Killer of Killers (38 page)

Trent did think. He thought about Samantha
and Susie, and all the innocent people murdered because of
Eternity. He thought about Flint and Stiles, Nick Martin, and the
two Samoans. The state senator crossed his mind, and the elevator
he stacked with five dead bodies.

Next, he thought of the formula’s inventors,
Benson and Bernstein. As a result of this damn drug, lives were cut
short, guilty and innocent. Even the lives of its creators.
Finally, Trent spoke. “For something that keeps you from growing
old, a lot of people have died awfully young.”

Soriah responded, “Trent, people die every
day, and Eternity can end that. Don’t you understand?”

Trent shook his head. “What I understand is
that
because
of Eternity, a
lot
of people are dead.”
He paused, and then added, “No, Mr. Soriah, if you want to pursue
Eternity, I’m afraid you’ll have to start from scratch.”

“If we start from scratch,” a glum Soriah
contested, “I’m not sure I can live long enough to realize my
dream.”

Trent was unmoved. “Some dreams aren’t meant
to be realized. I think yours could very well be one of them.”

The grin returned to Soriah’s face. “But what
a dream, eh, Mr. Smith? Eternal youth and life without
disease.”

“But war, crime, and poverty... What about
that?”

“One thing at a time, Mr. Smith. First we
tackled healing, then disease. Next, we solved the aging problem.
And we’re only in the beginning stages of the experiment.”

“Your experiment is for the ruling elite,”
Trent pointed out. “If they had your drug, people like Stalin, Mao,
and Pol Pot would still be around. Dictators living forever would
rule forever. No, Mr. Soriah, whether good
or
evil, all
leaders must age and die. Every generation deserves its turn to
create something new for themselves...and for generations
beyond.”

Soriah didn’t respond. He simply sported his
wide grin, reminding Trent of the Cheshire Cat from the fairy tale.
Trent hoped that all of this would one day be just that—a tale to
tell his grandkids while sitting in a rocking chair in a distant
and happier future.

* * * *

Trent observed with satisfaction the feds
arrive with court orders and search warrants to complete their
investigation, which included E Wing’s shutdown and revival of the
sleepers. Soriah vowed to cover all expenses until each of his
‘patients’ fully recovered in state hospitals. He also promised
compensation to every employee until the courts settled his case
with the FBI.

Soriah’s personal nurses treated Trent’s
injuries and provided him with new clothing. In black slacks and a
formal shirt, Trent believed he looked like a different man. He
found it necessary to roll up the long sleeves and further fold the
cuffs on his trousers. Even the shiny black shoes were a loose fit.
He never liked wearing expensive clothes, but now his revulsion
reached another level. He couldn’t wait to get back into blue jeans
and a black tee shirt.

* * * *

In a private conference, Charles Morgan
convinced Josh Jones that Abraham Soriah had nothing to do with
sending killers after Trent Smith or his sister. He told him how
the Turkish investor harbored an unrequited love for Samantha, and
believed Smith a rival for her affection.

But Josh was not consoled. “All my life I had
to protect Samantha from overzealous jerks,” he recalled.

“He saw her fall for Trent Smith,” Charles
said. “With her ardor stirred, Manoukian thought he could move in
if he got Smith out of the way.”

“He’s dead!” Josh snarled while pounding the
table with his fist clenched so tight it had turned red. “Let me
out of here! Manoukian’s gonna die!”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about
that.”

“Oh, yeah? Why not?”

“Look there.” Charles pointed to the window.
Trent Smith was standing outside, waiting for a limo. “He knows
what we know.”

* * * *

The limousine pulled up to an introspective
Trent. The chauffeur remained inside, and Trent opened his own
door. But just as he did, a voice called out, “Wait!”

It was Charles. He approached Trent and held
out his hand. Trent agreed to the handshake. He believed Charles
Morgan was someone he might have called a friend in a different
reality.

“Going back to California?” Charles
asked.

“I have an appointment in San Francisco.”

“Revenge for Samantha and Susie?”

“No,” Trent replied. “It’s about justice.
It’s
always
been about justice.”

“Then you’re forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The
real
killer of Susie Quinn.”

