Heat Wave, page 22
“Check the support staff,” Seth said. “In the building. A guard. A janitor. HR, something like that.”
“On it,” Gibby said, switching screens and scrolling more until she found another directory. It took another five minutes before she sat back with a sigh. “Nothing there, either.”
“Shit,” Nick muttered. “It was a long shot, but…”
“I really thought we’d find something,” Gibby finished for him.
“Why not just search Simon Burke and the name Martin?” Jazz asked. “If there’s any connection, it might show up somewhere else.”
Gibby and Nick stared down at the phone, dumbfounded. Then Gibby snorted and shook her head ruefully. “Jazz, you’re amazing.”
“I know,” Jazz said. “But thank you for telling me.”
Gibby leaned forward and pulled up the browser once more, typing in SIMON BURKE MARTIN.
A dozen links popped up, but before Nick could get too excited, Gibby pointed out they were nothing more than the gossip pages in tabloids showing Burke out on the town, drinking martinis. She scrolled down farther, and Nick started to deflate. Nothing. Maybe Owen got the name wrong. Or worse, he was messing with them, sending them chasing after something that didn’t exist. He was about to admit defeat when Gibby said, “Wait. Hold on. I think I found something.” She frowned as she clicked on a link. “It’s a story from … twelve years ago. From a defunct Nova City blog. They haven’t updated anything in almost a decade.” She began to read. “‘Attorneys announced today that Burke Pharmaceuticals had reached a settlement agreement with Martin Underwood. Underwood, a security guard at Burke Tower, sued Simon Burke last year, claiming wrongful termination. While the details of the settlement are sealed, word on the street is that Burke paid well into six figures rather than proceeding to arbitration or a trial. Seems as if someone is keeping secrets. What does Simon Burke want to hide? What does Martin Underwood know about the goings-on in Burke Tower?’”
“That has to be him,” Nick breathed. “Right?”
“Maybe,” Gibby murmured, silently reading the rest of the article. “He … okay. It doesn’t say why he was fired, or what happened to him after. Hold on. Let’s see if we can find Underwood somewhere else. If this is the right person, and he’s still in Nova City, we might be able to see where he lives.”
“Good work,” Seth said. “Nick, do you think we could see any better through the back of the house?”
“Only through the window on the back door. It doesn’t have a blind on it. The other windows do.”
“Hold on,” Gibby said grimly. “I found him. He’s dead.”
“What?” Nick demanded. “When?” He looked back at the screen to see she’d pulled up an obituary. Next to the words was a picture of Martin Underwood, an older white man with a solemn smile and cavernous wrinkles on his kind face. The obituary was short, giving few details aside from his place of birth and the date of his death, which happened almost five years before. The only hint of the manner of death was the phrase Underwood passed away unexpectedly. The last line of the obituary read: Mr. Underwood is survived by his only daughter.
“Maybe we can find her,” Nick said. “See if she knows anything. Long shot, but I don’t know what else to do. We don’t even know how he died.” He glanced down at the phone. “Guys, you hearing this?”
No response.
“Seth?” Nick asked. “Jazz?”
Nothing.
“Nick,” Gibby said urgently. “Look at this.”
On the screen, a news story. Not from Action News, but another site. A short article, saying that police were baffled by the death of Martin Underwood, who was found in his East Side apartment deceased after neighbors complained of a foul smell in the hallway. According to the coroner, it appeared Martin Underwood had been dead for a least a week before he was discovered.
But it wasn’t the length of time it took to find him that baffled investigators.
It was the fact that he’d drowned. His lungs were filled with water, but there was no other physical evidence to show his body had ever been in water. Police were continuing to investigate.
“Water,” Nick whispered. “Jesus, Gibby. What if he could manipulate water? What if that was his power?”
“And Patricia Burke took it from him,” Gibby said. “Then … what. Turned it on him? Drowned him with his own powers? Nick, that means she can—”
So this is what it’s led to, a voice whispered in Nick’s head, foreign, intrusive. He blinked slowly, as if caught in a dream. We underestimated you. We won’t do that again. Stop him. Stop him now.
