by Milt Mays
Jabril dropped the body down a manhole in the alley and walked out into the street. There was a kiosk with a large 4G in blue lights on the side. Inside, there were instructions to deposit money for more 4G time. He deposited two hundred dollars for another forty-eight hours. The costume shop was next. He obtained a white wig, beard and makeup. Now he needed a mirror. He broke into a locked bathroom outside a closed service station. Soon he looked very close to the old man in the picture, complete with cane.
It took him twenty minutes to drive to the airport. His plane was delayed leaving from Richmond, but that turned out to be Allah’s will. It allowed him to arrive in Chicago precisely in time to see Rocca, Rachel and Sam. Alla-hu akbar. God is great.
Should he go after Rocca or Rachel? He needed Rachel for his plan, but his desire for revenge on Rocca for the last fifteen-plus years made his fangs start growing and the skin on his face begin to stretch the beard he had so carefully applied.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. None of this would work if he started changing in this crowd of people at the airport with security cameras everywhere.
Rocca would have information about Rachel’s plans. Find out for sure if she was going to Milwaukee. Rocca was alone. He was older. He deserved it.
Jabril started after Rocca.
Chapter 16
Rocca walked toward the ticket counter and Jabril kept his distance. As an old man with a white beard, cane and slow walk, he should not be recognizable to Rocca. But he could not let Rocca meet his gaze. He’d forgotten to get glasses, so his eyes could not be disguised.
Only a few feet away, Rocca’s conversation at the counter was easily heard.
“The first flight to Pensacola leaves in three hours, sir,” the ticket man said to Rocca.
“I thought there was an earlier flight?”
“There was, but we ran out of fuel. Will that be a problem, Mr. Rocca?”
“Nah. I need to stretch my legs.”
They finished the transaction and Rocca picked up his half-full sport duffel. He started for the exit, and Jabril followed, praising Rocca for his choice. Outside would be perfect for what Jabril had in mind, away from crowds and prying cameras. He hoped Rocca would not look back and wonder about an old man walking too fast for his age.
When Rocca reached the door he pushed on it, but it pushed back. The wind outside had increased. He pushed again and the wind fluttered his pants. He seemed to have second thoughts, let the door close, and turned around.
Jabril returned to his hunched posture, head down, cane tapping, and headed for a seat among the row of anchored chairs in the lobby, all the while keeping Rocca in his peripheral vision. He wanted to tear the man’s bowels out and eat them in his face, stab one eye repeatedly with a claw, and soak in his slow, painful death. The image was so wonderful he wanted to howl at the sky.
Rocca walked to the nearest bathroom. Jabril sat and waited. Too many security cameras watched. He must get Rocca outside. There he could pay the man back for all those years of torture while he’d been helpless.
Rocca strode out of the bathroom, walking like a man with a mission. He was yards away before Jabril was even on his feet. Jabril tottered after him, attempting to stay in character while trying to keep up. But at this rate he felt like a soccer player with a torn hamstring—Rocca would make the goal and be in the bar, toasting the victory with a lager before Jabril could get halfway down the field. He decided to risk having Rocca peer into his eyes.
Jabril stumbled and fell, reaching out an arm toward Rocca and croaking in a distinguished Southern lilt, loud enough for any passersby and Rocca to hear, “Mr. Rocca, sir, stop, please.” Then he crumpled, on his side, one eye half-closed, watching as Rocca stopped and turned around. Jabril felt and heard the people around him stop and stare and mumble. Jabril clutched at his chest with one hand and pointed at Rocca with the other. A woman gasped, “He’s having a heart attack and he wants that man.” Americans were so predictable. They all wanted to help.
Rocca began walking toward Jabril, frowning. Jabril could not read his mind as he had Alex’s—no connection there mentally—but he could surmise Rocca’s thoughts: Could this be a relation, perhaps a distant uncle? If so, he must help the man.
“Everyone stand back,” Rocca said as he stood over Jabril. “Give him some air.”
He knelt on one leg and bent low enough to speak in Jabril’s ear. “Are you okay, sir?”
Jabril fluttered his eyelids and moaned.
“Someone call 911,” Rocca said. Then he felt Jabril’s neck for a pulse.
