by Matt Rogers
Chapter 30
The streets were congested as people everywhere were heading out for a night on the town. It was Thursday and everyone could read the tea leaves, stare into the magical crystal ball and tell what was on the horizon. Things were picking up steam, rolling downhill and it was only a matter of time before one loose cannon, one accidental gunshot let loose the dogs of war.
The activity was akin to a beehive watching a bear approach. Stores were running out of product as the populace bought for the future. Candles, flashlights, plywood, ammunition and canned preserves were the preferred choice and those who controlled their production were watching fear fill their coffers.
“Smith?”
“Yes, Wesson?”
“What if we’re really going to war?”
The question was posed because it was all over the news. Every station, every channel was alive with reports of strange happenings. Down south, along the Rio Grande, things had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. The Texans had raided. They could no longer stomach the boiled flowers of Asian origin and had looted along the border. It had happened at night and the shopkeepers who were normally awake were not prepared as they pretended to be. The problem was in the abundance. They had all the coffee and their northern border brothers had none. They had taken it upon themselves to do a little braggadocio, imbibe a little too much of the potent brew and when the caffeine buzz wore off the Texans were ready to pounce. It was actually thought amusing by those who abstained because the very product they were blatantly flaunting in front of those who had become addicted was also the reason for the successful raid. It had been weeks since the Alamo went down in a blaze of rubble and by then the steps of recovery had taken their toll. The Texas National Guard, the Border Patrol, the Concerned Citizens for Caffeinated Equality had all gone through the stages. Confusion, anger, denial, bargaining and all the other processes had been observed until finally, when all seemed lost and acceptance reared its head an opportunity arose. They found they were more clear-headed, able to stay alert longer into the night for they hadn’t burned their stores of energy on the heart-palpitating beverage of chocolate-colored delight. They waited, they watched and when it became clear the Mexican side was fast asleep they slipped over the border and took every last can of future percolating pleasure with them as they returned to their beloved homeland. Mexico, of course, was incensed.
“We demand the return of both our sacred land and our sacred brew!”
No one was listening for no one cared. They finally had a good cup and they drank till the last drop.
The two detectives were mindful of the intensity, watchful for those seeking to cause trouble. They had seen before where the downtrodden, those whipped by life and mad at society began plotting ways to get even. It happened whenever otherwise aware citizens became occupied with world-changing events. What would once cause a backlash, a phone call to authorities was no longer employed. The scope of the unrest was the culprit.
Canada had not gone exactly as the Vamps had planned but was still unraveling so was considered a success. The English speakers had done as expected and tensions flared when those who wanted France as their sovereign were shouted down, intimidated and even threatened with expulsion. The French Linguistic Liberation League of Separatists had been forced out of the shadows and back into their stronghold of Quebec. The great city was under virtual siege by those who followed the crown and trouble began appearing as produce stopped arriving. The residents inside Quebec were in a quandary. Half were of the English persuasion, half chose France but all were Quebecers. They followed the laws of Mother Nature and did what she had always deemed the appropriate response; they bonded tighter with their local community and began heading out to raid the surrounding countryside to provide for themselves what their country-mates were denying. It might have ended there, a local conflict in a sovereign country if not for the Canadalaskan Pipeline Conflict. The oil, the Vamps learned, was the sore spot, not the Statue of Liberty. It turned out Lady Liberty was somewhat like a promotional ad which had done its job a little too well. When she was presented as a gift from France the United States was still a vast and open land with space for everyone. As the population grew and the country took on super-power status the need for her sultry calls of joining the union were not viewed as beneficially. While few professed it out loud, most were not disappointed because they felt it was time for her to go away anyway. Not so with oil.
“We need to stop for gas.”
“Good, I could use a chili-cheese-dog right now.”
The two detectives pulled into the convenience store parking lot, parked in front of a gas pump and sat in surprise at what they saw.
“Are the prices going up as we speak?”
