by Rick Heinz
Entering his kitchen, he saw the light from his fridge that lay sideways on the floor. Its feeble glow was enough for him to take in the scene that matched his living room. He pulled a broken chair from the floor and wedged the fridge under the missing leg for a place to sit down. He took a deep drag and let the taste of tobacco hang in his mouth as he looked around. Nothing was stolen from what he could tell. Just a message. He pulled off his bandanna and put his head in his hands, letting the smoke and silence settle in. This day sure as shit could’ve been better, but at least nobody died. I don’t care what else happens. I want nothing more out of this night than the sweet warm embrace of sleep.
Getting up and lumbering through his kitchen, Mike no longer cared about the noise or where he stepped. A knife lay buried in the wall, pinning a coat to it right in his line of sight. Pulling it free, he ran his fingers over the coat, feeling its texture. He brought it up to his face and inhaled deeply, pulling in the smell of polished leather and rotten Chinese food. Doc’s tweed jacket.
Mike threw his fist through a wall and stumbled into his bedroom as the world became fuzzy. November 30 is too far away. I’m coming. I can’t lose another friend. Loneliness and panic wrenched in his chest as he fought back tears. He collapsed on his bed and curled up as the world spun with an array of dizzying thoughts.
Mike snapped back to his reality after what seemed like an eternity. His knuckles were almost as white as the sheets he clutched, his whole body covered in a cold sweat. Falling. He’d reached out for the handkerchief, his foot had slipped, and this time, his training hadn’t helped him—he’d plummeted straight toward the concrete. He could swear he’d felt the beginning of the impact just before his thoughts aligned. His gut felt twisted and gnarled.
The chopper-motorcycle-shaped alarm clock flashed three thirty, and the morning air was cold enough to form puffs with his breath. Only five minutes have passed. Events of the day were becoming clearer to Mike as he sat there in the dark. Something happened to Doc, he had a stalker, and the police were in on it. They are right outside. He tried to swallow but a lump in his throat prevented it. I gotta do something, but what can I do? He got out of bed and lumbered back and forth around his room, stepping on the clothes and tools strewn about. Should I call the cops? There’s no way all of them could be in on this, right? He remembered how one of the officers, the big one, had seemed nervous about the scenario. Doc was right about a conspiracy. Maybe Doc’s research into the topic had been what set things in motion. Or me chasing that guy pushed the envelope too far.
Thinking about Doc, Mike searched the tweed coat. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, and after trying to get the right amount of light on it by holding it up at odd angles, he determined it was the calendar from the office, with November 30 circled. They could have at least left a phone number. All right. Let’s be real. There is no way they could all be involved. He patted himself down, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed 911.
“Nine one one,” the voice said.
“Yeah, I need to report a break-in and kidnapping,” Mike said.
“Are you in any danger?”
“Not immediately. The address is fifty-three forty-three Paulina.”
There was a pause on the phone as information was probably being entered. Mike took the moment to grab a glass of water.
“Mr. Auburn, we are currently handling the situation there. Your landlord, Frank O’Neil, already called the officers, and they are on location,” the voice said in a low, more matter-of-fact tone. Mike got the hint and hung up the phone. He had enough experience with dispatchers before, and this wasn’t legit.
Shit. Okay, maybe they can have all the cops in on this. Rerouting perhaps? Bugged phone? There were not many options. He could perhaps hire a private detective, or maybe even make enough of a noise to bring attention to internal corruption in the Chicago Police Department. The mere thought of this caused Mike to crack himself up. He pounded the countertop while holding his stomach, still aching from all the running and climbing earlier. Internal . . . corruption . . . Chicago. Well, there’s only one option I can think of. Might as well go for it. He gave a quick kick to his fridge door, making sure it was open all the way so more light could help him find a flashlight. It didn’t take him long to find it, and he was off to his room.
