The Recipient

by Dean Mayes

The chronograph on the treadmill’s display read: 1:11AM.

  Casey’s lips creased into a smile.

  Sixty-five hours, she computed. Not bad.

  There was a world record for the longest period without sleep. Casey had looked it up. Attributed to an eighteen-year-old named Randy Gardner in 1965, he set the record by going eleven days: 264.4 hours. Though he had done it without the aid of stimulants of any kind.

  Casey’s smile faded as she recalled that last nugget of information. Casey had not managed even half that. The furthest she had been able to stretch herself was 118 hours but she’d had to rely on numerous drugs to keep herself awake and functional.

  Stepping from the treadmill she peeled off her top, sighing as the cool air caressed her skin. Casey glanced across at the Modigliani print on the wall. The eyes of Jeanne Hebuterne studied her thoughtfully, questioningly.

  And Casey responded.

  “What to do,” she ventured. It was less a question as it was a prompt to something that was already beginning to foment.

  Daubing her face with a towel, she stripped naked then padded barefoot across the apartment to her work table.

  Opening her leather smartphone case, she thumbed through a collection of business cards until she found the one she was looking for and plucked it out.

  Scrawled in pen on the card was a curious but familiar name. Casey quickly keyed in the number then hit dial. It rang several times before diverting to an operator voicemail. She hissed between her teeth.

  “Typical,” Casey scowled, ending the call. She set the phone beside the card. She glanced sideways once more at Jeanne Hebuterne’s portrait.

  “Guess I’m just gonna have to go see him,” she scowled. Casey tapped the card with her finger.

  She whispered the name scrawled there into the darkness of the apartment, before turning toward the bathroom.

  “Sasquatch.”

  ___

  The Blue Heeler Bar stood on a dark side street, several blocks back from the beachfront. The street was populated by a mixture of tall residential and commercial buildings on both sides. In the darkness, they appeared to close in on the street itself, creating a sense of protective encapsulation around Casey as she walked cautiously towards the old Victorian building. Architecturally, the Blue Heeler Bar seemed more suited to a Parisian laneway than a Melbourne backstreet, with its tall arches, wrought iron balconies and outdoor eating areas that were nestled under broad canvas shelters. It was a much-loved bar that drew in a vast and eclectic clientele and catered well to them.

  Thumping folk-rock music pumped out from inside the stained glass windows as she approached, loud enough that it almost deterred Casey from going inside. The popularity of the establishment as a live music venue was renowned and it was clear that renown had drawn a significant crowd tonight.

  Though the Valium she had taken prior to leaving the apartment had taken a significant edge off her anxiety, the marijuana countered it with a weird surge of adrenaline. Her breath was quick. Her senses were acutely attuned. The heart beat fast. Yet, she remained singleminded in her purpose, so she could focus effectively and ignore the crowds inside. She needed only to complete her task and then get the hell out of there and back to her solitude.

  Approaching from under the orange glow of a street lamp, a security guard on the door looked in her direction and recognised her almost immediately. He offered her a courteous nod and gestured with a subtle flip of his thumb towards a side entrance, down an even darker laneway that flanked the pub. Casey headed in that direction while the guard spoke into his head microphone.

  One of the advantages of being a regular at this establishment was that it afforded Casey some measure of preferential treatment.

  They knew why she was here.

  Entering through the side door, Casey was confronted by a robust crowd: patrons mingling around circular tables adjacent to the bar or listening to the five-piece band on the corner stage to her right.

  Through her marijuana-induced fog, the din threatened to overload her senses.

  The noise of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the raucous music from the bandstand. She noticed the presence of the band and their instruments: acoustic guitars, a fiddle, a shining chrome banjo that reflected glitters of light back into the room, the caramel vocals from a pretty, young woman at the microphone. All of it thickened the atmosphere and assailed Casey’s senses all at once. Though she struggled to contain the bubbling cauldron of panic, for the briefest of moments she had an incongruous image of a crowd of flamingos chattering away.

