Reset

by Kirk Dougal

  I stabbed the last of the cigarette into the ashtray, spilling some onto the Harry pile. The very thin Harry pile.

  I picked up the stack and leafed through the six pages. Compared to the notes on the other two, Harry appeared to be almost an afterthought. Not a lot of hard evidence hinted at the third crime lord’s existence. He had appeared on the scene and started to make some noise, grabbing a few neighborhoods from Big C, stealing some city union contracts from Rose. A handful of bodies piled up on each side with Big C taking the biggest hit. But then, a few weeks earlier, Harry’s operation went silent, disappearing into the background of The City as quickly as he first appeared.

  Robert’s had added a few notes at the end of the file, scribbled in the margin, not neat and organized like the papers for the other two bosses. Something in the situation had turned and Roberts appeared rushed, trying to grasp the trail of Harry before it disappeared as well. In fact, the last thing written on the Harry sheets was a barely readable scrawl, letters sharp and tilted as if they had been written by someone in a hurry:

  Once you’re out—you’re out

  I grabbed a fresh cigarette and walked to the window. Smoke bounced off the glass as I exhaled, adding another layer of gray to the overcast day. Roberts had been either a genius or a fool, I had not made up my mind yet. He had obviously dug too close to someone and drew attention to himself. And who was that avatar in his bedroom with the file?

  The cherry on the Lucky Strike warmed my fingers before I finally returned to my desk, stabbing the butt into the ashtray before grabbing a scratch pad.

  What do I know about Roberts? I wrote his name at the top of the page and began a list. Newspaper reporter. Investigating organized crime in The City. Files on Big C, Rose, and third mob leader. Friend (lover) with Evelyn. Murdered in the game at his house. Watch removed. Out of play avatar stuck in house. House in a deserted part of The City.

  My pencil hung above the paper for a moment. Something played around at the corner of my thoughts, remaining out of sight but still letting me know it stayed there. A second later the whiff disappeared. I leaned back in my chair and let out a breath. What was Roberts’ game?

  I laughed out loud, the sound cutting the quiet of the room and bouncing off the walls. I was in a game. I had been so engrossed in looking for the killer, seeing Evelyn, and protecting Voice that I had forgotten I was inside a game. None of this was real.

  I leaned forward and grabbed the paper and pencil again. This time I wrote down Roberts name in real life: Coltin Reese. What do I know about Reese? Rich. Mid-forties. Computer programmer.

  I stopped. The words stared back from the paper, gray pencil strokes sitting against the white, every letter accusing me of being slow on the uptake.

  Coltin Reese had made his millions as a computer programmer. A computer game programmer. The mystery made sense when I remembered that fact. Just like I would have done back in The Kindred, Reese gamed the game.

  He had programmed into The City where he lived on Oak Street, created what he called “his own little world” according to Evelyn. He constructed a part of the game infrastructure where he could be in control, exactly the situation he wanted. During my gamer days, I would never have played unless I knew the rules inside and out, known them to the point where I could push them, bend them, maybe even break some. Reese had done the same thing. But not all rules could be broken.

  I reached up to the Harry pile, leafing through to the last page with the hastily added note and read it again: Once you’re out—you’re out.

  The information in the folders proved Reese had lied to Evelyn. He had been searching for corruption, but not in the way she wanted, not tied only to Big C. I looked at the Tom and Dick piles again, but this time with a fresh view. Now I didn’t look at all the crimes. Just like Roberts, I started with the killings and followed the trails back to the other acts. Roberts always began with the murders. Although the deaths led back to all three—Tom, Dick, and Harry—the link, at least according to Roberts, revolved around one killer that did most of his work for one boss, someone he could not tell Evelyn about: Rose.

  Roberts may not have known about the connection with the real world, or he may have only had a hint of something feeling wrong, but he had searched for the murderer, the one who took care of the dirty work. Yet Roberts also realized the murderer was good, too good for him to handle. If the murderer found him first, Roberts knew he would be tossed out of the game: Once you’re out—you’re out.

