The Light of Redemption Read online

  “Crazy, but talented,” his friend said. “You see the rock garden he put together up on The Hill? Took him two hours. Those things were practically boulders.”

  Hmmm. Evidence tying Conn Parsons and Mr. Clothesline? Or unrelated hyperbole?

  “Coach told me to read up on this stuff,” a fifth-grade boy told me one afternoon, heaving a stack of sports biographies onto the counter.

  I rotated the stack to look at the spines. Baseball players made sense, because according to Simon, Conn Parsons had volunteered to take over a team that had lost its coach when his wife got a job overseas. But there was also Brady vs. Manning, about two of the best quarterbacks ever, Charles Barkley’s book, and two books about Michael Jordan. “Pretty old school, Tony.” I started running the barcodes under the scanner.

  “Coach says if you wanna be great, look at what the greats did.” He snatched each book as I finished and shoved it into his backpack. “He’s gonna coach football, too, and basketball.”

  Sounded pretty ambitious to me. “Not soccer?”

  “Soccer,” Tony sneered, thanked me, and ran out the door.

  “His eyyyyes,” sighed the members of the single moms club who met at the library on Thursday mornings. “And his ass,” a couple of them muttered in return.

  Truth be told—never, not even to Angie—I was jealous, and even hurt that he hadn’t come into the library yet. Nor had he been in Millie’s or the grocery store when I was there. I’d drawn the line at running down Medici Street, though it was normally part of my jogging route. It was just too obvious.

  I was glad when Friday arrived again. One of my regular patrol nights, since there was a lot more potential for mischief—or worse—on the weekend. I wrapped my hair into a coil at the base of my neck, secured it with a comb, and drew up the head cover attached to my catsuit. As unlikely as it was for anyone to recognize me in this getup, I still added a mask. Instead of molding to my cheekbones and brow line, it was wide and bulky enough to alter the shape of my face, while fitting closely enough that it didn’t block my vision.

  The backyard was dark when I slipped out. One of the dogs two houses down yipped as I passed, but my lightweight shoes barely made a sound on the gravel shoulder of the alley that provided garage access to the houses in my neighborhood. A few minutes later, I was lurking in the shadows at the edge of the parking lot surrounding Noir, the most popular bar in Pilton.

  But it was too early for much to be happening. I fought the urge to pace. Movement was the enemy of stealth. But it was no use. I couldn’t claim a wealth of patience at the best of times, but I was way too restless to do this the normal way tonight. So I started skulking. Prowling on the seedier side of town, pulling light from the few security lamps or streetlights as I went, replacing it after I’d gotten through. This use of my ability was kind of like Dumbledore’s deluminator. I didn’t have a case to keep the light in, though. I could draw it deep inside myself so it wasn’t visible, as long as I didn’t hold it too long.

  By midnight, I was almost ready to chuck it in. Some nights—most nights, fortunately—nothing happened. They didn’t usually leave me restless and impatient the way I was tonight. I kicked a rock and watched it bounce across the macadam, snapping up against the curb by the convenience store near the highway on-ramp. A guy coming out of the store froze and looked in the direction of the rock. I ducked behind the air machine, but he was already heading for his car, six-pack of beer hanging from one hand. Maybe he was someone worth keeping an eye on. No, that was a waste of time. Not everyone who drank was dangerous.

  Some were, though, so I jogged up the ravine along the main road back to the heart of town. There were three bars along the way. I lingered at the first two for fifteen minutes each, but everything seemed calm. The third was the one I liked the least. Dirtier, cheaper, rougher, the kind of place you expected bad things to happen. But even there, with only half an hour until closing, most of the patrons had left. The regulars I glimpsed through the closing door would only cause as much trouble as it took to call a cab.

  So I headed home. What did I think was going to happen? Mr. Clothesline would come out and find me, intrigued by what he’d heard about me and eager to team up with someone who was like him? That was just stupid. No matter who he was, I was small-town and he probably wasn’t. Even if he was here because he wanted to be.

