The Rapture: A Sci-Fi Novel (7 page)

13

Brothers

Kristine seemed pretty
damn sure that it was Henderson who killed Candice. But I could hear the cops up front talking about how they had my brother dead to rights: fingerprints, a note, hell, even DNA—and not the type of DNA you’d expect.

Blood, from a struggle. He’d beaten her half to death, right before slicing her open. Note said something about the Rapture. It could have been a set-up, but deep down, I think I knew. How we parted ways with Mitch and Lenny told me that much.

“Hey, Mitchell,” Richards says after bringing the car to a halt, “I’m sorry about this, but I think it’s just protocol. You seem like a nice guy and all, or at least the decent sort.”

If I do, then I’m a better damn actor than I thought. I should play more poker. That’s all I can think as I walk into the police station, pretty damn sure that I won’t set foot outside it for a long, long time.

14

A Trip Downtown

“We do apologize
about the excessive force back there, Mr. Mitchell,” Henderson says, “your brother’s caused quite a stir, which I’m sure you know isn’t too unusual. Isaac’s done a hell of a thing this time, though, so you can see how we made an honest mistake in the name of justice.” I tune out and stare at the filthy black mustache adorning his upper lip, like whiskers on a drowned rat. “…and he stole some things people need back and we, as law enforcement, are obliged to find.” I sip from the cup of water on the table, which feels like forcing wood glue into my stomach. “Mr. Mitchell? You think you’d be able to help us out?”

“No, Rod, I don’t think I’d be of much help here.” My voice is rough, but I can, to my surprise, speak louder than a squeak.

“No one calls me that around here.”

“Richards did.”

“Richards is an insubordinate piece of shit.” Henderson mops his forehead and sits down at the table.

“Well, that don’t change what I don’t know.”

“Hell of an attitude on you.” He makes a gesture towards the camera in the corner, and the red light flips off. “You should look into that.”

“Haven’t been sleeping too good.”

“Neither have Mitch Jacoby and Leonard Harris. We found them roasted blacker than a Thanksgiving turkey inside that vault.”

“There a connection to me you getting at?” I gulp down the last droplets of water.

“Look, asshole,” Rod says, leaning over the table, moustache about tickling my face, “I don’t think you’re dumb enough to jerk around the powers that be. I don’t think you’re smart enough to even wipe your ass, let alone blow that vault into rubble. I don’t think—”

“If you don’t think,” I say, forcing the words through my dry throat, “that I’m involved, then why am I here?” I give him my best, meanest stare. It’s pretty good, even though I’m sweating bullets.

“Been hearing a lot about you these days, Mitchell.”

“Yeah?” I look deep into his eyes, and he’s forced to turn away.

“Causing trouble at the El Dorado. Foreclosing on your little property. Brother’s going to hell.”

“What’s all that mean?”

“I’m saying that the
circumstances,
they suggest you could be involved.”

“For a second there, I thought you were going to let me back into the Syndicate.”

“Screw you,” he screams, banging a hairy hand on the table, “you asshole, you goddamn—”

“You kiss your children with that mouth?” Not that I have room for talking, but I don’t got kids. “The Syndicate put that body there. Hell, you might’ve dragged poor Davey in there.”

“Just keep going, Mitchell. Just keep it going. You’ll end up like him.”

“That your professional assessment?”

He leers forward, close enough that I can feel his hot breath. “Well my professional assessing skills are telling me that Isaac and his little friends don’t play Butch and Sundance on their own.” Henderson grins, like he knows something I don’t. “And we didn’t find none of the stuff they stole.” I got nothing to say, and the silence grows thick enough to suffocate us both, almost worse than the shroud of tear gas. Henderson kicks his chair away, the metal legs screeching against the floor. “Just tell me where that goddamn son of a bitch is.”

“I—”

“Bullshit!” He slams the chair against the wall. “You know where that bastard is hiding, along with my gold.”

“Your gold?” I know it’s his gold, and he can see that I know where it is, from the little smirk I have on my lips.

“The citizens’ gold, which makes it my gold.” I don’t know why he bothers lying; the camera’s off.

“I’m not following that, Rod.”

“Don’t you get all cute with me now.”

“I haven’t seen Isaac since yesterday.”

“That’s a goddamn lie and we both—”

“Prove it. Or maybe I tell everyone a little story. One about who our buddy Davey is, and what we both know about him. I even got a little movie I can show them. And maybe, just maybe, someone who looks like him in this town. I think he was a cop. Officer Monk, maybe?” This freezes him in his place. He opens the door.

