Chemical Burn (9 page)
Authors: Quincy J. Allen
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary Fiction, #Dystopian
Home Sweet Home
I walked down the alley and stopped between an electrical panel and door set halfway along the otherwise blank warehouse wall. The alley continued on to a back street that ran between buildings. There were no lights, and this side of my two-story warehouse had no windows. Wide, floor-to-ceiling windows did wrap around the other three sides, but only on the second floor.
I looked left and right to make sure no one was around, more habit than concern, and slid up the rusty, dented Warning: High Voltage sign attached to the concrete wall between the doorway and fake circuit-breaker box. Concealed within the three-inch-deep space lay a plain, black plate and nothing more. I placed my hand on the palm-reader and lifted my thumb and fingers one-by-one in a well-practiced sequence.
Stepping in front of the door, I pushed on the side of the steel jam opposite the doorknob. The whole doorframe swung in, and I stepped into the second level of my home as ninety-degree air washed over me. I breathed a deep sigh of relief in that comforting warmth. Windows stretched away from me on all three sides. Although no lights were on, I could just make out most of the widely spaced furnishings and vehicles, cast in weak illumination trickling in through the street-side windows. I closed the door, and the city receded far behind.
“Lights,” I said. Warm spotlighting came on, dotting the ceiling at regular intervals and shedding blue-tinted brilliance on each of the living areas. To my immediate right, on the street-side, sat a massive, red, sectional couch, an entertainment system with multiple monitors set up against the windowless, alley-side wall. The next pool of light along the street-side windows shone on a utilitarian office space with a wrap-around, steel desk, black leather office chair, and a credenza pushed up against the windows. A terrarium sat on top, and both of my snakes were curled up in opposite corners. The desk had three large computer monitors on it, with a keyboard, a mouse, and one of my silver interface circlets. To my left were the kitchen and dining areas. The kitchen shined with stainless steel and black granite. A tall kitchen table, also done in stainless steel, as well as two chairs stood alone on the far side the kitchen.
Four of the five hooks set into the wall between me and the kitchen held my spare trench coats. Three of them were identical to the tan one I wore, except for the bloodstains, of course. The fourth shimmered black and seemed to absorb light, making it impossible to discern the folds and seams along its dark surface. It was the only coat with a hood.
Removing the bagged phone from my pocket, I took off my coat and hung it on the second hook. The first hook held a jacket covered in dust, mud, and motor oil. I’d left it there a week earlier, not really feeling like cleaning it up. Cleaning my coats was always a pain in the ass.
I slipped my sneakers off bare feet and slid the shoes into the first, bottom cubbyhole of a low shelf that ran along the wall. Shoes and boots of every kind filled the shelving. What can I say? I’m a shoe-whore. I walked past the coats and into to the kitchen.
“Mag?” I called out. The lighting over my bed glowed softer and dimmer than the rest of the loft. “You awake?” She wasn’t on the bed, so I figured she must be out hunting. Slipping my phone into a pants pocket, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a jug of orange juice. I uncapped it and walked to my bed, taking huge gulps as I went. My bed sat on a low, wooden platform about twelve inches off the gray, industrial-tiled floor. There was a low table for a nightstand with a lamp on it.
I set the juice on the nightstand and removed my black t-shirt and jeans, dropping both on the bed. Standing naked in the warm air, I stretched out my arms, back and neck, going through a brief stretching routine to loosen up my stiff muscles. My ribs popped a couple times, and I winced as I stretched them out. The standing closet, doors open, lay between me and my van.
Beyond the van was a rectangular seam in the floor. Around that I had a black Chrysler 300, a Porsche Cayman identical to Rachel’s, a cherry-red ’67 Cobra AC and a white T-Rex auto-cycle. Beyond the T-Rex were three motorcycles backed up against a massive accordion wall that hid my workshop.
There was a large workout mat in the far corner of the loft, which made a reddish-gray ocean in the middle of the space. An assortment of exercise equipment stood along the windows beyond that, also mostly hidden by the darkness.
“Mat lights,” I said towards the ceiling.
Bright spotlights lining the perimeter of the thirty-by-thirty foot gymnastics mat came to life, illuminating the back of the loft as well. As I walked by, I saw a dark gray and forest-green striped feline-like muzzle peering down from atop the standing closet.
“There you are, Mag. How are you girl?”
Bright orange eyes stared at me, unblinking, and her lips drew back into an unmistakable smile. At ninety pounds, she was the size of a cougar, but her sleek body, hidden by the closet she lay upon, was longer and thinner than that native, American feline—bordering on serpentine.
I reached up and scratched behind her ears. A loud rasping came out of her throat, her species’ equivalent of a purr. It sounded more like tumbling gravel than anything else.
