Knowing

by Laurel Dewey

  “Did you hear that Mary had a little lamb?” he asked her as his eyes sent a penetrating gaze toward her.

  Jane kept her face frozen. “Fleece was white as snow?”

  He shook his head, seemingly becoming more agitated. He leaned forward, this time with urgency. “Did you hear that Mary had a little lamb?”

  “Baa, baa, baa?” Jane retorted.

  “Stop fucking with me!” he yelled. “Go deep!”

  “How deep?” she asked, realizing this was a one-sided conversation.

  His little psychotic buddy leaned over to him. “I think her alter split.”

  The man turned to him with rage and spoke in what sounded like an odd, garbled mix of German and Chinese. He snapped his fingers and, like a trained seal, the dolt dropped to his knees and bowed his head. The man looked at Jane again. “Her alter didn’t split!” Bewilderment colored his face as he tried one more approach. Leaning toward her again, he screamed, “Zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight!”

  Jane stared him down. “That your phone number?”

  His agitation peaked. “Goddammit! Zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight!” he screamed in her face.

  “You can scream at me all fucking night. It’s not gonna work!”

  He peered into her eyes. “There’s still life in those eyes. What in the fuck is going on in there?” He leapt to his feet and grabbed the back of Jane’s neck, as if he was searching for something important. “Where is it?!” he yelled. “We’ve checked him already,” he said, motioning to Harlan. “It’s red and blistered on him where it should be. Is he a stupid sod? Did he cut it out? Did you cut yours out too?”

  Jane recalled Harlan’s comment about wanting to get a knife and “dig out” whatever was irritating his neck. “That’s possible,” she said.

  “Well, it doesn’t make sense! You don’t bloody cut it out! You lose your connection, for fuck sake! And I know there was a connection because you went into the fucking bar. He sang song number one forty-four zero. The shots at the bar? Wake the fuck up! How would you know the code? And why are there two of you instead of one? There should only be one and he’s been dead for over four fucking years!”

  That’s all she needed to hear. Jane felt her gut churning. She pretended to slump forward as if she was sick. But once she was in reach, she quickly hiked up the right leg of her jeans, slid the Ruger from the boot holster and stood up, kicking the lopsided chair to the side. Simultaneously, the two men produced 9mm handguns and pointed them at Jane’s head. And there they stood, the three of them no more than four feet apart and with enough firepower to pepper them all into Swiss cheese.

  “My name is Jane Perry. I’m a cop! And so far, you’ve made two mistakes. The first one was promoting that pinhead beyond his evolutionary capabilities,” she declared, jutting her chin toward his dimwitted associate. “The second mistake was kidnapping a cop. Last time I checked, kidnapping is still a crime.”

  “Is that right?” the man said, still aiming his gun at Jane’s forehead. “Well, for starters, the rules don’t apply to us. Rules are just for reference purposes. And second, I know who the fuck you are already! I took a photograph of you and scanned it into our system. You work at Denver Homicide. And as of last night’s announcement, you are officially dead.”

  She stared at him with vengeance, never lowering her pistol. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “It was on the late news last night. You died in an unfortunate bus explosion. Your adoring Sergeant almost broke down on live television when he made the announcement.”

  Jane’s world crumbled around her. She steadied the Ruger but the news clearly dimmed her aggression.

  The man shifted his stance toward Jane, never moving the gun an inch from her forehead. “I have to assume you understand the significance of that breaking news announcement? So, here’s what I need to know. How long has Denver Homicide been involved?”

  Jane knew she had to cut off any conspiracy connection at the knees. “They’re not involved. It’s just me.”

  “Don’t piss down my neck and tell me it’s raining!” he yelled, still holding his gun on her.

  “I’m telling you the truth! Harlan stole my car. I tracked him down and he told me his story.”

  He continued to hold his gun on her but she could easily see that his interest was piqued. “Lower your gun,” he said.

