.           Carl Morsh took the girl’s coat.  Tina looked around in amazement at the apartment. Even before he had switched on the lights, she could tell the place was spotless. Carl carefully hung her coat in the closet and switched on the light. Tina moved into the living room.

 

            “Can I get you a drink or coffee?” Carl said softly.

 

            Tina smiled to herself. “Coffee would be fine,” she said as she looked around the room. The place was cleaner than hers. The glass top tables were spotless. The CDs and videos were alphabetized. The blanket on the back of the couch was centered perfectly. The only thing out of place was the cat that slept on the blanket. If she wasn’t so certain that in a few minutes he would be making allusions to sex, she’d have thought he was gay.

 

            Dinner had been very nice. The conversation wasn’t stellar but it was pleasant enough. He just wasn’t her type. She didn’t dislike him. She just figured it wasn’t going to go any further. She just hated the hurt look guys had when they got shot down. It was just part of internet dating.

 

            A moment later, Carl handed her a mug of coffee. “I’m sorry. It’s instant.”

 

            Tina took the mug and smiled in the most non-come-hither way she could. “Do you have any cream and sugar?” she asked.

 

            “Two sugars and cream. That’s how you ordered it at the restaurant.”

 

            “Oh.” She smiled. ‘That’s creepy,’ she thought. She sipped the coffee for a moment until she realized that Carl was watching her carefully. Tracking every move she made with his eyes. The sound in her head, the one that Tina referred to it as her weirdo alert to the women in her office, began blaring. She put her mug on the table. Carl immediately picked it up and put a coaster under it, with a look of frustration. She looked at him.

 

            “Carl,” she said, “you’re a really nice guy. I’m just not feeling a connection here. I’m sorry.”  Carl stared unblinking at her. “I think it’s probably best if I go.” Carl nodded silently.

 

            “Your coat is the fourth on the right. It’s on a maroon plastic hanger,” he said matter-of-factly.

 

            Carl stood in one place as Tina walked to the closet and extracted her jacket. She turned back and saw Carl stand as he had been standing a few moments before. She felt her heart sink. She hated this part.

 

            “Thanks for a nice dinner, Carl,” she said, tucking her coat over her arm. “If you’d like to go and do something, you know, as friends, I think it would be fun.” She didn’t really mean it, she just said it to cushion the blow.

 

            Carl, still facing away from her, mumbled “Yeah,” and raised his hand in a wave of goodbye.

 

            A few moments later, Tina was gone. It was the third date in as many months for Carl Morsh that had ended this way. He continued to stand and stare at his couch. The ache was always the same no matter who walked out the door. He lifted his eyes to the most comforting thing he owned. His prized possession. On the wall behind the couch rested his framed, sixty-year old copy of Mysterious Comics number 8. It was the first appearance of Captain Dark. Carl had no idea how much it was worth now, but he’d never sell. It was all his father had left him.  He  left when Carl was five.

 

            Carl finally swayed in place and sat down in his recliner. He sighed and checked his watch. He closed his eyes and fell asleep there thinking about the costumes he had to finish for the production Thieves In The Temple.  

 

            This was Carl’s life. At 36 he had next to nothing other than his cat, his Mysterious Comics #8 and the archery set given to him by his uncle on his twelfth birthday. Everything else in his life was transient. He had finally kicked drugs after a seven-year battle but was finding the world without drugs was shitty. He managed to divide his time between working at Montrest’s Hardware Store down the street and making costumes for the Avenue K Community Players. 

 

            Carl sat for a long time in the chair. He breathed the way Dr. Tyche taught him to breathe. It helped release the anger. Carl didn’t want to get angry again. It always made such a mess. Life was messy enough without making it worse, that’s what his mother always said.

 

            Life was messy. The world was messy. The city was messy. Only the night before two people were killed in Center Park by a lake monster. Messy.

 

            Carl fell asleep in the chair surrounded by his few possessions and a quietly purring cat, still sleeping on the back of the couch.

 

Big City

“Arrow”

by Eric Schwartz

 

            “Don’t worry. There will be plenty of criminals when you get back,” Stack said into the phone. “I promise I’ll keep an eye on everything.”

 

            Needless chuckled at the other end of the line. “I’m sure you will.” In the background there was the loud blast of an air-horn. “I gotta go. Sioux is already on the ship.”

 

            “Take care of yourself and have a great time,” Stack said in a rush.

 

            “Later,” was the last thing Needless said before he hung up the phone.

 

            Stack hung up his phone and sat for a moment at his desk. He looked across at Needless’ desk. It had been three weeks since the werewolf case and Needless was getting away for a few weeks. Partly because he needed it and partly because the department didn’t want any trouble. Stack smiled to himself at the thought of how bored his partner would be, stuck on a ship for two weeks. He was glad to see Needless was feeling better, but he was far from all right.

 

            Since the incident Needless had seemed strange. He wasn’t himself. He had been quieter. While not unpleasant, Stack thought, it was unnerving. Autumn had shattered the detective’s psyche, apparently under orders from Manzetti.

 

            He was still out there. Stack had spent the last three weeks following every lead he could to find Manzetti. Each one was a blind alley. It was as if Manzetti had simply materialized. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Manzetti’s voice was still ringing in his ears.

 

And something else.

 

            Stack’s brief flirting with the drug Anticipation had stirred up memories of Gina. Her face was fresh in his mind again. Between his visit with Gina’s “ghost” and Manzetti’s phone call, Stack found himself four years in the past, reliving all the mistakes again.

 

            The dockside warehouse where Manzetti took Gina. The Bureau’s botched rescue attempt. The explosion. The fire. Trying desperately to identify the remains.

 

            It had all collapsed since then. Sometimes Stack envied Smiles for losing his mind for a while. It must have eased the pain. The hunter inside Stack was tied up for years. With no one to hunt and no way to fix what had happened, Stack fed on himself.

 

            Things had just started to look brighter. Now, he could only focus on Manzetti. He needed something else to do for a while. He had to wait, patiently, for the bastard to make his next move.

 

            Stack looked away from the desk sculpture he had started to build and looked at his computer. He wasn’t sure how much time had gone by when Breen pulled up a chair next to his desk and sat down.

 

            “Hey Cap,” Stack said.

 

            “How’s it going?” Breen was looking at Stack’s most recent pile of odds and ends. “You holding up okay?” Stack shrugged. “Any leads on Manzetti?”

 

            “I thought I had a couple but they didn’t pan out,” Stack said, siting back in his chair.

 

            “Needless gone?”

 

            “Yeah, I just got off the phone with him. They were just leaving.”

 

            “Good.” Breen crossed his legs. “I need you to do something for me, Stack.”

 

            Stack sat up. “Sure.”

