Chapter Two – Mystification
New York City | August 27, 2011 | 9:22 am, Eastern Daylight Time
New Yorkers, generally speaking, are antisocial.
In a bustling metropolis populated by over eighteen million people, they have endless opportunities throughout their day for personal interaction. But the average New Yorker spends most of their time aggressively avoiding human contact; they’ll read a newspaper, bury their face in a laptop, incessantly check their smart phone, and look for any possible distraction to avoid a connection with the world around them.
If it doesn’t affect them directly, people in this city simply don’t want to know about it.
But despite their nature, even the most jaded urbanite couldn’t ignore a catastrophe of this magnitude. At 8:51 am on August 26, 2011, a fifty-storey building in the north end of Manhattan exploded like an overfilled water balloon.
Millions of gallons of water and fifty thousand tons of brick slammed into the surrounding streets, causing a series of tidal waves that washed away virtually everything within a one-mile radius. Tourists and locals alike emerged from every balcony, window and rooftop, filming the disaster and taking thousands of pictures. Within minutes the entire world was watching the real-life equivalent of a big-budget disaster movie unfold in the heart of The Big Apple; a city that was widely considered to be the safest within the New World Council.
Just hours after the explosion, the Mayor of New York, the charismatic and controversial James J. Kerrigan, came to the site of the disaster and announced that this was no accident: it was an act of terrorism. He stated that the man responsible – a mysterious radical known only as Govinda – had recruited two local girls to assist with the attack.
Paige and Dia Davenport.
True to form, this was a lie.
Kerrigan had enlisted Govinda and his group of bounty hunters, known as ‘Collectors’, to track down and capture Paige and Dia – but like many politicians, he was never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story. And if there was anything J.J. Kerrigan excelled at, it was storytelling.
It took him less than fifteen minutes in front of a camera to convince the majority of Americans that they were no longer safe in their own homes, and that drastic measures were required to change policies both domestically and abroad. According to a poll taken online just minutes after his speech, fifty-seven percent of Americans were in favor of abolishing the New World Council altogether; the same council that was responsible for averting a number of global catastrophes just five years earlier.
Now that the media vans and circling helicopters have left the area, crime scene detectives are called in to investigate and gather evidence. Kerrigan had specifically requested that no bodies were to be recovered from the disaster site until after his speech was finished, and that they were to be left hidden beneath the rubble and debris. An urban warzone littered with dead police officers isn’t exactly the best way to generate positive PR, especially since he inferred that the team had successfully escaped the building prior to its collapse.
Besides the bodies that were unaccounted for, Kerrigan’s work was not yet finished when it came to the cover-up: three helicopters that Paige had destroyed using her ability to manipulate metal were still in the streets, twisted and compressed like discarded tin foil wrappers. But that would have to wait until he had some more answers.
In the midst of the disaster site, Detective Sean Molloy leans away from a gust of wind, using his hand to shield the flame of his lighter as it flickers at the end of long Cuban cigar. Without a uniform he could be mistaken for just another curious onlooker; dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket, he looked like any other man in his mid-fifties that might be observing the crime scene, hoping to catch a glimpse of a disaster victim. But unlike the casual observers, Molloy has a presence that is unmistakable. He rarely speaks about anything that isn’t work-related, and on a good day, he doesn’t actually converse with the members of his team at all. He doesn’t need to; it only takes a stern glance for them to know exactly what needs to be accomplished. It’s like a form of telepathy – he just glares, and things get done.
William Johansen, a rookie detective with less than two years of experience, had just transferred from Oklahoma City. He’s unfamiliar with Molloy’s proclivity for glare-based instructions, and he responds to one of his ‘orders’ with a friendly wave.
Molloy scowls before removing the Cuban from his mouth. He’s going to have to resort to an actual conversation, which always puts him in a foul mood. “Johansen, get over here…now.” He raises his hand in the air and snaps his fingers twice, as if he’s beckoning a golden retriever to obediently race to his side.
