Karma

by Grant McKenzie

  “What’s family for?”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  Frank’s words slid sideways from his mouth, which Hackett knew all too clearly was a telltale sign of either a blinding hangover or the unwrapping of a fresh drunk.

  Frank continued, “Hey, how come you were at Gloria’s anyway? I told you I was taking care of it.”

  Hackett bit back his first response and said calmly, “Didn’t you teach me it’s always smart to have backup?”

  Frank’s laugh sounded forced. “And to think, I never thought you paid any attention to your old uncle.”

  “More than you realize.”

  Frank went silent for a moment, then, “So what can I do for you?”

  “I’m wondering about last night,” Hackett said. “Is there anything about the creep who attacked you that stands out?”

  Frank made a slurping noise with his lips as though trying to suck a spilled memory off his chin.

  “He hit me with that bloody spray so fast, I barely got a glimpse. He didn’t look overly muscular or anything, but I only saw a shadow before I was blinded. His aim was good, I’ll tell you that. Got me square in the peepers. Why?”

  Hackett hesitated, debating how much to tell, when he heard the distinctive tinkle of glass on glass and knew Frank was useless to him.

  “Just in case we run into him again,” Hackett said sadly.

  “Well, you’ve never been much of a fighter, Tommy.” Frank snorted. “You should leave that to your girlfriend. Your Ma tells me she’s got quite the kick.”

  “Yeah,” Hackett agreed, his heart sinking. “She’s always been good at looking after herself.”

  “You should come over, Tommy.” Frank became boisterous, his vowels beginning to slur. “We’ll sample a wee dram and your Aunt Carol can slaughter the fatted calf to cook up a Sunday roast with all the trimmings.” His voice bellowed, suddenly excited. “Yorkshire Pud! When was the last time you tasted real Yorkshire Pud?” Then melancholy. “And you haven’t seen young Frankie in forever. He still thinks you’re the bee’s knees, you know?”

  “Sounds great, Uncle Frank,” said Hackett. “But I’ve some business to take care of. Maybe a rain check?”

  Frank’s voice drifted into the distance as he lowered the phone. “Anytime, my boy. Anytime.”

  Chapter 64

  Cypher stared incomprehensibly at the blank computer screen. His brain was muffled and misfiring as though someone had drilled a hole through the top of his skull and dropped in a nest of silkworms to wrap the organ in a thick cocoon.

  Even his blood felt thick and slow, his arteries clogged with errand strands of worm excrement and cast off silk. He was also cold, the warmth pumping from the old propane stove failing to penetrate his skin.

  He looked at the girl, sleeping.

  Her chest rose and fell with every breath.

  Two of the buttons near her throat had popped loose to reveal a triangle of smooth skin the color of cinnamon and chocolate.

  He wanted to place his mouth to her throat, suck in that triangle and drain the chocolate smoothness from her flesh. To fill his throat with the taste of her, he imagined, would be like drowning in heavy cream.

  He moved close to check her breathing. It seemed labored, although he wasn’t quite sure.

  Being that close to her was difficult. She smelled of mango and coconut, and he could see the curve of her breasts vanishing into a tan colored bra. Her skin was flawless.

  Cypher felt a tingle in his scrotum and a thickening of his penis. The urge to touch her was great, but his head was too clouded to take it to the next step.

  He was tired.

  Tired of being strong, being the leader, being Cypher. With a sigh, he glanced down at the matchbook-sized pager attached to Chandra’s belt. An L.E.D. pulsed green to show its battery was still strong.

  Cypher turned and walked to the propane stove in the corner. He tugged at the exhaust vent until it broke away in his hands.

  The sudden burp of carbon monoxide fumes made him gag as he yanked up the garage door, slid under, and then locked it again from the outside.

  Chapter 65

  Fats voice broke into a high pitch. “Found her!”

  “Alright.” Hackett slapped his friend’s raised hand in a stinging high-five. “Where is she?”