 

            Breen paused. “I need you on this Arrow thing. You need to step back from Manzetti. Just for a little while. Besides, this thing is getting big in the press and it might give Manzetti a false sense of security to see you working another case. He might poke his head out again.” 

 

            “But next time, who will he go after? It’s obvious that he’s playing me.”

 

            “Yes and you’re letting yourself be played.”

 

            “Next time he might go after Smiles or Charlie or…Laura.” Her name caught in his throat for a moment, which surprised him. “I don’t know if we can wait.”

 

            “Look, Adam, Manzetti’s first priority is himself. He’s just come out of where ever he was and has to start rebuilding things. That takes time. He’s playing with you because he knows he can. Now I need you. I need that brain on this thing. Okay?”

 

Stack nodded. He knew it was true. Breen flopped a file on Stack’s desk. He put his hand on Stack’s shoulder and walked back into his office.

 

Stack leaned back and opened his new case.

 

*

            Carl swiped the credit card, a moment later the amount on the screen flashed 0.00 and the receipt began to print. He laid the card on the counter, signature side up. Carl didn’t see the man roll his eyes. He slid the receipt across to the man. The customer signed the receipt and Carl carefully matched up the signature. He handed the card over to the man with a smile.

 

            “Thank you, Mr. Travis. Have a wonderful evening.”

 

            Travis nodded, a reflex really. He had forgotten Carl before he reached his SUV.

 

            Carl followed the man to the door and flipped the open sign to closed.

 

            “Is that it?” Mr. Montrest said, stepping out of the office. Carl nodded. “Do you mind closing up tonight? Sally and I are going out.”

 

            Carl smiled. “That’d be fine, Ron.”

 

            Montrest rolled down his shirt sleeves and pulled on his jacket. “You’re always the best. I’ll get the gate. Good night, Carl.” He headed for the door with the keys in his hand. He turned back just before the door. “Oh by the way, you were right. That play over on K was great. The kids loved it.”

 

            Carl stepped back behind the register. “Good. I’m glad. I keep telling them they’re as good as the pros.”

 

            Montrest nodded and said good night again. He stepped out onto the street and pulled down the chain link gate that covered the storefront.

 

            Carl cashed out. He checked his total three times. He slipped the money into the deposit bag. He turned off the lights and headed into the back room. He took off the red apron that was his standard uniform and hung it in his locker and pulled out his duffel bag. He closed his locker and moved to the storage shelf.

 

            A few moments later the alley behind Montrest’s Hardware was filled with the sound of machines cutting and shaping metal.

 

*

            “Technically, I don’t think its an arrow.”

 

            Stack looked at the shaft of metal in the evidence bag. “Huh?”

 

            Tim Carnaby spun in his chair to face Stack. “Technically it’s a bolt. Arrows usually have a separate head, shaft and those feathers. See how this is one long piece. If the papers want to call this guy The Arrow, it’s their funeral.”

 

            “That’s what I love about you crime lab boys. You’re so damn picky. You probably have every episode of Starscape committed to memory, don’t you.”

 

            “All 63 episodes.”

 

            “Incidentally, I’m fairly certain that those ‘feathers’ have another name.”

 

            Tim stood up. “Anyway,” he said, taking the arrow out of the bag. “This has been machined. Cut and sharpened. The groove for the bow. Most of your standard arrows are light weight. Carbon shafts usually. This is pretty heavy for an arrow.”

 

            “So what does that mean?”

 

            “Well it whittles down our weapon choices. To use an arrow this heavy, he’s probably using a compound bow as opposed to a recurve bow. Plus he’s probably been pulling bows for a long time.” Carnaby slipped the arrow out of the evidence bag. “Oh! And another thing. Here.” He handed it to Stack.

 

            Stack took it and weighed it in his hand. It was fairly heavy. What surprised Stack was the texture.  “Smooth,” he noted.

 

            “Yeah. It’s a coated alloy. It’s sold in eight-foot rods for construction. The coating is Bestrax. Same stuff used on armor piercing bullets.” Tim held it up into the light. “This thing had no problem going into that guy.”

 

            Stack leaned back onto a stool. “So this was made to sink into a person.”

 

            “Not just that. These are nice and anonymous. There are only four archery pro shops in this city and 3 more out in the burbs. Tracing store bought arrows would be easy.”

 

            “He could buy them wholesale online without much question. More than that he could take the arrow when he left the scene. No. These were left on purpose.” Stack looked at the arrow.            “How about the other two?” Stack said, slipping the shaft of metal back into the evidence bag and motioning to two more similar arrows in the bin.

 

            “Same. The bolts came out of the bodies almost unscathed.”

 

            Stack thought for a moment. “Where could somebody get these shafts?”

 

            “It’s fairly new and not on the pricey side.” Tim sat back down at his computer. “I can’t imagine a lot of hardware places carry it yet. There’s only one place that manufactures it, at the moment. I should have a list of stores in the city by tomorrow morning.”

 

            Stack nodded and stared at the blood stained shafts resting on the table.

 

*

            Big City slipped into night.

 

            Sonta could smell his breath now. The sweet-metallic smell of Fleck. The elf kid was bearing down on her, his weight stopping her from getting away. He dragged her further into the alley and behind a pile of awful smelling garbage bags. She fought. She clawed for his face. He was still calling her baby while he told her to shut up and stop fighting. Tears rolled down her face. The knife at her throat had silenced her screams. As she began to slip into shock she thought of her children. She was only vaguely aware of his hand pushing her pants down.

 

            As quickly and as violently as it had begun, it was over. She heard a shout. The kid pushed himself up and looked in the direction of the voice.

 

            The assailant was thrown backward off of her. Sonta scrambled to her feet and looked down. The kid lay twitching and spluttering on the garbage strewn about the alley. Light glistened off the shaft of metal that rose from his chest like a flagpole.  A moment later he stopped twitching. She sobbed as she fixed her clothes.

 

            “Are you alright?” Said the voice.

 

            She spun in surprise to face a dark, masked figure. The mask covered his entire face like a ski mask. The eyes were covered by lenses that seemed to be attached to the mask. He was covered from head to toe in black fatigues. He carried a large bow in his gloved hand.

 

            “Miss?” he said again. “Are you all right? Did he cut you?” She shook her head no. The figure nodded. “Good. Do you have a phone in your purse?” She nodded yes. “Good. Call the police and wait for them.” Sonta pulled out her phone and looked at the mysterious stranger.

 

            “You’re him. The one that’s been on TV. The arrow guy. Right?” She asked. The Arrow nodded. “Thank you so much.” She forced a weak smile.

 

            The Arrow put his hand on her arm gently. “Just do me a favor.”

