Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Welcome my friends, to the story that never ends. It's time for the
third edition of the serial fanfic "Icarus Falling," which I've titled:
"Glass Houses." This story involves characters and concepts developed
and copyrighted by MTM Entertainment and NBC Productions as well as
dozens of products and miscellaneous characters, each with their own
copyright information, and I hope that I do not offend anyone because I
have borrowed them here. No copyright infringement is intended by my
use of these characters and I accept only the adulation of the crowd
and the phone numbers of attractive women as compensation for my
writing. During the course of this story, you will again run into many
of my characters, including Bridgett, Marc, Ted and the mysterious
Directors of the Centre. They are my characters, but I hold no claim
to them or their actions, sexual preferences and taste in alcoholic
beverages. Additionally, you may wander into a new character or four,
but I'll leave that for the story. . .
This story follows "The Winds of Change" and "The King of the Blues" so
if you haven't read those, may I suggest that you get off your duffs
and read them first. They are available either from me or at
Crystalle's Tower web page: http://www.thetower.tierranet.com/thetower.
This story follows those and if you don't read them first, you may be a
little lost when you read this one.
One more note: dialog lines in brackets (i.e.: {}, [], ) indicate
voices which are heard inside a character's head. For convention, I
will use:
To indicate Jarod's voice
{} To indicate Miss Parker's voice
[] To indicate Mr. Raines' voice
Any additional voices will be explained later (except the ones in my
head, which, the nice doctor assures me, will go away one day, honest).
This story will be rated in parts, like the last one.
Without further ado, I bring you. . .
Glass Houses, Introduction
(Rated R: Language, Violence)
Number 2 Red Line Subway River Tunnel
Uptown Manhattan
New York, New York
February 22, 1998, 1535 EST
The brightness of the light, growing stronger in the looming darkness
of the tunnel, made Steve run faster. He couldn't hear the sound of
the approaching train, but he knew from twenty years in the service of
New York City that the train would be on him far before he would ever
hear it. He ran for his life.
Steve knew that every few hundred yards there was a bailout, a place
for the workers to go when the alarm bell sounded, signaling the
approach of a train. Abstractly, he wondered just how far a few
hundred yards really was. It seemed as if the bailouts had been placed
miles apart. This part of the tunnel was only one lane wide and there
was no room for man and train to peacefully co-exist down here. If
this were a movie, he could just lay down and let the train pass over
him, but he had seen the results of that - he was the one who
discovered Tom Rosenstein's body.
Where was that bailout? Why hadn't the alarm bells sounded when the
train entered the tunnel?
The train pushed a column of air down the tunnel ahead of it and he
could already feel that rush of air, pushing him forward with a
forceful insistence. The train was just a few hundred yards behind
now. He had seconds more to live.
It wasn't his life that began to flash before Steve Rendall's eyes; it
was only the last couple of days. Something in him knew that Jarod
Belmont had to be too good to be true. After Tom Rosenstein had been
killed in this very tunnel, they had needed a new Line Inspector. Who
better to take on that job than a Senior Line Inspector for the London
Underground? Why this man would have suddenly appeared the very moment
Steve needed him most seemed somewhat unimportant. Forty-seven years
of living in the City and he couldn't spot a rat. Maybe he did deserve
to die.
Somehow this Belmont guy figured out that Steve himself signed off the
work order for completion of re-wiring the train alarms in this tunnel.
Somehow Jarod knew that the work hadn't been done because there were no
electricians willing to come out on Christmas Eve for less than triple
time. Even if workers had been available Steve would have been forced
to shut down Red Line service for hours over one of the busiest subway
travel holidays. Jarod didn't understand that in New York you didn't
just shut down the subway, especially if some rat bit through an
electrical cable and killed power to the train alert bells. The fact
that it was Steve's policy that all Jewish employees who chose to take
vacation time during Hanukkah had to work Christmas and Christmas Eve
at no extra pay was not lost on him. The simple fact that Tom
Rosenstein had even been working that day was Steve's fault; no line
inspections were due, but Tom was still behind from Hanukkah.
Steve could still hear himself giving Tom the ass chewing that sent him
to his death. He replayed the exchange in his dreams every night.
Belmont was smart, but he wasn't smart enough to know that, was he?
Belmont was a great worker, and he instantly helped to identify three
recurring problems, which would save the transit system millions.
Steve had even begun to like Belmont. When Belmont had called him down
here on a Sunday to look at a line problem, Steve normally would have
told him to either wait until Monday or just handle the problem
himself. His wife just couldn't give Steve one day of peace, though,
and she had to pick a fight with him, making him want to get out of the
house. How was he to know that he'd end up on the business end of a
subway train? Too much damn coincidence for this New Yorker, Steve
remarked to himself.
There it is! Steve knew that if he ran with everything his grossly
overweight body had in it, he could probably just make it to the
bailout. The light from the train was bright, too bright. It lit the
entire tunnel with its brilliance and he could hear it now. It was
close, but it was travelling slower than usual. He had a chance.
He should never have gone to the station. The cryptic phone call from
Jarod to meet him immediately at the 145th Street spur should have
alerted him. Sure, Jarod made it sound legit, but that was no solace.
What on Earth possessed him to follow the darkly mysterious man down
the dark tunnel after some vague third line problem? He could still
hear the grim, intimidating man drop his limey accent like a bad habit
and begin to taunt him, waving the broken electrical wire and a huge
four-cell Maglite in his face:
"You let Tom Rosenstein die because you didn't want to inconvenience
yourself! You wouldn't pay for an electrician to come change a simple
wire, just like this one, and now Tom Rosenstein's children don't have
a father! You killed him because of your negligence and your laziness!
Didn't you! Didn't you! DIDN'T YOU!"
The way Jarod had held the four-cell Maglite in Steve's face, he was
certain that the tall, dark man would beat him with it. Oh, that it
would have been that simple. Instead, the sadistic bastard had told
him to start running. Something about giving him the chance that he
had never given Tom. It was a little over a mile to the next stop on
the Number 2 line, and so once Steve saw that Jarod had turned and
left, he stopped running and began to walk to the other side. The
alarm bells were working now and if a train entered the tunnel, he
would have plenty of time to get out of the way. At least, that was
what he thought.
He was almost there, but the wind was pushing on him strongly now,
almost causing him to lose his balance. Time was short, and Steve
began to fear that he wouldn't make it. He would have to jump. . .
now!
The train hit his legs, sending him cartwheeling into the wall of the
bailout. The immediate pain in his left leg told him it was broken.
The train screeched to a halt, sparks and metal flying everywhere.
Somehow, the train slid to a stop with a side door perfectly positioned
in the bailout. The doors slid open, revealing a tall transit
policeman standing, waiting for the car to stop. Steve thought he
could see the well-polished boots of another officer lying just out of
sight in the car. That was a bit odd.
Steve looked around him in the bailout and he saw a red notebook,
overstuffed with newspaper clippings and files, lying on the ground.
He suddenly realized he would be in jail for a long time and he began
to curse his survival instincts. If he had just stopped running, it
would have all been over in a second. He started to cry.
When he looked up at the silenced, large caliber handgun in the
policeman's outstretched hand, Steve almost had time to smile.
*****
149th Street Station
The Bronx
New York, New York
Leonard saw Jarod mount the steps to ascend to the land of the light.
As he took the steps two at a time, Jarod dodged the numerous
panhandlers and vagrants lining the stairwell. From the intermediate
landing, Leonard watched his new friend climb the stairs and readied
the special newspaper that had been passed to him by a sharply dressed
man barely twenty minutes ago for delivery to Jarod. Having lived for
over sixty years in the Bronx, Leonard knew the difference between
Wiseguys and Wannabes. The husky black man who had given Leonard the
out-of-town paper and a hundred-dollar bill was all Wiseguy. Leonard
had no intention of failing in this one small task. "Hey, Jarod!"
"Leonard," Jarod beamed, "how's it hanging?"
"Oh, these days all it does is hang, Jarod." Jarod laughed heartily.
After Leonard had explained to Jarod what the meaning of this
expression was, Jarod greeted everyone this way. Leonard got a kick
out of having a new comeback each time he saw Jarod. "You want a
paper?"
"No, Leonard, I've got to go."
Leonard held the paper out to Jarod. "I think you may want this one."
*****
Glass Houses, Part 1
TL-8, Executive Boardroom, The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
February 23, 1998, 1700 hrs EST
"Miss Parker, so nice of you to join us." The icy cold stare of Mr.
Daniels told a different tale. The Director of SIS was clearly less
than impressed with Miss Parker and her demeanor.
Miss Parker, on the other hand, was recovering well. "Thank you, Sir."
The bruises and cuts she had received from her encounter with Kyle were
completely healed now, though the emotional damage that she had
suffered from the incident would probably never completely go away.
She still woke in the middle of the night and showered for no apparent
reason. She didn't think that she'd ever felt this dirty before in her
entire life.
"I guess you are aware that we are re-activating you to the Jarod case.
I hope that you take this second chance to heart and do not screw
things up this time." The words hung like a threat in the air. Miss
Parker had so often been at the delivering end of lines such as these
that she only acknowledged their implication in passing.
"I will do my best, as always, Sir."
"I hope so. You are dismissed."
Miss Parker took the cue and spun on her stiletto heels to leave. The
entire event had a surreal glow for her; she felt as if she had been a
spectator to her own reinstatement. Later, she would recall it only
with the vaguest hint of ownership. Had someone told her that the
encounter had been a waking dream, she would have been inclined to
believe them.
As Miss Parker strode out of the room with little of her usual flair,
Bridgett stepped out from one of the many shadows in the conference
room. Mr. Daniels turned to look at her, knowing all along that she
had been there. "Well, what is your report?"
"Willie passed the newspaper yesterday. United Airlines flight 203
from Kennedy left thirty minutes ago and our boy was on it. I got the
call from him two hours ago that he was leaving town and would let me
know when he got back. The team is assembled to meet up at the next
location in forty hours. Has Marc been briefed?"
"Yes." The unexpected menace of her long-time companion's voice
startled Bridgett. He had just entered from the side entrance to the
boardroom: the one located directly behind her.
Bridgett recovered quickly. "As far as Miss Parker goes, I believe
that she is ready for her part."
"Excellent. You both know the plan. The story runs tomorrow. How are
you feeling Bridgett?"
"I am fine, Sir. The nausea has subsided with the new medication. I
am perfectly fit for duty."
"I see that you are not showing, yet?"
"No, Sir. The doctors say that I have one more month before I lose my
operational usefulness."
Mr. Daniels' face took on a look that, on a better man, might have
resembled caring. "Now, now, Bridgett, you will always be
operationally useful to us, just in different ways. When will they
harvest the child?"
