Forging the Nightmare: A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller

by J. J. Carlson

  Some of the brightness faded from San’s face. “Okay, what else happened?”

  “I shot someone in the face.”

  San’s shoulders drooped. “Alright,” he sighed. “Can you tell me about it?”

  “It was the night before. I was hiding out in a park, and I heard a fight. One man pulled a gun and killed the other. The murderer tried to escape, but I followed him home.”

  “And your intuition was telling you to…what?”

  “Let him get away with it. It was not my business. The murderer had no reason to follow me if I ignored what happened, he didn’t know I was there.”

  San crossed his arms. “A murder? The other man wasn’t defending himself?”

  Jarrod shook his head. “It was in cold blood. So I shadowed him and tormented him in the darkness. Then I grabbed him and shot him with the murder weapon.”

  “So, you…killed him?”

  “No. I shot him under his chin. I made it appear like an attempted suicide. He was alive when I left.”

  “But, why?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed wrong to let him get away with it.”

  “I’m not condoning the use of your physical enhancements for vigilantism,” San said. “And I am not questioning your judgment that he would have gotten away with murder if you didn’t act. I want to know why you tormented him and why you tried to make it look like suicide.”

  Jarrod’s demeanor suddenly turned rigid and professional, as if he were a fighter pilot providing a mission summary to his superiors. “People, especially criminals, tend to be superstitious. Psychological warfare was employed to discourage future aggression, assuming the target would fear being attacked by a dark, unknown force. The physical evidence at the crime scene would be enough to convict the target of murder. The target, if left alive, would likely claim attempted suicide.

  “It is also possible,” Jarrod continued, “that the target would tell the truth about the attack to his confidants. His fear and feelings of powerlessness would potentially spread to other criminal associates, thereby discouraging other senseless killings.”

  San shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what to say…”

  “It also seemed illogical to come here and tell you these things,” said Jarrod. “It seemed possible that you would sever all communication and contact when I reported my actions. I believed I would lose you as an ally, but I came anyway, and I can’t give a good reason why.”

  San furrowed his brow. “Let me be clear about something. I am not your ally. I’m your friend, Jarrod. I think you came here because the old Jarrod believed that being honest is the right decision, and you are still the old Jarrod.”

  One more twitch. “That…makes sense.”

  “Of course it does,” San said. “But I don’t like the idea of you chasing bad-guys around the red-light district. You have enough going on without hardened criminals trying to hunt you down. Don’t forget, you’re still a serious head-case.”

  Jarrod only nodded at the friendly jab. “With your permission, I would like to meet Doctor Roberts in your home for future treatment sessions. I have seen no signs of surveillance; it would be safe and convenient for everyone.”

  “I think that is a great idea,” San said, smiling. “Is today too soon for your next session?”

  32

  It was a cool and cloudless Friday afternoon. Jarrod sat on a wooden bench near a large outlet mall in downtown Baltimore. Despite the crowds of shoppers, he had been largely undisturbed. Something about a large man reading out loud to himself discouraged people from wanting to linger nearby.

  He had met with Emily twice that week. She encouraged him to continue reading his own description of his family’s death, and to do it in a public place. Emily was optimistic about his progress, but she still wanted to see him at least once a week.

  Though he appeared engrossed in the pages in front of him, he was, in truth, maintaining a careful watch of everything around him. The black orbs, hidden behind aviator-style sunglasses, took in every person and vehicle that passed by. The air he breathed fed him a wealth of information through taste and smell.

  His watchfulness wasn’t demanding or stressful; it was automatic. It did not detract from the therapeutic practice of reading his traumatic memories to himself. He passed several hours this way, and the parking lots around him began to empty. A few minutes before the stores were scheduled to close, something bit into his subconscious and begged for his attention.

  It was a silver Chevy Suburban. He had seen several of them throughout the day, but something about this one was familiar. It was the small decal on the rear, passenger-side window. The words “International Escorts” were displayed in curvy pink letters with a phone number beneath.

