Nightcrawler

Nightcrawler

John Reinhard Dizon

Copyright (C) 2015 John Reinhard Dizon

Layout Copyright (C) 2015 by Creativia

Published 2015 by Creativia

eBook design by Creativia (www.creativia.org)

Cover Design by Melody Simmons

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been a couple of weeks since my last confession.”

“There is only one Heavenly Father, and He alone forgives sins.”

“I'm sorry, Pastor. Old habits die hard.”

“Always good to see you, Bree. Have a seat.”

Sabrina Brooks had been on a spiritual quest since the death of her father. He had left her as the sole heir of Brooks Chemical Company, and suddenly she had come crashing back to reality from a lifetime world of fantasy. She had been a spoiled child who grew up to be a party brat, only the death of her mother four years ago sobered her enough to earn her degree in chemistry at New York University. She was reluctantly stepping into the breach as her father's successor, but she needed answers to rest her troubled soul. She had finally come to the Force of God Christian Church on the Bowery, and Matt Mitchell was helping her find them.

Mitchell had opened the storefront church a year ago on a wing and a prayer, and Bree came at a time when the situation was just beginning to stabilize. People in the community sought stability in the Great Recession, and he had enough tithe-paying regulars to keep his doors open for believers in Truth. Bree came twice a month, and her donations were large enough to double the Church's income. She came by during the week now and again for counseling, and the pastor was always glad to oblige.

“I think I'm going to have to go back out,” she said softly as they sat in the back office of the small but cozy meeting place.

“Why?”

“Have you seen the papers?”

The Pastor, a man in his fifties with receding gray hair and wire-rimmed glassed, looked down at the desk where Bree sat before him before answering.

“You know they've got Homeland Security, the FBI, and probably the military in on this,” he said gently. “Do you really feel like they're in such need of help?”

“It's not about me. It's about the contract my father's company had with the military. These people are threatening the city with a chemical weapon. I can't help but think if there's a way to infiltrate the group by offering them technology in exchange for information, I might be able to save lives.”

“Sabrina, we've discussed this situation before, and I don't think I've got any more suggestions or answers for you,” he said resignedly. “I know your reasoning and your motivation, and you agreed that you found closure by apprehending those drug dealers a couple of months ago. Now we know that the Lord has a purpose for everyone in this life, and you may well have served one by doing what you did. At this point in time, you're being a great help to this ministry, this congregation and this community. I'm not sure you realize what a loss it would be to us if anything were to happen to you.”

“I guess I'm weighing the benefits to the community as opposed to the benefits of the entire city.”

“You've already made your mind up. You weren't expecting me to talk you out of it, I hope.”

“I think I just wanted your blessing.”

“I can't condone what you're doing, and I can't ask God to bless what you do.”

“Can't you just bless me?” she asked plaintively.

“Of course I will. Let's pray together.”

She had been on a path of self-discovery ever since her mother died. She thought of it as a time of self-enlightenment, though her father often thought of it as a path to self-destruction. She enrolled at New York University in pursuit of her degree in chemistry to follow in her father's footsteps. After her second year, she left for the John Jay College of Criminal justice in pursuit of a career in law enforcement. In retrospect, she saw it as an act of rebellion in rejecting her father's legacy as heiress of BCC. Yet he would not coerce her into a career in chemistry, and she went on her way until she nearly burned her bridges behind her.

She did her best to earn the title of John Jay's Party Queen, carousing with her after-school clique until she began to realize that the scholars had dropped out of the gang and were being replaced by the short-termers. Her grades began plummeting from her 4.0 in NYU to a 2.0 at Jon Jay. She began skipping classes until she was on the verge of being dropped from half of them. She stopped discussing school with her Dad, and the time came when they had almost nothing in common to discuss. It was six months ago when he died of an aneurism, but those who knew him said he died of a broken heart.

One of those who believed so was his partner, Jon Aeppli. He was Vern Brooks' teacher and mentor at NYU, and when her Dad graduated and invested his inheritance in BCC, he made Aeppli an offer he could not refuse. Together they began working on projects they had long discussed at NYU, and when some of them garnered the interest of major American chemical corporations, the new company never looked back. Her Dad's death was a terrible blow to Aeppli, and it took a lot for him to come to the table with Sabrina and discuss a possible future.