  Fats motioned for Hackett to follow as he led the way to his attic workshop. There, he swiveled his computer monitor to show glowing crosshairs superimposed on a city map.

  “I know the area,” said Hackett. He reached across Fats and stabbed the print key.

  ‘Are you going to call Frank?’ Fats signed.

  Hackett shook his head. “He’s hitting the bottle already. Not a good sign. Guess I’m on my own.”

  “Take this.”

  Fats reached into a drawer and removed a shiny black handgun. At the same time, he opened a window on his computer to show the specs of what he was holding: a Beretta 92FS Border Marshall semi-auto pistol. If you were into guns, it was a beauty.

  “When did you become Charlton Heston?” Hackett asked. “I’ve told you before, I don’t like guns.”

  ‘You might need it,’ signed Fats.

  “If I need it, I’m in more trouble than I can handle. I’d end up shooting my toes off.”

  Hackett lifted one of his sandaled feet to show the yellow happy face on the nail of his big toe. “And I’d hate to spoil the paint job.”

  He handed the gun back.

  “I appreciate the gesture,” he continued. “But if I think the situation calls for that kind of force, then I’m better off bailing and calling in the pros. Cypher won’t be expecting us to know where he’s stashed Chandra. I’ll have surprise on my side.”

  Fats looked down at the gun in his lap and signed: ‘I wish I could go with you. Feel stupid.’

  “Hey, don’t sweat it,” reassured Hackett. “I know you'd back me up in a second if you could, but I wouldn't invite an asthmatic to a bong party, and I'm not going to ask you to go outside. It's cool.”

  ‘I should go back to therapy,’ signed Fats.

  “Yeah, you should,” agreed Hackett. “But don’t do it on my account. Do it for yourself. I don't like to see you turning into some heavily armed Howard Hughes, but you're heading in that direction. How many guns are stashed in this place now?”

  Fats shrugged.

  “Now that’s scary,” said Hackett. “When you don’t know the number, you’ve got way too fucking many.”

  Fats grinned and nodded.

  ‘I’ve improved the headset,’ he signed, pointing to the backpack hanging over Hackett’s shoulder. ‘I just need to swap the lenses. You’re going to wear it, right?’

  “Yeah,” said Hackett, knowing how much it meant to his friend. “You’ll be with me in technologically-enhanced spirit.”

  Chapter 66

  Hackett parked the Beast behind a commercial dumpster and slid from the seat. The alley invaded his nostrils as soon as he opened the door: rotten meat, discarded frying grease and another, more noxious odor that didn’t bare thinking about.

  Hackett looked at the ground, his nose wrinkling with every step as brown-black mud squelched over the soles of his sandals. He skirted past a hopscotch track of potholes filled with rainwater. The surface of each puddle was alive with oil-slick rainbows and what looked like chunks of gelatinous fish flesh.

  Some of the potholes looked deep enough to swallow a body, and Hackett wouldn’t have been totally surprised to look into one and see a pair of lifeless eyes staring back.

  When he reached the mouth of the alley, Hackett crouched in the shadows and arranged the headset Fats had given him. He switched on the power and aimed its three powerful lenses at a stark row of tin-fronted garages across the street.

  The flat-roofed buildings had the look of a mechanics’ mausoleum; six doors to choose from, each one promising the same taillight guarantee: When your taillights vanished around the corner, so did your guarantee.

 
; Most of the garage doors were closed, though two at the far end had lifted their metal skirts partway and loud music — Rock mixed with Rap mixed with Be-bob mixed with Latin mixed with Samba — caused the metal to vibrate.

  “I’m in position,” Hackett said into the small microphone. “Any readings?”

  “Too much metal,” replied Fats’ computerized voice. “You need to find a window.”

  “These don’t look the type of buildings that go in for a lot of natural light, Fats. Half are probably Meth labs and the others are busy chopping cars.”

  “Then we’re working blind.”

  Hackett studied the empty street for a few minutes to make sure he hadn’t missed a trigger-happy sentry for a working drug lab.

