of a dead woman on a mortuary table. “Don’t you see, you killed all of them.”
“Hey, everybody makes mistakes,” Excelsior scrambles to think of that phrase that Gus always used, “Sometimes you gotta break a few eggs. Right? That’s no reason to do this.”
“I am trying to help you. I’m giving you a chance to be a hero. For the first time in your life.”
“What do you mean. I am THE hero!”
“Ah, the hero. Heroic in every way. Always doing what is best and right and true. Is that what you are?”
“Turn the concrete off and we can talk about it,” Excelsior says. The grey slush surrounds his body. It is heavy and cold. Excelsior starts to shiver.
“But I can’t turn the concrete off. No one can. There has to be a continuous pour or else it won’t set up correctly. There are concrete trucks lined up for a mile for you. So let us speak quickly. Do you always do what’s right?”
“Yeah, sure. I mean I make mistakes but pretty much, yeah.”
“But you don’t choose Excelsior. You don’t make mistakes. Other people tell you what to do and you make their mistakes. You only do what you are told. Don’t you?”
“Yeah that’s right, I was just doing what I was told,” Excelsior says, eager to pass the blame. Eager to say anything that will get him out of this horrible situation.
”You are not describing a hero, Excelsior. You are describing a puppet.”
“I’m nobody’s puppet. And I’m sick of hearing that. This is sick. This is wrong. That’s why you’re the villain. And I’m the hero. Can’t you see that?”
“No, I can’t.” Edwin activates the next slide. It is a picture of a beautiful village in Africa. Children play. Bright fabrics dry in the sun. The people of the village stand tall and proud. ”Uganda,” Edwin says. He advances to the next slide. It is the same village, now utterly destroyed. The huts are burnt. The body of a child lies bloating in the sun.
“Hey, I didn’t have anything to do with that. I’ve never even been to Uganda. I’ve never even heard of it.”
“That is my point. You’ve never been there. Hundreds of thousands of people die in a terrible genocide. And the mighty Excelsior does nothing.”
“But I didn’t know! They didn’t tell me!”
“But they could have. You know a man who was serious about doing good — a hero — would have found out. He would have asked. Might have wondered what more good he could have done. But you did not. What of the typhoon that just ravaged Hong Kong? You saved Miami, why not Hong Kong?”
“Hey I can’t be everywhere. I can’t save everybody.”
“Ah, you were busy. Bigger crisis on the other line. And what was that crisis? What was so important that it kept you from saving several hundred lives and averting billions of dollars of property damage?” Edwin reveals the next image. It is Excelsior crushing Telstar 9. “Ah, yes, here you are destroying a perfectly good communications satellite, while accosting the one client I have who I am certain has never committed a crime.”
“What? Why didn’t they tell me?” In his confusion, Excelsior stops thinking about himself for the first time in a long time.
“They didn’t tell you because they didn’t care. You have given your power over to men with no conscience.”
“This is wrong. It’s all wrong. I never wanted…”
“I know. That’s why I’m giving you a chance to make it right.”
The wreckage of Singapore Airlines Flight 209 fills the wall. On the side of the fuselage he can clearly see the indentation of his hand within the scarred and twisted metal.
“To make it right,” Edwin says again.
Excelsior huffs through his nostrils like a wounded animal. Slow ripples move through the concrete. His tears feel hot on his face. He’s tired, so tired. Tired of losing. Tired of doing the wrong thing. Tired of feeling like this. His neck muscles are sore from holding his head above the rising concrete.
“You want to be a hero. But you have become the villain.”
“No,” says Excelsior.
“Sooner or later, the world will figure it out. And then you will go from being loved to being reviled.”
“No, it’s not true,” Excelsior says, trying to convince himself. “You killed Gus.”
“Yes, and now you are all alone. Who do you have to live for?”
“But you’re a bad man, a murderer,” Excelsior says, clinging to the last rung of the ladder.
“So are you. You’ve killed thousands. I killed one man. One man had to die to give you a chance to save the world from yourself.”
“This is wrong.” Excelsior protests. He knows it’s wrong. But the feeling is still with him. Windsor is a bad man, but is it possible that Excelsior is somehow worse?
“If I let you go, more innocent people are going to die. Do you want more innocent people to die?”
“No. It’s not my fault.” Excelsior tries to say this with conviction, but fails. It rings false even in his ears.
“You are right. It is not your fault. You are who you are. No one man should have so much power.”
“But I can do good. I’ve done good!” Has he really? Excelsior can only think of one of two times when it was good. Really good. The pure win he craved so much. The other times…
“You’ve tried. But every time you have saved someone, you’ve made the rest of us weaker. You’ve made heroism of ordinary people seem insignificant.”
“But I didn’t mean to,” but he has seen it over the years. Once people had been surprised and grateful when he had shown up. Then they came to expect it. To feel that they were owed. That’s why there was a team of people to cover it up when he failed.
“But you did. And if you leave this room, you will continue to do more harm. Someone else will mislead you, or misuse you. More innocents will die. Don’t you see? You are the only person who is strong enough to defeat you. You are the only person who can save the world from yourself.”
Is it true? Could it be true?
“Are you hero enough to fall on your own sword? Do you have the courage it will take to die with honor.” Edwin doesn’t like the word ‘honor’. Honor is the revered lie that allows a shrewd man to trick a simple man into dying for his cause. Honor is the myth that allows men to kill those they’ve never met, for a wrong they have never experienced. What passes for ‘honor’ in the modern world leaves a bad taste in Edwin’s mouth. Edwin watches Excelsior closely to discover how well the modern myth of honor is holding up.
For a time, both men are silent. Excelsior blinks several times in a slow rhythm of realization. Edwin feels sweat on his palms. Is this it? Has he done it?
Excelsior blows the concrete away from the corner of his mouth and says, “You’re right Windsor. Leave me here. Better I should die a hero.” He allows his head to settle down into the concrete.
Edwin rises and buttons his suit jacket. Excelsior’s lets the muscles in his neck go slack. Now his face is completely buried in the concrete. Only the side of his head and his ear are visible. Edwin bends down to the ear and whispers. “This is not revenge. This is not a perfect remedy. This is not a perfect world.” Edwin watches as the concrete rises above the level of Excelsior’s ear. He watches Excelsior shiver as the cold, grey ooze floods into his ear canal.
Edwin thinks that this is all fitting and proper. Extinction for the whole breed. He turns and leaves Excelsior to his tomb.
When Edwin emerges from the tunnel, he shields his eyes against the harsh work lights. He walks down the long line of concrete trucks. He passes truck after truck, unable to describe what he feels. His stride lengthens. There is much work to be done. Tonight Edwin will rest. Tomorrow, he will begin in earnest.
Chapter Sixty. The Man in Room Three
The duty nurse’s station. Terminal ward. This is where the people with money come to die. And nothing