“Sir, yes sir,” Johansen responds cheerfully, jogging across a pile of broken glass and scattered rubble. He’s not oblivious to the condescension, but after seven straight months without a single call, he’s just happy to be out from behind a desk.
“This isn’t the military,” says Molloy. “You don’t need to call me sir.”
“Yes sir. I mean, Detective Molloy.”
“What have you got?”
“Got?” asks Johansen as he squints slightly, using his hand to shelter his eyes from the bright morning sunlight.
“What did you find out about the portal?” says Molloy, biting off his words.
“Oh, right. Well not much, really. We have video from one of the SWAT guy’s helmet cams, and we saw her – Dia I mean – tear it open with her bare hand. It was totally wild; one slash and kerpow! It was like a waterfall in the middle of her apartment. Very cool stuff.”
Molloy removes his sunglasses and places them into his jacket pocket. “Yes, I read the summary of her little magic trick on the way over here; compelling stuff. Someone should write a damn book about it. I want you to tell me something that I don’t already know.”
“Well,” says Johansen, motioning to a nearby gurney covered with a white sheet, “we’ve recovered the man known as Govinda, and his body is being returned to HQ right now for testing. It looks like he was shot with a cannonball.”
“A what?”
“A cannonball; something the size of a grapefruit went right through him. It definitely wasn’t from a bullet or any type of firearm, but there are inconsistencies.”
“Such as?”
“Well, his spinal column is gone.”
Molloy tosses his Cuban aside. He knows that this conversation – which has already been far too long for his liking – is about to get even longer. “Gone, as in it was damaged so badly that it looked like it was gone?”
“No, missing as in we can’t find it.”
Molloy shoots him a dry look.
“And…” Johansen reaches into his side pocket and retrieves a series of crime scene photos, fanning them out in front of Molloy, “we also recovered this giant guy who’s dressed like a Hawaiian tourist. He drowned during the flood, and he was duct taped to a chair. I’m thinking he was a hostage. Maybe he was one of the Collectors, working for Govinda like those two girls?”
“Start the testing. I want a full work-up on him, Govinda, and every single person who came in contact with these freaks. Until we understand what they’re capable of, and how they pulled off this explosion, I want everything documented on this crime scene; from the broken bricks down to the last drop of water that came spilling out of this building.”
As Molloy continues his conversation with Johansen, forensic technician Nancy Gonzalez approaches, cautiously carrying a small vial of clear liquid. She holds the four-inch glass tube between her thumb and index finger, raising it until the sunlight reflects off the surface.
Molloy groans under his breath. His second conversation of the day is about to begin and it’s not even lunchtime. “You’re going to need a bigger container if you want to get some accurate samples of that water, Gonzalez.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” says Nancy, beaming with pride. “This – and the millions of gallons of liquid that came
flooding out of the portal – isn’t water.”
Molloy leans forward and stares sharply at the container, carefully studying the liquid inside. “So if it’s not water, then what the hell is it?”
“I have no idea,” says Nancy with an exuberant grin, staring into the glass vial as she swishes the liquid back and forth. “But I can’t wait to get back to the lab so I can find out.”
Chapter Three – Pejorist
Paris (7ème arrondissement) | August 28, 2011 | 11:43 am, Central European Time
Jens and Brodie sit on a green velvet couch in the living room, nearly buried up to their elbows in an endless sea of potato chip bags, empty beer cans and assorted candy bar wrappers. They’re facing the large flat-screen television mounted on the exposed brick wall, clacking away at their video game controllers for the fourteenth consecutive hour.
You’d think their thumbs would have gone numb at this point, but thankfully they’re both seasoned veterans.
The view from the bay window directly to their left is breathtaking, though neither of them has glanced at it since sunrise; a panoramic picture of central Paris, stretching as far north as Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre. The fluffy white clouds that float behind the Eiffel Tower give it a surreal quality, almost as if the window was not a window at all, but a giant postcard stretching from floor-to-ceiling.
