Concrete Underground

by Moxie Mezcal

  "Anthony hit you?" I asked incredulously.

  "He heard that the police found me half-naked in your apartment, and then reacted exactly the way you'd expect him to," she explained as she led me into the living room.

  The room showed visible signs of a fight. The coffee table was tilted over with one missing leg, the couch was pushed out of place, and one of the bookcases had its shelves smashed, spilling out all the books onto the floor in front of it, as if someone had been thrown into it.

  I felt my cheeks grow flush as the anger swelled up inside me like a pressurized canister, ready to explode.

  "I am going to kill that son of a bitch," I raged.

  "Yeah, right," she scoffed. "What are you doing here, anyways?"

  I took a deep breath, trying to refocus my thoughts. "Is Columbine around?"

  She shook her head. "I haven't seen her today. In fact, I haven't heard from her since she asked me to pick you up last night. Why?"

  I cursed under my breath. "She's in danger. Can you think of anywhere else she might be?"

  "She could be with Max."

  I didn't want to admit it, but she was right; Max was logically the next person to check with. But that was assuming he'd answer my call.

  I found his number in my cell, then held it out to her and instructed, "Call from your land line."

  "Why don't you?"

  "If he sees my number, he won't pick up."

  Reluctantly, she took it and dialed the number on her living room phone. She put the call on speaker so I could hear.

  He answered after a couple rings, "Is it done?"

  "What?" Violet asked, confused.

  There was a pause. "Who is this?"

  "Violet. Is this Max?"

  "Ah, yes. Sorry, I saw the number and assumed you were Anthony."

  "Oh," she replied. "I was just calling to ask if you've seen Columbine recently."

  "Not since yesterday morning."

  "You don't happen to have any idea were she is, do you?"

  "Nope," Max said, trailing off into a brief silence before adding, "How did you get this number, by the way?"

  Violet looked at me with a questioning shrug. I tried to silently mouth hang up, but she didn't get it.

  "Hang up," I whispered as I mimed hanging up the phone.

  Max gave his best movie villain laugh, short staccato bursts of sadistic glee. "You better watch out, Violet – I think I just heard a ghost. Dear Anthony won't be too happy to find out his house is haunted."

  I reached out to grab the handset and slam it back down, cutting off the call.

  The blood had drained from Violet's face. "Well," she said softly, trying to maintain her composure. "I guess I should get out of here. Let me grab a few things, then we'll go look for Col."

  "Okay," I replied, not sure what else to say. She disappeared down the hallway, and I paced around awkwardly, still fuming. I started tidying things up, mostly because I didn't know what else to do with myself. I knelt beside the broken bookcase and as I organized the fallen books into stacks, I noticed several were not in English. One was a German Kafka hardcover, another was a thick Bible-sized paperback with a picture of Fyodor Dostoyevsky on the cover along with Cyrillic characters. There were a few others in some other Easter European language I didn't recognize.

  Violet returned shortly with a tattered old blue rolling luggage case that had the initials HGA stitched onto its face. She packed fast, I thought to myself. I wonder if she already had the case ready to go.

  She glanced down and saw one of the tomes in my hand, Kritik der reinen Vernunft.

  "Are all these yours? I mean, you speak Russian and German?"

  "Yes," she nodded. "I speak several languages. I've preferred to read the classics in their original tongue ever since university."

  "Where'd you go to school?"

  "Charles University in Prague," she replied. "Briefly. But that doesn't really seem important right now, shouldn't we be looking for Columbine? And you can explain what the hell's happening on the way."

  "Of course," I said. "I was just thinking, though, we should probably grab her things, too. I mean, we probably don't want to have to make a second trip here."

  Violet nodded in agreement, and the two of us went to Columbine's room.

  Her clothes were scattered haphazardly across the room along with a few other personal items, like toiletries, a make up case, a few magazines, and an MP3 player. After hunting around a little bit, I found a case in the closet, similar to Violet's but smaller.

  "I'm going to leave a note in case she comes back before we find her," she said, walking over the vanity.

  "It's a good thought," I said, "but if Anthony sees it he'll know where to find us."

  "No he won't," she replied and picked up a stray tube of lipstick, which she used to write on the mirror.

  I packed as much of Columbine's stuff as I could into the case and had just managed to force the zipper shut when Violet finished her note: Meet me where we buried the Queen – V.

  ---

  We spent the next couple hours checking all of Columbine's regular haunts for any sign of her – a steady stream of coffeehouses, vintage clothing stores, art galleries, public parks, and music stores. Violet drove while I explained about Max's blackmailers and the notes I had been receiving with hidden messages that seemed to indicate who would be the next person to die.

  "I'm assuming the notes are coming from the blackmailers. The first few seemed designed to draw me in deeper into the investigation of Patrick Cobb and Jacinda Ngo so that they could use me as a pawn to recover the information that Cobb stole from them. Of course, that plan backfired, and their last note was obviously intended to signal their displeasure.

  "Which all makes sense on the face of it, until you consider the hidden messages. Why would the blackmailers want me to know the identity of their next target?"

