Karma

by Grant McKenzie

  “Elbowed in the tit,” Chandra explained. “Just checking my nipple is still an outie.”

  “Ouch!” LuAnn adjusted her own ample bosom, which had an annoying habit of going lopsided on her. “Hope you kneed him in the balls.”

  “Too small a target.”

  Both women laughed.

  “You hear about Suzi Q?” LuAnn moved to the sink beside Chandra and checked her lipstick in the mirror.

  “No, what?”

  “Channel 4 picked her for the breakfast show.”

  “Shit! How did she manage that?”

  LuAnn flashed her a sideways eye roll. “Just look at her. Young, blonde, legs up to her perky, silicon-enhanced boobs. Just what every man wants to wake up to.”

  Chandra looked in the mirror. Her great ass day had completely gone to hell.

  “I auditioned for those bastards three times,” she said quietly.

  LuAnn tilted her head to one side and gave Chandra’s reflection the crotch to forehead once-over.

  “Face it, girl, you’re just too ethnic for this crowd. Asians and whites rule the television market and I can count the number of Asians on one finger. You may be looking fine and in your prime, but you ain’t never going to be white. Best to stick with radio.”

  Chandra remained staring into the mirror until LuAnn left.

  “Sonofabitch!”

  Slipping off her runners and socks, Chandra stuck her feet in the pantyhose and wiggled them up to her hips. She slipped into her good shoes and dumped the discards back in the pack.

  The shoes had a slight heel, which automatically arched her back, making her ass look even better.

  Chandra sighed.

  TV wanted tits and legs, not ass — and they wanted them to be pure white meat.

  “There’d probably be too many early-morning heart attacks if I got the job,” Chandra consoled her reflection as she worked on making her mouth twist into a cheery smile. “Besides, at least I didn’t have to get down on my knees and suck the entire hiring panel.”

  The cattiness of her own comment made her laugh aloud and she left the washroom with a natural, although somewhat predatory, grin.

  Chapter 29

  As news of Suzy Q’s upcoming elevation to the bright lights of television filtered through the station, Chandra found herself becoming overwhelmed by the number of single men who stopped by the news desk to talk to her radiant colleague.

  While Suzy was rewarded with handsome faces and invitations to lunch and dinner, Chandra was stuck with armpits and assholes.

  Bored with being ignored, Chandra checked her email.

  The newest message was from Vinnie who wanted to know what Suzy’s departure meant for his chance to get off nights.

  Chandra hit reply and typed: ‘Unless she takes you with her, you’re stuck. Whiny little white boys are a dime a dozen.’

  She was about to send it when a pang of conscience stopped her. It wasn’t Vinnie’s fault that he hated nights and she was in a bad mood.

  She erased the message and typed: ‘Sweet talk LuAnn and she may put in a good word with the station manager. Just be careful what you wish for - Suzy’s opening is an assistant position, not on-air talent. Course, she’s probably making more than the two of us combined now.’

  Chandra hit send and with a bored sigh began to systematically clean out her in-box of the usual office clutter: updates on computer viruses, security revisions and a petition for better coffee.

  The final message had been received in the pre-dawn hours and was labeled: Important! From A Friend.

  Curious, Chandra opened it and read:

  ‘Do you know why Bob Collins was punished?

  Your boyfriend does.

  This is only the beginning.

  - K.A.R.M.A.’

  Chandra hit reply, but the sender’s address was blank.

  Karma?

  She felt an excited sweat bead on the back of her neck. The cops had been asking about karma the previous morning, but Chandra had assumed it was just a word, not an organization.

  Only the beginning.

  Christ, this is what reporters dream of, to be on the ground floor of something big; a chance to really be noticed.

  Chandra made a printout of the message and saved a copy of it in her private folder. Then she grabbed the morning paper and skimmed over the front-page article below Hackett’s attention-grabbing photo.

  The paragraph that interested her was third from the bottom.