"In six more weeks." Mr. Daniels noted the slight edge in her voice.
He didn't know what exactly her tone meant, but he didn't like it. He
made a mental note to have the room surveillance tapes forwarded to
Psych for analysis.
"Does Jarod know?"
"No."
"Perfect."
Throughout this conversation, Marc simply remained standing ten feet
behind Bridgett, his face a mask of iron will and determination. Which
emotions continued to burn behind the mask of his face was a mystery to
which neither the Director of SIS, nor Marc's long-time companion
Bridgett, had any answer.
Mr. Daniels ended the briefing after a short pause. "You are both
dismissed, and please, both of you, make me proud."
It was Marc who dignified the request with an open, shark-like smile.
*****
New York Times Printing Office
New York, New York
2130 hrs EST
When the overdressed goon in a Brooks Brothers suit cruised into his
office, Ed Manning, Editor of the "New York Times," merely gazed up
abstractly. He had seen his share of spooks and this one was certainly
no different: military haircut, strong build, nice suit, he read
Government all the way. Probably some extra-special, secret branch of
the NSA, Ed mused. Whatever, the well-dressed spook was undoubtedly
here to either ruin or make tomorrow's news. Ed just wasn't sure
which.
"Mr. Manning."
The statement, not really a question, brought the usual response from
Manning. "Yeah, what's it to you?"
"I just thought you might like to lead this tomorrow."
The spook threw a thick manila folder down on the desk. The folder was
brimming with pictures, bios, and typed pages of text. It seemed that
the Government wanted to use the press this time to make sure that
their angle of a story got printed first. Ed knew it would be good,
but it was too late for tomorrow's paper. It probably wasn't that
good, though, since the Government knew not to throw anything his way
after 3 P.M. "The New York Times" was one of the largest circulated
periodicals in the world and in order to make its impressive delivery
schedule, each day's edition is printed on the previous evening. Any
changes in the paper now would at most affect only the New York edition
and more than likely not even that one: about a quarter of the New York
delivery papers had been printed already.
"When do you expect me to run this?"
"Tomorrow."
Ed laughed. "What, is this local only?"
"No," said the voice, all humor lost in the sea of intimidation that
marked the impressive man's face. "I want it national. Tomorrow."
"There's no way, buddy. Six hours ago, we could have talked. Didn't
your boss tell you that?"
The dark man turned to leave without a further word.
"Hey! I'm talkin' to you! There ain't no way that this is going
national tomorrow!"
The man turned at the doorway and fixed Ed with his eyes. "I think you
ought to read the documents before you make any rash decisions like
that." He turned and continued to walk out of the office. "There are
two locals running this story tomorrow, including the `Daily News.' I
didn't think you would want to get scooped by the `News.' Do you?"
Ed Manning reluctantly opened the envelope on his desk. If this was
good, he'd at least run it local. There was no way the "Daily News"
would ever scoop the "Times." The first thing that fell out of the
folder was a picture that made Ed shiver involuntarily. A tall, hard
man was receiving a newspaper from a local Newsie. Despite the growing
darkness around the two, the man was wearing jet-black wrap-around
sunglasses. The glasses perfectly mirrored the rest of his dress: jet-
black leather jacket, black shirt and black pants. His close-cut black
hair and impressive build made Ed instantly think hit man. He was
hooked.
Ten minutes later, Ed Manning abstractly reached over and picked up his
phone, dialing an internal number. The gravelly voice on the other end
had to repeat his greeting twice before Ed seemed to notice his
connection had been made. He perked up from his reading and repeated
the most overused cliche‚ in publishing: "Hey, Bernie, stop the
presses. Yeah, I've got something big here. Yes, Bernie, it's
national."
*****
Miss Parker's Private Residence
Blue Cove, Delaware
2145 hrs EST
As Miss Parker strode confidently into her newly acquired two-story
flat, her eye cast a quick, not so confident glance to her security
system. Broots had installed the state of the art in security and she
knew with one sweep that no one had been here today. She tossed her
keys on the low table and put her jacket on the hook provided for it.
As she passed the half-length mirror, she didn't even bother to glance
at her own reflection: it scared her too much.
Miss Parker didn't know whether or not she would ever sleep at the
summer residence in peace again. The thoughts and memories of Kyle and
what Kyle did to her there were too close to the surface. With the
most recent revelations about her mother, she didn't trust her father's
house in Blue Cove, and so finally she had decided to relocate to this
private residence. There were precious few people who knew about this
place and none of them knew about it without her knowledge. She felt
somehow safer controlling who knew where she was and consequently who
would be waiting for her when she got there.
The alarm system Broots installed never really de-activated. It used
motion analyzers, heat sensors and video matching to verify the
identity of persons in the house and then stored information about
intruders. The system could be armed to dissuade unauthorized
entrance, or to combat intruders inside the residence, or both. When
the primary occupant was in the house, the system could be subdued for
intruders only, allowing free access to any person whom entered through
the designated entrance. The system could also be set up to allow for
relatively easy break in, with multiple defense perimeters set up
inside preventing the intruder from leaving before the authorities
arrived. Under this setting, any person who gained access to the home
without proper authority would have no problem entering the house;
however, a number of traps had been placed for them as the security
system tracked their progress through the flat. The initial three
stages of defense were non-lethal. She'd intimidated Broots into
providing two more lethal layers of defense.
Broots had proven himself to have a great deal of discretion. She had
been forced to open up to him slightly about the events of Kyle's
attack. Surprisingly, both this incident and the recent addition of
Debbie to his household had made the normally skittish man almost
protective and masculine. She laughed softly at the thought of Broots
protecting her from anything more dangerous than a spider and more
tangible than a computer virus, but nonetheless, his attention felt
good. In some small part of her psyche, Miss Parker relished the
little geek and his concern. It felt good to have someone worry about
you and fret over your discomfort. Since her father's disappearance
and subsequent reappearance, Mr. Parker had not spoken more than ten
words to his daughter. None of those were either supportive or caring.
The cold Delaware air still clung to her like a blanket. She cursed
the absence of servants who would have already prepared a fire.
Fortunately, the fireplace was gas and she would have the fire going in
no time. Even if it didn't smell quite as good as the real thing, she
certainly wasn't about to ruin a two hundred dollar blouse just so she
could have some pretty smell.
She stepped across the living room and lit the fireplace with the grace
of the dancer that she was. As the room filled with the orange light
of the fire, she began to nervously scan the shadows. She cursed her
fears and cursed her constant, nagging sense of being followed. No
doubt this was some psychological game of Jarod's to try and show her
what it was like to be chased. She would kill him, just to let him
know what it felt like to mess with her this way. As she went back
towards the kitchen, she turned on every light she passed.
*****
Sea-Tac Airport
Sea-Tac, Washington
1945 hrs, PST
Jarod waited patiently for the Budget Rental and Parking Shuttle Bus to
arrive, counting off in his head the number of possible pretends he
could undertake to solve this latest problem. Each possibility seemed
good at first and yet then would appear to have faults. He reached
under his jacket and pulled the red notebook back out. The tangibility
of the newsprint always anchored him and allowed him to think more. It
was almost as if the newsprint allowed him to somehow communicate with
the mind of the perpetrator and discover his weakness, his
vulnerability. He scanned the article more with his hands than with
his eyes.
***
ELITE TROOPS CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES IN STUNNING JURY DEADLOCK
(Tacoma, Washington) - Sgt. Maxwell Colefield and Pvt. John Crass, each
members of the Army's elite 82nd Airborne brigade, were cleared late
yesterday evening of all wrongdoing in the brutal rape and murder of
Lori Corville, a native of Tacoma, Washington. Lori was brutally
beaten and raped four months ago, following a party being held at Sgt.
Colefield's Lakewood home. She was pronounced dead from a combination
of her injuries and a drug overdose upon arrival at Lakewood General
Hospital.
Witnesses stated that Corville was seen leaving the party with Pvt.
Crass for some period of time around eleven o'clock and then the two of
them returned shortly after midnight. The following morning,
Corville's body was found in the woods, approximately two miles from
Sgt. Colefield's residence.
Trace amounts of rohypnol, the date-rape drug, were found in her
system, along with high levels of methamphetamines and cocaine. Ft.
Lewis medical staff personnel tested the two soldiers, but no drugs
were found in their systems.
Lori is survived by two children: Ryan (7) and Alicia (11). Vernon
Corville, the father of the children, was killed in the Gulf War. The
children are currently at the Lake Steilacoom Children's Home where
they are awaiting the arrival of their grandparents from Tulsa,
Oklahoma.
Authorities are baffled at the jury's indecision. Pierce County
Prosecuting Attorney Jim Elliot cited lack of positive drug tests from
the two suspects as the prime motivating factor for a reasonable doubt
of guilt.
"The defense contested that the perpetrators of this crime had engaged
in drug-related activities with the victim and since the defendants had
no drugs present in their system, they were more than likely not
involved."
Apparently, the jury agreed with this theory enough to bring about a
deadlock. Under Washington State law, a jury deadlock in a murder case
is equivalent to an acquittal.
***
He knew what Ted would have told him. He knew because Ted had been
preaching to him ever since San Antonio. He knew that he should be
still resting and trying to recuperate his shoulder. The sling was
gone, but the arm was still very tender. He knew that he should be
concentrating on the important questions of his life right now. He
knew that those questions included the new addition of Marc to the
Centre's team and the near miss that he had had in San Antonio. Jarod
knew that he should be holed up somewhere sorting all of this out, but
for as much as he knew he should do this, he knew he couldn't. He
needed to be out here, doing what he could to right the wrongs and
atone for his actions while at the Centre. Years of suffering that he
had caused would take years of repayment to achieve atonement. He did
not repay the gods of fate holed up at Ted's hideout in Tennessee,
either. He atoned by work.
The fact that pretending was no less a drug than morphine and that he
was addicted to the rush was the furthest thing from his mind. The
simple reality that he had become bored and restless in Tennessee was
lost to him. He would have vigorously denied that Ted's hidden cabin
in Tennessee had become to feel like a prison, just like the Centre,
just like every place did after a while. He even denied the numerous
accusations of those closest to him that he was a junkie to this game.
Ted, Laura, how many others tried to warn him? He knew that they
underestimated him. Everyone always underestimated him because they
did not understand him. No one ever understood him.
Ted hadn't been pleased when Jarod left, but Jarod knew he'd come
around. If not, Jarod would continue along like he was before --
alone. Anyway, that New York sting went perfectly, so now Jarod knew
that Ted was being too cautious.
The shuttle bus pulled up, drawing Jarod from his thoughts. He boarded
the bus, folding the red notebook back up and placing it in its
accustomed place at the small of his back. As he seated himself, he
glanced across the bus at the giant sitting opposite him. The
elaborate landscape of tattoos covering the man's naked arms was truly
impressive. Jarod smiled slightly at the man, pushing his hand forward
in greeting. "Hello, my name is Jarod."
