by Jason Austin
Hope.
Fuck you, you hear me? Fuck you!
Chapter 17
The word “safehouse” was nothing of the kind, Glenda thought, as she teetered on the cliff of the futon, her feet drumming against the floor like pistons. One would think that after spending an entire day in the emergency room, any place would feel like the presidential suite. But being exiled to some out-of-the-way motel, way on the other side of town, Glenda felt just as much a prisoner as a protected person. Being under guard at the hospital had felt different; her sense of vulnerability was at its highest, but here...well, who was she kidding, she still felt vulnerable. Only now there was the added dynamic of claustrophobia and conspicuousness she just wasn't used to. She clutched a cup of hot green tea—decaf, for all the difference it made—and the surface of the liquid rippled in her grasp. Where was Roberts? she thought. Just how long would she have to stay here? She took a swallow of tea and glanced around the room. It was a comfortable updated suite with a Microsoft webscreen, a double-bed and free-standing microwave. It was spacious, for a motel, and safe, she supposed, although the bar for the latter term had been lowered surpassingly since yesterday afternoon. Glenda was grateful to have been allowed to, at least, gather some clothes and personal effects before checking in. She'd changed to a black fitted blouse, a pair of jeans and black canvas tennis shoes. She'd been permitted to pick up her Civic from the shop, but not to drive it herself to the location. She’d also been allowed a brief phone call to her parents. They couldn't stand not being with her. The entire ordeal left Louise Jameson shoveling in antacids and Jeremiah shifting from attempts at acute alcohol poisoning to the construction of several unneeded bookshelves in the basement. It was either that, he figured, or load up the van with hunting gear that hadn’t been used in fifteen years and start trolling for assholes—best defense and all that.
Glenda peered anxiously at the wall clock—7:15! That’s it? The minutes were dragging by like days. She set her cup on an end table and pinched her temples. The events of the alley were on an unrelenting and miasmic loop in Glenda's head. It was looking like Det. Roberts was right on point. According to that mistake-of-nature with the knife, someone, for some reason she couldn't fathom, wanted desperately to harm her, to...she gagged on the word “kill” as it burst to the surface like a bubble from an oozing swamp.
She also thought about Richard Kelmer. Did that maniac from the alley want to kill him too? Had he done so already? She prayed that wasn't the case. She pictured Roberts and Kelmer sitting in a room somewhere sorting this all out. She envisioned the detective collecting answers, maybe finding that homeless man who had saved her. Before he left her with Jones, Roberts mentioned securing video from the bank where she'd been interviewed. Banks kept surveillance on virtually every square inch of their property and the surrounding block. The chance of finding something relevant was a good one. Where is he?
A few feet away, perched at the inside edge of a window, was Det. Perry Jones. He stood with one hand fingering the curtain aside and the other was slapped over his bent hip, just inches from his holstered 3mm MAG pistol. He’d been standing there virtually since they’d entered the room, training his eyes on the street below. Ordinarily, he would be with his partner following up the lead on Kelmer, but Roberts was uncomfortable leaving Glenda with someone she didn’t already know.
“I know this is gonna sound stupid, but you should really try harder to calm down,” Jones said.
Glenda looked thoughtful. “You know something? You’re right. It does sound stupid. I nearly got my throat cut this morning; it’s put me in a bit of a tizzy.” She squeezed the cup tighter, turning her fingertips purple. “What if Richard Kelmer is already dead? What if that...that bastard already found him and killed him? And I’ll never know why. Not until the last moment...before they kill me, too.”
“No one is going to kill you, ma’am,” Hamilton Bowen said. “I promise.” Bowen was part of the patrol unit ordered to the area. He'd remained in the room after checking in with Jones and was hanging around, in large part, because no one told him he couldn't.
“Shouldn’t you be downstairs in the squad car with Percy?” Jones asked him.
“I’m just trying to reassure Ms. Jameson.” Bowen smiled tenderly at the object of his infatuation.
