"You say that like you don't believe in heroes."
Mort sounded so wounded that Gaby blinked at him. "What? And you do?"
"Well… yeah."
"You've been reading too many graphic novels." He'd been reading too much of her work. "Granted, there's a few fools left out there who hope to save the world. But they're wasting their time."
Morty went soft. "Gaby, don't say that."
"It's a lost cause, Mort. Trust me." She had the emotional scars to prove it. "The world is not a comic book, and Superman isn't going to fly in and save a damned thing."
"Gaby?" Confusion filled his tone and marred his expression.
She felt like she'd kicked a puppy. What did it matter if Mort had his illusions? For most people, that's what got them through the day.
"Forget I said anything." Pushing past Mort and into the building, she trudged up the steps. Once inside her room, she secured the doors, removed the leather sheath strapped around her waist, and, still wearing the nasty shirt and soiled jeans, stepped into the shower.
What better way to scrub the grungy clothes clean?
As the soap and warm water helped wash away the remnants of the woods, Gaby's thought scuttled around at Mach speed.
What had she felt at the isolation hospital—horrific memories, or current misery? A threat?
And that damn Mort, looking to her for reassurance, and for so much more. She shied away from that thought, and focused on Detective Luther Cross instead.
Feeling marginally revitalized, she pictured the cop as she'd last seen him, watching her walk away, and then talking to those bums by the saloon. So he knew where she lived? And he thought he had reason to talk to her?
That probably should have bothered her more than it did, but so much turmoil twisted through her exhausted mind, grasping one particular worry seemed impossible.
Maybe he wouldn't come back at all. And maybe, someday, she'd be a normal woman.
She wouldn't place a bet on either possibility.
For six straight hours, Gaby gave herself over to sleep. Before lying down, she'd taken every precaution she could to ensure her own safety. She'd never slept through an intrusion, no matter how exhausted she might be. But chance was a commodity she couldn't afford.
She woke disoriented and dehydrated, and immediately wanted to write.
That's how it always happened for her. Writing wasn't a hobby or a true occupation. It was a passion. A necessity to her body and organs and soul—like breathing.
Like killing demons.
Using vivid descriptions in her novels helped her exorcise them from her mind. The details of her missions for God went into the stories, there for the entire world to see if only people would wake up and acknowledge the truth.
Gaby guzzled water until her head cleared, then dressed in another clean top and jeans. Her wardrobe consisted of dark tunics or T-shirts, well-worn denim, and simple flip-flops. In winter, she alternated with oversized hooded sweatshirts and black sneakers.
The lack of variable attire was a deliberate choice on her part. If anyone ever claimed to see her in the area of a murder and tried to identify her by what she wore that night, it'd prove nothing. She always wore the same. Their memory could be of a Tuesday or Friday, the deli or the gas station.
Wind whistled outside her windows, a clue about weather to come, but for once Gaby barely heard it. She unfolded the metal stool and seated herself at her desk. From a nearby bin, she retrieved her latest manuscript, her inks, markers, straight-line tools, and fresh paper.
In no time, she'd immersed herself in the novel, sketching with a frenzy and writing out the truth as she knew it. Her peripheral vision constricted as she placed the day's details into still frames and rich dialogue that would complete her latest work.
Writing and illustrating graphic novels gave her the satisfaction of showcasing talents that didn't involve real death and destruction. She had a way with words, with the depiction of details that critics said brought readers into the moment.
Her drawings were vivid and explicit, showing the pain, the conflict, and the inner struggle of right and wrong.
No one gave her direct credit for her storytelling abilities because she remained anonymous. But she had the pleasure of seeing Morty's face light up when he got the newest loose-leaf manuscript. He'd spend the day devouring her work, and then he'd gush to her about the story, all but swooning in his excitement.
He didn't know Gaby was the creator, and he had no conception how his appreciation pleased her.
Devout fans flocked to his comic store in search of the next episode. Hordes of Goth kids checked in regularly, hoping to find a release date, putting their orders on hold.
Preppies sneaked in and left with the novel in a plain paper bag. College kids shouted out their victory when they got their copies.
All in all, her stories were well loved.
Most graphic novels included credits not only for the writer, but also for a penciler who sketched the artwork, an inker who inked the sketches, and a colorist to add the color. Gaby did it all herself, pouring her bitter heart and tortured soul onto the page and into the illustrations.
Depending on her mood and her most recent destruction, most of her stories ranged anywhere from fifty pages to more than three hundred. This one would be long. After the day's events, which she felt compelled to include, it'd probably run three-fifty.
Writers usually dealt with an editor and traditional publisher. Not Gaby. When she finished a graphic novel, she mailed the manuscript to Morty under a fictitious name. He sent whatever payment amount she named to a P.O. box outside their city.
The rest was up to him, and thanks to Mort, she had an enthusiastic underground publisher who didn't mind the X-rated, violent quality of her life.
Mort had been approached by bigger publishers, but as per her instructions, he kept to the lesser known, underground circulation. The fewer people who got curious about Gaby, the better her odds of not being exposed.
She didn't want her natural and very cathartic outlet ruined by misguided fame. She saw the world through images, through the most basic truths, and with single-minded ferocity she put that on paper, sometimes working through the night.
Like an inside joke, or maybe a whimsical prayer, she wrote her character as an avenging angel rather than an iconic freak. Even with blood under her nails and brain matter splattered into her hair, Gaby's illustrated character remained a bright vision.
Like the rest of the normal world. Gaby romanticized the ugliness; she romanticized herself, and it made it easier for her to stomach her duties.
But as always, even in this, she remained alone.
Chapter Five
Hours later, after darkness had fallen, Gaby scripted an ornate The End onto the page. Only one lamp, aimed at her desktop, lit the room. Shadows crawled and shifted around her, over the floor and up the wall. Wind pushed against the loose windowpanes.
Leaning back on her stool, Gaby studied the images of Detective Luther Cross. Somehow, they had encroached into her story.
Disgusted with herself, she closed her eyes and released a humid, pent-up breath. She hadn't planned to write in Cross. It had just sort of happened. In her memories, in the phenomenon of her anguished life, he was there, now a part of it all.
She'd drawn him larger than life, big and hulking with a firm but gentle hand, and kind but perceptive eyes. He looked like a pure angel, ready to stand beside her…
Jesus.
She had to stay away from him. She hated to contemplate new change, but maybe it was time to move on. She need to be well out of Cross's realm.