by Brian Ewing
“I never noticed before, but,” Sisto said, trying to deflect and pointing to his own upper neck, behind his ear, “what is that you got tattooed, if you don’t me asking? Something cultural?”
Her smile perked up just enough for Sisto to feel he’d dodged the bullet of being pigeon-holed as her weird chauvinistic neighbor, and revealed, “Skynet.”
“Terminator? Impressive.” Sisto stated, looking a little closer, and Ama turned her head to show the small, triangular emblem.
“Being into computers, you would think someone like yourself would be against Skynet.”
“True, but growing up the way I have, I always felt a little more detached from people, and more connected to the world of technology.”
Sisto had no reason to ask for elaboration, as he understood that feeling completely.
CHAPTER 8
The entire interaction he’d just experienced made Sisto feel oddly content. It had been far too long since he’d let his guard down and had a conversation without having a mental filter running through his thoughts to avoid accidentally saying something that he felt may stamp an awkwardness to the interaction. Ama and her ojibwe seemed to be very open to Sisto—to who he had become. Sisto wondered if he had been open-minded enough before The Reels arrived, to have the same compassion for someone like him, had he been on the other side of the coin. The thought tugged at his mind the entire way back to his apartment. He auto-piloted himself, laptop in arm, up the two flights of the glorious, damp, concreted-scented stairwell, through the door with the “five” plaque on it, past the sparse utility room, and down the hall to the end, where he couldn’t wait to get in and sit on his couch and not do a damn thing for a half hour.
Rifling through his left pocket, Sisto found his keys, which had somehow got shoved to the bottom of what seemed to be an abyss of a worn, half-empty gum packet, two receipts, and some earbuds Sisto usually kept on his person in case he needed to tune out his surroundings and just listen to his music playlist on his phone. Sisto wanted to splurge on some of the cool earbuds with the case that would hold the buds’ charge for weeks at a time, but never found himself desperate enough to deal with the mall crowds to get in the electronic store, QuaLED Electronics, and make the purchase. The punishment for his laziness was now front of center—Sisto’s son-of-a-bitch-bastard wired headphones have entwined itself around the keys, like an Anaconda circling its prey and closing in tighter with each movement. The receipts and gum spilled onto the floor in front of the door as Sisto went in the pocket, blindly trying to extract the clunky motherfuckers before he threw his laptop to the ground. After a few choice words, and most of what was in the pocket now spread on the floor, he pointed the tangled mess towards the lock and managed to get into his humble abode.
Setting his laptop on the kitchen table, Sisto turned around to clear the trash from his pocket; he emptied the mess into the touchless metal bin he’d placed on the endcap of his kitchen counter for easy access. Waving his hand across the two-foot bin, Sisto was instantly reminded of how pleased he was with his purchase. He relocated his laptop from the kitchen table over to the corner desk and let out a moan of ecstasy as he leaned back into the center of the gray-clothed sectional while kicking his feet up on the scratched espresso-stained coffee table. He looked around for the remote, usually somewhere nearby, but caught it in the corner of his eye at the matching, stained, end table four feet away. Sisto overreacted as he shuffled to stand up and grab the remote. He was irritated at having to get up after making himself comfy. He parked the remote on the end seat closest to the end table and turned on the fifty-five-inch mounted flat-screen.
Sisto decompressed for a half hour, catching the tail end of some low budget direct-to-video feature on the Syfy Channel. Not remembering if the big-breasted meteorologist saved the world from the cataclysmic event, Sisto realized he must have dozed off during the last few minutes. As he recalled, it went from music ramping up to a mundane climax directly to the over-sped credit roll, making way for the next show or movie in the channel’s lineup. Looking at his watch, Sisto saw it was already eight-thirty and figured he would stop over at Craig’s apartment across the way and say a quick hello. Thankfully, while Sisto’s inventory on food was laughable, he did have a few packs of beer he could choose from and take over to his hospitable neighbor. Sisto would have a beer or two socially, but rarely drank himself into oblivion like he used to do pre-Reels. He made the mistake one night, after helping the detectives at Mustain PD close a big double homicide which was staged to look like a murder-suicide, of drinking Jameson and beers until dawn approached the next day. His hangover was something he never wished upon his worst enemy. He felt like someone strung him upside down like a piñata and gone for his head, hoping to crack open the shell and find a pile of candy. He sweated through his clothes and while not entirely sure, thought he may have pissed himself. After a half hour of vomiting, he grabbed a shower beer for a little hare of the dog, and let the hot water hit his throbbing head, while chugging an ice-cold Miller Lite bottle. The beer went through his whole body and relieved a little of the shakes he’d acquired while puking his guts out. He popped some aspirin and slept until close to ten that following evening. Sisto hadn’t got drunk like that ever since.
