by A J Jameson
Pablo waved Marek into the garage, grease adding a shine to his hands and forearms. He stood near the motorized scooters section of the vehicle lineup. Marek met him at the electrical recharge station, cords stretching from its core like octopus arms. “Ready to get that certification?” Pablo asked.
“Anything new I should know about?” Marek asked.
Pablo clapped his hands together, a crumb of grime leaping from his palms to his thick beard. “The biggest difference when it comes to this van is the sharp turns. I reinforced the front and back bumpers with some seriously dense steel, so it feels longer than it looks.”
Marek nodded. He remembered a few of the previous van models failing the chain-link fence portion of the obstacle course. They’d blow through the barrier, but always sustained damage while doing so. And for Pablo, this was simply unacceptable. He wanted every one of his vehicles to bear the durability of a tank, no matter its classification.
“Besides that, the chassis is light metal, but pretty sturdy. No need for refuel as the batteries are always recharging, plus I installed a few solar panels on top of the roof. The only thing you need to consider is the van’s extension abilities. It gets big.” Pablo widened his hands to demonstrate. “Imagine folding a paper in half one hundred times…well, it’s impossible to fold a paper in half more than eight times, but…”
They’d passed the smart cars, sedans, and bulky Cadillacs when Marek spotted the mobile medical van in the vehicle lineup, its heavily reinforced nose peeping out farther than the others.
“We’ll stick with eight folds,” Pablo said. “One piece of paper folded in half eight times is basically what this van is in its current condition. If you ever need to park and dig-in for a few nights, it can extend to the length and width of two trailer-park homes. But getting it back together,” he tapped a forefinger against his temple, “that’s the tricky part.”
“You can show me how it extends another time,” Marek said. “For now, we need to get rolling and pick up the compromised bike at Darryl’s house.”
“Darryl’s compromised?” Pablo asked, stopping mid-strut.
“Oh no,” Marek said, shaking his head. “Darryl’s fine, Delta’s fine. Nobody’s been compromised. Just the license plate of the bike Eduardo was riding.”
Pablo stood with his mouth open, churning over Marek’s words.
“Didn’t anybody tell you what happened?” Marek asked.
“They don’t tell us anything down here. If it doesn’t have to do with the repair of an engine or some modification, we don’t hear about it.” A revelation hit Pablo and he stopped tugging on his beard. “I did see Eduardo wheeling a bike to the demolition chamber.” He smiled at something behind Marek. “Here comes your crew. You ready?”
Zyta and Yolanda had entered the garage, one with a backpack of presumable medical supplies and the other with a satchel containing her laptop. “Let’s do it,” Marek said.
It wasn’t long after he climbed behind the wheel, Yolanda in the passenger seat with her laptop mounted on a specially designed rack, and Zyta in the rear of the van, her own laptop secured next to a beaker-testing station, that a swell of uneasiness clenched Marek’s gut. There’s no way Law would neglect a single state in Yolanda’s search for Axel Warden. And Yolanda was averaging maybe three minutes per state…that’s a hundred and fifty minutes total. Over two hours!
Marek eased the van onto the test range, keeping it in low gear as they approached the first slight incline. “So, Yolanda, I was thinking about a theme for the front seats…”
She offered an uh-huh?
“What about something serene or sublime, like a cloudless sky? The steering wheel, seat covers, maybe a trinket for the rearview mirror…how about a calming blue?”
She continued typing in silence. The van’s engine rumbled as they rounded the hill’s apex. Marek was ready to throw the gear into park when Yolanda finally responded. “Maybe a red nose as the rearview trinket and a few clown decals for the windows.”
Marek chuckled and relaxed. Only Yolanda and Zyta knew about his fear of clowns. Zyta, from their childhood days learning of kings and jesters, and Yolanda, from Marek’s confession during a time she was on the brink of a mental breakdown. The fear of underperforming had reached a peak for Yolanda after an incident involving her wrists. She couldn’t type for two weeks. And being a person that placed pride in work-ethic and intellectual practicality, she felt a continuous drain on self-value.
