Atmosphere

by Michael Laimo

  Bobby closed his eyes as the appendage performed its work, allowing himself to be encroached upon until it finally drew back. When he opened his eyes, the slithering appendage had latched itself onto one of the tubular spines jutting from the surface of the Atmosphere. It abruptly tore the object from his grasp, the sharp friction of the rapid action setting abrasions into his skin. He brought his pained hands to his face, bathing his wounds in his sweat, watching as the appendage swiftly whipped itself around the Atmosphere like a snake suffocating its prey. Wave-like ripples soon ran through the appendage back into the tunnel from where it came.

  As quickly and as hastily as it attacked the Atmosphere, it whipped away and detached itself, like a string from a spinning top, leaving the piece whirling in the dirt at Bobby's feet, spraying up droplets of mud. Bobby leaned forward and retrieved it, his sights glued to the retreating appendage.

  To the Giver.

  He grabbed the Atmosphere and crawled after the appendage, its pinpoint end whipping up and down, side to side, widening the passage ever so slightly. Mud flew in a shower around Bobby, and he stayed back a bit, however careful to keep the appendage in his sights. The segmented extremity slowed as Bobby yielded, as if to allow the crawling boy to catch up, quickening its pace only when he came near. Blanketed in filth, Bobby followed and followed along each mud-slicked turn, up, down, at intersections, all the way until an end finally came into view: a blue phosphorescent light appearing in the distance like the aura of something ghostly.

  The appendage slipped from the tunnel into the light, its job as follow-the-leader apparently completed. Bobby reached the end and fell six feet onto the floor of a small black room. Coated in muddy filth, he aimed his sights upwards and found himself surrounded by the blue light, a ring of it encircling him like a great halo. Within it the pulse emanated, he felt its power in his veins, and he gratefully accepted its vital offering. At his ankle, the homing device had gone dead, its lights doused.

  "Harbinger, what is your purpose?" The electronic voice startled him, its monotonal shrill daunting. With a similar suddenness, he again perceived a strange yet familiar sensation in his head, and an answer to the query automatically came forth from his lips, the definition clear in his mind. "To seek out Suppliers."

  "Harbinger, what will you do if an Outsider discovers you?"

  "Kill them."

  "Harbinger, what will you do if an Outsider overcomes you, or escapes?"

  "Kill myself."

  "Harbinger, take the unit. Seek out new Suppliers."

  "Yes Giver," he answered automatically, looking down at the Atmosphere in his hand. From the corner of his eye he saw the Giver's appendage slithering back into a hole in the wall—which promptly sealed shut upon its complete withdrawal.

  A light-filled door appeared opposite the hole from where he fell—which itself had mysteriously vanished, all traces of his entrance including the mud he trailed behind gone. He slowly walked through the oscillating door, the hall before him immediately dark and illustrious. He followed its path until he could go no further and reached another hole like the one he had fallen through upon his entrance. It led into a similar dirt tunnel. He crouched down and crawled through, following the passage for a lengthy amount of time until he came to an opening covered by a grate. He stopped momentarily, peering out towards a not too distant cement wall, thick cables tightly laced across its surface. He removed the grate, slid through and jumped down onto a cool soggy path with two parallel iron rails leading in both directions, left and right.

  Subway.

  He walked, going left, two priorities at once consuming his desires.

  "Take the unit, seek out new Suppliers..."

  "Kill the Outsider who discovered you..."

  He thought back, quite clearly now, to the one who interfered, brought him down not too long ago and took him away from the Giver.

  Ballaro.

  In Jaimie's swoon, dreams came and went, each surrealistic episode never lasting beyond a few minutes, or so it seemed. The illusionary worlds within her head encompassed endless seas of faceless people passing by, each and every one ignoring her true existence, brushing her away with quick passes and cold shoulders. She cried and cried, her pleas unanswered, and she spun in circles at the crux of the masses, seeking just a moment's worth of stability, feeling much like an unseen spirit trapped in a world filled only with transient pedestrians on route to nowhere, their primary motivation to ignore her very existence. An unsettling feeling of déjà vu set in, and she tried her best to disregard it, pressing on to her destination unknown.

