Blitzer paused as the letter vanished from the screen to be replaced by footage taken after the blast. So the bomber died in the blast—but who was the fucker? Michael saw blast victims being treated by EMTs and jokers staggering around with blood running down their misshapen faces—video he’d seen a hundred times already. “If this unsigned manifesto is indeed from the bomber, then we are, according to the experts I’ve spoken with, in all likelihood dealing with a homegrown terrorist. Let’s bring in the head of the UN Committee on Extraordinary Interventions, Barbara Baden, to talk about this…”

  “Bitch.” Michael flicked off the TV. He scowled, looking out through the window once more at the Jokertown landscape. A “homegrown terrorist.” A joker hater. Someone who specifically hates me. And he’s killed himself too, the bastard.

  I want to know who this son of a bitch was, and I want to know if someone helped him with this.

  All five of his hands curled into fists, but he thought he could feel the missing sixth hand do the same.

  * * *

  “Thanks for meeting me, man,” Michael said to the imposing joker across the table from him at Twisted Dragon, a restaurant set in the indefinable border between Jokertown and Chinatown, a once-famous place to meet now clinging desperately to vestiges of its fame under the latest in a long sequence of hopeful owners. Rusty had brought back two massive plates heaped with offerings from the lunch buffet; Michael had settled on chicken fried rice and a bowl of wonton soup.

  Michael’s plainclothes shadows had followed him in, taking a table near the door. One was Beastie: seven feet tall with bright red fur and clawed hands, about as unobtrusive as a velociraptor dressed in a tutu. Beastie’s partner was Chey Moleka, an Asian nat, her black hair pulled back into a tight bun under a knitted black beanie hat with the Brooklyn Dodgers logo stitched in front. Despite being in regular clothing for this assignment, her appearance still screamed “cop.”

  Rusty shrugged metallic shoulders, and with one hand rubbed at the bolts that seemingly held his jaw in place; his other hand held a fork hovering over a mound of Hunan Shrimp. His skin was buffed and polished; not a trace of rust anywhere, which told Michael that Rusty had spent some time with steel wool that morning. “Hey, I was happy to do it,” Rusty said. “After all, we’re friends, right?” Michael saw Rusty glance at Michael’s torso, uncharacteristically covered by a heavily-modified T-shirt to accommodate his too-large chest and arms, the middle left hand bound underneath with an elastic bandage, the bandaged stub of his lower left hand sticking awkwardly out from its sleeve. Most of the time, DB went bare-chested so that his natural drumheads were accessible, and yes, because his muscled and tattooed torso was often admired. “Cripes, how are you doing, fella?” Rusty asked Michael. “You healing up OK? Y’know, those drums and all?” Michael saw his gaze travel quickly over the missing arm. Rusty tapped his own chest with a finger; it sounded like two hammers clanking together. “Your arms…” he began, and stopped. “Your leg’s still in a cast, but you’re getting along with those crutches,” he finished.

  “It’s coming along slowly,” Michael answered. “I’m mobile, and my arm’s getting better quicker than the docs expected. The missing one…” He attempted a shrug. “It really hurts to play right now, but the docs think it’ll all come back in time. Most of it, anyway.”

  Rusty nodded his great iron head. “That’s good to hear. Ghost— Yerodin, that’s her real name, but hey, she doesn’t like me to call her that—said to say ‘howdy’ to you.” He managed to look sheepish and he plopped a forkful of shrimp in his mouth, chewed a few moments, then swallowed. “She remembers you coming to the Institute, and I’ve told her about your band and all, but I haven’t let her listen to many of your songs yet. She’s so young and the lyrics, well…”

  Michael waved away the apology. “No worries. Show me what she looks like now.”

  Rusty pulled out his smartphone, tapping at the screen with his fingers, then turning it around so Michael could see the screen. There was a myriad of tiny scratches on the glass screen—Michael wondered how often Rusty had to replace his phone—and underneath the scratches a young black girl stared up at Michael, her hair woven into several long braids capped with brightly-colored beads. Michael couldn’t imagine Rusty managing that with his thick, clumsy fingers; he wondered who’d done the braids; as far as he knew, Rusty was still mourning for Jerusha—the ace called Gardener—who’d died during a Committee incursion into Africa, a year or so after Michael had resigned. “She’s a pretty one,” he said, and Rusty beamed.