  Police sources close to the case say they have no motive for the brutal slaying. Police are looking for witnesses who have any information on Collins’ whereabouts before the time of his death. The public washroom in Volunteer Park where Collins’ body was found is known as a hangout for same-sex couples, although police won’t say if the victim was known to frequent such areas.

  Chandra picked up the phone and punched in the number for the police department’s media liaison.

  “Murphy here. I don’t know nothin’,” answered the gravelly voice of Jake Murphy.

  Murphy was a former crime reporter with the Post-Intelligencer who ended out on the street after a nervous breakdown over a child rape case that hit too close to home.

  Murphy had managed to track the suspect down thirty minutes before the police arrived, and in a moment of blind anger had proven the fist was sometimes mightier than the pen. Although assault charges against him were eventually dropped, the newspaper lost its trust in him. The police officers handling the case, however, found a new respect for the bone-thin, bespectacled reporter and privately rallied behind him when he applied for the job of keeping the media out of their hair.

  “Hey, Murph. It’s Chandra from KXLY.”

  “Chandra!” Murphy bellowed. “You know I prefer to talk to you in person.”

  “And why’s that, Murph?” she teased.

  “I think it’s your perfume. It always gives me an appetite.”

  “And a skinny guy like you needs all the appetite he can get, right?”

  “You got it in one.” Murphy laughed. “So how can I pull the wool over your eyes today?”

  “I’m calling about the Collins murder. Just wondering if your guys have a motive.”

  “Nothing yet, Chandra. We’re still trying to figure out why he was in the park in the first place.”

  “It is an odd place to go for lunch. You’re thinking he was looking for some man-on-man action, and it all went wrong, right?”

  “Can’t really comment on that. But that particular spot does have a certain rep.”

  “He was married with two kids.”

  Murphy chuckled. “You know better than that, Chandra. Married, kids, who cares? Nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors — especially not the wife.”

  “So you’re looking into the possibility he was cruising?”

  “We never rule anything out, you know that. But we’re still investigating and so far nothing points to that conclusion.”

  “Did you test for AIDS?” Chandra asked.

  Murphy sighed. “Yeah, of course we did. It’s procedure.”

  “And nothing to do with where he was found, I suppose?”

  “What are you trying to do, break my balls? Sure, the location indicated to the officers that they should exercise caution. But the ME tests all victims for AIDS nowadays. Hell, he tests himself about once a month, too.”

  “Have you seen the lab results?”

  “No.”

  “Could Collins have been set up for a hit?” Chandra thought about the email: The sender used the term punish.

  “Where did you get that idea?” Murphy fired back.

  “Just hypothesizing.”

  “We’re looking into his background to see if he pissed off anybody enough that they’d want to whack him, sure. But again I have to emphasize that so far nothing points to that either.”

  “So you’re telling me you’ve got nothing?”

  “No, I’m telling you we’re investigating and as soon as
we have any solid information we’ll let you know.”

  “Wow, Murph, that sounded almost genuine,” Chandra said.

  “Yeah, I’m getting better at it don’t you think?”

  They both laughed.

  “Oh one more thing, Murph.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What does karma mean to you?”

  Murphy paused. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Just something a couple detectives mentioned. Does it have something to do with the murder?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that. Sorry.”

  “So it does mean something.”

  “Look, I can’t go on record with anything. We don’t know what it means.”

  “How did it come up? Was the word scrawled on the walls or something?”

  “Chandra, I really can’t say.” Murphy sounded like he was pleading now. “It’s just something that popped up that might be related or it might not. We’re still investigating here.”

  “OK.” Chandra’s brain whirred. “Let me know when you have any new info.”

  “Yeah, I will.” Murphy hesitated. “Oh and Chandra, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention the karma thing. We really don’t know what it means at this point.”

  “Sure, Murph, whatever you say.”

  She hung up the phone.

  Chandra’s next call was to Hackett’s apartment, but instead of his usual sleepy voice all she got was the robotic tone of the answering machine.

