My mind ticks over, and the more it does, the more a second pair of footsteps become apparent. Leather shoes on wet cement, slightly out of step with my own. I can tell they’re slightly shorter, but heavier, and not as fleet of foot. Yet their pace is quickening; they’re closing the gap, gaining on their quarry.
I quicken my pace toward a shaft of light pouring out from a nearby convenience store onto the slick roads. The store is close—a beacon on a lonely street, an oasis in the desert.
The glass doors slide open, and I slip inside the store to the sound of an alerting buzzer. I disappear amidst shelves, making my way around various products that have no right to be assembled together, eventually nestling between shelves of potato chips on one side and shelves of dogfood on the other. I watch the entrance warily, waiting for someone to enter, listening for the buzzer to chime.
It does. The echo floats around me as the overhead fluorescent bulbs flicker above me. I clinch my fists and then release them, my energy coursing, my muscles compacted, straining. Hatred. Burning.
A bald, scowling man in a beige trench coat marches in. His coat flaps as he immediately darts into an aisle. I rush around and follow him down. He turns at the end and disappears again. I silently sneak toward the end and stop, my fist cocked for an encounter. My gun would be quicker, but messier—a last resort. Besides, I know I can handle one guy.
I can hear the squeaks of his shoes on the linoleum. He’s searching for something. He cuts left, then right, unable to find me. Now he’s doubling back. He’s heading right toward me, his footfalls ringing in my ears. The rubbing of his pantlegs against each other is revealing. Not very stealth-like.
I turn to meet him, one hand reaching for his lapel, the other balled into a fist, ready to swing into his face.
He freezes, his eyes wide with fear.
“Why are you following me?” I bark.
He tries to answer, but his jaw is trembling too much. I push him back toward a bank of fridges. Orange juice, milk, and cold drinks flash by—as does salsa, cookies, and peanut butter at the end of the aisles.
“What do you want?” I’m up in his face now, my eyes narrow. A snarl.
He slowly holds up an item in his hands.
“S, s, sour cream. My, my wife’s pregnant.”
I take a step back and draw my pistol in one smooth motion, pointing it between his eyes and releasing the safety.
“Who sent you?” I scream at him.
He says nothing, making a sound that gets caught in his throat, and breathes jaggedly. Then, a sharp smell breaks into my senses. Holding the gun in place, I look down at the dark patch in the front of his pants. A puddle pools at his feet.
I watch him. Gauge his facial expression for seconds, waiting to see if he falsified the act. Eventually, I sigh and drop the ordnance.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I say, waving him away.
He pauses for a moment and then takes flight, dropping the sour cream as he makes a beeline for the door without fulfilling his husbandry duties.
I walk out of the store in a daze. I don’t even bother hiding my weapon. I hold it against my head as I escape the spotlight of the store and head for the nearest and darkest alleyway.
I crouch down behind an overloaded dumpster, my back against a cold concrete wall. I clutch my head tighter, letting the paranoia wash over me. I look down and run a finger over the alley’s cold surface, tracing into a puddle and then back out again. A perfect circle. I repeat the action, over and over, until my heart rate slows and my breathing nearly stops.
The alley closes in on me. It feels like the opposing wall is pressing up against my face. I move my hand in front of my eyes and see three other guns playing catch-up with the original. They whistle as I move them through the air. Colors swirl. A metallic taste in my mouth.
I muster all my strength and stand up, swaying. I don’t want to be here anymore, can’t do this anymore.
Not yet. Don’t give up yet. There’s still so much to find.
I’m tired of running. Sick of playing the game.
You don’t have a choice.
All I want to do is lie down. I never asked for this.
Didn’t you?
Chapter 43
I stumble through the open doorway and into the lobby. My view is cloudy, my senses dull. My throat and chest burn like I’ve just sculled half a bottle of whiskey. The walls seem to pulse with every breath I take, the stairway spiraling up into darkness that’s impenetrable by the dull yellow lights of the empty reception. There’s no one behind the desk. There’s no sound. No creaks. No groans. No ticking clocks. No ringing telephone.
The front desk is my baseline as I attempt to force multiple images to come together into one seamless picture of reality. I stare at an oil painting hanging crookedly over the cracked leather of a single chair. The manager must’ve changed it. The abstract image displays a small white figure standing on the edge of a cliff. The rest of the canvas is a series of dark swirls on an even darker background.
I ease over to it, and as I do, subtle elements become clear. The different shades of black force a three-dimensional effect that my brain fails to understand. There’s a key floating in the abyss, and the figure in the painting is reaching out for it. If they stretch anymore, they’re likely to fall in; however, they may not have a choice, given the hand that’s snaking its way from the frame, slithering closer to the figure, preparing to push them in. Mesmerizing, provocative, arousing.
Meaningless.
The room shifts, and the painting slides off the wall, crashes to ground, and the frame splinters into countless pieces. I can’t tell if I’m swaying, if my movements are controlling the hotel. There’s a low grumble outside, followed by a sharp bolt of lightning.
A hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and I spin around faster than what my cloudy head seems capable of. I stumble. But when I look up, there’s no one there. I look back, and the picture is back on the wall, having reverted to an ancient watercolor of the city skyline. I blink...or wink. I’m not sure what my eyelids are doing at this stage. I rub them to hide any evidence of my non-conforming body parts.
I shrug and commence my creaking journey, gripping the handrail and using it to haul my mentally and physically exhausted body onto the next set of stairs.
Three flights later, I fall onto the landing. Sonja leans against the far wall, chewing her gum eagerly and fidgeting like a kid with an attention deficit disorder.
“What is it?” I ask. The reply is a barrage of incomprehensible sound that pierces my temples and crumples my eyelids.
I grip my head. “Look, I’m tired. I’m not in the mood to talk right now.” I rub my head. “Can we discuss this in the morning?” I stagger down the hall, bouncing from one wall to the next, as if the floor is experiencing turbulence.
She follows me to the door. I can feel her close behind me, the pressure on my numb limbs, helping me to my destination.
“No, I’m not drunk,” I mumble.
...
“Huh?”
...
“No, I don’t recall drinking anything. It just hit me all of a sudden.”
...
“Yes, I do remember accurately. Why are you even asking me this?”
...
“Can we just get inside the room?”
She’s beside the door while I fumble with the key.
Concentrate hard as I struggle to insert the key into the lock.
Her eyes are wide.
I turn the key.
She opens her mouth.
“Christ, Sonja! What is it?”
And then I see it, what she wanted to tell me. I stand and look back down the hallway. Every door is ajar, with some sort of dusty print on each frame or door. I turn and investigate the other direction, noticing the same irregularity.
“Huh, that’s weird.”
...
“Yes, I know. That’s what you were saying.”
...
“Because I couldn’t understand what you were saying.”
...
“Yes, I realize how contradictory that sounds. Look, I don’t want to argue about it.”
...
“Yes, I know we aren’t arguing.”
...
“No. You’re frustrating.”
I push my room door open.
And stop.
Chapter 44
The room is a mess. Like someone picked up every object in the room and threw it against a wall. The mattress is leaning against the window, its insides spilling out like a gutted pig. The box spring itself has a large tear across the top, and its contents are pulled out. The lamp is on the floor in several pieces, and the overhead bulb flickers like a strobe light. Cupboard doors are open, hanging off their hinges. The air is heavy, carrying a scent of sweat, uncertainty, and panic.
My sobriety hits me quicker than the drunken stupor that had grabbed a hold of my senses. My mental landscape is now sharp and focused. Sonja moves into the room, wraps her arms around herself, and shivers. Her gaze is uncertain as she inspects every inch of the room, contemplating it silently.
“What the fuck happened here?”
I was trying to tell you. They came looking for something.
“Who?”
I don’t know who.
“What did they look like?”
They had masks on. I couldn’t see who they were.
“What were they looking for?”
I’m not sure. But whatever it was, they didn’t find it.
“How do you know that?”
Sonja points at the wall above where the bed used to be. I move farther into the room to get a better angle. Light streams in around the mattress to illuminate large capital letters written in an unknown substance: We will find it eventually. I step toward the message, peering up at the letters, resisting the urge to determine the substance that was used to make them.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
I don’t think we should be here.
“You think? I came back here to rest, but now? I don’t think I need it.”
What are we going to do?
“I don’t know.” I bite my lip so hard it almost bleeds. “I guess we just keep doing what we’re doing. I need to figure out what all this is and hopefully find out what they want.”
Do you think they’ll leave us alone when they have it?
I circle the room. Past the bathroom with the dripping tap and smashed mirror. Past the cupboard with its destroyed doors. Past Sonja, her breath now a cloud of smoke that dissipates with every exhale. I stand at the mangled bed and read the graffiti again.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. I guess if I knew what they wanted, we could figure out a trade or something. And even if I knew, I’m not even sure who they are. Maybe it has something to do with that detective, or maybe not.”
Do you trust him?
“No.” I turn to look at her. Innocence. “Just you. We need to stick together with this, at all costs, no matter what happens. Does that make sense?”
She nods. I want to reach out and touch her, to tell her everything will be okay. But that would be a lie. No way I can make a promise like that. All I know is things will get a whole lot worse before they get better.
Shh.
“Shh, what?”
Did you hear that?
“Hear what?”
Sonja turns her head, searching for a source.
Scratching.
I close my eyes, focus my listening, and search for something, anything.
She levels her eyes at me. We need to get out of here.
I turn. Heavy footfalls loom from down the hallway. I rush to the door, slam it shut, and lock it. Like that’s going to do anything. I run to the window, pull down the mattress, and let it flop down onto its base. At least it’s a potential obstacle for the potential intruders.
“Quick!” I order.
I slide the cloudy window open. The evening breeze, cool from the early rain, hits my face and invades my clothes. Sounds from the street float up toward me. In front of me, a metal cage—the fire escape. I’m halfway out the window, straddling the sill, when the door bursts open with a boom-like crunch. I steal a glance. Two masked figures, solid brutes, shrouded in darkness, stand in the entry, as if waiting for an invitation to enter. I don’t offer them one, nor do I bother to wait and see if they’re coming in.
