“You don’t do cell phones? Come on. Everybody has a cell phone.”
“You don’t.”
I opened my mouth and closed it.
“I need to call somebody,” I said again, not knowing what else to say. Iris got up from the bench.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Where?”
“I know a place where you can use the phone safely.”
I hesitated. The whole deal suddenly began to feel creepy. She must have read my mind, which made it even creepier.
“Don’t be afraid. You’re the one the cops are looking for, not me.”
“What do you mean, safely?”
“I mean it’s impossible to use public communication system without a camera staring in your face. This place is probably not the only one, but it’s the only one I know.”
“Why should I care about safety?”
“Because you don’t really want the cops to find you.”
“Is it far?”
“Thirty, forty minutes walk.”
I scoffed. “I don’t think I can stand. Much less walk that far.”
“Of course you can,” said the girl. “Try it.”
I tried. She was right. I began lumbering after her. That hoofy sound her heels produced was the only indication she possessed any mass at all.
“So, Iris,” I called, mostly to make her slow down. She did, and turned. “What else you don’t do aside from cell phones?”
A smile appeared under that cute nose. “Pills,” she said.
* * *
By the time glands in my mouth reacquired their ability to produce saliva we had dug deep into Lincoln Park. Habitually, with sun setting beyond Schaumburg, people migrated from the streets to their cars and homes. Sidewalks emptied. Then the cars, too, disappeared almost entirely.
It was common knowledge that the city was a rough place after dark, and the feeling of vague apprehension grew steadily inside me, until my glances into dark alleys and shadowy corners attracted Iris’s attention. I noticed they did, because she suddenly stared at me with big eyes, bent her legs at the knees slightly and waddled forward in that semi-crouched position, jerking her head left and right. Astonished by such an unusual display, I heard myself laughing and relaxed my limbs. It turned out it was easier to breathe that way. Soon she was laughing with me.
“Did I really look like that?” I asked her.
“No, I flattered you.”
“Aren’t you a little worried? We’re in the middle of Lincoln Park after dark, and there isn’t a soul around.”
“If there’s no one around, who are you afraid of?”
I opened my mouth to reply, then turned it into an insincere yawn. I had nothing. The girl was weird.
“Who said I was afraid? Caution and fear are two different things,” I mumbled some time later, uncertain if I wanted her to hear it. It seemed like she did, so before she had the chance to answer, I added louder, “Where are we, anyway?”
It had been a while since my last visit to the area, and I certainly had not been there on foot before. We were walking to the northwest now, but the prized uncanny sense of direction common to human males was the extent of my awareness of our present location.
“We’re almost there,” said Iris.
“Why are you so cryptic? Is this place secret or something?”
“No.” She chuckled.
“So why not simply tell me where we are? You can blindfold me afterwards, if the code demands it.”
“Don’t be silly. How can you tell a person who’s never been to a place where he is? You want to know longitude? Zip code? The street signs and building numbers are available for your viewing pleasure. I never had the need to familiarize myself with them.” I gave up, because even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t know what to say, again. So much for being a talk show host.
Soon we emerged into a decently illuminated street. Immediately, I stared in disbelief. Across the road was the entrance to a theater complete with the retro awning, framed with flashing colorful lights and displaying this announcement in big black letters on glowing white background:
TODAY, TOMORROW AND THE DAY AFTER ONLY. HAMLET BY SIR WILLIAM SNAKESPEAR.
It’s impossible, I thought to myself. There were no theaters left. Iris grabbed my arm and began dragging me across. For a moment I actually resisted.
“Wait,” I pleaded. I noticed several men smoking by the revolving door. Just then a police car rolled slowly by. I shrunk inside my ski hat. “Wait,” I whispered.
“What?” She asked. The police car disappeared around a corner. I coughed, clearing my throat.
“Are they… are they really playing ‘Hamlet?’”
“Huh? On, no. The only things left from the theater are the sign and the building. Now it’s actually a gay bar.”
