His left foot moved forward, then his right, and then his left again. Reddy found himself running until his shoulder slapped against the building’s front door. The glass was spider-webbed and held together with duct tape, the lock broken too many times to bother fixing.
Then he was heading up.
Up the bare concrete stairs where he had spent so much of his childhood, just trying to stay out of the way.
Past the first landing, the lingering scent of yeasty potato bread with crust the color of coal.
Past the second landing. Stopping on the third.
The apartment door stood in front of him. It was painted blue with scratches of pink showing underneath. The door had been pink when they moved in. His mom loved it, but his dad painted it the next day.
“People will think we’re faggots,” was his reason.
Reddy dug deep into his jacket pocket and removed his key. A scrap of yellow string still dangled off the end from when he used to wear it around his neck.
He remembered the day his mom had given it to him, like a medal, because he was old enough to let himself in after school. He would make a peanut butter sandwich and work on his homework with the TV on. Scooby Doo was his favorite show.
Everything was perfect until dad came home.
Reddy inserted the key in the lock. The door opened with a squeak, the hinges not used to a gentle touch. He could hear the television, a broadcaster talking about football.
Reddy slipped inside and pulled the door closed behind him. His free hand slipped under his jacket and returned clutching the aqua-blue handle of an ice pick.
He had customized the pick by removing the handle’s plastic cap, lining the cavity with tinfoil and filling it with molten lead. The heat had softened the plastic just enough to allow him to mold it to his hand, and the lead added weight to give the pick more penetrating power.
The other boys on the street had quickly learned not to mess with Needle.
The apartment stunk of spilled beer and clogged toilets. Reddy wrinkled his nose and moved quietly down the hallway. He entered the living room and saw the lone Lazy Boy recliner in its familiar position facing the TV.
It was empty.
Reddy whirled, expecting his father to be behind him, fists cocked and ready. But there was no one.
The galley-sized kitchen, visible through an open hutch that connected an empty square of carpet where his mom had always dreamed a formal dining table would reside, was also deserted.
Reddy had dreamed of that empty square of carpet, too. But in his dream, the floor was covered in a black and silver track, electric cars racing in the pattern of a figure eight. He would control the blue one, his mom got red. Reddy even remembered seeing a commercial once for a police car with red and blue lights that actually lit up as it raced along. At the time, he couldn’t imagine there being anything cooler.
Swallowing his fear, Reddy returned to the hallway and entered his parents’ bedroom. The room was a disaster — the bed looking as if someone had used it for a toilet, the sheets stained with piss, sweat and even nastier stuff — but his father wasn’t inside.
Reddy looked in his old bedroom, smiling slightly at the recognition of a few broken toys and a scattered stack of well-thumbed comic books. He remembered buying those comics from a kid in school. His asking price was ten comics for a dollar. Reddy had managed to talk him into adding an extra five, and then he had bought three whole dollars worth. Forty-five comics. That night, he read until his eyes were too blurry to see. He remembered wanting to be like them: Spider-Man, Superman, Flash, Daredevil. But most of all, he wanted to be Batman.
Batman was just a man. No powers. Just will, determination and a razor-sharp mind. Plus, he kicked ass like nobody else. All the bad guys feared him.
But Reddy knew he could never be Batman since he had already broken the superhero’s golden rule: Never kill.
And now he was going to break it again.
Reddy checked the bathroom. Empty.
He returned to the living room and skirted past the Lazy Boy to switch off the TV.
That’s when he saw him.
He was lying on his side in front of the television, one hand clutching the remote control, the other reaching for a spilled bottle of Bourbon.
His father’s eyes were open wide. He wasn’t breathing.
Reddy knelt beside his father and placed a finger on the side of his neck. There was no pulse and the flesh was cold. His black heart had finally turned to coal.
Reddy felt anger rising like bile from his belly. Hot mucus clogged his throat as the realization struck that his father had escaped punishment.
He had simply died. No violence, no mess, just drank himself to death.
“You bastard!” he screamed. “You fucking, selfish, miserable bastard.”
Reddy plunged the ice pick into his father’s shoulder. It was like sticking a pin into a cushion. There was barely any blood.
“Bastard!” he yelled again.
Reddy rolled the body onto its back and stared into eyes the color of soft-boiled eggs. He lifted the ice pick and plunged it down again and again, hacking at the corpse, losing count of the number of blows.
Hot tears streamed down his cheeks until there was nothing left to spill.
When he was exhausted, Reddy pried the remote out of his father’s hand and crawled onto the recliner. He changed the channels until he reached one showing cartoons.
A sad smile crossed Reddy’s face when he saw that Scooby Doo was about to begin.
Chapter 70
The garage door crumpled inward before blowing apart from the force of a dark blue Chevy Avalanche truck with chrome wheels and a killer digital audio system.
The four-wheeled behemoth came to a screeching halt midway into the garage and its driver climbed out. Fats’ face was deathly white and dripping with anxious sweat as the weight of the outside world pressed down upon him.
Hyperventilating and fighting back the panic that threatened to incapacitate him, Fats quickly found his two friends unconscious on the floor. He couldn’t tell if they were breathing. His hands trembled too much to check for a pulse and his eyes were blinded by sweat.
