After the Golden Age

SIXTEEN

THE Trial of the Century, the newspapers called it. Like the Storm of the Century. They seemed to happen every ten or twenty years. The last Trial of the Century had been when she was a little girl, involving a husband-and-wife bank robber team that specialized in hacking ATM machines. They were noteworthy because they would make out in front of the security cameras. The Kissing Crooks. Bank robbery soft core porn. Celia hadn’t been allowed to watch the trial coverage.

The next day, the front page of the city’s so-called respectable newspaper, the Commerce City Banner, featured her picture, snapped by an intrepid photographer as she left the courtroom. A close-up, framed by bodies in dark suits, mostly people from the DA’s office who all left in a crowd; she was the only one with features visible: brick-red hair, short and tousled, eyes squinting a little in the light, looking ahead, lips pulled in a frown. Her mother should have been nearby, but she’d been cropped out of the image. Artistic license or something.

Her story rated a sidebar, so maybe she hadn’t quite graduated from the position of footnote to the Trial of the Century. She wouldn’t mind staying a footnote. “West Heiress’s Dark Past,” read the headline, with a sub-header, “Who is Celia West?” Lots of unanswered questions peppered that article, since the records were sealed and she wasn’t commenting. Some people, including Bronson, had given quotes vowing that they trusted her, for which she was grateful.

But other quotes—from politicians, gossip columnists, college professors whom she barely remembered—observed how reclusive she was, that she was estranged from her parents, that she hadn’t done anything to follow in their footsteps, and what was she hiding, anyway? Those interviews sounded so much more exciting.

A half-dozen reporters were waiting in the lobby of the building where Smith and Kurchanski had its offices. Celia tightened her grip on her attaché and quickened her pace, as if preparing to run a literal gauntlet. Like a pack of jackals, they spotted her and moved across the granite floor to intercept, striding from different directions to trap her. And so, separated from the herd, the gazelle stumbles …

She would have gotten away if she hadn’t had to stop for the elevator.

The reporters swarmed around her.

“Ms. West! Could I ask you a couple of questions?”

“I really don’t have time—”

“Are you working on the Sito trial out of revenge?

The elevator mechanism groaned softly.

“Did you have any contact with the Destructor after those two months you were with him?”

“What exactly was the nature of your relationship with the Destructor?”

Oh, she’d been waiting for that one. The stories people must be making up about that. Ignore them, just ignore them.

“How long did it take for your parents to forgive you?”

They haven’t, she thought.

They kept asking because they knew, eventually, she’d break. It was easy to ignore the difficult, personal, prurient, questions. The one with the easy answer startled her into answering.

A woman with a blond bob and rimless glasses caught her gaze and asked, “What did you do for the Destructor? Malone said you joined him. But what did you do for him?”

Celia smiled bitterly. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything. I was seventeen, I was stupid, I ran away from home, and he took me in and kept me around because it drove my parents crazy.”

Finally, the elevator door opened. She stepped inside and spread her arms across the door, blocking any of them from following her. She wasn’t big or intimidating; they might have just pushed past her. But she glared. “If you could please leave me alone, I’m late for work.”

They blinked, startled for a moment, and hesitated, which gave the doors time to close on them. As the elevator rose, Celia leaned against the wall and sighed.

Mary, the receptionist, caught her as she entered the offices. “Celia? Kurchanski Senior wanted to see you as soon as you came in.”

“Okay.” Did Mary’s smile seem a little stiff? Was her expression fearful?

She went to Kurchanski’s office before taking off her coat or setting down her bag. The door was ajar; she knocked on the frame and carefully pushed it open enough to stick her head in.

“Mr. Kurchanski? It’s Celia. Mary said you wanted to see me.”

“Ms. West, yes, come in.” He was leaning back in his leather desk chair, reading an accounting trade magazine. He set the magazine aside and rested his hands on the desk. “The Sito trial’s been very interesting, hasn’t it?”

That sinking feeling was the other shoe dropping, right down the middle of her gut.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“You testified yesterday. I read a transcript.”

She gritted her teeth and waited.

