Partholon

by D Krauss

  Down the body now and he checked the pistol strapped to his leg, a Raven Arms MP-25, a silly looking thing, silver with smooth wooden grips. He’d bought it for Theresa in Florida in 1979 and it was fine for her but ill-suited for him. The handle barely fit halfway down his palm and it was accurate for maybe seven yards, but he carried it, anyway.

  Everyone scorned .25s but they were actually quite powerful up close and John had cut off the tops of his rounds, making them into crude hollow points. He had the Raven in a quick-release Velcro holster strapped to the upper part of his calf. Strategic. Everybody looked for an ankle holster but they usually didn’t check higher up. It was his someone-got-the-drop-on-me gun.

  So, he’s caught: slash with the tanto, roll out the .25, back in business. He patted the holster through his pants legs. You have to think of these things.

  Quite a load, all this, back and forth to work every day, the hardware, water and food, other crap, while still wearing the requisite suit and tie. Made you weary. Guess old age was telling. Yeah, he was in great shape, but no amount of exercise and vitamin pills can stave off the days. He ought to give very serious thought to retiring.

  He smiled grimly. Not yet, not yet. There were far too many punks running around far too many neighborhoods, all of them in desperate need of summary execution, for him to quit. Besides, geez-erness was an advantage. Punks underestimated middle-aged has-beens, not knowing that treachery and experience, like a finely aged wine, overcomes youth and speed every single damn time. John was an unpleasant surprise, a sudden and very violent life lesson. The punks draped over the hedges were his cautionary tales.

  All right, Mr. Fearless Middle-Aged Superman, let’s go home.

  John stood at the door, peered through the glass and examined the area out front before pushing through with the Zap. He dodged the barrels up the ramp and then looked carefully about, using peripheral vision to detect motion.

  Nothing, a few random birds, so he mounted the Zap and adjusted everything. Not quite dark enough for the NVGs so he left them on top of his head. He kicked the pedal forward and began a slow, laborious coast down the road. He wouldn’t flip on the motor until he had a rhythm going somewhere down Nebraska, and, before that, he’d do a little counter-surveillance. He got to the intersection and abruptly stopped, right in the middle of Newark Avenue. He turned quickly and scrutinized the area, but nothing.

  Man. Cassell.

  This lifestyle made one inordinately paranoid he knew, but as that old saw noted, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Someone was out to get him. Someone used Mrs. Alexandria to announce that fact. Who could it be?

  John shook his head. The list of suspects was quite large, from Pre-Event students he got thrown out of school, to post-Event crapheads whose friends he wasted. Hell, it could be a pissed-off MPD officer, for all he knew. But, hey, why all the theatrics, all the effort? Just come after him.

  Sure was unnecessary, doing that to Mrs. Alexandria.

  Which means, of course, it was necessary, in the mind of the murderer, anyway. Vicious. Hateful. But necessary. John stroked his paranoia, nourished it, encouraged its growth. He would need it for this one.

  A proper crime scene would have helped. He’d process it himself, like he used to, since it was very doubtful any of the current MPDers had his Advanced Forensics. Fingerprints, spatter, tissue and blood samples, an autopsy, send it all off to the lab, presto chango, answers.

  He’d at least have the exact cause of death, what specific torturous method finally caused Mrs. Alexandria to expire. Was it the cuts, the shock of the skinning, the continuous rape, or did they just leave her hanging there to bleed to death?

  Important to know that ’cause, when he found those guys, he wanted the punishment to fit the crime. Maybe he should just remove their arms and legs and leave them flopping in the road. Or maybe just a bullet to the head; short, merciless, sudden. The shock of realizing that, in the next two seconds, your worthless life ends. Have to give this some thought.

  It was getting darker. John looked back at the campus, at the four Quad buildings where the Lit and Math departments used to be, right behind the Fletcher Gate and the nice stone “American University” sign planted on the lawn there. The Quad had closed for renovation before the Event; all the professors moved into temporary quarters, so it was ghostly even before everything happened.

