by Platt, Sean
Marina hoped her father chose right when giving a vial to Milton, and that the man’s son would follow in his footsteps.
The upstairs had swapped white and red for cream and chocolate brown. Marina felt a cold chill at her spine, colder and colder the closer they got to the room at the hallway’s end.
The guard opened the door to an office with three long, custom-built tables stretching the length of all but one wall.
The tables were clear save for one area, which was crammed with books and three monitors. Andrew was sitting at the spot, with his head in his hands, long brown hair spilling over his fingers. He looked up revealing a thin pale face with dark circles under hollow-looking eyes.
His lips were thin and dry. He looked like he was either on a long bender of drugs or had gone a week without sleep.
He looked up at Marina, but didn’t bother to greet her.
The guard walked toward Andrew, handing him the box. “Look what she brought.”
Andrew looked at Marina, then down at the box. He opened it. Blue light radiated on his face as he stared at the vials.
“Where did you get these?” His eyes stayed fixed to the vials.
“My father asked me to watch after them.”
Andrew smiled as if staring at something he’d been searching forever to find. His eyes teared up.
“Thank you for bringing them here. Are there more?”
“I wasn’t bringing them to you. I came to see if you had the one my father left with yours. He has asked me to collect all the vials. It’s of prime importance.”
Andrew looked up and grinned. “Yeah, I bet he did.”
“Seriously,” she said, “bad things will happen if I don’t get the vials.”
Marina wasn’t sure how much she should tell him, or how much he’d believe. But something in Andrew’s eyes said she wouldn’t have to convince him of the vials’ importance. He might not know what they are, but he had no doubts about their importance.
“How many more are there?”
“Two more that I know of.”
“Where are they?” Andrew asked.
“Um, I don’t know. Yet. The information is back at my compound, and that’s our next stop. Can you tell me where the vial is, the one your father was holding?”
Andrew smiled again, leaned back in his chair, and met Marina’s eyes. “I bet you’d like to know.”
He eyed her up and down, practically molesting her with his gaze. He reminded her of any number of rich assholes Marina knew when she was younger, men who thought they owned the world and everyone in it was merely their toys.
“Yes, please. I need to bring it back.”
“I’m sorry.” He smiled his stupid smile. “That won’t happen. You will leave here, return to your weird little cult, and pretend you never came.”
“I can’t do that. I have to bring the vials back.”
“Back to whom? Your father is dead; why do you need these?” He spoke in a singsong, as if enjoying the conversation, and his leverage over Marina, a little too much.
“You don’t understand. There are lives at risk.”
“Why don’t you enlighten me, Miss Harmon? Tell me more.”
“The vials contain alien life forms. If they fall into the wrong hands, they can destroy us all.”
Andrew’s eyes widened, and then his lips curled into an odd expression before he burst out laughing.
“Oh, God, that is rich! I know you all had some loony ideas at the Cult O’ Original Design, but Jesus, that’s just … wow.” Andrew started clapping his hands slowly, then stood and took a bow. “Bravo, ma’am.”
“I’m not lying, and this has nothing to do with my religion. My father trusted yours. I’m hoping I can do the same with you. I need those vials.”
Marina didn’t bother explaining which vials she meant. She’d try to get hers back, then ask for his.
“Sorry, again, Ms. Harmon, but I’m gonna hold onto these for a bit. I already lost my vial to a friend.”
“What do you mean?”
“After my dad died a few months ago, I found the vial hidden in a metal lockbox in his bedroom closet. No instructions on what to do or anything. I only knew that touching the vial made me feel good, alive, gave me this rush! I know my dad went on these ‘retreats’ with these shamans and shit, so I figured this had to be some fly drug that nobody’s ever heard of, strong enough to feel it through glass! So I had my friend, who’s a chemist of sorts, if you know what I mean, take a look and see if he could replicate it. I haven’t heard from him in two weeks, though, so I was pissed off thinking my shit was gone for good, but then … well, you brought me new bottles! And for that, I thank you.”
“They’re not some drug, Andrew. They’re dangerous. We need to find your friend before something bad happens to him, or … he does something terrible.”
“I told you, he’s not answering his phone.”
“Then we need to go to his house and talk to him.”
“Heh, you think I didn’t send Alfonso here already? Dude has bounced. He is G-O-N-E gone. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone with my beautiful blues.”
“I’m not leaving them here with you.”
The smile fell from Andrew’s face. “I don’t recall giving you a choice, bitch.”
Marina started toward him, ready to smack the arrogant little fucker.
Alfonso shoved a pistol to the back of her head. “Stop where you are, lady.”
She did as instructed and held up her hands to prove her compliance. But Marina couldn’t give up trying to persuade Andrew.
“These aren’t drugs. They’re alien life forms. They get inside you and do bad shit.”
Andrew laughed, waving a hand in front of his face as he sat back down, examining the vials as if she weren’t even there. “Yeah, take that crap back to your cult; I don’t need to hear it.”
“I’m not lying. Have you seen those bad things happening on the news? That’s because of these aliens.”
