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  Naomi patted his back. “Zolgron enhanced Dave’s mind and body. He dropped nearly a hundred pounds and put on serious muscle. Combined with his unexplained absences, I feared there was another woman. My insecurities from my traumatic childhood and the influence of Leona Campbell led me to file for divorce.”

  Dave set his bottled water in his lap. “I found out what a rat Leona was, sold my story, and got comic book royalties, so I could hire an even better lawyer.”

  Dr. Rose jotted down a few notes. “The lawyer representing you in that legal malpractice suit against Leona Campbell? How’s that going?”

  “We won!” Naomi beamed. “She had to pay us and was disbarred.”

  The big baby was such a sore loser. “At the trial, she threatened to get revenge on us, our lawyer, and the judge. She was being led away to do jail time for contempt as her paralegal took a job with our lawyer. After that, she earned resisting arrest for screaming and clawing at the cops detaining her.”

  “Interesting.” Dr. Rose cleared his throat and adjusted his position in his chair. “So why aren’t you Powerhouse anymore?”

  Dave sipped his bottled water. “The night James was shot, Zolgron learned his lesson and was released from being a symbiote.”

  “So he’s returned to his own planet?”

  I wish. Dave bit his lip. Where had that come from? Zolgron was loyal and so helpful and yet . . . “Zolgron decided his own people would still be holding a grudge and thus has stayed on Earth. He helped with James’ rehab and has taken care of our food bills.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “Easy.” Dave beamed and puffed out his chest. “I taught him how to properly use his super-imagination, though he’s stopped making food appear out of thin air. He’s gone on a cooking kick and become a gourmet chef.”

  “You’ve got the world’s only super-powered chef?”

  Naomi nodded and shrugged. “When he’s not off fighting drug runners, terrorists, and pirates around the world.”

  “Isn’t he worried about attracting government attention? He is an illegal alien.”

  “Nah.” Dave waved. “Officially, he’s registered as a Suriname Citizen with legal permanent residence status in the U.S.”

  “Why Suriname?”

  “Do you know anyone from Suriname?”

  “No.”

  Dave put his index finger in the air. “Exactly.”

  The doctor rubbed his eyes. “How did you feel when you couldn’t be Powerhouse any more?”

  “I was a little down, but that feeling was selfish and wrong of me. Being Powerhouse almost wrecked my marriage. Plus I had to take care of James.”

  “It’s noble of you to try to push your disappointment aside to focus on your son, but I think the feeling is still there.”

  Dave cringed at Naomi. Boy was he in for it. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Naomi put her index finger to Dave’s lips. “Powerhouse didn’t cause our problems. When I found out you were Powerhouse, I was very proud of you.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “Because I felt like a rat. Here I was furious at you for missing family vacations to instead spend time with ‘the other woman’ when you were really off fighting terrorists and saving the world from a nuclear bomb.”

  Dr. Rose blinked. “He was?”

  Naomi bit her lip. “I’m sorry, that’s classified. Forget I said it.”

  “Okay.” Dr. Rose wrote in his notebook.

  Naomi took Dave’s hands and squeezed them. “What caused our problems was that you didn’t trust me with your secret.”

  “I was trying to protect you.”

  Naomi put her left hand on her purse. “That didn’t stop your enemies from finding out who you are and kidnapping the boys. Now that we know, we can protect the kids as well as me.”

  I guess Lois Lane never surprised Lex Luthor by packing a .38 in her purse. “It sounded like a good idea at the time. I’m sorry.”

  Dr. Rose said, “Dave, it's okay to feel bad about not being Powerhouse any more. You need to mourn that season before you can embrace the new season, but you can still make a difference even without super powers.”

  Dave peered at him. “How?”

  “I don’t know what God has planned, but he’ll prepare you for it and show you when it’s the right time.”

