Relentless

by Robin Parrish

  ‘‘Doctor Cossick! I just registered a spike of three-point-seven,’’ she said, eyes wide with excitement.

  Every other thought in Daniel’s mind vanished into black. He forgot his keys, forgot his briefcase, forgot everything but the three words he’d just heard. Three-point-seven.

  Three-point-seven!

  He dropped everything and ran after her down the dilapidated hall. Lisa flew into the ‘‘lab’’—a makeshift facility they’d built themselves in an abandoned building in the Warehouse District—with Daniel following and made for the middle of a modest white room overflowing with odd machinery. The atmosphere was alive with mechanical whirrs and beeps, pungent odors, and the occasional fizz of air or fire. Few visitors could stomach being in the room because the odors were so strong and the sounds so constant, but Daniel and Lisa had grown accustomed to it. They both practically lived here, conducting their search.

  Always searching.

  In the center of the room was the lab’s largest piece of equipment, a massive mechanism that looked like half a giant metal sphere had been mounted on top of a collection of circuitry, wires, and semiconductors. It hummed quietly, almost vibrating, but nothing moved because stillness was crucial. It was approximately four feet in diameter and full of a thick, silver liquid that rose almost to the rim.

  ‘‘My own potion of mercury mixed with a few other potent elements,’’ Daniel would explain to potential investors, though visitors to the lab were increasingly rare. The liquid itself was inconsequential; it was there to provide mass at the correct density that would measure what they were looking for. The mercury mixture usually remained at a flat calm. Daniel had built special dampeners into the undercarriage to prevent shaking of any kind. Even an earthquake could not jar it, unless the whole building was to topple.

  But it would shake if there was a shimmer.

  And a shimmer was what they were searching for.

  If Lisa was correct, a three-point-seven would be the largest event Daniel had ever witnessed. By far.

  She motioned to the computer station adjacent to the device and pointed at the screen, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘‘Look at that!’’ She chewed on a nail, watching his every move.

  He pulled out his glasses and, hands shaking, slipped them on, his eyes never leaving the monitor. There it was. The device had recorded a three-point-seven spike roughly seven minutes ago. His heart fluttered.

  ‘‘Location?’’ he asked, without looking up.

  ‘‘Already on it,’’ she said, still smiling. ‘‘Take another ten or twenty minutes to triangulate.’’

  Daniel nodded, studying the dozens of numbers that appeared on the screen. He did some math in his head and then his entire body stiffened, alarmed.

  ‘‘Close,’’ he said, still staring at the screen. ‘‘Less than three miles from here.’’

  He stood, his eyes out of focus, his mind elsewhere. ‘‘Downtown,’’ he mumbled to no one, wiping his hands against the sweater he wore.

  He seemed to snap to attention, but still didn’t look at her. ‘‘Get me that location the moment you have it.’’ He began walking away, toward the other end of the hall, to the only other room they’d retrofitted into the building: his office.

  ‘‘Dr. Cossick?’’ Lisa called.

  He turned around distractedly. ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘This is really it, isn’t it?’’ she asked, holding her breath. She was beaming, excited beyond words.

  He forced a modest smile for her benefit, but then turned and continued walking.

  ‘‘I hope not.’’

  Home turned out to be a different neighborhood than Grant had ever known. Instead of his utilitarian apartment, his cab ride steered him into the canyons of downtown amid the shadows of skyscrapers. The Wagner Building was a new high-rise on Wilshire, a few blocks from the famous old Library Tower and L.A.’s Central Library itself where he’d visited once or twice as a child. The key Grant found in his jacket pocket alongside the wallet unlocked the elevator up to the penthouse floor and then slid smoothly into the apartment’s front-door lock.

  Before opening the door, a twinge of apprehension tingled in his mind, returning his thoughts to the strange barefoot girl he’d met on the street and her warning to get out of town. Which he had completely ignored. Grant had hailed a cab, but as soon as he saw the address on the wallet, all thoughts of fleeing were abandoned. He couldn’t resist finding out more about this person he’d somehow become.

