The Broken Ones (Book 3): The Broken City

by Jobe, David

  Grimm took a step back, “That’s a bit dramatic and descriptive.”

  She frowned. “Just tell Lanton what I told you. Take the side effect cure and then go check out the soda company. I am betting that the truth is there somehow. It’s where all these roads point.”

  Grimm nodded, moving to grab the steel suitcase. He stopped at the door as he was about to leave. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “I still don’t think brown belts go with black pants,” she said without looking up from the body in front of her.

  He laughed and shook his head though he then realized she wouldn’t have been able to see it. “Are you from the Dominican Republic?”

  Carrie Anne stopped what she was doing, the scalpel held just over the incision she had made. “No. I come from a small island near Cuba and the Dominican Republic. It’s its own nation with its own laws and culture. Why do you ask?”

  “You terrify and fascinate me all at once.”

  A slow smile spread across her pretty lips, and though she did look up, she said, “Then you are smarter than your fashion choices, Detective Grimm.”

  A shiver ran down his spine, and he pushed through the door before he started sweating in front of her. “You dummy,” he said to himself. “Great pick up line, you moron,” he said as he pushed the button for the elevator. “Idiot.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Changing Directions

  Julian stepped from the well-lit parking lot of Pizza Hut to the dark driveway that led up to Father Holland’s church. The church itself sat high on a hill, off to one side to allow for the small gravel parking lot that sat next to it. It was one of those older churches with the large steeple rising from the front, the pointed roof and the one long building. Nothing like the grand structures that towered over the streets of Indianapolis, with whole wings devoted to daycare and sports and all manner of things. This one had the feel of a church removed from time and placed on an earthen pedestal as an example of a time since passed. Julian looked to his left and found that he had teleported next to the church’s sign. Three lamps had been set into the ground to light the sign, though only one burned now, flickering as bugs danced across it. The words “Mercy’s Landing” still shone in beautiful golden letters. It occurred to Julian that through all their talks, Julian had never asked the name of the church and Father Holland had never said it. He had always referred to it as his church. The name made Julian smile, even though his heart pounded in his chest. He promised himself that when tonight’s ordeal was done, he would return to help Father Holland replace the burnt-out bulbs.

  He made the climb up the gravel pathway so many believers had driven, his eyes scanning the shadows for the man he had come here to see. He had started calling the old hillbilly, Trucker. He expected to see one of Trucker’s vehicles here, obviously not the truck that had earned him his name, but at least the beat up old station wagon. He couldn’t see any vehicles except a battered old Oldsmobile that he knew belonged to Father Holland and was often time referred to as Old Moses. Father Holland had explained the name came from the fact that he and Old Moses had gotten lost far too often for such a small town.

  He made it to the stoop of the old building, its rising spire blocking out the partial moon that had illuminated his walk up. Now he stood in the glare of a single light bulb that shone from a broken ceiling light. Julian could make out that someone had nailed a message to the door, and above it, a half globe of glass rested. As he peered closer, he could see that the globe was one of those camera’s you used to monitor your home remotely. Julian knew it didn’t belong to Father Holland, so it must belong to Trucker. The note stated as much. “Meet me at the rest stop north of Indianapolis on Interstate 69, just north of where it splits off from 37. If I see cops, I vanish, and someone you love dies.”

  Julian frowned into the camera, sure that Trucker peered at him from somewhere else. Julian hadn’t told the police where he had been planning on going. For that, he found himself glad, afraid their lights flashing in the distance would put someone he cared for in trouble. He closed his eyes and focused on the rest stop mentioned in the note. He thought he may have been there before, but when he opened his eyes and found it sprawled out before him, it didn’t look familiar.

  Trucker stood leaning over the hood of his car, peering into a laptop that rested on the hood of the old station wagon. He looked up, and his eyes grew wide as he saw Julian standing in the glow of one of the many lampposts. “You’re late.” His tone gruff and cold.

  “I wasn’t told a time. Just this evening.” Julian stepped forward and found a gun pointed at him again. “We’ve been through this.”

  Trucker nodded with a slowly spreading grin. “Sure have, but the rules have changed. You won’t be dropping any more cars, or else I find one of yours and hit them with whatever I steal next.”

  Julian frowned. “Not if I end you here first.”

  Trucker raised a brow littered with elongated hairs. “You fancy yourself a killer, eh? Go on then, kill me.”

  Julian sighed. He reached down and picked up a stone about the size of a golf ball. “I’ve been practicing since we last met.” He tossed the stone up into the air and caught it. “Learning just how far my powers can reach.” He tossed the stone again, catching it deftly. “I can keep track of something once I’ve teleported it, if just for a few seconds. Here’s what I learned.” The stone went up and vanished. He smiled at Trucker as Trucker began to peer around for where the stone might have vanished too. “Right now, it’s about a mile up, maybe more, my grasp of distance at that height is sketchy. With each second, it’s falling straight for the earth, picking up speed. It takes about 3 seconds to reach 50% of its terminal velocity.” He took a step forward. “8 seconds to reach 90%. You know about 8 seconds, right? Fifteen to reach-” Julian made a throwing gesture with his hand, and the rock appeared, shooting across the parking lot until it slammed into the back of the laptop. As if hit by a bullet, the laptop screen shattered in a shower of sparks. “Then it’s just about returning it and changing the direction it’s going.”

