PART 1 — THE EYE SEES ALL
July 27, 2005
Outside City Hall
4:00 PM
1
“No more leash laws,” a student shouted up City Hall’s steps. He swung a protest sign over his head— GOOD DOGS ROAM FREE written in black marker.
“Superheroes aren’t the villains,” yelled a woman passing out bottled water to the assembled crowd.
Several policemen stood blocking the doors, brandishing armored shields with the letters C.C.P.D. stenciled along the front. The protesters milled around the sidewalk, brandishing placards with catchy slogans and hand-drawn Dogboy sketches. A blue tarp covered the area above the door, two lumps on either side.
“Stand back, citizens,” said a cop through his bullhorn. “Please remain within the free speech zone or else we’ll take it as an act of aggression.”
Bronson Black (a 14-year-old who, in his spare time, patrolled the streets as Dogboy) happened upon the protest rally while wrapping up a date with his girlfriend Cindy McNeil.
“See? Who says we have to fight City Hall?” Bronson said. “Looks like there’s a whole slew of people doing that already.”
“Yeah, but why are they doing it?” Cindy said. She tapped a protester on the shoulder. “Excuse me, can you tell me what’s going on here?”
“We’re protesting the mayor’s crusade against helpful vigilantes like Dogboy,” the man said. “This manhunt is the height of hypocrisy. The only reason we need people like him is because the police are already so ineffective. Even a kid can do better.”
A few people cheered across the way. The other protesters followed suit, although they didn’t sound like they knew what they were cheering about.
“Dogboy’s pretty great, isn’t he?” Bronson said.
“Are you kidding? You’re talking to his number one fan. I’ve seen every piece of film out there on him. Twice. What a hero. Don’t spread it around, but I heard he has some weird new power.” said the man.
“What sort of power?” Bronson asked.
The man looked around to make sure nobody was listening then leaned in close enough for Bronson to smell his stale breath. “Ok. Are you ready? Teleportation. One minute he’s fighting in front of you, then you blink and he’s twenty yards away.”
“Are you kidding?” Bronson scoffed, letting a little chuckle escape. “Teleport? No. He’s freezing time.” He stopped himself when he noticed the man’s eyes narrow. “But what do I know about superheroes anyway?”
“Thanks, mister. Bronson, come on we’ve got to go,” Cindy said. She pulled two ticket stubs from her back pocket: CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY — ROXY CINEMA. She took Bronson’s hand, leading him away from the crowd. “Quit being so obvious, you egomaniac. You know a secret identity depends on you keeping it a secret, right?”
“We already used those tickets. You didn’t have to lie to that guy. He seemed nice,” Bronson said. “You’re right, though. I should be more careful. Besides, we’re on a date. From this point on, I’m not Dogboy at all. Just your friendly neighborhood boyfriend”
“So did you like the movie?” Cindy asked.
“What a freaking roller coaster. I loved the crazy music, and that guy they had playing the Oompa Loompas was hilarious. What did you think?”
“It was fine but not nearly as good as the old one. Me and Dad used to watch it when Mom was working. The guy playing Wonka is super creepy.”
“Never seen it.”
“Ugh. I can’t even look at you anymore. Where’s your mask? Here,” Cindy peeled off her baseball cap then put it over Bronson’s face. He swatted it away. “I swear it’s a classic. Man, your parents kept you on a pretty tight leash, didn’t they?”
“Stand back please,” the police captain said, pushing the crowd back with his shield. “Mayor Lane’s coming out to talk to you freaks.”
The front door swung open. Mayor Lane stepped out. His suit fit him like a lizard’s skin, saggy in the joints but tight around the limbs. He skittered down the steps, waving to the crowd as he approached the lectern.
“Citizens, first we want to thank you for exercising your right to protest here today. What fool would deny we live in a functioning democracy? In a less free society, we’d take you next door and throw you in a cell… or worse.”
“Why don’t you worry about the real crooks? A 10-year-old is doing a better job than youse guys are at cleaning up the streets,” yelled a voice in the crowd.
“He’s 14,” Bronson shouted.
“Sir, our police are tasked with maintaining law and order. If we allow this child to run around deciding innocence or guilt… that’s not justice. Just because he fights crooks doesn’t make him a hero. He’s no better than them.”
“Tell it to the people he saved in Dixon Park,” Cindy yelled, the crowd cheering for her. Bronson poked her with his elbow.
“Now who’s being too obvious?” he said.
“Irregardless… Be quiet!” Mayor Lane shouted over the crowd. “He’s breaking the law. Despite our city-wide dragnet, our decorated police force… the best in the state… have been unable to capture this vigilante. If we can’t catch him, we must watch him. We don’t want him throwing anybody else off rooftops after all. I give you the new eyes of Colta City.”
Two officers pulled down the tarp above the door revealing a printed sign— PROJECT DOLAN. Two security cameras were mounted on either side. They panned across the crowd as the live video stream played on the massive digital billboard mounted on the building.
“Project DOLAN, or Dogboy Observation/Location Analysis Network, will allow us to track Dogboy anywhere in the city. The cameras are remote controlled by a trained team of technicians from right here in City Hall. We can capture up to twelve terabytes of digital footage an hour. The data will be stored in our Stonehouse Park data centers, which can hold up to five exabytes. We can store and review up to fifty years worth of footage. With access to this much data, Dogboy won’t be able to hide for long.”
He gestured to the building across the street where they’d mounted two more cameras. “We’ve already installed over three hundred ‘eyes’ across the city. There’s no corner we can’t see, no place Dogboy can hide.”
“You a pervert or something, buddy?” a man shouted. “I don’t want you watching me all the time.”
Mayor Lane chuckled. “Sir, I’m not sure what boring things you get up to in your intimate moments, but believe me we have no interest in watching them. This system tracks Dogboy, or any other copycat vigilantes who might appear. Normal citizens with nothing to hide have nothing to fear from Project DOLAN.”
The mayor’s stylish young assistant, Chester, burst out of the doors. He put a note card down on the lectern as he whispered in the mayor’s ear. The mayor picked up the card and read it over then looked back to the crowd.
“I’m sorry, folks. I know your protest permits are all in line, but we’ll need you to exit the area in an orderly manner. There’s a fire at the orphanage down the street, and emergency personnel need you clear. There are still children in the building. The police will inform you when you can resume your little protest. To a brighter future for Colta City.”
“The orphanage?” Bronson said. “I know this was supposed to be a date and everything but…”
“Go save some kids,” Cindy said, tapping his backpack, which held his mask and cape. “See you at the shop around five?”
“What’s around five?” Bronson asked.
“Um, you asked me to go with you and Mr. Horum to clear your dad’s old storage unit?”
“Oh yeah. Sure. I gotta go.”
Cindy leaned over and gave him a quick peck. “Be careful. Sounds like being Dogboy is going to be more dangerous than ever with this DOLAN thing.”
Bronson took off, ducking into an alley a block away. He flew into the air, landing on the building next to the orphanage. Smoke poured out of the windows. Children’s screams cut through the cracking sound of burning wood. He unzipped his backpack, digging out his costume.
