The three cops stopped, turned and saw a homeless man squatting on the floor in the front corner of the hall, knees pulled tightly into his chest.
"You be coming for the man in black?" he asked, eyes glowing in the shadows, wide and lolling in concern of something that could be created solely within a mind sick with disease. "Cause if you is, I gots to report it to the leader of the troops!"
Curious, Frank stepped forward. "The man in black? Who do you mean?"
The vagrant awkwardly stood up, nearly falling back down in the process. His clothes hung in tatters like strips of skinned animal flesh. "I don't know his name, but he's with them, and they's got to be stopped. That's what the leader says."
Frank smiled curtly. "Who is this leader?"
The man staggered toward the door. "Jyro! That's who. Now you jus' watch for the men in black. There's one here. They's the bad guys, working for them. The radio people."
Under normal circumstances Frank would have completely ignored the bum—he always insisted to Jaimie that she do the same—but he felt compelled to listen, to try and pry information. The bum looked crazy, but he also seemed to believe in what he was saying.
"Who are the radio people?"
"You jus' go home and put on your radio. You'll know it when you hear 'em!"
And then the vagrant ran out of the building, trailing his odor behind.
Frank faced Hector and Ernie. "The men in black? Radio people? What do you think gentlemen?"
"Just like the rest of them, Frank. Mentally ill."
"Them?" Frank asked, smiling. He had hoped to get a serious answer from Hector, but got mostly what he expected. A shrug off. He'd be best off doing the same right now. It wasn't time to start playing on gut instincts. They had other business to attend to.
As quickly as his intrigue with the bum's utterances arose, it vanished, and they continued on.
They moved to the elevator, once again silent, the lack of conversation beyond the encounter with the vagrant reasserting Frank's discomfort. It was an...an apprehension, hanging in the air, and Frank could feel it. Judging from the uncertain looks on his companion's faces, Hector and Ernie did too.
I don't know his name, but he's with them...
Suddenly Frank remembered something. When he first walked into the13th precinct earlier today. The one-eyed man sitting in the chair.
He's right, you know...
The aliens. They are here.
They. Them?
Frank shook off the insane thought.
The small elevator waited for them. Hector managed to find the button for the sixth floor amidst the layering of urban art and pressed it. The car slowly rattled up, shaking loudly. Frank's meager personality suddenly and inexplicably forced a terrible image to the forefront of his consciousness, unnerving him: the elevator, giving way and crashing down, leaving the three of them abandoned and helpless upon the ground, the local scavengers helping themselves to their belongings, the perverts violating them afterwards...
"Frank?"
Frank shook the day-mare away.
"You joining us?" Hector was smiling slightly, he and Barba standing on the landing to the sixth floor, waiting for Frank to emerge from the elevator.
Frank stepped out and joined the two cops.
"Still tired, sleepy?"
"All right Hect, cut me a break."
They walked the length of the empty hallway. Although less imposing than the expansive jungle-like environment outside, the surroundings here still carried a ambience of threat with it. A baby's incessant wails issued out from an apartment toward the end of the hallway. A pair of Hispanic shouts did battle from behind the closed door of another. The violent pounding of rap music worked it way through from the floor below. A variety of odors commingled in the air, some from dinners, most from neglect and uncleanliness.
"What's a Jewish guy doing, living in a place like this?" Frank wondered aloud.
"Poverty doesn't discriminate," Hector said firmly.
"No shit," Barba added, wiping his brow and looking around, his comment an instinctual cover to his obvious nervousness.
After passing five doors, Hector stopped. The door he stood in front of had an unremarkable gray appearance to it, making it simply one in the long row of others, the mystery of its occupant its only allure. "Here we are, 6J. Harold Gross' place."
Hector nodded. Barba knocked.
No answer.
He repeated. Again, no answer from within.
Frank instinctively reached for the knob and twisted it. The door clicked and swung open about two inches. "Uh-oh," Frank said quietly. "Didn't expect that."
He looked at Hector who, pinching his lips in thought, whispered to Barba. "Ernie, what time was it when you called in for the warrant?"
