Epilogue

Had you been a citizen of Traverse reading the “Tracks” in the days following, you would not have read about these events, or most of them. There was one, considering a round-up by Godsend of several outstanding miscreants, written by a fellow named Don Ott, and an obituary of Rodrigo Ramirez which, as usual, did not disclose cause of death. It listed his favorite hobby as coin collecting.

There was also not a word about the Eidolon’s retirement. Cotton Colinaude achieved this in a fiery blaze, when he piled all but one of his uniforms, his costumes, onto a stack and lit it like a Roman candle. The effort caused considerable discomfort for his shoulder, which would never fully heal. Had he moved back to his native New England, he might have been able to be one of those human weather predictors old folks so regularly become, like super heroes for the geriatric. But he stayed right in Traverse, except for a brief foray, as if he were tied to it, tethered like destiny. Colinaude could not express enough gratitude to Godsend for the favor he had shown, for the brief shining moment in the Eidolon’s twilight when a measure of victory could be won. Not one more loss was felt that night, except for Rodrigo Ramirez. For the briefest of moments, the Tandem had returned, as if to honor the fall of their old foe Rancor.

It was no great loss to the community, this retirement. Crime was still combated. Colinaude made his peace with that, owing to Cassie’s last words to him. He paraded out the one costume every now and again, but he spent most of his time tending bar at Tin Can with Greenwood, Alonzo, and Andy. There were still enemies out there, still demons to be exorcised, but in the end, there was also a man named Cotton Colinaude, who had wrestled his own demon and made his peace with it. He was determined to make it a lasting peace. It was the only way he was ever going to get any sleep at night, and he was sleeping again, too. There were no more patrols, no more marathon sessions gathering information from contacts. There were others handling things, just enough so that the Eidolon was no longer as necessary as he had once imagined. There were other heroes.

He relocated from No. 33 Cobb Lane. In fact, after that day, after he had retrieved the Terrific Beacon, he never once set fit on that road again. He would meet Aubrey Oldenburgh’s widower every now and again, play with her grandchildren at the local rec. department. It was something he owed the old woman. He also scrubbed clean the stop sign, so that it no longer read “go.” Random Red, who had a nervous breakdown several years later when his father was gunned down, began to frequent the same rec. department, and he probably never realized the smiling man by the pool table, watching Marty Jennings dazzle every now and again some new batch of pupils, was the real reason for it.

All the same, it was an awkward retirement. People always seemed to comment how Colinaude seemed restless, like he was itching to do something he was purposely denying himself. He became more alert, turning his head every time someone entered a room, or anywhere near him, like he was expecting a familiar face, or an unfamiliar one.

There was also a new habit he took up; some called it a nervous one considering. He carried with him at all times an old coin, and every once and a while he’d take it out and start flipping it around his fingers, for long stretches at a time. He claimed it was good therapy for his shoulder, but nobody much cared to believe that. What made it all the more peculiar was that he insisted on doing it in the dark, so that whatever room he was in at the time, seemed to be possessed by a dancing coin. Fling fling fling.

And once and for all, was Colinaude a hero? Looking past his failings, past his triumphs, past his perceptions, past his fears, past his ambitions, past his ideals, past his passions, he could think of only one answer to that. He thought it would help his sleep if he made peace with that, too. It did. He no longer took naps on the subway, and when he encountered Hopper riding it, he would try to think of idle chatter, like a friend would, to talk about. He had more or less reasoned that Hopper and Denny were one and the same at some point, and decided the best thing to do about that was to be there for him, just give him some comfort. For Hopper had miles to go yet before he slept, and he was going to need as much of that as he could.

There was the lasting peace, and then there was also the realization that even that would never be enough. Colinaude, for the rest of his days, would struggle with himself, with what he had done, with his continued frustrations, with lost friends and futures. He began to realize, too, that he couldn’t ask for more. What was more, he grew to understand that he didn’t really want to.