The overstuffed, painted monolith of a man seated across from him
glanced at Jarod from behind eyes too old for years and shook his hand,
more out of courtesy than desire. "Hey."
"Nice weather, today, isn't it?" Jarod felt an almost morbid
fascination with the man. He almost appeared fictional, like a refugee
from every biker movie ever made.
"Yeah, it's unseasonably warm today."
The word `unseasonably' tugged at Jarod's curiosity. Any thoughts of
ending this conversation vanished from his mind. "Are you from around
here?"
The human icon sitting across from him broke into a resigned smile.
"No, but I guess I've been here long enough to call it home. Name's
Tiny."
"Tiny?" Jarod cocked his head slightly, trying to fathom the
dimensions of the person who had monikered this monstrosity `Tiny'.
Throughout Jarod's pause, Tiny's smile only grew more animated.
A smile finally broke across Jarod's face as he understood. "It's
irony."
Tiny broke out laughing. "Yes, irony it is, Jarod. What brings you to
the Emerald City?"
"Well, actually I was looking for a change of scenery and I thought I'd
try the Lakewood, Tacoma area. I have some old friends I need to look
up out at the Army base."
"Oh, Ft. Lewis?"
"Yes. You've heard of it?"
Tiny broke again into fits of laughter. "Heard of it? Hell, I make my
living off the base. Ever since the 82nd started staging out of Lewis
for PAC Ops I've been raking in the money off those skin-head grease-
balls."
Jarod joined the laughter, but cautiously. "What kind of business are
you in?" Jarod immediately feared that this man may be a drug supplier
for the base and may have some share of the responsibility for Lori's
death.
Tiny beamed at Jarod, seeming to read his thoughts. "No, man, I'm
clean as shit. I run Tiny Tim's House of Horsepower, a performance and
speed shop about two miles off base. I hold the Northwest Five-Liter
Horsepower record of 653 horsepower on juice. That engine ran at full
output for one hour without failing and it still cranks."
Jarod smiled broadly at the impressive feat. He neglected to mention
to Tiny the work he had done at the Centre, which had resulted in 1.8
liter engines outputting over two and a half horsepower per cubic inch
without Nitrous Oxide. "What were you doing out of town?"
"My lead mechanic just up and quit on me. That damn Hendricks
Motorsports Team stole him right out from under my nose. I was
recruiting from a couple of the California schools but I couldn't find
anyone I liked. I guess it's hopeless to think that any of these damn
kids really cares about motors any more. Everything is computers and
chips these days. Damn rocket scientists, every one!
"Say, you don't happen to know anyone with a background in computers,
mechanical engineering and who would be willing to get their hands a
little greasy, do you?" Tiny laughed at the ridiculous nature of the
question.
Jarod didn't join him. The sly, sideways tilt of his head belied his
intentions. "I might know someone who could help you. . . ."
*****
Tiny Tim's House of Horsepower
Lakewood, Washington
2045 hrs PST
The large performance shop appeared suddenly in the raked windshield of
the very rare 455 cubic inch Formula Trans-Am. Tiny piloted the
grossly overpowered car with the skill of a stock car driver and the
reactions of a drag racer. Jarod was truly impressed not only with the
driving skills of his new employer but also with the incredible
mechanical work that he had done on the late seventies muscle car. The
pure scream of the Flowmaster exhaust system had an erotic quality and
Jarod couldn't have wiped the smile from his face with a Brillo pad.
Tiny hammered the four-speed transmission down two gears and the car
came to a precise, measured stop in front of the shop. The large man
laughed heartily and jumped out of the car. As Jarod climbed out, he
could hear the popping sounds of the rapidly cooling engine. He took a
small sniff of the air and surprisingly didn't smell the telltale scent
of unburned fuel normal in a high output engine driven hard and then
immediately stopped.
Tiny watched his new prospect with some degree of caution and interest.
He hadn't survived twenty years in the Angels by ignoring his intuition
and he had a really good feeling about this guy. The coincidence
surrounding his sudden appearance and the nature of this great
opportunity for his business made him nervous, but sometimes things
like that happened. Anyway, he would be able to tell here in about ten
minutes whether or not Jarod would work out. Bob Young was waiting for
his 327 `Vette and since Gerald left, Tiny hadn't had a chance to
finish up with it. Maybe this guy would at least save him from a night
of working alone.
The two of them entered the retail area of the shop and Jarod's face
lit up as he scanned the brilliant displays of chrome and stainless
steel performance parts and aftermarket kits. As Tiny took his duffel
bag around behind the counter, Jarod began to absently roam the aisles
picking up different kits and parts. He tested each part in his hands,
scanned each box briefly and then returned it to the proper place.
Tiny watched the strange man with interest. Passingly, he wondered if
the guy had ever seen this stuff before. Suddenly, the chances of this
guy working out began to dwindle.
"Hey, J-man, come here."
Jarod perked up and wandered back over to the counter where Tiny had
pulled out the shop clipboard. Jarod's head dropped slightly as he
scanned the page listing the seven outstanding work orders for the
shop. With a bird-like twist of his head, he brought his gaze quickly
back to Tiny. "Yes?"
"We've still got to go through the interview process and all."
Jarod smiled, "Of course. Well, I was trained at the Orlando. . ."
"I'm not interested in that, J-bird. I want you to show me what you
can do. All the schools in the world won't make an engine work. I
want to see you do something."
Jarod continued to smile broadly. Without averting his gaze from Tiny,
Jarod recalled the most outstanding work order on the sheet. "Which
car? I see that Bob Young's 1965 Corvette still needs the top end to
be rebuilt and the engine re-installed. I think I can have it ready by
pick-up time tomorrow morning." Jarod knew he could have it ready.
He'd rebuilt a wrecked CART engine in less time and this would be less
than half the work that had been.
Tiny didn't miss a beat. "Either you're a psychic or a speed reader.
Whatever, you know what you have to do. I'm going to order a pizza,
you care what's on it?"
Jarod absently shook his head and removed his jacket. Tiny saw that
under the expensive leather jacket, the guy had a rock hard physique.
He was probably one of those martial arts guys. Tiny continued to
watch the strange, dark man walking towards the door to the shop area
and his working interview. The guy moved like a panther. Tiny had
been the head of the West Coast Hell's Angels for two years in the late
seventies. He'd seen only a few guys that moved like that and every
one of them was a stone-cold killer. Jarod was as hard as they came.
Tiny had a very good feeling indeed.
*****
SL-9, Office E-3
The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
2359 hrs EST
The man who wore fear and intimidation like an evening coat sat heavily
behind his polished black desk. Omar was there, of course, but his
other lackeys were gone for the night. Omar was the only one allowed
in his office at this hour.
The simple act of comfortably sitting, much like the act of breathing,
had been taken from him. The pain, however, was beginning to lessen
each day. The skin grafts were healing slowly, promising a hard,
callused surface that would protect his tender, frail body more
effectively than his scabbing. He faintly remembered his days before
pain and his life before hatred, but that was more like a fairy tale
told about a time long since past. His world had moved on and such
simple comforts were not for men like him. He didn't need them.
William Raines knew he would be in hell one day because he knew he was
in some part of hell now. What he had done over the years would not be
forgotten and it never could be forgiven. Retribution had come early.
He accepted this and relished the power that it gave him. Twice the
fires of hell had raged about him. Twice had he been singed, scarred
and nearly destroyed. Twice had he survived those fires to walk again.
Repentance was the furthest thing from his mind.
As the precision digital clock on his desk marked the end of one day
and the beginning of the next, Mr. Raines sat behind his desk and
turned on his computer. Sleep still hours away, he wanted to review
some case files before he put an official end to the day. There was so
much that his incapacitation had caused him to miss and he was still
just catching up. Most of the damage caused by his absence had been
repaired, but a few projects still needed his complete attention. Not
Project Icarus, though. Project Icarus was going perfectly and the
final game was now at hand. He wished that the rest of his life could
be so easy.
As the screen came up, the initial batch files unknowingly loaded a
video clip. Raines' password prompt came up and as the shell of a once
vital human being typed in the cryptic password he had used for twenty
years, NEXTLIFE, the video clip immediately sprang up on the screen.
A flat, droning singer began to mumble over a poorly drawn cartoon
picture of a small town. "Goin' on down to South Park, Goin' have
ourselves a good time."
"What is this?" Raines growled, a sound that brought Omar flying around
the desk.
"Uh, ah, I don't know sir. I'll have it stopped though!" Omar turned
to fly out of the room, but Raines stopped him.
"No, I want to see this."
The singer stopped and suddenly the screen showed the poor caricatures
of small children standing at a snow-covered school bus stop. He
recognized the children's poorly drawn faces: Bridgett, Marc, Jarod,
Kyle and another boy Raines didn't immediately recognize. The only
difference in the caricatures was that Jarod was drawn grossly
overweight and Kyle's figure had a hood drawn tightly around his head.
"Hey, how'd you guys find me here?" Jarod's voice was insanely
garbled, almost impossible to understand.
Marc turned ninety degrees and answered him. "Dumb ass, as fat as you
are it was easy!"
The other children chimed in with a chorus of, "Yeah!"
"Shut up! I am not fat! My mom says that I'm gravitationally
challenged!"
The unrecognizable boy joined in the jesting, "Yeah, well, your mom is
a crack whore! Say, Marc, are you finally going to kiss Bridgett
today?"
Bridgett turned ninety degrees towards Marc and echoed the sentiment
with her puckered lips. Marc turned, looked at her, and threw up on
her face. Bridgett quickly responded. "Eeeew!"
From the right of the screen, a caricature of Mr. Raines, complete with
a squeaking oxygen tank and two sweepers, moved laterally across the
screen. The caricature's legs apparently did not move when they
walked, the figures simply bobbed across the landscape.
The Kyle caricature mumbled something completely unintelligible.
Jarod seemed to understand him though and he shouted a warning to the
others, "Look out! It's Mr. Spooky!"
All of the children began to fidget and bob about in fear. The voice
of Mr. Raines' caricature was eerily good. "You're coming back to the
Centre with me, Jarod."
Suddenly the Kyle figure plunged towards the Raines figure. The Raines
figure opened his mouth and a column of flame shot out, engulfing Kyle.
He was instantly burnt to a skeletal husk.
In his office, Mr. Raines involuntarily chuckled.
The figure of the unknown boy turned ninety degrees towards Raines and
screamed, "You killed Kyle! You bastard!"
It was Jarod who calmed him down, "Yeah, but that was a pretty bitchin'
flame thing, huh?"
The other kids all nodded their assent and suddenly the death of Kyle
was forgotten.
