Aislen was awake.
∞
In the same moment, Raze felt the hard resistance of the trigger fighting against his index finger, the lever give up its useless battle and release, the hard tap of the hammer striking the firing pin which made contact with the primer, and the sizzle of the gunpowder igniting. He felt the click of the casing eject out the side port, the scrape of lead against steel as the bullet slid through the long flue, and the fever it created radiate off the barrel. He saw the fierce glister from the muzzle as the bullet made its escape and watched the suspended spin of the slug as it traveled its perfect trajectory.
In the same second, he saw her face, covered in ash, streaked with the tracks of her tears, her eyes clenched in anticipation. He watched them open wide when she felt the searing heat envelope which preceeded the approaching bullet; the intensity of their green, the sparks of gold alight within them, the calm, the acceptance, the complete tranquility, clear eyes that blazed right back at him.
All in one instant.
Time was irrelevant. Events could be experienced all at once, in an overlapping cacophony, or they could be separated, each aspect of an event removed like the yolk from an egg then pulled apart like a fresh piece of taffy and slowed down, down, down, to be savored.
As the bullet made contact with the peach-down surface of her forehead, her lips parted to take one, last breath and just as it should have pierced through her skull and absorbed into her brain, she dissolved into a swarm of static.
Raze lowered his weapon.
What the fuck just happened?
He would have believed she was just a figment of his imagination, if she hadn’t left evidence of her existence—the curves of her body imprinted in the ash. She had existed here and then she didn’t—and that was completely impossible.
The girl’s deresonation created an electrical disruption, touching off a chain reaction in the fabric of Demesne. One after another, the buildings of the city, the cars, the streets, even the two droids that filled out his squad of four, collapsed into pixelated bits and pieces.
Raze watched the pale of his construction evaporate into the ethers, and within seconds Demesne was gone and they were standing in the desolate desert of The Stratum.
Raze turned his attention to Blake who sat slouched behind him, his eyes glazed over in a half-trance. Raze snapped his fingers in front of the little pawn’s face. There was no light on.
That was just fucking great. He had completed only half the assignment, the assassination of Scott Parrish, but Protocol had required that Blake eliminate himself, as well.
Raze considered his options. He couldn’t kill Blake from this space and be assured that it was effective in 3D; and with the schema of Demesne deconstructed, he didn’t think he could initiate a command sequence that would reestablish enough control to get Blake to complete the assignment. That only left one choice.
Raze reached over, touched Blake in the center of his forehead with his index finger and initiated the option-lock command.
“Two sticks and a bucket.”
Blake’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he deresonated out of The Stratum.
“That should buy me a little time,” Raze said to himself. He needed to get back to the Third and confirm that a matching body—the dead body—of Scott Parrish, existed there. He closed his eyes, “Theta 5.”
The Womb, the pet name he called his office, responded to his command and slowly began shifting the climate from Delta Phase into Theta.
The lighting in Delta had been pitch. Not even the tiniest bit of light illuminated the room. This enhanced his pineal gland’s production of melatonin and serotonin. The thermostat was set to correspond perfectly to his body’s fluctuating thermal readings, confusing his skin’s ability to differentiate between itself and its surroundings. White noise transmitted a psychoacoustic curve perfect for Raze’s auditory perceptions—a sound that could not be named. It wasn’t the waves, or the rain, or even the wind, but it caressed his second sense in such a way to be all those things and silence at the same time. Controlling these environmental settings allowed Raze to achieve and maintain the Optimum Octave of Operation with a delta brain wave of 2 cycles per second.
As The Womb adjusted to Theta, light began to dawn, similar to the glow of a single candle; and the temperature of the room lowered by less than one degree. Raze slowly became aware of being back in the controlled confines of The Womb reclined in his zero-gravity chaise. He began to feel the hum of blood flowing through his body.
“Alpha 8.”
The Womb replied by increasing the lighting, shifting from white noise to soft jazz and lowering the thermostat another degree.