  “Hey, Hackboy,” Chandra said into the mouthpiece. “Call me as soon as you get this. We need to talk. Urgent.”

  She hung up and reread the email. It was full of questions: Why was Collins punished? What does Hackett know? Only the beginning? Who or what is K.A.R.M.A.?

  If she could answer those, Suzi Q wouldn’t be the only shining star.

  Chandra closed her email and glanced at the clock. She had less than ten minutes to prepare for her first broadcast of the day.

  With determination, she opened her word processing program and began to write.

  An organization calling itself K.A.R.M.A. is claiming responsibility for butchering a local businessman in a public washroom in Volunteer Park earlier this week.

  In a KXLY exclusive, K.A.R.M.A. claims it was exacting punishment against mutual funds salesman Bob Collins. K.A.R.M.A. has also issued a warning to this reporter that this is only the beginning of its bloody campaign.

  Collins, a married 47-year-old father of two, was found slumped in a toilet stall, his throat slashed from ear to ear. His blood-drained body was identified at the scene by his brother, Seattle police officer Sgt. Frank Collins.

  The Volunteer Park washroom in question is known as a hangout for same-sex couples although police won’t say if the victim was known to frequent such areas.

  Media liaison officer Jake Murphy confirmed to KXLY just moments ago that police are busy looking into Collins’ past. Murphy also noted that Collins’ blood is being tested for the AIDS virus.

  Chandra stopped typing and reread her opening paragraphs. She grinned wickedly as she loosened the top two buttons of her blouse.

  Channel 4 was going to have a shit when it realized it picked the wrong damn woman to co-anchor its morning show.

  Chapter 30

  Thirty minutes before Chandra’s broadcast, Hackett and Frankie drove beyond the station’s range. Hackett twiddled the knobs on the radio in search of something upbeat, but gave up and popped in a CD. The raucous British punk satire of short-lived ’80s band The Monks filled the Jeep’s interior like oxygen.

  Hackett pounded the beat on the steering wheel and sang along to Nice Legs, Shame About The Face in an off-key timbre. Frankie rolled his eyes and plugged a pair of tiny earbuds into his cellphone to listen to his own collection of MP3s. After two songs, Hackett switched off the music, depressed over his own false joviality.

  The attack on Fats and the threat against Uncle Frank was serious shit. K.A.R.M.A. had killed Bob and they knew too much about Hackett’s life.

  Who was next?

  Chandra.

  Bob’s girls.

  Aunt Gloria.

  Frankie.

  His mom?

  Christ, the list was endless.

  Hackett had never felt so vulnerable — and it pissed him off. He just hoped that whatever awaited him in Vancouver would be the end of it.

  Chapter 31

  Eric climbed the iron fire escape. Glittering scabs of rust flaked under his hand as the sun began to burn through the morning fog. Below him, the streets were already clogged with too many commuters driving too many cars on too few streets.

  His hometown seemed so far away now and he felt a pang of loss. He wasn’t a city boy and this concrete jungle was far too strange and far too dangerous to offer him any kind of solace.

  Eric reached the rooftop — a flat oasis of pea gravel and tar, the sticky blacktop dotted with decaying mounds of sickly bird droppings — and made his way to the far side where an aluminum shack containing the building’s air-conditioning unit overlooked an empty, litter-strewn alley.

  Across the alley was a plain, red brick building. It had no windows looking onto the alley, but on the ground level, four stories below Eric’s position, were two doors. One, a steel door painted black, was marked Kitchen. The second was four times the width of the first. Large block letters across its front once spelled Deliveries, but someone had crossed out the last ‘I’ and ‘E’ with black spray paint and replaced it with a capital ‘U’.

  The sign now read: Deliver Us.

  Hidden from view beside the maintenance shack, Eric removed a small brass key from his pocket and unlocked the black tube. From inside its protective foam core, he removed his prized possession — a Remington Model Seven Youth rifle.

