The Immortal Harvest (16 page)

As Stringer listened he could hear the distinctive sound of paper being shuffled before there was an answer from the duty nurse.

“Look I’m sorry but I have already spoken to the authorities about this matter. I wasn’t on duty when Ms Peters vanished. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m very busy.”

Stringer heard the attitude in the young duty nurse’s voice and smiled to himself. He could imagine the chagrin the nurse’s response would have caused the two feds.

As he listened, he smiled again as he heard the smooth male voice of the other agent intervene. Judging by his tone, Stringer could tell that the Agent was trying the ‘come on’ approach.

“Look Nurse . . err”

“Portman,” the duty nurse responded.

“Yes I can see that from your name badge. Tell me, what is your first name Nurse Portman?”

“It’s Julie.”

“Well
Julie
, we urgently need to find Ms Peters and we would
really
appreciate any assistance you can give us. Do you have any contact details we could use? I promise that I won’t tell anyone.”

Stringer could tell from the giggle from the young nurse that the Agent’s approach was working.

“I do have some details. You have to promise me that you won’t tell the Matron. Do you want mine as well? You know, in case you have any more questions you might want me to answer
personally
.”

“Well Julie, how about you give me both Ms Peters and your details as well. You never know, oh and don’t worry I promise I won’t tell a soul,” the agent said as he winked at the young nurse.

Stringer could hear the Nurse giggling as she clacked away on the PC keyboard as she brought up the relevant details for the two agents.

He cursed himself for not trying the sweet approach. But then he realised that he didn’t exactly have the kind of face that elicited attraction.

He heard the conversation wrap up and the two agents quickly exited the building, obviously heading off to find the woman that he needed to eliminate.

He realised that he needed to follow the agents.

He threw the magazine back on the table as he double tapped his voice amplification module and brought the sensitivity back to normal levels and then quickly exited the hospital.

Once outside, he watched as the two agents jumped into a typically black Government Issue van and sped off.

He ran to his Camaro and began his pursuit. He knew that he had to stay a long way behind them, he couldn’t risk them knowing that he was following them. He frowned as he drove. The agents had just added a further complication.

Will he have two more bodies on his hands?

As the van pulled into Washington’s derelict district, Stringer could not shake an odd feeling of déjà vu. He had driven these streets before. He recognised the filthy run down edifices.

He slowed when he noticed the van pull up outside a building earmarked for demolition. The same building that he had used on his last assignment. That concreted his belief that the boy had seen him.

He pulled over and decided to use surveillance instead of getting in too close. He tapped his voice amplification module again as he watched the agents disembark their vehicle. He smiled when he heard the female agent ask the other agent a question that offered up critical intel.

“Okay this is the Paradise Apartments, what apartment is she in?”

“She’s in apartment 401.”

Stringer watched as the agents entered the building as he placed another infuser on his tongue. He let the drugs wash over him and exhaled deeply as he subconsciously rubbed the TDI on the back of his neck. He realised that his time was running out.

The deadline put added urgency into tying up the loose ends. He knew that he had to get the boy and his Mother before the Feds did.

He carefully and quickly exited the car. He knew that he had to stay close to the agents without being spotted.

As he entered the building he pulled his gun out of the waistband of his jeans. He felt the cold metal in his hands and smiled as he started climbing the stairs stealthily in pursuit of the agents.

He could hear them talking, they were at least three flights ahead of him. He increased his speed a little but made sure to keep in the shadows and tread as lightly as possible.

The plan was formulating in his mind as he moved. He would wait until the agents entered the apartment of the boy and his Mother and then hide out of sight in the corridor and as soon as the agents entered the corridor with the boy and his Mother he would take out the two agents, kill the boy and then he would have plenty of time to play with the Mother before he slit her throat.

Perfect!

As he reached the top landing of the stairwell he paused behind the door and listened. He could hear the agents talking as they were knocking on the door of the apartment.

“Ms Peters, open up, this is the FBI. We need to talk to you.”

Stringer listened as the knocking grew more persistent and then suddenly stopped. He could tell that there was no reply to the agents and that the woman and child were obviously not there. He could hear the approaching footsteps of the two agents.

Change of plan,
he thought as he silently made his way back down the stairwell and rushed back to his car.

He had just gotten into his car and ducked down as the two agents exited the building and got into their van.

He watched as the van moved off and disappeared around the corner and then quickly got out of his car and rushed back up the four flights of stairs.

Stringer smiled as he easily picked the lock of the apartment and quietly entered. He crinkled his nose against the overwhelming stench of mould and half eaten food scraps that littered the floor.

He noticed that the dwelling had been recently occupied as the kettle was still slightly warm. He moved towards the single bedroom and saw the blood stained sheets and the evidence of vomit. It was then that he saw the note.

The handwriting was shaky but the information was priceless. He smiled when he read the contents.

The boy is at his Grand Mother’s house, excellent,
he thought as he memorised the address and then crumpled up the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

He tapped the side of his head and accessed the part of his neural net which he used to access this world’s internet which was much cruder than his own world but useful nonetheless.

He thought of the address and the Washington city map materialised in his peripheral vision. The woman’s Mother’s home showed up as a pulsating red blip. Stringer smiled.

Excellent, only a few blocks away!

It had taken a thorough search through some of Baxter’s boxes of knick knacks and assorted crap to find the exact outfit that he required to pull off his disguise as a drifter.

He was annoyed that the FBI had been dragging their feet on funding his team. He suspected that the DD had been behind the whole thing and as a result he had very little money to utilise for investigations He knew of other teams that had all of the latest ‘
techo’
equipment.

Fuck the DD – we don’t need gimmicks to solve our cases,
Baxter thought and he grimaced as the cold of the dark alley seeped in through his old clothes.