  “She sure is. You oughta come see her again soon. She’d love that.”

  “I will, I promise,” Michael said. He took a slow spoonful of his soup with his middle right hand, feeling the pull on the bandaged wounds. His right hands drummed on the tabletop as he set the spoon down. It was hard to resist the temptation to tap on the T-shirt covered drumheads—a nervous habit he’d had ever since the virus had changed him—but he knew how that would hurt. It would hurt more if, once the sutures were out and the tears healed, if the natural drums didn’t work as they had. And the missing arm—that would be part of him forever, now. “I take it you’ve heard about the letter the bomber sent to the J-Town precinct station?”

  “Yeah. Holy cow, that fella had to’ve been nuts. Anyone who’d set a bomb just to kill jokers, and boy, the nasty way he talked about you, and then to blow himself up…” Rusty’s hand tightened around his fork; Michael watched it bend. Rusty noticed as well; he clumsily tried to straighten it and set it down with a rueful glance. “I’ll have to pay them for that,” he said, then looked back at Michael. Rusty shook his head, his neck groaning metallically with the motion. “The other guy in your band who survived—what was his name? Bottom?—how’s he doing? It must be tough, you guys losing your friends and so many of your fans like that.”

  Michael felt a surge of guilt. He hadn’t seen Bottom since the first week, and there were still all the unreturned calls. He hadn’t attended the funerals of S’Live, the Voice, or Shivers, though he’d sent—that is, he’d had Grady send—cards and flowers, saying he was still too ill to be there even though his doctor had told him he’d give Michael permission to travel as long as he promised to be careful. He hadn’t personally visited the victims who’d been hospitalized, though Grady had insisted on him recording a video from his bed, later posted on YouTube, spouting all the expected platitudes and clichés.

  Friends? I don’t have friends, just a lot of bridges left broken and smoking behind me …

  But he couldn’t say that to Rusty. Not to those huge, empathetic, and simple eyes. “Bottom’s doing as well as can be expected,” he answered. “And I’ll tell you, I need … I want to know more about this bomber: who he was and what he was thinking, and whether he was part of a group. I’d want to know who he is—and I’m tired of waiting for the FBI and the cops to figure it out.” The last sentence sounded too eager and too harsh, and Michael regretted letting it slip out, even to Rusty.

  “After he called you ‘scum’ and said you were the one he most wanted dead, I understand,” Rusty said. Rusty didn’t seem to have noticed Michael’s escorts at their table. “Hey, you want to find him? Why don’t we figure out who this guy was together? I could help you. I’ve kinda been a detective myself. I had to find Ghost’s teacher when he got snatched…”

  Michael was already shaking his head, and Rusty’s excited voice trailed off. You can’t, because if I find out there are other bastards involved, I’m going to kill them the way I’d’ve killed that bomber asshole if he hadn’t offed himself. I won’t involve you in that. “This is something I gotta do myself,” Michael told him. “You can understand that, right?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Rusty answered, but Michael could see the disappointment in his eyes.

  “Look,” Michael told him, “there is something you can do to help. You still have contacts in the Committee, right? Could you talk to someone there, someone you trust? See if you can find out if the Committee was involved, and let me know. Could you do that for me?”

  “Sure can,” Rusty enthused. “I’ll make a few calls as soon as I get back. Hey, why don’tcha come with me? You could see Ghost.”

  He should have. Michael knew that; it’s what a true friend would have done. But he shook his head. “I can’t right now. I have to see someone. You know how it is.” He signaled to the waiter for the check with his upper right hand. “Let me get this,” he told Rusty. “You’ve been a great help, Rusty. Thanks. Give Ghost a hug for me, huh?”

  “Sure. You’ll come by some other time, OK?”

  “Yeah, I will. I promise.”

  Meaningless words and an empty promise, but Rusty beamed.

