Dues of Mortality

by Jason Austin

  Wallace harrumphed. “Yes, it worked wonders with Bonanno, didn't it?” he said sarcastically.

  “Just be glad Bonanno is no longer an issue,” Gabriel said. He then sighed, not sure to be grateful or disgusted that Sanford Bonanno's death had so far been the only thing that had gone right. That and the delivering from the Jones unit the personal records Bonanno had kept on the illegal dumping sites. The downside of hiring someone who wasn't a complete moron was that they were usually smart enough to hold onto something with which they could later bargain or otherwise use to get out of a jam. Bonanno had used his contacts from his days as a county civil engineer most efficiently in helping Wallace's undocumented lab sites—mostly the upstate facility—dispose of its toxic waste. Unfortunately, that wasn't the only one of Bonanno's ways of expanding his financial portfolio. He was also running a small-scale cooking lab for Halloxiphen. Traded it through some old mob ties he had back in New York. After the investigation of the corrupted cops in Cleveland had hit its peak, he was promptly ratted-out to Det. Perry Jones through one of Bonanno's own dealers. Gabriel knew Bonanno better than anyone. He knew the scummy little shit would gladly offer up everything on the illegal dumps to secure a deal from Camille Cosgrove in the state attorney's office. Gabriel had no problem at all arranging Bonanno's demise inside the walls of the county lockup. But Bonanno had already begun passing limited information to Jones. Information Bonanno would only verify once his sentencing deal was in the bag.

  As Gabriel thought back, he still considered his solution to the whole thing a flash of genius.

  The clone of Perry Jones would have all the original's biological memories...including the brokered information from Bonanno. Yet, the unit would be entirely controllable, working for Gabriel. Once it was fully formed, and properly programmed, Gabriel could deploy it with subconscious commands. Namely, to deliver him the information. Gabriel would then “arrange” its death in a manner that hopefully would divert suspicion onto Jones as one of the departments many corrupted weak links. The only issue remaining had been that the real Perry Jones was still breathing. Jones was already scheduled to leave on vacation after all his hard work on the corruption case came to fruition. The computer-work alone would take eons and he had successfully convinced Bonanno that Jones, himself, was the only one Bonanno could trust to help keep the lawyers from screwing him over. On his second night in Florida, Bonanno’s former partners from New York had been waiting for Jones outside his hotel. In a poorly lit parking lot, one suppressed round in the chest and from under the ribcage made a fairly clean body—mostly internal bleeding. Gabriel then paid them extra to get it on ice—or in this case, refrigerated truck—so it could be hauled back to Cleveland before the sunlight hit sand. Gabriel shook his head. Up until it was deployed against Glenda Jameson, the unit that was born of the corpse performed flawlessly. He should never have agreed to Wallace's order. There were just too many ways it could go wrong. How perfect, the ways it chose.

  “Won’t they be curious as to how a cop they murdered less than three weeks ago ended up in a motel firefight twelve-hundred miles from where they left him?” Wallace asked.

  “Why should they? Dead is dead. They’ll be too giddy over knowing the police will have no reason to suspect them of having anything to do with it. If my name does come up, they’ll figure the fancy-pants lawyer worked some more of that well-connected black magic and made a lie appear to be the truth.”

  Wallace looked galled. “Thought of everything.”

  Gabriel's nose drew closer to the screen. “Not everything.”

  “Find him fast. I don’t want this thing going on any longer than it already has.” Wallace glanced at his comwatch. “What about our other liabilities?”

  “Taken care of,” Gabriel said, slightingly.

  Somewhere on a slab in Case Western Reserve's medical school was the body of the man called Hobson, tagged as just another donated cadaver consigned for research. The idiot thought he could just waltz out on Gabriel after having failed to both complete the job on Glenda Jameson and gain any information on Richard Kelmer's whereabouts. Gabriel wouldn't say precisely how Hobson met his end, although Wallace got off on the notion of Gabriel having to rinse the blood-spatter from those resplendent monogrammed cufflinks.

