Forced Betrayal
Book 2 in the Forced Heroics Series
By
Robert T. Jeschonek
*****
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2012 by Robert T. Jeschonek
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More Superhero E-books by Robert T. Jeschonek
A Matter of Size (mature readers)
Forced Retirement (Forced Heroics Book 1)
The Masked Family – a novel
*****
Forced Betrayal
The murdered super-hero's apartment smells like cotton candy and popcorn.
And blood. Lots and lots of blood.
I pad around the place in the blue plastic booties that the crime scene investigators make me wear. I'm trying not to step on any evidence, but it's almost impossible. The poor girl's remains are splattered everywhere.
Suddenly, I hear a voice from a few feet behind me. "You didn't waste any time gettin' here, didja, Bonnie? Mardi Gras bites it, and presto, here you are."
I don't bother turning. Why give the douche the satisfaction? "Somebody dies, I don't piss around."
"Somebody super dies, you mean." The douche is Lieutenant Tank Driscoll, Isosceles City P.D. Don't let the scrawny 5'3" frame fool you; this guy will roll over you like a tank if you let him. "Something happens to one of your own, and you come a-runnin', right, fox?"
I don't argue with him, because I can't. It's all true. I work internal affairs for the Superhuman Protectorate, investigating crimes involving super-powered suspects or victims.
And yes, I'm super-powered, too.
But the fact that there's a superhuman corpse splattered all over this apartment isn't the only reason I rushed over here. See, I happen to know the shit's about to hit the fan in a big way on these premises. A giant way.
"You might want to move your people out of here." I look at the balcony window, where I see my image reflected against the darkness outside: 5'8", slender, short brown hair in a bob with wispy bangs--not bad for a thirtysomething woman. (Okay, fortysomething.) Next, I look up at the ceiling, wondering when the shaking will start. "Moving 'em out might be a good idea. Just for a while."
"Why? So you can poop all over my crime scene?" Tank snort-laughs like the greasy little prick he is. "No thanks, fox."
Again with the fox. It's the nickname they have for folks like me--superhumans charged with oversight of the superhuman community. As in "the fox guarding the henhouse."
As in we can't be trusted to watch over our own. Which is bullshit.
At least in my case.
The douche doesn't know who else lives here. How could he? I'll bet the only way he figured out this is Mardi Gras' place was because her torn-up costume's hanging from the ceiling fan, red jester's cap and all.
"Somebody's coming." I turn and glare at him. "Trust me, you don't want to be here when they get here."
Tank sneers and strokes his thin black mustache, which makes him look like a villain out of an old silent movie. "Why's that? Did you call and give 'em a heads-up?"
"No, dingleberry." Too late now. I feel the floor vibrating under my feet. "It's because Mardi Gras has a girlfriend."
Tank scowls. He's about to say something to the effect of "so effing what," but then he does the mental math and wises up. Because he feels the floor vibrating, too.
Putz that he is, he still doesn't pack it in. He's still standing there with his metaphorical dick in his hand when the girlfriend roars up and crashes through the wall. I'm guessing she sneaked a peek with her x-ray vision en route, or she might've come through the front door instead.
So Tank finally gets a look at Mardi Gras' girlfriend, who I tried to warn him about. You should see the look on his face.
Because standing in the rubble of the wall is none other than Hericane, the most powerful woman on the face of the friggin' planet.
Maybe the most powerful human being, period.
*****
I hate myself at times like this. Because this poor woman just lost someone she loved, this is one of the worst days in her life...and all I can do is watch her reaction for signs of guilt. A high percentage of murders are committed by domestic partners, it's a fact. Whether it's Joe Blow from Kokomo, Jane Doe from Buffalo...
...or Hericane, the mightiest woman on Earth.
So what's the verdict? Hard to say. Only thing I'm sure of so far is that the rest of us in this room are lucky we're still alive.
Girl's going through some changes, to say the least.
"Oh my God." Her eyes are flared wide as she stands there in her white costume with the red piping and looks around at the terrible scene. "When did this...how did this..." Her voice trails off.
"Hericane. I'm Bonnie Taggart of the Superhuman Protectorate." How many times have I been in a similar moment? Dozens, at least...not counting the one time I was on the other side of the equation. The one time I was the one losing the loved one. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
She doesn't bother trying some doubletalk B.S. to protect her secret identity. She doesn't deny that this is where she lives. She just squints at me, and I'm tempted to flinch. One jot from her lightning vision, and I'm toast.
But I don't flinch. Hardcore's my middle name.
"No." She shakes her head. "I just talked to her on the phone. This can't be her."
"How long ago did you talk to her?" says Tank, that douche, with all the tact of a bull elephant stomping through a cream pie factory.
"Twenty minutes." Hericane's gaze fixes on the tattered costume hanging from the ceiling fan. "I got held up at a Power Structure meeting in Paratown."
