Mike's was on the more industrial side of town, sandwiched between a pair of large warehouses. On the outside it wasn't much more than a boxy brick building, neon sign, and tiny parking lot. Most people who found themselves out there would have kept on driving and not looked back. For me, the neighborhood just added to the charm. Of course, now there were enough flashing red and blues around to give an epileptic fits.
"Mr. Artemas?"
I nodded in answer and glanced up from my glass just long enough to see who was talking. The speaker was a short, powerfully built man in a dark grey suit looking at me quizzically.
"Lieutenant Xidorn," he said, pinning me with a pair of piercing grey eyes. "Would you mind joining me over there"—he pointed at another black and white across the parking lot—"and answering a few questions?"
"First rule, separate the sus—excuse me—witnesses before asking questions, that way you can play them off each other to get to the truth. Of course, it works better when everyone's kept separate from the start. But Mike and I here are on the silent side," I said. "Do you mind if I keep the scotch? It's the only reason I'm not puking my guts out right now." That last part was only a half truth; Mike had grabbed a top shelf scotch instead of the cheap stuff, and I didn't want it going to waste.
"A bit of a wise guy, huh?" he said, running a hand through his curly, black hair. "To tell you the truth, I really don't give a damn. This isn't some game for amateurs and hacks."
The Lieutenant's gaze felt like a scalpel peeling back layers of my skin. For just a moment I wondered what eyes like that could see—eyes that pierced your very soul to reveal the secrets at its core. Then I thought about the woman inside and what it might be like to look into her killer's soul. I gulped down the last of my scotch before my mind wandered too far down that path.
"I leave murder to the professionals," I said and followed the Lieutenant. Once we were at the other car and well out of Mike's ear shot I asked, "What can I do for you officer Xidorn?"
"Call me Sheridan. Only people wearing shiny bracelets call me officer."
"Sheridan then, it fit's your profession."
"How's that?"
"Sheridan means 'seeker' and Xidorn is 'truth-seeker'," I replied almost without thinking. By this point, I was starting to really feel the alcohol—too much and I'd start spewing whatever facts came to mind.
"So you're good with names. How about Candice Aberdeen?"
"Candice would be 'clarity' and Aberdeen is a city in Scotland. It's not a name I'm familiar with," I said.
"City? Scotland? How much of that stuff have you had?" asked Sheridan.
"Too much," I said. "I keep forgetting where I am."
"You playing with me?" he asked, turning that steely gaze on me again. "We can take this downtown just as easily as doing it here… "
"Was Candice her name?" I asked, ignoring the threat.
"Yeah. A brutal mess, and I've seen some nasty ones. You visit Mike's often?"
"This is my second time here," I said.
"So you're a new face and none of the regulars would know you just yet, huh?" said Sheridan.
"I used hang out at Larry's before his widow sold the place."
"I heard about Larry's, sorry to see it go the way it did. You could do worse than Mike's though. You remember what time you came in?" he asked.
"I don't carry a timepiece, but I would guess about five thirty," I answered.
"You told the responding officer that you remember briefly seeing something flash?"
"Yes, I remember seeing light glint off shiny metal from the back of the bar as I walked through the door."
"And the next thing you remember is standing at the bar, is that right?" asked Sheridan.
"Correct."
"You don't remember anything between walking in the door, seeing this flash, and drinking scotch at the bar?"
"That is what I told the other officer," I replied.
"So, you got some kind of amnesia or something?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes.
"I'm not a doctor, so any answer by me would only be a guess," I answered calmly. "However, the loss of those four or five minutes is very unnerving and would seem to fit the definition of amnesia."
"Just one thing, Mr. Artemas," said Sheridan, adjusting his flat black tie.
"Please, call me Zachary."
"Just one thing, Zachary. You're not missing four or five minutes. You say you got to Mike's about five thirty? The call from Mike came in about six thirty," stated Sheridan.
"Six thirty?" I asked.
"Six thirty," he said.
If you asked me what I was doing at two in the afternoon on a Thursday seventeen years ago, I could tell you the color of the paint on the walls in the diner I happened to be eating at. There were only two gaps in my conscious memory: one caused by anesthesia during a root canal and the other from a concussion.
The root canal felt like a light switch—one moment I was conscious and the next everything went black. Forty-five minutes later, the world slowly faded into focus along with a dull ache in my jaw. With the concussion I could remember a fist wrapped in one of those bicycle chains that had an integrated cylinder lock. One hit, and my memories faded to a blurred haze until I woke up in the emergency room. In both cases, I was aware of roughly how long I'd been out even if I couldn't remember what happened in between.
Anything similar to either and I wouldn't have been able to sit at the bar. Anything less and I shouldn't have had a hole the size of a Mack truck in my memory.
"Anything you want to tell me about that hour?" asked Sheridan.
When I woke much too early the next morning, my head felt like someone dumped the aftermath of nuclear reactor meltdown through the top of my skull. Not my worst hangover, but without a doubt in the top ten percent. There was a chunk of time—just over an hour—that I couldn't remember. A lot can happen in an hour. That thought scared me more than anything in my entire life. Worse yet, that gap turned Sheridan into a problem. He eventually decided not to arrest Mike or I on suspicion of murder. We were given the standard "don't leave the neighborhood" mantra and sent home.