A school bus pulled up, moving laterally from right to left, blocking
the view of the children. On the side of the school bus, the words
"The Centre" stood in stark contrast to the bland, unadorned drawing of
the bus.
The view changed quickly to the bus driver, a caricature of Miss
Parker. "Let's go, I'm not getting any younger."
"Or prettier," the caricature of the mystery boy said under his breath.
"What the hell did you just say?" Miss Parker shot back at him.
"Ah, I said, `Oh, a pretty deer'. See, over there! Oh, it's gone
now."
"Okay." The thick smoke of a cigarette hung over Miss Parker's
caricature.
The scene switched back to the kids by the stop sign. Only the strange
boy had gotten on the bus. Bridgett and Marc grabbed Jarod and began
to force him into the bus. "Move it, Lard Ass!"
Suddenly, the cartoon sounds of machine gun fire erupted and the
caricatures of Raines, Bridgett, the Sweepers, and Marc began to
disintegrate into a bloody mess of body parts and bullets. The scene
shifted back to the bus, and Miss Parker, now headless, was draped over
the steering wheel. The unknown boy was holding a ridiculously large
machine gun at his hip. The barrel was still smoking.
"Come on, Jarod, let's go!"
The overweight caricature of Jarod jumped up into the bus and started
back towards the back of the bus. Already sitting in the back seat was
the Kyle caricature, perfectly healthy.
"Hey!" Jarod whined. "How come Kyle's alive again?"
The other boy, now shoving Miss Parker's headless body out of the bus,
turned back to Jarod. "Oh, he dies in every episode, but he always
comes back."
Jarod accepted this with a simple, "Oh."
The scene changed to the school bus pulling off down the street, Kyle
and Jarod playing catch with Miss Parker's severed head in the back
window. The sign on the back of the bus said `The End.'
As the bus rode off into the scene, words began to scroll across the
screen, but instead of credits for the rather poor production, the
words were a message.
Thank you, my friend, for watching our show
But now I'm afraid that it's time to go.
It's been real fun
But my program is done
And your files are gone, don't cha know.
Raines let out a startled growl and tried to hit a key on his computer,
but the machine was locked up. It took Technical only thirty seconds
to return function to the computer, but it was too late: all files
regarding Jarod and Kyle had been erased from his computer.
Raines fumed, white hot rage just below the surface, "Get me the tape
backups, NOW!"
Omar rushed out of the office to the data storage areas.
*****
SL-27, Room 155
Thank you, Friendjarod. Friendjarod make Angelo happy, make Angelo
warm and funny. Friendjarod give Angelo sweets. Friendjarod good.
[Where is the backup?]
Badman! No Badman! No can tell Angelo. No, Badman not say because
Angelo no see Badman, only hear Badman. If Angelo no see Badman, only
hear Badman, then Friendjarod say it okay. Friendjarod say no see
Badman, no worry. Angelo know Friendjarod say good to Angelo.
Friendjarod never hurt Angelo, Badman hurt Angelo.
Yes, Friendjarod, tapes safe now. No more Timmy now and only
PrettyParker talk to Timmy. PrettyParker not go to Timmyhouse. Tape
safe in Timmyhouse, safe with Friendjarod papers. Angelo make big
present for Friendjarod when he come home. Friendjarod bring Angelo a
sweet and Angelo have a present for Friendjarod.
[Give me back the tapes! If I catch you stealing my tapes I'll punish
you. I'll hurt you, Angelo! Remember that I made Timmy die and I can
make Angelo die. Angelo, I don't die. You tried to kill me once
before, remember? I don't die, but Angelo can. Give me my tapes!]
No, Badman! Badman no hurt Angelo. Angelo no see Badman, Badman no
can hurt Angelo. Friendjarod say so. Angelo believe Friendjarod.
Friendjarod and Friendkyle only friend for Angelo. Angelo like
Friendjarod and Friendkyle.
Sweets. Sweets good. Mmmmmmm.
later.>
Why, Friendjarod, sweets now, please?
Okay, Friendjarod, Angelo go Angelohome, go sleep now. Badman no find
Angelo hiding or Badman make Angelo hurt when Angelo can see not when
Angelo can hear.
*****
SL-9, Office E-3
Omar re-entered the office and immediately Raines knew what his trusted
assistant was about to tell him. The three tape backups for his
computer were missing. Someone in the Centre had just signed their own
death warrant by deciding to side against him. He would make it his
personal mission to see them fed to the animals in the `Zoo'.
Omar began to speak, but Raines waved him off. He didn't need to hear
the bad news. It was almost as if the verbal confirmation of this
disaster would eliminate some chance that a spare copy might be found
somewhere. The answer to this question lay within the identity of the
mystery child in the cartoon. Raines almost thought he knew who that
face belonged to, but he just couldn't place it. It infuriated him.
Whether or not Jarod had sent this particular virus, he could not be
acting alone in this endeavor since Jarod was in the Seattle area right
now. Someone on the inside must be helping him, but who? Was that
mystery boy here at the Centre? Raines sincerely hoped so.
The idea surfaced three times before he gave it any real credence. The
only reason that he allowed it time to breathe was that it kept re-
surfacing. Was it somehow possible that Angelo could be working for
Jarod? Angelo had no emotions, no ability to create moral judgement.
He would have no reason to help Jarod when there was no positive or
negative reinforcement to cause him to do so. It just wasn't possible,
but then again, what if it was?
"Where is Angelo?"
Omar was surprised at the request. "In his space, I guess."
Raines' voice lowered to a dangerous tone, "You guess or you know?"
Omar recognized his error and immediately moved towards the door to
find out. Raines followed him out of the office, towards the elevator
to SL-25.
*****
SL-25 `The Zoo'
As Raines and Omar strode down the east wing of Sublevel 25, both were
secretly glad that the hour made the resident members of The Zoo more
compliant. What neither of them knew was that Raines' oxygen tank
squeaking down the hallway put such a fear into the once human
creatures living down here that they would have been quiet no matter
what time it was. Whether it was the electro-shock machine, the med-
tray or the personnel transporter, every source of evil that these
unfortunate creatures were forced to deal with moved on similarly
squeaky wheels. Each creature silently thanked the noise as it moved
further down the long hallway.
The last room on the wing was reserved for Angelo. Raines slowed
slightly to allow Omar access to the door. Omar and Raines both had
keys to the room but Omar never questioned whether Raines himself
wanted to open the door. Omar swung the door open and the two of them
looked in on Angelo. The empath was quietly sitting in the far corner
of his room, rocking back and forth. The stench of the open sewer
wafted up at them and neither Raines nor Omar had any inclination
towards entering the room.
The two of them closed the door and began the long walk back up the
hallway in silence.
They didn't see the number of eyes peering out trying to get some
glimpse of which one of the `animals' was going to be the unfortunate
lab rat today.
*****
149th Street Station
The Bronx
New York, New York
February 24, 1998 0510 EST
Leonard knew, from nearly forty years of selling the news to the
commuters of the greatest city in the civilized world, that when the
"New York Times" delivery truck rolled by his stand after 5 A.M.,
something big was up. Something had caused the perpetually running
presses to stop and he knew that it wasn't the score from the Knicks
game last night. Something big was coming down, so when the truck
barely slowed to toss his three bundles of papers, the first thing
Leonard did was read the front page. Honestly, though, the picture on
the front page would have made him read it anyway: the picture was of
him and his newsstand.
***
KILLER ANGEL STALKS NEW YORK
FBI'S NUMBER ONE WANTED MAN SEEN IN NEW YORK, THREE LEFT DEAD IN HIS
WAKE
(UP/AP - New York) The man currently atop the FBI's Top Ten Most
Wanted list was spotted yesterday in Uptown New York. Two transit
policemen and a City Subway Engineer were left dead in the wake of his
visit. Sgt. Peter Dailey and Sgt. Michael O'Reilly were found shot to
death in the Number 2 Red line subway train number 4456 and Chief
Engineer Steve Rendall, a veteran of over twenty years service in the
Subway, was found crushed by the same train. Immediately following the
gangland style massacre of these three city servants, the infamous
Killer Angel was photographed leaving the 149th Street subway tunnel.
He is wanted by police for questioning in association with these and
other crimes.
The Killer Angel first struck about eighteen months ago in Queens, at
Queen Of Mercy Hospital, where he duped a surgeon into performing heart
bypass surgery on the perfectly healthy Head of Surgery. The Killer
Angel had used heart-stopping drugs to mimic heart failure, thus
causing the perceived heart attack. The head surgeon died of
complications following the incident.
This started a cross-country binge of murder and mayhem, with federal
authorities always one step behind the strange killer. He has been on
the FBI's most wanted list for over one year, but due to the very
elusive nature of this killer and his rather curious operating habits,
the Government did not want to throw the nation into a panic. The time
for discretion has passed, however, and police are asking for all
citizens to help them catch this maniac.
The Killer Angel is a genius with the ability to blend in with any walk
of society. He is a veritable chameleon who usually tries to blend in
with his surroundings, often befriending his prey before he strikes.
His usual victims are downtrodden, poor or unintelligent people who
have recently fallen victim to some other great tragedy. The Killer
Angel consoles them, tries to right their perceived wrong, and then
kills them.
Noted Behaviorist Dimitri Klashinov of the Center for Enhanced Natural
Talents Research and Experimentation reported that he had seen this
type of behavior before: "Apparently the Killer Angel takes people who
have no hope and he restores their hope and their belief in the world.
Then, once he has made them value life the most, he robs them of it,
cruelly killing them when life is most important to them."
This chameleon rarely returns to the same cities; however, even this MO
seems to have changed as he has revisited both Miami and New York in
the last few months. The Killer Angel is believed to be responsible
for the deaths of at least twenty-six people, which makes him the third
most prolific serial killer in U.S. History.
The Killer Angel uses many aliases, though he almost always uses the
first name of Jarod. It is believed that his real name may be Jarod
Russell, though authorities are not sure since there is no record of a
Jarod Russell fitting the description of the Angel.
Authorities are asking all citizens to be watchful of this dangerous
killer: he is to be considered armed and dangerous. He has routinely
posed as an FBI agent or local Police officer and is responsible for
the death of six peace officers. If you see this man, police ask you
to be calm and report him immediately. Do not attempt to approach this
man. Do not befriend this man. He is perhaps the most dangerous con
man in history and has created phony backgrounds that can withstand the
most severe scrutiny.
***
Leonard scanned the rest of the article, which included background
information and other information on the various deaths that this man
was responsible for. Leonard read the article for a second time and
vaguely became aware that a crowd was forming. A couple of people had
picked up their own papers and quickly scanned the front picture,
surprised to find their favorite newsie handing a paper to the most
wanted man in America.
