A Dad in a Cape (Mr Wonder Book 1) Read online

  A Dad in a Cape

  A Mr. Wonder Novel

  Sean Stansell

  © 2017 Sean Stansell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Visit the author’s website at: www.seanstansell.com

  To my wonderful family, without whom I’d have no crazy stories to write.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The black Mercedes was getting away. Chuck didn’t know the thief’s identity, but if The Positron Accelerator slipped into the wrong hands economies could collapse, governments could crumble, and millions could die. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Chuck punched the gas and changed lanes, darting onto an off-ramp. At the last moment, he cranked the wheel and rocketed back onto the highway. Gravel sprayed the guardrail. Brakes squealed and tires screeched as innocent motorists tried to avoid him. The sleek sports car continued to pull away, a gazelle slipping through traffic.

  His options were dwindling. If the thief made it to the emergency turnaround he would be gone. Backup wouldn’t make it in time. He had to come up with a plan.

  He smiled and cranked the stereo. “Born to Run” blared from the speakers, clearing his mind. He drove best with a soundtrack. As The Boss preached about broken heroes and last chance power drives, Chuck tightened his grip on the steering wheel and made his move.

  He pulled his government-issued Tahoe into the breakdown lane and jammed the accelerator to the floor. The side view mirror exploded as it struck the concrete barrier. He plowed forward. Sparks flew from the driver’s side as it scraped the concrete. While the Mercedes weaved through slower cars, he gained ground. As he approached the turnaround, he realized it would be tight.

  The Mercedes slid out of traffic, aiming for the break in the median. At the last moment, the thief saw the massive SUV bearing down on him and jerked back into traffic.

  Chuck had just started to celebrate when flashing lights filled the rear-view mirror.

  “Shit.” He took a deep breath and eased off the gas. His mind snapped back to reality as the fantasy was broken. The Mercedes, just another commuter now, was swept away by the slow tide of DC traffic. “Maybe tomorrow I won’t screw up saving the world,” Chuck said to himself as he slowed his minivan to a stop. “Or, maybe I can quit the daydreaming altogether and stay out of trouble.”

  The officer approached his window, calm but alert, and gestured for Chuck to lower his window. Chuck complied.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  “No, officer.”

  “You were driving in the breakdown lane. It’s for emergency use only. Is there an emergency?”

  “No, officer.”

  “License and registration, please.”

  Chuck fished out the documents and handed them over. “Just trying to get home to my sick daughter. And this traffic is brutal.”

  The officer lowered his sunglasses and gave Chuck a hard stare. “Are you making up a story about a sick kid to get out of a ticket?”

  Chuck shook his head. “She really is sick, officer.”

  “How sick? ‘Start a prayer vigil’ sick?”

  “Oh, god no. Nothing like that. It’s just a cold or something. But she’s three-years-old, so she’s acting like it’s the end of the world. And my wife’s been home with her all day. I’m pretty sure they could both use backup at this point.”

  The officer smiled. “What is it about mothers and daughters? My wife and seven-year-old want to kill each other if they’re alone for more than twenty minutes.” He handed Chuck back his license and registration. “You go ahead and get home to them. Consider this a warning. Next time you use this lane, make sure it’s an emergency, ok?”

  “Yes, officer. Thank you.”

  Chuck’s senses overloaded when he opened his front door. The high-pitched wails of a fussy infant mixed with the shrill screams of a slighted toddler. A familiar sharp stench assaulted his nose, telling him at least one kid had a loaded diaper. He considered closing the door and walking away, but Penny poked her head around the corner and gave him a clear “don’t even try it buddy” look. There would be no escape.

  Riley spotted him. “Daddy! Paxton stole Sophie! I didn’t do nuffin’ to him.”

  “Feeling better, sweetie?” Chuck sat down his weathered messenger bag. “Pax, please give her back her doll.”

  “Nah nah nah.” Pax shook his head and waddled off, a naked doll clutched to his chest.

  Riley stomped her foot. “Paxton Charles Nelson, get back here!” She ran after her brother, paying no more mind to her father.

  Chuck trudged down the hall and pecked Penny on the cheek. “Hey baby. How was your day?”

  “Not bad,” Penny said. “She perked up this afternoon. I closed the Froman deal while she napped. It’ll be a lot of work, but it should be—“

  CRASH. Splatter.

  Chuck turned toward the source of the racket. “Son of a …”

  Pax stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, clinging to Sophie, covered in thick red liquid. His face showed he was screaming, though no sound came out.

  “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Pax’s voice caught up to his face.

  “Riley Jane!” Penny yelled.

  Chuck raced to Pax. “Why are you worried about her? He’s covered in hot spaghetti sauce. It’s ok buddy, Daddy’s here. Penny, why aren’t you calling 911?”

