by Tripp Ellis
Conroy pondered this for a moment, then stepped aside.
Max eased out of the VIP room. "You're smarter than you look."
Max strolled out of the establishment. The loud, booming music had covered the sound of the commotion. Max saw Vicki by the main bar talking to the manager. She pointed Max out to him. But he didn't seem too inclined to do anything. If his bouncers couldn't take care of the problem, he certainly didn't want any part of it.
Max pushed out of the building and stepped onto the sidewalk. She pressed the call button on her key fob. Within moments, the sport-bike piloted its way back to her. She twisted the throttle, and the engine revved, rocketing the bike down the avenue. The Pink Kitty Club was a memory, but Max’s sore jaw and nose were going to last several hours. Blood still trickled from her nostrils, which she wiped on her sleeve.
She felt like she was no closer to solving this thing than when she started. All of her leads were going nowhere. Just then, her mobile buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket to see a text message. It read: you're barking up the wrong tree.
Max couldn't help but glance around to see if anyone was following her. She didn't see the familiar black sedan anywhere in sight.
A moment later, another text came through: Check Harmon's apartment.
Max was skeptical of the information. Was this information to lure her into a trap? Would she be walking into an ambush at Harmon's place? She knew that if something looked too good to be true, it probably was. But her curiosity was peaked.
She made her way back toward the Valesco Towers. The sun was dipping down over the horizon, casting vibrant hues of amber and pink across the sky. The colorful reflections cascaded across the stylish skyline. Dusk was a welcomed break from the unrelenting heat of the day.
Max pulled up to the curb at Harmon’s high-rise. She climbed off the bike and let it roam around the city until she needed it again. She scanned the area, looking for anything, or anyone, suspicious. Then she pushed into the lobby. She was walking into a potential ambush, and without a weapon it didn't exactly give her a warm, fuzzy feeling.
She pressed the call button and waited for the elevator to arrive. She stepped on board, and it vaulted her up to the 27th floor. The bell dinged, and the doors slid open. Max stepped into the hallway with caution. She glanced in both directions—it was empty.
She marched down the hallway to Harmon’s apartment and put her ear to the door. She didn't hear anything inside, apart from the drone of the air-conditioning and the hum of the refrigerator.
She took a step back and kicked open the door. The deadbolt ripped through the doorframe, splintering the wood. Max glanced around the hallway to see if anyone had noticed, then eased into the apartment. The kitchen was to her left. There were a few dirty plates in the sink, but it was otherwise empty.
She pushed through the foyer and crept into the living room. It was a small but functional apartment. It was a nice home and impeccably decorated, but it wasn't immaculate. It had a lived in feel. There was a half empty glass on the coffee table and an open bag of chips. The place was just as Delilah had left it.
Floor-to-ceiling windows gave an expansive view of the city, mostly obstructed by neighboring buildings. On one side of the living room was the bedroom. On the other was a small office space. There was a terrace that spanned the width of the apartment, running from the office, across the living room, through to the bedroom. It was accessible from every room via sliding glass doors.
Max was quickly greeted by the only remaining resident of the apartment—an Aldaarian blue haired cat. It rubbed against Max's shin and meowed. It had beautiful shiny fur and emerald green eyes. The poor thing had been left alone, and nobody was coming back to take care of him.
Max had found a new friend.
She picked him up and stared into his eyes. "You're just so cute, aren't you?" she said, baby talking him.
He meowed again.
"What's your name?" She looked at his collar. The name tag read: Felix. Max had a sneaking suspicion that she had just inherited a cat. The Aldaarian cats were rumored to be telepathic, but who could really understand the ramblings of a cat’s mind?
She set him back down and continued to look through the apartment.
Felix followed behind her.
