11:45 AM The Barona Estate
After seeing the cyclops girl come to life, the Countess decides she must acquire the thing for her collection. Barona’s latest boy, seven years old, who was given up by his mother—a single twenty-something who’d been a teenager when she’d conceived and handed her son over for a mere five thousand dollars—is on his last legs. The Countess doesn’t think he’d have but a week left, not with his diet of one slice of bread and one cup of water a day. No sunlight. One of many ways she’s found to kill them slow. Her favorite, in fact. The children are so very resilient. They last so much longer than adults, whose older bodies give out, shut down, disgustingly and painstakingly sooner, taking all the pleasure out of the ultimate event.
Just last week the hope had gone out of Georgie’s eyes, so certain had he been these last two months that if he would just be good, quiet, not complain, the Countess would let him go. Barona smiles thinking of his gaunt face, skeletal. Like a concentration camp Jew. So pathetic with its bones hanging out, begging for mercy. The death rattle is her favorite part. Besides their prolonged dying that is. She’ll have Yanosh turn on the recorder soon. She loves to watch and rewatch the final moments of that last gasp before expiring. What a rush.
The Countess picks up the telephone.
“Victor, yes, it’s me, the Countess. I need your assistance.” Barona’s eyes trawl her plush foyer, inlaid with marble and semi-precious stones.
“It’ll cost you,” the voice snarls, a thick Mexican accent.
“Money is never an issue.” Immigrant swine.
“Whaddaya need this time, Countess?” Victor sneers the last word. Barona bristles.
“I need papers for a child by the name of Lily Green, proving that I am a relative.”
“Uh huh,” Victor snorts.
“She’s a witness in a grand crime so these need to pass police muster. Can you do it?” Barona tries not to sound so eager, but fails.
“When you need ‘em?” Victor loves these last-minute jobs; regular rates don’t apply.
“As soon as possible. Today? Can you do it?” Barona hates the desperation that’s squeaked into her voice.
“Why the rush, lady?” Victor knows why the rush. One of her kids is about to die. She needs a new one.
“That is certainly none of your account. Can you do it or not?” Transform desperation into anger.
“I’ll messenger the documents over in two hours. That soon enough for ya, your highness?” He smirks and chortles.
Barona does not have the time or the inclination to address these insubordinations.
“Yes. I’ll wire you your usual fee right now,” Barona moves to end the conversation.
“Double. For the rush job.” Milk it, baby. Papi wants to get paid.
“Fine. Double it is. I’ll be expecting your courier in two hours.” Spic bastard.
Victor hangs up. Gringa putona.
Two hours! The Countess rubs her hands, a Scroogette looking over her brimming accounts, glad there’s nobody around to see her this excited, giggling like a schoolgirl. There’s a reputation of severity to uphold. She picks up the phone again and dials.
The syrup voice on the other end says, “Good afternoon, Skin Flicks Incorporated. Deep Sloane speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“This is the Countess Barona. Give me Johnny Teeze.”
“Please hold.” Porn-style bow-chicka-bow-wow muzak assaults the Countess’s ears. Vile people. The music clicks back off and a voice greets her.
“Countess! Always a pleasure. Who may I do for you this time?” Johnny Teeze’s voice oozes skuzz.
“Someone very special. Listen up.” And Johnny Teeze does. By the end of the chat he and the Countess are grinning ear to ear.
12:20 PM Victor Tode, Inc.
Victor lights a Marlboro red after hanging up on that chingona gringa who calls herself a countess, thereby disconnecting the recorder that’s captured and stored this conversation in her file. Victor makes sure to cover his own ass. Trust no one. He learned that the hard way, after killing the coyote who tried to embezzle Mama Tode’s last dólares. He was fourteen. Victor is thirty now and takes no chances.
