Sixteen Sunsets

by Mark Gardner

  “What does this mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Flax looked intently at Kristof, “but I’m a little freaked out.”

  Joaquin walked down a busy street. He was lost in thought about what had happened in the last two and a half weeks. He thought about Anne and Justin and their ragtag organization. He wondered how far Anne’s reach was. He passed by a bank, and he overheard an angry conversation.

  “Dead coil? What the fuck does that mean?”

  Joaquin heard silence as the man listened on his cell phone.

  “Listen, I don’t give two fucks about your fancy accounting mumbo jumbo. Can you do it?”

  More listening, then, “Hey, lemmie call you back... The sidewalk has ears.”

  The man turned to Joaquin “What the fuck you lookin’ at?”

  “A dead man if you don’t show some respect,” Joaquin retorted.

  The man smiled. “Come ‘ere kid,” and beckoned Joaquin over.

  Joaquin scoffed. “Kid? I gotta beat the respect into you?”

  The man rolled his eyes and produced a knife with a long serrated blade. Pointing it at Joaquin, he said, “You might wanna re-think your options here.”

  Joaquin smiled and walked up to the man until the knife tip was pressed against his chest.

  “Shit, dude. Youse got some stones, huh?”

  Joaquin shrugged and leaned forward.

  “Whoah! Shit man, I cut you, you gonna bleed all over my shoes.”

  “You a member of the Sixth Street Kings?”

  “What if I am?”

  “I was thinking I need a few changes in my life.”

  The man withdrew his knife slightly. “You think youse Kings material?”

  Joaquin smiled. “You’ve got it wrong, friend. I wonder if the Kings is good enough to join me.”

  “Bitch, that be some serious whack. Get yo’self on outta here.”

  “What, I gotta audition? Like on American Idol, maybe? How ‘bout I beat yo ass jes’ to show you I’m serious.” Joaquin thrust out his chin in defiance.

  “This’s gonna be fun.” The man slashed upward with the knife toward Joaquin’s chin. The serrated edge made contact with Joaquin’s chin and cheek, but no blood.

  The man withdrew his knife, and stared at the blade. “What the fuck, yo?”

  “I’m sorry, did I break your concentration? I didn’t mean to do that. Please, continue, you were saying?”

  “Pulp fuckin’ Fiction? Come on man, that shit’s way old.”

  Joaquin grabbed the knife by the blade and twisted it out of the man’s grip. He moved it to his other hand. “I guess it’s my turn, huh?”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  I’m your worst nightmare, thought Joaquin. He put serious thought into saying the line from Rambo III, but before he could utter the tired quote, several youths ran up the sidewalk toward them.

  “Yo, Tee!”

  Tee nodded to the youth running toward them. Joaquin smiled and stared at Tee while raising his index and middle finger and striking Tee on the cheek and chin. “What ya gotta say ‘bout that biatch?”

  “Day-um! That fool chin checked Tee!” Everyone stopped and stared.

  Tee looked into Joaquin’s eyes and shook his head in the declarative negative. Joaquin responded by nodding and smiling. Joaquin grabbed Tee by the jacket, spun him around, and they landed on the edge of the curb. Tee’s shoulders were still on the curb, but his head was in traffic. None of the cars stopped, but several swerved to avoid what was happening on the sidewalk. Several of the youths appeared to want to intervene, but the youth that shouted to Tee held everyone back. A bus rumbled by close enough for Tee to feel it.

  “Let me up, man!” he shouted.

  “I dunno if I’ve passed the audition.”

  “You have, man. You passed! You passed!”

  “Ya mean imma goin’ to Hollywood?”

  “What the...?”

  “Fuckin’ American Idol, dude.” Joaquin looked down at Tee he caught a whiff and wrinkled his nose. “You fuckin’ pissed yo’self? What the fuck, man?”

  Tee kept looking at oncoming traffic then at Joaquin. He kept pleading with Joaquin, tears forming and quickly drying by the gusts of wind produced by passing traffic.

