Skyway Angel

by James K. Douglas

  “That’s good, at least. What about measurements? Those could potentially be used to figure out some of your client’s identities.”

  She gestured toward a device sitting next to the chair Cassdan occupied. The base of it was a simple table on wheels with adjustable legs, but attached to the top of the table was a large metal ring sitting upright on a track. Inside the ring, dozens of little telescopic arms extended toward the center. Their tips were so fine that they might all have been able to come together into a single point in the middle. The whole thing reminded me of a giant iris with a half opened pupil.

  “That machine measures the area where the bionic limb attaches. Stick your stump in the center and it goes up and down it, measuring shape, size, texture, and even the density of the flesh in square millimeters to get the absolute best fit. Once it’s done, it spits out a thumb drive that I plug directly into the 3D printer I keep in the back room. Neither machine is online, and all the measurements are wiped as soon as the process is finished.”

  “That sounds like quite a lot of security,” I said, “just to keep someone from getting a client’s measurements.”

  She shrugged it off. “Not really. It’s just practicality. I didn’t have much money when I started up the business, so I bought cheap equipment, and cheap equipment doesn’t come with a lot of convenient wireless connectivity. I wipe the measurements when I’m done because there’s no sense in keeping them. Between diet, exercise, and how much water they drank that day, people’s measurements change all the time. It’d be a waste of space to keep a record of them all.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Her eyebrows raised for a second. “Anything else?”

  I took a long look at the machine. “Yeah, can that thing measure me for a hat? I have kind of a big, oblong head, and I have a hard time finding hats that fit well.”

  Before she could respond, my phone rang.

  Chapter 13

  When I saw Jennifer’s name on my phone, I asked Cassdan to give Rachana my contact information so I could take the call. I stepped out toward the street, away from the crowd, before I answered.

  “What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Jackson?”

  “Nothing worse than anything you and I’ve gotten into before,” I answered.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” she said. “I spoke to Sammy. He didn’t much care for the late call, but he looked into it for me. When he got back to me though, his tone was different. He was… careful.” She paused for a moment, seeming to choose her own words carefully. “He wouldn’t give me any details, wouldn’t tell me anything about the case.”

  “Case?” I asked. “Is there some sort of case involving this guy?”

  “Exactly. I have no idea. He wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  I started pacing. “So, we’ve got nothing?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. There’s a contact he wants you to meet, a detective.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Detective Lannemir. You need to meet her at Immaculate Alley, as soon as you can get there. Do you know where that is?”

  “I do, and that’s a rough neighborhood for a detective to be hanging out in.”

  “I’m sure it is, unless you’re trying to stay off the corporate radar.”

  I smiled at that. “You keep surprising me with how much you know about the ground level city.”

  “Take care of yourself, Jackson. I expect to see you on the other side of this.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She hung up without another word.

  “So?” Cassdan asked, coming up behind me. “Have we got a lead?”

  The cab ride back toward downtown was slow going, but not because of the traffic. Twice we were stopped by police road blocks. A faceless officer in power armor checked the driver’s credentials and shined a light in our faces, never once saying what they were looking for or making polite conversation. They just handed the driver back his license and told us to keep moving in that flat, robotic voice. If every one of them were replaced with humanoid police drones, we’d never be able to tell the difference.

  As we passed the Ultramarine Tech building, I noticed the protestors hadn’t returned. The police officers encircling the building were still there, but it was hard to tell if they were the same cops that had been there before, or another shift. I was busy pondering if that was part of the point of the new armor, when I noticed a small drone flying overhead, a camera taped to its underside.

  Buildings moved past the windows of the cab, each one a corporate megastructure close to a hundred floors high. Many were more than half a city block wide, extra layers having been added to their lower floors, both for stability and to wall the structure off from the Lowers of the ground level. The buildings pressed into one another, leaving not enough room to slip a piece of paper between them. What had once been one-way side roads were now narrow alleys where the homeless huddled to stay warm.

  It was outside one of these alleys where we finally came to a stop, pulling up next to a sidewalk spray painted with the words “Immaculate Alley.” The plain lettering was not intended as an ironic piece of art, poking fun at a pathway strewn with garbage and the kind of refuse that collects when humans are forced to live without adequate plumbing. Rather, it was a simple street sign marking the haven that existed beyond.

  Cassdan paid the driver and asked her to stay close. I took a moment to glance up and down the road. The only other sign of life in the area was a black sedan parked two blocks away, barely visible in the darkness of the unlit street. I wondered if it belonged to our detective contact. No one but a cop would dare leave their vehicle in the business district overnight.

  Once I was satisfied with my scan of the area, I led the way into the alley, flashlight in hand, Cassadan following closely behind. I did my best to avoid disturbing the rats I saw scurrying about, hiding in the litter. One hissed at me as I stepped too close to its tail, disrupting the vigorous cleaning it was giving its ears and nose.

  As we neared the far side, some additional light filtered into the alley. It wasn’t the bright neon of the lively parts of the city, or even the sanitized white glow of the Skyway. It was dots of light, like bright stars in a small sky, evenly arranged in a single row ahead of us.

