by Ethan Cross
She said, “I am so going to kill you.”
This time, he struck her with a closed fist.
Gladstone was well built, and he threw every ounce of his muscle into the punch. Corin thought at one moment, when she saw the blow coming toward her, that he was literally going to knock her head off. When his fist connected, she felt herself levitating across the room as the chair tipped over and her body took flight.
She landed on the floor beside one of the suite’s sitting areas. The impact with the tile floor reminded her that pain and pleasure were seldom good bedfellows. It was as if all the pain of the past weeks came rushing back at once. She ground her teeth and fought to keep from passing out.
Dr. Derrick wheeled over to her and said, “Stop your crying. This isn’t pain. You don’t know what pain is.”
At first, Corin didn’t know what the man in the wheelchair was talking about. Crying? Had she been crying? As the haze cleared from her brain, Corin realized she had apparently curled herself up into a ball and begun sobbing uncontrollably.
Still, she couldn’t find words.
King Derrick said, “I chose you for a number of reasons, Ms. Campbell. First of all, you had donated blood to a local charity, which I oversee. I’ve studied your DNA at length, and I found that you have the purest genetic material of any of the ladies here. Purest of any woman I’ve tested. That’s why I’ve been taking it easy on you, trying to cut you some slack. But through my research, I’ve also discovered that humans possess an attribute that science cannot adequately measure at this time. I call it the Will to Live. I’ve seen a lot of things during my tenure as a doctor. I’ve seen patients who had no business living make a full recovery, and I’ve seen people go in for a simple procedure and fail to wake up. Sometimes, there is just no explanation for it. I’ve noticed this in several other ways as well. You see it in an opponent’s eyes during a sporting event. It’s a determined fire. A will to win, to survive at all costs. You’re a survivor, Corin.”
She tried to move but suspected she had sustained broken ribs in the fall. She hurt all over. Her legs were a ruined mess, she couldn’t breathe, and the drugs couldn’t hold back the pain any longer. Corin threw up all over Derrick’s tile floor.
He scowled down at her, shaking his head in disgust. Then he removed a small black pistol from the right side of his jacket. Bending over in his chair, he pressed the barrel to the back of her head and said, “I don’t feel like you’re listening to me.”
In a choked whisper, she managed to say, “I’m . . . all . . . ears.”
He smiled. “And that brings me to the main reason I think you’re special. When I saw the results of your genetic tests, I decided to learn every detail of your life. I probably know more about you than you know about yourself. I learned all about the sins of your past.”
She said, “Please, help me. I think I’m dying.”
“Let’s start with your sister’s boyfriend. The one who introduced her to the spiraling hell that is her life. You murdered him in cold blood. He had been shooting up for years. I’ve heard you need to do something for ten thousand hours to be considered an expert. Sammy’s deceased boyfriend was definitely an expert in pumping poison into his veins. He would never have given himself such a large dose, and he had no suicidal indicators. Your protective instincts have always been as strong as your desire to survive. You would do anything to keep your sister safe, including taking the life of her junkie boyfriend. Did you protect sweet Sammy from your own mother as well, Corin?”
Still gasping for air, she said, “You don’t know anything. You don’t know me at all.”
“It would be a real shame if that were true. Because then I would have to move on to Plan B. Your sister, Sammy, doesn’t possess that same desire to thrive as you, but I’d be willing to bet her genetic material is worth harvesting. No guarantees, but considering that you have such clean DNA—a code that lacks all the genetic markers for handicaps and other medical conditions—chances are that sweet Sammy would have a similarly flawless double helix.”
“Stay the hell away from my sister.”
“There go those overactive protective instincts again. I’ll make you a deal. You be a good girl, and I’ll forget all about sweet little Sammy.”
“Fine, whatever you want. Just . . . please . . . help me.” She held out her arm, but he slapped it away.
Derrick aimed the gun down at her and said, “If you truly want to live, then demonstrate your desire. If you have the fire in you, then crawl your way back over to that chair and pull yourself up. And if you can’t do it, if you aren’t strong enough, then I’ll put a bullet in your brain and feed you to my dogs.”
~~*~~
Chapter Ninety
Ackerman had never truly owned much of anything, let alone an automobile. He had forcefully commandeered several of them over the years. Still, stealing a car was a totally different feeling from purchasing one. At least, he supposed it would be. To actually earn the money to purchase a vehicle sounded oddly appealing. He would have to ask Marcus later what they planned to give him for a salary. Because, if he was going to save up for a car, he would want a classic piece of machinery like the one owned by Detective Natalie Ferrera.
Leaning forward from the back of the convertible and speaking over the wind, Ackerman asked, “I respect your choice in automobile, Detective Ferrera. What is the make, model, and year of your vehicle?”
The beautiful Hispanic detective replied, “Thanks, and it’s a 1964 Ford Falcon Futura.”
From the passenger seat, Marcus added, “This is the same car used in the 1987 movie Summer School starring Mark Harmon.”
Natalie Ferrera said, “Wow. I didn’t know that.”
“Really? I assumed that was why you had bought it.”
