The Rapture: A Sci-Fi Novel

by Erik, Nicholas

  “You’re free to go.” Just like that. I don’t protest. He unhooks the cuffs and we walk into the hall. “Mr. Mitchell,” he adds, “don’t forget your gun, now. We’ll be in touch.” I collect the pistol from the desk and walk into the hazy light.

  Time’s a funny thing. In that interrogation room, it felt like an hour, maybe a lifetime: I could see everything perfect, how it was all going to wind up. But Rod, I think he’s in a worse position than me—and that’s a hell of a place to be.

  If he doesn’t get the switchbox back, they’re going to do him like he did poor Davey. It must have been him, on his own; no way he brought the higher-ups in on this. That was a direct message, to Isaac.

  But he got me instead.

  And I was willing to bring this whole thing down on everyone, blow up a good thing. The Syndicate, they’d never let that happen; they’d whitewash everyone involved in Riverton from the face of the earth, Erase us all, then start again.

  They would be gunning for me soon, and Rod was already—not to mention this Kristine chick. And Isaac, I wasn’t sure what his end game was, if he was still floating around. I bang my cigarettes against my flat palm, causing one to jump out. Better than Xanax, these things. I begin to walk, now sure of my next move.

  At certain times of day, Riverton has that glow of Americana you might see in brochures or old golden age talkies. The essence is there, hiding amidst the faded boards and shattered glass, waiting for someone’s imagination to fill in the missing pieces. And if someone does, they might catch an ephemeral glimpse of specters from the past: finned cars and well-coiffed boys, pompadour hair waving in the wind as they drive down the sunny strip, trying to impress the girls in their pastel dresses and lipstick they stole from their mother’s boudoir.

  The residential area never possessed much of that charm. I walk up to Jasper’s house and rap against the aluminum; no answer. I try the knob and the door swings open.

  “Hey Monk, you in here?” I head towards the back. “You drunk fool, I know you’re listening.”

  I hear groans from the bedroom, beneath a mess of dirty sheets and towels.

  “Aw, piss off, I’m sleeping,” he says, voice muffled by the blankets, “this ain’t a decent hour to be awake.”

  “I spent the afternoon in a holding cell.”

  He rolls over. “What now?”

  “Cops raided the bar, like they were busting a cartel. Gassed the place and everything.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “And Davey, he showed up. Dead.”

  “Oh man.” Monk doesn’t sound like he wants to get into this.

  “That’s the damn truth. It still hurts to talk from all that gas.”

  “Maybe this experience will put some hair on that pussy of yours.”

  “And I found the girl who sent that message.”

  Monk gets up and puts a shirt on. I have his full attention.

  “You want to share, or you want me to guess like some sort of asshole?”

  “A Fed. Said her name was Kristine.”

  “Well that’s a hell of a mess.”

  “That ain’t even all of it. We traded shots earlier.”

  “Trying to woo her with drink?” Jasper slaps me on the ass, like he’s proud or something.

  “Gunshots. You saw the damage last night.”

  “Right.” He stares at my shoulder; I’m not favoring it all. Best not to explain. “Damn, this girl sounds like she’s got some fire.”

  “She knows about my sticky fingers too. And some more stuff.”

  “That ain’t no good.” He pauses, then looks up at me. “What other stuff?”

  “This and that,” I say with a shrug. “Funny thing is, she didn’t care about the bank. Hell, I think she knew about the robbery beforehand, let it happen.”

  “How you figure?”

  “Only one person would’ve heard about the bank.”

  “Candice.”

  “Yeah, and get this: that’s her mom.”

  “The old goat had a kid?”

  “Yup. I think she’s gunning for revenge. Against Henderson.” I stop, thinking over my next words. What the hell. “But it was my brother who clipped Candice. She doesn’t know.”

  “That religious whacko? Why’d he do it?”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” I say, “get dressed.”

  “We should pay downtown a visit, then.”

  “What for?”

  “To go antique shopping. Where we would have gone last night, if you hadn’t been a big prick.”

  The front door flutters behind us when we exit. Monk doesn’t lock it this time, either.

  Pawn for Profit is a dirty place, even as scummy pawnshops go. Damn near everyone in Riverton’s stepped foot in here, and shit tends to leave a stink.

  “Our boys in blue are slipping,” Jasper says, right before his nose gobbles up the line of powder on the dash, “letting you keep this.”

  “Riverton’s finest.”

  “It sure don’t taste like blow, though.”

  I try a little out. This stuff is strong, stronger than the last batch I had.

  “What it’s supposed to taste like without drain cleaner cut in.” He doesn’t need to know what it is. The less he knows, the safer he’ll be. When it comes down to it, most people want to know about time travel; they’d prefer just to remain ignorant, live their lives in peace, without any excitement.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he says, rubbing his fingertips over the design on the bag. Slap a price tag on it and you could sell it at the damn grocery store. “I seen this before.”

  “I think you’re just high, man.” I’m flying.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head, eyes fixated on the logo, “I seen it somewhere. You can kill me if I didn’t.”

