After the Golden Age

“It’s a lead. I thought you’d be interested.”

“You’re crazy; this is crazy. The Hawk retires, then gets a job working for the next generation of vigilantes as a security guard? You didn’t retire, you traded down.”

He hopped off the table, fished her attaché case from the laundry hamper, and gave it to her, then picked up the lantern and his glove. He wore a cocky smile, like the afternoon had gone exactly as he’d planned.

She said, “People have been trying to guess who you are, who the Hawk is, for forty years. Why reveal yourself to me?”

“Because I trust you.”

She laughed. “Then you’re the only person in Commerce City who does.”

“Celia, I saw you during those years. I saw what you were going through. I might even understand it. I know Dr. Mentis does. I bet he trusts you, too.” He handed her the glove. Absently, she crushed it in her hand.

As the light moved, a passage became visible, an open tunnel that presumably led out. He prepared to walk away.

“Wait—where are you going?”

“Me? I’m retired. I’ll go play bocce or something.”

“What about me?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way out.”

“Why couldn’t you fucking mail this to me?”

“Maybe I wanted to show you what a real kidnapping looks like.”

He and his lantern walked away.

She followed him. She didn’t have a choice. When he left, so did the light.

Damon Parks was the Hawk, the city’s original hero, who’d kept his secret identity secret for forty years. What could she do with that information? How much would the Eye pay for it? Not that she had any proof. Not that anyone would believe her.

Ahead, the circle of white light bobbed along, traveling down the damp, concrete tunnel. Parks turned left, passed the next intersection, then turned left again. Celia kept on twenty or so paces behind him, trying to avoid puddles even though her loafers were already soaked. He had to know she was following him. Maybe he was leading her into another trap. Maybe this was a test. A heroic initiation. Can she survive the maze?

But she already had the folder of information tucked into her attaché, along with the Hawk’s glove. Parks didn’t care about testing her. He’d just thrown her into the deep end and expected her to swim.

The light faded, and for a moment she was afraid she’d let him get too far ahead. But no, the lantern light faded because a brighter light came in from above—sunlight through a sewer grate. Parks climbed a ladder that went up, jostled loose the grate, and disappeared to the street level.

She hurried after him, climbed the same ladder, awkwardly tucking her attaché under her arm. Just as she reached the top, the grate closed back over her.

“Bastard!” she shouted at him. “Inconsiderate bastard!”

The grate wasn’t that tightly set in. A quick push with her shoulder knocked it aside, and she managed to wriggle through to the outside. She was in an alley, hidden behind a garbage Dumpster. No one passing by on the sidewalk even looked twice at her.

She hurried to her feet, quickly moving to the end of the alley and looking down the sidewalk in both directions, but Damon Parks—the Hawk, bane of criminals and one-time guardian of Commerce City—was gone. Of course.

A sudden breeze pushed her, causing her to step back to keep her balance. In the blink of an eye, seeming to appear from nowhere, Robbie Denton stood before her. The Bullet, actually, wearing his skin suit and mask. He’d run so quickly from wherever he’d been, she hadn’t see him approach.

“Hi,” she said.

“Celia, where have you been? Breezeway saw you fall through the grate—that wasn’t an accident was it? Did you escape? Who did it? What happened?” He was almost dancing in place, arms half-raised and fists clenched, like he wanted to grab her.

She could give Damon Parks away. He had to know that. Did he trust her not to, or was he prepared to have his identity exposed?

Or did he know that she’d keep his secret, because it was one piece of information she had that no one else did? Information was power, and she had so little of it.

“I’m okay,” she said, trying to sound reassuring instead of tired. “I don’t think I was in any danger.”

“Your folks are going to want to hear about this.”

Right now? she thought. “Yeah, I bet they will. How about I come over to their place this afternoon?”

He hesitated. He probably had meant right now.

“Really, Robbie, it’s okay. It wasn’t what you think.”

“Okay,” he said finally. “This afternoon. I’ll let them know.”

“Thanks.”

He stepped back from her, watching her with that worried frown that had never really gone away since her teenage years. Then, with the gust of a vagrant breeze, he disappeared.

Her mother left three messages on her cell phone. Arthur left one. Everyone knew about the kidnapping, its speed and ruthlessness, its frightening effectiveness, and its puzzling outcome. It didn’t match the Strad Brothers’ MO. There hadn’t been any robberies reported.

She went home and showered. Her subterranean trip made her grubby and cranky. A hot shower cured all woes. Or, most woes. When she returned to the living room, the folder of newspaper clippings still sat on the table, staring at her. What did that psycho expect her to do with this? She wouldn’t, wouldn’t don a mask and start rappelling from the tops of buildings in a quest for justice.

What would she do if this was part of her job? Well, that was easy. She went to the city library.

A true skeptic would question whether the newspaper clippings were even legitimate. They could have been faked—the Hawk might have a grudge against Governor Snyder for some reason and could be trying to frame him. So Celia needed to both verify that the news articles were genuine, and find out if there was a connection between the Hawk and Snyder. That seemed so unlikely as to be ridiculous. The Hawk had retired decades ago, and Snyder had only been in office a year. Not to mention that Snyder had trouble getting through a press conference without offending someone—usually hitting on one of the female reporters—or committing some ludicrous verbal gaff. Celia had trouble seeing him as a criminal mastermind. But maybe that buffoonish politician image was a front. She’d heard weirder theories.

She spent an hour with a microfiche machine and the last two years’ worth of the Commerce City Banner. She didn’t need much time to confirm the articles—Parks had annotated them with dates and page numbers.

She also confirmed what Parks hadn’t been able to, double-checking articles listing the names of the men who’d been arrested for the recent crime sprees and cross referencing them to the list of pardons—all of the identified perpetrators of the Baxter Gang and Strad Brother jobs had been pardoned by the governor.

Then she found the photo of Governor Snyder, looking goofy in his pin-striped suit and too-shaggy toupee, shaking hands with Commerce City Mayor Anthony Paulson. It had been taken about eight months earlier and accompanied an article about Paulson negotiating with newly elected Governor Snyder for state funding to help with his epic revitalization program. Paulson had campaigned heavily for Snyder, and apparently called in a ton of favors upon Snyder’s election. Among the proposals Mayor Paulson had offered to help pay for the rebuilding of Commerce City’s industrial area: furloughs and pardons for a chunk of the state’s lesser criminals. Snyder was apparently happy to comply.

That added a new loop to the knot, didn’t it?

So the pardons were Mayor Paulson’s idea? But why? Was there a reason other than funding? Where was the conspiracy, except in her own mind? And wasn’t that healthy?

She called Mark. The phone rang and rang; either he wasn’t around, or he was still screening calls from her. She left a message.

“Hi, Mark. It’s me, whether or not you want to hear from me. If you’ve got the time I’ve got some research for you. I think I have the connection between all your Strad Brothers and Baxter Gang suspects. They all received