A soft mechanical whirring started over to his right. A Project DOLAN camera rotated toward him. He sighed then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the color in the world was gone. The pigeons flying above him hung in the air, their wings stuck mid-flap.
He ran over to the camera then wrapped his hands around the camera body. He focused his magical energies into the device until it melted into a pile of goo. The air in his lungs ran out. He jerked back. A quick thought made time start up again. The colors came back, and the birds flew out across the rooftops.
Dogboy finished suiting up then bolted across the roof to assess the situation at the orphanage. Two children called to him for help from a window three floors down. As he drifted into the air, he heard the soft whir from another camera.
He looked into the camera lens. “I don’t know if these things do audio or not, but I’m warning you right now. If you think you can watch me every second, you’re nuts. I’m gonna break every camera I see, and if you don’t back off, you’re next. I’m not scared of you or your police or your fancy spy gear.”
He shot an orange beam at the camera, knocking it off its stand. The lens shattered on the black roof.
Dogboy flew down to the orphanage window. “Don’t worry, kids. Dogboy’s here,” he said. He grabbed the boys then deposited them in the alley below.
Right back into the air. A teenage girl clawed at a closed fourth-story window. Her thick feathered hair reminded Dogboy of a moth’s wings. He motioned for her to step back. She jerked her head back and forth, screaming like a siren.
She hammered her head into the window. Again and again and again until it smashed the glass. Oxygen got sucked through and fed the flames. She cackled as they engulfed her.
Dogboy pawed through the broken glass. He caught her arm, but it crumbled into gray ash as he touched it. He felt like he was going to hurl.
A cry from the window above him. No time to freeze. No chance for regret. Up to the window, down to the ground, then several more times until the other children were safe.
Heroic deeds done and feats finished, Dogboy flew around the city on patrol, careful to note where the mayor’s cameras were installed He let his mind drift to the girl he couldn’t save. Why put her head through the glass? Why was she laughing? How did she burn so fast? It felt unnatural. Supernatural? He had suspicions, but if he was right, then he couldn’t speak them out loud. He put it out of his mind as he headed toward 523 South 4th Street. It was almost time to leave for his father’s storage unit, and he certainly didn’t want to keep Mr. Horum waiting.
2
As Bronson slid open the rolling door, he was greeted by a dozen memories. There. Behind those boxes? His old bed. That wooden thing leaned up against the wall? It was the coffee table he’d busted his nose on when he was six.
“Wow. I didn’t even know we still had this stuff. I gotta thank Mr. Morgan when he gets out,” Bronson said. Wylie Morgan (his father’s former magic partner) had given him everything he needed to access the old storage unit before his arrest. Wylie Morgan had been involved in the conspiracy surrounding local businessman Dexter Stonehouse’s “murder.” “I can’t believe it took us so long to finally get out here.”
“All this junk no gonna fit in Horum’s van,” Mr. Horum said. Predsha Horum was Bronson’s boss at The Old Curiosity Shop, and was also the closest thing to family he had. He dressed like an Omani sultan and walked like he needed practice.
“Yeah. You didn’t mention the furniture either,” said Cindy.
“Jeez, you guys. Are you nuts? We’re not taking it all,” Bronson said, digging through an open box labeled DUNCAN KID STUFF. “I mostly wanted to look. Who knows what my dad could have hidden in here?”
He pulled a long green flashlight out from the box. The words B.Y. SPECIAL MACHINE were printed on the side. The hard white plastic lettering had been punched into hard plastic tape by a label maker. Bronson flicked the metal switch on the side. Light shot out of the end, shining a yellow circle on the wall.
“Anybody else feeling sick?” Cindy said, grabbing her stomach as she sat down on a box.
Mr. Horum’s face went white. “I think maybe yes,” he said.
Bronson turned off the flashlight then knelt down beside Cindy. “Is it that musty smell?” he asked. “You can wait outside if you want to.”
Cindy smiled. “No. I’m feeling better now. Almost like I was never sick in the first place.”
When Cindy stood up, Bronson noticed a silver case under some boxes behind her.
“Help me move these,” he said. “You don’t put anything boring in an expensive case like that.” Together they cleared off the boxes, pulled down the case, and placed it on the ground. Bronson slid back the latches. It popped open. Black foam pads lined the interior. In the center, tucked into a form-fitting divot cut into the foam, sat a pair of sunglasses with some ear buds wrapped around them.
“Seems like an awful lot of protection for sunglasses,” Cindy said. “Let me see.” She shoved Bronson aside then grabbed the glasses and put them on.
“Cindy, take those off,” Bronson said, plucking them off her face. “We have no idea what these even do. My dad could’ve put a curse on them for all we know.”
“Wait. There’s something else in here,” she said. Inside the case, below where the sunglasses had been, sat a black matchbox.
“My dad played a lot of clubs. These probably fell in when he was packing up,” Bronson said. He picked up the box then slid it open; a gold-plated scarab rested on a cotton cloth. It had a dark glass eye mounted in the center of its back.
“Your dad collected bugs?” Cindy said, leaning over his shoulder to see.
“No, he didn’t. Which makes me wonder…” Bronson placed the open matchbox back in the case then put on the sunglasses.
“I thought you said those weren’t safe,” Cindy said.
“These belonged to my dad. If anybody’s brains get scrambled, it should be mine.” He tucked the ear buds snug in his ears. The world went dark for a second. He felt something soft tickling his feet. He could see again. A white wall rose before him.
“Cindy? Mr. Horum? Where are we?” he said.
“WE RIGHT HERE, BOY-OH,” boomed Mr. Horum’s voice through the headphones.
“Where? Why are you yelling?” Bronson said. He turned in the voice’s direction. A strange buzz shot up his back, then he found himself floating off the ground.
“Stop playing with those and look at this thing,” Cindy said. “That creepy little bug is flying.”
As he floated above the white wall, Bronson saw a pair of giants running over to… him? It took a minute for his brain to recognize the giants as Cindy and Mr. Horum. “Don’t touch it. Don’t step on it. I think… I think I’m the bug. Cindy, hold out your finger. I’ll try to land on it.” Bronson steered his tiny metal body up to her as she put her finger out. He landed on her skin’s craggy surface. One of his “legs” sunk into a wrinkle. The pink ground shook as she lifted him up to get a closer look.
“I see it now,” Cindy said, closing one eye to help her focus on the tiny bug. “This black thing here. It’s like the lens on the camera at school. I know they can make them this size, but they aren’t cheap. Must’ve cost your dad a fortune.”
“This thing ain’t cheap. Look at all this detail,” Bronson said, the head on his actual body waving back and forth. “It’s so realistic. I can even feel whatever the bug feels. Try to blow on it.”
Cindy did. The wind whipped across Bronson’s skin like a sandstorm in the Sahara. “That’s so weird,” Bronson said. “Okay, we can play with it back at the shop.”