"7:45, around there. They said it'd take an hour."
Hector glanced at his watch. 8:20. "Mark the time in your minds gentlemen. 8:50."
Nodding, gun now drawn, Frank gently placed a hand on the door and pushed. It slowly swung open, squeaking. If Gross was inside, he would know he had visitors.
Ernie entered first, gun stretched out in front of him. He spun from right to left. Frank immediately followed suit, racing in to the left, pendulating his weapon, seeking even the slightest bit of movement. Hector immediately raced to the bathroom. He returned, shaking his head.
All was quiet at Harold's place.
The three men took a moment to catch their breaths, re-holstering their weapons, still alertly glancing about. Harold's apartment was in utter disarray, as if someone had burglarized the place, although the likeliness of that occurring—even with the open door—was unlikely as the lack of valuables here couldn't so much as tempt even the most novice crook. No phone, no television, no radio, only worthless items: scattered articles of clothing, old magazines, newspapers, broken plates left out with food scraps of meals long eaten. A tattered couch, foam bursting through holes in the fabric like out-of-control fungi. A moldering rug, buckling under their feet, acting as a graveyard for cigarette butts. An age-old bar stool and beverage crate, centering the room with no direction in mind. Paint chips serrating the walls like a peeling sunburn.
"I'd rather be a guest at the Racine's," Frank said.
"No kidding." Barba removed his hat and wiped his brow. It appeared their sudden and impetuous entrance into the apartment had him a little shook up. He'll get over it, Frank thought.
"Well, we're here," Hector said, pacing around, shifting a pair of jeans on the floor with his shoe. "Let's see if we can find anything."
Never in his twenty-eight years of life had Harold Gross felt so lost, so out of control. He kept telling himself to get a grip on reality, but chaos stormed in his mind, and he kept slipping further and further away from sanity. With the Supplier and the Atmosphere now gone, he could no longer rely on the section of his mind that had mastered his actions so sufficiently over the past two weeks, that had clued him in to his every step, his every move.
Yes, Harold Gross was indeed very lost.
Bursts of memories to his past kept breaking through, thoroughly confusing him. He remembered so many things about himself that had been completely shuttered: that he had been abandoned as a child twenty years ago, forced to live in foster homes. That he later graduated to juvenile halls when he discovered that a quick buck could be earned by just taking it. He worked menial jobs, flipping patties at burger joints, washing dishes at diners, streetcleaning. He spent a total of 256 days in jail, the rest on parole or under supervision. Arrested seventeen times—deserved many, many more. He'd dealt drugs, stolen, burglarized, mugged a few people.
But never had he ever killed anyone.
Or had he?
With holes in his mind now breaking open to accept waves of reason, he reflected back on the memories of the Atmosphere. It had felt so glorious, so incredibly satisfying to simply have it in his possession, and to share it with others—so long as they gave it back when they were through. It was as if
he had been a chosen one, a unique individual to spread its glory to the world. And perhaps he had.
But for reasons he now understood to be wrongful and malevolent.
He had been deceived.
Tears sprang from his eyes, a tearing of emotions forcing him to choose one of two different paths. He could seek out the lost Supplier and the Atmosphere, retrieve it and allow it to carry him back into the untruthful yet blindingly stimulating state of consciousness.
Or he could shed his skin of the unknown evil and begin his life anew.
That would be too damn hard.
This is what a junkie must feel like when he's aching for a fix...
Harold looked up at the building in front of him. He'd been pacing the streets for an hour or more, trying to bring himself back to reality. He stepped forward, walking the littered pavement, kicking an empty beer can as he made his way to the entrance.
What better place to sit and make a decision?
Home.
Frank, Hector, and Ernie spent thirty minutes picking through Harold Gross' meager belongings. Just as their first impressions had revealed, nothing of any monetary value seemed to exist here, only garbage. Newspapers, weeks old, yellowed and tattered. Magazines, stained and swollen to the size of the Nynex yellow pages. A small three-foot refrigerator, sitting crookedly below the apartment's only window, its paltry contents barely edible. Dirty clothing, strewn about, not a drawer for them to rest in.
