Marshall Conrad: A Superhero Tale Page 3

  “Because I don’t have a secret decoder ring?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Seriously,” she said. “Have you ever noticed that we don’t get a lot of crime here in Greenfield? It’s one of the few places where you can walk in a dark alley without the fear of being accosted by some fruitcake.”

  She was testing me.

  In the twenty minutes since she’d started our conversation, I’d learned that Stella Weinberg loved a good mystery and was open to the possibility that a scientific explanation sometimes offers more questions than answers.

  “Yup, it’s a safe place to live.” I nodded.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Marshall?” she asked, dead serious.

  “Nope.”

  “I thought I saw a ghost about two years ago, and do you want to know something really weird?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Damndest thing I ever saw. It was the middle of the night and I was pushing my little shopping cart home from the Shop Stopper Price-Mart. You know, they have that midnight madness sale every year.”

  “Yeah, I always go there to stock up on cat food.”

  “Well. it’s only a few blocks from my house and it was a mild evening, so I cut across Delaney Park because I like the swans. Have you ever looked at the swans in the moonlight? They’re just beautiful.”

  “No, I hate birds,” I said, sourly.

  “Right. Well, I felt like taking a breather and just admire the swans as they paddled about in the moonlight. Anyway, I heard a woman scream, and then a loud crack echoed through the park. I damned near had an accident right there on the bench because I was alone and I don’t exactly run the hundred-yard dash on a regular basis.”

  I had a sense of where this was going and thought it would be best to end the discussion.

  “Stella, I have to leave. It was nice meeting you,” I said, trying not to sound paranoid.

  “No wait,” she blurted out, putting her hand on my chest. “I got up as quickly as I could and pushed my cart back onto the street because I was scared shitless. Then I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye.”

  “What was it?” I asked.

  “Just a flash of light for a couple of seconds, but it was long enough for me to clearly make out the shape of a man’s body, and Jesus H. Christ, but wasn’t he shooting into the sky like a rocket!”

  I blinked at Stella, and said nothing as I considered how to respond.

  It was clear that our meeting wasn’t just a chance encounter. She’d come up with a theory about Greenfield’s first murder in over ten years and her statement about seeing a mysterious flying man was a deliberate shot across my bow.

  “You should write books, because that’s a helluva good story,” I chuckled, nervously.

  “Funny thing though, Marshall, but the next day I read in the paper that a Sheriff’s Deputy found a man handcuffed to park gate and it turns out that this guy tried to rape a woman in the park that same night,” she said, assessing my reaction.

  “You were probably frightened to death,” I said, downplaying her theory. “People have been known to see things when they’re terrified.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” she said. “But I remember a very distinctive feature about the figure I saw darting into the sky.”

  “Do tell,” I said, still sounding sarcastic.

  Stella squeezed my hand and leaned in toward my ear.

  “It had glowing eyes,” she whispered.

  Chapter 4

  Dictionaries define evil as morally wrong, wicked and injurious. I’ve always been struck by how generic that definition sounds.

  Some argue that evil exists because man’s first wife suckered him into eating that damned forbidden apple, thereby condemning all of humanity, while others insist that man himself creates evil by his nature. Since I wasn’t around to view what happened in the Garden of Eden, I believe that uncovering the reasons why evil occurs is largely irrelevant when someone is pointing a gun at your head.

  I’m practical that way.

  I’d been thinking a lot about my meeting with Stella Weinberg. Her suggestion that Greenfield was about to experience a killing-spree might have been easier to dismiss if she hadn’t shown me that spiral engraved rock. One rock is a coincidence, but more than twenty? I knew there was a connection, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

  Then there was the issue of why I didn’t foresee Stephen Hodges’ death. Now that was unsettling. Though I have unique abilities, there is a random quality to what I foresee. Sometimes a vision is crystal-clear and plays out like a movie trailer, other times they’re just fragmented clues and I’m forced to assemble them like a jigsaw puzzle.

