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Mom, however, sweetly kept digging. “Yes, but the children—”

  “Children? They’re outside, riding the dog.”

  “We don’t have a dog.”

  “Yeah? Maybe it’s one of the Cubans, then. Ha!”

  “Dear! Not in front of the guests … or your daughter.”

  All eyes turned Deena’s way, and her face conspicuously flushed a dull red. “Mom…” she deflected, “I like hearing about Dad’s job. I want to hear about…” She turned to Dad. “What was it again?”

  Waldo settled back. “Liberty murders. Coupla costumes over in Druid Hills.”

  Deputy Mayor Hanover dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Best to table this…”

  “Kids need to know current events. Keeps them abreast of what’s happening in their own front yard. Nothing wrong with the truth.”

  Mom snorted into her wineglass, and the judge neatly stepped in to cover the tension. “Druid Hills? By the CDC? That’s troubling.”

  Waldo quaffed a swallow of Infinity Gold. “Hardly,” he responded after wiping his mouth on a sleeve. “The Soldier’s crew has things covered. Ain’t that right, crew?” The assembled Powers around the table silently confirmed her father’s half-sober conjectures. Even Deena, knee-deep in college applications, had seen the reports in the AJC; Downtown Atlanta had been levied a stringent curfew, and portions of the National Guard were stationed throughout the city, lending a hand to contain the resultant damage. The mayor had granted emergency powers to the both newly established and necessary Federal Powers Bureau along with a team of deputized Powers: names and masks like the Citizen Soldier, Diamond, Zora, Olympia, and Z. They flew around in capes and costumes, beating the tar out of other capes and costumes without ever coming closer to ending the violence. Frankly, she hoped it never ended; maybe she’d see some super shit in action. Maybe Dad or Aaron would put the holy beatdown on some dude with a death ray. For now, the Homicide Division had let the Soldier’s goons contain the devastation. But as far as Deena could ascertain, two-thirds of said goons currently sat around her dining room, stuffing their faces with Eveline Boucher’s cheese-and-onion pie.

  Amateurs, Deena sniffed. Aaron would never stand for affluent supercops eating mushroom puffs while the city burned to the ground. That’s why he isn’t here, I bet—he’s on the job. I get it. I’d be there, too.

  “Fact is,” Waldo went on, ignoring the undercurrent of tension, “we can’t be sure who’s at fault. Maybe it’s one of those morons with the lightning tattoos—”

  “The Human Front,” someone supplied. It might have been the judge. It might have been the deputy mayor’s wife, too flushed and engaged to sell an innocent, demure façade.

  “That’s right,” Waldo agreed, satisfied and smiling. “The latest in backward-thinking monkey uncle would-be fascists, too afraid to play with fire, too stupid to know when they’re already trapped in a burning building.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Judge Boucher stated, putting aside his napkin. “I firmly remain curious about some form of registry or restriction placed on those with powers … those without the responsibility to use their gifts for the relative good. Witness this gang war, for example.” The Powers at the table quietly seethed into their drinks. Thankfully, before things spiraled out of control, the judge stood up and winked at Deena. “Probably a fine time to extricate myself and stretch m’legs. Join me, dear?”

  Out on the porch, settled into a pair of varnished rocking chairs, Deena and the judge ignored the evening chill and looked into the distance. Over the horizon, scattered pinpricks of ongoing battle twinkled in the fading light, like summer fireflies that had lived to see the autumn. Echoes of carnage radiated out from Atlanta, skimming the edge of Tuxedo Park and causing skeletal trees to shiver. Judge Boucher reached into his pocket and removed a fat cigar; once lit, it conjured up a cloud of smoke that rested about their shoulders, obscuring his face in its muddy haze. They rocked in silence, the sounds of debate and boisterous mirth thrumming from back inside the dining room.

  The judge allowed himself a lazy, playful smile. “Not exactly the romantic evening you’d hoped for, is it?”

  Deena hunched, keenly aware of color rising to her face. She felt hot and stupid; her tongue grew three sizes, unable to form a coherent response.

  The judge chuckled. “It’s all right. I got eyes.”

  “Please stop talking.”

