Machine City: A Thriller (Detective Barnes Book 2)

by Scott J. Holliday

  “Brother,” Franklin said, “let me take you to Dr. Hill.”

  “Don’t put me in a room with that asshole,” Barnes said.

  Franklin offered no reply.

  “Which is it, Billy?” Barnes said.

  “Which is what?”

  “Is Adrian Flaherty a thorough detective, like you once had me believe, or is he a shit detective making up his own cases?”

  There was a long pause on the line, and then, “I don’t know.”

  Barnes disconnected the call. He pulled away from Candy’s house and drove home. He idled up the driveway and killed the engine. For a moment he just sat and stared at the house while the engine cooled and ticked. His stare was broken when a coyote poked its head out from behind his detached garage. It eyed his truck for a second and then dashed off through the yard and down the street, using the sidewalk like an animal path.

  Barnes got out of the cab. He went back behind the garage to find the garbage cans toppled over, the trash strewn. He cleaned up the mess and put the lids back on the cans. The back entry door to the garage was cracked open. He went inside. It smelled of concrete cleaner and cat litter. Jessica’s car was parked in the far spot. The near side was overrun with what looked like a kit for a wooden jungle gym: weatherproofed four-by-fours, bolts, and chains for swings. Next to that was a snap line, a circular saw, and a square. A toolbox lay on the floor, a framing hammer thrown in over the collection of socket wrenches and hexagonal heads, boxes of screws, boxes of nails.

  Barnes grabbed a broom, swept some bent nails and sawdust into a pan, and tossed the debris away. He started packing away the toolbox but stopped when he heard a sound. He looked up to find Richie in the doorway.

  “Hey, Dynamite,” Barnes said.

  “Heard your truck,” the boy said. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Just cleaning up,” Barnes said.

  “You ever gonna finish that thing?”

  “Someday, bud.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I got pulled in by a case.”

  Richie looked down. He toed at the concrete floor beneath his feet. A morning sunbeam lit up his shoulder and crossed him like a sash.

  “What’s on your mind?” Barnes said.

  The boy looked up. “You don’t like my hair this long, do you?”

  “It’s fine,” Barnes said.

  “Mom says you want me to cut it short so I can look like Ricky.”

  “So you can. Fail him again.” The breathless voice.

  “No,” Barnes said. “I just—”

  “Is that why Mom’s drinking? Because of Ricky?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since you left she’s just been sitting around the house drinking, acting funny.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Upstairs. She didn’t get up today. I made my own cereal.”

  “That’s good,” Barnes said. He scooped the boy up into his arms and carried him out of the garage, pulling the door closed behind them. Richie wrapped his arms around his father and drove his face into Barnes’s neck. The boy shuddered as he began to cry.

  “It’s okay, kid,” Barnes said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  They crossed the porch and entered the house. Barnes carried Richie up the stairs to his bedroom. He set him down on the bed. “Just stay here for a bit, okay? I’m going to talk with Mom.”

  Richie nodded. He lay on the bed and curled into a fetal position, gripping his pillow. Barnes pulled up the covers and offered a monkey bite. Richie reached out and bit back.

  Barnes went down the hallway into the master bedroom. Jessica was inside, curled up in nearly the same position as Richie. Dust swirled around her in the morning light. Barnes sat on the edge of the bed near his wife’s knees. An empty vodka bottle lay on the floor near the nightstand.

  He placed a hand on Jessica’s shoulder.

  She didn’t awaken. Didn’t move. Her breathing was rhythmic and deep. He shook her lightly, but still she slept.

  He removed his hand.

  “I don’t know what to say to you, Jess,” Barnes said, speaking softly in the silent room. “I don’t know what went wrong or how I can fix it.” He sat quietly for a moment, and then said, “We were so happy. You used to smile and laugh. You used to . . .” His chest ached. His vision went blurry. “Where have you gone?”

