After the Golden Age Read online

  “He’ll calm down eventually. Then we just have to wait for the next time it happens.” She shrugged, smiling wryly. “You’re still coming over next week, yes?”

  “Sure.”

  Suzanne left, and Celia threw away the rest of the pizza.

  * * *

  Just when she’d had enough of parents, Mayor Paulson invited her and Mark to dinner. She almost broke it off with Mark right there.

  Was there such a thing as too normal?

  Mark drove. “I think Dad feels like he needs to make up for the symphony disaster.”

  “That wasn’t his fault.”

  “No, but in some ways he thinks he’s responsible for everything that happens in the city. Like he ought to be able to fix every little problem.”

  That sounded hearteningly familiar. She wondered, Had the mayor ever met her father in person? They might actually get along.

  She started blathering. “I have to warn you, I’m really not ready for you to meet my parents. Not like this, the nice-dinner-at-home thing. I mean, yeah, you already met my mom, but that wasn’t really my mom, you know? That was Spark, and—” She realized how bad this must sound. “It’s not you, it’s just they can be difficult, and I still don’t get along with them too well.” She could see it now: Dad loses his temper and smashes the table to pieces, Mark’s police instincts take over and he draws the gun he keeps in a shoulder holster, Dad sees the gun and throws Mark out the window.…

  “It’s okay. I’ll meet them when the time’s right. Hopefully someday when they’re not, you know … being the Olympiad.”

  They were always the Olympiad. Sometimes Celia was sure the mundane sides of them were the disguise. That she was part of the disguise.

  They pulled up in front of the mayor’s mansion, which stood at the west end of a fifty-acre city park. A valet took charge of the car. Mark was in college when his father was first elected mayor. He’d never lived here.

  The Paulsons must have been waiting for them, because the front door opened, held by a butler, as soon as they reached the top of the landing. They then launched into the sort of domestic scene Celia had only ever seen on TV commercials during the holidays. The mayor—Mark’s father, in this context, Celia reminded herself—greeted them expansively, arms open as if to close them in a bear hug. He shook Celia’s hand in both of his own, then clapped his son on the shoulder, grinning madly all the while. They might have been already married and returning home from their honeymoon, the way he carried on. How desperate was he to see his son married off? What have I gotten myself into?

  “Come in, come in! Good to see you again, Celia, you’re looking very well. Haven’t scared her off yet, Mark?” His enthusiastic demeanor always played well on television. In person, it was nearly overwhelming.

  Behind Anthony Paulson, waiting quietly in the foyer for her turn, stood Andrea Paulson, hands folded in front of her, smiling graciously. She wore an expensive dress suit in a feminine, nonthreatening rose color. Evidently, she was much more comfortable on her home turf. Downright tranquilized compared to their last meeting. She must have been having a bad night at the symphony.

  Andrea caught Celia watching her and strode forward hand extended. “Celia, I’m so happy to see you again.”

  Celia shook the woman’s hand. Her smile was beginning to feel rather stricken. Andrea turned to her son next and stood on tiptoe so he could kiss her cheek.

  “Shall we have a seat in the parlor? Dinner will be in just a few minutes.”

  The four of them retired to an honest-to-God parlor. It had plush Persian carpets on hardwood floors, antique furniture in rich woods and velvet upholstery. Each painting on the wall had its own display lamp. The whole mansion was the real deal, a Victorian edifice built by an early industrialist and donated to the city. The ground floor, with its wide foyer, opulent sitting rooms, and formal dining room, were often used for city receptions and ceremonies. The West Plaza penthouse looked almost homey in comparison.

  Mayor Paulson settled at the edge of a regal wing-backed chair and said, “Celia, Mark tells me you’re working with the DA’s office on the Sito prosecution?” He waited expectantly for an answer. She’d hoped she could sit back on the chintz sofa and watch the Paulson family dynamic, smiling and nodding politely now and then.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s quite a coup for him, I imagine. It’s like having a stamp of approval from the whole West family. Looks great in the papers.”

  If he’d only seen that altercation with her father outside Bronson’s office. She smiled demurely. “I’m just trying to do my job as well as I can.”

  “For which the city thanks you. This trial may be the most important one we’ve ever seen.”

  God, he was on all the time. Was that the trick of politics, that you had to actually mean all the earnest things you said? Celia couldn’t change the subject by complimenting Mrs. Paulson on the clever and tasty hors d’oeuvres set out for them. The mansion’s cook had made them.

  How would she have turned out if her parents had raised her in this kind of environment?

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Mark, bless him, caught the rebound. “So, Mom, you getting to play much tennis? Mom plays tennis,” he said in an aside to Celia. Andrea might have been one of the paintings, her smile was so fixed. She kept her gaze on her husband while she rattled on about tennis at the country club.

  Dinner arrived, finally. Celia could relax as the conversation turned more banal.

  That didn’t last, though.

  Paulson, jovial, said, “I keep expecting to find a note on my desk one of these days announcing the Olympiad’s retirement—just like the Hawk did. How long have they been at this? Twenty, twenty-five years? The Hawk didn’t last that long.”