  “You and your little buddy first,” Jane countered. They didn’t move. “I can stand here all night.”

  “And I can kill you in half a second,” the man rejoined.

  “But you won’t. And you won’t kill Harlan either. We’re the hiccup you weren’t expecting. Spontaneity sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “Give me your gun,” the man demanded.

  “You already have my Glock.”

  “And now I want your Ruger.”

  “I can’t do my job without a fucking gun!”

  “You don’t have a job to go back to, you bloody cunt! You’re dead! Didn’t you hear what I said? Once they make the announcement, it’s a done deal! Now, give me your fucking gun!”

  Jane stared him down but it was pointless. If she took a shot at one of them, she’d be mowed down. She lowered the Ruger and handed it to the man. “Give me a chair that you haven’t fucked with,” she said, her courage re-emerging.

  The man turned to the dolt and motioned for him to holster his gun and get Jane a chair. Once she was seated, he set his pistol on a nearby table within arm’s reach.

  “You know my name,” Jane offered. “What’s yours?”

  “Call me John.”

  “John what?”

  “John Burroughs.”

  She smiled. “Really?” It was the first coded fake name she understood. John Burroughs was the name Elvis Presley used when he traveled and checked into hotels to remain ingognito. “Is that the best name you can come up with? Or do you just like to joke that Elvis has not left the building?”

  “Oh, you’re a funny little twat, aren’t you?”

  “What his name?” Jane asked, pointing at his hypnotized subordinate.

  “I only know him as ‘S.B.’”

  “What does that stand for? Stupid bastard?”

  “I haven’t got a fucking clue what it stands for.”

  Jane licked the open cut on her lip. She could feel it starting to swell. “You got some ice in this joint?”

  “No,” John said with an evil grin, “we lost the recipe.”

  She sat back. He didn’t have a splinter of compassion and why would he? Jane observed that people really do take on the grime of their associations and actions. It was impregnated in this guy’s cells. It never fails. What we’ve seen and what we’ve done washes over us and colors the aura that shadows us. “Okay, fine. Let’s cut to the chase. Are you Romulus?”

  For the first time in their short relationship, John showed trepidation. “What in the fuck are you talking about—”

  “It’s a simple question, John.”

  “You should know the bloody answer!”

  “Okay. So that’s a ‘no,’” Jane stated.

  “If you don’t have a clue about Romulus, how in the hell do you know anything about them?”

  “You just confirmed it,” Jane said with a tinge of sarcasm.

  “You never make light about Romulus!” he bellowed, fear imprinted in his tone. “Never! You can joke about Jesus, Buddha, Moses, Mohammed, dead babies, rape, cripples and retards but you never, ever joke about Romulus.” He sat back. “I don’t get it. That beached whale is an escaped felon. I never heard of him until I saw him on the news a bit ago. So, what in the fuck is he doing in the Dystopian Lounge singing song number one forty-four zero? Only one person in this world ever knew that trick. Your podgy traveling associate had to know somewhere deep down that we’d show up, even though it’s been ov
er four years since the last meet up with the other one. And the only reason we show up is to get codes for the next job. So, if you don’t know the codes and he’s unconscious, what am I to make of all this?”

  Jane shuffled every possible answer in her head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  He laughed. “Oh, sweetheart, you’d be shocked at what I’m willing to believe.”

  She glanced back at Harlan, still blissfully asleep. “He was mistakenly recruited into your group.”

  “Bullshit! They never make mistakes!”

  “Well, they did! And they did it big time. Now they’re trying to fix it. And when I say ‘fix it,’ I think you know what I mean.”

  He leaned forward. “They don’t make mistakes, Perry.”

  “Oh, come on. You seriously think they are going to recruit a truck driver with a low IQ?”

  “They recruit rapists, murders, pedophiles, thieves, racists, sociopaths, derelicts and mental patients. I’d say a truck driver with a low IQ is improving their stats.”

