by Gary Starta
After Finch hung up, Burnham surprised his mate.
“You don’t have to explain. You’ve got an appointment to meet with Congressman Katz at his Washington office tomorrow at 3 p.m.”
“Bloke’s a mind reader…” Finch hesitated at his word choice, the way Lorelei’s eyes bore into him when he said it.
“So, I’ll drive us, there,” Finch added. “I’ve got a nice suitcase if you need it, Lorelei.”
“I don’t think we’ll be staying the night, Finch.”
“But,” Burnham said to Lorelei, “You’ll be gone long enough to require a babysitter for your new weapon.”
“You can babysit it, when I’m gone. Tonight, it remains with me.”
“Agreeable,” Burnham said.
Patrolling the streets a half hour later, in the dusk of the coming nightfall, Burnham felt invigorated. Last evening they had obtained a weapon and a new friend. Tomorrow they might find an ally in Washington.
“Don’t be too chipper,” Lorelei said, seemingly out the blue.
“What…?”
“I can see the exuberant, cop like determination in your eyes. We’ve got a long way to go to win this battle. And I want you to promise me you won’t go all Die Hard on me when I’m gone.”
“Nah, besides you’ll be back before patrolling time, anyway. If memory serves me, Finch has a lead foot when it comes to driving.”
“Most likely, depends upon how interesting my conversation gets with the congressman-than Finch’s lead foot.”
“Hey, don’t make it too intriguing. Remember, you simply say an undercover cop on the streets gave the pill to Finch, imploring him to warn his bar patrons about the danger of buying it. You play his concerned girlfriend. You lost a good friend to drugs and are adamant about saving lives. All in all, it’s got to be presented more as a message of warning than it is about exacting justice. And I know how hard that will be for you.”
Lorelei pursed her lips. “I know we have to pace ourselves. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my cool. I’ll take an extra dosage of pills. Use my concealing makeup liberally.”
“And watch your mouth and my friend’s mouth. I’m more afraid Finch might spill the beans. We just can’t trust who the congressman might tell about our transformation. That’s why we can’t risk it. That’s why I won’t go to even my police buddies about this. But I trust in Finch. Deep down, he’ll do the right thing.”
Lorelei laughed, breathy. “I take it that means he just might keep his big mouth shut…” She cocked her head, birdlike. “Finch sure is a character. But he’s got some good instincts. He can read situations, people. Maybe he should have been a cop.”
“He is a good judge. Though he judges himself too harshly, puts the weight of the world on himself.”
“Gee,” Lorelei said, “sounds like someone else I know.”
“Let’s not go down this path again, tonight. I promise I’ll be cool if you be cool.”
“Swell, we’ll both lie to ourselves then. We’re both stubborn fucks, Burnham.”
“Stubborn fucks on a mission…”
Burnham reflected how if the plan did succeed, it might very well end their existences. When the pills are gone, what would stop their hunger? Burnham already knew Lorelei was hell bent on making the ultimate sacrifice. He had no doubt she would find a way to put a bullet into her brain if it meant saving her child. But he wondered about his own resolve. Would he end his existence so easily? Even as a reanimate, Burnham felt he was doing his part as a cop on the streets of Ybor City.
He recalled Finch’s rant. How Finch was even jealous concerning his new abilities. And in that moment of hesitation, Burnham contemplated the possibility that his newfound powers might erode his remaining morality. Absolute power corrupts absolutely…even if you’re one stubborn motherfucker.
Chapter 14
Time is my hands, yet time is not on my side.
The ironic thought fluttered about Dr. Gonzalez’s brain, occasionally colliding with his beer buzz; the way a ship might crash into rocks on an unforgiving shore. Smothered, but not completely muffled, his thoughts kept drifting back, replaying the bizarre zombie like encounter between Comiskey and Burnham, his ensuing argument with Police Chief Palmieri who demanded censorship and his subsequent decision to take a voluntary leave of absence from the coroner’s office in response.
