After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

“It’s a little much,” she said.

“They’ve had a heck of a time trying to figure out what happened, but twenty of the passengers gave sworn affidavits that you single-handedly stopped that bus from going into the harbor. I think you may be up for a medal.”

“Don’t tell them I was just trying to save my own ass.”

He chuckled. Just like a guy to act like there’d never been anything wrong between them.

She mustered the energy to say, “Mark, are you wanting to apologize and be friends again or what?”

He looked at his shoes. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“So all a girl’s got to do to earn an apology is save a busload of people from a maniac.”

“It wasn’t … I was going to—” He paused. She watched him visibly collect himself, taking a breath, looking at the ceiling. She waited patiently. This ought to be good. But if he made her cry, she’d never speak to him again. “When I saw your name on the passenger list, but no one knew if you’d been hurt or not, I was useless. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t focus, or work. I had to find out. I got over here as soon as I could.”

As apologies went, he could have done worse. Now she had to decide whether or not she was going to forgive him.

“You should sit down,” she said. “You look tired.”

Looking relieved, he pulled up a chair. “We’ve been trying to track down the story on the driver.”

“What have you found out?”

“Male, fo

rty-seven, divorced twice. He’s got a rap sheet, a half-dozen temper-related reprimands on his work record, and a felony conviction for assault. He’d have been laid off already if the transit authority weren’t so short-handed. His supervisor didn’t seem surprised when we told him what happened.”

Not one of those he-seemed-so-nice testimonials. He’d been boiling and the system hadn’t caught it. “He just went postal.”

“Looks that way.”

Someone knocked on the door, which was already ajar, and didn’t wait for an invitation before entering.

“Celia?” Her mother pushed into the room, followed by her father, both in street clothes. Mr. and Mrs. West, now. She hadn’t seen them at the accident site. They’d been too busy, and the paramedics had sent her to the hospital with a vanload of walking wounded as soon as they could.

“Hi, Mom.”

Suzanne took the invitation to rush to the side of the bed and shower her with maternal attention. She touched Celia’s arm, shoulder, cheek, and her eyes teared up. How could a superhero be so weepy?

“I can’t believe you were on that bus. Are you all right? How do you feel? Do you need anything?”

“Don’t worry. They’re taking good care of me. Look at all the flowers.” She pointed at the wall, a distraction tactic.

“Wow, look at them all.” Suzanne acknowledged Mark then, when she was looking right at him. “Hello, Detective Paulson.”

“Hello, Mrs. West. Mr. West.”

At six-foot-five, Warren loomed over the bed. He nodded formally.

Mark found a couple more chairs. Warren remained standing.

Suzanne said, “You’ve probably told the story a thousand times already. But what happened?”

Celia had worked out a short version by now. “We were just talking about it,” she said, snuggling deeper into the pillow. “It sounds like the driver just snapped. He missed a stop, and when someone argued he pulled out a gun and started shooting. It was clear pretty quick that he planned on driving straight into the river. Someone had to stop him. It probably could have been done cleaner, or better—” If she’d been a superhuman vigilante hero, for example. “—but there wasn’t much time.”

Beaming, eyes shining, Suzanne looked over her shoulder at Warren as if to say, Look what she did, isn’t it wonderful?

Shaking his head, Warren said, “It’s too simple. There has to be more to it.”