“You’re free to go.” Just like that. I don’t protest. He unhooks the cuffs and we walk into the hall. “Mr. Mitchell,” he adds, “don’t forget your gun, now. We’ll be in touch.” I collect the pistol from the desk and walk into the hazy light.

Time’s a funny thing. In that interrogation room, it felt like an hour, maybe a lifetime: I could see everything perfect, how it was all going to wind up. But Rod, I think he’s in a worse position than me—and that’s a hell of a place to be.

If he doesn’t get the switchbox back, they’re going to do him like he did poor Davey. It must have been him, on his own; no way he brought the higher-ups in on this. That was a direct message, to Isaac.

But he got me instead.

And I was willing to bring this whole thing down on everyone, blow up a good thing. The Syndicate, they’d never let that happen; they’d whitewash everyone involved in Riverton from the face of the earth, Erase us all, then start again.

They would be gunning for me soon, and Rod was already—not to mention this Kristine chick. And Isaac, I wasn’t sure what his end game was, if he was still floating around. I bang my cigarettes against my flat palm, causing one to jump out. Better than Xanax, these things. I begin to walk, now sure of my next move.

At certain times of day, Riverton has that glow of Americana you might see in brochures or old golden age talkies. The essence is there, hiding amidst the faded boards and shattered glass, waiting for someone’s imagination to fill in the missing pieces. And if someone does, they might catch an ephemeral glimpse of specters from the past: finned cars and well-coiffed boys, pompadour hair waving in the wind as they drive down the sunny strip, trying to impress the girls in their pastel dresses and lipstick they stole from their mother’s boudoir.

The residential area never possessed much of that charm. I walk up to Jasper’s house and rap against the aluminum; no answer. I try the knob and the door swings open.

“Hey Monk, you in here?” I head towards the back. “You drunk fool, I know you’re listening.”

I hear groans from the bedroom, beneath a mess of dirty sheets and towels.

“Aw, piss off, I’m sleeping,” he says, voice muffled by the blankets, “this ain’t a decent hour to be awake.”

“I spent the afternoon in a holding cell.”

He rolls over. “What now?”

“Cops raided the bar, like they were busting a cartel. Gassed the place and everything.”

“You’re kidding.”

“And Davey, he showed up. Dead.”

“Oh man.” Monk doesn’t sound like he wants to get into this.

“That’s the damn truth. It still hurts to talk from all that gas.”

“Maybe this experience will put some hair on that pussy of yours.”

“And I found the girl who sent that message.”

Monk gets up and puts a shirt on. I have his full attention.

“You want to share, or you want me to guess like some sort of asshole?”

“A Fed. Said her name was Kristine.”

“Well that’s a hell of a mess.”

“That ain’t even all of it. We traded shots earlier.”

“Trying to woo her with drink?” Jasper slaps me on the ass, like he’s proud or something.

“Gunshots. You saw the damage last night.”

“Right.” He stares at my shoulder; I’m not favoring it all. Best not to explain. “Damn, this girl sounds like she’s got some fire.”

“She knows about my sticky fingers too. And some more stuff.”

“That ain’t no good.” He pauses, then looks up at me. “What other stuff?”

“This and that,” I say with a shrug. “Funny thing is, she didn’t care about the bank. Hell, I think she knew about the robbery beforehand, let it happen.”

“How you figure?”

“Only one person would’ve heard about the bank.”

“Candice.”

“Yeah, and get this: that’s her mom.”

“The old goat had a kid?”

“Yup. I think she’s gunning for revenge. Against Henderson.” I stop, thinking over my next words. What the hell. “But it was my brother who clipped Candice. She doesn’t know.”

“That religious whacko? Why’d he do it?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” I say, “get dressed.”

“We should pay downtown a visit, then.”

“What for?”

“To go antique shopping. Where we would have gone last night, if you hadn’t been a big prick.”

The front door flutters behind us when we exit. Monk doesn’t lock it this time, either.

Pawn for Profit
is a dirty place, even as scummy pawnshops go. Damn near everyone in Riverton’s stepped foot in here, and shit tends to leave a stink.

“Our boys in blue are slipping,” Jasper says, right before his nose gobbles up the line of powder on the dash, “letting you keep this.”

“Riverton’s finest.”

“It sure don’t taste like blow, though.”

I try a little out. This stuff is
strong
, stronger than the last batch I had.

