The bed sheets are crumpled at the foot, pillows out of place. There’s a single groove in the mattress on the right-hand side by the end-table. Biting down on the phone, I pull the drawer open. Batteries. Nail polish. Condoms. Toy. Nothing unusual.
I take the phone from my mouth and drop to my knees, gently lifting the bed skirt as my head moves down to peer beneath.
The distorted mockery of a pale, gaunt face appears in front of me and shrieks high and shrill. “DON’T LOOK UNDER THE BED!!!!”
“SHITBALLS!” I drop the phone, frantically scurrying back from the image. Pulse races in my ears. Vision blurs with each beat of my heart. The light from my phone fades in and out, dimming slowly as if something is moving to block the light.
I move to reach for it, but some unseen force stops my arm. Thrashing wildly, I break free and grip the phone. Squatting down, I grip the edges of the frame and toss it high, letting the covers, pillows and mattress slam into the wall. Burned into the floor beneath the bed is another symbol just like the one I'd seen at Womack's place.
“Bingo.”
I snap a picture, daring another face to appear. It doesn’t.
Collecting my wits, I regain my feet and head to the door. Tapping through the most recent contacts on my phone, I dial up my handler. Having found proof that the creepy fertility cult is behind Kimmie's disappearance drops some major tumblers into place. They definitely have specific targets in mind. And there's something unnatural about all of it.
The call doesn't connect until I've made my way through the front door and back into the hall. “Are you alright, Mr. Fallows? We lost signal and couldn’t get you back.”
“Yeah, just cleaning some skeletons out of a closet. Do me a favor. Get me some details on a Shawn Fermerson. Supposedly part of a cult that calls themselves the Digital Prophets.”
“Absolutely. But what does he have to do with the case?”
“Consider it a personal favor to keep your asset alive long enough to finish the job.” I need some time to relax. Think a bit. Maybe do some shopping.
Twenty-One
“These would look just adorable on you!” I declare, holding up some man-sized overalls. Mathan reacts by staring blankly, still rummaging through isles of “slightly used” discarded clothes that might pass inspection of an aging homeless man who had lost his sense of smell to smoking dust. “Too soon for ‘my baby boy is all grown up’ jokes?” Despite discouraging looks, I was able to convince the kid to wrap up his tech in bandages. It may draw attention, but not near as much as a techie free-roaming the streets and, for my personal sense of comfort, keeps him from dismantling anything we come across. Even with his handicap I watch his eyes drift over to the old radios and waffle irons complete with scratch marks and caked on food piled up in the corner.
Thrift shops may not be the easiest places to shop, but they certainly fit the budget and sometimes there are real treasures amidst the crap. Maybe I’ll even let him pick something from the techno-toybox in the corner as a treat for keeping good to his word. Everything in my apartment was put back together and even functional by the time I got home. I had walked in on Mathan sitting at the computer doing some online shopping. Or at least he would have if he could figure out my pin. He’d even typed out a list of all the tools we’d need to get a small repair shop up and running and typed up the prices including tax and shipping. The figure was definitely disheartening, more start-up capital than I have on hand and I’m not exactly in any position to be asking for more loans at the moment.
At least our little outing has given me a bit of time to relax, anything to get my mind off the shit storm in Kimmie’s apartment, the involvement of the same psychos that seem to be stalking me, and the eerie suspicion that my somewhat girlfriend might be involved and trying to… I don’t even know. Impregnate me? Avoiding her won’t help the situation at all, but neither will a direct confrontation. Somehow I need to get back up into her apartment. Search for clues.
Oh holy shit. My freaking bag is still at her place! Scenarios of her sifting through there and finding all of the shit I’d stocked away start playing into my mind and breaking a sweat across my forehead. My stomach churns. I need air.
