Justice (The Galilee Falls Trilogy) Page 2

  Justice. Everyone’s favorite superhero. Songs have been written about the man, but they seem to forget that villains like Hellion and Alkaline specifically donned their masks in Galilee to prove themselves against one of the foremost superheroes in America, injuring or killing dozens just to get his attention. Maybe if he didn’t make himself so conspicuous with the press conferences, public appearances, cereals, or clothing line things might die down. Sure, all the money goes to the Restoration Society or Victim Assistance, but still. Gauche.

  The department considers him a necessary evil. Rebecca’s right about one thing—they do level the playing field. I’m not suicidal—well, anymore—enough to face off against a woman who creates tornados at will or blinds me with a look. I just wish they’d all go away. Even the good ones. They give us false hope that when a mugger approaches, Justice or Olympia will swoop in and save the day. People should know the only person who can really save them is themselves. I learned that at twelve, forty-year-olds should know better.

  I didn’t always hate supers. At first I worshiped Justice. His merchandise was all over my room. I’d been obsessed with him since he took down Dr. Phantom and his cyborgs on live TV. Even made a scrapbook of all his clippings. He’d saved thousands of people through the last thirty years, but then two months before Pop died, he just vanished. No word, no warning, nothing. Reports had him in Genevaville or Moscow, but not where he was really needed. When my Pop really needed him. I lost two heroes and my faith all in a month. So yeah, I’m a little prejudiced.

  “Well, I like him,” the always chipper Rebecca says. “I think he’s cute.”

  “Should I be jealous?” Justin asks in a cutesy tone he caught from her.

  Rebecca smirks and leans in to kiss him right on the cleft in his chin. “Never.”

  Cue projectile vomit.

  “He must be about a hundred years old,” I point out to stop the public display of affection. I wasn’t kidding about the vomit.

  “Who?” Marnie asks.

  “Justice. He’s been around since the thirties.”

  “Maybe when one retires another takes his place,” Rebecca says.

  “Then why not be original?” I ask.

  “He’s a symbol,” she says. “One we’ve always had and looked up to. Like God or Jesus.”

  “Maybe we’d all be better off if we relied less on the abstract and more on reality,” I say.

  “You both make valid points,” Justin says, “but I’m not that cynical, Jo. He serves a purpose. Hope is never a bad thing.”

  He always sides with her. Always and forever. I’ve lost him.

  Before he says another word, my cell phone chirps on my belt. I didn’t bother to change out of my suit, so the phone is right next to the gun. I’ve never been a fashion plate like Rebecca, who is dressed in a vintage Chanel dress with primroses imprinted up and down its loose fit. No, I stick to jeans and pantsuits in either gray or black, my colors. I flip open the phone. “Detective Fallon.”

  Everyone in the room but Justin seems impressed. He just stares at me. He can be a tad overprotective. Whenever I take a work call he moves closer to listen as his lips purse in disapproval. When I told him I was joining the force, he spent days trying to convince me that it was too dangerous. Too hard. He even offered me a cushy job at his company in the security department. He was worried about me, and I can’t begin to describe how good that made me feel, but I’d known since I was thirteen I wanted to be a police officer. All that authority. All that power. Helping people. The gun doesn’t hurt either. I got my AA in Criminal Justice at Galilee Community College and signed up the day after I graduated. Haven’t regretted it to this day.

  “Hey, Jo,” my partner Terrance Cameron says. “I hope you’re not too tired.”

  I press my finger against the receiver. “Excuse me,” I say before stepping out of the library into the ginormous hallway. Every floor, except in the bedrooms, is covered with Corinthian marble the color of bone. The walls of the hallway are filled with paintings of landscapes and old soldiers or landowners in their red or brown uniforms. Every generation of Pendergast watching me from their oil canvas as I talk to my partner.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I just got a call from ADA White. Janus Manx’s attorney called him. She says Manx wants to talk to us about the rest of his victims.”

  “What? Tonight?”