Bronson took off the glasses then held the matchbox next to Cindy’s finger as he nudged the bug back inside. He put everything back in the silver case then placed it by the door. He spotted a long white box labeled COMICS under some rolled up rugs.
“Guys, I think we hit the jackpot,” he said, pulling the box out onto the floor. He flipped through the thin Mylar bags inside until he found one he was looking for.
“Bayou Wraith. You ever heard of him?” Bronson said. On the cover, an imposing green monster towered over a blond man in a blue suit. The text along the top billed the issue as a GIANT-SIZED SPECTACULAR. “He’s a plant man who defends the trees and swamps.”
“Like The Lorax?” Cindy asked.
“You know, you’re right? He even has a bushy mustache. How did I not see that?”
“It’s easy to miss little details like that when you already know something really well.”
Bronson put down the book then looked at Cindy. “Yeah, when you’re close enough to something it’s easy to miss the bad stuff, or overlook it anyway.”
“What are we standing around for?” Cindy said, putting the lid on the long box before hoisting it up. “We gotta get a move on. My mom’s expecting me home by nine.”
“Did she ever calm down after I slept over? Seems like I should meet her again on better terms.”
“Not gonna happen any time soon,” Cindy said as she flipped through the other comics.
Bronson picked up a box and started sorting through it. He wondered what it was Cindy could be hiding. He’d suspected something was wrong when she’d started acting weird after their last adventure. It concerned him, but he wasn’t ready to ask her about it. No rush. She wasn’t some secret supervillain or anything. He’d bide his time, stay alert, and try not to overlook any clues.
3
The Colta City skyline lit up on the horizon as Mr. Horum’s van crested the hill that continued along the old state route they drove down. Cindy and Bronson snuggled in the back, enjoying the type of peace and quiet that was in short supply inside the city limits.
“Do we have to go back? I was getting used to seeing the stars,” Cindy said. “They’re way more pretty without all that smog in the way.”
A new song started on the radio. Mr. Horum reached over and turned up the volume. Sitar music played over the speakers.
“This song good one, you betcha,” Mr. Horum said. “We sing in school. It has words, too, like ‘mix with people who stay happy and be happy yourself’ or something.”
TA-THUNK-THUNK. The van bounced hard. A sideways slide across the road like they were driving on ice.
Mr. Horum yipped as he pumped on the brakes. The van slid to a stop blocking both lanes.
“No. No, not again,” Bronson said. He tore off his seatbelt then jumped out of the side door.
“Is no problem, boy-oh,” Mr. Horum said as lowered himself down from the driver’s seat to survey the damage. “We okay. Van on the other hand…”
Both tires on the passenger’s side were flat. The road was covered with irregular wood splinters. Raw, natural wood like mulch from a chipper.
“What the heck happened?” Cindy said as she climbed out. “Did we hit the toothpick fairy or what?” She walked behind the van. “Hey, guys. Get over here. I think I found something.”
The three friends converged over a rotted tree, or what remained, laying across both lanes of traffic. The tree had been cut into three sections by the van’s tires.
“Who would leave this here in dark?” Mr. Horum said. “We got to move this or somebody else hit it, hmmb?” He kicked the smallest log into the grass along the road then leaned down to pick up the big one. Bronson leaned down and grabbed the other side, then together they carried it to the woods.
As they did, a scream came from over by the van. Bronson dropped his side, sending Mr. Horum tumbling over. Bronson offered his hand to the old man.
“Go, boy-oh. I get up in jiff,” Mr. Horum said.
When Bronson made it to the road, he found Cindy being held at gunpoint by a troll-like bald man with greasy skin. He reminded Bronson of a shaved junkyard rat.
“Hey, little guy. You like this chick?” the man asked. She’s pretty cute, huh? Stay right there or she’s getting one right to the cranium.”
Bronson held up his hands. “I’ll stay.”
The man dragged Cindy over to the van and popped open the back door. He kept the gun trained on Cindy as he dug through a box wedged in behind the seat.
“If you don’t let me go, you aren’t going to remember your own name in a second, you big jerk,” Cindy said.
“Cindy, stop. She doesn’t mean that, sir,” Bronson said.
“Nah. Dame’s right. I am a huge jerk. So what?” the man said. He pulled the green flashlight out of a box. “I’ve made my peace. Now empty your pockets. I’ll take anything you got.”
A twig snapped in the brush. The man swung the flashlight around and shined it where the noise had come from. The light washed over Bronson (and behind him a startled Mr. Horum). Their faces turned sallow. Bronson fell to his knees, vomit streaming from his mouth. Mr. Horum retched his guts out, leaning against a tree for support.
“Stop hurting them,” Cindy said.
“I ain’t doing it. Maybe they had some bad meat or something.”
“It’s the flashlight,” she said. “It made me sick earlier.”
He lowered his gun then took a few steps toward his sick captives. “You two, when you get done praying to Ralph, you’d better clean it up. I don’t want slime all over me when I…”
Cindy smacked the man’s hand with a tire iron she’d grabbed in the back of the van when he wasn’t looking. The gun went flying into the tall grass.
“What the hell, you little brat? Oh, well. I can always find some new skeez for a hostage,” the man said. He grabbed her by the neck then pushed her face into the pavement. “Nobody hits me twice.”
Bronson disappeared from where he stood puking then appeared behind the man a second later. He fired his orange light into the man’s back, leaving a ragged hole in his shirt. “Unless you want me to do that trick again, you’d better get away from her, mister.”
The man backed away, holding his hands up in the air.
“Good,” Bronson said. “Now put down the flashlight and get on the ground.”
The man looked at the flashlight, smiled, then shined it at Bronson. As another round of puking commenced, the man slipped into the woods. The light stayed on Bronson until it got lost in the trees. Leaves crunched in the woods. The sound faded as the man escaped.
“What the heck was that?” Bronson said, wiping the vomit from his lips.
“That flashlight. Your dad sure had a lot of weapons for a magician,” Cindy said.
Mr. Horum approached the van, a quick side-step to avoid the puddle he’d left on the ground. He leaned in the driver’s side door, taking his auto club card from the glove compartment. He flipped a switch on the steering column. The hazard lights clicked and flashed in a strict rhythm.
“Come,” he said, “We go find pay phone. Then we lay down. Stomachs are no friend to their owners today.”
Bronson snatched the card from Mr. Horum’s hand. “You guys stay with the car. I’ve got an advantage. Flying is way faster than walking.”
Mr. Horum nodded then leaned up against the van and rested his eyes.
“Keep an eye on him,” Bronson said to Cindy. “He’s pretty old, and what that thing did to us wasn’t gentle.”
He leaned in to give her a quick peck. She pushed him away, waving her hand in front of her face. “Nu-uh,” she said. “Not until you brush your teeth about a hundred times. Look at all that puke. Disgusting.”
Bronson’s orange glow illuminated the dark road as he took off into the air off toward the city. Cindy took a seat next to Mr. Horum and listened to the cricket’s song, watching the woods for any sign of the little troll man and his stolen flashlight.
