by Brad Kelln
"You said it wasn't even your idea," Wenton said. "What'd you mean by that?"
"Oh, nothing. The original idea came from someone in research. They got this whacked out guy to fill out the details of the studies, paid him in cash. I think his name was Nicholas Stangos."
"Stangos?" Wa mumbled.
"Do you want his number?" Mettincourt asked.
Wenton waited for Wa to respond but he didn't. He was staring into space. Wenton took over. "Get the number."
Mettincourt buzzed his intercom and tapped something on a keyboard.
Wenton turned and frowned at Wa who was still distracted. "What's your problem?" he asked quietly.
"Does that name ring a bell with you?"
"What name? Stangos?"
"Yeah."
"No, why?"
"I've heard that name somewhere, recently."
"You're being psychotic. Snap out of-"
"No! That's the guy. That's the guy that went to seminary with Gary Wrightland. The guy that tested the low frequency weapons." He got up and started towards the door.
"Gimme that fuckin' number," Wenton barked turning back to Mettincourt. I want to get out of here before Wa freaks out.
Mettincourt grinned and held out a piece of paper. "Right here. The address is there too. Why don't you go by and see him?"
Wenton frowned. Mettincourt seemed oddly cooperative now. He turned to go and then thought of something else. "One other question: Does ECOR have any white vans?"
"Come on," Wa called from the door.
Wenton held up a hand to silence Wa and continued to look at Mettincourt.
"White vans?" he said in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"Company vans," Wenton said impatiently. "Does ECOR have any white vans?"
"All our vehicles are in the company colour: blue."
Mettincourt didn't move as he watched them go.
***
"What the fuck was that about?" Wenton asked once they were in the ele- vator heading down to the lobby.
"Stangos. Nick Stangos! He was a friend of the pastor I told you about. That was the guy. Remember?" Wa spoke so quickly Wenton found it hard to understand him.
"You sure? You sure it was Nicholas Stangos?"
"Positive. We have to find him. We have to talk to him."
"Okay. Okay," Wenton said in a patronizing way as though he were talking to an excited child. "First thing tomorrow we'll pay him a visit."
And then Wenton's cell phone rang. He answered on the second ring.
"What?"
THIRTY-FIVE
"Dr. Wenton? It's Norma. Can I talk to you?"
"No. Not now. It's a bad time," said Wenton.
"I need to talk to you. It's pretty important."
"I'm sure everything you do is really important," he said flatly. "I'll talk to you later."
"You can't treat me like that!" she blurted back. "What's the matter with you?"
"Calm down," he said and hung up.
Norma continued to hold the receiver to her ear until the dial tone stopped. She slowly lowered it back to the cradle-virtually in shock.
She stood and walked out of her tiny bedroom into the sparsely furnished living room. The small TV sat on an end table she'd bought at a garage sale. Her second-hand couch smelled of smoke, even though she had never been cursed with the habit. She reached down onto the floor and picked up her wine glass, taking a sip. That asshole.
If he thinks he can treat me like a dumb bitch and I won't put up a fuss he's wrong. Dead wrong. Pastor Wrightland was wrong, I never should have given him a second chance. She took another sip of her red wine but pulled the glass away too soon and a drop spilled down her chin. Fuck! The droplet wavered for a moment and then splashed onto her white shirt.
"Oh for goddamn sake!" she cried, leaping to her feet. She looked for somewhere to set her glass. The lack of furniture didn't provide many options.
She headed into the kitchen at the back of the apartment, next to the door. The only division between living room and kitchen was where the vinyl met the hideous beige carpet.
Norma placed her glass on the counter by the sink and turned the tap on cold. There were no plates in the sink. Everything was in order. Norma always kept order. The counter was virtually empty except for the immaculate stainless steel blender near the sink.
She leaned over the counter and scooped cold water onto the red stain. Slowly, the stain spread but retained its dark colour. She scooped more water but the stain stayed. She rested her elbows on the edge of the sink and slapped the tap off.
Norma stared at the stain. It was still spreading but it was taking on new characteristics. It had a pattern, a definition that was familiar. "What the hell?"
The pattern moved with life. It pulsed. It twisted. Norma gasped and held her breath. This can't be happening. She couldn't take her eyes away.
And then stain the took form: it was a picture of an animal. Her pet cat, Charming. I really am losing it.
Her mind flashed. She'd not even thought of her old cat for years. She had Prince Charming when she was eight years old. He'd been such a pleas- ant, easy-going cat. And then she remembered something else.
"Son of a bitch!" she screamed and stood. Because of the cramped kitchen she cracked the back of her head on the cupboard as she stood.
