After the Golden Age Page 4

  Celia’s stomach froze, and she glanced around, looking for a place to hide. Too late, he came through the far door, dressed in his uniform, a black-and-gold skin suit that showed every inch of his supertoned muscles. A crowd of office workers trailed after him, pressing forward to catch a glimpse, grinning with wonder, eyes wide with awe. So, this was all going to happen with an audience. Great.

  Square-jawed, frowning magnificently, Olympus pushed past the aide and stared down DA Bronson. “Is it true? You’ve filed charges against him?”

  Bronson donned a vacant, smiling mask—his politician expression. “Captain Olympus! Thanks so much for coming! What can I do for you?”

  Celia kept to the back, hoping Bronson would hide her.

  “If the rumors are true, and you’ve pressed charges without consulting the Olympiad—”

  “We had the warrants, we had to act quickly—”

  “I’m not sure you understand the gravity of this. He wouldn’t let himself get caught with evidence you could use. He always destroys his plans, his devices, his associates never talk … Celia?” Olympus squinted, peering around Bronson. “Celia, what are you doing here?”

  Bronson stepped aside, looking back and forth between them.

  Captain Olympus, leader of the crime-fighting Olympiad, beloved protector of the city—Warren West, her father—put his hands on his hips and waited for her answer.

  “I’m working with the DA’s office as a consultant in forensic accounting.”

  “A what?”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. He still didn’t want to admit it. The daughter of the greatest crime fighter Commerce City had ever known had become an accountant, and Warren West still hadn’t reconciled himself to the shame of it.

  Bronson stepped forward. My hero, Celia thought. “Captain, we have the evidence this time. We seized the records of his clandestine financial empire. Tax evasion, fraud—all of it is good in court. He’s in custody without bail at the maximum security wing of the Elroy Asylum. He isn’t breaking out this time.”

  Captain Olympus hardly seemed able to take his gaze from Celia. At last, he looked at Bronson in acknowledgment of what he had said. “Tax evasion? This man tried to destroy the city I don’t know how many times and you’re charging him with tax evasion?”

  “Anything to lock him up,” Bronson said calmly.

  He clenched his jaw—a bad sign. “I don’t believe … Was this your idea?” He pointed at Celia.

  Enough was enough. “Dad, please. I’m helping sort through the records. It’s part of my job.”

  “Forensic accounting? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  She tried to sound calm and reasonable. “We can prosecute the Destructor within the structure of the legal system. Isn’t that the important thing?”

  “The legal system … I’ve got half a mind to head over to the Asylum and finish him myself—”

  Bronson raised his hands. “Please don’t do that, sir. I’ll need you to testify in the trial, all right, Captain?”

  Olympus glared. Bronson may have had the authority to stand up to the superhero, but Celia knew that glare. It had terrified her as a child, and, well, it still terrified her.

  His lips thinned, his eyes narrowed. “Wait ’til your mother hears about this.”

  Celia slumped against the nearest wall and closed her eyes. She couldn’t win with him. She just couldn’t.

  Olympus turned to stalk out of the room, but the admiring crowd blocked the way. Everyone in the room held their breath a moment: what would Olympus do? But even from the back, Celia recognized him settling into his public persona, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. The crowd before him sighed, seemingly as one.

  A woman in a gray dress suit stepped forward, tentative. “Sir? You probably don’t remember this but about fifteen years ago you saved a school bus from falling off a bridge? I was on that bus, and I … I just wanted to thank you.” Her voice cracked and tears fell.

  Kindly, Captain Olympus touched her shoulder. “No thanks needed. It’s what I do.”

  Then a flurry of voices rose up, and people stuck their hands out, and Olympus shook them all as he pressed forward through the crowd. People applauded as he finally left the room.

  And that was Captain Olympus, Celia thought with a tired sigh.

  Meanwhile, Bronson stared at Celia. “You didn’t tell him you were working on the case?”