  The smell of various brands of deodorant, aftershave and perfume mixed with sweat from scantily-clad bodies hit Casey’s nostrils and she couldn’t decide if the combined aromas repulsed her or aroused her. Her skin bristled as she pushed her way through the throng. She fought the adrenaline surge while fingers of panic crept up her spine. Casey squeezed her eyes shut until she reached the bar. Feeling for the timber surface and grabbing it, she opened them again.

  In the darkness of the pub, the garishness of the lights pointed at the house band, and the soft downlights of the bar, she finally spotted the individual descending from a staircase. Relief flooded through her as she took a breath and pushed her way across the room.

  Patrons parted as a bear of a man dressed in a dark shirt, dark pants, and steel-capped boots stepped off the bottom stair and approached. Standing over six feet four inches tall, his intimidating presence commanded respect, even reverence. Sporting huge, toned, tattooed arms that were anchored to equally massive shoulders, he strode confidently through the throng, his stone-cold eyes focused forward. His jaw was squared off by a thick, sand-coloured goatee. His expression was hard, giving no sense of his state of mind or his personality.

  That was until Casey emerged from the crowd and stopped before him. With a suddenness that caught a few nearby revellers who were watching him, the man’s poker face melted into a warm, almost beatific smile. With a glint of light flashing in his eyes, he held his arms out as Casey embraced him. She planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “How are you?” she shouted above the crowd.

  Drawing back, Casey looked up as his half-serious frown was quickly replaced with a cheeky grin. He gestured with a nod to the stairs behind him.

  “Good. Let’s get out of here,” he suggested in a heavy Scottish accent.

  He shepherded Casey towards the stairs and together they disappeared.

  The rooftop garden was significantly less raucous, though a large group of patrons was scattered across the various lounge areas and bars. At least here, Casey could hear herself think.

  The smell of pizza wafted across from an ornate stone oven being tended to by a pair of enthusiastic kitchen staff who were entertaining the group seated around it. Casey felt her stomach rumble. She realised she hadn’t eaten anything for at least a day.

  Her companion gestured towards a small gazebo situated in a quiet corner, away from the main entertaining area that was occupied by a pair of wrought iron chairs and a matching table. As they passed the open bar, Sasquatch gestured with two fingers towards the girl serving there. She nodded, fetching two beers from a refrigerator.

  Casey and Sasquatch settled into their seats and nodded as the server set the bottles down on the table along with a bowl of mixed nuts. Casey dove her hand into the bowl and tossed a handful into her mouth.

  The photo ID card he wore clipped to the lapel of his polo shirt identified him as Scott, without any mention of the nickname that Casey used.

  It was true that there were only a handful of people who could get away with calling Scott Taylor by that nickname. In the six or seven years that she had known him, Casey had never given any consideration to the consequences that might befall someone who wasn’t welcome to refer to him by that honorarium because the nickname itself felt so natural to her.

  Settled away from the throng, Casey’s panic was quickly dissipating. In the presence of a man she could call a genuine friend, s
he felt at ease.

  “So,” Scott began, taking a long swig from his bottle. “What brings a crazy person like you to a place like this?”

  Casey chuckled. Before she could speak, she caught his questioning frown.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be off the grid?” he probed.

  Casey nodded slowly, as she swallowed a generous lug of beer.

  “Allegedly. That is the rumour doing the rounds presently.”

  “I’ve heard those rumours,” Scott replied. “I’ve been relaying that to various interested parties who’ve been making inquiries of late.”

  Casey’s eyes flicked up into Sasquatch’s own and he could see the worry reflected at him.

  “Really?” she ventured hopefully. “Inquiries?”

  Thoughts of the silence from her email account, her cell phone and the message boards returned.

  “Mmm-hmm. I followed your directions and told them they’d have to wait for a while.”