  “It’s not hot. I just put it on the stove. Riley Jane! Where are you?”

  Chuck picked up his screaming son. Penny was right, the sauce was cold, though it was still wet and unpleasant. He plopped the boy in the sink, peeled off his clothes, pried the doll out of his hands, and started hosing him off.

  “I didn’t do nuffin,” Riley said as Penny carried her into the kitchen.

  “Then how did your brother get covered in spaghetti sauce?” Penny thrived in the role of Sherlock Mom. “He can’t reach the pot.”

  “I don’t know,” Riley said, pouting. “I didn’t pull the handle.”

  “That’s interesting, Miss Riley. I didn’t say anything about you pulling on the pot’s handle.”

  Riley threw herself backwards in Penny’s arms. She screamed and flailed fr
om side to side, attempting to escape. The commotion caused Pax to stop screaming and start giggling.

  “Riley Jane, stop. I can’t hold you like this. I’m going to drop you. Stop it, young lady.”

  Chuck suppressed a giggle of his own, watching Penny and Riley struggle for control. He sprayed the last of the visible sauce from Paxton’s back and shut off the water.

  Penny plopped down on the couch next to Chuck, a glass of wine in her hand. “How was your day, honey?” Chuck looked at her, wondering for the millionth time how he convinced her to marry him. She was everything a guy could want. Top of her class in high school and college, plus a master’s degree with honors. Tennis team captain. Biting sense of humor. And, even after all these years — no, especially after all these years — stunningly beautiful. How did a schlub like him get this girl?

  “Chuck? Hello? You in there?” Chuck recognized the patronizingly patient tone of voice she used. That tone was usually reserved for explaining to Riley that no, we’re not wearing our flip flops in the snow.

  He smiled at her. “Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Such a smooth talker. I bet you were actually thinking about one of your space wars movies or something.”

  He sighed, mocking frustration. “Star Wars. You know it’s Star Wars. I don’t make fun of your Lifetime Movie Network obsession, do I?”

  She flashed him a smile. “Relax dear, I’m just winding you up. You make it too easy. How was your day?”

  “Same as any other. Traffic sucked getting to work. Work was work, nothing unusual. Traffic sucked getting home.” He took a sip of his bourbon and Diet Coke. “Got pulled over again.”

  “Please tell me it was a warning. We can’t afford another ticket right now.”

  He grinned. “If I didn’t get out of it, would I have told you about it?”

  “You should go back to thinking how lucky you are to have me.” She sipped her wine. “Zone out again?”

  He nodded.

  “What was it this time? Were you a secret agent? Fighter pilot? Sea captain?”

  “Secret agent. There was a really cool Mercedes in front of me. The driver stole a portable nuclear device and was getting away. The future of the whole world rested on my shoulders, Pen. Sometimes I think you forget I’m kind of a big deal.”

  “How could I forget? Now, Big Deal, either turn on the TV or hand me the remote. We need to be in bed soon, and I need some trashy reality show time.”

  Penny yawned. “It’s your turn. I got him last night”. Chuck rolled out of bed and shuffled to Pax’s room. He skulked down the hall like a secret agent, though instead of hiding from henchmen, he was trying not to wake a three-year-old. He avoided the squeaky spots on the aging floor, entered Pax’s room, and picked up the wailing infant. His son’s diaper had a familiar squish. It smelled like the men’s room at a hockey game.

  Eyes closed, with the muscle memory of an experienced father, he sat the boy down on the changing mat, unzipped his footie pajamas, pulled his legs out, and reached for a diaper. After a few unsuccessful grabs, he opened his eyes, seeing an empty diaper caddy. Shit. Now I have to go downstairs.

  He put Pax back together and headed to the garage to get more diapers. His heart sunk when he saw the empty spot where the extra box of diapers usually sat. Dammit. He trudged back upstairs.

  “Penny. Penny. Penny. Wake up Penny,” he whispered. He nudged her shoulder. “C’mon Penn, wake up.”

  “Your turn,” she said into her pillow.

  “Need diapers.”

  “Garage.”

  “Empty. Backup stash?”

  “Diaper bag.”

  Right, the diaper bag, he thought. Even half-asleep she’s smarter than me. “Thanks, go back to sleep.” He crept out of the bedroom. A sense of calm wiped away the panic that had grown in his gut.

  The calm didn’t last. Several minutes later, having piled the contents of the diaper bag on the living room floor, the panic returned. In front of him were two pairs of pants, eight hair ties, half of a granola bar, a dried-up packet of baby wipes, a bottle of sunscreen that was two years past its expiration date, three and a half crayons, some Cheerios, a shoe, and a tiny bottle of whipped cream schnapps. But no diapers. Shit.

