Karma

by Grant McKenzie

  He spoke into the microphone.

  “I feel like Inspector Gadget here, Fats.”

  There was a slight delay while his voice was transmitted via the modem to Fats’ computer where each word would appear on his screen. Then, a tinny voice, translating Fats’ keystrokes, spoke into his ear.

  “Pity I can’t get the pop-up helicopter blades to work, then you would be set.”

  Hackett laughed. “Well if you hadn’t wasted your youth inventing that baseball hat that holds two cans of beer.”

  “Ha, ha,” said the computer.

  The flat voice made Hackett wonder if that’s what future perverts of the world could look forward to. Making love to a robot that had all the right moves but none of the emotion.

  Fats continued, “I’m testing the lenses. Let me know if you feel any discomfort.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Hackett protested. “You didn’t say anything about discomfort.”

  “Zoom lens is working fine,” said Fats. “Not much to focus on though.”

  “Are you listening to me?” asked Hackett.

  “Night scope works better,” said Fats. “There’s a cat watching you from under the porch. It looks pissed.”

  “You’re ignoring me, aren’t you?”

  “Thermal imager is sweet,” Fats continued. “This unit cost a small fortune plus a personal favor from a friend at FLIR, but I can read the body temps of four people. There are two small patterns, one above the other, in the room at your top left. I would guess those are the girls. In bunk beds? Two others are registering in the kitchen. They appear to be drinking hot liquid.”

  “Must be Frank and Gloria.”

  “Any discomfort?”

  “Apart from a crick in my neck, nope. It’s lighter than I expected.”

  “Excellent. Keep your eyes peeled. I’ll monitor from here.”

  Hackett lifted his own camera and zoomed in on the large patio window leading to the kitchen. He could see two human shapes sitting at a table.

  The cold night descended and a light rain began to splatter the windows of the playhouse. Hackett sipped his tea and watched the emptiness.

  Chapter 53

  Stepping off the bus in downtown Chicago was like being transported across time and space into the heart of a mad lord’s empire.

  Everywhere Theresa looked she saw darkness. Ebony stone bled into dark alleys; a sky the color and taste of soot; rivers of oily streets undulating amidst a haze of rain like well-fed snakes.

  The man she had pleasured in the cramped, vinyl-walled toilet pushed past her at the exit without a word or even a backwards glance. He was too focused on getting away, forgetting his lowly adventures until he could get his head straight long enough to twist them into a torrid tale worth bragging about to his friends.

  As Theresa watched, he dashed across the sidewalk, his leather-soled shoes sliding precariously on the slick cement, and climbed into the rear of a large Oldsmobile that idled patiently at the curb.

  Through the window, Theresa could see a driver; crisp black cap above a sad brown face. Their eyes met briefly and he nodded in acknowledgment as if to say, “You’re lucky you get to leave. I’m stuck with him.”

  Theresa dug her cellphone from the front pocket of her jeans and skimmed the directions Cypher had sent her. According to Google maps, the bar she was supposed to find was only four blocks away. If Reddy’s father stuck to his usual schedule, he should be staggering out in less than an hour.

  Theresa pulled the collar of her denim jacket tighter around her neck, wishing she had found a better one at the goodwill store, and began to walk.

  The rain soaked through her jacket before she reached the end of the first block. Her T-shirt stuck against her skin, the wet cloth irritating her already tender nipples, and two tiny streams of black mascara dribbled down her cheeks.

  She knew she looked awful — a drowned rat as J-Cloth would say — but she also knew the man she was pursuing wouldn’t care.

  They never did.

  Chapter 54

  Hackett felt his eyes growing heavy as he continued to stare at his aunt’s house. He poured another cup of tea and shifted on his pillow to ease the numbness in his ass.

  In the last hour, his aunt had left the kitchen and retreated upstairs. Hackett had averted his eyes when her silhouette appeared in the bedroom window. If she had been attacked in that moment, he would have been angry at himself for turning away, but peeping at her private moments was just too disturbing to contemplate.