  Justin walks out, his usual look of concern plastered on his face. He’s as nosy as I am.

  “We have to be at the prison promptly at 7:30. Can you make it?”

  I check my watch. “Just.”

  “See you there.” He hangs up.

  “What’s going on?” Justin asks.

  “The usual. Rape. Murder.”

  “You shouldn’t joke like that,” Justin chides.

  I roll my eyes. “I’m a homicide detective. Gallows humor keeps me sane.”

  Rebecca pokes her head out, all smiles. “Hi. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I just have to go to work,” I say.

  She steps toward me, the smile falling. “Oh, no.” She quickly glances at Justin. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, just the usual. Sorry to dash but duty calls and all.”

  Rebecca reaches out and squeezes my arm. There are precious few I let into my personal space, and those are usually the result of too much alcohol. I keep my mouth shut though. “I understand,” Rebecca says. “You just be careful, okay?”

  “Careful is my middle name. Tell your mom and Daisy good-bye for me.”

  “Of course. And if you can’t make it to the engagement party, we’ll understand.”

  I may not have to dress up and schmooze with high society. Silver lining. “I’ll do what I can to make it.”

  “We know you will,” Justin says. “Call me tomorrow, okay? So I know you’re safe?”

  He’s always done this since I’ve been on the job. I have to call every morning just to tell him I’m alive with all my limbs still attached. It should annoy me, what with me being an independent butt kicking woman who doesn’t need any man to look after her, but instead it warms my heart that he cares so much.

  One time I was drowning in a case and barely ate, let alone had time to call anyone, and Justin showed up in the squad room demanding to see me. I was out in the field, but Harry assured him I was fine. I called right away when I heard. Not many people would do that, certainly not for me. I can count them on one hand.

  “Don’t I always?’ I say with a smirk. “You guys have a good night.” With my best fake smile, I turn around and walk out.

  Another perfect end to another perfect night with the perfect lovebirds. I prefer a conversation with a serial killer any day of the damn week.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Escape

  I leave Galilee Gardens with its million dollar homes up and down the coast with suburbs and strip malls filling in the rest until the state park begins. As I drive over the infamous mile long Pendergast Bridge, a steel structure whose pylons undulate like the Andalucía River waves below, I feel nothing. Not even when I pass the spot right in the middle where I stopped that night twenty years ago.

  Now, I was never one to believe in anything higher than the top of my head. I’m practical to a fault, or so I’ve been told. So the fact that the two of us ended up on that bridge at the same time, to me, is just a random, happy occurrence. Justin gives the credit to the universe. I will admit that the fact two sort-of orphans the same age, who had no cause to meet, both arriving on a deserted bridge at two in the morning is odd. If I believed in fate then that’s what I’d call it. But I don’t, so I’ll just chalk it up to blind luck.

  I chose that spot for the view. I wanted the last thing I’d ever see to be the best of my city, Galilee Falls, the fifth largest in the nation. I love my city. I wouldn’t live anywhere else. Whenever I think about it, I swell with pride. Like now. To the north, glass and concrete fill the sky for what seems like the end of the world. The
biggest is Pendergast Pavilion, seventy-seven stories topped with a silver spire off a church salvaged from the Dark Ages adding five more stories to it. But my favorite building is the hospital right at the edge of the river facing The Falls on the other side of the bridge. It’s the biggest hospital in the country at thirty stories. The best too, at least according to every major magazine. Know where they first isolated the Uber-Gene? Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow in my home town, that’s where.

  With the good always comes the bad. The beauty fades as I continue driving into the heart of darkness known as Diablo’s Ward, my old neighborhood. Vagrants, corner kids, junkies, and hookers litter the streets surrounded by boarded up, graffittied buildings that are barely standing. Gunshots and shouting are commonplace. Ever since I’ve been on the job I’ve spent more time here than when I was a kid.