  Jessica murmured in her sleep. Barnes recalled the first time he’d heard her do that. He was lying awake in this same bed, back when this same room was undecorated. They had just moved in and didn’t have two nickels to rub together. She’d fallen asleep quickly after an exhausting day, but he found sleep more difficult. He sat up in bed and stared at the blank walls, just that morning painted her choice of terra-cotta red. Some of the paint was still on his hands. He dug at the paint beneath his fingernails, thinking he couldn’t believe his luck. To be with this woman, in this place, starting a life together. He didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve her. As these thoughts passed through his head she murmured in her sleep, just as she had a moment ago. Her words were unintelligible, but she looked happy, and he took it as reassurance that she felt as lucky as he did.

  He wasn’t so sure anymore.

  His mind traveled back to the moment he’d left her in her apartment with all those police officers, the moment after Calavera had attacked. The killer had bound her wrists and ankles and painted her face like a death bride. Barnes saw her before she saw him, and he ran. He was afraid of the pain and misery he had escorted into her life. He was afraid the shit show that was his existence would infect hers, too.

  But she came to him anyway.

  He recalled the moment when she walked up the sidewalk toward his porch while he sat with his jackknife, scraping motor oil from beneath his fingernails. Funny, it seemed like paint in the memory now. That same terra-cotta red. It was the first decent day of spring and the air was still cold, though the sun warmed his skin. She approached with trepidation, her purse over her shoulder and tucked defensively high. She sat down next to him. He’d looked over and smiled.

  She said, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She’d rummaged through her purse and produced a pregnancy test, smiled uneasily, and showed it to him. “Two lines means we’re a family.”

  “She would be happier without you.” The familiar voice.

  “Why?”

  “She doesn’t love you.”

  Barnes looked at Jessica, innocent in sleep, her hands tucked up beneath the pillow, her hair flowing back. As beautiful as she was on that first day of spring, and these days just as cold. Had her trepidation ever faded? Had she ever really believed in what they had?

  “Shhh.”

  He placed the divorce papers on the nightstand, left the bedroom, and went down the stairs into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and went out onto the porch. He sat down on the steps and hung his head, the beer held loosely in his right hand, dangling in the space between his legs.

  His phone rang.

  Barnes set down the beer and picked up the phone.

  UNKNOWN.

  He connected the call and said, “Hello, Leo.”

  “Aw,” Leo said. “No more. Shadow?”

  “I’m going to find you.”

  “That’s the same thing. Flaherty said. You’re retracing. His steps, you know? So much easier. To just hook in. And ride his memories.”

  Barnes said nothing.

  “What time. Is it?”

  Barnes checked his watch. “Eleven a.m.”

  “You have. Until midnight.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I carve. Flaherty’s face. Think he’d look good. As Eddie Able?”

  The line went dead.

  Barnes dialed Franklin.

  “Where you at?” Franklin said.

  “You got an address for Leo or what?” Barnes said.

  “That’s the least of your worries right now.”

  “What�
�s that supposed to mean?”

  “Got an anonymous call,” Franklin said. “Some guy claims a cop showed up at his place, waving a gun around. Says you were trying to buy serum in Machine City.”

  Barnes offered no reply.

  “You can’t go around threatening people like that.”

  “So arrest me.”

  “I might.”

  “Look,” Barnes said, “we don’t have time to screw around. Leo just gave me a deadline. If we don’t find Flaherty by midnight, he’s dead. If this guy’s got Little Cher, she may be dead, too.”

  “This guy that called from Machine City,” Franklin said, “he sounded stressed.”

  “He’s a heroin junkie,” Barnes said. “He pointed a gun at me first by the way.”

  “He said to tell you the shark is in trouble. I guess that means something to you? Something I should know about?”

  “It’s Machine City,” Barnes said. “What does it matter?”