Getting out of bed took two tries—the first ending with my head exploding in pain as I sat up. I stumbled to the fridge and chugged half a gallon of orange juice, sorely wishing it were adulterated with vodka. I was glad to have broken another one of dear old dad's rules: never sleep where you work. Breaking it meant one less landlord to deal with and a shorter distance between the bed and my desk. As a downside, it also meant I technically never left the office—something clients had a nasty habit of taking advantage of.
"Today is going to be a desk day," I moaned while setting a kettle on the stove. Tea was my stimulant of choice, and it was at least a two cup morning. I tried coffee once, a long time ago at a gas station. I couldn't stand the stuff: bitter and burnt beyond recognition. The nasty taste stuck with me so badly I could never bring myself to give coffee a second chance. Tea, on the other hand, worked wonders on my nerves.
Dropping into my leather executive chair started a fresh round of pulsing in my head, and I seriously considered giving up on the day. One look at my desk was enough to make me decide I'd better not. Loose papers had covered my desk for so long that I was beginning to wonder what might be living in the lower layers. Being able to locate any item on the first try didn't give me much reason to keep things neat and tidy. Eventually, I needed to file them away, if for no other reason than to prevent my desk from decaying into compost.
Most were bills or less than polite notes from people looking for money I didn't have. Work was slow and most of my savings had evaporated. I figured another four weeks would serve to completely wipe out what was left. That just meant I needed to try harder. The placard on my desk proclaimed I was a man who "knows how to find things". Your car that disappeared off the street? Sure I can find it for you! Wife run off with the mailman? I'll find'em, but no funny business. At least, that's what it said in my ad. Unfortunately, I seeme
d to be suffering the equivalent of a mechanic's-curse. Instead of being stuck with a run down car always just this side of the scrap yard, I couldn't find anyone in need of my services.
A piercing scream from the kitchen proclaimed to all the world that the teapot's contents were boiling. I made my way over to the stove and poured hot water over an Earl Grey tea bag. If not for the hangover, it would have been loose leaf, but I wasn't feeling competent enough to use a strainer yet.
When I sat down at my desk, there was an envelope waiting for me that hadn't been there when I got up. Even without my near perfect memory, there was no way I could have forgotten the bloody fingerprint next to my name.
Wide awake, a forty-five quickly replaced my steaming cup of tea. I checked the chamber and magazine by reflex. The nineteen-eleven stays in the lower right hand drawer of my desk as an insurance policy against unruly clients. There's something to be said about a pistol that has survived as long as the nineteen-eleven while remaining substantially unchanged.
A room-by-room search through my office and the attached living areas revealed no unwelcome visitors or conspicuously open windows. Just to be sure I went through every room a second time.
Nothing.
Enough time had passed by then for my tea to go cold and bitter. On top of a hangover, my morning was heading downhill fast.
"Dammit!"
I tossed the pistol back in its drawer and the tea in the sink before dropping back into my chair to examine the envelope. I yanked open the top drawer and retrieved a pair of nitrile gloves from the box I kept there. Other than the one fingerprint, there was nothing I could use to figure out where the envelope had come from. Tracing the print would be difficult without reporting an intrusion and giving Sheridan another chance to find something incriminating—not a very high priority item on my to-do list.
The letter inside didn't help anymore than the envelope:
Dear Zachary,
I must apologize for the somewhat unconventional means used to deliver this note and the associated violation of protocol. If it were possible for me to meet you in person, neither would have been necessary. Until such a time as something more personal can be arranged, this letter will have to suffice.
Though you know nothing of me, I know a great deal about you. Let us say that your reputation and abilities have intrigued me for sometime, and that I now have need of your singular talents.
Enclosed you will find a cashier's check for a sum well above your normal retainer. It is yours to keep whether you accept my offer of employment or not. Consider it as recompense for having entered your home without permission.
As I understand it, you are a man who finds things. In particular, you find things that no one else can. It has come to my attention that an item belonging to me has been misappropriated. This very unique item is one that I cherish in no small degree and would much appreciate having returned.
Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to disclose what the item is. What I can tell you is that it will require all of your considerable skill to locate and retrieve. If you find my item, you will be paid at double your standard rate as recompense for the inconvenience of working with such limited information.
Should you take on my request, leave a sealed envelope containing your assent with the bartender at Mike's. She will be expecting it. If you have not responded by six o'clock this evening I will assume that other arrangements are required. I do hope you won't disappoint me.
T.E.M.
Behind the letter was a check with several more zeros than I'd seen in a long time. It would be enough to cover my outstanding bills and keep me going for several months even with no other work. That kind of money and the letter meant T.E.M. didn't want me asking questions.
I don't like working for unknowns.
A quick glance at the clock told me there was very little time to track down who T.E.M. was before I had to make a decision.
So much for a desk day.