“If a person is feeling low, it’s beneficial to show weakness,” Law had told Marek. “Lets them know they’re not the only ones down there.”
Marek had taken the advice and shared his personal phobia of clowns with Yolanda, and she laughed. “Face paint and costumes, that’s all they are.”
“I know, but that doesn’t stop my heart from racing.”
“Our fearless squad leader, afraid of clowns.”
Marek realized she was mocking him and shared a little more. “Law doesn’t know.”
To this Yolanda did not laugh. “I thought Law knew everything about you, being your guardian since childhood.”
“He does, pretty much. I just wasn’t sure how he’d react to something so…unreasonable.”
Yolanda nodded.
The next day Marek gave her a wrist brace and ordered her to wear it when she returned to full duty. “My new hated color is blue,” she said, accepting the gift.
Marek slowed the medical van as he approached the course’s ninety-degree turn. The vehicle heaved forward, the front shocks absorbing accrued momentum. Then a blackhole pulled at the vehicle from the right as Marek took the turn, the steering wheel’s sensitivity higher than he had anticipated. “Hold on.” He jammed the brakes. They, too, were sensitive, and tires screeched as the van came to a halt, its chassis rocking back and forth.
“Serene, huh?” Yolanda said. She tugged loose the seatbelt from her neck. “Like a cloudless sky.”
“I told you I can’t handle clowns, not even in my imagination.” Marek turned around to find Zyta. She hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt, but she had managed to grab hold of the ceiling’s support handle. “Are you okay?”
She let go of the handle and patted her hair, checking the integrity of her bun. “Yeah, fine. Should’ve warned you about the brakes. They’re a little touchy.”
“Yeah no kidding…” Since when did she start wearing buns? Looking closer, Marek noticed that her eyes were lighter. Brighter.
Marek unclasped his seatbelt and approached his sister. “What happened to them?” he demanded.
“What happened to who?” Zyta asked, taking a step back.
“Our parents,” Marek yelled. “What happened to them, how’d they die?”
“Marek, what are you doing?” Yolanda said.
“What happened?” Marek repeated, his tone low and acidic.
Zyta’s eyes darted to the left, looking over Marek’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch. Yolanda wouldn’t meddle in sibling matters. Zyta should already know that…unless she doesn’t feel comfortable talking about it in front of Yolanda. Still, Marek stood his ground. And she spoke.
“Dad was killed by the gang members he was suspected of selling classified technologies to, and Mom died from an overdose of anti-depressant medications shortly after.”
“That’s what everybody knows,” Marek said. He took a step forward. Zyta remained where she was. “But what do we think.”
“We think,” she started, then lowered her voice to barely a whisper. It wouldn’t make a difference; the van’s reinforced siding, roof, and floor worked together to confine and amplify her words. “We’re reasonably sure that Dad was killed by the anti-home-invasion company he worked for after he learned of its corruption and brought the matter to the board of directors. And then Mom reached out to the press…” she trailed off, a glassy haze filming her bright eyes.
It was all there. Knowledge exchanged between Zyta and Marek alone. Nobody else in C3U knew of their conspiracy theory.
And although Yolanda most likely overheard, the words would never leave her lips. She never meddled.
“The toxicology report found anti-depressants in her bloodstream,” Zyta said. “We’ve confirmed it with multiple sources.”
Marek exhaled, his entire body shrinking. Zyta wasn’t Ivan, and Marek had put his sister through a bout of painful memories because, why, he was feeling a little paranoid? The death of their father was finalized in their eyes. But the cause of their mother’s remained unsolved. She had contacted news reporters daily, running this story with that channel and these facts with those articles…and to be doing it all while supposedly sedated? It was the loose end Marek could only tie off in his dreams.
Zyta closed the small gap between them. “What the hell’s with the interrogation?”
Marek flinched at the word. “I’m sorry. I had to check if you were Ivan.”
“If I were Ivan?”
He almost laughed hearing Zyta say it. “Yeah, I know it sounds ridiculous, but when we were scouting Laced Rain he had a display screen on his drone and you were in it. Him, dressed like you. And damn convincing, too.”
