Simon Rising

by Brian D Howard

  “If I let you go, are you going to keep coming after me?”

  The man’s eyes lowered and his head sagged a little. “The guy who sent me isn’t big on failure.” The man frowned, his eyes looking down and to the side dejectedly. Steven didn't want to kill the man. He tried to weigh the risks of letting the man go, but there were too many variables he didn't know. If he let him go, would the man’s boss torture and kill him? Would that then be his fault? Would that be any better than killing the man himself?

  “I don’t want to kill you,” he admitted to the man.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  Even if he let the man go, he supposed, someone else would probably be sent. How many assassins would he have to contend with? How long until one of them planted a bomb and waited for just the right moment? No, he couldn't just run and hide and hope whoever wanted him dead would just give up.

  The only other option he could think of was to take the fight to them.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” he told the man. “You tell me who sent you, and where to find him. Then I let you go, you get in your car, and I never see you again. Then I deal with your boss. You probably lay low for a while, then at some point it all blows over and neither of us have to worry about it anymore. Do you have any problems with that idea?”

  “I like the you letting me go part,” the man conceded. “You just gonna go after the mob?”

  “If I have to, maybe....”

  “So, what, bank robber turned vigilante? That’s different.”

  “I have no interest in robbing banks,” he insisted. “I’m not that guy anymore. Besides, there’s other vigilantes in this city.”

  “You gonna put on some kind of mask and fight crime by throwing people around?” The man sounded surprisingly rational. He supposed if he were in the man’s position he would have little choice but to accept the impossible thing happening. He had been getting fairly used to the impossible himself.

  He waved the floating gun in the man’s face, bringing it closer. “I think there are worse things I could be doing. All things considered it doesn’t sound like so bad an idea.” Mask and costume and diapers, he thought. It probably wouldn't get him his own comic book, but the idea didn't seem a bad one, overall. He did have some kind of power, and maybe that would be a good use for it. Living a normal life didn't exactly seem possible while he was hiding from the law anyway.

  He moved the lever to eject the gun’s magazine. He caught the magazine before it fell far and pushed the bullets out one by one, just enough brightness to get them out, letting them fall to the ratty carpet. He kept a mental hold of the last one and brought it up right in front of the man’s face.

  “I can stop them coming after me. After that I don’t think they’re going to care about you anymore.” He let the gun fall to the floor, but kept the bullet in front of the man’s face, inches away. All he had to do was give it a good glowing push, right between the man’s eyes. So easy, so effective. But he was not a killer! That was not who he was!

  “Yeah, I s’pose maybe you can.” He sighed, defeat showing in tired eyes. “The guy you’re looking for is Kurt Müller. He runs most of the Bridgeview area from about the edge of the Art District clear down to the river. He’s got a lot of cops in his pocket.”

  “Thank you. I’m going to put you down now,” Steven explained. “And you’re going to leave and I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  “Simon says,” he added, whipping the man forward towards the door for punctuation. He lowered the man to the ground and pulled the door open.

  “We aren’t going to have any problems, are we?”

  “No,” the man said, shakily.

  “Good.” He propelled the man out the door and made the door shut behind him. The door slammed harder and louder than he intended.

  A moment later he heard the man shout to people to get back into their rooms. He did worry someone might have called the police. “So much for staying put,” he grumbled.

  He closed his eyes and sensed people getting back into their rooms while the would-be assassin got back into his car and drove away.

  He gathered up his belongings, stuffing what would fit into the backpack and the rest into the paper shopping bag. He floated the pack up and his arms through the straps, pulled the bag up to his hand and strode out of the room. Sirens already sounded in the distance.

  A pudgy man in a dirty t-shirt and baggy jeans loitered a few doors down. He scowled at the man and started walking towards him and the man ducked back into his room, locking the door and setting the chain. He walked past the man’s room as the sirens grew closer, rounding the end of the building just before police cars stormed the parking lot. He walked through a cracked and weed-riddled back lot and past a muffler repair shop. He started down the next street without looking back; he had no need to.

  CHAPTER 34 – A HARD CHOICE

  “Get in your fucking rooms,” Carl lashed out. “Back in your room, asshole!”

  His hand shook as he pulled open the car door. The fuck just happened?

  The hospital had been fucked up because Ambrose wasn’t in his room. Quadriplegic. Him being at his room at two in the goddamned morning was a pretty reasonable thing to expect. Him walking around was something nobody would have seen coming.

  But godfuckingdammit this was over the top!

  The memory of the bullet suspended in front of his face floated in front of him as real as the bullet had been. He keyed the engine to life and put the car in gear. Underestimating the quadriplegic was one thing. Nobody would blame him for that. He didn’t. But some magical freak throwing things with his mind?! Nobody sees that coming.

  White knuckles gripped the steering wheel; he hated this city more and more all the time.

  He drove away before Ambrose could change his mind. Ambrose let him go. Why did he do that? For that matter, why had he walked away?

  What choice did he have? The smaller gun at his ankle, the knife at his back, what were either of those going to do? In that moment there was no way to win. Walking away was the only option.