For the Countess alone, he’s forged adoption papers for fifty-seven children. He doesn’t even need other clients anymore, but that would be boring. He’ll give that ballbuster credit for one thing: all the pro bono work he can afford to do for immigrants from around the world, looking to be legal in Los Estados. Mexicanos, colombianos, chinos, Vietnamese, Thai, even africanos who made it over on ships similar to the ones that brought slaves over all those hundreds of years ago.
He crosses himself before he begins work on the Countess’s new request. Victor knows that she’ll be the reason he goes to hell, but there’s still plenty of time to atone. He hopes.
Teresa Chalmers, aka Skreem
You remember the rumbling under your feet as the Motel Chain Mansion exploded, sending vibrations through your body that make your teeth chatter while recalling. The sound of the explosion so loud and so near it felt far, far away, happening to someone else. That would be the hearing loss. Next a bright light, so glaring that even closing your eyes did nothing to protect your retinas from scorching.
Lying in your hospital bed, that silent scream reverberating, sedative coursing through your veins, you remember floating. Above yourself, above the mansion, looking down, flying over the death and chaos below. Flying. Zooming upward toward a bright blue sky. A blue so vivid you wonder if you are underwater.
A field. A farmhouse. Surrounded by sunflowers. Your childhood home. The one daddy lost to the bank forcing a move to the city. Your life before you met Bob, the monster who fucked your daughter while you were oblivious to all the signs until it was too late. Lana, dead in the tub filled with bloody water. Your beautiful girl, destroyed. Everything is annihilated.
At the farm, your childhood happy place, you feel at peace. You know it was condemned, torn down decades ago, but here it is. Is this all a dream? You hear the creek gurgling out back, the fish are jumping as the song says, the tree swing creaks in the breeze. And laughter. Familiar laughter, like tinkerbells, or church bells or baby bells. Lana.
You run. It is Lana. Lana as a little girl. Lana as a teenager, oscillating between the two. Your Lana! Alive! Here in the home place she never even knew.
“Mommy, you made it!” She beams, then pouts, her beautiful face turning grotesque. “What took you so long?”
You sweep her up. You plan to never let her go.
“I’m here now. That’s all that matters.” You brush the hair back from your angel’s face. “I will never leave you again.” Hand in hand, in your dreamscape, the soft flesh of your daughter’s unlined palm as you walk toward the farm.
Another explosion, so white-hot your skin fries and Lana disappears. “Not again,” you scream. “Not again!”
You scream and scream and scream, so loud the nurses hear you in their heads, the detectives feel migraines coming on, the policemen are tempted to cover their ears, the machines on Spruce-Musa’s fourth floor start to flicker. The doctor rushes in and ups your tranquilizer, worrying you’re going to overdose but not having another choice.
And all you want is to return to your daughter’s sweet embrace, just there out of reach.
12:10 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital
The hospital lights fade in and out—Teresa Chalmers’s fever dream continues—as Detective Günn is about to go to the toilet for the ten millionth time. Special Agent Rosario Quatro arrives at the elevator, shows her badge to the patrolman who points her in the direction of the detectives.
“Detectives, hello. I’m Special Agent Rosario Quatro, from the CIA.” She puts out her hand to first Red Feather and then Günn. The detectives find it strange that Quatro closes her eyes while shaking their hands. They exchang
e a puzzled glance, brows furrowed.
“You’re the interrogation specialist,” Red Feather says when Quatro opens her eyes.
Special Agent Quatro nods, staring deep into his eyes, making Red Feather feel like a lab rat, or like she knows something about him he’d rather keep secret.
“So how can we help?” Red Feather asks. Günn hopes she won’t pee her pants. She needs the bathroom like yesterday.
“I need as much background information as possible. Might I sit in on your next interview and then take you to lunch for a briefing? I hear this hospital has a practically gourmet menu.” Quatro looks from one tired detective to the other. They look like they could use a strong coffee to boot.
Günn snorts. “Yeah, four Michelin stars, rated in Zagat, the whole shebang.” Sarcasm drips.
