The First Superhero (Novella): Richter Page 8

  Instead, Ren decided to bolt for base, trying to catch Patrick off-guard. Her plan worked, as Patrick was already going the other way. He had to quickly turn around and chase her. He stepped right into a puddle that had formed where coolant had leaked from the SUV. The sudden change of motion plus the slickness of the puddle caused him to loose his footing and fall-face first toward the ground.

  He braced for impact, but it never came.

  He opened his eyes and saw he was floating inches off the ground. He almost freaked out, stopping a yell in his throat just before it could come out. He floated for a few more seconds before falling to the garage floor, and hit it with a grunt. He immediately sat up and backed away from the spot he’d just been floating over. He looked around, panicking, making sure nobody else had seen what he’d just done. His breathing grew heavy and sporadic. He started shaking. His mind raced at a hundred miles an hour.

  Finally, he stood and carefully walked out of the garage. Ren was walking over when he came out. “Did you get lost in there?” she said with a laugh.

  He didn’t laugh. “No, I didn’t. I gotta go, Ren. You win.”

  Patrick walked off, leaving Ren standing there. He needed to go and find out if he could really do what he thought he could.

  19

  Thin Air

  Patrick stood at the top of a tree, looking down at the ground far below him. He breathed out, a knot twisting in his stomach.

  “You got this,” he told himself. “You can do this. At worst, you hit the ground and your body heals itself. It’ll be okay.”

  Still, there was still something inside of him, the non-Super part of him that told him that jumping from the top of a tree was a bad idea. He had to loosen his grip on the tree. It was beginning to crack, he was squeezing its trunk so hard.

  Patrick knew what he’d seen earlier. What he’d done. He’d been floating above the ground, no doubt about it. But would he be able to do it again? Or would he find himself at the bottom of a hole made by his body crashing into the ground?

  One way to find out, he thought.

  He let go of the tree and fell forward.

  Oh, shit, he thought as he tumbled toward the ground, with no sign of floating. But then something inside of him took over: instinct. He straightened out and shot upwards, breaking through the treetops.

  He wanted to scream, to shout, to whoop and holler, but all the breath had been sucked from his body. He sped toward the sky at incredible speed. He flew upwards for a few seconds longer before slowing down.

  He came to a stop and turned around to look. Just as he was regaining his breath, it was all taken from him again. He was hovering high in the air, taking in the sights. He could see his hometown, the woods he’d just come out of—where they began, where they ended—he could see everything.

  “Whoo-hoooo!” he shouted as he fist-pumped the air. He couldn’t believe this was happening. “Screw you, Detective Winston,” he shouted, raising his middle fingers toward town. “Screw you, Detective Francis. Screw you, Lace Tomlinson!”

  He laughed and did a couple of flips. The wind flowing through his hair felt exhilarating. The air beneath his feet, the sights before his eyes, all of it was absolutely amazing. He felt as if he could stay up there forever.

  “Yeah, I was a loner. Yeah, people thought I was weird. Yeah, I got picked on. Yeah, I had no legacy,” he said to the town. “Well, fuck you!” he screamed down at everyone there and flipped the town off again. Then he spread his arms out around him. “This is me! Not you. This is who I am! I’m gonna find out who killed everybody at the party, and that will be my legacy. You all will be sorry for everything you said about me!”

  He smiled, unable to contain his joy. He screamed as loud as he could. Screamed and shouted over and over. “NOBODY CAN HEAR ME RIGHT NOW!”

  He fell.

  Flying from person to person. Through person to person. In, out, around.

  “What are you do—”

  Gone.

  “You shouldn’t have said no.”

  “Please—”

  Gone.

  Popped.

  Patrick opened his eyes moments before he hit the ground. He gasped for air, his eyes darting around, trying to figure out what was going on.

  He floated toward the ground, collapsing once his feet touched the dirt, trying to figure out what had just happened. How did I fall asleep and have a nightmare on the way down?

