Karma

by Grant McKenzie

  The interior was pitch black and after a moment’s hesitation, Hackett flicked on the flashlight with a touch of his thumb. A powerful beam of stark white light pierced the darkness.

  Where are you, Fats?

  Every instinct made him want to call out to his friend, to make sure he was OK, but the uselessness of the gesture offered a glimmer of what being deaf must be all about.

  The everyday sounds that Hackett took for granted meant nothing to Fats. A girl’s laughter, the roar of the Beast, the crack-fizz sound a can of beer makes when you pop one open on a hot summer’s day, even the concerned call of a friend. For Fats, they didn’t exist.

  You would have been upstairs, right? If someone broke in, you would have been upstairs in the loft, not knowing anything was wrong until they cut the electricity.

  Hackett moved to the stairs and went up, his ears straining to compensate for the darkness that surrounded his narrow beam of light.

  No one tried to bar his way on the first floor, so Hackett continued moving up.

  In the loft, Hackett swept his flashlight from side to side, not knowing what to expect.

  It was quiet and empty.

  With no electricity, there wasn’t even the companionable hum of Fats’ extensive computer family that ranged from an antique Lisa all the way up to a bank of UNIX workstations.

  What have they done with you?

  Think, Hackett, think.

  Would they want to harm him?

  No.

  Why not?

  They want my co-operation.

  Then what’s this?

  A warning? Something to make me play along.

  If it’s just a warning, where’s Fats?

  Then it came to him, the one thing that terrified his friend more than anything else. The phobia that had grown in his mind like a cancer since the end of high school — taking away all those things his deafness couldn’t.

  “He’s outside!” Hackett told himself. “Son of a bitch!”

  Hackett rushed down the two flights of stairs, burst through the kitchen, out the patio doors and into the back garden. His flashlight probed the blackness, but its beam was too fine to make any of the looming, monster-shaped shadows take on recognizable form.

  Cursing, Hackett ran back inside and down to the basement. It took him nearly five minutes to find the fuse box, but the flick of one master switch was all it took to return electricity to the home.

  Sweating now, Hackett ran back to the kitchen and switched on the outside lights. The patio and the black-green expanse beyond glowed in the warm light of two powerful hard-pressure sodium floodlights.

  Fats was nowhere to be seen.

  Discouraged, Hackett walked into the yard, his flashlight probing into bushes and behind trees where the floodlights didn’t reach. It wasn’t until he turned around that a flutter of fabric high above, like a kite trapped in a tree, caught his eye.

  Hackett aimed his flashlight at the roof and felt his lungs constrict as though flash frozen by a swallow of liquid nitrogen.

  On the roof, nylon rope lashing him to the brick chimney, Fats’ mouth was open in a silent scream.

  Chapter 25

  Access to the roof was through a trapdoor set into the ceiling of the loft. An aluminum ladder unfolded neatly at the touch of a button and the trapdoor yawned open to a four-foot high crawlspace.

  Set amid a cluster of electronic equipment responsible for everything from the security system to the satellite TV, a second trapdoor opened onto the gently sloping roof.

  Hackett crawled out into the night.

  With nervous glances at the hard ground thirty feet below, he slowly made his way to the chimney.

  When he reached his friend, Fats’ eyes were locked open and unblinking. He didn’t seem to register Hackett’s presence at all.

  Hackett signed to him: ‘Are you OK?’

  No response.

  Hackett studied the knots in the nylon rope that bound his friend to the chimney before digging into his pocket and removing a red-jacketed Swiss Army knife. The handle of the knife had become so worn from years of use it was nearly impossible to make out the tiny engraved symbol of cross and shield, but the blade had kept its edge.

  Hackett sliced through the rope and felt Fats stiffen even more, his limbs becoming so rigid it was as though the muscles had prematurely contracted with rigor mortis.

  Hackett took the awkward weight of his friend on his shoulders and, inch-by-inch, foot-by-foot, crab-walked his way back to the trapdoor.