“I’m okay. No ambulance. Please, sir.” Jabril’s voice was very faint and low. His pulse was not racing, but his teeth ached, and the tickle beneath his fingernails had become a buzz. Rocca was there for the taking. Should he maintain secrecy and have Rocca take him into the bathroom, or kill him now? Now was what he wanted, but he could not risk capture and going back to the vault.
“Please, Mr. Rocca. If you can help me up? And call me John.” Jabril kept his eyes on the ground and started to push up.
“I don’t know, mister . . . John.”
“It’s okay, sir. I stumbled, that’s all. Too damn old. Help me up.” He got to one knee and put one arm around Rocca’s broad shoulder. Rocca hauled him up.
Once his mouth was close to Rocca’s ear, he dropped the accent and whispered, “You know me as Jabril. If you say anything or warn anyone, I will not only kill you, but all these fine Americans. Tell them to forget the 911 call. Tell them I am your lost uncle and you will help me to the bathroom. There we can talk in private.”
Rocca stiffened.
Jabril allowed one razor-sharp claw to erupt from his index finger and dug it into Rocca’s shoulder. He felt Rocca twitch. His hoarse whisper was so close to Rocca’s neck that he felt his fangs begin to grow, knowing he could rip the arteries and laugh while Rocca bled to death. The roaring started in his head. One delicious bite.
He sighed deeply, trying desperately to calm himself. The roaring dissipated and he relaxed. “You see. I have claws now and razor-sharp teeth. A new addition since we last met. In an instant I can slash through this crowd and be gone. Tell them. Now!”
Rocca cleared his throat. “Folks, I’m sorry for the alarm. Please, call off the 911. This is my Uncle Fred. We had a disagreement about getting him a motorized cart. He is a stubborn old coot and wants to walk.”
The crowd began to disperse. One woman came over and frowned at Jabril. “You should be ashamed of yourself. We thought you were dying.” She rolled her eyes and traipsed down the hallway, clutching a small Chihuahua to her bosom. The hairless rat of a dog growled at Jabril as if to emphasize her point.
Rocca and Jabril limped like a three-legged sack race, though a slow one. Once inside the bathroom, Jabril ripped through Rocca’s shoulder with all his claws, bringing him to his knees. When Rocca tried to get up, Jabril slammed a fist into his temple and Rocca went down, unconscious. He did not want to kill Rocca. Not yet. A slow, agonizing death would be so much more enjoyable. And, he wanted to ask him about where Rachel went, and about her child.
There was a locked maintenance closet next to the front door. Jabril tore the door open, breaking the lock. He grabbed the folding “Closed for Cleaning” floor signs, put them outside the main door, then closed the door and jammed two wooden wedges under it. Now he could take his time with Rocca.
A toilet flushed. His head jerked around. Someone else was here. There was a line of five toilet stalls on the left wall. The right side held eight urinals on the far side. Four sinks were on the near right side, mirrors above each. The door on the second left stall from the end started opening and Jabril was on the man. A fast uppercut and all Jabril’s claws pierced the man’s brain. A quick death, no blood—not what he had planned for Rocca.
A pain slammed into Jabril’s back and a gunshot echoed in the tiled room.
Rocca’s rough baritone filled the silence. “I may not be as strong as you, bu
t bullets still beat knives.”
Jabril turned around and sat, legs splayed in a V in front of him, holding his clawed hand to his chest feeling the exit wound begin to heal already, knowing if he could hold Rocca off for even a few moments he could take him.
Rocca aimed.
“Wait!” Jabil cried. “All I want is to go home. I’m finished here. Can’t you see I am aging too fast? I want to die in my country. Haven’t you tortured me enough?”
Rocca dropped his aim to the floor, his look puzzled, and in a way, sad. “What do you mean, tortured you?”
“You think I did not feel all those samples of my eyes, my liver and my brain your scientists harvested over the years I was in that vault?” The wound in his back was nearly healed already, and he dare not remove his hand from his chest; the skin would soon be like new. All that was left were a few healing ribs and part of his lung. He took a deep breath. Yes, that was better already.