  I smiled and wondered if Reese and I would have been friends. We certainly thought alike. If I had been killed in a game, tossed to one side like garbage, I would not have let the setback stop me. I would have fired up a new character as soon as I could. I would have reset, just like Dingo had in Beta Prime. The solution popped into my head.

  Reese had reset as well.

  The avatar in his house had been his new character, frozen in place when Raven murdered him in the real world. That answer explained how the avatar knew about the hiding place in the closet, in a house in the middle of a neighborhood that did not exist in the game. It also explained why the avatar was still there now, months after his murder—the programmers did not know the body was there to remove. Very few people knew about that section of the game.

  A location Roberts had shown only to Evelyn.

  A part of the game where Raven had killed him.

  A new question rattled around in my mind: How angry would Evelyn have been if she found out Roberts was not helping to avenge her family’s murders?

  Chapter 28

  Shea’s cab was not stationed on the corner so I grabbed one of the other hacks for a ride to the Lansford Suites. Rain tapped on the car as we went, the wipers beating a rhythm with the hum of the tires.

  Curiosity, and some concern, forced me into the trip to check on Voice. Seeing where Roberts had been killed and finding his frozen avatar made me think about the young man under my protection. Would he be back in The City when I reached the Lansford? Or would I find him still sitting on the corner of the hotel bed, leaving me to wonder if he was only an occasional player or if Raven had caught up with him on the outside as well, dead because of his connection to me.

  The early afternoon traffic slowed, and then stopped under the storm. I checked my watch several times, each glance slowing the minute hand to a crawl. Time was not my friend now. Every day I spent inside the game increased the chance of Raven finding his next victim before I nabbed him. Roberts discovered the links to all the murders and corruption but all the reward he earned for the trouble was the killer’s attention. While the thought of Gwen and Jim standing guard over the nursing home room eased worries about my body in the real world, being killed in the game would force me to restart the search inside, resetting with a new character. The reset would take time I did not have to spare.

  The cab stopped in front of the Lansford and I ran inside, but not before rain wound its way down my neck, leaving a cold trail. The chill made me think of old ghost stories and the feeling of dread before someone died.

  One man sat in a chair in the lobby, not bothering to look up from his newspaper as I walked past. The smarmy clerk behind the counter, however, kept his eye on me the whole way across.

  “Back to see your friend.” A knowing wink and grin quickly followed.

  “Give me the blower,” I said.

  The smile slipped for a second then returned. He pulled out a telephone and placed it on top of the counter. “Local calls only and with a dime charge.”

  I circled the zero around the dial. “Put it on the room bill.” I turned away, hoping the clerk would clear out. The lingering odor of lilac aftershave told me he had not. “Police headquarters.” I waited while the operator connected me to the precinct and then asked for Dutch.

  “Detective Hanlon.”

  “You sound bored, Dutch. Not getting enough excitement?”

  “Hi, Rick. Not bored, frustrated. I didn’t expect the deli bombing to be eggs
in my coffee but you’d think somebody would talk with us. Nobody-saw-nuthin’ is the best answer I’ve got so far.” He snorted. “Am I going to get another lunch out of this call?”

  “Maybe a beer,” I answered. “What do you know about a big-time button man working the area? Not just some Bruno, a real professional. Maybe working for someone else besides Big C or Rose.” The clerk shuffled a stack of papers behind me so I turned and flipped open my jacket. His face drained of color when he noticed the gun butt in its holster and he scooted through a door at the other end of the counter.

  “You got troubles, Rick?”

  “Not yet. But I’ve got a client and this guy might be working around the edges of my case. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

  Dutch remained silent for a few seconds and when he spoke again his voice dropped to a heavy whisper. “There was talk of a third man trying to push in on Big C and Rose. Made a pretty good play for a while. There were Johnsons falling on every street corner, from all three sides. But then a few months ago, the new guy just up and blew out. We haven’t heard anything from him since. Now it’s just C and Rose again.”

