He had just gotten into his car and ducked down as the two agents exited the building and got into their van.
He watched as the van moved off and disappeared around the corner and then quickly got out of his car and rushed back up the four flights of stairs.
Stringer smiled as he easily picked the lock of the apartment and quietly entered. He crinkled his nose against the overwhelming stench of mould and half eaten food scraps that littered the floor.
He noticed that the dwelling had been recently occupied as the kettle was still slightly warm. He moved towards the single bedroom and saw the blood stained sheets and the evidence of vomit. It was then that he saw the note.
The handwriting was shaky but the information was priceless. He smiled when he read the contents.
The boy is at his Grand Mother’s house, excellent, he thought as he memorised the address and then crumpled up the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.
He tapped the side of his head and accessed the part of his neural net which he used to access this world’s internet which was much cruder than his own world but useful nonetheless.
He thought of the address and the Washington city map materialised in his peripheral vision. The woman’s Mother’s home showed up as a pulsating red blip. Stringer smiled.
Excellent, only a few blocks away!
Eighteen
It had taken a thorough search through some of Baxter’s boxes of knick knacks and assorted crap to find the exact outfit that he required to pull off his disguise as a drifter.
He was annoyed that the FBI had been dragging their feet on funding his team. He suspected that the DD had been behind the whole thing and as a result he had very little money to utilise for investigations He knew of other teams that had all of the latest ‘techo’ equipment.
Fuck the DD – we don’t need gimmicks to solve our cases, Baxter thought and he grimaced as the cold of the dark alley seeped in through his old clothes.
The torn jacket and baggy pants offered little resistance to the slashing gusts that swept through the neighbourhood as a grim reminder that winter, ‘the killing season,’ was just around the corner.
He walked hunched over the rusty shopping trolley and mumbled to himself as he walked. To an outsider he was just another homeless statistic.
He spied the glow of a bin fire at the end of the alley and slowly made his way towards the small group that had gathered around it.
He nodded at each of the pitiful figures as he left his trolley near a pile of rubbish and moved towards the bin.
He swallowed hard to control a coughing fit as the acrid stench of whatever was burning bore into his nasal passages, causing a gleam of tears appear at the corner of his eyes.
He brushed his hand across them and tried to make eye contact with one of the homeless. He was met with instant anger.
“What the fuck are you lookin at?”
Baxter instantly looked away and began mumbling louder. He stopped when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder and saw another filthy hand thrust a crumpled brown paper bag in front of him.
He recoiled slightly from the stench of whatever the bag contained. He pushed the hand away and looked into the eyes of the owner of the bag who was standing to the right of him.
“No thank you, I’m not hungry,” he said with a hint of disgust in his voice and realised as soon as he said it that the words may have sounded strange to these people.
“You’re not from round here are ya f. . f. . fella?”
The voice was gruff and said with a stuttering wheeze. Baxter knew that the old timer that had offered the bag was probably looking at his last winter on the streets. He softened his voice as he spoke.
“No, I’m not,” he said and pulled a small flask of whiskey from his pocket and offered it to the old man who quickly grabbed the flask and took a swig from it and passed to back to Baxter.
After putting the flask back inside his jacket he stared into the flames of the fire as he rubbed his hands together to warm them. He spoke calmly to no one in particular.
“I’ve ’eard that strange things ’ave been goin on round ’ere,” he said trying his best to mimic the style of the homeless.
He could see the surreptitious glances among the group as if he had dared to discuss a taboo subject.
Finally the self appointed leader of the group, who happened to be the same one that had snapped at him previously, spoke up.
“We aint seen nuttin’ mister. Now you just take your trolley and fuck off to wherever ya came from ya hear,”
Baxter could feel his temper rising, he clenched his fists and leant towards the leader.
“I’ll leave when I’m good ’n ready, ya hear. You don’t own this fire,”
Baxter spat the words and shook his fist at the leader as he moved towards him. As he stepped forward he again felt the hand on his shoulder and the gruff voice behind him.
“N…N…Now h…h…hang on Charlie, this f…f…fella seems ’armless, why do ya ’ave to be so darn opstropalous all the d…d…darn time?”
Baxter stopped moving forward as he awaited the leader’s reply to the old man’s query.
“If you love this prick so much Gummy you can fuck off wid ’im, then there’ll be more fire for the rest of us.”
Baxter could feel the force of the old man’s hand on his shoulder dragging him back from the fire and the group.
“C…C…Come on we’ll go and find our own f…f…fire,” the old man said as he let go of Baxter’s shoulder and started pushing his trolley up the alley.
Baxter hesitated, unsure whether to leave the group before he could get any answers. His decision was made for him when the old man said the magic words.
“C…C…Come with me, I’ll tell ya all about the strange stuff that’s bin ’appening.”
“Yeah go on Gummy, fuck off. Ya gunna be the next one to be disappearin’ anyways,” Charlie screamed after them as the old man and Baxter moved away from the warmth of the fire and back into the misery of the stinking, dank, dark alley.