 

            “Sure.”

 

            “Tell the police about me,” he said.

 

            The Arrow turned and disappeared into the darkness as Sonta dialed the police.

 

*

           

            Pink had only started to streak over the bay as Stack stepped out of his car into the alleyway. The scene had a surreal sickening sweet smell of garbage, blood, piss and the coffee the officers were drinking. Stack snapped a pair of latex gloves on as he moved through the police tape. He sucked in the scene as he moved toward the victim. ‘Female 30 or 35, wrapped in blanket sitting talking to officers. Officer on fire escape above, talking to potential witness. Alley way doesn’t open at the far end, it comes to a T-junction with another alley.’

 

            The victim’s body made a darkly comical site. The arrow in the chest made the tarp that covered the body fall like a circus tent. Stack crouched down near the body. He lifted the blanket and peered into the surprised stare of the young man. An officer stepped up to him.

 

            “Hi Detective.”

 

            “Hi. You the responding officer?”

 

            “Yeah.”

 

            “What happened?” Stack recovered the face and stood up.

 

            The officer motioned to the corpse. “According to this lady here, this guy was raping her when The Arrow came out of nowhere and took the guy out.”

 

            Stack blinked. “Okay. Would it be possible for you to give me something with a little more detail and for you to lose the ‘comic book’ tone in your voice?”

 

            The officer nodded. “Around 3am this morning, Ms. Sonta Jomms was returning from work. She’s a waitress at The Blue Flame cocktail lounge down the street. As she passed this alley she was dragged in by the victim. He forced her to the ground at knife point and was in the process of raping her when he was struck down with an arrow. The Arrow…”

 

            “The perp,” Stack corrected him.

 

            “Sorry. The perp then asked if she was all right and instructed her to call the police before disappearing.” 

 

            Stack sighed. He looked at the body. “So who is this guy?”

 

            The cop opened his notebook. “His name is Ix Mulvey. He’s got a rap sheet as long as this alley. Drugs, armed robbery, assault. There was currently a warrant out on him in connection with a beating death two weeks ago.”

 

            Stack chuckled. “Way to go,” he said to himself. He nodded to the officer. “Good work. Thanks.” He stepped away from the body and toward Sonta. He nodded to the officer talking to her and the officer introduced her.

 

            “I’m glad to see you’re all right, ma’am,” Stack said.

 

            “He saved my life.”

 

            Stack frowned and nodded. “I know.”  He leaned against the car. “Ma’am, did he take anything off the body? A ring? A watch? Anything.” Sonta shook her head. Stack sighed. “Did you get a good look at him?”

 

            “Yes. He wore all black. Hands. Face. Everything.”

 

            “So you never saw his face?” 

 

            She shook her head.

 

            “I’m sure you want to get home to your family. I’m going to have one of the officers drive you home.” He handed her a business card. “Please call me if you remember anything else. Anything you think might be important.” Stack motioned to an officer and began to move away.

 

            “Are you going to arrest him?” She said. Stack turned around. “The Arrow. Are you going to arrest him?”

 

            Stack’s gaze met the responding officers’, who looked as if he wanted to ask the same question. Stack nodded hesitantly. “Yes.” Stack turned and moved toward his car.

 

            “But he saved my life!” She said. “He saved my life.” Her eyes pleaded with the responding officer.

 

            Stack nodded and walked back up the alley.

 

*

            Carl Morsh hadn’t slept. As morning began to ooze through his apartment, Carl sat motionless in his chair. The wave of adrenaline jitters had subsided. The vibration just below his ribs had dissipated into acidic hunger. The grin of satisfaction had long gone and his eyes finally began to droop. He finally glanced out the window at the dawn.

 

            He rose and went to the shower. He stood under the hot water for the better part of half an hour, letting it wash away the filth of the alley. As he stepped from the shower he could just make out his reflection in the steam covered mirror. Carl found himself filling with pride. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years. It was a feeling that he approached hesitantly.

 

            He had to keep this to himself. He had to keep his identity a secret. ‘It’s what they do,’ he thought. ‘It’s what we do.’

 

            He couldn’t make out the features of his face in the reflection anymore. A blast of steam rolled into the mirror and Carl Morsh’s reflection disappeared completely.

 

*

            “Good evening and welcome to Big City Crossfire. I’m Evan Gamble. For the past two weeks a fear has spread through the streets of the city. But for once it is the criminals who are on the run. A vigilante known in the press as The Arrow has Big City’s underworld in a panic. He or she has come, seemingly out of nowhere, and has already rid the town of 3 wanted violent criminals. A full police investigation into the identity of the Arrow is underway, their stance being that this is a dangerous outlaw. But in the inner city neighborhoods, The Arrow is a hero.”

 

            The screen jumped to an Elven woman and her baby outside a grocery store.

 

            “It gives us hope, you know. Like there is finally somebody fighting on our side. G’luh knows, the cops don’t care.”

 

            A late middle aged man in a dirty T-shirt appeared on the screen.

 

            “There is a group of Fleck pushers who work the corner near my apartment. I have reported them several times to the police. Nothing. The last three nights are the first nights in months that the corner has been quiet.” The reporter then said something, but was muffled by the background noise. “Yeah! I’m sure it’s The Arrow. They’re scared.”

 

            The shot cut to a teenager in a muti-colored T-shirt and some green tinted glasses.

 

            “I think it’s totally cool. Of course the cops don’t like it. It proves that in a free society, we are able to take care of ourselves. We don’t need the government running our lives. Hey man, Arrow, if you’re out there. Keep up the good work.”  The teen looked into the camera and pumped his fist in solidarity.

 

            The picture dissolved to Evan in the studio.

 

            “So, The Arrow, hero or menace? Joining me tonight is Police Commissioner Janet Bledsoe and Y’elsh Richards, founder of the organization Citizens for Retaking the City. Good evening to you both.” They both nodded hello. “Commissioner Bledsoe. Why the big push to get this guy off the streets? The people love him. He seems to be doing some good.”

 

            Stack knew that Janet hated TV appearances. He watched as she shifted in her seat. She began to speak.

 

            “That’s all well and good, but this isn’t a popularity contest. This guy, or Arrow or whatever, is dangerous. He’s a vigilante and…”

 

            “So from your statements, the police are pretty sure it’s a ‘him’?”

 

            “From witness statements, the perpetrator is a male.”

 

            “Y’elsh, what are your feelings about this?”

 

            “Evan, our organization was created with the philosophy of ‘by any means necessary.’” Y’elsh motioned to Janet. “For the police force to write this man off as a sociopath is wrong. This is a citizen who has taken a stand.”

 

            “He’s a killer,” Janet shot back.

