KOP Killer

by Warren Hammond

  “Maybe his snake don’t like just one kind of hole.”

  I navigated pics, dubious of the gay lover theory until a shot of the two of them kissing clinched it.

  I was stunned. Floored.

  One of my crew had been dicking my enemy.

  * * *

  The streets were waking up, vendors hosing sidewalks, farmers wheeling pushcarts loaded high with spiralfruit and cilantro. Stooped porters labored by with sacks of grain strapped to their backs. The Phra Kaew market would open soon.

  The Mota and Froelich slide show cycled through my head, pic after pic, my brain snagging on one picture in particular, this one of Mota, Froelich, and Wu, brandy glasses raised to the camera, standing behind a table stacked high with cash. As if discovering Froelich and Mota were sword fighting each other wasn’t shock enough, there was Wu, consorting with the enemy. The pic was dated the twenty-first. The night Wu and Froelich ignored my calls. When they claimed to be upriver watching monitor fights.

  The night Froelich got his head cut off.

  My gut stung with the realization that long before I’d come onto the scene, Mota had penetrated my crew, and maybe in more ways than one.

  I had to know how deep.

  Wu lived in this neighborhood with his wife and kids. I was going to brace that hungover shitbird. I’d throw the wife a few bills and tell her to treat the kids to a nice breakfast. Then I’d get after that son of a bitch.

  I thought this would be easy. I’d picked on Mota for that very reason. I thought he’d go down without a fight. I didn’t know he’d toughened up. I didn’t know he was screwing one of my boys.

  I didn’t know shit.

  Mota’s phone chirped in my pocket.

  I pulled it out and checked the display. The call was holo-free, and whoever it was, they’d blocked the name. I picked up but didn’t say hello.

  “Who is this?” Mota’s voice.

  “Who the fuck do you think?”

  He stayed quiet for a few. “You broke into my house.”

  I didn’t respond. No way I was going to admit it over the phone.

  “You can’t intimidate me, you hear me?” His voice rose in pitch. “You’re going to pay for Froelich, you bastard. You’re going to pay.”

  The phone went dead. Wiped.

  I’ll pay for Froelich? How was he going to blame me for that? He couldn’t possibly think I killed him, could he?

  The answer came in a sickening flash. If Mota and Froelich were lovers, he just might think I offed his boyfriend to intimidate him.

  Jesus.

  Mota and I were on a collision course. I could see that now. I’d started something that couldn’t be stopped. No way to undo it. No such thing as do-overs. It didn’t matter that I’d lost the will to fight, that I wanted out. It wouldn’t end before one of us was dead.

  I needed Maggie. I couldn’t trust myself. I needed somebody with a level head, somebody who could see straight. Somebody who could call me on my shit. Somebody who had a moral compass that wasn’t spinning in circles. Maggie.

  But first, Wu.

  I turned right. A narrow alley closed all around me. Light slanted out from workshops on either side, illuminating the alley with a weave of dim beams. I passed basins filled with clothes soaking in dyed water. Up ahead, a pair of women dumped a tub. A rush of crimson water came running down the stained pavement. I moved to the side and let the tide roll past. They dumped another tub, and this time it was yellow water—smelling of saffron—that ran past and found its way into a storm drain.

  I walked through a battered gate and up a set of mossy wood steps that led into a short tunnel. As I walked, I ducked beneath hanging moss that tickled my face as chittering lizards gave me an earful. I skipped up another short set of steps at the tunnel’s end and entered a courtyard surrounded by apartments, the patio freshly torched and dusted with ash. A tree stood in the center, its branches hanging low, weighed down with ripening brandy fruit. I walked up four flights to the top floor and around to the opposite side. I looked down at the treetop, leaves rustling in the breeze.

  I rapped on Wu’s door, then waited a few before giving the door another pounding. His wife must’ve gone out early with the kids, probably walking them to school. Good. I kicked the door this time, giving it some extra boot. Wake the fuck up.

  A thought tickled. This was the Big Sleep. No school on a holiday.

  I tried the knob. Not locked.