Fats dragged Hackett and Chandra to his truck and, one at a time, shoved them into the cab.
Clenching his teeth, Fats scrambled back into the driver’s seat, sucked in a deep breath and threw the truck into reverse.
Tires squealed as the truck rocketed backwards into the street and left the scene at triple the posted speed.
Chapter 71
The nurses in Emergency were shocked at the dump’n’run delivery by the heavy sweat-soaked man in the dark blue truck, but the presence of two unconscious patients quickly focused their attention.
Hackett responded almost immediately to oxygen and, after a prolonged coughing fit that threatened to invert his lungs, had quickly begun to regain his strength. Chandra, however, was admitted for observation and blood tests as she failed to regain consciousness.
Sitting alone in a small waiting room with a cold can of Dr. Pepper pressed against his forehead, Hackett glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps. He groaned at the rumpled fabric and stern faces of the two detectives: Brown and Gray.
They didn’t bother showing any ID or inquiring after his health before grabbing his arms and marching him down the hallway to a cramped, windowless room marked Admin Storage. The room was completely empty except for three cheap plastic chairs.
Hackett looked around at the blank concrete walls that someone had painted pale yellow in a futile attempt to make it cheerful.
“Is this your secret interrogation room?” he asked.
“Sure,” Gray suit said. “Who’s going to notice you screaming in here? It’s a hospital, they’re used to it.”
Gray indicated that he should sit. Hackett obeyed.
Before joining him, Brown suit turned his chair so the back of it faced Hackett. The move seemed casual, but Hackett saw how the simple maneuver placed a pr
otective barrier between the detective and his prisoner.
“What happened to the girl?” Brown suit asked.
Hackett told him everything, including what the nurses had relayed to him of Fats’ heroic rescue.
“You’re a Class A Fuck-up,” said Brown when Hackett was finished.
Hackett shrugged.
“Why didn’t you call us?” Brown pressed. “We would have nailed this bastard and ended the damn case.”
“I was more interested in saving Chandra.”
“You could have been killed. Both of you.”
“We weren’t.”
“That’s not the point,” said Brown.
“That’s exactly the point.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, kid,” Gray said. “My partner here may be gruff, but he’s a damn good cop. You rescued your girlfriend, which is great, but with this freak on the loose, she’s still in danger. If you had involved us from the start, the creep would be locked up and you wouldn’t have to worry about looking over your shoulder every five minutes wondering if he’s following you.”
“Why didn’t you at least call Frank?” Brown interjected.
Hackett didn’t want to tell them he had called his uncle, but he was already crawling inside a bottle. Instead, he stuck with the non-committal shrug.
The room was so silent, Hackett could hear Brown suit grinding his teeth.
“Do you have the address?” Gray asked.
Hackett told him.
“We’ll check it out,” Gray continued. “But try not to do anything else this stupid.”
Both men stood up to leave.
“Can I see Chandra now?” Hackett asked.
“You’ll need to ask the nurses,” answered Gray.
“I was hoping you could put a word in. They seem to think I’m responsible.”
“Aren’t you?” asked Brown suit.
Hackett looked down at his shoes and sighed.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Gray. “Come on, walk us out.”
Chapter 72
By the time Hackett made it through the administrative maze to get access to Chandra, a young man in a white lab coat was just leaving her room. He had bleached blond hair and a deep surfer’s tan. He looked no older than eighteen.
“Are you a doctor?” Hackett challenged.
The young man flashed soap-star teeth. “That’s what my license says.” His voice was laced with a laid-back Australian accent.
“Is Chandra okay? She’s my girlfriend.”
“Lucky man.”
Hackett bristled. He knew he was lucky, but it was damn irritating when other people felt free to confirm it.
“She’ll be fine,” continued the doctor. “All her vital signs are strong. The fact she was drugged actually helped. Her breathing was shallow, which reduced her inhalation of the Carbon Monoxide. We just need to wait for the tranquilizer to wear off. She’s been given a high dose.”
“Do you know what the drug was?”
“Not specifically, but I’ve ordered blood work. We’ll know soon enough.”
“But she’s going to be fine.”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “She’ll likely have a whopper of a headache, but we can treat that. No worries.”
When Hackett entered the room, he felt he was walking into Cinderella’s sanctuary — before she married the prince. A web of illusion spun to hide the truth.
The decorator had tried to make the room pleasant enough, but it didn’t take much study to see the white curtains that separated four single beds had been washed too often in strong bleach; the blue walls, which at first looked marbled, were simply losing their paint; and the scent of powerful disinfectant couldn’t quite cover the underlying aroma of sickness and death.
The illusion fought hard, however, as the evening sun filtered through the windows, its fading rays highlighting threadbare patches in the curtains to cast a chimera of patterned silk. Even the waxed linoleum floor — aided by the harsh fluorescent glow of the ceiling lights — blended the scuffmarks of shoes and trolleys into the appearance of fine slate.
But all illusion was quickly shattered when one of the residents farted loudly and another began to curse the lousy TV reception. And when the sun slid behind a cloud, there was no mistaking the room for anything other than what it was: a place dying from too much illness and not enough government support.
