by Carey Lewis
“What about the Civic?”
“Uniform here name of Murphy got the tags, was escorting your cowboy friend out when it happened.” Ray started flipping through pages of his notepad. “Comes back to a little Asian kid whose name I can’t pronounce but his English name is Lou apparently. Street name Deckard, like Harrison Ford from Blade Runner. Some uniform’s over there at his parents house to pick him up.”
“The kid in there say who shot him?”
“He don’t know. He come in, only thing he’s saying is how much he’s hurt, kept swearing in Chinese. Sedated now saying he don’t know, was playing some game on his phone. We look at his phone, the app that’s open? It’s a fucking scanner. All those people together, he was looking at scanning credit cards. He’s clever, I’ll give him that.”
“He was shot at the park then?”
“What he says, it explains the other blood trail the tech team found. Doctor pulled out a round looks like a thirty-eight.”
“We already know it was Lex.”
“Found his old man’s truck too, about a mile from his house sitting in a plaza at a stop sign, engine still running. Only thing that’s still open is this pizza place so we ask them if they know anything about the truck out there. Guy, thinking he was being smart says no, but if we find his driver tell him he owes for the pies he stole. Guy trying to be a smart ass not thinking he just helped us out.”
“Lex ditched the truck and took the pizza guy’s car? Where’s the pizza guy?”
“Up in the air. We ask the manager what kind of car the guy drove, he tells us a shitty gray hatchback, not his job to know. We get his name, the driver? He’s not home, but we got a BOLO out for the car.”
“You want to bet that kid ends up dead in the hatchback somewhere?”
They watched as the news van pulled up, the reporters jumping out with their cameras with the lights on them, the female reporter directing them where to go, fixing her hair before she ends up on TV.
“All these people blocking the emergency,” Jamal said, getting back into his car, saying “thanks Ray.”
“Don’t you want to know why I’m helping you?”
“You already told me,” Jamal started the car and navigated his way passed the hoopla.
“He was scrubbing the car with Lysol when we found him, trying to get rid of the blood. He changed the tags already, had a bunch in the garage. Stack about this high,” Noah raised his fingers, showing roughly a two inch gap.
“That was them?”
“Be my guess, all of them they have. Stockpiling it looks like.”
For the past year, there were random people that got their license plates stolen from their cars in the night. There weren’t enough missing at one time to really care, just maybe one a month, sometimes two. People heard about it, thought it was odd and that was as much thought given to the subject.
“Were you seen?”
“No. He came home, kept the car running on the road, went inside. Minute later, his mom comes out, moves the car from the driveway, pulls up behind him when he goes in the garage with his car. Then he starts waving his momma off, watches her go in the house saying something to him then he goes in, garage door shuts behind him. Windows filled with all the China men trying to look outside, see what the drama’s about. We go around to the other yard, see a door for the garage at the back, go in that way.”
They were in what used to be the foreman’s office, overlooking the plant below. Mesiah looked down, saw the man wearing the black hood, his arms bound behind his back.
“What of the cement?”
“Joseph’s mixing it now. Started as soon as we got back,” Noah said, looking at the back of Mesiah’s head, watching him watch Deckard. The computer caught his eye, some fat white chick on the screen getting plowed from behind by a skinny black dude. Mesiah loved his pornography, claimed it helped him think. He’d be up here all night smoking his blunts, watching the fat chicks getting it every which way over the rim of his sunglasses. The place still had Internet, and this is what their leader used it on - fat white chicks.
“My concern is who he told,” he said, not breaking his gaze from the bound man below. That thick African accent even Noah wasn’t sure about.
“He’s scared, don’t think he’s going to lie.”
“Did he say anything?”
“We ain’t ask him nothing. He says it ends with him, I believe him. Volunteered it.”
“Let’s go ask,” and Mesiah left the office, making his way down the stairs to the floor, the stereo pumping out Fat Larry’s Band singing Act Like You Know. It was Mesiah speaking through Asteria to the bangers out there, telling them to remember what their purpose was tonight since the shit hit the fan. Noah didn’t care for this shit sounding like disco, wanting either hip-hop or the old smooth sounding soul he liked.
Mesiah waited for Noah to catch up to him, “we’ll see how much cleanup we need, then you and Baptist handle it.” Mesiah moved to stand in front of Deckard, not bothering with the throne and that whole thing. He stood there, the music being turned down to nothing more than background noise.
He took the mask off, saw the guy crying, looking like a kid now with tears stained down his cheeks, the gag tight across his mouth. Mesiah couched down, bent at the knees, slid the sunglasses down on his nose to see him.
“Why did you take him to the hospital?”
The kid started crying harder. His eyes squeezed shut and he lowered his head. Mesiah took his chin, raised it to look him square in the eye. He looked over to Boon, standing behind Deckard, and took the gag out of his mouth.
“I don’t know,” he said between sobs.
“You know we handle these affairs. When you go outside of us, we lose control. Why did you not bring him to us right away?”