The street-sign in front of the station advertising the price of petroleum was blank. It had to be. If it were to issue the current price they would need to station a man full-time underneath with a bunch of numbers to change the thing every time he’d finished previously changing it. Big Oil had seen an opening and ran with it. The Canadalaskan Pipeline had provided them an opportunity of profound importance. With its destruction the delivery of the needed ignition sparker was in flux. Big Oil went to Congress and demanded they do something about it and since Congress had no idea what to do Big Oil supplied them with an answer. Since the price of oil depended on its availability and the availability was erratic due to French Linguistic terrorism then the natural response should be to use modern technology and set the price at the current levels of obtainability. Congress, ever happy to please those in control of liquefied power acceded and the Petroleum Pricing Prescription Plan was rushed through with unanimous support.
“Oh my God! Get out and start pumping before it gets any higher!”
The idea was simple and its implementation began without any fanfare. All gas stations had underground tanks which were monitored with computerized technology. The entire system was on the grid. Algorithms were entered, tinkered and what came about was Big Oil ecstasy and consumer consternation.
As Smith was pumping Wesson was watching.
“Pump faster! It’s going higher!”
“’How the heck do I pump faster!”
“I don’t know? Squeeze the handle harder!”
Supply and demand was in full force. As Smith and the other gas-getters were pumping, the underground holding tank was emptying and as they delivered their precious fluids to their automated carriages their wallets were pouring directly into the pockets of those already full with politicians.
“Goodness! That was exciting.”
“Exciting?”
“Yeah, I didn’t think you were going to beat that lady on pump three.”
Smith looked to where Wesson indicated and sure enough there was a woman with a look of confusion and defeat on her face for her price at the pump was three cents a gallon higher than his. Strangely, Smith felt a little bit euphoric over his pumping victory.
“Do you still want a hot-dog?” he asked.
“Nah, I think I’ll savor the moment instead” Wesson replied and Smith pulled his company credit card to pay for Vampire war designs and Petrol price gouging.
They were on the way to the blood bank. It was the second place Melissa was employed after the survey company and had the added benefit of being local. The address was on Hillcrest Drive and was just across town. They thought about visiting Land Surveyors Incorporated but decided to follow up on the in-town lead rather than risk traffic. It took them forty-five minutes to traverse seventeen miles.
“I should have gotten a hot-dog.”
“You know, you could use a few skipped meals.”
The blood bank was on a corner. It was the size of a single story house and had a parking lot large enough to handle fifty cars.
“Nice place.”
“Blood business must be good.”
They parked their car and got out. They were taking a chance the place would have someone inside. It was nighttime and they
had no idea of the office hours. They’d thought of calling but decided against warning the proprietors in advance of their arrival. They were following a lead which might be linked to an old lady’s death and the incarceration of her innocent son. They didn’t know if Melissa had been a valued employee. If so, what kind of reception would they encounter? Would they meet resistance to questioning? They walked to the entrance, pushed down the handle and opened the door.
The interior was immaculate. Their first impression was of a living room in a house of elegant means. There were numerous sofas, chairs and the required magazines of indifferent reading materials dedicated to either celebrity worship or scorn depending on what the overpaid cover-model happened to utter in their interview timed, oh so coincidentally, with their upcoming movie or television premier.
They were the only ones in the room. As they were looking around a woman emerged from one of the doors which led to the interior of the place.
“Oh, hello.”
She was drop-dead eye-candy.
Both detectives were slightly shocked but had become somewhat accustomed to the process. Every single female involved in the case with the exception of the little lady in a moo-moo who went goo-goo over Wesson was incredibly attractive.
“Hello, do you work here?” Smith asked.
“Yes, can I help you?” she replied.
She was of Slavic stock with slightly more chiseled features than the western Europeans. Smith found himself wondering where in the world these women had been his whole life. It was due to the eighty’s he believed, the height of the cold war between the Soviet bloc countries and those of the western persuasion. He’d grown up during the era and was influenced by the political theater of the age. In every action movie the Soviets were represented by evil large women with unsightly moles and the hint of Hitler-like mustaches. He was a formidable youth and thought his country was correct in thwarting the peoples of such inherently un-good looks. Then the Berlin Wall came down and through it walked the truth. Not only were the Russian and East German women attractive but there were an overabundance of them compared to the free nations.