  I drive through the Ward toward the ocean where the road to the Xavier Bridge is. Two miles offshore with only the drawbridge for access is Xavier Maximum Security Prison, home to the worst of the worst: Hellion, Wolfsbane, Belladonna, and the man I’m making the trip for, Janus Manx, a serial killer responsible for killing ten prostitutes a year ago. Xavier is smaller than a normal prison, housing only two hundred inmates, three psychiatrists, seventy-five guards, and a partridge in a pear tree. The cells are encased in lead, the inmates get an hour of rec time a day, followed by some of the strongest tranquilizers this side of the zoo. Drooling idiots, just how I like my murderers.

  I cross the small, two-lane metal bridge over the ocean, the water sparking with an orange tint as the sun sets above. I’m soon back on dry land. As I approach the three-story building, the huge electrified fence looms with twirling lights above barbwire. Men in brown uniforms toting shotguns stand like centurions on either side of the gate. The one on my side approaches as I flash my shield. He signals to his partner and the gate slides open. I add my car to the rest in the small lot and walk up the steps to the double doors. I’m right on time.

  Cam, my man on the front lines, waits for me right near the overweight guard standing by the metal detector. Cam’s in his very late forties with a boxer’s build, which he compliments with a bald head, almost true black skin, and a problem matching his clothes. I’m no fashion plate by any standards, but any member of normal society should know that bowties and suspenders went out in the fifties. He towers over me at 6”1’ with enough muscle that my thigh is the exact size of his arm. We know because on a stake-out we measured. We look ridiculous standing next to each other. I’m 5”2’, so petite my clothes from middle school still fit, pale as a ghost with freckles on my nose, long curly jet black hair, and wide bright blue eyes. Shortest person on the force.

  If his size intimidates, his face makes you fall in love with him. Not a wrinkle, with a black and gray goatee. If his wife Tawny didn’t feed me every other week, I’d entertain the thought of seducing him. Her pork chops are that good.

  We’ve been partners since I started at Priority Homicide for almost two years. He was hesitant at first as his partner of five years had just retired, but after one week when I tackled a drugged-out man double my size, he started to warm a little. A month after that, I was practically part of the family. I’ve lost count of how many blind dates that family’s tried to set me up on. If they only knew.

  “I hope this guy isn’t just jerking us around,” Cam says as we approach the metal detector. Not many visitors are allowed through these gates except lawyers and villain groupies who fudge birth certificates to show they’re “related” to the incarcerated. Sad. The only weapons allowed on-site are in the Hardcore Unit—their name not mine—where the criminals with superpowers are housed. We hand over our weapons to the guard, who sticks them in a lockbox before walking us through.

  “Hell, I’d rather be here than where I was,” I say, getting my keys and wallet back. We walk down the beige hallway with pictures of the guards on the wall. “Did you call Harry about this?”

  “I left a message, but I think he’s still at the Mike Spencer bombing site with Kowalski and Mirabelle.”

  “Well, better them than us.”

  The guard behind the bullet resistant glass at the reception area looks up from his magazine as we approach. “May I help you?”

  “Detectives Cameron and Fallon here to interview prisoner Janus Manx,” Cam says.

  “One moment please,” the guard says as he makes a call.

  As we wait for confirmation, I turn around and lean against the wall with a sigh. I so just want to go home and crawl into bed, but no, instead I get to spend countless hours listening to a man tell me how he vivisected women. Fun all around. A guard wearing a Galilee Angels baseball cap with his head hung rounds the corner, followed by an Asian man dressed in a business suit. God, you could not pay me enough to work here.

  As the guard passes, his head tilts up to gaze at me. I can only see half his face, but I can tell he’s very good looking: about forty, six foot, and medium build, with wide lips and brown eyes, the visible one winking at me. My body tenses a little for some reason. I swear I’ve seen him before. Where—

  Cam’s angry booming voice interrupts my train of thought. “What do you mean he’s in the hole?”

  I turn around to see the guard hanging up the phone. “I’m sorry, but he’s been in there all day.”

  “But that’s impossible. His lawyer called us saying she spoke to him just hours ago.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. There is no way he made that call. I—”

  “Holy shit! I need some help over here!” a man shouts around the corner.

