-Record skip-
Barnes in the stairwell.
Diggs.
The door.
Enter.
Twirl.
Buzzer.
“I’m Eddie, and I’m able!”
No.
19-1-4.
“Wouldn’t it be bliss if you never got old, like me?”
Barnes laughed hysterically on the bed, screaming, “Yes, yes, yes!”
Darkness and silence.
“End of transmission.”
The Vitruvian Man test pattern.
Please Stand By.
18
Sweat trickled off Barnes’s face and chest, down his arms and back as he sat up slowly. He peeled the suction cups from his temples and yanked the needle from his arm. Blood spurted from his elbow. He absently clamped his hand over the hole and bent forward over his knees, rocking. Continued echoes of gunshots in his mind. The bodies of children fell through his thoughts in a repeating loop—all of them with startled looks on their faces.
Barnes struggled up to his feet. He gripped the fifth of Jack Daniel’s by the neck and walked into the bathroom, his arm drizzling blood over Eddie Able Band-Aids. He set the bottle in the sink, fell to the toilet, and barfed. Three heaves and he was empty, three jolts of sour bile. His body curled and cringed for more, but that was it.
He stood up shaky, picked up the fifth and smashed it against the sink, brought a shard of glass up to the pulsing jugular vein in his neck.
“No.” Leo’s voice.
“Fuck you.”
“Don’t!” The familiar voice.
“Shhh.”
“Don’t fail him.”
A vision from Freddie Cohen’s memory came to Barnes’s mind. Ricky standing at the top of that ridge. His smile, his eyes.
“I’ve already failed him,” Barnes said. He pressed the glass into his neck, felt the skin begin to yield, but a new vision stopped him. Adrian Flaherty, his face in the restaurant bathroom mirror staring back intently. His suspicion of Dr. Hill and the mysterious Madrox Project.
“You can still save her.” The familiar voice.
“No. I can’t go back on that machine.”
“You know his name.”
“Leo.”
Barnes dropped what remained of the bottle. It shattered on the bathroom floor. He stepped around the glass and back out into the motel room. He wiped off the blood and bandaged his arm. He pocketed his phone and put on his holster and jacket, picked up the machine, lifted it over his head, and slammed it on the floor. The red LED went blank for a moment but then returned to pulsing. Barnes stomped the machine until the plastic shattered, exposing circuitry and wires. He stomped and stomped, his heel cracking and pulverizing the machine’s artificial heart until, finally, the LED light faded out.
He left the motel room and went to his truck.
He pulled out of the parking lot and drove without direction or destination. It was morning again. The sun was bright and hurt his eyes. He slowed to a stop at the edge of what was once a city playground and threw the gearshift into park. The weeds had overtaken the place now. The jungle gyms had become wilted, rusted things. A merry-go-round was turned over on its head. At the nearby baseball diamond, once covered in minced gravel but now lost to weeds and discarded appliances, a man and his son practiced grounders.
“Keep that glove down,” the man said as he tossed a baseball into the air. He swung a wooden bat at the ball, shooting it toward the boy, who was standing out by what was once third base.
Barnes smiled wearily at the scene, his vision blurry from tears not yet fallen. A shiver started in his guts and overtook his body, his mind. He closed his eyes, sending the tears down his cheeks, and waited until the feeling passed, until he went numb. His mouth still tasted of bile. He grabbed a piece of gum from the pack in the visor and popped it in. His salivary glands ached with the fruity sweetness. He settled into his seat, fiddling idly with the decoder ring on his finger.
19-1-4.
Barnes turned the ring to 19. S. 1 was clearly A, and 4 was D.
SAD.
“Are you sad, Leo?”
No reply.
The crack of the bat made Barnes look up. The kid fielded another grounder and fired the ball to the backstop behind his father.
“Good one!” the man said. He tossed another ball into the air. Barnes watched the ball rise, stop, and fall back down. White leather and red stitches.
I come out in spring.
Baseball season starts in spring.
I make a loud crack.
The bat cracks the ball.
I give stitches their wings.
