Bob couldn't even look at the shiny black box. In it's way, it was more menacing than Syndrome or his inventions ever were. It was almost terrible-Syndrome having a plain, black casket in a tiny nondescript chapel made of plain cement blocks. For a man who lived by a lava flow behind a moving waterfall on an exotic island to come down so far... If only... Bob's great hands wrapped around the bouquet that he and Helen had picked out of their back yard and clenched, almost grinding the woody stems into pulp.
He stared straight ahead. All he could see was the shiny black box.
Helen watched as Bob lingered in the shadows, staring ahead.
"It was so kind of you to come," Mrs. Pines said in a rote mumble like an electronic doll programmed to say one thing. "How did you know my Billy?"
Helen almost stuttered. "Billy and my husband were acquainted," she murmurred, although a part of her thought that Mrs. Pines wasn't really listening. "It is a terrible tragedy..." Her voice faded off, teetering on the knive's edge between saying too much and not saying enough.
Mrs. Pines nodded absently, gazing at the casket in a blank gaze. "Terrible..." she echoed.
Helen glanced around. Violet lingered in the shadows like a frightened animal with wide, shocked eyes. Dash had at first been his usual bouncy self until he actually saw the casket. His blue eyes had widened in horror and he had become subdued, almost hanging his head as his mother had sung in a scratchy, soft voice "Amazing Grace". Bob had only stared ahead with the bouquet in his hands. Helen watched as another shard of childish innocence shattered in their eyes as they witnessed death.
Helen patted Mrs. Pine's ancient hand. She had that same vaguely shell-shocked look on her face that Bob had had last night. And every night for five nights running. Even last night she had found him slouched in his comfortably worn desk chair, stairing at a scrapbook of old headlines and news articles and artifacts of his exploits. Every night he came in in the evenings, silently pushed his food around at the dinner table and then slunk into his study with a glass of brandy that he never touched and a scrapbook of old headlines and articles that he never put down. Last night the light in the study had burned long past the time when she went to bed.
Syndrome's assets were pathetic, all things considered. It was just a few pieces of land in remote locations and two circuit companies. Most of the other assets that they found were either in Billy's name or stock in various companies. There were probably millions squirreled away in other accounts and assets. A few more assets were queried, but there was such a maze of company fronts and mutual funds and stock transfers and proxies that it would take years to unravel them all.
Bob, who never ever touched more than a beer at a back yard bar-b-que, had finished a 12 year old bottle of Scotch the night that he-or rather-Mr. Incredible, had been called to identify the body. Helen didn't want to know exactly what he had seen-what shape the body was in. She had seen death before-you couldn't be a Super without seeing death-but this was worse.
It all came out that night. Bob was stone-cold sober, staring at the empty bottle on his desk. Helen had padded into the room quietly behind him.
"I killed him, Helen. It was my fault," he whispered softly.
"Bob, you didn't. You did your best," she tried to sooth. There was no need to ask who "him" was.
"I created him. And I killed him." Bob buried his face in his huge hands. "I killed him."
Helen extended her arms and wrapped them around him. "Honey-"
"Do you remember him?" Bob had asked.
Helen winced. She thought for a few minutes and frowned. "No, not really." She frowned, trying to remember something that might point out who he was in her memories. She squeezed a little tighter around Bob's shoulders.
"Do you remember our wedding day?" Bob's deep voice sounded small and a little lost.
"Sure do," she tried to smile.
"I was late because I tried to foil Bomb Voyage," he whispered in a raspy voice. "A little kid-Billy-was in the Incredi-car and was telling me that he was 'Incredi-boy'..."
"Oh, I remember Billy," Helen smiled wanly despite the hollow feeling that what would follow couldn't be good. "He absolutely worshipped you. Went to every convention. Collected every article...-"
Bob slumped in his chair. "I told him to go home. I told him that I worked alone. I-I...killed him." His hands clenched painfully. "He was a brilliant kid... He wanted to be a Super. And my sidekick..."
Helen felt her knees grow rubbery for a moment and her face chill as she paled. Creeping closer and stretching her arms to wrap several times around Bob and hold him, she felt that fact sink in.
"He said that not all Supers had powers. That he could do it-he could hack it with his inventions. He had these boot things so that he could fly... brilliant inventor..." Bob's voice dropped to a whisper. "All that could have been turned to good and I told him to go home... Sent him home in the back of a police car..."
Helen's knees did go rubbery and she sank behind him, listening as Bob croaked out the whole story. He didn't even seem to to hear her, like he was crying out to God for forgivness. At dawn, they had walked quietly to a corner diner and bought two cups of coffee and two of the sticky pastry "bear claws" that Bob usually liked. Walking down by Lake Park, she listened quietly as Bob talked and broke off pieces of the pastry and fed them to the ducks.
Back at home, Bob hugged his kids and slunk into bed. Helen took Violet and Dash to the mall, watching as they window shopped and walked around and she pushed JackJack around in his stroller. They ate at a local pizza joint (Bob occasionally got gas from the pizza and from the soda) for an early lunch and took in a matinee where the bad guys went to jail and the good guys were fine and right was right and wrong was wrong and no one died.
Bob had burgers on the grill and fixed salad when they got home. The dark purple circles under his eyes made him look like he was still in his mask, but he tried to smile and joke normally. Helen fixed home-style fries and watched as Bob sliced onions with tears flowing down his cheeks.
The next few days were the gutworks of being a Super. Syndrome's assets were frozen and his regular identify's assets were being tracked down. The computer files were accessed. Statements from "anonymous" Supers were taken.
Now, it was the funeral. Helen listened with only half an ear as a group of ladies from Mrs. Pine's church offered condolences. She walked back to Bob and took his hand in hers. He tottered up and added his bouquet to the mountains of flowers around the plain black box. He murmmurred softly to Mrs. Pines.
Her voice cracked as she described Billy at home and his life. Bob stood patiently, listening to her. Suddenly her eyes widened in shock. "My Billy had a regular job and would send money to help out at home. I don't know what I'm going to do now that the insurance won't pay up."
Helen felt Bob's muscles tense. "What company was it with?"
She sniffled slightly and Bob knew the company before she said it.
With a wicked gleam in his eye, he began whispering to her. "You'll need to get form WXR-493S-make two copies of the filled in form. Mail one to the office address printed on the back of the canary sheet carbon sheet and take the other to Linda Perkins on the third floor of the building on Main Street..."