Trent glared. “Keep talking.”

Charles pulled a plastic baggie from his coat
pocket and handed it to Trent. It contained a still-opened
pocketknife. Dried blood soiled the blade, and engraved on the
green handle was a name:
Connie.

Charles explained, “Our man at NYPD sent it
over. He found it yesterday. You’ll notice the blood. It’s
Susie’s.”

Trent listened while his own blood boiled. He
returned the baggie to Charles. “Why are you telling me this?”

“
For justice
,” Charles answered. His
expression turned sad, and a tear streamed over his cheek. “I loved
her, too.” He handed Trent a card with an address, and then he
walked away.

Trent watched Charles vanish past the doors
of the main lobby. Now, he had two appointments to keep. Looking
back at the waiting limousine, it occurred to him that he was
developing a hatred for these types of vehicles. Nevertheless, he
stepped inside.

* * * *

While crossing the lobby of the master lab,
Charles heard a low groan. He stood in place and looked around. The
groan sounded again. Charles circled the reception desk and
discovered a man struggling to regain his senses. He recognized him
and helped him to his feet. “Dennis, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” a woozy Dennis muttered. “I
was getting the keys to the limo, here from the desk, and the next
thing I knew... Well, just now, I’m waking up on the floor.”

Charles noticed Dennis was out of uniform.
“Where’s your coat?” he inquired. “Wait a minute. If you’re here...
Who’s driving the limo?”

Charles straightened his back and peered
through the glass walls. He saw the limousine pass the gate and
blink past the watchtower. It crossed the straightway until the
forest swallowed it whole.

* * * *

Trent endured the dips and bumps as the
limousine snaked through the woods. He gazed past the window and
reflected on his ‘Eternal’ experiences amidst the ageless
evergreens. When dust from the dirt road clouded his view, he
turned to the man in the driver’s seat and examined the black hair
on the back of his head. Trent spoke in perfect Japanese. “It was
all as you said it would be. Soriah, Manoukian, Charles
Morgan...even Samantha Jones.”

Without turning around, the chauffeur
responded, also in Japanese, “I’m sorry about that last one. I knew
it would be tough. Especially considering the way it turned
out.”

“Yeah, tough,” Trent said.

When the white limo turned onto the paved
street to Bemidji, Trent observed the myriad pines and it made him
think. “I bet for every one of those trees there’s a killer loose
in this world. And for each tree that’s chopped down, another one
grows to replace it.”

The driver stayed silent.

Trent asked, “How’s the heart, anyway?”

“It’s holding up as best as can be
expected.”

“You’re a lucky man, you know, to be stabbed
through the heart and then live to talk about it.”

To Trent’s comment, the driver didn’t
respond. He merely asked, “Where to now? San Francisco?”

“No,” Trent answered. “New York City.”

“Still targeting Abraham Soriah?”

“No, actually, not Soriah. Something
unforeseen. Someone unexpected. But it’s just as important. At
least, to me, anyway.”

Again, the driver didn’t respond, and Trent
preferred the discontinued dialogue. The silence lasted for several
minutes, after which the driver said, “The goatee becomes you. I
hope you get some new clothes, though. You look different in that
outfit.”

“Yeah,” a somber Trent agreed. “Once I get to
Minneapolis. But I have to tell you I
feel
different. I’m
not sure I’m the same person anymore.”

The trek proceeded with no further words, and
within the hour, the country road delivered the limo into the
semblance of an urban environment. Trent spotted a small airport in
the distance, and it steadily grew until it filled the limo’s
windshield.

The driver pulled to the passenger drop off.
He still faced forward, and Trent didn’t mind talking to the back
of his head. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem, and don’t worry. I’m quite sure
you are the same person. Just as your eyes will always be green, so
too will you always be
Tora
.”

Trent again studied the back of the driver’s
head. “Goodbye, Jiro,” he said. Then he stepped from the limo and
watched it drive away.

Chapter
Eighteen

Treading Spanish Harlem

The New York horizon
displayed its closing red curtain before Trent’s eyes, and he
considered it fitting. Walking through a Latino neighborhood, he
viewed packs of children playing in the dusty streets and in the
littered alleys between the many buildings. His mind possessed one
thought. Connie Perez would take her turn on his carousel of
justice tonight.

