Symbiote

by Trevor Schmidt

  Agent Shaw hung up the phone.

  I hate that guy, Markov thought.

  Now he had an hour to get out of the station without raising any red flags. He looked at the clock: 12:59 PM. Markov could hear a set of high heels approaching his desk in a calm manner. He knew that sound. The succulent scent of vanilla wafted into his nostrils, painting a picture in his head of the beautiful woman to whom it belonged.

  Dr. Pearson had a reputation around the department for being the only shrink the guys actually wanted to talk to. It helped that she always wore a tight fitting skirt and three-inch heels that her 5 foot 10 inch frame didn’t need. She must have been about thirty years old, fresh out of her post-doctoral program. Dr. Pearson was classically beautiful, with flowing brown locks that Markov so badly wanted to touch. If Karen were there she’d have given him shit for ogling. But she wasn’t, so he enjoyed every second of it.

  “Detective Markov,” she said with an angel’s voice. She held out her hand and continued, “If you’re ready, please follow me to my office.”

  Any other time, Markov would have loved to see the inside of her office. He may or may not have considered discharging his weapon in the past just to get a meeting with the pretty shrink. Unfortunately this wasn’t the time. Not when Karen was missing and the conspiracy behind Agent Shaw and his cronies was beginning to unravel. His stomach clenched as he stood up and took her outstretched hand. She had a firm handshake. He liked that.

  “Dr. Pearson,” Markov said with a wavering voice.

  It wasn’t like Markov to get flustered. Not unless Karen got him riled up the way she was so good at doing. That was a different kind of flustered.

  “I’m sorry ma’am, but I need to use the restroom before we start.”

  Dr. Pearson nodded and sat gingerly on the edge of his desk. She crossed her legs in a manner too sensual to be allowed. Markov’s eyes wandered up her thigh until he felt Dr. Pearson’s knowing stare. She checked her watch and then regarded him, aloof.

  “Hurry up, Detective, you’re eating into your time.”

  Markov held up his index finger and cracked a nervous smile.

  “Two minutes,” he replied.

  Markov walked quickly toward the restroom. Unfortunately, the elevators were on the opposite side of the office. There was, however, an emergency stairwell at the end of the hall near the men’s room. Markov smiled at Detective Goldberg as he was returning to his desk. Goldberg appeared confused at Markov’s gesture.

  Maybe I ought to smile more, he thought.

  Detective Markov walked right past the men’s room door and approached the emergency exit. He knew he was going to regret not sitting down with the doctor. The last thread of his career was dangling in front of him and he held a pair of scissors to it. If he went through that door, it was over. The men’s room door opened behind him and a detective walked out.

  “Hey, Markov,” Detective Sanchez said.

  Markov turned and leaned against the wall awkwardly.

  “What’s up, Sanchez?”

  Detective Sanchez looked him up and down. Markov was sweating profusely, a terrible side-effect of speaking to a woman like Dr. Pearson. Sanchez gave him a look of concern.

  “I thought the Captain had you chained to your desk. Does he know you’re up and about?”

  “A guy’s got to piss, right?”

  Markov brushed past him and into the restroom, leaving Detective Sanchez with a muddled look on his face. It wasn’t a look that was particularly new to Sanchez. He seemed to be one of the guys waiting it out until he could collect his pension, regardless of the fact that he had fifteen more years to go. Markov was continually surprised by how common a theme that was.

  Captain Riggs had once told him that it takes all kinds to make the department run. Even the poor performers contributed something useful eventually, he’d said. Markov didn’t know where the Captain got that kind of Marxist crap. He preferred to live in a cutthroat world where motivation, skill, and results beat out anything else. It was people like Sanchez that made him glad he didn’t have any children, because the last thing he wanted was to have to be happy for a kid who got a participation trophy. Markov was sure that guy’s walls were lined with that sort of garbage.

