Frankenstorm

by Ray Garton

  Corcoran always became clumsy when he was nervous and afraid, and he nearly dropped the phone three times before getting it back in his pocket. He pushed the chair back, leaned down, and started opening Fara’s drawers. He knew she smoked, she had to have cigarettes around here somewhere. The craving for a smoke was suddenly pawing at Corcoran’s throat. He found an unopened pack of Pall Malls in the bottom drawer on the left and began digging at the plastic wrap on the box. When he couldn’t peel it off, he clawed at it with his fingernails, tearing it off the box. He opened the box, pulled out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. He hadn’t smoked cigarettes in a long time, but he always carried a lighter in his pocket. He lit the cigarette with a trembling hand, sucked the smoke into his lungs, and went into a fit of hacking coughs. He looked around for an ashtray and snuffed the cigarette out in the potted plant on the end table by the couch.

  What he needed was a joint. But he didn’t have one. Everything was in his quarters. He was freezing his ass off in scrubs and his coat was in his quarters. He didn’t want to go back there. Even his car keys were there. But should he feel the need to make a quick exit, he always kept a spare key in a small magnetized box under the left rear fender in case he found himself without access to his keys.

  He paced the office in the candlelight and wondered if he could drive through the storm. Even if he could, where would he go? He lived there at Springmeier. He had no friends in the area, he knew no one because he hadn’t wanted to know anyone. It was a rural area filled with pot farmers, potheads, artists, and nut jobs waiting for Armageddon. The only locals who interested him were the college students, of course. He’d spoken at the university a couple of times and managed to lure a couple of them back to Springmeier for a tour of the facility. Not a real tour, of course, but something that would pass for a tour. Then an offer of Dr. Corcoran’s magic dust, and like the horses in the Kentucky Derby, they were off.

  Those days were over. This whole project was over. And now Vendon Labs was sending a team to clean up. That was the fat lady singing. That meant things were really over. For some people, anyway. But this time, Corcoran was certain he was one of them.

  The possibility had never entered his head. He’d always known he was safe because he was too valuable. If that was no longer the case, then this project wasn’t the only thing that was over. His whole world was over, because that had been the only thing in his whole life that he could rely on. That value had been his security.

  Now it didn’t come to him as a possibility, but as a certainty, because they were talking retirement. Not censure, not suspension, none of the disciplinary measures, no, they leaped way over all that in a single bound and went straight to retirement.

  They were not going to give him a gold watch or a box of Cuban cigars.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” he muttered as he paced. “Now. Go now, take my chances with the storm . . .”

  But having no destination in mind made him pull away from the idea. He had never done anything unless he had a destination or a goal in mind, an outcome, a place to go, something . Without that, he wouldn’t know what he was doing.

  Maybe the problem was that he’d always known what he was doing. He’d always tried to control his environment so everything worked out the way he wanted. He was able to do that in a lab, but doing it in real life was a different proposition altogether. That did not, however, keep him from trying. Maybe it was time to simply jump into the abyss and leave here with nowhere to go, no living family, no real friends.

  Corcoran’s mother and father had been great scientists who, among other accomplishments, had helped found DeCamp Pharmaceuticals. Corcoran had grown up knowing that he would become a great scientist who would do great things for the world, but he would do it through DeCamp.

  As a boy, he’d sailed through school, leaving everyone else in his dust, and had degrees before most boys his age had kissed a girl. Everything he had done, every decision he’d made had a specific goal. He reached that goal significantly sooner than the average scientist, and before long he was doing work that other scientists more seasoned than he would dismiss as something from the plot of a comic book, government-funded work that was usually of secret variety, with an appropriate cover story. Great work that no one outside of those projects would know he’d done. With no one watching, there were no rules.

  He had always been brilliant, always been lauded and respected and awarded special treatment because he was such a genius. If all of that was over, then his life was over.

  He stopped pacing. Don’t be crazy, he thought. They’re not going to ruin your life. They’re going to kill you. This has nothing to do with whether or not I have anything to live for. The question is do I want to live?