4
Bronson dropped the last box on the floor in The Old Curiosity Shop, Mr. Horum’s magic emporium in the heart of Colta City. Cindy came in behind him with the silver case. Bronson took it away from her before she had a chance to find a place for it.
Mr. Horum cracked his back while examining the posters, paintings, and fliers on the walls: Alexander Hermann with his goatee and tailcoat. Across from the register, Harry Kellar levitated Princess Karnak. A painting of Okito The Mystic, clad in red oriental robes, hung in the back. He suspended an orange ball between his hands.
“This man pretty impressive, hmmb?” Mr. Horum said, running his hand over Okito’s face. “You can see whole life in his eyes. It reminds…”
“Yeah. Cool poster, Mr. Horum,” Bronson said as he slapped the silver case on the counter. “Did you know him or something?”
“No, no. My Bala buy this when we open for atmosphere or whatever.” Mr. Horum dabbed the corner of his loose sleeve under his eye then grabbed the ledger from below the counter. “Enough about old lives. I go work on books now. You two stay quiet, hmmb?” They both nodded. He retreated to the back office.
“Did you ever ask him what happened to his wife?” Cindy said.
“I guess he’d talk if he wanted to,” Bronson said. He grabbed the case on either end and slid the latches outward. It clicked open. He removed the scarab from the matchbox then put it and the sunglasses out on a black cloth they kept out on the counter to do card tricks for the customers.
Cindy couldn’t take her eyes off the device. While Bronson examined the scarab, she put her arm around him to lean in for a better look. “Imagine the kinds of stories I could get for WWJH with this thing. It’s almost like being invisible.”
Bronson turned away, shielding the scarab from Cindy’s sight. “I can think of a thousand ways we could misuse it too. We need to be careful here. What if my dad put a curse on it?”
“For a superhero, you can be such a wimp sometimes,” she said. “Plus you already got a turn. It’s only fair I get one too.” She snatched the glasses off the counter.
“Really? Come on. Leave them alone,” Bronson said, but without much conviction.
“Come on. Ten minutes?” she said as she slipped the first ear bud in.
“Okay, ten minutes,” Bronson said. “Then I’m locking this contraption up until we figure out what to do with it.”
“Ohmygod. It’s like I’m the bug,” Cindy said. The scarab’s wings flitted on its back. It rose off the counter, hovered next to Bronson’s nose for a moment, then darted out the propped-open front door.
“Get back here right now,” Bronson said. “You’re gonna go out of range or something.”
“Speak up,” she yelled. “It’s hard to hear you over all this traffic.”
Bronson sighed. He wanted to ask again but thought better of it. Her smile as she flew the bug was worth the risk. Cindy could be kind, but he’d almost never seen her look happy. He rather liked it.
“Well, what do you see?” he said.
“I’m flying up over the shop now. Oh, crap!” She ducked down in her chair. “A robin almost got me. Okay, now I’m looking out over the city. There’s Stonehouse Towers. Over there’s Woodrow Wilcox. I should go see what that loser Principal Kane is doing.”
“Better not,” Bronson said. “In fact, I wouldn’t get too close to anybody. They might smash it.”
“Good call,” she said, leaning left as she banked the scarab around a television antenna. “I see a billboard down the road for some MyPyramid site. This corny stick figure is climbing some steps. I think City Hall’s down there. Hey, you want me to buzz past the mayor’s office? Maybe we can find a way to take out those cameras.”
“No way. If they catch the bug, the police’ll be here so fast we might as well wait outside for them.”
“Come on,” she said. “Just a quick flight past his window.”
“Bring it back,” Bronson said. “I mean it. It’s too risky.”
“Too late. Look. There he is now. He’s reading a book or something. Wait. There’s a red light flashing. Maybe it’s a clue.”
Bronson snatched the glasses off Cindy. She squinted as the light flooded her eyes.
“Do you have any idea how much that… How weird that was? It felt like you ripped the top of my head off,” she said.
“Sorry, but I’m bringing it back before you get us in trouble,” Bronson said. “Seriously. It’s my dad’s stuff. You have to listen when I tell you to do something with it.”
“It’s way too cool for you to keep to yourself. Imagine how much I could help you as Dogboy with it.”
The scarab flew through the open door. Bronson landed it back in the silver case. He took off the glasses, put them back, then closed the case. “I know, but you gotta give me some time to test it out first.”
“Fine, but if you don’t figure it out quick, somebody’s gonna bust in here to steal it. Your security system isn’t exactly cutting edge.”
“You got problem with shop? Maybe you help clean it then,” Mr. Horum said as he emerged from the office.
Cindy grabbed her bag then kissed Bronson on the cheek. “No can do, sir. I have to meet up with some friends.”
“Friends?” Bronson said. “Like who?”
“Jeez, nosy much?” she said, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. “I’m meeting up with those kids the Guild kidnapped. Making sure they aren’t completely screwed up now. That okay with you, dad?”
“Maybe I could go with you,” Bronson said. “If they’re your friends, I think it’d be neat to meet them at least. Heck, even Mr. Horum got to meet them.”
“I did?” Mr. Horum said. “They were in cell with me, hmmb? Sorry. Memory is… What you say? Cheesed off?”
“Swiss cheese. Common with PTSD,” Cindy said. She stepped back and bumped into a display rack but caught it before it fell. Her cheeks went red. “Stress can make you forget all kinds of things. It’s true. Look it up. I mean, it’s the only explanation I can figure. Look, I gotta go.” She turned and ran out the door.
“Wait. Didn’t she say she was supposed to be home by nine? Now she’s running off with her friends? Something’s weird here. I can feel it.”
“You sure you can trust this one, boy-oh?” Mr. Horum said.
“I sure hope so,” Bronson said. “She’s been acting weird the past couple weeks. I wonder if those friends of hers have anything to do with it.”
“Maybe you have Dogboy follow her, hmmb? See what secrets she keep from you.”
“But what is she sees me?” Bronson said. “She’d hate me.”
“Be quiet. Stick to shadows. Make yourself indivisible.”
“Invisible?” Bronson asked.
“That too,” Mr. Horum said.
“That could work. Shame that isn’t on my list of abilities. If I could turn invisible, I could settle…” Bronson looked at the silver case on the counter then to the door. “Wait. Maybe I can turn invisible.”
“You can give self powers now? Maybe pass a couple over this way, hmmb?”
“No, the scarab,” Bronson said. He opened the case, took out the glasses, and put them on. “With this thing, I can follow her without being seen. Funny. Cindy actually gave me the idea.”
“If you follow her as dog, she can maybe catch you. Is still fair, hmmb?” Mr. Horum asked, putting a hand on Bronson’s shoulder. “This bug thing is not fair. How she see something so small? We must be fair, even when it make things easier to be not fair.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Horum. One quick peek to make sure she’s okay. Heck, she’d do the same thing if I’d let her have the scarab.”
He plugged in the earplugs. The scarab’s wings warbled like a box fan with a loose blade as it rose from the case and flew out the front door.
