Torque (12 page)

“Doesn't matter. I smell upset.”

“That might be me. I had chili last night.”
Mitch shut the door and rapped on the roof. He walked off with an
exaggerated limp from the load on his hip. Fenn checked that the
lane was clear, signaled, and pulled away.

== == ==

Fenn’s next appointment, one of the many
high school students in his schedule, turned out to be a no show.
That occasionally happened and he made a note to rebook. It was
nearly Noon, and since he was close to home decided to stop in,
have some lunch, and call the office.

Brant Square was typical of the modern
high-rise; fifteen floors of dwellings and a ground level concourse
stacked on top of an underground parking lot. Off the side street
were two short lanes separated by a low cement curb that lead into
and out of the cavernous garage. Fenn lowered his window and fed a
pass card to the tin sentinel. The barrier lifted and he started
down the ramp.

From somewhere within, the roar of a powerful
engine echoed off the concrete walls. A moment later a large sedan
squealed around a pillar, chose Fenn’s lane, and headed straight
for him. In a swift practiced motion he knocked the gear selector
to Neutral and hit the brakes.

Fenn wasn’t fazed by aggressive drivers, he’d
seen every type, but the threat of collision always got his
attention. Quickly, he considered and decided against driving over
the curb to avoid the impact. Why should he ruin his undercarriage
for the sake of this nimrod? The guy would probably just take off
and Fenn would be out of work and on the hook for a repair he
couldn't afford.

Both feet on the brake pedal he held his
ground. The oncoming tires locked up and pushed forth clouds of
dust and smoke. Fenn pressed back into his seat to minimize slack
in the safety belt. A matador waiting on the bull.

The sedan slid to a halt just before contact
with his bumper. It was a late model Grand Marquis with two men
inside. Both wore dark suits. Their features were obscured by light
glare on the windshield but the driver looked vaguely familiar to
Fenn. The stare down lasted another few seconds then, without so
much as a backward glance, the sedan's driver engaged reverse. He
spun the tires for a couple of metres then swerved up the outbound
ramp leaving two long streaks of rubber.

Wondering what hell that was all that about,
Fenn put the gear selector back into Drive and motored over to his
parking spot. He shut off the motor, opened his binder, and wrote
PMA 602
while he still remembered the number.

== == ==

The maintenance manager will have to get me
a new key, Fenn thought, standing in the hallway outside his
apartment. Seeing as someone had used a sledgehammer to pound the
lock through the door, the key in his hand was now redundant. The
door wasn’t open though neither was it quite closed. A little push
and it swung open halfway and bumped into something. He leaned
across the doorsill to look inside and was stunned by what he
saw.

The interior had been hit by a tornado. Or
two tornadoes, in suits. Without favour or discrimination nearly
every item in his modestly furnished sanctuary had been slashed,
smashed, overturned, or emptied on the floor.

Items that didn’t easily come apart, like his
desktop computer, had been partially dismantled then tossed, and
his brick and board bookcase now resembled a lumberyard tip with
the books splayed-open like lifeless seagulls. Both the sofa and
easy chair had been disemboweled and upended with their fiber fill
innards scattered across the room. Fenn had to climb over the
contents from the hall closet to reach the bedroom, and when he did
was glad he hadn't owned a waterbed.

Whatever the intruders had wanted, they had
made a thorough job of searching for it. They'd even discovered
some long lost cat toys.

“Mogg! Where are you?”

Mogg had never before failed to greet him at
the door. A feeling of dread flushed away his shock and anger. The
stuff on the floor obstructed his view under the bed so he heaved
the box spring and mattress up against the wall.

No cat.

From bedroom to balcony he tossed aside
clothes, turned over drawers, and hastily searched every mound,
crevice, and crawlspace he came across. It took mere moments but as
each second passed his sense of foreboding grew. The broken front
door offered a faint ray of hope. Fenn ran out into the
corridor.

“Mogg! Come on Puss. Here, Moggy!”