“It does, actually,” Red Feather says.
“How the other half live,” Quatro smiles.
Günn is not in the mood for idle chitchat when her bladder feels like it’s about to rain on her shoes. “So, we started with the survivors who’ve been IDed through DNA, though one of the survivors we pulled from the wreck, a woman named Teresa Chalmers, is still in an induced coma,” Günn says.
“Why induced?”
“It appears that when she approaches consciousness she has this piercing scream that shorts out the machines. She almost killed a patient with a pacemaker. Two floors up.”
“Interesting.” Though Quatro’s face shows no emotion. Red Feather finds the harelip scar on her mouth and her lack of attempt to cover it up sexy as hell.
“Bizarre, more like it. We were about to interview the DJ. After I go pee, though.” Günn moves toward the bathroom.
“I’ll join you,” Quatro says. “Lead the way.”
The ladies room is tastefully decorated for a hospital head. Ornate tilework swirls across the floor and the sinks are of an abstract design.
“So,” Quatro says, leaning against the sinks, “how far along are you?”
Günn’s eyes widen, shocked, before she can contain herself. “How did you know?” Fuck. This is the last thing she needs on an already craptastic day.
“You have that glow,” Quatro says, even though she could feel the baby growing when she shook Günn’s hand.
“About eight weeks. I just found out a couple days ago. I haven’t decided whether I’ll keep it.”
“And the father?”
Günn shakes her head. “Haven’t told him. The abortion’s scheduled for next week, but I’m still not one hundred percent decided.”
“Smart move.” Quatro doesn’t approve of office romances. Too complicated. And the emotional fallout often extends far past the two involved.
“Please don’t mention this,” Günn says, hating the pleading in her voice. “I’m up for sergeant; they’ll pass me over if they find out, even though I passed the exam and scored highest. Next cycle isn’t for another two years with all the department cutbacks.”
“My lips are sealed,” Quatro comforts her with a smile.
“Excuse me, but I really do have to pee.”
“Of course you do,” Quatro turns to the mirror and begins washing her face.
Günn walks into a stall and locks the door, not believing that she revealed her biggest secret to a woman she’d met only five minutes ago. Fighting back tears, Günn has never felt so alone in her entire history of feeling lonely.
Detective Synthia Günn
In spite of the alien proof of life you’ve always wanted, you don’t think you can do this, as you urinate for what feels like the fifteen millionth time today. Not have the baby, not these interviews, not any of it. You still can’t accept that the body parts you saw earlier are now full-blown bodies, alive and breathing. Talking. Telling the strangest stories you’ve ever heard.
You want to crawl back into bed and prepare for the appointment next week. You want to read more about what it will feel like, what kind of pain you’ll be in after, the risks for future pregnancies. You want to focus on what’s concrete and real. Not these Outer Limits episodes that have become today.
Now you wonder, should you tell him? Does he need to know? Would he convince you to keep it? Would he want the baby, raise the child on his own? Would that make you want it, too? And how do you even feel about him? You don’t remember ever loving anyone, it was too much a risk. Not even the pets around the commune. They were never yours. Nothing has ever been yours. Only this baby. And you’re sure you don’t want it. Or do you? How would you know?
For the first time since getting clean you think about using. A thin, white line. That fuzzy glow the world takes on when under an influence. Three fingers of whiskey, neat, all down in one gulp. A vodka tonic, light on the tonic, burning the voices in your head quiet. Peace. You don’t know how you’re going to make it through this. Any of it. You have no idea at all.
12:30 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital
DJ Fetish, aka John Doe, wakes up remembering all of what happened at the rave and knowing exactly his role in the disaster. The question he asks himself is whether he should come clean or not.
There is also the question of his ex-girlfriend, Liria, who he had accidentally killed in the throes of an ecstasy-laced passion the year before. He dumped her into a manhole long before the massacre at Crane’s mansion. But since he survived last night’s rave, his girlfriend has been right by his side.
