Crime Rave (13 page)

NRG

Y
ou’re thinking about how they made you at The Institute. Skin opened up, bones excised and penetrated, one limb at a time. The excruciating pain of fire marrying flesh as the metal alloy poured into your bones. Even in your coma you could feel it. Red dreams of agony, an inferno of torture. The healing time of weeks, waiting for the process to take. Your body rejecting it. More tests. Another limb. Another session. Finally. One year later and you become who you are.

Who were you before they made you? Vague memories of a dark-haired mother, dressing you up for school. You had a
Bewitched
lunchbox. She made you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the chunky kind, with fig jelly. Strawberry milk, that tasted so sweet to wash down the sticky mess.

Or are those images just dreams within an adamantium fever? Did they just make you in a lab? Put memories in your head? It’s not clear anymore. Everything is a fuzzy puzzlement of the then and the now. You can’t control yourself. The knives emerge and emerge. Surely you’d run out by now? They keep coming. The chair in the corner of your hospital room fills with your rage. Get a grip, self, get a grip. If only for your own comfort. Pull it together. Ride it out.

You fall into an uneasy sleep and dream of the gods who used to walk among humans. A war is coming. The heavens above are alight with the reason why you’ve survived at all. They’re calling you to fight, and you’ll heed them. Anything to not go back where you came from.

9:40 AM LAPD Headquarters

F
BI Liaison Agent Dilbert Linus hunkers down in an empty office, sifting through the traveling pharmacy in his briefcase. His heart palpitates and he’s sure an attack of irritable bowel is imminent. He finds two bottles, one for his heart and one for his stomach, pops the pills down with triple distilled spring water. Immediately feels better. Half the pills in there are placebos, a fact which keeps only a handful of his more remorseful doctors awake at night. However, those are the only pills in Linus’s arsenal that work, not that he knows.

Ever since Agent Linus contracted hepatitis from a perp spitting in his face, he’s been a hard man to handle.

And he’s dreading CIA Special Agent’s Quatro’s arrival. He can’t stand her. When she looks at him he’s sure she can read his mind like some crazy Columbian voodoo witch. She sees too much, and he doesn’t like it one bit. That knowing smirk. It drives Linus up the wall. But she’s the best interrogator and closer in the entire federal government. The only one with a one hundred percent solve rate. She’s the first in entire history of American law enforcement to boast that record. Probably the only one who ever will. So Linus will take a pill and deal.

A crescendo of bustle outside the office. Linus hears Special Agent Quatro’s voice, lilting with only the slightest trace of her South American roots accent, greeting the officer on charge.

“Now or never, Mr. Clever.” Linus pops an extra heart pill just in case.

“Special Agent Quatro, so nice to see you again,” Linus extends his hand, she shakes it in a bone-crushing grip, closing her eyes while doing so. Linus is so convinced she’s sprained his metacarpals, he doesn’t notice her odd gesture. She releases and his hand falls limply to his side.

“Cut the
guano
, Linus. You’d rather a terrorist walk in here than me.” Her hazel eyes sparkle and she smiles broadly, the harelip scar that bisects her upper lip stretching into a line parallel to her teeth as she does. The man hates being teased even more than he likes being called out, and Quatro well knows it.

Linus really wants another pill. An anti-inflammatory for his hand. Quatro watches him squirm, making him fidget all the more as he tries to hide it. She laughs and decides to put him out of his misery, though she could easily torment him for another five minutes before getting bored.

“So, what’s the skinny on this mess here?” Special Agent Quatro runs her fingers through her long, curly, borderline frizzy hair, in what would be a fetching gesture to anyone but Agent Linus.

“You can’t even imagine the level of incompetence I’ve had to deal with. And it’s not even ten yet!”

“Some things never change,” Quatro singsongs. Linus shoots her the evil eye. “So what are we looking at this time?”

“We’ve got three suspects in the bombing in custody. A detective, allegedly unauthorized by the captain, goes in and interviews one. Kid lawyers up. That leaves us only two suspects. It’s a disaster.” Linus’s breathing picks up and he worries hyperventilation is in order.
Not in front of Quatro! Not in front of Quatro!

