Powers by Brian Michael Bendis Page B

well…”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWell, like he’s a cop. But a good cop, right?”
    The judge squinted through the smoke. “As opposed to?”
    â€œNo one, really. I mean, Aaron thinks—”
    â€œHe thinks?” The judge scooted closer, dangling the lit cigar from his fingers.
    She felt flush again. “No, it’s not like that. I just—”
    Thankfully, before she could stick her toes in any deeper, a patrol car banked hard into the driveway. It stopped behind the other cars, and a sharply dressed officer leaped from behind the wheel and started toward the porch. The judge rose to his feet, ashing his cigar, and stepped forward to meet the cop. Deena joined him, heart thumping against her larynx, happy to have been given a reprieve from further humiliation. Happier still to see that Aaron Boucher had finally arrived.
    â€œSon,” the judge began, voice tightening with questioning expectation, “your face is the color of cheesecloth.”
    The younger Boucher mounted the steps. Deena charted every move, mentally cataloging the expressiveness of Aaron’s eyes and, to be honest, the way his butt looked in his uniform. She waved hello, but he’d breezed by and ushered his father inside so fast that Deena wasn’t sure he’d even registered her presence.
    â€œTime to go, Pop. Get Mom, your coats. You need to get home now.”
    Judge Boucher liberated his arm. “What is going on, Aaron? Let go of me.”
    â€œDinner’s over, okay? You have to get home before—”
    â€œBefore what?” The dinner party had filtered out into the foyer, drawn by Aaron’s explosive arrival. Waldo Pilgrim stumbled toward the door as Eveline briskly approached her son.
    â€œAaron, what is it?” Aaron’s mother placed a hand against his cheek, and he slid it away, looking past her and into the house. “What’s going on?”
    â€œAre you serious?” He gestured out a window. “Have none of you looked outside? Or are you too drunk to care?”
    Waldo raised a hand, firmly wrapped around a can of Old Guard. “Hang on. You talking about me?”
    Aaron gave him a withering stare. “Go to bed. Sleep it off, okay?”
    But Waldo pressed on, shaking off the deputy mayor’s wife—his own having melted into the recesses of the house. “What did you mean by that? You, of all people?”
    Deena eased herself between the two men. “Dad, how about some coffee?”
    Aaron took Eveline’s hand. “Let’s go, Mom. Say good-bye to your friends.”
    The judge deftly removed Eveline’s hand from his son’s grip. “Officer Boucher,” he started again, adding authority to his tone, “what exactly happened tonight?”
    Aaron rubbed the lower half of his face and sharply inhaled, breathing deeply before continuing. “Aside from World War III blanketing Atlanta while half our Powers drink and fly? Besides cops—good cops, mind, not half the badges in this room—dying on the streets while evading heat vision?” The dinner guests shifted uncomfortably, waiting for Aaron to finish berating them. “You mean what’s happening aside from all that?” The judge nodded, subtly holding out a palm to block Deena’s father from getting close.
    â€œWell, Pop,” Aaron seethed. “Taking all that into account, ignoring the big picture … there’s been another murder.”
    Deena scanned the faces of her parents’ guests as the statement elicited short intakes of breath. Eveline and the judge exchanged glances, the latter’s face hardening with concern. He placed a hand atop his son’s right forearm. “You’re sure?”
    Aaron nodded in reply.
    â€œA note? There was another note?”
    This too, Aaron confirmed. Deena waited for an explanation, but it looked as if one wouldn’t be forthcoming.
    â€œTake it