Chapter Three
He made his way to the top of another building overlooking the part of Malibu Beach from which he’d come. Even after a sleepless night on a rooftop, using his suitcase as a pillow, he couldn’t go back. Not now.
Not until he’d proven himself.
He tilted his head back and watched the clouds roll. Prove himself . . . how could he do that? What would it take to make them stop overprotecting him? He was the Tiger, for goodness’ sakes—he had claws and he knew how to use them.
“They just don’t understand,” he muttered. “They don’t understand because . . . they don’t know what it’s like to be invisible.”
*And you do?* that damnable little conscience pricked at him.
“Damn straight,” he muttered. He’d been the oldest of four—the rest girls. They’d been loved, doted on, and he been left to fend for himself. And now it was happening again, with the three best friends he’d ever had. They had been as much his family as anyone.
But the same old thing was happening . . . invisibility. Closed ranks, squeezing him out. With a growl he leaped to the next rooftop. He’d show them. Somehow he’d figure out a way to make himself visible one and for all.
A commotion below caught his attention. A woman’s voice faintly cried out for help.
“Here we go,” he said, smiling grimly as he vaulted onto the fire escape and climbing down with such ease that for a moment he was the Monkey.
A young woman was best over her older companion, trying to shield her with her body as the crowd of toughs—male and female—jeered them for their race and comparative external wealth.
Davy coiled his body and leaped, backflipping and landing between the victims and the toughs. There was silence for a moment, then one of the crowd burst out laughing. “Looky here! It’s a little girl!”
Davy scowled. “Looky here! It’s a bunch of horses’ asses!”
“Why you arrogant little—”
The Tiger responded by raising his fists. “Let’s dance,” he said.
The women they’d been taunting got safely out of the way, turning to watch once they were clear. The circle closed around Davy and began to surge like a living thing. He used the small stature he’d been teased about to his advantage, moving well beneath their lines of attack, and when those lines dropped, using his ample agility to rise above them.
Strangely, the men stayed behind and let the women of the group attack first—they were the ones with the knives and clubs. Davy pushed his skills to the limit, leaping and kicking at his attackers. I don’t need the others after all! He smiled with the surge of energy the thought produced and lunged deeper into the gang.
He quickly found out the same thing as Micky had in the same way—sheer numbers overwhelm even the best fighter at times. The hard shaft of a club was locked against his throat and he screamed as a knife tore into his side. His kick caught one of the punks in the head and sent the punk to the ground.
More knives bit into his legs and arms; he was almost clotheslined but managed to duck. The blow aimed for his head reversed and hit him in the temple, sending stars exploding across his field of vision. He thrashed, trying to break free. If he could just get past them he could get away . . .
The toughs closed ranks, not giving him a chance. Another hit came, this time to his side. White-hot pain exploded through him and he screamed, his legs giving out and slamming him to the hard ground. More hits and kicks came before the toughs slowly dispersed. The two women that Davy had leaped into to save had long since fled.
Davy laid in the street, gasping weakly for breath, his blood flowing onto the ground and staining the pavement black. “Hel . . .
help . . . ” he moaned, his broken ribs not allowing him to draw enough breath to shout.
A figure cast a shadow over him. The last thing he saw before he passed out was a flash of light.
Rob Roy stared down at the injured man. “Well well well . . . how the mighty have fallen.” He’d been walking back to his apartment when he’d seen the scuffle, grabbing his camera at the realization that something important was happening. He hadn’t known how important until the punks had moved off and he’d gotten a closer look at the body on the pavement.
He prodded the unconscious man with his shoe, moving him to a different position, and snapped another picture. He took an entire roll’s worth, then went to a nearby dumpster, fishing out a ragged tarp. He tossed it over Jones and hauled him up over his shoulder, grunting. The Tiger was heavier than he looked.
~~~~~
“Two days,” Peter sighed as he flung himself down onto the couch. “Two days with no word.”
The Pad had been silent and funereal since Davy’s departure; it seemed that he had taken more than himself and a few shirts when he’d stormed out. Mike remained just as determined as ever to let Davy work things out on his own, but Peter was starting to doubt that this was just a temporary matter.
“Okay, well, maybe this time he needs to sulk longer than usual,” Micky said, his attempt to light the mood failing miserably.
“Micky . . . ”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Micky said. “I’m worried, too, but what can we do? It’s not like we can find him!”
“We have to at least try . . . maybe Bennett can?”
“I’m gonna go talk to him, see what he thinks,” Mike said, getting up and stalking over to the door. As he reached for the knob a thick manila envelope slid under the door. Startled, Mike flung the door open to see bootheels vanishing around the corner.
“What is it, Mike?” Peter said, not used to seeing Mike rip the door open with such urgency.
He closed the door and picked up the envelope. “Someone made a special delivery and didn’t stick around to let us thank him.”
Peter winced as the back of his neck started to prickle. Mike slowly raised his eyes to Peter and Micky, his hand moving out of his conscious control to the back of his neck.
“Well, open it!” Micky said, bouncing.
Mike ripped it open and lifted out a glossy picture. “Oh my God . . . ”
“What?” Peter asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know from the terrified, bloodless pallor that had fallen over Mike’s face.
“Davy.” He threw the picture onto the kitchen table and upended the envelope over it. Photograph after photograph spilled out.
Peter just stared, his breaths moaning quietly in the back of his throat. Davy, being choked by a club as a knife, a pale patch of light, was captured permanently in mid-slash. Davy, lying on the trash-strewn street, his blood streaming out and mingling with the refuse. Davy, in positions that would hurt him if he were conscious. Davy, doubled over after a kick to his side with a boot that was big enough to have done damage.
Micky suddenly shoved Mike and Peter out of the way and began frantically pawing through the pictures, paying no heed as a good many of them fluttered to the ground.
“Micky?” Mike asked, reaching to try to stop him.
“Where is it?” he shouted, frantic. “Where the hell is it!?”
“Where is what?” Mike demanded.
“The joke, Mike! The joke!” Micky snarled, crumpling up one of the pictures in his sweating fist. “The picture where Davy’s standing there covered in ketchup pointing and laughing at us for falling for his dumb unfunny joke! The one I’m gonna make him eat!”
Peter laid a hand on his fist and used it to turn him around. His face was grim.
Micky’s face was chaotic, a maelstrom of mixed emotions—rage, grief, hatred, terror. He stared at Peter for a few moments. When he spoke his voice was high-pitched and childlike. “Pete . . . please tell me this is a joke. It’s gotta be a joke, right? I mean he’s not really hurt, he can’t be, this isn’t real . . . please, Peter . . . please tell me this isn’t real!”
The Monkey’s voice was a soft, tortured groan. “I . . . I can’t.”
Micky whirled to face Mike. “Mike?”
Mike just closed his eyes and turned his head slightly away. His fists were clenching helplessly at his sides. Micky sagged, his hand reaching for the table. It landed on a photo of Davy’s bloody hand. With an inarticulate howl of rage Micky started grabbing the pictures, tearing and ripping them apart as the tears started to flow.
Together, the others pulled the Dragon away and held him close, clinging to him in fierce grief and helpless rage.
On to Chapter Four
Back to Chapter Two
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