“Gibby,” Nick said, sounding far, far away. “Did … did you hear that?”
No answer.
He looked down at her.
Sweat sluiced down the sides of her face as she gripped the table, knuckles bloodless. Through gritted teeth, she bit out, “I … can’t. Stop. It. It’s so … loud.” She turned her head toward him, eyes wide, frightened. “She’s…”
Do it. Stop him by whatever means necessary.
The door to the basement opened above. Steps creaked. “Nick? Gibby? I have cookies. So many cookies.”
Martha.
Gibby hunched over the desk, head in her hands. Nick rushed to the entrance of the secret lair. “Martha! Something’s wrong with Gibby! I need your…”
Help, was how he meant to finish. But his voice was stolen from him when he saw Martha Gray descending the stairs holding a large kitchen knife, the blade glinting in the light from the bare bulb above the stairs.
“Cookies,” Martha singsonged. “So many cookies.”
“Uh,” Nick said, taking a step back as she reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes vacant, expression slack. “That doesn’t look like cookies.”
He stumbled back when Martha hurtled toward him, knife raised above her head. Managing to stay upright, he slammed the pocket door, screaming when the knife went through it, the tip of the blade inches from his right eye.
“Martha!” he bellowed through the door. “What the hell?”
“It’s her,” Gibby wheezed behind him. “Nick, it’s Patricia Burke. She knows. She knows.”
“I’m supposed to be in a romantic comedy, not a horror movie!” Nick cried as the blade wiggled from side to side as if it was stuck, Martha trying to pull it free. With all his might, he jerked the door open again, causing Martha to lose her grip on the knife. It bounced off the cement floor, sliding underneath the washing machine.
“Ha!” Nick crowed. “See that? That’s how I get things done—”
For an older woman, Martha Gray certainly knew how to throw a punch. Nick learned this firsthand, her fist colliding with his cheek, knocking him back as his vision exploded in stars. Before he could recover, Martha’s hands were around his throat, grip tight, cutting off his air.
He struggled against her, but he couldn’t hurt her. This was Martha, the woman loved him almost as much as she loved Seth.
The spark in his head pulsed, and he managed to say “Please don’t hate me for this!” before he pushed. The air around him grew thick, and then Martha flew back, hitting the wall near the door and slumping to the floor in a heap, head lolling to the side as she blinked rapidly. “Nick?” she asked, voice faint. “What … how did I get down here? I…” Her vision began to cloud over. “Cookies. I brought you cookies.” She rose slowly, using the wall to push herself up. “Also, I want to see what your insides look like.” Fingers hooked like claws, she began to advance toward them.
Gibby grabbed Nick’s hand, pulling him around the desk, keeping it between them and Martha.
“We gotta get out of here,” Gibby said, pulling Nick back as Martha tried to reach them across the table. “I can hear her. In my head.”
Nick ducked as Martha swiped at him. “We can’t hurt her.”
“I know,” Gibby ground out. “Good thing my girlfriend is rich.” With that, she let Nick go before upending the table toward Martha as hard as she could. The table flew up, the monitors and keyboards crashing against Martha, the impact forcing her to her knees. “Go!”
They went, both of them leaping over Martha as she tried to stand again. Nick leaned down and grabbed his backpack by the strap, never slowing. They hit the stairs, thundering upward, Martha shouting after them. They reached the first floor, slamming the door shut and locking the knob, followed by the dead bolt.
“In case I haven’t said it today,” Nick said, “I really hate the Burkes.”
“Ditto,” Gibby said. “Come on. I don’t know how long that’ll hold her. We need to get out of here before Bob comes home.” They headed for the front door, Gibby pulling out her phone and opening the app.
“Anything?” Nick asked, stopping at the front door, peering out the glass to make sure no one they loved was waiting outside to try to kill them.
“No,” Gibby said, shoving her phone back in her pocket. “Nothing. This isn’t good, Nick. I can still feel her in my head.”
