Concrete Underground (2010) (17 page)

18. Full Contact

After leaving the bar, I decided to stop by the
Concrete Underground
office to see if my files could help me figure out who the numbers in Lily's phone belonged to.

It was after hours, so the place was empty. I took out the phone and fired up my computer, then started searching.

Columbine was right; nearly all her calls were related to work. All the Abrasax numbers had uniform prefixes, 358 for landlines and 418 for cells, so those were easily set aside. After a few searches, I saw that most of the other numbers were also work-related - ad sales reps, PR consultants, reporters, and a few of her counterparts at other companies.

Then the phone started ringing again. It was that same number that kept calling - Jeff from the art department. I tapped the "Ignore" key, but then paused. This number didn't have the same prefix as the other Abrasax phone numbers.

"Fucking hell," I said aloud.

"Is someone out there?" another voice called out, making me jump up in surprise.

I followed the voice into Sharon's office, where I found her slumped in her desk chair with the lights out amid the unmistakable smell of pot smoke.

I switched on the lights. She pinched her eyes shut and let out a hiss. I noticed the ashtray sitting out on her desk with two roaches stubbed out in it, right next to one of her old photos of Patrick Cobb.

She squinted to see me as I took the seat across the desk and her eyes adjusted to the light. "You got something on your nose," she said.

I smirked and raised a couple fingers to touch the bandage. "It happens."

She plucked a sheet of paper out of her in-box and passed it over to me. "I'd ask what happened to you, but I honestly don't think I even want to know how you pulled this off."

I looked down. It was a press release on Abrasax letterhead with Max's statement corroborating my article.

I gave her a smug grin and said, "Please give my apologies to Ms. Palmer and Ms. Singh for all the money their firm won't be charging you now."

"I don't think they're too worried about it," Sharon said with a roll of her eyes. "It's only a matter of time before you fuck up again."

We both shared a soft chuckle, and my eyes fell back to the desk and the photo of Cobb. Sharon followed my gaze and picked up the photo. Her lips curled into a half-smile that threatened to collapse into a frown.

"He's dead."

"I know," I said, but decided not to go into it any further than that.

"You remind me of him a little," she said, proudly regaining her composure. "Like a younger, more obnoxious version. You're both bold, uncompromising, and insufferably arrogant. He showed up with a few of those of his own, from time to time." She pointed at my nose. "He used to say that journalism needs to be a full-contact sport."

She stood up from her desk and started packing her things to leave. I wandered back to my own desk, fidgeting with Lily's phone in my pocket, thinking about the recurring phone calls and Cobb and full-contact journalism.

"Fuck," I mumbled under my breath. "I might as well do this fucking thing."

I pulled out the phone, found the last missed call, clicked "Reply by Text", and typed:
Can't talk now. Have the Ariadne Key. Meet me in 2 hrs where Max found Jacinda.

"What are you doing?" Sharon asked as she locked up her office.

"Something incredibly stupid," I replied and sent the message.

"Well, I guess you might as well stick to your strengths."

---

Hastings Airfield was just outside the city limits and had areas designated for both military and private use. A handful of the larger local tech companies kept their corporate jets in the civilian hangers, which while secure, were much easier to sneak into than the military side.

"Mr. Maxwell sent me to get some files he left on board," I told the security guard, sticking my arm out the car window to show him my Abrasax keycard badge.

"Do you know where the hanger is?" the guard asked.

"Actually, he said you could point me in the right direction."

I followed the guard's instructions to Hanger 8, then decided it was smarter to park the Porsche at the other end of the airfield and walk back, figuring whoever I was meeting might turn tail if they saw it.

I found Max's plane, and it looked exactly as it had in my dream. I stopped dead in my tracks, feeling a cold chill creep through my body and cause little goosebumps to bubble up through my skin. The air inside the hanger was cold and stale and completely, eerily still, and popped and crackled faintly like a cross between radio static and a dusty old LP stuck in the run-out groove.

