Blood Ties

by Robert J. Crane

  I blinked. “Cameron Wittman?”

  She looked up. “Yeah, that’s him. We haven’t been able to get hold of him yet.”

  “I know him,” I said, as my computer finally, FINALLY finished boot-up and brought me to the desktop.

  “Everybody knows him,” Hilton said, unimpressed. “He’s a tech billionaire. Guy’s a household name.”

  “No, I mean, I know him personally,” I said. “He’s one of the few people who’s had me absorb their soul and lived to tell about it.”

  8.

  “Please have Mr. Wittman call me back right away,” I said, speaking into the phone. “It’s urgent.” The male receptionist on the other end mouthed a peppy platitude and hung up on me, leaving me staring at my computer screen as I let out a long sigh.

  “That’s the problem with trying to reach the big shots,” Hilton said. “Always busy, right?”

  “I guess so,” I said. “I miss flying, if only for being able to cannonball through someone’s boardroom window instead of dealing with gatekeepers.” I hung my phone up on its base. A desktop, corded model, because I no longer had a functional cell phone, at least at present.

  The elevator outside the office dinged, and I turned to look. Broad-shouldered, slightly pudgy Willis Shaw entered the office door a moment later, followed shortly by dark-haired, dark-eyed, slightly orangey Holloway.

  Shaw took in me and Hilton with a glance, then said, “Looks like the gang’s all here.” His voice took a dive, and he added, “What’s left of us, anyway.”

  “How’d her family take the news?” I asked.

  “’Bout as well as can be expected,” Shaw said, and I could tell by his face the topic of conversation was closed, as far as he was concerned. “Shouldn’t you be in the hospital, Nealon?”

  “I don’t see why,” I said. “There’s nothing they can do for me there.”

  “They could dope you up to make you less annoying,” Holloway said with a gentle smile.

  “I prefer to consider myself ‘forceful’ rather than ‘annoying,’” I said. “And we’ve got something interesting. A possible lead. One of the primary owners of the company our villain hit is Cameron Wittman—”

  “The tech billionaire,” Holloway said.

  “That white boy with the funny haircut?” Shaw asked.

  “Yes and yes,” I said. “And I kinda know him. So I reached out, figuring maybe I could get the inside scoop on what this thing might have been doing in that particular gin joint in all the world, if you know what I mean.”

  “‘Gin joint’?” Holloway asked.

  “I thought it was an industrial park...?” Hilton’s face was all screwed up.

  “It’s a quote from Casablanca, you uneducated swine,” Shaw said, frowning at both of them. “‘Of all the gin joints in all the world’...forget it. You people are children.” He nodded approval at me. “Go on, Nealon.”

  “Really, that’s it for now,” I said. “I’m waiting on a callback from Wittman. It’s a small thing, but it’s what we’ve got. NYPD and our fellow agents here in town don’t seem to have turned up anything else.”

  “Good work,” Shaw said with a curt nod.

  “Can we talk about what we do after we get a lead on this thing?” Holloway asked.

  “We find it, we kill it,” I said. “Duh.”

  “Uh, yeah, about that,” Holloway said. “I’m guessing you tried that once before, and it didn’t work. I’m all for ‘find and kill’; I’m just asking...how are we going to do that?”

  Well, he had a point.

  “Do you think Washington would allow us to borrow a Javelin launcher?” I asked. “Or an M1A2 Abrams tank?”

  “No,” Shaw said. “And definitely no. Washington—” by which I knew he meant Heather Chalke, the FBI Director “—wants this situation contained with a minimum of noise and fuss. They haven’t even released the fact you were critically injured to the press.” He looked at me with great significance.

  “Uh, she died,” Holloway said. “That was no ‘critical injury.’ Nealon was dead as MySpace.”

  “I hear that’s making a comeback,” I said. “Along with Pauly Shore and polite discussions about politics.”

  “I checked her pulse myself,” Holloway said. “She was room temperature. Those paramedics brought her back.”