“Any mail?” I asked her.
She looked over at my desk and nodded her head. She can always hear the ding when an email arrives.
“Thanks, girl.” With a last scratch behind the ears, I grabbed the orange juice and walked over to the computer. I entered my password and pulled up my mail. There was the regular assortment of junk, a few ‘hellos’ from old friends and other non-essential correspondence.
One sender, however, caught my eye. My heart skipped a beat. It was from Xen Li and dated that morning at one-thirty a.m., but from a Hotmail account, not Xen’s regular one. At first I thought it was junk mail, but it was signed ‘Kato,’ my nickname for Xen. It simply read, “Trouble. Meet GDs. MND. Regular time -8.” I smiled, let out a sigh of relief, closed my email, and locked up the computer. That was the piece I was looking for.
I walked to the center of the gymnastics mat and sat down cross-legged, resting my palms on my knees, I closed my eyes and breathed slowly. I walked my thoughts through every detail of the past twenty-four hours to put them in order and make as much sense out of it as I could.
Two hours later I stood up, walked to my bed, and slipped in under the covers next to Mag, who was now asleep on the comforter.
“All lights off.” Everything went dark, only streetlight sifting weakly into the interior of the loft, and I quickly fell asleep.
***
Expected Guest
Sitting on my couch and drinking more orange juice spiked with several tablespoons of sugar, I watched Captain O’Neil on the bank of security monitors displayed on my big-screen TV. He walked cautiously up the alley towards the door, trying to be sneaky. I had to smile. Morning sunlight didn’t make it down directly into the alley, but he had plenty of light to see what he was doing. He’d parked his unmarked police cruiser on the street at the end of the alley, blocking the entrance.
Another unmarked police cruiser was parked at the far end of the alley, and one of O’Neil’s most trusted lieutenants sat inside, watching his boss with a moderately bored look on his face. His name was Grimes, I think, but I couldn’t remember for sure. I knew he didn’t like me, though. The lieutenant had never figured out why O’Neil liked me so much, or why he always went easy on me when everyone else at the station referred to me as “The Asshole.”
Sure, I’d given the LAPD a long list of great collars, but I’m pretty sure they all resented having to clean up twice that many scenes where the bad-guys were just messy corpses. You can’t arrest a corpse.
I watched O’Neil come up to the door and try the knob. As usual, he hoped to catch me by surprise. I kept smiling as I watched him go through the motions. He slipped his hand into his back pocket and pulled out a leather case full of lock-picking tools.
“Let’s see if I still got it,” he said under his breath. It came through loud and clear on my TV, giving me a chuckle.
He bent down, extracted a slim torsion wrench and S-rake pick from the case and went to work on the door. Thirty seconds later he twisted the wrench clockwise, and the lock gave way. A satisfied grin on his face, he stood up and put the tools away. Placing his hand on the knob, he pulled out a flashlight and opened the door. I was really enjoying the show. He stepped inside the first floor of the warehouse and closed the door behind him. His image was clear as day on a different monitor, which automatically displayed in infrared. I had turned off the electrics on the first floor years ago.
Without windows, I’m sure he couldn’t see a thing except for a thin, floor-to-ceiling square outline of daylight along the back left wall framing a rolling garage door. He turned on his flashlight, walked into the warehouse a short distance, and cast the bright beam around the dusky interior, scanning the entire space.
There was nothing but steel support columns, dust and some trash scattered around. Aside from his own footprints leading back to the door, he didn’t see any in the dust covering the floor of the entire warehouse. His flashlight illuminated an area along the street-side wall where a rectangle of different-colored bricks filled in what had been the original front entrance. I’d sealed it up when I first moved in.
I’m sure O’Neil was looking for stairs going up. He knew about the lift for my cars, and he’d even seen me go up a few times from the alley. I walked to the front door, opened it, stepped out into the alley and turned, giving a friendly wave to Grimes.
O’Neil had been inside a few of my other houses over the years, the newest one behind Xen Li’s being the nicest. He’d even brought his family over a few times a year for barbeques and pool-parties, but he’d never been inside the loft, so he had no idea how else to get in.
“Case?” he yelled. The empty warehouse swallowed up his voice.
“Yes?” my quiet response came from behind him.
O’Neil spun around, startled to see me leaning in through the half-opened alley door, a huge grin on my face.
“You’re up early,” I said casually. “I wasn’t expecting you until nine.” I looked him up and down. He seemed both surprised and pissed off as I stared at him. “You went with the navy suit today,” I added. “Are you upset about something?”
