Forced Betrayal Read online

  Forced Betrayal

  Book 2 in the Forced Heroics Series

  By

  Robert T. Jeschonek

  *****

  More Superhero E-books by Robert T. Jeschonek

  7 Comic Book Scripts

  A Matter of Size (mature readers)

  Forced Retirement (Forced Heroics Book 1)

  Heroes of Global Warming

  The Masked Family – a novel

  *****

  Forced Betrayal

  The murdered super-hero's apartment smells like cotton candy and popcorn.

  And blood. Lots and lots of blood.

  I pad around the place in the blue plastic booties that the crime scene investigators make me wear. I'm trying not to step on any evidence, but it's almost impossible. The poor girl's remains are splattered everywhere.

  Suddenly, I hear a voice from a few feet behind me. "You didn't waste any time gettin' here, didja, Bonnie? Mardi Gras bites it, and presto, here you are."

  I don't bother turning. Why give the douche the satisfaction? "Somebody dies, I don't piss around."

  "Somebody super dies, you mean." The douche is Lieutenant Tank Driscoll, Isosceles City P.D. Don't let the scrawny 5'3" frame fool you; this guy will roll over you like a tank if you let him. "Something happens to one of your own, and you come a-runnin', right, fox?"

  I don't argue with him, because I can't. It's all true. I work internal affairs for the Superhuman Protectorate, investigating crimes involving super-powered suspects or victims.

  And yes, I'm super-powered, too.

  But the fact that there's a superhuman corpse splattered all over this apartment isn't the only reason I rushed over here. See, I happen to know the shit's about to hit the fan in a big way on these premises. A giant way.

  "You might want to move your people out of here." I look at the balcony window, where I see my image reflected against the darkness outside: 5'8", slender, short brown hair in a bob with wispy bangs--not bad for a thirtysomething woman. (Okay, fortysomething.) Next, I look up at the ceiling, wondering when the shaking will start. "Moving 'em out might be a good idea. Just for a while."

  "Why? So you can poop all over my crime scene?" Tank snort-laughs like the greasy little prick he is. "No thanks, fox."

  Again with the fox. It's the nickname they have for folks like me--superhumans charged with oversight of the superhuman community. As in "the fox guarding the henhouse."

  As in we can't be trusted to watch over our own. Which is bullshit.

  At least in my case.

  The douche doesn't know who else lives here. How could he? I'll bet the only way he figured out this is Mardi Gras' place was because her torn-up costume's hanging from the ceiling fan, red jester's cap and all.

  "Somebody's coming." I turn and glare at him. "Trust me, you don't want to be here when they get here."

  Tank sneers and strokes his thin black mustache, which makes him look like a villain out of an old silent movie. "Why's that? Did you call and give 'em a heads-up?"

  "No, dingleberry." Too late now. I feel the floor vibrating under my feet. "It's because Mardi Gras has a girlfriend."

  Tank scowls. He's about to say something to the effect of "so effing what," but then he does the mental math and wises up. Because he feels the floor vibrating, too.

  Putz that he is, he still doesn't pack it in. He's still standing there with his metaphorical dick in his hand when the girlfriend roars up and crashes through the wall. I'm guessing she sneaked a peek with her x-ray vision en route, or she might've come through the front door instead.

  So Tank finally gets a look at Mardi Gras' girlfriend, who I tried to warn him about. You should see the look on his face.

  Because standing in the rubble of the wall is none other than Hericane, the most powerful woman on the face of the friggin' planet.

  Maybe the most powerful human being, period.

  *****

  I hate myself at times like this. Because this poor woman just lost someone she loved, this is one of the worst days in her life...and all I can do is watch her reaction for signs of guilt. A high percentage of murders are committed by domestic partners, it's a fact. Whether it's Joe Blow from Kokomo, Jane Doe from Buffalo...

  ...or Hericane, the mightiest woman on Earth.

