NANOVISION: What Would You Do With X-ray Vision?

by Paul Harry

  NANOVISION

  By

  Paul T Harry

  © MMVIII Sphere Publishing, LLC

  To Tyler,

  May you find Serenity

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental or hypothetical.

  This book may not be copied, reproduced, scanned, or replicated by any means without written permission.

  Desert Portal Books

  All rights reserved

  © MMVIII Paul T Harry

  © 2014 Sphere Publishing, LLC

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilog

  Chapter 1

  Once Upon A Shitty Day

  The school bus rolled along the dirt road churning up dust in the hot, dry air. It was late May, the last day of school for the Trojans, the students of Pahrump Valley High. Coming to a stop with red lights flashing, the doors of the bus flew open, giving egress to two young, but eager students who bounced down the steps with backpacks in hand. With a sense of newfound freedom the two boys, Daniel Raye and Zac Walker, jumped enthusiastically from the steps, landing in the soft dirt that powdered the road’s edge. It was officially summer vacation, their school year at an end. As the bus rambled by, the two teens waved goodbye to the few friends who remained aboard, yelling taunts and farewells to their classmates; laughing at those still stuck inside the hot yellow cage of Nye County’s school transport system. The bus faded into the distance.

  “Hal-a-loo-yah” shouted Zac, throwing his backpack into the air. “We’re finally free.” He slapped Daniel on the arm and scooted across the dirt road.

  Daniel nodded silently and followed Zac, hoisting his backpack onto his back. God, it was hot. He glanced up and looked at the heat waves rippling across the desert floor and the alfalfa fields that lay beyond. It wasn’t officially summer yet and things were already drying up.

  The two boys headed across the desert, their footsteps meandering through the sagebrush and weeds that peppered the terrain around them. As they walked, Zac began to dance around Daniel like a hummingbird, chirping away as he spoke. “God, it’s over. Can you believe it?” The exuberant fourteen-year-old threw his backpack again, kicking it as it landed in the dirt. “Yeah, three months to par-tay!”

  Daniel smiled and said nothing. The weight of the moment, the school year being over, was just beginning to sink in. It was a dismal thought. He was facing a long, hot, dismal summer, unless he could get a job.

  “So what-cha gonna do over the summer?” queried Zac.

  Daniel scratched his chin. At sixteen he was just beginning to get a beard. He hoped it would help hide his zits. “I gotta get a job,” he finally responded. “Got an app in at the Nugget−bus boy.”

  “Sweet.”

  “Yeah, I think the woman who interviewed me kinda liked me. She said she’d let me know. I just need some money for the black and whites.”

  “How much yah need?” asked Zac.

  “Not much. I saw some at Goodwill. They were pretty cheap.”

  “I could lend you a few bucks,” offered Zac. “You know, I’ve been savin’ for that dirt bike.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t take your money.”

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you sell me your comic collection?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Daniel sighed. “My Dad hocked ‘em.”

  Surprised by the revelation, Zac stopped dead in his tracks. “What???”

  “Yeah, surprise, surprise.”

  “All of ‘em?”

  Daniel nodded his head. “Yeah, everything... Fantastic Four, Spiderman, the Hulk. He took ‘em and sold ‘em at some store in Vegas, then placed a bet on the Lakers.”

  Zac shook his head in disbelief. “That really sucks.”

  “Ya-think?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Daniel, kicking the sand at his feet. “Maybe talk with old man Walters... see if I can pick up a few bucks cleaning his yard.”

  “I hear yah. Listen... My old man’s got some black and whites hanging in the closet. He’s gotten too fat for ‘em. I could talk to my Mom. She might be able to take ‘em in. If that’d help?”

  Daniel smiled. “Thanks.”

  In spite of everything, Zac was a good friend. He sometimes drove Daniel nuts, but he didn’t judge, even though his family had money. Then again, everyone Daniel knew had money. Mostly he blamed his father for that. The man had a major gambling problem, spending every last dime chasing the dream. His mother, well, she had died a long time ago−that’s how they ended up out here in Pahrump sixty miles from Vegas. His father swore that it would help control his gambling. What a joke.