  An engine roared and glass shattered. Melody and Joshua were broken and bleeding in front of him. He took a deep breath and gripped the bench beneath him. He forced his mind into the present and his focus back onto the silver Suburban. It was there that day. No, not the SUV, the decal. There was a black Cadillac parked across the street when Melody and Joshua were killed. It had the same sticker, the same number listed below.

  The silver Chevy pulled into a parking space near a clothing and lingerie boutique. A large man and six women climbed out of the vehicle and entered the store. Without another thought, Jarrod sprung to his feet and started walking.

  The door gave a little chime as Jarrod walked into the boutique. A techno version of a popular song thumped in the overhead speakers. Shapely, plastic mannequins adorned in red lingerie and tight, black dresses beckoned to him with plastic fingers. Near the fitting rooms, an employee measured one of the girls with vinyl measuring tape. The big man that had followed the girls in was sitting in a corner, eyeing Jarrod suspiciously. Jarrod took a few steps toward the fitting rooms and took a deep breath.

  The girl being measured didn’t look older than fourteen. She carried scents of pride and excitement, mixed equally with fear. He took a few more breaths. The smells of hopelessness, aggression, anger, happiness, and terror blended with cheap, heavy perfume. Jarrod turned toward the man in the corner, who gave him a toothy smile. The odd mixture of emotions he detected confirmed his suspicions, and he hurried out of the store. Walking toward the parked SUV, he put on an air of paranoia, checking over his shoulder and wiping his hands on his pants. The vehicle’s windows were tinted, but Jarrod could hear the driver’s steady breathing and heartbeat. Glancing around like a frightened rabbit, Jarrod knocked on the dark window.

  The window rolled down and a man in designer sunglasses said, “Whaddya want?”

  The air that issued from inside the vehicle made Jarrod’s head spin. Cigar smoke and perfume were the heaviest. Then the hormones, pheromones, and body fluids of at least seventy people assaulted Jarrod’s formidable olfactory senses.

  Taking a step back, Jarrod regained his composure and said, “I—I’m sorry. I was interested in…making a purchase—that is, a transaction.”

  Jarrod produced a large wad of folded twenty-dollar bills from his pocket.

  The man looked outraged. “What the hell is wrong with you? Your mom drop you on your head or something? Put that away, dumbass!”

  Jarrod frantically stuffed the money back into his pocket. “I—I’m sorry. This is my first—I mean it’s been a long time since—“

  “Shut up.”

  Jarrod nodded timidly.

  The driver sighed. “Look, you don’t just walk up and pull cash out like that. That’s not how this works. Just give us a call and let us know what you’re looking for.”

  He leaned away, then passed Jarrod a card. “Call the number there, and we can meet you at a hotel. If you have a car, we can meet you in a parking lot and do it in there.”

  Jarrod’s shoulders squeezed upward in embarrassment. “I don’t have a car.”

  “Then take a taxi, dipstick. Look, I don’t want to be seen talking to you. You got the number, now beat it.”

  Jarrod starte
d to speak again, but the man rolled the window back up. Instead of walking away, Jarrod put his face up to the window, cupping his hands around his sunglasses.

  After several seconds, the man rolled the window back down and growled, “What?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jarrod said, “I just wanted to know if the girl could, uh, go on a date with me first.”

  The man’s expressions went from pity to concern to disgust. “Yeah…that’s fine, I guess. If you’ve got the coin, cuz the girls work by the hour. You know where “The River Terns nightclub is?”

  Jarrod nodded.

  “Alright. Be there at eleven-thirty. I’ll bring some merchandise.”

  Jarrod put his palms together and gave an awkward half-bow. “Thank you, I’ll—”

  The man cut Jarrod off by rolling the window back up.

  The River Terns was far from upscale, but its cheap drinks, talented bartenders, and live entertainment always drew large crowds on Friday nights. It was a pale blue, two-story building with a steel roof. When patrons entered the front door, the simplistic exterior gave way to tasteful architecture, comfortable seating, and a buoyant ambiance.