 

            “He’s a hero! Three would-be criminals stopped in the act. How many lives saved? How many children kept from the horror of losing a parent?”

 

            Janet sputtered in disbelief. “With all due respect, caring citizens work WITH law enforcement! They don’t take the law into their own hands. Mob justice doesn’t work. “

 

            “Why in the world would these people trust the police? The city ignores their cries…”

 

            “Well, I think that’s a little dramatic.”

 

            “Even so, here we have a man who has decided that enough is enough and has taken matters into his own hands. I feel safer in a city where the people look out for each other than in one where thugs with badges…”

 

            Stack looked away. Tucker switched the TV off. Stack looked up and nodded his thanks. He took the last bite of his lunch and wiped his mouth.

 

            “Tucker?” Stack said, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. “What do you think?”

 

            Tucker leaned on the bar. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t hate cops or anything,” Tucker smiled. “If I did, I wouldn’t have any customers.” Stack chuckled with him. Tucker shrugged. “I guess I just have to see how it plays out.”

            Stack smiled. “Thanks.” He put some money down on the bar and hoisted the last of his drink to his mouth.

 

            “I will say one thing,” Tucker added. “I feel bad for the guy who has to take The Arrow down.” Stack blinked at him. “That’ll be an unpopular guy.” Tucker turned and loaded the money into the cash register.

 

            Stack smiled. “I’m that guy.” Tucker turned back with an apologetic look. Stack raised his hand in a show of no offense. He turned and headed out to the street.

 

*

            Across town, Carl Morsh was restocking nails. He had lost himself in the tasks of the day but in his stomach, he felt the anticipation. He knelt on the floor loading box after box of nail onto the shelf. He was bored. He was hungry for a little excitement. He couldn’t wait to get home and put the mask on. It was like leaving his life behind.

 

            Tonight would be a big night.

 

            The bell rang as another customer entered. With a slight sigh, Carl rose from the floor and went to greet the customer. The man walking into the store wore a gray suit and carried a brief case. Carl approached.

 

            “Can I help you?”

 

            “Hi. I’m with Baggdell Security. I have an appointment with Mr. Montrest,” the man said, shaking Carl’s hand. Carl nodded and went to the counter. He pushed a small doorbell and a moment later Montrest descended the stairs from the office.

 

            “Hello,” Montrest said. “You must be Peter. I’m Ron Montrest.” He put his hand on Carl’s shoulder. “I see you met Carl,” he said, turning. “Just so you know, Carl. I’m going to be putting in some additional security. We don’t want to go through all that again. I worry about you here after hours.”

 

            Carl smiled as Montrest and the salesman climbed the stairs to the office. He turned back to the nails. His mind filled with thoughts of the robbery. The gun. The shattering glass.

The yelling. Finally, the rush. His mind turned again to anticipation of the night.

 

            He slid another box of drywall nails into place as his mind drifted to the excitement he would have that night. The people he would help. The rush he got from knowing he helped those people. The rush.

 

*

            The printer droned as it gave birth to the list of hardware stores for Stack. The detective had propped up crime scene photos against items on his desk and was leaning back in his chair, staring at them. A map covered bulletin board sat next to the desk. Behind Stack another bulletin board stood, covered with sketches of witnesses’ descriptions of The Arrow, ads torn out of archery magazines, and more photos.

 

            Stack was surrounded by the case.

 

            His gaze moved from victim to victim silently. In his hands he piled and organized coins. He never heard Breen approach. His concentration had created a white noise in his head.

 

            “If you were anybody else, I’d think you were slacking off.” Breen chuckled. Stack looked up and smiled. “How’s it going?” Breen said putting his hands in his pockets.

 

            Stack looked back at the pictures. “Not much, yet.” Stack motioned to the map. “He’s patrolling.” Breen looked at the map. “The locations of the three aren’t random. He’s set up a beat and he’s patrolling it. And I think he’s on foot. It’s like he’s doing sweeps. All three are within 10 blocks of Avenue K.”

 

            “So he’s going out looking for trouble?”

 

            “Yeah. He’s geared up and looking.”

 

            Breen leaned on the desk. “What about leaving the arrows?”

 

            Stack shook his head. “Leaving a calling card for police isn’t so unusual with serial killers. But it’s different. He told Jomms last night to call us. It’s like he’s marking them as his work. He thinks he’s working WITH us.”

 

            “So you’re sure this is serial? It’s not going to stop?”

 

            “Yeah. He’s a serial killer. The problem is, he’s killing people that most folks want dealt with any way. It’s gonna make it tough to get anybody to talk.” Stack looked back at the photos. “He’s getting better too. The first two, look, the shots weren’t that good. The last one was dead on. His confidence is growing. And probably his urge is increasing.” He and Breen looked back at the photos.

 

*

            The sun was beginning to set over the bay. The foreman blew the whistle and the workers began closing the site for the night. Breck and Mitch stepped out of the elevator, ready to head home. They laughed as joked as they headed for the gate. Their foreman approached them.

 

            “Hey guys, can you do me a favor before you take off?” He pointed to a cluster of tarp covered pallets at the other end of the site. “Can you guys move forklift those pallets over by the shed? We’re going to start using the mortar tomorrow.”

 

            They weren’t please but they smiled and agreed.

 

            As they carefully moved the pallets of mortar bags, the two chatted.

 

            “He couldn’t have asked us to do this an hour ago?” Mitch yelled over the engine of the forklift.

           

            “I know,” replied Breck. “I’m ready for a beer.”

 

            “I can’t stand that guy.”

 

            “He’s better than the guy we used to…holy shit!!” Breck ran into the cluster of pallets. Mitch put down the load he had just moved and hopped out of the lift. He ran to Breck.

 

            There, partially covered by a tarp, amid the tall pallets, was the body of a long dead woman. Breck looked up with in shock. Mitch ran screaming for the foreman that neither of them cared for.

 

*

            Pyaris was pitched to the ground.

 

            The hood looked down at him. “What do you think you’re doing?!” He drew his gun from the waistband of his pants. Pyaris yelped in fear. The hood looked to his friends. “Keep an eye out.” He looked back and shoved the muzzle of the gun in Pyaris’ face. “Do you think I’m stupid? I gave this to you last week to hold and now it comes back tainted? Did you cut it?”

 

            “No.”

 

            “Don’t lie to me! Don’t freaking lie to me! Did you smoke it or sell it?”

 

            “I didn’t touch it. I just held it, like you said!” Pyaris quivered.

 

            The hood cocked his gun, “I guess it doesn’t matter what you did. I’m gonna kill you anyway.”

 

            “I don’t think so,” came the voice from the shadows.

 

            They all turned toward the voice. The Arrow stepped out of the darkness.