Although a part of his brain was anxious to get right to Beta and try to figure out what the hell just happened in Demesne, Raze knew he couldn’t just jump out of the chaise without reintegrating first. Plebes do that crap. Their alarm goes off every morning—they jump out of bed, shit, shower, shave and move right into the chaos of the highest Beta frequencies. And as a result, they live their lives in complete oblivion.
Raze had to fight that aspect within his lower nature. Reintegration was important. It allowed him to pull his experiences in the higher Octaves from the Delta Wave level of his brain and into his conscious Beta state. Cognizance is what separated the n00bs from the Masters.
“Alpha 14.”
The chaise lifted forward into an upright position, the lighting dawned into 60-watt full spectrum, a fan circulated the air around him, and Drowning Pool’s “Bodies” began blasting through the surround sound.
Raze was beyond vexed. What had happened was all kinds of wrong—a violation of protocol, a breach of The Stratum, an invasion of Demesne and the near failure of the Parrish Project. Demesne was the section of The Stratum that Raze created and controlled. Right now, only two people, besides Raze had access: Blake and Scott Parrish, all through Raze’s unique SurroundVision visors with their brainwave controllers. Even members of the Infiniti 8 did not have access to Raze’s section of The Stratum.
That girl—whoever, or whatever, she was—got through The Stratum and into his area, a breach on two levels. Raze was not one to be trespassed against. He was the trespasser in this world—he and he alone.
He was going to have to report to The 8 and get their buy in to take other measures in order to complete the Parrish Project. Then, he was going to hunt down that pretty little bitch.
Raze stood up from the chaise, straightened his tie, grabbed his suit jacket off the wall hook and walked out the door.
“Off.”
The Womb powered itself down.
CHAPTER 2
The call rang on the MDC, jolting Sergeant Mathis out of his blank reverie and almost out of his own skin. He hammered at the received button on the keyboard to make the damn thing stop singing, then pressed his thumb and forefinger into the inner corners of his eyes until he caught his breath and his blood pressure went down. It was a pressure point technique he used to keep himself from heaving the computer system into the street and running over it with his patrol car.
The IT department had tried to pick out a pleasant musical tone to alert officers when they were being dispatched to a call. Epic fail. Hearing the same obnoxious, ringy-dingy tune again and again, 12 hours a day, 4 days a week was enough to make you want to stick your Glock in your ear and blow your ear drums out. It was fucking annoying.
Once he had sufficiently timed himself out and was sure he wouldn’t physically abuse expensive department equipment, he gently pressed another key so he could read the call details.
911 Hang-Up: 508 Magnolia Ave. Male juvenile whispering “Two sticks and a bucket” repeatedly before disconnecting. No answer on callback.
Mathis checked his watch. 4 a.m. Are you fucking kidding me? This was supposed to be “nap time,” not “deal with fucking bullshit time.”
He reached for his Starbucks. Every Friday he held Briefing at the local ’Bucks, making the
officer with the fewest arrests for the week pay for the Watch’s order. That officer only got a reprieve if another officer came in late for his shift. And that officer only got off if another officer had been a complete idiot in some way or another during the workweek.
They all could pretty much count on it always being F’in G’s turn to buy. The rookie still hadn’t figured his way around the rodeo yet. If he wasn’t running late, he was too busy correcting his crap-ass reports to make any arrests, or he was making some other boneheaded mistake.
The ’Bucks buy tonight was earned the night before when F’in G decided to key up the radio to inform everyone that it had started raining in his part of town. Mathis had to school him on department policy about frivolous use of the radio and remind him he was a police officer, not the weatherman.
Mathis took a sip from his cup and sucked in a cold, gelatinous film of caffeinated smegma. His Grande, Quad Shot, Non-fat, Caramel Macchiato was now an Iced, Grande, Quad Shot, Non-fat, Caramel Macchiato with a head of slime. Spit or swallow were his only choices. With nowhere to spit the wad out, he forced it to the back of his throat and swallowed, praying he wouldn’t upchuck.
Mathis gouged his fingers into his eye sockets again.
The dispatcher keyed up the radio, breaking what should have been the blessed silence of a seasonably slow, winter morning.