There was a loud bang from a door being shut and Joseph came in from the back, holding a white plastic bucket with a piece of wood sticking out from the top. Deckard saw it, saw him walking forward with the bucket and started crying harder.
“I panicked.”
“And now we have to cover for your panic.”
Joseph and the bucket walked past them, moved behind Deckard.
“Who else have you told? What of this does your gang know?”
“Nothing, I didn’t tell anyone. I drove around with him. I hoped he’d be okay.”
“He was shot.”
“I was stupid. I hoped,” Deckard lowered his head, crying again.
Mesiah looked at Boon, nodded.
Boon took his head with both hands and tilted it back. The kid struggled but it was no use. Joseph shoved a funnel into his mouth, Noah saw the end of it slide down the kid’s throat. Boon held it in place as Joseph grabbed a scoop, started pouring the wet cement from the bucket down his throat.
With a nod from Mesiah, the funnel was taken out of his mouth and Boon let go of his head. Deckard bent over, coughing, his face hitting off the concrete floor. He threw up some of the cement.
“Tell me the truth or this happens to your family. Who did you tell?”
“No one. The guys took off after the kids, the ones in plaid that did it. I haven’t talked to anyone since.”
“This is a promise?”
“I swear. I haven’t talked to anyone.”
“Where are your men?”
“I don’t know.”
Mesiah looked at him, moved his head up to stare into his eyes. He said, “I believe you,” then stood and started walking away. Deckard breathed a sigh of relief but Boon grabbed his head and pulled it back. The funnel went back in and this time Joseph poured the cement right from the bucket, filling up the funnel until it started to overflow.
“You will take Boon instead. Baptist and Joseph will stay here and put him in a pillar,” he said to Noah, “you have his phone?”
Noah dug into his pocket, pulled out Deckard’s cell phone.
“Call his men, take care of them,” and then he went up the stairs to the office.
&n
bsp; CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They were sitting at the entrance of the tunnel. Cochise was afraid to go in when Catharine told him it was haunted. She told him the story about a house that caught fire not too far from here. The boy in the story watched his parents burn up, came running out of the house, on fire himself, got to the tunnel and started crying. Then he looked up, saw his parents burning, chasing after him.
“He was on fire but he couldn’t feel it.”
“How could he not feel it?” Cochise asked.
“It wasn’t fire, it was how he was bonded to his parents. That’s how they found him in the tunnel and why he couldn’t run away. It was like a beacon.”
Then she went on to tell him the boy was crying, afraid of his parents, told him they came up and hugged him like they weren’t in pain at all. Hugged him, the three of them burning until they were all melted into one giant glob, right here in this tunnel.
Told him you could still hear the boy’s cries for help.
Cochise told her there was no fucking way he was going in that tunnel.
So they sat at the entrance, the clown with the green hair standing fifty yards away, watching them.
“It’s either the tunnel or them,” Catharine said, pointing at the clown.
“Can we go around? He’s far away.”
“That’s one, you see where the other ones went? They could be moving right now waiting for us to go around.”
“Maybe they’re just trying to scare us.”
“They’re doing a good job. It’s either the clowns or the tunnel Cochise.”
He looked inside, told Catharine he couldn’t see anything in there.
Catharine made the mistake of telling him more about the witch story. “When you get in far enough, away from the light? They say the family appears and you see them on fire all over again.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Cochise said.
She felt bad, scaring him like she was. But she was scared too and she’d rather take her chances on a ghost story than murderous clowns that were freaking her out. She took his hand and smiled, said “I’ll protect you,” and she was happy when he smiled back.
They walked in the tunnel, listened to the stream run at their feet, a couple times Cochise jumped up saying something touched him, but they kept going. Looked back, saw the green haired clown at the entrance, still watching them.
She led him further in, not able to see an inch in front of them, going slow, unsure of their footing.
“Saint Catharine,” a voice echoed through the tunnel. It startled them both, sending a shiver down her spine. She lost her breath, felt her knees weaken. She tried to lean back against something but fell into the tiny stream.
Cochise called out for her and eventually his hands brushed against her outstretched arms and he lifted her up.
“You didn’t hear that did you?”
“Why do they call you that?”
“It’s a nickname,” she said, hoping that would be the end of it.
“How’d you get it?”
“Please Cochise, no.”
“That’s a nickname too. I’ll tell you how I got it if you tell me yours.”
She couldn’t see but was sure he was smiling. That innocent, disarming smile.
“I don’t care how you got your nickname, I just care about you,” and couldn’t believe it when she felt the warmth of his smile. She had to ask and he told her his grin was from ear to ear. Then he told her he liked her too.
Then she decided it was all or nothing. Being in the dark would help, she could tell him and not have to worry about seeing the look of disappointment. She had her moment, and now she was being greedy wanting more. Tell him everything and let him decide.
“I just… I don’t like myself,” she said. “I was young, we’d all go hang out at this bar by the canal, get the boat workers to buy us drinks. I was what, fourteen at the time?” she took a breath, still feeling his hand in hers, both walking along slowly, tapping ahead with their toes to make sure the footing was secure.