The bat sends the stitched ball flying.
While onlookers react.
The audience cheers.
The crack of the . . . bat.
Barnes turned the decoder ring to B, then A, and then T.
2-1-20.
2120?
He took out Ricky’s note and read.
Give my G.I. Joes to Candy Harper, okay?
A foggy memory bloomed in his mind—a girl’s eyes, her figure, her flat belly. Barnes’s cheeks grew hot as his mind traveled back to a pair of hips barely covered by a cheerleader’s skirt, her perfect legs. He recalled a thigh being pierced with a needle.
Insulin?
Barnes bumped his temple with the meat of this palm. This girl . . . who was she? A cheerleader. That much he knew.
Yeah, that much he knew.
He threw the truck in drive and stomped the accelerator.
Barnes pulled back into the parking lot at Mancino’s. The morning rush was at a lull, which merely meant he wouldn’t have to wait in line for a seat; otherwise, the place was nearly packed. He dropped out of the truck and went inside the diner, walked past the hostess waiting to seat customers.
Most of the booths were taken, but Barnes found one along the far wall that was empty. He slid across the padded seat to the framed picture of a high school cheerleading team. None of the faces looked familiar. He scanned the names listed below the photo but didn’t find Candy Harper.
“Sir, can I help you find a seat?” A voice from across the diner.
Barnes didn’t respond. He moved to another empty booth but never sat down. The photo was of a football team. Barnes hopped up onto the table to get a high-level view of the other photos at the other booths.
“Hey,” the same voice said. “What the hell are you doing?”
Barnes looked down to find the shift manager—Gordon, according to his silver name tag—staring up at him. The man had thick glasses and short sleeves, a red tie.
“Just gimme a sec,” Barnes said.
“No!” Gordon said. “Get down from there, now!”
Barnes ignored Gordon and scanned the photos in the booths. All of the other patrons’ eyes were on him, their faces dismayed, mouths hanging open. Scrambled eggs quivered on forks. None of the photos seemed to jog his—Wait, there it was.
Barnes hopped down from the table.
“Sir, I’ll kindly ask you to leave this establish—”
“Shut up,” Barnes said, stepping past the man.
Gordon threw a hand to his chest like an insulted debutante.
Barnes continued toward the booth. A trucker sat alone, enjoying a plate of bacon and eggs over easy, white toast. He wore a black vest and had old, faded tattoos down to his wrists. He watched cautiously as Barnes approached.
“Sorry,” Barnes said when he reached the man’s table, “I just need to take a look at the photo at the end of your booth.”
The man glanced at the photo and then back at Barnes. “Be my guest.”
Barnes sat down and slid across to the image. He scanned the girls’ faces until one jogged his memory. Pretty, blonde hair, wide smile. He scanned down to the bottom to read, Third row, from left to right, Jill Hainsley, Becky Ward, Candy Harper. His memory was jogged again . . . 2120 . . . what was it?
A hand came down on his shoulder, gripped his jack
et, tugged at him.
Barnes looked up to see Gordon, the shift manager, gritting his teeth as he tried to yank him out of the booth.
“Hold on,” Barnes said.
“No,” Gordon said, sending spittle out from his lips, “you need to leave. I’ll call the police.”
Barnes employed a trick so many suspects had employed against him during arrests—just pull up your legs and let your detainer try to drag your entire body weight. It was virtually impossible.
The trucker across the booth chewed his food and sipped his coffee.
2120, Barnes thought. Candy Harper . . . 2120 . . .
“Fairchild Avenue.” The familiar voice.
At the sound of the voice Barnes’s body chilled and he clenched his jaw. He blinked rapidly as his body absorbed a wave of nausea. When it was over he put his feet down and slid out of the booth. Gordon, who was employing so much pressure to pull him out, spilled over into the booth across the way. To the seated trucker Barnes said, “Thank you.”
The trucker saluted with his coffee cup as Barnes turned and left. He tracked across the parking lot toward his vehicle. As he reached into his pocket for the keys he heard a female voice.
“Good night, sweet prince.”