  On his way out, Michael crutched over to the cops’ table. “Just so you know, I’m heading over to Fort Freak, so why don’t you two give me a ride so I don’t have to call an Uber. It ain’t like I’m gonna run the whole way…”

  * * *

  Beastie and Chey accompanied Michael into the station: New York’s Fifth Precinct, better known as Fort Freak. Sergeant Homer Taylor, called Wingman, was at the front desk. He glanced up as Michael slowly approached.

  “Hey, DB,” he said, his drooping wings lifting a bit with the motion. Beastie and Chey moved on into the precinct’s depths. “Good to see you’re up and moving around, even on crutches. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, Wingman. Can you let Detective Black know I want to see him?” Michael asked.

  “He’s out at the moment,” Taylor grunted. “Lunch.”

  “Mind if I wait? I’d hate to have you send out my two shadows again so quickly.”

  Taylor shrugged, the wings lifting and falling with the motion. “Whatever. Help yourself to a chair. But hey, would you mind giving an autograph? My wife’s a big fan…” Taylor held out a pen and a piece of paper.

  Michael repressed the sigh that threatened as he took the pen in his lower right hand, leaning heavily on the crutches. “Sure,” he said. “What’s your wife’s name?”

  Detective Black entered the station a few minutes later. Michael had met Black before, during the investigation into the joker disappearances a year or so ago, then again after the bombing. Black—Detective Francis Xavier Black, according to the card he’d handed Michael when he’d interviewed him in the hospital, and called “Franny” according to Beastie and Chey, which struck Michael as an oddly feminine nickname for a dark-haired, burly nat in a cheap, rumpled gray suit, who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He hadn’t shaved this morning, either. Black rubbed at the stubble on his chin as he saw Michael sitting in one of the chairs to the side of Taylor’s desk. He inclined his head to Michael. “Come on back, Mr. Vogali,” he said in a soft, quiet voice, and led Michael into a tiny office crammed in the rear of the precinct first floor.

  As Michael lowered himself into a heavy wooden chair on the other side of a paper-stacked desk, leaning his crutches against the scarred and scratched arms, Black sat in the battered office chair there, pushing aside folders so that there was a clear space in which he could fold his hands. “I take it you’ve heard the reports about the letter.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah. So this guy sent his letter to the Cry, and blew himself up in the explosion. Is that what you people are claiming?”

  “That’s what the letter claims, yes.”

  “So someone found the body? The remnants of the guy’s suicide vest, maybe?”

  “You know I can’t talk to you about an active case, Mr. Vogali.”

  “It’s not that hard a question. And if the fucker’s dead, what’s it matter?”

  “It’s still an active case,” Black persisted. “Look, I have to keep my nose clean right now. Frankly, my bosses would love to find an excuse to push me out of here.” Something in his tone made Michael narrow his eyes.

  “So are you still handling the case?” Michael interrupted the platitudes. “Or not?”

  Black seemed to wince. “You already know that the FBI and Homeland Security are involved, as they have to be and should be. They have resources we don’t have here. I’m still in the loop and still working any local angles, but if you’re asking, no, I’m not in charge. That control’s been passed further up the chain.”

  “So you guys don’t have a name yet? You haven’t identified the bomber.”

  Black’s dead stare impaled him. “How many times do you want me to give you the same line, Mr. Vogali? I can’t talk…”

  “… about an open case. Yeah, I get it. But the letter came to the Cry—where was it sent from? Was it local?”

  “Even if it were—and I’m not saying that’s the case—what would that mean? The guy had to be here to set off the bomb anyway. Look, I understand how you must feel, but…”

  “But it’s been kicked upstairs,” Michael interrupted loudly, “and because it’s just ugly jokers who were killed and injured, because it was just a Joker Plague concert in lousy Jokertown, it’s not exactly high priority. If the bomber had set off the bomb at Yankee Stadium and killed a bunch of high-rolling nats, then they’d already have figured out who he is and his face would be plastered all over the news. Yeah, I get it.”