  “You son of a-” Trucker went to bellow but stopped as another stone vanished from Julian’s hand. “Fine. You want to play hardball. We will. Anything happens to me, and your brother dies.”

  Julian stopped moving forward. “You’re lying.”

  “I’d prove it if you hadn’t just destroyed my laptop. The church wasn’t the only camera feed on it, you moron.” He pointed the gun at Julian. “Now, stop with the tricks. You see, I ran into your stepfather. We had a little powwow, him and I. I told him how much I was looking to gain from turning you into a slice and dice shop. Oh, how he wanted to cut you up himself, but when I promised to let him have half, if he helped me nail you down, he was all game.”

  “He can’t get close to my brother.”

  “He already has. So, here’s the deal. You come with me, and play nice, give me that bracelet thing of yours and go where you are told, your brother lives. You duck out to try and go save him, your brother and that cute nurse, Emelie was it, dies. Simple as that. What’s your decision?”

  Julian sighed. The rock clattered to the ground next to him, skittering off into the darkness. He powered down his shield, undoing the clasp on his watch. Stepping forward her handed it to Trucker, who swiped it.

  “That’s a good boy. Now put these on.” He handed Julian some handcuffs. “Give me your phone too.” He pocketed it as well. “Now you are all alone.”

  Julian shook his head. “God walks with me.”

  Trucker gave a loud guffaw. “I don’t see him nowhere. Just you, in handcuffs and about to be in a world of trouble. Get in the car. No, no. In the back, like a dog. You got no place up front with me.”

  Julian struggled to get in the cargo space of the station wagon, the handcuffs making moving well a challenge. Trucker slammed the hatchback before he was settled, and the glass struck him hard in the head. After a second he could feel blood starting to tr
ickle down his face. The car started up, and he felt it jerk backward.

  Just beyond the lights, in the parking lot nearest the restrooms. The side door slid open, and big hands pushed a woman out onto the hard pavement. Though he couldn’t hear her, he suspected that she cried out in pain. The van door shut and it drove off with a squalling of tires. “There’s a hurt woman back there.”

  “Did I tell you to speak, dog? Shut your mouth. She probably deserves whatever trouble she got herself into. What would a girl be doing out here so late anyway?”

  Julian felt the car lurch, and the rest stop faded from view. He could tell by the signs on the other side of the road that they were headed north, away from Indianapolis. He thought to ask where he was being taken but decided against it.

  At one point Julian heard a phone vibrate up front. Then again. It did this several times before Trucker growled to himself. “Someone’s popular. You got a drug deal going down somewhere, boy?’

  Julian sighed and settled against the awful smelling back seat of the station wagon. Peering out the window, he swore he saw a man pushing someone down a side street in a wheelchair, though the lights never seemed to touch the pair. It flashed by fast enough that Julian suspected that it had been a figment of his imagination, or maybe something caused by being hit by the back window.

  After about ten more minutes they got off the highway and drove into an abandoned parking lot. “Time for you to meet your new home, boy? Heh. Homeboy. You feel me, dog?” He tried to sound street but came out sounding like one of those grandparents repeating phrases they didn’t understand. Trucker got out and walked around, pointing his gun at Julian as he lifted the back hatch. Come along. We mustn’t keep the Doctor waiting.

  Julian slid out, finding that easier than getting in. Standing up, he looked over the top of the station wagon and found that there were parked outside the loading dock of Icarus Drinks. “You brought me to a soda bottling factory.”

  “Shaddup. I brought you to my payday. Now walk.”

  Julian walked, aiming for the only regular door he could see. As they got closer, he saw that one of the larger loading dock doors was open. Not only that, but whoever opened it had ripped it all to shreds in the process. “Um, that doesn’t look promising. That looks like something nasty broke out.” He turned to face Trucker, who stood staring at the broken doorway.

  For a few long moments, Trucker stared at the door, seeming as if to be weighing the choices before him. “Hold on,” he said. He pulled out a cell phone from his pocket and started dialing. Sticking it to his ear, he began to mutter over and over, “come on, pick up. Come on. Come on. Shit.” He punched a button on the screen.

  “No answer? Let me guess. You were calling the Doctor.”

  “Shut. It.” Trucker pointed the gun at him. “We’ll just hit the hotel south of here. Wait until I hear from him.”

  “I’m afraid you have dinner arrangements somewhere else.” Lanton stepped from nearby shadows, his gun trained on Trucker. From his left breast, his badge shone brightly in the light. “Put the gun down.”

  Trucker spun, confused. He pointed his gun at Julian. “You do anything, and the kid dies.”

  “Allison,” Lanton said in a low tone.