Glenda acknowledged him in kind, almost having to hold back a girlish titter in the company of his hormonal assertions. She liked Bowen. He calmed her. His predictable male bravado meant he might be willing to jump in front of a speeding bus for her, now that she had some of his blood flowing south.
“Perhaps she would feel more reassured if you were actually at your post,” Jones nudged, “which, as I reiterate, is downstairs in your unit.”
Glenda shrugged at Bowen. How ironic was the chivalry, she thought. If she were sixteen again—or for that matter twenty—she would never look twice at someone like him, heart on his sleeve, longing for attention. It would have smacked of desperation.
Then again, maybe that wasn’t it at all.
The vibe of absolute adoration coming from Bowen was enormous, like something out of a teenage romantic comedy. And maybe she knew there was no chance of her stacking up to that consummate fair maiden he'd imagined. To have a man like Bowen fall out of love with you, you’d have to be the kind of woman who made Hester Prynne look like the Virgin Mary. How would she ever recover? She looked up at her admirer and gave him a heart-warming wink.
“Thank you, officer,” she said. “I’m fine, really. I wouldn’t want your conscientious concern for my safety to get you in trouble with the higher-ups.”
Bowen's cheeks shined. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered and walked dutifully toward the door.
She gave him a toothy smile as he left.
“Whew, kids,” Jones remarked.
“He’s sweet,” Glenda said defensively.
“He’s sickening.”
“Oh, you’re just mad because he’s not like the rest of you. Everybody knows policemen who’ve been on the job as long as you have are all bitter, angry, burnouts so disillusioned that they think the best things in life don’t outweigh the worst.”
Jones shook his head. “It’s amazing how much civilians learn from reruns of NYPD Blue.”
****
A soulful blues rift tailed the hearty aromas of equally soulful cuisine throughout the large dining room of the Blue Fish Café. The thick, calorie-laden air settled onto virtually everything it touched and the smell, alone, was almost worth the price of an appetizer. Taken with the indistinct chatter of the dinner crowd, it provided a suitably mellow atmosphere for Miles Gabriel, who sat at a thankfully isolated table just off the kitchen entrance. While the café was pleasant, Gabriel could never quite tolerate coming to these middle-class, uninvolved parts of the city. The sheer boredom was more than he could stomach. Gabriel sat back loosely; his legs crossed femininely at the knee as he slowly sipped on a salty Merlot. Soft manicured fingernails drummed lightly on the briefcase placed conspicuously on the cozy table for two. A webscreen panel hung on the wall opposite Gabriel and he was glued to a live news report about a defiant Michigan senator who was gaining support in his campaign to increase regulation of the biotech industry. A ticking sound grew loud in Gabriel’s brain. Wallace would call. He knew it. He'd call and order Gabriel to proceed with this foolhardy backup plan and Gabriel would have no choice but to comply. Maybe I should turn off my watch, he thought. It was the only thing he could come up with short of stepping into oncoming traffic. There was a time when Gabriel could rein in the old man, keep him from taking these kinds of risks.
But not anymore.
The high-powered attorney who’d won and kept Wallace’s utmost faith was losing touch with his greatest success. It had to be age, Gabriel thought. How many more glory days did Wallace have left? Couldn’t the entire operation be seen as some desperate attempt at immortality, to control death by controlling life? In the years he’d known Wallace, Gabriel had never once hear
d him lament about having no heir. Perhaps the old man had a different plan, a more “high-tech” solution to leaving his legacy. Gabriel laughed. Wouldn’t that beat all?
No sooner had the webscreen's news report completed, when Gabriel’s comwatch trilled in unison with the glowing green indicator on the watch face. His eyes batted like he was catching a face full of dust. He set his drink on the placemat, picked up his briefcase, and sequestered himself to the men’s room.
After assuring there was no one else present, Gabriel fingered the receiver imbedded in his left ear and pressed the answer button on his watch. Heavy breaths through the earpiece made it sound like the old cuss was calling from a windy ocean shore.
“Yes. Yes, I was watching when you called,” Gabriel said. “They finally took a break from reporting on your dearly-departed rival.”