O’Neil’s rugged frame was topped with thinning copper curls. His chiseled features, once considered handsome by the ladies, were covered with a thick, bushy moustache and wild eyebrows that he’d given up trying to tame years ago. Stern, deep-set eyes bored into me, accosting me with very un-policeman-like intent.
Well, maybe not so un-policemen-like
, I mused. He looked at his watch and walked up to me as I opened the door fully.
“How do you do that?” He didn’t even try to hide the irritation in his voice. He was always surly with me. He’d never forgiven me for looking so young over the years while he continued to get older, balder, and wider.
“Do what?” I asked innocently. One of my greatest joys on Earth was messing with O’Neil’s balding head. Besides, if he knew the truth about my phase doors, he might feel obligated to turn me over to the feds, and I’d end up in Area 52 or something.
“With the door … and me showing up … and coming in behind me.…” he stammered, almost flustered.
“Good timing?” I asked brightly.
“I hate you, Case. You know that, right?”
“Of course I do,” I replied, clapping him on the shoulder. We stepped into the alley and I pulled out a set of keys from my coat pocket. Pausing, I looked expectantly at O’Neil. “Would you like to lock it back up?” Mischievous delight filled my voice. “By the way, isn’t breaking and entering illegal? I think I read that somewhere.” I chuckled a bit then locked the door before he could answer. “Besides, this job wouldn’t be the same if you didn’t hate me.” I turned, grinned again, and cuffed Captain John Spencer Dwight O’Neil on the shoulder again like the good friend he really was. “Let’s go get some coffee and doughnuts,” I offered. “Your blood-sugar looks low.” I waved again at Grimes. “I’ll buy.”
“You sure as hell will.” O’Neil shook his head in disgust. He motioned for his lieutenant to take off. “Why do you bother?” O’Neil indicated the locked door behind us. “There’s nothing in there.”
I chuckled wickedly. “For the sole purpose of keeping your life interesting, O’Neil. I would think you’d know that after twenty years.” We walked up the alley towards his cruiser. Behind us the lieutenant started his cruiser and pulled away quietly as we got into the car.
“Grady’s?” O’Neil asked as he fastened his seatbelt, started up the engine, and pulled away from the curb with a lurch and squeal of tires.
I went over the top with “shocked and hurt” as I buckled in. “You have to ask?” More seriously I said, “You know Grady’s has the best coffee and doughnuts this side of the Rockies.”
O’Neil looked like he wanted to ask a question, so I reached into a pocket and pulled out my pipe, knowing full well I wasn’t supposed to smoke in his car.
As I reached for the tobacco, he stopped my hand. “Not in the car.”
“I could keep the window open,” I offered helpfully.
“Not in the car,” O’Neil gave me a tired smile.
“Awwww …” I sounded like a kid being told he had to go to bed. With a depressed look on my face, I put the pipe back in my pocket and pulled out some gum.
O’Neil took a breath, looking again like he would ask a question.
“Want some gum?” I interrupted. I held the pack out to him, and he took a piece, popping it into his mouth. I did the same and put the gum away.
“There’s something I have to ask …” O’Neil started while looking straight ahead.
The unmistakable click of a switchblade stopped him. I held a brand-new switchblade with a beautiful elk-antler handle. I’d pulled it out when I put the gum away.
O’Neil slowly turned his head, looked at the knife for a few seconds, and then shot a stern, questing look at me before returning his eyes back to the road. “Those are illegal, you know.”
“Yeah, I know … illegal …” I grinned. “Like breaking and entering,” I gave him a maddening grin to mess with him.
O’Neil rolled his eyes. “So what are you doing with it?”
“Your kid’s getting deployed, right? Afghanistan?”
“Yeah, in a couple of weeks.” There was a mixture of pride and worry in his voice. “She’s the best Apache pilot they have. Top of her class.”
I closed the blade. “Here,” I said and handed it to him. “This is for her. Tell her to tuck it away in a boot or something … you know …
just in case
.” He took the knife and slid it into his own boot. “Tell her I said good luck,” I added sincerely, “and to stay low and keep moving.”
“Thanks, Case. I know she’ll appreciate it.” He took another deep breath to ask the question, but I beat him to the punch again.
“So what’s cooking downtown these days?” I asked, leading O’Neil once again away from the topic that had brought him to my front door in the first place. I did my best to sound like a lovesick teenager and whined, “You never call me anymore.”
Shaking his head, he cast me a sidelong glance. “These days? Well, as you may have heard, that T-Rex thing has been gaining momentum for a couple of years, but lately it’s really been building up steam.”
I nodded. “I’ve heard a few things about it. Some new designer drug, right? Supposed to be turning the coke-world on its ear or something.”