As she wheeled the fifty-three year old automobile onto Haight and Ashbury, Natalie replied, “No, it was my dad’s car. We restored it together.”
Ackerman resisted the urge to point out that his brother’s obsession with particular subjects was a common ASD indicator, much like Dylan’s obsession with Lego. Marcus hadn’t said much since hearing the diagnosis bombshell, and so Ackerman decided to let him process the info a bit more before calling out observations of symptoms.
As they rolled down the street, the skunk-like smell of marijuana was prominent in the air. The sidewalks bustled with conspicuous tourists and obvious locals alike. Natalie slowed to a crawl beside one storefront and yelled, “Baxter Kincaid!”
Most of the sidewalk’s occupants glared over at the convertible as if they were escaped mental patients—which Ackerman supposed was accurate in his case. But what he found especially interesting was the three people who pointed up the street, directing Natalie towards Kincaid.
Marcus said, “Popular guy.”
Driving slowly and scanning for Baxter, she said, “I suppose, depending on your perspective.”
Spotting the private investigator hurrying up the street beside a Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream parlor, Ackerman said, “He’s right there. Didn’t we have an appointment with Mr. Kincaid? Why is he running from us?”
Focused in on Baxter and increasing speed, Natalie replied, “We’re not chasing him, and he’s not running from us. Sometimes he loses track of time, and he hasn’t been answering his cell. I think he’s upset about the shooting in his neighborhood. He gets this way sometimes.”
Natalie closed the distance and brought the Falcon to a screeching halt beside the curb. The sudden noise drew Baxter’s attention, and that of everyone else on the street. Ackerman noticed a tall black man about thirty feet ahead of Baxter turn around, notice the car and Kincaid, and take off sprinting in the opposite direction.
Shaking his head, Baxter approached the convertible and said, “You just scared off someone with whom I needed to have a serious discussion.”
“Then why aren’t you ch
asing him?” Ackerman asked.
Baxter laughed and shrugged. “That dude is a member of the gang that controls the machine-pistol trade in the city. It’s a Kenyan gang. As in, that dude is straight up from Kenya. His spirit animal is the gazelle. Sometimes, you got to know when to fold ‘em. Plus, if I’m supposed to catch up to him, the Universe will give me another shot.”
Natalie said, “You were supposed to meet me at the station. We’re going to see Illustrated Dan, remember?”
“Sorry, Nat, I’ve been a might distracted with this shooting business.”
“I know. But let’s get going. The feds here have an appointment for a special viewing of their Diamond Room.”
Baxter hopped over the trunk and landed in the back seat beside Ackerman. “Then let’s go talk to Dan the Man.”
~~*~~
Chapter Ninety-One
Corin Campbell didn’t want to die. Neither did she desire to live like this. But there was always hope. She just needed do what she always did, take one step and then another, roll with the punches until circumstances changed.
The pain had become so intense, the external casing of her soul so devastated, that she could almost feel her brain shutting down certain parts of her body. Just like a submarine captain sealing hatches to save the rest of the vessel.
Gladstone said, “What shall I do with you, Ms. Campbell? Would you prefer to be put out of your misery? I always have Plan B. With you gone, there won’t even be anyone left alive to miss sweet Sammy.”
Calling on the last bit of strength held by the unbreakable girl in the beach house, the girl who still refused to die, Corin put one hand in front of another, digging her nails into the rug, crawling for her life and the life of her little sister.
When she reached the wheelchair, Corin had no idea how to pull herself up. Her legs were useless. Any movement in them caused more pain than it was worth. She was a weakling by most standards, and she was also five foot four and a girl. Upper body strength had never been a priority.
Derrick had at least righted the wheelchair for her.
She tried to climb into it, but each time it started to roll away. Searching the wheel, she activated the brake by pulling back a black lever. After which, she was able to get to her knees, turn to her side, and pull herself up by gripping the armrest.
Corin felt as if she had run a marathon. She struggled to right herself and place her feet on the wheelchair’s rests. When she was young, she had battled asthma, but just as the doctors had said, she had eventually outgrown the affliction. Despite so many years without an attack, she now felt one coming on.
She didn’t hear Derrick’s slow clapping until she was able to get her breathing under control. He beamed with pride as he said, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Just from looking at you, your petite frame, and then accounting for your injuries . . . Well, let’s just say that no doctor would bet on your true strength and ability. But they would all be wrong. I may be the only person in your life who has ever truly believed in you, Corin. The real you. I want you to see what I see. I want to help you realize your true potential.”
Between ragged gasps, Corin asked, “What do you see?”
He smiled, a hint of madness shining through. “I see a potential Eve to my Adam.”
The wave of nausea that struck Corin at the thought was almost worse than the pain. But this time, she held her tongue, and her bile.
Then Dr. Derrick wheeled himself toward the master bedroom, saying over his shoulder, “That’s enough rest. Onward and upward.”
She had little choice but to follow and play along with whatever lunacy he had in store for her. The same disorientating sea motif carried through into Derrick’s master suite. Same tray ceiling with lighting and shadows that made it seem as if one were underwater. A California king bed rested along the back wall, and beside it was a sitting area. The bedspread and furniture were sea-foam green and salmon red. She swore she tasted salt in the air.
