Angel With a Bullet

by M. C. Grant

“We thought she was a rat,” say trigger-happy guards

  I give the guards five minutes to move away from the area before creeping out of my hole and crossing the alley to the warehouse. I figure the doors will be locked, but from my earlier tour of the artists’ commune, I also know the buildings are lucky to still be standing and large sections of the wood is rotten and weak.

  In the distance I hear two shots ring out, followed by a celebratory whoop.

  Licking my lips, I check a large, truck-sized delivery door without any luck before moving on, my flashlight checking the walls for accessible gaps.

  I almost walk by the guards’ door but try the handle on a whim. It isn’t locked.

  With a cautious grin, I open the door and poke my head inside. The cramped, windowless room is empty except for two metal folding chairs, a round card table, and a portable propane heater that gives off just enough heat to make the interior tolerable. A single 40-watt bulb in the ceiling provides light. There is no TV, phone, radio, or monitored security cameras.

  No wonder they’re out shooting rats. This is the kind of job that could make someone shoot himself just to ease the boredom.

  Two more shots ring out.

  They sound closer.

  A narrow access door in one corner leads into the warehouse. Its hinges are coated in so much rust, I wonder if it has ever been used. Fearing the worst, I twist the locking bolt into the proper position and shove. The metal screeches as rust flakes off in my hand, but the bolt slides just enough to escape its latch.

  Nervous sweat beads from every pore as I yank on the handle. The door slides open stiffly for the first six inches, but then begins to protest as the bottom of the door meets an uneven floor. Despite my abused muscles screaming at me to stop, I put my shoulder into it to try and squeeze another couple of inches. It refuses to budge, leaving barely a one-foot gap between it and the jamb.

  Thankful that I hadn’t taken the time to eat my microwaveable sausage pizza, I suck in my stomach and begin to squeeze through the gap. My bruised breasts and buttocks don’t appreciate the sandpaper massage, which I know I’ll pay dearly for tomorrow, but with determination I manage to get through the tight space and pull the door closed just seconds before the guards return.

  “You see the size of that last hairy fucker?” one guard says, his voice muffled by the thick wall.

  “It was a badger, man.”

  “Badger? It was a freakin’ cougar.”

  “That why you shit yourself?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Inside the warehouse, I flick on the flashlight to find myself on the top landing of a short flight of stairs. Unfortunately, the steps had collapsed into a rotten pile of worm-eaten compost some time over the last quarter-century.

  Just what my poor body needs: an obstacle course.

  With a groan, I lower myself over the edge and drop to the ground. Despite a soft landing, the massive floor creaks and groans under my scant weight. I pan the flashlight across the floor to see why this end of the warehouse isn’t being used. Salt water and years of neglect have eaten away at the boards, leaving patches of rot that look as if they can barely hold a man’s weight.

  Hoping the trek hasn’t been a waste of time, I direct the flashlight’s beam to the far side. Against that wall are three long rows of low-walled cubicles with unlit industrial lights dangling from wires above. Without natural light, it seems a hellish place to work, but at least I now know somebody must.

  Being careful to pick the strongest-looking beams, I make my way across the floor, alert to the possibility that I might need to leap at an instant’s notice. It takes a few minutes, but soon the boards become stronger and I am able to walk without trouble. The closer I come to the cubicles, the stronger the smell of paint and turpentine.

  Behind the cubicles, I spot a glass-enclosed office and a newer set of large steel doors. To the far left are stacks of cardboard boxes and large wooden crates.

  I walk to the boxes first and find they’re all clearly marked as oil paint, each color stamped in capital letters on the front. Using my pocketknife, I slice one open to find a hundred tubes of Cobalt blue. It’s even a decent brand. Turning my attention to the crates, I spot a crowbar lying on the floor and use it to pry the top off one. Inside are bolts of high-quality canvas.

  Bored with that discovery, I return to the cubicles. Each one is fitted with two metal easels, a professional light box for displaying 35mm slides, a padded stool, and a selection of brushes. Bright splashes of paint spot the floors, but oddly it seems that only one color dominates each table. The one directly in front of me is spattered with green, the one beside it in orange, and the next in blue.

