“We don’t have orders to abduct you.”
“You’re going back without me then?”
“No. We will stay until you are ready to go.”
“What will you do if I decide not to go?”
“We will drug you in your sleep and take you with us.”
“That sounds like abduction—”
“It does.”
“But you don’t have orders to abduct me?”
“No.” Stephan jittered his eye back and forth and weighed his options.
It didn’t matter that he was broken. He needed to be with Henna.
“Are we stopping for the gargoyle?”
~Out of Business
Word of mouth was the best advertisement. Officers flocked to Trojan Wash. Bonn installed big screen televisions near the massage chairs in each station. Within a week they had ninety percent of Metro area police vehicles processed. Ryker hired bike messengers to dirty-up outstanding units. Before long, all of the city’s functioning police vehicles were under surveillance and Trojan Wash went out of business. The GPS modules only broadcast when in motion. Units were just green dots on a map when unoccupied. Voice-operated microphones recorded only when there were sounds above seventy-four decibels, but the cameras ate up battery life—they ran full time. Each battery pack had to retain enough energy to activate one of two switches. One switch released a puff of powder. The other activated foam that would encapsulate the powder stored in the mirror and render it inert.
They couldn’t wait too long.
Shortly there wouldn’t be enough power in the units to accomplish either task. Two days at the most. Bonn looked from the Germans to the monitors. One wrote source code while the other edited, then they switched to check each other’s work.
He couldn’t imagine what could stump them—their output appeared infinitely adjustable. Their efficiency was astounding.
As he watched, Ryker trialed an algorithm in a test environment. There were too many active units to monitor concurrently, so he’d written a program to do it. Rickard nodded his approval. It worked. In a few keystrokes, they applied the program to the live environment. The Germans leaned back to watch as processors analyzed patterns of speech, movement, and interconnectivity and measured them against conditions that ran opposite freedoms outlined in the Bill of Rights. Infractions were graded and organized by severity. Images subdivided the screens.
Bonn couldn’t quite follow what had been accomplished. “This is real-time?” Rickard popped something crunchy in his mouth and nodded. “Amazing.”
Ryker reached for the cup of crickets and Rickard handed them over. Ryker dumped the remains inside the cup into his mouth as though the insects were ice chips. He spoke with his mouth full of musky wings and legs.
“Introducing the top ten offenders.” He expanded screen number one and they got an audio and video feed from inside a police car. “Let’s listen in for a while—make sure it isn’t just the president on the radio.” Rickard nodded gravely. Bonn wasn’t entirely sure it was a joke.
~Rohypnol
Terrence finally slept. He had the nicest dream. They were at a Yankees game—he and his boy. The stadium was full of people who hadn’t died.
They were alive because he was a good cop.
Passers-by went for hotdogs and beer, but each stopped to pat his shoulder or to shake hands to thank him. Some were people he’d seen dead, but today everyone was vibrant. There was no cause for decay in the ballpark. Everyone was young. They were happy and fresh. His boy caught a ball—a home run. The batter jumped the fence to sign it. He asked for a bite of Terrence’s hotdog. He’d run the bases later. Stella was there too—happy and strangely quiet, sitting beside them. The Central Park vigilante spoke to him through a device deep in his ear. Now he was in front of a room of cops. He was the vigilante’s puppet. He explained the microphone under the park bench to a room full of his biggest lab-geek fans. Stella asked to listen in, but there was only one ear bud. He couldn’t afford to miss any leads.
“You ROOFIED me?” Terrence’s eyes flew open. This wasn’t his dream. “Your place is nicer than I imagined.“ Stella sat up in bed next to him. She wore white pajamas. She rubbed the bed linens like you might pet a dog. Her eyebrows rode high on her forehead, as though she were confused, but pleased. “The sheets are really soft.” She looked as bewildered as he felt. Terrence sat up. He, too, wore white pajamas.
This wasn’t his apartment.
“Wait a minute—you ROOFIED ME?”