Releasing the memory from long ago, Sisto weighed his options and chose to take along the variety pack he’d bought from the local brewery over on McKinson and Fourth Street last week. Happy with his choice, while grabbing for the canned craft beer pack, his phone buzzed. He reached in his right pocket, thankful the headphones hadn’t snuck in there to taunt him like they had in his left pocket earlier. He raised the screen to see the ID name as Cami Caden. Smirking at the thought of her response if she ever saw how her contact was written in his phone, he picked up on the third buzz, fridge still open, and putting a chill over his knees through his jeans.
“Detective Caden, I knew you would take me up on my offer for company one of these days,” Sisto answered. Knowing it was more than likely not the reason she’d called him, he decided being forward was the only way to get anywhere in this world, and continued, “I am a little busy now, but could probably meet up in an hour or two if you want me to pick up some Chinese food or a nice bottle of wine?”
“Tom, I’m sorry to call you after the long night we just put in dealing with that murder case, but I got something here and,” she paused, “and I just think this is something you need to see.”
Her tone was serious and Sisto knew when she negated his advances without even a retort and something serious was going on.
“A new case already? What happened?” he inquired, leaving his pathetic attempt at charm by the wayside.
“Not over the phone. I have a car coming to get you. You at your apartment?”
Sisto, nodding his head, then realizing what the fuck he was doing, stopped and replied, “Yeah, I will start heading down. I just have to let my neighbor know I won’t be making it over.”
“I’m really sorry to take you away from your night, Tom,” Caden stated sincerely. “I honestly haven’t seen anything like this, and I think we could use your skill set.”
“Tell Bell that I missed him and will be there as soon as I can.”
“Will do,” she replied, projecting a smile in her tone that Sisto could sense, which made him happy. He ended the call.
He shut the door to the refrigerator and headed to the bathroom. It sounded like it would be a long night and he didn’t want to get stuck trying to take a shit at a filthy gas station bathroom or have to ask Caden or God forbid, Bell, to stop at a Walmart or twenty-four-hour convenience store. He was brief and to the point, but even with his prompt delivery, he felt a buzz in his right pocket while washing his hands. It was a text from Caden, alerting him that a uniformed officer was waiting for him in the lobby. Making sure he had his wallet, keys, and his gray zip-hoodie vest with black denim—as it was sure to be just as cold as last night, Sisto headed towards the door. He reached back to lock the
door then headed to the stairwell a few steps before halting in his tracks. Shit, he thought to himself, turning around and going up to apartment fifty-two with a quick knock and jiggle of the handle to see if Craig had left the door unlocked. The knob turned and Sisto peeked his head in slightly, calling out Craig’s name.
“Hey, come on in bud. The fight is just about to start. I got Randy from the second floor heading up soon and I think Marlene, his neighbor, is coming to chill too. Pull up a seat.”
The guilt Sisto was about to drop on Craig was slightly lifted, knowing at least a few more people were coming and that Craig hadn’t ordered the fight for himself to sit alone and gorge on pizza and beer in the lonely bachelor pad he had created for himself.
“Sucks, man. Next time I guess,” Craig said, after Sisto told him he couldn’t make it. There was no ill-will in the words, which Sisto was thankful for.
“Definitely, man. Listen, no idea how long this job will take but next day off I will hit you up and we can have a few pitchers down at the pool hall,” Sisto offered, trying to keep the olive branch open to one of his few remaining friends.
