Strange Flesh

by Michael Olson

  “We’re going to start with that,” I say.

  He yelps, his eyes filling with tears. He takes a second to recover and tries to blow out the blood filling his nasal cavity.

  “Where the fuck is Rosa? What did you do to her?”

  “No. No, man. She’s fine. That’s her job.” This answer is so preposterous I hit him again. But he continues desperately. “Dude, she’s a body modder. They hang her up like that at tattoo conventions. I swear to God.” He starts coughing again while I think about this. Something about it actually seems credible.

  Of course: the ripped earlobes. Sewn-up holes from extender plugs.

  I can’t spare the time to beat myself up for being taken in, since now that I have him, Billy has a whole litany of other crimes for which to answer. I ask, “How do we shut down the Unmasking?”

  He gasps, “You don’t. It’s out there. And it’s not coming back.”

  I press my hand over his mouth. “Wrong answer. You’re going to fuck with someone you just set on fire?”

  He starts coughing blood out his nose. I release my hand.

  He says, “Look, man, I didn’t know you were going to be there. By the time I saw you, I’d already set it off.”

  I slap him hard across the face. More blood pools at the corner of his mouth. “You might have killed Olya, you little twat.”

  “You should thank me. She was—”

  I grab him by his shirt and rap his head against the ground. Then I pull his face close to mine. “Are you so nuts as to believe that they are responsible for your friend’s death? They deserve to die because Gina acted out something from one of your sick little movies?”

  Billy’s eyes had jammed shut on impact, but now they pop open. He gapes at me like I’ve informed him that headless ogres are rampaging through Central Park.

  “Wait . . . You mean . . .” He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “You’re telling me you don’t know? You gave me the video, man.”

  “You stole it.”

  “But you’ve seen it. How can you not know?”

  I drop him back to the ground. “Know what?”

  He props himself up by his elbows, an incredulous look on his face. “They killed her. G never did that to herself, they tied her up . . .” He trails off, suddenly focused on something behind me.

  I twist around for a quick look, see nothing, and turn back to him, thinking he’s trying to distract me. But he’s still staring north up the pathway. He tries to scramble to his feet, a new sense of panic in his eyes. I let him up but grab him by the hair so he can’t run.

  Something isn’t right. I glance behind me again, and this time I see it: two shadows off to the right of the path moving toward us.

  Finally the cavalry show up.

  But immediately I know I’m mistaken. These guys aren’t McClaren’s people. For starters they’re both too big: one looks like he’s six foot six with a giant head, goatee, and leather Kangol cap, wearing a black Adidas tracksuit, for Christ’s sake. The other is shorter but proportioned like a kettle bell. He’s got on dark sunglasses and a leather trench coat, underneath which he’s carrying something long and unwieldy. Surely not a shotgun.

  Who the hell are these guys?

  Billy has concluded that whoever they are, they mean him grievous harm. He tries to hurl himself away from me even though this results in a fistful of his hair ripping free. I snatch his right arm and pin it behind his back. Billy is physically weak, but he flails around like a gaffed shark. I wrench his arm upward, which freezes him briefly. He whines, terror-stricken, “Please, not yet. You don’t understand . . .”

  I only half notice this because my mind is going a mile a minute. I can’t escape the conclusion that Goatee and Shades are a hit team. I never had any illusions that Billy was going to be forgiven for trying to kill his brother. He’s in for some rough treatment.

  But gunning him down in a public park? This was never part of the plan. It’s insane.

  They’re within twenty yards. Goatee is smiling at me. He reaches into his jacket.

  Does Blake really want his brother dead? There was a symbolic, mad-scientist quality to the GAME fire. Olya was really only injured because she went back into the room. If he’d used a normal bomb, which would have been easier than his napalm sprinkler, all three of us would be dead.

  All that aside, could Blake possibly want a police investigation into his brother’s public murder?

  Shades pulls his coat away from a sawed-off twelve-gauge.

  Do I?

  No way. This cannot happen.

  I push Billy as hard as I can so that he topples over the low wall separating the path from an overgrown slope. I then turn and pray I can clear my Glock before they start shooting. Their reactions are slowed by disbelief, but Shades gets his shotgun trained on me first.

  I’m fucked.

  Thankfully Goatee has read the situation and swipes his hand under the barrel, knocking it up away from me. I’ve got my gun out but decide not to risk pointing it at anyone.

  Instead, I ask, “Who the hell are you?”

  But Goatee ignores me and runs over to the wall, searching for their target. Billy has disappeared into the trees.

  Shades has his gun trained on me again, looking like he’s dying to use it. But Goatee stares at me with amused contempt, and maybe a little bit of relief. “You just fucked up.”

  69

  That turns out to be Blake’s perspective as well.

  Shades detains me while Goatee converses briefly with an irate Mondano. They then drive me down to Amazone, empty at this hour, and install me at one of the tables near the main bar.