  We exited the alley, flanked by two of the lights, simple solar powered lanterns held aloft on rusted iron poles. A small parking lot spread out beyond the light of the lanterns, entirely empty of cars as far as I could see, save for one pile of rusted parts still sitting between two faded white lines. Just beyond the remains of the car, at the far end of the marked walkway, stood the ancient structure that gave the alley its name.

  Built in 1869, the Sanctum of the Immaculate Conception still stood as the oldest structure in the city. Lit only by lanterns hung in its many windows, it was hard to make out the details in the dark, but I had seen it in the daylight once before.

  From the side we faced, the front entrance sat directly in the center, old oak doors standing constantly open, welcoming any who needed to find sanctuary here. Above the doors was the great front window set into the red brick wall, arched at the top and divided into many sections, as the old stained glass designs tended to be. There was no glass left in that window, but painted boards had been fixed over it from the inside to keep the cold out.

  Far above the window, a faded white cross still stood upon the peak of a weathered and worn roof, specks of rust showing where the paint had fallen away. The rest of the building showed its age, as well. Bits of brick crumbled off here and there. The wood of the door slowly rotted away. The church was far from immaculate.

  In the front corners of the building stood the square towers. Imposing figures, each was topped with gothic spires reaching from their corners to pierce the heavens. The tower to the left stood a good thirty percent higher than its partner, making it the peak of the structure. With three tall, slatted windows on each side of its upper floor, I had always assumed t
hat it had once been the bell tower, though no bells rang here any longer.

  I sometimes wondered what the rest of the exterior looked like, but no one had seen that in decades. Ninety story corporate monoliths crowded the old church from three sides and had nearly succeeded in cutting off its access to the main road. The ancient structure sat on valuable property that every company in the city had put in a bid for, but the National Historic Preservation Act prevented anyone from destroying the church or removing it. So instead, they did their best to make it feel unwelcome.

  While I was certain the big businesses had considered other methods of getting rid of the structure, the options available would only have made things worse for them. My understanding of the law was that should any “accidents” occur, resulting in the partial or complete destruction of the building, the individual or organization at fault would then be responsible for the cost of a complete restoration of the property.

  And so, the ancient church remained in a kind of limbo, protected from corporate machinations, yet too expensive for anyone else to restore.

  We were only a few steps beyond the alley when I felt a soft thud against my left shoulder, accompanied by the subtle ring of metal as the pipe tapped my jacket’s zipper. “Where you going, money?” came a deep voice from my right. “You don’t belong here.”

  Another voice came from the side with the lead pipe. “Empty your pockets and head back the way you came.”

  “We were asked to come here,” I responded. “We’re expected.”

  The first voice let out a low, slow chuckle as its owner stepped into the light. “Then somebody sent y’all here to die.”

  The man stood a full head taller than me, his shoulders a hand’s width broader than mine. Once, he may have been an athlete, but as he stood in front of me, he no longer looked healthy. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and his dark skin sat lax on his face. Even his tattered clothes hung loose on his large frame.

  I couldn’t be sure if he was starving or strung out, but either way he had an air of craving about him. In another place, I would have been happy to give the man whatever cash I had on me, but here, surrounded by the dark and unknown, I could only see him as a serious threat. The switchblade he had leveled at my face wasn’t helping, either.

  I started running the situation around in my head. Between my arm and my vest, I probably had the upper hand. I could grab for the knife first, dodging the pipe, then take them both out with a couple of hard punches. That might not stop them, though.

  As desperate as these two seemed, there was a good chance that they wouldn’t stop coming at me until one or both of them was dead. That wasn’t a place I liked to go, but if they stripped Cassdan of his electronics, that could bar us from the Skyway, cutting off our access to Angela's apartment and slowing down our entire investigation. All of this was also assuming that they didn’t have a third man waiting in the shadows with a gun, just in case this mugging went wrong.

  It also occured to me that this was a terrible place for a mugging. Sure, it was dark, but darkness was no good if no one with cash ever came down the filthy alley in the first place. Logically, this couldn’t be a mugging, or at least it wasn’t intended to be.

  That left two options. Either Jennifer’s friend Sammy really did want us dead, which just complicated things way too much, or these two were just a couple of security guys, not unlike what I used to be. That thought made me feel particularly bad about where I knew this was going.

  “Lobo!” came a third voice from the distance, a woman’s this time, stern and harsh.

  The big guy flinched at the sound of it. As I heard boot steps approach on the loose rocks of damaged asphalt, he lowered his knife and put it away. The one with the pipe didn’t lower his weapon, but did step out into the light.

  He was shorter than me, but sturdy looking. Thick all over, I couldn’t tell where his neck ended and his head began. This wasn’t helped by the short beard on his face that ran down his throat to connect with the chest hair creeping out of the collar of his shirt.

  “You mind yourself, buddy,” he said through scarred lips and chipped teeth. As threats go, it wasn’t a great one, but it got the point across.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” our new addition asked, finally close enough to see.