  I stepped inside, my hand on my piece, my heart already bumping my ribs. Putrid air assaulted my nostrils. Two tipped lamps rested on the floor with dented lampshades, angles of light slicing the walls. Dirt from a toppled houseplant ground under my shoes. I held my lase-pistol out front and followed its quivering lead into the kitchen; dishes in the sink, a drippy faucet, a sweaty fridge spotted with mildew. I backed out and peeked into a bathroom with chipped linoleum and musty towels.

  A droning buzz drew me into a dark bedroom. The air was rank. I fumbled for a light switch and flicked it on. Toys sat on the floor. Bunk beds stood against the wall. Don’t fucking tell me.

  Flies swarmed over the beds. No. I stepped forward, repeating the word no in my head with every footfall. Flies bounced off my face and plinked off my shades. Small forms rested under the sheets of each bed. I peeled back one of the sheets, and the image before me seared into my brain as if a hot branding iron had entered through my eyes. Pink PJs squirmed with geckos. Her hair was speckled with maggots, a plastic barrette on one side.

  As bile rose in my throat, I lifted the other sheet. Another girl, another abomination.

  I exited the room, my shaking piece still taking the lead. I moved down the hall, thick patches of black flies marking the floor and walls. They took off when I stepped near, briefly revealing spills of blood before resettling.

  The master bedroom was bustling with activity. Flies swarmed. Geckos scavenged. ’Guanas fed on a naked body that lay on the floor. Wu’s wife. I moved in close. The stench was so bad I had to breathe through my mouth.

  I tucked my piece under my arm and clapped my hands loud. Lizards scattered. Flies went airborne. I pushed up my shades and took in the unfiltered horror.

  She’d been stabbed several times with a lase-blade. The wounds were charred and partially cauterized. I clapped again, then picked up a stubborn ’guana by the tail. Its body twisted, and its legs reached, and its bloodied mouth snapped at the air. Her breasts were gone. Not eaten. Gone. Cut off. Her chest butchered by jagged wounds. Same with the vagina, a roughly etched triangular wound marking the place it should be.

  Unlike the stab wounds, the mutilations weren’t charred. Killed by lase-blade, then butchered with a knife.

  I dropped the iguana on the floor, and it scrambled in for a bite of bicep. Light-headed, I forced myself to survey the rest of the room. Then a second bathroom. No sign of Wu.

  I took another look at the body. Big mistake. My hand went to my mouth, and I hurried down the hall, my steps unsteady, my balance shot. I lurched into the living room, my world spinning, and dropped into a chair. I swallowed hard. Breathe. The air stank in here, but not as bad. I swallowed again.

  I set my piece on my lap and told myself to get a grip.

  Fuck.

  I needed a phone. I had to call Maggie.

  The front door opened. My heart leapt out of my chest. My hands jerked in surprise, my lase-pistol falling between my legs. A man stepped in, a stranger, not Mota. Not Mota. Dark eyes peeking through an unruly mop.

  Spotting me, he did a double take. He had something in his hand, something round, something with hair. He held it by the lower jaw like it was a handle, his fingers hooked over the bottom teeth.

  I grasped for my piece, my fingers curling around the grip.

  He heaved the head at me, fly gel spraying loose, a spinning blur of hair and ears and neck stump coming my way. Being seated, I couldn’t dodge it, but I slowed it with a forearm before it caught me in the chest, gobs of fly gel splattering my face.r />
  Wu’s scarred head landed in my lap, empty eyes staring, stretched mouth hanging open unnaturally wide. I was up, the head tumbling free, bouncing off the coffee table and rolling across the carpet.

  Jesus.

  I squeezed off a burst, the air catching fire. The beam crackled into the door frame, melting the paint and scorching the wood underneath. I corrected my aim, sweeping to the right, but too late. He’d already gone.

  I hurdled one of the fallen lamps and rushed out the door fast, too fast to make the turn. I hit the railing, my shades flying off my head and down into the courtyard. Shit. The railing gave, just enough to make me think I was going over, metal scraping and rattling, but holding. He was almost to the stairs. I took another shot, a jittery beam missing high and wide—couldn’t shoot for shit.