 

            The hood yelled to the two with him. “It’s that arrow guy! Get him!”

 

            In a split second a bolt of alloy sank into one of the thugs and he dropped  to the pavement. The other charged. The Arrow stepped to the side and clocked the thug with his bow. The crook sprawled out on the pavement. With a motion The Arrow reloaded his bow and trained it on the hood that stood over Pyaris.

 

            “Put the gun down,” The Arrow commanded, drawing back on his bow. The hood turned to fire at the masked hero and The Arrow let his weapon fly. The shaft of metal slipped into the neck of the hood. The attacker twitched and collapsed to the ground, sputtering blood.

 

            The Arrow’s stomach quivered with adrenaline. He helped Pyaris to his feet. “Are you all right?” He asked the boy. Pyaris didn’t say a word, he just turned and fled.

 

*

            “Tim!” Came the jubilant voice from behind a comic book rack.

 

            Stack and Tim Carnaby from the crime lab stepped into the comic shop. Stack looked around at the racks of comics, the walls of action figures and cases of memorabilia. He chuckled to himself. Hi instincts had served well in asking Carnaby if he knew anything about comic books. Tim decided to bring him to his favorite shop to talk to the owner, Proada.

 

            A goblin with long hair, pulled into a ponytail stepped out from behind the rack. Tim introduced them and a few moments later they were sitting in the office, surrounded by comic books and pizza boxes.

 

            “So, what can I do for you detective?” Proada asked, popping open a can of soda.

 

            “I assume you’ve heard about the Arrow killings. There were two more last night.”

 

            “Oh yeah.” Proada took a long drink. “I was wondering when someone would get around to the comic book angle.”

 

            Stack leaned in. “I need to know everything you can tell me about superheroes. Because I think this guy, this Arrow, believes he is one.”

 

            Proada chuckled. “That’s because he is.”

 

            “What?”

 

            “Look, there are two kinds of superheroes. The kind with super-powers and the kind without. The ones with super-powers were born to be heroes and protect the weak. They fly, they turn into things, they melt things with their eyes. The other kind, they’re different. They’re regular people, but it’s their drive, their desire to help the weak.  That’s what makes them superheroes.”

 

            “So,” Stack said, sitting back. “You’re saying The Arrow really is a superhero. One of these ‘Everyman’ superheroes?”

 

            “Technically, yeah.”

 

            Stack looked at Tim. “You ‘technically’ people.” Tim chuckled.

 

            Proada ignored the comment. “Look, I figure he’s a whack job. You guys remember Darton Bellows. Don’t you?”

 

            Tim nodded. “The actor right?”

 

            “Right. He played Captain Dark in movie serials 60 years ago. After playing the character in the shorts, he snapped.  Started running around in the outfit fighting crime. He wound up jumping out a twelfth story window thinking he could fly.” Proada took another drink.

 

            “I thought that was an urban legend.” Stack smirked.

 

            “Nope. Look, what it boils down to is this. The Arrow believes he’s a superhero. He’s getting the job done, right? So he’s a superhero.”

 

            Stack shook his head. “Okay, point taken. I need to find a way to crack into his thinking. You know, why did he start? How can I stop him?”

 

            “Regardless of whether the hero has super powers or not, they all have one thing in common,” Proada said, as if he was about to divulge a universal secret.

 

            Stack played along. “What’s that?”

 

            “Somewhere in their origin story they have an epiphany.”

 

            “Origin story?”

 

            “The first issue. The one that tells how they became a superhero,” Proada said, slightly annoyed. “Anyway, they all come face to face with something that makes them realize that they have to use their powers or talents for the betterment of worldkind. A parent dies. They cause a horrible accident. Something like that. It almost always happens.”

 

            “So you think this guy had one of these?”

 

            “I’m just saying what I know about comic books.”

 

            Stack looked around. “You got one of these ‘origin stories’ that I could take with me?”

 

            Proada laughed. “You got about 14 G’s to drop?”

 

            Stack chuckled and nodded. He stood and thanked Proada. Tim shook Proada’s hand in a way that Stack figured only comic book guys know. Stack made his way out to the car. Tim followed shortly after.

 

            A moment later Proada was surprised to see Stack coming in again.

 

            Stack stopped. “Do you know of any collector’s in town who have any of those pricey books.”

 

            Proada nodded. “There’s a couple. It might take me a day or two to track them down.”

 

*

            Three hours until nightfall and Carl couldn’t wait to go home. He hadn’t slept in days, but never felt more alive. The afternoon seemed to drag. He still had to machine a few more arrows before going on patrol. Business had been light, but Carl was working up a sweat. He had finally managed to get his arrow outfit on under his clothes. It wouldn’t be long, he believed, before he could move about in the day time.

 

            Lengths of hose and screwdrivers didn’t mean anything anymore. All he wanted was to get out there. To be on the streets, where people needed him. Where he could fight for justice. Where he could work to clean up the mess.

 

            The bell rang as a customer entered. Carl stepped up behind the counter.

 

            The man with the tie held up a badge. “Hi. I’m Sgt. Forray with the BCPD.”

 

            “Can I help you officer?” Carl asked. 

 

            “Are you the owner?”

 

            “Uh, no. That would be Ron Montrest. He’s upstairs, I’ll get him.” Carl rang the upstairs bell. A moment later Ron came down the stairs. “Ron, this is Sgt. Forray with the police department.”

 

            Ron shook Stack’s hand. “What can I do for you Sergeant?”

 

            “I’m sorry to bother you Mr. Montrest. I understand that your store carries Bestrax coated alloy rods. The ones that come in eight-foot lengths.” Stack read from his notes.

 

            “That’s right. We keep a small supply. Not a big seller. It’s specialized.”

 

            Carl stood and listened.

 

            Stack jotted a few notes. “Do you have a lot of repeat business for it?  One or two people who come in and purchase it?”

 

            Ron laughed. “Not really. I’ve been thinking about not carrying it anymore. I’m sure there hasn’t been a sale in months. Other than Carl of course.” He motioned to Carl.

 

            Stack looked at Carl. “You’ve been buying the rods.”

 

            “Yeah. I work with the Avenue K players. They’re a community theater group. I do costumes but the set designers use them for all sorts of things. Reinforcing backs, hanging lights and curtains. Ron gives us a nice discount, and it’s better than wearing down the supply of the stuff that sells better.” Carl chuckled.

 

            “Avenue K Players. Is there some one there I can talk to?” Stack asked, writing in his notebook.

 

            “Sure, I’ll get the number.” Carl turned and went to his duffel bag. ‘Play it cool,’ The Arrow said in his head. ‘They can’t find out who you really are.’ As Carl opened the bag, the mask looked up at him. He grabbed his address book and walked back to the policeman. “Yeah you can call the artistic director, Gadavieve Sh’ya.” Carl gave Stack the number.