  A bright red mohawk adorned the top of her head, combed back and twisted into a single, wide french braid. A constellation of brown freckles framed bright blue eyes that shone like azure beacons in the gloom of this pit in the heart of the city. They were angry eyes, though, focused intently on the man to my right.

  Besides the hiking boots, the rest of her attire was professional. Grey slacks, a white dress shirt, and a black tie would have told most people she was a detective with the city police, making the jacket a bit of overkill. Like a private eye in an old movie, she wore a long overcoat, light brown in color, and tailored to fit her figure. It carried with it a cloud of dust that wafted across our legs when she came to a stop.

  “Just keeping a watch on things, Miss,” Lobo responded, hands stuffed in his pockets while he avoided eye contact with her.

  “I told you I was expecting them, didn’t I?” I don’t think she meant it as a question, and he didn’t bother responding. “Follow me,” she said, her eyes turning to us, the heat of her gaze fading a few degrees. “We’ll talk inside.”

  Chapter 14

  The interior of the Sanctum of the Immaculate Conception was as I expected. Elderly and sick residents covered themselves with tattered sleeping bags and old blankets as they rested on pews that had been converted into narrow beds with old sofa cushions and pillows. The fluttering of wings echoed through the rafters as pigeons came and went via a hole in the rotten ceiling. Lanterns hanging in the empty windows shed enough light for us to follow Det. Lannemir down the center aisle.

  “What is this place?” Cassdan asked, using the light from his computer to avoid tripping over the uneven floorboards.

  “A sanctuary,” the detective responded in hushed words. “It’s illegal for people to sleep on the streets, so Father Kelly makes a place for them here.”

  “Aren’t there places where they can get help?”

  “You’re looking at one of them. The Church still believes in the tradition of sanctuary. There’s also a couple of soup kitchens still left around the city. The Sanctum doesn’t have the money to do that, but it can at least keep these people from going to jail just for being too poor to afford housing.”

  “Yeah,” Cassdan said, scratching his tattoo, “we’ve been hearing a lot about that lately.”

  “You’ve been reading FIRN’s newspaper? They’re a bunch of kooks, but they do their research.”

  “Never heard of them before a few hours ago.”

  “That’s not what you’re here about, though.”

  I answered that one. “Not directly, no. We’re actually looking into a murder. We were told you might have some information on one of our suspects.”

  “So he’s a murder suspect? I’m not surprised. Why aren’t the police handling this?”

  “They already did.”

  “But not to your satisfaction?”

  “No,” Cassdan answered.

  I couldn’t see much in the dark, but somewhere behind the altar, we entered a door. The detective switched on a lamp in the corner and I found myself inside what appeared to be a study. A bookshelf on the far wall was stuffed to bursting, with as many science and medicine texts as there were religious ones, including several on first aid, nutrition, and even emergency childbirth. To the right was the only chair in the room, an old wingback with faded green upholstery and wooden arms worn smooth and polished by the oils of human hands.

  Another door on the left wall remained closed. With the keyhole being on our side of the knob, I imagined that was likely the gateway to the priest’s private quarters. I tried to keep my voice low as I explained Cassdan’s answer.

  “We’ve encountered some evidence
that strongly suggests my client’s friend, Angela Vidales, did not kill herself as the police claim.” I noticed her jaw clench briefly at the mention of the name.

  “Father Kelly hasn’t heard a thing in over a decade,” she said, at a normal volume. “So, why not just take this evidence to the police? It would be a lot easier than trying to do all of this yourself, or are you two planning on using tactics the police aren’t allowed to use?”

  “I’ve got bruises that say the cops aren’t in a listening mood.” I lifted my vest and shirt to show her the two purple blotches spreading under my skin.

  “Holy balls, were you shot?”

  “They didn’t get through the vest,” I said, without explanation, “and I’ve had worse.” Her eyes shifted toward my bionic hand, and I knew she understood. “So, why pick this place for a meeting?”

  “Well, for starters, I know this place, and these people. We’re safe here. We can talk freely.”

  “Lobo didn’t seem very safe to me,” Cassdan remarked, typing something into his computer.

  “I gather you’re not allowed to talk about this guy,” I said, trying to keep the conversation on track.

  “Jeff Geller.” She said the name with a snarl. “No one talks about him. He’s been unofficially blacklisted.”

  “We came all this way so you could talk safely, so let’s talk. Who is Jeff Geller? How did a cop get himself blacklisted?”

  “He’s not a cop anymore. He was asked to resign about eight months ago, and quietly pushed out the door.”

  “He made himself an embarrassment to the police department, didn’t he?”

  “In the worst way possible, by doing his job.” She shifted her weight and smoothed down a stray hair. “The guy was always a hothead, always the first to draw his weapon, the first to charge in. One day, it caught up with him. He got a call about a possible drug lab in an apartment on the west side of town. He arrived on the scene, knocked on the door, and when no one answered, he charged in.