  A present from his father, the rifle had a 20-inch barrel and weighed only 6¼ lbs. Its Walnut-toned hardwood stock was cut one-inch shorter than the adult version for a total length of 38¾ inches.

  Eric had killed two elk, a coyote and close to one thousand gophers with the rifle, and its stock was like an extension of his own body.

  Once he was sure the rifle had survived its journey without damage, Eric loaded the magazine with four .243 caliber Premier Varmints. The 75-gram bullets were designed for high-velocity accuracy and explosive fragmentation upon impact. A well-placed shot could literally vaporize a gopher’s skull.

  Eric had become an expert at shooting with only the rifle’s iron sights to guide him, but today he unwrapped a Nikon Buckmaster 3X-9X scope and attached it to the rifle mount. The rugged tube was nitrogen-filled and O-ring sealed for 100% fogproof performance. Weighing just over 13 ounces, it was coated in a no-glare, scratch-resistant matte finish.

  Farmers paid Eric $1 bounty for every gopher he killed, and the scope had cost him three-hundred tails, but once he raised it to his eye, he knew it would easily give him a three-shot group inside an inch and a half anywhere on the alley below.

  Satisfied he had done everything possible to ensure the rifle was still accurate, Eric rested the weapon against the black tube and rubbed sweaty hands along the dusty fabric of his jeans.

  The salty air turned muggy and the pressure pushed down on Eric’s neck and shoulders like a vise. Sheltering himself in the shadow of the aluminum shack, Eric double-checked his pager was switched on before allowing his shoulders to sag against the cold wall.

  All he had to do now was wait.

  Chapter 32

  Hackett and Frankie crossed the Canada-U.S. border without incident, despite the unnerving attention of the customs officer over Hackett’s eyebrow rings and visible tattoo. Once through the Peace Arch, Hackett headed into Surrey and a pit stop at the first Starbucks they saw.

  Hackett stretched his legs in the parking lot and was just lifting a frothy Chai to his lips when Frankie jumped as if bitten by a rattlesnake and dropped his cup of hot chocolate on the ground.

  “Sorry,” Frankie stammered. “The pager just went off.”


  As Hackett looked on, Frankie yanked the pager off his belt and read the tiny LCD window.

  B.C. Court of Appeal.

  800 Smithe Street.

  Now!

  Hackett and Frankie scrambled back to the Jeep and headed deep into the downtown core.

  Despite the fear that gnawed at his conscience, Hackett actually began to feel the familiar adrenaline rush that accompanied every tough assignment. And at least now he had a clue as to what he was expected to shoot.

  The only question that bothered him was if the face in his sights would belong to a criminal or a judge.

  Chapter 33

  “Jesus Christ!” Media liaison Jake Murphy could barely control his temper as he yelled over the phone line. “Where the fuck did you get that information?”

  Chandra held the phone away from her ear, and tried to cool the flush that swept across her face.

  “K.A.R.M.A,” she snapped. “You know? The group you wouldn’t tell me about.”

  “This is going to cause a shit storm, you . . .” He broke off.

  “What were you going to call me, Murph?” Chandra asked coldly. “A bitch.”

  Chandra could hear him inhaling and exhaling loudly to calm himself.

  “Look,” Murphy said in a more-controlled tone. “This is out of my hands. You better expect a visit from the detective squad ASAP, and I hope to God you have a good reason for spewing that garbage over the airwaves.”

  “I don’t think it’s garbage,” Chandra retorted. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be getting your knickers in such a twist. This group is real and they’re planning to strike again.”

  Murphy sighed. “Did they happen to drop a clue as to when, where or why?”

  “No. Any other unexplained murders popping up on your end?”

  “They’re putting the word out on the wire now, but I haven’t heard of any.”

  “Thanks for that rare display of honesty, Murph.”

  “Yeah,” Murphy said, his tone defeated. “Just watch yourself, OK. This group is using you. You don’t want that.”