“Let’s head out of here, kid. Maybe we’ll have better luck at another… oh.” Mathan is holding a sizable stack of shirts and pants, complete with a pair of worn black work boots on top. Was I really stuck in my own head that long? I could have sworn his hands were empty a minute ago. “Alright. This everything?” He nods and hands over the pile. It seems slightly heavier than it should. Without thinking, I finger through the pile and find a handheld GPS and an old datapad with the word BROKEN written in marker across the screen. Maybe it’s not too soon for daddy jokes.
“I’m not dumb, Mathan. I invented this trick. If you want something, just ask me.” He starts to smile. “Chances are I’ll say ‘piss off’,” his smile fades, “But for now, this is alright. Maybe it’ll keep you from disassembling the couch.” Kids and their bizarre hobbies.
“Did you find everything alright?” asks the lady behind the sales counter as she takes the pile from my hands. The typical formality has a special meaning in a place like this, where finding anything worth taking to the counter is like hunting for a peanut in a pile of crap.
I give my sweetest smile and lie, “Too much to choose from. I’ll have to remember this place.” The reaction must have taken her off guard because a wide smile spreads across her face and reveals a mouth of stained, rotten teeth. Sadly, the first thought that crosses my head involves wondering who her dealer is. Old habits and whatnot.
She glances over at Mathan, eyes lingering on his bandaged arm. “What happened to him?”
“Kitchen accident. Poor guy thought he’d be nice and fix dinner for his big brother while I was out at work. I come home and the smoke alarm’s going off, soup is spilled all over the tile and Mathan here’s hunched over the sink running water of an arm that’s redder than the warning lights at the tram station.” I can’t be sure, but I’m fairly certain he just rolled his eyes at me.
“Oh my goodness. Did you take him to the emergency room?”
“Nah, nothing so formal. Just rubbed it down with some burn ointment and wrapped it up good to keep out dirt and stuff.”
“That’s crazy. Glad that it wasn’t anything more serious. But it was sweet of you to try and cook dinner for your big brother like that.” Mathan shrugs and the girl turns to me. “Doesn’t talk much, does he?”
I shake my head slowly, contorting my face to a grimace. “Nope, I’m afraid not. Not since the incident anyway.”
“Incident? What incident?”
Leaning in close, I drop my voice to a whisper. “We don’t like to talk about it.”
“Oh.” Her face drops back down to her work, giving the impression she’d just been slapped. “That comes out to thirty-two creds.” I hold out my wrist and let her scan the credsys, then grab our gear and head out.
“Not a bad haul, bro.” My phone rings inside my pocket and I hand the bags over to Mathan. “Hey Val.” Having turned away for a second, I glance back to see Mathan has already fished out the datapad and has it wedged between his elbow and chest while his hand works at the wrapping around his cybernetics. “Hey! Knock that off, kid! Wait until we get home.”
“Is this a good time?”
“From what I’ve heard, it’s always a good time with me,” I sputter, swatting at Mathan with my free hand.
“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from the vulgarities, Mr. Fallows.”
“You can handle it. What ya got for me?”
“The intel you sent over was good. We’ve apprehended the suspect at the dropzone and he is currently under questioning.” The memory of my first interrogation at the hands of the UA sends chills down my spine. I hope they aren’t planning on recruiting the poor bastard. “I also looked into the other matter you requested, although I’m not sure what you want with the information.”
; “Try me.”
“The man in question is a realtor in the Frisco district. His record is totally clean.”
“Impossible.”
“I’m sorry. Dead trail?”
“No. I’ve met realtors. There’s no such thing as a ‘clean’ one. They’re all sleazy as hell.” Especially the asshole who convinced me my apartment was a ‘great deal in a growing community.’ But she’s right about one thing, the information doesn’t give me much to work with. Unless… “Val, is he commercial or residential?”
“Residential, but his firm handles both. Why?”
“What’s the firm?”
“Zeta Corp.”
“Is that Frisco district’s biggest realtor?”
“They’re a conglomerate. They have branches in most of the districts.”
Oh.
Shit.