  Glancing between John and S.B., Jane figured that between them they hit the criterion from the former category. “Look, I have witness testimony that proves Harlan Kipple was framed.”

  “I’m sure he bloody well was! That’s the way it works, you stupid cow. Sometimes you get framed first before you get taken out. It all depends how they decide to spin it.”

  His statement sounded like psychotic logic. “For fuck sake! Look in my eyes! I’m not lying to you! He was never part of your group.”

  “That he can remember!” He shook his head and pointed to S.B. who was conspicuously silent. “I can send this bloke cross country for a hit and when he returns, he can’t remember any of it. Wiped clean from his scrambled little fucked up mind! And if something goes wrong along the way, he’s got a suicide trigger in place so he doesn’t lead anyone back here.” He laughed. “You telling me that Mr. Kipple has no bloody memory is not an answer! If he’s not one of us, then how in the hell did he know the codes at the karaoke bar?”

  A sudden idea came into Jane’s mind. “Well, there’s only one reason I can think of.” She gathered her thoughts. “Harlan told me that about four and a half years ago, he picked up a hitchhiker on the road during one of his Interstate hauls. The guy’s name was Gabriel Cristsóne.”

  The look on their faces was hard to judge. But Jane could easily see that S.B. was obviously affected by Gabe’s name. As for John, his face showed traces of alarm before a gradual scowl took over.

  “Well, well, well,” John replied, sitting back in his chair to ruminate on the news. After a hard minute, he leaned forward. “That changes a lot now, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. What does it change?”

  “Four and a half years ago, you say?”

  “That’s what Harlan told me.”

  “I see.” The wheels were turning in his head like a windmill in a hurricane.

  “And why would he bother mentioning about this random meeting four and a half years ago with a complete stranger?”

  “Because he never forgot him. Harlan said Gabriel was quite the enigma.” She checked herself, realizing Harlan would never use a word like that. “They talked for a couple days as he drove across the country. Harlan called it a real heart-to-heart discussion.”

  Jane couldn’t determine what John was thinking at that moment. He was well trained to keep his thoughts from translating across his countenance. But there was a sense of indignation and a hint of resentment. “Gabriel died around four years ago. He was killed.”

  Jane managed a raise of her eyebrow to effect slight shock. “Oh, my god…Holy shit! You order his hit?”

  “Where in the bloody hell did that come from?”

  “Did you?”

  “I’m not high enough on the food chain to order that kind of hit.”

  “Okay. Did you kill him?”

  “Oh, that’s rich! I don’t off the HVTs.”

  High Value Targets, Jane understood. “Okay. Did you know him?”

  John screwed his pockmarked face into an ugly twist. “Yeah, I knew him. Thought a lot of himself, that one. Real elite. They plucked him out of Delta. I heard they tested him to see how far they could push him before he broke. They gave in before he did.” He rolled his eyes like a teenager who’s jealous of the high school quarterback. “He was the best shot they ever found. But that was the least of his talents. They found out he could pick up most languages without hardly trying. He had a photographic memory. And he could recite a conversation back to you verbatim, even if it occurred years before with no notes or recordings. He also had a keen ability to play different roles—a farm worker, priest, oil rig worker, executive. But there was something else. Something…” He reached for the elusive word and fell short.

  “A knowing?”

  He regarded her with wariness. “Yes. That’s exactly it. It was uncanny. He could look at a person or just their photo and tell you everything about them. He knew their personality, their favorite foods, their sexual fetishes, their secrets. And he was never wrong. While I didn’t personally witness it, I was told that he had the ability to see into the future. Apparently, he would describe events that hadn’t happened yet and how they unfolded. I suppose that alone made him a valuable asset to the group. Nothing like manipulating a timeline that hasn’t occurred yet.”

  Jane was stunned. “Oh, come on. You’re saying that was done?”

