~Catch and Release
Stephan left the door to his apartment ajar and walked to the center of the great room. He wasn’t sure how many people lived in the building. The Germans hadn’t provided him with anything as useful as an orientation packet. One door looked different. Thick metal. He approached the door cautiously.
Did he hear voices?
When he dipped his head and opened his mouth to really listen, he only heard normal city noises. Bonn was an aloof, albeit polite host. He seemed to have no expectations of him. When the Germans delivered him to the building, Bonn gave him a blue plastic card with a clip to wave in front of the sensors as he moved about, but the thick metal door that stood out didn’t have a sensor. Stephan had spent the morning poking around. He didn’t feel ready to explore the city yet, although the envelope of cash on his kitchen counter would allow him to do so in style. Stephan shrugged. He went back to his own apartment to brush his new teeth. A full set of zirconium—a bit too white to be believable. They’d installed them on the very last surgery, just before they took his eye. The oral surgeon joked with him in the recovery room. He’d said:
You can chew ball bearings now if you choose to.
Stephan washed his face and put the eye patch on. He jittered his eye back and forth to see himself in the mirror. Would the idea of chewing steel balls have been funny before? Before hammer blows pounded all perspective out of him? He stopped moving his eye back and forth and lost himself in the mirror. He could see the access badge on the counter. His peripheral vision seemed to be getting clearer, but it was frustrating. No. Not frustrating.
The word was infuriating.
Most mornings Stephan felt he had eggs for brains. Whipped into custard. He couldn’t talk the way he wanted. He even had to watch his feet in order to walk. He felt self-conscious about everything. It felt good to be out of sweatpants, however. That was all he’d worn at the hospital. Stephan pulled on some jeans and clipped the access badge to his belt. He left the apartment and took the elevator down a floor. The Germans seemed to be working on a computer program. They didn’t appear to notice him as he walked in. Their bat-like ears were translucent when viewed toward the light of the screen. He either saw or imagined that each man twitched an ear to track his approach. The ears searched him for importance, found none that was notable, then swiveled back to join the heads of the men pointed at the monitors.
Bonn reached up to turn off his own computer monitor. He stood to greet him. “Are you getting your sea legs, Stephan?” Stephan shook his head.
“I’ll be honest, I’m still trying to find my own legs. I’m not certain I’ll ever be shipshape.”
Bonn nodded. “You will. It takes a while—I’ve been there myself. You don’t know you’re getting better until you are. I understand we share an appreciation of animals. Have you had the grand tour yet?”
Stephan shook his head. Bonn walked quietly and slowly down the aisles with Stephan. Stephan felt himself come alive. He missed his work, and the lab was world-class. Stephan couldn’t imagine how much the place had cost to build. He couldn’t have even fed this many animals on his old salary.
“Fantastic.”
Stephan paused at an enclosure. A pair of eastern brown snakes. If he looked through the glass at an angle, he could see the snakes without looking back and forth. The female had the opaque eye caps and grumpy demeanor that promised an impending shed. “Do you mind if I meddle a bit? I’d love to have something to do.” Bonn shook his head and reached into a recess on the side of the enclosure. He offered Stephan a snake-handling hook.
“I need an expert.” Bonn spoke candidly. “I’m a novice myself. With Henna in Finland, we’re doing the best we can.” Stephan looked into the recess and gathered a few other items. He opened the snake’s cage, gently placed the female inside a plastic box, and slid the lid home with a click. He carried the box to a stainless steel counter with a freshwater tap and ran the water until it was the right temperature.
He hadn’t looked at his feet.
When the water was the right temperature, Stephan ran a couple of inches into a second plastic bin and deftly maneuvered the lids and the snake. “I’ll just let her soak a bit. It’ll loosen up her eye-caps enough that she’ll want to rub her old skin off. It’ll help her with the shed and she can calm down a bit. They get jumpy when they can’t see well and I feel bad for them. The less stress they’re under, the happier they’ll be.”