Leonard had to look at the picture four times to be sure that there was
no doubt: the picture was of him passing that Tacoma News Tribune to
Jarod Belmont yesterday. Leonard had never knowingly handed a paper to
a member of the FBI's famous Top Ten list, but he knew that Jarod
didn't belong on it. He wasn't so sure about the man who had given him
the paper to pass on to Jarod. That man either belonged on the FBI's
list or he belonged writing it, Leonard just wasn't sure which. Maybe
appearances were deceiving. They did claim Jarod was a con, after all.
Then again, maybe the newspaper lied.
Leonard wasn't sure which. . . .
third edition of the serial fanfic "Icarus Falling," which I've titled:
"Glass Houses." This story involves characters and concepts developed
and copyrighted by MTM Entertainment and NBC Productions as well as
dozens of products and miscellaneous characters, each with their own
copyright information, and I hope that I do not offend anyone because I
have borrowed them here. No copyright infringement is intended by my
use of these characters and I accept only the adulation of the crowd
and the phone numbers of attractive women as compensation for my
writing. During the course of this story, you will again run into many
of my characters, including Bridgett, Marc, Ted and the mysterious
Directors of the Centre. They are my characters, but I hold no claim
to them or their actions, sexual preferences and taste in alcoholic
beverages. Additionally, you may wander into a new character or four,
but I'll leave that for the story. . .
This story follows "The Winds of Change" and "The King of the Blues" so
if you haven't read those, may I suggest that you get off your duffs
and read them first. They are available either from me or at
Crystalle's Tower web page: http://www.thetower.tierranet.com/thetower.
This story follows those and if you don't read them first, you may be a
little lost when you read this one.
One more note: dialog lines in brackets (i.e.: {}, [], ) indicate
voices which are heard inside a character's head. For convention, I
will use:
To indicate Jarod's voice
{} To indicate Miss Parker's voice
[] To indicate Mr. Raines' voice
Any additional voices will be explained later (except the ones in my
head, which, the nice doctor assures me, will go away one day, honest).
This story will be rated in parts, like the last one.
Without further ado, I bring you. . .
Glass Houses, Introduction
(Rated R: Language, Violence)
Number 2 Red Line Subway River Tunnel
Uptown Manhattan
New York, New York
February 22, 1998, 1535 EST
The brightness of the light, growing stronger in the looming darkness
of the tunnel, made Steve run faster. He couldn't hear the sound of
the approaching train, but he knew from twenty years in the service of
New York City that the train would be on him far before he would ever
hear it. He ran for his life.
Steve knew that every few hundred yards there was a bailout, a place
for the workers to go when the alarm bell sounded, signaling the
approach of a train. Abstractly, he wondered just how far a few
hundred yards really was. It seemed as if the bailouts had been placed
miles apart. This part of the tunnel was only one lane wide and there
was no room for man and train to peacefully co-exist down here. If
this were a movie, he could just lay down and let the train pass over
him, but he had seen the results of that - he was the one who
discovered Tom Rosenstein's body.
Where was that bailout? Why hadn't the alarm bells sounded when the
train entered the tunnel?
The train pushed a column of air down the tunnel ahead of it and he
could already feel that rush of air, pushing him forward with a
forceful insistence. The train was just a few hundred yards behind
now. He had seconds more to live.
It wasn't his life that began to flash before Steve Rendall's eyes; it
was only the last couple of days. Something in him knew that Jarod
Belmont had to be too good to be true. After Tom Rosenstein had been
killed in this very tunnel, they had needed a new Line Inspector. Who
better to take on that job than a Senior Line Inspector for the London
Underground? Why this man would have suddenly appeared the very moment
Steve needed him most seemed somewhat unimportant. Forty-seven years
of living in the City and he couldn't spot a rat. Maybe he did deserve
to die.
Somehow this Belmont guy figured out that Steve himself signed off the
work order for completion of re-wiring the train alarms in this tunnel.
Somehow Jarod knew that the work hadn't been done because there were no
electricians willing to come out on Christmas Eve for less than triple
time. Even if workers had been available Steve would have been forced
to shut down Red Line service for hours over one of the busiest subway
travel holidays. Jarod didn't understand that in New York you didn't
just shut down the subway, especially if some rat bit through an
electrical cable and killed power to the train alert bells. The fact
that it was Steve's policy that all Jewish employees who chose to take
vacation time during Hanukkah had to work Christmas and Christmas Eve
at no extra pay was not lost on him. The simple fact that Tom
Rosenstein had even been working that day was Steve's fault; no line
inspections were due, but Tom was still behind from Hanukkah.
Steve could still hear himself giving Tom the ass chewing that sent him
to his death. He replayed the exchange in his dreams every night.
Belmont was smart, but he wasn't smart enough to know that, was he?
Belmont was a great worker, and he instantly helped to identify three
recurring problems, which would save the transit system millions.
Steve had even begun to like Belmont. When Belmont had called him down
here on a Sunday to look at a line problem, Steve normally would have
told him to either wait until Monday or just handle the problem
himself. His wife just couldn't give Steve one day of peace, though,
and she had to pick a fight with him, making him want to get out of the
house. How was he to know that he'd end up on the business end of a
subway train? Too much damn coincidence for this New Yorker, Steve
remarked to himself.
There it is! Steve knew that if he ran with everything his grossly
overweight body had in it, he could probably just make it to the
bailout. The light from the train was bright, too bright. It lit the
entire tunnel with its brilliance and he could hear it now. It was
close, but it was travelling slower than usual. He had a chance.
He should never have gone to the station. The cryptic phone call from
Jarod to meet him immediately at the 145th Street spur should have
alerted him. Sure, Jarod made it sound legit, but that was no solace.
What on Earth possessed him to follow the darkly mysterious man down
the dark tunnel after some vague third line problem? He could still
hear the grim, intimidating man drop his limey accent like a bad habit
and begin to taunt him, waving the broken electrical wire and a huge
four-cell Maglite in his face:
"You let Tom Rosenstein die because you didn't want to inconvenience
yourself! You wouldn't pay for an electrician to come change a simple
wire, just like this one, and now Tom Rosenstein's children don't have
a father! You killed him because of your negligence and your laziness!
Didn't you! Didn't you! DIDN'T YOU!"
The way Jarod had held the four-cell Maglite in Steve's face, he was
certain that the tall, dark man would beat him with it. Oh, that it
would have been that simple. Instead, the sadistic bastard had told
him to start running. Something about giving him the chance that he
had never given Tom. It was a little over a mile to the next stop on
the Number 2 line, and so once Steve saw that Jarod had turned and
left, he stopped running and began to walk to the other side. The
alarm bells were working now and if a train entered the tunnel, he
would have plenty of time to get out of the way. At least, that was
what he thought.
He was almost there, but the wind was pushing on him strongly now,
almost causing him to lose his balance. Time was short, and Steve
began to fear that he wouldn't make it. He would have to jump. . .
now!
The train hit his legs, sending him cartwheeling into the wall of the
bailout. The immediate pain in his left leg told him it was broken.
The train screeched to a halt, sparks and metal flying everywhere.
Somehow, the train slid to a stop with a side door perfectly positioned
in the bailout. The doors slid open, revealing a tall transit
policeman standing, waiting for the car to stop. Steve thought he
could see the well-polished boots of another officer lying just out of
sight in the car. That was a bit odd.
Steve looked around him in the bailout and he saw a red notebook,
overstuffed with newspaper clippings and files, lying on the ground.
He suddenly realized he would be in jail for a long time and he began
to curse his survival instincts. If he had just stopped running, it
would have all been over in a second. He started to cry.
When he looked up at the silenced, large caliber handgun in the
policeman's outstretched hand, Steve almost had time to smile.
*****
149th Street Station
The Bronx
New York, New York
Leonard saw Jarod mount the steps to ascend to the land of the light.
As he took the steps two at a time, Jarod dodged the numerous
panhandlers and vagrants lining the stairwell. From the intermediate
landing, Leonard watched his new friend climb the stairs and readied
the special newspaper that had been passed to him by a sharply dressed
man barely twenty minutes ago for delivery to Jarod. Having lived for
over sixty years in the Bronx, Leonard knew the difference between
Wiseguys and Wannabes. The husky black man who had given Leonard the
out-of-town paper and a hundred-dollar bill was all Wiseguy. Leonard
had no intention of failing in this one small task. "Hey, Jarod!"
"Leonard," Jarod beamed, "how's it hanging?"
"Oh, these days all it does is hang, Jarod." Jarod laughed heartily.
After Leonard had explained to Jarod what the meaning of this
expression was, Jarod greeted everyone this way. Leonard got a kick
out of having a new comeback each time he saw Jarod. "You want a
paper?"
"No, Leonard, I've got to go."
Leonard held the paper out to Jarod. "I think you may want this one."
*****
Glass Houses, Part 1
TL-8, Executive Boardroom, The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
February 23, 1998, 1700 hrs EST
"Miss Parker, so nice of you to join us." The icy cold stare of Mr.
Daniels told a different tale. The Director of SIS was clearly less
than impressed with Miss Parker and her demeanor.
Miss Parker, on the other hand, was recovering well. "Thank you, Sir."
The bruises and cuts she had received from her encounter with Kyle were
completely healed now, though the emotional damage that she had
suffered from the incident would probably never completely go away.
She still woke in the middle of the night and showered for no apparent
reason. She didn't think that she'd ever felt this dirty before in her
entire life.
"I guess you are aware that we are re-activating you to the Jarod case.
I hope that you take this second chance to heart and do not screw
things up this time." The words hung like a threat in the air. Miss
Parker had so often been at the delivering end of lines such as these
that she only acknowledged their implication in passing.
"I will do my best, as always, Sir."
"I hope so. You are dismissed."
Miss Parker took the cue and spun on her stiletto heels to leave. The
entire event had a surreal glow for her; she felt as if she had been a
spectator to her own reinstatement. Later, she would recall it only
with the vaguest hint of ownership. Had someone told her that the
encounter had been a waking dream, she would have been inclined to
believe them.
As Miss Parker strode out of the room with little of her usual flair,
Bridgett stepped out from one of the many shadows in the conference
room. Mr. Daniels turned to look at her, knowing all along that she
had been there. "Well, what is your report?"
"Willie passed the newspaper yesterday. United Airlines flight 203
from Kennedy left thirty minutes ago and our boy was on it. I got the
call from him two hours ago that he was leaving town and would let me
know when he got back. The team is assembled to meet up at the next
location in forty hours. Has Marc been briefed?"
"Yes." The unexpected menace of her long-time companion's voice
startled Bridgett. He had just entered from the side entrance to the
boardroom: the one located directly behind her.
Bridgett recovered quickly. "As far as Miss Parker goes, I believe
that she is ready for her part."