  I tore after him, my veins coursing with adrenaline-fueled fire. He killed those girls. I hit the stairs. My feet barely made contact as I hurtled down the four flights. Just as I hit the courtyard, I saw him disappear into the tunnel. I kicked up clouds of ash as I ran, my heart pounding in my ears, my chest heaving for oxygen. I sped into the tunnel, his footsteps sounding ahead of me, my face whipped by mossy growths. Out the other side, I dropped down another set of stairs and turned into the alley. Skidding on wet pavement, I went down, my left elbow taking the worst of the impact. I slid through dyed water, my whites staining red and yellow. I scrambled back to my feet. Where is he?

  One of the women I’d passed earlier pointed at an open door. I sprinted past pedestrians who hugged the walls, colored water splashing and spraying. I barreled through the door and up a long staircase, then into a narrow room filled with two long rows of sewing equipment. Wheezing, I scanned the room.

  Machines hummed. Scissors clipped. Lazy fan blades spun overhead.

  Where was that prick? That monster who murdered children in their sleep.

  I stalked down the aisle. People slowly noticed me, their machines stopping midstitch, the room getting quiet. Wide eyes stared at me and my quivering lase-pistol. Dyed water ran down my leg. Flies clouded around me. Must’ve cut myself when I wiped out.

  I scoped faces, left and right, seeking and searching. He had to be in here somewhere. The only other door was closed, latched from the inside with a hook and eye. No open windows. I studied expressions. Somebody must’ve seen him. All eyes were trained on me, all but one pair. A man who sat close to the door, eyes aimed down at a wheeled bin next to his worktable.

  I got you now. I moved toward the bin, getting in close where I couldn’t miss, shaky hand or not. I could see him now, his head and chest poking out from a pile of cloth scraps. I crept up, steadily closing. He hadn’t seen me. He was looking at the worker, his finger making the shush sign over his lips. I stepped closer, my piece extended in front of me, ready to fry the fucker.

  He saw me. He was young. Not a kid, but young. Eighteen? Twenty? His blocky chin was peppered with razor stubble, his nose long and blunt. Brown eyes sat in the sinkholes of his face, and his hair ran wild as the Lagartan jungle.

  He watched my piece shake out of control. He measured his chances, gears cranking behind his eyes. Don’t even think about it. I marched the last few steps, leaned over and slowly edged the wavering weapon toward his face, planting the barrel on his left eye.

  He made himself small, trying to shrink deeper into the bin. I added some pressure, driving the barrel deep into his eye socket. “Who the fuck are you?”

  He slunk further down into the bin, his face cringing with fear.

  I smelled glue. I thought there might be an open tube on one of the workspaces nearby, but then I saw the tube poking from his shirt pocket. The tube’s cap sat crooked atop a sticky mess of spillover. Bastard was a huffer.

  I gave his eye a jab. “Start talking.”

  Somebody appeared at the door. I glanced up: Maria. What was she doing here?

  My forearm exploded in pain. My piece fell harmlessly from my fingers. From under the loose scraps, his hand had grabbed hold of me, but it wasn’t a hand. Metal teeth dug deep, down to the bone. Blood flowed. Flesh ripped. Nerves screamed.

  I howled in pain, tried to pull free.

  His face shifted. Skin turned charcoal gray. Ears recessed. Hair disappeared. A forked tongue tickled my nose.

  I was in a full panic. I jerked and yanked but couldn’t break free. Blood sprayed, and muscle stripped off the bone. My free hand dug at his face, fingernails sliding over beaded skin.

  The sizzle of a lase-blade passed by my ear and tore through the side of the bin. Maria took another swipe at him but the bin tipped before she could land the blade. I fell and hit the floor, my mangled arm popping loose.

  Half buried by scraps of bloodstained fabric, I rolled onto my back, my ruined arm quivering with waves of unbelievable pain.

  He ran for the far door, Maria in pursuit.

  A puddle of blood spread from my arm, warm liquid soaking into my shirt. I felt sleepy. So sleepy.

  ten

  “YOU awake?”

  I grunted.

  “The doctor will be back soon.”

  My eyes were open but I couldn’t see, my vision blurred and clouded. I blinked, and blinked again, but couldn’t clear the haze.

  “She’s going to fix you up,” said the voice.

  I tried to speak but failed, my throat seizing.

  “It’s okay, Juno. Really.”