  I’d be surprised if Jasper’s never seen this stuff before. Any junkie or dabbler worth his weight would have found this. Maybe he’s been slacking; either way, this line of questioning doesn’t need to continue.

  “Let’s just see what Professor knows.” I still haven’t been told why we’re here. “What is it he knows, anyway?”

  “Everything.” Jasper says it like the man is God. Maybe he is.

  We get out and enter the shop.

  Trash and treasure are piled from floor to ceiling, creating a narrow, somewhat precarious pathway through the labyrinthine store. If I had to guess, this Professor never sells a damn thing he buys.

  After winding our way through, we reach the counter.

  “State your business.” A shotgun’s pointed between us, and the Professor’s behind the counter, little spectacles perched atop his nose, gray hair tied in a ponytail.

  “Christ old man, it’s Damien and Jasper,” Monk says, waving his hands in the air. The Professor doesn’t move.

  “You hard of hearing, boy? I didn’t say anything about your damn names. I was inquiring about your business.”

  “I can hear just fine, but you look like you might be having some trouble in that department.”

  The Professor fires a blast, buckshot blasting through some rickety chairs over our heads, sending wood raining down as we crash to the floor.

  “Holy hell,” I say, hands over my ears, “why would you go on and do something like that?”

  “Your business, son.”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “You’re the next best thing to Candice,” Monk says, “and seeing as how she’s dead, we could use some information.”

  “You boys with that Henderson asshole?”

  “No.”

  “Why you playing detective, then?”

  “I’ll show you. Can we get up?” All the insolence has gone out of Monk’s voice. He’s almost a gentleman now.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “
Without you shooting us,” I chime in.

  “Sure, I can work with that.”

  We’re both jittery as hell, and it ain’t from the drugs. The Professor’s expression hasn’t changed.

  “I’m going to pull out my gun and put it on the counter,” I say.

  “That’d be good, son.”

  When I step forward the shotgun barrel touches my chest. I can feel the cold heat through the shirt fabric. I slide the gun across the counter.

  “And I got something on my phone that we could use your help with.” I don’t know if this is what Monk wanted to know about, but screw him, bringing me into a shooting range. The video plays. At the end, he takes my gun off the counter and puts his down.

  “You should have seen the pair of you when I fired that one off. Whew, that’s worth a couple laughs.” Glad he’s glib about almost shaving part of my head off. “This is that kid who died five years ago, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, got it off a Fed. I hear you’re the man with answers.”

  “I am?” Professor plays the video again, bringing the screen real close to his glasses. “That’s a murder, all right. I guess you best find who filmed it.”

  “I was wondering about the girl I got it from.”

  “So you want to know about Kristine, huh?” My expression must look dumb as rocks, because he snorts. “You were the one who thought I had information. Why be surprised when I have it?”

  “It’s just that—”

  “Yeah, Krissy’s been gone for twenty years. They sent her to 2049.”

  “Why?”

  “Ask the guy in the picture.” He peers over his spectacles. “Looks like your friend knows him pretty well.”

  “What’s he got to do with it,” Jasper asks, “it don’t make any sense.”

  “Because your Daddy was into some shit, son,” The Professor says, like it’s obvious, “and this man” —he points at me— “knows plenty about that already.” Oh boy. The cat isn’t coming out of the bag, it’s tearing it apart like a Bengal.

  “What’s the link between the kid and the girl?” Jasper asks.

  “Well, son,” the Professor says, all expressionless, “I’d say that’s your sister.”

  This guy doesn’t mess around.

  I’d like to know how the Professor knows so damn much, since he’s not part of the Syndicate, or nothing, but I figure he wouldn’t tell me anyway.

  “Well, there’s your answer then,” he adds after a long silence, meaning get the hell out of the store.

  “Why would she come back?”

  “You’d have to find her. I heard she’s around somewhere.”

  “The whore’s kid.” Jasper’s regained his balls.

  “Show some respect,” Professor says, hand resting on his shotgun like a walking cane, “you’re talking about family.”

  “Whatever.”

  “These are hallowed halls, boy. You best know that.”

  “Hallowed enough to catch a full shotgun spread.”

  “You keep talking like that and I won’t miss next time.” Jasper’s not taking this news well.

  “All right,” Monk says, throwing his hands up in resignation, “you were saying, about Kristine.”

  “That’s it. I can’t explain it all.”

  “But—” Jasper says, seeing if his protests will sway the Professor’s mind. They don’t.

  “Time to go.” The old man reaches down and comes up with the two guns. I take mine, while his shotgun assumes a familiar position.

  Jasper and I leave the shop and part ways—Jasper to drink more, me to do some digging.

  15

  Janice

  It seems that Kristine and Jasper are blood.

  The only question, then, is how Jasper’s daddy came back with her, looking so damn spry. That all makes my head hurt.

  In any case, there was a reason she came back. Who knows. Maybe she just wanted to see her real daddy.

  I mean, I understood, in my own way.