“This is not my place,” Terrence managed. “And you’re not my type.” His head ached mildly.
They were drugged.
Stella looked under the covers. “You’ve got pants on. I’ve got pants on. That’s a good start.” She looked around the room. “Well, it isn’t Heaven, ’cause I gotta pee.” Stella swung off the covers and went to find the bathroom. Terrence got up slowly and walked to a massive door.
Locked.
A camera lens sat above a keypad shielded by thick glass. He tapped on the solid-looking steel door with his fingernails—it was very heavy—maybe even filled with concrete. There were no windows. The walls were concrete too, but were stained in warm earth tones. “There are little soaps in here,” Stella called from the bathroom. “Oh—they smell nice—like root beer and some kind of tropical flowers.” Terrence stood straight. He looked at his feet. He tapped a foot on the solid floor, then pushed hard on his eyeballs with his fingertips.
This was no elaborate extension of his dream—this was real.
Stella padded out of the bathroom and rummaged through the refrigerator in the small kitchen. “You do love Fresca, don’t you, Ham?”
She still didn’t get it.
Stella sorted through a massive wooden bowl full of pomegranates, avocados, and mangos on the counter. Terrence opened the refrigerator to see for himself. Several cases of Fresca sat perfectly aligned on two of many shelves. Stella found a knife and cut up some fruit. “This isn’t my place.”
“Yeah. You said that. So where are we then, Ham?”
“We’re captives.”
“Uh huh. We’re captive. Spa-captives—with ten thousand thread count cotton sheets and little soaps made from beach flowers. I’m gonna go look in the bathtub—if we’ve got those little fish that nibble the nasty bits off your feet I’ll be a while, so do you need to pee first?” Stella paused to bite into a slice of mango, then raised her eyebrows in a serious look. “Only. One. Bathroom.”
She was right. He didn’t understand women at all.
Whirring sounds filled the apartment. A massive impressionist painting slid sideways. Beneath it, a huge television screen flickered to life. A well-coifed newscaster tapped papers he wouldn’t glance at and turned to face Terrence with his two-foot wide face. “Brownsville’s riots are losing momentum this morning. The National Guard continued to patrol the streets last night in an attempt to enforce the 8:00 PM curfew—some locals seem thrilled to have the uniforms on the ground.”
Riots in Brownsville? How long had they been here?
A well-dressed Latina wearing a ridiculous orange hat popped onto the screen. “A grassroots uprising is born from the tragedies that plague our streets. We’ve needed a catalyst to bring the citizens of Brownsville to our senses. We’re awake now—we are Brownsville! We’re not going to hide anymore. We’ll swarm! We’ll identify and flush out the enemy.”
“Thank you, ma’am—back to you, Mark.” Mark explained an uprising of law-abiding citizens calling themselves “The Tigers” now patrolled the streets. They’d already run off known drug dealers and criminals and planned to tackle gang violence next. “An unlikely hero began this movement when he aided a twelve-year-old girl in need—he put himself in harm’s way when he didn’t have to.” A new camera angle framed the newest edition to the studio team—the attractive street reporter wore a smart new suit and sported freshly bleached teeth.
“I like her blouse.” Stella sat in a comfortable leather c
hair with her bowl of fruit and kicked her feet up.
“Welcome to the crew, Mary.”
“Thanks, Mark. It’s an honor to report the unknown hero who started this movement appears wheelchair bound. He saved a girl from a fate of shame and degradation, a story all too common in Brownsville—the mystery man inspired those who’ve felt powerless to enter the streets and take action. It may be just what Brownsville needed and for his efforts, if he’s watching tonight, Brownsville and the News Center Team thank him for the brave things he did—and the ongoing bravery he’s inspired.” Mark reported the recovery of a policeman’s body from the East river. “The officer, whose name cannot yet be released had laminated photographs of himself with multiple children in various vulnerable states—suicide has not been ruled out at this time.” Mary shook her head for a couple seconds in an awkward attempt to illustrate both disapproval and remorse. With all her culturally appropriate bases covered, Mary raised her eyebrows and in the next breath, wrapped up the morning news.