  “Your aunt still has her figure,” said Fats.

  “Don’t go there,” warned Hackett.

  “Hey, hey, Mrs. Robinson.”

  “You can’t sing, Fats. Neither can the computer.”

  “I’ll need to work on that.”

  “You do that. What’s Frank doing?”

  “Watching TV. It looks cool on thermal. I think he’s either watching the Playboy channel or The Muppets.”

  “Big difference.”

  “You have to use your imagination in this business. The only thing I see is a heat pattern. I can tell you when the TV is on and when it’s not, but that’s it.”

  “Is he drinking?” Hackett asked. “It wouldn’t be cool if he passes out.”

  “Can’t tell. His hand moves up to his mouth now and again, no significant heat register in his hand, so he might be drinking something close to room temperature.”

  “That’s the way he likes his Irish.”

  “Move your head around,” said Fats. “I want to see what’s going on in the yard.”

  Hackett swiveled his head from east to west, encompassing the garden.

  “The cat has moved to the bush on your right. I think it’s planning to attack.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. Anything else?”

  “Nope. All quiet.”

  “That’s what John Boy thought before they shot him in the head.”

  “John Boy?”

  “Yeah in that movie, All Quiet on The Western Front. I saw it on cable a couple weeks back. It starred the guy who played John Boy on The Waltons, what was his name?”

  “Richard Thomas.”

  “That’s him. At the end of the movie, everyone thinks the war is over and everything is going to be OK. Then John Boy gets a bullet in the head.”

  “Great movie. He was reaching for a butterfly when he got shot in the original 1930 black and white version. It won Oscars for best picture and best director that year.”

  “Pity you never leave the house, Fats. You could make a fortune on one of those trivia quiz shows.”

  There was no reply.

  “Fats?” Hackett whispered.

  “Hold on,” replied the robotic voice. “I think I see something.”

  Chapter 55

  A man matching the description supplied by Cypher lurched out of the bar.

  In daylight hours, he could have passed for human. Combed hair, leather shoes, two-piece suit, clean dress shirt and tie. So long as you didn’t look too deeply into his eyes, you might never know what monster lurked within those murky depths.

  But in the small hours, the dark hours, the disguise slipped. Hair no longer neat, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and the bastard tie — bearing the company logo of Chicago Realty & Loan — was stuffed in his pocket with loathsome contempt.

  Theresa knew him only too well.

  Hell, she knew all the monsters.

  The man swayed in the bar’s doorway, one hand clutching the edge of the wall as he struggled to orient himself. Then, lurching as if an axe blade had struck him behind the knees, he staggered onto the sidewalk and headed down the street.

  Theresa quickly crossed the road to follow. After a few steps, the man turned into an alley.

  When Theresa caught up, she could hear the splash of urine against stone.

  Theresa slowed her pace, entered the alley, and closed in.

  “Why didn’t you do that inside?” she asked as she approached.

  The m
an turned his head to squint at her. His body swayed drunkenly as he drew wet circles on the bricks.

  “Didn’t know I had to go.” His words slurred as though being squeezed through a mouthful of paste. “Fucking cold out here.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Theresa agreed. “You got someplace warm we can go?”

  “I’m broke,” said the man. “Going home.”

  “I need a place to sleep. Could you put me up?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he gave his penis a quick shake and tucked it back in his pants. He forgot to close the zipper and a scrap of shirt dangled from the opening.

  “How old is you?” he asked.

  “Old enough.”

  “You look fucking twelve.”

  “That bother you?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Fuck, yeah. I go to jail for messing with someone your age.”

  “But if I’m this young, then you know I can’t be a cop,” Theresa reasoned.

  “Got a point there,” said the man. “But like I said, I got no money.”

  Theresa reached out and tenderly touched his arm with outstretched fingertips.

