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This draft: December 15, 2004. Grab the MS Word version here, and the text file with all the revisions and notes here.
"But who may abide the day of his coming? And who shall stand when he appeareth? For he is like a refiner's fire..."
–Malachi 3:2
The worst part of being a superhero, Crucible always said, was the muscle cramps. In his legs from sprinting after evildoers on a moment's notice, in the small of his back from sticking out his chest heroically, in his jaw from squaring it whenever the camera was on. The cramps had apparently started earlier than usual tonight, from the look Crucible gave Ted as he arrived at the crime scene.
"Thanks for coming, Brian." Ted stepped out of his unmarked police cruiser. "Sorry about the short notice, but my bosses at Homeland Security told me to get a man on this, pronto. You know we have to show up for all mutant-related homicides, but I was busy with the Hancock High case. Then I heard you were back in town."
"Who told you that, the local psychic?” Brian asked. “I was building homeless shelters in Seattle less than four hours ago." Ted opened his mouth to reply, but Brian kept talking. "I'll catch your man, all right, but I don't need you to remind me how much more I'd rather be at home with my wife. And call me Crucible, at least when the press is around." Ted nodded and kept his head down.
The gathering crowd of students parted spontaneously for the two of them. Looking at Crucible, it was easy to imagine why.
Crucible had been operating freelance as a vigilante in Washington, D.C. for years; police described him only as a tall man with black eyes and an arson fetish. When Homeland Security got word of his mutant firestarting abilities, they jumped at the chance to offer him a job as a special agent. After the anti-mutant mob swept through Los Angeles, any mutant-related crime could become an instant riot – unless the public got immediate word it was being dealt with. Ted's coworkers in PR had wasted no time making Crucible a national sensation.
Crucible wore a black leather jacket and black zippered pants over his red spandex costume, the jacket open to show the flame logo on his shirt and the words “Malachi 3:2” embroidered in silver across the back. He did nothing to accentuate his eyes, so dark they appeared entirely black, but even Ted found it hard not to look at them. From his regal stance to his determined expression as he stepped over the police line, he was in full heroic mode.
“Ted, remind me again why you dragged me out here,” Crucible said under his breath. “This looks like an easy enough case for the police to solve. A straightforward robbery-and-double-homicide, am I right?”
Crucible looked around, careful not to fix his eyes on anything for too long. The food court at George Mason University was spread out before him, a cavernous open space in the center of a four-story building. At the far end, a spiral staircase reached nearly to the glass ceiling, dominating the hall. The Chick-fil-A was close to the front door, already surrounded by police tape and officers. The two workers on duty this Saturday night lay dead on the floor, stabbed maybe half a dozen times each. There was an exit through the kitchen in the back, but the killer could just as easily have leaped over the countertop from the front.
“Not quite. This is the third time he's done this in as many weeks. Here are the details.” Crucible scanned the thick dossier Ted handed to him as the agent explained. “He doesn't seem to fit the standard psychological profiles: the crimes seem totally haphazard, but we have no clues as to the motive. He's very meticulous about covering his tracks, except there's always something slightly off about the crime scene. Notice anything here?”
Crucible searched his memory. “There was an open window on the second floor of this building. Is that what you mean?”
“That’s where we think he entered. He left no fingerprints, and the footprints lead only inward. There's no alarm on those windows, so why didn't he leave the same way? We have no idea.”
The police sergeant leaned in toward Crucible and pointed out the open window with his fingertip. It was above a coffee shop, on the other side of the building from the Chick-fil-A. “It took our man over a minute to get here from that window, Mr. Crucible. A roundabout entrance like that makes no sense, but it fits his profile. Especially if he can climb the walls, like Spiderman or something.” Crucible nodded absentmindedly. This case was looking more bizarre by the minute.
“Why does every serial killer have to be a mutant these days?” Crucible sighed, leaning his hand against the doorframe. “Why can’t he just be a professional safecracker?” One of the officers started looking at him strangely and he immediately straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket.
