Simon Rising

by Brian D Howard

  A door opened, or closed. Probably Sandy, in the kitchen, but it sounded off somehow. Later, right now he needed to deal with Müller.

  “No, he doesn’t remember anything,” Barton said.

  “On one hand, a pity. He could have remained useful to us if he had. But as long as you are sure, then it also means he cannot tell anyone anything dangerous. The question becomes, will anything come back with time? We should still dispose of him. To be safe.”

  The German bastard could afford to be cold and callous about it. He wasn’t losing a friend. He hadn’t killed his friend, and he didn’t have to finish it off. Don’t show weakness.

  “I agree, he’s of no use to us now. Maybe a liability.”

  “Then, to be sure, he should be eliminated.”

  Screw you, you sadistic Nazi prick. I’m tired of you and I don’t need you anymore. I’ll take care of Steven and then someday soon it’ll be your turn. “Don’t worry about that. He’ll be dead before breakfast.”

  CHAPTER 28 – THE KIND OF MAN WHO...

  The woman followed Steven in and closed the door behind her once they were both inside the relatively spacious bedroom. The room was bigger than his hotel room, though certainly nicer, and laid out like one. A sitting-room space with two wing-back chairs around a low round table came before a large bed dominating the far end of the room past a tall dresser. An open door lead to a walk-in closet.

  He walked straight for the bed, eager to sit and rest. Desperate to lie down and not have to support any part of himself. He wasn't sure how much longer he could. He shouldnt have come. It had been a tedious day and then too much trying to act normally at the end. So exhausted.

  The woman followed him and that made him nervous. He was already nervous and regretting leaving the bar, more and more sure he was in over his head. In a mob boss’s private condo surrounded by a half dozen armed men, he resigned himself to having to trust his host, at least for now. He needed rest before he'd even have a choice.

  “Excuse me, but I’m really tired,” he said once he had lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “So you don’t remember me?” Her sad eyes and a pouty frown were not endearing. He liked the way she stood, one hand on her hip accentuating her curves, her sweater dress nicely snug and alluring. She was attractive, but nothing at all about her seemed familiar.

  “No, sorry,” he confessed. “Nothing at all before a few weeks ago.”

  She knew him. This was an opportunity. She seemed like the type that would go on and on if he encouraged her. Assuming he could even keep himself sitting upright. His vision grew spotty, dim in places. His inexplicable momentum-sense dimmed in and out, and with it, he feared, his ability to move things. Rest would fix it. He could question her after he rested.

  She moved closer and knelt at his feet, looking up at him with sexy, pleading eyes. “I’m Tracy. You used to know me real well. Let me remind you. Maybe I can help you remember who you are.” She put her hand on his knee, but he couldn't feel it.

  “You’re one of the big men around here,” she told him, “powerful. I like that about you. I miss your cock. Nobody around here fucks me like you do.” Her hand moved back and forth on his leg just above the knee, a rubbing motion.

  But no matter what she did he wouldn't feel it. What would be the point? Just humiliation. As if he needed more of that. Then he remembered he hadn't changed himself since leaving the hotel room several hours ago at this point. How puffy with piss was his diaper? If he had thought any part of him attractive, that part of him slunk away and hid. Shame flushed his cheeks.

  “Stop.”

  He sensed her hand slide up his leg, and he put his hand in the way. It was a difficult, clumsy motion, but she seemed oblivious to it and kept sliding her hand forward.

  “I said stop,” he reminded her, his jaw almost too tight to speak. No doubt not what she wanted hard.

  “Oh, Simon Says. I like that game,” she said with a sly, teasing smile. “I like it when you tell me what to do.” She tugged her sweater dress up to her hips, exposing shiny gray panties. “Usually you tell me to strip for you, nice and slow.”

  “No,” he said more emphatically. Harder, but not louder. No, control of volume was gone with his bladder control and dignity. “I’m tired and I need to rest, just get out.”

  “Now,” he demanded more threateningly as she still hesitated. I could throw her out, and there’d be nothing she could do about it. Finally she lowered her eyes, frowning, and left obediently, pulling her dress back down.

