by LE Barbant
“Make that two.”
Rhett and his new friend made their way to a high-top table and placed their glasses on the cocktail napkins. “So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
She laughed. “If you knew anything about girls like me, you’d know we hated being called girls. My name is Jillian.”
Rhett stuck his hand out. “So nice to meet you, Jillian. Rhett Johannes.”
“Rhett? A bit on the nose for a speechwriter, don’t you think?”
It was Rhett’s turn to laugh. “My sweet mother was enamored by Gone with the Wind.”
“So, you don’t give a damn?”
“Not usually. What brings you to our little soirée?”
“Free drinks, mostly. And, I’m a reporter.”
Rhett raised his eyebrows. “This is off the record, right?”
“You never know—better be very careful.”
“Post-Gazette? The Trib? I’m pretty sure I know all the women at The Pittsburgh Times. Or are you the one that came all the way out from Harrisburg?
Jillian leaned an elbow on the table, grabbed a swizzle stick from her drink, and bit down on it. “None of the above. I’m actually from Keystone Voice.”
Rhett sipped his gin and tonic. The bartender had given him a double, which didn’t disappoint. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you said you were a journalist.”
She gave a fake laugh. “You think I never get that, right?”
“Well I’m sure daddy’s proud of your blog.”
“Daddy is proud, Rhett. I’m clearing six figures with a weekly readership larger than the number of people who have heard all of your speeches put together. So, yeah, I’m doing OK.”
Rhett liked her. She was smart and could handle him, which put her in a small minority. “Kindle publishing, Noisetrade, blogging—doesn’t anyone believe in proper vetting anymore?”
“Look who’s talking. I’m sure the one editor that looks over your speech brings sufficient integrity to your work. You probably got a handful of comments and ignored every single one of them. Or is it the Mayor? Is he your peer review?”
“My credentials were my peer review. It takes a rare talent to do what I do. But it takes nothing to start a blog. We’re just letting anybody publish whatever,” Rhett said, shaking his head. “The fall of civilization.”
Jillian wore something between a smile and a sneer. “Vivá la revolution. Maybe the establishment needs a little shaking up.”
The woman was sharp, funny, and quick. Rhett realized she was just his type. It would be dangerous mixing it up with a journalist, but he wouldn’t mind taking the chance with her.
“Sure, the establishment has its flaws, but it’s a known entity with accepted procedures. If we cast out all the intellectual gatekeepers, then what?”
“Oh, I have gatekeepers. There are a hundred thousand of them a week. If they keep reading, I get to keep writing. Not to mention the comments. This is actually why the indie community is going to save journalism. We aren’t owned by anybody other than our true constituents—the readers. It’s journalism how it was meant to be—a true free market. Which, working for that neo-con jagoff,” Jillian nodded toward the mayor, who was smiling and shaking hands, “you should be into.”
“I said I worked for the guy. Doesn’t mean he’s got my vote.”
“Wow. You’re a real class act, Rhett. My daddy would be proud I’m talking to a guy like you in a place like this.” She grinned.
Rhett found it difficult to assess how much honesty was mixed in with her sarcasm. Bleeding heart liberals loathed him. But so did conservatives, more often than not. “My old man worked in a Honda plant in Indiana. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna drive an Accord. Our culture has seen hundreds, if not thousands, of master artists commissioned to paint things they don’t want to by people they don’t necessarily like. I’m not all that different.”
“So now you’re a famous artist?”
“Not yet. But I’m getting there. And before I’m done, everyone will know my name and hear my speeches. You better be nice to me.”
Jillian pressed the button on her iPhone to check the time. “Well, Rhett, I’d love to keep chatting, but I have an exclusive interview with the Senator. He turned down the Trib to make time for me and my little ‘blog,’ so I better not be late. I didn’t come here to socialize.” She smiled. “Unless you want to give me a quote.”
“Not a chance. Remember, this was off the record.”
“No sense of adventure.” She raised her glass and tilted toward him. “But thanks for buying me a free drink.”
He smiled as she rose and walked away. “Next one’s on you, Strawberry Shortcake.”
She replied over her shoulder. “Until next time, Rhett-orician.”
His eyes followed her until she passed out of sight. Then the speechwriter returned to his drink.
“You want to sleep with her, don’t you?”
“Where’d you come from?” Rhett asked his brother as he joined him at the table. “And, of course I do.”
“You are utterly distasteful.”
“And I’d guess she’s pretty tasty.”
Rhett tilted his glass all the way and drained the remaining liquid. He slid the ice into his mouth. “You should try it sometime, big brother. It might suit you.”
“She’s not the one we’re waiting for. But she’ll be here soon and you’d better be ready. I have a bad feeling about all of this.”
Rhett set down his drink and straightened his tie. “When am I not prepared? You’ve got nothing to worry about. We can handle your mystery guest.”
****
Rhett prided himself on his attire. It was perfect. Life in Pittsburgh made fashion easy. The city dressed itself up from the sale racks of JC Penney, so Rhett always stood out. Jason Hamilton was the only one on Dobbs’ staff who could hold a candle to Rhett’s wardrobe, and the speechwriter resented him for it.
