“Hey!” Frank yelled. “Don’t get lippy. I’m in fucking agony here, your cousins are traumatized, and paramedics are rousing your recently widowed aunt out of a drug-induced slumber. We all have problems, OK.”
Hackett lowered his head. “Yeah, sorry. It’s just so frustrating. These fuckers are dragging me around by the nose and I don’t even know who the hell they are.”
Hackett dug into his pocket and pulled out the business card he had found on the floor.
A troubling thought played in his mind. Had they been planning to frame him for Gloria’s murder? Everyone had witnessed her slapping him at the wake.
“I’ve been blind to how evil this group really is,” Hackett said quietly.
“But they underestimated you,” said Frank.
“What do you mean?”
“You got one step ahead. Outsmarted them and saved your aunt. Hell, we almost caught one of them. If I had been more alert ...”
“Yeah,” Hackett said wearily, “we got close.”
Chapter 58
Chandra was having one of her more exotic dreams — four naked men and a giant, 12-foot-tall Bartlett pear — when the phone rang.
It took several rings before she realized the pear wasn’t singing to her. She opened her eyes to glance at the clock. It was three in the morning.
With a groan, Chandra grabbed the receiver and brought it to her ear.
“If this is you, Hackboy, I’m going to kick your ass.”
The voice on the other end sounded metallic and distant, like a robot.
“We have to meet.”
“Who is this?” asked Chandra.
“K.A.R.M.A.”
That woke her up. “What do you want?”
“Do you want to interview the one who punished Charles Hudson?”
Chandra didn’t even have to think. “Yes.”
“Then we have to meet.”
“Where?”
“Directions have been sent by email. You have one hour.”
“Who should I ask for?”
The caller hung up.
Chandra jumped out of bed and rushed to the washroom. There, she emptied her bladder and splashed water on her face.
She couldn’t believe her luck.
This was the story that was going to get her out of radio and onto television where she belonged.
Chapter 59
Cypher lay on the bed with eyes squeezed tight, jaw locked open and his tongue curled to the back of his throat. Through bared teeth, he screamed in silence.
As the scream grew in intensity, his hands and feet joined in. He pounded the mattress, fists and heels of rage raining down on cushioned springs.
If he had allowed voice to join action, he would have woken the entire neighborhood.
His tantrum lasted until he was bathed in sweat and yellow foam pellets, exhausted. His favorite pillow floated to the floor, having been pummeled into nothing more than an empty pocket.
Cypher pulled himself off the bed and walked to the bathroom. There, he closed the door and stared deep into his reflected image.
He didn’t like what he saw.
His hair was limp and his face was puffy. His skin had become splotched with random patches of cherry-stained acne, and his eyes had sunk so deep into his skull it was as though they were trying to disappear.
Most of all, he hated the shame. It filled him to overflowing, burning his guts and boiling his blood until it burst from his pores in an oily, foul sweat.
He could smell it.
Taste it.
Gag on it.
He opened the medicine chest above the sink and twisted the childproof cap from his canister of potent migraine medicine. Four aqua-blue pills sat atop a fluffy cloud of white cotton.
He removed the pills and carefully separated the cotton. Inside was a tiny plastic jeweler’s bag containing three pubic hairs, two dark and one gray.
He studied the hairs for a moment before grabbing a pair of tweezers and plucking one out of the bag.
He held the lone strand over the sink and reached for a box of wooden matches. He struck a match and held it close.
The hair curled and burned and turned to dust.
“Die,” Cypher hissed as he inhaled the acrid smoke. “Just fucking die.”
AFTER THE RITUAL, Cypher washed his face and returned his secret to the medicine cabinet.
He felt slightly better, more relaxed.
He still had twenty-five minutes until his meeting with Chandra.
The thought made him smile.
Chapter 60
Chandra didn’t like the neighborhood.
She was used to men staring at her, but in the daytime those looks were merely lustful. Here, in the nighttime, she had the uneasy feeling the doorway predators wanted to flay her alive and sell the meat for a simple bag of powder.
One woman hissed at her — actually hissed — when she stopped beneath a street lamp to get her bearings. Chandra had backed away, hands raised to show she had no interest in poaching the woman’s hard-earned territory.
At least it wasn’t secluded, she thought, although she doubted any of the strangers would come to her aid if something bad did happen.
To be safe, she kept one hand inside her coat pocket, fingers playing with the top of an aerosol alarm that could emit an ear-piercing siren audible for up to a quarter mile.
“Chandra.”
Chandra turned at the sound of her name and saw a familiar face.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’ve come to meet you.”
“You?”
Cypher nodded.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s okay. I can explain everything. Walk with me.”
Cypher held out his hand, but Chandra didn’t remove hers from her pocket. It didn’t feel right.
Cypher smiled easily.
“It’s okay,” he said again. “I know you have a lot of questions, but we can’t talk here. Come on.”
Chandra stayed where she was.
“Did you kill Hudson?” she asked.
“No, but I can take you to the one who did. Just like I said I would.”
“Are you part of K.A.R.M.A.?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Cypher smiled. “Always the reporter. I’ll tell you everything, but not in front of these losers.”