Bonn nodded appreciatively. “Thank you. I didn’t know that. If you have any other pointers, I’d love to hear them. Do you want to poke around for a bit? I need to finish something, but then maybe we could go get some lunch.”
Stephan started at the first cage. He moved slowly and talked to each animal in a soft voice. After a while he felt his stomach rumble. He couldn’t recall feeling hungry—ever actually. It felt good. This time when he approached the computer monitors, Bonn pulled a chair up for him. Stephan joined him and looked at the screen: it appeared to be his apartment, but different people were inside. A very pregnant woman sat reading a book while a man did pushups. Bonn seemed to wait for Stephan to comment on the scene. When he didn’t, Bonn offered an odd explanation.
“Not all the enclosures are on this floor.” Stephan’s host seemed to be counting the man’s pushups. “This pair is almost ready to set free.”
~The Oath
Terrence opened his eyes—in the kitchen, the coffeemaker sputtered—Stella must be making him coffee. She didn’t drink it. His arms felt heavy. It seemed much too early to start the day. The painting slid aside next.
Too early for the news.
Terrence willed his neck to move, but it refused. Light came from the television screen. It sounded like a sitcom was on. Recorded laughter came from the screen at reliable intervals. Stella turned the volume up. Kelsey Grammer’s voice echoed through the luxury prison. A woman’s voice came from just beside him. “Hold still. Someone’s here.”
Stella was still in bed?
Now that she’d spoken he could feel her head on his shoulder—her eyelashes ticking against his cheek with each blink. He felt her heart beating fast against his arm. A surge of adrenaline hit him. Feeling returned quickly to his hands and legs. If he had to jump up and fight he might stand a chance—but Terrence guessed he wouldn’t face fair odds. The Frasier rerun malfunctioned. Kelsey Grammer repeated, “Consider this,” a few times. “I’m not going to pee this bed.” Stella tossed back the covers and ran for the bathroom. Terrence sat up slowly and wiped his eyes. Fighting seemed ridiculous now. Their captor would’ve planned for that.
Time to find out what they want.
There was more furniture than usual. A third recliner faced the television screen with a man sitting in it. Terrence couldn’t see his face. He moved cautiously. It seemed the man was alone. No visible torture equipment lay about. Terrence remembered a scene from an old movie—a villain had the protagonist strapped down. The antagonist did horrible things to his captor’s mouth, then asked him “is it safe?” several times.
Well, is it? I guess we’ll see.
Stella came out of the bathroom. They approached the man together. He stood and turned to face them. He was ridiculously fit and dressed casually in jeans and a tee shirt. He had bare feet, like his captives. He seemed to toast them with a large smoothie. Hot food steamed from trays in front of each chair. The young man swept his palm toward the offering. “Please. Join me for breakfast. We have a big day ahead.”
“The guy on the bike.” Terrence remembered him. “Central Park—Frasier date with the girlfriend. The doghouse.”
“Good memory. I recorded you on my helmet cam. I admire your work. I had to catch you before you found me and here we are.”
Stella didn’t wait to eat. She was halfway through her eggs Benedict before he sat down. When they joined her, she shot the newcomer a suspicious look and peeled her blood orange. Terrence poked at a piece of bacon and watched the mysterious figure put on a wireless
headset. He handed game controllers to each of them. Stella finished her orange. Her impatience showed. “We’re going to play video games?”
The stranger pushed some buttons and Frasier was gone—when the screen blinked back to life, it was a map of the city. “Not exactly—you’ll see.”
Hundreds of blinking dots lit up the map—maybe more. Some of them moved.
The man spoke into the microphone and tossed his own game controller on the table, then kicked his feet up and relaxed back into his chair as if they were all old friends. A cursor moved on the screen. Someone somewhere minimized the map and opened other windows. Terrence had an epiphany. “Government hits? You’re a spook. What are you—CIA?”
It was clear to him now—they were in protective custody. It had to be. It explained the safe house.