  “No. Of course, not. Then again, how in the fuck would we know?” He let out a hearty laugh but it quickly died down. His face washed with derision. “Paid that fucker fifty thousand for each hit. Then after a year, he got double. That doesn’t include, of course, the ten grand a week they handed him for expenses when he did a job.” He grabbed his groin in a crude gesture. “He was the fair-haired son, that one. Kept to himself. Didn’t rub shoulders with anyone. Except for that quirky little fuck, Monroe.”

  Jane nodded, fully engaged in the subterfuge. “You think Monroe’s quirky? I don’t.”

  “You’ve met Monroe?” he asked, peering at her suspiciously.

  Jane hoped she hadn’t dug herself a deep hole and that Monroe was actually six feet under. “No. Just heard a lot about him from my sources.”

  “If you’ve never met him, then how do you know he’s not quirky?”

  Jane decided to go for it. “After Harlan dropped off Gabriel, he found some notes that had fallen out of his backpack.”

  “Notes?” John’s interest was apparent. “What type of notes?”

  “Just some random correspondence between them.” She leaned forward. “It wasn’t love letters.”

  “Knowing Gabriel, I don’t suspect they were,” he said dryly.

  “You know, Harlan would love to meet Monroe. Any chance you can tell me where I can find him?”

  John leaned forward. “And why in the fuck would he want to meet him?”

  “Harlan’s a very curious guy.”

  “Is that right?” He cheated a glance toward Harlan. “Last I heard Monroe lives north of here, out in fucking nowhere.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Outside of Sheldon Springs.”

  Jane nodded. “So, why do you think Gabriel was targeted?”

  “Why do you care and what has that got to do with a bloody thing?”

  “Well, obviously, Gabriel said things to Harlan on their road trip. Things that maybe he shouldn’t have said. Like the codes at the bar—”

  “I have a very hard time believing that Gabriel was as chatty as your little friend makes him out to be,” John interrupted, his voice dripping with disgust.

  “Well, he was. How else would a guy like Harlan know about the codes at the bar? Maybe Gabriel knew he was going to get killed and so he unloaded on the first stranger he thought he could trust. But all that did was put Harlan in
the crosshairs. And here we are.”

  “And here we certainly are,” he mocked. “Tell me something, Perry. Why do you care about that piece of shit lying on the floor behind you? Why don’t you just plug him and get on with your life?”

  “Because I’m crazy. Haven’t you heard? Sixty is the new forty and crazy is the new sane.”

  “Crazy, my ass.” He leaned forward, diving into her eyes. “You still have your soul, sweetheart. That’s your problem. You should behave like a machine. You learn that and your options for destruction are limitless. People think the term ‘selling your soul’ is just a phrase. It’s not. It’s fucking real. And it’s done with bloody abandon every single day. It’s a beautiful thing, Perry. Wouldn’t you love to live with no rules or laws or moral codes? You’re a cop, so it shouldn’t be tough to make that leap.”

  Jane remained undaunted. “Did Gabriel sell his soul?”

  John sat back looking irritated when Gabe’s name was brought up again. “No,” he said succinctly. “Gabriel thought he was better than the rest of us. But that didn’t stop him from doing the Devil’s work.”

  “Why’d they put out a hit on him?”

  “I wasn’t privy to that.”

  “Did he have the wood on somebody?”

  “Fuck. In our work, you have the wood on everyone so you can use it when necessary.”

  “I’m not talking about blackmail. I’m talking about something deeper. Maybe he uncovered a significant plan? Something that Romulus is involved in—”

  “You know what gets you killed?” John angrily countered, lunging forward.

  “What?”

  “Audacity. Gabriel had the audacity to believe he was better than he was. He thought he could win against them and that was his fatal mistake.”

  Jane considered it. “But if really could see the future, like you said, he already knew he would be killed.”

  “Unless he believed he could manipulate the outcome.”

  Manipulate the outcome. It was an odd statement to Jane. “I don’t get it. How would he do that?”