Torque (5 page)

To the right, across a short stretch of
choppy water, sat the steel-production plant that anchored the
city’s economy. With clouds tethered to its towering chimneys, the
hulking structure absorbed the remaining sunlight with its
industrial layer of grime and rust. Svoljsak found the stark vista
behind the embankment of slag fascinating and had christened it
Armageddon’s Camp.

Ahead, flashing taillights on an
eighteen-wheeler broke his reverie and he changed lanes to overtake
it. Thirty seconds later he changed back to make his exit ramp.

His route now ran beneath an overpass.
Peppered with poorly patched potholes the uneven paving was
intermittently dissected by train tracks. Farther on, a few small
homes dwarfed by the mushrooming shadow of manufacture clung
tenaciously to tiny parcels of land. There were no people in sight,
just great machines trundling along on huge wheels—giant
slave-beasts of unseen masters.

The grid layout of the city’s streets allowed
for a fairly direct route to his destination. Ten minutes after
leaving the highway Svoljsak was on Wentworth Street checking out
the buildings. He had the address but almost missed it.

Anonymity is a basic security device for
corporations that handle sensitive material. The sole identifier
for Simedyne was a small fingerboard that directed delivery trucks
to the loading dock at the rear of the building. Svoljsak drove
around the block and then parked where he had a view of both the
front and left side of the building.

Four stories tall and the same length and
width as a football field it was set back from the street, old
style, with a parking lot in front. Below the first-floor windows
some attempt had been made to green the place up, but the small
shrubs only heightened the sense of nature being crushed by
industry.

Save for the rolling gate across the
driveway, the property was surrounded by a chain-link fence. Three
tall stadium lights stood waiting for dusk. He’d been told the
company had one hundred and fifty employees, and did not run
shifts. Only security staff and workaholics would remain in the
building at night.

From a camera bag kept in the trunk, he
retrieved a single lens reflex camera and used its telephoto lens
to scan the roofline. That would be the standard place to mount
surveillance cameras yet the only visible technology was a small
satellite dish and a three-pronged antenna. He captured those on
film, took a couple more panoramic shots, then moved the Buick down
the block and parked again.

This angle revealed the white housing of
security cameras tucked beneath the shields of the stadium lights.
From there, they could cover the entire face of the building with
illumination behind them. There would probably be a similar setup
around the back so, as discussed, getting in and out would require
a degree of subtlety. He’d return after dark to check out the
shadows and habits of the staff but, for now, a trip to a one-hour
photo booth would give him something to ponder.

Back on the freeway, Svoljsak’s thoughts
returned to the woman and he wondered what her angle really was. He
was suspicious of females in general and found them hard to read.
They seemed to have ulterior motives for their ulterior motives and
it was damned confusing. Like last night. Why bother with all that
intrigue when a phone call would have sufficed? Still, he was
rather looking forward to his next ‘briefing’.

As long as it wasn't tonight, although that
was highly unlikely. Sneaking from the room without waking him
might add to her mystique but it didn’t make her superhuman.
Svoljsak had no doubt that she felt every bit as ragged as he
did.

It was nice to know he could still go round
for round with the young
pizda
.

CHAPTER
7

Monday, October
12th

While the rest of the world was making
coffee and toast, Marty Durrell opted for bratwurst and beer. He
carried them on a tray to the terrace and lit the propane barbeque.
The sun had already banished the morning mist and the warming air
pushed the dissonant sounds of the day’s commute up to his tenth
floor perch.

The grill would take a couple of minutes to
heat up. He leaned on the railing and flicked a few flakes of
peeling paint into the void. He watched them helicopter down until
the fickle breeze blew them around the corner and out of sight. The
bed of a pickup truck, directly below, was an inviting target and
Durrell swallowed a fizzy mouthful then snapped his beer cap at
it.

The trajectory was good. The tiny missile
stayed the course only to shear off at the last second and hit the
asphalt with a faint tink. It rolled across the lot to stop within
a few feet of his dark blue Camaro. The yellow numbers that
reserved the spot with his apartment number needed repainting but
he could still make out what they were.