  “Hey! Look!” said Zac, interrupting Daniel’s thoughts. “Looks like you’ve got company.”

  Daniel looked up to where Zac was pointing, noting the car parked near his home. It was a big thing, dark and shiny, just sitting there reflecting the sunlight. Daniel peered at it. At this distance he couldn’t make out much, it was too far away and the light coming off it was blinding. He shielded his eyes with his hands to get a better look, brushing aside his shaggy, unkempt hair. It was odd. The car was out of place. They never had company.

  “Come on,” encouraged Zac, jumping ahead of Daniel. “I’ll bet your Dad scored. Maybe he hit really big and bought a new car. Come on, let’s check it out.”

  “No,” responded Daniel, grabbing Zac by the shirt. “You know how my Dad is... sides, he’s never that lucky.”

  “Yeah... you’re right,” acknowledged Zac, his disappointment showing. “Later then.”

  The fourteen-year old turned and headed off for home, his high spirits quickly returning as he scampered through the desert brush like a jackrabbit−he hollered back to Daniel. “Call me and let me know if he won. Okay?”

  “Sure” noted Daniel, with a wave. He waited until Zac was a fair distance off before turning toward his home−the dark car was still sitting there. Who could it be, he wondered? Perhaps Protective Services? Maybe it had something to do with the fight he got into at school last week? He re-adjusted his backpack. Well, there was only one way to find out.

  It took Daniel about five minutes to reach the house−he felt no sense of urgency. Something in his gut told him something was off, but he had nowhere else to go. Besides, aside from the strange car everything looked the same. The place was the usual mess. Debris and litter were strewn everywhere−tumbleweeds the only real vegetation. They were growing everywhere, in the yard, around the house. The ones around the propane tank were huge, over five feet tall already−nearly as tall as him and beginning to turn brown. Now that he was off for the summer his Dad would be after him to get them cleaned up−they were a fire hazard.

  A warm gust of wind hit Daniel in the face, breaking his contemplation. His attention was drawn to the back of the house where he noted the open windows and the curtains fluttering in the breeze. Was the swamp cooler on? He couldn’t imagine that, he hadn’t had time to clean it yet. He made a mental note to get up early and get it done before it got too hot.

  The dark car was parked about twenty feet from the side of the house, not far from his dad’s beat up Volksw
agen. It was a Chevy Impala, brand new, but covered with a layer of dust. Daniel ran his fingers across the trunk, leaving streaks in the white soot. The windows were tinted and too dark to see through. Mystified, he wondered−Who, did this belong to?

  Sometimes you really don’t want to know the answer to your questions and this was one of those cases. Just as Daniel finished his thought, he heard a voice coming from the house. It was garbled, but loud and hostile sounding. All he heard was “fuckin’ money,” followed by a loud crash.

  Bolting for the house, Daniel ran around the corner to the front door. He jerked it open and flew inside, assured in his mind something bad had just happened. Unfortunately his assumption was correct, but before he could find out what, he was grabbed from behind. The hands that assaulted him were large and muscular, and he was thrown to the floor like a featherweight wrestler in a heavyweight bout. Landing face first on the linoleum, Daniel struggled for breath as his assailant stomped him on the back, knocking the wind out of him. Fighting desperately for air, he was jerked up by the hair and slammed into the wall, the impact breaking his nose. Blood ran down his face as his head spun madly.

  “Bring the little piss-ant in ‘ere,” he heard a voice say.

  Daniel felt two sets of hands grab him. They whisked him off his feet like a rag doll and strong-armed him toward the kitchen, where they threw him to the floor like trash. He collapsed there in a heap, panting like a dog as he struggled to get his bearings. Looking up, he saw his father, Steven Raye, sitting in a chair not more than two feet away. He was bound with rope and unconscious−beaten to a bloody pulp, and there was a man hovering over him with a knife in his hand.

  “Who a-a-are y-y-you? What d-d-d-o-o yah wa-nt?” Daniel managed to stutter, spitting blood with each syllable.