Nick no longer could. Whatever hold she had over him was gone, or she’d given up trying to control him. “Can you handle it? If you can’t, you have to stay here. It’d be safer for both of us.” He shuddered at the idea of Gibby turning on him. Even with powers, he’d probably get his ass kicked.
Gibby shook her head. “I’m good. I know it’s there, that she’s there, but I’ve got it. If that changes, I’ll let you know.”
“You better,” Nick told her, looking out the window again. Nothing. No one waiting. Thinking fast, Nick dropped his backpack, ripping it open and pulling out the Guardian costume. He handed the bundle over to Gibby before kicking off his shoes. “You don’t get to make fun of my underwear.”
She rolled her eyes. “We don’t have t—nope, we have time. Nick, honestly. You are seventeen years old. You need underwear that doesn’t have cartoons on it.”
“Cartoons? How very dare you. These are comic-book symbols! See? Blam! Pow!” He turned to show her.
“I can see your ass crack.”
“We don’t have time!” he cried, kicking off his shorts as he pulled his shirt up and over his head.
“Thank you, though,” Gibby said, handing over his costume.
“For what? Rescuing you? Dude, I think you saved me, so—”
“Not that,” she said, eyeing him up and down as he shoved one leg inside his costume. “I can see the outline of your testicles, and it reminded me why I’m a lesbian.”
“Gibby!”
“Don’t yell at me. I’m not the one who brought them out.”
“It’s not my fault they’re so big!”
She turned her face toward the ceiling. “How is today not over yet?”
Costume on, Nick picked up his helmet off the floor. He slid it over his head, and the screen inside burst to life. WELCOME, GUARDIAN.
“Let’s go,” Guardian said. “It’s time to take out the trash.”
* * *
They stepped outside, and Guardian groaned. “Goddammit. I forgot I don’t know how to fly. What the hell. How is today not over yet?”
“Burrito Jerry is forty minutes away,” Gibby said, glancing down at her phone. “No help there. If we start running now, we can make it in fifteen minutes.”
“Like I’m going to be caught dead running in public again. Trust me. I’ve got this. Watch and learn. You there, sir! Yes, you, the one climbing into the sedan. This is an emergency. We need to commandeer your vehicle in order to save—why are you screaming? I’m not trying to carjack you! Sir. Sir. Put the pepper spray away! Don’t you point that thing at me! Do you have any idea who I am? If not, that’s okay because that sounded really conceited. That’s right, drive away! Yep! Don’t even look back!”
Guardian turned back around.
Gibby arched an eyebrow.
“Yeah, yeah,” Guardian muttered. “Shut up. Now what?”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a familiar bandana, now wrinkled. She tied it around her face before twirling her finger, motioning for Guardian to turn around.
“I don’t get what I’m supposed to—oof.” He grunted when Gibby jumped on his back, wrapping her legs around his waist. He put his hands under her legs to keep her from falling. “What are you doing?” he hissed at her. “You want me to run and carry you? Screw that. Burke wins. I give up.”
“You’re a goddamn Extraordinary,” she snapped, her chin digging into his shoulder. “It’s time you started acting like one. Your boyfriend and my girlfriend are in danger. The people we love are being mind-controlled by a bitch and a bastard, and the only people we can trust are the man who gets free burritos and maybe your psycho ex-boyfriend. Are you just going to stand there and let the bad guys win?”
Gibby was right, as usual. “Hell no.”
“What are we gonna do about it?”
“Kick names and take ass,” he growled dangerously. Then, “Wait, shit. I screwed that up. Let me—”
“Run,” Gibby said. “Up the front of Seth’s house. Get to the roof, and then you jump from building to building like a superhero.”
“Uh, I think you’re overestimating my ability to—”
“Do it!” she bellowed, squeezing her thighs against his sides, as if he were her horse.
He turned around, heart thundering against his rib cage. Unexpectedly, his mind was his own, clear, free from muddled, racing thoughts spinning in never-ending circles. All he could hear was Gibby’s breaths against the side of his helmet. All he could feel was her weight on his back, tethering him, refusing to let him spiral off into indecision.