“New shoes, Jason?” Rhett asked, handing him a gin and tonic, while taking a sip of his own.
“Oh, these old things,” Jason’s teeth sparkled. His parents must have spent a fortune on the damn things. “Great speech tonight.”
Mouthwash was fresh on the man’s breath. He was meticulous. “We did alright,” Rhett said. “He stepped all over a few lines. And that joke in the beginning?”
“I know, right?” Jason smiled, drawing up crow’s feet around his eyes. Rhett assumed a surgeon would take care of those in the next few years. Jason was a rival, and Rhett was glad to have him. It kept him sharp. “Based on our data, that speech is going to do the trick. We’ll surge in the polls and dollars will start pouring in. All thanks to you, Rhett.”
Jason placed his hand on Rhett’s shoulder. It lingered. Rhett placed his own over Jason’s and smiled. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without you and your data.” Rhett released Jason’s hand and stirred his drink.
Nervous red splotches appeared on Jason’s neck. Rhett felt badly—he couldn’t imagine lacking control over such basic bodily responses to external stimuli. But the man’s tell gave Rhett what he needed.
“How have you been mining that data? I’ve looked at our surveys and they couldn’t provide nearly as much nuance as you seem to have.”
Jason tittered. “I don’t kiss and tell, Rhett.”
Rhett raised his right eyebrow. “Never?”
Splotches spread toward the researcher’s ears. He took a sip from his glass.
“Come on.” Rhett whispered, “You can trust me.”
Jason leaned in. Answers spilled out in hushed tones. “There’s not too much to tell. Truth is, I’m not exactly sure where the intel comes from. This woman delivers it to me periodically. My guess is that she’s some sort of outside consultant that Dobbs is contracting with.”
“Interesting. You never got her name?” Rhett asked.
“I tried to strike up a conversation once, but got no response. Whoever she is, Dobbs is keeping it pretty close to the chest.”
Jason looked at his overpriced shoes. “Listen, forget about it. I should have never told you.”
“Jason,” Rhett paused. His eyes darted around the room. “Don’t worry. It’ll be our little secret.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
You would think blood would come off of chrome more easily, the scientist thought as she applied more pressure to the steel-wool pad. She reached for a different chemical solvent, poured it onto the rag, and hoped it would erase the damned spot.
Human blood had a distinct odor to it, and the smell made her sick.
In her previous life, blood wasn’t an uncommon sight. But back then she worked to repair what was broken. Now her product caused the damage.
She pulled a lever and the sound of machinery filled the room. A series of chains held her creation in place and, by manipulating mechanical gears and pulleys, she could lift it from the ground. The thing offered no resistance. As the object of her attention spun to face her, the scientist longed for simpler times.
Amazing.
In the lab, her creation was entirely hers to control. But when she released it into the world it followed different orders. She knew what it was capable of and when it returned dripping with blood, her imagination ran wild. Though ignorant of what it had done, she knew full well that she was responsible for the fruit of her labor.
In the same way, she was also responsible to the fruit of her womb.
Dueling responsibilities were a certain kind of hell.
Don’t worry darling. This will all be over soon.
“Remarkable.” A voice interrupted her work. “You should have seen her in action.”
The scientist spun, facing a woman who looked like an Olympian goddess without the toga. The muscles on her lean arms rippled with the tiniest of movements. She had dark brown skin, like the photos the scientist had seen of migrant workers in the Southwest. Her eyes were beautiful, but contained an intensity that told the scientist she was dangerous, untrustworthy.
“I’ve seen enough.” She held a bloody rag up as if offering evidence to the jury. “What do you need?”
The soldier grabbed the cloth and held it for a minute, observing the blood stained pattern marking the white fabric. Whatever story she read in its design upset her, and she threw the rag aside.
“We need more intel,” the goddess said, “Our employer stepped up his game last night, and we need to know its effect.”
“Here’s what I have so far. I’ll send out B.U.B.O. tonight for more reconnaissance.”
She pulled a jump drive from her lab coat. What remained of her conscience told her to put it back, but, knowing the alternative, she passed it into the calloused hand of the otherwise flawless woman.
The hand gripped hers.
Their eyes met.
“I know this isn’t easy for you,” the soldier said.
You have no idea.
The scientist forced a smile. “It’s a job. Like any other. I know the price tag, and I will be paid my due. You understand. Don’t you?”
For a moment, her hard eyes softened. “You have no idea.”
Pulling her hand away, the woman turned and left the laboratory without a word.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The torrent calmed to a drizzle and the air was thick with the smell of hot, wet asphalt. Rita crouched, her butt between her heels and arms hanging between her legs. Her knobby elbows pressed against bony knees. From her vantage point she could see clearly into the windows across the street.
The spot was her own, and she watched the same scene play out like every other Thursday night. The man cleared the dining room table as the mom sat nursing. The baby was three months old and getting big. A smile spread on the woman’s face as her eyes shined down on her pride and joy.
Everything was perfect.
Minutes after finishing the dishes, the man placed a light kiss on the woman’s forehead, like every other night, and left Rita’s line of vision. She held her breath, even though she knew he’d be back in view within a few beats of her heart.