5
Bronson watched Cindy waiting for the bus through the eye of the scarab. He orbited her from a safe distance until the bus pulled up. As she climbed on, he flew in behind her. The doors swung shut.
He stayed up by the front windshield, surprised he didn’t need to constantly adjust his flight position as the bus rolled down the road. An old idea from school concerning trains and Albert Einstein crossed his mind, but he couldn’t quite make the connection between it and his current situation. The bus driver groaned as he turned the huge wheel, sending them up the on-ramp onto Route 63.
He heard Mr. Horum’s faint voice through the ear buds. “What she doing now?”
“She’s on a bus. I can’t tell where we’re going. Hope this thing has a decent range,” Bronson said. In truth, from a bug’s perspective the world was confusing and frightening. Everything was all out of proportion. The windows on the bus were humongous glass cliff faces. Even if the scenery outside wasn’t flying by at sixty-five miles per hour, he’d still have trouble identifying where they were due to the difference in scale.
He landed on the wall above Cindy’s head and waited for her stop. “This ride could take a few minutes, Mr. Horum. Think you can grab me a drink?”
“One seconds. I fix you up, you betcha.”
A moment later, Bronson felt a cold tumbler being pressed into his hand. He lifted it to his lips to take a drink. He saw the scarab’s pincher hover over the lens before dragging its sharp tip across the glass. It left a white scratch across his field of view.
“Take it back quick,” he said. “Trying to do stuff in real life is a bad idea when I’m wearing this thing.”
By and by, the bus came to a stop, and Bronson flew the scarab out behind Cindy as she exited. He saw odd shapes way off in the distance: spires and colossal white mountains. He had trouble making them out from so far away. When they passed a sign reading THIS WAY TO CURLEYWORLD —>, he realized they must be the same attractions he’d seen on his adventure in the old abandoned amusement park.
“She’s at Curleyworld,” Bronson said. “What on earth is she doing back there?”
“Maybe she leave book there or something?” Mr. Horum said.
“Don’t joke. I have a real bad feeling about this. What if she’s working with…?” He stopped himself. He couldn’t tell Mr. Horum about the mysterious magical being he’d encountered during the “Curleyworld Follies” adventure. He couldn’t mention Willowwood (the multidimensional theater director) to anybody. He couldn’t even seek advice concerning the choice he’d have to make when Willowwood showed himself again.
“Who? Finish your thought, boy-oh,” Mr. Horum said.
“Hold on,” Bronson said. “She’s kneeling down by the fence.”
Cindy pried back a loose section of chain link. She slid through, careful not to catch her clothes on the twisted wire.
Bronson steered the scarab up over the fence. She was gone by the time he’d made it to the other side. He flew high… a full twenty feet above the ground, which was a lot farther when you were as tiny as a raisin. He recognized the faded adobe buildings. This was Old California, a whole “world” devoted to the Wild West. Across the dusty pueblo, Cindy skipped down the path leading out toward Enchanting Town. Bronson leaned forward in his chair as he steered into the dust cloud she’d kicked up behind her.
Mr. Horum put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You okay. Your breath like steam train,” he said.
“Sure. I’m only seeing how fast it can go.”
The scarab banked left into Enchanting Town. The shops and restaurants resembled old European castles with stone towers rising above them. Bronson barreled ahead toward Cindy’s collar, hoping to land on it then ride the rest of the way. He drew closer. Inches away. An inch. The bug’s diminutive gold pincers wiggled out in front of him, hooking around the microscopic fibers in the cloth.
Bronson screamed. He felt sharp fingers latch into his back. Through the sunglasses, he watched the scarab soar up above the park. High. High. Higher until Cindy was a dot on the ground. He flung his hands around in the air, swinging the scarab’s arms in kind. His right arm caught on something. There was resistance, but he pushed against the invisible obstacle. The scarab’s body swung around. A white arch, flecked with gray, attached to a large yellow spike. It reminded Bronson of a sculpture he’d seen outside City Hall the day before.
The arch pivoted. A deep black circle, surrounded by a plush white border, peered down into the eye of the scarab. From this angle, it became apparent the yellow spike was a robin’s beak; the white arch its head.
“It’s a bird,” Bronson said. “He’s got me with his feet.” The robin landed, dropping the scarab into its nest built between the Calliope Crusher’s tracks.
“Ow! Holy sticks, bird brain. I can feel that, you know?” Bronson said as the scarab crashed into the twisted bramble.
“We done now. This thing come offa your head,” Mr. Horum said.
“Wait,” Bronson said. “It’s too far away. What if that bird eats it? What if you pull the plug and I’m stuck as a bug forever? Hold on, something’s shaking things up.”
The nest quaked below the scarab, but Bronson couldn’t see why. The bug was on its back, its eye trained at the ground.
A high-pitched squeak. No, a chirp. Coming closer. The world spun around. Two larger baby robins pecked at the odd metal bug their mother had brought home for dinner.
With the scarab upright, Bronson could flap his wings again. He took off over the edge of the nest.
He saw Cindy walking down behind the main stage then caught up with her as she opened the dressing room door around back. He aimed the bug toward the door closing behind her. The opening narrowed. He went faster. Six inches to go. Head down, drive forward.
The door clicked shut. The scarab bounced off the frame. Bronson’s head fell back against his chair.
“I think I’m going to puke again,” he said as he watched the scarab spiral toward the ground. His temples buzzed as he focused on regaining control. The spinning slowed then stopped a few inches from the concrete sidewalk. He flew around the building to find another way in. He found one window, but he didn’t see anything inside but a few cells in a dark room.
“Looks like it’s sealed up tight,” Bronson said. “If it hadn’t been for the stupid bird, we wouldn’t made it in no problem.”
“You bring bug back now, hmmb? This is sign, yes? You should not be there,” Mr. Horum said.
“It’s not fair, right?” Bronson said. He flew the scarab high into the air then spun around until he saw the Colta City skyline off in the distance. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour tops.”
It took less than that. After only 25 minutes, Bronson landed the scarab back into its spot in the silver case then took off the glasses.
“Maybe we should destroy this thing. If me and Cindy can’t be trusted with it, maybe nobody can,” Bronson said.
“This good idea. You good boy and being good boy means you play fair. What good is being right if you gotta do bad things to prove it, hmmb? You must do right thing to be righteous.” Something outside the store distracted him. “Something watches us. I feel the eyes.”
Red and blue lights shined through the front windows. A speaker chirped on. “This is the police. Step away from the child, sir.”
Mr. Horum threw up his hands, backing up against the counter. “No troubles. No troubles,” he yelled.
Shadowed figures, guns in hand, appeared at the windows. Bronson felt his armpits dampen. He turned to run to the office, but the sound of breaking glass on the other side of the door dissuaded him.
“Mr. Horum, don’t try to protect me,” he said, shoving the old man down behind the register. “They’re here for Dogboy, not you. Stand back. I’ll go out fighting like a real hero should.”
“You are like my own blood, boy-oh. Either we live together or we die together.”
“Then I hope we live.”
6
“Open up,” yelled a policeman.