The torn jacket and baggy pants offered little resistance to the slashing gusts that swept through the neighbourhood as a grim reminder that winter, ‘the killing season,’ was just around the corner.

He walked hunched over the rusty shopping trolley and mumbled to himself as he walked. To an outsider he was just another homeless statistic.

He spied the glow of a bin fire at the end of the alley and slowly made his way towards the small group that had gathered around it.

He nodded at each of the pitiful figures as he left his trolley near a pile of rubbish and moved towards the bin.

He swallowed hard to control a coughing fit as the acrid stench of whatever was burning bore into his nasal passages, causing a gleam of tears appear at the corner of his eyes.

He brushed his hand across them and tried to make eye contact with one of the homeless. He was met with instant anger.

“What the fuck are you lookin at?”

Baxter instantly looked away and began mumbling louder. He stopped when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder and saw another filthy hand thrust a crumpled brown paper bag in front of him.

He recoiled slightly from the stench of whatever the bag contained. He pushed the hand away and looked into the eyes of the owner of the bag who was standing to the right of him.

“No thank you, I’m not hungry,” he said with a hint of disgust in his voice and realised as soon as he said it that the words may have sounded strange to these people.

“You’re not from round here are ya f. . f. . fella?”

The voice was gruff and said with a stuttering wheeze. Baxter knew that the old timer that had offered the bag was probably looking at his last winter on the streets. He softened his voice as he spoke.

“No, I’m not,” he said and pulled a small flask of whiskey from his pocket and offered it to the old man who quickly grabbed the flask and took a swig from it and passed to back to Baxter.

After putting the flask back inside his jacket he stared into the flames of the fire as he rubbed his hands together to warm them. He spoke calmly to no one in particular.

“I’ve ’eard that strange things ’ave been goin on round ’ere,” he said trying his best to mimic the style of the homeless.

He could see the surreptitious glances among the group as if he had dared to discuss a taboo subject.

Finally the self appointed leader of the group, who happened to be the same one that had snapped at him previously, spoke up.

“We aint seen nuttin’ mister. Now you just take your trolley and fuck off to wherever ya came from ya hear,”

Baxter could feel his temper rising, he clenched his fists and leant towards the leader.

“I’ll leave when I’m good ’n ready, ya hear. You don’t own this fire,”

Baxter spat the words and shook his fist at the leader as he moved towards him. As he stepped forward he again felt the hand on his shoulder and the gruff voice behind him.

“N…N…Now h…h…hang on Charlie, this f…f…fella seems ’armless, why do ya ’ave to be so darn opstropalous all the d…d…darn time?”

Baxter stopped moving forward as he awaited the leader’s reply to the old man’s query.

“If you love this prick so much Gummy you can fuck off wid ’im, then there’ll be more fire for the rest of us.”

Baxter could feel the force of the old man’s hand on his shoulder dragging him back from the fire and the group.

“C…C…Come on we’ll go and find our own f…f…fire,” the old man said as he let go of Baxter’s shoulder and started pushing his trolley up the alley.

Baxter hesitated, unsure whether to leave the group before he could get any answers. His decision was made for him when the old man said the magic words.

“C…C…Come with me, I’ll tell ya all about the strange stuff that’s bin ’appening.”

“Yeah go on Gummy, fuck off. Ya gunna be the next one to be disappearin’ anyways,” Charlie screamed after them as the old man and Baxter moved away from the warmth of the fire and back into the misery of the stinking, dank, dark alley.

Baxter followed the old man as he sauntered up the alley and turned right down a narrower alley way that was lit intermittently by the dull red glow of an intersection stoplight which was a block away.

Gummy’s humble abode was tucked in behind two large industrial bins.

The confined space was littered with rubbish and piles of old newspapers. A tattered blanket lay on the ground atop several layers of cardboard.

Baxter watched as Gummy hurriedly moved around some of the rubbish and gestured for Baxter to sit down with him.

Baxter groaned as he lowered himself to the ground and looked around at the man-made cave that Gummy had provided himself with, in a pathetic attempt to survive.

He felt a twinge of guilt when he realised that, before now he had never even spared a thought for the plight of the many homeless people that inhabited the same city that he had lived in. He felt like he had somehow been transported to a third world country.

But this isn’t supposed to be a third world country. . . we’re supposed to be a super power for fuck sake,
Baxter thought to himself as he self consciously hugged his knees and peered into the pained expression of his companion who had finished fussing and now looked expectantly at Baxter who was the first to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Gummy, is that your name?” He asked as he raised his eyebrows.

“That’s what they…c…c…call me,” he said as he flashed a wide toothless grin, instantly confirming Baxter’s suspicion of how he would have gained that dubious nick name. Baxter held out his hand.

“Hello Gummy, they call me Derek,” he said as he shook the old man’s frail, cold and bony hand.

“N…N…Nice to meet ya…I’m real sorry ’bout Charlie. He’s a darn h h hot head. He’s a vet you know. He got shot up real bad in Iraq.”

“Oh I see,” Baxter said as he took his hand back from Gummy and resisted the urge to wipe it on his jacket.

“Now, tell me Gummy, what’s been going on? Can you tell me what you know about the disappearances?”

He could see a queer expression flash over the old man’s face and he suddenly realised that he had dropped his street person affectation and probably sounded a lot like a police officer.

He quickly pulled the flask out of his pocket and offered it to the old man. This action prompted the right response as the old man greedily grabbed the flask and took another long swig from it and flashed his toothless grin again as he went to hand the flask back.

Baxter saw the pathetic look in the old man’s eyes. He slowly shook his head and pushed the flask back at him as he spoke quietly.

“No Gummy, you can keep it if you tell me everything,” he said as he slumped back on his elbows on the cold cardboard.

He smiled at the old man who had taken yet another longer swig from the flask and then roughly wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.