Dominion

by Greg F. Gifune

  “Danny, how do we know anything this guy’s saying is true?” Bryce squared his stance again. “We don’t even know you, why should we trust you?”

  “Why the hell would I go through all this if I was lying? What possible motivation would I have?”

  Daniel held up a hand to silence Bryce. “Go on.”

  “She got very agitated,” Bartkowski told him. “Nervous and angry, maybe embarrassed, I don’t know, but she wasn’t pleased, follow? She kept saying she didn’t know who this Gorton character was or even who he might be, and that she’d never done any of these things he claimed she had. I told her it didn’t matter to me one way or the other what she had or hadn’t done, that I was only concerned for her safety. I offered to turn over all my files on the case to her, and promised I’d even go with her to the police if necessary because I believed there was a chance this jerk’s threats were credible.”

  Why didn’t you call me? Daniel thought. Why didn’t you call me right then and there to come and get you, to help you, to deal with this with you?

  “At that point she wanted to know if there was anything else.” Bartkowski sighed. “So I told her about the strange thing that had happened with my computer, and how Gorton had changed. That’s when she calmed down a little and became more open to what I was saying. She said she’d been having strange dreams and premonitions, that she’d seen things but chalked them up to being exhausted or overworked, emotionally drained. Then all of a sudden she got angry again and started asking me what the hell I really wanted. Her emotions were all over the place, it was an understandable reaction. She was scared, I could tell, but I couldn’t be sure if it was because her connection to Gorton had been found out and had become dangerous, or if there was something more. Maybe both. I’ll never know for sure.”

  Daniel could see Lindsay in his mind, arms flailing about as she called Bartkowski out, challenged him and demanded answers. But he also imagined what the fear in her must’ve been like, and knew the helplessness he felt as a result would be shackled to him for the rest of his life.

  “She said she’d be contacting her attorney and the police,” Bartkowski said. “I tried to explain again that I’d cooperate and help however I could, but she was really upset at that point, and she told me her attorney would be in touch with me. She stormed off, and that was the last time I saw her.”

  Everyone remained silent for a few moments.

  “Did you see the accident?” Daniel finally asked.

  Bartkowski shook his head no. “I went into the bar, had a few drinks. When I came out I saw all the lights and whatnot over on the highway, figured there’d been a car accident or something. I didn’t really give it much thought until the next morning when I saw the news reports and realized it was her. I can’t help but feel partially responsible for what happened. I should’ve offered to drive her back to her car. I shouldn’t have let her go off like that when she was so upset. Maybe if I’d approached her somewhere else or done it differently she’d still be alive, I…” Bartkowski brought a hand to his mouth as if to prevent further words from escaping. “She must’ve gone into the road without looking. Maybe what happened that night was fate, but I still feel a lot of guilt about it.”

  “You ought to see it from my side.”

  “I only wanted to help.” He looked at Daniel with pleading eyes. “I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a clip since that night. Believe me, I only wanted to help.”

  “I do believe you. But my wife’s been dead for months. Why are you coming to me now, after all this time?”

  “Yeah,” Bryce piped in, “if you wanted to help so goddamn much why’d you wait this long? I don’t buy it, Danny. I’m telling you, I don’t trust this fucker for a minute.”

  “I thought it was over,” Bartkowski said. “I thought since Lindsay was dead that Gorton would just go away, he’d have no reason to do anything else. The things with my computer stopped, and I thought maybe the whole thing had just been a bad dream and that this freak would fade away and never bother me again. But just to play it safe, I tried to keep loose tabs on him, so I’d do internet searches on him now and then, among other things. Nothing came up.” He removed a second folded sheet of paper from his pocket and laid it on the counter. “And then a little over a week ago I came across this article.”

  Daniel looked down at a clipping from a newspaper in Ohio, the headline regarding the brutal murder of a woman in Youngstown. Hand shaking, he picked it up and held it closer so he could read the story. When he’d finished, he handed it to Bryce. “Gorton slaughtered and mutilated his wife then disappeared.”

  Eyes sweeping over the article, he began to read. “My God.” His face went pale within seconds. “‘There were two computers in the home. Both are missing and believed destroyed because they more than likely contained incriminating or damaging evidence against Gorton. He is considered extremely dangerous and should by no means be approached or—’”

  “I just read the fucking thing.” Daniel snatched the article back. “I don’t need you to recite it.”

  “Danny, he’s on the loose and headed right for us. We have to go to the cops.”

  “This guy’s never had anything worse than a speeding ticket,” Bartkowski said, “and now he’s a murderer. It’s like he’s somebody else, just like on the phone, he’s changed. Even his name’s changed, you read the article. His legal name is Steven, and that’s the name he’s always gone by. Until now, now suddenly he’s Russell. Who the hell is Russell? It’s the name he used online, that’s who. Only now it’s who he is, or at least who he believes he is.”

  “Whoever the hell he thinks he is the bastard’s a murderer, so all bets are off.” Daniel tossed the article back onto the counter. “Bryce is right. We have to go to the police before this guy gets the chance to hurt anyone else. Are you still willing to turn over your files on him and go with us?”

