Shadow Memories: A Novel (The Singularity Conspiracy Book 1) (10 page)

35

Mission

Bob bade me
a hasty farewell, telling me that Cassie didn’t need to be informed—she had her own marching orders, and these would just conflict with whatever they had her doing.

Bob, man. He was a sneaky Guardian.

My mission or, as Bob dubbed it, “calling,” didn’t start for another week—despite all the flashing lights, general theatre and frantic monotone pleas for help. “Calling” was a little much; I preferred to go with the less zealot-sounding, more layman “caught in the middle of a bullshit conflict,” terminology. The week delay wasn’t a cause for complaint on my end; it’d take me three times that to be even half-way prepared.

As it stood, I was going to be doing five-to-ten in a state pen for mucking this mission up, and that was if the Singularity didn’t get me first. I printed off the blueprints and a couple photos, studying them.

This was going to be a hell of a job. But if it got the Singularity guys off my back and out of this damn town…

The door slamming shut startled me, and I scrambled to push anything I could over my secret dossier. I settled for a throw pillow from the corner of the couch.

Cassie gave me a strange look. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay.”

“What are you doing?” I asked, firing the question back at her.

“Coming in through the door.” Good point. Not the best strategy. I was acting weird.

“Funny, smartass.”

“I was tracking down a lead.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” I said, getting up to hand her the pictures Bob had sent, “we got our guy. He’s been a bad little cashier.”

She glanced at them like they didn’t matter at all. “Good. Great. I’ll head over there in the morning and get this out of the way.” She was distracted, didn’t even mention that there was no camera in the building.

“Doesn’t it seem strange that he’d do that,” I said, “Siggi was always a weird dude, but he was pretty straight and narrow.”

“People change,” she said.

“How poetic,” I said. Up close, I could smell sweat on her, and something else that I couldn’t quite identify.

“I’m going to take a goddamn shower and then go to sleep, Kurt,” she said, heading into the bedroom, “keep it down out here.”

The door shut, leaving me with a puzzled look on my face.

“She seems wound up, boy,” I said, patting Fox’s muzzle, “what do you think the problem is?”

He didn’t have any more answers than I did. Maybe she had a bearded Skype buddy of her own who was pissing her off.

I worked on Bob’s mission until five, then passed out, dreaming of walkways, iron wrought gates and security cameras.

36

Locksmith

Manny just about
climbed the wall when I stepped into the shop.

“Oh no,” he said, “not you, you goddamn psycho tomahawk banger. Out, out, out! I’ll call the cops!” He had the phone in his hand already, like he meant it.

“Sure you will, Manny,” I said. “I’m just here for business.”

“Business? You’re terrible for business! Putting me straight out of it, with the scene you caused. Not to mention my back. I don’t think it’ll ever be the same.”

“That throwing off your salutes?”

He stiffened, and I don’t think it was his back seizing up on him. “Hey, I don’t believe in that crazy shit.”

“Yeah, you’re just one of those pussy racists. I get it, Manny. I need locks. All the damn locks you got in this shop.”

His brow furrowed and he chose his next words with care. “You gonna pay for them?”

I put two grand down on the counter. Cassie thought the reward was just a little bit less than the actual amount. I’d started a rainy day contingency fund of my own.

His expression changed; now I was a great customer. Not quite an old friend, but at least a step above a dangerous and fatal virus. He led me around to the various locks, explaining their features—all of which I was familiar with. I humored him, though, as this trip was a nice respite from my mission planning activities.

He rang me up, and I left with a box full of new toys and just enough money to grab a basket of soggy fries from the Seafood Shack.

I savored every damn one of those nasty, limp yellow grease sponges, then drove home. Now the real work began.

37

Contingencies

When Cassie stepped
through the door—at almost midnight—the locks were in varying states of disarray on the floor. Tumblers, pins, springs and metal pieces were strewn from wall to wall.

She wove through the minefield and gave me a look.

“What,” I said, “it’s a hobby.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting back in the game, Kurt.”

“I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about.” I held my hands up like I was innocent.

“If you’re planning some picayune heist for a couple hundred bucks, I’m going to have your balls.”

I didn’t doubt that. “Just an experiment. No need to worry.”

She headed towards the bedroom, then stopped, turning her full-blown laser stare on me. “Where’d you get the money for all that, anyway?”