  He decided he did.

  He went to Fara’s small closet and searched for a coat he could wear. The only one that was acceptable was a shapeless blob of black corduroy with a fuzzy wool collar and cuffs. He put it on, went to the door and slowly, cautiously pulled it open to see what he could see in the corridor outside.

  He heard activity in the direction of the intersection with the main corridor and he could see the bright little spots of light that were the headlamps worn by Ollie’s men. Without a light, Corcoran hoped he could blend into the darkness enough to get by them. He stayed close to the wall as he neared the intersection, then hugged it as he rounded the corner. Ollie was talking to his men and all their attention—as well as their headlamps—was on him.

  Corcoran couldn’t see the double doors that opened onto a foyer, which in turn opened onto the parking lot behind the building, but he knew they were down there at the end of the corridor, only twenty yards away.

  No slowing down, no stopping to think. He heard sounds in the darkness around him, things blowing and rattling over the floor, voices in the other direction, but he kept moving forward as quickly as possible without running, hoping there was nothing directly in front of him in the dark, hoping he could cross the span of darkness without interruption, without encountering anyone, without being noticed, and as he hoped those things, he closed the distance and then—

  —he was there.

  He pushed into the foyer to find one of the double doors to the parking lot blown all the way open against the wall. He leaned into the wind as he stepped through the open doorway and out into the storm.

  The wind threatened to knock him over and the rain soaked his coat quickly as he slowly made his way to his parking spot, fighting the relentless force of the wind.

  His attention was caught by a pair of headlights below flashing red and blue lights just beyond the gate. A police car. After a moment, he realized it had slammed into the guardhouse.

  Two figures were approaching the police cruiser. Once they were close enough to be illuminated by the car’s lights, Corcoran recognized the figures as his test subjects. Former test subjects, anyway.

  Oh, Jesus Christ, they’ve gotten out, he thought. But he instantly forgot about them when his eyes fell on an empty parking space.

  His Jeep was gone.

  “Motherfuck!” he shouted, but it was swallowed up by the storm and even he couldn’t hear it.

  40

  The police are here, Latrice thought as she stood in the kitchen, and you’ve got blood all over you. Get your shit together, girl.

  She left the kitchen, but instead of entering the living room, she went down the hall and found the bathroom. She closed the door and locked it.

  The bathroom was a spacious mess. The clothes hamper was full and more dirty clothes were piled on the floor beside it. An unflushed turd lounged at the bottom of the toilet bowl and towels were everywhere—on the counter, the back of the toilet, the side of the bathtub—except hanging on towel racks.

  Latrice inspected herself in the mirror. She was wearing a navy blue sweater and grey slacks. The sleeves of her sweater had been pushed up to her elbows and her right hand and forearm were covered with blood. There was some on her left hand, too,
and it was spattered on her face. There were a few speckles of it on the front of her sweater, but somehow, she’d managed to avoid getting her clothes bloody.

  She turned on the faucet and let the water get warm, then she grabbed a bottle of liquid soap and lathered up her hands. She scrubbed her forearms and washed her face, found a towel that appeared relatively clean, and dried off. Then she dabbed the spatters of blood from her sweater with some tissue until it was no longer visible.

  She’d been watching CSI long enough to know they’d be able to find enough blood on her to send her away for good. But she didn’t plan to stick around long enough for that to happen.

  She leaned on the edge of the sink, looked at her reflection, and took some deep breaths. Then she lifted her right hand and rubbed her eyes with thumb and fingers. A headache was creeping in like a morning fog, gathering behind her eyes. She was beginning to feel achy, probably because every muscle in her body had been so tense for so long.

  Turning to the door, she listened for a moment. The storm still raged outside, worse than ever, a nonstop rumble accompanied by loud rattles and clashes. She heard nothing happening inside the house, though—no shouting, no shooting. She took another deep breath, then opened the door and stepped out.

  It remained quiet in the house as she made her way down the hall. It seemed even the television had been silenced. She entered the living room without making a sound, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed.