  Walking up and down the rows, I’m even more puzzled. Some of the workstations hold a strange assortment of stencils and laser-etched stamps. The last cubicle, closest to the office, is also the largest. It’s roughly four times the size of the others, and it’s the only one with a floor spattered in a multitude of colors.

  I spot several dollops of paint leading in the direction of the shiny metal doors. Following the trail, I reach the doors and pull. A welcome gust of warm air flows over me and my spirits rise as the treasure is exposed.

  Adamsky.

  A whole room full of his signature abstract art.

  Stepping inside, I reach out to touch one of the nearest paintings. The paint is still tacky and instantly I know it was created in the rows of cubicles behind me.

  The scenario becomes clear: Adamsky doesn’t exist. He’s nothing more than the invention of a corrupt marketer who brings in cheap labor to slap colored stencils on canvas and trick the idle rich out of their weekly allowance.

  The whole thing is a scam, and Diego must have discovered it. Only instead of going to the police, he decided to make a statement in art. And it cost him his life.

  Fighting to control my excitement, I stick the flashlight between my knees and pull my camera out of its bag. I widen the light’s beam to bathe the paintings in a soft glow and snap away.

  When I’m done, I re-seal the doors and snap some flash shots of the cubicles. With enough evidence stored in digital format to add visual spice to my planned exposé, I turn my attention to the glass office. The interior is your basic foreman’s mess with an angled architect’s table, several file cabinets, and a cluttered wood desk.

  The table is covered with a detailed outline for the next Adamskys to be mass-produced and shipped to galleries around the world. There, the rich would snap them up, all the time believing $50,000 to $100,000 is a bargain for an original from a much-publicized master.

  Turning to the desk, I rummage through the drawers. There is nothing to find in the first three, but the fourth is locked. I pull out my pocketknife and attempt to pick the lock. After five minutes, I curse my Zeta-Jones–lacking burglary skills and storm across the warehouse to the crates. There, I tuck the knife in my back pocket and pick up the crowbar.

  The locked drawer splinters open easily to reveal a small metal box. Inside is a metal stamp of Adamsky’s signature. It makes me sick to think how easily I have been fooled.

  Leaving the box open on top of the desk, I move to the file cabinets. Lucky for them, they’re unlocked.

  A quick search uncovers a lease agreement between the owners of the warehouse, Fish Mac Retailers, and Kingston Enterprises. The signature at the bottom of the document belongs to Casper Blymouth.

  I stuff the agreement in my pocket and continue to search. This time my fingers stop at a folder with Chino’s name on the label. Inside is a laminated ID tag with a thumbnail photograph. It isn’t Diego.

  Taken aback, I double-check the folder and see this file belongs to a Pascal Chino.

  I check the file cabinet again and find Diego’s folder. I compare his photo to Pascal’s. Despite the similarities in bronzed skin and sharp n
ose, it’s clear that Diego was blessed with better looks. Where Pascal’s eyes are watery and shy, Diego’s were seductive bourbon brown made even more arresting by thick black eyebrows and a teasing mop of naturally curly hair. The two men are definitely not brothers, but it’s easy to see they’re from the same gene pool.

  I return the folders and look out the window at the warehouse, wondering what table Diego worked at and how long he did Kingston’s bidding before deciding he couldn’t stomach it anymore.

  The floor creaks behind me.

  Damn.

  I raise my hands and slowly turn around, hoping the gun-happy guards won’t shoot.

  But it isn’t the guards.

  Before my eyes can focus on the lone figure, a stinging mist assaults my eyes and a leather boot slams between my legs.

  I crumple to my knees with eyes on fire and my tender parts not much happier. I lift my head to deliver a profane tongue lashing, but a sharp blow to my right temple ends it before I can begin.

  Everything goes black.

  _____

  When I open my eyes, I can barely move. Every muscle in my body has united and immediately declared a general strike. I can’t blame them; my mind isn’t far behind. Unfortunately, the strike needs to be busted and quickly:

  Wherever I am, it’s on fire and heavy smoke is already making it difficult to breathe.