  “Ooh, I know!” Naomi squeezed Dave’s hand, her eyes sparkling. “We could visit the church office and see what volunteer opportunities there are.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Doctor Rose nodded. “I’ve also got a book that I can give you, and there’s a website where you can take a career test.” Dr. Rose stood and walked them to the door. “I’ll see you again in six months?”

  Dave nodded. Out in the lobby again, he ducked his head and smiled as he glanced sidelong at his wife. “You really were proud of me?”

  Naomi kissed him on the cheek. “I still am.”

  Chapter 3

  A Stab at Heroism

  Dave stood on the doorstep of the townhouse eying the two little boys inside watching Sponge Bob.

  The harried brunette in her mid-twenties returned and handed Dave his empty cardboard box. “Thank you for bringing the food. It really helps.”

  He beamed. “Glad to do it, Miss Carter. I’ll be by again next week.”

  The woman closed the door of the townhouse. Dave set the box down on the cement walk, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the list of needy families that the church secretary had printed up. Where was his next stop?

  “Look, jerk! I’m not going to take this from you.”

  Dave glanced around. Across the court of half-brick yellow townhouses, a woman in a mid-1990s Jeep Cherokee screamed at a greasy man smoking outside a unit. “I’m leaving and you’re not going to stop me!”

  The smoker made an obscene hand gesture, cursed, and stomped inside the townhouse.

  She screamed at full screech, jumped out of the Cherokee, and ran in after him.

  Dave blinked. Huh? What was the crazy woman doing?

  The crazy woman’s Cherokee began to roll towards Miss Carter’s car.

  Dave dropped the list and race to the rolling SUV’s driver’s side.

  The window was rolled down, so Dave put his hand on the stripping where the window would’ve been and pushed forward. The four-wheeled beast came to a stop three feet in front of Miss Carter’s car.

  Dave peeked in the Cherokee’s cabin. It was a stick shift. Oh no. He didn’t know how to get a stick shift out of gear. “Miss Carter! Miss Carter!”

  Miss Carter strolled out of the house and gasped. “You saved my car.”

  “Get the neighbor across the way to come take her vehicle back.”

  “Okay.” Miss Carter ran across the court.

  The crazy woman re-emerged from the townhouse, screamed, and ran over, wide-eyed. “Oh my gosh, did I forget to take that out of gear? I’m so sorry. Thank you so much.”

  Dave beamed. “Not at all, citizen.”

  “Citizen?” The crazy woman blinked.

  You’re not Powerhouse. “I’m a superhero fan.”

  She giggled. “Oh right. Thanks, hero.”

  The crazy woman pushed past Dave, hopped in the Cherokee’s driver seat, and drove it back.

  Dave sighed. Of course, it wasn’t really a job for superhero. Anyone could stop a rolling car in neutral. Powerhouse could’ve stopped an airplane going in reverse.

  Mitch sauntered up to room 304 at the Holiday Inn Express and rapped hard on the door.

  A small bald man in a tweed suit opened up a crack. “Mr. Farrow?”

  “In the rotting flesh.”

  The bald man opened the door. “Come on in.” He led Mitch to a table with fresh fruit in a woven-straw basket. “Banana? Mango? Papaya?”

  Mitch waved. “I’m fine.”

  The bald man pointed at a black chair at the glass table. “Have a seat.”

  “Sure.” Mitch lowered himself into the chair.<
br />
  The man eased into the chair across from him and extended his hand over the table. “My name’s Dewey Poindexter. How do you feel today?”

  Mitch shook his hand. “I’m ambiguous.”

  Poindexter delivered a plastic smile. “How so?”

  “At a job interview, you’re supposed to be optimistic, confident, and positive if you want the job. Since you’re advertising for a cynic, what am I supposed to be?”

  “Yourself. I’ll fake being cheerful and enthusiastic for both of us.”

  “So you admit you’re insincere?”

  Poindexter’s smile grew wider. “I’m nothing but a corporate shill with no sincere human actions whatsoever.”

  “As long as we understand each other.”