“Hello, I’m Detective Smith and this is Detective Wesson. We’d like a minute of your time if it’s all right with you?”
She smiled so Smith continued.
“We are doing a background check on one of your previous employees and we’d like to know if you could answer some questions?”
Once again she smiled her consent.
“The person we are inquiring about went by the name of Melissa Ramos at the time. Did you by any chance know her?”
With each question her smile widened, revealing white teeth hidden behind luscious lips. Smith generally liked it when people audibly answered questions but in her case he thought he’d make an exception. Then he changed his mind because the promise of undefined monetary gain kept entering his brain.
“So you did know her?”
“Yes, Detective Smith, I knew Melissa. Still do in fact.”
Smith felt something was off, something not quite right with the situation. It wasn’t the fact she was answering most of his questions with a somewhat conspiratorial grin but the fact she was doing so without checking for proper identification or even the hint of suspicion. Her lack of suspicion caused his to grow and he did something he rarely attempted as he changed topics and asked a question which came forefront to his frontal lobe.
“Do you know Nat?”
Her smile widened even further and Smith’s suspicion became fact. The police-butler with authorization authority had already warned the woman they would be visiting. What he didn’t understand, wasn’t privileged to, was the reasoning behind it all. It seemed at every point there were roadblocks set up to keep them from locating Mr. Johnson. While away they’d had Joshua run every report he could find on Johnny Johnson. He’d come back with zilch. The man had no employment history, no verifiable address except the one in Austin which Joshua had looked up and found to be an apartment near the University of Texas. He held no credit cards, never voted and as far as anyone could tell never renewed his driver’s license or even reregistered a vehicle. They’d had Joshua call the University to see if they could get some information from them but he was told there was no history of a Mister Johnson ever attending the institute of higher learning and tuition rates. Johnny Johnson was, in essence, a man without a background. It was that problem the detectives were trying to solve.
To locate a person is actually not very difficult if their background is known. People follow simple and deliberate steps in life. They go to school, get a job then die. Within those parameters are acquaintances and they are the solution. People are naturally curious where other people are concerned. They listen to irrelevant gossip and maintain useless information which can be a goldmine to investigative work. They might not even feel they’re giving up valuable clues since they might not even believe the rumors are true. It didn’t matter to the detectives because either way the information obtained what they were looking for; a trail. If the stuff panned out, good, if not, good again because then it could be eliminated from the process and they could go ahead with other leads. The simple answer for location was to go backwards. Find someone who heard something and verify its truthfulness. Nearly one-hundred percent of the time the person trying to go missing was found through someone unaware the subject was in hiding.
“Yes, I know Nat, Detective” she answered.
The statement was said with a grin. She was playing a game. They all were playing a game and using the detectives as pieces for their amusement. Smith became angry.
“Now look here…!”
And something growled.
Wesson heard it, Smith heard it and the woman obviously did because her smile faded and a look of annoyance crossed her face.
“What the heck was that?” Smith asked in a whisper.
Wesson, for an answer, pulled his revolver.
“Put that away, Detective, before you lose your head.”
The woman with white teeth now appeared as something else. She was still undeniably attractive, still gracefully perfect but the aura around her became something else entirely. It spoke of death and both detectives felt its seductive power.
Wesson glanced at Smith who nodded they should follow the lady’s advice. He didn’t know where the growl originated for it seemed the menacing sound came from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was almost as if whatever animal made the primal gesture was in surround-sound mode and all places at the same time.
“Vincent, come out here right now!” she said to the invisible creature.
A door opened and another beast of seven feet appeared.
“Yikes!”
“Did you just say ‘Yikes’?” Smith asked his partner.
Wesson couldn’t help it. Size was the problem. He saw in the man who emerged something he had no answer for; complete physical supremacy. The gentleman was large. Not fat large or thick large but Frankenstein large. Large enough to inflict mortal wounds through sheer bone-crushing strength. His hands alone were large enough to completely engulf Wesson’s head and the arms attached to those hands were obviously capable of brain squishing. What came next shocked the roundish investigator to his core.