“The District Attorney may not have a problem with you being so personally involved. But I have the firm to think about, and its reputation. This isn’t easy to say, but I’d like you to take some time off. You’re a hard worker and I have a great deal of respect for you. But we’ve already had too many questions.”

Questions like, aren’t you worried, can she be trusted, how could she possibly be a good person with that on her record. It was fine, being the daughter of vigilante heroes. But any association with a notorious criminal mastermind? Forget it. A black mark like that never went away.

He continued. “It would be better for all of us. Until this blows over.”

If she could stay numb, she’d be fine. She always stayed numb until she could walk away and explode in peace. “Sure. I understand. Mr. Kurchanski?”

“Yes?”

“Am I being fired, or just … laid off?”

“You’re taking a leave of absence. Until this blows over.”

And if it didn’t? Would she get a call asking her not to come back, ever? “Until this blows over. If it blows over.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Thanks for telling me in person.”

She was glad she didn’t have to get her coat and bag. All she had to do was turn around and walk right back out. She ignored her coworkers staring after her. Or, tried to.

What the hell, she needed a vacation anyway.

She swam sixty laps. Counted every one. Each number made a rhythm in her brain, beating in time to her strokes through the water. As long as she counted, she didn’t think about anything else.

In college, she’d gone back to swimming, her one successful childhood sport, because the water was soft and uplifting. Caressing. Made her feel like another creature, other than flesh. Today, she wanted to be tired. She wanted to be able to sleep without thinking.

She could hit the water as much as she wanted without consequence.

“You’ve reached the offices of District Attorney Kevin Bronson. Please leave a message.”

“Hi, DA Bronson? It’s Celia West. I’ve just been laid off my job. Or given a leave of absence. Whatever. That probably means I’m pulled from the case. I thought you should know.”

She called Mark next. He told her he’d call, but he hadn’t yet, which was why she thought he’d be sure to pick up. But the ringing rolled over to voice mail.

“Mark, I don’t know if you’re ready to talk to me. I don’t know if there’s anything I can say. But I wanted to let you know I’ve been laid off my job over this. I could use a friend right now. Bye.” Now, was he busy or avoiding her? She might never learn.

She spent all afternoon watching TV, dressed in flannel pajamas, eating ice cream out of the carton. She had a bubble bath scheduled for five o’clock, and then planned to order Chinese delivery at seven.

She watched the news to hear what they said about her. Conspiracy theorists had put out the notion that she was still working for Sito, that she was trying to sabotage the prosecution’s case from the inside. She found that one on the conservative talk show that aired after lunch. She supposed a lot of people were thinking that. Otherwise, she’d still be at work, and Mark and Analise would still be talking to her. Her father would let her look at the West Corp archives.

If she were lucky, maybe another bomb would drop at the trial and people would forget about her.

After the bath, during the evening news, the phone rang. The tone sent her heart racing, and she jumped a foot from her seat and floundered for the phone. “Yes?”

“It’s me.” Mark. If she could get him to feel guilty for dissing her maybe he’d bring her supper.

“Hey, hi. How are you? I mean, I’m glad you called. Thanks.”

He was silent. For a moment, she thought the connection had cut out. All she heard was a faint hiss. Then, he drew a breath. “How are you doing?”

Besides losing my job, and my best friend yelling at me, and my boyfriend not talking to me? “Bad. What do you expect?”

“With that kind of skeleton in your closet, you shouldn’t be surprised.”

Of course not. That was why the records had been sealed and she’d kept it secret. “Mark, I really wish you wouldn’t judge me based on something that happened when I was a kid.”

“What else am I supposed to do? It’s … weird, it’s not right. The Destructor is evil, and you wanted that … Are you telling me you’re a totally different person now?”

She kept her breathing calm so that she could speak clearly, nicely, without shouting. “Actually, I’m a lot different. I’ve worked hard to make myself different. I wasn’t a happy person then.”

“Just answer one question for me. The Destructor. Were you his…” He paused, grappling for words. “Did you sleep with him?”

The assumption lay between the lines of every news report she’d seen today. It was the question that no matter how much she denied it, no one would ever believe her. Her father hadn’t believed her, not even after she let Mentis into her mind, let him see whether or not she was lying. She’d let him broadcast her thoughts to the world if it would do any good.

