Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(125)
“Didn’t seem like it.”
“We’re old enemies. Gallons of water under the bridge — but right now the Brick needs her.”
“PA, he doesn’t have to die.”
“You know a miracle cure I don’t?”
“Maybe.”
The woman slowed her pace as they descended the stairs, head cocked to one side. “And you. Are you really all right?”
“Sure.”
“Sure?” PA rolled her eyes, trying her best to look annoyed but obviously relieved. “You like playing it minimal, don’t you?”
“I guess. Any news? — About Donald Wright, I mean.”
“Plenty.”
“Go on.”
“The police found five cadavers in his burned-out offices.”
“Five…?” This morsel made Jack uneasy. Had innocent people lost their lives? “Who?”
“We don’t exactly know, not yet. They’re with the coroner — but the on-scene quack reported some striking similarities between the skeletal structures of all five victims. Kahn says he’ll let us know as soon as they finish with autopsies and have a verdict re: cause of death.”
“Killed by Cape,” her partner mumbled, lost in thought. “And they’ll let us know their identities?”
“And their identities, if possible.”
“So this could be Wright,” Jack hoped aloud, “or his lookalikes.”
“Maybe.”
He narrowed his eyes — was PA now having a shot at playing it bare bones? “Do we know yet how many versions of Wright there are?”
“Our beat cop Kahn has a pet theory: Six.”
“Six? Why six?”
“All to do with a note the Big O was packing when he died, apparently.”
A thawing smile worked its way onto Jack’s face. Gonzo had mentioned that number. “Half a dozen? It’s possible.” Then he remembered something he’d noticed the first time he met Donald Wright at the Port Phillip Patriot — over by one window had been that tall, antique wooden hat-stand with six identical black bowlers. “You know, I think he might be right.”
“Minus the suicide you and Gypsie-Ann witnessed would leave five.”
“The five corpses at the Patriot?”
“We live in hope.”
“That’s for sure. Where’s Gypsie-Ann?”
“Out doing her thing: Snooping. I swear this has given her a new lease on life.” The Equalizer stopped and looked down at her colleague. “What happened in Melbourne?”
“I met Milkcrate Man, saw the GWH.”
“The GWH? You spoke to him?”
“No. I tried, but it was a one-way street. He’s gone, like you and the Brick figured.”
“Dead?”
“Next best thing.”
“Ah.”
“But Gonzo — Milkcrate Man — is looking after things out there. He has the Reset back online.”
With her jaw hanging open, PA aped the spitting image of shocked. “You’re kidding me?”
“About the Reset? Or the fact that we have to rely on Milkcrate Man.”
“I don’t know — a portion of both?”
“Live a little.” Jack winked. “I think we can strike Milkcrate Man off the suspects list. He’s going to help, and we Reset tonight. One final time.”
“Why only the once?”
“We can’t save a single soul in Melbourne, but these people here deserve the chance to develop on their own.”
“When they do…they tend to hate us,” the woman sighed.
“Then we have to earn their respect.”
“Do you know a recipe for that?”
“Think we’ll need to write one ourselves.”
“Ye gods. So. What on earth have you cooked up?”
Jack rubbed his jaw. “We hit Reset this last time, just to put things straight in Heropa — save the lives of any people in hospital, Cape or Blando; resurrect this city. I’m praying it’s also in time for the Brick.”
PA started walking again, leading her partner to the kitchen. “And Louise.”
“And Louise,” said Jack.
“She won’t remember you.”
The Equalizer shrugged, but he had an honest smile when Pretty Amazonia glanced back. “She doesn’t have to.”
#179
Jack didn’t have the gumption to set foot in his quarters, not after what’d happened there, so PA set him up in a spare room at the other end of a long corridor, and then delivered an armful of clothes — which, for anyone else, would have been two.
Just before eight o’clock, switching to a suit that was slate-grey and a burgundy-coloured tie with geometric designs on it, Jack went downstairs. While he stood between the doorways to Las Palmas Luggage Shop and A.G. Geiger Rare Books & De Luxe Editions, Stan stood on the kerb to hail him a taxi — a 1940s Chevrolet, all yellow aside from red fenders and a chequer-pattern strip along both sides. It had Green Top Cab Company signage.