  So what's the verdict? Hard to say. Only thing I'm sure of so far is that the rest of us in this room are lucky we're still alive.

  Girl's going through some changes, to say the least.

  "Oh my God." Her eyes are flared wide as she stands there in her white costume with the red piping and looks around at the terrible scene. "When did this...how did this..." Her voice trails off.

  "Hericane. I'm Bonnie Taggart of the Superhuman Protectorate." How many times have I been in a similar moment? Dozens, at least...not counting the one time I was on the other side of the equation. The one time I was the one losing the loved one. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

  She doesn't bother trying some doubletalk B.S. to protect her secret identity. She doesn't deny that this is where she lives. She just squints at me, and I'm tempted to flinch. One jot from her lightning vision, and I'm toast.

  But I don't flinch. Hardcore's my middle name.

  "No." She shakes her head. "I just talked to her on the phone. This can't be her."

  "How long ago did you talk to her?" says Tank, that douche, with all the tact of a bull elephant stomping through a cream pie factory.

  "Twenty minutes." Hericane's gaze fixes on the tattered costume hanging from the ceiling fan. "I got held up at a Power Structure meeting in Paratown."

  The douche starts to say something else--something stupid, I'm sure--and I give him a look that'll freeze his balls off. Not that that's my super-power, mind you.

  He gets the message.

  "This isn't her." Hericane shakes her head confidently. "It's an elaborate ruse by one of my enemies. Bitch Slap or Old Maid, maybe. They're both in the wind, aren't they?"

  When she looks at me this time, I feel worse than ever. She reminds me of a scared kid, not the mightiest woman in the world. She just wants me to take away the pain so bad.

  I wish I could. Especially because I know about the other tragedy she's suffered. I know she lost her dad, Epitome, a few months ago. The greatest, most powerful hero of all time, and he lost his mind to Alzheimer's. He would've killed Hericane and God knows how many others if he hadn't been put down by the only person who could do it: himself. His younger self, brought forward from the past, that is.

  Most of the world never knew any different...but I do. I had to investigate that whole nightmare. I'll never forget it.

  And neither will she. And now this.

  "Mardi would've used her powers." She shakes her head as she says it, her long, blonde hair sliding up and down her shoulders. "If someone came at her, she would've fought back with her light and sound storms. She would've blown out their senses and left them drooling on the floor."

  "Okay." I know the state she's in. I totally get it. Been there, done that.

  But the clock is ticking. Whoever did this gets a little farther out of reach with each passing second.

  So I swallow hard and walk over to her. My palms are a little damp, because she can kill me in a hundred different ways if she decides to lose it right now. Don't think it can't happen; I've seen it happen more than once with grieving superhuman types.

  But Hericane doesn't lose it. "Mardi's not dead." She's not entirely rational, but she doesn't go berserk, either. "They must be holding her somewhere."

  I nod once and reach for her hand. "Then let's find the people who did this, okay?"

  Her bright blue eyes harden. This is good, this makes sense. "Okay." It makes more sense than her girlfriend being
torn to shreds while she was out. It makes more sense than the second person she loves being killed in less than a year.

  She extends her hand, and I wrap my own around it. Doesn't feel any different than any other hand, if you ask me. Doesn't feel bulletproof or super-hard or anything.

  That's the thing about superhumans...the one thing that hasn't changed in all my twenty years of investigating them.

  Up close, they're just like everyone else.

  *****

  As Hericane and I share a moment, guess who jumps in front of us.

  The douche, of course. "Hold on, you two." Time to wave the badge around a little. "I'm gonna need to talk to Hericane down at the station."

  I shake my head firmly. "This is a superhuman case. I've got jurisdiction."

  Tank spreads his feet and plants his hands on his hips. So now it's officially a pissing contest. "I see no definitive proof of superhuman involvement. She says this isn't even Mardis Gras dead in here." He nods at Hericane. "For all I know, this is a straight-up non-super civilian homicide."