  Around Trucker’s feet, a bunch of legos clattered on the pavement. He looked down at his empty hands in bewilderment. “What the hell?” He held them out in front of him. Between them appeared the chains and then the handcuffs.

  “Neat trick, Julian.” Mac drifted down from the sky. “Sorry it took so long to get here. The cell towers in this area are spotty, and your tracker was having issues pinging the right ones.”

  Julian rubbed his wrists. “You showed up just in time.” He marched forward, pulling his cell and watch from Trucker’s jacket pocket. “You’ll find that this one has a warrant out for his arrest over in Mississippi. Assault and battery.”

  “Don’t forget kidnapping and human trafficking,” Lanton said.

  “What?” Trucker blinked, looking between the three of them.

  “You are going away for a long time. Right, Julian?” Mac still hovered a few inches above the pavement.

  “Yeah. Sure.” Julian was looking at the messages on his phone. They were from Dance. His mom’s place had been attacked, and Dance had taken his friends to go help out. The last messaged just asked for help. Something about its tone felt ominous. “I gotta go.”

  Trucker started laughing. “Too late, boy.” He dropped to the ground, gasping and holding his throat. At his feet, a rock rolled to a stop.

  Julian stared at the choking man for just a moment and then jumped.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Bandit Hero

  Brian watched in stunned silence as the tail lights of the van Nurse Lindell had stolen faded off into the distance. “That sucks.” He looked around, hoping to find another car idling or some other way to get himself out of here before the police showed up in force. He had no idea how they would deal with any of this, but the fact that he was carting around a corpse would not work well in his favor. He looked at the body of Shane, willing the man to draw life and make his own easier. He contemplated leaving the man here, having fulfilled his promise to get the man out, but he cast the idea aside. He wasn’t like a lawyer looking for a loophole.

  He pushed his listless guest into a shadowy corner and looked inside the factory. Not wanting to stray far, he began to look at the office back by the elevators. He found a small break room with a soda machine stocked full of the company’s brand. Along the back wall, he could see a row of lockers. For a moment he considered them, thinking that maybe he should leave well enough alone, but he couldn’t. He had no idea what would happen if and when Doctor Patton awoke from his death. He chuckled at that. What he did suspect is that someone helping one of his captives escape would not fare well, and technically, Brian had helped two, three if he included himself. He yanked open the first locker and found it empty. The second yielded a pair of boots that would never have fit him. The third had a picture of a character from a cable show, complete with parts exposed. The fourth he hit paydirt. Someone had left a full set of clothes here, as well as their wallet. Opening the wallet up, he found it packed with credit cards and a small stack of folded cash. He peered at the picture, intent on remembering so he could return the money when he finally got set, but the face looked all too familiar. The face of the man who had tried to kill him stared back. He pocketed the man’s wallet and moved to the next locker. This one held much of the same, but the picture was of the military man they had found headless with Doctor Patton, the large scar making the identification easy. He opened two more and found similar, suspecting that each was a member of the same unit, probably keeping their civilian info locked up in case they were caught or killed. All in all, Brian walked out with over four hundred in cash and a wallet that held an ID he felt comfortable trying to pass off as his. As he went to leave the break room, he stopped by the first aid kit mounted to the wall. Ripping it open with ease, he grabbed as many gauss bandages as he could. He then went back to one of the lockers and pulled out a Buffalo Bill’s ball cap.

  Returning to Shane, he peered around the corner of the ruined door to see if the police had shown up yet. The parking lot remained a ghost town. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Odds are, somewhere in the facility below, his breaking the door had set off a host of alarms that would send the soldiers running to the elevators. Now, there was no one to hear or answer the alarm. Trying to relax, he settled into bandaging Shane’s head. The front, where the bullet hole stood out prominently served to be no problem. The back, on the other hand, made Brian gag and vomit into a nearby recycle bin. In the end, he decided to stuff some of the gauze in the massive wound to make the head seem more like a solid piece, and not the blown-out melon that it actually was. “I’m gonna have nightmares,” he told the corpse. Putting the cap over the bandages, he moved Shane to the handicap ramp and rolled him down to the parking lot. There he s
tood, indecisive as he tried to think of which way he should go. He had no idea where he was, but he could see a glow of lights on the horizon, just over the trees. He would head that way and hope he at least found a place with a phone. Then maybe he could manage a taxi to somewhere to lie low for the night.

  He started down the nearby road, bypassing the highway entrance. Nothing would draw attention faster than some idiot with a wheelchair walking down the side of the highway. Even on the old side road where the lights were few and far in between, he found he had to duck into the underbrush a few times to escape the wandering eyes of oncoming headlights. After a little over an hour, he found himself standing on the dirt path that led up to the back of a rest stop. Figuring that they would have a phone, he wheeled Shane toward the front.

  He heard her first, sobbing as he came around the far front corner of the main building of the rest stop. A woman was curled up in a gloomy corner just beyond the reach of the light so that only her bare feet were visible. “Ma’am? Are you okay?” He stopped as soon as he spoke, figuring that he might seem threatening.