The Milkman: A Freeworld Novel (23 page)

Chapter Thirty

McCallum stood on the wall, facing out at the lake. The morning wind stung his cheeks. The deep waters stayed cold long. The wind spread that cold around, even as the sun called it spring. He ached at every joint. Each breath pricked his right lung. None of it bothered him more than something that movie director had said. ‘Somebody picked the least valuable person to kill.’ That Vasquez girl hadn’t had the chance to build her value. She could’ve been on her way to do something great and wonderful, who knew? Who freaking knew everyone’s worth and threw them on a scale and decided the young marketing major had to go?

He touched his wrist. Having the whole of human knowledge between your thumb and forefinger had been convenient. Two days with the ollies and he already felt the jitters of detachment. Although he wondered if they’d be so pronounced if he didn’t want to end this investigation. If he wasn’t still sketching out a mystery, could he live without the cuff? Without the doctors and steady food supply and a car that put you anywhere you wanted in 20 minutes?

Anywhere you wanted. That presumed you wanted to be somewhere else. Ever.

McCallum watched Emory stroll the parade grounds with his wife and daughter. The image smeared, as if he’d rendered them with pastels and rubbed the bristol board, blending the three separate bodies into a single declaration. He wanted to grab his pad and pencils and preserve the state.

No. He needed to preserve not the image, but the actual, real live state. That was his job.

* * *

For Emory the world stayed in continuous flux. Energy flowed, taking everything with it. He managed flow, directing, re-directing, speeding up or, in that moment, making it run as slowly as the laws of the universe would allow. His girls. So pretty. So safe. He wanted to gobble them up. Keep them, just like this, secure inside him.

The op approached. He’d chosen the most direct path between them. He moved with a stiff sway. He must have rammed the back-on-duty bar down his spine. Emory looked away from him. Back at the girls. He’d pretend the man didn’t exist.

“I need to make a call,” McCallum said to Lillian.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m not even sure. You know. I’ve never been asked that before.”

“I’ve never asked, either,” the op said. “Can you act as my interpreter? Would that work?”

“Certainly.”

“Call Wayne Clement, City of Buffalo, economist, Systems Security.”

Emory continued not to look as his wife repeated the information and introduced herself in a polished, professional tone. He loved her just a little bit more for being so keen in such an awkward position. Calling an ASS economist blindly, from an ollie camp, while standing next to your fugitive husband? She should’ve asked Detective McCallum a lot more questions before getting started. She would have a year ago. Even six months back. Before the op saved their daughter, and maybe him. Not that he would’ve answered. The guy talked as if he ran everything he was going to say through his head three times before letting it out his mouth. The process produced less information than Emory wanted.

McCallum said, “Ask him who’s looked into cost-earnings for Emory, John and Geri Vasquez. Someone out there weighed their lives.”

Lillian repeated the message and they waited.

“No one,” Lillian conveyed. “No one out of the ordinary looked into their records.”

“Maybe they hid their search,” Emory said.

McCallum nodded. They both knew if this went up to the fourth grade, anything was possible.

“Who’s ordinary?” Lillian asked on her own. A pause. “Human Assets?” she said out loud to Emory and McCallum. “Any commonality in the HA queries?”

McCallum looked at Emory, eyebrows high.

“She’s a researcher,” he addressed the look, without acknowledging the man making it.

“Walter Whelen,” Lillian said. “Walter Whelen, HA Director, City of Buffalo, personally looked at all three. He’s a grade 9. In the single digits. He’s…”

“…got people for that kind of thing.” Emory finished her sentence.

“Tell Wayne thanks,” McCallum said. “You’ve got to go.” He waited until she ended the call. “Lillian, time to file for divorce.”

Now Emory looked at him.

Chapter Thirty-One

Emory hated wearing the coveralls again. The big, yellow jumpsuit, with the zipper up the front, fought you as you walked, protested with loud rubbing sounds and signaled to everyone that you were a degenerate. Wearing it here, in a gleaming silver office building amplified the humiliation.