  “I’m going to circle and see if anyone put in a back door,” Hackett said into the mike. “If I was running a game down here, I wouldn’t leave myself with only one exit.”

  Keeping to the shadows, Hackett strode the length of the block before darting across the street and disappearing behind the garages. When he reached the rear alley, he discovered it was filled with overflowing dumpsters and burnt-out car wrecks.

  “Can you read my location?” Hackett asked.

  “I’ve got you on GPS. You’re almost on target.”

  Hackett walked the length of the alley until Fats told him the GPS indicator built into the headset lined up with the signal from Chandra’s pager.

  The wall in front of him sported an unpainted door that could have been salvage from a shipwreck. The slats of knotted wood bucked and curved as if frozen by the nightmare of an ocean storm. Whoever had decided to fit the door had been smoking too much of their own product, and it was clear that it hadn’t seen much use.

  But it wasn’t the door itself that troubled him. Looming precariously beside it were the iron corpses of three crushed cars stacked one on top of the other. Unless they were welded together, Hackett knew it wouldn’t take much force to make them topple.

  As he bent beneath the shadow of the cars and studied the wooden door, Hackett hoped he wasn’t standing on an elaborate mousetrap with Chandra as the cheese.

  The door was soft and rotting and pieces of it flaked away under his touch. Inspired, Hackett produced his Swiss Army knife and opened the corkscrew. Being careful not to make noise, Hackett inserted the corkscrew into one of the larger knots and bore into the wood.

  Once the corkscrew had sunk its steel tooth securely into the knot, Hackett placed one hand on the door for leverage and pulled. The knot slid out like a cork from a bottle of cheap wine.

  Grinning at his own cleverness, Hackett placed his eye on the hole and peered inside. At first, he could only see darkness, but as his eye adjusted he began to make out differing shades of gray.

  “Which one of these lenses is the heat thingamabob?” Hackett whispered into the mike.

  “The thermal imager is in the middle.”

  Hackett dropped to his knees and lined the middle lens with the knothole.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  “Can you get a better angle?”

  “No. This is it.”

  “I’m reading two heat sources. One is off to your right. The second is straight ahead, but the angle is making it difficult to be certain. I don’t think the second source is human. Too hot.”

  “So Chandra’s alone?”

  “Possibly, but I can’t see the whole room.”

  “Fuck it. I’m going in.”

  Hackett took a step back and lashed out with his foot, splintering the wood and making the whole building shake. He froze at the sound of screeching metal and looked up to see the top car in the rusted pile swaying dangerously.

  Cursing his foolishness, Hackett snapped out his black-steel baton and jammed its thick-end into the edge of the door. He pulled, using leverage to do most of the work. The door groaned as more wood splintered and the baton began to bend under the force.

  Finally, with a sharp, ear-splitting crack, the door burst open on rusted hinges and fell away.

  Hackett was inside.

  Chapter 67

  He hadn’t gone to work.

  Reddy found that strange. It was the one thing his father prided himself on — being able to get so drunk he couldn’t walk, talk or fart straight, but then be able to get up in the morning and go to work.

  He would watch talk shows and laugh at the stories recovering alcoholics told of how their lives were ruined by booze.

  “Fuckin’ pussies,” he would yell at the TV. “A man can drink all he wants, so long as he gets the fuck up and gets the job done.”

  The fact that he beat his wife and only surviving child while reeking of two-dollar bourbon never seemed to bother him. Not so long as he earned that weekly paycheck.

  This morning, however, he hadn’t made it.

  Reddy had been watching all night trying to work up the nerve to go inside. He had followed him home from the bar, waiting for the courage to pounce. The moment never came, or it had come but Reddy didn’t take it; failed to take it.

  He was behaving like a pussy. A fuckin’ pussy.

  It would be easier to just set fire to the whole building. He could sneak into the basement where everyone stored their junk — boxes of rags, bundles of paper, piles of forgotten and discarded trash — and light a match.

  Raze the building to the ground. Leave nothing but ash and scattered teeth.