  Violet thought about this for a moment, furrowing her brow, then said, "You're assuming that the blackmailers know about the hidden messages, but what if there are two different people responsible for the different messages?"

  "I don't follow," I said.

  "Say there was one person, one of your blackmailers, who dictated the message to a second person who actually made and delivered them. They needed someone who could make the paper and do the printing by hand in case you went to the police, so they couldn't be traced. Now let's say this second person wasn't completely on board with the blackmailers' intentions and wanted to help you, so she devised a way to warn you about their next target without arousing their suspicion."

  "I hadn't considered that," I said meekly as my mouth hung open and my brain tried to process what she was telling me. "I suppose it would be fairly easy for this second person to accomplish, assuming she had a workshop set up with the necessary tools and materials."

  Violet nodded her head and conceded, "It wouldn't be that hard at all."

  "Of course," I added, "you would wonder why she wouldn't just reveal the blackmailers' identities to me, save me some hassle."

  Violet smiled and shrugged. "She probably doesn't know them, or else she would have. She probably only has one single point of contact with them, someone very close who trusted her with the task, and someone she's afraid of enough that she would take such pains to hide the help she's been giving you."

  "Like her husband?" I ventured.

  "Like her husband," she agreed.

  Eventually we exhausted the list of places we could think to look for Columbine.

  "Where to next?" I asked.

  "Well, there is one more place we could check. In a way it's the last place I'd expect to find her. But in another way, it should have been an obvious place to start."

  "Her father's house?"

  Violet nodded.

  ---

  We rang the bell at McPherson's twice, but there was no answer, so I tried the door and found it was unlocked. Inside, loud music echoed throughout the house – Bessie Smith's "A Good Man
Is Hard to Find".

  We followed the sound down one of the hallways and into McPherson's study, where we found the old man sitting slumped forward over his desk, his head twisted around so that it was facing up even though the rest of him was facing down.

  I moved closer to the desk, staring in morbid fascination at the way his neck bones poked out against his skin. The skin was pulled taught and creased around the protruding bone, looking pallid and plastic, almost synthetic. Then I noticed his left hand was clutching something. Kneeling down, I pried open his fingers and found Jacinda's ruby necklace engraved with the crown and globe sigil. I felt my skin crawl as a sense of déjà vu washed over me and filled me with the irrational conviction that there was a theaterful of people watching over my shoulder.

  Suddenly, the music stopped. I bounced back up and saw Violet standing next to the stereo with her finger on a button, looking at me apologetically.

  "We've got to get out of here," I said.

  "Shouldn't we call the police?"

  I shook my head. "The cops already suspect me of Lily's murder – probably Cobb and Jacinda, too. And I'm pretty sure they've got you pegged as an accomplice. If they find us here with a corpse, it'll be all over."

  We tried as best we could to leave everything the way we found it and wipe away any fingerprints. As we got back into the Volvo and Violet started the engine, she said, "So I guess the note was wrong. Columbine wasn't the next one to die after all."

  "No, the blackmailers didn't have anything to do with this," I replied. "Max was the one who ended up with the necklace, and I'm pretty sure this is what he was talking about when he asked you if 'it' was done."

  As we drove out through McPherson's front gate, I noticed the surveillance camera perched above it.

  "Where to next?" I asked.

  "San Hermes River Park."

  "Why there?"

  "Because that's where my note to Col said to meet us," she explained.

  ---

  Violet parked the Volvo in one of the lots near Millennial Bridge, and we began to trek down a particularly steep and uneven hiking trail. About halfway to the river bank, we realized that the trail wasn't actually a real trail, and we were in fact trying to navigate a shortcut through the undergrowth in the dark of night.

  I was the first one to bite it, sticking my foot into a gopher hole and face-planting into the ground. When I came back up, my face was encrusted with dead leaves and dirt. Seeing me covered in shit somehow cut through the tension of the rest of the evening, and Violet broke out into hysterical laughter. She laughed so hard, in fact, that she didn't notice the watermelon sized boulder in front of her, and she went down too.

  From that moment, we laughed the rest of the hike down, getting louder each time one of us stumbled or lost our footing. Coming down the last stretch, I wrapped my arm around her waist so we could lean against each other for support.

  That was how we were posed when the ground leveled out and we saw Columbine sitting on a large fallen tree branch at the river's edge, watching our approach.

  "Awesome. So what, you're just going to nail all of my friends, then?" she called out. "I can't wait 'til it's Anthony's turn."

  "What's she mean?" Violet asked.

  "He fucked Max," Columbine answered.

  Violet looked me over in amused surprise. "Of course he did."

  "Where have you been?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

  "Around," she shrugged.

  "Why weren't you answering my calls?"

  "I guess I was a little sore," she said, her eyes downcast. "I tried calling you last night, and I think your pocket answered. I kept asking if you were there, but you never said anything. Then I heard a woman moaning in the background." She turned her gaze to Violet and added, "I guess I should have recognized the moans."

  Violet's face sunk with guilt.

  "Hey, check it out, it was still there," Columbine said abruptly, digging a small Russian doll out of her jacket pocket and showing it to Violet. It was painted like the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland and had bits of dirt still stuck to it.

