The Galilee Falls Trilogy (Book 3): Fall of Heroes (8 page)

I’m beginning to see spots. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Jem calmed me down the last two times. I place my hand over my racing heartbeat and try to concentrate on drawing in breath in time to it.
It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. Just breathe. Breathe!

I gasp, but the sobs make it just as difficult to draw breath as the panic. Because I have nothing left. Not hope, not faith, not even the memories. Tainted. They’re all tainted. All that remains is me and the pain. I may as well be back on that damn bridge. No, it’s worse. Because I’ve seen the light, and now I’m back in the darkness without a way to find my way back. There
is
no way back. Love has ruined more lives than hate ever could. I should have learned my lesson the first time.

Only a fool has hope in this hopeless world.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Lost Girl

Strong.

All my life, the one word always used to describe me is “strong.” That or bitch, but if you’re a woman those two words are synonymous. I do have a strong personality. I am who I am, and I make no bones about it. With few exceptions, I truly don’t give a crap if someone doesn’t like me. If a person says or does something I don’t like, I’m damn well going to say or do something about it. I can take a punch and give as good as I get. Growing up in Diablo’s Ward with the abusive alcoholic mother doesn’t leave a little girl much choice but to be strong. To survive. But it’s always been fake it ‘til I made it. More often than not there wasn’t an ounce of fight or strength in me, but I couldn’t allow anyone to know that or I’d be dead. Literally. But the well is dry. Even the fumes have evaporated. The one good thing about losing everything and everyone is that when you implode, there’s no collateral damage. Score one for freedom.

I don’t leave my shit corporate apartment for a week. Not because I love the place. It doesn’t have a lick of personality. Beige walls, factory produced artwork of flowers and cityscapes, cheap pots and pans, easy to assemble furniture as comfortable as granite. But it does have a television and a grocery/liquor store that delivers nearby. What more could a depressed alcoholic ask for?

Most of the past week is a blur, which means the booze did its job. I remember watching tons of reality television and true crime shows. I remember throwing up. A lot. And sleeping. All the slumber I’ve missed through the years due to stress and a mountain of other obligations has been made up for with change. With my cell phone off, the land line off the hook, and computer in one of the few unpacked boxes, I’ve been on my own little desolate island. Just me, Jack Daniels, and Captain Morgan. A threesome. A triumvirate. Trio of assholes is more like it. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

On day six, at least I think it’s day six, my coma’s interrupted by a woman calling my name, followed by a half dozen expletives. Oh God, my head. The bottle of aspirin is half empty, but I dry swallow four just as the interloper steps into my bedroom. “Jesus Fucking Christ, Jo. What the hell?”

My cousin Veronica stands in the doorway, pretty mouth agape at the sight of me. Okay, not just me. I was three drinks in when the maid arrived yesterday and I wouldn’t let her in. No doubt V’s seen all the take-away cartons, empty bottles, food stains, dirty clothes, and half full boxes with their former contents strewn around. I meant to hire someone to take the boxes to a storage unit but that never happened. Hell, using soap barely happened.

“How’d you get in here?” I ask.

“Shannon told me where you were and called the concierge to let me up. She was worried about you. Apparently with good reason. So back to the original question: what the hell, Jo? I’m away for a week and you fucking implode?”

“Yes, I timed the total collapse of my life for the one week you’re away just to stick it to you. I’m an evil bitch. Fuck off.” I pull the covers over my head. Jesus, they reek of sweat and farts. Really should have used fucking soap.

V snatches the covers completely off the bed, leaving me exposed. “Get up.”

“Bitch!” I snap.

“You’re going to take a shower, shampoo your hair because you could cook French fries in all that grease, get dressed, and while you’re doing that, I’ll call your sponsor to meet us at AA.”

“I’m not going to a fucking meeting, V. I’m not going to sit around the most miserable people on the planet as they bare their souls like anyone else gives a shit. Because they don’t. Not really. Even the best humanity supposedly has to offer are just cruel, selfish, deluded monsters. And I want nothing to do with them.
Any
of them. Or you. So fuck off.” I grab the other pillow, press it to the side of my face, and close my eyes. “I mean it. Leave or I’ll call the police.”

There’s several seconds of silence before she says, “You do know who you just sounded like right then, right? Aunt Maeve redux.”

“Well, maybe she had the right idea. Say what you want about her, but she looked out for number one. Her only mistake was having me. Luckily I didn’t make the same one. I’m not hurting anyone else.”