“M27, with S21, respond to a 911 hang up detail at 508 Magnolia. Line disconnected. No answer on call back.” She repeated the basics of what was already written in the call, except now, she sounded pissed. Having to pick up her fat, left toe and push down on the radio pedal must have been too much for the ol’ gal because you could hear the I-already-lifted-my-index-finger-to-send-you-this-fucking-detail-and-now-you-are-making-me-break-from-eating-my-Hot-Pocket-to-talk-to-your-dumb-asses attitude in her tone of voice.
Fuckin’ dispatchers.
Obviously, the watch didn’t give a gnat’s ass about a punk-ass kid prank-calling 911 at zero-dark-thirty in the morning to break from their Angry Birds game and dispatch themselves to the damn call. So dispatch decided to send F’in G with a Sergeant for a cover.
Not. Fucking. Cool.
Briefing topic for next week: dispatch yourself to the fucking call so your sergeant doesn’t get sent with the rookie.
Mathis looked up the address on the MDC’s mapping system. 508 Magnolia Avenue. Nice neighborhood. Tree-lined streets of old Modesto, classic homes occupied by doctors, lawyers, and business owners with spoiled, punk-ass kids who think they are being cute calling the 5-0.
Well, he was sure getting ’em now. Once they heard S21 being dispatched as a cover, the whole watch hopped to. Mathis watched as all the little po-po cars in the city blipped across the map toward Magnolia. Second briefing topic: every single officer in town does not have to respond to a prank call detail...depleting resources...blah, blah, blah.
Mathis shut the laptop screen. Its fluorescent glow was hurting his eyes. At 52, he was getting too old for this. Admin had practically begged him two years ago to use up his sick time and go out to pasture so they could promote some ass-lickin’ golden boy up the ladder. But Mathis had outright refused. They couldn’t make him. This was the career that he built—he got to decide when it was time to walk away.
The brass finally left it alone. Although his no-holds-barred, shoot-from-the-hip style never earned him bars, Mathis was one of the very few leaders in the department that officers actually listened to and respected—the last of a dying breed.
Which was really what kept him from retiring. The dying part. Mathis had a very good gut feeling that if he stopped doing the second best thing that ever happened in his life, he’d either die of boredom or that the overwhelming grief that he’d been carrying around inside would finally do him in.
It wasn’t that he never dreamed of retirement. He had once. He had planned his whole career around 3 percent at 50; he maxed out his 401k, made investments and paid off his mortgage. He was going to sell his house when the real estate market was so ripe he would have pocketed four times the purchase price then immediately drive over to JZ’s and pay cash for the Dream Ride 50-footer with the master bedroom suite and oversized kitchenette. Then he was going to head out to fulfill his lifelong dream of seeing every state in the union with the best thing that ever happened in his life, Denise.
He was going to be the pilot, Denise, the navigator, just like she had always been, the navigator of his life, the magnetic north of his heart. When the cancer had eaten through to her lymph nodes before they ever knew it had already attacked her breasts, his well-thought-out path toward his Golden Years evaporated from under his feet.
She didn’t even have a chance. There was nothing high maintenance in her death, just as there had been nothing high maintenance about her life. She was ill a month, then gone. Nothing long and drawn out. A few kisses, a short goodbye; and just like that, Mathis was left without his compass, without his soul.
Mathis made a left onto Sycamore, then a right onto Magnolia. There were three units there already. No wait, four. Officer Simmons decided to break from his nightly Code 7 at his beat-wife’s house to show up at the call. Hell must have frozen over.
Mathis parked two houses to the east of the 508 address, noting that F’in G, was standing outside his vehicle, directly in front of the house, shucking it up with all the swagger of a douche bag. Piss poor officer safety, that’s what that was. Third briefing topic: even if it is a stupid, fucking call, do not park in front of the incident address...blah, blah, blah...you’re buying the ’Bucks.
The dispatchers were the ones who christened an officer with his nickname—and they were always spot on. Special Ed, Dingleberry, Speed Bump, Captain Chaos and F’in G were just a few of the apt monikers that had been bestowed upon fuck-ups over the years. If you were a decent cop, they called you by your name.