“Vincent, say you’re sorry!”
The man-beast turned to Wesson and in the manner of a teenager caught toilet-papering a neighbor’s house said the words he had difficulty believing.
“I’m sorry, Detective.”
Wesson stood there with mouth agape for he had no answer. He was still staring with incredulousness at the sheer volume of individual in front of him.
“Vincent.”
“Yes, Mistress?”
“Say you’re sorry to Detective Smith also.”
The hulking figure turned to Smith and repeated his apology. Smith, a bit more in control of his emotions had the fortitude to at least nod his head in reply even if his vocal abilities had failed him.
“Good, now that
we’ve got the apologies out of the way I believe it’s time for introductions. I am Priscilla and this is Vincent. We are partners and owners of the Hillcrest Blood Bank. Detectives, I am glad you have finally arrived.”
Neither man said anything for they were considering her words. She hadn’t said them in some off-the-cuff manner. No, she had said them purposefully with the knowledge they would evoke a reply.
“You knew we were coming?” Wesson asked.
“Yes.”
Her answer was difficult to grasp. They hadn’t informed anyone except Joshua of their plans and since he was nowhere to be seen they assumed he was still hard at work back in the offices of Craft and Sons.
“How did you know we were on the way over?”
“You are investigating the disappearance of Johnny Johnson, are you not?”
“Yes” Wesson relied.
“Then we have been expecting you for quite some time.”
The detectives weren’t sure what they heard. They were simultaneously awed by the sight of the two creatures in front of them and a little confused as to the oratory nature of the woman uttering her words.
“You were expecting us for some time?”
“Yes. You have been forewarned from the beginning of this chapter. You are the secret ingredient, the special spice in the sauce as it were. You are what we need to fulfill our destiny.”
They were thinking she was nuts. They were thinking they’d walked into an insane asylum where beautiful women and oversized men were housed. They were thinking of getting the heck out of there. They were also completely intrigued.
“Okay, can you back up a bit?” Smith interjected.
She looked at him with concern.
“I’m sorry, am I standing too close? I can move further away if you feel…”
Smith was recovering his wits so was quick on the reply.
“No, no, no. I didn’t mean physically back up. I meant could you please explain what you just said there?”
She smiled again and the world became a better place.
“Sure, why don’t we sit down and get comfortable” she said and since the detectives were feeling a bit weak at the knees they readily agreed.
Smith and Wesson sat on a couch, the incredible seductive Priscilla sat on a chair and the enormous brute who went by Vincent looked around, verified there were no furnishings ample enough for his girth and sat on the floor.
“Okay, is everyone comfortable?” the blazingly beautiful baroness of blood banking asked.
Smith and Wesson said they were.
“I could probably use a pillow” Vincent replied.
Wesson looked at the man sympathetically. He could picture what it was like to go through life a little off on the size thing. He had the body which proved the point. He immediately returned in his mind to the last time he’d gone to a movie theater. He’d arrived early, bought his ticket, paid for popcorn and soda, proceeded to his assigned movie space and immediately vowed never to return again. The seats were the problem. They were slightly too small. He could feel his extra stuff, the result of nachos and hot-dog eating, pinching in the space where seat should be but no longer remained. He didn’t know when the seat designers had sat around the table deciding exactly which part of the population was deemed unworthy of comfort but he knew they must have for before where cushion had previously sat now only his backside resided. They had made the seats smaller. The movie theaters themselves had gotten larger but the part where the customer was king, the necessary part for movie enjoyment, the sitting part had been reduced. He knew why. He had heard its story before in the form of a lawsuit. The suit involved an architect. He designed an airport. The airport had chairs. He made them comfortable. When the final version arrived he found his chairs replaced with things which resembled sitting devices but were in no way receptive to the captured public’s needs. They were incredibly ugly, amazingly small and the most uncomfortable furnishings ever created. It appeared the designers of the chairs had gone out of their way to develop slow-torturing machines which resembled things people were supposed to rest their weary butts on. The architect sued because his name was on the place and in court the truth came out. The airport had purposefully altered his designs because the seats were too comfortable and people were actually using them for their intended purpose. The problem was the airport no longer catered to the flying public, they catered to the purchasing public. If the seats were used then the stores in the tarmac were not visited and the insanely overpriced magazines, candy bars and other knick-knacks needed to produce profit for the already wealthy would suffer. The movie theaters made their seats smaller to put more wallets in the room. Both had placed profit over comfort.
