Bronzeville || A Superhuman Tale - 2

Chapter Thirty-One

Summerall never called, but that fact was of no real consequence. Camille had enjoyed the schadenfreude of knowing the man had been mugged by a pro, and that a colleague of hers at INTERPOL had managed to convince authorities in London and Madrid to seize the criminal's other safety deposit boxes. Wherever the felon was, he was broke.

The three more-or-less uninterrupted days of rest since their fight with the Gifted criminal had done both her and Eric well. It was the most time-off for either of them in more than a year, and they spent a goodly portion of Monday morning trying to catch up with their normal caseload.

Their first case consisted of taking a series of statements from the employees of a retirement community at which a recently deceased man had resided. The family was convinced there was foul play, but neither the detectives nor the medical examiner saw evidence of it, which was why the case file had sat unattended on their desks for several weeks. They took the statements merely to tie up the loose ends and were back at the precinct house before noon.

Many of their cases were of that variety. Sometimes people just died, and sometimes families couldn't accept that fact.

Still, procedure had to be followed. And it was always good to clock a short victory or two when coming back after an absence. If all went well, they'd have that case and perhaps another closed by the end of the day.

As they set out for a second set of interviews at about a half hour before lunch, Eric paused to talk to a pair of uniforms near the garage door. Camille was not the least scandalized that one of the two officers was an unusually attractive blonde still in her first year on the street. The detective had a few things to do in the car and sat patiently working at forms on her tablet, occasionally voicing a lazy "let's go," more out of habit than any real sense of urgency. Like a typical work husband, Eric pretended she wasn't there.

It was heaven.

After the fourth or fifth such exchange, Camille completed her notes. Before she could step out and take Eric by the short hairs, though, her phone pinged. It was a text from Caldecott-Nevarez, who no doubt had begun to realize his phone calls had remained unanswered. She opened and scrolled through the note.

"Oh, fuck," she nearly screamed. "Eric, we gotta go ... NOW."

***

"Why are all TV detectives jazz aficionados?" asked Kenny from where she lay sprawled on the enormous couch in Camille's sunroom.

The small woman, still on an adrenalin high from her climb with Cecil the night before, felt decidedly decadent taking off the entire day from work. But she and Rhonda had only been able to get together twice during the last two weeks. Her friend had complained that, since the "ball and chain" would be back that evening, they needed to make up for lost time.

So, they'd muted their phones and spent the morning like college students, snacking, drinking beer, laughing at any and all comers, and watching an online series about some ridiculously brilliant and improbably accomplished homicide detective.

"It's the writers," replied Rhonda. "They project. Remember that skinny little neurotic comedian who started making movies in the seventies or eighties ... thought he was avant-garde after a few of his flicks got reviewed?"

"The one who died of the heroin overdose?"

"No ... no, the one who married his stepdaughter."

"Ha!" was Kenny's only confirmation.

"He was what? Five-five, five-six? You ever notice how the doofus always cast himself opposite some six-foot blonde half his age?"

"Ohhh ... he makes me laugh!" screeched Kenny. It was her best stab at a pretentious Hollywood accent, but she wasn't certain whether it was her lampoon of a nasally starlet or the sheer notion that a supermodel might want to have sex with a troll "because he makes me laugh" that sent Rhonda into such paroxysms.

"That, madam," said Rhonda after a long minute's shaking, laughing, and coughing, "is projecting. Just look at how a writer develops his characters, especially his heroes, and it will tell you all you need to know about the man's vanities, insecurities, and neuroses."

"Sooooo ... fragile," Kenny drawled.

"Seeewww ..." mirrored Rhonda.

It was not quite noon, but they both were on their fourth beer and in incredible spirits. Kenny usually stopped after her second, feigning incapacity. It was a lifelong affectation from which she was trying to ween herself—she actually had a remarkable tolerance for alcohol. Rhonda, on the other hand, already was tipsy and appeared highly satisfied with the condition. There were still hours left on their marathon.

"I'm guessing that means there's not a music section on the detectives' exam?" Kenny always had thought her laugh, her true laugh, sounded too much like that of a happy donkey. Around Rhonda, she'd learned to bray with abandon.

Rhonda let loose a carefree scream, after which she guffawed, "I'll have to ask Camille."

Another scream sounded somewhere in the building.

Rhonda threw her hands over her mouth and snickered more deeply. "Oops," she whispered between her fingers, her face alive with humor.

The hairs on the back of Kenny's neck went up. That scream .... She stood and looked through the floor at the building below, the direction from which she thought the cry had come. She took two steps, still peering down and adjusting her focus, and nearly screamed herself.

"Rhonda, get in the bathroom," she said as calmly as she was able. There was no response. She looked over to her friend, who no longer was laughing. "Honey, get your phone and get in the bathroom ... climb in the tub and call Cecil." Kenny no longer could hide the emotion in her voice.

The floor began bouncing and shaking with violent and heavy thuds, and a racket echoed down the apartment's short central hallway. Someone was hammering hard against the front door. Kenny's keen vision saw that it was a half dozen heavily armed men, all in black and kitted up like soldiers. They made no effort to identify themselves. Another six or eight assailants were stacked on the ground floor stairwell, as if preparing to move.

"Go!" she shouted at her friend.

Rhonda already was on her way, and a horrified Kenny turned and sprinted to the front door. She was aware of the government's antipathy toward people like her—it was part of Tommy's tutelage—and she realized, whoever their attackers turned out to be, she and Rhonda were in danger for their lives.

Her first thought was to climb out the window and make for the roof, an ascent she could make easily on her own ... but with Rhonda? It simply wasn't an option. However, there was no way the door, as sturdy as it was, would hold up long to the vicious battering it now was taking. Door or frame soon would yield.

She'd never been in a fight in her life, not a real one. Her frightened mind struggled to grasp the many lessons Tommy had given her in the last year, but they all came spilling out at once and slipped through her fingers as they did.

What to do when dealing with an armed opponent? If they have weapons, run. If you can't run, disarm them straight away. Stay out from in front of the barrel ....

Her mind raced. What was it he'd said about multiple opponents? ... narrow the odds. Make them come at you one at a time.

She nearly screamed.

Don't panic, or you're fucked, leapt to mind. That was lesson number one. Lesson number two? When in doubt, attack ....

Against her every instinct, and so frightened she hardly could control her bowels, Kenny yanked the door open and threw her hardest punch into the first thing in front of her.