“Yeah, right, and maybe we all ought to pay you fuckers to get our ‘current fixed’ or whatever the fuck it is you all do. My dad bought into that shit for a while, but I’m not my dad. You’re not soaking me for cash, and I’m not some fucking idiot who needs to believe in your brand of make-believe — you feel me?”
Andrew was a typical entitled L.A. brat. A rich kid wanting to talk tough, eager for attention and whatever passed for power in these parts. The only way to deal with punks like him were to get in their faces and be direct. Show them you’re fearless, and that you can see through their facades.
“No, I don’t feel ya. And I’m not leaving here without those vials. If you plan to stop me, Alfonso will have to shoot.”
Andrew hopped out of his chair so fast that Marina was taken by surprise, unable to defend herself when his fist slammed into her gut, a second before another crashed against the top of her head.
Marina fell to the ground, doubled over in pain.
Andrew grabbed Alfonso’s pistol and started waving it around down at Marina, veins on his scrawny neck bulging, his face crimson with maniacal, entitled rich white boy rage.
“Get the fuck out my house, bitch, before I shoot you myself!”
“You ain’t shootin’ shit,” a voice said from behind Marina and the guard.
Everyone turned. Acevedo fired at Andrew.
Andrew cried out in pain. Marina heard the sound of his pistol dropping, followed by his panicked cries. She turned to see him clutching his left arm, where he’d been shot on his inside forearm.
Acevedo turned his gun on the guard. “He worth dying for?”
The guard shook his head.
“Then get on the ground, on your stomach, arms behind your back.”
The guard did as Acevedo instructed, while glaring at the priest.
“Here.” Acevedo threw a pair of cuffs at Marina.
She caught the cuffs, surprised that he had them.
“Cuff him.” Acev
edo started toward Andrew, who’d fallen to the ground and was crying while holding his arm. Blood was spurting fast. Marina was reasonably certain he’d bleed out soon without help.
Marina cuffed the bodyguard as she told Acevedo what Andrew had said about giving the vial to a “chemist.”
“Where can I find him?” Acevedo shoved the gun against Andrew’s head.
“I need you to call an ambulance!”
“First you tell me where to find this guy.”
Andrew cried, “How do I know you’ll call an ambulance?”
“I’m a priest,” Acevedo said. “Now tell me, or I sit here and watch you bleed to death.”
“His name is Beef.”
“Beef?” Acevedo asked.
“I don’t know his real fucking name. Big, fat redheaded dude.”
“Where do I find Beef?”
“He lives at 4141 Franklin Avenue, in the hood. But he ain’t been there in at least a week.”
“Where else might we find this man? He got a job?”
“I dunno, c’mon, man, please call an ambulance.”
“First, tell me where we might find him.”
“I dunno. He’s got some homeys that hang out at Salty’s Pool Hall, though. They didn’t tell my man anything, but maybe you being a priest and all … ”
“OK.” Acevedo nodded, grabbed the vials from the table, closed the box, and handed them to Marina.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Wait, I thought you were gonna call me an ambulance!”
Acevedo turned back and fired a shot straight into the man’s head. He said, “Oh yeah, I lied,” then turned to the guard and shot him too.
Marina screamed, staring at Acevedo, hardly able to believe what he’d done.
“Come on,” Acevedo said, removing the cuffs, shockingly casual after two murders. “Let’s go find Beef.”
He led Marina back to the car. She followed, her stomach churning, horrified to have seen Acevedo shoot both men without needing to. She thought she might retch but somehow found a way to focus, using the master’s lessons to drive the panic from her mind.
As she followed the priest, Marina wondered again if she could trust him, or might he shoot her the moment they were holding all the vials?
* * * *
CHAPTER 6 — ARTHUR MORGAN
Art sat in the hotel room chair, waiting for the woman, Rose, to return.
She’d headed to the store for food and left him alone with a weird boy with dark hair and piercing-blue eyes sitting on one of the two hotel room beds cross-legged.
“What’s your name again, kid?”
“Luca.”
“So, is Rose your mom?”
“No, sir.”
“Who is she to you, then?”
“She’s my aunt,” Luca said. “She used to go out with my brother. But then he died. So now she’s looking after me.”
“You don’t have any parents?”
“Nope, they’re dead, too,” he said so matter-of-factly that Art wondered if the kid was autistic. Art hadn’t known many autistic kids during his life — hell, they didn’t even have autism, at least not that he’d ever heard of back in his day — but had seen a few on TV. This kid was like those kids, a bit off, maybe void of emotion.
“So, what do you do for fun?”
“Not much these days. I went swimming the other day.”
“Oh, how was that?”
“Not too good.” Luca looked down at the comforter. “What do you do for fun?”
“I’m old; it’s a good day when I’m regular.”
“Regular what?”
“Never mind, kid.” Art laughed. “So, what’s the deal with this blue stuff?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Did she tell you not to say anything?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m considerably older than Ms. Rose, and I say you can tell me. I outrank her, right?”
“Sorry.” Luca shook his head.
Art decided to wait. He figured if he allowed some silence to stretch between them, the boy might start talking to ease the discomfort. Unless he was autistic, then he might sit like a rock until Rose returned.
