CHAPTER 37
Sheree Baker’s smile soared to maximum wattage as the theme music ended. Camera One stayed tight on her as she gazed out over the studio audience.
“Good morning, Atlanta!” she shouted, and the crowd bellowed right back at her. “Well, folks, I read the papers today, and it looks like the Redeemer actually took last night off!”
The audience laughed, probably would have even if the LAUGHTER sign hadn’t lit. Sheree had ridden the unexpected wave of the Redeemer’s popularity with tremendous grace, and late yesterday afternoon her agent got a call from ABC. Her smile this morning wouldn’t have been any dimmer had her guest been the treasurer of a high school math club. She glowed, and the crowd picked up on it.
“That’s right,” she said after the laughter died down. “Not a single report of a foiled burglary, or a prevented assault—not even any gang members with broken arms.”
More laughter.
“But hey, even masked vigilantes have to take vacations, don’t they? So we’re going to change pace here, too, and try to remember what we used to do before this became the Good Morning Redeemer show.”
Laughter laughter laughter.
In the control booth Ted Swit watched Sheree work, his eyes glazed. After the call from ABC they’d gone back to his place, and she’d worked him over mercilessly; he’d heard of sex hangovers before, but this was the first time he’d actually had one.
The phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Swit, hello.”
He didn’t say anything else, just listened. The sound tech glanced over at him and, as he watched, Swit’s face bleached white. Swit finally said, “Thanks,” in a small voice, and dropped the handset back on the cradle. His eyes, which suddenly bulged hugely, never left the set.
“What was that?” the sound tech asked.
“Wuh,” Swit said. He swallowed hard. “The. Um.” He picked up his headset and spoke to the crew. “Guys? I, uh, don’t know for sure, but – uh, something is about to happen, I think. Just...stay alert, okay?”
The camera operators exchanged puzzled glances. The director tried to catch Swit’s eye in the booth, but he didn’t give up anything else.
Sheree, still with the thousand-watt smile, said, “With us this morning is the proverbial local boy done well, recent country music sensation Chad McNabb.” A young man of about twenty-three sat in one of the guest chairs, wearing a white shirt and a cowboy hat. He smiled and waved at the cameras.
Sheree turned to make her way to the guest platform. A breath of frigid air washed over her and raised gooseflesh on her arms; she made a brief mental note to complain to Ted about the temperature. She wasn’t on-camera yet, and she glanced around briefly to see if anyone else looked cold—and noticed that everyone in the studio, including the director and camera operators, were staring past her at the back of the set. Her smile still firmly in place, she followed their line of sight.
All sound from the audience died.
The Redeemer walked out from behind the curtains that covered the back wall of the studio. With his left hand he pushed along a small podium on wheels, a set piece used when a local minister recorded his TV spots. It had a goose-neck microphone stand built into it.
The Redeemer’s black suit bore a ragged white cross-and-skull over his left breast, and a holstered Desert Eagle rested against his right thigh. A strange gauntlet encircled his left forearm. Silver strips of metal glinted from it.
Confused, Sheree glanced at the booth and said, “Is this a bit?” She giggled nervously when no one answered her, shivered again, and stopped still.
The Redeemer kept walking, very slowly, pushing the podium along beside him, until he stood in the middle of the set. His eyes remained hidden behind spots of white mesh on the mask, but wherever he looked, people felt it.
He slowly swiveled his head, took in the people in the control booth, the audience, the floor crew, and lastly Sheree and Chad McNabb. McNabb, petrified, made as though to rise from his seat, but the Redeemer motioned for him to stay where he was, the smallest gesture with one hand, and McNabb sank back down obediently.
The crew only needed about two seconds to realize what they had, and immediately the Redeemer filled every monitor in the station. Finally he moved, stepped back behind the podium, and with his foot pushed down a lever which lowered the podium’s rubber-tipped feet to the floor. With the podium secured, he leaned forward slightly and stared into the cameras.
The director took a step backward and clutched her clipboard convulsively with one hand.
Sheree Baker thought, Jesus he’s tall, and then almost dropped her handheld when the Redeemer turned and beckoned to her. She went to him without question, and when he held out his hand she silently gave him her microphone. Quietly, he said, “Thank you,” and at the sound of his words Sheree’s gooseflesh expanded from her arms to the rest of her. As she backed away, he calmly fitted the microphone onto the end of the podium’s flexible neck, and clipped a small, square box onto it. A red light lit up on the box.
Straightening, the Redeemer pulled a 3 by 5 card out of the gauntlet on his forearm and let it drop onto the podium. He glanced down at it briefly, then began to speak, in a voice that came through the speakers like frozen rainwater. Sheree realized the small black box was some kind of sophisticated voice distorter.
Very slowly, the Redeemer said, “Since I...began...I’ve been accused of many crimes.”
A gofer named Louis skidded to a stop outside the control booth door. Ted Swit whirled around to face him and demanded, “Well?”
“No good, man,” Louis said. “Every door I tried is locked. I think they’re chained.” Swit cursed and turned back to watch the man at the podium. “The cops are already pulling up outside, and a bunch of reporters, too.”
On camera, the Redeemer continued talking. The studio audience could have been a collection of plywood props for all the movement they made.
“People have called me a racist,” he said. “People have called me a terrorist. People have said that I am a negative influence on America’s youth. I have a few things of my own to say about all of this.”