The door cracked open as he stepped outside and lit a cigarette. A dog, smaller than Willa’s cat, yipped into the rainy air. The man stepped down the two steps and turned left, following the pattern.
The Taylors were liturgical creatures. Rita could set her watch by them.
Mike followed his nightly route down North Avenue. The brick streets and repurposed oil lamps were part of the charm that drew young urban dwellers to the North Side. Mike and his wife moved in nearly a year ago. Rita had watched Mike do the heavy lifting since his young bride was full with child.
The rain threatened to extinguish his smoke, so he cupped it in an attempt to keep the ember glowing. Mike swore he would stop, always setting goals and never achieving them. Rita always hated smoking and he knew it, but now she reveled in his addiction. Another piece of the past that hung on.
Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, Rita followed him. She could do the course blindfolded. The slick shingles would have caused most to slip, but she was made for this. The last leap was the furthest, nearly a dozen feet.
Rita took it without hesitation.
“You got a light?”
Rita spun, finding a hiding place behind a chimney.
“Yeah. Sure. Here you go.” Mike passed his lighter to a guy in a Steelers hoodie. The man lit his cigarette and inhaled as if his life depended on it. Handing the lighter back to Taylor, he asked, “How about a couple of bucks?”
Rita heard the man laugh as she had a million times before. “Nah, man. I have a no-cash policy. Sorry.”
Light shimmered off the knife the man pulled from the hoodie’s front pouch. “Maybe it’s time to change your policy. I’ll take whatever you have, then. Phone. Wallet. Everything but the dog.”
Rita peered over the lip of the roof again. Just do it.
“Come on, man.” Mike raised his hands to his shoulders. “I’m just out for a walk. Why don’t you give me a pass?”
Damn it, Mike.
“Not a chance.” The metal flashed again in the direction of Mike’s face, stopping just shy of his cheek. Mike’s hands shook like leaves in a gentle wind.
After a quick calculation, she jumped.
It was perfect.
She came down between the two men, knocking Mike back and the mugger to the ground. The kid looked up; he couldn’t have been over seventeen. Lips quivering, he stared at Rita. “What…what…are you?”
“Get out of here. Don’t come back.” The gargle was deeper than ever.
The kid dropped his knife and ran.
“Rita?”
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
Instead, she sped down the road and slipped into the closest alley. Rain came harder again and mixed with her salty tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Chem balanced the aging laptop on his bony knees. His spot on the couch afforded him a view into Elijah’s room, where Tim still lay prone in the historian’s bed. The man had been unconscious for twelve hours, but Chem knew the worst was behind them.
He and Elijah had argued again about a hospital visit. Elijah finally relented, storming out of their tiny house. Chem hoped that his roommate would realize that they weren’t normal citizens any longer. They had to be cautious and keep a low profile. Tim’s condition would raise red flags for any medical staff and might even warrant a call to the Pittsburgh police—something none of them wanted. They could lie their way through the situation, but better if they didn’t need to.
His side project was going nowhere. After an hour of power searching the databases, his eyes were blurring, and he was no farther along than when he started. Rita’s case was confounding. All he had to go on was her testimony of what occurred the night of her accident. Trauma made her memory hazy. The catalyst was biological in nature, but he kept running into dead ends in regard to what could cause such a drastic change.
Chem had grown accustomed to being overconfident. Hubris was his hallmark,
a natural consequence of usually being right. But he was coming up short, which seemed to be his new normal.
The worst part about the entire thing was that every minute he spent trying to uncover the mystery of Fishgirl—and configure a cure—was time spent away from Project Branton. That was his pathway to glory. But Rita had him by the short and curlies. The information she held over him could do some damage and he was determined not to let it get out. His best bet was finding a fix for her, fast.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel badly for the woman. Her transformation changed everything. After his experience at med school, Chem thought that he understood isolation, but Rita’s experience took it to a whole new level.
But he hated being forced into something, and it was hard to pity someone who exploited you without remorse.
Chem shut his computer. He needed some fresh air and hoped that a walk might knock something loose. He checked in on Tim one more time before heading through the door.
****
The site of Robert Vinton’s last stand had been picked over thoroughly by Pittsburgh’s finest. For a police force of their size, they had an impressive forensics team. Word on the street was that the feds were called in to run point, but the media was silent on the matter. He crouched at the obvious site of death, the dirty asphalt still stained by the pool of blood that had flowed from Vinton’s body—the effect of the brutal bludgeoning that ruptured his body and ended his days.
Chem wasn’t looking for blood, but burns. Reports pointed to a creature much like Elijah’s monster. If that were the case, everything in the alley should be charred. He also assumed that if the creature was the same, there would be residue left behind by the monster’s dripping molten steel.
But there was none of this.
The recon mission came up short.
But the scientist knew that sometimes nothing was everything.
****
Chem sipped the Big Black Voodoo Daddy. The guys made fun of their African-American friend’s insistence on ordering the brew, but he didn’t care. The Russian Imperial stout was delicious, and the 12.5% ABV was precisely what he needed to take the edge off. The rich smell of grilled lamb wafted in from the gyro food truck positioned outside the opened garage doors.