  “I just need a warm room and someplace to rest my head, mister. I’m done for the night.”

  The man licked his lips, his eyes flicking left to right. Theresa knew he was making sure there was no one else around.

  “If I let you crash at my place, what do I get?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  Theresa grinned and arched her back, letting him know she could deliver the goods. She had no bosom to speak of, but the cold weather had irritated her nipples until they were the size of frozen berries.

  “I live alone,” he said. “Wife left a few years back.”

  “Good. That means I don’t have to fuck her, too.”

  The man laughed.

  They all like it when the little girl talks dirty.

  “Come here,” he demanded. “I want to see you up close.”

  Theresa moved closer, her right hand sliding under her coat to the straight razor tucked in the waistband of her jeans. But before she could pull it free—

  The man lunged.

  Theresa’s scream caught in her throat as thick fingers bit into her flesh like the steel teeth of a bear trap.

  She struggled and fought, but the man was no fool. He slammed her head against the brick wall. Twice. Three times.

  Something cracked and everything went black.

  One second.

  Two seconds.

  When she recovered, Theresa found the man fumbling one-handed with the belt of her jeans.

  She tried to speak, to convince him he didn’t have to do it this way, but the man’s other hand was still squeezing her throat. Blood dripped off his fingers and ran down the back of her shirt. She knew it must be from the wound in her head; she could feel its sharp ache.

  It was becoming more difficult to breathe, and her head swirled giddily.

  The man yanked her jeans down to her knees. Cold air slapped against her thighs.

  Christ, she thought, he’s drunk, he shouldn’t be this strong, or this fast.

  Desperate, she grabbed at the razor, feeling it fall into her palm. She tried to move her thumb, to open it.

  She should’ve met Needle.

  She should’ve asked for his help.

  Fuck Cypher and his rules.

  Theresa felt the razor opening in her hand just as the man loosened his grip on her throat and spun her around to face the wall.

  Theresa lashed out as she spun, feeling the razor slide across the man’s chest with barely a whisper of torn cloth.

  The man didn’t even notice.

  Instead of lurching backwards in surprise, he clamped his hand onto the back of her neck and smashed her face into the wall. Her nose and mouth impacted with such force, Theresa felt the cartilage crack and two of her teeth shatter.

  Blood filled her mouth, her throat so swollen and raw she had difficulty swallowing. She began to choke, tears streaming from her eyes to mix with the blood. The taste of soot and decay was stronger than ever.

  The man entered her from behind — her anus stretching painfully to accommodate his swollen penis. With her body pinned to the wall by his thrusts, the man placed both hands around Theresa’s neck and squeezed again.

  Theresa’s eyes bulged as her mouth filled with blood and her throat closed to oxygen.

  The razor fell from her grasp as she heard the man groan, “Yeah, that’s my boy, give it to daddy.”

  Theresa’s last thought was of a boy she had never seen.

  Needle.

  Chapter 56

  “What do you see,” Hackett whispered into the microphone.

  “Heat signature. Just one.”

  “Where?”

  “Moving on your left. It’s heading for the house.”

  “Can’t see a damn thing.”

  Then Hackett saw it: a silhouette gliding quickly toward the sliding glass doors that connected the kitchen to the outdoor patio.

  “Is it a kid?” Hackett whispered. “I can’t tell.”

  “Me either. Too much movement. Hold on, he’s stopping.”

  Hackett could see the shadowy form bend low in front of the patio door.

  “What’s he doing?” Hackett asked. “Surely—”

  There was a barely audible click and the glass door slid open.

  “Christ,” Hackett gasped. “Frank didn’t secure the patio. I’m going in.”

  “Hold on,” said Fats. “Frank doesn’t know you’re out here. He’s probably armed. Use your cell and call him. He must have fallen asleep.”

  Hackett fumbled for his phone and punched in Gloria’s number. Before it had time to ring, a loud bellow of pain shattered the night.