So Mr. Clean-Record has access to a nearly limitless supply of vacant properties. And owned properties. It leaves a lot of ground to cover. I let out a resentful sigh and check on Mathan. If an expressionless mute could pout, that’s exactly what I would imagine it would look like. “Thanks for looking into that for me, Val. I honestly appreciate it.”
“Is there anything I can do to help? Maybe if you give me some more information I can start working on a different avenue.” Cellar must be interrogating some poor schmuck and not hovering over her shoulder. Or he’s training her to work me for information. Either way I know better than to squeal to unconfirmed sources.
“That’s fine. It’s really not a big deal. Just doing a favor for a friend. Speaking of friends, keep me posted on our new buddy in the holiday house.”
“Will do.”
Disconnecting the call, I glance back at Mathan, shifting uncomfortably back and forth and chewing his bottom lip with vigor. “Alright, let’s get you back home. That’s enough fresh air for one day anyway.” And I need time to think.
We head for the tram station and I dial up Rex. “Thank you for calling the Rosy Coaster,” comes a voice so laden with honey that I barely recognize the owner. “What can I help you with today?”
“Hey Rex, it’s your favorite bartender.”
“I can’t stand a single one of you.” There’s the voice I know and love so much. “What do you want, Mr. Fallows?”
“I have an update on the missing person case. Turns out some of your employees are into some crazy shit.”
“That’s not news, Fallows. Most customers pay extra for that.”
“So it would seem. At least one of your girls has been abducted by some whack jobs calling themselves the Digital Prophets. And it would seem some of your other employees are a part of their ranks. Something about a true religion dedicated to fertility.”
“Never heard of them. And did you say fertility? Why are abductions needed for that? Aren’t the traditional methods good enough? I can barely keep you sick puppies off of each other.”
“Yeah, but I can’t say that our indiscretions are for the purposes of starting families. I’m not sure what their game is, but there’s something truly unwholesome about the entire ordeal. Is Jenna up there now?”
“She is. She’s busy at the moment, but she’ll be off shift soon. You can speak with her then.”
“That’s alright. I don’t need to speak with her. I need you to stall her.”
The line goes uncomfortably silent for a time being, then Rex comes back on with a thick layer of danger in her voice. “I hope you’re not honestly suggesting what it sounds like you are, Mr. Fallows.”
“Nobody hopes that more than I do, Rex. Trust me. But for right now, see if you can hold her for an extra half-hour or so. I need to do some fast digging and I’d like to keep her out of this as much as possible.”
“Very well. I will see what I can do. Now I’m very busy, is there anything else?”
“No that…” I think back to the grander scheme of things. “Actually, yes. When did employees start missing work or go missing entirely?”
“Turnover isn’t anything new. People come and go on a regular basis. Why do you ask?”
“If I’m going to have any chance of locating anybody, I need to buckle down and do some homework. Giving me a window of how far back to dig could drastically reduce my search.”
She gives an audible sigh of annoyance over the line, then comes back moments later. “This latest purge seems to drag back for the last ten weeks.”
“Thanks, Rex.” I’m not at all surprised by the beep of a disconnected line no sooner than the words escape my lips. I think she’s starting to like me.
I wait until Mathan and I enter the tram and take our seats before making the next call. He stares at me as I dial up another number on my phone as if to ask if I live on the damned thing. Or maybe he’s just jealous that I make use of my natural ability to hold conversations.
“Hey Heath. How did the tracking go?”
“Great, Milton. Just wonderful. I got messed up by a bunch of living monsters and got a new roommate.”
“Wow. They could write books about you.”
“Yeah, but nobody reads books anymore.” Or at least I wish they didn’t given my current predicament.
“What kind of roommate?”
I glance over at Mathan, staring longingly at the broken datapad the way I would stare at a pile of drugs. “He’s cool. Don’t worry about it. But I need you to look into something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“You know who Zeta Corp is?”
“The realty company?”