Swit teetered on the verge of babbling. “This is going out, right? It’s going out, right?”
Another technician said, “Relax. Satellite feed’s working fine.” He chuckled. “Man, this is cool as hell.”
The Redeemer continued. “First of all, I am not a racist. I’m not black. I’m not white. As far as any of you need to be concerned, I’m not even human. The color of a person’s skin makes no difference whatsoever in how I see him, or what steps I take because of him. Actions concern me, and actions only. I am motivated by behavior.
“Second, concerning the charge of terrorism. I think, after careful consideration, I will accept that. What I’m doing...the reason for my existence ...is the modification of behavior. I want the people of this city to behave. And I’ll resort to terror if necessary to see that they do.
“If you—and I address every single person in this city—if you engage in criminal activity...if you sell drugs. If you assault someone. If you take what does not belong to you...I have something for you, something that I promise I will give you in abundance. I will give you pain.”
Several members of the audience gasped.
# # #
In her apartment, her toothbrush in her mouth, Diedra drifted out of her bathroom and glanced at her TV. She was going to be late getting to the office if she didn’t hurry, but she thought she’d heard something strange on whatever show was playing, and she paused in her brushing to look.
Matt filled the screen in full-blown costume. Diedra yelped, coughing and gagging on toothpaste.
# # #
“It’s nothing more complicated than classical conditioning.” The Redeemer clutched both sides of the podium, his glare punching into the cameras. “You try to commit a crime, I find you, and I cause you pain. No matter where you are, no matter who you are, if you are a criminal, I will gift you with intense physical agony. I will make it so that everyone, every single human being in this city, associates crime with pain.”
# # #
In the off-white two-story house, Brenda Jorden and Ned Fields watched as the Redeemer spoke.
“This is unreal,” Fields said. “Can you believe this guy?”
Brenda Jorden didn’t say anything. She only watched, and hoped more than ever that they could subdue him. She knew his name—Sinclair, both Scott and Simon had confirmed that—but Fields didn’t, and neither did Stamford. They didn’t need to. Not yet.
# # #
The audience still sat in the studio, transfixed.
“Now, a good number of you have made the claim that I caused the injury of Nathan Pittman. I very sincerely regret what happened to Nathan Pittman, and if it were within my power I would heal his wounds. But it isn’t. So I will say this: from now on, I will consider anyone else in this city who puts on a mask and tries to fight crime outside the law just as much a criminal as the lowest crack dealer. I’ll repeat that, so there’s no confusion. If anyone in this city tries to imitate me, I will deal with that person even more harshly than I would an ordinary criminal. This is my job...my niche in this society...and only I will fill it. So if anyone else has the desire to become what I am, put it out of your mind. Because I will find you, and I’ll break you off at the knees.”
# # #
In his hospital room, propped up on pillows and listening to the Redeemer speak, Nathan Pittman grinned and shook his head in amazement. A nurse stood beside him, a tray of medication on a rolling cart. She gestured at the TV. “This is the guy you wanted to be like? He’s basically slamming you.”
“Hey,” Nathan waved one hand weakly, “he can have the job.”
# # #
The Redeemer’s voice had grown harsher and harsher, until the last seven words sounded like razor blades scraping across rock. The hairs on the back of Ted Swit’s neck stood up. From the front of the building came the faint sound of police trying to break the doors down.
“The general public has also branded me a criminal. I can’t argue with that. What I’m doing is illegal. However—and I say this with the utmost respect for the law enforcement community—I don’t care. No one can stop me. No cell can hold me. Atlanta belongs to me, and I will see that it stays protected.” He paused, and punctuated the speech: “Please. Quote me on that.”
The Redeemer plucked the card off the podium, disconnected the voice distorter, and strode back to the curtain at the rear of the studio. He turned to face the audience, gathered great folds of the curtain in both hands, and jerked violently downward, tearing it off the thin metal support rail. Multiple tiny, metallic pings sounded as the hooks popped loose, and the material billowed down and forward, covering him, hiding him in its folds.
The curtain settled to the floor and flattened out. Someone in the audience screamed.
Ted Swit came out of the booth and crossed the studio before he realized what he was doing. He pulled and tugged at the curtain, which was freezing cold and crackled with specks of thin ice, but it was obvious even before he touched it that nothing hid underneath.
The Redeemer had gone, just as suddenly as he’d arrived—out of and into thin air.
AUTHOR’S NOTES FOLLOW IN THE COMMENT SECTION.
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1 comments:
I like this chapter a lot. I think I'd call it "The Important One," if I were naming the chapters.
The biggest change I'm making here is replacing the "ragged skull-and-cross" emblem on the Redeemer's costume with the symbol that's currently displayed on the book cover at the top of the blog. That emblem is a combination of a common symbol used to represent "law," and an ancient Greek construct meant to embody the concept of justice.
During the official revision process I'll re-write this chapter to reflect that.
Also worth noting, I guess, is the fact that Matt freely admits to being a terrorist here. When I wrote the book, "terrorists" were sort of mythical in this country -- they were hazy figures that showed up in places overseas or in Bruce Willis movies. Things are significantly different now, and I wonder if having a protagonist who declares hiself a terrorist will cause any trouble.
We'll see, I guess.
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