Sidekick: The Misadventures of the New Scarlet Knight (8 page)

“You know something, FedEx? Normally, I’d be real appreciative of quick delivery service, but this time you may have been just a little too quick for your own good.”

“Huh?” Had I suffered more brain damage from the blow to my head than I had thought? What was he talking about?

“You see, FedEx, the original plan was for one of us to follow you home after this delivery. For some strange reason, the address my employer had on file for your father wasn’t accurate. You wouldn’t know why, would you?”

Ah. Pop’s paranoia. It had always served him well enough in the past. “Nope. No clue. So, what’s with the ropes? You expect me to squeal on my pop and tell you where we live? Or are you just a pervert who likes tying little boys up?”

“Oh, I don’t want you to squeal on your pop—” He reached into his pocket and drew out a card. “—Bobby. No self-respecting boy would ever do that kind of thing, and I’m not the kind that gets off on trying to get them to do it, either. Good thing I don’t need to.”

He smiled, which lowered the temperature of my blood at least three degrees. He flashed the card again, and I recognized it.

“You know you’re a really conscientious kid? Smart to carry something like this around in your wallet. ‘In case of emergency, contact … ’ with a phone number and address. Well, I’d say this certainly qualifies as an emergency, so I’ve sent a few guys over to,” he checked the card again, “56 West 22nd Street to, shall we say, make contact.”

He smiled again, and my blood froze.

“Like I said, you sure did me a favor carrying this card, so I’m going to return the favor.” He reached back into his pocket and pulled out a pistol, which he pointed directly at my forehead. “I’m gonna make sure it’s over quick and doesn’t hurt, unlike what we’d planned for you and your pop. Say goodbye, FedEx.”

There was a loud crash and what sounded like breaking glass, and then a rush of wind tore past me. To my left was a big gaping hole where the wall had been a few moments before. To my right, the bozo with the gun squared off against the strangest-looking person I’d ever seen.

He was clad in a knight’s armor right out of a King Arthur movie. His left arm had a bracer strapped to it, and his right arm grasped a gizmo that sort of looked like an old-school TV remote control. He clicked a button, and a blade shot out of the gizmo, leaving him with a full-length sword. But the part of the getup that grabbed my attention the most was the coat of arms he wore over his chest: a blood-red shield with a white mare rearing up.

I’d heard about the guy while out doing jobs but figured he was a myth, the kind of crap they like to put out there to scare cowardly folks into walking the straight and narrow. But he was right in front of me.

The Scarlet Knight.

The bozo shot at the Knight a couple of times, but the armor proved more than up to the task of blocking the bullets. Frustrated, Bozo tossed the gun, picked up a crowbar, and charged the Knight. Unfazed, the Knight simply raised his sword, pointed it at Bozo, and clicked another button. A flash of white light arced from the blade, knocking Bozo out like some kind of super stun gun. Beautiful!

The Knight marched over to untie me but stopped cold when I yelled at him.

“Knight! They’re on their way to kill my pop! 56 West 22nd Street! Hurry! I’ll be okay! Save him!”

He gathered Bozo under his arm, gave me a curt nod, and flew straight up, breaking through a skylight high in the warehouse ceiling.

Five minutes later, police sirens and squealing tires announced the arrival of the black-and-whites, but for the rest of my life I’ll think about those five minutes whenever I hear the word “alone.”

***

The interrogation room at the Harbor City Police Department was bright white with flickering florescent bulbs high against the ceiling. A plain wood table sat right in the middle, behind which was a huge mirror spanning the length of the wall. A cop had brought me in there, equipped with a mug of cocoa and a plate of cookies (how young did they think I was, anyhow?), then proceeded to tell me the Knight hadn’t made it in time to save my pop. He’d figured I’d want some privacy after getting the bad news, so he left me in there to have a good cry, stuff myself, and wait for the social worker who would follow shortly.

I sat, transfixed by my reflection, unable to break eye contact with myself. Half of me couldn’t understand how I’d been reduced to this situation, but the other half knew darned well how I’d gotten there and was thankful it didn’t end up worse. I’d survived to be miserable, which I suppose wasn’t all that bad when you consider the alternative.