They did, however, find a few interesting things.
Hector showed Frank something he noticed when he first entered the bathroom. The sink. It held six inches of dirty water, clogged from an abundance of hair. On the floor to the left of the sink three disposable razors lay scattered like dead animals fallen from a cliffside, their blades clogged with hunks of brown hair. Tiny droplets of blood dotted the edges of the white porcelain sink and the dirty mirror hanging on the wall.
"I figured he was just bald all the time. Naturally, you know?" Frank said.
Hector placed his hands on his hips. "Seems as though he likes to keep himself up to snuff as far as his head goes."
"Not much else though. Guy's a damn slob."
"Captain?" Ernie called from the living room. "I found something."
Frank and Hector exited the bathroom. Ernie had moved the couch away from the wall and was hunkered by a small rectangular-shaped hole in the wall. Beside him on the floor lay a metal vent that had presumably covered the hole at one point.
"I saw that the edges around the vent were a little worn, so I kinda played with it and it just fell out. Look at this." He aimed a penlight inside the hole.
Frank and Hector crouched down and looked inside.
"Holy moly..." Frank said, nearly speechless.
First they saw the money, a big pile of it wrapped with rubber bands. Hector gently removed the stack and thumbed through it. Ones, fives, tens, twenties, some crisp, some not, but a nice accumulation nonetheless.
"It's his God-damned life savings," Frank observed. "He's a miser."
"There's a brown paper bag in here too," Ernie said. "Captain?"
Hector nodded. "Please."
Ernie reached in and grabbed the bag. "Whatever's in it, it's light." He handed the bag to Hector.
Hector unfolded the top, first peeked inside, then reached in and pulled the contents out. A pile of small papers appeared in his grasp, some tumbling to the floor.
Frank picked one up. "This is a store receipt, for jeans. There's a return tag attached to it."
"They're all store receipts. Clothes...music...electronics, and get this—almost everything here has been returned." Hector scratched at his moustache. "The Gap..."
"He has good taste," Frank said thumbing through a few more.
"...Fifth Avenue Electronics...Rock and Soul Music. He bought a hat at Jerry's Bargains and returned it a week later."
"Macy's. Bought and returned two shirts."
"Here's one without a return. A place called Village Clothing, on Union Street. Wow, big purchase. Listen to this. Three hundred sixteen dollars. Pants, leather jacket, gloves, sunglas—"
"Hect!" Frank dropped the receipts he held.
Hector looked at Frank momentarily, smiled. "—sunglasses, socks, shoes. This is our probable cause."
"The icing on the cake."
"Captain?"
"Yes Ernie," Hector said, still looking down as he quickly fanned the remainder of the receipts.
"We've got company."
Hector and Frank looked up.
Still wearing the same black clothing from the alley, the leather jacket, the jeans, the sunglasses, Harold Gross stood in the doorway, looking at them.
Inexplicably, Harold became immediately paralyzed at the sight of the Outsiders in his apartment. He tried dearly to coerce movement in himself, but could only stand frozen like a mannequin, a unique intermingling of emotions—much different ones than those the Atmosphere conjured—thwarting his every effort to move: fear, indecision, confusion, anger, all integrated to form a single complex state of awareness, severely complicating the battle of thoughts inside his head.
As the three Outsiders stared at him, he offered a glare of his own, trying hard to decide exactly what he should to do given the dire circumstances. He forced his mental efforts to dig down deep within his consciousness, try to come up with a solution to his inaction. But sadly no thoughts came, and both parties remained in a motion deadlock for what seemed an eternity, but was perhaps only a few seconds.
Then suddenly, from within his deep psychological travels, an answer came forth, not one invented from his own imagination, but of another origin—a voice, the voice of the one and only entity that could indubitably provide him with a reliable answer. The only one he could trust at the moment.
The Giver.