  “Yo, I think ya made your point,” the youth stood a few feet away from Joaquin. “The name’s Charles, but everyone ‘round here calls me ‘Lil’ Cee.’”

  Joaquin lifted Tee up from the curb by his jacket. When he did, a motorist swerved and impacted a car in the next lane. Both swerved into oncoming traffic and were struck. The force pushed the mass of metal and glass back into the other lanes and the conglomeration was rear-ended by more cars from both directions. Horns, crunching metal and breaking glass were all anyone heard.

  Lil’ Cee declared, “Let’s get outta here.” He slapped Joaquin on the chest with the back of his hand. “Youse with us.” Lil’ Cee looked down at Tee sprawled on the sidewalk, watching the wreck, stinking of piss and shook his head. The group, minus Tee, strutted down the sidewalk.

  The Monster Inside

  Kristof looked out the window of the bus. He saw a commotion on the sidewalk in front of a bank. Fuckin’ kids, he thought as he shook his head in disgust. During the ride home, he tested his strength several times, but it was gone.

  What does this mean?

  “Excuse me, young man.”

  Kristof looked up from his window reverie to see a senior citizen addressing him. He cleared his throat. “Ma’am?”

  “I’ve lost my earring, and my vision isn’t what it used to be.” She motioned to her glasses. They were thicker than Joaquin’s cell phone.

  “Where were you sitting?”

  The woman pointed to a seat a few rows back. Kristof saw a reflection of something shiny on the floor, but another bus patron scooped it up. Kristof patted the old woman on the shoulder and walked back to the other rider. “Hey, didja find an earring on the floor?”

  A girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, pressed pause on her iPhone and looked up at Kristof. “¿Que?” She replied exuding innocence.

  “I saw you pick something up.”

  “No habla inglés.”

  Kristof smiled. “I know you speak english. Your iPhone is in english.” The girl turned the iPhone away from Kristof’s gaze. “The textbooks in your backpack are in english.” The girl’s eyes darted slightly toward her open bag on the seat next to her. “And finally, Klarissa” Kristof leaned in and grinned displaying his teeth. “I can see the outline of your necklace under your shirt.” Klarissa covered the lump just under her collar.

  “Fine!” Klarissa held out the earring in the palm of her hand.

  “Oh, no, Klarissa. I think you need to give the sweet old lady her earring.”

  Klarissa sighed and rolled her eyes. She was about to retort, but the retort died in her throat when she saw Kristof raise his eyebrows. She trudged over to the old lady and dropped the earring into her waiting hand. She turned to walk back to her seat, but Kristof cleared his throat.

  Klarissa let out more eye-rolling and heavy sighs before she reluctantly said, “I’m sorry.”

  When Klarissa made her way back to her seat, she turned sideways to allow Kristof to pass. He looked down at her and she fixed him with an icy stare. Smiling, Kristof returned to his seat and resumed gazing out the window.

  Kristof hopped off the bus and leaned against the bus stop. The old woman waved from her window as the bus pulled away. Kristof raised his arm in reply and smiled wider as the teenage girl shot icy daggers at him. Ignoring her glare, Kristof shoved his hands into his pockets and walked up the street toward his house. He was still a block away from his house and he looked off into the distance. He could clearly see the stain from the internal fluids when he smashed that punk’s car. That was, what? Sixteen days ago? He stopped and scanned the front of his house. A newspaper lay rolled up on the sidewalk. Kristof could read the newsprint clearly from a block away. He looked up at an airpl
ane flying overhead. BR549 was emblazoned on the tail of the aircraft. He stuck up his thumb and the plane disappeared from his sight. He closed one eye and his thumb jumped, revealing the plane.

  “What’re you doing out here?”

  Kristof turned to see his wife. “I, uh... was sent home by doctor Flax.”

  Krystal spread her arms. “No, what are you doing, right,” she emphasized the word by pointing at the sidewalk, “here?”

  Kristof looked toward his house and saw a shadow on his porch.

  “Major Globe, another incident with subject three-one-seven.”