Baxter followed the old man as he sauntered up the alley and turned right down a narrower alley way that was lit intermittently by the dull red glow of an intersection stoplight which was a block away.
Gummy’s humble abode was tucked in behind two large industrial bins.
The confined space was littered with rubbish and piles of old newspapers. A tattered blanket lay on the ground atop several layers of cardboard.
Baxter watched as Gummy hurriedly moved around some of the rubbish and gestured for Baxter to sit down with him.
Baxter groaned as he lowered himself to the ground and looked around at the man-made cave that Gummy had provided himself with, in a pathetic attempt to survive.
He felt a twinge of guilt when he realised that, before now he had never even spared a thought for the plight of the many homeless people that inhabited the same city that he had lived in. He felt like he had somehow been transported to a third world country.
But this isn’t supposed to be a third world country. . . we’re supposed to be a super power for fuck sake, Baxter thought to himself as he self consciously hugged his knees and peered into the pained expression of his companion who had finished fussing and now looked expectantly at Baxter who was the first to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Gummy, is that your name?” He asked as he raised his eyebrows.
“That’s what they…c…c…call me,” he said as he flashed a wide toothless grin, instantly confirming Baxter’s suspicion of how he would have gained that dubious nick name. Baxter held out his hand.
“Hello Gummy, they call me Derek,” he said as he shook the old man’s frail, cold and bony hand.
“N…N…Nice to meet ya…I’m real sorry ’bout Charlie. He’s a darn h h hot head. He’s a vet you know. He got shot up real bad in Iraq.”
“Oh I see,” Baxter said as he took his hand back from Gummy and resisted the urge to wipe it on his jacket.
“Now, t
ell me Gummy, what’s been going on? Can you tell me what you know about the disappearances?”
He could see a queer expression flash over the old man’s face and he suddenly realised that he had dropped his street person affectation and probably sounded a lot like a police officer.
He quickly pulled the flask out of his pocket and offered it to the old man. This action prompted the right response as the old man greedily grabbed the flask and took another long swig from it and flashed his toothless grin again as he went to hand the flask back.
Baxter saw the pathetic look in the old man’s eyes. He slowly shook his head and pushed the flask back at him as he spoke quietly.
“No Gummy, you can keep it if you tell me everything,” he said as he slumped back on his elbows on the cold cardboard.
He smiled at the old man who had taken yet another longer swig from the flask and then roughly wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
He heard him belch loudly as he quickly put the top back on the flask before stuffing it inside his coat pocket for safe keeping.
He then took a deep breath and looked at Baxter, a serious expression washed across his face as he spoke.
“I’ll tell ya everythin I know,” he said as he leant forward and began a desperate hacking coughing fit.
When he had finally finished coughing he hacked up a wad of bloodied phlegm and spat it into the gap behind the nearest industrial bin. Baxter could see the haunted look on the old man’s face as he spoke.
“I aint got long to go ya know. I’ve been on these streets for nearly t…t…ten years. I’ve s…s…seen sum s…s…stuff…ya know what I mean?” he said, his voice softer as he nervously looked around as if he was expecting someone or some ‘thing’ to jump out of the dark at them.
Baxter offered no response to allow the old man to continue talking. He found the stutter to be really annoying but knew from experience that usually people who stuttered got a lot worse when pressured.
He decided the best option would be to try and make the interrogation as relaxed as possible. He hoped that the whiskey flask would help. The old man continued.
“There used to be a lot more of us out here. A lot of m..me m..mates have just up and d..d..disappeared. I think the r..r…reapers t..t..took ’em.”
Baxter could feel the anger and frustration begin to well up. He took a deep breath before responding.
“What do you mean old man? Are you talking about the Grim Reaper?”
“I aint no nut job, these reapers d..d..drive a van,” Gummy yelled as he stood up and swayed unsteadily on his feet.
Baxter noticed that anger suppressed the old man’s stuttering. He decided to use it to his advantage.
“I think the booze has scrambled your brain old man,” he said as he looked up at Gummy who swaggered unsteadily.
Baxter pointed to the side of his head and made the insanity gesture with his hands. He could tell that the gesture prompted an instant angry response.
“Now listen ’ere fella, I saw them two reaper fellas in the black van take poor old Joe and some kid a few nights ago,” Gummy said loudly as he pointed his bony index finger at Baxter’s face.
Baxter raised an eyebrow and sat up.
“You saw them take a child?”
“Yup, I stayed in the dark, I aint no hero, they’re not gettin’ me. I’m too smart for ’em,” he slurred his words slightly.
A guilty expression swept across the old man’s face as he pulled out the flask and took another swig, allowing some of the fluid to run through his scruffy grey beard. He staggered slightly and promptly slumped down onto a pile of newspapers.
He hung his head as if the feeling of shame made it too heavy to lift and the mixture of hunger and fatigue, combined with the alcohol, had finally overcome him.
Gummy unceremoniously collapsed flat on his back on the tattered cardboard. Baxter heard the old man softly mumble, “I’m sorry Joe.”
He rolled onto his side away from Baxter. He was snoring loudly within minutes. Baxter leant over closer to the prone figure and shook him gently by the shoulders.