“Sure would’ve been easier to brief us and leave us home—did we stumble across some weird top secret thing?”
“Interesting theory, detective—that I work for the government. It raises some philosophical questions. In that employees get paid, I do not. Do I labor for the people? Also unclear—I think so. I will reassure you—I do represent the people’s best interests. In fact, I am like you and Detective Castillo. I yearn to protect and serve, albeit in an enthusiastic fashion. The fundamental difference between us is one of a bygone era—you and Detective Castillo are encumbered by an absurdly top heavy government, whereas I have chosen to operate light and fast.”
Not a spook.
Terrence locked eyes with the guy.
“I know you both well—we share many ideals. I do like the CIA’s oath—I’ve never taken it, but I would.” The screen changed—video feeds from inside police cars popped up. “I will paraphrase my favorite part of the oath: ‘I do solemnly affirm to uphold the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and—’”
Stella sucked in her breath and Terrance saw that the color had left her face. She pointed at the screen and finished the sentence for their captor.
“Domestic.” All views collapsed but one. The interior view of the police car was clear. The cursor scrolled over a toolbar and activated the microphone. A battered teenage girl screamed something in Russian to the officer in the front seat. She threw herself against the partition. She was badly bruised and bled from her mouth and nose. The plainclothes officer wiped his hands with a towel and stopped at a traffic light. The officer’s name, rank, badge number, even his precinct rolled across the bottom of the screen, followed by the English translation of her plea.
“You CAN’T! You CAN’T take me back to him. HE WILL KILL ME!”
Stella understood before he did. She stood to pace in front of the screen. “Sex trade? Vice cop on the take. No partner with him in the car. She escaped—” Terrence nodded and bit his lip.
“He’s taking her back.” The man with bulging muscles picked up his controller—the screen divided. Now the map shared the screen. Their view zoomed in on one blinking dot.
“That’s them.” Stella spat. The girl sobbed hysterically.
“I will do anything. Please. Don’t you have sisters? He will kill me. I will be dead in an hour. Or worse! I will do anything you want.” Stella ran to the bathroom. Terrence clenched his teeth.
“Is this live?” The fit stranger nodded, put down the controller, and leaned back to drink his smoothie. Stella was back, but couldn’t hold still. She paced behind their chairs and wrung her hands.
“Call it in.”
Shaking his head, the man with the answers took a bite of bacon. “Too slow. The girl is correct. She really will be dead before legitimate police get there.” The officer pulled over and rolled down his window. He dialed a cellphone. On the screen, a dialogue box opened below the map. Both sides of the call were typed into the screen—
>Hey. I’ve got her down here.
>In front?
>Yeah. Right outside.
>Where was she?
>She’d made it. She was almost to Cape May—I grabbed her on the ferry. Listen, you got what I asked for or should I let her go? It’s been a long night.
>I’ve got him.
The call ended. A couple of tense minutes passed. The dirty cop smiled at someone outside the window. The Russian girl sobbed with renewed terror and hid her face with her arms. “NO. NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!” The officer got out. The girl was dragged from the backseat. A young boy was flung inside in her place. Stella roared. She grabbed her controller and toggled the joystick.
“How does it work? Why? Why are we watching?” To the left of the screen, someone typed in a list of Officer Clark’s offenses—
>Facilitator of illegal sex trade, human trafficking.
~Human rights violations:
*Article 3: Right to Life, Liberty, Personal Security
*Article 4: Freedom from Slavery
*Article 5: Freedom from Torture and Degrading treatment
>Pedophilia.
~Human rights violations:
*Articles 3, 4, 5.
The car pulled away. The little boy looked malnourished. He held his haunted face to the partition and peered at Officer Clark with hope. He, too, spoke in Russian and they read the translation: “You are an officer. This is a police car. That is good? I am safe now?” Officer Clark adjusted the rearview mirror and smiled at the boy. Stella lost it.
“Stop this. Get me a telephone. Let me intervene. ENOUGH!” Their jailer nodded calmly.
