Well, hell—affiliated or not, these identity thieves seemed just as vicious as any Infinite-Definite terrorist to Robert. “Who killed that woman?”
“There’s little love and even less loyalty among thieves, Goldner. It didn’t take long after the HSA boys started grilling them for each of them, one by one, to start painting by the numbers. They killed the woman several days ago then locked her and her little brother in the closet. That girl who came at me with the pool stick, she was their sister, the middle child.”
“What?” Robert said. “You told me she said her parents lived there.”
“They did. They were the two you tied up in the garage. One of the older men was the stick-dancer’s boyfriend, and boot-boy’s father. The rest were just buddies and friends of the family, and the primary buyers of the drugs most of them used. Apparently they turned against the dead woman when she refused the advances of one of the older men, and also refused to go along with a job they’d planned.”
“Didn’t her parents—”
“They were the first to start beating her,” Darryl said. “Her parents cared more about the potential money than the kids. Only the girl’s little brother tried to stick up for her. That’s why they ended up sticking him in the closet with her corpse. They’d been beating and torturing both of them for several weeks—starving them, whipping them, burning them with matches and hot water, violating them with pliers and screwdrivers. They moved them both to the closet when they had to make room for an unexpected guest.”
“The girl we found on the bed,” Robert said. “She’s not with them?”
“They all say they don’t know her, just that she—like we—attacked them.”
“And what does she say?”
“Nothing. She still hasn’t woken up yet. They planted her deep under. Sam took a look at her before they took her to a secure hospital.”
“Deep under, huh?” Robert said. “I wonder if she’ll grow into something old or new when she finally opens her eyes.”
“Will she be herself or something else? Sam wondered the same thing. She’s at the hospital now.”
“Good,” Robert said. “Sam’s smart enough to judge the true condition of an awakened deep-sleeper based on their first two words. Let’s just hope the girl doesn’t cry like a baby, but instead says—”
“Hello.”
Both of them turned to look, but only Darryl looked happy to see the speaker. Well-toned legs, intriguing smile, and a hairstyle from a different time…It was the same blonde with whom Darryl had just exchanged glances and smiles.
Robert wasn’t surprised. The connection began within the usual timeframe. Within ten minutes of walking into most places, Darryl caught the eye of at least one interested observer. Very affectionate verbal greetings were never far behind.
Robert was never surprised. With Darryl’s smooth skin and its lavender hints, the unusual eyes that literally twinkled, his seductive smile, and the enigmatic and sometimes poetic manner of speaking, Darryl was an attractor. It was a status Darryl manipulated—he believed—for the greater good.
In the past, Robert himself had often been entranced by his partner’s velvet mannerisms, as were most others who came into close contact with Darryl. But unlike most of those others, Robert had grown tired of it. He was tired of women and men interrupting him and Darryl as they tried to talk in private; tired of Darryl’s excuses for engaging them in conversation and leading them on, down to an unsatisfying conclusion, doing more harm than good; and tired of Darryl acting as an illusionist, working his charms and magic, all in the name of “peace.” Robert had lost his patience with the entire charade.
“We’re a little busy here, miss,” Robert said.
“Miss Blake,” the blonde said, extending her hand to Darryl.
Darryl extended his and made a motion as if he would kiss hers, but he stopped short. “Mister Ridley, Miss Blake. And my rude friend here is—”
“Going to check on my drink. Excuse me.”
Robert stood up. Halfway to the bar, he glanced back and saw Miss Blake hadn’t hesitated to take his seat. He snorted and went on his way.
“Sorry, baby,” one of the bartenders said as he sat on the stool. “I was just about to bring it over.”
“S’okay, Sonya.”
“We’re a little understaffed this morning.” She placed the glass of juice in front of him. “Plus I had to deal with the artistes.”
“I didn’t come up here to rush you,” Robert said. “I just needed some breathing space.”
“You and me both.” Sonya signaled for another bartender to take drinks to a table. “The crowd isn’t big this morning, but they sure are needy.”
Robert took a little plastic bottle from his pocket. “Saturday morning customers always seem to be tough, no matter how many there are.”
“Yep. It’s only the Saturday night boozing that softens ’em up for Sunday morn.”
Robert laughed. “So what about tomorrow? Anyone interesting showing up?”
“Not this week,” Sonya said. “Couple of recurring acts, same flavor as usual for a Sunday. Light and mellow. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
Robert grunted as he swallowed his medication with a sip of juice. “I may be in the mood for something like that before this week is over.”
“Just one more day.”
“And plenty of ways for it to turn nasty,” Robert said.
“Well, if you’re willing to stay up past your bedtime tonight, there’s an absolutely insane act performing at DC9, on U Street. Starting around ten, I think.”
“In the city?”
“Don’t sound so disgusted,” Sonya said. “I live in it you know.”
“Sorry,” Robert said. “That’s not how I meant for it to come out. It’s just that, being on city streets after nightfall, something about it makes my hair itch.”
“You won’t be on the streets. You’ll be inside a building. Unless your pleasant attitude gets you thrown out on your ass.”