"Ow, ow, ow," she mumbled through gritted teeth and rubbed her head. She glanced back at the stain. It was now a horrible picture of a cat she'd killed as a child. Even though she'd loved Charming, she kicked him in a fit of rage one day after school. The cat had lived another week with internal bleeding that made him suffer horribly.
"This is crazy," she said out loud. Michael Wenton is making me crazy.
That's it. Screw him. Screw him and all this bullshit.
Norma turned to leave the kitchen but suddenly her foot gave out and she stumbled. Her ankle rolled and sent shocks of white hot pain up her leg. A taste of metal filled her mouth instantly as she toppled to the floor. Tears clouded her eyes as she rolled onto her side and gripped her ankle with both hands.
She wailed and rolled gently from side to side, trying to do something to ease the tremendous shooting pain. She was sure it was broken.
On the floor near her was a pair of shoes. She'd kicked them off when she'd arrived home, angry. She normally kept everything tucked away in the closet but her anger at Wenton and her haste to call him made her careless. Fuckin' Michael Wenton!
It took a few minutes but her breathing finally slowed, the taste of metal dissipated, and she found courage enough to try standing. As she did so she leaned heavily on the kitchen counter, trying to put most of her weight on the good foot. Blood rushed into her other ankle and she moaned loudly.
Every beat of her heart sent pulsing pain through her swelling ankle.
Norma didn't know if her ankle was really broken, but she knew she needed more wine. She thought she could al
most feel the effects of her first few sips. She was already slightly dizzy. When she reached for the bottle, she heard a squeak. It was her hamster, Lady Tara. She kept the cage on one end of the kitchen counter.
Norma stared at the cage. It looked unfamiliar for a second and she shook her head to clear the strange sensation. "Maybe you're just what I need," she said quietly. "I think I forgot to feed you earlier because of all the crap going on. I'm so sorry, Lady."
She flipped the top up and reached in to give Lady Tara a quick pet. Lady nuzzled into her open palm and Norma scratched her neck and ears.
"I can still count on you, at least. Isn't that right Lady Tara? You're still my best friend. I'll get you something to eat."
She was about to pull her arm out when Lady Tara had twisted out of Norma's hand and bitten hard into the flesh between finger and thumb. With quick, deep bites, the hamster dug its teeth further back until its mouth bulged.
Norma yanked her hand from the cage, the hamster trailing behind. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" she screamed and violently shook her hand, trying to dislodge the animal's jaw. The motion sent droplets of blood spraying through the air, leave strange patterns on the floor and cupboards.
"Lady Tara, no!" she screamed, but the hamster held on. Norma shook it again and again as the pain raged through her hand. She stepped back- wards and more pain shot through her. She'd put her full weight on her bad ankle without thinking. The waves of pain crashed through her, sending her to the floor. Instinctively, she reached back to catch herself and there was a strange, soft feeling under her hand as she landed. She quickly realized she'd landed on top of the hamster. She pulled her hand to her chest, trying not to see the open gashes chewed across it. The hamster was rolling away, trying to find its feet. The fall had only knocked the wind out of the little rodent.
"You little piece of shit!" she screamed, still cradling her hand. "You worthless piece of shit!"
The hamster started to run, but Norma reached out and grabbed it roughly around its neck. She knew if she held it tightly enough at this angle it wouldn't be able to turn its head far enough to bite her again.
She brought the struggling hamster close to her face. "So you think you can mess with me too, just like that bastard Wenton? You think you can do whatever you want to me and I'll just smile and take it? Fuck you!"
Norma rose on her good leg. She could hear the hamster choking and gasping from the strength of her grip. She didn't care. She gave it an extra squeeze just to hear it squeak.
She hopped to the counter and used her wounded hand to drag the blender closer.
"No one is going to fuck with me anymore!" she screamed, tears flood- ing her eyes.
She flipped the top off the blender.
"No one is going to take advantage of me anymore. Not Michael
Wenton. Not anyone. And not yo, you fuckin' rat." Tears streamed down her face.
She tossed the squealing, hysterical hamster into the blender and jammed down hard on the mince setting. Blood splattered out, coating the inside of the blender instantly.
She pulsed the blender a few more times and then stopped, exhausted.
Suddenly weak, only a breath away from losing consciousness, Norma rested on the counter. She stared at the bloodied blender. A heavy pool of liquid so dark it was almost black sat in the bottom.