  I imagine you’re probably wanting to know how I came to possess what you might call “super powers.” Surely a guy who can fly can also figure out who is behind the death of a sixteen year-old kid or the secret meaning of the collection of spiral engraved rocks at Stella Weinberg’s curiosity shop, right? If only it were that simple.

  It might be disappointing for you to learn that I didn’t morph into a crime fighter at puberty like the X-Men, and I am not the result of a wartime experiment to produce a super soldier like Captain America. I don’t possess super powers. I borrow them.

  Over six billion people occupy our planet. Every single person who has lived or who is yet to be born owns the ability to do harm or good. If just one percent of the world’s population engages in criminal behavior, then at any given moment, sixty million people are regular participants in everything from shoplifting to murder. That’s a staggering number when you consider ninety-nine percent of the world’s population assumes law enforcement will always be there to protect them.

  While I don’t particularly like cops, it’s important to remember that as a rule, they don’t exactly act as a deterrent because they simply enforce laws most of us willingly abide by. Still, you have to feel for them for two reasons: cops are outnumbered by the bad guys, and when cops actually do prevent a crime from happening, say by conducting a sting, civil libertarians scream “entrapment” until they’re blue in the face. It makes you question who the real bad guys are, doesn’t it?

  Willful intent is a powerful force. It eclipses any good that might exist in human beings and it flows with energy produced by those whose heart’s desire is fulfilled by violence and chaos. It creates impetus with every criminal act and transcends cultural, religious and philosophical norms.

  Because evil is a supernatural force, some people have the capacity to harness the energy it creates. They might be psychics who aid police in finding a missing person, or artists who depict the classic struggle of good versus evil in everything from painting to literature. I possess the ability to channel the darkness and shape its properties. My body absorbs energy, particularly when I’m in the actual presence of evil. That’s when my eyes will glow with white light. If you still don’t get it, I’ll dumb it down for you: bad guys are a supernatural battery and I am the Energizer Bunny.

  The first time I harnessed the power of willful intent was at a summer bible camp for youth in 1982. I was raised a Baptist, and Pastor James Gregory took it upon himself to ensure children in his congregation understood that while God might forgive our sins, the only way to obtain absolution was to seek the counsel of the good Pastor in the privacy of his cabin on Lake Chebucto.

  I’d recently committed the unpardonable offense of being caught by Stanley Ibsen with a worn out copy of Penthouse. He then took it upon himself to rat on me. This was after I refused to trade him the magazine for his Mike Bossy autographed hockey puck. When Pastor Gregory found out about my misdeed, he summoned me to his cabin for a discussion about why I would be going straight to hell and how I might avoid that terrible fate.

  It was strange that he insisted on meeting me at 11:00 PM when everyone at camp was sound asleep, but I assumed that my sin was of such a serious nature that God had a right to mete out punishment at a time of his choo
sing. As I sat on Pastor Gregory’s ugly plaid sofa, I listened attentively as he explained the reasons for temptation, and how the Devil was always looking for new ways to corrupt children and youth.

  “God wants you to know that lust is a dangerous sin, Marshall,” he lectured. “Most children your age can be led astray and it doesn’t help that you don’t have a father’s strict hand to ensure you remain an obedient servant of God’s will.”

  I nodded silently.

  “You should have known better,” said the Pastor. “You’ve been a member of our church community all your life, and I’ve always expected more from you.”

  “I-I’m s-sorry, Pastor Gregory,” I whimpered. “Trevor Jarvis gave the magazine to me on the last day of school because he didn’t have the five dollars he owed me.”

  “I see, someone else who is responsible for a sin that you committed—how lucky you seem to be.” Pastor Gregory thrust a thick bible onto my lap. “Read Romans six-twenty-three, though you should have it committed to memory by now.” He walked to the over to the front door of his cabin as I leafed through the thin pages of the New Testament. “What does it say, Marshall,” asked the Pastor as he flipped the lock.

  “The wages of sin is death,” I whispered, as I fought the urge to throw up. “But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus our Lord.”

