Carrie Vaughn - After the Golden Age

“Hi,” she said.

“Celia, where have you been? Breezeway saw you fall through the grate—that wasn’t an accident was it? Did you escape? Who did it? What happened?” He was almost dancing in place, arms half-raised and fists clenched, like he wanted to grab her.

She could give Damon Parks away. He had to know that. Did he trust her not to, or was he prepared to have his identity exposed?

Or did he know that she’d keep his secret, because it was one piece of information she had that no one else did? Information was power, and she had so little of it.

“I’m okay,” she said, trying to sound reassuring instead of tired. “I don’t think I was in any danger.”

“Your folks are going to want to hear about this.”

Right now? she thought. “Yeah, I bet they will. How about I come over to their place this afternoon?”

He hesitated. He probably had meant right now.

“Really, Robbie, it’s okay. It wasn’t what you think.”

“Okay,” he said finally. “This afternoon. I’ll let them know.”

“Thanks.”

He stepped back from her, watching her with that worried frown that had never really gone away since her teenage years. Then, with the gust of a vagrant breeze, he disappeared.

Her mother left three messages on her cell phone. Arthur left one. Everyone knew about the kidnapping, its speed and ruthlessness, its frightening effectiveness, and its puzzling outcome. It didn’t match the Strad Brothers’ MO. There hadn’t been any robberies reported.

She went home and showered. Her subterranean trip made her grubby and cranky. A hot shower cured all woes. Or, most woes. When she returned to the living room, the folder of newspaper clippings still sat on the table, staring at her. What did that psycho expect her to do with this? She wouldn’t, wouldn’t don a mask and start rappelling from the tops of buildings in a quest for justice.

What would she do if this was part of her job? Well, that was easy. She went to the city library.

A true skeptic would question whether the newspaper clippings were even legitimate. They could have been faked—the Hawk might have a grudge against Governor Snyder for some reason and could be trying to frame him. So Celia needed to both verify that the news articles were genuine, and find out if there was a connection between the Hawk and Snyder. That seemed so unlikely as to be ridiculous. The Hawk had retired decades ago, and Snyder had only been in office a year. Not to mention that Snyder had trouble getting through a press conference without offending someone—usually hitting on one of the female reporters—or committing some ludicrous verbal gaff. Celia had trouble seeing him as a criminal mastermind. But maybe that buffoonish politician image was a front. She’d heard weirder theories.

She spent an hour with a microfiche machine and the last two years’ worth of the Commerce City Banner. She didn’t need much time to confirm the articles—Parks had annotated them with dates and page numbers.

She also confirmed what Parks hadn’t been able to, double-checking articles listing the names of the men who’d been arrested for the recent crime sprees and cross referencing them to the list of pardons—all of the identified perpetrators of the Baxter Gang and Strad Brother jobs had been pardoned by the governor.

Then she found the photo of Governor Snyder, looking goofy in his pin-striped suit and too-shaggy toupee, shaking hands with Commerce City Mayor Anthony Paulson. It had been taken about eight months earlier and accompanied an article about Paulson negotiating with newly elected Governor Snyder for state funding to help with his epic revitalization program. Paulson had campaigned heavily for Snyder, and apparently called in a ton of favors upon Snyder’s election. Among the proposals Mayor Paulson had offered to help pay for the rebuilding of Commerce City’s industrial area: furloughs and pardons for a chunk of the state’s lesser criminals. Snyder was apparently happy to comply.

That added a new loop to the knot, didn’t it?

So the pardons were Mayor Paulson’s idea? But why? Was there a reason other than funding? Where was the conspiracy, except in her own mind? And wasn’t that healthy?

She called Mark. The phone rang and rang; either he wasn’t around, or he was still screening calls from her. She left a message.

“Hi, Mark. It’s me, whether or not you want to hear from me. If you’ve got the time I’ve got some research for you. I think I have the connection between all your Strad Brothers and Baxter Gang suspects. They all received pardons from Governor Snyder, at the suggestion of Mayor Paulson. Maybe you can figure out what your father was thinking. Look up these articles from the Banner .” She gave him the dates and references. Mark was a smart guy. Surely he’d give her a reasonable explanation for the so-called coincidence.

When she set off for West Plaza an hour later, she took a cab. It was much later than she’d intended; the research had drawn her in. She’d get lectured for it. Maybe she could distract her parents with the information she’d dug up.

The guard sitting at the front desk was a young man with an earnest expression. She leaned on the granite surface of the desk.

“Can I help you?” the guard said.

“Can you tell me when Damon Parks comes on duty?”

“Who?”

“Damon Parks. The security guard who works the evening shift here.”

“Oh, the old guy. I’m sorry, ma’am. He handed in his resignation today. Is there something I can help you with?”

Parks had planned it this way all along.

“Do you have a home phone number for him or something? I really need to get in touch with him.”

“I’m not sure I can give out that information—”

He’s the Hawk, goddamn it! she wanted to shout, but didn’t.

“Celia?”

That reflexive chill she always got at the sound of her father’s voice crawled up her spine. She repressed the shiver and turned around. Warren West, looking shockingly normal in a gray business suit, had entered the lobby through the front door and was walking toward her.

The security guy stood at attention. His eagerness cranked up about ten notches, which Celia hardly thought possible.

“Mr. West, sir, welcome back, sir!”

“Thanks, Joe.” Warren smiled warmly at the security guard, who seemed to be on the edge of actually swooning. The smile fell when he looked back at Celia. “Robbie says you have a story to tell.”

“Um, yeah.”

“I’ll walk you upstairs.”

In silence, they entered the private elevator that went straight to the penthouse. As the elevator began its ascent, she stole sideways glances at her father, who focused his gaze intently on the digital numbers flashing the changing floors.

He wasn’t going to believe what had happened. None of them would. Well, Arthur would.

She closed her eyes and calmed herself. Her father chose that moment to speak.

“Are you all right?”

She needed a moment to process the question. She wasn’t used to him sounding so genuinely … concerned.

“Yeah,” she said at last. “It happened so quickly it barely registered.”

“Good, I’m glad. I mean, I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Thanks.”

The elevator stopped and opened.

The penthouse doors swung in from the elevator lobby. Warren walked with her into the foyer and around the corner to the kitchen. They were there, the whole Olympiad. All wore civilian clothes. It might have been a casual supper party. Suzanne paced along the edge of the kitchen. Robbie leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. Arthur Mentis sat at the table. He smiled at her.

Suzanne’s expression melted when Celia appeared. Celia met her mother halfway and hugged her, before she could burst into tears.