  And a small part of him did it just to spite the girl and her stupid bare feet.

  He pushed open the door to the penthouse and saw a shadowy room ahead. His hand felt around on the inside wall until he found the light switch and flipped it on.

  Spread out before him was a bachelor’s paradise. Black leather furnishings. Spacious surroundings. Giant flatscreen plasma TV. A desk at the far end of the room featured a sleek, stainless steel computer. Speakers from a massive stereo system were situated throughout the room. Chic floor lamps stood at corners like sentries. Modern art adorned the clean, white walls. To the immediate left of the front door was a fully outfitted kitchen with appliances that bore the stainless-steel sheen of restaurant-quality machinery. Beyond the kitchen was a fully-furnished dining room. Somewhere down the long hall beyond the living room was probably a bedroom, a bathroom, and who knew what else.

  He stepped inside and continued to gape. But instincts he couldn’t explain were telling him something was wrong. It was the middle of the day, and all of the drapes around the room were closed tight. The pillows on the sofa were perfectly arranged. Everything in the kitchen was exactly where it belonged. The apartment looked as if it had never been used. Not one thing was out of place.

  Except for the doormat on which he stood, which was crooked by less than an inch.

  He put it together a second too late.

  The door slammed shut behind him just as someone grabbed his right arm and pressed it into the small of his back. He felt the tip of a knife against his throat.

  Without thinking, Grant grabbed the arm holding the knife with his free hand, and twisted it hard. The knife fell to the floor and at the same time, Grant ducked and sent the attacker flying over his left shoulder, where he crashed on the floor in the living room over ten feet away.

  Grant couldn’t tell which of them was more surprised at what he’d just done—he or the other man, who slumped against the ground. Grant watched the other man fall, but could only stand there numbly, breath caught in his throat. It had all happened so fast.

  He had no idea how he’d done it.

  His assailant, a short stump of a man clad in a baggy black jumpsuit and shin-high black boots who had to be pushing fifty, lay there for a fraction of a second, stunned at Grant’s quick reaction. He looked like he was made of solid brick and frowned in a way that looked as though the expression had been permanently etched into his face.

  Konrad, Grant guessed.

  What did I ever do to you?

  But Konrad’s pause lasted only a moment, and he rolled back to his feet and pulled a gun out of a shoulder holster in a simple, fluid motion.

  ‘‘I wasn’t told you could do that,’’ Konrad said. His deep, abrasive voice sounded like a jackhammer pounding into pavement. ‘‘I’m a collector; lack of full disclosure means I get something extra. I’m thinking . . . kneecap.’’ He lowered the gun and pointed it at Grant’s leg.

  Grant had launched into a dead sprint, instincts taking over. He was outside the apartment door before the first shot was fired. He darted down the corridor, unsure where he was headed. He made it to the end of the hall, where he met a full-length window and a sprawling view of the L.A. skyline that should have been breathtaking. But a second shot shattered the glass, and Grant dove around the corner to his right.

  A door marked ‘‘STAIRS’’ that he hadn’t noticed earlier waited before him. Grant’s heart leapt and he dashed through the door. He made it down the first fl
ight before hearing the door slam open behind him, and he rounded to the next floor, just as Konrad fired again.

  A pinching pain sliced through his left leg, and he staggered. But the adrenaline was surging now like nothing he’d felt before, and it kept him from stopping. Rounding the next staircase, he caught sight of the adjoining door, which read ‘‘ELEVEN.’’

  Come on, come on. Ten flights.

  You can do this.

  Down he ran, feet flying over each step. It seemed impossible. Just the other night he’d been talking with his landlady about how quiet and lonely and boring his life was. All he had was his job. She wondered if he brought it on himself but he told her that he’d never asked to be alone. Why bother questioning fate? Yet in the dark of the night it had come to him. How pointless it all seemed, this endless stupid pattern, winding around him tighter and tighter.

  His job. Being around other people. His whole life.

  It felt like a snake twisting around his neck, tightening its grip, and he’d woken many nights in a sweat, gasping for air.

  Now he was the snake, winding dizzyingly around and around while breathing became harder and harder . . .