  “And the other?” Wallace asked.

  “As we speak.”

  “Good. Dumb fuck didn't even have the presence of mind to dump the drugs before he got caught.” Wallace gazed again at the screen. “If it is the same guy, doesn’t it seem like a bit of a coincidence that he's intervened twice with our target? How do we know he's not working for someone?”

  Gabriel pinched his lip. “I considered that. Whoever this guy is, he’s no pro. He’s operating on his own. Throwing up booze on people isn’t part of any training course I’m aware of.”

  “How do we even know he’s still with her?”

  “We don’t, but it’s the only lead we have. All we can do at this point is keep looking and...tie up any loose ends.”

  ****

  The white drone of large capacity washers and dryers dampened Malcolm Block's senses to the shadowing activity of the inmates around him. He was alone now, or so he thought, in the steam-laden air, grinding his teeth and blowing the streaming droplets of sweat from his lip. The dank smell of the prison laundry festered in his nostrils as he shoved bulky armfuls of grungy linens into a washer's center drum. He retched every so often at the piss and shit stained sheets under his nose. When it really got to him, he just thought how it would only make his impending freedom that much sweeter.

  Ian Shaw had had a very productive chat with Miles Gabriel. Shaw communicated to Block that it would take a little doing to secure his release, but an extra day or two would be the most he’d have to endure. Block didn’t much like that, but, regardless, the cops weren't going to pay him three times as much for talking as his employers would for keeping his mouth shut.

  On either side of the row of laundry machines, two ugly, hulking pairs of men, dressed in prison fatigues closed in on Block’s position. The pair on his right clenched small hollow pipes in their sweaty palms, while the pair approaching from the left carried nothing but splenetic scowls that corroded the very air around them. Block lifted another heavy pile of linens above his face and stuffed them into the machine. When he turned away from it, he jerked at the sight of two malignant inmates posed at his left. Two more stood to his right. Their subzero stares bored through Block's flesh. Before a word could be uttered, a urine-stained sheet cocooned Block’s head and the two men on the left began battering Block about the face and body, the pipes in their mitts adding ranked solidity to their blows. The sheet covering Block's face ran red around the mouth and nose as fresh blood soaked through. A curdled howl or two seeped from the stains and one of the men was sure their victim was pleading for his life. When Block’s arms and legs finally went limp, the inmates hoisted him into one of the large half-filled washing machines. They locked the machine's door and activated the longest wash cycle. Like preschoolers engulfed in a television show, the inmates stayed just long enough, to watch the water rise above Block’s head.

  Chapter 28

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this, Cass,” Bennet said. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Cassandra said reassuringly. It was the third time Bennet had said “I can't believe I'm doing this” out loud.

  “If I get even a hint of him pulling something...” he proclaimed. “I'm not going to let him disrupt our family. There’s no compromise when it comes to you and the baby. No deals. No second guessing.”

  Cassandra gently fingered his curly hair. “I know,” she said and kissed her husband with the breath of a teenager with her first love. Afterward, she gently pressed her forehead to his and they stood joined at the brow, allowing their respective pulses to synchronize.

  Glenda blushed at the couple's embrace as she watched from the kitchen, politely out of earshot
. It was so shitty not having someone when all hell was breaking loose, she thought. She wasn’t sure how good it was that misery loved company, but she was sure that it was a lot truer for women than it was for men.

  “I can't stand myself,” Benny said. “I complain about Clyde not changing, but I'm no different. Why do I keep forgiving that asshole? Of all the people in the world who deserve to have his misdeeds lorded over him, believe me, it’s that shithead brother of mine.”

  Cassandra placed a finger against her husband's lips. Whenever Bennet was wound up, he’d sometimes forget her aversion toward profanity. It wasn't that his wife was prudish. In fact, Cassandra could be quite raunchy when she wanted. She just had a clear definition of who her husband was and such language often fit him like a pair of shoes two sizes too big.