My facial expression must have been amusing, because she laughed for a long time. We crossed the street. The men at the entrance gave me a good once-over.
“Did you really have to bring me across the city to a gay bar to make a goddamn phone call? Why would this be any safer than anywhere else?”
“You know there’s freedom of sexual expression?”
“So? I don’t mind.” We passed through the door and entered the lobby, decorated with old drama posters. Cigarette stench assaulted my nostrils. On the left, a man in glasses was reading a paperback romance novel inside the empty coat storage. He looked up for a moment, nodded to Iris and resumed reading.
“So it’s the same deal as with free speech, free choice of religious practice and all other free stuff.”
“What the hell is the deal with free speech?”
“Our forefathers fought hard to secure those rights for you. Those are the very liberties that make America the best place in the world. Don’t you know there are countries where they will throw you in jail for speaking out against the government, for example?”
“Are we nearing the point which will explain why an exhausted man framed for murder hiked for an hour to end up at a gay bar?”
Iris ignored this. She could care less if I was pissed.
“In a democracy,” she was saying, “there’s always a majority and a minority. And in a prosperous, united democracy like ours — which is really a Republic, but that’s beside the point — in a democracy like ours, with eighty percent or whatever approval rating, the majority includes almost everyone. You’re getting it?”
“No.”
“The time of persecution of minorities in America, although not exactly ancient history, is long gone. When you have the backing of eighty percent of population who are patriotic, heterosexual, Christian — there’s no need to persecute, or even pay attention anymore. Let them have their liberties, who cares. They won’t make any difference, aside from showing how open-minded and tolerant our society is. Here you can say what you want against the government, you can worship Pan, have sex with other men and so on. They will proudly display how free you are, but ignore you otherwise, because you don’t matter one bit.”
“Where the hell did that come from?” I asked. Iris giggled.
“Listen, I’ve been coming here for a long time,” she told me in low voice. “There’s never been a single cop in here. Ever. Understand? And there’s no surveillance.”
I did understand then, kind of. I was still a bit angry, though, so I decided to be difficult in revenge.
“So by your logic there are no gay cops?”
She looked at me closely.
“Not the ones who sleep with other men, no.”
I walked into what used to be the amphitheater in a state of, once again, extreme puzzlement.
Rows of seats had been replaced with tables and booths. The floor slanted towards the stage, which remained intact, complete with the curtain. Under the stage, in what had once been the orchestra pit, was the bar.
The place was packed. Loud, unfamiliar, archaic music blared from some unseen source. Iris glanced at me over her shoulder and made a motion
with her eyebrows. I bent to bring my lips close to her ear.
“Are all these people homosexual?”
“Of course not,” she screamed in reply. “And neither am I.” Her cold palm closed over my fingers, and she led me on through clouds of smoke.
Chapter Four
Special Agent Oliver Brome moved through the spacious living room pretending to examine it, while his partner, Special Agent Brighton, handled the homicide cops. Special Agent Brighton loved putting people in their place. And cops always needed to be put in their place when FBI showed up to take over. They always argued, stalled, gnashed their teeth, and in the end sulkily gave up the hopes of promotion for resolving a big case like this one, knowing full well from the moment they saw the corpse of a federal employee it was only a matter of time before the pompous feds showed up and took their bread. A circus, like everything else. Brighton enjoyed it.
Presently he appeared out of the hallway, grimly poised, but glowing with inner satisfaction. Brome nodded at him, glancing at the huge TV. A smiling female actor in doctor’s white was trying to convince him that he was not alone. That one out of every twelve Americans suffered from chronic anxiety and depression, but most were able to overcome their ailment with the help of personalized medicine from Freedom Corp., the leader in pharmaceuticals. She recommended not to delay the call. Help was well within reach.
“The cops are wrapping up,” Brighton said.
“Isn’t there a way to turn it off?” asked Brome.