  “It ain’t like it’s a secret. Both Eveline and I know about your crush on Aaron.”

  She hid her head in her hands. “Remember when you weren’t talking? Those were good times.”

  “Ah, let an old man have his fun.” The cigar blazed in the gathering dusk, casting a ruddy look about his face. “Besides, love—or hell, even lust—is nothing to hide. Don’t be embarrassed or keep it secret. Never be afraid to seize love. You’ll regret it when it’s gone and mourn after it’s far too late.”

  She tucked away an errant lock of hair. “I’m not in love.”

  The judge rocked and contentedly puffed. “I’m just happy for the company, dear.”

  “I mean…” She searched for the words, feeling them slip away. “I don’t know that it’s love. But I will say—if it’s all right, Judge?”

  He indulgently waved a free hand. “Lay on, Macduff.”

  “I will say I’m excited about his passions—the music and being a cop.”

  “That boy has strange taste in music, I’ll give him that.”

  Deena grinned. “Strange wonderful. Nine MM. Little Doomsday. Alison Nightbird, Rocket to Planet X. Everything from hip-hop to grunge to—”

  “Hmph. Whatever happened to Jimmy Dorian and the Belle City Bass?” The judge tapped his ashes over the porch, scattering them on the gravel below.

  “—classic and even country, depending on the artist.”

  Judge Boucher poked Deena in the arm. “And what do you like?”

  “Well … I like them all.”

  “But that’s what Aaron likes. You must have had your own opinions, some original thoughts before my boy came along?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Don’t get lost in another person’s passions, Deena. Have your own beliefs and principles—desires and dreams independent of the man you love.”

  “But, his dreams are mine. And his beliefs. Like … well…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, like he’s a cop. But a good cop, right?”

  The judge squinted through the smoke. “As opposed to?”

  “No one, really. I mean, Aaron thinks—”

  “He thinks?” The judge scooted closer, dangling the lit cigar from his fingers.

  She felt flush again. “No, it’s not like that. I just—”

  Thankfully, before she could stick her toes in any deeper, a patrol car banked hard into the driveway. It stopped behind the other cars, and a sharply dressed officer leaped from behind the wheel and started toward the porch. The judge rose to his feet, ashing his cigar, and stepped forward to meet the cop. Deena joined him, heart thumping against her larynx, happy to have been given a reprieve from further humiliation. Happier still to see that Aaron Boucher had finally arrived.

  “Son,” the judge began, voice tightening with questioning expectation, “your face is the color of cheesecloth.”

  The younger Boucher mounted the steps. Deena charted every move, mentally cataloging the expressiveness of Aaron’s eyes and, to be honest, the way his butt looked in his uniform. She waved hello, but he’d breezed by and ushered his father inside so fast that Deena wasn’t sure he’d even registered her presence.

  “Time to go, Pop. Get Mom, your coats. You need to get home now.”

  Judge Boucher liberated his arm. “What is going on, Aaron? Let go of me.”

  “Dinner’s over, okay? You have to get home before—”

  “Before what?” The dinner party had filtered out into the foyer, drawn by Aaron’s explosive arrival. Waldo Pilgrim stumbled toward the door as Eveline briskl
y approached her son.

  “Aaron, what is it?” Aaron’s mother placed a hand against his cheek, and he slid it away, looking past her and into the house. “What’s going on?”

  “Are you serious?” He gestured out a window. “Have none of you looked outside? Or are you too drunk to care?”

  Waldo raised a hand, firmly wrapped around a can of Old Guard. “Hang on. You talking about me?”

  Aaron gave him a withering stare. “Go to bed. Sleep it off, okay?”

  But Waldo pressed on, shaking off the deputy mayor’s wife—his own having melted into the recesses of the house. “What did you mean by that? You, of all people?”

  Deena eased herself between the two men. “Dad, how about some coffee?”

  Aaron took Eveline’s hand. “Let’s go, Mom. Say good-bye to your friends.”

  The judge deftly removed Eveline’s hand from his son’s grip. “Officer Boucher,” he started again, adding authority to his tone, “what exactly happened tonight?”