Chandra looked at the collection of bums and hookers that circled around them shadows of lost lives.
“OK,” she said finally. “Let’s go.”
As they walked, Chandra kept one hand resting on her personal alarm.
Chapter 61
Reddy was nauseous as he huddled in a damp sleeping bag beneath the bridge and listened to the morning news on a portable radio.
His breakfast — warm Coca Cola injected with a pressurized jolt of Lysol disinfectant spray — didn’t help matters. It was a brain-numbing concoction he had been nursing since leaving New York. Its effect was the same as burying his nose in plastic bags filled with model glue, but the Lysol didn’t cause his face to break out in an acne-scarring rash.
Besides, at twelve, he was getting too old for glue.
The radio was reporting the body of a young girl had been found in an alley in the same neighborhood as his bastard father’s favorite bar. The assault was so vicious that one officer on the scene described the victim as “looking like she had been mauled by a pack of rabid dogs.”
Police are not ruling out the possibility of multiple attackers and are seeking any and all witnesses. Anyone in the vicinity of . . . .
Reddy shut his ears to the report — Just another kid finding hell on the streets. What the fuck was news about that? — until the reporter added:
We’ve just learned that police have recovered a library card at the scene. In an unusual departure from policy, Chicago police are asking for the public’s help in tracking the movements of one Theresa Vangalis of New York City. Miss Vangalis is 14 ye
ars old. Police are not confirming that Vangalis is the victim of this heinous crime, only that she is a person of interest . . .
Reddy felt his heart turn to ice and shatter as his head spun and his stomach churned.
Theresa.
His Theresa?
He didn’t know her last name, but who else could it be? She had implied in the last K.A.R.M.A. chat that she was coming to Chicago ...
Reddy leaned back against the wall to get his balance, but his head spun faster and faster. His lungs turned to stone; his heart was no longer capable of keeping a steady beat. His blood became fire.
Suddenly, his vision flashed red, then purple, and finally, mercilessly, black.
WHEN REDDY REGAINED consciousness, he was lying in a puddle of his own liquefied puke. His breakfast can of Coke was crushed in his hand.
Reddy threw the can away, suddenly disgusted by its cheerful red coat, and dragged himself to his feet. His legs wobbled and his stomach lurched, but there was nothing left inside to come up.
Once he had regained most of his balance, Reddy headed for the library.
He had to talk to Cypher. He had to know if Theresa was really dead. To know if his father had reached out to rape and kill the only thing in this fucked-up world he cared about.
As he stumbled along the crowded street of faceless strangers, Reddy didn’t feel the hot tears that streamed from his eyes. He remained oblivious, even when the cold wind froze them into tiny jewels upon his cheeks.
Chapter 62
Cypher stroked his cheek, his fingers playing with the sticky edge of a Band-Aid. The face of the plastic strip was decorated with cartoon characters from The Simpsons.
The halothane spray he had stolen from a local veterinary clinic hadn’t acted as quickly as expected. Chandra had managed to land a painful scratch before falling unconscious.
Cypher knew he had been lucky that was all the damage she had been able to inflict. He had watched her work out at the gym and knew she was a fierce competitor.
The chart he used to gauge the strength of the drug was, unfortunately, based on canine weight and metabolism. Based on how quickly Fats had succumbed to the spray, he had cut back on the dose for Chandra, but the results proved it was difficult to predict how these things worked without more experimentation.
Strangely, the sight of his blood dripping from her fingernails had excited him.
When she was finally unconscious, he had contemplated masturbating over her, wondering what it would feel like to have her soft hands stroke his steel-hard sex. Her flesh looked so wonderfully warm and alive, and he thought how wonderful it would be to have her tied to a chair, completely naked.
He had never seen a girl naked before.
A real girl that was.
In the flesh.
Cypher shook his head. He couldn’t get distracted. He wasn’t the monster.
He moved to an old propane stove in the corner of the garage and turned its thermostat higher before returning to his laptop computer and sending out the email that would bring his followers into the chatroom.
He was surprised when only one showed up.
NEEDLE: This is fucked up
CYPHER: We all knew the risks
NEEDLE: Fuck risks. Theresa couldnt handle that bastard herself
CYPHER: She had surprise on her side
NEEDLE: Twasnt enough
CYPHER: She knew the risks
NEEDLE: Quit sayin that. She shouldnt ave been there
CYPHER: You handled her problem with ease
NEEDLE: Difrent story. He wz a junkie
CYPHER: Theresa’s target was drunk
NEEDLE: U shouldnt ave let her go
CYPHER: I’m sorry about Theresa. It was bad luck all around
NEEDLE: Bad luck? She wz fuckin butchered
CYPHER: I’ve said I’m sorry. My night went no better
NEEDLE: How can U compare? UR alive
CYPHER: Thankfully
NEEDLE: I shouldve took care of my own
CYPHER: That’s not the plan. Don’t start whining like Eric
NEEDLE: Farm boy wz right. This hole thing is fucked. Im gonna make that bastard pay
CYPHER: No. I forbid it. You’ll blow everything
NEEDLE: FUCK U! U do your own wetwork. Now its my turn
CYPHER: Don’t cross me, Reddy. I’m ordering you to stand down
NEEDLE: U cant order shit. Theresa is dead because of Ur stupid plan. Who fuckin needs U?