“What it’s supposed to taste like without drain cleaner cut in.” He doesn’t need to know what it is. The less he knows, the safer he’ll be. When it comes down to it, most people want to know about time travel; they’d prefer just to remain ignorant, live their lives in peace, without any excitement.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says, rubbing his fingertips over the design on the bag. Slap a price tag on it and you could sell it at the damn grocery store. “I seen this before.”

“I think you’re just high, man.” I’m flying.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, eyes fixated on the logo, “I seen it somewhere. You can kill me if I didn’t.”

I’d be surprised if Jasper’s never seen this stuff before. Any junkie or dabbler worth his weight would have found this. Maybe he’s been slacking; either way, this line of questioning doesn’t need to continue.

“Let’s just see what Professor knows.” I still haven’t been told why we’re here. “What is it he knows, anyway?”

“Everything.” Jasper says it like the man is God. Maybe he is.

We get out and enter the shop.

Trash and treasure are piled from floor to ceiling, creating a narrow, somewhat precarious pathway through the labyrinthine store. If I had to guess, this Professor never sells a damn thing he buys.

After winding our way through, we reach the counter.

“State your business.” A shotgun’s pointed between us, and the Professor’s behind the counter, little spectacles perched atop his nose, gray hair tied in a ponytail.

“Christ old man, it’s Damien and Jasper,” Monk says, waving his hands in the air. The Professor doesn’t move.

“You hard of hearing, boy? I didn’t say anything about your damn names. I was inquiring about your
business.”

“I can hear just fine, but you look like you might be having some trouble in that department.”

The Professor fires a blast, buckshot blasting through some rickety chairs over our heads, sending wood raining down as we crash to the floor.

“Holy hell,” I say, hands over my ears, “why would you go on and do something like that?”

“Your business, son.”

“Hell if I know.”

“You’re the next best thing to Candice,” Monk says, “and seeing as how she’s dead, we could use some information.”

“You boys with that Henderson asshole?”

“No.”

“Why you playing detective, then?”

“I’ll show you. Can we get up?” All the insolence has gone out of Monk’s voice. He’s almost a gentleman now.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Without you shooting us,” I chime in.

“Sure, I can work with that.”

We’re both jittery as hell, and it ain’t from the drugs. The Professor’s expression hasn’t changed.

“I’m going to pull out my gun and put it on the counter,” I say.

“That’d be good, son.”

When I step forward the shotgun barrel touches my chest. I can feel the cold heat through the shirt fabric. I slide the gun across the counter.

“And I got something on my phone that we could use your help with.” I don’t know if this is what Monk wanted to know about, but screw him, bringing me into a shooting range. The video plays. At the end, he takes my gun off the counter and puts his down.

“You should have seen the pair of you when I fired that one off. Whew, that’s worth a couple laughs.” Glad he’s glib about almost shaving part of my head off. “This is that kid who died five years ago, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, got it off a Fed. I hear you’re the man with answers.”

“I am?” Professor plays the video again, bringing the screen real close to his glasses. “That’s a murder, all right. I guess you best find who filmed it.”

“I was wondering about the girl I got it from.”

“So you want to know about Kristine, huh?” My expression must look dumb as rocks, because he snorts. “You were the one who thought I had information. Why be surprised when I have it?”

“It’s just that—”

“Yeah, Krissy’s been gone for twenty years. They sent her to 2049.”

“Why?”

“Ask the guy in the picture.” He peers over his spectacles. “Looks like your friend knows him pretty well.”

“What’s he got to do with it,” Jasper asks, “it don’t make any sense.”

“Because your Daddy was into some shit, son,” The Professor says, like it’s obvious, “and this man” —he points at me— “knows plenty about that already.” Oh boy. The cat isn’t coming out of the bag, it’s tearing it apart like a Bengal.

“What’s the link between the kid and the girl?” Jasper asks.

“Well, son,” the Professor says, all expressionless, “I’d say that’s your sister.”

This guy doesn’t mess around.

I’d like to know how the Professor knows so damn much, since he’s not part of the Syndicate, or nothing, but I figure he wouldn’t tell me anyway.

“Well, there’s your answer then,” he adds after a long silence, meaning
get the hell out of the store
.

“Why would she come back?”

“You’d have to find her. I heard she’s around somewhere.”

“The whore’s kid.” Jasper’s regained his balls.

“Show some respect,” Professor says, hand resting on his shotgun like a walking cane, “you’re talking about family.”

“Whatever.”