The spark bloomed in his head, and he welcomed its warmth, holding it close.
He moved without thought, the thin muscles in his legs coiling, lips pulled back against his teeth. Everything melted away, and there was only Gibby, only Guardian, and as he sprinted toward the house, he thought, Oh, please, let this work.
Six feet away from crashing into the house, he jumped.
But this time, he didn’t kick his feet out. Instead, he imagined the air around him solidifying, becoming a tangible thing that he could control. As he started to fall toward the house, he pushed, and that old familiar feeling—pain, slight yet delicious—lanced through his head as the spark burst in a furious flash.
Beneath his right foot, the air hardened with a crackling snap, wavering, but holding as he landed on it. He said, “Hold on. This is probably going to be a little weird.”
“Great,” Gibby muttered weakly in his ear. “Just what I was hoping f—Nick!” She screamed in his ear as the solidified air beneath his feet began to rise, lifting them up toward the roof. The air rushed over them, the façade of sandstone a blur in front of his face. Right when the air became level with the roof, he jumped. They landed on the slanted roof, Guardian’s toes curling in his boots as if he thought that’d give him any purchase. It didn’t, and they immediately began to slide toward the edge.
“Jump!” Gibby screamed in his ear right before they ran out of room. “Oh my god, jump!”
He did, right before they slipped off the edge. It felt as if he had launched himself from a springboard, hurtling through the air toward the roof of the house next to the Grays’. He began to cackle loudly as he looked down, their lumpy shadow racing across the ground below them. They landed on the peak of the next roof, and with his momentum carrying him forward he ran, finally trusting his own abilities.
Alive, he felt so alive, and he jumped again and again, hitting each roof, the buildings growing in height, but that didn’t stop him. If anything, it pushed him further, to do more, to be better. He wished his father could see him now. He wished all their enemies could witness what he was becoming.
He was the Extraordinary known as Guardian, and it was time to show everyone why messing with his family was a terrible mistake.
* * *
They hit the ground just outside of his neighborhood, people in front of a coffee shop gaping at him as he rose from a crouch, Gibby sliding off his back on shaky legs.
He whirled around. “Did you see that?”
“I did,” she said evenly. “Can you stand between me and the people looking at us so I can do something real quick?”
“Uh, sure?” Nick moved between her and the people staring at them. “Like this?”
“Take a step back.”
He did. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.” Then Gibby lifted the lower half of her bandana and vomited on his feet.
“Oh my god!” he screeched, stumbling back, trying to shake off the string of bile that hung off his boot. “Why? Why?”
“Heights,” Gibby said weakly, grimacing as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I hate heights so much.”
“That explains all the screaming. My bad, dude. Hold your breath and lower the bandana real quick.” He turned toward the people sitting outside the coffee shop and saluted them. “Citizens, I need water for my friend. Consider it a good deed in service of the city.”
A woman rose from her chair, grabbing her sweating glass of ice water and handing it over, hand shaking. “Thank you,” Guardian said. “I won’t forget this.” He gave it to Gibby, who drank the entire thing in one go. After she finished, she lowered the bandana and handed the glass to Guardian, who set it back down on the table.
“Let’s go,” she said, and they hurried around the corner, down the familiar street. He faltered when he saw people gathering on the opposite side of the street from his house, pointing at something blocked by parked cars and thick trees. Because he could, he jumped over a car rather than running around it, the spark barely pulsing as he did so. It was easier, now. Somehow, it was easier, his to harness, his to control.
As soon as he jumped across the street, landing on the opposite sidewalk, he saw what everyone was looking at.
People, standing stock-still in front of the Bell home, gathered on the walkway, backs stiff, arms hanging at their sides, eyes clouded over.
Cap. Mary. Bob. Trey. Aysha. Jo. Miles. Chris. Mateo. Jazz.
All of them, watching, waiting without a trace of recognition, blocking the way forward. But where was Dad?