His voice bounced around each of the
stairwells without a cry in return. He commandeered an elevator and
visited each floor but returned dazed and empty-handed to his
apartment. Against the loss of his furry friend, the trashing of
his apartment held little significance. He left the door ajar.

Cats have good survival instincts, he told
himself. A few notices posted about would alert the other tenants.
Someone was bound to spot the overstuffed feline and bring her
home.

He straightened up the easy chair, covered
the exposed springs with the least vandalized cushion, and dropped
into it. The situation was totally overwhelming and
incomprehensible. At a glance it was impossible to tell what, if
anything, was missing or why the place had been done over. It was
as he stared at the blank spaces where his pictures used to hang
that he realized the single clue the scene offered.

If this was vandalism for vandalism’s sake,
or as revenge for some perceived slight, there would likely be
graffiti or a message spray-painted on the walls. There was not.
Nor had any light bulbs, windows, mirrors, or glasses been
purposely smashed. The intruders had definitely been searching for
something. He was still in the easy chair, trying to decide where
to start the cleanup, when a sharp intake of breath came from
behind.

“Mother of God.” The voice started as a
whisper then grew rapidly in volume. “What's been going on in
here?”

Fenn leaned around the wing of the chair. At
the doorway was a short barrel-chested man holding a toolbelt. In a
matter-of-fact voice Fenn said, “Mr. Bedeer. Come on in. You’re
just the person I want to see.”

Only not at this moment, he added
silently.

CHAPTER
19

The maintenance manager took a couple of
tentative steps into the room and stopped. His mouth opened but his
jaw moved soundlessly as he took in the extent of the damage. At
the sight of the sconces hanging from the walls he managed to form
words.

“That's it! I'm not renting to any more
single guys like you. You're nothing but trouble.”

“When have I ever been trouble,” Fenn
protested. “In case you haven’t noticed: I'm the victim here.”

“It's the kind of people you attract. Coming
and going at all hours. Money for beer, but never for rent—”

“What? I scarcely get visitors, and I've
never been late with the rent. Screw you.” Fenn was past the point
of caring about tenant-landlord relationships. He just wanted to be
left alone.

Mr. Bedeer stepped over the turntable of
Fenn’s stereo system and briefly stuck his head into the kitchen.
Whatever he saw made him shudder, but at least the avalanche from
the hall closet stopped him from heading that way.

“This time of year I have to give you two
months notice; but I want you out before Christmas. You're going to
pay for all of this, mark my words—including fixing your mailbox.”
The manager held up his toolbelt.

“Mailbox? What's wrong with my mailbox?”

“As if you don't know.”

Like a little tank retreating from the front,
Mr. Bedeer backed his way out. He tapped on the door with the
handle of a screwdriver.

“This can't be fixed. Needs to be replaced.
Take a few days to get a new one.” He gave the apartment one last
look. “Not that it matters anymore.” He spun on one track and
trundled off down the hall.

“I want it fixed tonight.” Fenn called after
him. “The security in this place, stinks!”

Fenn stood with hands on hips and tried to
will himself to action. At times like this Mogg would be at her
best, purring and rubbing against his legs. A supportive voice
would do a world of good right now and he wondered what state the
phone was in. Incredibly, it was sitting intact on the floor with
its cord still connected to the wall. He picked up the handset and
dialed.

“Asha. It's Chas. I need you to rebook the
rest of my day.”

He summed up the situation in a few
sentences. After an initial expression of concern, Asha
commiserated without overreaction. She promised to salvage his
schedule as best she could. Before hanging up she urged him to call
the police, and offered to drop by after work.

“At least you won’t notice I haven’t dusted,”
he said.

He thought he should start with a garbage bag
in hand and went to the kitchen. There, every cupboard, drawer,
box, jar, and tin had been opened and their contents dumped onto
the floor. Some Corning Ware had survived and a couple of mugs
remained on the shelves, but the microwave was in the sink and the
wide-open refrigerator door revealed an emptiness that exceeded the
norm.