  “Shut-up punk!” a voice yelled from behind−a hard, pointy-tipped shoe kicking him in the side. Daniel felt his ribs give way and a jolt of searing pain shoot through his body. He rolled into a fetal position, holding his stomach, crying and coughing in agony.

  “Tie ‘im up,” ordered the one with the knife.

  Daniel felt the hands of the two thugs grab him. They picked him up and slammed him into a chair, tying him with a thin, nylon cord. He watched fearfully as they worked the rope around his chest and arms. Both men were gorillas, violent and intimidating in every sense of the word and Daniel was scared shitless.

  “Make shoore the knots are tight,” ordered the one in charge.

  Daniel looked at the man speaking. He was the boss−an ugly man with a weasel-like face, yellow teeth, and beady brown eyes. Uglier still was his long mangy hair and the scar that ran all the way down his right cheek. His was a face out of a nightmare.

  Unknowingly, Daniel was face to face with Mickey, ‘the Spoon’, mob enforcer for Benny Marcos and the Chicago syndicate. The ‘spoon’ handle came from Mickey’s ravenous appetite for cocaine. The other two henchmen with him were Sid and Bruno, two burly Italians who provided Mickey the backup muscle he needed to enforce his illegal endeavors. Right now they were finishing with Daniel, making sure he was unable to move.

  Mickey looked Daniel over. “So whut’s yur name, piss-ant? This ye fada?”

  Daniel looked at the ugly man, noting his accent. It was thick and heavy, and gnarled like the man’s face. What did you call it−a brogue? English maybe−no, Scottish, like that dude on Star Trek.

  “Aye be talkin’ tae ye punk,” Mickey snapped, the glare in his eye matching the vicious slap he handed Daniel.

  Daniel winced and nodded weakly. “My name’s Daniel. That’s my Dad.”

  He glanced at his father. He was still unconscious, his head drooping down with blood splattered all over his chest. Daniel could see they’d beaten him good−he almost didn’t recognize him.

  “What do you want?” asked Daniel feebly.

  Snickering, Mickey walked around Daniel. “Aye that’s whut aye like. A boy who kums right tae the point. Aye’ve kum for me money piss-ant.”

  “What money? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Korse not...” Mickey feigned innocently. “...why wood yur? Aye mean, whut the fock, ‘e’s only yur god-damn fada. A complete stranger ‘ere in yur own hoose.”

  His face only inches away, Mickey yelled at the boy, “Aye’m looking for the fockin’ money yur potata-rat fada stole from me boss, boy! And aye mean tae ‘ave it.”

  Shaken to the core, Daniel reiterated his ignorance. “I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Fock me,” swore Mickey, thrumming the knife against his open palm. “Listen, piss-ant,” he threatened, “yur fada ‘ere ‘e wuz given a job−a simple job. Deliver ten grand from won place to anoth-a. But ‘e never shooed. And now we’ve ‘ad tae kum all the way oout ‘ere, to this ‘ell ‘ole tae find where our money is. And me boss, ‘e’s a little pissed.”

  Daniel snorted in disbelief. “You gave my father ten grand? God, what?... Are you fuckin’ stupid?”

  The smart-ass comment brought an unwanted response−a fist to his face from Sid. The henchman’s blow cracked Daniel’s jaw and shattered several teeth. Daniel felt his head snap back and stars swirl−he spat more blood.

  Mickey sighed; he didn’t like what he was hearing. Leaning against the stove he studied Daniel.

  “Listen laddie,” he offered in consolation. “There’s sumthin’ ye better fockin’ kum tae understand. Aye ken be nice as ‘ell or aye ken be fockin’ Freddy Krueger, the guy who’s gonna cut off yur fockin’ balls and watch ye piss blood. Now whut’s it gonna be?”

  Daniel couldn’t answer. His head was still reeling from the blow to his jaw. He could barely understand what Mickey was saying, much less respond, and he felt sick from all the blood in his mouth. It was gagging him−he spit again.