“Could be. I'll send you a copy of the tapes from the security cameras; they look like they got a good shot of him.” Ted lowered his voice. “Personally, I don’t think it’s anybody we know, but be careful. The only press we’re interested in is good press.”
Crucible nodded. “I get your drift. I'll work as Brian, then.” He turned to the nearest policeman to ask further questions. Ted made sure nobody was watching him and slipped out the back.
* * * *
Brian rang the doorbell of 6404 University Drive, then stepped back to adjust his tie. He absolutely despised having to go door-to-door. At least it was reasonably cool this time of year, he told himself; in the summer, the suit he was wearing would have been intolerable.
Brian had been canvassing the neighborhood for three hours, part of a quiet police sweep of the expensive Fairfax suburbs surrounding the university. It was a last resort: the face didn't match any police records and the criminal hadn't left so much as a stray hair behind. Brian hoped he wasn't a shapeshifter, or worse, a telepath – Lord knows it's nearly impossible to catch one of those, he thought.
No one answered. Shoulders slumping, Brian headed back down the brand-new brick walkway to house number 6406. If this one doesn’t work out, he thought, he'd have to start again tomorrow. Come on, Brian, you don’t need the costume to do the work for you, do you?
The door of 6406 opened onto an exasperated-looking woman holding back two small but wildly enthusiastic dogs, her hair hastily tied up in a bun. The woman looked him up and down and asked, “Can I help you?”
“Sorry to intrude, ma’am, but may I ask you a couple questions?” She looked grim, thought Brian. He'd have to do this the hard way.
“I’m not interested in buying whatever it is you have to sell.” She started to close the door, so Brian hastily flipped out his badge.
“I’m not selling anything. My name’s Brian Anselm, I’m with Homeland Security.” The woman stepped back involuntarily. “I’m not here to arrest anyone, I’m just going around the neighborhood and asking some questions. Do you have a minute, ma’am?”
The sales pitch worked. Apparently she did have a minute: she sent the dogs back inside and stepped out onto the porch to talk.
“Have you seen this man?” Brian asked, holding out the blurry photo. She took one look and shook her head, then paused.
“I'm sure I know him from somewhere,” she said. “I'm sorry, I'm horrible at remembering faces. Do you know this boy's name?”
Brian shook his head. “No, ma'am, this is all we have. Do you think he works at a store around here, perhaps?”
“Ah!” The woman slapped a hand to her forehead comically. “I knew it. That boy is Scott Collins. He's my daughter Andrea's new boyfriend.”
If Brian hated anything more than questioning random civilians, it was lying. He was backed into a corner, though, and so he made up some innocuous tale about why the big bad Homeland Security needed to talk to him. The woman couldn't say much more – apparently Andrea and Scott were a fairly recent couple, she'd recognized the picture from some photos Andrea took of the two of them. Fortunately, a buzzer rang from somewhere inside the house before the lady had time to hold forth at length on a boy she'd never met.
“Oh my,” she said. “That must be the oven. I'm sorry, Mr. Anselm, but I really can't talk to you any longer. I hope you understand.” Brian nodded graciously, allowing her to continue. “Here, I'll give you Andrea's number.” She grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper from somewhere, hastily scribbled out the number, and thrust it into Brian's hand, then dashed back inside the house.
“Thank you for your time!” Brian called and let the door close. His stomach rumbled. Time for dinner, he reasoned, and then a few phone calls. This case was finally going somewhere.
* * * *
Brian parked his used blue Camry in the garage between the station wagon and the Ferrari. The station wagon was a decrepit Taurus his wife Julia used to take the kids to soccer practice. The Ferrari he’d been given as part of a corporate sponsorship deal, an attempt to keep him quiet on the creative accounting practices of the board of directors. The car turned out to match nicely with the red on his costume, so he kept it, and called up his contact in the IRS to get the corporation audited. The memory brought a smile to his face.