“Two other police officers remain missing—veteran homicide detective Terrence Grimaldi and his partner Estelle Castillo went missing Monday morning—no evidence of a struggle was found at either detective’s residence when officers performed safety checks. However, in each of the detective’s homes, an ominous note was found—allegedly written IOUs were left for each officer.” A picture of Stella filled the screen.
“They chose that one? I have helmet hair in that one!”
Mark and Mary in the Morning gave a phone number for viewers with information helpful to authorities. Stella stood and stormed around, looking for a phone. “I’m gonna call and tell them where to find a better picture. Nobody’s gonna look for me looking like that—I look like el Coco.” Stella didn’t find a phone, so she went back to the kitchen. Ham heard the freezer open.
How long they had been here—three days? More?
“We got Ben and Jerry’s. One, two—”
The last thing he could remember was going home to shower.
“—like fifteen little tubs of it.” Terrence made his way to the bathroom. Some routines couldn’t be put on hold. He picked a small soap out of a large bowl of toiletries and smelled it.
She was right—it smelled nice.
He heard Stella outside the door. “Leave the little white soaps for me, Ham. The ones that smell like root beer. You can use the flowery ones, but we’re gonna have to conserve a bit to make them last. You should know—I’m due in fifty-two days. And Ham? It’s our guy. He got us, Ham. I’d bet there’s gonna be a test on something, so we’ve got to figure out what it’s on. We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want you to deliver Daniel, Ham. You’ve gotta figure a way out of here before we’re out of ice cream.”
~Fresca
Had it been a week? It was hard to tell. Terrence tried sleeping in one of the chairs, but each time he awoke, he was in bed with Stella. Whoever kept them stocked in fresh fruits and toiletries also tucked him in at night—after the gas put them to sleep. They developed a routine. The news came on in what he guessed were twenty-four hour intervals.
It could be taped news—he wasn’t sure.
Everything felt out of balance.
Well, one thing was reliable.
Terrence looked up at the document. The copy of the Bill of Rights was set into a heavy glass shadowbox flush with the wall. It remained dimly lit until the news came on—during the news, however the light changed.
It pulsed.
The oscillating amber tones were difficult to ignore.
Stella was right. There was going to be a test.
Terrence studied the document for at least an hour a day. He’d known each of the amendments loosely before his incarceration, but now he knew them by heart. He’d sold Stella short. She’d merely glanced at the ancient looking document and she had it. She quizzed him when the lights went out. While they waited for the gas. She didn’t just paraphrase each item either—she could recite each amendment verbatim. As Terrence took on the role of pupil, he lost track of how he fit into the world. He’d stopped struggling with modesty and physical barriers. Since he began each day extracting himself from Stella’s aggressive spooning techniques, he’d surrendered. Stella moved him about like a stage prop. Terrence got into bed first. Stella lay down with him. She put her head on his shoulder.
“You should really know these by heart, Ham. The amendments, I mean. You know why? You weren’t born here. Like me. My great grandmother used to quiz us. She was so old she remembered what it was like before the Spanish American War. Aren’t you a first generation immigrant? You should know them, Ham. Even if most folks born here can’t tell you which amendment is the freedom of speech, we should know. It’s why I’m a cop, Ham. Why are you a cop?”
He’d never asked himself that question.
The faint smell of butterscotch and propane filled the air.
The sleep gas.
They had just a few seconds. Since neither of them would remember the conversation in the morning, he answered truthfully. “My dad.”
“He was a cop?” Stella blinked, fading.
“No. He beat us. And molested my sister.”
“But not you?” Terrence couldn’t open his eyes.
“No—well—yeah … me too. We needed a cop, so I became one.” The butterscotch swam into his sinuses and Terrence felt his mind expand into a broad field of nothing.
