“Sloppy, Ambrose. I’m getting closer....”
CHAPTER 36 – RETURN TO BRIDGEVIEW
“Another rooftop,” Steven groaned when he woke up under a cloud-heavy sky. He wasn’t ready to sit up right away, wasn’t ready for the mental effort, even if it was a rather small one.
Last night’s confrontation replayed itself in his mind.
“I don’t want to kill you. I’m not that guy anymore.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“So, what, bank robber turned vigilante? That’s different.”
“I have no interest in robbing banks. I’m not that guy anymore.”
“You just gonna go after the mob? Put on some kind of mask and fight crime? 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.”
Bridgeview. Bridgeview included St. Mary’s hospital, didn’t it?
The assassin had let him go. He had offered a bargain, and the man sent to kill him took it instead. Why? He wouldn’t have believed it if it had happened to someone else.
Kurt Müller, a mob boss, had sent an assassin to kill him. Would there be others? Of course there would. Take the fight to Müller, then.
But he couldn't do that sleeping on rooftops. He was tired. Tired of waking up on rooftops. Tired of people chasing him. Tired. Last night he had been so tired he had dozed off on a bus stop bench when he should have been getting further away. That kind of tired would get him killed or arrested.
Today he would spend the day searching for a better place to hole up for a while. He needed somewhere a little secure but also a little secluded. Hotels had too many people. Even the sleazy ones did, clearly.
On the ground, with his backpack and his shopping bag and wondering where he should go for breakfast, he remembered the cash. Under the mattress.
“GODDAMMIT!” Before he realized it a dumpster nearby flew into and through a brick wall. Another one lifted into the air and slammed down to the blacktop, crashing through it and embedding itself in a small crater.
A parked car sat at the end of the alley. It also sailed into the air, only to crash down so hard it crumpled at least a foot shorter.
With a start he stopped himself. What was he doing? His lower lip hurt where he was biting it. So much anger. He just wanted to break things until he didn’t have the strength, didn’t have the energy, to do more. Rage.
He swallowed it down, squeezing his teeth together the way he might have clenched the hands dangling at his side into fists.
No. This was not the person he was. It couldn’t be. He refused to believe it, refused to allow it. He took an inventory of himself to calm himself down. About a hundred dollars he had left in his jacket. He would have to get more soon.
A fast food breakfast was gross but warm and cheap.
He rode a bus to the art district and walked cleaner streets among nicer buildings. Shops without barred windows. Nicer cars parked at unvandalized meters. Walls clear of graffiti. His mind cleared with the scenery.
Art galleries and studios gathered amongst coffee shops and boutique galleries. It was familiar, yet he felt out of place. He meandered his way south, wanting to search for something that might lead him to Müller, yet reluctant to leave this part of the city. He turned and faced a window as a police cruiser drifted past.
Next came a comfortable residential area in northern Bridgeview, nice brownstones with few cars parked on the streets. People were off at work. A striped cat in a window watched him go by.
He turned at a cross street with a barber shop and a row of small business, wanting to find a more downtown, more commercial area. What could lead him to a mob boss controlling this part of Bay City? Where would he find one of his men to get answers from?
By noon he hadn't found anything helpful or come up with any ideas. Again he was wandering with no plan. “Criminal mastermind. Yeah, that’s me.”
He stopped at a small restaurant for lunch. TVs perched in every corner like raptors waiting to pounce the unwary. The one closest to him showed a news program. There was no sound from it, but there were captions to read.
An attractive brunette woman shown in one corner of the screen was talking about footage taken by a bystander’s cell phone during an incident last night. Steven watched, fascinated, as a man in futuristic-looking dark tactical gear fought four men with small machine guns. The guns appeared entirely ineffective against the armor. A reflective visor covered most of the man’s face. He had seen something about this guy before, hadn’t he? The Messenger? The man pointed at one of his adversaries who flew backwards from an invisible, jarring impact. He jumped or flew up, briefly out of the camera frame before the camera found him again on top of a truck. Messenger blasted two more men with the same invisible force then jumped down. He blasted the fourth and leapt or flew up to a rooftop.
“No one knows who this figure, known only as The Messenger, is,” the reporter’s captions explained, “but he is ‘credited’ with ‘preventing’ two muggings and thwarting an armed car robbery. He has also been involved in an uncertain number of attacks against people believed to be dealing illegal drugs.”
“This second piece of footage,” the captions continued as a grainy black-and-white video began, “is from a security camera at a convenience store on the Near North Side.” A figure in a ski mask came into view and doubled in size. Growing Man, now too tall to stand completely straight, ripped the counter apart, throwing pieces in both directions. He lifted the store’s safe in both hands, tearing up bits of flooring it had been bolted to, and then smashed through the door he was now too big to fit through.
“Police have no leads on this individual, known as Growing Man, either,” the captions added. “Police are reminding people that enforcing the law is for them, not something the public should attempt. If you witness acts like these please stay away and notify police.”