Max moved into the bedroom and rummaged through the dresser drawers. She felt a little bad going through the Harmon's private stuff, but it was a necessary evil. The dresser was filled with shirts, socks, underwear, jeans—all the typical things you’d expect to find. There was a bag of majuva herb stashed in a sock. She found some cash, some sex toys, lube, adult videos, and a pair of handcuffs. It gave her some insight into their kinks, but nothing to give any indication of why Philip Harmon may have been killed.
Max moved from the bedroom to the office, located across the living room. Felix followed after her and jumped up on the desk. The computer came to life with the movement.
“Welcome," the computer said in a soft, soothing voice. "Please enter your password to continue.”
The sleek display screen flashed a password prompt. It was an old school security measure. Most systems used voiceprint analysis, or some type of biometrics for access. Max grimaced. She didn't have a chance to sample Philip Harmon's fingerprints or retinal patterns. And even if she had, they weren’t going to do her any good with this system.
"I don't suppose you know the password?” she said to Felix, who delicately strolled atop the desk. The kitty was purring and looking for attention.
Felix decided the keyboard was a good place to take a nap and plopped himself down. "Meow."
The kitty accidentally entered several keystrokes with his choice of resting place.
"You're going to have to do better than that. I don't speak kitty.”
"Meow."
“Say again? I couldn't quite hear you?"
This time Felix didn't respond. Far be it from a cat to do anything requested of it. Apparently it was Felix's galaxy, and Max was just living in it.
Max picked him up off the keyboard and moved him aside. He made his objection known vocally, but settled into his new spot just the same.
Max cleared the field and entered in a number of common passwords. God, love, QWERTY, 1234567, 1111111, and a slew of other keyboard friendly combinations.
None of them worked.
Max frowned. She looked at Felix for assistance. "Are you sure you can’t help me with this?"
Felix said nothing.
Max’s mobile buzzed again. She slid it out of her pocket and looked at the screen: vx2746-:aaFL14e.
Max stared at the password for a moment, then glanced out the window, wondering if someone was watching her from a drone or neighboring building.
She typed the passcode exactly as it appeared on the screen. Her finger hovered over the enter key. As soon as she pressed the key, the security screen vanished. She had full access to the system. Who the hell was this person that was helping. And why?
“I don't recognize you," the computer said. "Would you like for me to set you up as a new user, or would you like to use an existing profile?"
“Existing profile." Max had no idea what she was looking for. She began to search through the file system, but there was nothing there. There were no pictures, no documents, no audio or video files.
“Computer, how long have you been in service?”
“I have been in service for 2 years, 7 months, and 11 days.”
The computer was awfully empty for a device that had been sitting on Philip Harmon's desk for over two years.
"Computer," Max said. "Restore data backup from last week."
"I'm sorry, there is no data available from last week.”
“What about the week before?"
“There is no data from the week before.”
"When was your last backup?”
”I am unable to determine the date of my last backup. I have no data for anything previous to the re-installation of my operating system.“
“When was that?"
“This afternoon at approximately 1:15 PM.”
Max look surprised. That was after Delilah had been killed. Dead people don't reinstall their operating system and wipe their hard drives.
Max was too preoccupied with the computer to notice a shadowy figure creeping through the living room behind her.
19
Felix tried to warn her, but she didn't pay him any attention. The ominous figure crept up behind Max, holding a pipe in his hand. His arm was raised high, ready to strike. A blow from that pipe would crack even Max's thick skull.
The attacker was about to hammer down on her cranium, when Max caught sight of his reflection in the display screen of the computer.
She dodged the pipe as it crashed down, smashing the keyboard.
Felix launched out of the way with a shrill screech.
Max sprang to her feet and assumed a defensive posture. Her attacker squared off against her. He was a tall guy with a boxy head. He had a big chin and a flat nose. There were scars in the corners of his eyebrows. This was a man who had taken a lot of punches in his lifetime.
Max ducked as he swung again. The pipe whooshed overhead. He immediately countered with a back handed swing. Max leaned back, avoiding the blow. The goon chopped down, aiming the pipe for Max’s head.