He walked over to the front door. As he adjusted his suit, he glanced behind him and saw the sky. The sun had turned the sky a brilliant orange tonight. Simply beautiful, he thought.
The door opened behind him, and he almost lost his balance as Julia enveloped him in a hug from behind. “What are you looking at?” she asked his ear, snuggling close.
Brian took her hands in his and answered, “Just the sunset.” He paused to let a smile creep back onto his face. “Julia, do you remember what you told me the first time we watched the sunset together?”
“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament is his handiwork. Psalm 19. My grandmother used to say that to me every time I’d look up, God rest her soul. It’s a beautiful sky tonight, isn’t it?”
Brian laughed in acknowledgement. “You’re happy to see me tonight. Do I get to know the reason?”
“Just glad you’re home, that’s all. I thought you could use a good ‘Welcome home!’ after a day of fruitless work.” The microwave sounded, so she released him from the embrace and headed back inside.
“Not quite fruitless, but close enough. I'm beat.”
“Look on the bright side,” Julia replied, taking the beans out of the microwave. “At least you didn't have to fight anyone today. None of those horrid cramps, either, since you didn't limp in the door. I know I'm not a good cook, but I bet I'm better than hospital food.”
“Julia, I don't know what you're talking about. The way those beans smell, you are an excellent cook. By the way, where are the boys? They're supposed to be here for dinner.”
“The boys are at soccer practice, remember? Today’s a Monday, in case you’re still jet lagged.” The beans were served, followed shortly by some burnt pork chops.
“Right,” said Brian, embarrassed at having forgotten the schedule. Maybe she was right, and he simply hadn't been burning as brightly as usual. In any case, it was good to be Brian Anselm every once in a while. He'd have to put the costume back on soon enough; time to enjoy the simple life while it lasted.
* * * *
From: Crucible (crucible@hsa.gov)
To: Theodore Kavalec (tkavalec@hsa.gov)
Date: 10/12/03, 9:28pm
Subject: GMU case
Ted,
I've spent the last few days working on the murder case you gave me, and I don't like what I see. From word of mouth, the suspect on the tape goes by Scott Collins. He appears to be a student at the university or at least has ready access to it, which would explain his familiarity with the food court area. I haven't been able to contact him directly yet, but I've interviewed several friends. They all tell me the same thing: no criminal record, no odd hobbies. The kid doesn't even get angry. The university's being stubborn about releasing its records, but I don't think there'll be any stubborn revelations from that quarter. I'm going to talk to his girlfriend tomorrow to confirm all this, but I have no reason to doubt my research.
Ted, I think we're dealing with a shapeshifter here. Is there anyone in the area who could possibly want to hide in this boy Scott's identity for a while? And should I be worried when he shows up to knife me in the back?
Crucible
* * * *
Andrea was twenty-one, good-looking, and angry at Brian. “Mr. Anselm, you don't know what you're talking about. Scott is the sweetest boy you could ever imagine. Sure, he's busy, he works long hours, but he's the perfect gentleman. I have to step on ants for him because he's too scared to do it himself. In fact, I'll call him right now and tell him to come over. This is all so – stupid!”
Over coffee, Andrea had proven quite charming, willing to answer Brian's questions, and extremely animated about her new boyfriend. In fact, they'd only been dating for three weeks, immediately following the messy breakup of Andrea's last relationship. Brian had gone to considerable trouble to contact Scott, but he never returned calls – except from his girlfriend, apparently.
“Hey, Scott, you there?” Andrea listened for a moment. Brian wished he had thought to ask Ted for some gadget to intercept that phone call.
If it weren't for that small detail, three weeks, everything would be perfectly normal. Brian's gut told him something was off. Did Andrea know?
“Yes, I know, but could you come over for just a minute? There's a Mr. Anselm here who wants to talk to you.” Another pause, Andrea wrapped up in the phone and staring into space, Brian sipping his cappuccino and betraying his nervous energy only through a shaking knee under the table. “He's got you confused with someone else.” She laughed a short, happy laugh. “Thanks so much! See ya soon!”