The beers quieted but could not quell the tide of guilt, outrage and disappointment he experienced. But mostly it couldn’t dissipate the fear. Gonzalez feared for the safety of the public. Officer Derek Burnham, infected with some disease that made its victims hunger flesh, was quite possibly active and loose on the streets of Ybor City. The department decided-without finding one shred of bodily remains-that Burnham had been incinerated in a crash. The fact they did not find his shield in the fire, confirmed his suspicions. The infected officer walked way. Free to inflict his disease upon anyone he desired. He saw what Comiskey had become. He didn’t associate the thing that rose from the pavement to take a bite out of Burnham’s neck with a cop, much less an individual with even the smallest regard for civility and morality. That meant Burnham was no longer Burnham in Gonzalez’s eyes. How many more might be infected right now, roaming the streets for human nourishment? What could he do about it?
He did what he wished Palmieri had done. He reported the incident, against her wishes, to the Center for Disease Control. He fudged the details a bit. He didn’t tell them he thought Derek Burnham had been reanimated. But he refuted the story the police had given about the death of the supposed assailant. Gonzalez charged whoever had infected Comiskey was never apprehended and that they were to be considered armed and dangerous, weapon or not. He knew what he must have sounded like to them, their quiet pause on the line told him. He couldn’t even believe his own voice at times as he stuttered and railed about a police cover up. Yet he thought his position as coroner had to merit some credence to his story. They couldn’t simply believe an educated man who held a responsible position had gone over the edge at some random moment in time. Especially since he had given plausible theory, the introduction of a prion based disease. Because of this, he came to a conclusion.
He deduced the CDC, or at least their contact people, were somehow in on the cover up. The calm, nonplussed fashion they made note of his report confirmed it. They thanked him for his time. Shit! Thanking me for my time, like I told them some neat campfire tale? Gonzalez finished the last sip of a beer. A waitress swooped in shark like to offer another bottle. He nodded. Sure. I’ll try to quiet the tide. He turned and told the waitress, “It’s like trying to catch a tsunami with a teacup.” She nodded politely. Her eyes reflected something completely different to Gonzalez, they were enlarged; perhaps to the realization she was not dealing with a sane individual and had come to the consequent conclusion that danger was imminent. He wondered what terror he might inflict upon her psyche if he dared unload his burden. Would she believe carnivorous creatures walked the streets, and that they had somehow been manufactured? He had merely thrown out a cryptic statement to her mere seconds ago, and that had generated a modicum of panic. He accepted the new bottle, sipped its frothy refreshment and saluted, toast like to her, with the bottle raised. Better to let her think he was a hapless drunk than a loon. At least she would allow him to stay and while away a few more hours of his pain with the false comfort of alcohol.
He hadn’t planned on entertainment at the bar. But from what he had experienced, the opening minutes of the standup comics monologue at the Too Blue Owl left much to be desired. The waitress winked at him, as if to say, enjoy the show…if you can…
When she had disappeared from his sight, Gonzalez had no choice but to listen to some of the comics material. Either that or delve back into the anger marathon which ran continuously in his mind. He needed to escape that anger and guilt for a while. The complete and utter sting of betrayal he carried, sidled up n
eatly to a generous dose of resentment he stomached from his dealings with so called trusted officials who swore to protect the public. Because of them, he failed to uphold his oath. Now that’s irony…
The comedian Finch began a rant about clothes shopping.