 

            “And what is your name?” Stack asked.

 

            “Morsh.” Carl said. “Carl Morsh.”

 

            The policeman thanked them both and a few moments later was gone. Ron looked at Carl and shrugged. As Ron climbed the stairs back to the office, Carl watched the cop climb into his car and drive away.

 

            Somewhere, in the back of his mind, The Arrow congratulated him on a fine job. ‘If you’re going to be a superhero, the alter-ego is the most important thing,’ the alter-ego said.

 

*

            The one thing that Stack always hated about cases like this was that he never had a proper meal. The last three days had been a succession of office pastries and burgers at either Tucker’s or The Gobblin’ Goblin. It was part of the process for him. He could take the time to drive home and cook a meal, but it broke his concentration. He needed to be out of comfortable surroundings to keep his mind focused.

 

            His dinner at the Gobblin’ had been cut short by a call from the Medical Examiner’s office. A body had turned up that they wanted him to look at. He asked Tim to meet him there. Tim climbed out of his SUV as Stack pulled up.

 

            “What’s up?” Tim said as Stack stepped from his car.

 

            “They apparently have a body in here that they think I should take a look at. I just wanted your input.” Stack took his badge out of his coat pocket and hung it from his belt. Tim nodded as the two headed into the morgue.

 

            As they passed Sioux’s office, Stack thought of Needless. It was the first time in days he’d wondered how Needless and Sioux were doing on their cruise. He smiled to himself at the thought of the two of them dancing the night away on the ship. He wished he was there now.

The happy thoughts dissolved with the clang of the tray holding the girl’s body.

 

            The ME unzipped the bag. The blonde curls unfurled away from her face as the bag opened. Stack snapped the latex gloves on.

 

            “Who is she?” He asked.

 

            “According to her ID, her name is Janey Rhodes. Some workmen found her hidden in some pallets over on Dexter. She was reported missing by her roommate a month ago.” The ME read from his file. “She’s been dead almost that long. Her roommate was here not long ago and identified her.”

 

            “Cause of death?” Stack said looking over her body.

 

            The ME tilted the corpse and exposed a small hole in her back. Stack and Tim looked at each other. The ME laid her down again. “The wound is consistent with the other Arrow victims,” he said.

 

            “Except the placement. All the others were from the front.” Stack leaned in closer. He noticed the gray-violet ring of bruises on the arm and face. “What about these?”

 

            The ME nodded. “We sized up all the bruises. There are two sets of hands. These ones on the upper arm and the face are consistent, the other ones were made post mortem.”

 

            Stack stood up and looked at Tim. He bit his lip in thought. “He made a mistake. He tried to stop whoever was hurting her and got her. She probably stepped in the way.”

 

            Tim looked back at Janey’s face. “So he dumped the body. You think that’s the ‘hero’s epiphany’ that Proada was talking about?”

 

            Stack nodded and the ME recovered the body and slid it back into storage. Tim and Stack turned and headed out of the morgue.

 

            “No. This was probably the first one out of the gate. A flubbed attempt to come out. So hiding her was more a way to erase The Arrow’s first entrance and do it over.” Stack stopped and thought. “Tim, I think this guy has killed before. It’s not easy to suddenly go out and kill people. Even people committing crimes. “

 

            “You think he’s done this before?”

 

            “Maybe not this exactly. But I think somewhere along the line, he’s killed before. Maybe…” Stack pulled out his phone. Tim looked puzzled at him  Stack spoke into his phone. “Breen, it’s Stack. I have an idea. Can you get somebody to pull up any vigilante or self-defense cases from the last seven or eight months? Thanks.  Have them send that down to Tim Carnaby’s office in the crime lab.”

 

*

            The Arrow perched atop the building, looking out at the lights of Big City. It was a scene he had imagined a thousand times. A cliched scene he was comfortable in: The voices of the defenseless, the sirens of the law, the traffic, the music, the sound of televisions, all of it rose up to meet him. Carl Morsh hesitated but The Arrow said ‘Go.’

 

            His mind filled with music as he dropped ten feet to the fire escape below and headed out on patrol.

 

*

            Proada was as good as his word. When Stack and Tim arrived at the crime lab, a fax was sitting on his desk. Proada apologized that it had taken so long, but this was a list of all the collectors he had run into that had important comic books. Tim thumbed through the list while Stack drank a cup of coffee.

 

            “What are you looking for exactly?” Tim asked.

 

            “I don’t know. Obviously ownership of a comic book isn’t something we could take to court.” Stack shrugged. “Crap, it could be a movie for all we know and not a comic book. I just don’t like leaving possibilities open. It’s like throwing a noose around all the information and tightening. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Stack settled down in the chair and pulled out a deck of cards and began to shuffle. “So what have we got?”

 

            Tim began to read. “Proada has added some information about these guys too. Let’s see… Kevin Mistwood. He’s got Night Knight issue one.”

 

            Stack shook his head. “Nah. He’s on the City Board. I’ve seen him. He’s not our guy.”

 

            Tim read a little more. “Woah.”

 

            “What?”

 

            “This guy here. He’s got a near mint copy of Mysterious Comics #8.” Tim looked up at Stack. Stack shrugged. “It’s the first appearance of Captain Dark. It’s every collector’s wet dream. It’s got to be worth forty grand, easy. According to Proada, this guy isn’t even a collector. He inherited it. He brought it in about a year ago to get it appraised.”

 

            “Name?”

 

            “Carl Morsh.”

 

            Stack stopped shuffling and sat up. He reached into his coat and pulled out his notepad. He flipped through a few pages. “Here it is. I met this guy. Or at least a guy with the same name. Today. He works at a hardware store. One on your list. He’s bought some of those rods.”

 

            “Flag that one?”

 

            “Yeah, and check for how many Carl Morshes there are in the city.”

 

            There was a knock on the door. A young female officer walked in with a thick file under her arms. “Sgt. Forray? Capt. Breen asked me to bring this file up to you.”

 

            Stack took the file and thanked the officer. He flipped it open.

 

            Tim ran down every C. Morsh in the city. There weren’t many. Only one Carl. He lived two blocks off Avenue K. He was about to say something when Stack leapt to his feet.  Tim looked at him. “What is it?”

 

            Stack looked up from the file, his mouth agape in complete shock. “Holy shit. We’ve got him.”

 

*

            It felt like slow motion.

 

            The fight had started outside a nightclub. The hoods in the alley opened fire on the crowd waiting to go in. Two people had fallen to the pavement and mass panic broke out. The other gang pulled their weapons and returned fire. More innocent people were flung to the ground as the fire fight increased. The screaming crowd scrambled over each other for cover as more bangers ran in from blocks around to join the fight.