She snapped the phone shut. "He'll be here in five minutes. Anything else you want to ask me?"
Brian took another sip of his cappuccino and settled down to wait. "You said Scott works nights. Have you ever gone to visit him?” She shook her head, and Brian moved to more meaningless questions.
When Scott arrived, Brian watched closely for any signs of abnormality or falsehood, but he got nothing. Scott greeted his girlfriend with sweetness and not a hint of concern about the badge Brian had made sure to leave open on the table. He shook Brian's hand and looked straight into his eyes, broadcasting respect and good manners.
Thoughts raced through Brian's head, trying to come to some logical conclusion. Scott's face was definitely the face on the tape. He acted naturally towards Andrea, so if a shapeshifter was involved, this was the real Scott. If not, the boy was very good under pressure.
From the files Ted had given him, the murderer was clearly insane, special powers or no. Brian knew the warning signs of a psychopath, but Andrea's presence made everything more difficult. An unpleasant thought struck him: what if Scott was a telepath? He could be reading Andrea's mind for the proper body language...
Can't worry about that now, Brian thought. He rose from his seat and asked, “Scott, could I have a word with you in private?”
Scott nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. Anselm.” He turned to Andrea, adding, “Don't worry, this won't take long. I'm sure everything will be cleared up.” Brian scooped up his badge and the two of them headed off.
The coffee shop Brian had chosen was in the same food court as the crime Saturday night, right under the window Scott had used to enter the building. He walked them casually to the back of the building, to the big showy spiral staircase. As they passed the Chick-fil-A, now closed for “renovations”, Scott's eyes flickered towards it. His muscles tensed for a moment, then he forced himself to relax, peeking at Brian out of the corner of his eye.
Brian masked his covert observation of Scott by glancing over his shoulder, confirming that Andrea was out of sight and earshot. That reaction had confirmed that he was talking to the murderer. It wasn't a shapeshifter using Scott's face, after all.
“Scott, I'm going to let you in on a little secret.” He stepped closer, consciously looming over the boy, blocking his view of Andrea. “I know everything. I'm talking to you here because I didn't want your lady friend to get involved any more than she has to.”
As Brian talked, he thought as hard as he could, I hope that kid buys these lies. I don't have any proof. By an effort of will, he kept his voice remained low, smooth, and menacing. “On Saturday night, you slipped up. We have it all on tape.”
For just an instant, fear flashed across Scott's face. His eyes tried to burn a hole through Brian's chest to the girl sitting far behind him in the coffee shop. After a long agonized moment, he swallowed and looked up. “It looks like we're at a stalemate. I could kill you here, but I don't want the attention. And if you arrest me, I'll kill you.”
Brian nodded, but said nothing. What was Scott's real game? Got to keep him talking, he thought.
“There's only one way to keep you away from Andrea, and that's to kill you,” Scott said, visibly agitated. “I know you can't track me, so you'll do what I tell you. Be here tonight, one hour after closing time. Come alone, I'll be waiting.”
Without waiting for an answer, Scott pushed by Brian and nearly ran back to Andrea's side. Brian stood long enough to see him kiss her on the cheek, already calmed down by her presence. When Scott looked back to find Brian, he was gone.
Brian, out of sight in a hallway on the second floor, exhaled slowly, then produced a cell phone out of his suit's inside pocket. He speed dialed Ted and held the phone up to his ear, running over the facts of the case. Things had gotten a lot more complicated, but one thing was certain: Andrea was not to leave her house tonight. If she stayed out of the picture, it would be a straightforward duel, and that was all right with him. Duels are what superheroes do best.
* * * *
The building closed at eleven o’clock. At 11:45, Crucible was there in full black and red regalia. He quietly picked the lock on the front door and stepped in, taking a quick look around – or would have, if any of the lights were on. Scott must have tripped a fuse somewhere. Closing the door as far as it would close without making a sound, he quietly stepped to one side and waited for his eyes to adjust.
