by Sean Platt
Contents
KARMA POLICE
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CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
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— dedicated to anyone who has ever been afraid to jump —
KARMA POLICE
KARMA POLICE BOOK TWO
“EveryDay” meets “Quantum Leap’ in “Jumper,” the thrilling new series from the bestselling authors of “Yesterday’s Gone.”
I am a Jumper — someone stuck waking up a new body every day or so.
I don’t know why this is happening. Nor do I remember anything of my life prior to this.
But when I begin to hear strange staticky messages, I run into someone from my past. Someone who not only knows who I am, but WHAT I am.
And now I find myself waking up on the same street every day in a different neighbor’s life.
The one thing they all have in common: their proximity to an abusive man who is a threat to the woman and child living with him.
What if the only way to save them is to kill a man in cold blood, before he’s even committed a crime?
“Karma Police” is the second novella in the “Karma Police” series by Sean Platt and David Wright. Each book is a standalone story in the series, with three books coming out in the first half of 2016 and another three planned for later this year.
KARMA POLICE
KARMA POLICE BOOK TWO
SEAN PLATT
&
DAVID WRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The authors have taken great liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends or blog readers about the book to help us spread the word.
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eBook Edition v1.1
fixed typos
March 20, 2016
Copyright 2015 Collective Inkwell
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CHAPTER 1
Something is wrong.
I can feel it in the air, on my skin, and in my brain: static disrupting a radio signal. But it’s not the hissing of meaningless noise; it’s a message — one I might decipher if I could only suss out the words. But they’re barely audible, lost in real-world clamor.
Today, I’m in the body of Renaldo Vasquez. I’m twenty-five, a former drug runner turned mall security guard when I got my girlfriend, Vera, pregnant. Now I’m living the straight and narrow, or trying my best.
I began hearing the voices, like barely audible whispers, just after lunch. I was walking the food court, and at first thought some of the punk dropouts hanging around were messing with me. I moved away, far enough away that I wouldn’t be able to hear them, but the sounds were still there. Then I thought maybe someone had left the public address system on and I was hearing some interference or conversation happening near the microphone. I asked one of the other guards, a big black dude named James Jones, if he could hear anything. He shook his head and asked if I’d share whatever drugs I was obviously doing. I laughed, said I wish I was on something, and went about my rounds.
The signal had died for the rest of the day, until about fifteen minutes ago when I started patrolling the parking lot. The sounds are a bit louder, but still indecipherable.
Now it’s 4:25 p.m., about an hour and a half before I get off.
There’s an electricity in the air.
Something is about to happen.
I wish I had a gun. Unfortunately, all we get on this job are pepper spray, a baton, and a taser. Hopefully, whatever’s going to happen involves someone who isn’t packing heat.
I cup my hands over my ears in an attempt to hear better. But that only increases the din of a cool breeze, gathering into the threat of a storm.
On a whim, and I’m not even sure why, I decide to cover my ears.
Now I hear it — an almost robotic voice. “Four forty-five. Red Hyundai. In front of the Nordstrom.” Then the voice gives me a license plate number.
I can’t believe my ears. What is this? My first thought is that I’m picking up on someone, maybe another guard’s signal, but the voice doesn’t sound like the ones on my radio. Maybe Renaldo has fillings and is picking up something from police dispatch? No, that doesn’t feel right, either.
This is something else, and I can’t help but feel it’s tied to the mystery of whatever I am — jumping from body to body for the past year. I already know there are others like me. Maybe this is how they communicate?
I continue to cover my ears, listening to the voice, like a recording, repeating the message.
I look around. Nordstrom is on the other side of the mall. I glance at my watch: 4:30 p.m. I can make it if I hustle.
I run as fast as Renaldo’s legs will take me. Fortunately, he’s in good shape. He played soccer as a kid, and ran from the police more than a few times as a teenager.
I haul ass, dodging people and cars, earning honks, the Nordstrom sign a tease in the distance.
I’m at the road dividing the lots. Forced to wait as vehicles snake in and out of the shopping mall.
Come on, come on!
I look at his watch: 4:39. Not much time to find the Hyundai.
Traffic halts in the far lane as the lights turn red.
I run for it.
“Yo, Renaldo!” I hear behind me.
I hope it’s not another one of the other guards. The last thing I need is to be followed. Whatever I’m supposed to see, it needs to be alone. This isn’t some shoplifter; this is big.