“Here you go, Vincent” Wesson said as he tossed a couple of pillows to the mammoth on the floor.
Vincent caught them without even looking, smiled his thanks at the kind detective and leaned back against the wall to do some good listening.
“Okay, Detectives, you have made it this far and I’m sure you’re a little curious as to what is going on” the lovely lady with blonde highlights in her hair stated.
Smith and Wesson both looked at each other because they could not only hear in her voice the change in circumstance they could also see in her actions a resolution taking shape. They didn’t know what the resolution held but they were indeed happy it had arrived.
“Yes, Ma’am” Smith replied.
She grinned directly at him and he knew the blood bank probably had more repeat customers of the male persuasion than any others of its kind.
“Please call me Priscilla” she said and the two detectives quickly nodded they would.
“Okay, I guess the first thing you’re wondering about is the unique stature of Nat. Am I correct?”
They both came to the conclusion at the same time; she was not only the prettiest blood banker in the world but she also had a good head on her shoulders.
“Yes, Priscilla, we were wondering about Nat” Wesson responded.
She nodded her head in the way one does when their assumptions prove true.
“I thought so. Okay, before I go any further I would like you to inform me of what you’ve learned so far.”
The question was not one the detectives would normally have responded to. They were in the information gathering service not the giving one but they were at a crossroads because they were essentially in the dark playing a game with rules they didn’t comprehend and an outcome involving so much possible wealth they couldn’t forfeit. Smith looked at Wesson and gave his approval. Wesson’s oratory began.
“Well, Priscilla, we were hired to find a Mister Johnny Johnson. He is a member of the LeTorque family which appears to be some kind of extremely powerful entity running all sorts of businesses. While we were interviewing our client we got the impression Mr. Johnson was a rather important figure in their operation and have since found out the man is actually at the top of the organization. He is married to a woman named Melissa who once worked in a prison the LeTorque’s have a controlling interest in and while she was employed there she ran into a rather odd coincidence; a prisoner who was indirectly responsible for the prison sitting where it was. You see, this prisoner was actually the heir to the land the prison was, or is, sitting on. This prison, by the way, is pumping out oil and producing profits using convicted labor as its maintenance workers. Anyway, we found some evidence which casts doubt on the guilt of the prisoner Melissa ran into but, unfortunately, it won’t do him any good because he’s already been declared dead twice. We’re tracking Melissa’s path in the hopes of finding Mister Johnson so we can get on with our lives and cash a check which has no actual value as of yet.”
She sat there and never flinched or showed even the slightest hint of surprise. Smith was watching for two reasons. First, he wanted to see her reaction to Wesson’s tale and second… well, she was rather pleasing to the eye.
“And so you made the connection to Melissa how?” she asked.
&nbs
p; “Huh?”
“How did you get from Johnny to Melissa? I’m assuming Nat wasn’t exactly forthcoming in his help” she queried.
Smith sat up straighter for things were definitely going off on a different tangent. She was admitting to knowing what was happening. She was revealing insight and since he had no sight at all he was perfectly happy to get either inner or outer if she were willing to share.
“We tracked Johnny to an apartment and found out the prisoner Melissa had previously cared for and declared dead three months before was again declared dead in his closet. We traced the prisoner…”
“Bob Simpson” she interrupted.
“… yes, Bob Simpson, to the prison and when we made the connection to Melissa your Nat guy gave us permission to access her files. When we did so we found she had previously worked for a land surveying company which gave her access to information about the oil the prison is pumping out. From there it wasn’t difficult to deduce what she’d done.”
Priscilla just sat there, not saying a word and seemed to be enjoying the conversation. Vincent, for his part, was sitting in bored contemplation of the ceiling tiles.