Mike started going through all the clothes on the floor. He would need gear, and he might as well dress the part. He pulled out a green World War I army trench coat covered in patches, union buttons, and many burn marks. His protest coat. He held it up in triumph and threw it on. He started throwing more items on his bed that he would need. A gun case, his pool cue kit, spray paint, a carton of smokes, and some motorcycle body armor. He looked at it and nodded, shining the light on them. The gun and body armor were obvious choices. The pool cue kit, however—Mike had won more than a few bar fights throwing a nine ball at someone’s face. Everyone always underestimated how much those things hurt, so he decided to grab it. A few more random objects went into his worn backpack.
He flung the drapes aside in his room and waved at the two officers outside before dropping trow and pressing ham against the window. The juvenile nature of the gesture was totally worth the initial shock of a frozen window pressed against parts where the sun didn’t shine. You want me so bad, come arrest me. I’m going in protest!
He didn’t have to wait long. Mike heard the front door open and watched the two officers from earlier enter with their guns drawn. When they noticed him still pressed against the window, Mike gave a two-fingered wave.
“Welcome to my humble abode. You two ready for our second date?” Mike asked. “So, since you two are my new drivers around Chicago, I figure we could get to know each other a little better. I myself am a huge fan of Project Runway, I hate ma po tofu with a passion, and when I grow up, I want to be the chief of staff.” He put his arms out wide and gave his best performance grin.
The warm smile from earlier was gone from the female officer. She rolled her eyes as she gestured for her partner to flank Mike while the handcuffs once again came out. “Cuff him,” she said. Then she turned to Mike as she holstered her weapon and took his bag. “Let’s just play this out. You stay quiet, let us do our job, and you’ll be back to binge watching Project Runway in no time.”
The cuffs squeezed tighter on Mike’s wrists and felt even colder than the first time. He was pretty sure the big guy could bench-press him with one hand. “So how about some names? I mean, I can start guessing, but you really don’t want that. I’ll just start making up drag queen names for you.”
“I’m Officer Paul Winters, and that’s Officer Janine Matsen,” Winters said as he put his massive paw on the back of Mike’s head, pushing him off to the side into a corner like a child in time-out. “Matsen, what’s in the bag?”
Officer Matsen was going through the bag with her flashlight, pulling out its contents. “Nothing threatening, a set of pool table balls, a gun, duct tape, socks . . .” She paused as she held up a set of ThunderCats boxers and stared at them, eyes back to Mike, and then to her hands. “A set of clean underwear.”
“Mom always said to be prepared. Janine, eh? Nice name, I dated a Janine once—” Jerked into the wall by Winters, Mike let out a loud grunt and spat on Winters’s shoe in protest.
“Stuff the sock in his mouth and duct-tape him. I can’t handle a car ride with a chatty anarchist,” Winters said.
Mike gave his best puppy-dog eyes as he accepted their makeshift gag. His plan was to go with them after all, not fight and make a run for it. His shoulders let tension release as he watched Officer Matsen pack all his bag contents and bring it with them.
CHAPTER 5
Throughout the drive, the taste of sweaty socks in his mouth was only a fraction better than the Chinese food Doc “forced” him to eat earlier at his office. Next time you pull this, pack clean socks. As the squad car approached the Drake Hotel, the man with the checkered scarf approached with three security guards behind him.
Mike glared out the window to get a clearer picture of his adversary. Mike’s earlier assumption about his age seemed right. He was clearly in his late forties. The wrinkles around the eyes and the five-o’clock shadow speckled with gray hairs gave it away.
“He’s all yours. If I were you, I’d leave the gag in,” Winters said.
“I think our guest can use some proper hospitality. We are gentlemen after all. Mr. Auburn is not going to violate any rules of etiquette, is he now?” he said while holding two fingers under Mike’s chin and looking into his eyes. Mike gave him a nod.
“It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Auburn. You may call me Edward. Edward Morris.” The cuffs came off.
Mike clinched his eyes shut to brace himself as the duct tape was ripped off. It didn’t work. “Son of a . . . man that stings,” Mike said as he grasped his jaw, half wondering if he just got a fresh shave. “Edward Morris, eh?” Mike thrust out his hand, giving his best business handshake. “So, what’s the deal? You realize a phone call and a fruit basket would have worked.”