I turn and see three dudes getting out of a car. The tallest is looking at me, expecting a response. I get a flash of memory, but not enough to tell me who it is, or whether he’s friend or foe.
I point at Nordstrom and say the first excuse that comes to mind. “Can’t stop. Gotta shit!”
Guy laughs, along with the other two. “Catchya later,” he says.
I turn to see the cars still stopped in the lane, waiting for the green.
Watch says 4:40.
Shit. Only five minutes to find the car.
The light turns green, and the cars are about to move.
I can’t wait.
I launch forward, running in a space between two cars.
I make it through the first lane.
As I run into the next lane, a loud horn, squeal of tires.
I look up in time to see a black car stop. Angry dude behind the wheel looks up, yelling something I can’t hear because his windows are closed and his music is screaming.
I throw up an apologetic hand, then race away.
I bolt through the bushes along the
edge of the Nordstrom parking lot. I’m here. Now where the hell is that red Hyundai?
The parking lot is a sea of cars, at least twenty rows deep. And I don’t know models well enough to distinguish between a Hyundai and a Toyota or any other similar looking vehicle, even if I were close enough to see them all better, so I focus on red cars.
Too many and not enough time.
I look at the watch.
4:44 p.m.
Instead of cars, I look for people. I assume whatever’s going to happen will be initiated by a person.
What if the person is in the car? Maybe they’re headed straight toward the front of Nordstrom right now?
I stop, scanning the lot for any fast-moving vehicles.
Nothing.
Shit.
Where are you?
I run straight, cutting a line through the rows, hoping something will jump out, and that in my haste I’m not heading in the wrong direction.
Suddenly, the whispers, transmission, whatever it was, stops.
In the silence, I fear I’ve lost whatever I was supposed to see.
Shit. I’m too late.
Panic swells in my throat as I frantically spin around, searching for something, anything.
Come on!
Then I see something, two aisles ahead.
A person in a dark hoodie standing beside a red car — it might be a Hyundai — looking around suspiciously, as if they’re about to break the window.
I drop behind a blue pickup before the person turns toward me.
I pause, catching my breath as I wait to peek around the van’s corner.
Is this why I’m here? To stop someone from stealing a car? Doesn’t feel like that big of a thing. I feel almost cheated. Rather than tapping into some cosmic force guiding me toward something big, I’ve tuned into a police scanner.
Slowly, I stand, then peer around the van.
The car’s still there, but the person is gone.
I look around, but don’t see him.
Did he get in the car?
I step forward, eyes glued to the vehicle as I make my way toward it.
Cold wind is picking up, thunder rolling in the distance.
My heart is racing. Goose bumps running up my arms, hairs standing on the back of my neck.
I hear the voices again.
I stop next to a white van, raise my hands to block the sounds of the outside world.
But the voice isn’t the same.
Now it’s a woman: “White van. Security guard.”
My heart freezes. My throat has claws.
Footsteps behind me.
I spin around, hand on the Taser.
Too late.
Dark Hoodie is standing in front of me. But it’s not a he. It’s a she, a young Asian holding a gun.
Our eyes lock.
And in her eyes I see the slightest tremor of azure light. She’s a Jumper! And judging from her expression, she recognizes that I am, too.
She raises her gun. “You’re not stopping me.”
“Stopping you from what?”
I move my hand from my belt, away from the Taser, letting her know I’m not a threat.
She looks me up and down, takes a step closer, though not close enough for me to try wresting the gun away, even if I’m fast enough.
“Don’t play dumb. You’re not saving him. He needs to die.”
“I’m serious. I don’t know what’s going on. I heard the voices and came here.”
Her eyes widen as she takes another step toward me.
“Wait, you’re not one of them?”
She reaches out and touches my skin. A rush of images flood my mind, too fast to decipher.
Her jaw drops.
“Oh, my God. It’s … you.”
I wait to see if she’ll offer a name — I’m not about to tell her.
She lowers the gun. “They’ve been looking for you.”
Lightning cracks, blinding white accompanied by the boom of thunder.
“Who is looking for me? I can’t remember anything.”
“Nothing?”
“No. I only know I’m waking up in a different body every day or so, but I can’t remember anything before a year ago.”
She’s not freaking out or calling me crazy. It feels like such a relief. Finally, someone I can talk to, and maybe get some answers from.
“So, you’re saying you have no memories at all? None?”
I could tell her that I do have one memory, my name. But something — maybe the gun — tells me not to trust her just yet.
I shake my head. “None.”
She laughs. I’m still not sure if she’s an enemy.