“His disguise got past you?” Zyta sat, her thin lips invisible as she smirked. “You’re the disguise expert.”
“I know. I think that’s why I’m so bugged out about it.”
“I was going to wait, but since we’re travelling the plane of the eerie…” Zyta turned her laptop for Marek to see. ‘DNA not found’ sat center screen in bold red lettering. “I’ve been testing potential serums against infected DNA samples from the C3U database and have everyone’s except Law. I even found our parents’, which is why I was so confused when you started asking me about them, like you had some kind of telepathic connection and could see what I was doing.”
Marek stuck a finger in his eye and rubbed a fictitious itch. “Sorry for freaking out like that. Next time I’ll just ask if you’re Ivan. And I’ll talk to Law about his missing DNA file when we get back. I’m sure he won’t mind giving a sample.”
“Thanks,” Zyta said, taking her seat. “And yes, next time just ask.”
Marek returned to the driver’s seat and prepared to seesaw the medical van over the course’s muddy mounds. He would without a doubt clock in as the slowest driver for this vehicle, and Pablo would inquire the reasoning, looking to implement any mechanical improvements.
“A piece of good news…” Yolanda prompted.
“You’ve activated Ivan’s tracker chip so I can know where he is at all times?” Marek asked half-jokingly.
“Found the hacker’s real name: Axel Hoffmann, registered address 1808 Artifact street.”
“Good work, Yolanda,” Marek said, and eased on the gas.
Chapter 10
Axel deposited his change into the tip jar. The man wearing a backwards baseball hat muttered thanks and then disappeared deeper into the food truck.
“Ice cream following a chicken finger basket is the epitome of an unbalanced diet,” Little Eye said. “I recommend purchasing the kid a fruit basket instead. And vegetables.”
“No, he knows what he wants,” Axel said. “And I don’t care what you say about this plan, it’s not stupid.”
“Not stupid, but dangerous.”
The food-truck man returned with two chocolate ice cream cones topped with rainbow sprinkles. “Thanks,” Axel said, and brought Jordan his ice cream. They sat on the stoop of a building that remained closed every Sunday, and dug in. Jordan slurped a few licks and then stopped to touch the tips of his fingers to the base of his chin; a showing of gratitude. “You’re welcome, little man.”
“I don’t understand your hesitation,” Little Eye said. “The saliva from the cigarette butt and the analyzed hair strands confirm the woman is Banshee.”
Axel licked the front of his teeth, warding off the ice cream’s chilly touch. “Some part of the equation is missing. A lost anomaly.”
Jordan tugged at Axel’s arm. Chocolate ice cream was smeared on his face from nose to chin. He mouthed something. A question of sorts.
“I don’t understand,” Axel said.
Jordan mouthed it again, but Axel didn’t catch his words. Past sign language’s basic greetings, answers, and questions, Axel found his ability to hold conversations with Jordan extremely limited. And he hadn’t been practicing much. Not since his last meeting with Banshee.
“I’m conversing with Little Eye right now,” Axel explained. “How’s the ice cream? Good, like the chicken fingers?”
Jordan nodded vigorously, a lock of his flopping hair dipping into his ice cream. He laughed and then licked the strands clean. He signed again, using one hand. The shapes of his intertwining fingers and thumb flickered something like a wizard conjuring spirits.
“Is there a way to add a translator to my eyeglasses?” Axel asked. “To make it easier for me to interpret what Jordan is saying?”
“Axel.” Little Eye’s tone of voice had hardened. “You’re not listening.” Then she sighed, her voice leveling. “That’d be a difficult task. And how would you communicate to Jordan? Do you expect him to lip read everything? I think he’d appreciate your willingness to learn his language, and by doing so the bond between you will strengthen.”
Axel gave his remaining ice cream to Jordan. They exchanged the signs of thank you and you’re welcome.
“Now back to Banshee,” Little Eye said.