“It was fun, all these old guys come off the boats hitting on us, buying us drinks, trying to get us into bed. One of these guys, I guess… I don’t know, I think my drink got drugged because next thing I know I got this fat guy grunting on top of me. I come out and my friends are gone, no one’s speaking to me anymore. They start calling me whore and slut and stuff, acting disgusted with me.
“I go back to the bar to try and figure out what happened, I get a big cheer from everyone there. I didn’t care for that, I’m furious but fuck me if the exact same thing didn’t happen again.”
Still holding her hand.
“So that’s when I start hanging out with this one gang, trying to get them to protect me. Once they find out what happened, they want payment for it, to keep me safe. They’re beating on me, tell me sailors are going to do it worse and they’re going to give me back to them, so I say okay, give it up to one of them. It’s fine for a bit, but they want more so I have to give in. Then they take me to the bar and sell me off to one of the sailors there. I don’t want to go but they’re telling me it’s all I’m good for, didn’t even try sweet talking me.”
He stopped now, still holding her hand, but he stopped.
“That’s how it started. Started calling me ‘Saint Catharine,’ because if they couldn’t get a lay, Saint Catharine would save them. I’m sorry Cochise, I never wanted it. I—”
“You see that?” he said.
She looked around, saw nothing but black. Everything was quiet.
“Cochise?”
“Shhh. It’s a fire,” he said.
She didn’t say anything.
The only thing she heard was his footsteps running away. She wanted to call out after him, but she knew he made his choice. She didn’t see a fire, she didn’t see anything. Everything was black.
The time he put the encryption on their phones, Sterling told Case he was crazy. It was because of Deckard they all had it now, and it was because of this encryption Case knew someone was using Deckard’s phone without him allowing it.
The guy on the other end of the line was a Black Knight he said, told Case he was calling on behalf of Deckard he said.
“He told me call you, come pick you guys up.”
“Bring us where?”
“Where your man’s at, what I been telling you?”
Had Deckard wanted this guy to use his phone, he would’ve hit the volume down button twice, then the power button with the volume up button, then the power button once more and handed him the phone. If that happened, Case’s phone would’ve rang like normal. But that didn’t happen so Case saw the red exclamation point flashing beside Deckard’s name.
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you’re wrong.
“How’s Cadigan?” Case asked into the phone, taking it away from his ear and opened another app.
“I don’t know who that is. Deckard says to bring you guys over to where he’s at.”
The image on the phone started as a large map of the area, green with some blue water ways running through it. A red dot appeared, then the map zoomed in, gaining resolution, showing the red dot moving along a road beside the canal.
“I didn’t hear you?” Case said.
“I don’t know who ‘cat again’ is man, I’m just doing what I’m told.”
It was a tracking app Case also installed on their phones, one that everyone agreed was a good idea.
“I’ll call you back,” Case said and hung up.
He turned to the others, Gibson, Orwell, and Sterling, said “he says he’s with the Black Knights. Wants to take us to Deckard.”
“What about Cadigan?”
“He doesn’t know who he is. Deckard didn’t let him use the phone.”
“That’s all he said?”
Case nodded. “What do you want to do?”
“Maybe Deckard was just in a hurry, didn’t unlock the phone.”
“Maybe Deckard wasn’t able to unlock
the phone,” Case said.
“Why would the Black Knights have his phone?”
“Maybe Mesiah didn’t like Cadigan getting shot. Wanted to talk to Deckard, make sure everything is okay?”
“Then why would they need all of us?”
“Maybe they want to know what happened to him, think maybe we know.”
“I call him back, tell him where we are?”
“Might not be a bad idea. Get in good with the Black Knights.”
“Maybe only two of us go. The other two stay back and follow. Can’t see that as a bad idea,” Case said. “Keep the phone on with Big Brother so the other two can hear.”
It was another app that made the phone look like it was off but wasn’t, allowing the user on the other end of the line to hear everything.
“You said you weren’t putting that on.”
“Aren’t you glad I did?”
“You know the irony of that right?”
Case unlocked his phone and called Deckard’s phone back, telling the Black Knight where they could get picked up.
He didn’t quite understand the Chinese phone, beeping and flashing the way it did before he unlocked it, scrolling down the contacts to find ‘Case,’ the first name that sounded like a punk in the kids gang. Didn’t understand the way it flashed when he made the call either, probably inviting him and the caller into some game while they talked. Noah knew how the Orientals loved their games.
“You don’t call them that anymore, Orientals,” Boon told him.
“What do you call them then?”
“Asians I think. Or you get more specific. Chinese, Japanese, Malaysian.”
“How do you tell the difference?”
The phone rang and Noah slid the the little icon to answer it. Listened to Case tell them where to pick them up.
When he was done, Boon said to him, “went on a couple dates with this China girl, I ask her if they can even tell the difference between them, she says fuck no.”
“Really?”
“They go on dates over there and they have to wear a flower or some shit so the other one knows who they are. Meet you at this place, I’m the one wearing the orchid.”