  “First, I do want to apologize for the principle that it’s taken so long to process your application. You did quite well on the written test. You scored with one of the highest cynic ratings recorded.”

  Where was the camera? “Usually, being cynical is a problem.”

  Poindexter chuckled. “For this job, it’s a prerequisite. Now, I just want to check a few answers. Your opinion on politics?”

  “Two wolves with different labels leading the sheep to the slaughter.”

  “Good.” Poindexter pulled out a Blackberry from his jacket’s inside pocket and typed something on its tiny keyboard. “Organized religion?”

  “Stupid, evil hypocrites who build hundred million dollar monuments to their own greatness called megachurches. Meanwhile they ignore the orphans and the homeless people who are starving only a few blocks away.”

  “Excellent. The press?”

  “Idiots who report trivia and ignore how we’re getting robbed blind.”

  “Corporate America?”

  “Leeches that suck communities dry and discard them like shells. They are as committed to their employees as a Hollywood starlet seeking happily ever after is to her latest husband when a real man inevitably can’t live up to a movie hero’s standard.”

  “Wonderful. Family?”

  Considering what his own family was like? He smirked. “The family is the institution that screws up kids for life and keeps therapists in business.”

  “What’s your outlook on the human race?”

  Mitch snorted. “We’re the lowest order of primates. When did a baboon blow up a building so he gets seventy-two virgins? When have gorillas run up impossible debts? All humans use our intellect for is to invent more ways to destroy ourselves.”

  “Fantastic!” Poindexter annunciated each syllable as a separate word while he grinned and pointed at him with both index fingers. “Do you care about your daughter?”

  Mitch’s heart wrenched. He nodded, swallowing as he closed his eyes. “I miss her a lot, but I hate to see her suffering.”

  “What about the poor, do you care about them?”

  “Sure, but the poorest people in the world are kept in poverty thanks to the foolishness of their governments. Take a look at Africa. You have people starving there when Africa has enough arable land to not only feed Africa but the entire world. It’s politics and warlords that are starving people, and there’s nothing we can do.”

  “The sick?”

  “Overseas, politics and superstition kill the sick. Here we let the FDA do it.”

  “And you’re currently self-employed?”

  “I sell books for two hundred dollars that I purchased from garage sales for ninety-nine cents.”

  Poindexter scanned Mitch’s resume. “I see you’ve worked for multiple respected newspapers. Why did you leave journalism?”

  “My editors thought I was too cynical.”

  Poindexter whistled. He covered his mouth with both hands and cleared his throat. “That’s all I need. What questions do you have?”

  Mitch leaned back. “None, but you should know something. I’m dying.”

  Poindexter’s smile faded. “Oh?”

  “I have AIDS. Treatment can only prolong the inevitable.”

  “But I’ve heard they’ve made remarkable strides in treating HIV.”

  “Sure, if you have an early diagnosis. I received a concurrent diagnosis of HIV and AIDS. I contracted it from a blood transfusion when I got in a car accident in Rio twelve years ago. I spread HIV to my wife, and she gave it to my daughter when we had her. I didn’t find out I had it until my daughter was six. A doctor decided to test her only after her fourth life-threatening bacterial infection.”

  “You still married?”

  “Divorced.” Mitch scowled and ground his teeth. “There was a lot of strain on our marriage. Then my wife went and got religion. Spent all her life ignoring God and goes running to the Church when she gets sick. One thing I can’t stand is a hypocrite.”

  Poindexter lowered his head and whistled. “It sounds like you’ve been through a lot. I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time.”

  “Do you really care?”

  Poindexter smirked. “No, but I’m trying to build rapport.”

  Mitch chuckled. “You’re a card.”

  “Nah, a sycophant, but you’re ready to meet the principles. Can you be at the top of the old Ross Insurance Building, tomorrow at ten for a follow-up interview?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Mitch shrugged. “Didn’t some big corporation buy the building when old man Ross went to prison?”