Crucible had a clear line of sight of the food court: the chairs stacked on the tables for the night, the Chick-fil-A to his right, the coffee shop to his left, all the way to the grand staircase at the far end. There were secondary staircases on each of the side walls, and past them, various other fast food establishments lined the sides of the food court. Above the shops were three floors of offices, classrooms, and meeting halls, with walkways looking down onto the food court.
Crucible fixed his eyes on the spiral staircase and relaxed, concentrating on his peripheral vision. When anything moved, he'd notice it instantly. He'd picked up this trick four years ago, from Julia's brother Vernon, an avid hunter. Julia had been so scared that trip about what her family would think about him, but everything had turned out all right. Of course, at the time Crucible was still frying bad guys in dark alleys, not giving interviews for the Washington Post.
In only a few minutes there was a flicker of motion past a hallway on the second floor, and the sound of padded footsteps. Scott had positioned himself so that the echoes of the hall masked his location.
“I see you came alone, like I said, Agent Anselm. Or should I call you Crucible?" His voice was half threatening, half mocking.
“You should have done your homework, boy,” said Crucible to the second floor darkness. “It's the image that matters, not the name.” The longer he could keep Scott talking, the easier it was to find him.
Scott changed the subject. “You said you cared about Andrea. Why don't you let me stay with her?” The overtones of his voice changed. He was using a staircase - but going up or down?
“You should ask yourself that question. Why haven’t you killed her yet, anyway? She’s right there. She’s a perfect target.” The battle is half mental, Crucible reminded himself.
“I thought you were a superhero,” Scott answered, raising his voice, “but it looks like you're just a fool. You don't even know why you have to die.”
I have to give him one last chance, Crucible thought. His voice boomed across the hall with as much gravity as he could muster. “I'm warning you, Scott. Give up or face my wrath.” Crucible quietly stepped away from the wall, ready to move.
Instead of answering, Scott snarled. Beneath the sound, there was a faint click from somewhere on the ground floor. A pistol being cocked. Crucible had been waiting for this moment and threw his hands up, closing his eyes. A column of fire rose up around him almost instantly, ruining Scott's night vision. Temporarily blinded, Scott only shot randomly into the flames. Crucible had already found cover behind a nearby table.
Crucible flipped the switch on his belt's GPS transmitter to call for backup. The duel is on, he thought.
"I am Crucible, the refiner's fire," he shouted for Scott's benefit, running into the center of the room by the flickering light of the fire column. "When I have passed, only the pure silver remains." He jumped onto a table and vaulted off of it, getting as high up as possible. Crucible drew a sphere in the air, his hands trailing flame, and rolled away from the spot as he landed. The sharp sound of Scott's next shots was drowned out by the roaring sound of the ignition of a tiny stationary fireball, casting the whole room into sharp outlines of darkness and light.
"Turn it off!" Scott shouted, panicked. He ran, his footsteps no longer silent but thundering. From the sound, he was running up that big spiral staircase. Once again, Crucible thought, my reputation does the work for me. For a little light show like this to shake the kid up so much that he forgets everything he knows about fighting, I must have really struck a nerve.
Crucible was already sprinting to the stairs, dodging tables and jumping potted plants. Every time he touched the floor, he got a little faster, and smoke rose from the prints of his boots burned into the tile.
At the bottom of the staircase, Crucible slipped and fell in a sudden burst of pain. Just the wrong time for a leg cramp, he thought. He knew he wouldn't make it up those stairs for at least a minute or two.
Scott looked down from reloading his pistol midway up the stairs to see his enemy sprawled on the floor. He called down, "You want the pure metal? Here it is!" and took careful aim.
The Channel 7 news crew burst in the front door and turned on their spotlights. Scott swung the gun around and pressed the trigger. Blood sprouted in the stomach of the spotlight technician, and the light swung crazily to point at the ceiling.
Scott turned back to Crucible, leaning over the railing, but gave a yell of surprise and jumped back. The remaining cameraman panned down to the bottom of the stairs.