  “That’s right, Marshall,” he said, as he dimmed the Coleman lantern. “While God offers everlasting life through Jesus, the only way to know that God has forgiven you is for you to remember what you did to God on this day.”

  I sniffled. “O-Okay.”

  “That magazine contains pictures of whores, and the people who publish it are agents of the darkness,” he said, his voice turned hoarse and hollow. “Their purpose is to deceive boys like you with nakedness and sex.”

  My head started pounding. The dim light inside the room stabbed at my brain and my stomach rolled with each wave of nausea. “I’m s-sorry —I don’t feel very well right now. May I go back to my cabin?” I asked in a weak voice, as I held my stomach.

  “No!” the Pastor growled. “You’ve brought the devil to the doorstep of my bible camp. I know the depth of your sin and so does God. If you’re feeling sick, Marshall, then it’s God’s will. Maybe you’re sick because the filth associated with what you’ve done has stained your heart, and you’re troubled because you’ve been found out!”

  The room became blurry and I ground my fists into my eyes. I felt a bead of sweat roll down my back and I hoped God would accept my apology because he was seriously kicking my ass for reading that Penthouse magazine.

  “The Lord knows what you’re doing and he wants me to remind you never to sin again,” whispered the Pastor, in a voice filled with menace. “Get down on your knees as I pray that God forgives you—take my hand, Marshall.”

  I slowly dropped to my knees and hesitantly offered my hand to Pastor Gregory.

  “Holy father, forgive this sinful child for his filthy misdeed. Let your grace guide him to a path of virtue and teach him to shun all temptation. I ask that you give me the wisdom to teach boys like Marshall about the wages of sin. As I take his hand in mine, I pray that you will show him the blessings of a virtuous life through Christ Jesus. Amen.”

  His grip tightened around my hand. “Keep your eyes closed, Marshall. What I’m about to do will never leave this room, do you understand?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” I said, as tears began rolling down my face.

  “God punishes boys who look at pictures of whores in filthy magazines,” he hissed. “Do you fantasize about fornicating with whores, Marshall? Is that how you honor God?”

  “N-no sir,” I sniveled.

  He pressed my hand against his chest. “You’ll know that God has forgiven you after tonight Marshall, won’t you?” The pain of my headache raged like a bottled storm as Pastor Gregory slowly lowered my hand below the cold metal of his belt buckle.

  “Please, I need to go now, p-please,” I sobbed.

  “You’ll stay here with me until God has forgiven you, Marshall Conrad,” he scolded. “Through me, the holy spirit will purge you of this sin”

  Pastor Gregory’s groin throbbed against the palm of my hand and I tried to pull away as he placed his other hand on top of my head, pushing me toward his crotch.

  I’d always believed Pastor James Gregory was a person who exuded virtue not only through his words, but also through deeds. He started a fund to help the Johanssons rebuild their home after a fire destroyed all their worldly possessions. He spearheaded a capital campaign to raise money for a new baseball diamond, which they named in his honor.

  Yet there was a hint of mystery surrounding his personal life. Pastor Gregory was a fifty-two-year-old bachelor who lived alone in a bungalow next to our church. He never entertained in his home and his interaction with the community was only a product of his ministry. His moral authority was absolute, and nobody ever thought to question why he’d never married or why he ran a bible camp exclusively for boys.

  Maybe they should have.

  As the migraine and cramps wracked my body, images of countless boys summoned to a meeting with Pastor Gregory flooded through my mind. I was awash with his thoughts and I could hear the Pastor’s voice inside my head:

  “Punish these children for the shame they’ve brought to God. Compel them to beg the Lord will forgive them. God has chosen you to act as a vessel for their redemption; make them feel God’s power. Pleasure yourself on their bodies and threaten each boy with hellfire and damnation should they tell a soul. These are filthy children, and you want them—you’ve always wanted them.”

  At fourteen years old, I was experiencing my first face-to-face encounter with willful intent. I was a witness to the blackness of Pastor Gregory’s soul, and it was a stew of perversion and disease that fueled my body with a frenzy to lash out—to make him experience what he’d done to so many other boys before me.