“Heeeeeeeeerrrrre’s Johnny,” hollered F’in G as Mathis pulled himself out of his patrol car.
He must have heard the ol’ timers at the department refer to Mathis as “Johnny” in the locker room. It was a gentle ribbing about his karaoke inclination. Mathis didn’t even sing Johnny Mathis. They shoulda called him Dierks or Merle or Waylon or Willie. Actually, they should just call him Bob. That was his name. That’s what dispatch called him.
And F’in G? He shoulda been calling him Sergeant, or better yet, Sir. Briefing topic number four: policy review regarding insubordination.
Mathis decided to approach the house with the rookie after all and teach him a lesson about real command presence: making your leather squeak just right, turning up the volume on your portable so the punk-ass could hear the radio chatter, jingling the jail cell keys on your belt and assuming the bladed stance at the door like you were prepared to kick his ass if need be. This would make a very intimidating impression if Punk-Ass happened to be watching from a window.
Mathis and F’in G made their way up the front path of the white colonial style home with classic columns on the porch. The front door was painted bright red. Some kind of feng shui thing, Mathis supposed.
Once they reached the door and assumed the position, Mathis rang the doorbell, slow and deliberate.
Diiinng Doooong...
They stood there for a time, allowing the parents inside to have their “what the fuck?” moment. F’in G took this pause in the action as an opportunity to spit some of his chew juice into a potted plant. Mathis thought about adding another briefing topic, but decided briefing was already going to be 30 minutes too long.
“Chew is out of uniform standards,” he growled instead. “Get rid of it or gut it.” F’in G looked surprised, apparently forgetting he had half a can of Cope in his bottom lip. He scrambled to scoop and spit it out in the planter.
Real. Fucking. Classy.
Mathis rang the doorbell again.
Diiinng Doooong...
Mom should be shooing Dad outta bed about now, urging him to get some chones on and see who was at the door.
/> After another bit of waiting, it was time to whip out the Maglight and rap on the door, real loud. Rat-Tet-Tet-Tat-Tat, five times, with all the authority of the badge.
Punk-Ass would be pissin’ his pants, Dad would be trippin’ over his tighty whities and Mom would be hissing at Dad to hurry the fuck up.
No one answered the door.
“Shit. It’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra out here,” Mathis said. “You check around the south side and I’ll meet you around back.”
“All right, Sarg.”
Holy shit! An utterance with some semblance of respect. Maybe the kid was trainable after all, thought Mathis. Then the G smiled at him—his teeth covered with dip fleas. Yeah, maybe not.
He watched as F’in G started to work his way around the house, stopping to look into the first window and startling when he saw his own reflection staring back at him. Yeah, definitely not. The officers standing out at their vehicles watching this goat-fuck snickered.
Mathis worked his way around the north side of the house. He stopped at the large picture window facing the street. This was the Christmas tree window, for sure. Mathis looked into what these people called the living room, although no actual living ever took place in it. Like all other “living” rooms, it was pristine, vacuum lines still visible in the carpet. It was decorated like the cover of a magazine and well furnished in what Mathis would describe as “Hoity-toity Foo Foo”. Nice, but he preferred the “old bastard chic” of his pad.
Mathis made his way around the corner to the side gate. Before going into the backyard, he listened for the rabid panting of the family Fido. He would hate to have to put a bullet in a beloved pooch. That never goes over well.
Once he was sure Cujo wasn’t lying in wait, he made his way to the next window. This appeared to be the master bedroom. It was clean and chic, decorated in crisp white linens and tan walls. That Ralph Lauren dude would have been proud.
Mathis noted that the bed was still perfectly made. It was four o’clock in the morning. It shoulda looked slept in. Better yet, Mom shoulda been sitting in it, half naked, while Dad was at the door talking to the police. That would have made the trip worth it. But, no, the bed was just like the maid left it that morning. Maybe the parents were out of town and left Mr. Punk-Ass alone for the week.
Dream Walker Page 2