  “Here it comes, time for me to revel in the miserable existence he’s created for himself, and I can’t enjoy it.”

  Cassandra smiled with the warmth of a cozy campfire. She lovingly slid her arms up Bennet's back, pulling his body to her swelled breasts. “Well, now, I knew there was a reason I married you.” She thought a moment, and then said, “Honey, I might not have a right to ask...”

  “Aw, Cass, what are you talking about? You’re the only one who does have the right.”

  “I don’t want to bring back any painful memories...but were things really that bad between you and your brother?”

  Benny considered the question. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “I guess, over time, it’s just easier to remember the feeling than it is to recall the events.” He paused. “But I remember him being a bully—not so much physically, although I caught my share of that, too. He just never missed an opportunity to step on me, and put me down, in front of everyone...in front of Momma.”

  “I can’t imagine your mother tolerating that.”

  “She didn’t. She always got on him for it and, later, squared it with me. Sometimes that made it worse. It made me feel like I needed her to stand up for me...because God knows, I couldn’t do it myself. I think Clyde always thought I had incurable weakness and that it might infect him like a disease.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to...”

  “No, no. You didn’t.”

  The couple smiled brightly on each other and shared another comforting kiss.

  “I don’t get it,” Xavier said. He'd wandered completely unnoticed into the living room. “All that scalding water flailing my skin and I still feel skeevy.” He had showered for nearly twenty minutes. His hair was now flat with dampness and his skin shone a deep ruby red. He wore a plain white t-shirt and a pair of gray denim jeans, both borrowed from his brother’s dresser.

  “That reminds me,” Benny said. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you since you got here.”

  “What?”

  “You look like shit.”

  ****

  Benny gave his brother the injection while Xavier sat shirtless on the exam table, working overtime to be still. Xavier's nose was hysterically out of joint. Ever since his time spent at the Veteran's Rehabilitation Center, he had despised enclosed sterile rooms. If it weren’t for the charts of human innards stuck to the walls, adding just a touch of imaginary gore, it would’ve been unbearable.

  “How’s Gl...Hannah?” Xavier asked.

  “I ran a cranial scan just to be sure she hadn’t aggravated anything,” the doctor answered, disposing of the needle. “She’s fine.” Benny grimaced at his brother. “But you...My God, Clyde. It’s like you’ve been trying to slowly commit suicide.”

  Xavier’s arms drooped in his crotch. “Never could keep anything from you, little brother.”

  To his brother’s surprise, Xavier was still in decent physical shape aside from the inflamed stomach lining and number of minor injuries that looked born from a fight. Lack of food and constant movement resulted in a low percentage of body fat and Xavier still engaged in daily sessions of pushups and half-assed calisthenics to keep his muscles limber. Not that he cared that much about being healthy. Maybe he did it to keep himself viable for punishment. Maybe army habits were just that hard to break.

  “That injection should alleviate some of your withdrawal symptoms,” Benny said. The doctor then handed Xavier a flat, foil container that held several small green capsules. “Take one of these every morning until they’re gone.”

  “What are they?”

  “Theracol; it’s an antidepressant, but it’s been known to help recovering alcoholics reduce their cravings.”

  Xavier stared at the small package for what seemed like hours, letting it rest in his brother’s hand before finally taking it and shoving it into his own pants pocket.

  “Thanks,” he said embarrassed.

  “I can fix some of your physical maladies, but they’re not really the ones I’m concerned about right now. Not that I’m all that concerned about you, anyway.” Benny immediately wondered why he’d even bothered to say that last part, knowing Xavier could see right through it.

  “You want to know what the story is with me and Hannah.”

  “I'm curious as hell, but I'm not sure I want to know. It could destroy my rosy image of you.”

  “Long story short, I'm trying to help her.”

  Benny jangled his ear with a finger. “You're trying to help her?”

  “That hard to believe?”

  “Impossible.”

