by LE Barbant
The man batted away Tim’s hand. “Touch me again, asshole. See what happens.”
Tim smiled. “Come on, guy. The girls are done. Cash it in and move down the bar.”
Elijah was impressed with Tim’s self-control. Tim grabbed the frat boy by the arm, trying to lead him. The guy shoved Tim on the chest with two hands—high school fight style.
Tim’s composure unraveled.
In a blur, the redneck swiped the man’s hands, grabbed the back of his head and slammed it on the bar. Without a moan, the guy slumped to the floor at the feet of his friends.
Tim turned to the other two. “We done here?”
They nodded.
“Good. Get him the fuck outta here. And find another bar. You jagoffs stay on the other side of the bridge from now on.”
The friends hoisted their buddy and limped for the door.
Max slid a beer across the bar to Tim. “Thanks, brother.”
Tim threw a five on the wood. “It’s no thing. Just what we do, right?”
“This one’s on the house,” Max said, nodding at the pint.
Tim smiled. “I know. That’s your tip. After all, the worker is worth his wages.” He nodded to the girls, who were still holding their breath. “Enjoy your night, ladies.”
****
Elijah slumped on the stool, his heart still racing. The historian was coming to terms with his new reality—from the PPG boardroom to the barroom. Nothing would ever be the same. If Tim hadn’t been there, Elijah would’ve stepped in. He felt responsible but didn’t know how things would have gone down.
Placing his hands palm down on the pallet boards, he exhaled. “Was that really necessary?”
Tim drew on his pint, earned through brute force. “Justice is always necessary. No matter the means.”
Elijah looked to Chem for support, but his friend kept his eyes on table.
“So I guess it’s time for me to hear your story, Tim,” Elijah said. “What are you, Batman or something?”
Tim laughed. “No. Not Batman.”
“So, what’s your, um, ability?” The question felt strange even to ask aloud.
“I’m a badass,” Tim said with a straight face.
Max, the bartender, slid up to the table with three full glasses. “Looks like you made some new friends.”
“Thanks, Max. All in a day’s work, right?”
In unison, the three pivoted and raise their glasses to the girls at the bar, who waved and laughed in response.
Elijah spun back to Tim. “But you’re different, right?”
“Well, I’m not like you or your poet friend. I’m certainly not like Rita.”
“Rita?” Elijah asked with raised brows.
“Holy shit, Chem. You didn’t tell him about the freak?”
“Didn’t get to it yet,” Chem said.
“What the fuck? You just drove all the way from Boston and you couldn’t find time to tell him about the strangest girl to ever crawl out of the Monongahela. What d’jins guys do the whole time?”
“I sang country music.” Chem shot Tim a glance that Elijah couldn’t interpret. “Let’s just let him meet her. You know, without you forming a judgment for him, alright?”
Elijah got off his stool and leaned on the high top. “Tim, you’ve met Willa? Do you know where she is?”
“Hell, no. No one’s heard from her since she went all ghost protocol on us.” Tim took a long pull on his beer. “I hardly know her anyways. Chem introduced us once. But I’ve heard stories.”
Chem stepped in. “She’s gone, Elijah, and who knows if she’s coming back. Hell, all that’s left of her is that damn cat. If she doesn’t come pick it up, Cat will be taking the place of the rats I left behind at the campus lab.”
Elijah finished his beer. “Alright. To be continued, then. I need to get a bed set up or something.”
“Come on. One more?” Tim asked.
“Yep,” Elijah said. “Tomorrow night.”
Elijah crossed the room, taking a moment to offer the blonde a smile on his way out. She returned it, but it just made him think about Willa.
Then Brooke.
Then, strangely, Sean.
CHAPTER FIVE
Halogen lights flickered overhead, dimly illuminating the large work space. The building’s wiring clearly had not been designed for the level of output she required and fuses blew regularly, plunging her into darkness. The five minutes required for the system to reset was the only break she ever took.
A table, as long as the back wall, held her equipment: second hand tools, repurposed machines, outdated computers. Nothing here was state of the art, but she’d seen worse. There were ample resources, though she focused most of the money on materials, which didn’t come cheap. Her own lab at home was better equipped, but her hosts provided almost everything she asked for. And what they were unable to procure she could patch together herself. Over the years, she had plenty of experience working with sub-par equipment. This wasn’t her first rodeo, and she hoped it wouldn’t be her last.
The door behind her creaked open, and she stood up stretching her back. She was sore from working for several hours while hunched over the table. Taking off her gloves, she rubbed her hands together, forcing blood back into her extremities. Her knuckles were scraped and bruised, a testimony to her haste. Speed was part of the job and she worked faster than ever.
The man’s aftershave hit her from thirty feet away. His musk had become a familiar odor, and she looked forward to the time when it would no longer interrupt her work. She spotted the stain on his uniform. It was day four of the oily mark’s occupancy. He was a foul man, inside and out, who cared little for personal grooming and aesthetics. But his presence was a necessary evil. Sadly, he was her most frequent visitor.
“You’re doing fine work, Doctor.” His breathing was labored from the short walk from his office to the lab. A round belly pushed at the buttons on the gray polyester. “Last night’s test was a success. Everything is going as planned...and ahead of schedule.”