  He checked the urinals and stalls. The room was empty. Markov stepped over to the faucet and sprinkled a little water on his hands, washing the sweat off his palms. At least if he saw someone on the way out they wouldn’t think he was a non-hand-washer. His reputation was bad enough without that kind of stigma. He grabbed a couple of paper towels and patted down his forehead and the back of his neck.

  Markov tried not to look in the mirror. If he did, he might see the face of a cop who was about to be sailed down the river. He wondered what his father would say if he were alive.

  Antonin Markov was a proud man who put the law first. But even he had his moments where he put his own desires first. His father taught him that the law was important; something to be followed. He also taught him that there was no greater bond than that which exists between partners on the force. His father said that to him when he was eight years old. Markov didn’t understand until he joined the force and had a partner of his own. He was right, and no amount of tears in his childhood would change that. It was one of the reasons he’d never had children of his own.

  He finally looked in the mirror and was surprised at what he saw. He was a grown man who was making one of the most important choices of his life. Markov knew in that moment that he was ready to throw away his career if it meant he could save Karen. The bond between them was frustrating to him at times, but it was ever present and grew stronger every day. But it was more than that. Markov’s stomach felt cold when he thought of her face. The thought of never seeing her again made him feel empty.

  Markov clenched his jaw and moved to the door, cracking it and peering out cautiously. The hallway was clear. He quickly slipped out and opened the door to the emergency stairs, letting it close behind him. A single bulb illuminated each landing in the stairwell, revealing a large white number marking each floor. Homicide was on the third floor, but he’d never seen anyone take the stairs. That was probably just a testament to the laziness of the department.

  A red light above the door began to spin, throwing light against the walls. Markov realized there could be another reason no one used the stairwell.

  Shit, he thought.

  Markov took off down the stairs. There wasn’t any siren but he must have tripped a silent alarm. Those alarms usually connect to the Fire Department. They would be there soon and he couldn’t get caught in the bedlam that followed. He reached the first floor and burst through the door into the afternoon sun. Markov put up his hand to block the rays while his eyes adjusted.

  The emergency exit let out right near the car park. Several uniformed officers ambled by, possibly changing shifts. Markov adjusted his brown blazer, regaining his calm, and walked confidently to the street. His red Mustang was still in the St. Mary’s parking garage, so he’d have to take a cab. He made it half a block before a taxi would stop for him. Once inside, he heard sirens and fire trucks approaching.

  “4th and Mission,” Markov told the cabbie.

  Markov wanted to scope out the meeting site beforehand. His knowledge of spy movies told him not to get dropped off right where you’re going to meet a baddie. In retrospect it seemed to be common sense. Fifth and Mission was known for having a big parking garage, but Markov wouldn’t be caught dead meeting there. At Fourth and Mission there was a nice hotel with a bar. There would be plenty of cameras and more escape routes.

  The taxi driver floored it, throwing Markov back into his seat. He fumbled with the seatbelt, finally buckling it after half a block. Markov looked at the cabbie’s ID badge, which was attached to the Plexiglas window. The name on the ID sounded Asian. It read: “Srin Vannet.” The driver was a pasty white man wearing a black polo shirt with a close-cropped haircut adjacent to a military fade. The man turned and dropped
his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. He smiled and clicked a button, locking the doors. Markov cursed. Something told him he wasn’t going to get to his meeting on time.

  23

  1320 Hours – Day 3 – China Town - San Francisco

  The smell of ginger and five spice wafted into the cab as Detective Markov was delivered to the doorstep of the Emperor’s Palace Chinese Restaurant in China Town. Markov tested the door but they were still locked. He knocked on the glass, beckoning the cabbie to let him out. He slid open the Plexiglas window and held out his hand. The man wanted to be paid.

  Is this guy for real? Markov thought.

  If it were a normal cabbie who took him to the wrong place he wouldn’t have gotten a tip. But this guy straight up abducted him. Maybe Detective Markov needed to reread his etiquette handbook, but where he was from paying a kidnapper was called ransom, and it meant you were to be let go. Markov didn’t feel like he was being let go.

  “Thirty-Two Fifty.”