He turned his head in time to see a yellow Taser reach out from behind a red Chevy Aveo. The hand that held the weapon was tattooed with a spiderweb. He heard a buzzing sound as a crack of lightning flashed across his vision, and then there was only blackness.
19
Barnes awakened with a start. He was lying on his back. He tried to sit up but found he was strapped down to a padded table. His head thumped painfully. A damp, earthy scent. He looked around to discover he was in the basement at Ziti’s Sub and Grub. A needle in his arm, suction cups attached to his head. Dawn sat on a chair in the corner, relaxed and smiling, red lipstick vivid against her white teeth. Her yellow Taser was tucked in her waist. Barnes’s gun and shoulder holster hung from a hook on the wall near her head.
She tilted her head and called out, “He’s up!”
“What the hell’s going on?” Barnes said. He struggled against his restraints.
“You’ll see,” she said. She crossed her legs, and her foot did a little dance on the hinge of her ankle.
Harrison entered the room. His apron was gone. Whatever semblance of a friendly demeanor he’d once had was gone, too. He was no longer a blue-collar guy making subs and scratching out a living at his takeout restaurant, but a brash, intense individual of obvious status. Trailing behind him was a woman Barnes vaguely recognized. She was disheveled and had an addict’s eyes. Circles had been shaved into her temples. Skinny. Veiny arms. The “after” picture in an antismoking campaign.
Harrison closed the door behind the woman, locking the four of them in the room.
“What’s this about?” Barnes said.
Harrison offered the disheveled woman a folding metal chair. She took it and sat down, put her purse on her knees. Harrison took his own chair, scratching the legs loudly against the floor as he dragged it next to Barnes’s table. He sat down and leaned in close to Barnes’s face. “How you doin’, big fella?”
“Been better,” Barnes said.
Harrison smiled and sat back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest. His right knee rocketed up and down.
“Is this about Raphael?” Barnes said. “I mean, Danny? I told you, I don’t know any—”
“No,” Harrison said.
“Then what?”
Harrison gestured toward the disheveled woman. “Recognize her?”
Barnes looked the woman over for a second time. He knew her but couldn’t place from where.
“That’s Little Cher’s mom,” Harrison said. “Hannah Daniels. The woman who gave birth to such an angelic voice. You know Little Cher took fourth place on Starmonizers? Should have gotten first. She was robbed.” He smiled at Hannah. “Say hello to Detective Barnes, Ms. Daniels.”
The woman nodded curtly at Barnes.
“I’m not a detective anymore,” Barnes said to Harrison.
“The cops refused to put her on the machine,” Harrison said, continuing as though Barnes hadn’t spoken. “So she came to us.”
Barnes turned to Hannah Daniels. “If you have something the police could use, you need to tell them. These people can’t help you.”
“I just want my daughter back,” Hannah said quietly.
“She already told the police all she knows,” Dawn added. “It’s those people who can’t help her.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Barnes said.
“Hannah,” Dawn replied, “was a little, shall we say, inebriated the day Cherry was abducted.”
Hannah Daniels covered her eyes with a bony hand.
“It’s okay, honey,” Dawn said. She leaned forward and laid a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “We all make mistakes.”
“She spent up all Little Cher’s money on booze and dope,” Harrison said. “Spent the poor girl’s auto show retainer as soon as the check cleared.”
Hannah’s shoulders heaved as she began sobbing.
Barnes tried to wriggle out of his restraints, but it was no use. “Let me free.”
Harrison stared strangely at Barnes. “Don’t you want to help Little Cher?”
“Let me free,” Barnes said, “or—”
“Or what?” Harrison spat. His eyes grew fierce. He clenched his fists, looked like an MMA fighter ready to charge across the octagon. Maybe somewhere in his mind he was.
“Your kind no longer believes the machine will help,” Dawn said. “So we hooked Hannah in to see what she might recall”—she drew back a lock of Hannah’s stringy hair—“despite spending the afternoon on a bender with her junkie boyfriend. Unfortunately there was nothing of value on her memory pull.” She winked at Barnes. For the first time he noted the fresh red rings on her bald temples.