Clangs of boots on grate ring out as I land heavily on the next platform, missing several steps in the process. This continues as I descend, choosing to skip multiple steps to reach the platform, pulling myself by the handrail to hit the next set of stairs at pace. I don’t bother looking up. I can’t hear anyone coming after me, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. I can feel them, smell them. Around I go again, all the way down.
I reach the bottom level, the end of my run—no more stairs. I hear metal footsteps far above me, each one sounding like a rifle being fired. I consider my few options. Stay and fight, or cut and run? I reach for the pistol tucked into the back of my pants. It’s missing. I must have dropped it. I don’t bother trying to think about where or when or how. It’s a futile exercise. More clangs—louder, getting closer, shadows looming. I grab the handrail and lift myself up and over in one motion, hoping to hit my target.
I fall gracefully, catlike, keeping my feet below me, the drop feeling a lot longer in reality than perception. A voice calls out and bounces off the building walls, echoing over the alleyway. The slick road comes rising toward me, but that’s not where I’m aiming.
I land heavily on the dumpster lid, leaving a crater in my wake. I continue to tumble forward and sideways, landing in the alley in a crouched position, waiting for my pursuers’ guns to fire.
I turn my head. I can feel their eyes on me, watching my every move. They stand on the platform I jumped from, unwilling or unable to follow me. Maybe they don’t need to.
A gunshot! Or was it a car backfiring? Doesn’t matter, because I’m off, sprinting like a gazelle toward the end of the alley, to the open street beyond—framed by the hotel and another building. I skip over the bitumen furiously, watching various cars traveling left and right at regular intervals entering the scene and departing again. A green panel van with writing on the side, a deep blue sedan with black windows, an orange soft top four-wheel drive.
When I reach the portal, a taxi pulls up, and the rear door swings open. Without stopping, I throw myself into the back seat and tell the driver to go. He doesn’t ask where, just pulls away. The force of the acceleration shuts the door.
I look out through the rain-spotted rear window, watching the scene diminish—the two figures in trench coats standing at the edge of the road, pointing toward me. A black car appears behind them, its occupants shrouded by dark tint. The rear suicide doors open and the two figures ease down into the seats. The headlights turn on, and the car whips out of the alley, its doors slamming as the back end gets away from the driver, before the tires bite into the road and straighten, leaving two identical black trails behind it. The rest of the traffic seems unfazed by the display.
I ease back down in the seat, looking over to Sonja.
“Are you okay?”
She nods.
Chapter 45
I don’t remember exactly how I got here, but I know the house I’m standing in front of—the memory is so clear it feels like it all happened yesterday. I hang onto the fence and push my face between the bars. Despite my familiarity with the property, I don’t remember the six-foot wrought iron fence spanning the front lawn. Perhaps it’s just out of context. Maybe in another place it would fit better. Yes, another place.
The streetlight that would have illuminated my spot had long since gone out, so I view the house in solemn silence. Grant Taylor’s residence is a silent monolith in the middle of a leafy pond. The windows are like whirlpools. Police tape crisscrosses the front door, which is nestled at the end of a dark path.
I look up to the
fence spikes and follow them to the corner, where they meet an equally tall stone wall. The barrier flanks the sloping property, disappearing into a fog. I figure I’d rather take my chances with a scraped knee than a pierced bottom.
Midway down the side of the property, I take a running jump at the wall. I fall short. Well short. I don’t know how fit I thought I was, but I wasn’t that. I need some leverage, something to stand on, but the area is dark, and nothing stood out.
“Jesus Christ, you are unfit!”
Sonja leans against the wall, blowing a huge bubble of gum.
“Shut the fuck up. I’m doing the best I can here.”
“Well, if you want to get in, you’re going to need to do a hell of a lot better than that.”
“Hey, where the hell where you earlier? I could’ve used you back then, instead of your wonderful words of encouragement now!”
She inspected her nails. “I was busy.” She sounded disinterested.
“Busy? Doing what?”
“Geez, you’re asking the wrong questions, kid. Best you get in that house. That’s what you came for.”
“Yeah, I know what I came for.” I level my gaze at her.
She watches me as she blows another bubble. She looks up to the top of the wall. The gum bubble bursts. She draws it back into her mouth and continues chewing. “You want me to give you a boost or something?”
“No, I do not want you to give me a boost or something. I got this. I was just, you know, prepping for my last effort.”
“Well, don’t have a stroke or heart attack getting it done.”
I squat down and push off hard. My fingers grip the top of the wall and I dangle for a moment.
I’ve done my bit. The rest is up to you.
I strain. I hear a sigh. Then I have more purchase, my hands are on the wall, and I scrape myself along the surface to get to the top. Getting up is one thing—getting down is another. I ease down the other side, once again hanging by my fingertips, my feet dangling into nothingness. The fog climbs up my legs like a vine. I take a breath and let go.
The Humanist Page 22