Sometimes she looks the way she did when she was alive: gorgeous, tan, perfect, her long blue hair framing her angel face in a way that makes him hard. Other times her visage is purple, puffy from asphyxiation, her tongue peeking through swollen lips. Sometimes she has love in her eyes, like she forgives him. Other times, there is only fury and a desire for revenge against him for what he’s done.
To come clean or not to come clean, that was the question. If Crane is still alive then I can pin it on him. If he’s dead, then who cares.
DJ Fetish rings the nurse call button and Nurse Jonelle takes the call.
“We feeling all right, sugar?” The nurse asks as she waddles in, checking his vitals.
“I just feel, I dunno, strange. And I’m trying to understand what happened.” The DJ affects puzzlement.
“Aren’t we all, John,” she laughs. Liria likes the sound and shimmers.
“Are there other survivors?” The DJ asks in his most innocent voice.
“Yes, indeed, the Good Lord saw fit to save a few of you from that wreckage. Didn’t you see them when you woke up?”
“I’m not sure. It’s all jumbled. What about Mr. Crane? Did he make it?”
“Did you see that man at the party, honey? Cuz if you did you need to talk to the detectives right away.” Nurse Jonelle’s demeanor becomes serious. Her gaze intensifies as she looks at the DJ. He gets uncomfortable. Shit. He might have said too much.
“I don’t feel so good.” The DJ tries to cover up his flub.
“What hurts?” Nurse Jonelle maintains her suspicious gaze. The detectives advised all the staff to report back any possible witness statements they overhear.
“My head hurts. I feel dizzy,” the DJ feigns.
Nurse Jonelle leaves the room to get an aspirin. On her way she runs into the detectives and Agent Quatro, who ask for the DJ’s location.
“He’s in there, officers,” Nurse Jonelle points. “And I think he’s hiding something. He was asking me about the survivors, and about if Mr. Crane survived. He’s up to no good, and ain’t very clever about it neither, you ask me,” Jonelle harrumphs.
“Thank you,” says Quatro. “We appreciate the tip.”
Red Feather, Günn, and Quatro knock on the door, introducing themselves. DJ Fetish appears to be talking to someone who isn’t there and jumps when they walk in.
Quatro makes a point of shaking his hand, performing the same eye
s closed ritual. She opens them quickly, shocked, and pulls her hand back as if it’s been burned, showing the first bit of emotion Red Feather has seen on her level face.
“We’d like to ask you some questions about the rave last night.” Red Feather flips his notebook open and Günn starts recording.
“Sure,” the DJ says looking nervous more than ill, “but I’m not really feeling very well.
“Shouldn’t take long. Nurse is on the way with some aspirin.”
“Tell him!” Liria hisses. “Tell him what you did, you monster!” Lira bares her teeth at the DJ and spits. He flinches. Everyone notices.
“What do you remember?” Red Feather sits next to the bed.
“Nothing.” He looks unsettled, peeking into the corner of the room where Liria repeats, “Tell them what you did, you monster!”
“Shut up!” the DJ snaps at her.
“Excuse me?” Red Feather says, prickling.
“Nothing,” DJ Fetish says. “Sorry.”
“You okay, sir, you look a little shaken up?” Red Feather frowns.
“I am. Quite. Wouldn’t you be?” The detectives and special agent stare at the DJ, who tries to be surreptitious with sidelong glances at something that isn’t there, failing miserably.
“The nurse said you asked about Mr. Crane. What was your relationship with him?”
“Nothing. No relation,” the DJ says. Too quickly.
“Didn’t he hire you to headline his party?” Günn snaps, the smell of an electrical fire and rotting corpses fills her nose. She catches Red Feather’s eyes.
“Well, yeah, but that’s not a relationship. That’s a business deal. I met the dude, like, once.” The DJ’s hands shake and his heart pounds. He knows they’re not buying what he’s selling.
Crime Rave Page 16