  Jarrod chose to spend the evening on the shadowy roof. He lay on his stomach, his eyes peeking over the edge. Vehicles were coming and going, dropping off sober passengers and picking up tipsy ones. Security guards in black coats took cash at the door for the cover charge and performed random pat-downs.

  Nothing appeared to be sinister or out of place, despite the bustling activity and the rapacious consumption of alcohol. Jarrod shivered, trying to ward off the evening chill. He wore no clothes, favoring instead the camouflage his jet-black armor provided.

  A familiar rumble caught his attention. It was the silver Chevy Suburban pulling up in front of the club. A single passenger exited the vehicle, a handsome man in his late-twenties. The SUV lingered for several minutes, then the driver got out and walked to the front of the vehicle. He surveyed the crowd impatiently, muttered a string of curses, then got back inside. There was a screech as the vehicle roared away.

  Jarrod made no attempt to pursue it. His new target was the young man with the fresh haircut who was now inside the building.

  It was just after midnight when the man re-emerged from the club, and he was no longer alone. A pretty brunette was on his hip, swaying and stumbling as the pair walked off into the night. Jarrod nimbly dropped off the roof and followed in the shadows.

  “I parked down in a different lot,” he heard the man say. “It’s cheaper and they have better security.”

  “I don’t mind walking,” the woman said with a giggle.

  Jarrod took a deep breath. The woman’s scent brought to mind lust, merriment, and intoxication. The man reeked of predatory satisfaction, and he seemed to be completely sober.

  Jarrod had followed them for three more blocks when the woman asked, “Are we almost there? My feet are killing me.”

  “Almost,” the man said. “I’m really sorry about the inconvenience.” Running a finger along her chin, he added, “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  Jarrod circled around the couple and moved past them. He climbed a low building and crawled along the edge on his hands and feet. In a small, fenced-in lot, a white van was idling with the headlights off. A burly man in coveralls stood near a gate in the chain-linked fence.

  As the brunette and her companion approached, the man in the coveralls opened the gate. The woman stopped, surprised by the presence of the rough-looking man.

  “It’s alright,” her companion assured her, “they just work here. Come on, I’ve got champagne in the van.”

  She hesitated, and the handsome man pulled her through the gate by the wrist.

  “Keith,” she protested. “I don’t like this. Maybe I’ll just get a cab.”

  The charm drained from Keith’s voice and he said, “No. Get in the van.”

  She wrenched her wrist out of his grip and she shouted, “I said I don’t like this.”

  “Will you shut that whore up?” the man by the gate said.

  She whirled around, and had to extend her arms to keep her balance. “Excuse me? Keith, did you hear what he said?”

  Keith shrugged. “He’s not wrong. But it’s not my job to shut you up.”

  She stared at him, horrified. Her eyes filled with tears, and she turned to leave. As she did, the man in the coveralls grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Let me go!” she shouted. “Somebody, help me!”

  A bottle shattering at the far end of the lot, and Keith spun around. The woman heard the noise and screamed even louder, “Help, they’re trying to kidnap me! Please, do some—“

  The man in the coverall clamped his hand over her mouth, then nodded toward the sound. “Go check it out,” he said.

  Keith looked offended. “Uh uh. I bring you knuckle-draggers the girls, and my job is done. You go check it out.”

  The man in coveralls grunted a crude but colorful insult, then cast his eyes toward the van. The rear door slid open and a man in a leather jacket jumped out, a revolver in his hand.

  “Heard a noise over in the corner,” Coveralls said. “Look into it, will ya, Ian?”

  The man in the leather jacket nodded. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and flicked it on.

  “Well, it has been a pleasure, as always,” Keith said. He gave a little bow. “Have a nice life, Kathy.”

  The brunette started to struggle. She bit into her captor’s hand, who cried out in pain.

  “Filthy animal!” He slapped her hard, knocking her to the ground, then pulled her to her feet, this time holding her by the throat. He shoved her into the van and slammed the door.