“Contingencies,” I said with an impish grin, “I plan, too.”

Her ears got red, but she had nothing to add. I was left alone to fiddle and pick locks until the morning light burst through the window, indicating that maybe it was time to catch a few winks.

38

Day Drinking

The week flew
by
. Surveillance and stakeout photos were taken. Security cameras were timed. The fences, well those were in the schematics. I practiced my jumping and calisthenics, but had little hope that I’d be in cat burgling condition by the time the seven days were through.

No worries; I wasn’t.

The morning of—the mission was to go down that night, in the dead of it—I woke up after only a couple hours of very unfitful slumber. The locks had been cracked and recracked with increasing speed; the plan had been practiced as best that I could.

There was nothing left to do but make sure I was on the top of my game. But, of course, my body wouldn’t comply.

So I was out driving, thinking about Bob and the weirdness of the situation. After a few laps around the Heights, my thoughts settled on Cassie.

She’d had precious few questions for my odd behavior, and I’d had none for hers, either. But now, with the dust beginning to settle—if only for a moment—I was wondering where she’d been.

I tried to repeat
focus
in my mind, over and over again, but my brain was zapped. I yanked the truck into the parking lot of the Lone Star and drummed my hand against the wheel.

These Guardians, they’d drive a man to alcoholism. Between them and Cassie, I was about burnt out. I wasn’t made for big things. Just a pint and the game, a couple bucks in my pocket.

Not too much to ask.

Instead, I was riding around strapped, with a shotgun in the backseat that could turn someone’s head cavity into a quarter pounder with cheese. About the only thing I’d gotten out of the past month was a free dog, and he turned out to only guard against naked dudes.

Which, I guess, if you were a hot chick, might be a plus—or if you got caught in an odd situation with Otto, like I did—but, overall, that was a very niche skill.

A cruiser pulled up alongside me and jerked to a stop. Greenville stepped out and tapped on the window. I thought about telling him to piss off, but he was the closest thing I had to a normal acquaintance these days.

“Yeah, Mike,” I said, putting my back into the window crank, “fancy seeing you here.”

“You, uh, got a minute?” Greenville was jumpy, and I noticed that his top three buttons were undone, showing a sweat-stained undershirt. By the looks of it, he hadn’t been home in a couple days.

“How you doing, Mike?”

“Not too good. You wanna go inside?”

I stepped out of the truck and leaned against the hood. I wasn’t going anywhere until I had some answers. Not that I didn’t have the free time; I just wasn’t in the most trusting mood any more.

“It’s closed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I know. But c’mon, let’s head in. Austin will open it up for us.” His head swiveled like a periscope around the lot. “I think they’re watching us.”

Jesus. He was starting to seem like me. And here I thought that I was going to have a nice, normal conversation with a regular, underachieving member of Seaside Heights.

“Lead the way,” I said, pointing towards the door, “I’ll see to it that no one shoots you in the back of the head.”

Mike looked almost thankful for this as we walked single file towards the Lone Star’s entrance.

39

Shotgun

It took just
about thirty knocks, but Austin opened up, one glaring eye peeking out through the crack of the heavy door.

“We’re closed—aww, hell, Greenville. You know I can’t turn you away.” He said it with the kind of fake camaraderie that meant he had no choice in the matter. But Austin gave Greenville a big old smile and a hug. I got a handshake and a nod. We were old friends, but I hadn’t been around too much in recent days. And now, here I was, two hours before opening, with a cop.

Austin grabbed us a couple bottles of beer from the back and put them down without asking for our order. It was a kind of take it or leave offer. Greenville slurped at his; I popped the cap on mine, but abstained from partaking in the barley-flavored goodness.

Bob wouldn’t approve on mission day.

Greenville glanced over his shoulder and around the bar every other second, as if he couldn’t believe that we were alone. His hands twirled the empty bottle on the table, and I pushed my still-full beer his way, which he took.

“This town,” he said, “it’s going to hell.” He took a long swig from the bottle and put it down, pursing his lips tight. “It’s more than I can handle.”

“Hell, Mike, being a cop is tough,” I said, but didn’t believe it. My bedside manner could use some work.

Greenville, for his part, wasn’t buying it. He snorted. “Around here? Not at all, until that meth lab explosion…” He slapped a hand against the table. “Man, it’s been insane since then.”