  I try to move my hands; the bandaged left is useless, and the right barely budges. Panicking, I struggle harder and feel the coarse bite of a rope just above my elbows. I am tied to a thick wooden post that stretches to the rafters. Cursing, I attempt to stand and fail. My feet are bound together, making it difficult to find a purchase on the slick floor.

  The smoke is becoming too thick to see and my eyes still sting from whatever the bastard sprayed me with.

  Heavy footsteps walk past me, but all I can see is the tall silhouette of a faceless ghost. The footsteps vanish with the slamming of a steel door somewhere behind me. I twist my neck to peer after him only to find myself blinded by a flash and the eruption of a second fire.

  Tears abruptly fill my eyes and I am frightened. I have always imagined fire to be the worst way to die. I’ve even had nightmares about it.

  A new headline forms in my mind, but I force it away. Panic will kill me quicker than smoke. I need to think.

  Desperate, I twist my hip closer to my hands and use my fingers to claw at my pants, hoping against hope that my attacker only took my camera. Pain shoots up my arms and I feel the new stitches in my hand begin to rip again, but every time I think about giving up, a burst of fire erupts somewhere in the warehouse for added inspiration.

  My lungs burn from the smoke and sweat pours from my body. I use the sweat and the fresh blood from my hand to grease the ropes and slide my fingers deeper into my pocket. Finally, I touch metal, and with one last agonizing push I feel my pinkie grab on to the tiny loop on the end of my pocketknife.

  With the knife in my hand, I have to concentrate to dig my thumbnail into the tiny notch on the large blade and ease it open while keeping a slippery grip on the knife’s handle. Once I get past the halfway mark, the rest is easy. With gritted teeth, I saw at the ropes around my wrists, feeling the sharp blade slice through the dry hemp with relative ease.

  As soon as I’m free, I lie flat on the ground and press my lips to a crack in the floor, gulping in mouthfuls of salty air. With a clear head, I scan the warehouse to find I’m standing on an island of rotten wood, surrounded by an ocean of hungry flame.

  Panic sets in once more as I see no option for escape.

  The fire draws closer, sucking in the last of the oxygen and growing so hot that even the damp wood can’t resist its all-consuming hunger.

  Around me wood splinters and cracks as the warehouse consumes itself. Trapped on my diminishing island, I study the fire, attempting to interpret the raging colors before me.

  Finally, I don’t have a choice. I pick a direction where I hope the floor is weakest and tense my legs. The muscle strike has been silenced by the stupidity of the host. Even the pain has retreated into a locked room.

  To my own surprise, I hear myself utter a prayer before standing up tall and running straight into the inferno.

  I want to yell and scream and curse Kingston’s name as I leap as high and as far as I can, but I can’t bear to give up my last breath until I know there is only death ahead.

  Flames lick around me, setting fire to my clothing. I am blind and alight as I fall back to earth.

  I land hard, crashing into the gates of hell without a key, feeling my flesh sizzle as I scream.

  A sharp crack drowns me out as the wooden slats snap under my weight, dropping me into the bitter cold depths of the sea.

  Thirty-three

  I shiver on the rocky shore; crusty shreds of clothing are seared onto my burnt skin. I don’t want to open my eyes. I’m frightened that if I look I’ll discover that I haven’t survived the fire. At the same time, I’m scared that I have survived, but at a cost to my flesh that I won’t be able to bear.

  Eventually, as waves crash against my legs and my bloodied hands go numb from clinging to the rocks, I dare to look up.

  Above me is a starless sky, undulating with reflected light. Beside me, two warehouses over, a fire roars out of control, searing light and smoke climbing into the abyss.

  I look at my body, ghostly white from the cold, fresh scars of pink and black from burns, cuts, and bruises. I touch my face, tender but whole apart from burnt eyebrows and lashes.

  I want to laugh. I am alive and freezing my ass off in Frisco Bay.