I lost track of how long I’d been sitting there staring at myself when the door opened. In came a woman who couldn’t have been much out of her twenties, with her black hair done up in one of those severe buns you see in old photographs and horn-rimmed glasses that did nothing for her face. With her was a middle-aged guy with brown hair wearing a battered old suit. The woman spoke first. “Bobby? I’m Miss Penobscot, from the Division of Youth and Family Services. I’m so sorry about your loss.”

“I’m sure you are.” I turned to the man. “Who are you? A lawyer or something?”

He chuckled. “Or something. I’m not a lawyer, but I guess you could say I know a few things about the law. And I also know a few things about justice.” He turned to the lady. “Is everything in order, Phoebe?”

“Do you know how many strings I had to pull to set that up? How many favors I had to call in?”

“That’s one of the reasons we’ve got you there. Is it all set up?”

She grinned. “Yes, I took care of it all.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected, “but what are you talking about? Who are you, exactly?”

The woman cleared her throat, thinking the time had come for a formal introduction. “Bobby, this is Mr. Horner. He’s a local businessman, and he’s volunteered to be your foster parent.”

“Jack Horner,” the man said, extending his hand for me to shake. “And please, no jokes about Christmas pies.”

“Bobby Baines,” I said, remembering my manners and taking his hand.

“I know.” And that’s how it all began.

Duel Identities

Logically, when out of uniform and at a major disadvantage equipment-wise against an enemy who’s already killed someone with all of the high-tech gadgets you don’t have at your disposal at that moment, the reasonable thing would be to make a strategic retreat and call for help. Push and hold that little panic button on my watch, and within minutes the six strongest people in the universe would flock to my aid. Then I’d stand a better chance of walking away from it all, not to mention bringing the villain to justice. Yes, that is the smart thing to do in this case.

Too bad for me that a meeting with my guidance counselor a couple hours before had confirmed I was anything but smart.

For a couple of moments we stared at each other, looking for any opening and preparing to guard against any attack. Of course, being the impetuous fool I am, I lunged first. The killer parried my blow almost effortlessly then followed with a sweeping motion toward my torso as if he intended to cut me in two. I jumped back in time to save my skin but not my down jacket as the blade sliced through it and sent stuffing all over the place. I used the spray of little feathers to camouflage my movements as I tried a move Mister Mystery had taught me in one of the big training sessions the heroes used to like to give us kids. I dove to the floor, sliding headfirst like an insane baseball player, between the robber’s legs, before I rolled back to my feet and swung the sword, full-force.

Instead of connecting with the shoulder I had been aiming for, I found my blade parried in an expert move, and the killer facing me. He’d anticipated my move better than I ever expected, and I considered myself lucky he hadn’t run me through while I was pulling off my fancy maneuver.

I went back to basics. Every attack I’d been taught, every move I’d learned to disarm and disable a lunatic with a blade, spun through my head and out to my arms. But each and every motion seemed prepared for. The guy was a better swordsman than I’d ever hoped to be, and I was beginning to see how he could have taken down Uncle Jack.

The more I fought him, the more my mind flashed back to the one key thing in this confrontation: this was the guy who had killed my Uncle Jack. This man had taken the most important person in my life, and I was going to make sure he paid for it with his life, even if I ended up dying in the process.

Out of sheer rage, I pulled a berserker move. I pulled back and charged headlong, thrusting forward with the sword, as I was about to ram into him. I hoped to catch him by surprise with a stupid move no sword fighter would use nowadays but found myself thrown off balance when he stepped aside at the last second, sending me sprawling toward the window.

I tossed the sword in the air, then tucked and rolled, managing to come back to my feet just in time to catch the hilt as the sword came back down. Another stupid move, but I was desperate. I’d done that trick plenty of times with my staff, but a staff won’t slice your hand off if it spins around in the air. Still, I managed to recover quickly enough to deny the jackass the pleasure of watching me go face-first through plate glass.

