The Sacrifice Area

by Peter Idone

  “I had asked you to wait in the foyer, Logan, not go snooping around.”

  “I wasn’t snooping. I got eyes in my head and I saw a couple of pictures on a bookcase. Big deal.”

  “I’m very fond of Glass, but whatever our relationship is, I don’t see how it will help you with your needs.”

  They remained silent for the rest of the trip to Logan’s house. Natalie didn’t want to pull up directly in front or turn into the driveway. It would be more secure to drop him off a couple of blocks away. It suited him either way. There were no apparent signs of Tactical activity. Turning onto Hamilton, she stopped about halfway to his house. “Thanks for letting me talk to Glass,” he said, getting out of the car. “If I can help you, Natalie, if we can pool our resources together, let’s stay in touch, OK?”

  She didn’t respond. She smiled tightly, almost desolately, and after Logan closed the car door, she made a smooth U-turn and sped away. Damn, I wish that had turned out better, Logan thought. Whatever was going on between Natalie and Glass, it had stripped her emotions relatively bare. They were a couple once, but now they were two people with a history of involvement, both professional and intimate, living under the same roof in a very difficult present. Natalie shifted from self-assuredness to vulnerability, and Logan could only wonder if it was his company that served as catalyst.

  The neighborhood was dark, house lights and even streetlamps were all but extinguished, except for one in the distance. A helicopter was still flying about; Logan could hear the thumping rotor blades far to the west. He supposed that was an indication that the Tacticals hadn’t been successful in their search for the chimera; otherwise, why would the aircraft remain airborne? Chimera. Interesting how he had already begun to incorporate Glass’s terminology. Good a word as any, he mused; either that or dog-man, maybe even werewolf. Sutter’s description was probably the best yet.

  When he got home, he realized he was hungry and warmed up a pork chop from yesterday’s dinner. He turned on the television for sound, if not company, and tucked the Ruger under a pillow on the sofa. After he ate, he downloaded a movie and disinterestedly watched it, some remake of a European film from back in the late nineties about an assassin who suffers from Alzheimer’s. It was implausible—at least the American version was. The original was said to have been very good. Most of Logan’s attention was focused on Natalie and how the last few minutes ended so badly, or at least uncomfortably. Logan knew what the problem was. He was really smitten by her. Whatever she and Glass had was over, that much he was sure, but the emotions, although unsettled, still ran very deep. Now their relationship was one of uncomfortable convenience. Judging by the few things she mentioned, Natalie was intent on taking over for Glass, maybe even taking his place in deciding how the Pine Haven inquiry would proceed. Logan fantasized about having her inside the house with him now. God, the thought of it made him ache something terrible.

  After the movie was over, he spread out the bedroll and sleeping bag and put the television on a timer, the volume turned down low. Eventually he fell asleep. It was after midnight when he awoke. A nimbus of flashing light illuminated the den. The source was outside. He climbed out of the sleeping bag to look out the front windows. Maybe it was the Tacticals, he thought worriedly, Turner’s people coming to question him. Maybe he had been spotted by someone in that surveillance tower that he had passed too closely on Saturday afternoon, and they finally got around to questioning him. Glass said he was now a known entity.

  Before he could reach the front of his house, a beam of light flooded in through the windows, a deluge of white light that poured into the front room and den with almost liquid density. He could see every mote of dust and flake of dander swirling about the room. His skin was illuminated to such a degree that it appeared almost transparent, his veins standing out like the traces on a circuit board. He became fearful that the light was dangerous, like the fissile material from a nuclear bomb, all gamma and x-rays. He ducked behind the couch and threw the sleeping bag over his body to offer some meager protection. He remained there, balled up, for what seemed to be several minutes. Then he heard a loud bang, like an enormous breaker being thrown, and the light was extinguished.

  Throwing off the sleeping bag, he got up, went over to the front window, and peeked through the blinds. Outside, the street was quiet, dark, and empty—only it wasn’t the typical view of Hamilton Road. It was some side street in a cold, dark, barren city, the concrete facades stained with discoloration. He didn’t feel any impending danger, but he felt scared, anxious.

  He woke up. The sleeping bag was all jumbled and twisted, and he lay half out of the polyester-fiber cocoon. Was I dreaming? Apparently he was. He was disoriented, lying on the floor when he expected to be standing at the front window. Muddle-headed, he felt as though he’d been thrown from a train. I can’t believe that was a dream, it was too real. That light, wherever it came from, really shook me to the core. But it was a dream. More like a nightmare.

  Squirming out of the sleeping bag, he grabbed the Ruger from under the sofa cushion and went to the window. The grip of the .38 was real enough. He separated the blinds and peered through. It was quiet, dark, and empty, but it was still Hamilton Road. He wasn’t about to go outside. Returning to the living room, he lit a cigarette and sat on the couch, mulling over what had just occurred. It had been a long time since he’d had a dream like that: clear, precise in detail, and experiencing every image on an intense emotional level. He remained awake for quite a while before settling down on the bedroll, the gun very close at hand.

