The Galilee Falls Trilogy (Book 2): Galilee Rising Read online

  "Well, he's not," I cut in, voice hard. "He's dead." And I've completely lost my appetite. I set down my fork and stand. "I'm going for my run."

  "Miss Joanna, I'm sorry. I--"

  "It's okay," I say, meaning it.

  I squeeze his bony shoulder before rushing to the stairs. The mansion rests on a cliff overlooking the ocean about seventy-five feet up. Just walking up and down the steps is a work-out. When I reach the sand, I perform quick stretches before taking off in a trot to the left. The sun has already set so only a little orange shades the dark blue and stars twinkling over the sea. The only way I can stand running is if I have something pretty to look at. The sand adds extra resistance, so I get more bang for my buck than the treadmill at work. I used to be able to do a mile and a half before stopping, but I'm out of practice. Didn't see much point after I left the force. The only times I need to run now are from the limo to the venue when the paparazzi go nuts. Even though it's been a long-ass day, when I pass the house next door I hit my stride. My maudlin thoughts always spur me on, and tonight is no different. Misery has always driven me.

  I didn't mean to snap at Dobbs, but he keeps doing that. At least once a week it's, "If only Master Justin was here" or "Master Justin would know what to say or who to call" as if he's gone on vacation and forgot his cell. It'll be a year next month, way too long to be in denial. I lasted a month and a half. I was even convinced I saw him in the park smiling proudly at me once. So I waited for his call. And waited. Waited some more for a sign. A letter. A phone call explaining the whole thing. Never came. I grew angrier and angrier as the days of waiting began to hammer cracks into my wall of denial. Then one day, I lost it. Put a child pornographer in the hospital after pistol-whipping him repeatedly. Broke his jaw in three places, his nose, even his ocular bone. I turned in my badge that day. Justin still didn't come. That's when I finally lost hope. And my mind went tumbling after.

  Anger became depression. I couldn't get out of bed, couldn't even sleep without having horrific nightmares, hell even when I was awake. The booze helped a little and a lot of booze helped even more. My boyfriend at the time, Harry, begged me to get help. I refused, he gave me an ultimatum: get help or we were through. I proceeded to go bar hopping for two days then ended up in a hotel with another man. Not my finest hour. Thus ended the close to love story of Harry O'Hara and Joanna Fallon.

  Yet even though I embarrassed and cheated on him, my ex is first and foremost a good man. Too damn good. He was going to save me whether I liked it or not. He called the exact right person to come and kick my pathetic ass. Justin's Aunt Lucy flew in from Independence, took one look at me, and said the magic words: "Jesus. Looks like your mother's risen from the grave." One glance in the mirror and I had to agree. I spent thirty days on "vacation" at a private rehab center, slept for three days straight, and came out the other end broken but taped together enough to function. So yes, my name is Joanna and I'm an alcoholic. Almost nine months without a drink and on Step Ten: admit when I'm wrong. Kind of stuck on that one as from birth it has not been my strong suit.

  I stop to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my face. My trip down memory lane has distracted me so I have no idea how far I've gone. Judging from the house above I've done a mile. Yep, there are the lovebirds. A man and woman stand on their balcony holding champagne glasses wrapped around each other. The woman throws her head back and laughs before the man kisses her neck. Their house is more modern than mine, all glass and sharp angles. With the house lit up I can actually make out their features tonight as I pant like a dog. They're both tall, her an inch shorter than him, though he's much bigger width-wise. His hair glows orange against the light, and if I had to guess her short hair is dark brown. I'd also guess they're newlyweds judging from the fact I've seen them making out on that balcony three times this month. They must feel me staring because the man turns my way, says something to the woman, and they both wave. I'm so mortified by my lack of stealth skills, I sprint back the way I came. Maybe I'll start jogging right next time.

  Dobbs has cleaned up our aborted dinner and retreated to his domain when I return. I take a quick shower, throw on my pajamas, and debate climbing into bed and watching crap TV all night. The glamorous life of an heiress, right? But there's work to be done. Since I have become an expert multi-tasker, I answer the trillion e-mails on my BlackBerry as I go back downstairs, through the Hall of Pendergasts with all their portraits hanging on the wall, and into the living room again. I press the button under the stone fireplace. It slides to the side.