  Fighting off shock, I drag myself from the water, across the jagged rocks to collapse on dry gravel. A spew of dust slowly settles in my hundred bleeding cuts. At least I’m still breathing, and the ground is warmer than the icy waves that saved me from certain cremation.

  I don’t know how long I lie there before pulling myself to my feet and hobbling back to the docks.

  The two security guards stand in front of the burning warehouse, guns drawn, mouths agape. They turn toward me as I approach.

  “Bitch of a night, huh?” I say.

  Their bloodshot eyes roam my body, taking in my wet and badly burnt clothing but not knowing what to do with the information.

  “Somebody was probably shooting at rats and punctured a gas tank or something,” I suggest.

  Their eyes grow wider, and in the distance I hear the howl of approaching sirens.

  “I would holster the guns, boys,” I continue. “Before the pros mistake you for vermin.”

  Both guards gulp and immediately holster their guns.

  “I need to get into some dry clothes,” I say and continue walking.

  Neither guard attempts to stop me.

  At the Bug, I reach under the back bumper for the spare key (I’d tucked the original in the pocket of my camera case) and climb inside. The engine sputters to life and the heater groans.

  A shadow moves behind my shoulder and I flinch in fright.

  “You OK?” asks a childlike voice.

  I look into Aurora’s mixed-up eyes and everything comes rushing up to the surface at once. I begin to weep.

  She opens the car door and reaches in to hug me.

  “It’s OK,” she says. “You’re OK.”

  Snot bubbles leak from my nose, but I no longer care.

  I begin to blubber. “W–w–who did you tell about the warehouse?”

  “No one, I swear. I just called a few people to ask where it was. I left a message for Diego’s cousin to call me back, ’cause I knew he worked there, but I don’t think I said why I wanted the information. You think that fire is because of me?”

  “No,” I sniffle. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t careful enough.” I laugh hoarsely. “Frank is gonna be pi
ssed.”

  “Frank?” asks Aurora.

  “Just a friend.” I wipe my nose on my sleeve. “An overprotective friend.”

  “Oh.” Aurora pats my hand. “You want me to drive you home? I know stick.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll be OK. You’ll want to make sure the fire doesn’t reach your studio.”

  “You sure?” Aurora’s voice is filled with genuine concern.

  I nod, grab a box of tissues off the back seat, and blow my nose. Aurora steps back and I close the door.

  Driving away from the docks, I wonder if whoever left me in the warehouse believes I’m dead. If so, he’ll no longer be hunting. So the last thing he could imagine would be to find his throat in my hands, his feet kicking helplessly as I squeeze and squeeze.

  This time, I tell myself, I’ll have the upper hand.

  Thirty-four

  I wake up in my own bed when a startled gasp filters into a dream to force open my crusty eyelids. I spy a slim silhouette and wonder if the dead ever dream they’re alive.

  “Dix, are you all right?” Kristy’s ashen face moves closer to my bloodshot eyes.

  I try to answer, but my chest spasms into a rough cough until I can taste smoke caking my lungs.

  “I’ll get Sam.”

  Kristy vanishes from sight.

  When the coughing stops, I try to sit up. Pain flares from every nerve, but the more I move, the duller it becomes. When I finally make it into a sitting position, I explore my flesh with rough, dry hands. I shudder as dried flakes of skin and scabs of burnt clothing crumble under my touch.

  Kristy returns with Sam and together they help me into the bathroom. They lay me gently in the tub and fill it with lukewarm water.

  I’m not overly shy, but I won’t say that being naked in front of two fully clothed women is something I’m used to. All the same, the bath feels wonderful. Lying back in the tub, eyes closed against the pain, gentle hands scrub my skin clean of its dead and blackened debris.

  After emptying and filling the tub twice, I am pink and raw, wrapped in a warm robe and sitting in my favorite chair. A mug of strong coffee fits in one hand, a professionally wrapped bandage on the other, and an oatmeal chocolate-chip muffin on a plate in my lap. Even Bubbles seems happy to see me as she swims circles in her bowl.