accidental, saying he was the victim of autoerotic asphyxiation. Eric Gray had become the Retaliator in order to solve the mystery of his father’s murder, a quest for justice that still drove him twenty years later. Wearing his father’s clothes wasn’t a sexual statement. It was, instead, a warning to the unknown murderer, a reminder that there was one man, at least, who still remembered his crime.
“Here comes Casper,” said Atomahawk.
“Don’t call him that,” growled Retaliator.
The ethereal form of Witness floated toward the roof. Witness was really Chang Williams, the ghost of a twelve-year-old conjoined twin whose now-separated brother was currently in a coma. Chang’s spirit was trapped on earth, unseen by all save for the few souls who’d been to the other side and returned. Since nearly all the members of the Law Legion had died at one point or another, they had recently adopted the ghost-child and given him a new life as Witness, an invisible, intangible spy who could gather information in the most dangerous environments without risk to himself.
Witness floated before them, completely naked, since souls have no need for clothes. It was politically incorrect to call conjoined twins Siamese, yet Chang was, in fact, from Thailand, formerly known as Siam, though he’d been raised in America. He was thin, almost girlish, having died before puberty, with skin the color of a walnut shell; his dark eyes had no irises as he stared at Retaliator and said, “There are a dozen men inside. They frighten me. I can’t touch them.”
“You can’t touch anybody,” said Atomahawk.
Witness reached out and placed his skinny fingers onto the Apache’s boot. The big man gave a small yelp and jerked his foot away. “What the hell was that?”
“You should read the dossiers. Witness has a graveyard touch,” growled Retaliator. “He can brush against anyone’s soul and make them feel the mortal chill of their own guilt.”
“So, what, the men in that warehouse have no souls?” asked Atomahawk.
“They’ve signed Prime Mover’s contract,” said Retaliator, with a sigh. “Another dozen lost to the God Clock.”
“They’re well armed,” said Witness. “Assault rifles and fancy-looking pistols. They’ve got cases of C4 in the back of the warehouse. Also, five or six small helicopters. At least I think they’re helicopters; they don’t have rotors attached. They’re planning to blow something up, but no one said what.”
“The Supreme Court,” said Retaliator.
“Is this anything more than a guess?” said Atomahawk.
“Tomorrow is when they’re hearing arguments on Prime Mover’s appeals. They’re being asked to decide if a murder conviction can stand if the victim is later restored to life by a time-travel paradox.”
“Even if he gets off on that technicality, he’s guilty of hundreds of other murders,” said Atomahawk. “He’s not going to walk. Also, why blow up a hearing that might lead to a ruling in his favor?”
“It’s too big a coincidence that his goons are stocking up on explosives. Security is going to be high tomorrow. He would blow the place up just to prove he still runs the world even from a prison cell.”
“Is he that crazy?”
“Maybe,” said Retaliator. “Or maybe the guy rotting in prison isn’t the real Prime Mover. When they put him in jail, Prime Mover claimed he was a cop named Jason Reid who’d somehow been put into Prime Mover’s body. An hour later, though, he was back to normal. Assuming ‘normal’ is the right word for a man who believes he’s God.”
“You’re taking the idea he can swap his soul into other bodies seriously?” asked Atomahawk.
“I’m talking to the ghost of a Siamese twin and an Indian with a fusion reactor where his heart should be,” said Retaliator. “I’m not in a position to dismiss anything as impossible.”
Atomahawk nodded toward the warehouse. “We going to do this thing?”
“Go,” said