“At least you’re not sheriff,” I said. He shot me a look; hey, I thought it was a good point.

“I wanted to be. I was gonna be, but after all this, I can’t keep up.”

“So, work’s stressing you out. That’s the American Dream, baby. I figure you’d be stoked.”

“It’s not the overtime.” The empty bottles clinked together as he spun them round and round. “It’s…I’m sorry, Kurt.”

“About what?” But then I saw what he was sorry about, in the reflection of a picture frame. Can’t trust anyone these days—not even the law. Who was it but Otto von Dipshit, wearing that same fake smile and stupid jacket.

I dove under the table. I crunched my new cell phone into the ground. Just got that last week; which was when it clicked—Greenville just happening to show up at the Lone Star at the same stupid time I did. He’d been tracking the signal, hunting me, looking for an opportunity. What an asshole.

“I’m sorry,” Greenville said, but I wasn’t sure if he was addressing me or the goons who were descending on us, “they came yesterday night. They’re gonna hurt Jen and the kids real bad if I didn’t tell them when you were away from the house.” His voice cracked, and he sounded helpless. Being a man unable to defend your kingdom and castle will do that to someone.

I fumbled the .38 away as I tore at my shoulder strap. Should’ve been doing some target practice along with all this other prep work. Just what I needed. I dragged Greenville under the table, just as a loud boom slammed into the booth, raining tiny pieces of foam and vinyl in the air around us.

“Hey,” I heard Austin call, but a gun cocked in his direction and an accompanying
get the fuck out of here
resulted in his hasty exit.

The footsteps had stopped advancing towards us. Greenville was quaking beside me.

“Good job, asshole,” I said, “now you’re in this with me.”

“But the deal was…”

“The deal’s off. New deal,” I said, pointing the .38 towards him indicating that, at least for the time being, I was in charge, “you help me get out of here, you live. You pull some shit, turn me over, they kill us both.”

This new deal didn’t have the best terms, but he just nodded.

“I have my own gun,” he said, drawing it out real slow, “what do I need to do?”

“Peek out. You’re taking lead.” When he looked about to protest, I wagged the .38 at him. “Hey, it’s not like I can trust you, man.”

“True.” We swapped positions underneath the table, so that he was on the outside, and I was hugging the wall. Greenville edged the tip of his pistol out for reconnaissance, and a thunderous blast rained down, blowing through the bottles on top of the table.

He flung himself inward, crunching me against the wall.

“Christ, Mike.”

“One of ‘em has a big ass gun out there.”

“What’d you think, these guys were from the YMCA?” As I said this, another gunshot blew through the bar like a tornado, sending a few pictures to the ground.

“Oh dear, Mr. Greenville,” Otto’s annoying, elitist voice said, “it appears that you’ve made a mistake. What will Jen and your dear children say, I wonder, when my men take care of them?”

I nudged Mike out, and he popped off a couple shots. They didn’t find a mark.

“Damn,” he said, “I only got a few more left.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you carry extra clips?”

“I didn’t think I’d need them today.”

I jiggled the bullets in my pocket. My fingers counted about a dozen. This was shaping up to be a real bad day, and I hadn’t even made it to noon.

“Call for backup,” I said, “your radio. You got it on you?”

“I’m off duty, so—”

“So it’s just the two of you,” Otto finished, “this conversation is fascinating, gentleman, but I do have something to take care of. But, then, I suppose Mr. Desmond understands a little about that.”

“What do you and your cronies want, Otto?” I figured if I couldn’t outgun him, maybe I could distract him into a megalomaniacal sermon, buy some time. Hell, it worked in the movies.

“Not to waste my time taking out the trash. My organization”—he said this like these Singularity nuts were the leaders of the universe—“is dedicated to a better humanity. And you and, now, someone we thought of as a partner, are standing in the way.”

“Mike’s touched that you thought of him as your partner in Crazy Town. He’s pissed that he only got to be deputy when you’re the fucking mayor, though.”

“Cute,” Otto said, and I could hear his boots advancing toward our position, “but we’re not crazy. I would say that you’ll see, but that would be a lie. Goodbye, Mr. Desmond.”

I heard the tell-tale sound of a shotgun ratcheting.

I shoved Mike out and leapt.