Conner and Teddy made it even worse. They slithered behind him, side-by-side. They wore their yellows, too, looking like stains on this long, steel and glass counter. He no longer feared them. Things might have tipped to the opposite, he thought. They might actually be a little leery of him. He hated them, though. Real, permanent hatred. Coal dust in the lungs. The body would never find a means of digesting it. He’d have to learn to live with his new, diminished capacity for compassion, peace, believing in the worth of every man.

A woman rose from a smoke-tinted glass desk and stood in front of the office door at the end of the hall. Tall, sleek, dressed to show those features off, she made him hesitate. Not McCallum. He touched his cuff without breaking stride. Two steps later, the woman looked at her own, dangling, beaded bracelet, up at the entourage, and backed as far from the door as the hall would allow.

McCallum opened the door and entered.

“Hey,” came from deep inside. “You ever heard of knocking.”

“Yep,” McCallum replied. “Do it often. Sometimes doors, other times heads.”

A corner office. How special. Big enough to house an eight foot desk, and a small conference table, Emory rated it as the biggest he’d ever personally visited. The tones were all blues and grays, giving the space a frigid quality. The furniture was chrome and glass, not opulent, like you glimpsed sometimes in the movies imagining the really low grades, nor was it standard. None of this stuff could be ordered from a supply catalogue.

The man standing behind the desk could not have been 40. Short, but athletic. Hard, tight brown hair, flawless skin, a dimpled chin. He’d been sewn into his navy blue suit. He put his hands on his hips and got ready to bellow. McCallum held up his wrist, wiggling his cuff. The man didn’t take the hint.

“Wait outside,” McCallum said to Conner and Teddy. Emory closed the door behind him. The guy behind the desk finally got the idea to see what his cuff buzzed about.

“Detective McCallum?” he read with a puzzled, almost disgusted little sneer.

“Walter Whelen?” McCallum asked back.

“Do we have an appointment?”

“Not necessary.” McCallum sat down in one of the two steel and blue tweed chairs facing the desk, and, beyond that, the cityscape.

“I might beg to differ,” Whelen said.

“The way this conversation is about to go, I think you’re going to be begging for more than that.”

Emory sat down. Whelen watched, through half-open eyes. He made his patience appear to be a massive struggle.

“You know Emory Leveski, here,” McCallum motioned to Emory.

“I can’t recall.”

“That wasn’t a question. He’s the Milkman. You set him up for murder. He’s been on a chain gang since the fall of last year.”

“You can go now,” Whelen said, smiling.

“I’ll be leaving shortly. Just a few stray strokes to clean up. I can understand why you wanted to the stop the Milkman. Once I put you in center focus, everything resolved. I found the logs, with the calls from a grade four. You must have been flapping around this office getting a call from a low grade like that. What did he offer you, a step up? Two steps up? Is that what a young woman’s life is worth these days? I don’t know, because you haven’t gotten your reward yet. That movie is still out there, isn’t it?”

Whelen sat down, still forcing out a smile. He clicked his cuff on the table and it lit up with applications and files and photos. Upside down, at the wrong angle, Emory couldn’t see exactly what Whelen started to manipulate.

“I can’t imagine you got to be detective by being stupid,” Whelen said. “But I’m going to check.”

“What I can’t understand is Geri Vasquez. Why her? She had nothing to do with milk or the movie. No part of this.”

“It says here you are an exemplary operative. Four commendations.”

“You just pick her at random? Find the lowest paid person you could actually overpower?”

Whelen tapped the desktop. “And gone. Zero commendations.”

“Not man enough to take on anyone your size or weight. You had to pick a little girl.”

Whelen tapped the desktop again. “Aw. Says here you have skipped your medical visits for the last two years. You’re out of compliance.”

“Why not go even younger? Make it easy on yourself and kill a 12-year-old girl?”