  Celia smiled politely, as if acknowledging an old joke, and offered no reply. He couldn’t have waited until after dessert to bring up the Olympiad.

  “I remember them at their peak. God, they were amazing.”

  Celia could imagine what her father would say to that. He’d punch through a wall and say, How’s that for peak? And Spark might not even stop him.

  He kept talking at her. “You must wish that they’d give up the double life. You must worry about them.”

  Her polite smile turned wry. “They’re big kids. They can take care of themselves.”

  “Of course. I’m only curious. They say they’re defending my city—I want to understand them.”

  His city? What was it with people claiming the city?

  “There’s not much to understand. They’re using their talents the way they see fit.” Was she actually defending them? She glanced at Mark. Get me out of this …

  Mark shifted in his chair, calling attention to himself. “Celia can’t be expected to speak for the Olympiad, Dad.”

  “No, no, of course not. My apologies. But Mark … let me run a thought by you. I’ve been wondering if our police forces have gotten soft.” Understandably, Mark straightened in preparation of some vehement denial. His father waved him down. “Now, no offense, this certainly is no reflection on you personally. With a criminal like the Destructor, who was so far out of reach of what any normal law enforcement agency could handle, of course I can see how they might come to depend on the Olympiad, who were a bit better equipped to face opposition like that. But these recent crime sprees—they’re perfectly ordinary crimes. They’re fully within the ability of any law enforcement agency. I chastised the Olympiad for not getting involved—but after giving the issue some thought, I don’t see that they, or any of the city’s superhuman crime fighters, should involve themselves. They’re simply not needed.”

  Celia was getting to practice her polite face. “I always thought that maybe they could work together. With law enforcement.”

  Paulson offered a thin, condescending smile. “If it hasn’t happened by now, it never will.”

  “Sir, I’d hate to think you invited me here because you thought I’d take this c
onversation back to my parents and throw a little kerosene on the feud you all are having.”

  “Feud?” Paulson said.

  “Ah, dessert’s here!” Andrea Paulson announced brightly. “Celia, I hope you like chocolate.”

  Dessert was chocolate raspberry torte. Brilliant. It almost made up for Mayor Paulson.

  As the house staff cleared dishes away, Andrea stood—abruptly, almost rudely, if it had been anyone else’s table.

  “Celia, would you like a tour of the upstairs? That’s one of my jobs—giving tours. We have some really wonderful paintings that don’t get seen much.”

  Mark gave an encouraging smile, and Paulson didn’t seem inclined to accompany them. All that made the offer attractive.

  “Sure,” Celia said.

  The second floor was as impressive as the first. Andrea and her husband lived on the third floor, so even here wasn’t much evidence that this was an actual home. They occasionally hosted dignitaries in the guest rooms, or held charity concerts in the music room.

  Andrea gushed about the house, the history, and her husband. “Tony is so dedicated. He gives so much of himself. He truly is the most generous man I’ve ever met. Don’t you think? I hope Mark follows in his footsteps.”

  “He seems to be,” Celia offered. “Being a cop’s a tough job.”

  “Hm, yes. Normally in this situation I suppose I’d ask you to tell me about your family. But I think they’re in the news even more than Tony. It must have been so interesting for you growing up. I hope this isn’t prying too much, but I’m terribly curious—”

  Celia smiled inwardly and waited for the inevitable question: What was it like having Captain Olympus and Spark as parents? Isn’t Captain Olympus wonderful?

  Instead, Andrea Paulson asked, “Do you ever worry?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose. I worry about them getting hurt. Growing up I was always a little scared until they came home—”

  Andrea gave a tiny, impatient shake of her head. “Don’t we all worry about that sort of thing? I mean, do you worry about yourself? It’s my understanding that your parents’ powers might be passed on genetically. Now, I understand you didn’t inherit anything like that. But do you worry that your children might inherit some of their more … unusual qualities?”

  If you marry my son, will my grandchildren be mutant freaks? Celia could have used a cup of tea, a cup of coffee—any kind of social crutch to occupy her hands and keep her from reaching out and breaking something. As it was, she had to use willpower. Not her best attribute.

  “Honestly, Mrs. Paulson, it’s not something I’ve ever thought about.” And thank you so much for adding that to my list of anxieties. “I figure I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

  “Of course, you’re young yet.” She offered the polished smile of a politician’s wife. Paulson had probably married her for that smile. “I was simply curious. Really, I don’t suppose anyone can help but wonder … what was it like having Captain Olympus as a father?”

  * * *

  The ride home with Mark started awkwardly. Mark clutched the steering wheel, Celia leaned on the passenger-side door, head propped on her hand, feeling surly. He kept glancing at her, stealing quick looks out of the corner of his eye when he wasn’t driving through intersections. She waited for him to say something; he seemed on the verge of it, if he could just take a deep enough breath.

  It was endearing. It didn’t matter who you were or who your parents were, they’d always embarrass you.

  Mark pressed back against the seat and smirked. “That was a disaster, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. If it had been my father, he might have broken a few walls.”

  “Not really,” he said. “You always say he’s like that … but you’re exaggerating, right? He always seems so together.”