She refused to acknowledge the brute with her eyes, which remained fastened on the mechanism she had been attending to before he arrived. “Of course it is.”
The faster the job was done, the sooner things would be made right.
He snickered, the scent of onions and garlic washed over her. “How long for phase two?”
“Soon enough,” she uttered, placing a hand over her nose and mouth in an attempt to shield them from his wretchedness. “But there are some things I cannot rush. And I need more supplies and a few more tools.”
“Anything. Just tell me what it is, and I’ll get it for you.”
She slid a yellow slip of paper with perfect handwriting across the table. The man’s stubby fingers grabbed it. Without a word, he exited, leaving behind remnants of onions and musk.
Free from the momentary distraction, the scientist leaned back over her lab equipment.
It’s all for her, she thought.
She smiled as her deft hands returned to work.
CHAPTER SIX
The police scanner buzzed—something about an assault on the North Side. Chem checked his watch and turned up the ringer on the phone. He wondered if he would be getting a text soon.
Better not be one of Ford’s.
After the confrontation at the bar, Tim seemed unsettled. The soldier was still a bit of a mystery, but Chem knew that something kept the man up at nights. A look in his eye told the chemist that he wasn’t yet satisfied. They finished their beers, then Tim jumped into his rusty pickup and roared away across the river.
Once back at their place on Tenth Avenue, Elijah went straight to his room. Chem retired to his makeshift workspace in the basement. He, like Tim, had needs that were best met at night.
Staying at the university wasn’t an option. His personal research project was becoming more intense and his own behavior admittedly more erratic. Suspicion was on the rise and his colleagues’ prying eyes seemed to be everywhere
. But lab equipment didn’t come cheap, even with Chem’s contacts. That meant that he had to take any house call that came his way—no matter how dangerous or absurd. His lack of income was taxing. While he certainly didn’t hope for urban violence, a few bills in his pocket would be a relief.
The lab he had set up in the basement was shoddy and uncomfortable, a scientific environment that was anything but stable. Nevertheless, it would have to do. Lack of elbow space was nothing compared to the assets he was losing by leaving the school. Chem still had the hacked identification card, which would get him into the lab in a pinch. But that came with a risk.
“At least I have you guys,” Chem said, tapping the metal cage. A half dozen, pale mice scurried, their pink eyes blinking at the chemist. “Oh, I know. There were twice as many of you last week, but that’s the price of progress, boys. The price of progress.”
“You finished yet?”
Chem jumped.
The gurgling voice behind him could only belong to one person.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
“I wanted to check in on your progress.”
A form accompanying the voice crouched in a chair in the corner. He could only make out her oversized raincoat as the light dimmed near the basement’s edge. Otherwise, she was out of view—and Chem was perfectly fine with that. He knew it was the way she preferred it as well. “You can’t just show up here. You think I’m going to get anything done with you looking over my shoulder?”
The figure stood. A pungent odor wafted from her direction. “What are the rats for?”
“They’re mice, not rats. But they’re not for you, so don’t concern yourself. I can’t commit all my time to your project, you know. There are other things—priorities. I will get to you, Rita. I just need some time. There are other things that are more…”
Gurgling laughter filled the darkened corner of the basement and interrupted the chemist. “That’s cute, Chem, but I’m not waiting on your altruism. I know you better than that. Remember, our arrangement is reciprocal. We both have something to gain.”
Chem leaned against the rudimentary lab table and rested his hands against its damp surface. “Look at this place. It’s a hole. I can’t be expected to work at the same pace here as I did in the laboratory. And you damn well sure can’t expect me to only work on making you…”
“Normal?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Chem said. “And no. Look around you. Are any of us—normal?”
“You know what I mean. My condition is different.”
Chem took a step toward Rita and opened his palms toward the darkened corner. “Trust me. I am going to make you better. You just need to be patient. That’s all I ask.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one that looks like this.”
The figure stepped out of the shadow and lowered the hood. He had seen her many times before, but his instincts still told him to retreat—not from fear, but from revulsion.
“Kind of sucks, doesn’t it, Chem?” The sliver of a mouth turned up in something akin to a smile. “You need to fix me. I can’t go on like this.”
Chem couldn’t take any more. He turned his back on the woman and focused instead on his test subjects. Stopping his centrifuge, he removed one of the tiny glass vials. Then he grabbed a mouse and placed it into a small, reinforced glass box. He filled a syringe and applied it to the tiny creature.
Tiny squeals filled the lab.
He smiled as he recorded the results.
“See, Rita, this is progress. Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out.”
His cell phone buzzed and Chem sighed at the interruption. The text came from a blocked number, which provided only an address.
Turning back toward his unwanted guest, Chem said, “I’m sorry, but I have to take this. We’ll meet next week to discuss…”
But he spoke only to darkness.
His lab was empty.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tracking Chem through the back alleys of Pittsburgh was nothing compared to the work Tim Ford had done on the streets of Fallujah.