  He scoffed and shook his head. Don’t be a dumbass.

  Shuddering, he climbed to his feet. “Thin air,” he said, looking up at the sky. He decided that he’d passed out from oxygen depravation and had had some sort of hallucination. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Either way, he’d had enough flying for now.

  He had a killer to find. A legacy to fulfill.

  20

  Legacy

  Patrick sat on his bed, typing away on his laptop. He was looking on social media, trying to see where he could find Thomas, Carl, or Alyssa. He had no idea which one to go after first; they all had just as much chance of being the killer as anybody. He was ninety-five percent sure he knew where Thomas was, so he decided to go out and look for him.

  That was before he heard the front door slam open.

  “Westlake PD! Get down! Get down!” he heard someone shout.

  He jumped up from his bed. His mom’s and Ren’s screams turned his blood to ice.

  “What’s going on?” his dad shouted.

  “Get down!”

  More doors were kicked down.

  Patrick reached the stairs, and he had to make a decision. Reveal himself or not?

  “Freeze! Get down on your hands and knees!”

  Patrick looked down the stairs, and the barrels of four assault rifles looked right back at him.

  Stay cool. They’re not the bad guys.

  Patrick lay face down on the floor. The cops were on him in a second.

  He heard the familiar voice of Detective Winston in his ear. “Patrick Henry, you’re under arrest.”

  *

  Less than an hour later, Patrick was sitting under the harsh lights of the interrogation room. He was in handcuffs, which were chained to the table. He wondered how easily he could break out of them. He was going to play along, though, and see what information he could get out of Detective Winston.

  The detective walked in alone. Patrick guessed that Francis was hiding behind the one-way glass.

  “Detective,” Patrick said when Winston sat down across from him.

  “Patrick,” Winston said with a smirk, his mustache dancing upwards. Patrick didn’t know if it was the lighting in the room, but Winston looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin splotchy and pale.

  “You miss me or something? It’s only been a few hours since we saw each other last.”

  “Cut the shit, Patrick. We caught you in your web of lies.” Winston threw a case file down on the table.

  “I haven’t lied, Detective,” Patrick said, which was another lie.

  “You and your friend Victoria came in on the morning of the party. You reported your phone missing, did you not?” Winston asked.

  Patrick sat back in his chair, eager to find out where this all was going. “I did do that, yes.”

  Winston smiled. “Well, you’re telling the truth so far.”

  “I always have been.”

  “That night you attended what’s supposed to be an amazing, balls-to-the-wall, kickass party. People were going to be talking about it for years. One last hurrah before graduation. And yet you, Mr. Henry, left early,” Winston said, cocking his head sideways. “Kinda weird, don’t you think? Leave the party before it ever gets started, really?”

  Patrick shrugged. “I told you, I wasn’t feeling well. It wasn’t that interesting, anyways.”

  Detective Winston stood. “Yeah, of course it wasn’t. For you, at least. You have many friends, Patrick?” Winston asked as he leaned up against the wall to Patrick’s right, alongside the do
or.

  “What’s your point?” Patrick asked, not wanting to answer the question he knew Winston already knew the answer to.

  “I mean, the party isn’t going to be much fun for someone who doesn’t have a lot of friends. You don’t really fit into a circle, do you? Everybody we’ve talked to has talked about how you just…wandered. Leering. You drank and drank—even tried to get your longtime friend to hook up with you, right?”

  Anger flared inside of Patrick. He barely remembered that, but he knew he’d felt ashamed by it.

  “That’s quite an eventful beginning to a party. About what time did you say you left?”

  Patrick gritted his teeth. “You know, I—”

  “Didn’t have your phone?” Winston asked. “Right, right, sorry.”

  Patrick knew the man was hiding something. He just wanted him to hurry up and get to it.

  “Bring in the first evidence,” Winston said to somebody behind the glass.