  Poindexter tucked his Blackberry back in his coat. “Yes, but I’ve lived in Seattle a long time. To me, it’ll always be the Ross Insurance Building.”

  Dave and Naomi walked out of the Kirkland Performance Center. Dave slipped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “So what did you think?”

  Naomi strolled in silence way too long before speaking. “Hearing people perform a vintage Radio show in the 21st Century wasn’t what I expected.”

  “It was cool. It’s too bad they didn’t do Superman.”

  Naomi smiled. “You look quite dapper tonight, Dave.”

  “In a gray turtle neck and black jeans?”

  “For you, that’s dressing up.”

  Dave peered at Naomi’s navy blue polka dot dress. “Well, you were the best dressed woman there.”

  Naomi blushed. “I was overdressed! The theaters I went to that summer in New York, people dressed up for, not just show up in their normal casual wear.”

  “That’s how I like it.”

  They approached near to their car. Naomi fished in her purse for her keys. “Has that whole food route helped you?”

  Dave whipped his keys out and pressed the button that unlocked the car. “It’s not leaping tall buildings in a single bound, but when I’m delivering meals to folks in need, I feel useful and like life’s got a point. I even have a business idea.”

  Naomi stopped in her tracks. “Did the aliens abduct my husband again? You’ve never talked about starting a business.”

  Sure, he’d only dreamed about it quietly until they started going to the shrink, but he wasn’t going to admit that was helpful at all for the world. “I’ve been thinking that, with all the kids in town, Bryerton needs a kid-friendly comic book store.”

  Naomi kissed Dave on the cheek. “Okay, you’re still my husband, but that idea sounds like an oxymoron to me, honey. Some comics are nasty.”

  “Exactly why we need a comic book store that doesn't sell those.”

  “I guess we do finally have some money saved up. Let’s pray about it. If it still sounds like something we want to do, we can work on it.”

  Was that a yes or a no?

  The cry of an old man pierced the air. “Leave me alone!”

  Dave sped toward the screaming, his arms and legs pumping full steam.

  Naomi called. “Dave, wait for me!”

  Dave turned down an alley packed with garbage cans.

  A hood held a knife at an elderly man’s throat and sneered. “Seven dollars? What am I supposed to get with that?”

  “A five year term in the State pen.” Dave clenched his fists on his hips. He might have lost his su
perpowers, but he could still wisecrack like a pro.

  The miscreant spun in a slow circle and glared. “Who are you?”

  “Someone who thinks you shouldn’t rob old men. Give him his wallet and leave him alone before someone gets hurt.”

  The hood laughed. “Okay, wise guy. As a bone for you being so amusing, I’ll let this waste of space live and simply take what you’ve got on you.”

  The hood charged toward Dave with the knife. “Hand over the wallet or you’ll be the one who gets hurt.”

  Dave jumped out of the way and grabbed the elbow of the knife arm. Dave squeezed and twisted the hood’s arm.

  The hood pulled a switchblade out of his pocket with his right hand and slammed the blade into Dave’s stomach. Pain sliced through him in agonizing waves as the hood cursed at him. “I can use both hands, fool.”

  Naomi screamed.

  Dave gasped, clutched his stomach, and fell onto his knees. Batman had never had to face an ambidextrous hood.

  The world faded around Dave as his face raced toward the pavement.

  Chapter 4

  The Big Break

  Naomi ran into the dead-end alley Dave had disappeared into.

  He grabbed and twisted the knife arm of a young man with saggy pants as an elderly man fled toward the exit from the alley, moving pretty spry for a senior citizen. Saggy Pants stabbed a second knife into Dave’s stomach.

  Dave grunted and stumbled backwards onto the pavement.

  God, no. She opened her purse, whipped out her .38 Smith and Wesson, and pointed it at Saggy Pants. “Drop that knife and get on the ground.”

  Saggy Pants dropped his other knife and lay face down on the asphalt.

  Naomi called to the fleeing old man, “Call 9-1-1!”