“You’re hurting me. I love you, you stupid cow. My brothers love you. My parents love you. Jem still—”

I sit straight up. “V, Justin’s alive. He’s alive and well and Jem knew but didn’t tell me. So fuck off and let me have my nervous breakdown in peace.”

This information does its job. It shuts her the hell up. Her jaw literally drops as she stares at me to gage if I’m lying or just crazy. My stony face must convince her because she says, “Jesus.”

“Yep. So I realize I’m a fucking mess right now, I do, but I kind of think I’ve earned the right to a little alone time as I figure out how the fuck I’m going to continue in this filthy, disgusting, nightmare of a world and come to terms with the fact that the two people I almost died for think so little of me.”

“I’m so sorry, Jo. I truly am. What they did…is shitty beyond words. But drinking yourself to death isn’t the solution.”

“Then what is?” I snap. “Oh great, wise one, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“What you’ve always done. You pick yourself up, and put one foot in front of the other because though it might take some time, eventually you’ll find yourself someplace else. Someplace better. And then you rub their noses in it. Living well is the best revenge, Jo. What you’re doing is drinking poison and hoping they’re the ones who die.”

“You got that from a fortune cookie.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” she counters. “So you’ve had your little pity party for one. Time to get up and join humanity again. And you can call the police, you can throw things at me, you can even call me names, but I’m not leaving. Because if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t leave me. So get your ass out of bed and get in the shower or I’ll call my brothers and parents and they’ll invade this place like Vikings for an impromptu intervention. Won’t that be fun?”

Fuck. Fuck! She’ll do it too. Bitch. I do need a shower though. I also don’t have the energy or brain cells to fight. I throw the pillow at her. “I hate you.”

“I can live with that. I know you’ll get over it. Now get up!”

Rolling my eyes, which wasn’t wise with a headache, I pull my carcass out of bed and into the bathroom. I don’t dare glance at myself in the mirror. Made that mistake two days ago. The shower does help with the headache and the shampoo with the rest of it. In the back of my mind, I knew this was coming. The day I’d have to face the world again. A not-so-tiny part of me kind of hoped I wouldn’t wake up. Not exactly a death wish but more of a death acceptance. Maybe the hooch is the only factor keeping that acceptance crossing over into darker territory. Another reason not to stop. I just need to get V out of here. I’ll cut down—I’m tired of physically feeling like shit—but not go cold turkey. Or to meetings. Being a functional alcoholic worked for me in the past, it’ll be good enough for the future.

Judging from the noises in the other room, I assume V’s cleaning. Better her than me. I slip on jeans, a white t-shirt, and braid my wet hair before joining her. Sensing I’m not up for talking, as we continue cleaning, V blabbers about her week in Jericho unearthing ties between the Andretti mob and our mayor. I’ve never been much of a housekeeper, but I let it get to a whole other level. Stains everywhere, food already molding, Jem would have a heart attack if he saw this. The man is anal and not in the fun way. If I left a sock on the floor he’d pitch a fit. That took some getting used to. Well, I hope he enjoys his spotless, empty, soulless apartment. I don’t—

“Jo?” V asks, bringing me out of my head. “Did you hear me?”

“No. Sorry. I spaced out.”

She ties up the full trash bag. “I asked if you still had access to the Justice computer.”

“Of course. Why?”

“Because I think this story is bigger than I thought. The mayor, senators, even the governor may be involved.”

“And you want me to do your job for you.” And the true reason she came by has revealed itself. Concern for my welfare had nothing to do with it. She just wanted something from me. Why am I so surprised? I roll my eyes. “Fuck you.”

“What now?”

“You actually had me thinking you came here out of the kindness of your heart. That you gave two shits about me.”

“I-I do!” she snaps, mouth agape in disbelief.

“No, you just wanted an excuse to come over to get something from me.”