“What did you deduce, Detective?” she asked inquisitively.
“I believe Melissa framed Bob Simpson for first degree arson in order to take the land he would inherit from his mom and built a prison owned by a family she would later marry into. I believe she, not Bob Simpson, was the guilty party.”
She smiled and Wesson felt a slight thrill. He felt a little like he did in school when the teacher called on him and he actually had the correct answer.
“You are almost correct, Detective.”
His elation dampened.
“Excuse me?” he said.
She looked directly in his eyes and he was lost. They were a shade of blue he’d not known before; slightly lighter than a clear Spring sky.
“You have most things correct except the arson part. Melissa did not set the flame.”
Suddenly his elation returned. If Melissa didn’t do the dastardly deed then the cost of location was possibly still at an all-time high.
“She didn’t?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“You are not yet privileged to that information” she said with a smile.
Wesson was getting tired of hearing the phrase. It seemed to come about just when things were looking up.
“Okay, can you please tell me what it is with Nat and his privilege thing?”
“What would you like to know?”
What would he like to know? He’d like to know where in the heck Johnny Johnson was. He’d like to know who set the fire which lit the flame for prison-petroleum partnership. He’d like to know why the world was seemingly on the verge of all-out war. He’d like to know when technology would take a break so humanity could figure out what in the devil were the details of the digital age.
“I’d like to know what his relationship is to the LeTorque?” he finally settled on.
She sat back and considered the question.
“He is like a professor with a problem he cannot solve.”
“Huh?”
“Think of him as a monitor of sorts. He has a situation and is trying to come up with an answer he himself cannot grasp.”
“Huh?”
“Okay, change scenarios. Let’s say you were the CEO of a technology company. You know your rivals are working on the next generation of the next big thing. Previously you’ve been the inventor of the latest gadgets to capture Human imagination but you need to think outside the box in order to retain your market share. What do you do?”
Wesson didn’t usually enjoy the guessing game but when the questioner was of such jaw-dropping quality he figured the game had its values.
“I’d hire some really smart people to work for me” he answered.
“Exactly. You’d hire smart people. But why wouldn’t you use the smart people you already employed?”
The question was easy to answer because Wesson knew his own limitations.
“Because the people working for me had already given their answer. They came up with the previous products and since you want me to think outside the box I can’t do so with people who built the walls.”
He felt like a super-student. She was smiling and nodding in such a way he wanted to answer every question correctly in order to get his prize. Of course, the elephant sitting on the floor might have something to say about what the prize was but he figured any consolation from the beauty queen before him was good enough to make his day.
“Yes, perfect answer. Nat is the CEO and we are his new hires. He wants us to come up with the solution to his problem and is allowing us the leeway to imagine possibility.”
Smith decided to join the conversation.
“Hold on. Did you just say Nat was in charge?”
She moved her eyes to the taller detective and he felt his pulse quicken with the act. He really was surprised at his reaction for he’d usually been the one doing the seducing not getting it done to him.
“He is and he isn’t. As I said, he doesn’t have the answers to his dilemma so he needs us to provide them for him.”
“And who exactly are you?” Smith asked.
Her smile once again lit a flame in his heart.
“We are the architects of Humanity’s design, Detective.”
“Huh?”
“We are the answer to the meaning of life.”
Both investigators became increasingly more interested if it were actually possible.
“Okay, hold on for just a second, please” Wesson interjected.
“Sure” she responded by taking her eyes off Smith and returning them to Wesson. Smith felt a little irritation with his partner for snatching her gaze away.
“Okay, I’m not actually sure what is going on here. Who exactly are you?”
“I am Priscilla Sanguine and Vincent is my mate.”
Vincent looked up and nodded his head again in accordance with proper introduction protocols.
“Yes, you have already said that. But who are you really?”
Her smile became even more radiant, so much so it was difficult for either detective to hear her answer through the blindness of physical attraction.
“We are your last hurdle, Detective, the final roadblock on your quest for monetary freedom. Ask properly and we will provide the answers you require.”
