The Darkness must still be lurking in my subconscious and working some of its magic on my mind. It’s a thought that I feel should bother me somewhat, but it doesn’t. It just surfaces, gets recognized as existing and then washes away.
“I agree with you,” I tell him. “It is definitely helping.” And then to change the subject, I ask, “So what is it you’ve figured out? How is it I’m getting in that place?”
In response, Ren turns to face me and says brightly, “I have cancer.”
The sudden jump of conversational direction almost makes me stumble as I walk towards him. Ren having cancer isn’t news. It’s how we met. He was depressed after being diagnosed with an aggressive form of Leukemia and given a minimal chance of survival. The cancer that is ravaging his bones and blood supply has been killing him, but it did have an unexpected side effect that brought us together. It is poisonous to me. It was how I had noticed him in the first place. The fecal rotting odor I had picked up from him was unlike anything I had tasted in the air before, and I followed him in an attempt to figure out what it was.
That led to me watching as he attempted to throw himself off one of our city’s many bridges and into the freezing river below. I stopped him from completing the task partly out of being a good citizen seeing a person in need and partly because if he died then I wouldn’t be able to discover what was wrong with him and what had attracted me into following him.
He survived, we talked, and it led to us coming up with our current symbiotic relationship. I give him a reason to live every day knowing he’s helping the world, and he makes my life tremendously easier by both doing the many things I can’t and by being my conscious when my internal one falters.
We both know the cancer eating away at his insides exists and limits our time together, but it’s become a thing we don’t talk about. I always kind of figured we were both destined to live unnaturally short lives. His because of the disease, and mine because of my choices and condition. We’ve both been kind of racing Mother Nature to see who would cross the finish line first.
But why bring it up now? And why does he look so happy about it?
“Yeah, I know,” I tell him. “And I’m sorry. But what does that have to do with the prison and my getting in?”
“Cancer,” he repeats. ‘Is how we’re getting you in. You’re going to have cancer.”
“What?”
“It came to me last night,” he says with excitement. “Sometimes cancer patients have serious health impacts from the chemo treatments. It can make them sensitive to lights and sounds. It might weaken their lungs. Sometimes they have even been quarantined into special rooms so that their immune systems won’t get compromised by outside contaminants. We’re going to use that to our advantage.”
“You’re going to put me into a special room?” I ask. Most of what he is saying was starting to make sense, but the idea of me being in a “bubble” like a kid in a bad Lifetime movie throws me off.
“Almost. We’re not actually putting you in the room; we’re having you take the room with you. It’ll explain everything, and it will help mask your sensitivities. It’s perfect.”
“Bring it with me?” I repeat. I like his enthusiasm, but his explanation is lacking so far.
Instead of answering, he turns around pulls something out from behind his chair that he’d had sitting off to the side. It takes me a moment to realize what’s in his hands. It’s not from a lack of recognition, but from confusion over why he’s holding them. And then it dawns on me.
He’s holding a dark pair of sunglasses and a small, rolling oxygen tank. Both look like something an old lady might carry who was dying from emphysema after a lifetime spent smoking cartons of cigarettes a day. The sunglasses are large, black and look like they could wrap around my entire head. No teenager would ever go near them for fear of dying suddenly from “contagious grandma cooties”.
Yet they would work perfectly to block any sunlight or outside light from hurting my eyes. They may not look cool, but they do look incredibly functional. And the oxygen tank? With that thing turned on and pumping pure, undiluted oxygen into my nose and lungs, I wouldn’t be bothered by any distracting scents or odors.
If I was a cancer patient, then I would have a perfectly justifiable reason to own and use both of these items. And I would carry them with me everywhere I went. Even into a prison. Especially into such a place.
“That’s genius,” I tell him and bend down to get a closer look at the metal canister and plastic hosing he holds out to me. “And it’d be perfect,” I realize. “Except for one small issue. I doubt his niece has cancer.”
“Actually, she does,” he says and winks at me. It’s a small gesture, but it’s still more than I normally get from this stoic man. He must really be in a good mood today. “I gave it to her.”
Now I really am confused. On several levels. For one, I didn’t think someone could just pass cancer along to another person. I’d never heard of it being contagious in my life. And two, when would he have had the chance to meet this girl, let alone infect her.
Chuckling at my expression as I try to process what he’s telling me, he continues. “She doesn’t exist, Cat. Remember? Chadwick and her lawyer created this fictitious girl so that you could assume her identity and visit him. All I did was hack into some files and plant some information in case people at the prison investigate. They’ll discover all the requisite background needed to explain her condition and why she needs the equipment.”
“Oh,” I say. “That makes sense. Impressive.” I feel a bit dumb for not picking up on this earlier, and I wonder if that’s on me, or if the Darkness takes some blame for dulling my thinking right now. Neither explanation makes me happy.
Shrugging the thoughts away, I pick up the glasses from Ren’s hand and slip them on. Immediately the view around me blissfully darkens as my eyes adjust. “These are nice,” I tell him.