“Fuck you! Don’t you dare question my integrity and loyalty, not after all these years. I’m not stupid, Jo. I knew Jem was Lord Nightingale, and I know he’s probably Captain Moonlight, and did I say anything? Print a damn word? No, because I wouldn’t do that to
you.
Because I love you.” She puts her hands on her hips. “I came here because no one had heard from you in a week. I came because we’re all shit scared for you. And with good reason. You’re losing it. I just thought taking down the mayor with me might be a good distraction. That’s it. My only ulterior motive.” Her cell phone begins ringing, and V rolls her eyes. “Fuck! Just…fuck. I have to take this.” She removes her phone from her pants. “Veronica Lilley.” She listens. “Now isn’t a good time, sir. I—” Her mouth snaps shut for a few seconds. “Can’t you send Mason? I’m—” She rolls her eyes again. “Fine.
Fine
. I’ll get down there. I’m ten minutes away. Bye.” She hangs up and groans. “Your ex is beating the shit out of Gearhead at the Tech Expo.” My stomach clenches. Gearhead can control machines. Jem could be facing an entire army of super robots or something. “I have to get down there.”

I keep my face neutral. “Whatever.”

She picks up her purse from the floor. “But we’re not done here. I’m coming back. At least once a day.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Still doing it. Don’t make me sic Mom on you.” V frowns at me. “Go to a damn meeting, Jo. Get out of this place. Do
something
. Because this isn’t you.” She tries to smile, but only makes it half-mast. “I love you.”

I don’t reply. V shakes her head and hustles off to play girl reporter. I plop on the beige couch with a sigh. That was uncalled for. I’ve known V all my life. She’s always been straight with me, always had my back. Like the big sister I never had. Damn my temper. Thankfully she doesn’t hold a grudge like the rest of us Irish. I’ll apologize. Find a way to make this up to her somehow. She has been sitting on the story of the year. For me.

She knew about Jem. Can’t say I’m shocked. I’m actually surprised more people haven’t put it together. Before he became Moonlight we talked about that eventuality. A hero with similar powers, similar build just appearing in Galilee months after Lord Nightingale “died?” Could happen. We saw the way people studied him. As if he would lift off the ground and fly around the room. Then he’d open his mouth or trip on his own feet, and that would be that. No one who meets him socially or professionally would ever think the gangly, unkempt, monosyllabic researcher is the man currently beating up a supervillain.

Gearhead. He hasn’t been active in a while. Not since before the Triumvirate arrived. That time Olympia and Geronimo teamed up to stop him, and then Geronimo wasn’t seen for two months after. He’s right up there on the deadly scale with Bruiser and Giagantor. Dozens dead. Always gets away. And Jem’s never faced him before, let alone whatever nasties he’s recruited at the Expo. Who the hell knows what they’re unveiling there. A robot army with nukes? One thought and Gearhead has them doing his biding. Maybe Olympia’s there too. Maybe—

Shit.

Doris Jr is on the kitchen counter already booted up. In my more sober or drunk periods I combed the Independence news stories researching Lucy and anyone named Joe associated with her. Fuck all so far on a “Joe,” but a ton on White Knight, the super-strong, super-healing, super-fast hero. I came face to mask with that fucker, even caught a bank robber for him. And what did he do? Chided me. I should have known then. Idiot me.

I flip on the TV too as the remote connection to Doris Senior boots up. As always the news has trumped regularly scheduled programming. A weekly occurrence in Galilee Falls. And–oh, fuck. The police have cordoned off a city block to keep the lookie loos from becoming further casualties. Smart because the white four-story convention center’s already crumbling. The gaping hole in the roof, in the side of the building, and all the windows on the east side are blown out. Disintegrated. Shit. Fuck.

“…how many hostages remain inside,” Rick Diaz says to the camera. “People have been slowly filtering out, but it is estimated three thousand people were attending the International Technology Expo. There are—”

There’s a burst of red light inside at the same time another portion of the roof explodes out. A collective gasp, mine included, escapes all watching this nightmare. Shit.

“There-There appears to have been another explosion,” Diaz says.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

The program finally boots up as there’s another explosion. Godddamn it. Two clicks and the video feed pops up. When I commissioned the Moonlight suit I had them install four pinpoint cameras: one in his forehead, one on each arm, and one on the back of his neck. A 360 degree view. And right now that view is chaotic. I don’t know where to focus first. Thousands of terrified people run around, some bleeding and others crying, but all trying to find cover from the flying black drones firing beams of light I think are lasers. Tech displays are consumed in fire or blown to pieces when the light connects. The roof caves in in two locations, large chunks of burning masonry raining down like brimstone. Henchmen dressed in brown leather outfits with gears adorning their clothes guard doors with automatic weapons. They’re nothing but window dressing with the drones and the ten foot tall bi-pedal metal man with lasers on its thick arms firing right at Jem. At least the Gatling guns on the monster’s shoulders appear inactive. Lasers are deadly enough.