  Another shot rang out, closer this time, and he instinctively ducked.

  ‘‘Did you know that dismemberment isn’t always fatal?’’ Konrad said from above. He wasn’t shouting, he was growling, quietly. He was keeping up with Grant’s frantic pace, but his words had come as casually as if he were riding an elevator.

  Halfway down the next flight, Grant grabbed the middle rail and flung himself over, dropping ten feet to the flight below. He landed solidly, but his leg flashed with a stabbing pain, and he kept going down, rolling to the bottom of the stairs. When he stopped, he noticed that his left pant leg was crimson with blood.

  But there was no time to think; he jumped to his feet and darted off again, down, down, down.

  Come on! This is taking too long!

  More shots clanged off of the center railing. Grant moved to the outside edge of the stairs, staying close to the wall. Another flight. Another. More shots.

  Keep moving. You can do this.

  Maybe I should just stop, let him finish it. Wouldn’t it be easier?

  The thought of dying wasn’t all that bad . . .

  ‘‘The trick is sealing off the wound,’’ Konrad’s voice echoed in the stairwell. ‘‘A needle and string will do, but I find that cauterizing the wound works best. With the proper antibiotics, I can take a man apart one inch at a time. It can last for weeks before I even get close to the vital organs.’’

  And . . . let’s keep running, shall we?

  The pain in his leg seared now, and he broke into a cold sweat. He may have been more in shape now than before, but he was still human. And his leg screamed in agony.

  At last he made it to the door marked ‘‘ONE.’’ He had the door open when another idea came to mind. He pushed the door open as far as it would go, so its hydraulic hinge would require several seconds to pull it closed. Then he hopped on one foot, so as to not leave another blood trail, in the direction of the last flight of stairs, which led to the building’s mechanical room.

  He stopped halfway down the steps and crouched, listening. Kon-rad’s heavy footfalls faded away, and then he heard the open door above him click shut.

  Grant wasted no time. Hurtling himself down the remaining steps, he burst through the mechanical room’s door. Frantic, he glanced around the warm, dark, dry room, looking for anything that might help. A broomstick he could use as a weapon, something to lodge against the door. But there was nothing. The small room held the building’s massive furnace and myriad other equipment, but little else. Even light seemed to be swallowed up by the space.

  He felt his way around the furnace to the right, thinking only of how Konrad wouldn’t be thrown off the trail long. There on the right side of the room, he came upon a small locked door. He thought about kicking it, but his leg hurt too deeply so he lowered his shoulder and crashed at it with as much force as he could manage.

  To his astonishment, it worked, and he let out a triumphant grunt. A narrow flight of stairs beyond the open door led down. He threw himself down them, legs barely working anymore. At the bottom he slammed his body into a second door and dashed through.

  Grant couldn’t believe his luck. He was standing in the middle of an enormous subway station, bustling with activity. And not just any station— he knew this place, had been here before. It was the Metro Center Station, just across Figueroa Street from the Wagner Building. He remembered the movie-themed artwork adorning the walls. It felt more like a sterile airport than a subterranean tunnel. Its shiny steel fittings mirrored Grant’s dilapidated appearance back at him everywhere he looked.

  A Blue Line train bulleted by on the tracks nearest him, its engine piercing the roar of the vast crowd.

  Grant looked back at the door he’d just passed through. On this side, it read ‘‘EMERGENCY EXIT.’’

  He glanced around the subway, his mind racing. About a hundred feet down the corridor, beyond a swell of pedestrians waiting for the next train, he spotted an escalator that led up to sunlight beyond.

  He set off again, forcing his way through the crowd, brushing shoulders and nearly shoving others. But once they got a look at his haggard features and bloodied clothes, most were only too happy to get out of his way. He was limping now, blood still dribbling from his leg onto the floor’s brick-colored tiles.

  He felt light-headed. Probably from the blood loss, some part of his mind registered the sensation.

  Grant had just placed one foot on the bottom step when he heard another gunshot, followed by hundreds of screams. Konrad was descending the stairs directly above him, and fast.