  Was this how he treated women? He worked for the mob and bullied women to get his way? Had he really ordered women around, and they would do whatever he told them to? Something about the way she had looked up at him from his feet made him feel powerful. Respected. Such a contrast from the nurses’ objectification.

  But he had focused a lot on moving naturally for too long today. He blinked. How long had he sat there since she closed the door? So exhausted, dizzy even, he desperately needed to let go. He was aware of falling backwards, but wasn't conscious when his head hit the mattress.

  CHAPTER 29 – AHA

  Rachel stirred the remainder of her Mongolian beef takeout with a plastic fork. She was home late after a long day. She knew she should be hungry, but had little appetite. Her day’s work had brought her nothing but dead ends. She had tracked down every angle she could approach herself. She had surveillance and search nets everywhere she could think of. All she could do now was wait.

  She pushed away the food. The smell turned her stomach.

  Eventually he would show up. He would go to somewhere he'd been before, or facial recognition on a traffic camera would pick him up. Unless he was smart. If he was smart, he would stay in hiding and nothing would lead her to him, and eventually he would simply disappear. He was smart; he'd been an expert planner. How much of that might still be in that damaged brain of his? Maybe that would be the determining factor in the end. Either he was healthy, or protected by friends or conspirators, or he was on his own somewhere with no skills or expertise to rely on. If that were the case he would eventually make a mistake and she would have him again. It felt like a narrow hope to cling to. It just seemed too much like the least likely scenario.

  In the morning she would have to call Assistant Director West again and find some way of spinning something positive out of, “I’ve got nothing.” She was screwed.

  The old schoolgirl taunts came back to her, spoken now by her adult contemporaries. In her brain the scenes played out like stage plays.

  “You gonna let him go some Moore?” I’m not letting anyone go!

  “What, you couldn’t do something Moore?” But I’m doing everything I can.

  “Maybe we all want some Moore.” No. Adult sexual harassment was even harder to swallow. The punching she'd gotten away with as a little girl weren't acceptable “career-minded” actions.

  “Are you ready for some Moore disappointment?”

  The stinging in her eyes warned of impending tears. Tears of frustration, of anger, of pain.... It didn’t matter what, she had no intention of letting them out. She was stronger than that.

  Her phone, on the table next to her gun and badge, jittered on the table as it buzzed and rang. A deep breath and she picked up the phone on the second ring. ‘Thorne,’ the caller ID said. She answered on the third ring.

  “Yes?”

  “Are ya busy?” She hated that sarcastic tone.

  “Oh, you know, just eating dinner rather late. The usual.”

  “Usual? It’s damn near midnight. Kinda late dinner. Even for these days....”

  “Long day,” she countered. “What did he rob now?”

  “Steven was just spotted leaving a bar. The same bar Carter met him at when we set that up. Seems he’s going back to some old haunts.”

  “That’s not close to where he’s been staying,” she pointed out. “Why the move? I’m assuming someone followed him?” She shrugged her shoulder up to ho
ld the phone so she could package up the leftovers. She was done eating now!

  “He left with a Lou Martinelli, a known mob guy working for Andrew Barton.”

  “Martinelli...,” she echoed. “That name’s familiar.” She added the leftovers to a sparse refrigerator among some other leftovers and condiments. She used to cook; now she couldn’t remember the last time she had. I need a vacation.

  “He was on the list of suspected associates,” Thorne reminded her. “Anyway, the surveillance guys weren’t able to make a collar on the spot, but they’re following them as we speak.”

  “So far they’re heading towards the area Barton lives,” the lieutenant added. “We’re bringing additional manpower into the area.”

  “Good. I’ll head to the area. What radio channel?” She went back for her gun and badge and clipped both to her belt.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Perfect. I’ll patch in from the car. I take it you’re on the way, too?” she asked.

  “Already halfway there,” he bragged.