Still concentrating intently on the screen, Brodie replies to Jens with confusion in his voice. “I have to tell you man, it sounds just a little screwed up.”
“So you’re saying that you’ve never gone to a trailer park to pick up girls?”
Brodie chuckles. “I grew up on Central Park West. I don’t even know what a trailer park looks like, bro. I’ve seen them in the movies and stuff, but never in real life.”
“Holy shit man, you’re missing out big time. Everyone is doing it now that it’s cool, but I was hitting the parks way back in the day, son – even before Tiger Woods was gettin’ his freak on.”
“Oh, you mean that basketball player who was banging all those porn stars?”
Jens drops his controller mid-game and turns to face Brodie. “Dude, have you ever watched ESPN in your life? Or been on the internet? He’s a golfer, man. And yeah, he was banging porn stars, but what people forget is that he was hitting it at the trailer park just as much. Do you know how many times he nailed some waitress in his mansion in Florida, threw her in a limo, and had her dropped off back at a trailer park?”
“Seriously, bro? Why?” Brodie pauses the game and deposits his controller into a pile of garbage at his feet, now interested to hear Jens’ explanation.
“Are you kidding me? It’s perfect. First of all, they’re living in a freakin’ trailer park, so you know their self-esteem is already super-low. Talk about daddy issues? Most of those girls don’t even know who their father is. And since they’re poor most of them can’t afford to eat so much, so a lot of them are pretty thin. Right out of the gate you’re three-for-three.”
Brodie twists the cap off of another beer and sits back, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Wow…you’re like a dating genius.”
“From there, all you have to do is make sure you find one with all her teeth, and touchdown – you’re home free. The teeth thing can be a challenge depending on which state you’re in – some of the southern ones can get kinda sketchy – but my luck has been pretty good so far.”
Engrossed in their conversation, Brodie and Jens fail to hear Cole stumble out of bed and race down the hallway, nearly losing his balance as he slides across the hardwood floor. “Guys, what’s going on? Where’s Dia?”
Brodie fishes his controller out of a bag of chips and dusts it off. “What’s going on is that I’m going to un-pause this game and deliver my eleventh straight Fatality to this chump.”
“Kiss my ass you are!” Jens shouts, jamming Brodie in the arm with the point of his elbow. “I’m gonna freeze you, and then rip your head off and shove it up your…”
“That’s great guys, really; but I need Dia. Do you know where I can find her?”
Brodie shrugs. “She’s out with Paige. They’re having coffee or lunch or something.”
“Lunch already?” says Cole with a hint of confusion as he gazes out the window, squinting at the clear blue sky.
“It’s almost noon, dude.”
“Shit.” Cole looks down at his wrist, momentarily forgetting that he’s currently wearing nothing but a pair of mismatched socks and white boxer shorts. His watch, he assumes, is somewhere on Dia’s bedroom floor, buried in a pile of his crumpled clothes.
“I know. She must have worn you out last night, bro.”
Cole raises an eyebrow.
“Come on, man,” says Brodie, resuming his game, “this place has thin walls.”
Jens re-focuses his attention on the television as well. “And when you hear Portishead playing and a wooden bed frame banging against the wall until 4am, it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure out what’s happening. No worries though, you didn’t keep us up; we didn’t sleep anyway.”
“You didn’t sleep?”
Brodie tosses Cole a small plastic bottle. “We didn’t need to. My newest creation: I call it ‘Nitro’. One pill and you can stay up for seventy-two hours. No sleep debt, no drowsiness. You’re just wide awake, fresh as a goddamned daisy.”
“Huh.” Cole pops open the cap and peers down at the nondescript yellow capsules inside. “No side effects?”
“I thought I saw the ghost of Abraham Lincoln lying in the bathtub around 9am, but that only lasted for about a minute. Aside from that it’s been smooth sailing, bro. Want a hit?”