“Calm down, Linus, you know I only need one suspect. Any news on other players involved?”

“The terrorist group—the Bad Vibe Kids, they called themselves—seem to have had a solid exit plan and likely have left the country. They confessed on the video they sent to media, but no names. You’ll have to get that.” Linus squints, certain he’s losing the vision in his left eye.

Nodding, Agent Quatro looks around. “Where’s my office? And where’s the chief?”

“Assistant Chief Ortiz is on his way to the explosion site after doing the press rolls with the mayor and company. Ortiz called ten minutes ago, gave an ETA back here of eleven.”

“Call him back, tell him I’ll meet him there. I want to get a lay of the explosion. Then I want to sit in on the survivor interviews. And I want to talk to the PD reps who witnessed ‘The Event’.” She makes air quotes.

“The what?” Linus wheezes.

“The people who grew from body parts. That’s all my escorts could talk about. We need to get a statement out to the press sooner rather than later, before rumors spread it’s a zombie apocalypse.” Quatro helps herself to a paper cup and fills it with water from the half-empty cooler. In spite of almost constant travelling around the world, her skin never gets used to dry airplane air.

“When you gonna interrogate those little shits?”

“Once I’ve figured out who is responsible, as usual.” Agent Quatro flashes her superstar smile and Linus flinches like she’s raised her hand to hit him. “Have the forensic accountant and tech teams been assembled? Let’s get rolling with what we can find from the suspects’ computers.”

“Those Red Team members are upstairs, already working on it,” Linus sighs. “This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.” He massages his right hand and glares at Quatro for spraining it.

“Ah, but isn’t it your first terrorism case? Wasn’t Petersen on the World Trade Center bombing in Oklahoma?” Quatro knows just what buttons to push. Linus’s face fills with blood, he worries he’s going to faint. She gives him a placating smile and pats him on the shoulder. Linus’s blood pressure rises as it always does with patronizing people.

Where’s that anti-inflammatory? And can this day be over yet?

Special Agent Rosario Quatro

Y
ou were essentially raised by the CIA after your entire family was killed in one of Pablo Escobar’s Bogotá assaults, at your older sister’s unfortunate wedding to the drug lord’s cousin and perceived coca rival. You hid in the rectory kitchen as a hail of bullets brought the church down and that’s where an American undercover agent eventually found you, tucked between the pots and saucepans. You were the only survivor.

After receiving immediate asylum in the US, the CIA discovered you tested off the charts for IQ, and your personality questionnaire indicated a highly intuitive individual—borderline psychic if the agency believed in such things, again testing off the charts—who would be well suited to the CIA’s variety of interrogation programs. You were the youngest CIA recruit in the company’s history at sixteen years old. And on December 2, 1993, it was you who shot the fatal bullet that pierced Pablo Escobar’s ear, putting an end to at least
his
reign of terror. Your first and last wet work assignment.

Since then, you’ve been keeping the schedule of a stewardess, never more than forty-eight hours in a city. Your unique interrogation method—non-confrontational, non-violent, almost non-communicative—stops being questioned by your superiors after you maintain a one hundred percent solve rate, the only agent in the history of the Central Intelligence Agency to ever boast this stat. Not that you boast about it at all.

Now you have your own dedicated team who travel with you on your custom-made jet, an aerial mobile home with rooms to comfortably sleep three people. You’ve carefully curated contacts around the world of gifted law enforcement—and sometimes even talented criminals in atonement mode—should you ever need their services. You rarely do, but it’s best to stay connected.

You’re a self-contained arm of the CIA, and one of its best-kept secrets: a one-woman crime-fighting team with government backing. You’re living a superhero’s dream, and most of the time it makes you happy.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

Your work is too important, too vital to global security to think about having a normal life. A husband, two point five children, a house in the suburbs, your own family. These are the luxuries you allow yourself to dream about only one day a year, on your birthday. Your only gift to yourself. A brief dream of an alternate universe in which you’re a wife and mother, ensconced in a measure of domestic bliss. No more terrorists or serial killers or assassins. Just school plays, soccer practice, and a white picket fence. A beautiful dream that will never come true.