“The very same. I’ve got suspicions that some of their ranks are kidnapping people and hiding them out somewhere. No ransom or anything. But I need you to look up a couple of residential addresses and see who the realtor was and if they were part of the company. If that comes up positive, I want you to start looking for any commercial places that would be large enough to hide people that have been rented out in the past two to four months.”
“That’s kind of a tall order, Heath.”
Like you have anything better going on. “It’s not for me, it’s for Rex.” I’m only stretching the truth a little bit on this one, but I know her name carries a bit more weight than mine.
“Oh. Let me see what I can do and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” His sudden shift in tone is only slightly irritating.
“Thanks, Milton. I’ll be in touch.” I hang up and glance over at Mathan. He’s staring at me again. “Got something to say?” I ask with a bit more irritation than I’d intended. He shakes his head and returns his attention to the datapad. “I’ve got a task for you as well.” No response. “Once we get home, I want you to start looking for a good place to set up a repair shop.” That perks his attention. “It needs to have a decent sized warehouse and a storefront. We can double as a refurbished goods store. Something ground level. I’m not made of money.” Or anything of value. He nods his understanding with renewed enthusiasm. “Oh. And don’t go through Zeta Corp Realty.” Mathan rolls his eyes and goes back to staring at the broken datapad.
Teenagers. I wonder if mom was relieved when I ran away.
Twenty-Two
Even in the same district, the commute to Jenna’s apartment is painfully slow. I’ve got a window to get in and out without a confrontation, but having no idea how short that window is has my anxiety on high alert. By the time I get there, my hands are so shaky I can barely tap into the lock.
It’s not the first time I’ve broken into somebody’s home. Not even the first time today. But something about breaking into a place you’ve been invited to before, the home of somebody you know personally and maybe even care about, feels a bit dirtier than I care to admit.
Not expecting company, the main room resembles an apartment that’s lived in. Dirty dishes still on the stove and in the sink, bits of clutter scattered about the living room. Even a few bits of laundry kicked casually into corners. It makes me feel a bit better about the condition my apartment stays in on a regular basis since I never clean for comp
any. Or expect any.
I head back to Jenna’s room and open the door to find her room immaculate. Odd. I haven’t had any invitations and she never struck me as a neat freak. Is she expecting company? A peculiar wave of jealousy washes over me and I can feel my temperature rise, but try to push it back down. I’m here for a purpose and dawdling won’t do me any favors.
In mere seconds I find my satchel pushed casually under the bed. Reaching for the strap, I grab it and pull it away, but something has my vision lingering for a moment longer. A need to know. Too many coincidences. Against better judgment, I grip the edge of the bedframe and lift it up. My stomach turns.
Another symbol. Bizarre and archaic as the last two. I want to vomit. Rage swells inside with no particular direction. Either she’s in on it and I’ve played right into her hands. Or worse, she’s a victim just like Kimmie. Neither are good. Considering the circumstances to our last parting, I wouldn’t even know how to begin approaching the subject with her. For now I need to grab the goods and run.
I unzip the bag and rifle through for good measure. The equipment is there. That’s a good sign. But the drugs… Dammit. More panic, more emotions. My head goes fuzzy. What does she think of me? Of the contents of the bag? Why would she take them out? Is she selling? Is she using? Did she trash them in a fit of broken trust and rage?
At my worst of times, even I would be dead if I’d taken a fraction of what was in the bag, so there’s that. If she flushed or burned them, then that’s the end of it and there’s no use crying over it. If she’s selling, she’d need to find a buyer. Even with her place of work, there’s no way she could pull a transaction that fast. So there’s a good chance she pulled them from the bag with the intention of doing just that. They’d be close. Real close. Where would an amateur hide drugs?
I quickly glance at the air vent, but it looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. I might be giving her too much credit on this one. Heading towards the closet, I open the door and peer inside, checking for any high shelves or hiding holds. Nothing. Just clothes and shoes. So… so many shoes. The dresser is next, tossing through pajamas, socks, and lacy underwear. I resist the urge to sniff a pair. I fail. I blame the hormones. I ignore the excitement downstairs.
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