  But old Mrs. Porter lived on the second floor. She used to bake him warm cookies when she found him sitting on the cold concrete steps, eyes bloodshot from tears, arms oozing from cigarette burns.

  Reddy remembered she collected colored glass — clowns and things. They looked creepy to him, the colors obscenely bright, but she had stories about all of them; stories of boys who had gone overseas and never returned; stories of stolen kisses that had made Reddy crinkle his nose in disgust.

  Mrs. Porter was old, even back then. She was definitely too old to be talking about kissing.

  And the Tingles on the first floor had a daughter in college. Her breasts were the first Reddy had ever seen.

  Reddy recalled playing out back, poking a stick at a dying rat, one of its rear legs practically torn off by a dog or cat, its teeth yellow and huge. The rat eventually dragged itself under a dumpster and for some unknown reason Reddy had turned and looked up.

  Jenny Tingle stood in front of her bedroom window, a phone to her ear, her breasts bare. They were the color of fresh sheets and the tips had looked as delicate and perfect as rosebuds.

  She hadn’t seen him playing down below — his clothes not much better than the surrounding garbage.

  He had stared wide eyed at those breasts, wondering what they must feel like, if they were soft or hard. They looked hard, like baseballs, but he couldn’t imagine a woman being like that.

  Reddy decided he shouldn’t burn those prized memories.

  He had too few to spare.

  Chapter 68

  Hackett burst into the garage, his teeth locked in a grimace. If anyone had dared bar his way, he was sure he would have snapped their neck with a savage blow from the baton.

  The interior was filled with a thick, choking fog and Hackett felt his eyes immediately start to sting and his lungs to protest. But before he could consider retreating, he spotted Chandra tied to a chair in the corner, alone.

  “My God,” he gasped.

  Dashing to Chandra’s side, he clawed at her bonds before dropping the baton and digging out his pocketknife. Its blade struggled to slice through the thick plastic cord.

  He wheezed from the fog and his head began to spin.

  When he finally cut through her bonds, Hackett knelt in front of Chandra and placed his hands on her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, her breathing labored, barely there.

  “Chandra,” he said, his voice strangely hoarse. “Can you hear me?”

  He started to cough as he shook her gently by the shoulders. When there was no response, he felt his anger dissolve into fear. All his stre
ngth seemed to fall away and he collapsed against her, his eyes flooding with tears. He felt ashamed of what he had dragged her into, at the pain he had caused.

  His depressive trance was broken by an ear-splitting metallic screech as the rusted pile of cars collapsed against the broken doorway outside, shutting off his only source of light.

  “Hackett,” said Fats’ computerized voice. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hackett staggered to the door and attempted to clear the blockage, but it was no use. The cars had sealed the exit even more securely than the rotten door.

  Hackett spun and groped his way in the dark to reach the door that sealed the front of the garage.

  “Fats!” he yelled. “The air in here ...”

  His cough worsened, his lungs becoming raw as his vision spun dizzyingly.

  Hackett yanked on the door, but it was locked from the outside.

  He heard a steady hiss from the corner to his left and moved to it, using his hands to feel his way. When he reached the broken stove, the air was toxic.

  Hackett collapsed to his knees, lowering his head in an attempt to suck oxygen from the floor.

  “It’s a set-up,” he croaked.

  “What’s going on?” Fat’s tinny voice seemed distant.

  Hackett crawled to Chandra’s side and pulled her onto the floor beside him. There was a thin crack of light off to one side, a break in the wall.

  “The fucker knew we would trace Chandra’s pager,” Hackett wheezed. “The garage is full of gas.” His voice was barely audible. “Get help.”

  With Chandra in his arms, Hackett attempted to crawl to the light before passing out.

  Chapter 69

  The sign never came.

  Reddy continued to watch the building, but his father never appeared.

  It was time to move. Time to act.

  Reddy looked at his feet, willed them to move forward.

  “Come on,” he urged. “Just one step. Just one.”