  Justin Pendergast IV wasn't the only one to leave me his legacy. His alter-ego Justice did as well. Uniforms, equipment, weapons, and super-computer hooked into every worldwide law enforcement database, police band, and closed circuit TV in the city. It has programs that analyze trace evidence, faces on CCTV, along with hacking programs so I can get into any computer, plus a whole host of other programs used to catch bad guys. I call her Doris.

  I move down the ramp into the dark room. Doris takes up the majority of the space with only a worn leather couch, rack of Justice uniforms in the corner, closet filled with weapons including stuff I never knew existed--the laser gun is fun--and a coffee pot. A literal man cave. There are two rooms that connect here, one with enough lab equipment to give a mad scientist a chubby, and the other a medical clinic/gun range. That's become Joanna's stress reliever room. I've shot a small town's worth of paper men. They had it coming. They're safe tonight though. I flop into the computer chair and start reviewing the log. Doris keeps track of all the emergency calls and is even programmed to recognize and record any suspicious or violent images she finds on CCTV. Hell, even telephone and cell conversations are within her grasp. Big sister is watching.

  Most cases are easily handled by the police. Muggings, domestic violence, drug use are noted and archived just in case. With the bigger offenses she sends a message to a special BlackBerry. When I asked Justin why he had two, he said it was a work thing. He'd excuse himself to take the "call" and lock himself in his office. Really he'd use a secret passage, do a quick change into his costume, and zoom off to fight a bad guy. He even had a program to pump his voice into the room as if he was having a phone conversation. There's a speaker in his office at Pendergast Pavilion too. When I accidentally set it off, for a moment, I thought Justin had risen from the dead to lecture me on the Chinese markets. I was a wreck for the rest of the day.

  Justice was mostly muscle, a first responder to crimes normal police officers could be hurt in. He wasn't the great detective we thought he was. The man didn't have time to track down every drug dealer and rapist unless they caused maximum damage. Seeing as I'm all of 5'2", now overweight, and prone to panic attacks, I take a different tact. I may not be on the force anymore but once a cop, always a cop. It's in the bones. I have every crime boss, enforcer, sex offender, and known supervillain under some form of surveillance. Every second of my spare time is spent down here reviewing footage, phone calls, and e-mails on my targets. My, or rather confidential informant #794's, tips helped stop a shipment of sex trafficked young girls from further horrors last week. The case against Oleg Casanov is still building, but my tips to the Feds keep making it stronger. And since I was a police officer for twelve years, I know what evidence can be used at trial. I'd give them the recorded conversation about the shipment but since it came from an illegal wiretap they can't use it. I simply guide them in the right direction.

  But tonight is all about helping old friends. My old squad, Priority Homicide, caught a triple last night, a drive-by in Diablo's Ward, my old neighborhood. Two dead bangers and one civilian, Dorothea Clarke, grandmother to one of the dead men. They know it was the men's rival gang, the 3-4's, but have no proof or witnesses. Since crime in the Ward is mostly poor bangers killing bangers, and the press could give a shit, CCTV cameras are sparse there. Must be why Justice installed a few of his own, one of which is right around the corner from the crime scene. I pull up the file from that area. Sec
onds before the shots, a black SUV turns the corner onto the victim's street. The same car speeds away a few seconds later on the next available camera. No other cars turn on that street at the same time. I enhance the license plate, click a button, and Doris automatically starts her magic. Thirty seconds later I have the owner's name, Duquan Harris. Another click and I get his criminal history. Big shock, he's a known 3-4 member. Gotcha. I package the info together and send it to Harry. He's smart enough to know how to make it look legally obtained. C.I. #794 sure is in a lot of places at the right time. I just saved my old friends days of legwork.

  I'm reviewing the footage from Oleg's strip club when hurried footsteps on the ramp cause me to swivel around. Dobbs rushes in unnerved. "What is it?" I ask.

  "Visitors." I glimpse up at the red light that's supposed to flash when someone's at the gate, but it's still. "They didn't come through the gate."