  Without looking up, Jacob Globe reached out his hand. He took the folder and set it down beside the document he was studying. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  Denisha’s footsteps receded and his door was closed quietly.

  Joaquin looked up at the seven-story building covered with tags. He looked at Lil’ Cee.

  “Home sweet home.”

  Joaquin scowled.

  “Don’t let the outside fool you.” Lil’ Cee nodded to a large man who held open a door for them to step through. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

  “What should we do about Joaquin?”

  Anne looked up from a scroll she was reading on her ornate desk. “The Malaya Nevka River,” she declared.

  “Pardon?”

  “Grigori Rasputin. He was stabbed, shot three times and beaten with a club, but he did not die.”

  Justin leaned on her desk. “You think Joaquin is of the same bloodline as Rasputin?”

  Anne nodded and regarded Justin’s gloved hands. “Maybe you can take care of him?”

  Justin shrugged. “How did the Tsarina get rid of Rasputin?”

  Anne smiled a feral smile. “I drowned him.”

  “Get down!” hissed Kristof.

  Krystal complied, but it was obvious to Kristof she wasn’t happy about being ordered around.

  Kristof watched a shadow fall on his porch. He squinted as the shadow cleared the corner. “Shit!” He whispered the ‘i’ as an ‘e’ and drew it out several syllables. “A cat.”

  “A cat?”

  “Yeah, I saw the shadow of a cat and I...” He paused and noticed the smile on her face. “Never mind.”

  Kristof and Krystal walked back to their house. Krystal whispered, “I thought you were gonna die.”

  Kristof stopped and turned to face her. “I think I did.”

  “Die?”

  “Yeah.” The pair resumed their walk and Kristof told her everything he and the doctor had discovered.

  “Whatcha got Frank?”

  Detective Frank Massey looked up from the file he was studying. “Hey, Jones. It’s that kid.”

  “Joaquin... Something. The kid who disappeared from the precinct, um... Your carjacker?”

  Massey nodded. “Something just doesn’t add up about him.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he leaves evidence at each crime scene. Finger prints, fibers, video surveillance.”

  “Criminals are dumb.”

  “Yeah, well he escaped custody. I think he had help.”

  “A conspiracy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ya’know what I think?”

  Massey raised his eyebrows in response.

  “I think this is the problem.” Jones tapped two fingers just above his wrist where a watch would reside.

  Massey looked at his own arm and saw skin many shades lighter than Joaquin’s. He looked up to see Jones nodding, and retorted, “Race has nothing to do with it.”

  Jones spread his hands to indicate he had no control over it. “Hey, I don’t gather the statistics, I just enforce the law.”

  “Statistics my ass,” Massey grumbled. “That’s profiling. Plain and simple.”

  “Look,” Jones sighed, “there’s evidence that the kid was involved in quite a few crimes.” Massey leaned forward in response. “Don’t let your sympathies cloud your police work.”

  Massey crossed his arms defensively and leaned back in his chair. “Maybe.”

  Jones’s response was to sit at his desk and drink the cold coffee he had poured into a mug several hours prior.

  “These are needy people.” Lil’ Cee waved his hand, encompassing what Joaquin considered to be the dregs of society. It didn’t occur to him that he was regarded as one of those dregs by people who considered themselves ‘better’ than he.

  “What do they need?” Asked Joaquin.

  “They need a purpose. They need to matter. They’s fertile with rage.”

  Joaquin stopped and looked at Lil’ Cee who had pronounced ‘fertile’ in two hard syllables, the second sounding like something used on floors. When Joaquin looked away, his eyes fell upon an odd painting. It appeared to be the Mona Lisa, but the hands were fused together with webbing and the face was of a large-eyed alien. “What the fuck, yo?”

  Lil’ Cee smiled. “You like my alien Mona Lisa?”

  “I guess...”

  “You want I should fix you up on a proper date wit’ her?” Lil’ Cee and his crew erupted in laughter. Joaquin suddenly felt lake an unwelcome guest.

  “I’ve got a better idea...” Joaquin pulled out his knife and stepped toward Lil’ Cee.