  “I try not to talk to him at all if I can help it.” It was a perfect end to the afternoon, really.

  “Huh. Wild.”

  Yeah, every kid dreamed of having Captain Olympus as a father. They had no idea.

  FOUR

  SHE called Bronson to make sure Captain Olympus wasn’t going to be at the prosecution team’s strategy meeting. If he had been, she would have called in sick. She didn’t care about her career enough to go through that.

  She walked into the conference room, harried because the bus was late. The place was packed. Every branch of law enforcement in town wanted a piece of the Destructor, and they’d all sent people here to make sure they got it. Cops, detectives, the mayor’s office, the DA’s office. Detective Paulson was there and gave her a friendly smile that made her knees go a little shaky. He looked taller in daylight, when her vision wasn’t swimming.

  Stacks of paper filled the table and flow charts were pinned to the walls: photographs, diagrams, copies marked EXHIBIT A, EXHIBIT B, and so on. And no Captain Olympus.

  But Dr. Mentis was there. Her stomach did a flip, responding to that self-conscious twinge she felt whenever she encountered any members of the Olympiad. Even him.

  He caught her eye and nodded. Made no move to approach her, to berate her, or to tell her how her family was doing. Her nervousness eased. She could always count on him to give her the space she needed.

  Of all of them, Mentis had a clear idea of what her childhood had been like. Telepath that he was and all.

  The room’s ventilation system couldn’t keep up with the mass of body heat. People fanned themselves with photocopied handouts, but managed to keep their tempers in check. Their intensity was palpable, though. Bronson left no loose ends, demanded that every shred of evidence be brought to light. When Celia’s turn came to stand and plot out the details of Sito’s nefarious accounting practices, her anxiety went away. She had to make it clear to these people exactly what the evidence entailed, so they could coordinate and ensure there were no holes in the prosecution.

  Arthur Mentis was heading up the psychological evaluation. Unflappable, he spoke of his belief that Sito was perfectly sane. He’d already been declared competent to stand trial, and the various crimes of which he was accused were proof of his own rationality. No irrational madman planned fraud so assiduously as he had.

  It felt like a conference of generals, like they were preparing for battle. Even Celia felt the excitement of it—ready to move forward with the plan, happy to be part of a team. God, teamwork. What would her father say?

  When the meeting broke up, people drifted off or gathered in small groups to talk. As she was repacking her attaché case, Mentis moved around the table toward her.

  “Celia. It’s good to see you.”

  She had to take his word for it. He never let emotions get the better of him, which made up for the overexcitableness of the rest of the Olympiad. It also made him irritatingly hard to read.

  “Hi.” Her returning smile, she discovered, was genuine.

  “I have to admit, I was a little surprised when I heard you were working with the DA. Does Bronson know you have, ah … a bit of history with this case?”

  She wryly pursed her lips. “He knows. He unsealed the records. He got the idea that I have some sort of privileged insight into the case because of it.”

  “Hm. A bit presumptuous of him. Let me know if he gives you trouble and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  He walked alongside her as they left the room. When they reached the el
evator, he asked, “Are you hungry? May I take you to lunch?”

  “So you can get the full report of what I’ve been doing to take back to Mom and Dad?”

  “Suzanne does complain that you never call.”

  “But I do!”

  He looked at her sidelong, disbelieving. She slouched. “Right. There’s a deli on the corner, about a block down. That okay?”

  “Lead on.”

  * * *

  The place was run-down, with a scarred tile floor, forty-year-old chrome and formica chairs and tables, and flickering fluorescent lights. But they seasoned their own pastrami and made a killer egg salad. Celia had a turkey sandwich big enough to provide tomorrow’s lunch as well. Arthur ordered onion soup and tea.

  She said, “Last week Dad stormed into the DA’s office and threatened to walk into Elroy Asylum and murder Sito himself. He sort of freaked when he saw me there.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.”

  “Oh yeah? What did he say about it?”

  He shrugged, said offhandedly, “Couldn’t seem to understand why you were bothering to get involved.”