“Peter Simonton was no rival,” Wallace said. “He was a whiny nuisance. Granted, a particularly loud one we’re better off without. Can’t say I didn’t see it coming, right?”
“I suppose neither of us can.”
“You know that the independents have just declared their support. We’re losing!”
“It wasn’t exactly unexpected. We knew he was likely to make some gains.”
“Those gains just put him two votes over the top! The vote is in less than two weeks! We’ve run out of time!”
“I don’t think...”
Wallace refused to let Gabriel finish. A salvo of panic-induced orders cut through the earpiece like a reciprocating saw.
“I wouldn’t recommend that course of action just yet,” Gabriel said. “She’s still being guarded. Keep in mind, the unit is a prototype and it wasn't built for this. We don't know exactly how it will perform. If we were to take such steps now, there could be unforeseen complications.”
“That’s the same shit you told me last night when she was in the hospital! The fucking hospital! I own that whole goddamn place as far as everyone is concerned! She was delivered right to us and we did nothing!”
“The place was crawling with security. There were guards posted and she was only there for observation. We couldn’t just send somebody in a nurse’s uniform to stick a needle in her.”
Wallace became a broken dam of obscenities and Gabriel winced painfully as he punched at the volume control on his watch. He fought the urge to dig the earpiece out and fling it into the nearest urinal. Wallace wasn’t going be talked down from the ledge this time. If Gabriel didn’t do as he was told, Wallace would cut him loose and take his chances; everything would go to hell. Maybe I should trust the old man's instincts on this one, he thought. After all, that vote was as big a threat to Gabriel as it was to his boss. Something had to be done and often there was a fine line between caution and stagnation.
Gabriel grimaced as if he’d dropped a dumbbell on his foot. “All right,” he said. “Give me a few minutes to confirm the program. If all goes well, it should be done within the hour.” He sighed openly as Wallace threatened him. “Yes, I will.”
Chapter 18
A disparaging wake of partners’ transfers trailed officer Lou Percy through the precinct like a funeral cortege. And as he sat next to him, parked outside the motel, Hamilton Bowen was beginning to see why. Two months he had been riding with Percy and Bowen was still having to watch every uniform in the duty room strangle themselves to keep a straight face during roll call. They didn't want to see the kid suffer, but having to endure Percy was an initiation of sorts, and they figured better him than them. It wasn't that Percy was inept or a bad cop. On the contrary; he was top-of-the-line with a superior number of commendations to prove it. It was even rumored Percy had sort of a sixth sense that told him when things were about to get hairy. In the past, he’d saved two partners from almost getting shot, and he rescued a ten-year-old girl from being raped by a kidnapper before anyone even knew she was missing. The problem with Percy was that he had a profound love of his own voice—which wouldn't be so bad if he ever said something that justified it. Bowen could see Percy for what he was: a good cop, but a lonely soul that made every taxpayer penny spent on the department psychologist a solid investment. Bowen could sometimes even hearken sympathetically toward Percy. But in the end, for all his attempts at accession, the fair-haired and fair-minded Bowen spent most of the time being bludgeoned with profane fictions of sexual conquests, full-court jump shots and a male-stripper brother-in-law. Oh, well, Bowen thought. It was the price he paid for being a rookie. And it could have been worse. He could have been partnered up with one of those inanimate holograms that look like cops, but have long since let the hope of making a difference fly the coop...along with their ability to smile or occasionally pick up the check. Being the openhearted choirboy that he often denied he was, Bowen vowed not to request a transfer unless it was absolutely vital to his sanity.
“Why don’t I run over to the Blue Fish and grab a couple of shark steak specials?” Percy said.
“I’m not hungry,” Bowen answered.
“Yes, you are. That’s why you keep looking for an excuse to go up there.”
Bowen rolled his eyes. Percy had been riding him all day about his precious Glenda, coming so close as to threaten the fantasy. He wanted Percy to shut up more than he wanted world peace. “Are you seriously still on this?”