Face hard, Whelen looked up from his desk. “Is that what this is about? You get a little post-mortem crush on that marketing kitten? Fine. Let me close this up for you. It was a dusting, detective. Somebody else with more juice than her boss wanted to put his person in her job. She wouldn’t willingly transfer. I didn’t have anyplace I could force her to. Funny, how sometimes people just aren’t dying fast enough. There were no openings, so I made one. A dusting. It’s a procedure of last resort, but this time…” He smiled. He looked proud. “This time, I could kill a couple of birds with one stone.”

McCallum nodded. “Free up the girl’s position and take out the Milkman.”

“Elegant,” Whelen said. “Feel better now? Are you through or do I need to alter your records some more.”

“That’s kind of why we’re here. You can change people’s lives. In fact, you can EX-change people’s lives.” McCallum reached into his jacket and pulled out a hatchet. Heavy-headed steel, a black fiberglass handle, a nubby grip. It clinked as he laid it on the glass desk. “I want you to bring up your file. And Emory’s.”

Emory stared at the hatchet. He didn’t know what it meant. McCallum had said he was going to fix things and he only needed one tool from his box. Seems it was a small ax. Sharp and nasty.

“You’re threatening me? With violence?” Whelen’s face tightened. Emory thought he might be trying to keep up the sarcastic smile, though his nerves were getting the better of him.

“I brought along a tool I might need.”

“You’re crazy. I’m calling your superior right now.”

“Won’t matter. No other op is getting through that door until I’m through with you. Bring up the files.” McCallum paused. He looked out the window, down at the hatchet, then right into Whelen’s eyes. “Then switch the biologics.”

Emory’s head jerked around. Whelen’s mouth opened, stuck in a silent scream. His right hand shot for the hatchet. McCallum had been waiting for the move. He yanked the tool away with his right hand, grabbed Whelen’s wrist with his left and brought the small ax down, stopping right above the hand.

“Aaagh!” Whelen attempted to pull free.

“You understand now?” McCallum said.

“You can’t do this? It’ll never take. I know thousands of people.”

“I’m betting not two of them care.” McCallum released Whelen’s arm, but kept the hatchet in his hand.

Emory asked, “What are you doing?”

“Putting things right. For you, anyway. Too late to help the girl,” he said. He aimed his voice at Whelen. “Make the switch.”

Whelen sat, arms on the desk, hands clawed like a vulture, his face trying to tear itself down the middle. Emory couldn’t tell if his eyes saw anything in the room. He seemed to be sorting files in his head. His life, Emory guessed, for the past year. The call, the chance at advancement, the excitement and planning and the kill. Maybe he saw his most likely future, on a chain gang, devoid of chrome and tweed and opportunity. Those stories collided, conveyor belts misaligned, crashing the hopes and memories, breaking his visions on the floor. Whelen started to cry. Pathetic. The tears cutting two rivulets down his cheeks. His hands shook so hard he couldn’t move any of the images around his desktop.

“I know people,” Whelen blubbered.

McCallum said nothing.

“You think he can just walk into my life and take over? It’ll fail in seconds and it will all get traced back to you, detective.”

McCallum got up and circled the desk. Emory’s head swirled. Switch? Take over his life? McCallum stood behind the Human Assets Executive as he tapped and swiped his fingers across the desktop.

* * *

Sylvia Cho cinched her white robe as she glided to the front door. Gavin Stoll stood on her porch, arms behind his back, rocking on his feet. She unbolted the lock, turned the handle and zipped back the way she came.

“Come on in, Gavin,” she hollered.

In the sunroom, she scooped the infant out of bassinet. The baby made gurgling noises. Her flawless, chubby arms pumped slowly at nothing. Sylvia sat back in a rocking chair, nuzzling the child to her chest.

Gavin leaned on the room’s door jam, crossing his arms and legs. “She’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. You sound very close to sincere.”

“No one’s more surprised than I. Didn’t know I was a baby person.”

“You can’t have her,” Sylvia said, not sure it was a joke.