He stopped in front of a multi-layered
residential complex and spied the address on its stucco wall. Then
he climbed the stairs to the apartment number he had memorized. Two
iron-fisted raps announced his arrival.

* * * *

Inside the dwelling, Carlos Ramirez reached
for the television’s remote control and muted the volume. He looked
to the robed woman he was paid to protect. He slicked back his
black hair and straightened out the wrinkles in his white muscle
shirt, which exposed tattoos of Roman numerals and pretty girls
over both of his arms. Sitting on the sofa, Connie Perez nodded her
head in approval to attend the door. When he opened it, however,
there was no one to greet him. “Who’s there?” he called out.

Carlos pulled up his sagging trousers and
walked onto the patio. That was the last thing he remembered.
Someone he never saw knocked him senseless with a blow to the base
of his neck. He woke up breathing loose dirt off the concrete
surface. The ringing in his ears blared like a fire alarm, and a
tingling stretched the length of his limbs. He rubbed his neck and
shook his arms while muttering, “Hijo de puta!”

Dazed and dizzy, Carlos managed to get back
on his feet, but when he staggered into the apartment and looked at
Connie, he froze. She was sitting erect on the sofa with a blank
stare on her face. She remained unblemished in her unruffled robe,
yet she was strangely unmoving.

Carlos peeked at the TV screen. It still
flashed the Spanish novella he had grown bored with days ago. He
turned back to Connie. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t watching
the show. Carlos felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on
end, and he knew it wasn’t because of the blow he received.

Moving toward Connie, he asked, “Que Pasa?”
There was no answer. “Tu estas bien?” Again, there was no answer.
He leaned over and waved his hand in front of her face. She didn’t
blink. He nudged Connie’s shoulder, and her body tipped over and
plopped on the floor.

Carlos straightened in shock. He couldn’t
stop staring at her eyes, for they remained ghoulishly gaping and
locked into his. Only when he covered his face could he pull
himself free. When he dared to lower his hands, he scoured the
room, but there was nothing new to his eyes. He rushed outside and
panned the streets. Not a soul was in sight. Even the children had
retreated from their makeshift playgrounds. All that remained was
an eerie silence, as the sun set behind the silhouetted skyline
curtained in burgundy red.

* * * *

Trent stood alone at the curb of a wide
boulevard. The twilight sky contained no stars, and even the moon
lay hidden from the imminent night. Likewise, the streets were void
of life except for occasional rats that scampered across the cables
above. Trent wondered if a single cab would dare disturb the
dormant street.

In the distance, a pair of lights appeared.
When Trent determined it was indeed a cab, he raised an arm. The
taxi, approaching from his right, slowed to a near stop, and the
driver, a bearded East Indian wearing a white turban, poked his
head out of the window. “Where to?” he asked.

Trent answered, “JFK.”

The taxi pulled to the far curb, so Trent
legged it across the blacktop without a second thought. Once he
reached the centerline, however, another taxi approached from the
opposite direction. As it closed, it picked up speed until it
roared.

Trent stood firm, knowing that an attempt to
run would be futile. At the last moment, he leaped up,
quick-stepped over the taxi’s hood and roof, and somersaulted high
into the air. He landed in a three-point stance and saw the vehicle
skid into a sharp turn, which the driver could not negotiate. It
slammed into a telephone pole, crushing the wheel and right-front
fender—immobilized amidst a haze of smoke and dust, and in the
fumes of burnt rubber.

The driver of the first cab yelled from his
window, “Man, that was close. Are you okay?”

Trent shot him a glance. “Don’t worry about
me.” He walked to the mangled vehicle and opened the rear door.

Two gunshots fired,
bam, bam,
but
Trent had jumped away in the moment it took the shooter to squeeze
the trigger. Just as quickly, he raced to the vehicle’s other side,
flung the door wide, and disarmed the pistol-toting passenger with
a wristlock applied so forcibly bones snapped. He kicked the pistol
out of sight.