It was as if the force field within his mind holding back his thoughts had simply vanished, releasing the solution to Harold's dilemma, loud and clear.
Kill yourself.
Frank, Hector, and Ernie, now unexpectedlyface to face with Harold Gross, were all clearly indecisive in their immediate choice of action. The man was dangerous, unstable, probably armed, and needed to be handled like a crate filled with china: gently. Go easy first, then pull the punches if need be. That would be the best course of action.
Hector dropped the receipts he held. The couch blocked a clear pathway towards Harold. He took one step to the right, in front of Frank and Ernie.
"Harold Gross?"
Harold immediately raced off down the hall. Ernie leapt the couch, yelling freeze! Frank ran past Hector, following him, Hector on his heels. Frank remembered the feeling of paralysis he experienced in the alley when he first encountered the mysterious bald man that had turned out to be Harold. He hadn't the energy or the gumption to pursue him through the fence. Now, this time, he swore to himself he'd shoot him before he got away.
He only prayed that this time there wouldn't be any unexplainable holes for him to escape into.
Once in the hall, Frank saw Harold racing past the elevators toward the opposite end. Ernie was ten steps behind, keeping pace with him. At once Frank noticed the absence of an exit sign and turned quickly in mid-pace to see one over the security-barred window at the other end of the hall, half its face cracked and missing. "Are there any steps over there?" Frank yelled.
"I don't think so." Hector's words were nearly lost in his labored breaths.
With horror, Frank saw that Harold showed no intention of slowing. Dear God. "Ernie! Be careful!"
Ernie slid to the tiles when he realized what Harold was going to do. He covered his head with his arms, shielding himself from the inevitable.
Harold hurled his body into the window, shoulders first. Glass shattered everywhere, raining over Ernie, who crawled away from the bursting fragments.
But what Harold hadn't realized was that the windows were barred, and he slammed forcefully into them, jarring them a bit, but not enough to give him his freedom. He
fell to the floor in a river of glass, his face—sunglasses now thrown askew—a sudden bloodied mask, jagged shards of glass sticking from his cheeks and forehead like the tiny lights on a Christmas tree. He staggered up, wobbling like a marionette, then screamed sheer lunacy, an animalistic howl, started pulling frantically at the bars, seeking escape as if his life depended it, banging his forehead against the top of the window frame, one, two, three, four times, over and over again. Blood flew from his wounds in an amazing spray.
Ernie scrambled up, gun pulled. "Freeze mother-fucker!"
Harold continued to yank on the bars, screaming in a tantrum, crying hysterically, tears lacing through the blood on his face in pink rivulets.
Frank, gunned pulled, said, "What the fuck is he doing?"
Hector moved alongside him. "You've got three guns on you, asshole. Get away from the window."
Harold, still pulling, finally turned to face his pursuers. Tears and snot washed down his bloody face in a pathetic stream of agony. His eyes were two glassy black orbs. "Please, he cried. "Please kill me..."
Finally, with Hector holding the gun on him, Frank and Ernie wrenched him away from the bars, tackled him to the glassy ground and cuffed him. Hector called for back-up.
A squelch emanated from Ernie's radio. With one hand on the back of Harold's head, his knee in his back, Ernie answered the call.
"Captain?"
Hector faced him.
"The warrant. It was just issued."
Chapter Thirteen
Happy hour at Danford's was no different than all the other afternoons Jaimie joined her friends for what they termed a 'cleansing', which meant the 'washing away of the day's studies with a few cold beers'. Of course none of the girls were of legal age to drink; a good deal of the students here hadn't reached twenty-one. But somehow, the college hot spot always managed to get away with allowing a few university students in to release some pressure, as long as their drinking didn't get out of hand.
"If you smile at the bouncer, he'll let you in." This was Tracy Scheuler's philosophy, which had always worked for her, although Jaimie would rarely try this on her own. She had hardly felt comfortable riding Tracy and Barbara's coattails into the bar, which lately she found herself doing much too often. Her father would have a fit if he found out his daughter was using her good looks to get into a bar.
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