“Thanks. I did some shopping this morning trying to find the most effective ones. Those seemed the best, and they came highly recommended by the older lady who was in the store with me. She said she’s used them for years.”
Shaking my head, I ignore his smirk that is still noticeable even through the darkened lenses of the glasses. “And this?” I ask and pick up the little, clear plastic cup on the end of the oxygen tank’s tubes.
“Picked up at the same place. Should have enough oxygen for several hours of use. Even turned up to the maximum levels and blocking out any smells that may try and intrude. It’s normally just supposed to kick out enough extra air to help a person breath normally,” he says. “But I made some adjustments when I got back. It’s a bit more powerful now. It’ll do what we need.”
Nodding as I listen, I pull the tubes up to my nose and work the little elastic straps over my ears so that it will stay in place.
“And turn that little spigot on the side to activate it,” Ren tells me and points so I can see where he’s talking about.
As I twist the knob, I can hear a slight hiss for a moment and then the delicious cold tingle of fresh air swells through me. It’s a wondrous sensation, and I can only imagine how much better this will be than having to actively filter whatever assaults on my respiratory system the prison might have in store.
“Wow,” I say a bit stunned. “This is incredible.”
“Yup,” he agrees, and I can see the pride in his expression. “Two things about the oxygen, also. One, I deliberately got you the version that doesn’t cover your mouth and only has the tube going to your nose.”
I shoot him a questioning look, and he continues.
“I thought there might be a circumstance where you’d want to be able to ‘taste’ the air to sample your surroundings, and having your mouth already uncovered would be less suspicious. To do that meant I had to modify the tank’s output and increase the diameter of the house beyond its original specs, but I think it was probably worth it.”
“Agreed,” I tell him. “And two?”
“While I was shopping, I discovered that there is a new version of oxygen tank that is much smaller and lighter than this style and looks like a large purse or petite backpack. It works by just filtering the oxygen straight out of the surrounding air instead of supplying its own. It was very cool, and very efficient. But I obviously didn’t grab it.”
“Because?”
“Partly because I worried that just filtering the air around you might still leave traces of that air getting through, and I didn’t want anything to distract you or cause an issue. But mostly,” he says and he lets his smile grow even more. “A large, metal oxygen tank could possibly by used as a weapon by a creative individual, and I thought that might be handy given the situation you’re going into.”
Returning Ren’s unintended grin, I’m impressed by his ingenuity. And his willful embracing of my abilities, and my occasional violent tendency towards problem solving. I think that says quite a bit about how worried he is about this meeting then, if he’s willing to accept possible future violence as a necessary solution. But all I say instead is, “Why, yes, I do believe that might be handy, indeed.”
Taking off the glasses and plastic tube, I set them aside on the table and look at Ren. “Ok, I’m ready to do this,” I say. “What do I need to know?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The debriefing and preparation takes the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, but by a little before three we both feel I’m ready to head to the prison and confront Chadwick.
I’m wearing a long, flowy and baggy dress that Ren picked up for me that does a wonderful job of disguising my more comfortable clothes underneath. I have a black t-shirt and jeans on under the flowered cotton, but they aren’t noticeable as the bottom hem almost touches my black Converse sneakers which I refused to give up. The dress does a decent job of softening my appearance and making me appear slightly vulnerable. It’s not an effect that we think Chadwick will respond to, but the hope is that it’s enough to disarm the guards and prevent them from considering me a threat.
Along with the oxygen tank and glasses, Ren has prepared a special pair of Bluetooth ear pieces that look amazingly similar to large hearing aids. We can use them to communicate with each other as well as try and block out, or at least filter, the many noises that I’ll be experiencing.
All the bases seem to be covered, and Ren has done his homework. The only thing he hasn’t been able to prepare me for is whatever it might be that Chadwick wants to tell us. On that front, I’m on my own.
“It all looks great,” I tell him. “But how am I supposed to get there? I can’t really show up on the Zero. This frail, little cancer patient showing up on that speedy electric bike might raise more than a few questions. And I’m not sure how awkward it would be to carry that oxygen tank. I’m assuming you’ve thought this part through, too?”
“I have. You’ll be taking a taxi over,” he tells me simply like it’s the most basic thing in the world.
“From here?” I ask a bit incredulously. We’ve worked hard to keep any connection between us and the warehouse as non-existent as possible. Having a taxi pull up here and pick me up seems like a big risk. But if he’s willing to take it…
“No, not from here,” he responds dismissively. “I have a spot. I’m going to drive you over and drop you off, and you’ll catch the ride from there. Afterwards, I can pick you up.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m not used to the idea of Ren driving around. I know he does from time to time, like this morning, but it still isn’t something I ever really think about. Like TV characters never using the restroom. You know it has to occur at some point, but it just isn’t a thing that you notice happening.
“Then why not just drive me all the way to the prison if you’re going out already?”