“Okay. We know there’s some kind of degradation before she strikes,” Axel said. “A parent guilty of physical abuse, and another of Munchausen by proxy. The illegal act of soliciting sexual favors in exchange for resources, with the potential of deception used against Imogen.”
“You mean Banshee,” Little Eye corrected. “Referring to her on a first name basis feels too personal for your current relationship status with a confirmed serial killer.”
“Relationship…” Axel pondered. “What do you think, Jordan. Would she be a good fit for the family?”
The ice cream smeared on Jordan’s chin and nose had spread to his hands. He had about three more bites of Axel’s cone left. He didn’t see Axel’s question, so he continued to watch the squirrel digging through a trash can.
“If you were to sniff, your MI would register your words as genuinely interested in forming a relationship with Banshee,” Little Eye said. “I’m not sure how your perception got so muddled, but if your desire to engage with this person continues, I will notify the authorities. I don’t care if your apprehension prevents any further transferred funds.”
“Shhh, here she comes.” Axel checked his watch. Her route, this route, remained the same each time Axel tracked her movements, but the timing was always different. Strange, for a woman supposedly walking to work.
“Remember, don’t give your name, Jordan’s name, and don’t mention me,” Little Eye said.
“Right,” Axel said, and got to his feet.
Banshee approached, wearing a white tank top, denim shorts, and athletic shoes. Her demeanor seemed more…ready, compared to the club. She was also shorter than he remembered. And broader in the shoulders. Is this the same person? And then she squinted, her green, serpent-like eyes recalling the itch in Axel’s throat as he inhaled smoke from his first and last cigarette. Axel forced himself to hold eye contact. And then she stopped walking.
Jordan waved. Axel did the same. And then Banshee, very reluctantly, raised one hand. “You have to approach her,” Little Eye said. “Introduce yourself.”
But it didn’t feel right. Axel could tell, even without his MI interpreting, that Banshee was frightened. And then she did something that made Axel reconsider modifying his eyeglasses for sign. She returned Jordan’s greeting with her hands.
“Little Eye, what are they saying?” Axel whispered.
“I don’t know, Axel, I can’t interpret sign language.”
Their give and take continued. Axel tried to follow along, whipping his gaze back and forth. But their hands shifted faster than shapes in a kaleidoscope, their f
ingers striking poses quicker than Axel could if he practiced every day for five years. The only words Axel pulled from the exchange were thank you and yes.
Banshee approached the food truck and plucked a few napkins from the dispenser. She handed them to Jordan and he cleaned his messy face.
“Would you like to sit and have a conversation with us?” Axel asked.
Banshee smiled shyly, the slits of her eye’s becoming two green caterpillars. Her hands went into action, addressing Jordan. Jordan relayed the message to Axel using one finger to draw the word in midair. J-O-B.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Axel said. “You work at a self-defense place, right? Well, my little friend here has been having problems with one of the kids from his foster home, and he could benefit from a few self-defense lessons.”
Banshee’s full lips parted. Unbelieving, Axel guessed. Then he sniffed, his MI relaying Genuine. Worrisome. “Dammit,” Axel cursed, realizing the MI had interpreted his own words.
A quick motion of Banshee’s hands, touching her forehead, chin, heart, and lastly, Jordan’s hand. She shook it, waved to Axel, and made to leave. Axel grabbed her arm and a second later the force of a battering ram plowed into his gut. He backpedaled, the wind knocked from his lungs.
“Sorry,” Banshee said, her voice the screeching rumble of a howler monkey. She immediately covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fright.
Axel recovered from the blow and lurched forward before she could flee, reaching for her hand. “Do you remember me from the club?”
She pulled her hand free and curled it into a fist. Her head tilted to the side like a snake sizing its prey. Fog slowly faded from her memory. She recognized him, Axel was almost sure, yet shook her head no.
“You’re getting too personal,” Little Eye said. “Knowing her place of occupation is coincidental enough. Knowing too where she spends her free time is borderline harassment.”
“You gave me a cigarette,” Axel continued. “It was splendid, not the cigarette, the interaction. It was…” Splendid? Since when do I say splendid?