  Once they were inside the crawlspace, Hackett closed the trapdoor — locking out the terrifyingly empty sky — and stared into Fats’ shell-shocked eyes.

  No response. He barely even blinked.

  “We’re inside now,” Hackett mouthed. He closed his hands into soft fists and placed one on top of the other. With a twist he formed the shape for the word safe.

  Fats teared up, but his body remained stiff.

  ‘It will be OK,’ Hackett signed before heaving his friend back onto his shoulder and carefully sliding through the second trapdoor to the roomy loft below.

  After depositing Fats in an overstuffed office chair, Hackett powered on the computers to flood the room in artificial light. Fats began to stir as the computers ran through their safety checks. Slowly, he lifted his hands from their locked position on his thighs and placed them on a keyboard.

  Hackett watched in silence as Fats began to type a series of quick-fingered emails. After 10 minutes, Fats turned to him, his face flushed.

  “Fuckers!” The word came out in a high-pitched, monosyllabic moan.

  “Do you know who attacked you?” Hackett signed the words as he spoke.

  Fats dug into his shirt pocket and threw a plain white business card onto the floor. It landed face up and Hackett could clearly see the bold letters that spelled out K.A.R.M.A.

  “Why?” Fats’ eyes were red and blurred with tears.

  “It’s my fault.” Hackett didn’t want to look his friend in the eye, but was forced to in order for his lips to be read. “That weird email I received — the one we couldn’t trace — is connected to this group K.A.R.M.A. It’s an acronym. They’re the ones who killed my uncle.”

  Fats eyes grew larger, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “I don’t think I was originally part of their plan,” Hackett continued. “But when I took the photos of Bob in the washroom and sold them to the paper, they became interested. They contacted me again tonight. When I said I didn’t want anything to do with them, they issued a warning.”

  Hackett paused, shifting his gaze from his friend’s face for a moment before returning.

  “You were the warning.”

  Fats closed his eyes, dropped his chin to his chest and then with sudden anger pounded both fists down on the keyboard. The plastic shattered underneath his blows and tiny keys scattered like buckshot. An agonizing groan escaped his lips and tears flowed freely down his cheeks.

  Hackett dashed forward and clutched at his friend’s shoulders.

  “God, I’m so sorry,” he said, even though Fats couldn’t hear him.

  It took Fats several minutes before his breathing returned to normal and he wiped at his eyes.

  Finally, he signed: ‘What now?’

  “Did you get a look at them?” Hackett asked.

  ‘Too dark,’ he signed. ‘I was sprayed with something that knocked me out. But they seemed young. I think they were just kids, teenagers.’

  Hackett winced. “In the chatroom, they claimed they were kids, but it’s hard to believe. How could kids do this?”

  Fats shook his head angrily.

  “Still friends?” Hackett asked with a hopeful smile.

  Fats made a twisting motion with his hands. It was followed by a weak smile that spoke volumes.

  “Yeah,” Hackett agreed. “I could use a beer, too.”

  While Fats plugged a new keyboard into his computer, Hackett retreated downstairs to raid the icebox.

&
nbsp; Chapter 26

  The cyber cafe closed its doors at 2 a.m. and Eric found himself walking alone in the gloomy silence of Robson Street.

  The party crowd had dissipated with the rain, returning the streets to the undesirables and night-vision predators.

  Eric was a lamb amongst them. A lamb branded fresh by his awkward baggage and doe-eyed wonder.

  It had been easy to be brave on the ’Net, surrounded by his family, their eagerness for his assignment as contagious as Ebola. But out here, cut off from everyone, that bravery was infinitely harder to tap.

  Someone was making clicking noises with their tongue — its staccato rhythm seeming to match Eric’s tentative footsteps.

  The smell was different, too.

  Earlier, it had been alcohol and perfume, cigar smoke and pheromones, but the residue it left behind was a mortician’s workshop, all death and brine and pickled body parts.

  Eric knew he was letting his imagination get away from him. He had to focus.