For what seemed like an hour, we led each other on a merry dance, attacking and parrying, neither of us gaining much of an advantage. He bounced around like a drop of water on a pancake griddle, hissing about as loud as one too, as swipe after swipe of our swords missed their marks. No matter what I did, I couldn’t lay a single blow, and I considered myself damn lucky he hadn’t managed to, either.

I switched tactics again. Uncle Jack and the rest of the Justice Federation had taught me the elegant art of hand-to-hand combat, but now it was time to go back to techniques my pop had showed me. He’d started teaching me to box when I was five, right after we lost my mom, and a couple of years later he’d taught me the correct way to fight: dirty. Feinting with the sword in my right hand, I swung my left hand up, hoping to connect with the creep’s nose and throw him off-balance. A similar move from a sixth-grade bully had given my nose its current interesting shape, and now I was eager to show that I’d learned from the experience and return the favor. Unfortunately, the creep managed to move his face out of the way just enough. I missed and nearly lost my balance in the process. I stumbled slightly before resuming a proper stance.

Fatigue set in, more mental than physical, and I was really getting sloppy when I finally saw my chance. Outside, sirens wailed as what must have been every cop in Harbor City converged on the block. The sound distracted Blackie, who must not have planned on staying long enough for the police to get there. He made the mistake of turning his head to look out what was left of the door, and I hauled off and hit him over the back of his head. I didn’t knock him out, but I threw him off-balance enough to trip him. He stumbled, dropped Uncle Jack’s sword, and wound up sprawled across the floor.

I knelt on top of him, pinning his arms down, and stared at the faceless freak. A strange warmth rose from my stomach straight to my head. It felt like laser beams would shoot out of my eyes and flames would rocket out my ears. My body was overtaken by pure rage, something I’d only felt a few times before, but never quite like this.

I had him at my mercy. Oh, the things I could do to him. I was prepared to make him suffer like he’d made me suffer. Not just for what he’d done to Uncle Jack, but what he’d done to
me
by taking Jack out of my life. My hero training screamed from the back of my sub-conscious, yelling at me to just hand him over to the cops.

And if I did that? He might go down for robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, a couple of other charges. He wouldn’t pay for his real crime, the one only I understood and would never be able to explain to the cops. He’d get away with it. Even if I tipped off the other heroes and we all kept an eye on him, he could adopt a different identity and fade into the background. Not even Paragon could watch everyone and everything at once, so sooner or later we’d run the chance he’d slip through our fingers.

The honorable thing to do would be to let the cops handle it. Send him through the system, just like all the other baddies I dealt with. That’s what the Scarlet Knight is supposed to do.

It was a damn good thing I wasn’t in uniform. It wasn’t going to be the Scarlet Knight dealing with this bastard. It was Bobby Baines. And at the moment, I didn’t give a crap about what was going to happen to Bobby Baines. I’d plead self-defense; the pirate would confirm that he’d drawn his sword on me. I’d plead temporary insanity. Hell, if none of that worked, I’d plead “hell yeah, I did it, and I’d do it again under the circumstances.” Let ’em lock me up and throw away the key; I didn’t care. The guy who’d killed Jack Horner was going to pay for it.

I lifted the sword high above the jerk’s chest, right over his heart. Then I smiled. I think that’s when he knew he was really in trouble.

“You go bye-bye now, asshole.”

“Ok,” whined that electronic voice. “See ya later.”

“Don’t count on it.”

I thrust the blade downward, and the room filled with smoke. By the time it cleared and the cops burst through the door, all that was on the ground in front of me was the blade with the tip embedded in the floor. No blood, no fibers (at least that I could see), no sign that I’d wounded him at all. His disappearing act had come at just the right time, before my sword ever started its downward trip. I looked around frantically for Uncle Jack’s sword, but it seemed to have disappeared with the dirt bag.

“I will say this,” I whispered to the blacksmith who had poked his head back over the counter as the smoke cleared, “you really did make one beauty of a sword.”

***

Some people think cops hate the long underwear brigade. Not so. A couple of the heroes have very cordial relationships with the police bigwigs in their towns. Uncle Jack and I never developed any real kind of relationship with the Harbor City Police, but that wasn’t due to any animosity. The few times we had interacted with cops while in uniform, they seemed genuinely grateful for our help.