“Must we unlock the door to let Death in?” Mr. Horum asked.
Bronson looked back at the scarab. “Wait. I don’t want them getting their hands on this,” he said. “The mayor has more than enough cameras in this town as it is.”
He slipped the sunglasses on, then flew the scarab through the office, then out the window, past the police, then finally landed it in his old hideout in the alley. As the bug’s claws scraped across the dirt floor, inside Bronson heard emphatic yelling back in the shop. He whipped the glasses off his face to find no less than a dozen officers pouring through the door. Mr. Horum leaned against a wall with his hands behind his back as a cop patted him down.
“What is meaning of this, hmmb?” Mr. Horum said. “Why you harass business owners? No better than Swahili boys back home barging in like this.”
“Listen to this towel head over here,” the cop said. He flipped Mr. Horum back around. “He wants us to quit picking on him. It’s not like he just tried to attack the mayor or anything. Where’s your drone, Akbar?”
“His name’s Mr. Horum,” Bronson said, tossing his special sunglasses in a bin of assorted trinkets where they wouldn’t be noticed. “Let him go. I’m the guy you’re looking for.”
“Looks like we got a big hero here,” said the cop. He knelt down, leaning his sneering face a few inches from Bronson. His breath smelled like rotten pickles. “This isn’t your problem. Turns out your grandpa was spying on the mayor. One of the Project DOLAN cameras spotted some microscopic drone outside the mayor’s window. The boys in the control room followed it right back here then called us.”
“Drone?” Bronson asked.
“Looks like a little gold bug,” the cop said. He pulled out a grainy black and white photo of the scarab. “You seen it around?”
Bronson locked eyes with Mr. Horum. The old man nodded, giving him permission to lead the conversation. “Looks like something from my history textbook. A scarab I think it’s called. I’ve never seen one in real life before.”
“You were here when it came back, kid. Only person out was a young lady hopped a bus out of town. If we don’t get answers quick, we’ll have to…”
The posters on the wall fluttered. A mechanical monkey atop a tricycle rolled off its shelf. A cyclone swirled up from the ground. A paper-thin sheet popped out. The cyclone collapsed. The sheet puffed up, gaining dimension. A young blond boy, who was left standing there as the police closed in around him.
“Mr. Horum, is that one of your tricks?” Bronson said. Even after his many adventures he’d never seen another kid with powers before. He wanted to ask him questions. Where did your powers come from? Do you know Willowwood? But as the cops pulled their weapons, he decided he was better off staying quiet.
“Now who the hell are you?” the cop shouted. Every cop in the store trained their gun on the boy.
“Name’s Jesse. Give me a sec,” he said then leaned against the counter, letting his map fall to the floor. “Always hits me when I… Yep, yep. Gonna puke.” He doubled over, spilling his stomach’s contents on the floor.
The policeman who’d been talking to Bronson shook his head. “Cuff him. Mayor Lane wants to know when we find one right away.” He took some business cards from his shirt pocket then handed Mr. Horum and Bronson each their own copy. SERGEANT DRAKE SEVILLE, SPECIAL CRIMES TASK FORCE. “We’re shutting down this shop as part of an ongoing police investigation. When you’re ready to tell us what’s going on here, call the number. Until then, get the hell out.”
Mr. Horum broke free from the officer holding him. “This my shop. You no can take it.”
“Judge Gehrke says different.” Sergeant Seville pulled out a document then shoved it into Mr. Horum’s hand. “It’s a new world out there. With all these vigilantes running around, it’s real easy to get these signed.”
Bronson held up his hand, waiting patiently for his turn to speak like he’d learned in school. He hoped manners (with a dash of timidity) might help him save his skin. “Sir, can I run downstairs and grab my backpack? I have make-up work in there. For school. I’ll be in a whole lot of trouble if I fall behind.”
Sergeant Seville nodded to another officer. “Watch him,” he said.
Together they went to the back of the shop. Bronson lifted up the trap door then climbed down the ladder to his room. The officer leaned down, checking out the pasted comic book characters on the wall and the neatly made bed. “Looks like you’ve got a whole set-up down here,” she said.
“Yeah, I take my breaks down here so I’ve made it pretty cozy,” he said. He picked up the backpack laying next to the bed then angled it so the officer couldn’t see it from upstairs.
Ziiiiiip.
The officer looked away. Time to hurry.
Ziiiiiiiiiiip.
He eased the bag open. His mask was in the bag. Cape too.
Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. The bag closed. The officer turned back around.
“Move it or we’ll take you in too,” she said.
“Every thing’s here,” he said. As he crossed back to the ladder, he snuck a peek at his father’s trunk sitting in the corner. The lock was fastened, not that the rusty old thing would stop a motivated police officer. He climbed back up into the shop. On his way to join Mr. Horum, he stopped by the blond boy.
“Where did you come from?” he asked.
“She told me nobody would be here,” the boy said. Bronson leaned in close.
“Who’s she?”
“We’ll be asking the questions around here, punk,” Sergeant Seville said. “You and Punjab go find some other hole to stink up. Look at all this crap.”
“You a stupid man,” Mr. Horum said, his cheeks puffing up and turning reddish-purple as blood rushed to them. “You come in my own shop and insult me? Call me foolish names? You have power now, but bad one like you no keep power forever.” He took Bronson’s hand and turned to leave. “The world gonna give back what you put into it, you betcha.”
“Hey, Link. That sound like a threat to you?” the sergeant asked. Officer Link shrugged her shoulders.
“How this be threat?” Mr. Horum said. “Threat more specific. I only make wish. Curse? I curse you.”
Bronson and Mr. Horum bristled as two officers pushed them out the front door. They walked past the parked police vehicles, down South 5th Street toward who knows where.
“So what next, big superhero? You must have hideout on every street by now.”
Bronson stopped, a worried look on his face. “I only have the one in the alley behind the shop.”
Mr. Horum smiled then put his arm around his young friend. “Is only joke. You forget. I have apartment two blocks from here. It is small, but we both fit no problems.”
“You want Dogboy to go deal with those cops?” Bronson asked, tapping his backpack.
“No. Superhero only good for fist fights, yes? Sometimes we need special kind of hero. One who fights with words.”
“What good are words in a fight, especially against the police?” Bronson asked.
“Against men like this, words only weapon we have. No worry. I have guy who can help, you betcha.”
Bronson looked down at his half-tied shoes as he followed the old man waddling down the street.
Eventually, they came to a Brownstone, and Mr. Horum punched a code into the keypad by the door. Up three flights of stairs a door marked 3B, which Horum unlocked with two golden keys on his keyring.
The apartment was a modest studio. A kitchen to the right, an office/living area/bedroom to the left. Bronson put down his bag then fell back on the sofa. By the time Mr. Horum dug an afghan from the closet, Bronson’s eyes were closed.
“Sleep good, boy-oh,” Mr. Horum said as he tucked him in. “We fight tomorrow. You gotta stick with me for long time, hmmb?”
“You got it, Mr. Horum,” Bronson mumbled as he pulled the blanket up over his head.