  The Other would laugh if it could see him now.

  He couldn’t allow that. This was his journey; success meant the lifting of all pain. He just needed to find a place to sit down, close his eyes for a few hours, then the library would open and he would be warm and safe with time to make final preparations.

  The clicking noise was moving closer now — coming from behind. A heavy tongue slapped against a false plate.

  Too obvious!

  The warning bell rang in Eric’s head and tiny blisters of panic burst in his brain. The instinctive signal, honed by thousands of years of evolution, encouraged him to flee.

  No! He told himself. Be strong.

  The panicked feeling eased as the thought struck him that he knew what lay ahead.

  It was really no different from hunting fowl. The tongue clicker was beating the bushes, moving him forward to where the hunter huddled in a bluff. But, as Eric well knew, an unpredictable prey could easily turn the tables.

  The Kit Carson folding knife slipped easily from its forearm sheath and into his palm. Gentle pressure on the thumb stud was all it took to release the laser-honed, four-inch blade as it slid open on Teflon bearings and locked into place. With its non-reflective surface, the knife was invisible against his dark clothing.

  The clicking stopped.

  Eric knew he was supposed to look behind him to see why. Instead, he focused on the darkened doorway in front.

  The blur of cloth that burst from the darkness looked more like a bag of rags in a windstorm than a man.

  Eric immediately lunged forward, ducking down and to the side to evade clumsy, outstretched arms. The knife, sharp as a preacher’s tongue, carved a perfect U beneath his attacker’s soft and swollen belly with a precision that only comes from a half-dozen seasons in the woods and skinning your own kill.

  Eric kept moving, his pace only slightly faster, as the ragman staggered forward into his clucking partner’s arms. Neither of them seemed to notice the tangle of tubular grey intestines that spilled onto the ground at their feet until they slipped on the mess and fell.

  The decoy was the first to start screaming — the stench of decay wafting upwards as he found his hands covered in his partner’s gray-black offal and bright red blood.

  Eric turned a corner, out of sight, and ran.

  He felt a jarring coldness in his stomach as though something buried too long had suddenly burst free.

  He stopped two blocks later, feeling the coldness crawl into his chest and up towards his throat.

  When he bent over to vomit against a brick wall, he was surprised to see nothing more than a wad of sour spit dribble from his lips. He had expected more — a living pool of puke and blood, chunks of cancerous intestine and his own traitorous balls.

  He looked down at the quarter-sized puddle of spittle at his feet and felt a smile crease the edges of his mouth.

  If this is what it felt like to strike back, he thought, tomorrow was going to be a piece of cake.

  Chapter 27

  Hackett left Fats in the attic, lost in a series of electronic messages to his techno-brethren as they gathered the latest information on revamping his security system with a backup generator and emergency cellular. Hackett decided it was time to return home when Fats asked him what type of handgun he preferred.

  As he entered the lobby, Hackett was surprised to find his young cousin, Frankie, sitting on the steps outside his apartment. He had a plain brown envelope clutched in his hand and his face was streaked with tears.

  “Christ, Frankie, what are you doing here?”

  Frankie sniffled. “Ask your friends.”

  “What friends?”

  “They said I was to deliver this to you.” Frankie shoved the envelope at Hackett. “They said if I didn’t do as I was told, they would kill dad, just like they did Uncle Bob.”

  “Ah, Christ, Frankie,” Hackett moaned. “I’m really sorry. Come inside. Does your dad know you’re here?”

  Frankie shook his head as Hackett unlocked the apartment and let him inside. The security system shut off as soon as Hackett gave it the password.

  “We should call Frank.” Hackett slipped out of his jacket and studied the envelope.

  “Don’t bother.” Frankie’s lower lip still trembled. “He’ll be asleep or passed out. Besides, Karma told me not to tell anyone. Just get my passport and come over with the envelope. I’m supposed to go with you.”

  “Go with me?” Hackett asked, confused. “Where?”