From the balcony the car appeared low and
curvy. Racy. The Shaeffer Security logo on the bumper, a gold
triangle inside a circular white decal, reflected the sun. The
sticker beside it, illegible from this height, read;

MY OTHER CAR IS

WITH MY EX-WIFE

A BMW sat in the next spot. Durrell scanned
its box-like shape with a critical eye. The car didn't belong to
his next-door neighbour. People with Bimmers didn't live in dumps
like this. He held no illusions about his digs; the rent was
affordable for a night security guard, the location was central to
work assignments and, Durrell thought, looking out over the
rooftops, Burlington really didn't have any bad views.

The barbecue was now hot so he went to get
the tongs, deciding at the same time to shove some frozen fries in
the oven. A barely audible knock detoured him to the front door.
The very moment Durrell laid eyes on her his mind began churning
out the possibilities.

She spoke.

“Oh! Umm. I'm looking for Daphne Everett.”
Bright teeth tentatively bit a glossy-pink lip. A sudden headshake
caused ringlets of red hair to fall about the high cheekbones and
small jaw. “I’ve got the wrong apartment, haven’t I,” she
concluded.

Slim-hipped, black bomber jacket and red
leather skirt. Durrell’s eyes made it all the way down to her
patent leather heels. His ex-wife used to call them ‘Fuck me
pumps’. Perhaps if she had worn them occasionally things may have
turned out differently between them.

The scarlet pumps turned to go.

“Uh. No.” Durrell stammered, then, “I'm, uh,
sorry—who were you looking for again?”

“Mrs. Daphne Everett. She needs to sign these
contracts.”

Long fingers with crimson nails held up a
folder then, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of a dozen pages, lost
their grip sending papers cascading to the floor.

“Oh—my—god! The boss will kill me if I mix
these up.” She dropped into a high-heeled crouch and twisted about
to gather the forms, causing the short skirt to ride higher with
each turn. Durrell wondered if his day could get any better.

He knelt beside her. “Here. Let me help.” A
delicate veil of perfume tantalized his senses.

“Thanks. I'm sorry about this.” Her eyes were
green like emeralds. Contact lens green but Durrell didn’t
care.

“Not a problem. But there's no, what was her
name?”

“Daphne Everett.”

“Yeah. No. Maybe check the listing in the
lobby again.” They both stood and he handed her the last two
papers.

“Okay. Thanks. Sorry to have bothered you.”
He watched as she slowly made her way down the hall, her head bowed
as she counted the sheets. Now that was one of Burlington's finer
views.

At the elevator she turned and gave a little
wave, and another pulse-raising smile. Durrell ducked back into his
apartment ready now, more than ever, for the rest of that beer.

== == ==

Fries, ketchup, and mustard. The only thing
missing was fried onion thought Durrell as he cut into the sausage.
Three soft taps on the door, however, stopped the fork before the
meat reached his lips.

Holding back hope he quickly scanned the room
and was glad that he’d tidied up before leaving for work the night
before. He shoved his boots behind a chair and went to the
door.

“Um. Hi again,” she said. “I need to call my
office and can’t find a phone. Do you think I could use yours?”
Toes turned in, head tilted to one side, her pose was pure waif.
And irresistible.

“Sure. C'mon in. The phone is right over
here.”

“I'm disturbing your meal, so sorry. Wow.
That's quite a breakfast!”

“Supper, actually. I just got off work. Would
you like some?”

She shook the red ringlets. “No thanks.” She
had the phone and was dialing. “Don’t worry. It's local.”

Dial Hawaii for all I care, thought Durrell.
Just stay for a while.

She held the handset to her ear then put it
down. “I’m getting a busy signal. Do you mind if I wait here for a
minute, and try again.”

“No. Not at all. Would you like something to
drink? I have coffee, water, beer. I might have something else in
the cupboard.”

“Coffee would be great. I’m Brenda, by the
way.”

“Marty Durrell.” He engulfed her offered hand
gently in his own, willing his thoughts to travel through the
tenuous link. While his telepathic efforts didn’t send her into his
arms, neither did they make her leave.

While Brenda tried the phone again, Durrell
went to the kitchen and rinsed out the coffeepot.