After a few minutes of the boy’s quiet, Art waved the white flag. “Is it some kind of drug?”
“No, sir.”
“Forget this sir, stuff. Call me Art. OK?”
“Yes, s… Art.”
“Good, good. So why are you all in a hotel room? Don’t you have a home?”
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
Luca looked down again, his lips pursed.
“Ah, can’t talk about that, either, eh?”
Luca nodded.
“Damn, your aunt is one tough broad. I had a wife like that. My first wife, Rina. Tough as nails. She was a great woman, don’t get me wrong. But when she set her mind to being a pain in the buttinsky, she was a pain like nobody’s business.”
Art smiled remembering Rina. Memories flashed before his eyes, things he hadn’t thought of in years — the first time they met, one time when they raced home in the rain on a bicycle built for two, then another of them dancing to Benny Goodman at a tiny club in Brooklyn.
He smiled.
“What happened to her?” Luca asked.
“Who? Rina?”
“Yeah.”
“Big C. Cancer.” He sighed.
“I’m sorry,” Luca said. “My brother lost his girlfriend, too.”
“You talking about Rose?”
Luca looked like he’d been caught in a fib. Too quickly, he shook his head. “No, another girlfriend. Before Rose.”
“Ah.” Art nodded, then winked at Luca to let him know he wasn’t getting one over on old Art.
Luca looked down again.
If Luca were older, Art would have been more direct, asked the kid why he was lying. But he seemed innocent, and nice enough. And probably was autistic. No sense in picking on the boy.
Obviously, there was some weird stuff afoot, why else would this Rose broad come to his nursing home and lure him out with some magical blue liquid? The only thing Art knew for certain is that he had to touch it again. He’d know the rest soon enough.
Not only had Art felt more alive in the last hour than he had in the past fifteen years, he was also remembering more than he thought possible. It felt like when you have eye surgery and they remove the gauze from your eyes. You could see more and more with each layer peeled. Art was seeing more of his past playing out in his mind, and the more he saw, the more he wanted to see — the more he wanted to go back in time, and the less he wanted to die.
Of course, with the good came some bad memories that Art had been plenty glad to have forgotten, followed by a fresh coat of memories on the ones he’d wanted to leave behind but never could, like the bodies in Auschwitz, Mauthausen-Gusen, and Warsaw.
But he’d take some of the horrible memories if it meant more Rina.
“Come on, kid, you can tell me what the blue stuff is. Rose is gonna come back soon enough and let me know anyway, right?”
“Yes, but she should be the one to tell you.”
“Ah, I get it, she thinks you’re too young, right?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, that’s probably it. She still sees you as her beau’s baby brother. She doesn’t see the real you, the young man ready to grow up and do his own things in the world. Am I right?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“You wouldn’t understand. Nobody would.”
“Kid, I’ve been around the block so many times I wore a path six feet deep. There ain’t nothin’ you can tell me that I haven’t heard, or probably been through myself, a million times or more.”
Luca met his eyes and looked like he was ready to spill the beans.
Then the door opened, and Rose entered with two canvas sacks.
“How are you all doing?”<
br />
“Great,” Art said, winking at Luca.
Luca smiled, “Good. What did you get?”
“I got Oreos and milk for you, buddy. And for Mr. Morgan, I picked up this.”
She pulled out a brown-sleeved bag of wine, then removed it and displayed a 2008 Clos Du Val merlot.
Art wasn’t a wine aficionado by any means, and hadn’t had a drop in at least a decade, but he was fairly certain this was a better-than-decent bottle.
“How’d you know I’ve been craving wine?”
“I can read your mind, Mr. Morgan.”
Art laughed, then stopped when she didn’t join him.
“You’re pullin’ my leg.”
“No, sir. And right now you’re thinking ‘bullshit,’ but you don’t want to say it because of the kid. You think he reminds you of an old friend back in the day, a boy named Jack Wilson. Am I wrong?”
Art looked back and forth between them. Saw that Luca wasn’t laughing either.
“H … how’d ya do that?”
“Rather than tell you, why don’t I show you? But first, your wine.”
She popped the bottle and poured some wine into a red plastic cup then passed it across the table. As he reached for the cup, Rose retrieved the vial from her jacket pocket and laid it on the table.
Art felt it calling to him, swore he could hear it, like a barely audible tune. He found himself lost in the blue glow reflected on the table between them.
So soft, so inviting.
I better take a drink.
Art lifted the plastic cup to his lips, took a sip, closing his eyes, remembering many great wines from his past. This one felt all the more delicious for the time that had passed since his last drink.
He kept his eyes closed, savoring the flavor. He loved the raspberry and plum, but his tongue wanted lamb more than it ever had before.
Following his sip, Rose looked down at the vial and picked it up.
Art set down his cup and stared at the vial.
“What is it?”
“The cure.”
“For what?”
“For everything.” Rose passed the vial.
Art looked down at the vial, warm in his hands. The blue sloshed around even though he was holding it as straight as permitted by his trembling hands. It seemed to respond to Art with movement.