“Gummy, don’t fall asleep I need to know more about this kid,” but he could tell the gesture was futile; the old man was practically unconscious.
After a couple more attempts at prompting a response from the old man, Baxter finally gave up and laid down on his piece of cardboard.
As he lay on the cold ground he squinted at the night sky, there were no stars. He supposed that any light from the stars would be blocked by the light pollution of the city lighting.
He listened quietly to the rhythmic snoring of the old man combining with the rumble of night traffic several blocks away.
He decided that he would let the old man sleep for awhile and then ask him some more questions when he was conscious and had sobered up a bit.
He did not want to leave the old man and risk the possibility of losing a lead. He decided that he may as well stay where he was.
He smiled and pictured Durning’s smug features in his mind.
E. T’s! Ha! What a crock of shit! I knew there was a more ‘Earthly’ reason.
Maybe these ‘reapers’ might pay me a visit – I’d really like to have a chat with them, he thought as he pulled some old papers up over his legs and huddled further down into his jacket collar to ward off the chill that seemed to be increasing as the night grew longer.
As he lay still under the paper, he thought of the horrific murders of Edward Stringer’s parents and then he thought about the boy, Justen.
Was the child that Gummy saw, Justen? Where is the Mother? Why are the homeless being taken? What is the link to the Senator’s murder?
The string of unanswered questions triggered a cascade of thoughts that led Baxter into a series of bizarre dreams.
* * *
It was much later that night when the sound of a metal sliding door closing, merged seamlessly into one of Baxter’s dreams.
He was then dragged out of a sleeping state by the feel of someone’s hand clamping something cold and wet over his face.
He reacted immediately and started shaking his head and fighting as hard as he could against his assailant.
Whatever substance the rag had been soaked in, was stinging his eyes, forcing him to close them tightly. He was blind.
Suddenly, he felt as if his head was being held down by some tremendous force. At the same time he could feel hands grab hold of his legs, the rough fingernails digging deeply into his flesh.
His attempt to scream was stifled by the wet rag that was also threatening to obstruct his breathing. He thrashed his body around as much as he could in an attempt to dislodge his attackers.
“Hold him still Judas, we need to knock him out and get ’im to the van,” the first attacker said as he punched Baxter in the back of the head and thrust the rag harder over Baxter’s mouth and nose.
Baxter started to become light headed, the fight draining out of him as the effects of the Suprane kicked in.
He wanted desperately to scream, “I’m FBI! You arseholes are under arrest. . .” but they were only words that formed in his mind and quickly faded. He could feel that one of the attackers was searching his pockets.
“Well looky here, this one’s carrying pills. I’ll keep them safe for ya,” the attacker said as he chuckled. “Ya not gonna need um where you’re going.”
Baxter drifted in and out of consciousness as he felt his limp body being man-handled and dragged toward the attacker’s van.
He could just make out the conversation of his attackers as they tied his hands and feet and then threw him headlong into the back of the van.
“What about the old guy? Won’t the Doc get angry if we leave witnesses?”
“Don’t worry about the old man, he won’t be sayin’ nuttin’”
“You sure?”
“Yeah I’m sure; he’s cold like an iceberg. The old man’s dead, Doc don’t want any corpses ok. Now shut up, get in and let’s get the hell
out of this dump.”
The news of the old man’s death was the last piece of information to filter through Baxter’s anaesthetised haze before his world faded into darkness.
Nineteen
Gloria Peters had a secret.
She was going to kill her boyfriend.
She despised him. The fact that she had caught him with Sylvan was the last straw. She was going to put an end to his miserable life and then she was going to kill herself.
She took another large gulp of the whiskey as she sharpened the knife. Tears streamed down her face when she thought of the abuse that she had put up with over the previous months.
She wanted him to pay.
In the beginning of the relationship, his little habits seemed charming. She was able to overlook the drinking and gambling. She was even able to overlook the fact that the fat arsehole was a complete and utter slob.
They had only been seeing each other for eight months. She had met Burt at a bar.
He was adorable at first. She loved the lustful way that he would wink at her and nuzzle her neck as he rubbed his hand over her arse. She loved the attention.
It was after the initial ‘honeymoon’ phase when Gloria noticed subtle changes in Burt’s behaviour.
He had come home drunk one day and as he groaned loudly he collapsed onto the couch and announced in a loud slurring voice that he had retired. Gloria immediately saw red.
“Retired! Retired from what? You don’t work. Have you won the lottery or something?”
“Nup! I ’ave decided that I’m gonna stay home and look after Sylvan and her brat. Besides, I worked six years part time. I’ve earned my retirement.”
“Is that so? And what are we going to eat? Do you expect me to go out and bring home the money to feed you and that little bitch and her bastard kid?
You can just go and fuck off, I’m not working to support you lot.”
She was taken completely by surprise when Burt heaved himself off the couch and in one swift movement had made his way across the room and had back handed her hard across the face, causing her to lose balance. She collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor.
The Immortal Harvest Page 13