  Who was that? Where was I? I tried to sit up but couldn’t. Something was holding me down. I puzzled over what it was, but my cobwebbed concentration couldn’t figure it. I tried to sit up again and felt a band pressing into my chest.

  Fear took hold. I pushed harder, my lungs constricting, my face flushing with effort. My arms, my legs … I couldn’t lift them. Straps dug into my skin.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  I lost it, my blurred vision turning blood red. I jerked against the restraints. “Let me go,” I shouted, my voice suddenly working again. I thrashed about, straining to bust loose.

  I felt hands on my shoulders, a soothing voice. “Relax, Juno. Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  I kicked and twisted, pushed and pulled. The strap across my chest made it hard to breathe. It didn’t take long for me to run out of air, and then out of steam.

  I smelled something. Perfume. Lots of perfume. So much that it almost drowned out the smell of antiseptic.

  My vision began to clear. I could see Maria’s face, her eyes. “Get me out of here,” I said between heavy breaths. “Get these straps off.”

  “Listen, Juno, I brought you to a doctor. Your hand got fucked up, and she’s going to fix it.”

  I looked around. Whitewashed walls and industrial lighting. Maria leaned over me, her cleavage in my face, hair brushing my cheek. “It’ll be okay. She’s a good doctor. I was telling you about her before. Remember? She’s going to do some work on my sister as soon as I have the money.”

  My hand got fucked up? What was she talking about?

  Memories came to me. Bad memories. The little girls. Wu’s butchered wife. Wu’s flying head.

  Like an overflowing toilet, the foul memories kept bubbling up. The lizard-man. My arm. Muscle hanging off exposed bone.

  Was that shit real?

  I didn’t want to look, but I lifted my head off the pillow and let my eyes wander slowly down my right arm. Shoulder to bicep. Bicep to elbow. Elbow to forearm. Forearm to nothing.

  I sucked in a breath. Oh hell. My hand was gone. Gone.

  I implored Maria with my eyes. “Get me out of here.”

  “It’ll be okay, Juno.”

  “Untie me.”

  “Don’t be scared. You’re safe here.”

  “Let me go, dammit.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Fucking untie me!”

  “Stop it. Just stop it for a minute, okay? Now tell me, does it hurt?”

  I had to think about it. “No.”

  “See? The doctor knows what she’s doing
. She blocked your pain receptors.”

  “Why am I tied down?”

  “You’re a fitful sleeper. You needed a transfusion, and you kept pulling out the needle. As long as you stay hooked to that IV, she thought it best to keep you secured.”

  “I’m awake now. Take off the straps.”

  “Let’s call the doctor.” She jabbed at a button on the wall, pumping it several times. “Let’s see what she says.”

  I looked at my arm. Bandages ran from the elbow down to where my forearm ended, about halfway to where my wrist should be. I bent my arm at the elbow. Bandages bunched and wrinkled. I bent it as far as the straps would let me and straightened it back out.

  “I got you a good deal,” she said. “I know price probably doesn’t matter much to you since you’ll be hauling in plenty of protection money, but I still haggled her down good.”

  Footsteps echoed from the hall, quick, efficient steps. The doctor walked in. “You only need to push the button once.”

  “Yes, Doctor. Sorry.”

  “What are you? A damn monkey?”

  Maria’s eyes twitched at the verbal blow, but she stayed silent and lowered her gaze.

  The doctor turned to me. She forced an offworlder’s smile, two rows of perfectly positioned ivory. Her black hair was shot with gray, and she sported glasses that gave her a bookish air.

  She sat next to the bed, indifferent eyes giving me the once-over, her smile more like a sneer. “I’d shake your hand, but…”

  Not funny. I didn’t try to hide the contempt on my face.

  “No sense of humor? Don’t tell me you lost your funny bone in that hand.” The joke came laced with enough condescension to make it a put-down instead of a pick-me-up.

  I wasn’t buying the bitch’s getup. Offworlders didn’t need glasses. They didn’t gray. And their skin didn’t wrinkle into crow’s-feet. This whole pseudo-schoolmarm look of hers was nothing but a bullshit attempt to make herself look doctorly.

  She was a fake. Offworlders were all fakes, changing their looks on a whim, shifting and morphing. Chameleons.

  “You cut my hand off without asking me. You’re a butcher.”