“You know woman, and I’m not saying it’s their fault. It’s the messages they’re bombarded by that consequently imprint their brains with a need to find sexy, body flattering clothing. So that’s all and good, I suppose; until some bloke is given the chore of shopping for that sexy, body flattering attire. You see, women ultimately want to feel great about themselves because image is everything. One can read into this from the displays and signage posted about the malls. I totally get it. Got it?” He waved the mike at the audience to respond. Some unenthusiastic murmurs erupted. “So this bloke spends his time and money, shopping for hours, getting dirty looks from salespeople for his diligence, worse looks from mothers of young children as he peruses women’s undergarments, until finally he emerges from phony, baloney land with bags of beautiful clothes. And lo and behold, these clothes fit the woman of his attention like a glove. Now does this woman appreciate his attentiveness to detail? That a man actually listened to her when she listed her sizes? No… Too easy, chums. She accuses this attentive bloke of leering at her new, form fitting attire, like he was just out to get a cheap thrill when truth is, this man could have easily perused some porn if he wanted simple gratification. It would have been a lot cheaper, I tell you. So that ladies and gents is the female disposition for you. Had I chosen ill fitting, loose clothing that wasn’t flattering I would have been lambasted just the same. She gets what she wants and still complains. I tell you, guys, if this isn’t irony…”
Gonzalez had polished off yet another beer in the interim. He thought with smug pride how this man’s so called problems paled in comparison. What would this pansy do if really faced with a life and death problem?
As a result, Gonzalez concluded his isolation to be absolute. He could not tell the public, specifically anyone at this bar about manufactured disease and nomadic zombies. They were all too enraptured by the mundane. In particular, the comic who lamented about fashion cemented his resolve. Gonzalez would burden his mental baggage alone. Short of patrolling the streets himself for Burnham, and whoever he may have created, the coroner felt hapless. Gonzalez clung to his bottle as if it were tangible representation of despair, not realizing the ultimate irony, that the man who whined on stage might have been the one understanding, ally he had sought to find all along.
***
I need them to care. But I need it controlled…
This mantra haunted Amado James, once powerful crime lord of Tampa Bay. He felt as he had been converted to some aging toothless tiger, thrust into a cage out of mere habit, not because he posed danger. Oh, he could wreak havoc with his bite. Yet hours and hours of contemplation dissuaded him from going Rambo. He envisioned any unbridled attack, one lacking strategic finesse, would only result in suicide. Bullets could still put him down like any other man.
The attack must be planned. It must be controlled. There must be a specific target. James jotted these notes on line paper he kept tucked away into the drawer of a nightstand. He would swoop into for the attack like a hawk and just as gracefully, soar out of the sight. Not only from civilians, but more importantly, the ones who carried badges and guns. Yet it would do little good to inflict his disease upon the target without law enforcement witnessing the crime. Namely, the local police chief who lied to the press: Christina Palmeri. She needed to eat her fabricated words just as much as his kind needed flesh and blood. And if it weren’t for the pills, the very sustenance he depended upon to keep carnivorous hunger at bay, he might have already torn Palmieri"s throat out, not only for nourishment, but also for her deceit. She had become an unwitting accomplice to whoever was extorting him. Her failure to alert the public of his kind, not to mention the disease, protected this bastard. For this reason, it was most logical to make Palmieri pay for her perjury.
After reading and rereading the account of the policemen’s alleged deaths in the papers, desperation fueled James desire to use Palmieri as a pawn in his chess game. He couldn’t rely on McKean, the no name bastard who delivered the pills as ransom to give up his jefe-his boss-so easily. He had afforded the rat bastard the opportunity nearly a week ago. All he asked of McKean was to provide a picture of his employer. But the little worm couldn’t even find the guts to betray his boss in roundabout fashion. If James had a picture of his extortionist, he was sure he could track him using his newly acquired gifts. He had repeatedly envisioned the locations of his mother, in real time, simply by touching one of her photographs.
He began to map out a plan to exact vengeance on Palmieri and to simultaneously draw attention to his plight a few days ago. Beginning with a photo he printed off his computer, James believed he had successfully tracked the police chief to her house, the dry cleaners and even a car wash by what he believed to be remote viewing. During World War II, it was alleged the army employed this technique to see where their enemy was hiding via psychic tether. Now, in the 21st century, Amado James was sure psychic spies indeed existed despite the failure of the 1990"s federally funded Stargate Project to determine otherwise. He didn’t know if those psychic spies had photographs of their intended targets at their disposal, but he did know the federal government was clueless to most things except for wasting taxpayer’s money.