CHAPTER FIVE
T- 17 Years - Stitching
"I'm going to kill him!" yelled Ruth as she watched her new charge materialize inside the transfer chamber. She moved back and forth between a small display and a heavy quartz port in the bulkhead door like a tiger pacing in its cage. The room itself was part of the old installation that had already been there when the first exploration teams arrived. It hadn't changed much from its original appearance, the only allowance for aesthetics being a coat of dull grey paint on the pipes and control panels. An emergency alarm in Ruth's lab usually meant very bad things so she hadn't taken the time to change out of the sweatpants and light overshirt she slept in. Even so, no one would have questioned that she was the one in charge, or that she could take the whole place apart with her bare hands if so inclined.
"The next time I see that bastard I'm going to fucking rip his heart out! Get Paige on the line!" ordered Ruth, her eyes locked on a tiny monitor watching Anne's body being reconstructed.
Transfixed, the technician standing next to Ruth didn't respond. The transfer process was normally over in a fraction of a second—too fast for human senses to detect—but this was taking whole minutes!
"Did you hear me? I said get Paige on the line damn it!" snapped Ruth.
The technician turned to look at Ruth and realized just how pissed off her boss was.
"Yes, ma'am!" she choked out and ran to find the phone.
"What was he thinking?" yelled Ruth. She could tell from the way Anne's arms and legs were twisted that she had fought hard against the restraints. That meant Anne had been conscious when the system started taking her apart. "He didn't even anesthetize the poor girl."
"Ma'am, I have Paige on line three, transferring to your headset now," informed the returning technician. She kept taking surreptitious glances at Ruth's screen in fascinated horror.
"Good. Get a medical team in here stat! Tell them we have a conscious transferee. Move it!" yelled Ruth.
The technician bolted for the door, running as fast as she could. Ruth wasn't quite sure if the girl had been running from her or to the medical wing and didn't really care. She pulled an earpiece out of her pocket and jammed it roughly into her ear.
"Paige?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Paige in her ever-calm voice.
"What the hell happened out there? I've got a woman materializing here about to wake up screaming!"
"Mr. Tekcop has contracted a new researcher. He prepared her for transfer himself, without consulting me or any other staff member," stated Paige calmly. Ruth wasn't certain but there might have been an edge of annoyance in her voice.
"Is he coming through too?" asked Ruth.
"No, ma'am. He informed me that you would be handling Anne's disembarkation in Pocketville," said Paige. "Were you not informed?"
"I'm going to fucking kill that bastard!" yelled Ruth, her eyes turned into shiny black marbles and tongues of black flame rippled around her.
The technician burst through the door with a two member medical team in tow and backpedaled—nearly bowling over the newcomers—away from the waves of heat pouring off her boss. Ruth noted them and forced herself to calm down, burying her rage for another time. It wouldn't help the situation any for her incinerate her own people. What was done was done and now she had to deal with Janus's mess.
"It's alright," she said, her voice still seething. "Be ready to get in there as soon as I pop the door."
"What's the situation ma'am?" asked one of the medical techs. He stood a good six feet tall and was looking warily at the five foot Ruth. His name badge proclaimed he was called Lee, and a small insignia on his shoulder indicated that he was the senior EMT.
"We have an incoming transferee about to disembark. She was processed while conscious. You know what that means as well as I do," said Ruth.
"Aye, how much longer?" asked Lee.
The response came as a blood curdling scream that was clearly audible even through the heavy walls of the transfer chamber. Ruth looked back to her display i
n time to see a mass of muscle and bone where the woman's face should have been.
"Almost finished. About ten seconds," said Ruth staring intently at the screen. "Done!"
The door unsealed and swung inward. Lee and the other med-tech rushed through the moment it opened, with Ruth right behind them. Every time she set foot inside the transfer chamber it took Ruth a moment to get her bearings. Unlike the sending chamber, the interior of this one was polished to a mirror finish, even the door seamlessly disappearing when closed. Anne had collapsed and curled into a ball on the floor as soon as the restraints released her. An echo of the searing pain and agonizing sensations bounced along her nerves causing Anne's body to alternately flop like a fish out of water or tense uncontrollably. Ruth felt her rage building and took a few quick breaths to calm herself again—she would deal with Janus later. Lee checked Anne's vitals and, satisfied with what he found, gave her a shot of muscle relaxant to stop the convulsions before wrapping her in a blanket.
"Ma'am?" sounded Paige's voice in Ruth's ear, making her jump—she'd forgotten that the line was still open.
"Yes, Paige?"
"May I go? I still need to move this woman's anchor to the Ossuarium."
"Go ahead," growled Ruth. "Be sure to let Janus know that I want to speak with him."
"Understood ma'am," said Paige and disconnected from the line.
If she didn't know better, Ruth could have sworn she heard a hint of amusement in Paige's voice.
"That's all we can do for her right now. She seems to have come through physically unscathed," said Lee, wrapping Anne in a blanket. "I'll want to give her a more thorough examination later."
"I'll see to it," stated Ruth. "If there is nothing more, please clear the room. She should be coming to soon and I don't want to scare her anymore than she already is."
The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas Page 3