The broom was handy by the counter and he
pushed a path through the debris. The refrigerator was angled
across one corner; something Fenn had done when he’d moved in to
break up the boxiness of the space. He shut the door and listened
for the sound of the compressor kicking in. Instead, he heard a
soft “Meow.”

“Mogg? Where are you?”

‘Behind the fridge,’ came the tremulous
reply.

Fenn found the step stool and used it to get
up on the counter. He peered over the top of the refrigerator. Two
large green eyes peered back at him from the bottom of the
triangular well. It was the best thing he’d seen all day.

“Great hiding spot, Mogg. Just hard to get
your furry butt out of, eh, puss?”

He pulled the unit away from the wall and
picked up his feline friend. Mogg put her large paws on either side
of his neck and proceeded to drool on his shoulder. They went from
room to room and assessed the damage and, together, they decided
that the outcome could have been much worse.

== == ==

Mainly so folks wouldn’t be stepping over
his underwear Fenn managed to get most of the bedroom sorted before
the cavalry arrived. He’d been at it for three hours but progress
had been slow. Although he was happy to see that Asha had rallied
the troops, Dieter and Carole tended to adopt a journalistic
approach and preferred to broadcast damage reports rather than play
an actual part in the relief effort.

At the moment Dieter was tilting the
television back and forth making the loose bits inside rattle
around.

“Do you have insurance, old chap?”

“Not on this stuff. Most of it is leased,
anyway.” Fenn had almost got his bookshelf back together.

“Well, if you're going to have a few more
expenses this month,” Carole piped in, “we can tuck some more
students into your schedule. Asha, when we get back to the office,
be a dear and see who else we can give to Chas.”

Asha was busy in the kitchen and didn’t
reply.

“That's all right, Carole. I'm pretty well
booked at the moment—but I'll let you know.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” Carole swiped at
wisps of white fiber clinging to her chin. She had managed to
re-stuff one of the cushions, but when asked how she would stop it
from coming out again her solution was to turn the ripped side down
and sit on it. She then proceeded to pour wine into a mug from one
of the two bottles they’d brought. Mogg jumped up beside her and
settled in. Happiness was a warm bum.

Asha emerged from the kitchen sporting a
large pair of washing gloves, the yellow rubber contrasting
brightly against her all-black attire.

“Why, Miss Fabiani. You are the height of
fashion.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fenn. You'll be happy to know
that your microwave still works, though your toaster is, well,
toast. Shall I start on the bathroom?”

“Madame is too kind—but I’ll look after that.
How would you like to order pizza instead?”

Asha was one of those people who always knew
the phone numbers for pizzas, and taxis, and stuff like that. And
she had an uncanny knack of knowing who had the best prices. She
made the call then said, “I got the 2 for 1 deal so you’ll have
leftovers for breakfast. We can eat in half an hour.” She put the
gloves back on. “By the way, Chas, did the police come over at
all?”

“They said I should just submit a damaged and
missing goods report when I had one.”

“Kind of odd they wouldn’t come out for a
B&E, don’t you think?”

“They probably have more important things to
deal with.”

Fenn hated to deceive Asha but Mr. Bedeer's
comment about his mailbox had led him to the object of the raid.
That is, it had when he was gathering loose envelopes together and
his brain finally made the connection. He’d confined Mogg to the
bedroom and ran down to his car for the package Mitch Robinson had
given him.

Mitch had been correct about it containing a
CD jewel case, but Internet promotions generally didn’t include a
miniature figurine of pure gold or a handwritten letter. The small
labels on the jewel case and its contents only revealed that it was
part of an archive. Without any working equipment on hand Fenn
would have to wait to examine it more closely. The letter was more
forthcoming but on a totally unexpected and personal level.

It was from his estranged father.

Fenn had read it through a couple of times
without comprehending why his father, absent for most of his life,
had sent him this mysterious package. It was another strange
element in a day full of them. There was no point calling the
police unless he told them about the package. If he did, the police
would want to take it with them and he wasn’t yet prepared to
relinquish it.