They met at Keene's Steakhouse on West 36
^th
Street near Madison Square Garden a week after the funeral. It was not lost on Aeppli that it was one of the places the Brookses would visit on Sabrina's birthdays. She had been left with a trust fund in her mother's will, and she would pick up $2,000 per month until her death. It was enough to pick up the tab, though Aeppli insisted on ordering one of the lowest-priced items on the menu.

“I thought you wanted to discuss either liquidating the company or buying me out,” Aeppli seemed nettled after Sabrina went into her sales pitch.

“No, sir, I have put a great deal of thought into this. My father's life focus was on this company. This was his dream. I can't just sell it off and let it disappear.”

“Let's not do this, Sabrina,” Aeppli shook his head ruefully. “Let the company go with dignity. Your father would have wanted it that way.”

“He would've wanted us to keep it going, Mr. Aeppli.”

“Don't you think it's a little late for that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm sorry, Sabrina,” Aeppli put down his napkin as if finished with the meal he had been picking at. “I told you, I don't want to do this. It's not going to change anything.”

“Look, I came here to talk. I came here to keep my father's business alive, and you're the only one who can help me do it. Everybody knows that you and my Dad were the ones who made the Company tick. I can't expect any of the engineers to step into the shoes of either one of you. Mr. Aeppli, if it's about money…”

“Don't insult me, and don't insult your father's memory. If you made this decision four years ago, maybe things would have been different.”

“Good,” she rested her elbows on the table. “Let's talk. Okay, I was a stupid kid who made a lot of stupid mistakes back then. When my mother died, I thought my world had collapsed around me. I resented my father because I felt like still having me wasn't good enough for him. I know that was selfish and wrong but I can't change the past. I dropped out of NYU and went to Jon Jay not just to tick him off, but because I wanted something for myself. I thought being a cop might've been a way to change the world, and not just see myself as some spoiled little rich girl.”

“Sabrina, you don't have to—“

“No, you let me finish,” she wiped tears from her eyes, smearing her mascara. “The partying was psychological, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I knew I was going to screw everything up, so I used the partying as an excuse. I knew it was hurting my father and I tried to stop but I'd just fallen too far. It's not like I wanted him to die, Mr. Aeppli—“

“Jon,” he said softly.

“Jon,” she managed a smile. “I thought he was going to live forever. I thought he was going to be there when I found the right guy and got married and had kids. If I could do it all over again, you know what I'd do. It's not too late, I can go back to school, I can get my degree and keep this Company going. But I can't do it without you, Jon. You know if my father were here he'd want you to give me just one chance. Please.”

“Chemistry was never just a science for us, Sabrina. It was an art form. We always saw ourselves as master chefs. Sometimes we were like short-order cooks. We could throw a formula together in minutes. We used to test each other, make up formulas and ask each other if it would explode, turn into something else or just disintegrate. We liked what we did, and if you don't enjoy it like that then it's not for you.”

“You can give that to me. You gave it to my Dad, you can give it to me.”

“He already had it when I taught the first class I ever had him in,” Aeppli was wistful. “He thought chemistry was fascinating. He would stay after class and ask questions, and he would be in the library after school and read about it. He didn't just study it, he read it like literature. I thought I was the only one in the world who felt that way about it until I met him. He would stop by the faculty lounge a couple of times a week to visit, all the way up until he graduated. He told me what he had planned, but I didn't really believe it, not even when he came to me with an offer to double my University salary and match my pension if I came in with him. One day I woke up and realized that it wasn't a dream, and it really happened. Even then, it was still like a dream until about two weeks ago.”

“Give me a chance, Jon. Please.”

“Okay, kid,” he relented. “We'll meet in your Dad's office Monday and take a walk around the place, see what we got left.”

She had not entirely given up on her dream of law enforcement either. She loved the camaraderie, the training, and the feeling that she was going to be saving lives and helping others. She was a big strong girl at 5'9” and 140 pounds, and loved hearing guys talk about her looks behind her back. She had long auburn hair, emerald eyes, and an hourglass figure highlighted by a generous bosom and perfectly chiseled legs. She had unusual tendon strength for a woman and had met very few men her size who could beat her no holds barred. She secretly dreamed of opening up a private investigation company one day but would not say a word of it to Jon Aeppli.