  Whose is bigger? That's what it always comes down to with guys like this. Well, guess what? "You want to try and bring her in for questioning? Be my guest." Mine is.

  I look at Hericane, and Tank does, too. I can practically see the beads on the abacus lining up in his head as he adds it up.

  I don't even have to say it, do I? You really want to get in her way right now?

  But apparently, he's still a few beads short. "I need to question you," he tells Hericane. "If you respect the law, you'll come with me."

  Before she can answer, I play the card up my sleeve. Time for a shot of my own super power.

  I focus my mind on Tank and his people--crime scene scientists, detectives, patrolmen, the whole shebang. Then, I concentrate on sending out a signal--a wave of urgent purpose rushing into their bodies and brains. I give them all a push, nudging their adrenal glands, tickling the deep-seated back-brains where primitive instincts reside.

  Like fear.

  I can feel them getting jittery around me, the lot of them. Eyes widen and dilate, palms sweat, bowels twist. Pulses pound in their ears; shivers course along their spines. Muscles galvanize, priming for action.

  This is my power. This is why they called me Panic Attack back in the day, when I used to fight crime on the street. Because I can do this.

  It ain't bouncing bullets off my chest or stopping speeding trains or changing reality with a snap of my fingers. It ain't catching nuclear bombs or growing to giant size or melting steel with my voice. But you'd be surprised how useful this power can be.

  For example.

  "Uh, listen. Change of plan." Tank takes a step away from us. His eyes are shifting from side to side, and his hands are shaking. "Could we question you later, Hericane? Would that be all right?"

  Hericane frowns and nods. "That's fine."

  "Okay, great." Tank's backing toward the door. The rest of his team is already out of the apartment, elbowing each other in their hurry to push down the stairs. "Why don't you just come by when you're ready?"

  "I'll do that," says Hericane.

  "Awesome." On that note, Tank turns and scrambles out the door. He forces his way down the hall through his men, in a bigger damn hurry than any of them.

  Douche.

  With that, I walk over and slam the door behind him. We've got work to do. None of it good.

  "We need clues to what happened here." As I say it, I look around at the mess in the room. "We need some kind of lead."

  Hericane nods. "We need to find the people who took Mardi Gras, before they do something to her."

  Denial is a powerful thing. I guess I should set her straight...but I'm not going there yet. "Time is definitely running out." As I say it, I squat down beside a yellow evidence frame on the floor, left behind by a crime scientist. There's a splotch of blood in the middle of the frame's right angle, with the edge of a footprint stamped in red.

  It looks like a bare footprint...and small. No bigger than the print of a nine- or ten-year-old child on the undersized side.

  I pull out my smart phone and snap a photo of the print. Then, Hericane clears her throat. "I've got something."

  Good for her. Maybe the unhealthy denial will at least let her help with the case.

  She's staring into space, frowning. "Mardi generates fields of light, sound, and color. Her power leaves behind faint electromagnetic traces." Slowly, she moves her hand through the air in front of her. "I can see those traces."

  I get up and pick my way over to her through the mess. "I don't see anything."

  "That's because you don't have 21 senses like I do," Hericane walks around whatever's hanging there in midair, then slowly drifts away from it. No need for protective booties as she wanders through the crime scene, though; she floats two inches above the floor the whole time.

  I stand and watch, keeping my distance so I don't interfere with her process. "What do the traces tell you?"

  "There are several big bursts around the room." Hericane drifts lazily past the splatters of blood and bits of tissue, keeping her eyes focused on invisible patterns in the air. "Lots of smaller bursts, too. She fought hard, she gave it her all." Hericane turns and stares at the far corner of the room, where the walls are covered with an excess of blood and tissue. "That's where the biggest struggle happened."

  I'd already guessed that from the remains on the walls, but I don't mention it. "What do you see?"