  I simmer through twenty minutes of cheek-chewing tension before Mondano and Blake walk in. As he flops down on the seat next to mine, Mondano smirks like he’s going to relish this. Blake just looks bewildered. All over he’s showing signs of deep strain. Dark bags under bloodshot eyes combine with jerky movements to signal nervous exhaustion. To be expected, I guess, when, while all this is going on, he’s trying to run part of a major conglomerate. The effort must be costing him. I’d have given myself over to bourbon and barbiturates long ago.

  He shakes his head like he’s trying to understand a misbehaving child. “James . . .”

  I’m a little bewildered myself. This is the second time I’ve been responsible for losing his brother, and yet I feel like I’ve saved Blake from a catastrophe and don’t deserve his scorn. I decide on aggression.

  “Blake, if you want to murder your brother in cold blood, think maybe you could do it when I’m not standing right next to him in a public park?”

  Mondano says to Blake, “I told you this guy was a fucking fruitcake.” I notice he’s abandoned his world-weary Mafia boss shtick in front of Blake. Someone who knows him from the old yacht-basin neighborhood.

  “So your guys were just there to check out the tapestries? And they needed a shotgun in case, what? They were attacked by squirrels?”

  “They were there to take control of the situation, which you then intentionally fucked up. That little prick offer you more money?”

  “Actually, he offered to spare all three of us a twenty-to-life sentence at Sing Sing.”

  “Already planning to rat on us, Jimmy?”

  “Well, Benny, I’ll need someone’s ass to rent out for cigarettes, and I can’t think of anyone better suited to the work than you.”

  That’s too much for Mondano, and he lunges out of his seat. Like many supposed tough guys, he can talk hard but isn’t much of a fighter. As I jump up, he aims a looping roundhouse at my head that doesn’t have a prayer of connecting. I think, This is going to feel incredible, as I pivot to send a debilitating kick into his testicles. I wonder who he’ll turn into with his nuts squashed into jelly.

  But my kick never gets off the ground. I find McClaren, who’s gotten inside on me before I even know he’s there, standing on my foot. He catches Mondano’s punch, twists his wrist, and pushes him back into his chair.
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  He says, “Now, gentlemen, that’s no kind of attitude for a team. Ain’t any sense trading paint here when we’ve all got the same color stripes, right?”

  I shrug and look down at my foot. He lifts his off of it, and I sit back down. I ask, “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been far afield protecting Ms. Randall, who we can all agree is our first priority. James, I had no idea you’d be so efficient after getting toasted. You seem to have a real knack for locating Billy. It’s hanging on to the slippery bastard that’s the problem.”

  “Y’all can handle that without me this time.” I point at Mondano. “I’m not working with this clown.”

  “Oh, you think you can just walk out?” he asks.

  “Watch me.”

  I trudge from the room with Blake calling at my back.

  McClaren sidles up beside me before I get my cigarette lit.

  He nudges me with his elbow. “Quite a diva routine you put on in there.”

  “It’s not an act. You weren’t there. And I’m not going to be there when it all goes tits-up.”

  McClaren nods sagely. “Yeah, I’ll admit it seems our fearless leader might have had a lapse in judgment. Billy’s sites are back online. Your boys don’t seem to be able to shut them down. So he’s under a lot of stress. Sometimes in ex-treem-is we listen to our baser instincts, in this case represented by our Eye-talian-American friend.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway, I understand you’re kind of burnt out. Why don’t you spend some time getting your blow-bots back together? That’ll be important to the boss pretty soon here. Since you flushed him, we’ve got some new leads on old Billy we can run down.”

  Not sure what I’m going to do, I keep quiet. McClaren pats me on the back and continues. “It’s been good working with you, Jimmy. You’re a real prince.”

  As always, my conversation with McClaren was troubling. I suppose his grossly premature order to stand down is a sign of Blake’s loss of trust in me. But the way he put it sounded like I was due for a medal, and that the whole thing was essentially wrapped up. I try to prevent my frazzled brain from overloading his last comment.

  He said prince, but did he mean knave?

  In my voicemail, I have messages from a GAME administrator wanting to know what in the world is going on, Officer Aiden Rosedale asking for a statement about the fire, and the hospital trying to determine if I’m planning to pay my bill.

  I call Xan.

  She’s holding vigil at Olya’s room with Garriott, whom she puts on speaker.

  She says, “James, you didn’t see fit to let the poor nurses know you were tired of their care and wanted to go and seek infection for your wounds?”

  “Thanks for the concern. But I’m okay. Glad y’all are keeping an eye on Olya.”

  “While you avoid helping the authorities apprehend the man who did this.”

  “I’m working on that. What did you tell the police?”

  “That Billy was stalking her and finally lost his mind.”

  “Right. Good. Did they find anything that made them ask what went on in the Orifice?”

  “No. Everything melted down to sludge.”

  Garriott asks, “Do you think it’s a good idea to be, uh, messing about with the police? Maybe they’ll need the whole story to find that prick.”

  “Believe me, we’ll have Billy in a rubber cell soon enough.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line. Then Xan asks, “James, what’s all this really about?”

  A plausible fiction comes to my lips, but I decide my friends have a right to know what’s going on. “Billy thinks Olya and his brother killed Gina Delaney. He wants revenge. So for the time being, we need to take some more safety measures. Xan, I want you staying at my apartment for the next couple days . . . Garriott, you can crash there too.”