  That made it a good pretend point – it’s those few moments of stillness between classes and shuttles. Nothing has happened. Life abounds. It was dark enough to fade the overgrowth, so the pretend actually worked.

  You had to pretend every once in a while, if anything, just to remember what life could be. Day over, stuff left for tomorrow, go home. Theresa’s there and they’ll argue about something stupid and laugh about something stupid and eat dinner and watch TV and call Collier at 2130. Yeah, that life.

  Life.

  John shook himself out of it, dropped the goggles and switched them on, alert. Pretending made you inattentive and bad guys had an amazing knack of catching you right in the middle of that. The momentary shock of green light disoriented him, as usual, and he blinked to get back focus and right there, just on the edge of Gray Hall, a flicker. He went cold and stone and deadly.

  Straddling the Zap in the middle of the road looking at a green world, his hand welded to the cool Pacmyers, he calculated distance and drop and wind and nearby cover. Get ready.

  Ten minutes went by. He did not move, his breathing deep and rhythmic, waiting. Patient, always patient.

  Nothing.

  Perhaps he imagined it. Middle-Aged Superman he was, but, c’mon, he was nearsighted to begin with, so maybe it was nothing but an eye artifact. Still, the movement had been peripheral, and he trusted that, and his cop senses were nudging him a bit, too, so....

  Let’s wait a little more.

  Were the Bundys stalking him? He frowned. That was out of character. They preferred unsuspecting or innocent targets, and he was neither. Perhaps they wanted a bigger challenge. He smiled grimly – bring it on, mofos.

  Yet, no shot rang out. Maybe they didn’t have night vision, a thought John immediately discarded. Always assume your enemy is better equipped than you. Besides, how else would they know he was standing here, prepared to put two in the chest of anyone betraying the slightest hint of movement?

  Another ten minutes.

  Nothing. Nothing at all.

  Spidey sense was still tingling, though, and perhaps he should dismount, steal back under cover, and see what’s behind the four Quad buildings. Yeah. Perhaps he should.

  But he really, really didn’t want to. He wanted to go home. He wanted a beer. He had things to do. Like pretending.

  So, what, look or not look? John went through a fast and calculated cost/benefits analysis. On one hand, he’d know, either way, if his suspicions were true. But, other hand, they’ll be here tomorrow, a little more careless because they’ll think he missed them. They’ll get a little more confident. They’ll get bolder. They’ll get stupid. They’ll die. Right now, they’re ready for him, even if he made a surprise move. Tomorrow, they wouldn’t be so ready.

  Patience. No need to force anything. John made one last and intensive survey of the area to be sure, but nothing.

  Okay.

  He turned and pedaled down the street.

  John was at the bottom of River Road, just past where it joined Canal for the big sweep past the hollow and echoing remains of Georgetown University. This was a good spot. The Potomac was to the right and offered a clean sweep all the way to the Key Bridge and the MPD checkpoint. He could see everything from here. And he could see that something was wrong.

  It had taken him ten minutes or so to get to this point, a pretty quiet ten minutes, actually. He’d stopped at random, checked his 6, checked ahead, double-checked at the Field School when he lugged the Zap over the berm.

  Hadn’t seen a thing but he remained wary until he got to the top of Fo
xhall with its steep angle down to here, the most thrilling part of the ride, and goosed the Zap, big stupid grin on his face because there were no wrecks in the way and he could just whip down the road. He’d been in mid-thrill descent when he looked up, focused on the distant checkpoint and noticed how dead it was. Immediately he disengaged the Zap’s drive and pulled an emergency stop with the brakes squealing a little too loud for comfort.

  No movement. No white-helmeted figure sauntering down the bridge out to the limit of the Kleigs, no black-clad figure leaning over the bridge and peeing into the river. No signs of life.

  That was really odd.

  He watched the bridge for about five minutes with the NVGs but the Kleigs were too bright, causing the goggles to bloom, so he pulled them up and watched naked. And there was just nothing. Maybe they were sleeping up there, the sergeant curled up and snoring away in the booth while his two privates racked out in the car.

  John shook his head. No, no way. MPD was too professional and, besides, they had roving sergeants who showed up at random times and probably shot officers caught sleeping on duty. Who’d risk it? And it was just too early. Maybe if this was mid-shift.