  “Good thing they didn’t report that in the press,” I deadpanned, trying to keep a strange hoarseness from crawling into my voice. “I don’t need any more of these people who shout ‘SLAY QUEEN’ to be following me around thinking I’m a modern-day lady Jesus or something. Because I have no parables that will help them. And most of the anecdotes I do have are pretty ribald.”

  “I could imagine the Book of Sienna,” Holloway said. “‘And lo, I didst see a dickwad with fire powers come before me in the night. And unto him I proceeded to whoop ass and taketh his name, but not in vain’—”

  “Enough of this shit,” Shaw said.

  “That’s exactly how it would go,” I agreed. “But seriously—this thing? Grendel? It is bulletproof. So what are we supposed to do if we catch it? Ask it to cease and desist its assholery forthwith or we spit on it?”

  “There’s a parable in there somewhere,” Holloway said. “‘Nealon 14:12—I didst spit upon the unholy and it clapped back hard. From thence ye shall come to learn not to spit on the vicious and murderous’—”

  “Very wise,” Hilton chimed in.

  “I’ll work on Washington and see what we can come up with,” Shaw said, a little grudgingly. “You all stop blaspheming and work on catching the thing before it does any more damage.”

  “Yes, you work on Washington,” I said. “Learn hypnotism, and convince Chalke to give me a Javelin. Or else I’m going through black market channels to procure an old RPG-7.”

  “Having been on the receiving end of a near miss from an RPG-7 at one point and having watched the footage of this ‘Grendel’...I’m not even convinced one of those would kill this thing,” Holloway said.

  “Well, I doubt the Air Force is going to part with a tactical nuke,” Hilton said.

  “I’ll work on...something,” Shaw said, waving us all off as he headed for his office. “Do your jobs, find this thing. Let me worry about the rest.”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding with utter insincerity, “I’ll just put out of my mind the memory of a giant, clawed hand pushing up through my abdomen into my rib cage—” The phone on my desk started ringing. “Excuse me.”

  “You’re extra excused if you never finish telling that story,” Hilton said, a cringe on her face. Shaw slammed his door loudly and obviously.

  “Nealon,” I said, answering my phone.

  “Ms. Nealon,” came a smooth male voice from the earpiece. “My name is Aaron Mendelsohn. I’m a managing director for Wittman Capital. Mr. Wittman asked me to give you a call back regarding the incident at QuantiFIE yesterday.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’m glad I got a call back from his secretary, but I was actually hoping to talk with him about this. I’m with the FBI—”

  “I know that,” Mendelsohn said. “Mr. Wittman requested I help you in this matter.”

  I let out a small sigh over the phone. I’d gotten stuck with a lackey when I’d been hoping to speak with the big cheese. “Well, all right,” I said, trying to reconcile myself to another disappointment in a veritable sea of them. “I was hoping to get an explanation of what QuantiFIE does from someone who understands this sort of geekery.”

  “I can absolutely do that for you, Ms. Nealon,” Mendelsohn said. “In fact, I’ve prepared an entire presentation for you when you get here.”

  I blinked. “Oh. To Mr. Wittman’s office?” I grabbed my pad of paper and a pen. “Okay, I’m ready for the address.”

  “Mr. Wittman’s private plane is waiting to bring you to us,” Mendelsohn said. “With a car waiting on this side of your journey as well.”

  That took a second to sink in. “Uh, no,” I said. “See, I’m in New
York, where this QuantiFIE thing happened. I can’t just fly off to—where the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Mountain View, California,” Mendelsohn said. “Silicon Valley.”

  “Yeah, I can’t just pick up and fly off to Silicon Valley for a briefing,” I said. “This thing struck here, and it seems likely—”

  “Before it struck there,” Mendelsohn coolly interrupted me, somehow managing to be polite with an edge that said he knew what he was doing, “it attacked one of Mr. Wittman’s operations here. And I believe that whatever it is after, it’s very centered in the tech world. So while it is eminently possible that your ‘case’ will require you to be in New York, I believe—indulge me in this arrogance—that your task is much more likely to be coming in this direction. Ergo, it would be better if we were to brief you here, show you what we have from this thing’s previous attack, and bring you up to speed with what its possible objectives might entail.”

