After the Golden Age

Beside him, on the table, his hand rested on a leather gauntlet with a silhouette stitched in gold onto the back of the hand: a hawk in flight, wings stretched back, ready to strike. The History Museum’s permanent exhibit on vigilante crime fighters had one of those gloves on display.

“Oh my God,” she murmured.

“I knew you were smart,” he said.

“I don’t understand.” Her heart raced, making her dizzy. She had to focus on every breath.

“I have some information for you.”

“What, me? But why—I mean, you’re the Hawk; if you have information, why don’t you do something about it?”

“Because I’m retired.”

“Then you should give it to my parents, the Olympiad—”

He shook his head. “They won’t admit it, but they’re not at the top of their game anymore. It’s time they pass the job to the younger generation, like I did.”

“But I’m not the younger generation. I’m not heir to anything, I don’t have any powers—”

“Neither do I.”

That came like a punch in her gut. A judgment. Proof positive that not having powers wasn’t an excuse for anything. “I can’t take on that mantle.”

“You’ve been looking for a connection between these robberies. Between the gang members who committed them.”

“Not really—”

“And you think there’s a connection—maybe even a mastermind—Simon Sito, maybe?”

“I don’t know. If it is, he’s changed his MO.”

“But you’ve been digging.”

Celia didn’t have to wonder how much he knew about what; as Damon Parks, working at West Plaza’s front desk, he probably saw a hell of a lot more than anybody realized. He’d have seen the logs; he knew she had a key card to the West Corp archives. He was good at his job. Both of them.

“I’ve been digging into Sito’s case, not the current crime wave. If there were a connection between them, somebody should have found something by now.”

“Fair enough. So maybe it isn’t Sito.”

He reached behind him. On the table, in the dark, lay a manila folder. He offered it to her, and she accepted. Inside, she found dozens of newspaper clippings. She’d expected something more high-tech: stolen spreadsheets, classified files. Not data available from vending machines on every corner of the city.

In all of the articles he’d cut out, he’d highlighted names. She recognized a couple, and she was sure if she checked they would belong to gang members arrested during the recent robberies and kidnapping attempts.

“Not quite retired,” she said, eyeing him. “You’ve been busy.”

“This is just a hobby,” he said.

The headlines of all the articles were some variation of GOVERNOR SNYDER ISSUES PARDONS.

She looked through the clippings again, to be sure she hadn’t missed something. “That’s the connection? All the gang members were convicted felons who received executive pardons?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s a coincidence. They all got out on the same day and hatched the plan together.”

“Everything you’ve seen, everything you know, do you honestly believe that?”

She didn’t, not for a minute. “What are you saying? That Governor Snyder is the mastermind?”

“It’s a lead. I thought you’d be interested.”

“You’re crazy; this is crazy. The Hawk retires, then gets a job working for the next generation of vigilantes as a security guard? You didn’t retire, you traded down.”

He hopped off the table, fished her attaché case from the laundry hamper, and gave it to her, then picked up the lantern and his glove. He wore a cocky smile, like the afternoon had gone exactly as he’d planned.

She said, “People have been trying to guess who you are, who the Hawk is, for forty years. Why reveal yourself to me?”

“Because I trust you.”

She laughed. “Then you’re the only person in Commerce City who does.”

“Celia, I saw you during those years. I saw what you were going through. I might even understand it. I know Dr. Mentis does. I bet he trusts you, too.” He handed her the glove. Absently, she crushed it in her hand.

As the light moved, a passage became visible, an open tunnel that presumably led out. He prepared to walk away.

“Wait—where are you going?”

“Me? I’m retired. I’ll go play bocce or something.”

“What about me?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way out.”

“Why couldn’t you fucking mail this to me?”

“Maybe I wanted to show you what a real kidnapping looks like.”

He and his lantern walked away.

She followed him. She didn’t have a choice. When he left, so did the light.

Damon Parks was the Hawk, the city’s original hero, who’d kept his secret identity secret for forty years. What could she do with that information? How much would the Eye pay for it? Not that she had any proof. Not that anyone would believe her.

Ahead, the circle of white light bobbed along, traveling down the damp, concrete tunnel. Parks turned left, passed the next intersection, then turned left again. Celia kept on twenty or so paces behind him, trying to avoid puddles even though her loafers were already soaked. He had to know she was following him. Maybe he was leading her into another trap. Maybe this was a test. A heroic initiation. Can she survive the maze?