  Michael grabbed his crutches and pushed himself off the chair like a wounded spider. Black’s stare had gentled, but his lips were pressed together in a thin, almost angry line. Michael wondered who the man was pissed at; the emotions coming from Black didn’t seem to be directed toward Michael. “Mr. Vogali, I assure you that this isn’t low priority for me. Jokertown is my district. I knew people who died in that blast, too, and I want the person or persons who murdered them to be identified just as much as you do. But y’know what, I drank a lot of iced tea at lunch and I really need to take a piss. I hope you don’t mind if I do that.” Black shuffled through the files on his desk and plucked out a slim file folder, placing it down carefully on top of the stack of files nearest Michael. “I’ll be gone, oh, five minutes or so, then I’m going to come back and…” He paused momentarily, giving emphasis to his next words. “… look through that file. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Vogali. I really hope we both find what we’re looking for in the end.”

  Black pushed back his chair and moved past Michael to the door. Ostentatiously, he closed the blinds over the glass there, and shut the door behind him.

  Michael watched the blinds sway, then settle. Leaning on his crutches, he reached out with his lower right hand and took the file folder from the stack. The brown, thick cover was stamped with both the Homeland Security and FBI emblems, and was labeled Roosevelt Park Bombing, 9/15.

  Michael looked again at the closed door. He sat once more, then opened the file and started reading.

  * * *

  Michael’s brief look at the file did little to ease his mind, nor did it give him much more information. Yes, the FBI had swarmed in the day of the blast, according to Franny Black’s notes. There were three bodies near the location of the explosion that—like the poor Voice—were so badly mutilated that identification had been very difficult and slow. There were sub-files for each one; none had yet been definitely ruled to be the bomber, but two were jokers local to Jokertown, none of whom had ever done anything suspicious, according to Black’s notes. The other body was a male nat who was identified through dental records as Bryan Fisher—particular attention was being paid to that investigation, especially since Fisher was former military. Fisher lived in Reading, Pennsylvania; from the reports in the file, he had given no outward indication of being someone who hated jokers. His wife claimed he was a long-time fan of Joker Plague, who had once played a show at his army base in Germany. Yes, she knew Bryan had gone to New York for the show, and she hadn’t accompanied him because she was eight months pregnant and didn’t think it would be good for the baby or her to be exposed to the decibels or the crowds. No, the letter that was sent to the Cry didn’t sound like anything her husband had ever said or written; she couldn’t believe it was from him.

  The bomb had been placed under the front of the stage, probably the night before the concert—there was a separate investigation looking into the crew who had been charged with assembling the stage and providing security before the concert. The explosive had been military grade C4 (another reason to keep Fisher on the suspect list), set off with a homemade short-range detonator—the report noted that it was indeed very likely that the bomber had been caught in his own blast.

  The file had included the full text of the letter sent to the Jokertown Cry, though the original and the envelope in which it had been sent were in the hands of the FBI. Michael scanned it, his stomach roiling as he read the hateful, ugly words there.

  The file only fueled his anger. The file only made him feel more frustrated and useless. He felt he understood Detective Black’s irritation.

  * * *

  Two days later, Michael found himself lying bare-chested on an examination table in the Jokertown Clinic as Dr. Finn removed the stitches from the torn membranes that were the natural drumheads in Michael’s body. The tattoos covering his arms, chest, and back were stark against his flesh. “There, that’s the last of them,” Dr. Finn said. The doctor’s centaur-like body stepped back, the sound of his hooves muffled against the tile by elastic booties. “Whoever stitched you up at Bellevue did a nice job. Everything looks good and it’s healing up nicely so far—better and faster than I’d expect, in fact—but I don’t know how bad the scarring might be or how that might change the sound. That’s something you’ll find out, but I wouldn’t advise banging away on them just yet. Give them another few weeks.”

  Michael shook his head. “Jesus, doc, you don’t understand…”

  Finn laughed. “Oh, I think I do. Just take it easy, OK? Nothing too strenuous, or you’re going to be back here looking for more stitches, or worse, picking up an infection.” He pointed at the computer monitor on the desk in the room, where several X-rays were up. “Those are from your leg and your arms. They’re all healing faster than I’d expect, too—one good trait the wild card seems to have given you is the ability to recover more quickly than normal. I think we can move you to a walking cast on the leg as long as you promise to be careful, and splints for the broken arm to replace the casts. The amputation is pretty much healed; we can start looking into a prosthetic for you soon. Sound good? You’re going to need some extensive PT afterward to get full range of motion back everywhere in general, I expect.”

 

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