  "Who--"

  "Hope we're not disturbing you," a man says as he strolls into sight. My mouth slacks open. "Just popped by to borrow a cup of sugar."

  "They insisted, Miss Joanna," Dobbs says.

  Of course. Because my life isn't complicated enough.

  As if he owned the place, King Tempest leads his compatriots past my apprehensive butler. I scowl at the threesome, but only Lord Nightingale seems to be looking at me. The other two survey the room. "Smaller than I pictured," King Tempest says. "Comfy looking couch." The most famous crime fighting group is in my secret lair commenting on the décor. O-Kay. Tempest strides toward me, extending his gloved hand. "You must be Joanna. Pleased to finally meet you."

  He's tall, easily a foot taller than me and big, though not fat. I'll bet those muscles under his costume are all him. Everything but his mouth is covered by a cowl. The only decorations on his costume are the K.T. on his cape, tornado on his chest, and crown with R.T. on his left arm. The other two heroes are less physically formidable but still intimidating. To his right, Lady Liberty stands up straight in her black suit, long blonde hair cascading around her shoulders. She's tall too, near six foot, but thin. The contours on her suit are probably tailored that way. Like the others only her mouth is visible. Right over her small chest in pink are the initials L.L. and in white on her arm is the same crown and R.T. Next to her waits Lord Nightingale. He's an inch or two shorter than her, medium build but how much of that is the dark purple costume I don't know. There's a bird, I assume a nightingale, on his chest and the crown on his arm. For some reason out of all of them he makes me the edgiest. His gaze hasn't left me since he walked in. Studying me. Creep. Wish I could see his eyes under those tinted plastic slits.

  I glance at Tempest's hand then up to his hidden eyes. "What do you want?"

  The hero pulls his arm away with a chuckle. "We just came to introduce ourselves."

  "Why?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest.

  Tempest glances at his friends. "Friendly town, huh?" Liberty smiles but Nightingale remains impassive. Tempest turns back around. "We're here to stay. To get this city back in order. To do that, we need your help."

  "More accurately, we need that computer," Liberty says. "It's got the whole city wired, right? Cameras, all of it? We need it, and you need to let us use it."

  "How the hell did you even know it was here?"

  "Justice," Tempest says. "I showed him ours, and he told us about his. He add those additional cameras?"

  My back straightens. "How did you know it was here? In this house?"

  "He told us," Liberty says.

  And the hits keep coming. Just when I think I've gotten over the years of betrayal and lies, some assholes show up uninvited, and the feelings come back. "He told you who he was," I say with a scoff. Me, who knows him for twenty years he keeps half of his existence from but spills to three people he knew for a week.

  "And we told him," Tempest says. As if that makes it okay.

  I glance at Nightingale, whose head is hung a little. Even without seeing his face I know he's feeling sorry for me. This pisses me off even more. "Good for you. Look, I'm too busy right now to play welcome wagon lady. I'll take your request under advisement, okay? You know the way out." I turn around in my chair.

  "I don't know why she's making this so difficult," Liberty says behind me.

  I scoff and spin around again. "You barge into my home, insult me, and pretty much demand to use my computer. Excuse me if I'm a little bitchy."

  Tempest glances back at Liberty, who folds her arms across her chest. "You're right," Tempest says. "We're sorry."

  "Thank you. Bye, now."

  "Jesus! She's being ridiculous!" Liberty snaps. "We're here to help you! You should be thanking us for uprooting our lives to save this crappy city, not giving us shit!"

  "This crappy city doesn't need you to save it, thank you very much. We're fine."

  "Not even you can be that thick," Liberty sneers.

  My eyes narrow at her. "Just leave."

  "Not until you say yes," Liberty says. "You know you will eventually."

  "And why the hell would I?"

  "Because," Nightingale says, speaking for the first time. The other two stare at him in surprise. "You're a good person. Because you care about this city and the people within it. Because you know we can help. And because…it's what Justin would want. That's why."

  Shit. Double shit. A huge part of me wants to kick them the hell out of this house and seal the doors. I want nothing to do with any of this. Of them. I don't want them anywhere near me. The last time I was dragged into the super world I was shot at, beaten, burned, kidnapped, bombed, spent a day in a coma, and watched as my soul mate killed himself to save me. Not looking for a repeat. I've given enough for this city.