Gladstone wheeled into the center of the room and turned to face the wall opposite the bed. As Corin moved closer, she saw that the entire wall was lined with hundreds of photos.
Each photo was marked with a name, a date, and a birth weight. The ceilings in the presidential suite were at least ten feet tall, and the bedroom was at least thirty feet wide. Children’s photos—boys and girls, all varying skin tones and hair colors—stretched from floor to ceiling, wall to wall.
Trying to fight off a wave of despair even more powerful than the wave of pain, Corin said, “What am I looking at?”
“These,” Derrick said, “are all my children.”
~~*~~
Chapter Ninety-Two
The true story of how San Francisco’s Tenderloin district received its name was a matter of contention. Some tour guides spun the yarn that officers who worked in the Tenderloin received “hazard pay” for working in such a violent area, which allowed them to purchase the better cuts of meat. Marcus knew that it actually got its name from an older New York neighborhood, but the apocryphal reasons for the name remained. He had heard every explanation from bribery benefits to the “tender” loins of the district’s prostitutes and strippers.
Marcus supposed the history of the district’s name didn’t hold any real significance to the case, but he still felt compelled to analyze and ponder it. For a moment, he wondered if that desire to understand how things worked was a characteristic of the diagnosis Ackerman had revealed—a diagnosis which Marcus didn’t believe to be accurate. There was nothing wrong with him, or his son. At least not with internal wiring. Externally, a lot was wrong. His girlfriend had just left him, his brother and biological father were both serial murderers, and his team was at odds with a whole network of the world’s worst killers.
All of those problems had been exacerbated further by the private detective sitting behind him in Ferrera’s convertible, who kept sparking up pinch hitters full of marijuana.
As Detective Ferrera pulled the Ford Falcon to the curb beside a line of homeless men and women waiting in front of a soup kitchen, Marcus asked, “Is your informant a vagrant?”
Baxter laughed. “No, he volunteers down here a couple times a week. His shift will be starting soon. While we’re waiting, do y’all mind if I record an entry for my blog?”
Marcus said, “Only if you stop blazing it up back there. You’re giving me a headache.”
Putting away his paraphernalia and starting up a recording app on his phone, Baxter said, “I think that big gash on your forehead may be a more likely culprit, but I can dig it . . .”
Baxter’s Log. Stardate 7016.niner.alpha.12 Anno Domini.
(Chuckling)
I heard a lost soul talking on that Your Tube thing the other day and giving all his thoughts on God, as the song says. This dude claims that: if there was a God and he had a chance to stroll up to the pearly gates, well, old boy says that he would tell the almighty, “How dare you!” Then he goes on to blame all human suffering on the Creator, as if we have no responsibility in the matter.
But I say, think about it like this, man. If you had a kid, you have to tell the kid what’s right and wrong and then let them do their thing. They’re going to go their own way no matter what you do.
This guy blames things like insects that attack humans and bone cancer in children on God. He called the Universe evil, and the Creator an utter maniac for building a world which contains so much suffering that isn’t our fault.
Unlike that gentleman, when I look around, I see the immense beauty of God’s creation. I see order and design. I see scientific truths and processes—the basic laws of physics and mathematics—established by some kind of Force beyond our current comprehension. And I see a world which mankind has corrupted. Why did those insects evolve to attack humans? Why are there parasites in this world which drill holes in children’s eyeballs? Was there a “man” fact
or involved there? Pollution, deforestation? Did a previous link in the chain have to evolve into that menacing creature because we took away its ancestor’s food supply?
I don’t know, but I think of it like this . . .
I’m small. Even in terms of my city, the incomparable San Francisco, I’m not going to be remembered. Not a hundred, a thousand, or, possibly, not even one single year after I’m gone. I will pass away after having lived a life that was mostly spent chasing the wind.
To think that my mortal existence and comfort has more significance than the laws of nature and the Creator’s design—in this unimaginably vast universe, which is likely only one universe in a limitless multiverse—well, that seems pretty damn arrogant to me.
But here’s the thing. Just like a parent loves his child, that Creator loves each and every one of us. Because he’s part of us, and we’re part of him. So how do we live on and make a difference?
I say that we make our story become part of the story that the Universe is telling, man.
Maybe rather than sitting on our butts bitching about the suffering of this world, maybe we should start doing something about it. You have a passion for fighting childhood cancer, then maybe you should set out to cure it. Or at least give a lot of money to that cause.
But here’s the thing . . . The very nature of life is struggle. If you believe the story of Adam and Eve, with either an allegorical or literal interpretation, then our own arrogance—thinking we were smarter than our Pop—is what caused suffering to come into our world.
But let’s not even get into that.
If you believe in any kind of afterlife and eternity, then this world is just the first step in a long journey. Who can say what wonders are yet to come for us. I know I want to find out. If this existence is only the baby steps, the job interview, or training wheels period, if you will, then maybe we should stop and ask ourselves what our Pop is trying to teach us.