The photo of Palmieri produced some unexpected and pleasant results when further Internet research led James to a photo of the chief with her best friend and a young girl. An accompanying article identified the girl as the daughter of her best friend, Monica Bay, a municipal employee. They had attended the annual Policeman’s Ball in Tampa nearly one year to the day. Intuition told James the two friends and young girl would likely reappear as this year’s gathering. The girl wasn’t Palmieri"s but she was the next best thing. He could see, without any psychic ability, how the girl hugged Palmieri in the photo as if she were a favorite aunt. Making the girl, Anya Bay, the prime target was now paramount. Without even using his gift, James was now able to predict the exact geographic locality where his intended target and Palmieri might dissect on the night of the ball. Yet the plan was lacking intimacy. He couldn’t very well barge into a crowded ballroom, bite Anya Bay on the neck in plain view and then expect to literally waltz away scot free. He would ultimately require a moment in time to engage Palmieri and the girl in a controlled space. Despite his constant attempts to envision both the women together in that controlled space, James began to doubt a prime opportunity might arise. Perhaps, after the event, he might catch them at a diner… Yet „perhaps and „maybe" were the fleeting design of hope. He hadn’t become a crime lord by being hopeful. He did it with precision and he did it with a plan. James equated this dilemma as a test of his mettle. He demanded he find a means to carry out his plan to fruition, to prove himself as crime lord. Especially, now that he had been altered, Amado James needed confirmation that he deserved the title. A gladiator is always tested. A crime lord, in James’s eyes, was no different. A challenge must not be resented, but welcomed.
For that purpose, he kept the pictures of Palmieri and the teen with him, wherever he went, both night and day. Despite the quizzical stares from his entourage, James held his resolve. He would not alert even his most trusted soldiers of his plan. Word could leak out and destroy his quest. Even if it were unintentional, he couldn’t trust his men to aid him. He witnessed them swallowing their pride when McKean made the deliveries. Unsupervised, they might have aided McKean and his boss simply by opening their mouths. They might have felt compelled to taunt McKean by recounting the conversion of Lorelei Lindquist and her subsequent escape. James believed these details would somehow work against him, and by keeping them private, they might even work to his advantage one day.
It was with pleasant surprise, just two days before the ball, James believed h
is tact had finally paid off while riding in the passenger seat of his Jaguar. James’s paranormal scent had detected the ultimate hit, placing both the chief and the teen in the same place at the same time.
The only problem now: logistics. How could James intersect the pair in time before they parted ways? He dismissed an urge to alert his driver of their whereabouts: a dress shop on West Kirby. No. A car might not make the destination in time. It also might not make the best getaway vehicle either.
“Driver, I need a copter, immediately.”
Six words afforded James serious tactical advantage. Rushed to a skyscraper, not more than four blocks away, James bolted to the building’s elevator. A business associate owned the building and the helicopter positioned on its roof.
“Good to see you, sir,” a burly attendant announced.
The halfwit, James thought. Can’t he see my urgency? I don’t need respect right now. I need a ride.
“Do you need some assistance?” the burly man asked, pointing to a gun in a shoulder vest.
“No, but I do need an able pilot. Are you one?”
The man shrugged his shoulders „no" and activated a handheld radio he immediately produced from a coat pocket.
“Go up, sir. The pilot will be on board.” James stepped to the elevator, its doors swooshed open.
Good to pay off friends in high places, James thought on the ride.
James, flustered that he did not have a name for the shop, blurted out its address once inside the copter.
The pilot waved his hand. “That will suffice.” A GPS worked the rest of James’s logistic magic. “It’s called Body Works,” the pilot announced. “We go there, now” he said in a thick, Ukraine accent. “I take it you need to work some bodies,” he joked. “You sure you don’t need some muscles? Mr. Kovalenko thinks fondly of you, and as a thank you for your support of his business in Tampa, he advises you take me along for „emotional" support.”