  Marcus had come back into the house and was frantically cleaning the guns, drugs, and paraphernalia off the coffee table, moving fast as he swept everything into a plastic garbage bag. He wore a dripping raincoat.

  Jada was finally awake and sitting up on the love seat, rubbing her eyes with both hands and looking groggy. She lowered her hands and lifted her head and her puffy eyes went directly to Latrice, widening a little.

  Giff was at the front door, looking out the peephole. The left sleeve of his sweatshirt had been removed and his arm had been bandaged. A younger man with short, black hair and mocha skin stood beside him, leaning close and talking quietly. Beside him stood a young woman in a long, dark coat. Her auburn hair was short and spiky and Latrice could see part of a tattoo on the right side of her neck. She looked apprehensive as she ran a hand through her hair. Standing several feet away, fidgeting and smoking nervously, was Tojo.

  The tattooed woman turned slightly, spotted Latrice, and turned fully toward her. Her skin was pale and she had piercings in her face. She took off her coat to reveal a blue sweatshirt and green sweatpants.

  “Who’re you?” she said.

  Giff pulled away from the peephole and turned around. “Oh, that’s Latrice, she’s a . . . guest.” Striding toward Latrice, he frowned and said, “There’s a sheriff ’s deputy outside and it looks like he’s coming in, but I don’t know why. And it looks like he’s got some guy and a little boy with him. You know anything about this?”

  Latrice assumed it would be unwise to admit that she was the one who’d called the police. Now she wished she hadn’t. She should have just gotten the hell out of there while she could, gotten back into her car and driven into the storm. She slowly turned her head back and forth in response to Giff’s question.

  The headache had gotten worse and was making her ears ring, and her shoulders, arms, and legs ached. She had a sinking feeling she was getting sick. At the worst possible time.

  “Well, far as I know, he’s got nothing on us,” Giff said. He turned around to find that the man and woman were now standing right behind him. “You think he followed Hank? Maybe that’s it. He was chasin’ Hank. Y’think?”

  The man nodded. “It’s possible.”

  “Giff, I think you should sit down,” the young woman said. “You’re sweatin’ like a pig. Shaking, too.”

  “I’m gonna be okay, Mia,” Giff said. “The bullet went straight through, it’s just a flesh wound.”

  “But you look like shit.”

  “Leave him alone, Mia,” the man said.

  “Well, look at him, Miguel, he looks like he’s gonna pass out, or something!” She lifted her hand to Giff’s face and placed her palm over his forehead, then his cheek. “Jesus, you’ve got a fever.” She shook her hand a few times, saying, “And you’re soaking wet.”

  “I’m not feeling so good, you wanna know the truth, but I think maybe I’m just getting a flu bug, or something. I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Shit, this is bad, ’cause the cop’s gonna want to see Hank. Goddammit, we don’t have time to clean up that mess in the kitchen and hide the bodies.”

  “Bodies?” Mia said. “The fuck’s goin’ on here, you didn’t say nothin’ about no bodies in the kitchen.”

  “He’s gonna see Jimmy out in the front yard, anyway,” Miguel said. “He’ll know something’s up.”

  “What the hell are we talking about?” the woman said. “He’s going to see that!” She pointed at the bloody bandage on Giff’s arm. “You gonna tell him you cut yourself shaving?”

  “Fuck.” Giff turned to her. “Oh, uh, Latrice, this is Miguel and Mia. They live in one of the trailers out front. Guys, this is Latrice.” He turned to Mia and said, “Go to my room. Dresser drawer, second from the top, grab me a sweatshirt. Hurry.”

  Mia ran from the room.

  They all jumped at the loud pounding on the door.

  “Sheriff’s department!” a voice shouted just outside the door.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Giff hissed.

  “You okay, Giff?” Miguel said. “You do look pretty bad. You got sweat dripping down your face.”

  He wiped a hand down his glistening face. “Yeah, I’m not feelin’ so good.”

