Atmosphere (30 page)

"I think so," Hector said. "Not much more we can do until Sam hits Harold with some juice. In the meantime we ought to go see what our coroner has to say for himself. What was his name?"

At first Frank's mind went blank. It had been some weeks now since the autopsy had been completed, and he couldn't remember the man's name. Then it came to him. "Latchman, or something like that. Dr. Latchman."

"Uh-oh." Richards pointed his gaze away for a moment, and Frank saw that something was wrong. "Dr. Rene Lacheman. He resigned. Retired actually. Said he was taking his family back to Canada."

"Damn!" Frank felt an empty sickness in the pit of his stomach, as if he had just lost his girlfriend to his best friend. "Did he say anything about coming into money?"

Richards shook his head. "Don't know, can't say for sure. But it was strange the way he just picked up and left. No notice, no goodbyes. Just picked up and disappeared. Heck, the guy worked here for fifteen years."

Frank and Hector locked gazes. Sickened gazes.

Jo-Beth Lindsay paid off the coroner.

All of a sudden Hector's radio pager squelched. He plucked it from his belt and answered. He nodded once, then yelled, "Where?", eyes suddenly bulging. When he finished, he quickly re-pocketed the radio and looked at Frank.

"Another castrated kid was found. In the Bronx."

I
t was déjà vu all over again. First, the cold foreboding ambience that had assumed control of her environment when she had finally escaped the subway and found herself stumbling home, barefoot, her instincts guiding her the entire way. Then, from her dreams, the illusionary worlds within her head: endless seas of faceless people passing by her, each and every one of them ignoring her true existence and brushing her away with quick passes and cold shoulders. She remembered crying out in those dreams, her pleas going unanswered. She remembered spinning in crazy circles at the crux of the detached masses, seeking just a moment's worth of stability, feeling much like an unseen spirit trapped in an alien world filled only with transient pedestrians on route to nowhere, their primary motivation to ignore her very existence.

Here in this foreign place she encountered these same feelings. They surrounded her as they had in her reverie and she considered herself to be dreaming again, but in this scenario her pain seemed all too real, and although all conditions seemed so much a fantasy in every aspect, she forced the assumption of reality upon herself as
nothing
in her life of late really seemed at all convincing.

She had successfully feigned her swoon as the bald guy—she had not yet come to the conclusion as to whether this was the same bald guy from her class that had pursued her into the subway—spoke to the other voice, that deep almost otherworldly voice whose source she had judiciously decided not to investigate. Peeking through squinting eyes, she waited until he was at a distance before breaking for the door that had somehow materialized in the wall. Of course his footsteps quickly approached behind her, but luckily a maze of hallways appeared and she snuck her way through them, hoping that they would soon guide her through an exit from this mysterious, dark place.

She eventually found an exit, but instead of leading her to the familiar outside world, she found herself at the threshold of a large round room, its deep dark diameter perhaps a full hundred yards. Inside were a multitude of bald men, donned in black clothing, all wearing sunglasses. They either ignored her or seemed not to see her as they worked feverishly on some type of project. Around the circumference of the room, a number of the workers were constructing platforms of some fashion, each about four feet high, only a foot or so wide. Above ran a series of catwalks where the men had hoisted small box-like fixtures, each containing a single surface constructed of glass or plastic. In one corner of the room a small structure sat quietly like a waiting animal, its walls made of glass, a series of dials and controls visible inside.

She gingerly paced forward, surrounded by her enemy, glancing nervously about. Never had fear and trepidation consumed her like it did now, and if not for the experience in her dream, she knew she would not have had the fortitude or nerve to undertake such a task. And remarkably enough, like the people in her dream, they left her untouched, continuing on with their project as if she had not existed, as if she were a ghost unseen by those in the tangible world. She peered up at the squarish fixtures above. A flickering danced from the glassy surface of one. Lights? Then another flashed, and it seemed that indeed these were some kind of light fixtures. She took her time, pacing over to the small structure with the control panels inside. Here tiny lights flashed on a rack of what appeared at first glance to be stereo equipment: equalizers,
 
CD players, power amps. Did this make sense? She looked from her position over to the platforms again. They looked like...bars. Was she in a nightclub of some sort? If so, then who were these bald men?

Confusion swirled around her like a great tornado, her thoughts muddled by fear. What in God's name was all this?

Suddenly a hand came down on her shoulder. She spun, heart reaching for her throat. It was
him
, the bald guy who brought her here.

He smiled. "I'm different than the rest of these guys," he said, pointing. "Recognize failure." He then removed his sunglasses and laughed, and Jaimie recognized his face. She'd seen it a dozen times before in the newspaper.

Bobby Lindsay.

Once again, Jaimie fainted, this time right in the arms of Bobby Lindsay.

J
esus peeked over the edge of the dumpster and saw the mutilated body. He then stepped down and gazed at the blood splattered on the brick wall.

No matter, as long as he would be able to keep this wonderfully strange object, the one he found minutes earlier on the alley floor.

Earlier, he couldn't fathom a reason as to why he had been magically drawn to the alley, but when he arrived here he knew, oh yes he knew unequivocally it was this wondrous object he had come for. It was a remarkable piece, six equidistant prongs all shiny and black sticking from it like short magic wands. He held it close to his heart just like he would his very own daughter Elise, then aimed his sights cautiously over his shoulder. He wanted to make certain that nobody saw him now, for if another bore witness to this marvelous beauty, they would undoubtedly attempt to snatch it away.

