Free Powers by Brian Michael Bendis Page A

the sirens and arriving detectives only served to further add to the urban morass. Deena tugged out her phone and begged it to call Walker for the third time since they’d left the precinct. As it had for the previous attempts, a pleasantly digital voice sent Deena’s message straight into Walker’s inbox. Cussing, she hurled the phone into the back, doing her best to angle her SUV toward the entrance to Ellis Station.
    Dammit. He’s probably underground, the newbie by his side.
    Sitting in the passenger seat, legs braced against the dashboard, Aaron winced as Deena gracelessly pulled her car up onto a curb. She nearly bisected a halal vendor with the two left wheels, and Aaron gaped at the poor man, jerking his hand in an awkward wave, doing his best to impart hasty, sincere apologies.
    Fuck yes, Deena seethed inwardly while stealing a furtive glance in his direction. You should apologize. This is your fault.
    They’d barely spoken since the call had come in. Walker and Kirk had abandoned Deena, having raced to the scene in one of the three already present cherry tops. She would have joined them if not for the fact that she’d been shuttered in a room, awkwardly reconnecting with the former love of her life. The last thing Deena had seen of Aaron Boucher—her first and final big romance—had been his pathetic face, shoulders slumped as she’d stormed out. That was over ten years ago, and so much had happened during the intervening period, far too much to impart in a single encounter. Far too important to impart in a room that faintly smelled of cat piss. They’d traded pleasantries: Aaron caught Deena up on Boucher family matters—Eveline had died three years prior from a case of high-grade lymphoma; the judge, widowed and alone, was now preparing to explore the adventure that was retirement. Aaron, meanwhile, had traveled. First Texas, to which he’d escaped from the madness of Atlanta. Then Chicago for a while, leaving just as Walker and Pilgrim managed to burn it to the ground. Now Aaron lived in Washington, trekking between a two-bedroom off Dupont Circle and his father’s guest room on Delsante, here in the city. Still crazy about music, his tastes had evolved from Nine MM and Powers punk to more eclectic fare, jazz legends like Bird and the Count as well as a raft of genres ranging from neue-vogue hip-hop to disintilectronica. He asked what Deena had been listening to lately, but she was too embarrassed to answer; Deena hadn’t stacked a playlist in years. The lone CD gracing her glove compartment was a Blonde Ammo single scored during last year’s holiday party.
    He never asked about my father, Deena realized as she inched toward their destination, fishing for an opening in the widening silence. Mom and the job. But Dad? I doubt it’ll come up unless I bring it up .
    Deena hadn’t spoken to Waldo in years. Mom got the occasional phone call, along with the odd holiday or birthday exchange. Her mother lived in Wisconsin—Racine or Madison, one of the ones that wasn’t Green Bay. She’d remarried after leaving Waldo eight years earlier, having found sobriety and love with an auto parts dealer named Hoyt. No kids this time, but she spent her days gardening and managing the books for Hoyt, evenings playing cards with the Rotary Club. She seemed happy; Deena couldn’t deny that she deserved it, not after Atlanta. But they led separate lives now; both of them had compartmentalized their pasts and futures. As had Deena’s shit stain of a father.
    So when Aaron had asked Deena about her past, she’d replied that she hated all music, current or otherwise. She hadn’t spoken to her parents in a while. And, of course, she was single. Deena had her apartment. She had her partner. And she had her badge. Those were the things that shaped her life; not her past, which she did her best to lose in a bottle or investigation. Deena chose to