Hackett found Chandra’s cubicle and ducked inside the curtained walls. She was lying on her back, a woolen blanket tucked beneath her chin. Her long hair cascaded over the pillow like spilled ink on virgin paper. Her eyes were closed, but there was a fluttering behind the lids. Her breathing sounded regular and easy.
Hackett leaned over the bed and kissed her. Her lips were cold and stiff, unyielding.
“Hey, gorgeous, time to wake up,” he whispered. “The doc says you’ll be okay.” He took her hand and squeezed. “Fats came to our rescue, can you believe it? Agoraphobic fucker was so scared about us, he forgot his own phobia.”
Chandra didn’t stir.
TWO HOURS LATER, Hackett stood and stretched. He was tired to the bone and his mind was sluggish.
“I’m going to grab a coffee,” he told Chandra’s sleeping form. “Want anything? Donut? Barfi fudge?”
Hackett grinned, expecting a response. Chandra hated donuts with a passion that bordered on fanatical, but she loved her creamy Indian fudge.
She didn’t stir.
“OK,” he said. “Back soon.”
When Hackett stepped into the hallway, a young nurse ploughed straight into him, nearly knocking him over.
“Sorry,” she blurted.
“That’s OK,” said Hackett. “I’ve been hit by worse today.”
The nurse smiled. “Are you Tom Hackett?”
Hackett furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“There’s a woman asking to see you. Your aunt, I think she said. She’s downstairs.”
At Reception, Hackett was surprised to see his aunt and young cousin standing by a coffee machine.
“Aunt Carol, Frankie,” Hackett called as he approached them. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Tom.” Carol swept him up in a big hug. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. What’s this about? Is it Uncle Frank?”
“No, no,” clucked Carol. “Frank is fine. It’s just the police called, and Frank was asleep, and we were worried. They said you and Chandra had been brought here. And they wanted to talk to your uncle, but you know...” Carol looked down at her shoes. “We thought something bad had happened to you.”
“It did, but I’m fine,” said Hackett. “Just needed a little oxygen. Chandra’s in a bed upstairs, but the doctor says she’ll be fine, too.”
“What happened?” asked Frankie
Hackett sighed. “Long story.”
“Is it the same as—”
“Yeah,” Hackett interrupted his cousin, not wanting his aunt to know that he had also placed her son in danger by taking him across the border. “Fats is the hero if you can believe it, although I don’t know what the trauma has done to him. He dumped us here and scurried back to his cave. The important part though is Chandra’s going to recover.”
“Can we see her?” Frankie asked.
“She’s hasn’t woken up yet.”
“We’d still like to see her,” Frankie insisted. “You know we like Chandra.”
Hackett looked to his aunt.
“It would be nice to see her,” Carol agreed.
“OK,” said Hackett. “Let me grab a real coffee and we’ll go up. This machine stuff sucks.”
Carol laughed and dumped her full cup in the trash. “It certainly does.”
“Can I wait here for you guys?” Frankie pulled his Gameboy out of his pocket. “Hospital cafeterias give me the creeps.”
“Don’t wander off,” warned Carol.
“And watch out for those cute nurses,” Hackett joked. “They’ll eat a pretty boy like you for lunch.”
Frankie barely cracked a smile as he spun on his heels and walked toward a row of wooden benches nestled beside the elevators.
“He’s changing,” said Hackett as he led the way to the cafeteria.
“He’s a teenager,” said Carol. “But you weren’t Mr. Sunshine and Roses back then either if some of the stories your mother tells are true.”
Hackett gasped in mock horror. “Surely not. I believe I was a perfect little angel.”
Carol groaned. “I don’t recall you ever being accused of such a charge.”
“Geez, Auntie. No one could tell you’re married to a cop.”
They both laughed.
Chapter 73
Frank woke with a start to find himself curled on the couch in his den. A tartan blanket lay twisted in a heap around his feet as though he had strangled and kicked it to death in his sleep.
His mouth and throat were dry and his brain swirled in a churning, sickly motion inside his thundering, glass-like skull.
He looked down at himself and patted his crotch.
It was dry.
He uttered a small prayer to Patrick, the saint of drunks and snakes alike.
The smell of whiskey was strong in his nostrils, and when he looked down to where his bottle should have been, it was gone. There was a damp patch on the carpet, but when he skimmed it with his fingers, they came back smelling of soap.
Carol.
Lifting his head, he turned to see his bottle sitting on the small table. Its top hadn’t been corked. Someone wanted its potency to evaporate into nothing more than brown water. Either that, or like Frank, she simply couldn’t find the cap.
Frank dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. His head spun wildly and his stomach lurched. He grabbed the cushions and waited it out, holding his breath until the waves subsided.
“Christ,” he muttered. “How much did yeh fuckin’ drink, Frank?”
In the haze of memory, he had a feeling the half-empty bottle on the table had a dead companion.
Frank tried to stand, but failed. His knees buckled before he could lock them and he collapsed backwards onto the couch. The seesaw effect of bouncing cushions made his stomach lurch again, and he had to fight the urge to vomit.
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