“Motion sensors. And the command menu is probably voice-coded to recognize only the owner, Mr. Whales.”
“We’re the feds. Don’t we have some kind of a master remote for these things?”
“How about we catch our movie star murderer and bring him here to turn it off?” Brighton grinned. “Unless, of course, the street cops sell him the farm first. If they haven’t already.”
There was a good chance of that, actually. A dead marshal was just like a dead cop. The hunting season, although officially condemned, was very much open.
“What do we have?” asked Brome.
“Suspect: Luke Fredegar Whales, white male, thirty three years of age. Actor, talk show host.”
Brome nodded vaguely. Brighton droned on, skipping physical description as redundant.
“Called in sick three days in a row. During the conversation with his manager, James Cornwell, this morning appeared nervous, temperamental. Called the second time to report the discovery of a draft notice. Left the premises around 1 P.M., drove to his ex-wife’s house in Highland Park, where he assaulted her boyfriend and left in a state of extreme agitation.” Brighton paused significantly. Brome nodded again. “Getting interesting, huh? Let’s see. Made a call to his physician, Dr. Colin Wright, around 2, requested an emergency refill of his medication. Claimed to have lost the pills somehow. Some kind of antidepressant supposedly, the details are being obtained as we speak. Instead of going to the doctor’s office, returned to the building by way of parking garage around 2:45, as witnessed by the front desk clerk, Jeffrey Monroe. Ten minutes later or less the suspect was seen climbing the gate out of the marina. Has not been seen or heard from since. The police found an empty chest made to hold a handgun on the bed. That’s the case. Seems easy enough.”
“The victim?”
Brighton flipped a few pages in his old-fashioned paper notebook. Nothing but show, that notebook.
“Samuel O’Malley, white male, 44. Joined DHS Draft Marshals upon reestablishment the program in 2027. Prior service in the National Guard during the Iran campaign…” At that moment Oliver Brome, who had opened the door to the balcony and peered down through the glass wall, glanced at the little black notebook briefly. “…Immigration field agent, 2022 through 2027. Dead from two gunshot wounds in the chest. The bullets are 9mm, shot from a semi-automatic pistol. There’s a theory circulating that the gun that had fired them is the same one missing from the chest in the bedroom.” Brighton loved his sense of humor. “That’s the skeleton of it.”
“Do marshals carry guns?”
“Stun guns.”
“Any word on his partner?”
“Nothing aside from demographics, but here’s an old bookie’s advice: don’t bet on him being alive no matter what odds they give you.”
“If he’s dead, where is the body?” Brome asked casually.
“In the lake, most likely. Probably under one of the piers down in marina. I’ve already ordered the divers.”
“Do we have surveillance footage?”
“Oh, you’ll like this one. There’s no surveillance in the living areas. At all. Not even the elevators.”
“What? How is that possible?”
“Money, that’s how. There’s a bunch of famous people living here. Apparently, they decided their privacy was more important than security. This one will teach them.”
“They can’t ‘decide.’ This is downtown. There are regulations.”
“I don’t know how the bastards did it. Only that they did. The only cameras they couldn’t get rid of are at the entry points: lobby, service exits, garage, marina, but the one in marina had been out of order for the last two days.”
“Convenient.”
“Coincidental.”
“Why would Whales dispose of one body and leave the other one in the kitchen?”
“Who knows? Got tired, got scared.”
Brome shrugged.
“What?” Brighton asked.
“It’s too… neat.”
“Come on.”
“All of it. Big shot TV star, no surveillance, antidepressant pills, violent outburst in the suburbs, draft. Sounds like a lot of horseshit to me.”
“That horseshit is called circumstantial evidence. There’s a dead guy in the kitchen. There’s a missing gun. There’s an extra bullet casing. There’s even blood that doesn’t belong to either Whales or O’Malley.”
“And he ran,” added Brome.