  Mickey shrugged, enjoying the boy’s pain−after all; he had all the time in the world. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a small tin box filled with coke. Dipping his blade, Mickey placed a good size mound on the tip of the knife. Then, with an almost religious zeal he snorted the powder, relishing the rush that followed. His eyes began to vacillate and a look of madness set in.

  “So teel me boy, ‘ow we gonna tae settle this?” He wiped the coke residue from his nose and licked his fingers. “You gonna give me me money?”

  Daniel shook his head. “I’ve told you. I don’t know anything ‘bout any money.”

  “Fine, laddie, ‘ave it yur way.”

  Mickey shot Sid and Bruno a look. They knew what to do. The two henchmen grabbed Daniel’s chair and spun him around so he faced his father. Tears welled in the boy’s eyes as he took in his Dad−he noted his shallow breath. It was raspy and faint, and there was thick, reddish drool dripping from his lips.

  Mickey got in his ear. “See me knife, boy?” He taunted Daniel, showing off the blade. “Aye sharpen it ev’ry day ‘til it’s razor sharp. Aye even wonce cut the tongue out of a ‘orse and watched it bleed tae death. It ran gushing blood until it dropped.”

  Daniel watched the knife in Mickey’s hand. It almost seemed alive as the hitman raked it back and forth before him. Under the glare of the kitchen light the shiny blade shimmered and flashed like a silver snake, weaving through the air, arcing up and down and in an out as Mickey played the weapon between Daniel and his father.

  “Ever seen a man die, laddie... ‘ave ye?” whispered Mickey

  Daniel shook his head as Mickey brought the blade to his face. He felt the cold steel graze his skin, and a sharp pain as Mickey sliced him on the cheek. Tears rolled from his eyes mixing with the blood, stinging the wound. Coked out of his mind, Mickey reveled with sadistic pleasure. He wiped the knife on Daniel’s pants.

  “Are ye ready tae talk now?” he asked the boy.

  Daniel nodded, the words of his response choking in his throat.

  “That’s a guid lad,” Mickey consoled, standing before him. “Now teel me. Teel me where the money is and aye won’t ‘ave tae kill ye fada i
n front of yah.”

  Daniel’s voice was soft and meek as he began to plead for his father’s life. “We don’t have it,” he said. “My father’s a sick man. He’s got a gambling problem, but we can get you your money. I promise. We can pay you back.”

  Stunned by the lunacy of the offer, Mickey was taken aback. “Now ‘ow yah gonna do that, laddie?” he asked, incredulously. “Ya gonna sell off all yur fine furnishings ‘ere? Look around, boy−thar’s nothing ‘ere but crap−pure garbage. Me own dog’s got more to offer.”

  To Daniel’s dismay, Sid and Bruno began to laugh and smirk, leaving the boy to feel even more hopeless. Still, he continued to plead.

  “I’m begging you,” he appealed to the thugs. “Please don’t hurt him. We’ll get your money somehow−I promise.”

  “Fock yah and yur potata rat fada,” responded Mickey. “Aye’ll show yah ‘ow we deal with stealin’ scum.”

  He then began to pummel Daniel’s father with his fists, beating the man with blows to the eyes, nose, and cheeks. More blood flowed from his unconscious victim.

  In total desperation Daniel screamed at the madman. “STOP!!! STOP IT! Please. He can’t hear you. He can’t answer. He can’t give you what he doesn’t have.”

  Daniel broke down. Sobs wracked his body.

  Out of breath, Mickey stopped. He wiped his brow and grunted, wiping the blood from his fists as he glared at the whimpering boy who held no solution. Rancorous beyond reason, Mickey returned his attention to Steven Raye, belching out a final offer through dry, spittle-caked lips.

  “Stevie, lad. This is yur last chance. Teel me now where me fockin’ money is and aye might just let yah die peacefully.”

  There was no response from Steven Raye.

  “Fock yah, then.”

  The game was over and Mickey knew it. The money he’d given to Steven was long gone and he’s been pissin’ in the wind long enough. There was nothing left to do except exact revenge−aye, retribution demanded that he retaliate and remove all the evidence. Calling Sid and Bruno over, Mickey ordered them to secure the house.