  Grant hobbled in the opposite direction, trying to run, but the other man jumped from near the bottom of the steps, tackling him from behind. The gun went off again as they grappled for it on the floor. A train pulled up and most of the crowd scrambled into it, many of them still screaming.

  Grant threw a punch and was surprised to see it connect.

  But Konrad stood up, unfazed, and hoisted Grant to his feet as well. Grant’s senses were muddled, feeling more of the pain in his leg now. His newfound reflexes seemed to have slowed when the exhaustion had kicked in. His chest heaved and he couldn’t catch his breath. He didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late to stop it— the other man had shoved him up against the nearest wall and pinned a bulky arm across his chest.

  ‘‘I still want my kneecap,’’ he growled, his hot breath inches from Grant’s face.

  3

  ‘‘You’re not going to kill me,’’ Grant announced, surprised at himself.

  Konrad punched him in the face. Grant’s head thumped against the tiled wall behind him, and he winced at the pain from his nose and mouth.

  ‘‘You could have shot me in the apartment,’’ he continued, panting, ‘‘but you snuck up behind me with a knife. On the stairs, you shot me in the leg, not the chest,’’ Grant concluded. ‘‘You want something.’’

  Konrad smiled the ugliest smile Grant had ever seen. He had perfect teeth, but there was a gruesome malevolence in the expression. ‘‘Not bad. But if killing you is the only way of getting what I’m here for . . . I’ve made my peace with it.’’ His hollow eyes slowly moved down Grant’s right arm and landed on his hand, which he looked at hungrily. Grant followed his gaze down to the same spot.

  And gasped.

  A large gold ring, wider on top than underneath, like the shape of a class ring, rested there on his middle finger. The gold was so smooth it might have been liquid. Not a single scratch could be seen. Inset in the widest part of the band was a dark red gemstone. Odd markings were cut as tiny holes into the sides of the band. Grant had never seen the ring before, but he could tell from the sensation that it had been on his finger for a while.

  At least since the bus, he guessed.

  ‘‘You can have it,’’ Grant said, holding out h
is hand. The chase had worn him out, strength all but gone, breath coming in shooting waves, along with the pounding of his pulse that he could feel in the pain from his leg. His equilibrium was damaged by the blow to the head, and if Konrad hadn’t been pinning him against the wall, he might have collapsed.

  ‘‘Hold it!’’ a man screamed from twenty feet down the line, in Grant’s line of sight and directly behind Konrad. He looked like some kind of Metro security . . .

  Without hesitating or even looking, Konrad fired a shot over his shoulder and the security guard went down. The few remaining pedestrians in the station panicked and ran. Konrad holstered the gun and retrieved a knife from his belt—the same one he’d pressed against Grant’s throat in the apartment. Letting go with his other arm, he slammed his fist into Grant’s face once again. Something cracked this time, but Grant couldn’t be sure if it was his head or the ceramic of the wall. He fought the rising bile in his throat as well as the blackness creeping into the edge of his vision.

  Konrad clutched Grant’s wrist with a powerful, vice-like grip. The blood drained out of it quickly, and soon Grant could no longer feel it. Konrad curled Grant’s other fingers into a fist, until only the middle ring finger remained extended.

  ‘‘Heh,’’ Grant spat deliriously, eyes half-open. ‘‘I’m giving you the finger.’’

  Konrad looked into his eyes. ‘‘No,’’ he said, ‘‘I’m taking it.’’

  His blade touched the side of Grant’s finger, just below the ring, where his finger met his hand, and he started to slice.

  Grant’s head bucked violently and he clenched his eyes closed tight, gritting his teeth. A blinding pain ripped through his head, and his whole body seized.

  No!

  Grant heard Konrad gasp and then the whistle of something flying through the air. The man’s grip relaxed and when Grant opened his eyes, Konrad was staring, neck craned, across the subway station where something glinted on the wall.

  The pain faded as quickly as it had come, and Grant saw his one opportunity. He kneed Konrad viciously in the groin with every bit of strength he had left. Konrad doubled over, coughing and wheezing, then collapsed.