  Kristof spread the newspaper and folded it so he could read the article accompanying the headline: CRIME STATS UP. He maneuvered the paper and after a series of folds, and studied the article.

  Krystal sat across from him and extended a bare foot to lower the paper. “We need to talk.”

  “Lemmie read this article first.”

  “Crime stats up?” she read. “You already knew that. After all, that punk kid mugged you.”

  Kristof grunted. “I wonder what happened to that dude?”

  “Frank, I think we’ve got your perp.”

  Detective Frank Massey looked up from the report he was studying. “Joaquin?”

  “He says he’s not Joaquin, but he matches all the particulars.”

  Massey sighed and leaned back in his chair. “We get a statement?”

  “He lawyered up.”

  Massey’s joints creaked when he rose to a standing position. “They always do.” He took a moment and arched his back, hands finding familiar aches. “At least the smart ones do.” He watched the rookie who delivered the news size up him up. It might have been sympathy in the rookie’s eyes, but it could also have been pity. “I’m getting too old to sit in this chair all day,” Massey announced.

  The rookie hovered in Massey’s door long enough to snort and shake his head. “Perp’s in interview three.”

  Massey mumbled his thanks. He didn’t recognize the rookie, but then again, he rarely wandered off the floor that housed his office. He walked toward the hall that led to the interview rooms. He stopped at interview five, where Joaquin had briefly holed up before miraculously escaping custody by breaking through a wall. The woman he took hostage had disappeared as well, and no one at the Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention had ever heard of an Anne Henderson.

  Massey looked through the observation window at the young man sitting defiantly in his chair. “That’s not Joaquin,” he said to the tech monitoring the video feed. “This supposed to be my guy?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Massey sighed, leaned back through the doorway and verified the placard on the door read ‘Interview Room #3.’ Massey grunted in displeasure. “The paperwork must be screwy,” he replied to the tech. “That ain’t the kid who tried to jack me.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, my info says otherwise.”

  “Get someone else to do the interview.” Massey turned to leave the room. Over his shoulder, he called out, “I’m beginning to think the info’s been intentionally altered.”

  The tech consulted his computer screen. “No conspiracies here, Detective.” The tech raised his voice and called after the retreating detective. “Maybe just a computer glitch?”

  Computer glitch, thought Massey. Sounds more like a gove
rnment conspiracy.

  “Major?”

  Major Jacob Globe looked over his shoulder to see his assistant with her back to him, propping the door open. He didn’t need to see her, her Caribbean accent gave her away. To her, he said, “Can I get a moment here?”

  Denisha stepped forward and the door swung shut. He stepped away from the urinal and scowled at the automatic flush. He stepped up to the sink, activated the faucet and his scowl deepened as it spurted out water and stopped. Damn hippies and their environmental movement, he thought as he waved his hand under the faucet to reactivate it. Technology, he continued, sometimes...

  After trying in vain to use the hand dryer, he wiped his still damp hands on the seat of his uniform pants. He pushed the door open and nearly walked into Denisha

  “Major?”

  “Denisha. What’ve you got for me?”

  “Three-one-six, Sir.”

  “Hmmm...” Globe started toward his office. “Status?”

  Denisha fell into step beside Globe. “Apprehended by local law enforcement. We’re still gathering information at this time.”

  Globe paused mid-stride. “What do the locals think?”

  “They’re convinced a computer glitch is responsible for the incorrect information showing in the database.”

  Globe resumed his walk toward his office. “Is it?”

  “Sir?”

  “A glitch.”

  “It’s not us, Sir. We’ll have eyes on...”

  Denisha paused and retrieved a large smartphone from the holster on her belt. She swiped her finger down a few times and held it up to Globe. “This the guy?”

  Globe squinted, and it was obvious the image wasn’t subject three-one-six. “It’s not us, some other organization is protecting this kid.”

  “Ours?”

  Globe nodded the declarative negative. “Not ours, but I think I know who it could be.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “What?” Snapped Anne. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something here?”