“Yeah, well, you know me.” Robert smiled, and then he felt a sensation on the pulse of his right wrist. A communication was coming in. He muttered an obscenity and said, “Excuse me,” to Sonya as he walked toward a window and touched the face of the right-wristwatch. While staring out at the sunrise, Robert intuited the message. He had to go to the hospital. Now.
He rushed by the bar and tossed a few bills near his unfinished drink.
“Later, Sonya.”
She nodded at him as he turned and looked for Darryl. They’d both received the same communication, so Robert expected to see his partner making his way toward the exit, or at least rising from his seat. Instead, he only saw Darryl and Miss Blake, seated, hand-in-hand, almost nose-to-nose.
Unbelievable, he thought as made his way back to the table.
“C’mon,” he said when he was within earshot.
“Just a second,” Darryl said.
“We don’t have a second. Didn’t you get the message? She’s up. The doctors are only giving us a small window to speak to her.”
“I got it,” Darryl said. “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you there.”
Damn it. Robert turned away and hurried toward the door. Charity work—work that does all harm and no good. Was Darryl so blind that he couldn’t see that?
Robert ran to his car and sped off for the hospital to meet Sam. The found girl needed to be questioned about the still-missing one. Since Darryl and Robert were the two who found her, it made sense for them to be part of the process.
In an absence of common sense, I left my shelter, went out under a sweltered ice-sky.
The line from Sin Limite’s song “Rainfall” went through his head as he tried to maneuver through Saturday-morning traffic. Like some kind of spell, lines and verses from the whole damn song invaded his thoughts, and stayed. He couldn’t shake them, probably because it all rang so true to life. His life.
He’d once succumbed to passion. A few times, actually. In an absence o
f common sense…He’d made a lot of mature decisions at a young age. He decided to stop being a momma’s boy and go out for the wrestling team in junior high, the first move in a seven-step personal remodeling project designed to capture himself a girlfriend. His first true girlfriend. He wanted a steady girl to have and to hold through the remainder of his school days and on into marriage.
He never made it all the way up the steps. Robert was diverted, his life pushed and dragged through episodes of cruel comedies and darker tragedies: withstanding the unspoken and whispered suspicions in the wake of the mysterious (at the time) death of his best friend Davin; becoming a pariah to all but a couple of his remaining friends; and getting kicked off the high school wrestling team and expelled from school. Hell, by the time his ex-girlfriend’s dad had tried to put buckshot through his skull, Robert was about ready to end it all; he’d fall in a bloody, delirious fit of laughter. But something compelled him to save himself that day—for the even worse episodes that were to come.
It had all seemed so unrelenting until that clear, sunny day when he saw Darryl…
His right hand was trembling. Robert looked at it. His nails were turning blue. The hairs on the back of his hand were stiffening, sticking straight out. His finger joints popped—painfully—when he bent them. On the periphery of his vision, he saw the phantom gnats, the indigo and crimson dots that couldn’t be seen straight on but only existed to taunt, to act as a signal. Shit. Speaking of fits…This wasn’t going to stop on its own. It was actually about a minute away from getting worse. He kept only his left hand on the steering wheel, but it would soon follow suit. He wouldn’t be able to steer at all. And he couldn’t count on a crash to put him out of his misery.
Robert stepped on the gas. He’d been driving through a residential neighborhood, a linked set of one-way streets that, in times of heavy traffic on the primary route, Robert knew as a shortcut to the hospital. There was nowhere to pull over, and he couldn’t just stop. All of the driveways were full, except the one he’d spotted a bit farther down.
He slowed at the first stop sign, didn’t bother for the second. Robert swung into the open driveway and put his foot down hard on the brake. His left hand couldn’t reach the stick to shift the car into park; his right hand was useless; so his foot stayed pressed on the brake pedal while his left hand fumbled with his inside jacket pocket for his pill bottle.
He twisted the cap off with his teeth and poured two pills into his mouth. He let them sit on the middle of his tongue while the back of it worked to get enough saliva in his mouth in order to smooth the pills’ passage down his throat.
Robert had to swallow twice to get them all the way down. He then closed his eyes and waited for the illusion of normality to retake his body.
This shouldn’t have happened. He’d just taken his damned medication less than fifteen minutes ago. Looked like from now on he’d have to start taking twice as many pills every few hours, and remember to ask Sam when he saw her if any of the government’s medical geniuses have yet come up with anything stronger to keep the parasites tame.
What a charmed life he led. If anything, he should be the one lying in a hospital bed.
Robert had known what alleged “sin” he’d committed, how he’d opened the door for the Virus to enter his body. What he didn’t know—what no one knew—is where those translucent flies had come from in the first place. They’d appeared in random areas on the planet one early spring, and then they disappeared on the eve of summer, long before they could be classified or properly studied. Left in the wake of their biting and blood-feeding spree were the millions of parasitic microorganisms they’d injected into the skins of thousands of people. The human immune system defeated many of the parasites almost immediately. But in a few unlucky people, once they hit the bloodstream, the parasites thrived. They multiplied and took up residence in their hosts’ red blood, skin, and brain cells, introducing the human species to the White Fire Virus.