I managed to move the rolling staircase into place and climbed up to the forward hatch.

Inside, the plane was dark. I made my way through the cabin to the back row of seats and found the one where Jacinda's body had been. I sat down in her seat, and my skin crawled. The air hummed with an electric charge, and the static noise in my head grew louder and took on more clanky, mechanical qualities, like an old film projector.

I savored the sensation in a macabre way, closed my eyes, felt my heartbeat slow, and wondered what Jacinda's dead flesh had felt like.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of a door opening behind me. I jumped up and spun around to see a man in a black trench coat and wide-brim hat leaping out of the rear bathroom with his arm raised in an attack position. Before I had a chance to react, he brought the blackjack in his hand down on my temple with a sharp, powerful precision. I only caught a brief of glimpse of his face with its ruddy features, bulbous nose, deeply-dimpled chin, and a long scar down the left cheek.

Then everything faded to black.

19. Disassembled

When I regained consciousness, I found myself stripped naked and tied to a chair in a cold, dank room with concrete walls and floor. A large floodlight was shining directly in my face. In the darkness behind it, I could make out the faint shapes of people but couldn't distinguish any details or features. These amorphous dark blobs talked amongst themselves in hushed tones, too quiet for me to clearly hear more than clipped fragments.

A woman's voice: "--went to his house, I'm sure of it."

A man's, low and gravely: "--mistake to get him involved--"

Another woman: "--no more time, Max is getting--"

"He's awake," the man said, this time loudly.

The shapes shifted around, and the sound of their shoes clicking against the concrete floor echoed through the room. I was vaguely aware that one of them was coming closer, but still was startled when a large dark form broke out from the shadows and stepped in front of the floodlight's beam.

"Where is the Ariadne Key?" the gruff man's voice said as he leaned in closer to me. His face was covered by a smooth, featureless gunmetal mask with small slits over the eyes and mouth.

I jumped back in my seat but couldn't really go far because of the tight bonds. "Jesus-fucking-Christ man, what the fuck are you supposed to be, some kinda kinky steampunk gimp?"

He reached out with a gloved hand and squeezed my nose through the gauze bandage, causing the cartilage to crack and pop and a fresh jet of blood to squirt out from my nostrils.

I let out an shrill, agonized yelp. "Fuck, man, I don't really have your stupid fucking key. It was just a trick to lure you out into the open, dumbass."

"Do you take me for an idiot?" my masked captor replied. "I know you have it."

"And what are you, a human fucking lie detector? Are you some kind of fruit? Is this your sick way of getting your jollies, tying naked men to chairs?"

He took a couple steps back and stood beside the floodlight, just at the edge of visibility between the shadow and light. Another man walked up and handed him something. This second man had a smaller, slighter build and wore a trench coat and hat. Though he didn't step fully into the light, I could make out enough of the contours of his face to recognize him as the one who attacked me in the plane.

The masked man walked back to me, holding his left hand outstretched, clutching the object he had been handed, something black and plastic and about the size of whiteboard eraser.

"Tell me where you hid it now, or things are going to get unpleasant for you."

"Okay," I sighed in defeat. "I hid it up my ass. Untie me and I'll let you have a look, as long as you promise to give me a reach-around when you're done."

He jabbed the plastic something into my chest, and I felt a strong electric shock course through my body. I let out an agonized scream.

"God damn, man, that feels fucking good," I said and gave as strong a laugh as I could manage without breaking into a cough. "You should have told me you were into rough trade."

He zapped me again with the taser, then moved it down to my genitals. "Where's the key?" he spat. "Where's the parcel?"

"Hey, watch it down there," I coughed weakly, "I'm starting to get a little chubby."

He shocked me again. I gritted my teeth together and felt streams of drool drip down my chin. My nostrils filled with the stench of my own sizzling pubic hair.

I slumped in the chair, my body searing with pain and instinctively trying to curl into a ball, causing my limbs to strain against the ropes.