  This is too easy, Bobby thought, entering the room. It was almost as if his arrival had been expected, and welcomed. Both doors had been open, ajar, granting him access not only to the building, but the apartment where he lived.

  Ballaro.

  And now, this. A woman, lying on her back on the floor, her head tilted to one side, a small puddle of drool leaking from her slackened mouth, staining the carpet. He peered around, cautiously. Furniture. Television. The gentle ticking of a clock in another room. But nothing else. Nothing.

  At her side a knapsack lay open, the contents spilling out. He kneeled next to her, placed the Atmosphere down and grabbed the knapsack by the bottom. He gently tugged, letting everything pour out. Notebooks, textbooks, a hairbrush, a make-up bag, a small wallet. He reached for the wallet and opened in it up, the girl's smiling face greeting him from a small clear window in the wallet.

  Fashion Institute of Technology

  Student ID # 122-66-9856

  Jaimie Ballaro

  DOB 3/17/79

  Bobby smiled. Ballaro. Or the next best thing.

  Suddenly the phone rang. Heart racing, Bobby shot a harried glance at it, but let it go unanswered.

  He then grabbed Jaimie and carried her like a bride from the apartment, leaving a trail of mud behind. He passed the threshold just as the answering machine kicked in.

  Chapter Nineteen

  "Jame, if you're there, pick up..."

  Frank turned and faced Hector, grimacing, the phone caught between his ear and shoulder. The mustachioed captain was seated as his desk, gently tapping his fingers along the edge of the blotter as he waited for his computer to start up. Gloria Rodriguez, upon hearing the men, had risen out of bed and was in the kitchen preparing sandwiches and coffee

  "Jame? Last chance..." The eerie silence at the other end of the phone caused a highly uncomfortable feeling to creep through his body, a feeling clearly brought upon by his weak-rational personality, and even though it wasn't uncommon for his nineteen year-old to spend her weekends out with friends until late hours, his duty of having to worry about her always brought about limitless concerns, had always been the most difficult part of being a parent, and had always forced the submissive third of his personality to the forefront of his demeanor. He smiled weakly at Hector, attempting to mask his parental concerns.

  Hector spun his chair to face him, the computer's modem squelching. "Glad mine are all grown up." He offered a comforting smile, one that plainly said, been there, done that.

  Frank shrugged, feeling defeated, knowing there was really nothing he could do at the moment. He left Jaimie a short message explaining that he was at Hector Rodriguez's home working on 'something', along with the phone number in case he needed to be reached. He then punched his message retrieval code on the keypad. The answering machine beeped and an electronic voice revealed that there were three messages. It beeped again, and then Neil Connor's voice spoke to him through the handset:

  Frank, Neil. Listen, something's up. I got a call at the precinct today from Bobby and Carrie Lindsay's father. Their real father, Jack Lindsay. Lives in California, but you know that already. Anyway, he insisted on speaking to you, said it was urgent. Something about the murder. He sounded really distraught, nervous, said something along the lines that it 'should've come out with the investigation, but it didn't'. I tried to get it out of him, but he kept mum, insisted
on speaking to you. Can't imagine what it is, but it sounds like something big. He left his number, said for you to leave him a message and the number you'll be at, and he'll call you in the morning, first thing. It's 213-555-3467. Give him a buzz, and let me know what's up. Okay?

  Frank pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and jotted the number down on a pad next to the phone. He tore the top piece of paper off and placed it on the end-table next to the couch.