Steel returned to Rocca’s gaze and he raised the gun. “You’re a lying sack of sh—”
Before he could finish the sentence, Jabril leapt up and landed five feet to the left, a huge bullfrog on steroids. Rocca’s aim followed Jabril. He fired but Jabril had dodged behind a white porcelain sink. Porcelain shards broke the mirror above.
Rocca raised the gun, started to squeeze the trigger. He never got the third shot off. Jabril had already jumped behind him, sliced off the back of his head, and stood before him, holding a piece of brain. He started to take a bite of the brain then, disgusted at the thought, threw the gray goop in Rocca’s face. Rocca looked at him, puzzled, then slumped to the ground. It wasn’t the long slow death Jabril had planned, but it would do.
He pulled out the cell phone. The time was 6:52 a.m. Now for Rachel. Except he had not been able to question Rocca. Anger welled inside him. Once again he had lost control. He needed to think before acting. How could he find Rachel? And the child? A blond daughter—he felt her now, so deep he was absolutely sure. It was his destiny.
Chapter 17
Jabril waited and listened. Surely police or security would be on their way after those shots. The fans in the ceiling whirred. A small flake of the broken sink dropped onto the floor sounding like a piece of gravel on stone. He slowly let out a long breath. There had only been two shots, and the door had been closed. Perhaps no one outside had noticed.
Someone pushed on the entrance door of the bathroom, squeaking the door jams, but they held. A tentative knock followed. If it was security investigating the gunshots, they would be shouting or opening the door with a master key.
Jabril ran to the door and yelled, “Closed for cleaning. Please try another.”
The door rattled as if someone hit it with their fist, then nothing. Jabril estimated that only ten minutes had elapsed since he first saw Rocca outside. He would have to hurry if he wanted to find Rachel. He pulled Rocca’s body into the last stall, the stall next to the dead man, sat him on the toilet and closed the door. He thought about wetting a wad of paper towels to clean up the blood on the floor. There was no time. He had to find Rachel. But he did have to change his blood-soaked clothes and tennis shoes. He bumped open the door to the stall next to Rocca where the other dead man slumped. The man’s under-chin puncture wounds had dribbled halfway down his neck but there was nothing on his shirt or pants. He had on cargo pants with oversized pockets. Perfect.
Jabril quickly took out the equipment inside his own pockets, and laid them in one sink. He peeled off his bloody clothes and tossed them on top of Rocca.
He wet a paper towel and looked in the mirror, quickly wiping off all blood he could see. Walking back to the man, he wiped the blood off his neck, stripped off his clothes and shoes and replaced the man’s shoes with his own tennis shoes. He sat the dead man on the toilet, facing forward, closed the stall door, and went back to the mirror to dress. The cargo pants were too short, but looked okay worn low on his hips, a belt ensuring they didn’t fall off. Inside one oversized pocket was a money-filled wallet with credit cards, always useful, and a cigarette lighter. Never pass up the chance for fire—words of his teachers in Afghanistan. The last and best thing was a pair of sunglasses in their case. He put on the glasses and looked in the mirror. Good. He shoved everything else into the big cargo pockets, along with his lock-picking wires, electronic bug-detecting device, and cell phone. The shoes were too large, hard to walk in. The collared pin-striped shirt was more formal than his previous “Ravens” attire, and he wondered if that would make him stand out too much. He thought about washing the blood out of the tennis shoes and tee shirt, but then he would have to wait for them to dry. Forget it. He had already taken two or three minutes. Move!
He bent and unjammed the door wedges and walked out. The shoes made him feel clumsy. He could only shuffle, reminding him of his clumsiness as a schoolboy. Intolerable. He would have to go back inside, wash the blood off the tennis shoes and put up with wet feet. More time. But unavoidable.
He started back. A middle-aged bald man was rolling his luggage behind and almost bumped into Jabril on his way to the bathroom. If he went in, Jabril would have to kill him, too. More time wasted.
“You don’t want to go in there,” Jabril said. “Someone flushed a backed-up toilet and there’s shit floating all over the floor. Unfortunately, I must return and get my watch I left on the sink.”
The bald man frowned, scrunched his nose and did a one-eighty.
