the front door’s smoldering frame.

  Behind it: destruction. A massive insurance claim yet to be filed. In front: a yard littered with debris and equipment and officers from departments both police and fire. Observing it all: Ernest Smith and Dr. Strang, seated on a small patch of front stoop not covered by broken glass. Were the setting different—an intact building behind them rather than a leveled one—they might be mistaken for two coworkers breaking for a midday chai.

  Dana Wallace approaches the two men, a cautiousness of step counteracted by a confidence of glance. Kids are almost always tougher than we credit them for, Ernest thinks, and this particular one is going to be just fine.

  Dana carries two aluminum cans. Orange soda. He offers Ernest one, then takes a step back. ‘They said it was OK. He won’t do anything bad now,’ Dana says to Ernest, but with his eyes locked on Dr. Strang.

  ‘Well, those guys know what they’re talking about,’ Ernest says, gesturing to the pair of firemen just over Dana’s shoulder. Their mouths are set in deep frowns, as though hoping Strang might provide some reason for them to swing their axes. ‘You be sure to thank them.’

  Ernest pops the top with one hand, takes a long drink. He then offers the remainder to Strang, who accepts with a nod. He catches Dana studying the small act of humanity while the kid opens his own can. Ernest knows that there’s a decent human beneath rage and venom that consumed what was once a promising heart surgeon. Or maybe at this point, Ernest just wishes it so. In any event, it’s the last can of soda Strang is likely to taste for years on end.

  While Strang drains the beverage, Dana fishes the laser pointer from his pocket. A red dot dances on the bottom step.

  Ernest speaks to the laser. ‘This seems beneath you.’

  Strang glances over his shoulder at the havoc he’s unleashed. When he turns back, his eyes are glassy with tears. ‘What would you do, Smith? What does a man do for the people he loves? What does a man do when it’s time to protect his family?’

  Ernest nods. This is the Strang he has wrestled with so many times. There has always been some method behind the madness; a kind of stick-it-to-the-man code of ethics governing his every action that, twisted as those actions were, Ernest could begrudgingly understand. Then again, Ernest empathizes with the motivations behind eco-terrorism. But that doesn’t change the fact that their methods include, well, terrorism. In the case of Dr. Strang, Ernest is sure most of St. Louis can understand the reasons behind his war against the “military-industrial-insurance oligarchy.” He’s also sure most of St. Louis is grateful they weren’t sucked into another dimension as a byproduct of that war.

  More than anything, Ernest can appreciate the catalyst that started Strang down his path. ‘Look, you can take down every single insurance executive—’

  ‘That’s still the plan, you know,’ Strang interrupts.

  ‘Revenge won’t change the past,’ Ernest says with a shake of his head. ‘It won’t take away the illness. It won’t bring back your wife.’

  Strang glances at the boy while Ernest’s admonition soaks in. Dana continues working on his soda, intently studying both men.

  ‘When you love someone, you’d kill for them.’ Anguish is etched into the deep creases around Strang’s eyes.

  Meanwhile, a man in khaki slacks and a dark green sweater vest over a crisp white shirt approaches. It’s the man Ernest has been waiting for. Ernest’s boss, or at least the guy he now reports to. Ernest doesn’t officially work for anyone.

  The man picking his way through chunks of former house is short and slight, his bearing unassuming. Black hair kept neatly parted to one side. Judging from appearance, the man looks like the only reason he’s here is because the insurance company is eager to settle, and has sent someone to start processing the claim. Yet despite the man’s seeming frailty, there’s a steadiness about him, a quiet confidence—almost a gravitational pull—the likes of which Ernest has seldom encountered. When they first met for dinner only a few short months ago, Ernest liked him at once.

  Ernest stands in order to greet the Chief of
Police, and finally gives Strang his reply.

  ‘No, Strang. If you love someone, you’d die for them.’

  ---

  Police Chief Ryland Washington reaches past his green vest and into the waistline of his khakis. With a deft flick of his wrist, he unlatches a pair of handcuffs. As he arrives at the foot of the concrete steps, he extends a hand.

  ‘Ernest.’

  ‘Ryland.’ Ernest stands.

  ‘I see you’re still hard on shirts,’ Ryland says, appraising the torn, blood-spattered thing that used to be Ernest’s favorite hockey t-shirt. Ryland next steers his calm gaze to the man still seated. ‘This is an unfortunate choice for you, Dr. Strang.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Mr. Miyagi.’

  ‘Wonderful. I’ve never heard that one before,’ Ryland says, his voice a wellspring of calm. As always. Ernest tries his best not to laugh at the cop’s dry humor.

  Strang rises and submits peacefully. Washington adjusts the handcuffs while reciting the Miranda warning.

  The outlaw apparently decides to waive the part about remaining silent. ‘You’ll regret this, Ernest. You know that, right? If I go away, you’ll be bored out of that thick, damaged little skull of yours. You and I are Sherlock and Moriarty.’

  ‘I don’t think Ernest will get bored in this city,’ Ryland says, taking in the wreckage, his expression unflappable. ‘Besides, you’re more Shylock than Sherlock.’

  Ernest looks at Strang, hoping for a contextual clue. He confesses his ignorance to his boss with a shrug.

  ‘Seeking your pound of flesh?’ Ryland says. ‘Merchant of Venice? You’ve read Shakespeare, yes?’

  Ernest taps Strang using the back of his hand. ‘Ryland was an English major.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘Right? You wouldn’t think an English major would make such a good police chief,’ Ernest says. ‘But there it is. Don’t let the calm exterior fool you. Our new chief is a combat veteran.’