“Sounds like you forgot how bad you suck at pool,” Craig joked, “But hell, yeah, an afternoon of beers and swiping your cash always sounds good to me.”
The men both chuckled and Sisto looked at his phone, which buzzed with a second text.
“Alright dude, I gotta go. Stay safe tonight,” Sisto said as he departed.
Picking his pace up a bit, he made it down to the lobby in decent time, opened the aluminum stairwell push door, and turned the corner to move towards the walkway to exit.
On his left was a very panicked Super Dave, paler than normal, beads of sweat forming at his brow, as a stacked, brick wall of a man in a SCPD uniform stood a few feet from him, hands on hips, assessing the lobby.
“Dave.” Sisto tipped his invisible hat towards the petty criminal/superintendent as he kept walking towards the patrolman.
“Officer Wallace,” the younger man introduced himself while extending his hand for a courtesy shake.
“Sorry, I got a thing about touching people,” Sisto awkwardly expressed while introducing himself with a wave, trying to avoid getting any vibe off the man. The last thing he needed was a long car ride with a stranger that had his personal memories invaded by The Reels.
“It’s all good I heard about you.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“This way, sir.” Wallace directed to the left as the two men exited the walkway at the front of the apartments and headed towards the black and white wrapped Caprice Classic.
“What do you know about this thing I am being called in for?” Sisto fished for information.
“All I know is it’s pretty heinous from what is going on over the radio,” Wallace, replied as vaguely as possible.
This didn’t give Sisto the feeling he would be back home before the next sunrise. He just hoped Caden hadn’t eaten a late dinner, so they could get some IHOP later. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on some of those breakfast crepes and hash browns. His mouth salivated at the thought, then he rested his head on his hand, propped up from the passenger door, and watched the city zoom by as Officer Wallace kicked on the sirens and headed south.
CHAPTER 9
The joyride was about fifteen minutes outside the metropolitan city, probably forty minutes without the assistance of the handy siren and flashing lights perched above the v10 enhanced chariot. With the exception of a few calls on the open channel, the ride was quiet. Sisto wasn’t sure if Wallace wasn’t a conversationalist or if one of the many tales woven throughout the SCPD locker rooms had scared the rookie officer from digging. Frankly, neither option really bothered him. The silence was a welcome relief to Sisto. The headlights gave the grassy fields on each side of the road an ambiance that would normally be considered relaxing. Knowing that Sisto never got calls from Caden out of the blue to join her at luxury resorts, he determined he was being driven to something more on par with the set of Children of the Corn. Officer Wallace took the crest of the hill at a steady eighty miles an hour, giving a slight lift off as they descended, and creating butterflies in Sisto’s stomach for a moment. Looking at Wallace more closely, he noticed the eager stare and focus the young giant wielded in his eyes. Wallace felt Sisto staring and turned to him and apologized for the moment of weightlessness as they sped towards the gaggle of parked patrol cars another few miles ahead and off to the right.
The view approaching the vintage farmhouse was impressive, even with only the small beams from the headlights cutting through the pitch black. Coming down the hill into the flat land, it took Sisto a moment to realize why he was so taken aback by the landscape. Being in the city, the structures and noise and lights and smog all masked the beauty and awe of the vast Universe, which he was now able to see clearly as if it were in high definition on his television, blanketed across his entire view line. Barstow Farms, a popular attraction for city folks around fall and spring especially, was a magnet for surrounding cities when it came to Carnival season. That was also the case during staple events held there every year such as 30 Days of Night Pumpkin Picking in October, the annual Holiday Farm Lighting at Christmas, as well as the months of booked events in the early months of the year for photo shoots, weddings, and other events. Sisto had never been out that way and was now mad at himself for tainting the experience with something he was sure was going to be wretched and would stain his memory of the attraction. Thankfully, Wallace had practiced his Formula One racing technique to the bitter end of the ride, causing Sisto’s growing chip on his shoulder at all the good memories he would not be retaining at Barstow Farms to halt immediately and focus on the task at hand.
