by Gary Starta
Because he had the night off from bar, Finch suddenly found himself with time on his hands. His prior nap had refreshed him and the thought of returning to the couch to languor in blissful ignorance became less inviting as he inventoried his house guests. The lunatic fringe, Sanchez, who between cat naps pleaded with an invisible mind pal without need of a 3G network and Lorelei – a woman he desired but could not trust – both made him uneasy. He paced the kitchen debating whether to quiet his nerves with alcohol. He determined this course would be as bad as a nap. In the event of an incident, it would only impede his ability to react – or more likely – his ability to get his ass out of the door.
One hour had already passed. Finch’s finger rapped upon his remote, but like a recovering addict, the self-proclaimed TV Junkie fought the urge to shape shift into a couch potato. Not with so many carnivores in the house. Words echoed in his head: meat and potatoes…
Finally, he concluded a snack might bide some time. He chose a pomegranate from the vegetable bin of his refrigerator. It would require preparation to eat. Good. It’s a time killer. Finch was already handy with a cutting knife, slicing wedges of lemon and lime for his bar patrons.
But it wasn’t the cutting that conspired to bathe him in red. The juicy nature of the pomegranate had no other choice but to be itself when he bit into a quartered slice. Finch wondered what was in the fruit’s DNA to make it such an unwilling participant for consumption.
The juicy splay of red spattered all over his neck, arms and hands. And after a moment’s inspection, Finch found it had also made its way onto his face. All in the matter of one bite… The thought gripped him. What damage one bite could do…
The fruit had a pleasant odor. But Finch did not appreciate the aromatherapy. Swearing softly, he bent down to retrieve paper towels from a cupboard underneath his sink.
As he rose, he felt a presence. Someone was behind him!
He could only hear Burnham’s warning about providing visual stimulation. The vibrantly colored juice of the pomegranate indeed resembled blood. But how did he see it?
Burnham was sure his lapse of attention had allowed Sanchez to free himself…Maybe Sanchez sensed the fruit from his confines.
Finch perceived anticipation in the breath of his pursuer.
Without looking back, Finch scrambled for the living room – in immediate path of the couch. He didn’t have the leeway or the stamina to jump it. So he somersaulted. Rolled over, upside down, with legs dangling like scraps of fried calamari – Finch was sure of death. But in that flash of realization, his fear softened. Wasn’t this what he really wanted? Unlike the reanimates, Finch welcomed change; the escape from his mundane chores at the bar and fruitless ambitions at becoming an entertainer.
A soft purring sound emanated from the reanimate.
What? That can’t be Sanchez…it’s so feminine…
She shifted his legs to align him horizontally with the couch.
On top of him in a flash, her eyes not only illuminated the room but the darkness from within him.
He didn’t feel despair. He didn’t kick his legs or attempt to knock her back.
So this is how it happens. Finch sure she would feed from him, prepared for her bite.
But instead of experiencing the sting of vampirism, he began to bask in the euphoria of a sensual delight.
She nibbled along his neck, alternating soft kisses with the flick of her tongue. Her breathing steadied, his heartbeat fell into rhythm with hers. He still couldn’t be sure what her intentions were. He became more confused, but also more erotically aroused, when she began to lick him, not just flicking her tongue snake style along his neck, but licking as if she were a child attempting to eat an ice cream cone in 100-degree weather. The licking continued downwards. He felt her urgency and his manhood strengthen with each stroke. She had sucked the juice from his arms and now worked on a finger. She teased him, allowing the finger to fully penetrate her mouth for only an instant at a time.
Finch never realized how much he liked pomegranate. He would thank it profusely – if he survived – by purchasing a whole crate full. He wondered if it were an aphrodisiac or if the hunger in Lorelei had converted itself into lust. He found it harder to process this information as Lorelei removed her top. Her breasts, two perky melons, were just waiting for him to return the favor.
But he would have to wait for that indulgence. She bent over, allowing her hair to smother him. Her tongue lapped up the remaining juice on his cheeks before finding its way into his mouth.