"Excellent. You both know the plan. The story runs tomorrow. How are
you feeling Bridgett?"
"I am fine, Sir. The nausea has subsided with the new medication. I
am perfectly fit for duty."
"I see that you are not showing, yet?"
"No, Sir. The doctors say that I have one more month before I lose my
operational usefulness."
Mr. Daniels' face took on a look that, on a better man, might have
resembled caring. "Now, now, Bridgett, you will always be
operationally useful to us, just in different ways. When will they
harvest the child?"
"In six more weeks." Mr. Daniels noted the slight edge in her voice.
He didn't know what exactly her tone meant, but he didn't like it. He
made a mental note to have the room surveillance tapes forwarded to
Psych for analysis.
"Does Jarod know?"
"No."
"Perfect."
Throughout this conversation, Marc simply remained standing ten feet
behind Bridgett, his face a mask of iron will and determination. Which
emotions continued to burn behind the mask of his face was a mystery to
which neither the Director of SIS, nor Marc's long-time companion
Bridgett, had any answer.
Mr. Daniels ended the briefing after a short pause. "You are both
dismissed, and please, both of you, make me proud."
It was Marc who dignified the request with an open, shark-like smile.
*****
New York Times Printing Office
New York, New York
2130 hrs EST
When the overdressed goon in a Brooks Brothers suit cruised into his
office, Ed Manning, Editor of the "New York Times," merely gazed up
abstractly. He had seen his share of spooks and this one was certainly
no different: military haircut, strong build, nice suit, he read
Government all the way. Probably some extra-special, secret branch of
the NSA, Ed mused. Whatever, the well-dressed spook was undoubtedly
here to either ruin or make tomorrow's news. Ed just wasn't sure
which.
"Mr. Manning."
The statement, not really a question, brought the usual response from
Manning. "Yeah, what's it to you?"
"I just thought you might like to lead this tomorrow."
The spook threw a thick manila folder down on the desk. The folder was
brimming with pictures, bios, and typed pages of text. It seemed that
the Government wanted to use the press this time to make sure that
their angle of a story got printed first. Ed knew it would be good,
but it was too late for tomorrow's paper. It probably wasn't that
good, though, since the Government knew not to throw anything his way
after 3 P.M. "The New York Times" was one of the largest circulated
periodicals in the world and in order to make its impressive delivery
schedule, each day's edition is printed on the previous evening. Any
changes in the paper now would at most affect only the New York edition
and more than likely not even that one: about a quarter of the New York
delivery papers had been printed already.
"When do you expect me to run this?"
"Tomorrow."
Ed laughed. "What, is this local only?"
"No," said the voice, all humor lost in the sea of intimidation that
marked the impressive man's face. "I want it national. Tomorrow."
"There's no way, buddy. Six hours ago, we could have talked. Didn't
your boss tell you that?"
The dark man turned to leave without a further word.
"Hey! I'm talkin' to you! There ain't no way that this is going
national tomorrow!"
The man turned at the doorway and fixed Ed with his eyes. "I think you
ought to read the documents before you make any rash decisions like
that." He turned and continued to walk out of the office. "There are
two locals running this story tomorrow, including the `Daily News.' I
didn't think you would want to get scooped by the `News.' Do you?"
Ed Manning reluctantly opened the envelope on his desk. If this was
good, he'd at least run it local. There was no way the "Daily News"
would ever scoop the "Times." The first thing that fell out of the
folder was a picture that made Ed shiver involuntarily. A tall, hard
man was receiving a newspaper from a local Newsie. Despite the growing
darkness around the two, the man was wearing jet-black wrap-around
sunglasses. The glasses perfectly mirrored the rest of his dress: jet-
black leather jacket, black shirt and black pants. His close-cut black
hair and impressive build made Ed instantly think hit man. He was
hooked.
Ten minutes later, Ed Manning abstractly reached over and picked up his
phone, dialing an internal number. The gravelly voice on the other end
had to repeat his greeting twice before Ed seemed to notice his
connection had been made. He perked up from his reading and repeated
the most overused cliche‚ in publishing: "Hey, Bernie, stop the
presses. Yeah, I've got something big here. Yes, Bernie, it's
national."
*****
Miss Parker's Private Residence
Blue Cove, Delaware
2145 hrs EST
As Miss Parker strode confidently into her newly acquired two-story
flat, her eye cast a quick, not so confident glance to her security
system. Broots had installed the state of the art in security and she
knew with one sweep that no one had been here today. She tossed her
keys on the low table and put her jacket on the hook provided for it.
As she passed the half-length mirror, she didn't even bother to glance
at her own reflection: it scared her too much.
Miss Parker didn't know whether or not she would ever sleep at the
summer residence in peace again. The thoughts and memories of Kyle and
what Kyle did to her there were too close to the surface. With the
most recent revelations about her mother, she didn't trust her father's
house in Blue Cove, and so finally she had decided to relocate to this
private residence. There were precious few people who knew about this
place and none of them knew about it without her knowledge. She felt
somehow safer controlling who knew where she was and consequently who
would be waiting for her when she got there.
The alarm system Broots installed never really de-activated. It used
motion analyzers, heat sensors and video matching to verify the
identity of persons in the house and then stored information about
intruders. The system could be armed to dissuade unauthorized
entrance, or to combat intruders inside the residence, or both. When
the primary occupant was in the house, the system could be subdued for
intruders only, allowing free access to any person whom entered through
the designated entrance. The system could also be set up to allow for
relatively easy break in, with multiple defense perimeters set up
inside preventing the intruder from leaving before the authorities
arrived. Under this setting, any person who gained access to the home
without proper authority would have no problem entering the house;
however, a number of traps had been placed for them as the security
system tracked their progress through the flat. The initial three
stages of defense were non-lethal. She'd intimidated Broots into
providing two more lethal layers of defense.
Broots had proven himself to have a great deal of discretion. She had
been forced to open up to him slightly about the events of Kyle's
attack. Surprisingly, both this incident and the recent addition of
Debbie to his household had made the normally skittish man almost
protective and masculine. She laughed softly at the thought of Broots
protecting her from anything more dangerous than a spider and more
tangible than a computer virus, but nonetheless, his attention felt
good. In some small part of her psyche, Miss Parker relished the
little geek and his concern. It felt good to have someone worry about
you and fret over your discomfort. Since her father's disappearance
and subsequent reappearance, Mr. Parker had not spoken more than ten
words to his daughter. None of those were either supportive or caring.
The cold Delaware air still clung to her like a blanket. She cursed
the absence of servants who would have already prepared a fire.
Fortunately, the fireplace was gas and she would have the fire going in
no time. Even if it didn't smell quite as good as the real thing, she
certainly wasn't about to ruin a two hundred dollar blouse just so she
could have some pretty smell.
She stepped across the living room and lit the fireplace with the grace
of the dancer that she was. As the room filled with the orange light
of the fire, she began to nervously scan the shadows. She cursed her
fears and cursed her constant, nagging sense of being followed. No
doubt this was some psychological game of Jarod's to try and show her
what it was like to be chased. She would kill him, just to let him
know what it felt like to mess with her this way. As she went back
towards the kitchen, she turned on every light she passed.
*****
Sea-Tac Airport
Sea-Tac, Washington
1945 hrs, PST
Jarod waited patiently for the Budget Rental and Parking Shuttle Bus to
arrive, counting off in his head the number of possible pretends he
could undertake to solve this latest problem. Each possibility seemed
good at first and yet then would appear to have faults. He reached
under his jacket and pulled the red notebook back out. The tangibility
of the newsprint always anchored him and allowed him to think more. It
was almost as if the newsprint allowed him to somehow communicate with
the mind of the perpetrator and discover his weakness, his
vulnerability. He scanned the article more with his hands than with
his eyes.
***
ELITE TROOPS CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES IN STUNNING JURY DEADLOCK
(Tacoma, Washington) - Sgt. Maxwell Colefield and Pvt. John Crass, each
members of the Army's elite 82nd Airborne brigade, were cleared late
yesterday evening of all wrongdoing in the brutal rape and murder of
Lori Corville, a native of Tacoma, Washington. Lori was brutally
beaten and raped four months ago, following a party being held at Sgt.
Colefield's Lakewood home. She was pronounced dead from a combination
of her injuries and a drug overdose upon arrival at Lakewood General
Hospital.
Witnesses stated that Corville was seen leaving the party with Pvt.
Crass for some period of time around eleven o'clock and then the two of
them returned shortly after midnight. The following morning,
Corville's body was found in the woods, approximately two miles from
Sgt. Colefield's residence.
Trace amounts of rohypnol, the date-rape drug, were found in her
system, along with high levels of methamphetamines and cocaine. Ft.
Lewis medical staff personnel tested the two soldiers, but no drugs
were found in their systems.
Lori is survived by two children: Ryan (7) and Alicia (11). Vernon
Corville, the father of the children, was killed in the Gulf War. The
children are currently at the Lake Steilacoom Children's Home where
they are awaiting the arrival of their grandparents from Tulsa,
Oklahoma.
Authorities are baffled at the jury's indecision. Pierce County
Prosecuting Attorney Jim Elliot cited lack of positive drug tests from
the two suspects as the prime motivating factor for a reasonable doubt
of guilt.
"The defense contested that the perpetrators of this crime had engaged
in drug-related activities with the victim and since the defendants had
no drugs present in their system, they were more than likely not
involved."
Apparently, the jury agreed with this theory enough to bring about a
deadlock. Under Washington State law, a jury deadlock in a murder case
is equivalent to an acquittal.
***
He knew what Ted would have told him. He knew because Ted had been
preaching to him ever since San Antonio. He knew that he should be
still resting and trying to recuperate his shoulder. The sling was
gone, but the arm was still very tender. He knew that he should be
concentrating on the important questions of his life right now. He
knew that those questions included the new addition of Marc to the
Centre's team and the near miss that he had had in San Antonio. Jarod
knew that he should be holed up somewhere sorting all of this out, but
for as much as he knew he should do this, he knew he couldn't. He
needed to be out here, doing what he could to right the wrongs and
atone for his actions while at the Centre. Years of suffering that he
had caused would take years of repayment to achieve atonement. He did
not repay the gods of fate holed up at Ted's hideout in Tennessee,
either. He atoned by work.
The fact that pretending was no less a drug than morphine and that he
was addicted to the rush was the furthest thing from his mind. The
simple reality that he had become bored and restless in Tennessee was
lost to him. He would have vigorously denied that Ted's hidden cabin
in Tennessee had become to feel like a prison, just like the Centre,
just like every place did after a while. He even denied the numerous
accusations of those closest to him that he was a junkie to this game.
Ted, Laura, how many others tried to warn him? He knew that they
underestimated him. Everyone always underestimated him because they
did not understand him. No one ever understood him.