Sisto thanked the patrolman for the ride as he opened the passenger door to exit and looked back at Wallace to complete the polite acknowledgement. He saw a glow fill in Wallace’s cheeks and a twinkle in his eye on receiving the recognition. Looking away as he securely shut the black and white door, Sisto started analyzing the pockets of people spread around, trying to pinpoint Caden’s signature ponytail and eyes that Sisto would melt well into the next morning, given the chance. He approached the barn, paint stripped and withering in some spots from decades of the sun putting in work, and The Reels hit him with a force so intense that he stumbled and dipped into a kneeling position. He could feel sweat starting to form above his brow and the back of his neck clam up. His fingertips ignited with the same metaphysical fire he felt the night before, just as intensely. It was the last worldly feeling his body felt before he let himself be whisked away to movie land.
Sisto, realizing he was wearing someone else’s experience, like putting on a nice suit, felt his heartbeat jackhammer at an incredible rate. He looked around in his dreamlike state, seeing the same vintage barn, but much clearer than a moment ago. Not only were all the patrol cars with the red and blue lighting gone, but there was a spotlight from the sky putting the structure into a clear night view. Looking up, it was the shine of a full moon that supported his vision in the wee hours he was submerged in. Thinking outside the vision for a moment, Sisto knew it was not a full moon tonight and would have to look it up after The Reels were done showing their production to get a better idea of what he was seeing. Back into the character suit he forcibly wore, he felt his legs starting to move towards the oversized, wooden doors, while his muscles started to burn in his shoulders from dragging something heavy. Sisto looked over his right shoulder to see a pair Wolverine work boots with caked dirt on the soles attached to some poor soul’s legs. The thick tree-trunk legs were bound together by a bulky arm capped with a massive, tattooed fist. This was his fist, for all intents and purposes. Fuck me, Sisto muttered to himself, accepting the vision was going to be a front row seat to something he wouldn’t be able to easily forget. At the same time, Sisto had a feeling of excitement, almost orgasmic joy. Endorphins shooting off like a fireworks display hijacked his brain synapses. The killer had enjoyed every minu
te that had come thus far as well as the anticipation of what lay ahead.
Sisto’s left hand, inked in similar fashion as the right one, raised towards the heavy plywood that kept the door barricaded. The fiery burn subsided as Sisto dropped the pair of legs, allowing his full weight to assist him in removing the wooden piece from the bolted brackets on each side of opposing sliding doors. Tossing the wooden reinforcement aside, he grabbed the rusted handles on the right door and guided the wheels on the top and bottom track rail, until a gap would allow him and his victim to enter. Sisto’s arm went to his side, feeling his abnormally firm biceps form pressure as his jacket tightened around the bulk, as he unclasped a carabiner from an open belt loop and brought up a tactical flashlight. The metal of the tool felt cool to the touch, which was nice considering that outside The Reels, Sisto’s hands were still on fire from his nerve endings dancing. Sisto’s movie hand rose, flashlight in hand, searching for a light switch. The box, which was pretty close to where the hand first shone the light, glared as the flashlight fell upon it and Sisto again watched his strange branded hand reach in front and flick the switch on, illuminating the entire barn, and pushing Sisto right out of the memory.
Blinking, the night was once again owned by the dark, with the corners being filled with alternating red and blue. Sisto, still kneeling, looked up and didn’t see the moon where it had just been in his vision mere moments ago. The jolt of shifting from one’s memory to his own induced bile in his stomach to bubble, reaching for an exit, and retching until there was nothing left to give up. The warm pile of vomit, slightly steaming in the chilly air, approached his nasal cavity with a floral fragrance. One point for The Reels, Sisto admitted in between the last few thrusts of dry heaving. Wiping the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie, he shakily made his way back to his feet. Looking around to see how many people had noticed his weak stomach, he couldn’t find a single pair of eyes on him luckily. While getting booted early from the experience, Sisto had no doubt what was in the barn and assumed much of the focus was in there. Sisto needed a moment to recalibrate. His heartbeat was still transitioning back from the jackhammer of excitement the offender held. He proceeded towards the group of officers surrounding the door while getting acquainted back in his own skin.