"Wait... wait..." I pleaded weakly, groaning as I lifted my head to look him in his eye slits. "Don't tase me, bro."

I erupted into feeble, wheezing, laughter. He tased me three times in quick succession. I blacked out again.

---

I was still in the chair, but the floodlight was gone. The room was devoid of light except for a crack under the door, so I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I was still groggy, just barely holding onto consciousness. Over in the corner by the door, I made out a small lump on the floor that was hopefully my clothes.

I called out for help, but got no response.

After calling a few more times, I started scooting my chair over in the direction of my clothes, which proved difficult since my arms and legs were still tied to the chair. It didn't help that my head was swimming and my muscles felt like jelly. I managed to make it about a third of the way across the room before I passed out again.

---

The next time I woke up, the light under the door was gone, and the room was pitch black. I called out for help again and got the same results as earlier.

I scooted the chair in the direction I remembered I was going. Every movement was painful. My muscles burned, my head was throbbing. I tried to push it out of mind and focused on taking it one inch at a time. Finally, after what seemed like ages, I bumped the chair against the wall. In the darkness, I couldn't tell where the clothes were in relation to where I ended up, but figured they had to be close. I positioned myself so my back was facing towards where I thought they'd be, then used my weight to rock the chair. After a couple times, I picked up enough momentum to tip myself over. I hit the hard concrete ground with a thud. My muscles screamed in agony. Once more, I passed out.

---

My phone woke me up. I recognized the strummed guitar intro of The Kinks' "Powerman" as Max's ringtone and was relieved that it sounded close behind me. I nudged and maneuvered myself until my hands, which were still tied behind the chair, finally fell upon the fabric of my jeans. Slowly, painstakingly, I explored with my hands, tracing the seams until I found my front left pocket. Digging inside, I wrapped my fingers around the cool, comforting steel of my pocketknife.

It took me several minutes to manipulate the knife open and get the blade in position against the ropes. I had the handle gripped between my thumb and index fingers with the blade pointed back up my arm. Slowly, carefully, I began sawing through the bonds.

After what seemed like hours, I had one hand free. From there, I was able to cut myself loose fairly quickly, then struggled to my feet and slowly, painfully dressed myself.

I pulled the phone out of my jacket and called Max back. While it rang, I looked around the rest of the room. On one side, there was an open doorway that led out to another, larger room, which looked like it had once been a store of some kind but had long since been abandoned. I guessed the plain concrete room where I'd been held was used for storage or a stock room.

There was a second doorway at the other side of my room, which had a heavy metal door that most likely led outside. I tried it; mercifully, it was unlocked.

I emerged out into a grimy, nondescript downtown alleyway just as Max finally answered the phone. I winced and shielded my eyes from the sunlight.

"D? Where the hell have you been?"

"I don't know. What day is it?"

The metal door slammed shut behind me with a loud bang. The words, "Bell out of order, please knock" were spray painted on it.

On the phone, Max answered, "It's Thursday. Where are you?"

"Jesus, Thursday," I groaned. "Listen, I just spent the last day-and-a-half naked and tied to a chair, getting electrocuted."

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

"Wait, what did you just say?"

"Look, come pick me up and I'll explain," I replied while jogging out of the alleyway to look for a street sign. "Looks like I'm at the corner of Mission and 27
^th
."

"I'll be right there," Max said and hung up.

---

Max gave me a ride back to the airfield so I could pick up the Porsche, and on the way I recounted the story of my ambush and kidnapping.

Luckily, the Porsche was still where I left it and didn't look like it had been broken into. Everything inside was untouched - my laptop, Lily's phone, my notes. My kidnappers obviously hadn't found it.

I drove back home with my body aching and my head still swimming, savoring the thought of stretching out on a nice, soft bed.

I hauled myself upstairs with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, but it all sank as soon as I saw the front door to my apartment splintered and hanging off its hinges.