“Thought about that,” he tells me. “As much as I’d like to, I think I have to be here,” he says and sweeps his hand towards the wall of computer monitors behind him. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with this man or what he’s going to be saying to you, but I’m sure with whatever it might be it would help if I was recording it and analyzing every word he says. Unfortunately, that can only really be done with me in this chair. So, a taxi was the best option.”
“Can’t argue that logic,” I tell him and pick up the equipment and start walking towards his little electric coupe he keeps plugged in and waiting. “So where ya taking me?”
“A place that’s going to help sell your story in case anyone checks up on you,” he says and grabs his keys off his table. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The large and immaculate sign for the Central City Cancer Center with its four decorative and interlocking “C’s” looms into view as Ren pulls up under the granite- and brick-covered walkway and entrance. “We’ve arrived,” he tells me. “Taxi should be here in a few minutes.”
“A cancer treatment facility?” I ask Ren. “Nice touch.”
“Thanks. I thought so, also. It’ll help mask your actual location in case anybody checks with the driver after your arrival,” he tells me and pops the door locks so I can get out. “Plus according to the records inside this place, you just finished a several hour’s long treatment in case anybody calls them. As far as the paper trail is concerned you were here all afternoon and then headed straight to the prison to visit with your uncle. I mean it won’t withstand a strong scrutiny if somebody actually shows up on the premises and starts asking around about you,” he confesses. “But that shouldn’t be something we have to worry about, either. I was just trying to cover as many bases as I could as quickly as possible.”
“Probably overkill,” I agree with him. “But it won’t hurt to have it set up just in case.”
Stepping out of the car, I pat the new purse Ren supplied for me when he was compiling my outfit. “I have the new ID card in here and money for the cab fare. We should be good.”
“Agreed,” he tells me and then adds. “Good luck, Cat. I wish I could go in with you.”
“No, you don’t,” I laugh. “I don’t even want to be going in there. But one of us has to, and he requested me.”
Instead of replying, he just smiles and pulls away leaving me standing under the covered walkway and waiting for my next ride to arrive.
Luckily the wait is short, and after only five minutes and sitting on a bench and watching people enter and exit the building whose lives are much more unfortunate than my own, I watch as a yellow taxi pulls up to the curb in front of me.
Standing up and pulling my tank along behind me, I make my way towards the vehicle. When I’m still a few feet away, the driver’s side door pops open and an older, white gentleman wearing a tan and blue plaid button up shirt rises and looks at me across the top of his car.
“Would you like help?” he asks with an accent I can’t quite place. “Want me to get the door?”
“You’re here for Anna Belluck?” I ask him instead of replying, and when he nods his head I just continue walking. “Nah, I’m good, but thanks.”
“Ok,” he says and slips back down into the front seat and shuts his door.
Once I’m in and have the tank positioned next to me and the seat belt buckled securely into place, I tell him, “I’m headed to the prison on the outside of town. You know where it is?”
“I do,” he tells me. “Are you sure that’s where you want to go, miss?”
“No, I don’t,” I say. “But I have to. It’s for my uncle.” Sighing, I lean my head back and rest it against the seat to prepare myself for what I’m about to go through.
“Duncan Correctional Facility it is, then,” he says softly and pulls away from the curb. Feeling the slight hum of the car beneath me as it moves down the road, I try to remember the last time I’d been in a vehicle while someone else was driving. The memories it invokes help distract me as the miles disappear and the inevitable confrontation begins to loom ever closer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lawrence, the cab driver, is kin
d enough to tell me his name and a bit of his family history during the short drive while I give minimal responses and stare out the window. He drives up to the front entrance of the prison before putting the car in park and turning around in the seat to let me know we’ve arrived.
“Duncan Correctional Facility, miss,” he drawls in his melodic accent. “End of the line.”
Pulling one of the still fairly crisp one hundred dollar bills from my small purse, I hand it to him over the seat and tell him to keep the change. It’s not like the money has any real meaning to me. I get stacks of the bills for free whenever I attack the cartels and syndicates, and Ren purchases anything I might actually need from a store instead of my going after it myself. Because of this, paper money has sort of lost its value for me. Might as well use it to help others when I can.
“You sure?” Lawrence asks me as I open the door and slide out. “That’s a mighty big tip you’re passing along to me. I mean it’s appreciated and all,” he continues. “But maybe you could use it more.” He hesitantly indicates towards my oxygen tank and glasses.
I suspect Lawrence might be a legitimately nice guy. It makes me smile.
“No, it’s fine. But thank you,” I tell him, and then an idea hits me before I can lean back away from the window. “Actually, I have a small favor to ask of you if you’re able.”
“Shure thing,” he drawls. “If I’m able to.”
Reaching into the little purse, I pull out another bill and offer it through the window. “I’m going to need a ride back after this. It’d make my life considerably easier if I didn’t have to wait for another cab. Would you mind waiting for me out here? I’m hoping it won’t be long.”
Catharsis (Book 3): Catastrophe Page 16