  Cam and I take off like rockets. About twenty yards away another guard kneels on the beige linoleum, beside him another man lies on the floor covered in blood and a pink frothy liquid that still bubbles. The smell of sizzling flesh with metallic acid and blood is overpowering. “Lockdown! We need a lockdown now!” the guard shouts into the radio on his shoulder.

  Cam kneels down too, yanking off his jacket. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

  The prostrate man, if he can be called that because I doubt he’s barely out of his teens, is as white as a ghost. His left hand is nothing but a pulpy stump, and he’s not dressed. He’s only in boxers and a gore-covered undershirt. Oh, fuck. I remember exactly where I’d seen that guard before. I look at Cam. “Alkaline! Fucking Alkaline is trying to escape!”

  Instinct takes over. I take off running the way I came, passing the receptionist who shouts, “What the fuck is the matter with the security system?” into the phone. Not good.

  As I’m going one way as fast as my feet can take me, the guard at the metal detector runs the other. We both stop. “What the fuck—”

  “Did a guard with a baseball cap just leave?” I ask.

  “Yeah, he—”

  I don’t wait for the rest. I sprint toward the entrance, retrieving my car keys from my pocket. Just as I step out, booming gunshots ring out from the watchtowers above, their guns pointed down the road on the other side of the fence. He’s out.

  As I approach my car, I notice a pair of legs on the ground about three spots away. The Asian man lays motionless next to his empty spot, his head at an odd angle and eyes open. I feel his broken neck for a pulse, but there isn’t one. Nothing I can do here. I leap up and get to my car.

  My spare gun is in the locked glove box, and I retrieve it before I peel out of my spot, tires squealing loud enough to overpower the waning gunshots and barrel out the open gate. I turn right, the only way off the island toward the bridge. As I super-speed as fast as Justice, I get on my own radio. “Attention, this is Det. Joanna Fallon, badge number 5757. We have a prison break at Xavier Prison. I repeat, James Ryder, AKA Alkaline, has escaped from Xavier. I am in pursuit, about to cross onto Xavier Bridge. Known one dead, one injured. Send back-up immediately!” Dispatch does her job, ordering all available units toward the bridge. I spot the only car on the road as I cross onto the bridge, a red SUV about a quarter mile away. My blood is pumping and I can
feel every inch of my skin. I can see why some people become adrenaline junkies. I floor it.

  I gain ground and he speeds up, so I do as well, but then out of nowhere he switches lanes and slams on the breaks so he’s behind me. Motherfucker. Both feet punch the break, my heart and stomach almost leap out of my rib cage. Thank God I have on my seatbelt or I would have broken my ribs on the steering wheel, instead I lose all the air in my lungs. But I’m not totally lucky. I lose a second because, unlike him, I come to a complete stop, smoke from my tires visible in the back. I know what his next move is and I’m not ready for it. I accelerate as fast as I can but not fast enough. The SUV zooms alongside me, smashing me into the side, sparks flying as metal rubs against concrete. He pins me, but I keep my foot on the petal. He’s still behind me and the bastard actually salutes me. I’ll wipe that smug fucking attitude right out of him.

  I aim the gun out the window, but he swerves to the other lane for a moment before smashing into my side again. My hand hits the car door and I lose the gun, my wrist vibrating in pain. I lose control of the car, spinning to the other lane, the back of my car hitting the concrete on that side. I’ve practiced this maneuver at the academy and my beautiful instincts are the only thing that keeps me alive.

  Alkaline doesn’t wait around to check on me. The SUV whizzes away toward the blinking lights of the drawbridge. I lose precious seconds before I realize my instincts forgot to remind me I set the parking brake to ease the crash. I turn the car around and continue my pursuit. That fucker is not getting off this bridge.

  I’d put him five seconds ahead of me, and quickly spot him just as a huge foghorn bellows to signal the raising of the bridge. About fucking time. The wooden partitions lower as the bridge slowly rises. He’s trapped.