  “How should I know?” Frankie scuffed the carpet with the toe of his sneaker. “Did this group really kill Uncle Bob?”

  Hackett sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “They claim they did.”

  Hackett studied the envelope some more before ripping it open to find a digital pager the size and shape of a Zippo lighter, and a neatly folded piece of paper. Hackett read the note:

  Welcome aboard. We hope Fats is okay.

  Give the pager to Frankie. He is to stay with you at all times.

  Don’t fuck up and no one else will get hurt.

  At 6 a.m., drive to Vancouver, Canada.

  Await further instructions.

  - CYPHER

  P.S., Are you as good with that camera as you say you are?

  Hackett laughed, the stress of the evening bubbling up from his chest like pockets of trapped nitrogen.

  Fuck you is what he wanted to say, but he knew that despite his anger he would be on the road in less than three hours.

  He handed the pager to his cousin.

  “We should get some sleep,” he said. “What do we tell your parents?”

  “They won’t even notice I’m gone,” Frankie said quietly. “I always take off for school before they get out of bed.”

  Hackett organized the couch for his cousin before retreating to his own bed. The last thought that crossed his mind before sleep overtook him was maybe he shouldn’t have dismissed Fats’ suggestion of a gun so easily.

  Chapter 28

  Chandra awoke with a groan and slapped blindly at the radio alarm clock until the morning news was silenced. Getting up at six a.m. was bad enough without the annoying voice of Viñuela ‘Vinnie’ DeCastro.

  Vinnie had been bugging her for the last three weeks to switch shifts at the radio station, but who in hell wanted to go back to starting work at midnight?

  Besides, Chandra justified, Vinnie was the newest and youngest member of the broadcast team and needed the experience of having no nightlife. That way he could blame the job for his inability to attract the opposite sex rather than his bland looks that just screamed overprotected suburban youth.

  Chandra forced herself out of bed and into the shower. She wished she had bought the shampoo advertised on TV that made you want to shout out in orgasmic glee rather than the orange stuff on sale in aisle three. It did, however, have a decent scent.

  After drying her hair and carefully applying makeup to achieve a natural look, but with bigger eyes and brighter, more kissable lips, Chand
ra studied her wardrobe. Being on radio essentially meant she could work in a pair of baggy sweatpants and comfortable bra, but where was the fun in that?

  Chandra chose a sleek, mid-thigh skirt with matching suit jacket in silky periwinkle. She added a smart, collarless blouse just two shades lighter that could be buttoned to the throat or allowed to peep open by a button or two, depending on her mood.

  Nude pantyhose and her good shoes went into the backpack, along with a fresh supply of cinnamon breath mints and a Granny Smith apple. For breakfast, she popped a handful of chia and hemp seed into her mouth and washed it down with half a cup of skim milk.

  After slipping on a pair of white ankle socks and sneakers, she took one last look at herself in the full-length mirror behind the bedroom door: hair good, face good (except for the slight puffiness still evident around her left eye. Mental note: knuckle twist Akira’s balls next time we spar), tits good, legs good, ass great.

  She smiled.

  Nothing beats a great ass day.

  BY THE TIME she arrived at KXLY, Chandra was wishing she had never left her bed.

  Both buses had been packed, her ass had been pinched twice — once, she was sure, by a woman — and a salesman who needed to have his suits custom made by Eureka Tents had stepped on her right foot and jabbed a sharp elbow into her left breast.

  Limping slightly, Chandra retreated to the woman’s washroom, unbuttoned her blouse and checked her breast. She was relieved to find that although the flesh felt tender, there was no discoloration.

  “Breast exam?” asked a chipper voice as one of the stall doors swung open to the accompaniment of a flushing toilet.

  Chandra turned to see LuAnn Cherry, secretary to the station manager but with aspirations of becoming on-air personality. Although she didn’t look the part — a black Loni Anderson with bigger hair and bigger boobs — the Sports desk had quietly admitted that LuAnn knew more trivia, history and stats than the two of them combined.