“It is not my place to explain such things. I am merely the head of . . . security. This operation and my employer requested your presence. We will escort you to him and his associates, who have been waiting for you at the pub.” Morris started to straighten Mike’s collar and cleaned off the ratty coat a bit, but his eyes never left Mike’s. “Under no circumstances are you to speak louder than casual conversation or make any sudden movements. Are we clear?”
Somehow, Mike heard the statement reverberate through him. I am to speak no louder than casual conversation nor make any sudden movements. It was a fact to him. He wasn’t sure if it was the gravity of the situation that made it sink in, but the goose bumps rising along his arms added to the weight of it. “Yeah, crystal. Bar, then? Let’s get this over with.”
Mike’s eyes glanced sideways to Officer Matsen, and a coy smile crept along his face. “What are you doing next Thursday night?” Mike got his response when she dropped the bag at his feet.
Victorian opulence inside Chicago’s older hotels never impressed Mike. Everything was gold and red with twisting patterns carved into every surface. Massive crystal chandeliers tried to hide cracked plaster and nicotine stains from the good ol’ days when smoking indoors was allowed. At four thirty in the morning, the only people to be seen were a pair of new carpet cleaners in the main lobby, trying to wrestle their machines. The bar matched his expectations, dimly backlit bottles lined the wall, and it was empty except for employees and Morris. Not many associates after all. Looks like the boss has a hard time making friends. This is meant to be a one-on-one meeting anyway.
The goons accompanying Morris stood at attention in the entryway, reinforcing Mike’s thought. Morris pulled up a chair at the end of the bar and reached over to grab a half-full bottle of red wine. Unsure of what to do, Mike thought he deserved a drink after the crazy night and sat down at the bar. The bartender, sleeves rolled up with an open vest, had polished the bar so much Mike could see his reflection.
“Whiskey,” Mike said.
“You’re a hard kid to push,” the bartender said while pouring his drink in a swift, fluid motion. “Had a rough day, I heard.” He slid the drink over to Mike.
He concluded that the bartender looked like an old man you would see playing Vegas slot machines all night and day. “It’s been a peach. So where is everyone?”
“Here,” he said, gesturing to the empty bar. “You see what you want when it suits you. It’s much easier to ignore the crumbling world hidden just out of sight.”
“Yeah, clearly, you don’t know me very well.” Mike craned his head to spy into the back room behind the bar, expecting to see mobsters smoking cigars and playing cards. He turned back to his whiskey when he only saw an empty room.
“Did you know that Senator McCarthy led another campaign concurrent with the Red Scare? They call it the Lavender Scare. His quest was to eradicate homosexuality,” the bartender said.
“Yeah, he was a freak. You should’ve heard what he told his therapist.”
“It’s never brought up that the Vatican and the Catholics were the driving force behind that. Even forced a friendship between McCarthy and the Kennedy family.”
“Another one of the dynasty families that really pull the strings.” Mike gave a nod. Where you going with this, buddy?
“The Lavender Scare was an experiment to see if the Vatican could control a nation by sacrificing its minorities for a sense of greater good. McCarthy became the villain in history. Kennedy later won as the first Catholic president and sparked the imagination of a nation to put a man on the moon.” He gave a salute to a nicotine-stained American flag dangling in the corner before continuing. “One nation, under God. Yet putting a man on the moon is an act of science. The concept would have been heresy by the same god hundreds of years before. What changed upstairs that could spark such a policy shift? Or was that change done below?”
“Okay, now you’re just jumping the shark. I got shit to do.” Mike pushed his stool away from the bar and stood up, planning his assault. Guy is a crackpot.