  The door opened and an exchange happened, but Patrick didn’t look. He wanted to seem as disinterested as possible.

  Winston slammed down a piece of wood in an evidence bag. The piece was shaped like a spear, and most of it was covered in blood.

  Patrick recognized it instantly. The piece of wood he had pulled from his torso after he’d run from the party.

  Oh, shit.

  Patrick didn’t know what to do, what to think. At the time, a piece of wood had been the least of his worries. He’d been more focused on the fact that his wound had healed itself.

  Winston leaned against the table. “We found this while searching the woods, over five miles away from the crime scene. And thanks to your generous donation this morning, we were able to match the blood on this piece of wood,” Winston said, tapping the bag, then pointed at Patrick. “With yours.”

  Patrick thought his heart was going to explode. His words caught in his throat.

  “How does something like that happen, Patrick?”

  Winston turned and sat back down in his chair across from Patrick. He opened up the dossier and pulled out a picture.

  “You want to know what happened that night? How your friends died?” Winston placed the picture down on the table and pushed it over toward Patrick. “Well, so do I.”

  Patrick looked down at the picture. The scene captured in it made him want to puke. He could smell the memories.

  The screaming. The exhilaration. The revenge.

  He was going to pay for pushing him.

  She was going to pay for rejecting him.

  They were all going to pay for the years of neglect, and torment—and facilitation.

  “Patrick.” Winston’s snapping fingers brought Patrick back to reality. Now that he was back, Winston moved on to the next picture.

  He pushed it across the table, and Patrick recognized it instantly. It was Joshua’s crumpled-up car.

  God, I love that feeling.

  “How does a car end up like this, Patrick?”

  Patrick shrugged. “How am I supposed to know?”

  Winston smiled, pure joy etching itself across his face. “Why don’t you look it up on your phone, and we can see?”

  Patrick huffed, frustrated to have to explain himself once again. “I told you, my phone got stolen. You’ve seen the police report.”

  Winston nodded. “Yes, I have. But you got it back, right?”

  Patrick shook his head. “It’s probably sitting on the shelf of some pawn shop somewhere.”

  Winston shrugged. “Yeah, you’re probably right. In any case, do you know how a car could end up like this?” he asked, tapping the picture.

  The crushing. The smashing. The throwing. The power.

  Patrick’s eyes fluttered and his head pounded. “I don’t.”

  Winston looked down at his folder. “Oh, hold up. I think the guys who stole your phone are named Harvey Franklin and Tovin Melrose.”

  Patrick felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. The blood drained from his face.

  “Yeah, they fit the description you gave us. The description of both them, and their car.” Winston looked up at Patrick, smiling. “Well, case closed, I guess. Always a great feeling. One thing, though,” he said. He pulled out another picture and showed it to Patrick. “Any idea how their car ended up like this?”

  The photo was of the car Patrick had crushed and thrown through Tovin and Harvey’s house.

  Patrick had no idea what to say. He just shook his head. His gaze wandered from the picture of Tovin and Harvey’s crumpled car to Joshua’s crushed truck. They looked exactly the same. He could feel the memories. It felt as if ice had filled his stomach.

  “Strangely enough, we found your blood all over the inside of this crushed-up car.” Winston frowned. “Sorry we couldn’t find your phone, though. At least, not there.”

  Patrick looked up at Winston, ready to puke as a third theory began to form in his mind, one that he’d tried so long to deny. One that he’d tried for so long to keep locked behind a door in his mind.

  Detective Winston reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gray device that Patrick recognized instantly. “We did find it on the desk in your bedroom, though.” Winston smiled, full of joy, but for a split second, his smile faltered. “You did the same thing to Harvey and Tovin that you did at the party that night, didn’t you?”

  Patrick didn’t know what to think. His mind was blank. He couldn’t take his eyes off the two pictures. Two different crime scenes, yet obviously created by the same person. He breathed slowly, in and out. Then he looked up at Winston.