  A scream bounced off the house next to me and cut off abruptly. I jerked my head up. Johnson Street, half a block from Earnest Lane. Not the worst part of town, but smallish houses, some not well kept. The kind of neighborhood where people minded their own business and left everyone else to theirs, just in case it was the wrong kind.

  The scream had come from my right, down Earnest. I took off across lawns, running as fast as I dared in the dark. It had gotten really dark now, with most people in bed and few lights still on anywhere. I plucked a bit from the last streetlight behind me, holding it in my right palm, aimed at the ground directly in front of me. I could see well enough to dodge bushes and lawn furniture, but I really didn’t want to impale my foot on a discarded stormtrooper. Again.

  I slowed, keeping my breathing even and silent, and strained to hear anything that might be connected to that scream. A breeze rustled through the trees overhead. A clatter several houses away was probably a cat or even raccoon digging in someone’s garbage. Then I heard it. A guttural order, accompanied by breathy, terrified sobs. It was coming from the deep shadows of someone’s carport. I crouched, studying the layout, and drew the light into myself. A big old Buick hunkered half in the carport, half out, one rear tire on the grass next to the driveway. Battered trash cans lined the edge of the concrete pad in front of the car, with a smaller recycling can near the shed at the back. I wasn’t getting past any of that undetected.

  If I went around the back of the car, I’d be exposed and visible to those inside the carport. So I had to go behind the carport shed instead. Balance was difficult on the damp, grassy slope into the backyard, so it took me way too many seconds to slip into the few feet of shadowed corridor between the house and shed.

  There was a slap and immediate cry, then that deeper voice, still unintelligible. Feet scraped on concrete, and I heard a distinctive metallic rattle. A belt buckle.

  Rage such as I’d never felt welled from someplace deep. I forced the captured light energy into a ball cupped in my palm and leaped into the carport. My mind was already several steps ahead. I’d throw the light in the rapist’s face and follow with a physical attack, either shoving him away from the woman or punching him. Then I’d retrieve the light and use it to bind him, finding something to knock him out with if necessary.

  I landed on the concrete next to the shed, where I thought the two people were. The light in my hand fell on two terrified faces. Elderly faces. They’d been bent over a handbag, and the man still had his hand deep inside it. The woman tried to shriek and cowered back against her husband. The sound came out thin, reedy, and not at all like the cut-off scream I’d heard. Thought I’d heard.

  The handbag hit the ground and tipped over, spilling out several items. The man leaned against the brick wall of the house, clutching his hands to his chest. The woman still stared at me, her eyes so wide and rolling she looked like a panicked horse.

  “Take it. There’s not much, but just take it.”

  “No! I’m not—” I broke off because the man had begun to pant. “Sir, are you okay?”

  Of course he wasn’t. He bent over, then sank slowly to the ground, one hand out to brace himself on his knees, the other still pressed to his chest. Fuck. He was having a heart attack.

  “Pills,” he wheezed, and the woman scrambled for her spilled purse. I whipped out my cell phone and called nine-one-one from the button on my home screen.

  “Here. Here.” The woman’s hands trembled in the faint light from the ball in my hand, and s
he moaned when she couldn’t get the cap off the bottle she’d retrieved.

  “Let me.” I tossed the light into the air and made it hover over us. Slightly behind me so I remained in silhouette, though something burned in the back of my throat. Self-disgust. She cringed away from my reaching hand, so I tucked the phone against my shoulder and motioned for her to hand me the bottle as the dispatcher connected the call.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “Possible heart attack, elderly white male, on Earnest Lane.” I twisted the top off the bottle the woman had finally handed me, maybe reassured by the fact that I’d called for help. “What’s the house number?” I asked her.

  “4-0-4.”

  I repeated it for the dispatcher, then relayed the information the elderly woman recited. She’d clearly been through this before. Dammit. What the hell had happened?

  At my feet, the ailing old man had lowered himself to a cramped-looking sitting position, half-propped against the door into the house. His eyes were closed, but his breathing had eased since putting the nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue.