The douche starts to say something else--something stupid, I'm sure--and I give him a look that'll freeze his balls off. Not that that's my super-power, mind you.
He gets the message.
"This isn't her." Hericane shakes her head confidently. "It's an elaborate ruse by one of my enemies. Bitch Slap or Old Maid, maybe. They're both in the wind, aren't they?"
When she looks at me this time, I feel worse than ever. She reminds me of a scared kid, not the mightiest woman in the world. She just wants me to take away the pain so bad.
I wish I could. Especially because I know about the other tragedy she's suffered. I know she lost her dad, Epitome, a few months ago. The greatest, most powerful hero of all time, and he lost his mind to Alzheimer's. He would've killed Hericane and God knows how many others if he hadn't been put down by the only person who could do it: himself. His younger self, brought forward from the past, that is.
Most of the world never knew any different...but I do. I had to investigate that whole nightmare. I'll never forget it.
And neither will she. And now this.
"Mardi would've used her powers." She shakes her head as she says it, her long, blonde hair sliding up and down her shoulders. "If someone came at her, she would've fought back with her light and sound storms. She would've blown out their senses and left them drooling on the floor."
"Okay." I know the state she's in. I totally get it. Been there, done that.
But the clock is ticking. Whoever did this gets a little farther out of reach with each passing second.
So I swallow hard and walk over to her. My palms are a little damp, because she can kill me in a hundred different ways if she decides to lose it right now. Don't think it can't happen; I've seen it happen more than once with grieving superhuman types.
But Hericane doesn't lose it. "Mardi's not dead." She's not entirely rational, but she doesn't go berserk, either. "They must be holding her somewhere."
I nod once and reach for her hand. "Then let's find the people who did this, okay?"
Her bright blue eyes harden. This is good, this makes sense. "Okay." It makes more sense than her girlfriend being torn to shreds while she was out. It makes more sense than the second person she loves being killed in less than a year.
She extends her hand, and I wrap my own around it. Doesn't feel any different than any other hand, if you ask me. Doesn't feel bulletproof or super-hard or anything.
That's the thing about superhumans...the one thing that hasn't changed in all my twenty years of investigating them.
Up close, they're just like everyone else.
*****
As Hericane and I share a moment, guess who jumps in front of us.
The douche, of course. "Hold on, you two." Time to wave the badge around a little. "I'm gonna need to talk to Hericane down at the station."
I shake my head firmly. "This is a superhuman case. I've got jurisdiction."
Tank spreads his feet and plants his hands on his hips. So now it's officially a pissing contest. "I see no definitive proof of superhuman involvement. She says this isn't even Mardis Gras dead in here." He nods at Hericane. "For all I know, this is a straight-up non-super civilian homicide."
Whose is bigger? That's what it always comes down to with guys like this. Well, guess what? "You want to try and bring her in for questioning? Be my guest." Mine is.
I look at Hericane, and Tank does, too. I can practically see the beads on the abacus lining up in his head as he adds it up.
I don't even have to say it, do I? You really want to get in her way right now?
But apparently, he's still a few beads short. "I need to question you," he tells Hericane. "If you respect the law, you'll come with me."
Before she can answer, I play the card up my sleeve. Time for a shot of my own super power.
I focus my mind on Tank and his people--crime scene scientists, detectives, patrolmen, the whole shebang. Then, I concentrate on sending out a signal--a wave of urgent purpose rushing into their bodies and brains. I give them all a push, nudging their adrenal glands, tickling the deep-seated back-brains where primitive instincts reside.
Like fear.
I can feel them getting jittery around me, the lot of them. Eyes widen and dilate, palms sweat, bowels twist. Pulses pound in their ears; shivers course along their spines. Muscles galvanize, priming for action.
This is my power. This is why they called me Panic Attack back in the day, when I used to fight crime on the street. Because I can do this.
It ain't bouncing bullets off my chest or stopping speeding trains or changing reality with a snap of my fingers. It ain't catching nuclear bombs or growing to giant size or melting steel with my voice. But you'd be surprised how useful this power can be.
For example.
"Uh, listen. Change of plan." Tank takes a step away from us. His eyes are shifting from side to side, and his hands are shaking. "Could we question you later, Hericane? Would that be all right?"
Hericane frowns and nods. "That's fine."
"Okay, great." Tank's backing toward the door. The rest of his team is already out of the apartment, elbowing each other in their hurry to push down the stairs. "Why don't you just come by when you're ready?"
"I'll do that," says Hericane.
"Awesome." On that note, Tank turns and scrambles out the door. He forces his way down the hall through his men, in a bigger damn hurry than any of them.
Douche.
With that, I walk over and slam the door behind him. We've got work to do. None of it good.
"We need clues to what happened here." As I say it, I look around at the mess in the room. "We need some kind of lead."
Hericane nods. "We need to find the people who took Mardi Gras, before they do something to her."