Jabril went in, jammed the door again, ran to the stalls and switched the loafers for the tennis shoes. In the sink he had to scrub hard to remove the dried blood on the basketball shoes. It took time he didn’t have. Finally, he slipped on the damp shoes. Someone would soon be coming to the restroom. He had to get out of here.
An idea struck him. He went back to Rocca, sniffed and smiled. Rocca had soiled himself. He tore out a piece of pants, dabbed a bit of feces on it and ran to the front door, unjammed the wedge and opened the door six inches, peeking around. No one was watching. He reached around and smeared the excreta on the outside push plate and edge of the door. That would deter most from entering for a while. He let the door ease shut, washed his hands and exited, after again ensuring no one was watching and being careful to avoid touching the wrong places.
He brought out the cell phone again. 7:06 a.m. Not quite a half hour had elapsed from the time he first saw Rocca being dropped off. The last place he’d seen Rachel was not far. If he could pick up a scent or feel her presence, anything, he could find that bitch and she would lead him to Alex. And the child. They would feel how it is to lose a loved one. Alex would die, but before that slow death he would feel anguish.
The security cameras worried him. Though he had day-old stubble, his face without the beard from the vault, and now sunglasses coupled with his new clothes should make recognition difficult. But even with this, someone might figure out he was here. He must hurry.
At the drop-off entrance, people were getting out of cars and trucks, slamming doors, rushing by, trundling luggage. There were odors of cigarettes, coffee, gasoline fumes, perfumes, but not even a hint of Rachel’s signature scent of apricot and the musk of her sweat and sex. She was gone. He sniffed again, hoping. Nothing. The heat of anger pulsed behind his eyes, wanting to lash out and tear all of these weakling humans into bloody ribbons of flesh and muscle. With great effort he controlled his breathing, slowed his heartbeat.
He took one last deep breath slowly through his nose and smiled. It was okay. Eventually he would find her. The wait would make it sweeter.
That buzz behind his left ear made him rub at his left jaw, but no matter how hard he tried his hand would not go as far as his ear. This was getting very annoying. He had to get rid of that buzz. Yet each time he had the urge, his mind went blank, his entire path clear, and the buzz left. Though it was gone, soon he must end this control. For now, it was helping him. He knew exactly what to do.
A sign above an exit read “Long-Term Parking.” That was what he needed. Find a car, get to
Milwaukee, collect the GMO plants that were causing hemorrhage, along with the mice from hell. Rachel Anne Lane would be there; he felt it deep. And if . . . No, he felt it deep. There was no if. The place with corn and music. Alex and Rachel had a child. And Jabril would absolutely find their child. I will show you what it is like to see your family die from torture.
#
There were two other construction delays before Rachel was finally able to park at the long-term lot. She looked at her watch: 7:16 a.m. Their flight to Denver was scheduled to leave in an hour. They had one other later choice, but she needed to get sleep and plane rides did that to her. Sleep and get out of this funk.
Neither spoke as they waited for the shuttle to the terminal. She sensed Sam was as worried about Rocca as she was.
After they boarded the shuttle bus, she rested her head against the seatback and closed her eyes. The bus had a few other stops before they left the parking lot.
#
Jabril walked to the parking lot, not wanting to risk taking one of the shuttle buses. The fewer people who saw him, the better. Besides, it was not far. Infidels were so lazy.
At the parking lot, there were surveillance cameras on lampposts in the middle of some rows and at the end of others. There was a large digital clock at one of the shuttle stops: 7:17 a.m. A shuttle bus was sitting below the sign. He studied people exiting cars and trundling their bags toward the bus stop. The more luggage they had the better. That would mean they were going away for at least three days, perhaps a week. That would be time enough.
A couple locked their Camry five rows up on E2 and rushed toward him rolling large gray suitcases. The woman had a mahogany-colored purse and matching carry-on slung over each shoulder, the straps crossed over her chest. The man had a black duffle. Their Camry was gray. Perfect. He’d noticed many ads on Internet sites espousing the wonderful Camry. They must still be very popular, enough to fade into the background, and gray was like highway camouflage. The couple passed within earshot, jabbering about the wedding in Mexico and how it was going to be so much fun for a week.