7
The Old Curiosity Shop had never looked so full of life, at least not any time Bronson had seen it. Yellow caution tape adorned the windows. A half-dozen police cars were parked along the street, and if you squinted right, you could see the disaster inside: boxes spilled, displays ransacked, posters torn off the walls.
Cindy waited down the block watching all the unusual activity. Bronson still didn’t know how he’d bring up her trip to Curleyworld, but he knew he had to. How can you go out with somebody if you aren’t straight with them, right? Well intentioned, but when he approached her all he could come up with was a subdued “Hey.”
“Just the geek I was looking for,” she said, whipping out a younger boy’s school picture. “I’m looking for my buddy. A little blond kid. What the heck is going on in there?” Cindy asked. “Do they know you’re… him?”
“No, no. Nothing like that,” Bronson said, avoiding her eyes. “Your friend got taken by the police last night. Cops took him away after they busted into the shop. I guess they used Project DOLAN to track some flying camera buzzing City Hall back to the shop last night. You know anything about that?”
Cindy’s eyes got as wide and round as silver dollars. Her cheeks went red to white in a flash. “I… You don’t mean when I…”
Bronson nodded.
Cindy sat down on the curb, holding her head in her hands. “Crap. I’m sorry. I was only having…Well, at least that jerk of a mayor doesn’t know about you.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve put my secret in danger. These mysterious friends of yours? Spying on the mayor? Sneaking out to Curleyworld? Now all this sneaking around has cost Mr. Horum his shop.”
“Hold it right there, Black,” she said, grabbing at his shirt. “How did you know I was out at Curleyworld, huh? You following me or something?”
“Fine. Okay. Yes. I used the scarab,” he said. “I didn’t want to, but you were acting so… weird or whatever. It’s not only me. Mr. Horum sees it too.”
Cindy stood up, brushed the dust off the seat of her pants, then took off down the street. Bronson jumped up and followed.
“Cindy… Wait!” he said as he chased her. “You gotta talk to me about it. Come on, I’ve trusted you with so much stuff. You’re my girlfriend. I deserve some answers.”
Cindy whipped off her baseball cap, leaned in close, then shoved her finger in his chest. “You don’t spy on your girlfriend. You’re lucky I don’t lay you out flat in the street before I go. Never… I mean never… do that again.”
“You don’t have to worry. I’m one of the good guys.” Bronson reached out for her hand.
“Not after spying on me you aren’t,” she said, withdrawing hers and holding it behind her back. “I can’t trust you with the scarab. Maybe you’d better give it to me, and we’ll call that step one.”
“I can’t,” Bronson said. He pulled the scarab from his pocket. “I grabbed this from where I hid it last night but the sunglasses are still in the shop. I would if I could. Please. Let’s talk about it. If there’s a step one, that means there’s a step two, which means we just need to find another way up. Come on, Cindy. I’ll never be able to save the shop without your help.”
She turned back toward where Sergeant Seville was standing across the street. “Maybe the mayor’s right. Maybe you don’t deserve all these powers and gadgets.” She waved her arms until she caught the attention of the police. “Hey, pigs, here’s the Dogboy kid you’ve been looking for.”
“Cindy,” Bronson yelped. “Are you freaking crazy?”
“Get those sunglasses then come find me,” she said, then walked off down the street.
Sergeant Seville came jogged over to Bronson, scowling. “My boys say they heard some yelling over here. Said they saw you talking to… Hey, you’re the dummy we kicked outta here last night. Shop’s still closed down, kid. Unless you know where your boss’s drone is, you might as well leave. No more loitering. You’d better tell your boss over there to get a hold of a good lawyer. We’re finding some mighty interesting things in there.”
Bronson checked his pocket to make sure the scarab was still there then skulked down to the folding chair Mr. Horum had set up on the opposite corner from the shop. The old man watched through green binoculars as the police tore down his little shop.
“They rip off heads of puppets,” Mr. Horum said. “What puppets ever do to break laws, I ask you. Hey, you, Sergeant Several. Why you gotta kill my puppets?”
The sergeant smiled at them and shrugged.
“He stand there whole time and watch me,” Mr. Horum said. “Only bad man enjoys seeing others suffer. You find your bug, yeah?”
Bronson pulled the scarab from his pocket, holding it out to Mr. Horum in his open palm. “Yeah, but a fat lotta good it’ll do us without the sunglasses. They’ll probably break it before we ever get back in there.”
“We take shop back soon,” Mr. Horum said. “I call lawyer, then he call these news places. Papers, TV, radio people. He say they eat these things up. Humored interest story he call it.”
“You mean human interest?” Bronson asked.
“No, no. Humored interest. Everybody interested in humans, hmmb? Who cares about that? Now story that humored? People watch that you betcha.”
“They like both,” came a voice from behind them. A hand shot between them, snatching the scarab from Bronson’s hand. “This is a silly thing for the police to make such a big deal over. Did you try just giving it to them?”
The voice came from one John Upton-Haywood, reporter for the Colta City Herald and Dogboy’s only advocate in the local press. While the newsman wasn’t too keen on vigilante justice, he was even less keen on Mayor Lane.
“Predsha Horum?” he said holding out a business card. “I’m John from the Herald and I’m here to get your story out. Who’s the kid? Looks familiar.” He rolled his eyes back in his head, spinning his finger around in the air. “Ah, there you are. Didn’t you come into the office a few weeks back with your friend?”
Bronson winced before he could stop himself. He’d first met Mr. Upton-Haywood when Dogboy was working Dexter Stonehouse’s “murder.” “Yeah, Mr. Taylor. I see you got your job back. You can trust this guy, Mr. Horum.”
John stared into Bronson eyes with purpose, looking for something. “How’d you know my real name?” he asked.
“You told us,” Bronson said. “You said it didn’t matter since you weren’t a reporter anymore.”
“I remember,” John said, handing the scarab back. ”Funny thing is you kids are the only people in this town besides HR and my editor who know me by that name. Bet you’ll never guess who called me that last week. He was about your height, actually. Same hair too.”
Bronson realized where he’d slipped. When he’d given an interview as Dogboy after the Curleyworld adventure, he’d called John Mr. Taylor. Bronson coughed, swallowed, then squeaked out a reply. “Gosh. My height? I don’t have any ideas, sir.”
“Don’t insult me,” John said. “You figure you can act like some ‘gosh gee willikers’ rube to throw me off the scent? I know your secret. Now come clean or I’m gonna walk right over there—” he pointed to the shop— “and tell those cops you’re Dogboy.”
8
“Me? Dogboy?” Bronson said. The heat rising in his head made him dizzy. “You must be a pretty bad reporter.”
“Look, kid. Bronson, was it?” John said.
Bronson nodded.
“Bronson, I don’t care who you really are. There is the whole age issue. I like what you’re doing out here. Child services might care, but I’m not gonna rat you out.”
“You sure you can trust this man?” Mr. Horum asked.
Bronson squinted in John’s direction. “I don’t think we have much choice at this point.”