She stepped aside and moved forward. She blocked, grabbed his wrist, pulled his arm back, bent his wrist, and stripped the pipe. It was a smooth, fluid movement, executed to perfection.
With the pipe in her hand, she struck the goon in the back of the head. He tumbled through the plate glass window, shattering it in a million pieces. Razor-sharp shards clattered to the ground. He tumbled forward, clutching onto the rail of the balcony. The goon pushed himself off the railing and spun around. He was met with another blow to the face. Blood splattered everywhere. The impact wrenched his head to the side. Like a machine, he shook it off and snarled at Max.
Max swung again.
He blocked the pipe with his bare fist. The slap echoed off the canyon of skyscrapers. He threw a devastating right cross that connected with Max's jaw. His knuckles smashed her beautiful lips, spewing a trail of crimson blood. Max staggered back, dazed.
The goon took back the pipe.
Before Max could react, he swung the pipe hard. It cracked against Max's cheekbone, opening up a brutal gash. Her face instantly swelled up, blossoming in colors of purple, blue, and green. The impact twisted her neck to the side, and her vision blurred. Stabbing pain shot down her spine. Max hadn't been hit that hard in a long time. She tried to maintain her footing, but her knees went weak, and she collapsed to the ground.
The big goon hovered over her. He grabbed her torso and flung her back onto the balcony. She slammed against the railing, buckling at her midsection. Her inertia carried her over the edge. Max's world spun as she toppled to her doom. But she managed to reach out and grasp the railing before it was too late. She dangled 27 stories above the ground. The people in cars below looked like miniature models. Her eye was practically swollen shut, and she was still reeling from the impact of the pipe to her face.
Max clutched onto the railing with both hands and attempted to pull herself up. She looked up to see the goon’s sadistic face hovering above her. A devious smirk curled on his grotesque mug. Then he began to hammer the pipe onto her fingertips. Bones cracked, and the skin turned black. Pain jolted through her arms. Fingertips are some of the most delicate areas on the human body. They contain more sensory nerves than almost anywhere else.
Max wasn't going to be able to hang on for too much longer. She had been designed to withstand an immense amount of pain, but this was intense. She was able to shut off nerve impulses and compartmentalize them. She pushed the pain into the dark recesses of her mind. She reached up and grabbed a hold of the man's shirt. She pulled him down as she pulled herself up. He toppled over the edge, plummeting to the street below. But the goon managed to grab onto Max's ankle. She was having a hard time supporting her own weight with her shattered fingers—an extra 200 pounds from this thug wasn't helping any.
Max stomped the man repeatedly in his face, further smashing his nose and cheeks. Blood splattered with each hit. Soon the goon’s face was mangled and disfigured. He lost his grip on Max's ankle and plunged down the side of the building. His screams echoed as he fell. The splatter on the sidewalk was like a 200 pound watermelon had been dropped from 27 stories. His skull cracked open, and his body lay in the juicy pool of sludge.
Max pulled herself over the railing and flopped onto the terrace, landing on thousands of shards of glass. She grimaced as they poked into her flesh. She could barely feel her hands, her fingers looked like mangled sausages. Her cheek, where she’d taken the pipe hit, puffed out like a baseball was underneath the skin. She spit a pinkish mix of blood and saliva onto the terrace and staggered to her feet.
She looked over the edge of the balcony at the crowd that had gathered around the unrecognizable blob on the sidewalk. Max may have taken a beating, but at least she was in better shape than the goon.
Max’s mobile buzzed in her pocket. She winced as she struggled to pull it out with her damaged fingers. Another mysterious text message appeared on the screen.
20
“Meet me at the 29 Diner on the corner of 83rd and West Park in 30 minutes,” the message read.
“Who are you?” Max typed back.
A moment later an answer bubble pop on her screen. “Do you want my help, or not?”
Max’s face tensed. She hated playing games.