  “Thanks, Dutch.”

  “Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Rick. I owe you and Wheeler so if you need help, you give me a call.” He hung up.

  *****

  The elevator clanked to a stop. As the metal gate screeched open, a man pushed it the rest of the way back and stumbled into the car. Sweat dotted his face.

  “Better ride down with me,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder. “There’s going to be trouble.”

  I elbowed past the man and pulled out my gun. The elevator rattled away, covering up any sounds from the hallway.

  Then I heard the gunshots.

  I ran the few steps to the hallway entrance as a half-dozen shots echoed off the paint and cheap carpet. Two men stood in front of Voice’s door—one with a Thompson and the other with his foot raised, ready to kick in the wooden frame.

  “Hey! Get away from there!” I squeezed off two rounds, my .45 barking a challenge.

  The first slug cut through only air before slamming into the far end of the hall. I got lucky with the second, however. The bullet hit the top of the man’s raised leg and, even from thirty feet away, I watched muscle and blood spray into the air. He spun around and fell to one knee, screaming and cursing in one breath. A third bullet, this one to his chest, and the yelling stopped as he toppled backward.

  The second man opened up with the Thompson and threw a hail of Chicago lightning as I dove to my left, the trail of death following me. Plaster and lath pelted the side of my head, biting into my skin and promising blood. I bounced on the floor and rolled out of his sight.

  One breath, two breaths—I reached around the corner with just my arm and opened up, blindly filling the hallway with lead, hoping to get lucky with a shot. The Thompson roared in response, chewing up a six-inch swath of wall and leaving a plume of dust in the landing.

  I backed away from the hallway, looking over my shoulder for cover. Nothing sat in the empty space, not even a beat up old chair to hide behind. The elevator was too far away and the rattletrap would never make the climb in time. The cuss words flowed quietly from my mouth as I slapped a new magazine into my gun.

  Black metal crept into view, the barrel of the Thompson leading the way. I dropped to one knee. The man leaped out, moving fast to the side and turning toward me at the same time. I yanked the trigger but missed, the bullet smashing the wall behind him.

  Suddenly the wail of a police siren echoed out of the hallway. The gunman’s eyes opened wide and he spun back toward the opening.

  I did not miss this time. My first bullet pounded his shoulder and turned him toward me. The next three hit him in the chest, each one sending a shudder through his body. The gunsel staggered backwards and collapsed against the wall, leaving a bloody trail as he slid to the floor. He coughed, blood flowing from the corner of his mouth. His eyes closed and when they reopened they were dull.

  I crept to the hallway opening and peered around the corner. The hall appeared empty except for the first gunman I had killed. “Who’s there?” I yelled.

  The apartment door to 626, the extra room I had rented to use as a blind, eased open. Voice walked out, a cylindrical piece of paper in his hands.

  “I could really use a drink,” he said.

  My mind whirled as I jumped to my feet and ran to Voice. “Where are the cops?” I asked.

  The kid held out the paper. I realized I had only heard the sound of a siren, never their voices or the sound of return gunfire. I glanced up and noticed his pale face, sweat dripping down the sides. He smiled, but then swayed back and forth.

  “Keep it together, kid,” I said. “You did great. Now go get the suitcase and we’ll fade out of here while we can.” The sound of the elevator moving caught my ear. “Hurry!”

  The elevator door screeched open as Voice returned to the hallway. We ran toward the back stairway and I pushed my charge inside, closing the door behind until I peeked through a small slit. The newspaper reader from the lobby crept into view in the landing. He knelt over the dead man with the Thompson and stared down the hall. A second later he reached into his suit and pulled out a gun before backing slowly out of sight. I waited until the elevator started again, the rattles and clanks drifting down.