  Immediately, Hackett ripped off the helmet and sprinted across the rain-slick lawn. He burst through the patio door at full speed.

  “Uncle Frank!”

  Another agonized scream stabbed from the next room as Hackett landed on the waxed linoleum floor in wet shoes and lost all traction. His feet went north, his ass south.

  Hackett hit the floor with a bone-jarring smack that took his breath away. With a curse, he scrambled back to his feet, but a jolt of pain arced from his left ankle and almost took him back down.

  Gritting his teeth, Hackett limped to the living room. When he arrived, Frank was lying on his side, hands clutching his eyes, his mouth gasping for air like a goldfish out of water.

  Then it struck.

  The sting in the air.

  Pepper spray.

  Hackett squeezed his eyes into slits as the highly concentrated cloud of cayenne oil began to expand through the house.

  He yelled, “Where did he go, Frank?”

  “Outside, Tommy,” Frank gasped. “He ran outside.”

  Hackett limped into the hallway, but there was nothing to see except an open front door and a dark, empty street beyond.

  Cursing, Hackett glanced at the floor and saw a white business card. He bent to pick it up, expecting to find the word K.A.R.M.A. printed on its face. Instead, he discovered it was one of his own.

  With a frown, Hackett pocketed the card.

  A sniffling sound made him turn.

  His two young cousins stood at the top of the stairs, tears of terror in their eyes. His aunt, Hackett knew, was undisturbed, her nightly dose of sleeping pills a powerful concoction.

  Hackett motioned for the twin girls to stay where they were. The pepper spray, he reasoned, likely wouldn’t crawl its way upstairs unless the furnace kicked in and carried it through the air ducts.

  With eyes weeping madly from the powerful gas, Hackett returned to the living room to help his uncle.

  Chapter 57

  Frank lay on a narrow bed in the rear of an idling ambulance. A wet compost covered his eyes, and his face was blotted pale green with a soothing balm.

  “That was the worst bloody rescue ...”

  “Sorry, already.” Hackett’s eyes w
ere red and puffy after being rinsed out by the paramedics. “But you weigh a ton.”

  “You banged my head on the bloody floor a dozen times,” grumbled Frank.

  “My ankle was killing me,” explained Hackett with rising annoyance. “I was trying to hop, keep my eyes closed, and haul your stubborn Irish ass outside. It wasn’t easy.”

  Frank snorted. “I felt like one of those stupid nodding dogs people put in the back window of their cars.”

  “Well if you had locked the patio door . . .”

  “I did lock the bloody door,” Frank snapped.

  “Then how in hell—”

  “He must have picked it.”

  “And you didn’t get a look at him?”

  “No!” Frank touched the cloth that covered his stinging eyes. “I close my eyes for one bloody second, and when I open them, BLAM, I’ve got a face full of pepper. Christ, does that stuff hurt.”

  “No shit,” said Hackett. “Did you know that pepper spray is considered a chemical weapon? It’s banned for use during war, yet our government allows it to be used domestically against its own citizens. What’s with that?”

  “Ach, don’t go Commie on me, Tommy,” Frank groaned. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Is it Commie to think that as free citizens, we should be allowed to protest peacefully without some goon squad goose-stepping in with chemical weapons and gloves with buckshot sewn into the knuckles?”

  “Sometimes it’s necessary—”

  “If it’s necessary,” interrupted Hackett. “Then you shouldn’t be surprised when somebody turns it against you.”

  “Christ, Tommy. What are you getting at?”

  “I’ve tasted that gas, Frank. I covered the riots at the Seattle Convention Center, and I got a taste of it here. This wasn’t some domestic dog repellant available at the local hardware store. This was Grade A, banned by the UN, fuck you up real good, police-strength pepper spray.”

  “So?”

  “So where did K.A.R.M.A. get it? If these are kids, how do they get access to restricted chemical weapons?”

  “We’ll look into it.”

  “Great,” Hackett sighed. “I feel so much better.”