  A siren eased into hearing range, and the air in the carport seemed to settle as all three of us relaxed a little. Help was close. It was going to be okay.

  I disconnected from the dispatcher when the ambulance turned onto the street and the siren wound down. “I’m sorry,” I told the couple. “I misunderstood what was happening here. I’m so, so sorry.”

  She didn’t look like she quite believed me, and her husband was beyond caring for the moment. I eased into the backyard as the EMTs hustled up. My ball of light would stay where I’d put it for about ten minutes before the adhesion loosened and the particles dissipated. It didn’t need me to sustain it. And I didn’t need the questions that were coming.

  The dew on the grass dampened my feet. Night had made the shift onto the path toward dawn. No one called after me, and I disappeared into the neighbor’s yard and made my way to a nearby street.

  Now I was the one trembling. In all the years I’d been Eclipse, nothing like this had ever happened. Not like I hadn’t made mistakes, because of course I did, especially at the beginning. But I went slow, developing my ability bit by bit. I’d always used it like a flashlight or a toy until superheroes started teaming up, using their powers out in the open, giving me reason to start dreaming about helping people and protecting my town. Once I thought about it in those terms, I was determined to go about things the right way, not using what I could do around or against anyone else until I knew I was in complete control.

  I had never hurt anyone before.

  My legs seemed heavier with each step I took. I was a good twenty minutes from home still, and it was close to two in the morning. But in contrast, my mind raced. Being discovered wasn’t a concern. I didn’t think I knew the couple, so they probably wouldn’t have recognized me even if they knew Harmony Wilde, the town librarian. The dispatcher wouldn’t recognize my voice. I had an app on my “Eclipse” phone—with a prepaid plan not connected to Harmony—that altered my voice just enough to be different without sounding weird. I got the idea when some kids were playing with Skype voice changers in the library.

  So being outed as Eclipse wasn’t an issue. My reputation as Eclipse was a completely different matter. That couple had to think I’d been attacking them. Even if they believed me about it being a mistake, I’d still caused the guy to have a heart attack. They’d talk about it, maybe even go to the media.

  The ambulance zoomed past the end of the street, heading to the hospital. The siren wasn’t running, but the lights were flashing. I hoped that was a good sign about his condition, but there wasn’t traffic to alert so maybe they were just trying not to disturb the neighborhood again.

  I’d have to find out who the couple was and check on the man’s condition tomorrow. Privacy laws meant I wouldn’t get much from the hospital, but they’d at least tell me if he was stable or something. Right?

  “That didn’t go so well, huh?”

  I halted abruptly and stared at the woman crossing the street. A tiny fluffball of a dog trotted ahead of her, occasionally dipping its head to sniff the street. Floppy, pointed ears bounced over the puff of fur I could easily carry in one hand.

  The woman smiled at me. I didn’t recognize her, but something triggered a tickle of familiarity in the back of my head. She wore gray plaid comfy pants and a sweatshirt with her dark hair in a braid.

  “I’m sorry?” It was a stall tactic. Her question had made perfect sense. She’d seen me practically kill an old man, and though her smile was sympathetic, the situation had just gotten worse. If I tried to explain what had happened, it would sound ridiculous. Mistaking an elderly woman rummaging in her purse for a rape victim? No one would ever believe me.

  The woman angled her head back the way I’d come. “I was walking Smidge around the block and saw the commotion.”

  Which didn’t tell me how much she’d seen or how she was interpreting it. I still didn’t say anything. She reached me and kept walking in the direction I’d been going, so I fell into step beside her. Reluctantly.

  “Is he going to be okay?” she asked. “Fran, I mean. He has a bad heart.”

  Duh. “I don’t know,” I finally said, keeping my voice low. “I hope so.”

  She sighed. “I’ve never known someone their age to be such night owls. Most old people are in bed early and up early, you know? But not those two. I’m always seeing them coming home in the middle of the night, usually from visiting their daughter and grandkids up in Akron, but you’d think they’d remember to turn on the carport light before they left, you know?”