Gazing down, he started to massage it, gentle curiosity guiding his fingertips across the jet-black surface. In the back of his mind he could think of a dozen different things he should be doing, like for one getting home on time so Rosa could go to work and he could watch the baby. But he couldn't coerce immediate movement into himself. A strange yet unique pleasure paralyzed his body as his fingers patted across the smooth surface, distracting him from all that mattered—even the tide of blood just feet away.

A memory suddenly willed its way out from below the ecstatic feeling floating on the surface of his mind—from deep from within his subconscious—and he remembered his duty: that Rosa would be leaving for work soon, that the baby would need to be fed.

Home?

Confused, he slid the object into his jacket pocket, keeping a tight hand on it. He exited the alley, using only his routine instincts to guide him home through the quiet early morning streets.

I
t was only eight-thirty, and a long and arduous day was already in the works. Frank and Hector had completed their visit to the hospital and were now racing through the streets, lights ablaze en route to the 190th Street Station in the Bronx where Martin had informed Hector of a police broadcast he picked up revealing the discovery of another mutilated body.
 

"187—Code2...blood, blood everywhere!"
Martin had said, relaying the shocking broadcast. A
187
meant a dead body. A
Code 2
meant come with no lights or sirens, an effort utilized to avoid drawing a crowd. Frank and Hector, lights in full swirl, shut down the works a few blocks from the scene.

They located the activity a block ahead, thirty feet up on an elevated platform. A horde of cops, detectives, and forensics experts milled about on and below the platform. A number of squad cars sat alongside barriers arranged to shut off the block to pedestrians, who of course had gathered in great numbers anyway despite the effort of the
Code 2
. Hector pulled the car up, situated it next to a 57th precinct cruiser.

Sure enough, just as Frank and Hector shut the car doors behind them, Sergeant Sid Clemens came thumping down the metal steps of the el, his hefty gut bouncing atop his belt. His approach also brought a thin drizzle from the graying skies. Misery loves company, Frank thought, the cold rain a perfect match to Clemens' air of arrogance.

"Great—your timing is impeccable," Frank whispered to Hector. "You're on his shit list, Hect. You ain't never gonna get his cooperation on this one."

"Well," Clemens said, his face round with surprise as he stopped and greeted Frank and Hector. "Shouldn't you boys be checking up on your bald guy? I sent him off to Strong like you asked." His demeanor rang more of contempt than fact.

Frank's irrational personality couldn't help but be irked at Clemens' clear lack of respect. "He called us
boys
, Hect." He stepped forward, pointing. "We've got more years in than you,
kiddo
.

Hector held his hand up, and Frank sealed his lips even though it further maddened the irrational third of his personality to do so. "Sergeant Clemens, we believe that this particular murder may be related to the man we have in detention at Strong. If you'll simply allow us to take a quick look—"

"Captain Rodriguez. You know I can't, and frankly, I'm surprised you would even make such a request. Besides, I've got the area cleared of everyone except forensics now."

Even though Frank thought he was a jerk, he clearly understood Clemens' current position, and knew that Hector would too. "Fine," Hector said. "Let me just ask one question."

"Make it quick."

"Did you find anything unusual?"

Clemens' eyebrows arched. "Like what?"

Frank spoke up. "A strange-looking object, perhaps? Black in color, looks like a distributor cap, only roundish."

Clemens shook his head. "No. Why? Is there something I should know about?"

Frank looked at Hector and saw a bit of anger in his face. Clearly this wasn't the one question Hector had in mind. "No," Hector said. "Not really."

"Well, if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I have some work to—"

"Sergeant, we've got another body!" The voice came from a plain-clothes detective approaching from a small crowd of police that had magically formed. Frank's senses perked up and he and Hector both sidled over next to Clemens.

"Three blocks from here," the detective said, raising an eyebrow at Frank and Hector.

"They're okay," Clemens said. Frank wasn't sure if the police Sergeant was actually throwing them a bone, or if he really cared less one way or another if they listened. Probably the latter.

"An alley between 193rd and 94th. The body has similar injuries based on the witness' description..."

Both Frank and Hector didn't stay to listen any further. They raced to the cruiser, slamming the doors behind them.

"I don't know why we're rushing Frank. I mean, what else could we expect to find at this point." He pulled the car away from the scene, lights twirling, intersecting the traffic that had built up from the closed street.

"I want one of those black things. With the points."

"And if you get one?"

"I don't know. But what other choice do we have at this point? We're gonna lose this thing if we don't break any serious ground soon. Then it's back to square one, with the questioning, trying to come up with answers that make sense. In the meantime we've been able to keep most of what we've found out of the public's eye, and our superiors for that matter. Once it all breaks, the cult, if that's what this really is all about, will go underground for a while until it finds a new city to terrorize. It's up to us, right here, right now, to put an end to it. We really have no choice but to find some answers. Now. And I believe if we find one of those black things, it will provide us with them."

Hector remained silent, the siren howling at a line of cars gridlocked behind a red light. "You're right about one thing. We do have to solve this thing ourselves. And I agree. At this point we're the only ones that can do it. But I'm not sure what our next step would be, especially if we
don't
find one of those things."

"Haven't we been surprised time and time again over the past two days?"

Hector nodded. He finally managed to break through the traffic, a line of police cars following him through. "Are we being chased?"

"No. Escorted."

A
tmosphere
.
Atmosphere.

Jesus repeated the word in his mind, beat it into his subconscious. Standing over his daughter Elise, he reached into her crib and tucked the covers under her chin. A sleeping angel, her breathing soft and hushed, her flesh as pink as rose powder.