Ted hadn't been pleased when Jarod left, but Jarod knew he'd come
around. If not, Jarod would continue along like he was before --
alone. Anyway, that New York sting went perfectly, so now Jarod knew
that Ted was being too cautious.
The shuttle bus pulled up, drawing Jarod from his thoughts. He boarded
the bus, folding the red notebook back up and placing it in its
accustomed place at the small of his back. As he seated himself, he
glanced across the bus at the giant sitting opposite him. The
elaborate landscape of tattoos covering the man's naked arms was truly
impressive. Jarod smiled slightly at the man, pushing his hand forward
in greeting. "Hello, my name is Jarod."
The overstuffed, painted monolith of a man seated across from him
glanced at Jarod from behind eyes too old for years and shook his hand,
more out of courtesy than desire. "Hey."
"Nice weather, today, isn't it?" Jarod felt an almost morbid
fascination with the man. He almost appeared fictional, like a refugee
from every biker movie ever made.
"Yeah, it's unseasonably warm today."
The word `unseasonably' tugged at Jarod's curiosity. Any thoughts of
ending this conversation vanished from his mind. "Are you from around
here?"
The human icon sitting across from him broke into a resigned smile.
"No, but I guess I've been here long enough to call it home. Name's
Tiny."
"Tiny?" Jarod cocked his head slightly, trying to fathom the
dimensions of the person who had monikered this monstrosity `Tiny'.
Throughout Jarod's pause, Tiny's smile only grew more animated.
A smile finally broke across Jarod's face as he understood. "It's
irony."
Tiny broke out laughing. "Yes, irony it is, Jarod. What brings you to
the Emerald City?"
"Well, actually I was looking for a change of scenery and I thought I'd
try the Lakewood, Tacoma area. I have some old friends I need to look
up out at the Army base."
"Oh, Ft. Lewis?"
"Yes. You've heard of it?"
Tiny broke again into fits of laughter. "Heard of it? Hell, I make my
living off the base. Ever since the 82nd started staging out of Lewis
for PAC Ops I've been raking in the money off those skin-head grease-
balls."
Jarod joined the laughter, but cautiously. "What kind of business are
you in?" Jarod immediately feared that this man may be a drug supplier
for the base and may have some share of the responsibility for Lori's
death.
Tiny beamed at Jarod, seeming to read his thoughts. "No, man, I'm
clean as shit. I run Tiny Tim's House of Horsepower, a performance and
speed shop about two miles off base. I hold the Northwest Five-Liter
Horsepower record of 653 horsepower on juice. That engine ran at full
output for one hour without failing and it still cranks."
Jarod smiled broadly at the impressive feat. He neglected to mention
to Tiny the work he had done at the Centre, which had resulted in 1.8
liter engines outputting over two and a half horsepower per cubic inch
without Nitrous Oxide. "What were you doing out of town?"
"My lead mechanic just up and quit on me. That damn Hendricks
Motorsports Team stole him right out from under my nose. I was
recruiting from a couple of the California schools but I couldn't find
anyone I liked. I guess it's hopeless to think that any of these damn
kids really cares about motors any more. Everything is computers and
chips these days. Damn rocket scientists, every one!
"Say, you don't happen to know anyone with a background in computers,
mechanical engineering and who would be willing to get their hands a
little greasy, do you?" Tiny laughed at the ridiculous nature of the
question.
Jarod didn't join him. The sly, sideways tilt of his head belied his
intentions. "I might know someone who could help you. . . ."
*****
Tiny Tim's House of Horsepower
Lakewood, Washington
2045 hrs PST
The large performance shop appeared suddenly in the raked windshield of
the very rare 455 cubic inch Formula Trans-Am. Tiny piloted the
grossly overpowered car with the skill of a stock car driver and the
reactions of a drag racer. Jarod was truly impressed not only with the
driving skills of his new employer but also with the incredible
mechanical work that he had done on the late seventies muscle car. The
pure scream of the Flowmaster exhaust system had an erotic quality and
Jarod couldn't have wiped the smile from his face with a Brillo pad.
Tiny hammered the four-speed transmission down two gears and the car
came to a precise, measured stop in front of the shop. The large man
laughed heartily and jumped out of the car. As Jarod climbed out, he
could hear the popping sounds of the rapidly cooling engine. He took a
small sniff of the air and surprisingly didn't smell the telltale scent
of unburned fuel normal in a high output engine driven hard and then
immediately stopped.
Tiny watched his new prospect with some degree of caution and interest.
He hadn't survived twenty years in the Angels by ignoring his intuition
and he had a really good feeling about this guy. The coincidence
surrounding his sudden appearance and the nature of this great
opportunity for his business made him nervous, but sometimes things
like that happened. Anyway, he would be able to tell here in about ten
minutes whether or not Jarod would work out. Bob Young was waiting for
his 327 `Vette and since Gerald left, Tiny hadn't had a chance to
finish up with it. Maybe this guy would at least save him from a night
of working alone.
The two of them entered the retail area of the shop and Jarod's face
lit up as he scanned the brilliant displays of chrome and stainless
steel performance parts and aftermarket kits. As Tiny took his duffel
bag around behind the counter, Jarod began to absently roam the aisles
picking up different kits and parts. He tested each part in his hands,
scanned each box briefly and then returned it to the proper place.
Tiny watched the strange man with interest. Passingly, he wondered if
the guy had ever seen this stuff before. Suddenly, the chances of this
guy working out began to dwindle.
"Hey, J-man, come here."
Jarod perked up and wandered back over to the counter where Tiny had
pulled out the shop clipboard. Jarod's head dropped slightly as he
scanned the page listing the seven outstanding work orders for the
shop. With a bird-like twist of his head, he brought his gaze quickly
back to Tiny. "Yes?"
"We've still got to go through the interview process and all."
Jarod smiled, "Of course. Well, I was trained at the Orlando. . ."
"I'm not interested in that, J-bird. I want you to show me what you
can do. All the schools in the world won't make an engine work. I
want to see you do something."
Jarod continued to smile broadly. Without averting his gaze from Tiny,
Jarod recalled the most outstanding work order on the sheet. "Which
car? I see that Bob Young's 1965 Corvette still needs the top end to
be rebuilt and the engine re-installed. I think I can have it ready by
pick-up time tomorrow morning." Jarod knew he could have it ready.
He'd rebuilt a wrecked CART engine in less time and this would be less
than half the work that had been.
Tiny didn't miss a beat. "Either you're a psychic or a speed reader.
Whatever, you know what you have to do. I'm going to order a pizza,
you care what's on it?"
Jarod absently shook his head and removed his jacket. Tiny saw that
under the expensive leather jacket, the guy had a rock hard physique.
He was probably one of those martial arts guys. Tiny continued to
watch the strange, dark man walking towards the door to the shop area
and his working interview. The guy moved like a panther. Tiny had
been the head of the West Coast Hell's Angels for two years in the late
seventies. He'd seen only a few guys that moved like that and every
one of them was a stone-cold killer. Jarod was as hard as they came.
Tiny had a very good feeling indeed.
*****
SL-9, Office E-3
The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
2359 hrs EST
The man who wore fear and intimidation like an evening coat sat heavily
behind his polished black desk. Omar was there, of course, but his
other lackeys were gone for the night. Omar was the only one allowed
in his office at this hour.
The simple act of comfortably sitting, much like the act of breathing,
had been taken from him. The pain, however, was beginning to lessen
each day. The skin grafts were healing slowly, promising a hard,
callused surface that would protect his tender, frail body more
effectively than his scabbing. He faintly remembered his days before
pain and his life before hatred, but that was more like a fairy tale
told about a time long since past. His world had moved on and such
simple comforts were not for men like him. He didn't need them.
William Raines knew he would be in hell one day because he knew he was
in some part of hell now. What he had done over the years would not be
forgotten and it never could be forgiven. Retribution had come early.
He accepted this and relished the power that it gave him. Twice the
fires of hell had raged about him. Twice had he been singed, scarred
and nearly destroyed. Twice had he survived those fires to walk again.
Repentance was the furthest thing from his mind.
As the precision digital clock on his desk marked the end of one day
and the beginning of the next, Mr. Raines sat behind his desk and
turned on his computer. Sleep still hours away, he wanted to review
some case files before he put an official end to the day. There was so
much that his incapacitation had caused him to miss and he was still
just catching up. Most of the damage caused by his absence had been
repaired, but a few projects still needed his complete attention. Not
Project Icarus, though. Project Icarus was going perfectly and the
final game was now at hand. He wished that the rest of his life could
be so easy.
As the screen came up, the initial batch files unknowingly loaded a
video clip. Raines' password prompt came up and as the shell of a once
vital human being typed in the cryptic password he had used for twenty
years, NEXTLIFE, the video clip immediately sprang up on the screen.
A flat, droning singer began to mumble over a poorly drawn cartoon
picture of a small town. "Goin' on down to South Park, Goin' have
ourselves a good time."
"What is this?" Raines growled, a sound that brought Omar flying around
the desk.
"Uh, ah, I don't know sir. I'll have it stopped though!" Omar turned
to fly out of the room, but Raines stopped him.
"No, I want to see this."
The singer stopped and suddenly the screen showed the poor caricatures
of small children standing at a snow-covered school bus stop. He
recognized the children's poorly drawn faces: Bridgett, Marc, Jarod,
Kyle and another boy Raines didn't immediately recognize. The only
difference in the caricatures was that Jarod was drawn grossly
overweight and Kyle's figure had a hood drawn tightly around his head.
"Hey, how'd you guys find me here?" Jarod's voice was insanely
garbled, almost impossible to understand.
Marc turned ninety degrees and answered him. "Dumb ass, as fat as you
are it was easy!"
The other children chimed in with a chorus of, "Yeah!"
"Shut up! I am not fat! My mom says that I'm gravitationally
challenged!"
The unrecognizable boy joined in the jesting, "Yeah, well, your mom is
a crack whore! Say, Marc, are you finally going to kiss Bridgett
today?"
Bridgett turned ninety degrees towards Marc and echoed the sentiment
with her puckered lips. Marc turned, looked at her, and threw up on
her face. Bridgett quickly responded. "Eeeew!"
From the right of the screen, a caricature of Mr. Raines, complete with
a squeaking oxygen tank and two sweepers, moved laterally across the
screen. The caricature's legs apparently did not move when they
walked, the figures simply bobbed across the landscape.
The Kyle caricature mumbled something completely unintelligible.
Jarod seemed to understand him though and he shouted a warning to the
others, "Look out! It's Mr. Spooky!"
All of the children began to fidget and bob about in fear. The voice
of Mr. Raines' caricature was eerily good. "You're coming back to the
Centre with me, Jarod."