10:15 AM Spruce-Musa Hospital

D
etective Red Feather feels his anxiety levels spike. Only two interviews down and more questions arise than answers. Günn acts strange, running to the bathroom every moment she can. Won’t meet his eyes. He adds this to the to-discuss list for later.

“Last alien girl. You ready?” Günn nods and Red Feather knocks on the door.

She calls them in.

If the detectives didn’t know better, she looks human except for the viridescent tint to her skin, like chlorophyll, and the petal-like consistency and layering of her hair. The room smells of oleander, making Red Feather feel lethargic and Günn want to throw up.

“I’m Secrete. You might want to open the door and windows,” she says. “I have a distressing effect that I remember being able to control, but I haven’t got my sea legs just yet.”

Günn sets up the camera. Turns it on, but feels dizzy, ill. “I’m sorry, partner, you’re on your own. I’m gonna be—” Günn stumbles from the room. Doesn’t make it to the toilet and pukes in a bin by the nurse’s station.
Gross
. There is no way she’s going to deal with nine months of this. Especially not when she’s up for promotion.

Red Feather stands by the open window and begins.

“We’ve talked to your friends a bit about where you came from. The Roswell Institute. What can you tell me about it?”

Her story matches that of Chamelia and NRG. The Institute is run by a madman. They perform human and other experiments, cloning, DNA mixing. Torture. Super secret.

Red Feather can’t believe he’s feeling bored and stifles a yawn.

“Sorry I’m not as exciting as my sisters,” Secrete shrugs.

“No, no. I’m sorry, but I think it’s your perfume. And the fact that I’ve been up going on eighteen hours.” Red Feather blinks hard. “You mind if I smoke? That’ll help clear my head.”

Secrete is shocked, an expression that makes her look like a child. “But this is a hospital!” She whispers.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Red Feather stifles another yawn.

She also points to the video camera. Red Feather waves her concern away.

“Okay, then. It’s a free world. In theory.” She settles back in bed, the striped yellow of her hospital gown bringing out the green luminescence of her skin.

Red Feather takes out his American Spirits and lights up, takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. He feels better.

“So, Secrete, how did they make
you
?” Red Feather is getting the hang of this.

“I started out as human, but now I’ve become a plant-human hybrid. Synthesized from poisonous flowers and human/alien DNA. Just another manufactured super-soldier.” She says it like a robot. Red Feather laughs. She’s charming if you can get past the floral, nap-inducing aroma.

“Do you also share DNA with Chamelia? NRG mentioned she was manipulated from her genetic code.”

“Yes, I am. It’s the only thing I’m proud of with what I’ve become.”

Red Feather hears the same tone he heard with Chamelia for when that particular line of questioning is now closed. He accommodates. “And what do you remember about the rave last night?” Red Feather asks.

Her story matches her comrades exactly: an attempted gang rape at the hands of security guards, spiked water at the rave, a kidnapped one-eyed girl Lily, the old man who wanted to drink Lily’s blood, pink vulval ooze that kills old man, DJ making brains explode with his music, girls with fireballs shooting down speakers, a rumble, then a big bada boom.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you three’s stories are rehearsed,” Red Feather stirs the pot for the sake of it, representing for Günn.

“Well, we never left each other’s sight, so of course our stories match. Your partner can smell lies, right? Has she smelled anything?”

Red Feather feels like Secrete slapped him across the face.
How did she know?

“That’s what I thought,” she says. Vindication. “And anyway, I haven’t even seen my friends since we’ve…um…whatever it was. Hey when can I see them? Chamelia could use my help.”

“Once I’m done with all the interviews, I’ll arrange it.” Red Feather shows Secrete Polaroids of all the survivors: She recognizes Chamelia, NRG, and Lily, but nobody else. “They were in costume,” she says shrugging. “I was all messed up from the water, people’s faces were going all melty except for my friends. I really hope I never feel like that ever again.” She pauses. “You know The Institute will be coming for us, right? Me especially.”