  “Yes sir, I am.” He grabbed his hat, brushed the remnants of rainwater from it. “But there’s one other thing. You know I tailed you today. I saw who you met with. Follow through with him.”

  “Bedbug?”

  Bartkowski nodded.

  “You know him?”

  “Not well, but I’ve used his services a couple times on past cases. In a city this size people like us all run into each other at one point or another. I’ve never been able to verify it, but word is he used to work on a lot of classified projects for the government. Apparently he was a bit unreliable, as the story goes, when it came to being mentally stable, so they cut him loose. He may be crazy, but he’s also a genius. First time I heard of him through an associate, I tried checking him out and looking into him before I used him, just as a precaution. In my business I need to know who I’m dealing with, follow? Thing is, a guy like Bedbug is better at controlling information than the government is, and he’d washed most of his adult life away. There isn’t much on him, hardly anything to go on or to even verify the guy exists. But there was still plenty of information on his childhood and young adult years out there. He was a gifted kid, a real genius, graduated from MIT when he was fifteen years old, did you know that?”

  “I know virtually nothing about him,” Daniel admitted. “A friend recommended him.”

  “By the time he was eighteen he’d gone over to Harvard, and just for fun, picked up another degree there. At nineteen he allegedly went to work for the government, military intelligence, CIA, that kind of shit. Was only into that for a few years, but like I said, the story goes he worked on some really zany shit: deprivation tank stuff, mind control, hallucinogenic drugs, computers, of course, all kinds of black, top secret programs. When he gets out he ends up in a mental institution in upstate New York. Voluntary, by the way. Word was he was totally burnt mentally and some of the drugs he’d been into and experimenting with had fried his brain. After a year he walked out and fell off the face of the earth. A few years later he pops up again and he’s created software that could retrieve information from hard dri
ves previously thought impossible to find. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. He could’ve made a fortune, still could, if he rented his services out to major companies and allowed his skills to be used for corporate or security applications. The man could be a multi-millionaire if he wanted to be, but he doesn’t care about any of that. He spends his time moving around, always on the move, and working on God knows what when he isn’t freelancing jobs like yours or mine. He’s the best at what he does, and if some of those answers we’re looking for are on those computers you gave him, he’ll find them.”

  “Whatever he comes up with it’ll be more evidence we can turn over to the police,” Bryce said.

  “Exactly,” Bartkowski said, nodding to Bryce. “I knew you’d have to say something smart sooner or later.”

  Bryce folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah, I’ll do my best to keep up, fuck-wad.”

  Bartkowski turned back to Daniel. “I’m suggesting we wait and see what Bedbug uncovers before we go to the police.”

  “You said yourself we don’t have a lot of time,” Daniel reminded him.

  “We don’t. Obviously Gorton is on his way here, if he’s not here already, and we know he’s dangerous. But Bedbug never takes a lot of time. Whenever I’ve used him he’s never taken more than twenty-four hours to get back to me. What you need from him are small potatoes, easy shit for a guy like this. You’ll probably hear from him in the morning, maybe even sooner, who knows?”

  “What do you think he’s going to find?” Bryce asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”

  “You’re not convinced that what happened on our computers was a renegade program or video feed, are you?” Daniel asked, though he already knew what the answer would be.

  The intensity in Bartkowski’s expression deepened. “Are you?”

  “How long will it take you to get your files together and come with us?”

  He consulted his watch, moved back to the table and retrieved his gun. “Meet me at my office in two hours. The address is on my card. I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t planning on sleeping anyway. We’ll wait the night out there together, then once you’ve heard from Bedbug we’ll go straight to the police with everything we’ve got.”

  Daniel looked to Bryce.

  “I don’t trust him.” He picked up the 9mm, held it down by his side, a dead stare locked on Bartkowski throughout. “Then again, I don’t trust anybody. It’s your call, Danny, either way I got your back.”

  “Two hours,” Daniel said. “We’ll be there.”

  Bartkowski slipped the revolver back into his shoulder holster and pulled closed his trench coat. “No matter what you might think of me, I want you to know I really am sorry about what happened to your wife. If I could’ve prevented it, I would’ve.”

  “Thanks for coming to me,” Daniel said wearily. “It was the right thing to do.”

  He pulled his hat down tight then started for the door. “I hope so.”

  As the bells over the door jingled and Bartkowski slipped into darkness, images of the demonic goggle-wearing bus driver and his damned passengers coursed again through Daniel’s mind. Only this time, as the bus pulled away and sped off into the night, it was Lindsay watching him from the back window, palms flat against the glass, eyes rolled to white and mouth open as if torn by murderous hands and left that way, twisted and frozen in mid-scream, a screech of equal parts warning and allure, at once repulsing and drawing him nearer. And from somewhere in the surrounding darkness of his exhausted mind came another sound, this one a low and guttural growl not entirely human, a pure and primal roar only he could hear, escaped from another place, another time.