  “I think he’s convinced himself I’m going to jinx the case.” As if she weren’t capable of sabotaging the prosecution on purpose, if she wanted to.

  He chuckled. “You know how he is. No one could possibly be as right and justified as he is.”

  “And Mom wonders why I never call home.”

  He sat back in his chair, regarding her a moment. “So. How are you doing?”

  Blushing a little, she picked part of the crust off her sandwich. “You just ask that out of politeness. You already know.” She smiled, to let him know it was a joke, that she was just teasing him. But then again, he already knew.

  He held his cup of hot tea in both hands and studied her like he was regarding a painting: intent, academic. “I believe this is the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”

  Her first thought was, that if this was happy it left a lot to be desired. But honestly, she couldn’t argue. She had her troubles—but they were hers. “I’m doing all right. What about you? You happy these days?”

  “Reasonably contented, as ever.”

  “You ever get tired of it?”

  “Of what?”

  She realized the ambiguousness of the question. There was a lot to get tired of. “The vigilante hero gig,” she said finally.

  “I don’t have much choice in the matter. It’s who I am.”

  She winced, her face puckering with a strange-tasting thought. Arthur waited patiently while she formed the words and finally asked, “Do any of us have any choice about who we are?”

  “People have been debating that question for ages. No definitive answer, I’m afraid. Although, if I may be so bold, you seem to have made a choice. There was a time when your life might have gone differently.”

  Not likely. Her choices had been determined by her failures. She was here, now, because this was the only life she seemed to be good at. She shook her head. “If I’d had a choice, I think I would have chosen to be a superhuman. That would have made everything easier.”

  “If you say so.”

  FIVE

  CELIA had to deal with trouble before she even reached the courtroom. She’d expected reporters, cops, fans, and groupies. The CAPTAIN OLYMPUS: OUR ALIEN SAVIOR sign was back. But she also had to face Breezeway, who had stationed himself outside the courthouse to keep watch. Some people seemed to think the Destructor would summon zeppelins from the sky to rescue him.

  Lithe and brash, Breezeway was Celia’s age. He had a showy silver uniform, complete with mask. Sinking on a breath of air, he landed on the steps in front of her. And the crowd went wild. Cameras flashed around him.

  “Hiya, cutie,” he said to Celia.

  Be polite, Celia reminded herself. The press had all their cameras rolling and snapping out here. She had to reflect well on the firm.

  “Hi.” Be curt without snubbing. That was the trick.

  “Always the cold shoulder with you,” he continued, like this was some kind of show. “What’s a guy have to do to get you to smile? Save your life or something? ’Cause I could do that—”

  “And I’m sure I’d be grateful, but I wouldn’t be smiling.”

  “Aw, come on, Celia. I think you do have a superpower—you’re immune to charm.”

  “Breezeway … you almost dropped me off a roof.”

  “Hey, that was years ago. It was joke. I wasn’t really—”

  She went around him and climbed the steps. Laughing, Breezeway launched himself skyward.

  The judge barred cameras from the proceedings, under much protest from the media. It seemed like every reporter in town was here to cover the trial. Add to that the massive prosecution team, dozens of witnesses, and an army of law enforcement officers, there was barely room to move in the gallery. No one seemed concerned with the fire code today.

  To the side of the bench, standing with the bailiff’s crew, was the Olympiad, in all their four-color glory, though in recent years they had dispensed with masks. The Captain stood tall, his arms crossed, frowning, ready to deal with whatever trick the Destructor had planned for the morning. To his right, Spark, hands on hips, thick hair rippling in the light, surveyed the courtroom. To his left, the Bullet, short and compact, bronze skin, salt-and-pepper hair, leaned on the wall with practiced nonchalance. That was a ruse, of course.