  She kept chattering as we neared the end of the street, rambling on about working random hours for her freelance web design job and how well that worked with her silly little dog with the itty-bitty bladder. It was all very casual and yet pointedly explained why she would be out walking her dog at two in the morning, which normal people didn’t do very often, even if their dogs had tiny bladders. They just let them out into the yard.

  But what reason did I have to be suspicious? I supposed she could have screamed, drawing me down there, but for what? To give her neighbor a heart attack? It made no sense. Nothing did. I couldn’t connect the sounds I’d heard to reality. Was it all in my head? Had I been so desperate for something to fix that I created a scenario?

  Sick to my stomach, I began to turn the corner, then realized how rude that was. Over my shoulder, I saw the woman going the other way. “Night,” I called, and she waved.

  I had never been so grateful that the library opened later on Saturdays. All night I battled dreams where women were raped or beaten and I could do nothing against it. I didn’t really sleep until about six, and then of course I overslept, barely having time to look up the address for Ruth and Fran and get a last name—Inalbi—before I had to leave for work. I’d have to call the hospital later, whenever I could get a break.

  At ten o’clock, I unlocked the front door to let in the horde of preschoolers and their parents who waited eagerly for storytime. High-pitched squeals made me flinch, and when one little girl flung herself at my legs, it sent a vibrating ache up my spine. It was worse than the only hangover I’d ever had, the day after I got my master’s degree.

  Teen volunteers handled the storytime session, so I retreated to the office behind the counter, trying not to wince at every thump of returns in the bin underneath it. After a few minutes, people dispersed throughout the building, and it quieted enough to ease some of my tension. I braced my elbows on the desk and pressed my forehead against my hands, groaning. How long had it been since I took the last dose of ibuprofen? It hadn’t helped much. I worked out the calculation and figured I should probably wait another half hour.

  Maybe I had some acetaminophen in the first aid kit. The bottom drawer of the desk resisted open
ing, and I cursed the creaking wood. Why had I insisted on this gorgeous yard sale find instead of an ugly modern cheapo unit with quiet gliding drawers?

  Ding.

  “Do that again and I’ll throw a book at you,” I muttered before calling, “Be right there!” to whomever had run the bell on the counter. I couldn’t see them. I snapped open the large plastic case and dug through the packets inside. Burn gel, ibuprofen, children’s aspirin, antiseptic wipes . . . aha. It took about three seconds to rip open the sample packet and dry-swallow the tablets inside. Please, please work.

  The woman at the counter, perusing a flier about upcoming adult education programs, brought me up short. It was the woman from last night, the one with the fluffy dog. Smidge. I’d never gotten her name. She smiled at me and replaced the flier.

  “Hi,” she said.

  This wasn’t a coincidence. But until I knew what was going on, I’d act normal. I smiled my usual “greet the public” smile and walked over. “Hello. What can I do for you today?”

  Her smile faltered. “I thought you’d recognize me.”

  And she thought, what? That I’d blow my cover because I was so happy to see her? I tilted my head. “Recognize you from . . .”

  She laughed awkwardly. “Well, elementary school. That’s not really fair, I guess. Olive Cruz. I moved away right before middle school, but—” She sighed. “You’re impossible to forget, but there’s no reason you’d remember me.”

  I flushed. Not from what others might take as a compliment, but because the meds were finally kicking in, letting my brain clear, and I did remember her. In fourth grade, a couple of mean girls bullied me. Nothing extreme, but aggravating to tears. Fed up, I’d trapped them in the bathroom, one that had no windows, and sucked up all the light. I let them scream it out for a couple of minutes before letting them go. It was a petty, minor retaliation, but I’d been pretty smug at my cleverness and their terror. And it had worked. They’d stopped bullying me and everyone else. But after they’d left and I’d restored the light, I turned to see a third-grader coming out of a stall, her swarthy skin gray, her eyes huge. She didn’t say anything, but I knew she’d seen me manipulate the light.