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  Giff shook his head. “I don’t have time to worry about it now.”

  Mia returned with a sweatshirt. She helped Giff remove the sweatshirt he was wearing, with its missing sleeve, and then helped him put on the one she’d brought. It was clean and had both sleeves and concealed Giff’s bandage well.

  “What do you want to do?” Miguel said.

  More pounding on the door.

  “Sheriff’s department, open up!”

  Giff clenched his teeth and growled through them, “Son of a bitch.” His forehead cut with deep frown lines, he frantically looked around the room, as if the solution might be right in front of him. “Okay, okay. Mia, go to the bedroom and get the kids. Bring ’em out here and put ’em in front of the TV. Turn on cartoons, or something. Do it now.”

  Mia looked uncertain. She’d had a slightly sickened look on her face ever since she’d learned there were dead people in the kitchen.

  “I don’t know, Giff,” she said, talking fast, “if you got bodies in the kitchen, are you sure you want me to bring the kids—”

  “Do it!” Miguel snapped.

  She hurried out of the room.

  Giff said, “Tojo, go sit on the couch and read your fuckin’ book.”

  Tojo quickly did as he was told.

  He turned to Marcus, who stood nearby in his wet raincoat with the garbage bag full of contraband on the floor by his feet. “Marcus, you know where to put that. But take off that raincoat first.”

  There was more pounding on the door as Mia hurried two young boys into the living room and sat them on the couch, then turned on the TV. Once there were animated spaceships on the screen, Mia sat down on the couch with the boys.

  “Latrice,” Giff said. “Sit down and watch TV.”

  She crossed the room and sat down in the recliner. The package she’d delivered, which she’d last seen on the floor beside the recliner, was nowhere in sight. It felt good to sit. She was aching all over and she was beginning to feel cold. Feverish. Sick. She wished she were at home on her couch, legs tucked up, her elbow propped on a couple of pillows, safe and warm and well, the kids playing in the front yard, their laughter drifting in through the screen door while Latrice laughed with Mama at Ellen DeGeneres.

  Giff whispered, “Everybody just try
to follow my lead. Whatever the hell that is.” He turned with a sigh, his face wet with perspiration, eyes heavy-lidded with sudden weariness, and went to the front door. He leaned against it as he opened it so it wouldn’t be slammed in by the powerful wind. The sounds of the storm rushed into the house.

  Latrice heard voices but couldn’t understand their words. The door was closed a moment later and the house became a little quieter. She leaned forward slightly in the chair and turned toward the entrance, trying not to be too obvious.

  “Hey, Giff!” a cheerful, booming voice said. “It’s been a while. How you doing?”

  Giff backed slowly into the living room with his left hand on his hip and the other scratching the top of his head.

  “Hey, deputy . . . is it von Pohle?” he said.

  “Right the first time!”

  “Yeah, it has been a while.” There was a smile on his face, but his voice was chilly and nervous.

  The deputy came into the living room with a kind of strut, like a rooster. His big leather belt crackled softly under the pressure of his belly as he walked. A few steps behind him were a man and a young boy, both of whom looked very uncomfortable, even apologetic. All three of them were quite wet from the rain. The deputy wore a menacing grin as he watched Giff closely with cold eyes. He took off his plastic-wrapped cap and dropped it into a chair.

  “Far as I know,” Giff said, “I haven’t got any warrants. Neither does anybody else here.”

  “That’s not why I’m here. No. Somebody called.”

  “Called you? From here?” He chuckled. “No, I don’t think so.” He turned to the others in the living room and said, “Anybody been doin’ any butt-dialing?” He laughed.

  “No, it wasn’t butt-dialing,” the deputy said. “Somebody called about a shooting and some crazy old man? And you know, I couldn’t help noticing you got an SUV out there that’s slammed into the corner of your house and what looks like a dead man on the ground, shot right in the head. Did that have anything to do with the old man?”

  “I don’t know what that was. That happened about, uh”—he turned to the others—“when did that car crash into the house? Half hour ago? Forty-five minutes?”