“No, I didn’t. He wasn’t interested.”

“Wasn’t interested? Does that mean you tried?”

She’d been seventeen, fond of miniskirts and too much makeup, fascinated by her own burgeoning sexuality and the ways it could be used. How did she explain that to a thirty-year-old police detective who’d already branded her a criminal?

He was angry at himself, she realized. Angry at himself for falling for someone with a past like hers. He hadn’t seen it, and maybe he thought he should have.

“Mark, I’ve been trying for years to redeem myself. I guess I’m not there yet. But give me a chance, please.” She shouldn’t have to beg. Damn him for making her beg.

“It’s just … it’s hard, looking at you now. Knowing what you did.”

She lost it. “I made a mistake! I know I made a mistake! Everybody makes mistakes! What do I have to do to make it up? Adopt a kitten? Crucify myself on my parents’ doorstep? What? Just tell me and I’ll do it. Tell me what you want me to do!”

“This really is all about your parents, isn’t it? You really do hate them.”

“Have you even been listening to me? Why can’t anyone talk to me without talking about them?” She kept getting louder.

Which might have been why he hung up on her.

She threw the phone. It hit the wall by the kitchen, chirped, and thumped to the floor.

If she could, she would go back in time and warn her seventeen-year-old self:

A mistake like this, you’ll never get away from it. It will mark you, brand you. A petty crime is one thing, but joining the Destructor? You? Don’t you know what this is going to do to your future?

The trouble was, the seventeen-year-old always replied, What makes you think I have a future?

She couldn’t remember what that had been like, wanting to seek out Sito, wanting to join him. Rather, she didn’t want to. She’d been a different person eight years ago. But the memories were still there.

She’d only put one foot inside the entrance of the eastside bar when a man with greasy hair and a scuffed leather coat put his arm in front of her, stopping her.

“Hey, baby, I’ll take you home. I got the cash.”

“I’m not a hooker,” Celia stated, frowning. He could possibly be forgiven for making the mistake. She didn’t even know if it was a mistake. She wasn’t for sale to him, and that was what mattered. She wore a short-short leather miniskirt, black stockings, high-heeled sandals, and a lace camisole. Clothing bought in secret and hidden at the bottom of her dresser drawer. Someday, she’d always told herself, she’d put on the outfit, walk out of the penthouse, turn into someone no one would recognize, and never look back.

She hunched inside her bomber jacket, glaring up with narrowed eyes. Something about her manner made the guy back off, even though she was half his size. If he’d wanted to press the point, there wasn’t much she could do.

It was all about attitude.

The smell overwhelmed her. Sour beer, sweat, the press of bodies. The place was popular. Tough-looking guys crowded around a pair of pool tables. No music played, only the rumble of voices talking low, punctuated by a few barks of laughter and a few calls for the waitress. This was a place to do business. That was why the guy had stopped her. There were other women around, dressed a lot like her. More vinyl, maybe, and more hairspray. Older women, worn around the edges.

She’d had to do research to find this place, looking through newspaper articles and public record arrest and investigation reports. She’d told the guys at the police station she was doing a report for school on law enforcement, and since she was Celia West, they ruffled her hair and said how proud her folks must be that she was following in their footsteps.

It was all worth it, because she found out that one of the Destructor’s informants set up shop at this bar. He was one of the guys who recruited for jobs, served as eyes and ears on the street. He might have been one of the guys who helped lure her to the park and the Destructor’s clutches last year. Whatever. Didn’t matter. He’d know how to get in touch with the Destructor.

Again, attitude got her through the bar to the back room. Gazes followed her, sizing her up, judging her, but no one stopped her. She walked with a purpose, and they could see that. They were supposed to assume she belonged there.

The back room held four booths. In one, a couple of bored-looking women—innocuously dressed in jeans and blouses, compared to some of the other outfits in the bar—sat quietly, tracing their fingers through the moisture on filled tumblers. Small groups of two or three people sat at the others, bodies hunched over tables. The volume of voices was lower here, the talk more urgent.