  But going up against Müller was not smart. Ambrose was just going to get himself killed that way instead. Carl kept easy on the gas pulling onto the road. Don’t draw attention, just get the fuck away.

  Or maybe not. Ambrose was one of those. Telekinesis? Was that the word? This was more than some thug extra strong and tough and quick from taking Boost. No, this was something more. Much more. Some fucked up alien shit like that creepy fire bastard of Müller’s. Fine, let him deal with Ambrose. Freak on freak.

  He found himself looping around when he should have been driving directly away. Around another corner and he saw Ambrose shuffle past a muffler shop. Ambrose just walked along, paper shopping bag in hand, pack on his back. Not looking around, almost oblivious looking. Maybe just trying to look nonchalant.

  He didn’t know I followed him. How distracted would he have to be for me to just run him over? He slowly rounded the corner, following a block behind.

  No, somehow Ambrose knew he was coming in. Had ambushed him. Well, people said Ambrose was good. No reason to argue against that now.

  Maybe Ambrose could take down Müller. Was there a downside there? Müller would be pissed at failure, which he had minimal tolerance for. At that point, it was going to happen anyway. But, if Ambrose went after Müller, Müller might end up pretty busy. Maybe too busy to follow up on loose ends right away. Perhaps there was a silver lining after all.

  Still a block ahead, Ambrose paused at a bus stop, and collapsed.

  Carl stopped the car. What to do? His mind raced through possibilities, trying to make sense of it all.

  Fuck. That explained not finding any connection between Ambrose and meds: he wasn’t taking any.

  He raced forward, slammed to a stop, and got out at the bus stop. Ambrose’s heartbeat was slow, but steady. He was breathing. The right side of Ambrose’s face twitched and spasmed.

  “I knew
it. Anti-seizure meds after traumatic brain injury. Not so smart now, huh?”

  Well, he could finish the job right now.

  Silence filled the empty street in both directions. Sirens, perhaps arriving at the motel. But no traffic on the street here. The closest streetlight didn't work, leaving most of the block haunted by darker shadows lurking in lighter ones. So easy. Easier than the hospital. About as easy as they come.

  He didn’t want to.

  Without medicine would he even survive much longer? Killing him almost seemed unnecessary. How long would he stay unconscious? How much time did Carl have? The cheek went slack and still, but he was still breathing. The seizure ended.

  Ambrose said he’d go after Müller. He probably had enough motivation to. And he seemed to have the ability to.

  It wasn’t like Carl was actually loyal to the German. No, Stacy and his little girl Marie were why he kept working for the sadistic asshole.

  How much pain had he suffered for Müller? Him and how many other people?

  Two years ago he saw it. He should have left then, but he was too deep in. Müller brutally tortured three entire families to get back at people who angered him. Those people all died last, after the screams of their wives and children died.

  He had been sitting in a smoky biker bar when he made the decision. He couldn’t leave. Müller would have him hunted down. Stacy and Marie would pay the price for it. No matter what, he couldn't let that happen. Anything but that.

  It was probably only a matter of time. Sooner or later, something Carl did would anger the German, or he would fail in some way. He would go at them like a Nazi prison guard.

  Carl drank a lot the next night. He deliberately spilled booze on his clothes, to make certain she smelled it when he came home.

  He yelled. He broke a couple of things. But he never hit them. That line he would never cross.

  She'd been so patient, so...goddamned stubborn. It took three months for him to make things bad enough for Stacy to take their little girl and run away in the night. He cried for days until the tears ran out and his heart ached too much for him to lift a bottle. Had he smiled even once since then? Not that he could recall.

  He knew where she'd gone. Finding people was part of his life, and he knew her so well. He guessed at what restaurant she would apply at, and arranged for her to get hired. He put money into a college fund for Marie, escrowed through a lawyer in Chicago.

  No. Fuck the kraut. Maybe Ambrose would kill him. If nothing else Ambrose would keep him distracted for a while. Long enough for Carl to vanish. Then, seeing what Ambrose could do, everyone would assume Carl dead. Reasonable conclusion. He could stay out of sight enough to maintain the illusion.

  A couple stops for stashed cash and IDs and he could be out of the city before morning rush hour.

  He picked Ambrose up and propped him upright on the bench. Scrawny fuck. God, he looked half dead already.

  “Good luck Ambrose. Get some meds. Stay alive. And fuck anybody who gets in your way. It was interesting meeting you.”

  Interesting. That was certainly one word for it.

  He felt lighter getting back into the car. A weight lifted. He looked in the mirror. His eyes, nowhere as bad as Ambrose’s, looked old and tired and sad. Worn down by a hard life in a hard city. He was so ready to leave it behind him. His little girl was growing up without a father a thousand miles or so to the west. Maybe he could never apologize enough; maybe they’d never take him back after everything he’d done. Or maybe love really could defeat all. Either way, it was damned worth trying for. It was all he had left, all he’d had for some time now.

  The face in the mirror smiled. It was no ear-to-ear grin, but it was a smile. It was like seeing a long-lost friend, barely recognizable after so many years. The dome light went out and the old friend vanished again.

  But not forever.

  He put the car in Drive. He had places to go.