As her tongue caressed his, he let go of his doubt and uncertainty about her intentions. He forgot all about the man chained in the room down the hall or Burnham’s latest mission. He could only fathom that their prior kiss had not been a fluke and that passion truly existed between them.
Finch finally let go of that last thought, allowing both body and mind to surrender completely to Lorelei’s sensuous kiss, the one he had fantasized about ever since he laid eyes on her.
Chapter 28
Finch, in the throes of nearly inaudible gasps of laughter, wriggled to break free. His exertion robbed him of his breath, so his squeals of delight came in staccato bursts. If he were not engaged in foreplay with the half-naked woman on top of him, one might think he was in danger of losing his life.
Lorelei’s twisted humor and carnal desire had intersected. Between sensuous kisses, she found glee in locating several ticklish spots on Finch. Stroking his stomach, she discovered it to be a prime spot to induce uncontrollable fits of laughter. She shifted her weight on top of him, pinning him to the couch, enjoying his helplessness – his human vulnerability - while fingers mimicked a tarantula performing a moonwalk on her playmate’s abdomen.
Finch endured until a key entered a lock indicating Burnham’s return.
“Shit,” Lorelei whisper screamed. She fell backwards off Finch, off of the couch and scrambled to shield herself with furniture, until she could locate her top.
“Guys,” Burnham called, “are you okay? What’s going on here?”
The crown of Lorelei’s head appeared over the arm of the couch. Then her turn, arms were thrust through the sleeves of a shirt. Burnham felt he had just walked into the middle of an erotic puppet show.
“Oh,” she said. “We didn’t hear you.”
Ah, but I heard you. Burnham’s super hearing had detected Finch’s voice. His breathy rasps were immediately mistaken as cries of help. How could I think otherwise? We have a chained criminal in the guest room and Lorelei is well…an enigma…
Despite clearing his throat, Finch’s voice sounded hoarse. “We are sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you…” He stopped trying to explain.
No need to. Burnham felt anger rise in him. He told himself it wasn’t jealousy. It can’t be. I had even told Finch she was fair game. No, it’s not envy. I’m angry because… He spit out a more adult and logical reason for his rage.
“I can’t believe both of you guys left Sanchez unmonitored. Shit, do you know what might have happened? What I thought had happened when I heard Finch’s voice from the hallway?”
Finch bounced off the couch. He let his hands fall out in front of him. “Guilty as charged. It’s my fault, mate.”
“It doesn’t matter who’s to blame. One of you should have remained…focused…”
Lorelei now on her feet, fully clothed with a hand on her hip fired back a verbal volley.
“I was in the bath until a few moments ago. What could I have done if he did break free? Besides, you advised I shouldn’t go near him. And…”
Burnham intervened. Now his hands were raised in stop signs. “Okay, I got it. I was just concerned. I don’t have to tell you he’s are key to finding our perp. But remember, we all need to be in one piece to accomplish that.”
Finch scanned his body. “Well, I’m good. None the worse for wear as they say.” He maintained a straight face
until Burnham and Lorelei caved into fits of laughter.
“Yeah, Finch,” Burnham said, “I’m betting you probably never felt better, huh?”
Lorelei folded her arms and stared into them. Burnham broke the uncomfortable silence.
“Okay, I’ve got good news. A phone is in route to Amado James.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” Lorelei asked Burnham.
“We sit and wait for either his call or for more Intel from our guest – whichever comes first.”
***
Ex medical examiner Hector Gonzalez sipped tepid coffee in his kitchen, existing in shadows. The curtains drawn over the window above the kitchen sink shielded dawn’s sunlight from entry. It was the only place he felt truly sheltered from prying eyes.