“It’s tempting,” says Cole, waving his hand in front of him, “but no thank you. I really need to talk to Dia though. I think my friend Gary might be in danger.”
Jens drops his controller. “Gary from New York? Did you call to ask if he’s okay?”
Cole shakes his head. “I tried, but you know Gary. He’s not picking up at home, and he doesn’t have a cell. I have to go there and check on him.”
“What makes you think that he’s in danger?” Brodie asks before polishing off his fourth beer of the morning.
“You’re not going to believe me if I tell you…”
“Bullshit,” says Dia, absently stirring a sugar cube into her small white porcelain cup. “I don’t believe you.”
“No bullshit, sis, I assure you. Why do you think I brought you here?” Paige motions around to the empty rooftop terrace, where a dozen pristine table sets are beautifully arranged, each one shaded from the late morning sunlight by a large blue umbrella. “You didn’t think it was a little odd that I paid the owner of the café to clear the entire upper level for us? I couldn’t risk a sighting.”
“I know, but international news? Kerrigan showed our pictures to the entire world and called us terrorists?”
“Basically. He said we were working with Govinda and that we were ‘armed and dangerous’, and that people shouldn’t approach us. Plus he said a bunch of other crap about the New World Council needing to be disbanded, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have government agents all over our asses if we don’t lay low. Until this blows over we’re gonna have to keep things quieter than usual.”
“Damn,” says Dia, sitting back in her chair as she folds her arms. “I guess hitting a club later tonight is out of the question.”
“I think going anywhere is out of the question. We’re already taking a huge risk just coming out for a latté, but I know how cranky you get when you’re cooped up in the apartment for too long. I didn’t want you to freak out and start bouncing off the walls.”
“Well it’s not like we aren’t used to flying under the radar,” says Dia, taking a moment to blow the steam from her cup. “We might just have to hand out some additional cash to keep things quiet around here. So why didn’t you tell me about this as soon as it aired?”
“I was going to tell you last night but I didn’t want to ruin your evening. And you s
eemed a little…preoccupied.”
“Mmm.” Dia lowers here eyes and continues to stir, pouring some milk into her cup from a tiny silver container.
“So, what do you think about him?” asks Paige, flashing a devilish grin.
“Him who?”
“Oh please you big slut, the guy who slept in your bed last night. You know; tall, handsome, chiseled jaw line and arms like jackhammers?”
“Oh that guy,” says Dia with a coy smile before slowly bringing the cup to her lips.
“So?”
“So he’s awesome. Not just awesome – perfect. Perfectly, amazingly awesome. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a guy. I feel like I should go Google some better adjectives to describe him because I don’t even feel like ‘perfectly amazing’ does him justice.”
“I can feel a ‘but’ coming,” says Paige, firing a skeptical glare across the table. She knows Dia’s track record when it comes to relationships, and she’s painfully aware of what she’s about to say.
“But…I don’t know. He’s sweet and generous and sensitive too, but things just don’t work out with guys like this in the long-run.”
“Why can’t it? He’s totally into you. I could see it in his big puppy dog eyes the second he walked into our kitchen back in New York.”
“Well, maybe that’s the problem.”
Paige rolls her eyes. “A gorgeous, muscular, sensitive guy who’s would die to protect you; yeah, I can totally see your dilemma.”
“The problem is that he’s one of those guys – I can just tell. The type of guy that falls in love with every pretty girl that he rubs shoulders with. He’s not in love with me, Paige; he’s in love with being in love.”
“So what if he is? Be crazy for once, Dia. Give it a shot. You’ve never given any guy a fair shot. This might be the perfect time.”
“Yeah,” says Dia, laughing under her breath, “this is perfect timing. We’re fugitives on the run from the government, and at the moment we’re stuck in an apartment with my kid sister and two stoners. This isn’t a romantic getaway in Paris – this is a bad sitcom.”
Relapse (The Vs. Reality Series Book 2) Page 2