CYPHER: You needed me. You all needed me
NEEDLE: Not anymore. Thanks for screwin our lives up more than they already wer
CYPHER: You don’t understand
NEEDLE: No I dont. I dont understand a fuckin thing
CYPHER: I can help. We can help
NEEDLE: Theres no WE, Cypher. We were a distraction. Somethin U dreamed up to confuse the cops. This wz always about U. An Theresa paid with her life
CYPHER: You’re wrong. I care about you. All of you
NEEDLE: U dont care bout NE1. U dont know how
Cypher turned away from the computer and stared at the young woman, gagged and bound to the wooden chair. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. Raven black hair fell across her face — a waterfall in negative.
His eyes narrowed until they were nothing but pinpricks of dark matter.
“This is all your boyfriend’s fault,” he said.
Chapter 63
Hackett curled the pillow around his head and pressed the foam padding into his ears. It was no good; he could still hear the jarring sound of the ringing phone. Each ring was accompanied by a droll computer voice intoning, “Unknown Caller.”
When the ringing stopped, Hackett sighed and allowed himself to drift back into dreamland where Charlie’s Angel Farrah Fawcett was challenging him to a game of strip checkers. The beauty of the game was Farrah was only wearing her one-piece, rust-orange bathing suit from the poster on his bathroom door. Her smile was radiant; her nipples standing proud like an Ebert & Roeper review: two thumbs up.
All he needed was one good move.
The phone started to ring again.
Hackett groaned and swung his feet off the side of the bed to pad into the living room. He kept his eyes closed, pretending he was just sleep walking, trying to keep Farrah from becoming restless.
“What?” he barked into the mouthpiece.
A robotic voice answered. “Check your email.”
“Is this you, Fats?”
The caller hung up.
“Shit!”
Hackett dropped the phone back into its cradle. Farrah had vanished.
With eyes still closed, Hackett considered crawling back into bed and trying to resurrect the dream, but he knew it would be useless. Farrah had moved on to some other dreamer.
Hackett grabbed Fats’ backpack and powered up the steampunk camera rig he had used at Gloria’s. He pulled the helmet onto his head, tucked in the earpiece and spoke into the microphone. Then, he simply waited for the words to appear on Fats’ screen.
“You’re up early,” said the robotic voice in his earpiece. “It’s barely eight.”
“No shit,” replied Hackett. “You called and woke me.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“You sure? No one else I know talks like a freakin’ robot.”
“Wasn’t me,” Fats repeated. “What did they say?”
“Told me to check my email.”
“Did you?”
“Nope. I called you instead. I was having this great dream.”
“Farrah again?”
“How did you know?”
“You always think it’s great when you dream of Farrah.”
“True. I was born in the wrong decade. I was meant to be a child of the ’70s.”
“Instead you’ll still be a child in your 70s.”
“Who could ask for anything more,” sang Hackett, imitating the commercial jingle for Toyota.
“So why don’t you?” asked Fats.
“Why don’t I?”
“Check your email.”
“Oh, right. OK, hold on.”
Hackett slid into his office chair and wiggled the mouse to kill the screen saver. The blonde flashed him and Hackett knew it was time to reprogram. She was becoming annoying.
Hackett launched his email and studied the list of message headers. The one that stood out was: Miss Her Yet?
Hackett opened the email and felt a knife cut deep in his belly.
“He’s got her,” he said. “Cypher has snatched Chandra. He wants to meet. If I don’t comply, or I call the cops, Chandra pays. Fuck!”
“When’s the meet?” Fats asked.
“Tonight.”
“Come over. We need a plan.”
“Wait!” An idea burst to the forefront of his thoughts. “Can you check Chandra’s pager?”
“Her pager?”
“Yeah,” Hackett said excitedly. “Her company bought these new pagers that can be tracked by GPS.”
“Cool.”
“Can you find her using that?”
“If she has it switched on, I can possibly hack into the radio station and find how to track it.”
“Do it,” said Hackett. “I’ll be there soon.”
Hackett yanked off the headset and stared at Cypher’s empty promise that Chandra wouldn’t be hurt if he did as he was told.
“Fuck, fuck, Fuck, FUck, FUCK!”
Hackett lashed out with fists and feet, his flesh slapping and kicking the solid wooden desk. The tantrum lasted until the pain of bruised knuckles and stubbed toes blew the top off his anger.
RECITING A MANTRAto calm himself, Hackett dressed in black the color of both mourning and revenge.
He made a mug of tea to wake himself up and picked up the phone. His call was answered on the second ring by a guttural growl.
“What bloody time is it?”
“Uncle Frank, it’s Tom. How are you feeling?”
“Like a cat pissed in my bloody eyes.” Frank cleared his throat. “But, listen, sorry if I was abrupt with you last night. I should’ve thanked you for helping. Bastard caught me by surprise.”
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