  Before he could surmise as to what it was Jack Lindsay could want, the answerer beeped again. Again, it was Neil, this time in an obvious state of alarm:

  Frank, hold on to your pants, man, 'cause you're gonna shit 'em big time when you hear this. Bobby Lindsay's gone. Escaped. Just got the report. And you ain't gonna believe this. There's a big fucking hole in his bedroom floor, goes right into the ground. Way down too. Unbelievable. Don't know how the hell he did it. They had the whole fucking house surrounded, had him tagged, and he just goes down and out. They've got some guys down in the hole now saying the thing's at least twenty feet deep. You believe this shit? How in God's name did the kid dig a fucking tunnel in his room? Anyway, I hope you get this message soon. And let me know what's going on with the father. Think the guy knew about the escape? Let me know, all right? This has been a fuck of a night. Later.

  Frank nearly dropped the phone, the shock of his partner's message hitting him hard. He held the phone just long enough to hear his own voice talking back to him from the answerer searching for Jaimie before he let it hit the floor. He fell butt-first into the couch, staring off into space, his eyesight blurring the surroundings of the Rodriguez household into a surrealistic Dali-like environment.

  "Frank, you okay? Frank?"

  Frank's shook his head, his vision bringing the blurred images back into focus and finding Hector sitting on the couch next to him. "I just got a message from Neil. I...I don't know where to start..."

  Hector yelled for Gloria to bring a glass of water. She returned in seconds, her pink terrycloth robe bundled around her, sashed at the waist, a tall glass filled with water in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. "The beginning, start at the beginning. What'd he say?"

  Frank took a sip of water, let the icy flow settle in his stomach. It heightened his senses and at once he felt his lucidity returning, enabling him to gather his wits and speak. "Neil called. There were two messages from him. Bobby Lindsay's escaped."

  "What the—"

  "According to Connor, there was a big hole in his bedroom floor. A tunnel."

  Hector's mouth dropped, and he sat back on the couch, the shock of it obviously making its mark on him now. He looked at his wife, who read his expression—an expression she must've seen a thousand times before. She placed the cup of coffee on the end-table next to Frank and quickly exited the room to the kitchen, no questions asked. Hector leaned close to Frank, nearly whispering. "Frank, are you sure?"

  Nodding, Frank said, "Neil's a bit of a baby, overreacts a lot. But he wouldn't exaggerate something like this." Frank leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch, ran a hand through his hair. "You know Hect, he doesn't know about the hole and Gross and all this shit we've been through."

  "He will," Hector said. "It'll be in the papers tomorrow. The whole thing." He hesitated, took a deep breath and blew it out. "It's gonna be a long day tomorrow. With this thing out in the open, we're gonna have to report all our findings, everything we've been through today, which will slow our momentum big time. And our methodology ain't gonna look good on the commissioner's report. Damn, I should've known better than to let you—myself for that matter—get involved. Oh boy..."

  Hector sounded worried now, really for the first time since the whole thing started on Mason Street at four this morning. Again, Frank would have to convince Hector to continue with their work. "Hect, what we've uncovered in the last twenty hours is clearly the biggest thing I've ever been through, and I'd venture the same for you. This is huge—"

  "That's exactly why we should report everything!" Hector looked away, his mind in serious thought, harried and confused.

  "Not yet, Hect. Please! We are on a major roll. Aren't you the least bit curious now to find out exactly what's going on?"

  "What do you think?"

  "So then, what's our next step?"

  "Frank, please...I've been up for nearly twenty-four hours."

  "Hect, I'm tired too. Spent. Too old for this shit. But I ain't stopping now. No one's gonna be able to pick up on our tracks. C'mon, you said it yourself. Something really fucked up is going down in the city, and you and I are the only ones that have any direction right now.

  Hector yawned, rubbed a hand through his hair. "I was just going to check my e-mail. If Martin found anything after we left the twelfth this afternoon, it'll be there."

  Frank placed his hands on his knees, a sudden burst of energy brought on by his ambitious detective personality. "Well then let's do it." Good 'ol Hect.

  Hector shook his head, clearly fatigued and in disbelief. "Let me get out of this uniform," he said, standing. "Have a sandwich, and I'll be right out." He walked down the hall into the bedroom, then stuck his head out. "Hey—Ballaro."