Steven wondered what he would do if he ran into someone like those. Not knowing what the Messenger guy was blasting with he had no idea if he could defend against it. The Growing Man seemed like something he could handle. He didn't look heavier than a car. It didn't matter how strong the guy might be if he couldn’t grab or hit anything.
His thoughts strayed back to his would-be assassin’s suggestions of him becoming some kind of masked vigilante. Perhaps that’s what that Messenger guy thought he was. He considered what he would have done against the four gunmen, supposing they might have been drug dealers. Perhaps they worked for Müller, or Barton. Either way he supposed he was likely to run into a similar scenario. They didn't seem like a real danger. He wondered how his fight with them would look on camera. The mask idea wasn't so ridiculous after all. He almost wouldn’t even need eye holes....
He closed his eyes, again contemplating going after Müller’s men. Perhaps it was the only reasonable thing left for him to do. Organized crime in this city wanted him dead. What other option than fighting back did he really have? He could find them and make them lead him to Müller, and he'd dismantle Müller’s organization in the process. He could rationalize that.
The news switched to another segment where a well-dressed man and woman sat opposite each other round a tiny round table. The woman set down a glass of water.
“Four years since the ship crashed in the bay,” the captioning read, “and we still know basically nothing about it or the aliens assumed to be dead inside. Some people think that it is connected, somehow, to the people we are starting to see who can grow in size, or hurl bolts of fire or seem to have mutated in some way.”
The man waved a hand dismissively. “But Jane, we’ve seen indications of just a handful of things like that. Even if there was some connection, it isn’t something that most people need to be concerned with. The world’s best scientists are convinced that the wreckage is not emitting or radiating or leaking anything harmful.”
“And yet, we are starting t
o see these strange individuals, and the things they seem to be able to do don’t seem to fit any other explanation.” The woman gestured more when she talked than the man did.
“So you’re saying that because nobody has a better theory it has to be connected to the alien wreckage?” The man wore a condescending looking scowl. Steven wondered if the man’s tone matched. He frowned at the TV and considered turning the sound up. The program had his attention and he wanted to hear what was being said, not just read the captions. He saw the volume buttons; it would be so easy. But someone might wonder who turned it up. The staff probably had the remote somewhere.
“We never saw anything like it before the crash. Doesn’t the simplest explanation have to be the best one? We know other bits fell off the ship.”
Amber Alert text scrolled across bottom of screen, covering up the captions. He didn't care about that. That would be someone else’s problem. It might actually mean the police would be distracted looking for someone else for a while. That was comforting.
He looked down at his hands resting on the table. A child had been kidnapped and that was comforting to him? What was wrong with him? Had some other part of him been lost with the brain damage more than just his ability to move and feel?
He searched for anything else to think about and found himself considering the alien spaceship. It occurred to him perhaps had been in contact with some kind of alien debris. Maybe someone had found some and he had stolen it. Perhaps exposure to something like that had caused his telekinesis power. As the woman had suggested, it did seem the simplest explanation.
His thoughts wandered back to footage of the Messenger and Growing Man. Was that what he was now, some super-powered vigilante or criminal? He didn’t want to be just some petty thug like the growing man seemed to be. But was “vigilante” the best he could hope people would see him as? He wondered how long it would be until footage of him showed up on the news somewhere lifting or throwing things telekinetically. ‘Put on some kind of mask and fight crime?’ the hit man’s question echoed.
He finished his lunch, although his appetite had left him and he had to force himself to finish. He left cash on the table, skimping a little on the tip. It grated on him, but he worried about what would happen if his money ran out before he could get more.
“So much for being the better man,” he griped under his breath as he walked past the register where a huge woman in a flowery dress stood to pay her bill in person. He didn't want to stand where a camera might be watching, didn't want to interact with the hostess who would ask him how his meal was. He did not want to be remembered. That could lead to being recognized. “Masks...,” he mused as he stepped outside.
He spent the afternoon wandering. This part of the city was still nicer than what he had seen prior to today. A surprising number of buildings were under construction, especially the further south he went.
Eventually he ghosted up fifteen stories to the top of one of the construction projects not in progress today. He lost track of how long he spent up there surveying the area perched up above most of it.
He needed to figure out how to find this Müller guy’s thugs. He could watch for drug deals, but those seemed like he needed to be in the right place at the right time to find. Some of the areas around him looked somewhat sketchy, but still only so much.
He also spent some time gazing towards Downtown, where a third of the skyscrapers seemed brand new, and he could see the skeleton frames of more still being built.
Further south he could see the towers of the Parkway Bridge and the city skyline sprawling out and dropping off in height from downtown.
Panning further and eastward he saw the dark sprawl of Southporte’s warehouses and smoking factories. Beyond those the top of the crashed spaceship stuck up like a spear from the Bay. He didn't remember details about the ship crashing, but it also didn't seem like something unknown to him. Where had he been when it crashed? That seemed like the kind of question everyone in the city would have an answer to.
His thoughts drifted back once again to what happened to him. He debated with himself whether a bullet in his brain could somehow have given him his telekinesis or whether he had to have been in contact with some piece of alien wreckage. With Barton dead he supposed he would never find out now.
