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Authors: Robert J. Crane
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Scott Baio once. I wasn’t impressed.
“We’re here to talk about the incident at the airport this morning, ma’am,” Augustus said, leaping right in. “I’m Augustus Coleman, by the way.” He shot me a pointed look for not introducing him, I presume.
“Oh, God,” she said and pushed open the screen door. “Benjamin.” Her face fell, eyes welled up. “Is he … is he one of the …?”
“We’re looking for him now, ma’am,” I said carefully.
“That means he’s … he’s … dead, doesn’t it?” She swallowed heavily and swayed back toward the wall behind her. “Oh … oh no …”
I turned my head to look at Augustus and caught a humorless expression in return. “Uh, no, ma’am,” I said, stepping up to deliver the hard news, “we think he’s the one who caused the explosion.”
Suddenly, she didn’t look like she was going to faint anymore, and her eyes snapped right to me. “Say what ?” She’d gone from worried and concerned to more than a little pissed off in the course of one revelation.
“Can we come in?” I asked.
“No, you damned sure may not,” she said, letting the screen door snap shut right in her—and our—faces, as though it afforded some measure of protection. “You’re accusing my son of being a damned terrorist?”
“We don’t think what he did was intentional—” I started.
“You think he’s one of you,” she said with contempt, “that he’s some … some weirdo with powers straight out of a—”
“Hey,” Augustus said, nonplussed, “watch who you call a weirdo.”
She made a small snorting noise. “Benjamin is twenty-seven years old. If he were a …” she made a motion with her hand right at me, but not Augustus, “… you know … I think he’d have shown some signs before now.” She looked right at me. “I mean … don’t you people exhibit some sort of super strength—”
“ You people? ” Augustus said. “Really? You’re going to go with that, like it’s better than weirdo ?”
“Didn’t mean it that way,” she said, waving a hand from up to down, like she could just bat away what she’d said. “You know, metas.”
“Ah, typically yes,” I said, trying to steer around what was rapidly becoming a contentious conversation.
“Well, that settles it,” she said, shaking her head, “Benjamin could barely lift his own suitcase. He wasn’t one of your—”
“Careful,” Augustus said.
“But, he wasn’t!” she said. “He just wasn’t.”
“Ma’am,” I said, “we don’t know the full facts of the case, but the photographic evidence was clear. Your son burst into flames, exploded, and then walked out of the airport afterward, got in his own car, and drove off.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said in a huff.
“I’m sure it’ll be on the internet in a day or two,” Augustus said. “Everything else is.”
“If he wasn’t a metahuman before he went on this trip,” she said, still snotty, arms crossed in front of her, “then he couldn’t have come back as one.”
That tickled the old brain, causing me to look at Augustus, who gave me a look in return. You know the kind; wide-eyed, oh-shit type stuff.
It would have been hard to miss. Ms. Cunningham certainly didn’t. “What?” she asked.
“If you have anything else to share—” I said, starting to wrap things up.
“I don’t have anything else to say to you,” she said.
“You people, you mean?” Augustus asked. She grunted in frustration and slammed the door in our faces.
“That was not helpful,” I said as we started back toward the car.
“The hell it wasn’t,” Augustus said. “You think Cunningham got a shot of Edward Cavanagh’s Magical Meta Tonic somewhere in his travels?”
“Possibly,” I said, feeling the thud of the concrete with each heavy step I took. This case was getting weirder by the minute. “But I thought Cavanagh’s formula and stuff ended up in government custody.”
“Where none of it
“We’re here to talk about the incident at the airport this morning, ma’am,” Augustus said, leaping right in. “I’m Augustus Coleman, by the way.” He shot me a pointed look for not introducing him, I presume.
“Oh, God,” she said and pushed open the screen door. “Benjamin.” Her face fell, eyes welled up. “Is he … is he one of the …?”
“We’re looking for him now, ma’am,” I said carefully.
“That means he’s … he’s … dead, doesn’t it?” She swallowed heavily and swayed back toward the wall behind her. “Oh … oh no …”
I turned my head to look at Augustus and caught a humorless expression in return. “Uh, no, ma’am,” I said, stepping up to deliver the hard news, “we think he’s the one who caused the explosion.”
Suddenly, she didn’t look like she was going to faint anymore, and her eyes snapped right to me. “Say what ?” She’d gone from worried and concerned to more than a little pissed off in the course of one revelation.
“Can we come in?” I asked.
“No, you damned sure may not,” she said, letting the screen door snap shut right in her—and our—faces, as though it afforded some measure of protection. “You’re accusing my son of being a damned terrorist?”
“We don’t think what he did was intentional—” I started.
“You think he’s one of you,” she said with contempt, “that he’s some … some weirdo with powers straight out of a—”
“Hey,” Augustus said, nonplussed, “watch who you call a weirdo.”
She made a small snorting noise. “Benjamin is twenty-seven years old. If he were a …” she made a motion with her hand right at me, but not Augustus, “… you know … I think he’d have shown some signs before now.” She looked right at me. “I mean … don’t you people exhibit some sort of super strength—”
“ You people? ” Augustus said. “Really? You’re going to go with that, like it’s better than weirdo ?”
“Didn’t mean it that way,” she said, waving a hand from up to down, like she could just bat away what she’d said. “You know, metas.”
“Ah, typically yes,” I said, trying to steer around what was rapidly becoming a contentious conversation.
“Well, that settles it,” she said, shaking her head, “Benjamin could barely lift his own suitcase. He wasn’t one of your—”
“Careful,” Augustus said.
“But, he wasn’t!” she said. “He just wasn’t.”
“Ma’am,” I said, “we don’t know the full facts of the case, but the photographic evidence was clear. Your son burst into flames, exploded, and then walked out of the airport afterward, got in his own car, and drove off.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said in a huff.
“I’m sure it’ll be on the internet in a day or two,” Augustus said. “Everything else is.”
“If he wasn’t a metahuman before he went on this trip,” she said, still snotty, arms crossed in front of her, “then he couldn’t have come back as one.”
That tickled the old brain, causing me to look at Augustus, who gave me a look in return. You know the kind; wide-eyed, oh-shit type stuff.
It would have been hard to miss. Ms. Cunningham certainly didn’t. “What?” she asked.
“If you have anything else to share—” I said, starting to wrap things up.
“I don’t have anything else to say to you,” she said.
“You people, you mean?” Augustus asked. She grunted in frustration and slammed the door in our faces.
“That was not helpful,” I said as we started back toward the car.
“The hell it wasn’t,” Augustus said. “You think Cunningham got a shot of Edward Cavanagh’s Magical Meta Tonic somewhere in his travels?”
“Possibly,” I said, feeling the thud of the concrete with each heavy step I took. This case was getting weirder by the minute. “But I thought Cavanagh’s formula and stuff ended up in government custody.”
“Where none of it
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