  “God will absolve you, Marhsall,” he whispered reassuringly. “It’s time to seek his forgiveness.” He pushed my hand firmly into his groin.

  “Like hell it is!” I spat.

  My eyes blazed furiously as the dim cabin exploded into brilliant white light. Pastor Gregory screamed as I crushed his testicles into a paste that saturated his trousers, dripping blood down my left arm and onto the carpet. A torrent of energy surged through my veins and Pastor Gregory writhed in agony as I raised him over my head.

  “S-S-Satan...” he blubbered.

  “I’m not Satan, you pervert!” I snarled. “You wanted to hurt me like you hurt all those other boys, but not tonight—not ever again.”

  I was too enraged to realize a supernatural phenomenon was occurring inside Pastor James Gregory’s cabin that night. This might sound strange, but I distinctly remember feeling no sense of astonishment by the fact that I was holding a man over my head by one hand. It was as if my metamorphosis was a natural result of Pastor’s Gregory’s willful intent to harm me. I simply became.

  “Help me, God, h-help,” the Pastor cried sheepishly from above my head as I relaxed my iron grip on his crotch.

  “Wall,” I said, in a monotone voice.

  Pastor Gregory wailed as he jettisoned across the room and crashed into a bookcase. His body bounced like a tennis ball and landed on the floor in a heap. He moaned loudly as an old photo album fell out of the bookcase and landed on his face.

  “Book,” I said, and the photo album sailed into my hands.

  Each page of the photo album contained a single Polaroid of a naked boy with each boy’s first name neatly written at the bottom of the page with the year he’d snapped the picture. I nearly threw up on the carpet when I discovered a blank page with my name on it.

  My assault on Pastor Gregory made enough noise to awaken the camp counselors, and I spotted beams of light bouncing off the branches of the pine trees surrounding the cabin. I quickly ripped the pages out of the photo album and threw them on top of Pastor Gregory so the counselors would find
them when they arrived. It was time to make an exit.

  “Door,” I whispered. The back door of his cabin flew off the hinges, and then crashed into a tree. As I stepped outside, I heard the voices of the counselors approaching and I uttered the one word that would forever change my life.

  “Fly!”

  My body became weightless as an invisible force pushed against my feet, lifting me off the ground. I closed my eyes and my skin tingled with electricity as I shot into the sky like a bullet. I pressed my hands tightly against the seams of my trousers as the cool midnight air flowed through my hair and whistled past my ears. I was flying. I was actually flying!

  I opened my eyes and I could see the moon’s reflection bouncing off the rippling surface of Lake Chebucto as I slowed my ascent. I should have been terrified by whatever supernatural force was responsible for keeping me in the air, but I was overcome by the magnificence and wonder of what was happening to me.

  My muscles throbbed with energy as I gazed out over the pine forest stretched out like a carpet in all directions, and I could see the headlights of automobiles on the Interstate cutting through the darkness. Moonlight painted the water with silver as a family of Loons chattered in the distance. A Kingfisher dove into the lake with a loud splash and I listened to the lonely whoosh of the wind gently rolling over the treetops below my feet.

  The sky is a breathtaking realm of majestic creatures whose kings are eagles or condors. I had no business trespassing into their domain, yet there I was. I remember feeling that perhaps this was a sin of far greater magnitude than what had led me to my meeting with Pastor Gregory.

  He was no longer a secret—I’d made sure of that.

  Pastor Gregory would be arrested and the scandal would capture the headlines for months as his trial proceeded. I’d probably have to testify in court and recount everything in painful detail. He’d be found guilty and sentenced to spend decades in prison for his crimes.

  ****

  But it didn’t work out that way.

  The now defrocked minister was in protective custody because his lawyer argued that he’d be targeted by the general population of the Greenfield County Jail and might not live long enough to make it to his trial. It was a pointless exercise. Corrections officers found his lifeless body in a pool of his own blood after he hacked his wrists with a plastic knife.