  I push through Sissy’s spotless glass doors, slide on to a red vinyl stool at the counter and run my hand through my hair. Sweat and perfume collide in the air, vestiges of an unceasing day. It’s midnight. One day left.

  Janice comes over with her pad. Lines would crease her face if she’d lived in Riverton her whole life, like everyone else. Somehow her few years here haven’t ruined her looks.

  “What can I do you for, mister?” Same greeting as always.

  “Coffee,” I say, smiling—or at least I think it’s a smile; it might resemble the snarl of a rabid dog. But she grins back and says right away. I watch her too short skirt and smooth legs retreat towards the kitchen. Gorgeous; it’s a wonder no man has shacked up with her, although that’s not for lack of trying on the part of the locals.

  “Hell of a day, by your looks,” she says, putting the mug down, face glowing. She leans in, close enough that I think—for a wild moment—she might kiss me. “It’s about the bank, isn’t it? I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s a hell of a story.”

  “They’re saying Lenny and Mitch are dead, and Isaac, he shot at a federal agent and ran off…”

  “Ran off?” Maybe he’s alive. I catch myself; she can’t know about me, what I’ve done. “Some excitement then, huh?”

  “You heard from Isaac at all?” Her eyes glisten. Don’t know why. The two of them weren’t close.

  “Nope.”

  “Take a cigarette break with me, please?” Sure, I’ll go outside with a pretty girl. I finish my coffee—it’d be much better with some whiskey—and exit the diner.

  “That’ll kill you, you know,” she says when we’re out by the dumpsters and I’m dragging on a cigarette.

  “That’s what I’m aiming for.” I eye her up. She’s one of those real pretty girls who’s also real shy, like she don’t quite believe what she sees in the mirror. Her manicured nails are in between her teeth, and I realize that I’m staring straight through her, right down to Mexico City. “Hell of a scene up there,” I say, pointing up the street, smoke trailing behind my hand.

  “You haven’t spoken with him?”

  “Not since you last checked.” Janice glares and says nothing. It clicks. “You and him? Damn if I don’t feel stupid.”

  “We didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Not even me. How long?”

  “A year, maybe. Off and on.”

  “Maybe I should be asking you if you’ve heard from him, seeing as he’s keeping secrets.”

  “Right after it happened.”

  I choke and exhale smoke in her face, and she shoots me a look back that could melt a glacier.

  “So I guess you know I was there too, don’t you?” She nods. “You’d think the bastard would give me a courtesy call. Mouth of an angel, heart of the devil.”

  “Stop.”

  “He can die out in the desert.”

  “You have to help him.”

  “I’d rather be caught pressing my ass cheeks against Henderson’s windshield.”

  “I think the Sheriff might be more interested to know about your involvement.”

  “It sure would be nice to know who I’m getting in bed with at least once. Just once.” Henderson’s breathing down my neck, executing fake search warrants to get his ledger back. Kristine hasn’t showed up. Who knows what Jasper’s up to—and now meek little Janice is pissing vinegar on the whole mess.

  “I’ll tell.”

  “Just scream it so the whole town knows.”

  “They will, if you won’t—” Her voice is drowned out by the growl of a motorcycle. The bike pulls up in front of us, its rider outfitted in the requisite dress: tight leather, boots to the thigh, reflective visor. It’s the same ride from the night before, and I can see now that my power outage was cau
sed by a chick—a rather sexy one.

  “I’m hurt that you already found someone after last night, Damien,” Kristine says. “I didn’t take you for a charmer.” She puts a gloved finger in her mouth and gives me this doe-eyed look. Insane. And hot.

  “Aren’t there laws about dicking over my generator?”

  “Yeah, next to the ones that say I should bring you in,” Kristine replies, “besides, it got you out of the house, didn’t it?”

  “I had a little break-in last night.”

  “I heard. Wasn’t me.”

  “I’m stuck with you anyway.”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe, honey.” Kristine pops her gum. “You weren’t at the bar, so I had to make a couple calls. We have a meeting.”

  “You weren’t on time.”

  “I can’t tell if this place or yours is more of a dump,” she says, giving Sissy’s the up and down, “tough call.”

  “Hey, I run this place,” Janice says, face flushing red, “and it isn’t any dump.”

  “Slap some sense in this little girl before she gets in trouble,” Kristine says, looking at me.

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “It’s about time we rode off into the sunset and wrapped up this little story, anyway.” She gets on the bike and I hop on the back.

  “Hey,” Janice calls over the roar of the engine, “remember what I said.”

  “Yeah, don’t worry about that,” I say, and then Kristine sends the chopper bursting on to the road towards The Lucky Lady.

  16

  A Meeting

  The cold shower blasts the sleep from my bones. A chill seizes me as I dress; if Isaac needs my help, he’s sure waiting for it real patient. I find Kristine sipping a drink downstairs, boots on the counter. The place is a mess again, from Henderson’s cops. I’m not cleaning up again.

  “I think it’s time for some ground rules,” I say.

  “Oh, is this not free?” I’d tell her off about the boots, but it seems like a minor issue. She also frightens the hell out of me.