“Why’s that?” Red Feather asks, thinking about the ‘ultimate being’ who might be the centerpiece of a covert government agency, sitting by a window just two rooms over.

“I’m Colonel Ransom’s daughter.”

Red Feather picks his jaw up from the ground. “Your
father
did this to you?”

Secrete nods. “He started when I was little. Injections and treatments. He said they were vitamins. My mother suspected something, but only after I turned green. She’s kind of a junkie. I mean, I would be too if my husband was an abusive bastard. He’s got the house filled with pills, plied her with them all the time. Eventually she just started taking them herself. But after one horrible night, she came into my room all bloody, and she tried to take me away from him that same evening. But, his buddies in family court declared her mentally incompetent and a drug addict, locked her away in a maximum-security psyche ward somewhere around Barstow. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.” Secrete looks at the detective, plaintive. “Can you find out for me please?”

“I’ll see what I can do. What’s her name?” Red Feather prepares to take a note.

“Elizabeth Ransom. Thank you.”

“I’m very sorry for all you’ve been through.” Red Feather lights another cigarette, studies the creature chewing her nails in bed. He wonders if she can poison herself.

She smiles. “Thank you. Really.” Pause. “So, how did I get here anyway? After the explosion, I mean.”

Red Feather clears his throat. “We found your hand in the rubble. You, ah, grew back.”

Her eyes widen. “For real?”

“As real as real can be.”

“Far out.”

“Tell me about it.” Red Feather wonders how anyone will be able to read these reports with a straight face.

“That’s why you’ve got the video recorder, right? Visual evidence?” She winks at Detective Red Feather.

Secrete’s ability finally sinks in. “Wait, what? You can…” Red Feather has no clue how to finish. Not true. He does have a clue, he just can’t bear to say it aloud.

“Read minds? I guess so.” Secrete smiles. “You wanna see something else?”

Red Feather nods.

“Just give me a sec. And turn off that recorder.” Secrete bounces out of bed toward the bathroom. The shower starts running. “Okay, come in.”

Red Feather hesitates. He’s been in this situation before. A witness thinks him doing his job is an invitation to a whole other kind of work.

“This isn’t a pervy trick. Just come on!”

Freaky
. Red Feather walks over and peers through the crack in the door. Secrete yanks it all the way open.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” The lower half of Secrete’s body has transformed into a tail, which splashes around like a dolphin in water.

“But how…”

“One of my moms is a shapeshifter, remember?” Secrete strokes her tail. “You wanna feel? But go this way, the other way is kind of icky and rough, like I haven’t shaved my legs.”

He knows he shouldn’t, but does. It’s an honest to God tail. This woman is a mermaid.

“Can you change into anything else?”

“Nope, but here’s what I figure: My human mom loves mermaids, even named me Madison, you know, from
Splash
? I’ve wanted to be a mermaid since I can remember, and maybe
this
is my ultimate form, like Chamelia’s is that kickass lizard thing? Nobody knows except me. And now you, so keep your trap shut. It’ll be bad enough going back to The Institute. The last thing I need is for them to know about this or for your people to take me. I know what they’ll try do. I’ve seen that movie.” Secrete kicks her tail around, admiring the light glinting in iridescent viridian patches. “Okay, sideshow’s over. I’ve gotta dry off before someone else sees.”

Red Feather stands there staring, mouth agape.

“Hey, shouldn’t you check on your partner?” Secrete wakes him from his reverie.

Red Feather shakes his head. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your help, Secrete. And for trusting me with your, um, ultimate form.” Red Feather clears his throat. “Call me if you think of anything else that could be of help to our investigation. OK?” Card offered over.

“Sure thing. Can you close the window before you go? This city smells like wicked smog.”

Far above Los Angeles, Kaleanathi, the Smog Goddess, shivers in anger.
You’ll be mine soon enough, dearie, and your little tail, too.

The detective throws his cigarette butts out the window and closes it up, listening to Secrete still splashing her tail around in the bathroom and giggling like a little girl. Red Feather gets on the horn and calls CSI Chang back on site to take new samples of the alien girls. She’s going to have to break down the evidence old school—with her own two eyes and a microscope.