  Casey slumped back in her seat, the disappointment clear on her face, which only made Scott’s frown more pronounced.

  “I-I thought that’s what you wanted!” he exclaimed. Casey nodded slowly, a bitter smile creasing her lips.

  “It is what I wanted,” she responded with resignation. “But…”

  “But you’re having a hard time taking things down a gear,” he ventured, confident from reading her body language that he knew what she was thinking.

  Casey met his eyes. His perception was impeccable. “Am I that transparent?”

  “Well, I knew it from the minute the boys downstairs gave me the heads-up that you were here. But there’s no harm in listening to a friend’s problems before making a guess.”

  Laughing softly and bitterly, Casey took a swig from her bottle.

  “Scott, it’s driving me fucking crazy,” she blurted. “It’s only been a week and already I’m going looney-tunes. This whole taking a holiday thing is…it’s…I can’t rest! I’m no good at this. I need to work!”

  Her reaction caught Scott off guard, more so for the fact that she had referred to him by his first name than the revelation of her state of mind.

  “I thought you were gonna tick off up the coast for a while,” he said. “Get yourself out of the city and breathe for a bit. Lord knows you need it.”

  Casey tried to loosen the tension gathered between her temples.

  “You sound like my father,” she observed dejectedly.

  Scott chuckled and drew his finger through his goatee. “How is Peter?”

  Casey shrugged. “He’s good. Fatherly as per usual. Not that I need any more of that.”

  Scott pursed his lips and whistled through them with an exaggerated expression of mock hurt, to which Casey could only laugh at. He considered her dilemma for a long moment.

  “Look…what sort of work are you after?” he asked. “Are we talking above board or, perhaps, something a little more spicy? Bearing in mind that I thought you were playing the straight arrow these days.”

  “I have no idea,” Casey ventured, shrugging her shoulders. “Anything that will keep me from going nuts. Who’s active right now?”

  “I’m not gonna lie, a lot of it is strictly black hat work,” Scott admitted. “Not the sort of work I would’ve thought you’d be comfortable with. Most of your tier are pretty well set.”

  The thought of venturing into illegal territory to secure work right now did not appeal to her. Especially given the question marks that were increasingly being attached to her. Though she could probably handle herself, the assurances she had given to her father niggled at her conscience.

  “You’re sure there’s no one who could use a hand? The Coops? Maynard? Steev? What about Pink? He’s always in the shit with his programming and coding.”

  Scott chuckled and tilted his head, considering his thoughts. “Look, there maybe one or two possibles that could subcontract. Leave it with me. I’ll check in with the Bastardos and see if there’s something we can get you.”

  A brief quiet settled over them and Casey noticed that Scott was shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  Scott scratched his cheek, then gestured hesitantly at her chest. “How’s—ahh—things there?”

  Casey looked down and tousled the fabric of her shirt. When she looked back up at him, she wore a sarcastic expression.

  “Are you still trying to cop a look at my tits?” she challenged before laughing at him.

  Scott flushed pink and cowered behind his beer bottle. “I’ll take that as an ‘everything is okay’ kinda explanation,” he commented.

  Casey reached across the table and squeezed his big, meaty hand. “Just get me some work, Sasquatch,” she pleaded gently. “I know you’ve had my back since uni. You’re one of a very small group of people that I can count on and I know I come to you a lot but I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

  ___

  A loud rapping on the warehouse door woke Casey from her sleep. She flinched where she lay and screwed her face up at the sound before opening one eye and checking the clock on her bedside. It was the following day. And it was nearly 1PM.

  Groaning, she shut her eyes against the bright glare of the sunshine streaming through her window.

  A further salvo of loud rapping peppered the door, reverberating in Casey’s ears.

  “I’m coming!” she called out gruffly, scrambling drunkenly from under the covers. She searched for a T-shirt and shorts to pull on over her naked form.

  A third volley of knocking caused Casey to squint incredulously at the door.