“I’ll tell you more, but first I need you to go. I have a job to do.”
“What kind of job?” I ask, looking at the gun.
“You really don’t remember?”
I shake my head.
“Let’s just say I need to take care of someone. Call it preventative measures.”
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps to our left.
“Put the gun down!”
We both turn to see James standing there, gun — where he got it from, I don’t know — in hand, aimed at the woman.
“Shit,” she says.
Before James can react, she fires two shots to his head.
I scream, “What the fuck?”
She looks at me. “Great, now I’ve gotta delay the job.”
“What are you talking about?”
She raises the gun, says, “Sorry, no hard feelings,” and fires.
* * * *
CHAPTER 2
I wake up gasping, grateful to be alive, even if in another body.
But I’ve let another person die.
Not “a person.” He has a name — Renaldo Vasquez!
He’d fought so hard to change his life, to be something more than the wretched person he had been. It was tough, but he was on the path.
But I screwed it up.
Maybe he’s not dead. I don’t know for certain. Maybe he’s in the hospital, recovering.
When I get up, I’ll find a computer and search for his name, see if he pops up in a news story that’ll tell me if he lived.
But I don’t want to get up yet.
I need to lie here for a while and make sense of yesterday.
Who was that woman? How did she know me? And who was she trying to kill?
And why the hell did she shoot me?
But I can’t think now. It feels like a marching band has stomped across my body, echoes of their drums reverberating double time inside my skull.
In other words, I feel like absolute hell, waking up, yet again, in the body of someone who partied too hard the night before. I’m left to suffer the fog of confusion, struggling to find even the slightest motivation to drag this wasted body out of bed.
Today I’m in a forty-three-year-old man named Frank Miller, warehouse worker at a mall department store, a job he hates almost as much as he loathes his sobriety. A job he’s due to be at — I look at the clock: 7:15 a.m. — in just over an hour. I live on Baker Street, a small cul-de-sac in the ’burbs, where the block’s other nine houses are all newer and nicer than mine. But we’re in a good area, even if Frank doesn’t know a single neighbor.
I’m alone in bed, though I didn’t go to sleep that way. Frank lives with his girlfriend, Stacy — a bookkeeper at a local auto parts distributor. She must be up, maybe getting her son ready for school.
I drag myself to the bathroom, flick on the light, and look at the grizzled face. He’s thin, acne-scarred with severe blue eyes and long, straggly brown hair. He reminds me of a drug dealer, or a roadie who parties more often than not.
I try to access last night’s memories, but everything’s fuzzy. Two toxic emotions are still stirring through his brain — rage and shame.
What did you do, Frank Miller?
I step into the shower and turn the hot water on, waiting for the heat to coax some hidden reserve of energy that
will help me get through this day. From Frank’s memories, I can tell that his job is long, back-breaking work. I’m not sure why a guy who has a job like that would pollute his body so much the night before. How does he normally get through the day?
I try going over yesterday’s details but can hardly wade through Frank’s chaotic emotions — so much fear and anger.
In the year I’ve spent jumping from body to body, forced to live other people’s days, I’ve never experienced residual emotions this strong. Usually, there’ll be a slight flavor of my host left behind. If they have a great sense of humor, I’ll find myself more easily laughing at things; if they’re introverted, I’ll find myself a bit more withdrawn; and if they’re an asshole, I’ll find my temper is shorter than usual. But Frank’s emotions are overriding my every instinct.
This might be easier if I could remember my personality, find some anchor to drop and ride out this storm. But other than the name, Ella, I have no memories of my life, nothing to guide me in how to be on any given day.
Typically, I try to live within the parameters of the person I’m in. If they’re generally in a good mood, or friendly, this is easy. If they’re a withdrawn biker dude at war with the world, it’s hard. As much as I’d like to always be happy, I have to stay within my host’s character. I can’t go around singing show tunes as that angry biker dude, otherwise, I’ll make things difficult for my host when he returns to his body. So I usually lie low and avoid people as much as possible while inhabiting a toxic person.
But I can feel Frank’s rage so much that I’m afraid of how I’ll behave around others. How much of him will follow me into the day?
I dry off and get dressed.
I head toward the small, dark kitchen where morning sun is barely making a dent through open drapes in the window above the sink. The kitchen reeks of poverty and despair: cluttered countertops, water-stained ceiling, ripped and faded wallpaper, appliances that are fifteen years past their prime, and a sink overflowing with dirty dishes. All of it annoys me, makes my skin itch.