  She hung up the phone and clipped it and its holster to her belt. She scooped up and shrugged into her jacket. Screw the purse, she decided, and just grabbed a couple of necessities. Four flights of stairs down to the building’s parking garage were faster than the elevator.

  In the car she fumbled the walkie-talkie out of the glove compartment while backing out of her parking space. She paused to change the channel before pulling forward.

  “This is FBI Special Agent Rachel Moore, I’m headed to the area, I need an update.”

  CHAPTER 30 – REACTING

  Steven wasn't sure whether minutes or hours passed. He didn’t think he really slept, but he might have nodded off. Now he tried to sleep but couldn’t. Too many people moved about in the building, and he'd been unable to keep his motion sense suppressed. There was just too much, like he was over-stimulated.

  He was a little hungry; maybe a snack would help him relax. Maybe some wine—or something stronger?—would help even more. The more he thought about it, wine wasn't something he really craved, but something stronger. But what? Still, the wine idea came from somewhere.... Kitchen it was, then. Maybe he could find a clock while he was at it.

  Again he told himself he should have grabbed one of the watches in the display case at the warehouse store. The case was probably not alarmed and even if it was the police showed up anyway, so they would have regardless.

  On top of everything else, he probably needed changing. He couldn’t smell it, but he usually didn’t, which left him often wondering. Just like body odor, maybe? He could find the bathroom on the way to the kitchen, but he hadn’t brought diapers with when he'd left for dinner. Master planner.

  As he left the bedroom, he heard Barton speaking in the living room. Barton was alone in the room, so he must have been on the phone. Someone, probably Barton’s wife, moved around where the kitchen to be, with two other men in the condo. Two men stood guard back in the elevator lobby still, and no one else moved on this floor. Quite a lot of people lower in the building, however.

  Shit, what was her name again? Had anyone introduced her? He couldn’t remember, but he thought maybe not. That was odd. Maybe even a little suspicious?

  The whole encounter had been weird, to say the least. Had they been testing him? Barton seemed to take heavy-handed too literally. Aside from the big, thick hands everything about him hinted at power kept hidden just under the surface. The man might look soft, going on pudgy around the face and neck, but under the perfectly fitting suit sat heavy, solid mass. The mass of a man who kept himself strong for the sake of strength, not for the sake of looks.

  “No, he doesn’t remember anything,” Barton said.

  Steven stopped in the hallway, out of the mobster’s sight but close enough to listen in. Who else could Barton be talking about but him? He wasn’t sure how to read the mobster’s expressions earlier. He struck Steven as the kind of man who liked to put on a certain appearance. The power suit, the fancy furniture and giant TV, even the way he sat on the couch and positioned everyone else felt calculated to project power and influence. Almost understated, but clearly there.

  “I agree, he’s of no use to us now. Maybe a liability.” Barton’s voice was cold, calculated. How long ago had he said they were friends? The man was a criminal, but then supposedly he was, too. All the more reason not to trust the man who'd earlier claimed to be an old friend. He could run away; he could get out now.

  “Don’t worry about that. He’ll be dead before breakfast.”

  That was enough; he was tired of listening. Running away wasn't really an option anyway, was it? This man claimed to be a friend, a good friend, yet wasn’t this Barton the same guy who’d sent him into those banks? If it weren’t for Barton he’d have his life! That was it, he'd had it. He was done running. He stormed into the room and demanded, “Who will be dead by breakfast?”

  Barton had hung up the phone but still hheld it in his big hand. He still sat in the middle of the three-person couch he'd been in before. A wine bottle replaced the platter of bread on the coffee table. A half-full glass sat before of the mob boss.

  “Nothing you need to be concerned with,” Barton replied, leaning forward and setting the phone, screen down, on the table.

  “I heard you,” Steven countered. “I heard enough to figure out what you were talking about. I’m not going to let you kill me.” The woman in the kitchen moved slightly closer. Could she hear what was going on?

  “What?” Barton protested. “Who said anything about killing you? I said I’d take care of you.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s pretty much what you told the guy on the phone,” Steven accused. “How many people who don’t remember anything do you know? I suppose there’s some alien radiation erasing people’s minds?” And their fucking bowel control!