Crucible, on one knee, had grabbed each metal railing with one hand. Fire burned in his too-black eyes, and above him, first the railings and then the entire staircase began to glow.
Scott ran as fast as he could, trying frantically to get off the red-hot staircase. He swayed from side to side, trying to use the railings to help himself up, screaming in pain at the touch. Finally he jumped the last steps to the fourth floor, fumbled with blistered fingers at his side, and threw something.
Silhouetted against the dull glow of the stairway was a grenade, falling in what seemed to be slow motion. With a burst of andrenaline, Crucible let his body run on instinct while thoughts flashed through his mind. Where did Scott get all this equipment?
He released his hands and sprung backwards, stretching out a hand upward like an outfielder lining up his catch. Why had Scott ran up four flights of stairs and stopped? Did he plan to escape onto the roof?
Crucible caught the grenade and lobbed it back up, over his head. He dove for cover under the stairs. How come the news always found him before his backup did?
The explosion shook the building, throwing shrapnel to all sides. My aim is still good, thought Crucible, pushing himself to his feet. The spiral staircase had shielded Crucible below it and Scott above from the blast.
Forcing himself to ignore the stabbing pain in his right leg, dimly aware of the spotlight trained on him and the voice of the news crew in the distance, Crucible took the stairs two at a time. Shots spattered ineffectually on the dimming stairway from Scott's perch on the fourth floor.
When Crucible reached the top of the stairs, Scott was frantically reloading again. He slammed the magazine into the gun and whipped it around to bring it to bear right between Crucible's eyes, stark terror on his face.
“Don't come any closer. If you try to burn me again, I swear I'll pull the trigger. And don't say anything, either. Andrea told me not to listen to you.”
One of Crucible's eyelids twitched, and the pistol was enveloped in flames. Before he could regain control of himself, Scott's hand instinctively dropped the gun. Stepping off the staircase, Crucible casually kicked it away and grabbed Scott by the front of his shirt.
"Wh-what will you...?" he asked, his burned hands frantically waving at his sides, his head twisting to avoid those eyes, flickering with reflected flames from the battle he had started four stories below this walkway.
"Scott," he intoned, "you're out of options. Your guns and your lies are burned away. Look in my eyes, Scott."
Scott tore himself away from Crucible's grasp and one hand dipped inside his jacket.
Before his hand could come back out, Crucible spun around and delivered a roundhouse kick to the side of Scott's head. Scott flew to the side. His head hit the railing, then the floor, and he went limp.
Crucible threw Scott over his shoulder and started down the stairs, barely putting one foot in front of the other. The boy was heavier than he looked, especially unconscious, but the press was here.
Crucible walked down the slowly cooling spiral staircase with his head high, his chest out, and his jaw properly squared. He kept walking right past the news crew and out into the night, pausing only at the front door to extinguish the flames inside.
"Sir! How did you walk down those stairs?" the reporter called after him.
Crucible turned his head, but didn't slow down as he answered, "I wear fireproof boots."
* * * *
Ted knew Brian was sore at him for making him take a case so soon after he got back in town, but he still resented having to do all the cleanup. The phone call from Brian about the possible shapeshifter case had convinced Ted to run a background check on Andrea, and when that came back the next morning, everything had fallen into place. When he woke up and found that Crucible had already gotten into a fight with Scott, Ted threw on a business suit and raced over to Andrea's house.
The girl appeared at the door and quickly shut it before the dogs could get through. “What can I do for you?” she asked calmly. Good, thought Ted, she hasn't heard the news yet.
"Miss," he said, "it is my sad duty to inform you that you have been charged under the Mentalist Crimes Act of 2002 with manslaughter."
"What?" she shrieked. Ted forced himself not to listen and kept talking.
"The United States of America charges that the death of Scott Collins was precipitated in part by your mind-controlling and/or altering abilities. Do you have a lawyer, or will you need to request an attorney provided by the State?"