  Chapter Two

  The dashboard clock said 3:28 when Chuck started the van, so he knew it was actually 2:38. He could never remember how to change the clock at daylight saving time, and secretly distrusted anyone who could.

  At this hour, the only thing open in his suburban hamlet was Quick Stop, the local independent convenience store. It featured ridiculous prices, a tiny selection, and surly service, but at least it was close. Six minutes later he was standing in line, under a flickering fluorescent light, diapers in hand.

  He stared at the motley crew in line in front of him. How could there possibly be this many people in line in the middle of the night? He resorted to his favorite mental game to pass the time and keep himself awake: he invented names and back stories for each of his line mates.

  At the front of the line stood a pale teenage boy, wearing a t-shirt for either a band or video game Chuck had never heard of. He was buying more energy shots than any rational person would drink in a month. Chuck dubbed him Twitchy, a wannabe pro video game player, in the middle of a four-day gaming bender, needing every edge he could get.

  Behind Twitchy, an old man clutched a cheap 40oz bottle of malt liquor in trembling hands. Chuck could almost see the stink lines rising from the man’s filthy clothes. He swayed with the erratic grace of someone who’d had too much to drink, but who’d had enough practice in that condition to remain upright. Chuck figured he was a combat veteran whose PTSD made it impossible to hold down a job, cost him his family, and forced him onto the street. Now the only thing that kept visions of burning villages at bay long enough for him to sleep was large quantities of cheap booze. Chuck named him Homeless Joe.

  In front of Chuck, dressed in all black, was a middle-aged androgynous person with no items in their hands for purchase. They held their face inches from their phone screen, engrossed in whatever it was showing. The person shuffled their feet in slow time to whatever song played in their earbuds. Chuck figured it was the Smiths, or the Cure, or some other mopey crap that most sane people grew out of. He named this person Pat, a sort of twisted Peter Pan who had never quite outgrown their obsession with cigarillos and Morrissey.

  “That’ll be $37.42,” the middle-aged clerk told Twitchy. Twitchy swiped his credit card with a trembling hand, gathered up his tiny bottles of liquid lighting, and left.

  Homeless Joe thunked the 40 on the counter and started pulling crumpled bills and loose change from several pockets. “Good to see ya, Max,” the clerk said, smiling at the old man. “Been a few days. Everything going ok?”.

  Homeless Joe smiled back. “All good. Been sampling the wares of other establishments. But tonight I was in the mood for one of your fine delicacies.”

  “Only you and Billy Dee Williams think this stuff is a delicacy, Max,” the clerk said with a smile. He straightened out the wrinkled bills and counted the change. “Enjoy it though, and stay safe.”

  “Thanks, Gene,” Homeless Joe said. “I may see you tomorrow night, depending on whether this vintage is as fine as I remember.”

  A new customer entered the store as the clerk slipped the heavy bottle into a brown paper bag. It didn’t take Chuck long to come up with a nickname or backstory for this one. Small Time was a petty crook, on parole from his second armed robbery conviction, who was having a hard time going straight. His ski mask and semi-automatic said he was here to knock this place over.

  You’ve got to be kidding me, Chuck thought, his brain trying hard to process the situation. Just keep calm, stay quiet, and let this pass.

  Small Time waved his gun at the cashier with one hand and held out a canvas bag with the other. “You know the drill buddy, fork over what’s in the register. The rest of you, out with the
wallets. Watches. Jewelry. Anything valuable. Into the bag. No sudden movements. Nice and simple, and we can all get back to our evening.”

  The clerk opened the register and started gathering bills. Homeless Joe stood frozen, bottle in hand. Pat continued to look at his/her phone, oblivious to the fact that anything was happening.

  Chuck pulled out his wallet, removed the four one-dollar bills it contained, and slowly walked toward the robber. It’s only $4, you don’t have anything else of value, and this will all be over soon, he thought. Just stay calm.

  As he got close to the robber, something in him short-circuited. His right hand—without consulting his brain—snatched the brown-bagged 40 out of Homeless Joe’s grasp. While Small Time was watching the clerk shovel money into his bag, Chuck’s independent right hand smashed the heavy glass bottle over the back of the crook’s head.

  The only sensations that Chuck noticed were the sounds: the dull thud of the impact on Small Time’s skull, the sharpness of the glass breaking, the wet splatters of malt liquor and blood on the floor, the deafening concussion of a gunshot, the scream from the clerk, and the paralyzing ringing in his ears.

  It took a few moments for his brain to piece together everything that had happened. He had hit Small Time. Small Time had fallen forward, hitting the counter on the way down. In the process, the gun had gone off, hitting the clerk in the shoulder. The clerk was screaming, clutching the wound.