 

            When an arrow flew out of nowhere and skewered one of the shooters, the crowd turned to see The Arrow standing on top of a car. He let another arrow fly and it dropped one of the first shooters. He dropped out of sight as the shooters turned and opened up on him.

 

            Carl Morsh was watching it all from outside. It was all in third person. It was all in slow motion. He was no longer in his body. The Arrow kept whispering to him that it would all be all right.

 

            In the mass confusion The Arrow slipped into the shadows. Another bolt of alloy and another hood stopped breathing. There were too many. He was running out of arrows. He had to think of another way to finish this.

 

*

            “His name is Carl Morsh. He was picked up on possession a few years ago and attended addiction counseling as part of his sentence. Since then he’s been quiet. Living a meager existence. That is until six months ago. Six months ago he was closing up Montrest’s Hardware, where he worked, when three gunmen broke into the store. They forced Morsh to open the register and the office. During the robbery Carl snapped. He sent one of the robbers to the hospital with 4 busted ribs and a ruptured spleen and the other two he killed. It was self defense, obviously, so he was never prosecute,.”  Stack said, leaning on the chair.

 

            “So you think that’s reason to focus on him?” Breen asked from behind his desk.

 

            “Not that by itself. I spoke to Carl yesterday. He admitted to buying the rods that were used to make these arrows. And he has this comic book.”

 

            “Yeah, what’s this comic book thing?”

 

            “He thinks he’s a superhero. Any two of those pieces don’t prove anything. But the three together begin to make a pattern. If you look at the file, he’s obsessive compulsive and probably is addicted to the adrenaline. He lives within fifteen blocks of the kill zone. Dennis, it may be all circumstantial, but it’s the only lead we have.”

 

            Breen thought for a moment. He didn’t always understand Stack’s instincts, but he couldn’t argue with the results. He nodded. “You got enough for a search warrant. We won’t announce that he’s a prime suspect until we get some concrete evidence. I’ll see what I can do to get a warrant to search his place.”

 

            Stack nodded and looked at Tim. The phone rang. Breen put up a finger and answered the phone. “Breen. What? He’s with me. Okay.” He hung up and looked at Stack and Tim. “We got a gang riot over on Bendt Rd outside the Quanga Niteclub. Your man is right there in the middle of it.”

 

            Stack ran from the room shouting. “Tell Special Weapons not to do anything until I get there!”

 

*

            The moment was short. The Arrow snatched the gun from the hands of one of the dead thugs. He aimed and fired. It felt alien. It felt wrong. Something wasn’t right to Carl. But the Arrow soothed the troubled conscience by saying ‘by any means necessary.’

 

            He fired again. With the wet thump of a bullet rocketing into bone and soft tissue, another gang member fell dead to the pavement. The Arrow dropped the gun and reloaded his bow. Behind him, police cars and vans screeched to a halt. He trained his Arrow on a group of shooters.

 

            The Arrow heard the car doors open behind him.

 

            “Get them, officers,” The Arrow mumbled. “Bring the rest of these punks to justice.”

 

            The guns cocked, as police took refuge behind their open car doors. The Arrow stood between the police and the remaining gang members. The Arrow filled with pride as he and the police force worked together to clean up the streets.

 

            “Put the weapons down and lay down on the ground. Hands behind your head,” the single voice of the cops said. The Arrow nodded as the hoods complied. “I said, put the weapon down and GET DOWN ON THE GROUND.”

 

            The Arrow stopped for a moment. All the hoods had given in. He turned and looked at the barrels of the guns. The cops were talking to him.  What? Didn’t they understand? “Sir, put the bow down and surrender or we will have no choice but to take a shot,” the voice said.

 

            “Is this the end for The Arrow?” the voice in Carl’s head said. Carl couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

 

           

*

            The rain began to fall as Stack sped through the streets of Big City. He barked into the radio, “The Arrow is my suspect. Do not shoot. I repeat, do not shoot! “  He floored the pedal and traversed the quickly soaking streets.

 

            When Stack pulled up the scene had become a tense standoff. He stepped out of his car and was immediately struck by the image. The headlights danced on the rain that plummeted down onto the dark form standing in the middle of the street. As Stack moved through the cops that surrounded the scene, he was overwhelmed by feelings of pity, fear and admiration. Whether crazy or not, Carl Morsh was a brave man.

 

            He stepped into the no man’s land between the cops and The Arrow, his arms outstretched. The Arrow stood defiantly, the rain falling on the huge lenses that covered his eyes.

Stack stepped slowly to him. Around them, would-be night club goers, bangers and cops watched as the two came to face each other.

 

            Stack could see his reflection in The Arrow’s lenses. With a look of wonder he stepped closer. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” he said.

 

            The Arrow nodded. “You don’t understand, Officer. I’m here to help.”

 

            “I understand. But you need to come with me now, Carl,” Stack said. There was silence, but the Arrow’s shoulders slumped slightly. Stack knew he was right.

 

            Finally the Arrow spoke, “How…”

 

            “That’s not important. What is important is that you and I leave here, and let the police finish this job. Before anybody else gets hurt.”

 

            “This is what I am supposed to be,” the Arrow said, more for himself than Stack.

 

            “And this is what I have to do,” Stack said. He put his hand behind him and slowly drew his handcuffs out of their belt pouch. That’s when the Arrow clocked Stack, sending him sprawling to the wet pavement.

 

            The crowd cheered as the Arrow ran into the front entrance of the nearest building. Stack struggled to his feet. He held up his hands to stop the officers who were ready to open fire on the masked vigilante.

 

            “No!” Stack bellowed. “He’s mine.” Extracting his gun, Stack barreled into the building after the Arrow.

 

            As soon as the two left the street, the police descended on the scene.

 

             

*

           

 

Few minutes later, The Arrow ran fearlessly out on to the roof and headed for his one escape. With abandon and forsaking all caution, The Arrow leapt across the gap to the next building. A few moments later, Stack burst out of the door onto the roof of the building. As he ran he hoisted the radio to his mouth.

 

            “This is Forray. I’m on the roof. Bring the chopper in, I need light. It think he’s jumped to the south building. I’m on him.” With that Stack picked up speed and jumped across the gap. The adrenaline pumping his legs, caressing his confidence, clouding his mind. He finally slowed as he passed the south building’s air conditioning unit.  Stopping, he put his back to the unit and drew his gun. “Carl! There’s no way off this building!”

 

            The Arrow crouched quietly in the corner. The cop was right. It was fifteen stories to the street below. He pulled a grappling hook from his belt and looked for an escape. It was an untested piece that he’d prepared a few weeks before. The rain was fogging up his lenses and he was forced to take his mask off. The nearest hope for him was a balcony across the street and several floors up.