“Who are you people?” he said, though he was fairly certain he knew the answer.
Harrison shivered. It was almost imperceptible, but definitely there. He appeared more philosophical when he said, “That’s a slippery question.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Depends on your perspective,” Harrison said.
“The Sect of Shifting Sands.”
Harrison examined his fingernails.
“Do not aid them.” The familiar voice.
“Shhh.”
“You can’t help her,” Barnes said.
“That’s why you’re here,” Harrison said.
“What do you want from me?” Barnes said.
Harrison shivered again, and again his visage changed. His voice took on a womanly tone. “You’ve been working Little Cher’s case.”
“Don’t put me in her memory,” Barnes said. “I won’t see anything Dawn couldn’t.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Harrison said. “You don’t understand, do you?”
“You’re Gabriel Messina,” Barnes said. “The Shivering Man.”
“Little ol’ me?” Harrison said, a hand to his chest in denial, but his smile betrayed him.
“I won’t ride her memory,” Barnes said.
“No need to go there,” Harrison said, waving his hand dismissively. “As you say, Dawn has already gone through all that mess. Nothing new to see.”
“Then what?”
Harrison patted the machine like it was an obedient dog. “It records, too, you know? You have memories, don’t you, sweetie?”
“Nothing of value to thi—” Barnes stopped, then the realization struck him. “Oh God, no. Please, don’t.”
Harrison took hold of Barnes’s hand, squeezed it reassuringly. “Hannah will be fine riding your memories, Detective. I’m certain of it.”
Barnes turned to Hannah Daniels. “You don’t want to do this.”
“She needs to know what happened to her kid,” Dawn said. “You’ve seen things. You know things.”
“The Sect of Shifting Sands will save that little girl,”
Harrison said. “The machine will save her.”
“Listen to me,” Barnes said to Hannah. “This monster who took your daughter, you don’t want his thoughts in your head. The things he’s done. You don’t want to know.”
“Hold on now,” Harrison said. “You have the perpetrator in mind? The man who took Little Cher?”
“No,” Barnes said. “I mean, the police have a suspect, but—”
Harrison reached out with a pinkie extended and flipped the machine’s dial from “Idle” to “Record.”
A click and a hiss.
Barnes closed his eyes. He fought thoughts of Leo, of that Eddie Able mask, of FiveLives, but he was fighting the purple dinosaur. Flashes of children falling, the sound of Leo’s breathless voice, his horrible mother, that fiberglass head, the heat and sweat from within . . .
Barnes stopped fighting the visions. Instead he concentrated on Ricky up on that ridge and smiling down at Freddie Cohen. He thought of Jessica, too. Flashes of the brilliant moments they’d shared. Laughing hysterically in a diner. Over what? He couldn’t recall. Did it matter? The way she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and how it always fell back out. The two of them at Ricky’s grave, his hand in hers. She’d made him throw salt over his shoulder, said it was salt in the face of the demon standing behind him.
Ricky again. He’d set up little green army men around the living room in an expansive tactical formation, but Johnny came through pretending to be Godzilla and knocked everything down. God, how Ricky cried over that. Or the time they both got BB guns for Christmas. Ricky had put the barrel of his gun right up to Johnny’s toe and pulled the trigger, cracking the bone.
Back to Jessica. Older now. She’d just given birth. They were riding home from the hospital and stopped at a red light. She and the baby were in the back. She reached up and put her hand on his shoulder, looked at him in the rearview mirror, eyes hopeful and nervous. He’d gripped her hand and held it until the light turned green.
Back to Ricky. His revenge for Johnny’s Godzilla tactic was to reset the Nintendo right in the middle of a five-hour Metal Gear session. Johnny howled with rage and chased him out of the trailer and into the woods.
Barnes settled into his memories, immersed himself in the nostalgia, in the good things that defined his oftentimes dismal existence. It felt right to dwell there. It felt fine.
Machine City: A Thriller (Detective Barnes Book 2) Page 16