She professed to be a legal secretary, and
opted for some Drambuie rather than cream in her coffee. Later,
draping the bomber jacket over a chair, she also admitted to taking
the odd toke. Did he have any weed?

He did.

Durrell kept the conversation going. He told
her he’d once been a prospect for a professional football team.
“Then I got badly concussed and that was that.”

“So what do you do now, Marty?”

“Security guard. Contract assignments. Right
now I’m at a chemicals lab called Simedyne.”

Security guard. Night shift. Boring, right?
Apparently not. In fact, ‘Little Red Ringlets’ seemed fascinated by
every detail. Whatever. If it kept her from leaving he’d recite the
staff phone directory. She finished his Drambuie, had both his
joints, and was now standing somewhat unsteadily by the phone.

“Must be some’ing—
something
—wrong with
the line. All I get is
beep beep beep
.” She got the handset
into the cradle on the second try and flopped onto the couch beside
him. He draped his arm across her shoulders and drew her close. She
didn’t resist. Durrell drank in her scent and let the russet curls
brush his neck.

“You know I can't let you drive away in this
condition.”

She leaned into his chest. “Well if that’s
the case, Officer. Sir. Officer Marty, sir. I guess you ought to
restrain me for my own good.”

Protect and serve. Serve and protect. Repeat
if necessary. It appeared that Officer Marty had a duty to perform.
He put his lips close to her ear.

“Now don’t you worry, Ma’am,” he said,
nuzzling in. “I’m sure I can handle a lack of restraint.”

CHAPTER
8

It had been a typical Indian Summer weekend.
Underfoot the earth damp and full of nutrient, overhead the sky
deep and blue, and in between a boisterous breeze to swirl the Fall
colours around. Perfect climbing weather.

Fenn had spent most of it scaling Rattlesnake
Point, an escarpment cliff face just north of Burlington that was
well known among rappellers. Monday morning, and his calves and
thighs were a little tight but he felt rejuvenated and ready for
work.

Monday mornings were when he dropped off the
previous week’s timesheet at the office. He parked in front of the
Burlington franchise of DriveCheck Incorporated and breezed through
the door whistling a tune from the radio.

“Morning, Asha!” He rapped on the counter
with his appointment book. Asha Fabiani swiveled on her chair to
face him.

“Chas! C'mere.”

He held back when she motioned him
closer.

“Forget it. I’m still digging bubblegum out
of my ear from the last time I got close to you.”

She laughed. “You’re safe. See, I don't have
any.” The booking clerk stuck her tongue out to prove it then said,
“Guess what.”

Fenn put on a pensive face. “Let’s see.
Goth-nation has claimed independence and they want you to be their
Queen?”

Her dark-purple lips puckered to blow him a
kiss. Fenn fought a grin. In her Doc Marten boots, hip-hugger
jeans, and sometimes-visible navel jewellery, Asha Fabiani was not
only popular with the young students who came in to book
lessons—she was a looker by anyone’s standard.

“Not yet, but if you’re wondering why the
unmarked cop car is parked outside it’s because the Fuzz are having
a chat with Dieter. Carole just ran into the washroom to dump a
batch of twigs ‘n seeds from her ashtray.”

Fenn looked around and sighed. “Why do I
always feel like I’ve stepped back into the Seventies when I come
in here?”

“Probably because Dieter and Carole are still
diggin’ that groovy scene.”

No argument there. The Lundsens had emigrated
from Denmark a few months after the Woodstock music festival and
then, somehow, had remained oblivious that the world had moved on.
Paisley shirts and bell-bottom pants for Dieter. Beaded headbands
and go-go boots for Carole.

“The really freaky part,” said Fenn, “is that
we work for them.”

“Pays the bills, Chas,” said Asha as the
sound of a cistern filling announced Carole Lundsen’s emergence
from the washroom. Busily brushing the front of her suede skirt
Carole almost walked into Fenn before she saw him.

“Chas! Dearest. How’s our top instructor?”
Carole’s Danish accent had faded over the years but had a habit of
re-emerging when she wanted to charm. “You really must let me clone
you, Darlink. With two more employees of your caliper,” she went
on, “our troubles they would be over.”