  But he's right. Hell, they're all right. This city needs them. No one else is offering. I can't really see a downside, at least for Galilee. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Goddamn, being a good person sucks so much.

  So in spite of all the reasons why not, the word, "Fine," escapes my lips. And I know I've sealed my fate.

  Tempest smiles. "Thank you."

  "Whatever," I say. "You'll need the manual and emergency phone. It alerts you to all major crimes." I collect them from the drawer and hand them to Tempest.

  Nightingale steps forward and takes them instead. "Thank you," he mutters with a nod before moving away.

  "Welcome."

  "You've done a good thing," Tempest says.

  For who? "Bully for me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to finish up what I was doing so I can go to bed. Use the ramp in the corner to get out. It leads down to the beach. I don't want the neighbors to see you."

  "Of course," Tempest says. "Team?" He turns to leave and starts walking. Liberty gives me a shiteating grin before following, and Nightingale lowers his head as if embarrassed before trailing behind as well.

  I watch as the first two disappear, but Nightingale stops at the exit. He turns around, head still hung and unable to look at me. "Um…have-have a pleasant evening," he says before literally flying away.

  "Okay," I mutter. With a sigh, I fall back into my chair and just sit for a minute. "Shit." Just when I think I'm out, they suck me right back in.

  At least this time I have nothing left to lose.

  CHAPTER TWO

  New Acquaintances

  I hate this hospital. I hate this fucking hospital so much I seriously considered buying it outright, leveling it to the ground and dancing around the ashes. I was kidnapped here. My soul mate died here. Now, at least twice a month, I'm subjected to hours of torture here as a bunch of rich assholes blather on about cutting beds for indigent people and upping costs to make the hospital more profitable. Sadly, along with the billions I inherited, also came several board positions including those for both museums, the zoo, Restoration Society, hospital, and others I can't remember. I prefer my old method of giving back: slapping cuffs on criminals. Feels like I'm working with them now.

  As Danforth Mills drones on about a new drug trial, my mind wanders to my new bes
t friends. I was up late last night pulling every clipping, news report, and even police file on the Triumvirate. The computer database was no help. It seems Justin deleted all the files on superheroes. This pissed me off all over again. Even in death he didn't trust me. As if I'd walk up to someone and shout, "Hey, aren't you Olympia?" My manners aren't that bad. So I had to do it the hard way. I yawn from the memories.

  They formed about five years ago when King Tempest was just Tempest, Lord Nightingale was The Nightingale. Liberty, always a Lady, was first on the superhero scene a year before, working solo until Nightingale, and then Tempest arrived to steal her glory. They all did okay alone with Liberty defeating Bully, Nightingale recovering priceless paintings from a ring of thieves, and Tempest rescuing an ambassador from a kidnapper. Best I can tell, their paths crossed while they were all tracking down a meth manufacturer whose stuff was poisoning idiotic college students. They stopped the bad men with guns together and decided to team up. So the men crowned themselves nobility and went out to kick ass with the Lady.

  Tempest is the leader, a fact the other two don't seem to mind. He's the physically strongest, probably as strong as Justice was, lifting cars as if they were toys. He must be able to heal faster than normal, Nightingale too, because from what I saw in the footage, they'd be dead twelve times over by now otherwise. Not sure about Liberty though. It looks as if that force field of hers goes up the moment there's danger, so nobody can touch her. Lucky bitch. All three can fly too. Must have helped with the bonding.

  The similarities end there. Tempest can control the weather, strongly preferring mini-tornados and lightning bolts from the sky to dispatch hoodlums. Liberty's weapon of choice is energy blasts, presumably made from the same matter as her force field. She has a hell of an arm. Nightingale is a little more subtle. He's the best fighter of them, obviously trained in several forms of martial arts. I found myself admiring his flexibility, among other well defined attributes. He's strong too, though nowhere near as Herculean as Tempest, but can bring someone down with one punch. He's also allegedly the brains of the operation. Some people believe he's a telepath, that he can read minds, but when asked, he said, "No." All the strategy, most of the investigating, even new weapons come from him. Maybe he's responsible for my laser gun.