In the farthest table to the right, a blond man, middle-aged, with a weathered face and slicked-back hair, seemed to be lecturing a couple of younger men who sat across from him. He pointed his finger at them, raised his brow, and the men shrank back. Middle-management of the crime world dressing down hired muscle.

Keeping to the wall, Celia made her way to that side of the room. She stared at him until he looked up, and she caught his gaze. Polite at heart, she stood across from his booth, just out of earshot, and waited for him to finish his business.

He waved the two heavies away. They looked her up and down as they passed by, but she ignored them.

She moved to the booth, but didn’t sit down. She wanted to be taller than him; she would have been lost sitting in the big vinyl seat. Her hip touched the table as she turned to him.

“Are you Ares?”

He smiled a wide, fake, cattish smile. “What can I do for you, honey?”

“I want to see the Destructor,” she said.

His smile froze, like he hadn’t heard her or didn’t believe her. “What makes you think I can help you do that?”

“You hire his goons. I need to talk to him. You can pass on the message.”

Finally, the smile fell. He put his elbows on the table. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. I don’t know what your story is, but you don’t want to mess with that. You look like a sweet kid, so why don’t you just go home?”

“Tell the Destructor his favorite hostage wants to see him.” Her face felt numb, impassive. No expression.

Ares straightened. Celia felt a little surge of pride, because he obviously didn’t know what to do with her. She’d said the right thing. She could handle herself. Let them underestimate her, and she’d walk all over them.

“I’ll pass on the message,” he said finally. “Have a seat. I’ll send over a soda for you.”

“I’ll have a scotch,” she said.

“I don’t think so.” Grinning, he stood up, smoothed his cream-colored jacket, and went through a door at the side of the room.

Sitting in the booth, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could do this. She had to do this.

An hour later, Celia was still there, a glass of soda in front of her, untouched, the ice melting. Ares came through the same side door. She spotted him as soon as it opened.

He put a hand on the table in front of her. “There’s a car waiting for you around back. It’ll take you to him.”

Without a word, she brushed past him and left. She felt his gaze staring after her and had to smile a little. Let him wonder who she was.

The car was a chauffeured Cadillac. The formally dressed driver held the door open for her, closed it behind her, then climbed behind the wheel and pulled out of the alley into the nighttime streets. She settled back against the leather seat. The back windows were tinted to the point of being opaque, preventing her from marking their route.

Too late to back out now. That was okay. This was going to go fine.

Eventually, the car tilted, slanting forward as it traveled down a ramp. They seemed to continue downward for a very long time. For all their efforts, the Olympiad hadn’t found the Destructor’s most recent headquarters. She could go back and tell them: underground. Far underground.

She could never go back.

After parking, the driver let her out into a dimly lit garage-type structure and escorted her through a door. Again, only a few dim lights showed the way. The Destructor either wanted to create as creepy an effect as possible, or save on electricity bills.

He probably pirated his power off the grid anyway.

The corridor ended in a wide doorway. The driver gestured her through, staying behind.

Ahead, an old man sat at a vast mahogany table. It was the only furniture or decoration in a slate-colored room. His hair was thinned to nothing, and he peered through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. A half-dozen computer monitors sat on the desk at regular intervals. He spent a little time at each of them, in no particular order: he looked at one, tapped a few keys on the single keyboard in front of him, looked at another, typed again.

Studious, a scientist, he was planning his next act of mass chaos.

Her stomach lurched; she swallowed back a surge of nausea. This man had tried to rip her mind apart a year ago. This man cared nothing for her. This man was a monster.

The enemy of her enemy was her friend. If she had a place in the world, this was it. She shrugged her jacket partway off, exposing her shoulders.

“Hi,” she said.

Not looking up, the Destructor said, “It’s the famous Celia West. What do you want?”

She’d practiced this in her mind a hundred times. The way she’d walk, the look in her eyes, calm and cool. She was powerful, in her own way. Step by step, she moved toward him, her heels clicking slowly on the tile floor.

When she got to his table, she half-sat on it, her skirt riding up one thigh. One of the monitors was in the way. She swiveled it aside, so he could see. He looked up.

“I can tell you about the Olympiad. Their headquarters, their computer systems, procedures. Just about anything you want to know.”