  “All right,” Franklin said. “Meantime, I’m still running a background on this Leo character you’ve found. Leonardo Vance. We got an old address, but he’s moved and left no forwarding. I got someone chasing it down as we speak. There’s something else. This Leo, he’s got a condition called dysarthria. It screws up his ability to speak. That sound like your guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “According to our file,” Franklin said, “he got knocked in the head when he was a kid. Some kids took a disliking to him with stickball bats. It messed up some of his motor functions. His mother, a hooker, dumped him sometime afterward. He was in and out of juvie for a while, no other family. A couple years later, right around the time Leo turned eighteen, his mother was allegedly killed by a john. Near as we can tell, Leo worked some odd jobs after that and then disappeared. The people he worked for say he seemed dumb because of the way he talked but that he was actually smart. They also said they didn’t like having him around. Gave them the willies.”

  “That’d be him.”

  “Meet me at Roosevelt’s at eight p.m. If we can locate him in the meantime, we’ll go get him.”

  Barnes disconnected the call and went back into the house, back upstairs to Richie’s room. The boy was lying in the same position as when Barnes had left him. “Hey, bud,” Barnes said. Richie stirred, opened his eyes. “Grab your shoes. We’re going for a ride.”

  Richie rolled off the bed and jammed his feet into a pair of small white sneakers next to the bed. On the side of each little shoe was a purple pony with rainbow-colored hair. The laces were loose with knots on the end so they wouldn’t unravel. Richie pulled up the tongues, snatched a red jacket from a brass hook, and slid it on. “Where we going?”

  “Gotta give your mom some time to sleep it off,” Barnes said. “Can’t leave you on your own.”

  “I can handle myself,” Richie said.

  Barnes smiled. “I know you can. Let’s go anyway. We’ll pick up a treat.”

  The kid’s eyes brightened.

  Barnes left a note on the kitchen table:

  Jess,

  Richie’s with me. Went out for ice cream. We’ll be back soon.

  Love,

  John

  22

  After a swing by Handi-Ice to pick up a mint chocolate chip sugar cone, Barnes pulled up to a curb in Brush Park.

  “Why are we stopping?” Richie said between licks. He had worked the ice cream into a globe by rotating it across his tongue.

  “Oh, you know,” Barnes said, peeking through the windshield at the row housing unit on the other side of the street. Jessica’s old apartment. “Just reminiscing.”

  “What’s ‘reminiscing’ mean?”

  “Remembering the past.”

  Richie looked out the window, looked up and down the street. It was noon, but the sky was overcast and everything that might be bright was muted. A middle-aged woman walked a Boston terrier on a leash. She wore a high school girl’s outfit and pigtails in the fashion of a Brittanian. The dog scampered back and forth excitedly, testing the limits of the chain.

  “Why here?” Richie asked.

  Barnes pointed out the window. “Your mom used to live right there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Cool!”

  Barnes fell into a trance staring at Jessica’s old home. He’d loved her before he’d even met her, loved her from within Dale Wilson’s memory, the janitor she passed in the halls of the elementary school at which she taught. Love by proxy, like loving a movie actress or a model. A silly thing until somehow that love is made real. She was a spirit to him, someone who filled him with light. Being with her was like being in an exotic place where things looked different, sounded different, smelled different. He couldn’t stay broken with her, couldn’t stay drunk, couldn’t stay a munky. The fight to push out the voices was a fight to keep her love. There had been shouting matches within his mind, confusion and anger. He sometimes found himself coming into consciousness in unfamiliar places, waking up while walking, maybe in a mall, down an alley, out of a coffee shop. The surreal nature of his experiences led to madness. There were punched mirrors and bandaged hands, entire nights of sobbing in the corner, and daily screaming fits before, finally, recovery. The voices silenced. He’d won. He’d done the best he could. He was a good husband and father. He’d proved himself worthy of salvation.

  What went wrong?

  A man walked out the front of Jessica’s old brownstone. Barnes focused on him and then pulled back when he noted Dr. Hill’s limp and horsehead cane. “What the fuck?”

  “Da-ad,” Richie chided. “No cussing.”

  “Sorry,” Barnes said, eyes on Dr. Hill as he moved down the sidewalk and managed his way into a car. The brake lights lit up as he started the engine and pulled into the flow of traffic.

  “Where are we going now?” Richie said.

  “Just gonna drive around for a bit, Dynamite,” Barnes said.