  Markov gave him two twenties and the doors unlocked. He waited for his change but it never came.

  “Thanks, have a good one,” the cabbie said.

  Detective Markov went purple in the face. He let out a huff of air as he exited the vehicle. Arguing with the guy was going to be like cancelling his cable service. There weren’t enough hours in the day and he had better things to do. For his own reference he memorized the number of the cab. Some poor immigrant probably lost out on a lot of money because of that jackass.

  After he left the cab, the driver stuck around, probably to make sure he went inside, Markov noted. He looked at the driver through the window and he patted the gun on his hip. Markov couldn’t believe he’d gotten into that cab. It wasn’t like him to be that careless. He couldn’t remember seeing any cabbie in San Francisco having a military haircut. He was distracted then just as much as now. Wherever they met, Markov reasoned, he would have had the advantage anyway. At least he could go in knowing he was at a disadvantage and wouldn’t be surprised when he was proven right.

  Markov stood on the sidewalk in front of the Emperor’s Palace regarding its interesting architecture. Bright red arches framed an ornate teal door, rising into several tiers above it, each larger than the last. Paper lanterns with Chinese symbols adorned the arch. Under it, in both Chinese and English lettering, was the Emperor’s Palace logo in chipped white letters. It looked like a place he would have liked to eat, if not for the onerous circumstances.

  Markov approached the door, which opened before he touched the handle. A chill ran down his spine. Markov hated that kind of thing. It meant he was expected. Part of being a cop was being decidedly unexpected when you showed up places. Apparently it wasn’t his day when it came to flying under the radar.

  The inside of the restaurant smelled strongly of ginger and some interesting spices Markov couldn’t discern. A slow procession of stringed instruments played Chinese music in the background. The restaurant was empty except for the corner booth, which was occupied by Agent Shaw who sat slurping his egg drop soup, a napkin tucked into his collar. He waved him over and gestured for Markov to sit

  He slid into the booth and put his elbows on the table. The placemat in front of him had twelve animals representative of the Chinese Zodiac with captions for each. Markov never paid much attention to them in the past. Somehow the thought that celestial bodies had an effect on your personality was laughable to him. Agent Shaw pointed to the Dragon on the placemat in front of him.

  “I was born in the Year of the Dragon,” Shaw explained through mouthfuls of soup. “The most respected of the signs.”

  Markov looked at the description and remarked, “Arrogant, self-centered, yeah, sounds about right.”

  Under the dim light of the restaurant, Shaw’s receding hairline became more pronounced and his thin cheeks created deep shadows along his angular face. He slurped his soup loudly and examined the other signs on the placemat. He was too calm for Markov’s liking.

  An older Chinese lady brought out a plate of Kung Pao Chicken and a serving of rice for Agent Shaw. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, with streaks of gray breaking up the shiny black strands. Wrinkles accented her lips and forehead in such a way that the dim light made her seem far older than she might have been. She pulled out a notepad to take Markov’s order, but she was quickly shooed away by Shaw. He smiled, bits of egg stuck in his teeth. He looked foolish sitting there with his napkin tucked in to his expensive suit.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I ordered without you.”

  An anger bubbled up inside Markov. This meeting was getting nowhere fast and as far as he was concerned, they were working against a deadline.

  “Where’s Karen?” Markov growled.

  Agent Shaw wiped his mouth with his napkin and swallowed a mouthful of Kung Pao. He carefully tucked the napkin back into his suit and then pointed a long, thin finger at Detective Markov. “She’s safe. Undergoing treatment as we speak.”

  “What kind of treatment?”

  “She’s got something of mine and I want it back.”

  Markov grabbed the plate of Kung Pao and slid it to the opposite corner of the table, out of Shaw’s reach. He didn’t enjoy interrogating a coy suspect. His style was to put the fear of God into a suspect; a feat far more difficult in a city like San Francisco.

  “What kind of treatment?”

  “Detective Markov,” Shaw said, placing his fork neatly on the placemat, “you’re treading in water that’s much too deep for you. You already know more than what my employer would like.”