In looking back, she chalked it to her willful stubbornness, seeing it as something that everyone would have said she could not do. Though she knew she would lose Jon Aeppli forever if she even mentioned Jon Jay, she began keeping tabs on the rising crime rates and statistics in NYC. She started researching neighborhood crime watch groups, volunteer patrol clubs, and eventually vigilantism. She knew that with the right equipment, a trained, dedicated person could cruise around at night and be ready to lend a hand to those in need. She dwelled on it until it became an obsession, and eventually she knew she would have to give it a try.

The most important thing was to disguise the fact she was a woman. If she went up against a man, chances were they would fight to the finish rather than getting taken down by a girl. She decided on wearing a balaclava, a ninja uniform and SWAT gear. It would be a perfect combination of loose clothing and solid armor that would give her a unisex look. She would also carry standard SWAT equipment, only she would not pack a firearm. She would not take a life to save a life, and would instead explore other ways to incapacitate a perpetrator.

That was when she was hit with a bolt of inspiration. It would make all the sense in the world for her to develop non-lethal or non-crippling chemical weapons that she might eventually be able to offer to law enforcement agencies through BCC. It would also help her avoid physical combat against male attackers. Plus it would force her to spend more time researching in the lab, which could not hurt one bit.

She tried to think of a name for her alter ego in case she was ever forced to defend herself in the media. Undoubtedly her campaign would cause controversy, and if the socialist groups that controlled NYC turned against her, she would have to speak her peace or be branded as a criminal. She tried to think of something mysterious, something icky and unladylike, and eventually she thought of a Nightcrawler. It was the ugliest thing her father ever put on his fishing hook, and the name was perfect for what she planned to do.

She began ordering her equipment on the Internet little by little so as not to arouse suspicion. She also traveled around the City, far away from the family mansion on Staten Island, picking up items here and there. She continued to pay her dues at the YMCA and work out with her ex-classmates from Jon Jay whenever they stopped by. Only her sparring matches had gotten too intense, and finally a club manager called her aside and told her flatly that she needed to join a martial arts club instead of practicing at the facility.

Her last rollaround was with Hoyt Wexford, one of the 4.0 students who went on to the police academy. They had remained good friends, and Hoyt agreed to come in and work with her on Mondays. Even though he was six feet tall and 185 pounds, he had to turn it on to stay on top of her. It was their last sparring match that led to the manager prohibiting her from rolling around at the gym.

“Ow!” she yelled out when Hoyt slapped an arm bar on her and made her tap out. “You hurt me, you big dummy!”

“Well, that's it for me,” he rolled off the mat and picked up his towel, wiping the sweat from his black mane and his ruggedly handsome face. “You're gonna have to find someone else to beat on.”

“Oh, come on, Hoyt!” she said in disbelief. “You can't leave me hanging like that!”

“You're too much, Bree,” he insisted. “I can't keep you off me without turning on the gas, and that's the truth of it. Look, for your own sake, you need to focus on other areas of martial arts, like forms and techniques. You're at a plateau right now, and the only place you can go is against people bigger than you, or professionals. You're liable to get yourself hurt, and for what? Let it go, Bree. Take it from a friend.”

“Well, can't you still work out with me? Forms and techniques?”

“Yeah, sure,” his blue eyes shone. “Same time Monday.”

“You got a date,” she got up and patted his back on the way to the showers.

“Say, Ms. Brooks,” the gym manager came up to her. “Can I have a word?”

It was a week later when the elderly woman made her way home from church on a particularly windy night. Lorraine Hinton was a widow of twenty years, the septuagenarian devoting her remaining years to charity work in the community. She crossed 137
^th
Street warily, looking both ways, the gang known by that name considering it a no man's land that none dared trespass at night. She had to cross the street to get home, though it was after nine and even the cops didn't come around here that late. East Harlem was the kind of place where you stayed home after dark with your doors locked.