  “You’ve got this all wrong,” Barton claimed, standing up and waving his hands in an ineffective pacifying gesture. The man’s heart glowed just a little brighter and faster. Steven couldn't be sure whether that meant general stress or fear or something else. He could stop it right now. Snuff out that gentle illumination of movement in that cold, inhuman heart.

  “You can’t lie to me,” Steven warned. “Would you have tried it yourself or sent some lackey? Probably to kill me in my sleep, right?” You think I’m helpless! Fuck you!

  “It isn’t like that,” Barton insisted. “Nobody’s gonna kill you.” The big man stepped closer. He was big and heavy. Intimidatingly so. He was probably used to using that to his advantage. Lighter than a car though. Barton couldn't hurt him. Anger tightened Steven’s face, not fear.

  “Step back,” Steven demanded.

  “Steven...,” Barton protested, holding his hands up in front of him. “You aren’t a violent man. You’re a smart man. And we’ve worked together for a while now. It’s been really good for business. I wouldn’t be where I was without you. You and I, we both started humble. But we both built things, together.”

  “And now that I don’t remember anything I’m...‘Of no use to you now,’ huh? Is that it? And I think I am a violent man. And I think you damned well know that.”

  “Steven, look. You escaped from police custody, even if that custody was kinda sloppy because they thought you couldn’t move. They underestimated you. People have done that a lot for a long time. I think you probably encouraged it.” Barton edged forward and Steven backed up, keeping the loveseat between them. “But you have to agree it’s only a matter of time before they figure out where you are. You’ve got the fuckin’ FBI involved. I can’t have that kind of attention. But that doesn’t have to mean I kill you. There are other options—”

  “And since I don’t remember how to plan a bank heist you’d just toss me aside? Good to know just what kind of shithead I used to work for. I’ll have to find better friends in my new life.”

  “Steven, Steven, what do I have to do to convince you?”

  “Um, fuck off, maybe?” Or die screaming?r />
  Barton lunged forward to grab him over the loveseat. Barton was a few inches taller and an easy eighty pounds heavier. But the sudden motion was attention grabbing and Steven pushed back against it. Barton halted as if he'd hit an invisible wall, stumbled backwards and fell, his left arm smacking and bouncing off of the coffee table.

  “Dammit!” Barton exclaimed. He reached for a drawer under the coffee table and yanked it open as he sat up. A big, shiny automatic pistol sat atop some loose papers.

  Steven hesitated, caught off guard by the powerful-looking gun. The hesitation allowed enough time for Barton to grab it and get a shot off.

  The bullet was intensely bright and so easy to sense. Steven shoved against it without thinking and it deflected, smashing into the huge TV dominating one wall and turning it into a huge spider web of cracks.

  For just a moment he was distracted and impressed with himself. If he could stop a bullet what else could he do? Barton stood up and the gun came up again.

  “No you don’t.” Steven shoved against Barton as hard as he could, shining light flying away from him. Barton flew through the room with a shriek, knocking over the far loveseat and slamming through the floor-to-ceiling window.

  Steven didnt' remember how many stories up they'd ridden in the elevator when he got here. But it was high enough he stopped being able to sense the terrified heartbeat before the ground stopped it.

  Relief washed through him. He tried to inventory the feelings chasing each other. Warm happiness. Grim satisfaction. Pride. Nowhere amongst them did he feel guilt. Maybe more than anything else since he woke up, this felt like taking his life back. He was in control.

  Barton’s wife rushed in holding a large kitchen knife and wearing a champagne colored, satin knee-length robe.

  “Where’s...?” She paused, surveying the scene. Steven looked, seeing the shattered TV, the overturned couch, the smashed window. He had just killed a mob boss and was still processing that. He hadn't meant to, but he'd been scared. Could he say hurling a man through a window to fall to his death was self-defense? He hadn’t wanted to kill; he'd simply reacted. Reacted as old him would have? Murderously violent? That wasn’t what he wanted, not who he wanted to be.