  CHAPTER 35 – ON THE TRAIL

  Monday, April 23

  Rachel yawned as she pulled her car up to the Lamplighter Inn Motel. She knew the kind of place well, and this one looked like it adhered to the stereotype. These were not the motels of choice for vacationing tourists, or people traveling on business. The business conducted here as often as not involved drugs or prostitution. Some of the people here might be fleeing abusive spouses, or been kicked out pending divorce and couldn't afford better.

  She recognized Thorne’s car and parked next to it. Thorne stood in the doorway to the management office, waiting and yawning, his morning coffee in hand.

  “Good morning, Rach.”

  “Morning,” she replied, ready to agree with that part. “So tell me what we have this time.”

  “Disturbance happened around 1:50 last night. Fight in one of the rooms loud enough to wake and scare other guests. One of them called nine-one-one, others waited until it was over. Manager was asleep and didn’t hear anything.” He pushed himself off the doorway and headed off, hooking his arm in a follow-me gesture. She followed him to one of the lower rooms marked off with police tape. He already had the key and he opened the door. She followed him inside.

  “CSU’s already been through it,” he informed her.

  She looked around the room, it looked typical. The mirror over the sink counter by the bathroom at the back was shattered, and the bed a mess.

  “Three shots fired into the bedding,” he began. “Apparently the only shots fired. Someone had lumped some bedding to make the bed look occupied. It’s pretty dead now,” he deadpanned. “The gun was a Sig P220 with a silencer. It was left here on the floor, with its mag and remaining five rounds all ejected. No prints on it at all. Pro-grade clean.”

  “Sounds mob hit so far,” she speculated, knowing it wouldn't be just that. Like usual, there would be more he was saving. “Go on.”

  “So fight happens. A guy walks out looking pissed. Neighbors are out to see what’s going on. We’ve got a few partial descriptions on the guy, but I don’t think you care about him. So this guy yells for people to go back inside, gets in his car, and drives off. Couple minutes later, second man comes out. Only a couple people see him. Couple in the next room heard the door open and close.

  “Just about then the first uniforms show up. There was a car close by. Officers check the room, see the gun on the floor, call in backup and techs. Then they talk to the manager, who has a tiny camera at the front desk. Pulls up footage, and it’s our Steven. Checked in as Steven Pierce. Manager didn’t ask for ID; never does.

  “So, police report. We’re running every print the techs could find. Soiled adult diapers in the trash. This was where he was staying last night. But we have no trail to chase from here.”

  “And not a single print will be Steven’s,” she pointed out.

  “Naturally,” Thorne agreed.

  “We keep getting close,” she complained.

  “Yeah,” he agreed again, “but I’m starting to wonder what it’s going to take to actually catch up to him. I think maybe it’s time to plaster his face on the news and flush him out.”

  “I worry that’ll get somebody hurt. I don’t think we’re there yet, Pat. Maybe if we don’t get anything else today, but so far we keep getting stuff. Even if it is after the fact.”

  “You’re still waiting for his big mistake?”

  “It’s starting to feel more and more inevitable,” she pointed out.

  “You almost sound disappointed,” he suggested. Maybe she was. She'd have to think about it.

  She stood in the room, slowly turning, taking in details.

  “Some of the drawers are open. Were they like that when techs started, or did they leave them that way?”

  “Supposedly left it like they found it. We can confirm with the pictures back at the station.”

  He probably left in a hurry, she expected. Only a few minutes after the first man left.

  “We’re sure it wasn’t Ambrose that left first?”

  “First guy out wa
s shorter and bulky. Nah. Fight, then the other guy leaves, then Ambrose.”

  “Got it.” Hurried packing job; he didn’t bother closing drawers. That meant he had put things in the drawers. He’d been shopping somewhere, or stealing more.

  “Dresser drawers says clothes, right?”

  “Probably.”

  “Pull all camera footage for any store with clothes around here, back in Bridgeview, and anything along the way between the two.”

  “Got it. Anything else you want here?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Go ahead and head back, I’ll catch up.”

  She turned around again and again, slowly looking everywhere, not sure what she was looking for. If something here, no matter how small, gave her more insight into him she was stubbornly determined not to miss it.

  Toothpaste near the sink, but no toothbrush. Techs would have taken it. There was no towel in the bathroom. If a towel seemed damp they would take that, too. Easy to confirm later. If she were him she’d want a shower.

  She sat on the bed. How had he seen the room? It contrasted starkly with everything she knew about his prior life. His car was nice but not extravagant, an apt description for everything about him before, as far as she could tell. This room was some serious slumming in comparison. Had he seen it that way? Where had he been staying up to this? Maybe this was better enough than hiding on the streets.

  She let herself fall backwards and her eyes fell on old water stains on the ceiling. Even where the covers weren't bunched up there was a lump.

  On impulse she hopped up and lifted the mattress. A brown paper bag, missed by the techs, as good as pirate treasure. She gloved up and snatched it and dropped the mattress after confirming there was nothing else to be found. A considerable amount of cash sat in rolls in the bag. Ambrose had taken this from the drug dealer he had robbed.

  And then, rushing to get out of the room, possibly away from whoever he had fought with, who left upset...then he had forgotten and left it behind?