  “You’re saying it’s already struck one of Wittman’s operations out there?” I asked, feeling my eyes narrow in concentration.

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven’t I heard about it?”

  “Because the San Francisco PD did not consider it a matter of interest due to—you know what, it’d be easier to just show you the footage once you’re here,” Mendelsohn said. “I apologize for this, really I do—but I need you to trust me. Whatever this thing is after, I believe it is tech-centered and thus will come back this way.”

  I sighed. “That’s a big gamble.” There was a strange reaction in me, an odd feeling of calm that radiated from Mendelsohn’s voice. “Look, I can’t just drop everything and head there without talking to my bosses—”

  “I understand completely,” Mendelsohn said. “And if there’s anything Mr. Wittman can do to make that easier—”

  “He’s got connections,” I said, wondering why I would feel possessed to say this. “If he wants me out there, if you really think this thing...this Grendel...”

  “That is a fantastic name for it,” Mendelsohn said. “Very poetic, given what it looks like.”

  “No, it’s literally the same type of meta as the myth is derived from.”

  “Oh,” Mendelsohn said. “Oh! That makes a great deal of sense.”

  “Anyway, if you think it’s coming that way,” I said, “you might want to have Mr. Wittman make some calls to people up the chain from me. Because I—”

  “Consider it done, Ms. Nealon,” Mendelsohn said. “See you soon.”

  And he hung up.

  I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at the black lump of plastic for a second before hanging it up. That was a bold proposal. Who knew if he’d actually get anything done about it?

  Not me, that was for sure. But I kind of hoped he did, because without the info that Mendelsohn had, I was already at an impasse on this investigation.

  9.

  I knocked on Shaw’s door and saw him through the slatted blinds, waving me in. His phone was still up to his ear, and I wondered if he knew he was nodding even though the person on the other end couldn’t see him. “Yes, ma’am,” he was saying as I opened the door. “Yes, ma’am.” He was talking to Chalke, then. No one else but the FBI Director could have made him quite so acquiescent. “Right away.” Then he hung up.

  “I just got a callback from Wittman’s office,” I said. “They claim there was another incident with this Grendel out in the San Francisco/Silicon Valley area.”

  “Recently?” Shaw’s frown turned into a scowl.

  “I think so,” I said. “The guy I talked to was a managing director for Wittman. Said he had details, was preparing a briefing for me. They offered a private jet to bring me out there.”

  “How fortunate for you,” Shaw said, and boy, did his voice reach deep freeze levels quick. “Director Chalke would like you to proceed to the Bay Area immediately.”

  I blinked. “When did that happen?”

  “In the middle of our call, actually,” Shaw said, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it onto a credenza in the corner of his office. “You should have heard it. Never experienced someone doing a dramatic one-eighty mid-conversation like that. Especially not someone as high up as Chalke. Some serious crap must have trickled downhill to make that happen.”

  “Wittman was a big donor for Harmon.” I shrugged. “Maybe he’s putting money into Gondry’s re-election campaign now?”

  “Seems likely given the velocity of Chalke’s shift on the matter,” Shaw said, and his expression relaxed into annoyance. “One minute I’m briefing the woman on what’s happened, the next she’s making demands that have little sense to them.” He put his right foot up on his desk. “Looks like someone else is running you now, Nealon. Best of luck.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Who am I taking with me?”

  “No one from this office,” he said. “See, I asked about that firepower problem, too. Director Chalke does not believe putting any more of our human agents in the ring with this creature is a sound operating principle. Holloway and Hilton will remain here and continue to catch any other cases that come our way. As will I.”

  “But I get a grenade launcher, right?”

  Shaw sighed. “No. We don’t have any of those.” He put a hand on his computer mouse and clicked something. “What you get is access to a government registry of metahumans that have been cleared to work for us but that are currently either not on the payroll or are presently unassigned.” He clicked a couple more times. “I swear these computers have been worthless since they upgraded to Windows 10. Ah, here we go.” He squinted at the screen, then let out a pffffft noise between puckered lips. “One name.”