  13

  After the sweep and search at the Railroad Avenue industrial district, there was a continued presence of Tactical patrols in the neighborhood. The activity was low key; the occasional patrol carrier or up-armored radio car could be seen making passes through the side streets from Kraven all the way to Lafayette and beyond. Foot patrols could be seen walking alongside the tracks, scoping out the empty warehouses, junkyards, and work sheds. Logan had concluded that if he was going to engage in a hunt for the dogman, the chimera, he would have to stick close, but not too close, to the Tacticals. He had more than enough time since he wasn’t working. He would have to make this hunt a full-time job, even a night shift. There were limitations on taking the truck out and driving around. That he would do late at night and be very mindful of the fuel he would burn.

  As for looking for a job, the only thing he did was to call the town and county and put his name in for snow removal should the opportunity arise. Last winter was mild, but this year’s forecast was for cold temperatures and a good possibility of a lot of snow. The officials at county claimed they had all the people they needed but took his name anyway. He thought of putting an ad in the Reporter, but only after some unemployment checks started to roll in. He wouldn’t be able to survive on that, even if the state managed to possess the funds. It was ludicrous. And the dance you had to do just to be in the offing: no part of your life left unexposed or unaccounted for, weekly meetings with advisors to present proof of your job search. How could you interview for a nonexistent job that no employer was interviewing for in the first place? The entire game was rigged so people found it better not to even apply for unemployment. And the checks came monthly, if at all. He missed the sameness of the everyday workweek, when Monday morning begged for Friday afternoon and the opportunity to relax for a long weekend. Now, Logan had the entire week to dispose of, and given the way he felt at the moment, he knew depression had set in.

  By Thursday afternoon Logan had come to believe he had embarked on a fool’s mission. There wasn’t a Tactical vehicle anywhere in sight, not even the presence of the Essex police. The occasional flyover of a black helicopter, its blades slapping the air thunderously, had all but ceased. Even the junkyard dogs had become listless and remained quiet. The security forces and police had decided the operation was no longer worth the time and effort. The dog-man would have to resurface again; some hapless witness would have to call in a
sighting before the Tacticals would flood the particular location with manpower, seal the place off in the hope of capturing or, more likely, exterminating the creature.

  While trolling the side streets off Railroad Avenue, Logan stopped in on Sutter’s Electronic Re-Pair and Re-Cycle shop with half a mind of offering himself as an alternative to the two employees the old man had complained about. He would do the work of two for the same amount of money Sutter paid for one. At least that’s how he’d structured his pitch. When he arrived Sutter wasn’t around. Instead he talked to a fellow, Dave, who worked there part time. This was one of the guys the old man had mentioned, and Logan wasn’t impressed. He was about Logan’s age, stocky, with what looked like dried soap around his ears. He was affable enough, asking how Logan knew Sutter.

  Logan explained what had happened Sunday, and of course Dave had heard all about it. “You’re the guy then, Mr. Sutter said. He fucked his back up really bad and is in the hospital. The old man can’t even walk.”

  “When I last saw him, he complained about it but took some medicine. It didn’t seem that serious when I left.”

  “It seized up on him overnight. My cousin, he works here with me sometimes, drove him to the hospital. This might be it for the poor old bastard. If he can’t move around anymore, then he can’t work no more. He will have to sell the business if he’s lucky.”

  “Who’d want to buy?”

  “That’s just it. I can’t. I barely make enough to scrape by as it is. He’s always been a cheap prick. And as mean as they come when he wants to be. You know what that crazy old fool has been doing? He’s been trying to leech the precious metals out of computer and electronics parts. He’s using all kinds of acids and fucked-up shit. The fumes will kill you. He wanted me to do it and I told him no fuckin’ way. You got to be licensed for that kind of thing. You need a venting system and all kinds of filters for the fumes. Boy, was he pissed. He was going to fire me right on the spot. I told him it was a health hazard and he could get fined or even worse. Maybe it’ll be for the best. You know, I should move on, eventually.”

  Move on toward what? Logan thought. He thanked Dave for his time and left feeling disheartened. He couldn’t help wonder how a person could play out something in his head that had the potential of seeming so good but was nowhere near the truth of how things really were. Maybe that’s how hope is defined. Or delusion. Probably the latter.

  After leaving Sutter’s place, he found himself walking back toward home. Thoughts raced through his mind about how events would eventually turn out. What if he was in real danger of not working for an extended period, like a year or more? What then? He’d only be in arrears on taxes, but the town could act quickly to put the property on the auction block and have it sold for a song to some slum landlord or real estate firm. They’d been doing that a lot lately, especially to folks who lived in the Station. If the situation got entirely out of his control, he could call his sister, Bridgett, and explain the bind he was in. She wanted him to sell sooner rather than later, he knew, and she was in no position to subsidize him. Besides, their last conversation consisted of how he would pay her the worth of her half-share of the house, something he had no trouble with agreeing to, but it wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Bridgett also didn’t believe what the actual value of the house was and what the real estate market in Essex Station was like. She and her husband, Todd, had bought a house for a song, and things here were a lot worse than in their Madison, Wisconsin, suburb. They both had jobs at the university and were still putting off having kids because the future was so uncertain. The house at 79 Hamilton Road was worth chump change outside of the emotional investment Logan had put into it. This was how the Dislocation looked at ground level, where ordinary, everyday people were involved. Forget about the big picture of a train-wreck economy, a financially and morally bankrupt government, and a planet damaged by pollution and war. There were wounds out there that were just too mortal, he guessed. When he turned down a street, the Dislocation, at least how it affected Essex Station, really hit home for him.