“Kid, I’m going to level with you. The night is almost over, so I’m going to cut the bullshit for the sake of time. My patrons and I have an aversion to the sunlight, and as their caretaker, I need to make this quick. You have the deathsight. It happens every now and then. Someone brushes with death enough times, they start to see into purgatory and it looks back at you. You’re one of them. I want you to come work for me. Do some real good in the world rather than waste away and rot with the rest.” He put his hands on the counter and leaned in. “It’s going to be undergoing some . . . changes soon.”
“What? The bar? It’s old, sure, but perfectly reusable. Maybe hang some new drapes?”
The man smiled. “The world.”
Mike nodded, not to what the man was saying, but to his own internal conclusion. Yup, I’ve officially gone insane. “Who are you? What happened to Doc? Are you this O’Neil guy? What changes? Deathsight? Aversion to sunlight? Do you offer dental?” Mike pointed and raised his glass in a toast and slammed it back, feeling the burn down his throat. It was the most refreshing thing of the day, and it cleaned out the taste of sock.
“Your friend Joseph Daneka uncovered secrets sooner than the timetable allowed. I take kindly to researchers who start piecing the puzzle together like him. A potential future prospect. The Unification, my employer, takes a more violent approach. I made the call to scoop up Joseph. His father was a member of the Unification, so I can call off the hounds without ruffling feathers. You, however, needed a stronger hand to force you out of your slump.” He smiled and started polishing his bar again. “Technically it’s the Unification Proclamation, but that’s the legal name of the treaty all the vampires signed years ago. Monsters are real, kid, and we do indeed offer dental coverage.”
He let Mike reflect before he continued. “We’ve been watching you since you were born. You refuse to be passive, you notice people who others don’t, and you’ve had a rough life. These are some of the beginning signs of a prospect for me. What really got our attention, however, is when you started seeing our organization for what it really was. Frank isn’t a figment of your imagination. He had his skin ripped off in the seventies as he went through the change. Everyone in this room has their own unique story that caused them to shed their innocence. Normally, everyone is so blissfully ignorant of the creatures in their midst. The Unification likes to keep it that way. People live happier lives if they are kept in the dark. Can you imagine the mass panic? We barely made it out of the Dark Ages. Reason and silence had to become our tools. Otherwise, the human race would have died off long ago. The Nazis were our last big threat to unraveling everything by thrusting the occult world out in the open. Until now . . .”
Mike nodded and pointed to below the bar. “Hey, buddy, I’m going to need the whole bottle right next to me if you want to continue the full history lesson.”
O’Neil reached down and pulled out a bottle filled with black ichor from a cabinet and set it down. Mike’s eyes went wide as he looked at the countertop. He felt hairs on his neck rise when he saw no reflection of O’Neil. Deep down inside, he wanted to scream, get up, and run away, to dive back. He felt Morris place his hand on his shoulder. Hold still . . . He heard Morris in his head again.
Mike’s hands shook while he reached for the bottle, but Morris placed his hand on it first.
“I’ll handle this,” Morris said. “Boss, you sure you wanna do this? This kid’s a rabble-rouser, defiant, not to mention a socialist bordering on the kind of progressive who . . .” He let the thought trail off as Mike felt an unnatural degree of strength pinning him to the bar stool. “He’s got a built-in resistance to control. It’s taking all of my concentration just to get him to sit still. I think we would be better off throwing his soul in as fuel for the society in the Twin Cities.” Morris wrinkled his brow as he tightened his grip on Mike’s shoulder. Mike could not shake the feeling that Morris was afraid of the old man.
Mike looked at the stare-down the two of them were having and butted in. “So why me? Why Doc? I’m just a construction worker. Because I saw you? That’s why you want me?” he asked.
The barkeep added, “Most people who develop the deathsight end their lives, kid. You keep running into danger to trigger it. That means you have guts deep down inside. It means we can train you.” He looked at Morris and continued. “It means you are worth bringing into the fold. If we didn’t reach out to you and bring you in, someone else would eventually find you. I assure you, that’s not a scenario you want. Since you haven’t shed your innocence yet, you can only see us for what we are right after you’ve had a close encounter with death. It’s why you think this room is empty.”