  Another Daniel.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Though confined to darkness, he could sense that which constituted the outer world, the one existing beyond his physical self. He pictured a tropical sun burning down on a landscape of breathtaking mountains and flatlands, the latter sprinkled with crystalline rivers and lakes. There was no trace of Man, but various animals of numerous descriptions grazed peacefully. Despite the inherent beauty of this place, he was also aware of a horrific predatory danger as well. Regardless, there was purity to this place where things lived and thrived and where death existed strictly as a component in the natural balance of things. Like life, it was neither a commodity nor a sport nor a result of emotion or politics, and thus, both intrinsically held more value. He understood that clearly, and while his vision might have been a dream, a wishful thought, it might also have been a real place where his more primeval self once resided. It didn’t much matter to him at that point, because he was in liquid darkness now, suspended and floating in it, bobbing gently like a buoy on a tranquil sea, this paradise reduced to intermittent flashes of color and content, strobe-like bursts in his mind. Yet he was aware of senses beyond the visual. He could feel the warmth of the sun when he saw it, the softness of the grass, the cool, pure taste and feel of the water, the smells and sounds of a world playing out before him, and perhaps most profoundly, his place in it as a living being.

  In silence, the evolutionary canals of his mind flowed free, and formerly dormant cells housed in the deepest caverns of his brain awakened from a long and unfathomable slumber.

  The scene was whisked away, blurred into a frenzy of images all rushing past his scope of vision the way a landscape flies by a speeding car window. And just as suddenly, sound joined sight, shattering the silence and coming to him in a mangled wave of ear-splitting agony.

  Running. He feels himself running, moving through darkness, but this time with a tangible sense of his physical surroundings. He can feel the ground beneath his feet, hard and smooth and wet. Pavement. He’s running on pavement, running along a darkened city street, the only light occasional pools from streetlamps. Everything is moist from a recent rain, the street slick and shining, and though the area looks vaguely familiar, he’s sure he’s never been here before. Somewhere similar, perhaps, but not this street, Boston is not laid out this way.

  As Daniel continues down the middle of the empty street, he realizes three things. One, it is very late at night. Two, he is running because something is chasing him. And three, it is right on his heels.

  He can hear its labored breath and the pounding of its feet close behind him, smells a terrible stench emanating from it, but does not once look back. Were he to fall or even stumble, it could take him down, so he concentrates on running, only running, moving quickly and efficiently as possible. Survive. Run. Survive. Run.

  Sheer terror and adrenaline carries him another six or seven blocks, but eventually his joints begin to ache and stiffen and his lungs burn as he tries to keep enough air in them to sustain his speed.

  He turns a corner and bolts down a side street, still moving at a good clip but slower than before. Within three or four blocks he’ll have to stop, his body will shut down and he’ll no longer be able to breathe. He knows this. Horrible images blink in his mind of the thing giving chase pouncing onto his back and rolling with him in a tangled embrace as they tumble to pavement.

  Pushing off with his right foot, Daniel launches himself sideways and into an alley. He runs through it without breaking stride, powering through a small pile of trash and debris spilled from a dumpster and past two street people huddled near it searching the pile for valuable or edible items.

  As he bursts through the mouth of the alley and sprints into the middle of another street, he hears a clamor well behind him. His pursuer is still coming, and coming hard, but he’s managed to put a greater distance between them, and from the sounds it has been slowed down while crossing the alley.

  At the first sign of a building with an open doorway, he darts into it. Crouching in the dark shadows of the doorway, he does his best to breathe quietly through his mouth as he watches the street from which he’d come. Out of breath and lightheaded, he waits for the thing to emerge from the alley. It never does.

  After hiding for what seems an
eternity, he stands, wipes sweat from his forehead and is about to step back out into the street when he hears a cackle of laughter from behind him.

  He looks deeper into the building and sees an open room a few feet away. The windows in the room have been covered with dark plastic garbage bags, the ends stapled into the frames. An old freestanding lamp provides a bit of light, but the bulb is low wattage and it’s difficult to see much.

  Cautiously, he steps into the room, which contains the lamp, a couch, and a battered card table on which sits an old desktop computer. The cement floor is filthy and worn, the walls pitted and stripped of wallpaper or paint, and the ceiling cracked and stained with watermarks. A musty stench fills the thick, stagnant air.

  Sitting on the threadbare couch is Cliff Fox. Dressed in unusually frumpy clothing that looks like he’s found it in a Goodwill bin, he is badly disheveled and his face and hands are caked with dirt. For a man who never allowed a piece of lint refuge anywhere on his body for more than a second or two, and for whom having even a single hair out of place was a mortal sin, Fox barely looks like the same man. Even stranger is his demeanor. Normally cool and slick, Fox sits grinning like a moron, his expression distant and empty.

  In an equally ragged chair a few feet away, Jack Karnakian sits with his enormous head bowed, eyes staring dully at the floor. Unlike Fox, he looks the same as ever. Neat and orderly, his salt-and-pepper hair is styled in its usual buzz-cut and his beard is precisely trimmed and groomed to perfection. Dressed in his standard tweed jacket, open-collared sports shirt, khakis and calfskin loafers, he looks, at least on the surface, no different than he ever has. But gone is the arrogance veiled in faux concern, the passive-aggressive attitude, and the overall air of cold superiority.