“Well then, why we waste time then? He know? So what? Did he come to catch a dog boy or help us get shop back?” Mr. Horum said.
“For your shop of course,” John said. “If the mayor wants that device, it makes me think he shouldn’t have it. I was planning on coming down here to talk to Bronson soon anyway. This police matter just sped things up. When your lawyer called the paper, I had to come down, right? It’s serendipity.”
He knelt down beside Mr. Horum, pointing to the sergeant leaning against the shop window. “Drake Seville. Biggest dirtbag on the force. He give you any grief on account of the… foreign origin?”
Mr. Horum looked sad for a moment then nodded. “He say dumb stupid things to me. Must be dumb stupid man then, hmmb?”
“Very much so,” John said.
“Can you help us get back into the shop?” Bronson asked.
“We can’t all jump in there with throwing knives, kid. I can do a story, but I’ve been fighting these guys in print for as long as I’ve been a reporter, and it’s like drilling through bedrock with a hammer and chisel. They’re more likely to get bored and turn good before they’ll let guys like us win.”
“I’ve gotta get the other half of this thing.” Bronson said, holding up the scarab. “It’s still inside.”
“What exactly do you need?” John asked. He pulled out his phone and started typing.
“They’re sunglasses with some ear buds attached to them. I left them in the bin with the trick candy,” Bronson said.
“All this over an MP3 player? Fine.” He typed away on his phone again, hitting the green key with a dramatic flourish accompanied by a PING from the tiny speaker. “There. I know a guy on the force. If anybody can…” The phoned pinged again. “See?” he said, holding the phone out toward Bronson for a split second before snatching it back. “He’s going to get it on the next shift. I’ll have it for you by tonight.”
Bronson beamed. He couldn’t wait to tell Cindy the good news and hoped the gesture would smooth things over. “That’s awesome, Mr. Taylor.”
“Mr. Upton-Haywood, please,” John said.
“Sure,” Bronson said, shaking his hand. “Thanks. Listen. I gotta go make a quick phone call.”
“Ah, ah. Quid pro quo, kid. Now I need Dogboy to do something for me,” John said, wiping his hand off on his jacket. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded manila envelope. A quick glance at the police, then he passed it low to Bronson. “That’s a map of City Hall with instructions on how to disable a control panel you’ll find there. Ever hear about Project DOLAN?”
“Hear of it?” Bronson said, sticking the envelope in his back pocket. “My name’s in the title.”
“Then you want it shut down as much as anybody,” John said. “Security cameras are one thing. We’ve had them for years. But an indexed archive going back decades? With facial recognition? I wouldn’t trust my own grandma with a database like that, let alone Mayor Lame. Everything’s in there. Do the job, then meet me around the corner at the Internet cafe tomorrow morning. I’ll have your goggles waiting.”
John continued speaking, but his voice faded into the background as an older girl wandered into Bronson’s view. She was barefoot except for the white-and-black checkered leggings she wore under her too-short black vinyl skirt. Her eyes were painted over with black stars, and her skin was the color of watered-down skim milk. The most unusual thing though, the thing giving Bronson pause, was the feathered black hair twisting around like rattlesnakes on her head.
The girl walked full speed toward a tall man walking down the street. She didn’t step to the side. He didn’t see her. They collided, but didn’t. She phased right through him, her body turning wispy like smoke then coming back together after they separated. The man continued on, oblivious to the collision.
“Look at that girl over there,” Bronson said, pointing behind John. “She must be another one like the kid from last night. She teleported right through that guy.”
“Girl?” Mr. Horum asked.
“Right. The one with the dark hair,” Bronson said, still pointing right at her.
“Are you feeling okay, kid?” John said. “There’s nobody there.”
Bronson looked up at the reporter. “Wait. You can’t see her?”
John shook his head.
“That’s fantastic. She has to have some sort of…” Bronson stopped talking because the girl was suddenly a few inches from his face. From here, he could see her eyes weren’t painted black. They were black, through and through. No whites. She opened her lips to reveal brownish-green teeth, some sharpened to razor tips. Others broken off. All pointing in different directions.
“Babababababababa,” she said, spit bubbling on her lips.
“What is babababa?” Bronson asked. Mr. Horum and John shot each other a look.
“Baba baba, down to the fire. Yaga yaga, he’ll bring you there. Baba baba, the trees conspire. Yaga yaga, then time will tear. Yaga baba, our spirits tired. Yaga yaga, avoid his snare. You’re already there.”
Burnt ash poured from her eyes as she screamed. Bronson gasped, somersaulting back away from her. She turned to smoke as a cold wind blew her away. Bronson was terrified, panting, while the two adults stared at him.
“Holy crap,” he said, cold sweat stinging his eyes.
“You okay, boy-oh?” Mr. Horum asked.
“I’m… I’m not sure,” Bronson said. He leaned on Mr. Horum’s chair for support. “There was a girl. Same as this one at the fire yesterday. She was there, then she wasn’t. Just like before.”
“There was no girl,” John said. “You sure you’re feeling okay, kid? You aren’t trying to back out on our deal, are you? No use playing nuts. I know better.”
“There really was somebody there,” Bronson said. “Maybe I’m the only one he’ll let see her. Sounds like something he’d do.”
Bronson felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to find Sergeant Seville slapping his nightstick in his palm.
“What’s the problem now?” the officer said. “Quite a display. Where’d you learn to move like that?”
“Dance class,” Bronson said. “Look, I gotta go make a call. Am I under arrest or something?”
Sergeant Seville leaned down, crinkling his overgrown eyebrows as he inspected Bronson’s face. “No, but there’s something screwy with you. Something tells me the drone was just the symptom. Give it time. My boys’ll find the disease.”
Bronson smiled timidly then ran over and shook John’s hand. “Thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Help Mr. Horum any way you can.”
He walked a few blocks toward the river until he found an old phone. He popped in two quarters then dialed Cindy’s number. Every ring made his heart race. He didn’t know what he’d do if she answered. The eighth ring stopped halfway through. A robotic voice instructed him to leave a message after the beep.
“So… this is Bronson. For Cindy. Sorry about… before. I’m working on fixing it. I might have even found a way to fix that other problem at the same time.” He stopped for a moment to work on his wording in case Cindy’s mom heard the message first. “If you see anything crazy, call Channel 3. I’ll bet you somebody there can help. Sorry again.”
He hung up the phone then continued on until he came to a boarded-up subway entrance. He ducked under the caution tape then shambled down the greasy steps. He knew the abandoned station well from his time with the Guild of Thieves. Dark, but enough echoes you’d hear anybody coming. He hunkered down in a corner, using his backpack as a cushion, then spread out the papers from John’s envelope on the platform. He held out his fingertip and used his powers to make it glow. Orange light washed over the pages, revealing in-depth schematics for a console as well as blueprints mapping City Hall’s every nook and crevice.
Bronson studied, hoping he’d be able to get it all clear in his head before nightfall. He wasn’t too worried though. It’s not like a lot of people hang out at City Hall after dark, right?
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