  Hericane drifts over there and hangs suspended for a long moment, just staring. Then, she shakes her head hard and looks back at me. "The energies expended here were so intense, they seared the electromagnetic field around her attacker. They left an outline, like a silhouette, right here..." Her hand flows around the image that only she can see, tracing a roughly human form--head, shoulders, arms. Roughly human and short in stature.

  I move closer, trying to picture the complete outline. "Can you describe it for me, please?"

  She pauses and frowns. "Someone little. A child, maybe?"

  Instantly, I think of Little Lord Fauntleroy, the shrinking wonder. What about Kid Cannibal or Crib Death, the baby-killing baby?

  "Wait." Hericane holds up her hand. "Not a child after all. Same height, different build. Bulkier." She leans down, scowling. "Hairier." She slowly moves around the space where the unseen image resides. "An animal?"

  A human-like animal the height of a child. I think I see where this is going. "An ape. That fits with the bloody footprint." So much for the possible kid culprits. Moving on to a whole other list...a much shorter one. "We've got a lead."

  "Then let's go." Hericane turns to the whole she blew in the wall, as if to leap through it.

  "This way." I head for the door instead, waving for her to follow. I figure there's a fifty-fifty chance she'll go off on her own; after all, she knows as well as I do that there's only one criminal genius ape in Isosceles City. She knows just where to go to find him, or a clue to his whereabouts.

  But she doesn't fly off alone, which I count as a victory. She follows me out the door instead, and I'm relieved.

  There's no way I can keep her out of this, not with Mardi Gras involved. Not with Mardi Gras dead, which she knows damn well underneath all that denial.

  Best I can hope for is to keep her close, put her to use, stop her from melting down the city in a fit of rage and sorrow.

  In other words, stop her from doing all the things I wished I could have had the power to do back when I lost Jimmy and the kids.

  *****

  Hericane's pretty jumpy during the drive across town--not just because she's used to flying, I'm sure. Nothing like a little quiet time in a car for harsh reality to sink in a little deeper.

  As for me, I'm jumpy, too, for a different reason: I hate hate hate going to The Zoo. It is by far one of the sleaziest places in Isosceles City.

  There it is now, up ahead, bathed in blazing pink neon--the strip club, not the animal park. Though truth be told, I don
't see much difference between the two most nights.

  I get the valet parking, plus I slip the guy an extra twenty. You think getting out of a car with Hericane's gonna decrease your car's chances of getting broken into? Think again.

  Especially when the strip joint you're walking into is full of grade A certified animal-based super-villains.

  As soon as we walk through the door, we're bombarded by deafening dance music and swirling lights. Dozens of pairs of eyes swoop around and lock in on us, most of them only partly human.

  I spot at least seven known felons at a glance: Doggy Style, Pale Horse, Cucaracha, Lab Rat, Coral Snake, Lena Hyena, Killer Zebra. Every one of them's some kind of mutated creature--part human, part beast.

  All nasty.

  But I don't see the one we're looking for. "Any sign of him?"

  Hericane emits a softly pulsing golden glow as she scans the place with her 21 senses. "Nothing." She shakes her head. "Chimpanzero is not in the house." Then she points at the far side of the room. "But his mate is."

  I pat the gun under my jacket just to make sure it's there. Not that I'm worried with Hericane by my side, but...there's something about these bestials. They make me nervous.

  As Hericane and I cross the room, all those roving pairs of eyes follow us. The only one who doesn't seem to be looking our way is the ape in question, Chimpanzero's mate. She's too busy stuffing twenties in the G-string of a jackalope dancer--a cottontail bunny type with horns like a buck deer.

  As we draw up beside our target, I step out in front and tap her black-furred shoulder. "Sick Little Monkey?" I hate using the dumbass code name, but I don't know what her birth name is, if she even has one. "Bubbles" or something?

  Sick Little Monkey looks at me and grins, peeling her rubbery chimpanzee lips away from her massive white teeth. "Well all right! That pig roast I ordered is here! Somebody toss it in the pit!" With that, she screech-laughs and jumps up and down like the chimp she is.