  “She didn't expect things to fall out from under her like this,” Xavier said, almost as if he were bored. It occurred to him that he could undersell the issue by appearing blasé about it and maybe steer Benny away from his curiosity. “She's just in one of those spots where she doesn't have anyone else. And everybody needs somebody, right?”

  Xavier got no answer. Benny had folded his arms and leaned his butt against a counter while he listened. His eyebrows looked like a mangled California overpass after an earthquake.

  He isn't buying a word, Xavier thought.

  “Sounds like you're trying to get laid,” Benny said.

  Xavier just sucked his teeth.

  “My medical advice would be a good night's rest for both of you. I don't know your arrangement, but there's more than one spare bedroom and...I can spot you a few bucks to get you on your way tomorrow.”

  Xavier tried not to look awestruck by the offer. “Thanks. It'll be more than you realize.”

  Benny shrugged and then went for the door uncomfortable like. For years he’d waited for a thank you from his brother and now that they were coming in spades, for some reason, it was like hearing nails on a blackboard.

  “Benny,” Xavier said.

  Benny stopped in the open doorway.

  “I'm sorry I wasn't...” Xavier was welling up, but he met his brother's eyes anyway. “I should've been here. You shouldn't have had to...say goodbye alone.”

  Benny let the overdue apology sink in then said, “I wasn't alone.”

  Chapter 29

  August 29, 9:28 a.m.

  More than one offer of promotion had been extended to and passed on by Horace Penfield because the positions would’ve moved him out of metro.

  “If they replaced me now, who would keep my people from fucking up?” he’d once told his superiors. This was, of course, years before the federal sting on the department, which had left a more bitter taste in Penfield's mouth than he was letting on. It scared him to think of how far up the line it all traveled. If some two-faced bozo landed his job just so the department heads could have an easier time looking the other way, he’d never forgive himself. And they couldn’t just fire him, not with his service record and mandatory retirement was another twelve years down the road. What they might have an argument for was his criminally negligent taste in neckties. For twenty-five years Penfield had waged war on socially acceptable fashion with an arsenal of plaids, paisleys, polka dots, and dear God, even argyles dangling from his shirt-collars. It was as if solid, palatable colors were against his religion. The squad room even ran betting pools on what was actu
ally wrong with the man—color blindness, OCD, or maybe it was just a device to prevent subordinates from looking him in the eye so Penfield could chew them out, unruffled by their windows to the soul.

  In the years that he’d served under Penfield, Andrew Roberts had had remarkably little occasion to suffer the close-quarter doses of radioactive neck-wear. In fact, Roberts rarely worried about getting called into the captain’s office, unless his name was followed by a straight-forward “git in here.” So when the detective heard Penfield open his door and say, “Roberts, my office, now”, Roberts didn't know what to think.

  When he entered Penfield's office, Roberts was immediately accosted by the back of the captain’s stone-white buzz-cut. Uh oh, he thought. Whenever Penfield had bad news, initial eye contact was always the first thing to go. Roberts also noticed Penfield nervously rubbing his thumb across the top of the badge buckle that angled outward from his waist. The badge was being bullied by a paunch that had hung its hat on Penfield not long after his fiftieth birthday. He pocketed his hands and looked sideways at Roberts. Penfield's African-American heritage had largely made him resistant to wrinkling, but he had a fold or two that ran from his cheek to his chin whenever he adopted an expression that was...unsettling.

  “First off, how you feeling?” Penfield asked.

  Roberts knew exactly to what he was referring. Jonsey's funeral hadn't been easy. Roberts had nearly faked an excuse to back out. Crying over a canister of freeze-powdered remains while his friend's killer was still out there was just wrong no matter how he looked at it.

  “I'm fine,” Roberts said.

  Penfield was noticeably refusing to sit in his own chair. He nodded gingerly, giving Roberts opportunity to elaborate on his answer. When he realized no such response was forthcoming, Penfield folded his arms and asked, “What were you doing at the Millenitech lab in BioCore yesterday?”