Her eyes slowly moved up the blender. She was surprised to see some- one's arm resting on the machine. It was her arm hanging over the top of the machine, her hand mangled inside. She tried to pull her hand out an intense pain stopped her. She pulled again and watched as her wrist left the cavity of the blender. Panic swelled through her as she tried to understand the tattered strips of flesh that hung off the stump of her wrist.
Norma had no idea how her hand had gotten inside the blender. When she took another look at the bloody mess of skin and bones, she collapsed onto the kitchen floor.
The last thing she saw before she slipped into unconsciousness was
Lady Tara. The little hamster ran past her, alive and well.
THIRTY-SIX
Wa returned to his apartment on Inglis hopeful that he and Wenton would get some useful information from Nick Stangos the next day.
He was still standing at his door looking for his key when his cell phone rang. Wa hoped it was Gloria. As he felt close to the end of his search for answers, he felt ready to go back to his family.
"Hello?"
"Sergeant Wa? This is Gary Wrightland."
"Oh, what can I do for you?"
"Can I see you? Tonight? It's quite important."
"Why, what's going on?"
"I just need to talk to you."
Wa frowned. "About what? Can it wait until tomorrow. I'm pretty wiped out."
"No, I'd rather not wait. I need to see you as soon as possible."
Wa wiped a hand across his forehead. I sure don't need this. "Just tell me what's going on. If I need to, I'll come meet you."
"No," he said sharply. "Don't come here. I'll just… It's really just some- thing I thought of. A different way of looking at what we were talking about."
"Why don't I swing past the church later tomorrow morning? Dr. Wenton and I are going to see Nick Stangos in the morning and then-"
"Stangos! You're going to see Nick Stangos."
"Right. I'm sorry. I checked on a few things and his name popped up. I couldn't believe it. This Stangos character might have been involved in some shady dealings with ECOR Pharmaceuticals."
"And you're bringing Michael Wenton?"
"Yep. We're just going to check out his story tomorrow."
"Don't talk to him," Gary barked.
"I'm sorry."
"I mean, Nick's crazy. You shouldn't talk to him. He'll just throw you off, confuse everything."
Wa was taken aback by the pastor's odd behaviour and wanted to get off the phone with him. "Listen, are you going to be at the church later on tomorrow morning?"
The pastor was quiet before he replied. "Yes."
"I'll see you then." He hung up before Gary could protest.
"Everybody's got a fuckin' bolt loose these days," he said shaking his head. He found his key and entered his dingy little apartment.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Nick Stangos' house looked as though it had been abandoned years ago. The duplex was hidden on a street of older houses in various states of disrepair.
Nick's lawn obviously hadn't been cut in weeks and was littered with little yellow buds. Flyers decorated the concrete steps leading to his door. The curtains in the living room were drawn tight.
"Here we go," Wa said raising his hands in reluctant acquiescence. He turned and knocked hard on the door, ignoring the cream-coloured door- bell, streaked in dirt.
They waited but there was no answer. There wasn't even the sound of movement behind the dark door.
Wa knocked again. Still nothing.
"Nick! Nick Stangos. Open the door. We want to talk to you."
No answer.
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Wenton shook his head, closing his eyes. Fuckin' waste of time.
"Open the door. We're here to talk to you about ECOR and the ELF weapons." He looked at Wa to confirm the term ELF. Wa nodded. "We're going fuckin' kick this door in if you don't open it."
There was a loud thump from somewhere inside. They'd attracted some- one's attention. Soon they heard the heavy footfalls of someone approaching from behind the door. Without warning, it was violently pulled open.
"Who the hell are you? What do you know about the ELF?"
A powerful smell of alcohol swept out of the house and soaked through Wenton and Wa as they faced Nick Stangos. He was a stocky, balding man with deep, bloodshot eyes. He blinked constantly as he looked out at them, his eyes unable to adjust to the morning sun. He kept one hand inside his open dress shirt, rubbing his oversized gut in slow circles.
The inside of the house made the outside look like a Martha Stewart magazine spread. Dirt flowed freely across the floor, interrupted only by an obstacle course of empty liquor bottles.
The most notable feature of the home was the elaborate machinery surrounding the door and every window they encountered. At first, Wenton thought it might have been a complex, homemade security system, but it seemed too intricate.
Nick lead them into the kitchen, the only room with available seats. Soon they were all seated around a cheap table.
Wa didn't waste anytime. "What's going on at ECOR, Nick?"
Nick Stangos laughed as though Wa had just finished telling the funniest joke. "What do you think is going on at ECOR?" he mocked.
Wenton gritted his teeth and forced himself to look away from the slob of a man.
Wa took a deep, even breath before he responded. "You've been implicated in some fairly questionable research. Research involving a Web site. Ring any bells?"