“Ay, I’m not judging you. It happens all the time. We’re the protectors of the innocent.” Percy’s eyebrows did the most squalid little dance. “And there’s always gonna be an added dynamic when those innocents are fine looking women. It's a Galahad thing. You don’t just want to protect them from the bad guys, but from all the evil that exists in the world. Women love that shit; it’s erotic.”
“You have serious mental problems, man.”
“I didn’t hear you call me wrong.”
“It was implied. If you were smart, you would have picked up on it.” Bowen paused. “Listen, I think I am working on an appetite here. Why don’t you go grab that grub, like you said?” He’d figured it to be a good idea to rid himself of Percy for a while, give his ears a well-deserved respite.
“Okay,” Percy said and reached for his door's lock. “Just remember there are cameras in this car, Mr. Jameson, so no whacking-off while I'm gone.”
Bowen bore down on the steering wheel, ready to rip it from the column. If Percy didn’t get out now, Bowen's gun was going to be shy, at least, one bullet.
****
Gabriel remained standing in the stall, approaching a cold sweat. The toilet's flimsy seat covers were for shit and no public toilet would ever touch his Armani. He worked the computer's display like a brain surgeon on an exposed skull. The orders to the cybernetic uplink had to be precise. No real precedent had been set for the technology in its newness and it had barely completed first-round testing—all making for a wafer-thin margin of error. Should anything go wrong, the program's ability to compensate would be highly limited. Gabriel heard the men's room door push open and the subsequent activities of a patron from outside. If he wanted to monitor things visually, Gabriel would have to leave the stall, but he wasn't going anywhere until he was done programming the unit away from roaming eyes. Surely, no one would be able to divine his pursuit just by watching him, but as far as Gabriel was concerned, once he started doing what he was doing, every one of these aimless, nose-picking drones became a loose end.
****
At the counter of the Blue Fish cafe, Lou Percy took his order and flashed his crooked teeth at the pestered young redhead trying to do her job. Percy was a mess, visually groping the tender mammaries that edged out of her outfit with the tiny blue fish embroidered on the sleeve. She felt the creep of his beady-eyed leer against her flesh. He was short, ugly and stupid-looking, she thought. And even the inherent sex appeal of a uniform couldn't save him.
“Sure you don’t want to give up that phone number?” he asked her again.
“You know, I’d really like to,” the girl said sneeringly, “but my dad is like this really big-time drug d
ealer and I don’t think he’d like you very much.”
Percy sank like a torpedoed submarine and walked away. Why did the fine ones always have to get so snooty? Damn, he was asking for a date, not a kidney. He shook it off, took his food and headed back to the squad car. By the time he got back she'd be the slutty young cashier who’d just offered to take him home and give him a night to remember.
Chapter 19
Xavier had ridden the bus to its final stop in an unfamiliar part of town and jumped off nearly a mile back. It helped to see things he didn’t recognize—people and places that held no meaning, but might spark enough curiosity to divert his attention from his own disgrace. But was that a good thing? he wondered. Shouldn’t he stay focused on the very reasons his life was in the toilet? “Aw, dammit,” he mumbled. What if he’d lost the courage to pull the trigger completely? Just the thought of spending another year, another month, another second like this...He reached under his cap for a fist full of hair. Maybe he was just rejecting the idea of doing it with a gun. Bullets often had a mind of their own once they left the chamber. If he wasn't careful, he could end up a 170-pound rutabaga.
“Oh, Jeez!” he growled. His feet hurt as if he’d been on them for days, but he had to keep walking. He got maybe another two blocks, before he felt a tickle under his nose. He lifted his chin and took a heavy drag of air. It was sweet...very very sweet, almost like...Doughnuts.
****
Bowen outstretched his muscular arms and reached around to massage a shoulder when he glanced past a line of parked cars on his right side. A dirty-looking fellow in a blue flight jacket and wearing a baseball hat low on his forehead was lumbering around the doughnut place across the street. Bowen’s conditioned mind immediately pulled up the stats. About six feet tall, black or dark brown hair—what he could see of it— khaki pants, and worn boots. A perfect match of the description given by Glenda Jameson. Bowen got out of the car and stood, looking down the street.