  As he walked through the neighborhood, Logan regarded the condition of the side roads, which were terribly potholed, and the telephone line poles that had sweat so much creosote during the past few summers, the blackened tar having oozed down the sides into solidified puddles at the base, they looked like used candles. That’s what hundred-degree-plus temperatures for weeks at a time can do. He turned down a side street that could only be described as an auto graveyard. On both sides of the street, cars in various states of disrepair were parked: some stripped of interior seating, dashboard radios, and disc players; some with engines missing radiators, manifolds, and batteries; and several with no engines left at all. Several were jacked up on cinderblocks, and others listed on flattened tires. Logan counted thirty cars that had been abandoned at the curb, and judging by how weathered their appearance was, he figured the vehicles had been there for weeks, months. The Town of Essex hadn’t the money to maintain the downtown core and better residential districts. For all it was worth, the Station could go to hell all on its own.

  ***

  Natalie was waiting for him when he returned home. She was leaning against the railing on the back porch smoking a cigarette. “Another minute and I would have been gone,” she said, flicking her cigarette butt onto the sparse lawn. “Sorry,” she said, smiling distractedly. He didn’t know she smoked.

  “What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “That I don’t have, but I’ve got tea.”

  “Sounds amenable.”

  He unlocked the back door and stopped short. Natalie almost collided into him. “What’s the matter?”

  Logan recovered and continued the few steps into the kitchen. “Nothing…Tara, my dog. I keep expecting her to greet me at the door like she used to.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe.”

  “Yeah, well, we all know what that’s about. Or some of it. Have a seat,” he said indicating the Formica-topped kitchen table and metal upholstered chairs. With someone new in the house, he couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about how old and out of date it appeared, well used and worn out like everything else in town. He put on the kettle and got a couple of mugs from the overhead cabinet. From the pantry closet, he retrieved a box of loose tea, strainer, and a small decorated ceramic pot, something his mother had purchased a long time ago. It was discolored and had vein-thin cracks across the rounded surface. He set the items on the table and dosed the pot with two huge tablespoons of loose tea. “I don’t have milk or cream, but I’ve got sugar and some honey.”

  “Sugar’s fine.”

  “Where’s your car? I didn’t notice anything in the driveway other than my truck.”

  “Around the corner. That’s why I waited. I saw your truck and figured you’d be back soon.”

  “I wouldn’t have been.” He didn’t want to mention what he had been doing the past few days since they’d last met: keeping an eye on Tactical patrols in the hope of finding the dog-man. That would sound impractical, obsessive.

  “What have you been up to, Joe? Looking for work?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be happening anytime soon. The employment agency won’t call. They have too many people just like me to choose from. Besides, the job brokers have been taking kickbacks and lately I haven’t paid up. I did in the beginning of the last job, but I couldn’t keep it up, not taking a bite out of my paycheck every week. So no broker will be in any hurry to offer me anything.”

  “Those guys are such worms.”

  “Guys and gals. Being a parasite is not gender exclusive. At least worms make soil. That bunch makes a whole lot of heartache. They’ve found a niche for themselves, but it’s a finite situation. They’ll get forced out eventually, just like everyone else.” The kettle came to a boil, and he poured the water into the teapot. After setting the kettle back on the burner, he divvied up the contents between the two m
ugs. “This tea gets black in a hurry. Without milk it might get a bit too strong.”

  They added sugar to their mugs and sipped. “How will you manage to get through the winter? For work I mean,” Natalie asked.

  “If the forecasters are right, the prediction is for above-average snowfall. I have a blade in the garage. It all depends on availability of fuel and its cost. My profit margin won’t be much, but at least I’ll scrape by, which is all I can ask for. Besides, it will keep me occupied. Unemployment lends itself to brooding. I’ve had enough of that already, and it’s only been a week.”

  They fell silent. Logan observed Natalie and could sense an underlying preoccupation in her demeanor. She was not relaxed, not that he would know what she was like in that state. He was about to apologize for anything he said from the night before that was out of line, but decided not to pursue it. Instead he said, “What’s the matter, Natalie? You seem…preoccupied.”

  “Do I? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. Try and relax and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Logan could practically see the thoughts bouncing around her skull. After a moment she sighed and then blurted, “Glass wants me to infiltrate Pine Haven. Something has been going on in there, and he wants to know what, exactly. I mean aside from the low-level waste, if that indeed is what it is. He wants pictures, documentation of eyewitness accounts. He’s been after me for a while to get inside. We’ve been working on a plan over the past couple of months.”

  Logan made a point of not reacting. “I don’t think that’s a terribly good idea. There are signs posted authorizing the use of deadly force. Whatever you could hope to find out there, and that’s depending on whether you could breach the wire, wouldn’t be worth anything if you’re dead.” The concept struck Logan as foolhardy, not to mention dangerous.