  “I need to get you out of here,” I whispered to Voice. “We can’t give them time to get ready for us so get moving.”

  We hustled down the stairs, taking them two at a time and lurching around the landings with one hand clinging to the railing. At the second floor we stopped and I listened over my pounding heart for sounds from below. No noises floated up to us so we crept on, moving slowly now with me in the lead, past the ground level and to the basement. The locked door would not budge.

  “Let me try,” Voice said.

  I moved behind him and stood on the bottom step while he knelt by the lock. He pulled out what appeared to be a pocket knife at first glance but instead of blades the tines were pieces of metal with slots cut into them. On his third try the bolt turned and we eased into the basement.

  “We’ve got to talk sometime about the things you learned in your childhood,” I said after I locked the door again.

  “This was Sammy’s. He was real good at making stuff.”

  “Maybe he should have kept on making things instead of stealing from Big C.” My eyes adjusted to the dim light and I noticed a door along the outside wall. “Come on. We’ve got to keep moving.”

  I led him to the door. This one had a metal bar placed in holders across its width. I swung it up and within seconds we climbed a set of stairs into the alley behind the Lansford. A diner sat across the street and we dodged the rain and a handful of cars, ducking inside while I watched for the man from the lobby. Satisfied we had not been followed, I pointed Voice toward a table beside a hanging telephone.

  “A couple of cups of java, doll,” I said to the waitress. “Sweeten them if you can.”

  The woman pursed her bright red lips for a second then gave me a wink. “Sure thing, fella.”

  I pulled out some change and made my call, turning so I could keep an eye on the front door while I talked.

  “Titan Detective Agency.”

  “Gretchen, it’s Rick.”

  “At least you’re checking in today.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “Listen, there’s been a little trouble. I need you to bring my car down to the Cardinal Diner, around the corner from the Lansford.”

  “You okay, Ricky?”

  “I’m fine but there are a couple of goons down here that I sent for the big sleep. I need you to pick up the kid and get him out of here before the boys in blue arrive.”

  “I’ll leave right now.”

  “If the police beat you here, I’ll go stall them the best I can. I’ll tell the kid what you look like.” I hesitated. “Gretchen, be careful.”

  “Glad to hear you care, Ricky.�
�� She hung up.

  I noticed Voice sipping on some coffee and I walked over for my cup. The waitress had added enough whiskey to lighten the color of the brew. The kid looked like he needed the bracer worse than me so I slid my cup across the table, too.

  “You must be used to this sort of thing,” he said.

  I shrugged. “It’s amazing what you can get used to.”

  Voice took another gulp. “How’d they find me?”

  “Don’t worry about that. They’ve taken two swings and we’re still standing.” I smiled but I had been asking myself the same question.

  “Everybody knows you get three swings before you’re out,” Voice said.

  “That’s only baseball.”

  Voice nodded as if I had said something profound. We did not talk for a few minutes, the sounds of clinking dishes and conversations rolling around us. Police sirens started low in the distance and drew closer, rolling up the street until the front glass shook from the noise.

  “I’m going to see what I can find out from the bulls,” I said as I stood up. “I’ve got somebody on their way to pick you up. Just keep your head down until she gets here and then she’ll take you some place safe.” I didn’t know where safe was anymore but I described Gretchen and walked out the door.

  Chapter 29

  “Weren’t you busy enough already?”

  Dutch looked up from where he crouched over the dead gunsel with the Thompson. “Tell me about it. You volunteering to help?” He stood up and signaled to the coroner’s office personnel to take the body away. “What brings you down here, Rick?” We began walking toward the other dead man down the hall.

  “I called you earlier from the lobby,” I said, my voice just loud enough to carry to the detective. “I was inside when the buttons were playing tag with lead.”

  Dutch glanced at me but never broke stride. “Got anything you want to let me in on?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing you don’t already know. I had a witness holed up here for the home office. The desk clerk can tell you about it.”