“And what do you want?”

“A place here. I want to be a part of this.”

For a long minute, they regarded one another. If she kept her mind a blank, she wouldn’t look away.

He said, “You’re only here to aggravate your parents. While I commend the endeavor, I have no use for you.”

It occurred to her that if she had a knife right now, she could slit his throat. Wouldn’t her parents be shocked and impressed? Except they didn’t kill. Eschewed killing as a crime.

She just couldn’t win.

He added, “The Olympiad has its headquarters in the penthouse of West Plaza. I know the secret identities of every member of the Olympiad—as you know. I’m naturally immune to Mentis’s telepathy. Everything you think you know, I already know.”

The worst that could happen, he’d just kill her. Lock her up, torture her, finish her off. And the thing was, she didn’t care. At least she could say she tried. If this didn’t work, she just didn’t care. She had nothing left.

She couldn’t let him see that. She only showed him blank. Like Arthur would do.

His lips pressed into a tight, unfeeling smile. “On the other hand, keeping you around might prove amusing.”

Set the hook, reel him in. As if she were actually having an impact on him. She’d imagined herself doing this, thinking it would give her some power over him. Imagined how she might possibly win some power for herself in this world, where men flew and women played with fire.

She stalked around the table. It was a long walk, it seemed like. She’d always pictured him in a huge leather executive chair, the kind that dominated a room, massive and luxurious. Like the kind her father had. Instead, he had a simple office chair, flat and dark, with a low back. It didn’t even have wheels. He perched at the edge of it, watching her progress.

When she reached his chair, she put her left hand on his desk, her right on the chair back, just behind his thin, dark-suited shoulder. Not touching it. Leaning forward, keeping her eyes open and looking, she kissed him on the lips. It was just a press; he didn’t respond. His lips were dry, frozen. She pulled back, waiting for a response.

“Don’t do that again,” he said. He pointed to a door behind her. So much for her vast powers of seduction.

In the days that followed, she spent a lot of time sitting on tables at the periphery while he plotted, planned, schemed, whatever. She didn’t pay much attention. He ignored her. Kept her around because it might be amusing. She fetched coffee sometimes. At his command, all his henchmen ignored her as well. She might have had a little fun, otherwise. They all treated her like a kid.

His latest plan—bombs set to destroy government buildings all over the city—was nearing fruition. She could stop this, she occasionally considered. Sabotage the mechanism or call her parents. Redeem herself.

She kind of wanted to see how they stopped it on their own. It would be interesting, watching from the other side.

She perched in the window of the skyscraper where he worked that day, looking down on the canyons of a tiny cardboard city. Cars crawled, people were only specks of dirt shifting around. Everything looked flat.

“I read what the papers say about me. Do you?” The Destructor spoke to her for the first time in weeks. He stood beside her, gazing out the window with her, amusement brightening his features.

“Lots of speculation about why I do what I do. Am I mad? Disturbed? Was I abused as a child? Why am I so bent on destruction? There is so much they don’t consider, you know. They don’t consider how much worse I could be.”

She quirked a smile.

“You’ve been watching me. I think you’ve been taking notes. If you wanted to be worse than me, what would you do? What could be worse than mass destruction?”

Mass destruction sounded pretty good to her. It was partly why she was here. She’d never been able to create or save. Maybe she could destroy. Except she didn’t seem to be very good at that, either.

“The pundits are wrong about me,” he said. “I’m essentially lazy. Mass destruction is for the lazy. It’s not difficult. Anyone can crash an airplane. But using an airplane to destroy a cultural icon? That creates despair. That’s where the real power lies. In symbols. Money is easy to steal. But a rare gem? A unique painting? These things are truly worthwhile. People will die for them when they will not die for money. So tell me, what can be worse than mass destruction?”

She said, “Specific loss. You choose your target.”

He smiled, and she felt as if she’d been rewarded. “How much worse for your parents, to turn you into their next great adversary. Better I had destroyed you last year. How does that sound?”

“Like you’re planning to use me to get your own revenge. Again.”

“Maybe when the time comes I’ll let you push the button,” he said.