He realized things would never be the same. He was home. But it had changed. Instead of a palace it had been transformed into a Petri dish. Reporters – or newshounds Gonzalez would call them – peered upon it like it was an experiment. They were waiting for a result. Gonzalez realized what they were waiting for ever since the FBI let him go home. They were waiting for him to cave, to admit to his involvement in a terrorist attack. Although their calls to his home had tapered off considerably over the last days, Gonzalez reasoned it was only because they had other assignments to attend to.
He scratched the lobe of his ear with his thumb in thought. He peered into his coffee mug as if an answer might be found.
In the next half hour, Gonzalez could only conclude that whoever was behind the disease had bought people. The CDC still hadn’t responded to the possibility of an epidemic. The media had not broadcast another word as to the cause of Congressman Katz’s death. Warnings were not being issued as to how the public might protect themselves. Gonzalez theorized the media loved such stories. They were always issuing warnings on teaser ads, advising consumers to tune in at 11 to find out if a bathroom product might be silently killing them. Why weren’t they hopping all over this to get ratings? And why were they solely focusing their energies at discrediting him? The answer seemed obvious. He was a living, breathing smokescreen. A diversion the perpetrators could depend upon to steer suspicion away from them. But all this theorizing left Gonzales back at square one. Granted, there was a conspiracy to unleash a manufactured disease upon the American populace. “But for what gain?” Gonzalez said aloud in frustration. He dumped the contents of his mug into the sink. He watched the liquid go down the drain. It made him think the adage: money going down the drain.
“Yes, money – the most popular motive for crime. There’s got to be a cure for this. A way the perpetrators can profit from this disease.” The sudden epiphany brightened Gonzalez’s spirits momentarily until he realized he had only discovered the „why" in the equation. He still had no clue as to whom the „who" was.
***
Burnham answered on the third ring. Cop training echoed in his head. The voice cautioned against appearing overanxious despite the feeling that every nerve in his altered body was on fire.
“So when are you going to let me speak to mi amigo?”
“That’s not going to happen right now. He’s safe. He’s here. He’s changed… That last fact should give you a pretty good idea he’s in one piece.”
“Well, what do you want?”
“You’re a bright guy – head of a crime organization – you do the math.”
“Let’s see then. How about one pill plus one pill equals two?” Amado James answered.
“Now we’re talking. Only we’re going to need a whole lot more than two pills to come to an agreement.”
“What makes you think I negotiate? What if I tell you that I don’t want my solider back? I mean, I told him to get off the streets. His capture is his own doing.”
“I’m going to sweeten the pot. Make you want him back – or at least want to listen to what he has to say.”
“I’m listening.”
What if I were to tell you that Sanchez’s alteration allows him to hear things and what if some of those things could lead us to the bastard responsible for our condition?”
“I’d say the pot is sweet. So where is the little bitch?”
“Not so fast. The Intel is coming in dribs and drabs. But when we do find where the little bitch is – we’re going to have to renegotiate - if you get my drift.”
“Okay. You want a show of faith. I’ll give you some pills – through my man at the deli. Call it a sampling of my product if you will.” He paused but Burnham did not laugh at his dark humor. “You should also give me a show of faith. Can you at least give me a photo of Sanchez – a proof that my merchandise is in one piece, as you say?”
“You already know he’s okay. We’re depending upon him for Intel. I don’t see why…”
James cursed underneath his breath. Burnham’s voice sounded a million miles away. What good was this ability? The promise of remote viewing – dependent upon a tangible photograph of the desired target – was just that a promise. He didn’t have a photo of Sanchez. He cursed again. If he did, he could cut out negotiations all together. Come and take Sanchez from his captors by storm. Hell, if fucking McKean had coughed up a photo of his boss, he wouldn’t need Sanchez’s gift at all. Despite his frustration, he conceded those options were mere daydreams. He would have to deal with his hand to pay his maker back. I’ll have to play his game – for now.
“James, are you still there?” Burnham asked.
“Yes, just wondering if you might be able to snap a picture of him via camera phone.”
“No can do. These prepaid phones don’t come with that feature.”