  What’s going on?

  Assume Raiders. They’re the only ones bold and big enough to take out the bridge guys, if indeed the bridge guys had been taken out and were not sleeping or playing poker or jacking off. Further assume said Raiders were still here, idly setting up an ambush for innocent, unsuspecting passersby, such as oh, say, John.

  Hmm. So the movement he saw at Gray Hall was the spotter, and he’d radioed ahead to let them know John was on the way. This is how they want to do it, huh?

  Fine.

  Time to see who’s who, time for you Raiders to get a lesson in strategy and tactics. Like this stupid ambush. Raiders were overall antsy and one of them was going to move or sneeze and reveal their position. Then they all die.

  John smiled maliciously, anticipating. No rush. Let’s see what they do.

  They did nothing. More than enough time passed for some idiot Raider to cough or giggle or pop his head over the bridge railing and now he was getting antsy. Had they developed some discipline? Not bloody likely.

  So, maybe there’s no ambush at all. Maybe they’re all gone. When you think about it, John old boy, stupid to wait around for the inevitable MPD reaction. And maybe even more stupid, John old boy, to think you were the object of some elaborate ambush.

  It could be, John, that you’re not even a consideration.

  He grinned at that. Yeah, maybe he was giving himself a central role the circumstances didn’t support. Whatever was going on at the bridge, John was spectator, not participant.

  So let’s spectate.

  John eased the brakes and re-engaged the drive, gliding silently towards M Street. He dropped the goggles and stared intently at the Georgetown Hill because it was a grand sniper position, but didn’t get any vibes. Nothing from the C and O Canal on his right, either. The only sound was his wheels. Just before The Exorcist steps, he stopped, frowning, cocked his head and listened. He’d heard something else besides the wheels.

  Yes, there, faint and fleeting and irregular, something you’d pass off as an approaching storm in normal times. A mutter, an underlying rumble.

  Distant gunfire.

  A mile or so up M Street, interspersed with the random, muted sounds of distant tumult.

  Well, now that’s disturbing. John lifted the NVGs and peered up M Street, keeping the checkpoint Kleigs out of his line of sight. Off to the left, a faint glow with a yellowish cast to it, probably fire. He squinted but couldn’t make out any detail.

  What the hell is going on?

  John watched for a while, trying to make sense of it. Obviously, the checkpoint guys had gone up there to help out, so it must be pretty serious. It seemed far away, but if he was getting this much input, must be pretty big.

  So, let’s go see. John dropped the NVGs and readjusted to the green world, examining the street as it climbed past the bridge and over the crest of the hill. The distant glow was more pronounced and he figured it was just past Wisconsin, so he’d haul the Zap up 35th Street, that god-awful steep cobblestoned throwback to horse and buggy days, right at the bridge there, and weave through the neighborhoods until he could see what was happening—

  Spidey sense went off.

  There was some kind of wrong movement coming from his left rear. John turned, unsnapping the .357 and sweeping the area with it, automatically adjusting the grips deep into his hand. Gently, slowly, he got off the bike and set it down on the asphalt and then stepped away so it wouldn’t trip him. He crouched, the pistol up before his green gaze, sight picture acquired, ready to go.

  There was a short plain next to the road that abruptly turned into Georgetown Hill. It was completely overgrown, from the Exxon station to the abandoned, ivy-covered dorms on top. Something was going on up there, some less-than-audible disturbance. Flanking movement, so an ambush, after all.

  Okay. Not the best of positions, because he was rather exposed here, but it would have to do. Moving onto the C and O berm would get him a bullet in the back. Just stay here, just get ready. They’ve given themselves away, so now they’ll do something stupid, fire a wild shot or come charging down the hill. Something.

  And yep, there it was, scrambling sounds. Thank God for predictability. John cocked the trigger and started tracking the noise. Geez, guys, why don’t you sound a couple of trumpets while you’re at it? He blinked. The scrambling was frantic and loud, way too loud for an ambush. What were those idiots doing? They were either stoned or stupid and John put a hand down to a Speedloader because it sounded like quite a crowd. The scrambling became more frantic and there was movement in the underbrush and John stared, puzzled, because it sounded like escape, not attack.