  "Is there anything in it?" I asked.

  "There used to be a necklace. My mom left it for me when she passed. But I took it out a while ago."

  "Col," Violet said gingerly, "honey, your father's dead."

  Columbine looked down at the doll, turned it over in her hands a couple times, then said, "Good."

  * * *

  32. Just Another Game

  The three of us checked into a motel off of Highway 77 a few miles out of town to the south of Hastings Airfield. The place was a run down sinkhole called The Motley Fool, which I'm sure had something to do with Columbine picking it.

  I paid in cash and registered under a fake name. The clerk was a small Vietnamese woman who spoke in broken English and sat behind a window of bullet-proof glass; she didn't seem too eager to ask questions.

  On the way over I had explained to Columbine about the notes and her possibly being targeted by the blackmailers. Once we settled into the room, I came up with some precautions we should take until we could be sure Columbine was safe.

  "Leave the room as little as possible and stay close by. There's a gas station with a convenience store just across the street, and that should be as far as you'll need to go. If you absolutely have to travel, take public transit or cabs, and try to transfer a few times, make sure you aren't followed. Don't go anywhere you might be recognized."

  "I could put together a disguise," Columbine offered. "Maybe a long black wig and a Russian accent – oh, and patch on my eye."

  She cupped a hand over her right eye playfully, and I wondered whether this was just some weird coping mechanism or if the whole situation really was some kind of game to her.

  "You probably shouldn't call anyone either – from the hotel phone or your cell," I continued. "Tomorrow I'll take the car into town and leave it parked at my place. It's not safe to leave it sitting out in front here. In the meantime, Violet should stay here in case anything happens. One of us should be with Columbine at all times."

  "What about my job?" Violet jumped in.

  "Look, it's up to you, but if Anthony's looking for you, that'll be the first place he checks. And if Max told him that I was at your house – and I'm sure he has..." I trailed off, feeling like I didn't really need to finish the thought.

  Violet shook her head. "This is so surreal. I mean, are we really dealing with a matter of life or death here? It's hard to believe this is actually happening, it feels like at any second I'm going to wake up and realize this is all a dream."

  ---

  None of us felt like going to sleep that night. I gave it my best shot, but couldn't manage to nod off despite my total exhaustion – both mental and physical.

  Columbine spent the night laying on one of the twin beds watching late night TV. Violet sat up on the other bed, reading a dog-eared pulp detective paperback. I, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the floor with my notebook, hoping that in reviewing the information I'd gathered, some kind of clue or explanation would emerge.

  After chasing my own tail this way for an hour, I decided to take a break. I went out onto the catwalk outside our room and chain smoked while leaning over the guardrail. Somewhere in the middle of my third cigarette, Violet came out to join me.

  "Are you okay?" she asked as she hopped up to perch herself on the guardrail.

  "Yeah, I'm just trying to clear my head a little, get some perspective."

  She took out one of her cloves, and I reached up to light it for her. "What's your plan for tomorrow once you get back into town?"

  "Good question. I'll let you know when I figure it out," I replied with a shrug. "I mean, obviously I've got to find the blackmailers and, I dunno, somehow stop them from hurting Columbine. I guess turning them over to Max would do the trick, but I'd need a lot of hard evidence for that to work. My credibility with him is kind of low right now.

  "As far as I know there are thr
ee of them left. One was the guy who attacked me the other night at the party; unfortunately, he's worn a mask every time I've run into him. The second is an older man with a ruddy face and a scar on his cheek who drives a blue 1950's Chevy. I've actually seen him, at least, but I still don't have a name. So that leaves Anthony, who I know is connected to all this, but without any proof Max will definitely take his word over mine. I suppose I could go first thing in the morning and try to beat a confession out of him."

  I followed that up with a self-deprecatory laugh, but Violet still furrowed her brow with worry. "I know you're joking, but promise me you'll stay away from him. He'd kill you."

  I was of course joking, but all the same my pride bristled to hear her undermine my masculinity with such certainty. Which, in turn, made me realize I might not have been joking entirely. An image popped into my head of myself emptying a gun into a bloodied and beaten Saint Anthony.

  Violet shivered as she exhaled smoke, then pulled her coat closed tighter. "This is so surreal, hiding out like this. I guess it's just hard to wrap my head around. Why would these people want to hurt Col, anyways?"

  I shrugged, "Their note implied that they saw her as a way to get revenge against me. But now I'm not so sure that's the whole story."

  "What do you mean?"

  I nodded. "After I thought about it some more, I realized there are more obvious targets if they're just trying to get back at me – like my sister for one. So then I took myself out of the equation and asked what would be the primary motive driving the blackmailers now that their plan has gone down the tubes? Obviously, the most important thing would be to stay hidden, especially from Max. With that in mind, the only reason it would be worth the risk of resurfacing to kill someone is if they thought that person could identify them to Max."

  "Are you saying Columbine knows who they are?"

  "I don't think so," I said as I stubbed out my cigarette. "But they might think she does. You see, there's a good chance that her father was mixed up with them."