  “Wait, let me get this straight—I’m facing off against a meta that killed me yesterday,” I said, taking it nice and slow, “and my backup is one person? No grenade launchers, anti-tank weapons, or other similarly powerful implements of badassery?” I sagged at the shoulders. “God, let it be Warren Quincy.”

  Shaw just shook his head. “I’m guessing whoever that is, they’re busy or compartmented off from the Bureau. Government metahuman resources are very finite, Nealon, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I could tell by the way they strong-armed me into doing this job that they might be in a bind, yeah,” I said. “So...who is this mystery person?”

  Shaw stared at the screen. “Not sure. Looks like someone who got cleared a long time ago but is in some sort of indefinite hiatus. File suggests they’ve been contacted, that the phone number is up to date, but he’s unwilling to accept assignments?” He shook his head. “Intransigent sumbitch, then. Good luck with this...Michael Jacksen?”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” I slumped.

  He spun his computer around. “No, really. With an ‘e-n’ instead of ‘o-n’—”

  I stared at the name and number, then closed my eyes. “No. No no no no—”

  “He’s turned down the last fifteen attempts at contact through phone calls, according to this,” Shaw said. “So...good luck getting him to take your call, Nealon.”

  I closed my eyes. Harry’s direction, passed through my grandmother, came back to me: You’ll have one chance for help, and you should take it, no matter how little you want to. “Oh, he’ll take my call,” I said, letting out a slow breath. “That’s not going to be the problem.” I let out a long, low sigh, and headed for the door. It sounded like I had a couple things to do before I caught my plane.

  “You’ve got a monster out there that’s already killed you once,” Shaw said, staring after me incredulously, “and your only backup is a guy who won’t answer the phone or deal with the government once he does. How is that not your problem? And if that’s not it...what the hell is your problem?”

  I paused, leaving the door closed, and sighed again. “It’s that I would bet you almost anything that ‘Michael Jacksen’...is actually a guy I call Friday. And the problem is...what the hell do I do with him if he says ‘yes’?” I closed the door on Shaw’s expression, whic
h was just this side of priceless.

  10.

  Friday

  “I’m droppin’ deuces/deuces

  I’m killin’ Cupid/Cupid”

  The bass beat was hotter than a cheap stripper doing a discount dance. And those were always hot. And affordable.

  “I’m droppin’ deuces/deuces

  Not listening to what she says/says

  This is my songy-song-song

  I’m goin’ all the night long”

  Friday made the record scratch motion. This song was so perfect, it was like the Mona Lisa’s flawless smile. But in song form.

  But it needed more bass. And maybe an electric guitar.

  “I’m droppin’ deuces/deuces

  Drippin’ like sluices/sluices

  Tight shit I’m brewin’/brewin’

  Fallin’ for...who’in...who’in?”

  “No, that’s terrible, that’s not going to work,” Friday said, bringing his jam to a stop with the press of a button. This recording session had been going so well until now. “I need to spit another verse, dammit.”

  He pulled out his phone, snapped a selfie of him looking pensive, and uploaded it to the greatest Social Network on the planet, Socialite. Feeling thoughtful, might delete later, IDK, he captioned it, then put the phone back where it belonged so he could focus on the lyrics again.

  This would require careful thought. His art needed to be perfect. Perfection required a little time. He settled a finger on his lip, gently moving it against the leather of his mask.

  “What rhymes with ‘deuces’?” he asked the empty rental house. “I already used ‘Cupid,’ and it was good. Maybe I need a rhyme change. Use ‘deuces’ as the anchor of the first part of the verse, but set up another rhyming scheme with this line, something that pays off in the line after.” He tapped his lip again. “‘I’m holding the TP holder/and it’s making me bolder.’ Or even better—‘I’m squeezing out a boulder!’”

  He stopped and wrote that down. That shit was gold.