  “I’m coming! Jesus!”

  Padding barefoot across the floor, Casey rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she went up to the door and peeked through the peephole.

  She recognised the woman standing on the other side.

  “Dammit!” she hissed.

  Hesitating before the door, she eventually flipped the lock and grabbed the handle. Sliding the rumbling door aside, Casey revealed the woman standing there, one arm leaning against the door frame while her other hand remained raised, ready to knock again.

  Dressed in a grey pantsuit, her raven hair pulled into a bun, the woman wore a dripping smile as Casey levelled a glare at her.

  “What do you want, Prishna?”

  Casey’s eyes dropped down to the woman’s waist; she saw the gold of the detective’s badge glint in the sunlight from the window behind her.

  “Nothing special,” Detective Sergeant Prishna Argawaal replied. “Just thought I’d drop by and see what you were up to.”

  “I’m sleeping,” Casey shot back, standing against the door, her arms folded.

  Prishna took her hand off the door frame and inspected her watch. “At 1PM? Wow, things must be good in your line of work.”

  Casey rolled her eyes. “Moderately good. But you can’t expect me to rely solely on the work you guys send my way.”

  “Hmm,” Prishna’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ll grant you, our budget doesn’t stretch far to remunerate you more generously. I see you’ve been making some influential friends in the corporate sector. They speak highly of your skill set.”

  Casey stared at Prishna.

  Checking up on me again.

  “Others are delivering similar praise,” Prishna continued.

  Casey clenched her teeth. She didn’t respond.

  “I’ve been working hard too, Casey, and making some friends in interesting places. You’ll recall our talks in the past about this mystery hacker called Octagon.”

  “Cracker,” Casey hissed, correcting Prishna. She hated it when people who should know better referred to the common misnomer that was applied to her kind.

  Prishna laughed haughtily. “My mistake. I really should know better, shouldn’t I. Well, the cracker—Octagon—has apparently been active in the underground again.”

  Casey nodded curtly. “Interesting.”

  “And we’ve managed to secure some fragments of the work,” Prishna continued. “I’ve been showing it around and t
he consensus seems to be that the programming language is rather shall we say…unique. No one seems able to interpret it, however your name keeps coming up as someone who might.”

  “You want me to look at it?” Casey asked.

  Prishna shrugged.

  “Possibly. There is something curious about it, though. I’ve been doing a little comparison study of my own.”

  Here it comes.

  “The programming language appears to have many of the characteristics of your own.”

  Casey retracted her head. A sardonic smile lifted her lips. “Look, Prishna, I’ll ask you once more: what do you want?”

  “I’m just thinking out loud, I suppose. I like you, Casey, and I know that you’ve been one of our finest assets. You have helped us solve more cases this year than we have at any other time in Cyber-Crime’s history. But…I’m not convinced that you’re completely untainted.”

  Prishna stepped forward into the doorway until she was very close to Casey’s face. “I think you and this Octagon have more in common than anyone is willing to admit,” she whispered menacingly. “You might have the favour of the Commissioner right now but I’m going to see about changing that. You will slip up and when you do, I will be there. Your parents won’t be able to help you.” In an action that she knew would antagonise Casey, Prishna reached out with a slender finger and ran it down the centre of Casey’s T-shirt, right over the scar that lay underneath.

  “You leave my parents alone,” Casey snarled, slapping Prishna’s hand away.

  Prishna smiled as she turned on her heel. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I mean it, Prishna!” Casey shouted after her, unwilling to step through the doorway. “Leave them alone!”

  Prishna was already gone.

  Retreating back into the warehouse, Casey closed the door and held onto the handle, frozen where she stood as she tried to process what had just happened.

  With a sudden snarl, she banged her fist against the door.

  CHAPTER 6.

  It begins with utter blackness and silence.

  A cocoon that envelops everything and reveals nothing.

  But it does not last.