Eventually he ghosted back down to the ground. He needed a place to spend the night and sleep. He knew he was tired. A series of cheap hotels refused to give him a room without a credit card. He eventually found a motel marginally nicer than the last one, one he felt would do and would give him a cash only room. It was basic, but still nicer. Certainly the area was better.
This time he didn't bother to unpack. He lacked the money to stay more than a night or two, so he saw little point in getting settled. At least this time, he told himself, it was much less likely an assassin had followed him all day. He laid himself out on the bed hoping the surroundings would be still enough for him to be able to fall asleep and he would get the chance to sleep the night through.
CHAPTER 37 – DOWNTIME, RIGHT
Rachel closed her apartment door behind her and leaned against it before heaving a big sigh, long and slow. Exhaustion clawed at her. Not physical fatigue, but a heavy weariness of mind and spirit.
Laptop and bag went to the floor before she kicked off her shoes, letting them be wherever they ended up near the other shoes leaned up in tidy pairs next to the door. Keys, in the same hand as the paper to-go bag, she hung on their hook.
Past the kitchen and its peninsula bar to the living room for the bag to end up on the wood coffee table. Her gun and badge and phone followed close behind. She turned and made for the kitchen bar counter with its one stool. More important was the folding wine rack and half full bottle of Canadian Club whisky. In the oak rack a bottle of pink moscato caught her eye. Yeah, that’s the one. She pulled down a glass hanging over the bar. Two were missing, in the dishwasher, and a layer of dust grew on the three left behind. She never really seemed to need more than three. Not like she ever had company over.
Had she ever had anyone in her apartment since she moved in? She didn’t think so. That’s depressing.
The opener clattered to the black countertop when she dropped it, cork still attached. Bottle and glass each got a hand to the couch, where she flopped down behind the bag of dinner.
The television news she usually started with held zero appeal tonight. She flipped through channels aimlessly while she ate. She'd picked up rotisserie chicken and cornbread. The cornbread was an empty substitute for always-made-from-scratch comfort food her mother made, the comfort food of choice from her childhood.
The more she flipped channels the less she wanted to watch. After the obligatory Monday morning briefing the majority of her morning staring at camera footage left her less than enthusiastic about staring at a screen now. Eventually he walked through a camera’s view in a Walmart late Sunday morning. But all that really told them is he'd stayed in a corridor between south Bridgeview and the Lamplighter. Every place they could confirm he'd been, until his odd side trip to the bar and then Barton’s, fell within about a 1.5 mile radius.
For her afternoon she walked around near the motel, trying to see what he saw, wondering where he might have gone. Camera footage pulled from overnight busses with nearby stops claimed more unproductive hours spent by detectives and officers just as frustrated as her.
Dinner, such as it was, ended half into the second glass. She turned the TV off and stared at the black screen. Her tired mind seemed just as empty.
How could she not have anything to do? How could she not have any idea what to do? She couldn’t go to sleep at 7pm. “Maybe I shoulda stayed at the precinct.” There had to be something she could dig through some more, right? No, she needed downtime; fresh perspective.
“You spend much more time here and you’ll have to join the union, Rach,” Thorne teased her.
Downtime. She needed a life outside the job. She used to, right? Four years of ice hocke
y in college. The jersey still hung on the wall behind her, the trophies kept each other company on the bookshelf. MVP twice, once the only game both her parents attended. Before their divorce. Maybe the last time she saw them happy together.
Books she hadn't read yet waited on shelves. Always too busy, always something she needed to do ended up more important than spending time on herself.
She got up, threw out the garbage, and lingered in front of the bookshelf. Sci-fi? Space epics lost their luster now that aliens were real, out there somewhere. A whole shelf of horror half dominated with King. She hadn’t read any of those in quite a while. “Nah.” She stared at titles, or through them, until she gave up with a groan.
Her eyes fell to the floor. The laminate floor was no longer cool under her bare feet. Dust gangstas loitered and congregated along the bookshelf. When was the last time she swept or vacuumed? She used to clean every Sunday morning while other people went to church.
Ambrose. The last time she swept was probably the day before she got his case. It hadn’t kept her that busy, though. No, it had to be something else.
When she had a case, she obsessed over it. When she didn’t, she had no idea what to do with herself. She needed something to change. When was the last time she went out anywhere? Not that Monday night was the best time to hit a club.
Was she burning out? Was that it? She swore before a heavy sigh. Maybe she was.
The yellow of National Geographics stacked on the bottom shelf caught her eye. Three or four piled up, unread, at the end of the collected issues in their ordered row. “There ya go.”
The top two issues, glass, and bottle went to the bathroom with her. She avoided the mirror. Not as young, anymore, not as skinny. She already knew that. Tired-looking eyes staring back at her would probably only make her feel worse. Distraction was what she wanted right now.
Rifling under the sink she found a half bottle of white tea jasmine and ylang-ylang scented bath bubbles. She started the water and topped off the glass.
Simon Rising Page 25