After a short tour and honorable discharge, Ford had decided to put the skills he had honed serving his country to work as an independent contractor. He worked through Blackbow, a private military corporation that placed operatives in dangerous situations all over the world. Pay was determined by locale, and Ford was crazy enough to be the highest paid grunt that Blackbow owned. He’d carried guns for hire throughout the Middle East, as well as in Burundi, Columbia, and Somalia—to name only a few. The pay was good, and the company kept enough details off the table to ensure that the mercenaries could keep a relatively clean conscience—most of the time. Many of his peers lacked any moral compass. Tim assumed that half the guys would take out their best friends from a kilometer with a TAC-50, if the pay were right.
While Wilkinsburg lacked the dangers of a war-torn state, it certainly wasn’t a place to visit for kicks. But the depressed borough bordering Pittsburgh attracted Chem that night—and Tim along with him. His late-model Ford Ranger tailed the cab—keeping a safe distance back. He certainly wasn’t afraid of being made by Chem—the scientist focused only on his work. The retired merc needed to give his nerdy companion some pointers on stealth and evasion so the chemist could make it to Thanksgiving.
Chem ducked into a house on Campbell Street. Through his binoculars, Tim counted two people waiting for the doctor’s arrival in the foyer. The broken-down old house might have been the only tenement on the block officially occupied, though Wilkinsburg had its share of squatters.
Foot traffic was light; not surprising for after two in the morning in a less-than-savory neighborhood.
Tim pushed a pinch of Copenhagen under his lip and waited. The nicotine settled his nerves, though he wished he could do without it. Over the course of the summer, Ford’s stakeouts became more and more frequent. Initially, upon returning to the states and his hometown, he was restless. The transition from mercenary to civilian left him incomplete. His body craved the adrenaline spikes afforded by his previous work. Depression had set in quickly, and Ford, not knowing what to do, turned to the bottle to stave off its effects. Then, when that wasn’t enough, he began his late night missions.
****
Stumbling out of the bar, Ford was nearly drunk enough to dance in public. The hot summer night baked the South Side streets, but he was oblivious. The harsh edges of his malaise had been worn down by booze, but he still felt something not quite right in his gut.
It may have been the beer, or whatever pill that busty redhead gave him in the bathroom.
Tim staggered into the alley and lost his stomach next to a dumpster.
“Ah, man, that sucks.”
Tim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slowly turned to face the voice. The world continued moving after he stopped. “All in a night’s work,” Tim said, sizing up the figure in front of him.
He was more boy than man. A Steelers jersey from the Kordell Stewart era hung over baggy jeans. Tim’s well-tuned sense of danger tingled despite his intoxication.
“Well, take care, buddy,” Tim said, making for the alley.
“Hold up, man,” the guy said. “Can you help a brother out? My car broke down and I’m trying to get home. You got a couple of bucks for bus fare?”
Tim closed his right eye and squinted his left, trying to make the two blurry images of the kid merge. He jammed his right hand into his pocket. “Nah, man. Sorry. Left my last couple on the bar for a tip. Good luck, though.”
“It’s cool. I’ll take your watch instead.” The guy stepped forward.
“Like hell you will,” Tim growled.
Laughing, the man said, “You’re in no shape for this, buddy. Pay your toll, and go sleep off your drunk. This is the way it works.”
Tim stepped toward his adversary. “You don’t know how it works. And trust me, you don’t want to find out.” The slur in Ford’s speech was thick enough to confirm his st
ate—to the kid and to himself.
The man grabbed a fistful of flannel and pulled Tim close. “Take the watch off or I will.”
With keys spliced between his thick fingers, Tim pulled his hand from his pocket and swung, the key knuckles connecting with the man’s throat. Releasing Tim’s shirt, he covered his neck. “Shit.”
Wasting no time, Ford landed a left to his stomach and finished him with a knee to the face. The sound of breaking cartilage filled Tim’s ears.
Coughing in a heap on the wet asphalt, the kid looked up at the drunken soldier.
“I don’t want to ever see you on the streets again. Next time, I won’t be so gentle.”
Tim left the alley feeling alive for the first time since returning to Pittsburgh.
****
The door opened, spilling light onto the front porch. Chem stepped out, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.
Tim checked his watch. He would give it an hour so no one would connect him and the chemist, not that the two made a likely pair.
When the time had passed, he stepped out of the Ranger and eased the door closed until it clicked. Tim passed the front porch and crept down the broken sidewalk between the dealer’s house and a condemned adjacent tenement. Thick blinds kept him from further surveying the scene inside.
Mystery was fine by him—in fact, Tim liked it.
The stairs creaked as he climbed toward the back entrance. A storm door missing its glass teetered on rusty hinges. Tim reached through and tried the knob; it turned freely. Excitement, caused by whatever required Chem’s attention, must have distracted the residents. Or maybe, in that neighborhood, people knew to avoid the house that Tim Ford entered unannounced.
The place was in shambles. The kitchen looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Reagan administration. Dirty dishes were piled everywhere, and spoiled milk assaulted his nose. Tim pulled the black handkerchief up over his face. It provided both a shield from the odor and protection of his identity. Sliding the brass knuckles from his jeans pocket, Tim exhaled and readied for battle.