  Aaron rubbed the lower half of his face and sharply inhaled, breathing deeply before continuing. “Aside from World War III blanketing Atlanta while half our Powers drink and fly? Besides cops—good cops, mind, not half the badges in this room—dying on the streets while evading heat vision?” The dinner guests shifted uncomfortably, waiting for Aaron to finish berating them. “You mean what’s happening aside from all that?” The judge nodded, subtly holding out a palm to block Deena’s father from getting close.

  “Well, Pop,” Aaron seethed. “Taking all that into account, ignoring the big picture … there’s been another murder.”

  Deena scanned the faces of her parents’ guests as the statement elicited short intakes of breath. Eveline and the judge exchanged glances, the latter’s face hardening with concern. He placed a hand atop his son’s right forearm. “You’re sure?”

  Aaron nodded in reply.

  “A note? There was another note?”

  This too, Aaron confirmed. Deena waited for an explanation, but it looked as if one wouldn’t be forthcoming.

  “Take it easy,” Waldo said, swaggering forward. “You don’t know what it is; who Liberty is. But, listen—”

  Aaron whirled, poking a finger into Waldo’s chest. “I know what it is, and I know what you are, Pilgrim. I’ll protect my family, and you protect yours. Course, it’s not like anyone here is doing much protecting. Have another beer, why don’t you? It isn’t as if you’re being much help.”

  Bristling at Aaron’s attack, Deena had to admit that she was also rather impressed. Her father was sneering, his face a dull, brick red … but he made no move to attack Aaron Boucher. She’d never spoken like that to either parent, much less one of her parents’ friends.

  Eveline quickly bestowed kisses on the gathering, wishing all a good night. Aaron stared down Waldo as the judge made apologies for the abruptness of their departure. The older couple bustled out into the cold, headed for their sedan. Aaron paused on the threshold and then looked back to address the assembled throng.

  “You know,” he began, leveling them with a withering gaze. “I love being a cop. Especially in Atlanta. There’s something noble about wearing a badge here. Even when we fall, what’s our motto? Resurgens. ‘Rising Again,’ it means. Get knocked down? You get up, despite thousands of blows to your pride and spine.” The room was silent now, apart from muffled gunfire echoing in the distance.

  “Tonight, though, I’m embarrassed to belong. Disgusted to be an Atlanta cop if it means sharing the streets with the likes of you. Police, power, politician—makes no difference. This look-the-other-way policy, the bribes, collusion, and goddamn apathy that allow you to party while the town burns down around its motherfucking ears? While someone slices bodies in the name of what he or she thinks is liberty? Liberty? That I will have no part of. That is something I can’t let ‘rise again.’ You’re cops. Cops. You carry a badge that bestows upon you a mission to create a safer Atlanta—one that ensures the safety of its citizens. One that builds trust, not betrayal. And you”—he pointed to the Powers in their midst—“what would Uncle Sam say if he could witness this? Don’t half of you have government grants to end this violence? Damn.”

  Aaron stepped onto the porch. “You’re a goddamn disgrace. All of you. I don’t know where your collective head is at, but I want no part of it. I’ll be damned if I let my parents feast among this den of weak-willed, do-nothing crooks when at any moment all our lives could be in very real danger.”

  He stalked down the steps and back to the patrol car, the elder Bouchers having already departed. Deena wanted to go with him, but Dad moved to the door and slammed it in Aaron’s wake.

  He never said hello, she thought dejectedly. He barely even looked my way.

  Waldo had a coppery bloom about his face. Deena gingerly took his arm and led him back into the family room, shooing angry, buzzing guests like cats from a windowsill. One by one, the partygoers ventured out into the night, back to fancy cars or up and away, headed for less conscience-laden environs. The deputy mayor bid his farewell, promising to look into Officer Boucher’s claims and smooth the matter with both the mayor’s and commissioner’s offices. Soon enough, the house was quiet. Father and daughter sat alone in recliners, her mother nowhere to be found for comfort or support.

  Deena looked into Waldo’s eyes. “You okay, Dad?”