“And he ran!” Brighton confirmed sharply. “Listen, some cases are just simple, even with no surveillance. Most of these actors are like time-bombs waiting to blow up. All that money makes them crazy. Let me tell you, if Whales survives a day or two, Morgan Chase will have a field day.” Having heard Brome’s acknowledgement of the fact that the suspect had fled the crime scene, which in his mind was as good as hearing the verdict, Special Agent Brighton mellowed again. Brome looked up at him in confusion.
“Who?”
“Who? Morgan Chase? That’s the host of ‘America’s Most Wanted.’ Have you been living on another planet?”
“Oh, that guy,” Brome said. “Are the forensic people done with the bathroom?”
“Eh? Oh, sure. I think so.”
“Excuse me a second.” Circling his partner’s imposing frame, Brome crossed the living room.
In the bathroom, which had a modest pool in place of a bathtub, Special Agent Brome made a face in passing at the mirror and stopped in front of the toilet. He lifted the seat, unzipped his pants and reached into his coat pocket. Extracting a small blue bottle he twisted the cap open, dropped a single capsule on his palm, resealed the bottle and put it back in his pocket. With a flick of his wrist he let the capsule fall into the toilet, urinated over it, zipped up and after a long search located the flush sensor, sending the swirling torrent into the bowels of the building. As he began washing his hands, there was a knock on the door. Ducking quickly, Brome filled his mouth with water from the faucet. In the doorway his partner’s head appeared.
“Sorry,” Brighton said, averting his eyes. “We gotta go. Seems the cops found our guy. He was hiding in one of those faggot bars on the North Side, can you believe it?”
Swallowing tap water and feeling only repugnance, Brome followed his eager partner outside.
Chapter Five
The telephone was backstage. The bartender — an obscenely tall, tree-like creature with a massive crown of hair and arms that could easily reach from one end of the bar to the other — refused to
let me use it unless I bought a drink. I chose not to argue, although I began to harbor certain irritation on account of no one recognizing me. It was for the best, of course, but it irked me nonetheless.
His heavy hand unloaded a tall, misted glass in front of me. I didn’t know what the drink was, couldn’t tell you what it was made of even if the monster had bothered to give me its name. The last time I’d drunk alcohol prior to that night was at my housewarming party some six years earlier. The medication I’d begun taking shortly after did not mix well with booze.
I popped a twenty into the counter and said my thanks, waiting for him to direct me to the phone. He waited also.
“What? A twenty is not enough to buy a drink here?”
“You have to taste it,” the troll trumpeted over the music. I stared at him.
“You’re kidding, right?” He wasn’t. I looked over at Iris; she only shrugged, but I could tell she was amused.
I picked up the glass and sipped at the edge. It was strong, but I’d be damned if I grimaced in front of that oaf. Taking a hefty gulp, I shot him a challenging glance. He guffawed, held a lighter to someone’s cigarette on the other side of the bar and pointed to the left.
“Through the curtain, down the hallway on the right.”
I swiped the drink off the counter and headed in that direction. The last booth on that side of the bar was empty. Iris took the glass from my hand and said she’d wait there.
As soon as the curtain fell behind me, I felt like I was in a theater, and not in a bar. Certainly not a gay bar. Music, suddenly muffled, seemed far away. The sounds coming from the amphitheater were the hum of a crowd anticipating a play. On the left three steep steps led up to the wooden stage. On it, concealed from the outside world, in reddish twilight, stood a lonely pyramidal stepladder. I stared at it, as though expecting it to go and announce me, for longer than I should have. Finally remembering my urgency, I hurried into the passage, which ended at least twenty-five yards away in a door marked “EXI.”
The peeled pink hallway with doors on one side was empty and brightly illuminated by a cicada fluorescent light mounted on the wall. The first door was locked. The second, with a faded pentagram on it, opened into an abandoned dressing room. Inside, on a night table in front of an enormous framed mirror, rested a black phone, an old model, the one you had to press buttons on. Nothing else in the room. Nothing to sit on.
Project Antichrist Page 3