James attempted to remove anger from his tone. “Okay then. I’ll prepare for a first delivery. Just make sure Sanchez’s ears are open. There are plenty of more pills for you if you help me find my maker,” he lied.
“We’ll be in touch then.”
“Oh, just one more thing; how is that lovely girlfriend of yours?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. But yes, she’s still lovely. Then again, you know that already. Oh, wait…maybe you didn’t get a good look at her as you were running away from her.”
James would not be baited. He disconnected.
“So how did it go?” Lorelei asked, tugging at the sleeve of her shirt.
“It went okay. He didn’t even question Sanchez’s ability.”
“Stands to reason,” Lorelei said, “he’s also experiencing new abilities. Don’t forget how he disappeared into thin air.”
Burnham nodded. He feared saying more. This bit of news disturbed him greatly. But a gut instinct told him not to share this with Lorelei. He attempted to redirect the conversation.
“Where’s Finch?”
“Asleep again on the couch, I should go wake him.” She headed for the living room.
“Guess you wore him out,” he called from behind.
Lorelei responded without looking back. “You didn’t give me the chance.”
***
In the wee hours of the morning, Sanchez cried out in pain.
“He’s got a connection,” Burnham said, scrambling from a kitchen chair.
Finch grabbed Lorelei’s arm. They were both seated on the couch watching CNN. But Finch felt Lorelei squirm from the inside, it was in her pulse, it raced as if she were sprinting.
“Patience, my love; don’t want to spook the nice drug dealer.”
Burnham closed the door more for Sanchez’s comfort. Despite the barrier, he could hear everything Lorelei and Finch were saying if he chose to. He decided to ignore their commentary. The one thing he must absolutely hear – with complete clarification – was the location of the man who changed his life forever.
In mere moments, Sanchez gave him the names of two intersecting streets in Miami. It was the warehouse where a man named Nowak broadcast his plight.
Chapter 29
&nb
sp; Despite his disturbed existence, Jose Sanchez was naturally inclined to enjoy the dulcet tones emanating from the bath. But after a few moments, the dull ache of self-loathing, anger and confusion refused to be held at bay. They competed for his attention. And when confusion reigned supreme, it forced him to wonder just how the woman named Lorelei – the cold-hearted bitch who wished him a second and final death – could behave so placidly before the storm.
Lorelei sang soft and melodic, warm water showered over her removing dirt and sweat. Removing, possibly weeks of anticipation, outrage and distress – at least that’s what Sanchez imagined, chained to bed posts in a room across the hall.
If she was soothed by the thought of impending battle, she was indeed a formidable soldier. A woman worthy of respect: even in the twisted confines of his gangster universe. Amado James treated all his woman as nothing more than bitches, Sanchez recalled. This was all part of the world he lived in up until a few days ago. A part of him felt his alteration to be a welcome change. He could have never imagined an enemy in such a subjective manner as a street dealer. It was black and white in that world, mostly black, because even the buyers that treated him with respect were nothing more than cockroaches in his eyes. He never thought to see beyond his tunnel vision. Now he was. But the part of him that felt violated, the small ounce of a conscience that managed to reside in his criminal brain hated himself for becoming a living, breathing abomination to his personal God.
After contemplating these new and radical ideas, Sanchez could only come to the conclusion that death – permanent death – must be an absolute. All the tolerance in the world would never absolve him from his carnivorous urges. Consequently, the woman singing sweetly in the shower was only revealing a small portion of her makeup. The remainder was harsh, overwhelming and maniacal. In the end, she was the cold-hearted bitch. So, if that were the case, why the positive emotion? Did she have another plan in mind for today?
Lorelei, Burnham and his boss, Amado James, would go into battle in mere hours. Facedown the perpetuator of their disease, the brazen ringer leader of a devil’s circus, the man who dared played God. This puppet master must be vanquished. No question. He finally reasoned that Lorelei’s duality might come in handy in this endeavor; she might catch the almighty bastard with his guard down. He forced himself to swallow this theory because yet another dagger of doubt tugged at his sanity.