 

            Stack sighed. “Carl! It’s time to stop this. You’ve done your work. It’s time to go back to being Carl Morsh.” Across the roof Carl chuckled. “ARROW!!”

 

            Carl stopped and looked up, shocked. “My work isn’t done!!” he bellowed back.

 

            “It’s time to end it.” Stack’s mind raced. “Even Captain Dark ended!”

 

            Carl finished connecting the hook to an arrow. He rose and aimed at the balcony.

 

            “Don’t move!” Stack bellowed as he stepped around the corner and aimed his gun at Carl. “Please Carl! It’s over.”

 

            ‘You can do it,’ The Arrow said to Carl. ‘You’ve pictured it a thousand times in your head.’

 

            Carl closed his eyes and let the arrow fly. The hook soared through the air and to the surprise of Stack and Carl, caught on the wrought iron of the balcony. Carl pulled his mask back on and coiled the rope around his hand. Carl Morsh was gone. Only The Arrow remained.

 

            “Officer! Some one needs to be out there for those people,” The Arrow said.

 

            “We are. And we do the best we can.”

 

            “Sometimes your best isn’t enough.”

 

            “I know, Arrow. Sometimes nothing is enough. But you have to believe.”

 

            “I have to go, Officer. There are people out there who need me.”

 

            Stack lowered his gun. “People like Janey Rhodes?”

 

            The Arrow stopped and turned. “Who?”

 

            “The woman you killed. The first one. The accident.” There was silence. “We found her body, Arrow. We know all about it. Her name was Janey Rhodes.”

 

            The Arrow lowered his head. “She stepped in the way. It…was an accident.”

 

            Like an explosion the police helicopter burst into sight, flooding the roof with cold, white light. Stack looked up at the copter and bellowed into his radio. “Do not shoot! Do you hear me? Do not shoot him!” He turned back to the Arrow. “Carl, come back with me. It’s time to go home.”

 

            The Arrow looked up and shook his head. “No. This is my home. I have people to protect. Just like you.”

 

            “But I don’t get to choose who I protect! I have to protect them all.”

 

            “But this is what I am supposed to be.”

 

 “You’re not a superhero, Carl. You’re a man. Just a man.”

 

            The Arrow looked back at the grappling hook and the rope dangling from the balcony. ‘It’s time to go’ The Arrow thought. He looked back at Stack. “We’ll let history decide.” The Arrow jumped up on the ledge. Stack broke into a run. The rain caught Stack’s cries in his throat. With a swashbuckling leap, the Arrow launched himself into the air. Stack scrambled to the edge and watched the scene unfold.

 

            Carl Morsh felt himself flying. He felt his grip slip on the rain soaked rope. He felt the arm with the rope around it dislocate. He felt the free fall.

 

            He never felt the impact.

 

            His last thought was confusion. The confusion and the clarity of a life misspent. Of chances lost. Carl Morsh slipped into the next world still wanting more.

 

*

            Stack Fury stepped through the police tape strung across Carl Morsh’s apartment door. The officer there stood up and Stack signed in.

 

            “Good evening officer,” Stack said.

 

            “Detective.”

 

            Stack put his hands in his pockets and moved into the apartment. The apartment was still and chilly; like it knew its owner was gone. Stack stood at the center of the living room staring at Mysterious Comics #8.  Morsh had no family that they could find. Nobody to give it to. Stack thought for a moment. Maybe the department could sell the comic and give the money to an inner city crime prevention program. He chuckled at his nobility. He resigned himself to make the suggestion to Breen.

 

            Stack was surprised to see a cat wander out from behind the couch. He squatted on the floor and petted the cat.

 

            “Hey there,” he said, “what’s your name?” The cat rubbed on at Stack’s ankle. Stack picked it up. “You got no place to go, huh buddy.” Stack lifted the cat and looked at it’s hind end. “Yep,” he said, “buddy.” The cat mewed its disapproval. Stack smiled. “Maybe you could come home with me? I’m sure Teadum wouldn’t mind.” The cat mewed again.

 

            Stack cradled the cat in his arm and looked around the room again. The stillness began to seep into the corners of the room. Carl Morsh was gone. Stack took one last look at Carl’s life and moved out into the hallway with the cat he now planned to call Arrow, under his arm.

 

*

            The crash of shattering glass filled the hall. Slith opened the door to the darkened room. The man in the cloak sat on a rug in the center of the room. Slith hesitantly stepped up to him.

 

            “I have told you NOT to interrupt me,” the man said without turning.

 

            Slith coughed. “He’s asked for you.”

 

            The man rose and moved past Slith toward the door. “I expect you gone when I return.”

 

            When the man was gone Slith hurried from the room.

 

            Manzetti sat at his desk, hunched over. A bottle of vintage Forest Mist was smashed on the floor next to the desk. The pain came to Manzetti in waves. It twisted his guts. The cloaked man slipped into the room.

 

            “Has the pain come again?” he asked.

 

            Manzetti nodded and moved to his bed. The cloaked man stepped up to the bed as Manzetti opened is shirt. The man’s eyes glowed as he mumbled words that the crime boss didn’t understand. Manzetti shut his eyes as the sorcerer’s glowing hands plunged into his stomach.

 

            A few moments later the pain was gone. Manzetti buttoned his shirt and stood up.

 

            “Thank you, Zahn. I don’t think it will be much longer. How close are we?”

 

            Zahn turned. “Weeks, perhaps. Months. Autumn is making little progress finding it. It is a rare item.”

 

            “Tell her that the sooner she gets it to me, the more money she gets.” Zahn nodded. “As for our friend, Detective Forray,” Manzetti motioned to a news paper on the desk. “I don’t know if we’re getting through to him.”  Zahn glanced at the paper. The picture and the story detailed Stack’s investigation of The Arrow. “We have to step up the project. At this point I am not convinced that he is where I want him yet.”

 

            Zahn looked up. “And where do you want him?”

 

            “I want him to be mine. I want every move he makes to belong to me. I want him to make the ultimate sacrifice. It is the only way to ensure that he and his…friends never bother me again.” Manzetti looked out the window at the skyline of Big City. “To make sure that this city is mine completely.” He turned to the desk and pulled out a stack of pictures. “Call the mole. Tell him that I will need to see him. He’ll know what to do with these.”

 

            He tossed the pictures on the desk. The pictures were black and whites taken from a distance. The woman in the picture, photographed crossing the street, was unknown to Zahn. But Manzetti knew her face and her name: Gina Johnson.

 

THE END

Go to: Episode 7 - "Ambsace"

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