Stella was up first. With nothing pressing Terrence to hurry into the day, he lay still and listened to the pregnant woman sort through the kitchenette. “We got four more tubs of ice cream.” Stella called out. Terrence wondered what the end game was. It’d been weeks. Stella acted differently—she hoarded things like a squirrel prepared for winter. He pretended not to notice the pyramid of toilet paper rolls she’d amassed under her bedside table. He wondered if she’d weave a multi-ply quilted nest when the time came to push the baby out. He willed his neck to move and shook his head to clear the image from his brain.
He had no inclination to find out.
“And a new book.” Stella wore Terrence’s sweatshirt, which their benefactor left one night. Stella got one too, but she said his fit better. Terrence dared not argue, so he wore his pajama top around the clock. He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. The deliveries of Fresca had ceased and the bitter brown fluid did help the morning headaches that came after the gas. Stella looked like a woodchuck. She wore reading glasses. With her legs tucked under her, swimming in his big sweatshirt, she looked like an intellectual rodent reading John Locke in a custom stitched Scandinavian lounge chair. Terrence sat in his chair and sipped the coffee. The Bill of Rights glowed brighter than usual. “I would’ve ripped the wig off of one of these stodgy fools and made him chase me for it.” Stella declared. Terrence stood and walked to the document. He was certain they were watched on camera.
If he appeared trained, could he go home? Home—did he have one? He had an apartment—did he pursue happiness? He had the right to, but did he do it? What was happiness?
“All he’d see is my big ol’ bustle, Ham—peeling out like I hit the nitrous switch.”
Stella seemed happy. Despite recent events.
Terrence felt envious. The painting slid aside and the television came on. “Tell me what happens—I’ll be right back.” Stella ran for the bathroom. She returned in moments. She handed him a Fresca, then popped the tab on her own can of the warm but coveted beverage. Terrence realized that hoarding his sodas somewhere in the bathroom was Stella’s attempt to do something nice. A treat—something to look forward to.
Missing people quickly become boring when they don’t turn up dead—some trees were stolen from an elementary school courtyard, a woman was on the lam after she submitted a counterfeit lottery ticket—then their story.
Third in line.
A choppy video of Terrence in the boxing ring filled the screen. With a devastating right cross, young Terrence ‘the Hammer’ Grimaldi knocked out his opponent and looked
to the referee to call the fight. Stella cleared her throat, as if prepared to say something, but didn’t. “Forty-two and three.” Mark in the morning misreported Terrence’s boxing record and filled the next few seconds with tidbits of information about him that Terrence suspected summarized him as a man.
Is that all he was? It didn’t seem like much.
Stella couldn’t contain herself. “We know. Ham’s still missing. Now me. Do me.” Mark in the morning looked to his left as Mary in the morning pantomimed the guy who’d been knocked out. “Oh, that hurts.”
Mary had no idea what a punch felt like.
Stella was on the edge of her chair. She bounced in anticipation. “YES!” A glamor shot of Stella filled the screen. She appeared to have an entire container of lip-gloss on her lower lip and hoop earrings so big they rested on her shoulders. Stella did a victory dance. It looked two parts running man and one part sprinkler. Gas prices were down. More trouble in the Middle East. The painting slid back into its parking space. The Bill of Rights glowed and pulsed. Stella tucked back into John Locke with a smile on her face. Terrence patted his belly. There’d been a time he could crack a walnut on his abs. He was still pretty firm, just saggier. He went to the side of the bed where Stella couldn’t see him and sat on the floor in his strange pajamas. He did sit-ups as quietly as possible. It didn’t take many before he felt the old familiar burn. If Stella heard him she didn’t poke fun. Pushups were next. He didn’t know what life had in store for him. Pushups probably wouldn’t prepare him for it—but they wouldn’t hurt either.
Thirty-eight and TWO, Mark in the morning. Thirty-eight and TWO.
INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1) Page 31