  Dr. Mentis was the only one of them who didn’t wear a skin-suit uniform. Until all their identities were revealed, no one even knew he was a member of the Olympiad. He was their ace in the hole. As always, he wore a suit and coat, seemingly old-fashioned, an eccentric academic out of place in the real world. One looked at him and never knew what to expect. He was easy to underestimate.

  The courtroom was restless. Every moment Sito didn’t appear left more time for people to imagine what was going wrong, how he was escaping, what disaster was about to befall. Nothing went as planned where the Destructor was concerned. The proceedings were already a half hour late starting. And this was just a preliminary hearing, for him to enter his plea. What would the actual trial be like?

  A door at the side of the courtroom opened. Half the people in the room stood, craning their necks for a view into the holding area, wanting to be the first to see the great villain.

  He appeared small, old. Anyone would walk right by him on the street, or maybe smile to themselves at the memories he evoked of their own aged grandfathers, who taught them how to fish or brought candy at Christmas. He was harmless, they would think.

  Celia stayed in her seat, staring at her hands. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to see him. In the second row, she was too close to the front. She should have sat farther back.

  A squad of police officers escorted him. It seemed absurd, a dozen men in full riot gear surrounding a bent, pale figure, who shuffled because of the manacles chained to his hands and feet. Yet, the cops were tense, wary, and all held Tasers ready.

  They hurried him past the Olympiad, who stood like stone guardians. Simon Sito appeared not to notice them.

  His defense team—and they were his, bought and paid for—wearing tailored suits, looking intent and sinister, shepherded him to their table. He seemed hunched, trembling almost. Only wisps of his hair were left.

  Then a gap opened in his protective circle. As if drawn by some vague instinct, he turned, looked through that gap, saw her, and stared.

  She let her gaze be caught by him.

  He smiled, and in any other situation the expression might have seemed kind. Celia saw only malice.

  “Celia, how good to see you again. You’re looking well.”

  The voice crawled into her gut and inspired nausea. She shouldn’t have come, she shouldn’t have—

  Captain Olympus started to move forward, but Spark held him back with a hand on his arm.

  Celia didn’t move, didn’t speak. Calm. Stay as cold and unremarkable as ice.

  Then he was gone, his circle of ha
ndlers closing in around him. Sito gazed ahead and didn’t look back at her again.

  The bailiff stepped forward. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Berkley.”

  Celia had to unlace her fingers. She hadn’t realized she’d been squeezing her hands tightly together.

  The judge, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and stylish wire-frame glasses, sat at the bench.

  The rest of Sito’s courtroom appearance was blessedly dull. He didn’t speak again, not even to his lawyers, who entered a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity, as expected.

  The judge announced when jury selection would begin, set trial dates, demanded that everyone behave themselves in the meantime. Then, the cops led Sito away, back to whatever hole they were keeping him in.

  The room seemed to refill with air as soon as he was gone, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

  Celia felt like she’d been holding her breath the entire hour Sito was in the courtroom.

  As soon as the judge disappeared to her chambers, reporters accosted Celia, pressing close and trapping her against the row of seats. Faces and digital recorders formed a bristling wall in front of her.

  They seemed to speak with one voice. “Ms. West! Ms. West! Why did the Destructor talk to you? What did he say? Ms. West, do you have any idea why the Destructor singled you out?”

  Calm. If she could face down the Destructor, she could face down them.

  “He’s just trying to get a rise out of people,” she said. “No other comment.”

  “Ms. West!”

  She was shocked and grateful—shocked that she was grateful—when the Olympiad swept her up and escorted her away from the journalistic horde. Mentis appeared on one side of her, Spark on the other, and the Captain and the Bullet broke through the crowd and herded them back.

  Everyone stepped aside when Captain Olympus appeared.

  “Conference room. This way,” Bronson said, nodding over his shoulder.

  By then, the reporters were shouting at all of them, but they’d all had experience ignoring the press. They left the courtroom without a backward glance.

  —Better?—

  “Yeah, thanks,” Celia said, and her mother glanced at her, questioning. Chuckling to herself, Celia had to shake her head.