  Winston’s smile faded.

  “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you, Detective Winston?”

  A bead of sweat dripped down Winston’s forehead.

  Patrick knew there was only one way out of this. He calmly jerked his hands, and the cuffs flew off his wrists and landed as twisted debris on either side of the room.

  Winston jumped back from his chair and pushed his back against the wall. His face turned red and he was breathing very fast.

  Patrick caught a glimpse of himself in the one-way glass. One look at himself smirking in the glass with glowing, bright blue eyes, and he knew. He remembered.

  Face-to-face. Just inches away. He could see his own glowing eyes reflected in her tearful ones.

  She’s gone.

  Patrick mentally circled Theory Three in his mind. Ding ding ding, we have a winner, he thought.

  “It was nice working with you, Detective Winston,” Patrick said. Then he looked up toward the ceiling and shot through it, flying straight up into the air.

  21

  The Second Super

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  Patrick floated over the city of Ebon, Indiana.

  He remembered the house he’d flown by just a day earlier was near this city. He had no idea why, but he couldn’t get the face of the boy who was inside the house out of his head. There was something about it that stuck with him. He’d seen many faces over the past couple of months, but there was something about the one he’d seen yesterday that begged for further investigation.

  The kid was around Patrick’s own age, but had a bit of a younger-looking face. He didn’t remember exactly where the house was—he’d been flying by so fast it was pretty much a blur, which made the fact that he could clearly remember the person’s face even more peculiar to him.

  He flew down toward the city. He’d never heard of Ebon, but he loved exploring a new place. He aimed for the road, flying down toward it as fast as he could. The feeling was astounding, exhilarating. It never got old for him.

  He pulled up right before he could hit the ground, now flying just inches above it. The glass of nearby cars and buildings exploded in his wake, a sound that Patrick found extremely satisfying when he was going slowly enough to hear it.

  Patrick slowed down, beginning to look around for something fun to do. He saw a parking lot filled with cars. “Oh, come on, you guys have just been asking for me, haven’t you?” he said
with a chuckle. He flew toward the parking lot. When he got closer, he realized it was the parking lot of a high school. He saw signs pointing toward the gymnasium that read Richter Shelter.

  His smile disappeared. His happiness turned to anger. “Now, you bitches are really asking for it,” he said under his breath.

  He flew toward the parking lot and landed with a skid. He walked toward the front door, the smile on his face returning. The looks on people’s face when they saw him never got old.

  He opened the door and walked in, the cool air blasting him. “I just love air conditioning,” he said, looking up at the vents.

  “RICHTER!” a voice screamed.

  Suddenly the entire gymnasium was filled with screams and shouts. Patrick chuckled as he floated upwards. He flew to the center of the basketball court and hovered high above the center. “Oh my god, everybody run! He’s coming! Run run run!” he shouted.

  People scattered toward the door. It was like a stampede. Patrick shook his head and smirked like it was Thanksgiving and an embarrassing story was being told. Then he flew outside and watched as the people scattered. He tried to get a look at their faces, but they were all running around, scattering like roaches in the light. “EVERYBODY STAND STILL!” he screamed.

  They all stopped running, frozen by fear. Patrick sighed. He loved that feeling. He looked to the back of the parking lot where some news vans were set up. Oh, good, an audience, he thought.

  He began scanning the faces in the crowd. They all looked up at him, frozen with fear and reverence. He wished he could admire the faces, but he couldn’t. He was too busy searching for one in particular.

  He reached the front of the crowd, and when he looked at the last face, he sighed. He wasn’t there. The guy from the farm wasn’t there.

  A whimpering noise reached his ears. Patrick turned around and followed the noise, keenly aware of everyone below him watching his every move.

  He floated toward the roof of the gymnasium. There, hiding behind the low wall that surrounded the roof, cowered a redheaded girl. “What are you doing up here?” he asked as he floated down.