3
The Killer’s Mark
Dogboy huffed as he ran after the hooded man. They’d come a few blocks away from the pier now, and Dogboy was gaining ground.
He couldn’t figure out why the man hadn’t set off his strange precognitive flashes, or “flash forwards,” which let him see a small distance into the future. There was more to it than that (as he’d found out in Dixon Park when he’d flown among other things), but his powers had been inconsistent since then. He figured maybe his flash forwards were on the fritz too.
The man tipped over a trash can as he ran past it. It hit Dogboy’s shins and he fell toward the ground. He rolled into the fall, popping back up on his feet.
He looked around, but the hooded man was nowhere in sight. As Dogboy listened he heard the clopping of footsteps coming from up the street.
He ran up the street and saw the man running through a plaza connecting two office parks. He chased after him through the plaza. Up the street corner. Through the bottom floor of a parking garage, then out onto the street, heading back toward the river.
Dogboy ran a few feet behind the man now. He reached out and batted at the man’s hood. The man picked up speed—
An orange bolt shot out of Dogboy’s hand, hitting the man in the neck. He pulled his dagger from its sheath.
“You’re done, crook,” he said. “Turn around. Now.”
“Not gonna happen, buddy. Not while I still have these.”
The man flipped around and lobbed a few small red tablets— like aspirin dipped in food coloring— at Dogboy’s feet.
A loud POP echoed through the buildings accompanied by a bright flash of light. Dogboy recognized the gimmick… Wee Glimmers, small theatrical props magicians used to distract the audience. Dogboy used them to distract the crooks.
When the light faded the man was gone.
Dogboy ran around the corner to find three men in purple sweatshirts jumping into a car. He ran after it as it pulled away.
After tailing it for half a block he thought he’d try one last thing. He imagined his body floating into the air. He tried to remember how flying felt when he’d done it. A feeling of floating in the deep end of the pool, without the chore of coming up for air.
Nothing.
Nuts, he thought, watching as the car drove up the on-ramp to Route 63.
Bronson shoved his costume into his backpack. It was late, and the waters rushed south, powered by the rain from the storm upriver. His feet sunk in the sand as he trudged up the hill leading back to the pier.
Things seemed a lot more normal than he’d expected. The reporter in the green suit talked to the photographer under the street lamp. A police officer supervised the children from Stonehouse’s photo op.
“Did you find the guy who got shot?” Bronson asked the officer.
“I’m not going in that mess,” the officer said. “It’s storm season, boy. Maybe he’ll wash up somewhere down river.”
The reporter walked over, edging past Bronson on his way to the policeman. “Officer, you realize who that was, right? It was Dexter Stonehouse. See the arcade? See the skyscraper over there? See that factory? He owns them. Seems like you’d want more of your people here for somebody that important.”
“We have CCPD’s best on it,” he said. “We’ll find the body. Don’t you worry. Now scoot. I’ve got to take these kids home before I can call it quits.”
The reporter’s face blushed, hot air blowing out his nostrils.
“Sir,” he said, “I will have you know I am a member of the press. Right now what I have is a murder story. That’s a front page story for a day. The police department’s complete absence here… at the murder scene of one of the city’s most prominent, if not well-loved, citizens… That’s a story about a continuing pattern of incompetence in the police department and the mayor’s office. Sir, there’s a front page story for a year. It’s not the story I want to write. Use your radio, call in more officers, talk to what few witnesses you have, get a darn boat out on the river, and do some damage control.”
He nodded to the crowd as if everyone was in agreement. The police officer took his nightstick from his belt.
“You write any story you want,” the officer said. “Now let me along, sir, or I’m taking you in for botheration of the law.” He poked the reporter in the stomach with his stick. “Reporter Arrested. How long d’you think that would last on the front page?”
The reporter twisted up his mouth like he was going to speak then thought better of it, slinking back to the pay phone Bronson had seen him using earlier.
“You go home now, boy,” the officer said to Bronson, “before I take you in for looking funny.” He nudged the oldest of the three kids with his nightstick. “Let’s go, kiddos.”
“Mr. Stonehouse promised us more treats,” the youngest of the three kids said.
“Take it up with him, if you know how to swim that is.”
Later at the arcade Bronson slid a token into the coin slot on the machine. It rolled out a long metal tube onto a sheet of plastic with tickets printed on it in several colors and denominations. The sheet rotated around on a treadmill-like device.
The coin spun around a few times then fell on the row of blue “20” tickets. Because of some exchange rate that wasn’t explained anywhere on the machine, seven tickets popped out the front of the machine. Bronson ripped them off and shoved them in his pocket.
He wended through the rows of machines looking for Cindy. She was almost an hour late now. His first instinct was to throw on his costume and go looking for her, but then he thought better of it. Take away the powers and Cindy was a lot tougher than him in several ways. She could take care of herself.
He turned the corner by the ancient, yellowed Ms. Pac-Man machine and slammed into Cindy. She held up a fist, ready to strike.
“I’m gonna clobber— Oh, hey,” she said. “Sorry. I know I’m late.”
“It’s fine,” Bronson responded. “There’s still plenty of time. They’re open until 11. What time do you have to be home?”
“Bronson, I can’t. There’s someone I have to see. Something I have to take care of.”
“Oh, oh okay,” he said, “I mean, this was supposed to be a fun night and everything but I get it. Have fun. I’ll be around the shop tomorrow, ok?”
“It’s not like that. I… we really do need to talk.”
Bronson’s mouth smiled at her, but his cheeks held like granite. He patted her on the shoulder. “You couldn’t stick around even for ten minutes. Right?”
“Right. We’ll talk tomorrow, though. I promise. You stay safe out there, Dogboy.” She leaned over and kissed Bronson on the cheek then put her cap back on and left.
Bronson pulled a big ball of tickets out of his pocket and tossed them in the seat of one of the race car games. A kid at the next machine ran over.
“Hey, can I have these?” the kid asked.
“Sure,” Bronson said.
“Why are you leaving them?”
“I was going to use them to get my friend a prize but she just left. Guess she had something better to do.”
“Doesn’t sound like a very good friend to me.”
“She’s fine,” Bronson said. “I think. Besides, it’s her business anyway.”
“That’s a whole lot of tickets for one guy. How’d you win so many?”
“I’m pretty good with games of chance,” he replied. “Always good to keep your eye on the future after all.”
The kid folded one ticket on top of another until he had a neat accordion-folded stack that sprung a little bit when he pinched it.
“Man, some kids have all the luck,” he said.
“My dad always used to tell me we make our own luck. Remember that, buddy,” Bronson said.
He slung his backpack over his shoulder then walked out as a bell rang out in the back of the arcade… Another big winner.
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