“OK. I will stop it.” He picked up the controller and the cursor hovered over the blinking light on the map. The cruiser turned down a street in the warehouse district. Choices populated the screen—
>Disconnect?
The intense young man hovered the cursor over the word. More choices opened.
>Yes.
Officer Clark looked baffled as the engine cut out. He studied the dashboard as arms reached into the backseat and pulled the boy out. The provider of Fresca, of eggs Benedict, of sweatshirts, clicked more ominous words—
>Terminate? >Yes.
With a small popping noise, fog filled the screen. When the camera cleared, Officer Clark lay slumped over the steering wheel. “Save my place?” Their accomplice asked politely. “Green tea is a strong diuretic.”
Stella sat on the edge of her chair and pressed her hands to her mouth—speechless. Back from the bathroom, the strong-looking cop killer sat. He pushed some buttons on his controller.
“What about the girl?” Stella asked. Terrence had to do something. He went to the refrigerator for lack of other options.
Would there be sodas?
He pulled out a six-pack of Fresca and handed one to Stella. She wouldn’t take it. “WHAT ABOUT THE GIRL?” The man in the tee shirt held his hand out for a soda. Terrence gave him one. He opened the can, took a drink, and pointed to the screen. The cursor moved—a dialogue box answered Stella.
>Intervention in progress, Deputy Castillo.
“What the hell does that mean? Does that mean you’re sending in the feds to take down the operation?”
“No. Too slow. It would take hours to brief them. They would waste time with warrants, struggle for jurisdiction with Vice and the girl would die. The system, as you know it, can’t save her.”
“So what’s the intervention?”
“An odd little man with twice my IQ and a belt-fed rifle.” Stella seemed speechless, but their captor waited politely for a moment to make sure. “Let’s do another one. We will have to pick up the pace a bit if we want to make a big difference, though. That’s my goal—to make a big difference.”
Terrence whistled quietly.
How’d he put this thing in motion?
“Let’s try an easy one. A confidence booster.”
Terrence watched the man’s thick hands as he worked the controller. They were thickly scarred, but his nails were clean. Well manicured.
Those conditions didn’t frequently accompany each other.
A new sedan interior was on screen. A female officer sipped coffee
as she drove. Her partner scanned the road in front of them. Information on each officer populated the screen, then it split—to the left, pictures emerged.
A slideshow.
A baby. The officer riding shotgun proudly holding a trout aloft. Their barefoot company chose:
>Stop Feed? >Yes.
The microphone crackled. The driver glanced into the camera for a moment, then shrugged. She asked about someone’s birthday party. “They’re good, so they live. I get it—” Stella picked up her controller and hovered over a light on the map. “Doesn’t pay child support?” She glared at Darryl “Nix” Ford. The nine-year veteran worked the Bronx. Ham watched and picked up his own controller. Officer Bob Graahl rode shotgun—aside from the child support, both officers were clean. Stella chose their fate.
>Stop Feed? >Yes.
They all looked up at the map.
There were too many lights.
“How’d you know the first guy did that?” Terrence asked.
“We applied a program that grades malfeasance. We watched him all night—that is how we had people positioned.”
“Do you have all the information on file? Do you save it?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s stop—let’s do it the right way.” The man in charge pursed his lips and worked the controller. He opened a file.
>Top Ten
Their own precinct chief, Bill Turret’s car blinked on the map—he was in New Lots. Stella barked angrily. “Why is Bill in New Lots?” The jaw muscles on their benefactor peeled his face into a genuine smile. He nodded at Stella with enthusiasm.
“Now we are getting to it. Thank you, Estelle. We may share ideals detectives, but I’m more of a realist—do you remember the cop found in the East River? The one with kiddie porn on him? I killed him. I killed him in person, ten hours after I discovered he’d hurt kids. Why didn’t I kill him sooner?” Stella glared. Terrence shook his head. “I had to know who else he was connected to.”
INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1) Page 32