  “Is that why Dr. Ellis had an accident?” Markov asked using air quotations around accident.

  “Dr. Ellis is perfectly safe at our local facility.”

  “What are you, CIA? What is it you want?”

  Shaw shot him a smug smile before answering.

  “No combination of letters you’d recognize, I’m afraid. We’re a small organization with deep roots. You’d be wise to stand down and let us handle this matter. I think you’ll find you’re ill-equipped.”

  “Government agencies don’t just go around abducting officers of the law. Whatever you are, whoever you’re with, I don’t trust you.”

  The server returned with a pot of tea and two porcelain teacups. Agent Shaw poured himself a cup and pushed the pot over to Markov.

  “Their oolong is the best, try some.”

  Markov pushed the pot away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two agents that weren’t there before. One of them was Agent Brown, the big bruiser of a man that kept popping up wherever he saw Agent Shaw. He still wore those big dumb sunglasses like he was a greaser.

  Markov rubbed at the nicotine patch on his shoulder nervously. He needed a cigarette, bad. He ground his teeth and tried to control his breathing, willing himself to focus on his conversation with Shaw. The back of his neck began to sweat and he grew even grouchier than he was already.

  “Detective Hall will be returned once I’ve retrieved our property from her.”

  “And I’m just supposed to wait around with my thumb in my ass until you return her?”

  “If you prefer.”

  Markov reached across the table and grabbed Agent Shaw’s shirt, bringing the man’s belly up against the table. The agents moved in closer but Shaw waved them away before they reached the table. Agent Brown adjusted his sunglasses and returned to a booth across the restaurant.

  “Take me to Karen or I’ll rip out your throat!”

  Agent Shaw smiled, bits of his Kung Pao Chicken still lodged in his otherwise immaculate teeth. He was a disgusting man with mannerisms Markov’s father would have beat him for as a child.

  “Calm down, Detective.”

  “Calm down? You pistol whip me, take my partner, and then have a cabbie abduct me a few hours later? Why the hell are you playing these games? If you wanted me out of the way why didn’t you just kill me?”

  “Kill you? Detective, my employer wants nothing of the sort. Have some tea, it�
��ll calm your nerves.”

  Markov released Shaw’s shirt and sat back in the red vinyl booth. He was at his wit’s end. Nothing made sense anymore. He pulled a pack of menthols from his blazer pocket and lit up a cigarette with shaking hand. As he took the first satisfying puff, he wondered why Shaw would go through the trouble of letting him go time after time if he knew about the parasite. If it was that important, Shaw could have abducted him and Karen at the same time. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Detective, I’m under strict orders to involve as few people in this matter as possible. Until you became a threat to my operation, I was content to let you go free.”

  Markov’s mind spun, collecting data and spitting back out nonsense. He didn’t know what to believe anymore. He reflexively poured a cup of tea and took a sip, a side effect of enjoying a cigarette. A warm sensation spread throughout his extremities. He did feel better. How about that?

  “I’m going to ask that you come with me, Detective. For your own safety of course.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Agent Shaw laughed and held his hands out as though offering peace. With one quick motion, Shaw snatched his cigarette from his hand and snuffed it in the teacup. Markov’s sense of time was becoming distorted. Instead of being angry at the gesture, he contemplated whether Shaw was moving fast, or if his mind was moving slow.

  “I’m honoring your request and taking you to see Detective Hall, why should you refuse?”

  Markov was silent. He thought up a dozen snappy remarks to say to the infuriating man, but his tongue became too numb for any of them to leave his lips. He noticed the agents inching closer and had a horrifying thought.

  Poison, Markov thought. You fool.

  “Besides,” Shaw said while getting out of the booth. “I think you’ll find me quite hard to resist in your present state.”

  Markov collapsed back into the seat cushion, his head tilted back toward the ceiling. As his eyes began to close he saw the two agents out of his peripheral vision. Agent Brown put a thick hand on his shoulder, steadying him.