  Richie smiled. “Sure thing, Hurricane.”

  They tailed Dr. Hill as he made his way through the city. He started making illogical turns and backtracking, clearly aware they were on him. Eventually he turned into an empty parking lot in front of a shuttered Kmart. Barnes pulled past the lot and turned around at the next light, drove back. Dr. Hill had driven out into the center of the lot and parked his car. He was leaning against the back bumper with his arms folded, cane at his side.

  Barnes turned into the lot and accelerated.

  “What are we doing?” Richie said.

  “Just settling a score,” Barnes said. He stopped the car short of Dr. Hill’s position and threw it into park. “Stay in the truck, okay?”

  Richie nodded.

  “You’re pure crap at tailing,” Dr. Hill said as Barnes got out of the cab. “Saw you the whole way.”

  Barnes closed the truck door and looked back to make sure the windows were up. He turned back to Dr. Hill. “You and I need to talk.”

  Dr. Hill smiled. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”

  “It’s not that kind of talk.”

  “Oh. Is it the kind of talk where I should ‘put up my dukes’?” Dr. Hill brought up his fists and mimicked a boxer’s dance while still leaning against the car. He threw a couple of jabs at the air.

  “Kick his fuckin’ ass.” The familiar voice.

  “Shhh.”

  “She’s my wife,” Barnes said.

  Dr. Hill turned his head. “Huh?”

  “Jessica,” Barnes said. “Stay away from her.”

  Dr. Hill’s face went pale, and then red. He closed his eyes and took a second to compose himself. A shamed smile came to his face. “How did you find out?”

  Barnes tapped his temple. “The machine,” he said. “Flaherty was onto you and this Madrox Project.”

  Dr. Hill nodded. “Suspected I was the mastermind behind it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, he was right.” He turned up his hands at his sides.

  “
The Madrox Project,” Barnes said. “What is it?”

  “It’s not good for you to know.”

  “It’s less good for you not to tell me,” Barnes said.

  Dr. Hill smirked. “Okay. You’re aware that Flaherty reopened the Eddie Able case?”

  Barnes nodded.

  “Being inside Franklin made him curious. He pulled the old files on Tyrell Diggs, found out he was involved with an unsolved case from thirty years ago. Still with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Case had gone cold,” Dr. Hill said, “but not for lack of trying. This guy, he was just too good. No one could catch up with him, even though he’s been at it for, what, thirty years? We started looking for alternative ways to nail him.”

  “And that’s where you came in, huh?” Barnes said.

  “You could say that.”

  “For what?”

  “That’s confidential,” Dr. Hill said.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all you get to know.”

  “No,” Barnes said. “I need more.”

  Dr. Hill shrugged.

  Barnes looked at the cane near Dr. Hill’s leg. “How about I knock that cane over your head a few times. Will that help?”

  “You’re gonna attack me in front of your kid?”

  Barnes looked sidelong at the truck, Richie inside. “What were you doing at my wife’s old apartment just now?”

  “A little girl’s life is at stake,” Dr. Hill said. “An eyewitness has come forward, saying they saw an old-style police cruiser in the neighborhood on the day Little Cher was taken.”

  “Like Diggs,” Barnes said.

  “Just like Diggs.”

  “Only Diggs ain’t around anymore,” Barnes said, “thanks to Detective Franklin.”

  “Seems our guy may be operating on his own now. Little Cher’s a celebrity, which means we’re getting public pressure to put the witness on the machine. In this case we absolutely would, but we don’t have one.”

  “What does this have to do with my wife’s old apartment?”

  “Nothing,” Dr. Hill said. “It’s just this situation is more important than that, and we need you focused on what matters most.”

  “Little Cher,” Barnes said.

  “And Flaherty.”

  “Eddie Able.”

  Dr. Hill nodded. “We believe he’s been selling his memories to select buyers on the Echo Ring, sick-minded people who love that sort of thing. We’re fairly certain Flaherty entrapped him, found the location of the machine he used, and tracked that down, too, but—”