  “Hardly, mate. I’m not afraid of that ponce. Just let him come near me.”

  The idea of Garriott and Billy in a physical altercation is so amusing, I have to bite my tongue. But on the other hand, Billy has almost killed the indomitable Olya, so my levity is short-lived.

  At home, I don’t have to search much to gauge the level of media hysteria Billy’s Unmasking has generated. The entire national press corps must be reaching for their Ritalin to help them pump out the necessary yards of coverage. While more financially serious exploits have occurred in the past, the prurient purity of this one has captivated the journalistic tribe:

  Porn worm spreading rapidly. Experts decry one of the “greatest privacy breaches in history.”

  —Associated Press

  Local archdiocese investigating “computer misconduct” by several officials revealed by “hacktivist.”

  —Washington Post

  Black sheep Randall heir exposes dark family secrets. Many others compromised.

  —CNN.com

  Is your kid’s teacher making virtual child porn?

  —New York Post

  Governor Bryant’s spokesperson offers no comment on allegations concerning the use of office laptop for “inappropriate chat” with government employees.

  —Idaho Statesman

  Almost none of Billy’s victims are making statements at the moment. Except Layton Mayfield, an Oakland police officer caught with videos he made exhibiting some appalling racial bondage scenarios.

  He jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge.

  70

  The stress of the day and the large weeping burn on my forearm convince me to permit myself some painkillers, which in turn convince me to allow myself a few hours of much-needed sleep.

  When I wake later that night, McClaren still hasn’t left any messages. Changing my bandages, I reflect that Billy has no doubt disappeared back into the ether.

  But it’s not in his nature to stay totally hidden. Midway through my rewrap, I hear the tone for a critical message on my phone:

  [Script_Alert: Av_Stalker_07]

  Lillie_Hitchcock @NodULE: http://nod.com/ule_find/

  dev: 143.365.186

  I would expect Billy to opt for the sterility of a new av, but here he’s reusing the very means of my penetration. He must want to talk.

  Checking out the IP of his datastream leads to his usual double-buffered open-proxy hell. So I just fire up Jacques_Ynne and teleport to the location in the alert. It’s in one of NOD’s test sims, and he’s left the area in its blank default state, just a flat white plane floating in the perfect blackness of a binary vacuum. Until now, Billy has carefully curated his surroundings, and I’d imagine he’s got thousands of dramatic settings, from caves to sky palaces, in which to conduct a meeting. His av stands unmoving in the center of the space.

  Though he doesn’t turn to face me, he can tell I’ve rezzed in. A dialogue bubble forms over his head.

  Lillie_Hitchcock:

  Still think my dear brother is innocent of murder?

  Jacques_Ynne:

  With a sibling like you, I'm not surprised that there’s domestic violence.

  Lillie_Hitchcock:

  And yet you were an incompetent accomplice to my assassination.

  Jacques_Ynne:

  You’re welcome.

  Lillie_Hitchcock:

  Why?

  Jacques_Ynne:

  Why what?

  Lillie_Hitchcock:

  Why did you let me go?

  Jacques_Ynne:

  Practical considerations only.

  Lillie_Hitchcock:

  No. You did it because you believe me.

  Jacques_Ynne:

  I believe that you need a straitjacket.

  Lillie_Hitchcock:

  I can prove my brother and his whore spilled Gina’s blood. Just make sure you’re not standing next to him when he reaps judgment for his crimes. But then. . . I’m not really the one you should worry about.

  Jacques_Ynne:

  Meaning?

  Lillie_Hitchcock:

  He knows you know. Do you think he’s going to let you li
ve?

  Billy disappears with that baleful question literally hanging in the air. I pan around the void surrounding my av. Has the close call in the park stripped away all the baroque effects from his punitive fantasies? Are we now dealing with a more efficient and dangerous Billy, one who’s finally stopped playing games?

  I write McClaren a short note about this most recent contact, but I don’t send it.

  What am I waiting for?

  Slowly it dawns on me: I’m waiting to see Billy’s proof.

  71

  Though he was masking his NOD connection, Billy most likely logged on from a computer somewhere relatively nearby. I’m sure it will be pointless, but I check the state of my tentacles into his laptop. As I suspected, it’s gone dark, probably permanently. Once your machine has been infected by a real hacker, you can’t ever trust it again. He’d have figured out we located him through his phone and assumed his computer was compromised as well.

  I check my server for the webcam images it was transmitting. The shots are all the same incoherent blur until the final one, taken just before my RAT went offline. The image still shows the view out of a wide bank of windows. But either the lighting has changed or his laptop got moved, because I can see through them now.

  And the view makes high-voltage spiders crawl around my scalp.

  I grab the image and blow it up as far as it will go. The place must be pretty far south, because you can see a lot of open water in the background. I notice a distant figure emerging from the waves. It’s out of focus and yet unmistakable. The stern visage of our Lady Liberty. And there’s really only one place in the city from which you get a clean look at her face.

  I’ve seen a similar vista from Gina’s former apartment building.