O’Neil was all cop now. “Yeah. It’s wicked stuff. It’s a combination of coke, meth, and something else. I can’t remember the name of the third compound. The stuff tests clean like coke, hits hard like meth, and has a smoother letdown than anything else out there. Perfect for parties, you know? Our lab guys keep working on it, and we’re trying to track the source, but so far we haven’t been able to pin anything down. It’s double the price of coke, so the clientele is smarter, harder to stiff-arm, and has better lawyers. And the few we’ve questioned are scared … of something … or some
one
.”
“Can’t you put some under-covers on it?”
“We’re trying, but this stuff isn’t going through the normal dealers. Del Gato and the other Mexicans don’t seem to be involved, either. It’s weird. It’s like it comes from nowhere.” O’Neil looked at me again, the question hovering on the tip of his tongue, but he held back, thinking I would interrupt him again.
I couldn’t believe O’Neil had restrained himself as well as he had so far. I’d expected him to hammer me with the obvious question the moment we got in the car, and when he didn’t, I’d decided to take the opportunity to toy with him. What are friends for, after all?
O’Neil finally gave in. “I know it was you who demolished that pool, Case,” he blurted quickly when he couldn’t stand it any longer. The question had morphed into an accusation before he even started. What can I say? I have that effect on people.
“Pool? What pool? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I smiled like the Cheshire Cat, minus the hookah—well that and a big, bushy tail. His face went crimson. After a few seconds I added, “And you can’t prove anything. That maid was way too far away for a positive ID.” I chuckled again.
He glared at me. “I knew it!” he almost shouted, and I couldn’t keep from laughing. “You mind telling me how you pulled that one off?” he asked with harsh bewilderment. “You should be a bloody smudge on the bottom of that swimming pool.
“Aw, hell, I don’t know. Blind luck mostly. I scooped some air with my coat on the way down and the pool
was
pretty deep. The water pressure must have cracked the concrete. Maybe there was a defect in the foundation when they first poured it. And we do have a lot of earthquakes around here. It’s a miracle I wasn’t killed … or
worse
.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said doubtfully.
“You tell me. I don’t how I managed it.”
“You’ve got nine lives, Case. And at last count, you used about forty of them.” I started doing math on my fingers, trying to subtract forty from nine, and then threw him a
that-doesn’t-make-any-sense
look. He didn’t comment on the arithmetic.
“By the way,” I changed the subject, “don’t go too hard on the bicycle cop. He did everything right.” I smiled as I pictured the poor guy popping into the air and hitting the water like a sack. “Well, except for not watching where he was stepping.” I couldn’t keep myself from grinning.
“Were you pushed, or did you jump out of the plane?” he asked quickly before I could lead him off track again.
“Is this O’Neil my
friend
asking or
Captain
O’Neil?” I queried carefully.
He sighed heavily, knowing immediately what the difference meant. “This is your friend asking.” He’d known me long enough to know that there wasn’t much room in my life for rules. I’d always given O’Neil the collars he needed, so he considered me a tool in his arsenal … Well, that and we’d been friends since shortly after he joined the Academy.
“Good!” I beamed. “Well, I actually jumped, but that was pride. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of pushing me out. You know me.”
“Yes, I do,” he said tiredly. “So who was it?”
“You have to promise me something,” I looked a bit more serious.
Wary dread crossed his face. “Oh-oh,” he said suspiciously.
“Yeah, oh-oh,” I concurred, “I need you to promise to not even think about arresting anyone anywhere until I give you the go ahead, okay?”
“You’re pushing your luck, Justin,” he accused. “Seriously?”
My tone changed from my normal light-heartedness to deadly serious. “Very. You know I don’t normally ask, but a friend’s life is in the balance. When I do say go, though, I may need you to drop an anvil someplace, or a lot of places, get me? It’ll be worth your while.”
“You got it,” he agreed warily. “I’m trusting you, though. You’re gonna owe me a
big one
.”
“It’s a deal, and you know I’m good for it.”
“True enough,” he said sincerely. “So, what’s this all about?”
“DiMarco.”
“Bennie?” he asked as incredulously as Rachel had.
“No. The smart one … the
dangerous
one,” I shook my head, marveling at how so many other people could put the same data together and come up with the impossible.
O’Neil knew exactly who I was talking about now, but he got a confused look anyway. “I thought he was retired.”
“Déjà vu,” I said under my breath. I looked O’Neil square in the eyes, “Not anymore, and I’m pretty sure he never was.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah … shit.” I leaned back in my seat and looked out the window.
“I wonder …” O’Neil’s voice trailed off.
“What?” I stared at him.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just had an idea, but I have to talk to some people first.”