Another impatient message appeared. “Are you coming? It's in our mutual interest, I assure you.”
Max sighed, exhausted. "I'll be there,” she typed back.
“Make sure you are not followed."
“Trust me. I won’t be.” Max slid the device back into her pocket.
Max staggered back into the office. Shards of glass crunched under her feet with each step.
“Meow,” Felix said. He looked up at her with worried eyes. At least, that’s the emotion Max projected onto him. Who could ever really know what a cat was thinking?
Max knelt down and scooped him up with her battered hands. "I guess you're coming with me. How do you feel about that?"
“Meow.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say."
Max staggered into the bathroom and set Felix on the counter. She ran the water and washed the blood from her face. She looked at the damage in the mirror, trying to maintain a positive outlook. But there was no getting around it—she looked like re-heated dog shit. Her advanced genetics would heal faster, but it was still going to be uncomfortable for the next day or so.
She fumbled through the medicine cabinets, looking for a regenerative compound. She found an over-the-counter gel and gently rubbed it on her skin. She used the ointment to coat her cracked and swollen lips as well. It wasn't nearly as strong as the military grade compounds used for wound care in the field, but it was better than nothing.
She cringed as she looked down at her twisted fingers. Max grabbed Felix and strolled back into the office. She set Felix on the desk and rummaged through the drawers. The cat surveyed the battered computer. The display had been smashed into hundreds of pieces. The keyboard was practically nonexistent. Max found a roll of masking tape in the drawer next to some paperclips and rubber bands. The painful part was going to come next. She sat down and took a deep breath, then she pulled on her index finger to realign the bones. It popped and crackled, and felt like there was gravel inside. The pain was excruciating. Max bit down hard and pushed the sensation aside. It still hurt, but it was more of an observation—an indication that something just wasn't right. Once her finger was straight, she wrapped it in masking tape, forming a makeshift cast. She repeated the process for every broken digit. Max's eyes teared up, but she held strong. She just gritted her teeth and took the pain.
When she was finished, her fingers looked pretty ridiculous. Bulbous wraps
that made her fingers look like hotdogs in buns. The makeshift cast would help bones heal straight, but they weren't doing much for her coordination. She lacked any mobility or tactile sensation.
Max moved to the foyer and slipped into the kitchen. She rummaged through the cupboards, looking for some cat food. She found the last can and struggled to peel off the lid. Her bulky fingers weren’t cooperating. She grabbed a spoon from a drawer and wedged the handle under the pull tab. She used the leverage to pry the can open.
Max set the gourmet meal on the ground and let Felix go to town. The famished cat chowed down like he hadn’t eaten in days. While he ate, Max rummaged through the freezer. She found a bag of frozen peas and pressed it against her swollen cheek. Even light pressure hurt.
Felix licked the can clean, then gazed up at her wanting more.
“That's all you get for now.” Max frowned.
She put the peas back in the freezer, but it was a pointless gesture. No one was coming back to eat them. Ever. But they were real peas, and frozen or not, real vegetables were hard to come by. It seemed like a waste to leave them out on the counter.
Max squatted down and picked Felix back up again. His body vibrated as he purred, seemingly content. She slipped out of the apartment and strolled down the hallway to the elevator bank. She made her way down to the lobby and pressed the key fob, calling the sport-bike. Even that simple action hurt.
As she stepped through the glass doors, she glanced down the sidewalk—a crowd had gathered around the goon’s body. Faces were filled with shock and horror. Inquisitive eyes flicked from the bloody stain on the concrete up to the terrace on the 27th floor. It was easy to see the window had been shattered. The curtains were blowing out in the breeze, rippling like a flag. The gawkers gossiped in hushed tones, speculating about the nature of the accident. Some thought it was suicide. Others postulated it was a lover's quarrel gone bad. Some thought that perhaps a homeowner had interrupted a burglary and tossed the intruder out.