  Frank looked back at him, Gloria now at his side with a tray of food.

  "You were right. I don't know how you knew, but you were right about Lindsay."

  Frank smiled as Hector disappeared into his bedroom, thanking the detective personality inside for figuring it all out.

  With a sandwich, a slice of pound cake, and a cup of coffee in their stomachs, Frank and Hector were able to drum up some energy to continue their investigation—now from the comfort of Hector's living room.

  "I've gotta get me one of these," Frank said, marveling at the magic of the computer's abilities. The screen showed a great big rainbow-striped mail box that took up half the monitor's fifteen-inch display.

  "I like the rainbows," Frank said in a mocking, effeminate voice. "It's so you."

  "Piss off." Hector clicked the mouse cursor on the mailbox and a big number three popped up on the screen.

  "Testy. Haven't slept much?"

  Ignoring Frank, Hector said, "Three messages. One from Martin, and it has an attached file. He must've found something."

  He clicked on the mail entry from Martin and a letter came up on the monitor:

  Captain Rodriguez:

  I have a bit of interesting info regarding Harold Gross, James Hilton, and Edward Farrell, and the disappearance of their supposed abductees. First off, yes, as discussed, Gross, Farrell, and Hilton all had similar raps. What's interesting is that they're not the only ones I found. I went ahead and did the national search, and found something really interesting: one hundred and seventy three sketches of bald guys with sunglasses in the national database, most of whom had committed suicide after being pursued by authorities. Out of the total figure, one hundred and fifty seven had been under surveillance by the FBI. The others were under scrutiny by local authorities, but eventually vanished; all of the remaining sixteen baldies—gone with the wind, just like their victims. All instances took place in one of four major cities: Los Angeles, San Francisco, Miami, and New York. Captain, I think you're on to something huge, something the boys in Washington don't want anybody else to know about. My guess is that you struck the jackpot with Gross. He's one of the few baldies that the FBI hadn't had a beat on.

  As for Hilton, Farrell and Gross' victims: I looked into the backgrounds of Andrew Knowles and three other missing kids. Nothing much similar. Knowles was a problem kid; a kid named Sutton had no problems, good in school; one named Barrett was a musician; the last, Tolson, an athlete. The only likeness I could see other than what we know already, age, Caucasian, etc., was that they were all big time enthusiasts of music, particularly techno. They all had fake ID's and were frequenting dance clubs in New York, and according to their parents, spent way too much time listening to the music, never leaving the house without a pair of headphones attached to their heads. Again, don't know if this m
eans anything, but it's all I could find out.

  Hope this helps. Talk to you tomorrow.

  Phil.

  "What do you think, Frank?"

  "Want the truth?"

  "Don't I always?"

  "You remember Village clothing, the music Judas had on?"

  "That horrible shit? That was techno, right?"

  Frank nodded. "Yep. And Pat Racine, when we were in his room, by chance I noticed that his CD collection was almost exclusively techno music."

  Hector shook his head, confusion mixing his fatigue and thoughts into a muddled-up analysis. "So what does is all mean, Frank. Does it make sense?"

  Frank made a real effort to smile, albeit a weak one. He looked at his watch; one A.M. approached. Gloria Rodriguez stepped from the kitchen at that moment, her hands nestled in her robe pockets. "Hector, I'm going back to bed. There's a pot of coffee on the stove. Please turn it off when you come to bed."

  Hector offered his wife a smile comparable to Frank's feeble grin. "Night, hon."

  Gloria exited the room and Hector aimed his sights back to the computer screen, speaking to Frank. "You know, I just thought of something we can do."

  Frank, rubbing his eyes, groaned. "Good thing, 'cause Martin just beat me to my last theory. I'm fresh out now."

  Hector rolled the mouse pointer over an icon of a globe and depressed it. He then looked at Frank, eyelids drooping. "The World Wide Web."

  Chapter Twenty