  Turning away from the vehicle and examining his hand, he said, “See anything?”

  Ian was sweeping his light back and forth. “Nothing. Maybe it was a cat or somethin.”

  “Alright. Let’s get out of here.”

  Suddenly, Keith screamed. Ian swung his light around, and the screaming stopped. There was a shuffling noise, and Ian’s flashlight illuminated Keith’s legs, right before they were dragged around the building and out of sight.

  “Hey!” Ian yelled. He raised his pistol, but the man in the coveralls stopped him.

  “That little punk’s not our problem. Get in the van.”

  Two doors slammed shut and the headlights came on. The man in the coveralls grabbed at the gearshift, then felt a strange sensation. The shifter slid out of his fingers and he fell toward Ian in the passenger seat. He struggled to right himself, realizing the van had been tipped on its side.

  “What—what just happened?” Ian sputtered.

  The girl in the back seat, who had been whimpering, started to scream.

  Glass shattered, and a black arm reached into the back seat.

  Jarrod gripped Kathy by her hair and lifted her out of the overturned van.

  Leaning in close, he yelled, “Who was the man you were with?”

  She was too terrified to answer. Gripping at his hand and writhing in agony, she continued to scream.

  Jarrod shouted so loudly her teeth rattled. “Who is he!”

  Tears ran down her face, and she tried to shake her head. “I don’t—ow! I don’t know, okay! I just met him!”

  Suddenly the pain on her scalp ceased, and she felt herself being lowered to the ground. Without hesitation, she ran off into the night.

  The man in coveralls pushed off Ian and tried to see what was happening. Then, with a loud creak, the van thudded back onto four wheels. Coveralls clambered back into the driver’s seat and grabbed at the shifter. There was a shriek of twisting metal, and the driver’s-side door was torn away. As Coveralls recoiled, and Ian fumbled for the handle on the passenger door. He pulled it, and the men fell onto the pavement.

  Ian struggled to his feet and raised his revolver. He spun around in a circle, trying to find their dark assailant. A scorching pain shot into his arms and the weapon was gone. He looked down and screamed. Both of his
hands were gone, replaced by gnarled stumps of blood and bone.

  A vice-like pressure clamped down on his neck and a voice whispered in his ear, “Let’s talk.”

  33

  Keith awoke with a start. His blurred vision slowly began to clear, and he realized he was in the driver’s seat of the van. The back of his head throbbed with pain, and restraints bit into his wrists and ankles. He struggled against the thin cords, and something tightened around his neck.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice on his left said.

  The driver’s side door was missing, and Jarrod stood illuminated in the pale moonlight. His face was black and featureless, and he was clothed in a set of blood-stained coveralls.

  “It’s an old Chinese technique for binding prisoners,” Jarrod explained. “The cord on your neck tightens if you pull against the bonds at your hands and feet. Pull too hard and you could suffocate, but you’ll be fine if you just relax.”

  Keith froze and tried to take in his surroundings without moving his head. The van was parked on a steep incline, facing the dark waters of a river or lake. Panic seized him—if the van slid down the ramp, he wouldn’t have time to free himself before it sank into the water.

  “You don’t have to worry,” Jarrod said.

  Keith glanced nervously toward his captor. “Who…what do you want from me?”

  Jarrod put his hand on top of the doorframe and gave an easy shrug. “I just want to talk, then I’ll let you go. I swear I don’t have any interest in keeping you here.”

  A memory flashed into Keith’s mind. “The, uh, men from the parking lot…what happened to them?”

  Jarrod tussled Keith’s hair. “I had a little chat with them too. Don’t worry, your friends are just fine.”

  Jarrod’s soothing tone sent a shiver down Keith’s spine, and he mumbled, “I don’t really know them. I mean, I’m not with them.”

  “Hey, I believe you. Stop being so nervous. I promise I only have you tied up like this because I want to talk.” Jarrod showed his palms. “I can be a little intimidating, and I get the sense that you’d probably run after that scare I gave you earlier. Sorry about that, by the way.”