  “Sure,” she drawled, and decided then and there that she would never, ever take Mark to dinner with her parents. “Hey—did your mom seem okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was just so different than she was when I met her at the symphony. I guess I’m wondering which is more like the real her.”

  “She did seem a little perky, didn’t she?”

  “You tell me.”

  He shrugged, resettling himself against the seat. “I don’t know. I don’t think she’s ever been real happy with Dad in politics. I remember, the first time he ran for mayor, she’d have a glass of wine before the publicity photos. It was the only way she could relax.”

  “She must have had a glass of wine before we showed up, because she looked like a publicity photo all night.”

  Mark didn’t respond, and by the time they got back to her place, she had no intention of mentioning his parents again.

  FIFTEEN

  THE prosecution’s case dragged on for two weeks. For all his fire and brimstone behind the scenes, Bronson was solid and methodical in the courtroom, not taking any chances with speculation or questionable evidence. The financial evidence was plain, the witnesses primed and well spoken. Every objection Sito’s lawyers made was overruled.

  Warren and Suzanne West testified, along with Robbie Denton and Arthur Mentis. The first three wore street clothes—respectable trousers and jackets for the men, Suzanne in a conservative tweed dress suit. For that day, they were their alter egos, citizens of Commerce City who’d seen the extraordinary and come to tell about it. Arthur wore what he always wore, his suit and coat, looking studious and watchful, his thin smile hinting that he knew the dirt on everyone in the room. Even the judge looked at him askance.

  The four members of the Olympiad were the last witnesses Bronson called. With them, he finished presenting his case, as if the presence of those who had fought the Destructor for so long were all the argument he needed.

  Sito’s lawyers surprised them all by refusing to cross-examine any of them.

  It would have been an easy enough thing to raise questions about the Olympiad’s motives, to suggest that the rivalry between the two sides had degenerated into a personal feud and had nothing to do with justice or the law. That their persecution had driven Sito to insanity. But they didn’t.

  They were saving their questions for Celia.

  * * *

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  She had to repeat her “I swear” because she’d spoken too softly the first time. Her hand was shaking on the Bible. She settled into the witness stand and when she finally looked up, she spotted Arthur Mentis sitting in the row directly behind DA Bronson. He nodded, smiled, and she felt better. He’d never let her get hurt. If things got really bad, he’d get her out of this somehow.

  Defense Attorney Ronald Malone was slick and unyielding, like a steel wall. He wasn’t that big, probably not much taller than Celia, but he had a way of trapping her gaze, and shifting to hold it again when she tried to look away, even standing at his table a half-dozen paces away.

  His first questions were mundane, or seemed mundane, public knowledge that anyone in the courtroom could have learned. She still felt like she was giving away secrets. He was only warming her up for the hard questions.

  Then came an odd one that made her think.

  “Ms. West, when did you learn that your parents, Warren and Suzanne West, are the superhuman crime fighters Captain Olympus and Spark?”

  “I don’t know. I think I always knew. They never tried to hide it from me.”

  How could they? From the time she was born, they studied her for signs that she had inherited some kind of superhuman legacy. To think, most parents were happy with ten fingers and ten toes.

  “Then their skills, their reputation, were a part of your life from a very early age?”

  Bronson stood. “Objection! Supposition.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  Celia blinked, relieved. She didn’t want to answer any questions that resembled, What was it like having Captain Olympus as
a father?

  It didn’t matter. He’d set her up nicely already.

  “One might argue that like your parents, you’re in a particularly unique position to judge the defendant’s mental state at the time of his crimes.”

  “I’m not a psychologist—”

  Malone raised his hand in a placating gesture. “I’ll only ask you to make observations about Mr. Sito’s behavior. You were the subject of one his more spectacular adventures, yes?”

  That was an interesting way of putting it. “He kidnapped me when I was sixteen.”

  “And the purpose of this kidnapping?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Did he hold you for ransom? Use you to get something?”

  She shook her head. “No. He just wanted to … inflict damage.”

  “So there was no rational reason for him to kidnap you. His motivations could be said to reflect a disturbed mental state.”

  They weren’t here to prove Sito guilty. No one was denying his crimes. Malone only had to prove that Sito had been out of his mind.

  “He seemed calculating enough at the time,” she said.

  “Then let’s turn to another event.” He dropped the bomb, and knowing it was coming didn’t make it easier. “Isn’t it true that you were employed by Mr. Sito’s organization eight years ago?” A polite way of saying, Weren’t you his criminal henchman?

  Muffled gasps filtered through the courtroom. People whispered to one another, reporters scribbled on notepads, and the courtroom artist worked frantically. She was vaguely aware of members of the jury leaning forward to better hear her answer.

  “Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze.

  “You joined voluntarily?”

  “Yes, at the time. I was—”

  He cut her off before she could elaborate. “And you belonged to it for how long?”

  “About two months.”

  “Once again, do you think it made any rational sense for Sito to take you into his organization, knowing the trouble it would likely cause him?”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I can’t speak to that, sir. I wasn’t exactly in my right mind myself.”