  It was. A deer leaped over the top underbrush, startling him and almost causing him to shoot. It was a buck, quite an impressive specimen with a rack of antlers to make the Boone and Crockett Club salivate.

  It balanced itself on the decline but lost traction and started tumbling down the hill. Seven or eight dogs burst out of the same area and flew after it, overrunning the deer before it could regain control. John watched. The buck threw its rack at the first dogs, catching a couple of them and ripping one open and John started rooting for the buck. But the odds were too great and the buck was engulfed.

  It fought down to the last moment, the biggest dog forcing its way through the flailing hoofs and antlers and locking onto its throat. With savage jerks, the big dog tore the buck apart, green blood spraying in John’s goggles, maddening the other dogs more. The buck shuddered and lay still.

  The dogs began feeding, snapping and snarling at each other for position. John watched more than he should and a couple of the dogs looked towards him. He wasn’t worried because one shot would scatter them all but one shot would also reveal his position so probably best to move along. He eased the hammer forward and tracked the dogs for intent, but they stayed put.

  John hoisted the Zap, did a scan, and then pedaled slowly up to the bridge turn-off, pistol ready. He turned off the NVGs because of the Kleigs and studied the approach. Nothing, so he pedaled onto the bridge and dismounted. He examined the guard shack while the generator hummed and the Kleigs popped.

  No one here, all of the equipment gone, although there was a backpack thrown up against a corner, probably forgotten in the haste to get at whatever was happening up M Street. John left it alone. The owner would probably need it before the night’s out.

  John walked over to the Georgetown side of the bridge and listened. The tumult faded in and out with the wind. Some kind of big battle, he figured, and he really should go over there and see. He should. Really.

  He didn’t move. The Kleigs bounced off the Potomac below and he watched the reflections for a bit. Be a little startling if a crew zipped by, their oars in rhythm and the guy up front calling cadence. He smiled at that and imagined Georgetown students by the doz
ens suddenly appearing and walking briskly along the pedestrian bridge between the Rosslyn Metro and the dorms. That would be great. It would mean nothing had happened, that the past few years had been a dream. Wake up, John.

  He looked over the Whitehurst towards the Georgetown Mall. All you could see were the corners lit by the Kleigs. Nothing moved and there were no sounds except for the drift from whatever was happening farther along. He really should go up there and help. He should. Really. But he just watched the dead buildings.

  After a bit, he walked back to the Zap, mounted, and rode through the baffles, stopping just before mid-span. He looked back. The battle sounds had faded; whatever was going on over there was resolving.

  Tomorrow, he’d ask about it. Whoever’s here will give him an exaggerated version of events. He’ll listen quietly and sort out what’s probably true from the rest of the crap, nod gravely and exchange grim conclusions with the sergeant.

  Assuming, of course, a sergeant, hell, anyone – will actually be here tomorrow.

  Go look?

  No. Go home.

  He snapped the goggles back on and coasted down the bridge’s crest towards Rosslyn.

  16

  The 395 route had its advantages. The dead cars and trucks provided a lot of cover. Yeah, they did so for ambushers, too, but not at night. The NVGs saw to that. Besides, the LRT hill was just a delight and he loved to get a good head of steam past the Pentagon and take it at full speed, repressing the urge to scream his joy as the Zap accelerated all the way to the bottom. There were a lot of cars here but there was a clear path beside them and they became blurs as he whipped by.

  His momentum carried him halfway up Landmark Hill, where he kicked in the motor to ease the ascent. At the top he paused, slipped off the Zap, and settled behind a pickup truck, resting the 14 across the hood and zeroing in on the opposite crest. Time to surprise his tail.

  He was being followed. No doubt of that. He’d seen too many odd movements during his double backs. He’d sped up and slowed down and made unexpected turnarounds to verify and, yes, definitely, being tailed. They were good, better than the usual bumbling idiots, but it was hard to stay hidden from a pro like John.