  Fuming, he jerked his head, assuring his daughter that all was well. She placed a palm on the back of his hand, and he clapped it with his own, gently caressing her fingers and being careful not to break them in anger. Aaron’s speech had stirred something within her father’s heart—as it had everyone in the foyer—and she longed to get his read on it. But Deena knew not to press the matter. She never asked questions about her father’s relationship with Aaron. Truth be told, she was afraid to know the answers.

  Instead, she tugged another thread from the evening’s tapestry. “Dad,” she asked. “Dad, what murders?”

  His face screwed up in thought, eyebrows beetling as he pursed his lips. “What?”

  “The murders you were talking about, Dad.”

  Waldo fixed his bleary gaze on his only daughter. “Hm? Whassat, kiddo? You don’ wanna know. Just forget it.”

  She pressed him. “But there are murders. And a note? Aaron said.”

  Her father snorted. “Nggh. Aaron … what he … that kid has some nerve … look. This guy, we guess—”

  “You guess?”

  He slowly shrugged and eased back into his chair. “One guy. Maybe two? A woman? Every time we find a victim, it’s different from the last. See? And he leaves a note, right? Or they do. Or she.”

  “Dad,” she interjected, keeping him on-topic. “What note?”

  He held out his hands, framing it like a marquee. “‘In the Name of Liberty.’ Sometimes in ink. Sometimes blood. Always—always—near the body.” Waldo passed the back of one hand across his nose. “Coulda been part of the, uh, the gang war. Maybe Powers. Maybe Human Front. Someone who hates everyone. I dunno.”

  “But you’ll catch him? That’s what you do.” Deena squeezed his knee, trying to keep him awake. Hoping to pump information she could use to get close to Aaron. To make them equals—anything other than what she currently felt: this weird, needy place where he seemed out of her league and in a different world. She needed to know everything she could about the murders, about the madness that had overtaken Atlanta.

  Because it was important to Aaron, and it was important to the Atlanta Powers Homicide Division. And so it was important to her.

  “You’ll catch him,” she reiterated. “How about coffee, okay?”

  Waldo evaded her statement and dismissively waved his hand. Somewhere in the back, Mom tripped over something and broke a glass or vase. Deena hunched on the recliner, unsure how to jar her parents from their drunken cocoons of self-loathing. She desperately wanted to see Dad in action, to see him save the day. To have him be the man Aaron claimed he wasn’t. But there would be no
resolution this evening. Tonight, she needed to support her father, to repair his ego and assure him that Aaron hadn’t been referring to the Pilgrim patriarch. Waldo was a good cop. The best. How else could he be such a good provider, so connected, so famous and respected?

  She would listen to whatever he had to say, soak it in, and use it to arm her mission. Sure, Dad didn’t know who or what this murderer was. But he was a great detective; she told him so—words her mother should have been the one to say. Tonight was a stutter-step in the war on crime. Tomorrow, he would wake up fresh and follow leads. He’d question suspects and analyze evidence. No one knew anything? He soon would. Deena believed that in her heart of hearts. She had faith in her father, even if Aaron didn’t. She knew that Waldo was a good cop, just like Aaron. And if they would only let her, Deena knew she would be out with them both, cleaning up the streets.

  Just as she knew, despite tonight’s misstep, that one way or another, she would have a rookie cop’s principled, awesome babies.

  Just as she knew she had already fallen in love with Aaron Boucher.

  5

  December. Monday morning. 3:57 A.M.

  The last of the barflies stumbled out of Der Mann ohne Bier and into the receding dusk. Faint rays of sunlight were visible over row houses and brownstones, painting the slush and streets with flecks of gold. The lights went out inside the beer hall—last call had come and gone—and someone, one of the brothers most probably, flipped the sign in the window from GEÖFFNET to GESCHLOSSEN. The hooded man listened intently from across the way, detecting the faint clinking of glasses and scraping of chairs against a wooden floor. The proprietors were closing down the pub for the night, as the hooded man knew they would be.

  He deftly slipped out of the parked van, locked the door, and took confident strides across the filthy sidewalk. Worn Reeboks slapped against the wet concrete, skidding once in the snow as he reached the wreathed door. The man held out a gloved hand, using it to regain balance by pressing against the darkened glass. Someone noticed; a blurry shadow stopped and stared through the beer hall window.