Robert hadn’t been among those bitten eight years ago. But when the parasites began to use their new hosts to propagate themselves in manners other than biting, well…Robert eventually got caught up in the waves of victims that came after, all of them struck with something that started like malaria and rapidly evolved into something more like HIV. But what had the victims done—what had he really done—to deserve such a punishment?
Was it a sin, or a blessing? Or were both equally false words, having no relevance to real life?
Robert’s viral condition—at least when controlled through a combination of willpower, smart attire, and frequent medication— allowed him to do some good in the world. But who really gave a shit whether he lived or died? Who’d given a shit about that poor old man he’d seen literally falling to pieces? Known Virus-carriers were treated worse than the homeless. And if one had the misfortune of being homeless and infected, well…
After eight long years, the total number of the infected—both dead and living—remained relatively small, and mostly ignored. It was estimated that, at any given time, there were one hundred thousand to two hundred thousand living Virus-carriers on the planet. The vast majority of those who contracted the Virus died shortly thereafter or were quarantined; treatment of victims varied from country to country, locality to locality. In the United States, far too many of the country’s elected officials and opinion-makers abused the out-of-sight-out-of-mind philosophy. They felt only a few million Virus-carriers dead or on the verge of dying worldwide over the span of eight years was nothing for them or the populace to get too excited about. After all, the ordinary flu killed somewhere between a quarter of a million and half a million people worldwide each year, and very few people got too worked up about that. Besides, overpopulation and a tightening economy were far more dire problems.
Those who ran the Heartland Security Agency agreed with this assessment, but they were also smart enough to give the Virus some attention. Almost from day one, the Agency had been at the forefront of an educational campaign that tried to prevent its spread, while at the same time orchestrating a propaganda campaign to persuade the public that carriers of the Virus couldn’t really perform the amazing feats numerous witnesses had seen them perform.
Robert chuckled as he thought about some of the propagandistic acrobatics the HSA had performed over the years to explain away the actions and misdeeds of Virus-carriers. Their supernatural-seeming performances were, without fail, dismissed as mere illusions, sophisticated-but-still-amateurish magic tricks. Nothing to worry about. Professional stage magicians, circus freaks, and any halfway decent clown at a children’s party could perform tricks just as amazing. Whatever fantastic tricks anyone thought they saw or heard about could be illuminated by rational, common-sense explanations, courtesy of the HSA’s wordsmiths. The government’s expert debunkers could also easily disprove any of those fantastical tales told by bloggers and others on the Internet about isolated happenings in other countries.
No wonder no one gave a damn about the Virus and whatever catastrophes to which it might be a party. Lies, ignorance, and illusions—all of them were so blissfully sweet. Reality was much too pungent for the senses.
Robert opened his eyes. He’d heard someone shouting at him. He turned his head and saw a frazzled-looking middle-aged woman in a yellow bathrobe, half hidden behind the open front door. His Mustang was idling in her driveway, and she was none too pleased about it. Only some of her words were in English; all that Robert understood were a couple of racial slurs and something about getting a gun if he didn’t get out of there.
His drug-assisted rumination was over. The medication has steadied his hand. His nails were the proper color. Time for him to get on with his official duties.
Robert arrived at the hospital in ten minutes.
He passed through the security check on the first floor then went to the fifth floor, where he had to pass through a second check before getting to the right hall. When he saw Sam, he had many questions for her, but she was the first
to speak.
“Where’s Darryl?”
“On his way, I guess.” He hoped. With Robert’s unexpected ten-minute detour, Darryl should’ve arrived already. He surely wasn’t all that caught up in that blonde; one really didn’t have to spend too much time sweet-talking her type in order to get a first date, or whatever else. “Adam’s message said the girl was awake. You speak to her yet?”
“Briefly,” Sam said. “I wanted to wait for you two.”
“What did she have to say to you?”
“First thing? ‘Where’s Marie-Lydia?’”
Robert sighed.
“I’m not well-versed in interrogations,” Sam said, “but I figure it wouldn’t be useful to ask her the same question she asked us.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” Robert said. “What did you say to her?”
“Well, since I don’t know where Marie-Lydia is, I just told her where she was—in an Arlington, Virginia, hospital—and why— we found her beaten and unconscious in a house full of addicts and criminals. I told her the people who found her were on their way to talk to her.”
“She gave you a name, right?”
“Hers? It’s Ava Darden.”
“She’s not listed on any of our registers,” Robert said.
“No, but Adam’s running a full search, trying to locate any relatives in the area.”
Robert approached the door to Ava’s room.
“Aren’t you waiting for Darryl?” Sam asked.
“No. But you can.” He closed the door behind him.
Ava shifted her head when he entered the room. She was still weak, but she didn’t seem the least bit troubled.
Robert smiled. “Hi there.”
Her eyes narrowed.
It was impossible for him to know for sure, but from the expression on her face, the slight movement of her irises, and the slight contraction and dilation of her pupils, Robert figured she was studying him, from bottom to top, taking an extra amount of time to focus on the black patch over his right eye, shielding an injury, a loss.
Broken Angels Page 4