“So you said. Your message was provocative.”

Sylvia pointed to the large monitor on the far side of the adjacent room. Large white letters on a black background read The Milkman. “The rough cut’s done.”

“Can I have it?”

“No.” Sylvia ran her hand down the baby’s back. “I’ve posted it.”

“What!”

The baby jumped.

“Shush,” Sylvia shot. “You don’t want to wake her. Trust me on that.”

“It wasn’t yours to post.”

“Tell your backer it’s on a rolling site. Just like the Milkman’s posts. I’ll give you the search terms and you can find it, use it for leverage, bargaining, whatever. But you can never have it. It’s mine and I can release it to as many or as few people as I want, any time I want. Or make it disappear.”

“That was not our deal.”

“Yeah, well, I’m dealing for two, now.”

* * *

McCallum read everything on the desktop. Whelen could plant all kinds of bombs and traps in his system if not watched. So McCallum watched. He was no computer guru, but he’d spent enough time in personnel databases to know what went where.

Whelen whimpered as he moved the stats, photos and biometric information. It only took a few minutes. His photos, retina scans and prints all pointed to Emory Leveski. Emory’s new name was Walter Whelen, Ambyr Human Assets, Grade 9. McCallum took Whelen’s hand and pressed the ‘enter’ key.

McCallum looked at Emory. “You just got a raise.”

He took a white ceramic cuff out of his pocket. The industrial type, you only saw on employees serving on alternative work details.

“Take off your cuff,” McCallum said.

“No no no no no” Whelen shook his head.

“I will chop off your hand and slip it free. That’s what this tool is for.”

Whelen cried more quietly as he snapped open his cuff and pulled if from his wrist. He tossed it on the desk. McCallum nodded at it, like he was moving the bracelet towards Emory with his nose.

Emory picked up the cuff and snapped it on. He stood and unzipped his yellow coveralls. Underneath, he wore a gray suit, with a pressed white shirt.

“This is why you wanted me to wear my Sunday best, huh?”

“Sorry I couldn’t fill you in,” McCallum returned. “Didn’t know if you could swim, so throwing you in seemed best. Give him the coveralls.”

“I’ll be back in hour,” Whelen spat. “I’ll kill you first, Milkman. Then your dog.”

“I don’t have any pets,” Emory replied. “Or do I? Do I have any pets now, Emory?”

“I think he was referring to me.” McCallum clamped the ceramic cuff on Whelen’s wrist. “Emory Leveski you are hereby transferred to alternative work detail indefinitely.”

“You think this is a valid plan? You honestly think you can just swap people? Like parts?!” Spittle sprayed from Whelen’s mouth.

McCallum motioned for him to don the yellows. “This is what I think. I think the Milkman’s a nice guy. I’m betting you’re such an asshole anyone who knows you is going to be thrilled with your replacement.”

Whelen stepped into the coverall and zipped it up. He pressed his lips together so hard it looked to McCallum like he’d squeezed the color out, forcing it into the rest of his wet face. McCallum rounded the desk and opened the door. Conner and Eddy stood in front of the woman’s desk. She sat, doing her best to ignore their leering.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Leveski is ready to return to the detail.” He waved Whelen out of his office and put his hand on his shoulder. “You remember Emory, right? Here he is.” He pushed Whelen forward.

Conner and Teddy exchanged glances, shrugged their shoulders and led the man down the hall.

“Sherri!” he yelled. “Tell upstairs what’s happening. I’ve—”

Teddy knocked him in the small of the back, pushing him farther down the corridor.

“Sherri,” Emory said. “That man is confused. I’m Walter Whelend.”

She ran her eyes over Emory, then McCallum. She bit her lip. She glanced down the hall, briefly, then back to Emory.

This was, McCallum knew, the moment. He wasn’t about to muscle anyone else into his scam. Not this young lady, not the people ‘upstairs’, not anyone back on the chain gang. He’d put his hatchet away for the day.