Suddenly the Kyle figure plunged towards the Raines figure. The Raines
figure opened his mouth and a column of flame shot out, engulfing Kyle.
He was instantly burnt to a skeletal husk.
In his office, Mr. Raines involuntarily chuckled.
The figure of the unknown boy turned ninety degrees towards Raines and
screamed, "You killed Kyle! You bastard!"
It was Jarod who calmed him down, "Yeah, but that was a pretty bitchin'
flame thing, huh?"
The other kids all nodded their assent and suddenly the death of Kyle
was forgotten.
A school bus pulled up, moving laterally from right to left, blocking
the view of the children. On the side of the school bus, the words
"The Centre" stood in stark contrast to the bland, unadorned drawing of
the bus.
The view changed quickly to the bus driver, a caricature of Miss
Parker. "Let's go, I'm not getting any younger."
"Or prettier," the caricature of the mystery boy said under his breath.
"What the hell did you just say?" Miss Parker shot back at him.
"Ah, I said, `Oh, a pretty deer'. See, over there! Oh, it's gone
now."
"Okay." The thick smoke of a cigarette hung over Miss Parker's
caricature.
The scene switched back to the kids by the stop sign. Only the strange
boy had gotten on the bus. Bridgett and Marc grabbed Jarod and began
to force him into the bus. "Move it, Lard Ass!"
Suddenly, the cartoon sounds of machine gun fire erupted and the
caricatures of Raines, Bridgett, the Sweepers, and Marc began to
disintegrate into a bloody mess of body parts and bullets. The scene
shifted back to the bus, and Miss Parker, now headless, was draped over
the steering wheel. The unknown boy was holding a ridiculously large
machine gun at his hip. The barrel was still smoking.
"Come on, Jarod, let's go!"
The overweight caricature of Jarod jumped up into the bus and started
back towards the back of the bus. Already sitting in the back seat was
the Kyle caricature, perfectly healthy.
"Hey!" Jarod whined. "How come Kyle's alive again?"
The other boy, now shoving Miss Parker's headless body out of the bus,
turned back to Jarod. "Oh, he dies in every episode, but he always
comes back."
Jarod accepted this with a simple, "Oh."
The scene changed to the school bus pulling off down the street, Kyle
and Jarod playing catch with Miss Parker's severed head in the back
window. The sign on the back of the bus said `The End.'
As the bus rode off into the scene, words began to scroll across the
screen, but instead of credits for the rather poor production, the
words were a message.
Thank you, my friend, for watching our show
But now I'm afraid that it's time to go.
It's been real fun
But my program is done
And your files are gone, don't cha know.
Raines let out a startled growl and tried to hit a key on his computer,
but the machine was locked up. It took Technical only thirty seconds
to return function to the computer, but it was too late: all files
regarding Jarod and Kyle had been erased from his computer.
Raines fumed, white hot rage just below the surface, "Get me the tape
backups, NOW!"
Omar rushed out of the office to the data storage areas.
*****
SL-27, Room 155
Thank you, Friendjarod. Friendjarod make Angelo happy, make Angelo
warm and funny. Friendjarod give Angelo sweets. Friendjarod good.
[Where is the backup?]
Badman! No Badman! No can tell Angelo. No, Badman not say because
Angelo no see Badman, only hear Badman. If Angelo no see Badman, only
hear Badman, then Friendjarod say it okay. Friendjarod say no see
Badman, no worry. Angelo know Friendjarod say good to Angelo.
Friendjarod never hurt Angelo, Badman hurt Angelo.
Yes, Friendjarod, tapes safe now. No more Timmy now and only
PrettyParker talk to Timmy. PrettyParker not go to Timmyhouse. Tape
safe in Timmyhouse, safe with Friendjarod papers. Angelo make big
present for Friendjarod when he come home. Friendjarod bring Angelo a
sweet and Angelo have a present for Friendjarod.
[Give me back the tapes! If I catch you stealing my tapes I'll punish
you. I'll hurt you, Angelo! Remember that I made Timmy die and I can
make Angelo die. Angelo, I don't die. You tried to kill me once
before, remember? I don't die, but Angelo can. Give me my tapes!]
No, Badman! Badman no hurt Angelo. Angelo no see Badman, Badman no
can hurt Angelo. Friendjarod say so. Angelo believe Friendjarod.
Friendjarod and Friendkyle only friend for Angelo. Angelo like
Friendjarod and Friendkyle.
Sweets. Sweets good. Mmmmmmm.
later.>
Why, Friendjarod, sweets now, please?
Okay, Friendjarod, Angelo go Angelohome, go sleep now. Badman no find
Angelo hiding or Badman make Angelo hurt when Angelo can see not when
Angelo can hear.
*****
SL-9, Office E-3
Omar re-entered the office and immediately Raines knew what his trusted
assistant was about to tell him. The three tape backups for his
computer were missing. Someone in the Centre had just signed their own
death warrant by deciding to side against him. He would make it his
personal mission to see them fed to the animals in the `Zoo'.
Omar began to speak, but Raines waved him off. He didn't need to hear
the bad news. It was almost as if the verbal confirmation of this
disaster would eliminate some chance that a spare copy might be found
somewhere. The answer to this question lay within the identity of the
mystery child in the cartoon. Raines almost thought he knew who that
face belonged to, but he just couldn't place it. It infuriated him.
Whether or not Jarod had sent this particular virus, he could not be
acting alone in this endeavor since Jarod was in the Seattle area right
now. Someone on the inside must be helping him, but who? Was that
mystery boy here at the Centre? Raines sincerely hoped so.
The idea surfaced three times before he gave it any real credence. The
only reason that he allowed it time to breathe was that it kept re-
surfacing. Was it somehow possible that Angelo could be working for
Jarod? Angelo had no emotions, no ability to create moral judgement.
He would have no reason to help Jarod when there was no positive or
negative reinforcement to cause him to do so. It just wasn't possible,
but then again, what if it was?
"Where is Angelo?"
Omar was surprised at the request. "In his space, I guess."
Raines' voice lowered to a dangerous tone, "You guess or you know?"
Omar recognized his error and immediately moved towards the door to
find out. Raines followed him out of the office, towards the elevator
to SL-25.
*****
SL-25 `The Zoo'
As Raines and Omar strode down the east wing of Sublevel 25, both were
secretly glad that the hour made the resident members of The Zoo more
compliant. What neither of them knew was that Raines' oxygen tank
squeaking down the hallway put such a fear into the once human
creatures living down here that they would have been quiet no matter
what time it was. Whether it was the electro-shock machine, the med-
tray or the personnel transporter, every source of evil that these
unfortunate creatures were forced to deal with moved on similarly
squeaky wheels. Each creature silently thanked the noise as it moved
further down the long hallway.
The last room on the wing was reserved for Angelo. Raines slowed
slightly to allow Omar access to the door. Omar and Raines both had
keys to the room but Omar never questioned whether Raines himself
wanted to open the door. Omar swung the door open and the two of them
looked in on Angelo. The empath was quietly sitting in the far corner
of his room, rocking back and forth. The stench of the open sewer
wafted up at them and neither Raines nor Omar had any inclination
towards entering the room.
The two of them closed the door and began the long walk back up the
hallway in silence.
They didn't see the number of eyes peering out trying to get some
glimpse of which one of the `animals' was going to be the unfortunate
lab rat today.
*****
149th Street Station
The Bronx
New York, New York
February 24, 1998 0510 EST
Leonard knew, from nearly forty years of selling the news to the
commuters of the greatest city in the civilized world, that when the
"New York Times" delivery truck rolled by his stand after 5 A.M.,
something big was up. Something had caused the perpetually running
presses to stop and he knew that it wasn't the score from the Knicks
game last night. Something big was coming down, so when the truck
barely slowed to toss his three bundles of papers, the first thing
Leonard did was read the front page. Honestly, though, the picture on
the front page would have made him read it anyway: the picture was of
him and his newsstand.
***
KILLER ANGEL STALKS NEW YORK
FBI'S NUMBER ONE WANTED MAN SEEN IN NEW YORK, THREE LEFT DEAD IN HIS
WAKE
(UP/AP - New York) The man currently atop the FBI's Top Ten Most
Wanted list was spotted yesterday in Uptown New York. Two transit
policemen and a City Subway Engineer were left dead in the wake of his
visit. Sgt. Peter Dailey and Sgt. Michael O'Reilly were found shot to
death in the Number 2 Red line subway train number 4456 and Chief
Engineer Steve Rendall, a veteran of over twenty years service in the
Subway, was found crushed by the same train. Immediately following the
gangland style massacre of these three city servants, the infamous
Killer Angel was photographed leaving the 149th Street subway tunnel.
He is wanted by police for questioning in association with these and
other crimes.
The Killer Angel first struck about eighteen months ago in Queens, at
Queen Of Mercy Hospital, where he duped a surgeon into performing heart
bypass surgery on the perfectly healthy Head of Surgery. The Killer
Angel had used heart-stopping drugs to mimic heart failure, thus
causing the perceived heart attack. The head surgeon died of
complications following the incident.
This started a cross-country binge of murder and mayhem, with federal
authorities always one step behind the strange killer. He has been on
the FBI's most wanted list for over one year, but due to the very
elusive nature of this killer and his rather curious operating habits,
the Government did not want to throw the nation into a panic. The time
for discretion has passed, however, and police are asking for all
citizens to help them catch this maniac.
The Killer Angel is a genius with the ability to blend in with any walk
of society. He is a veritable chameleon who usually tries to blend in
with his surroundings, often befriending his prey before he strikes.
His usual victims are downtrodden, poor or unintelligent people who
have recently fallen victim to some other great tragedy. The Killer
Angel consoles them, tries to right their perceived wrong, and then
kills them.
Noted Behaviorist Dimitri Klashinov of the Center for Enhanced Natural
Talents Research and Experimentation reported that he had seen this
type of behavior before: "Apparently the Killer Angel takes people who
have no hope and he restores their hope and their belief in the world.
Then, once he has made them value life the most, he robs them of it,
cruelly killing them when life is most important to them."
This chameleon rarely returns to the same cities; however, even this MO
seems to have changed as he has revisited both Miami and New York in
the last few months. The Killer Angel is believed to be responsible
for the deaths of at least twenty-six people, which makes him the third
most prolific serial killer in U.S. History.
The Killer Angel uses many aliases, though he almost always uses the
first name of Jarod. It is believed that his real name may be Jarod
Russell, though authorities are not sure since there is no record of a
Jarod Russell fitting the description of the Angel.
Authorities are asking all citizens to be watchful of this dangerous
killer: he is to be considered armed and dangerous. He has routinely
posed as an FBI agent or local Police officer and is responsible for
the death of six peace officers. If you see this man, police ask you
to be calm and report him immediately. Do not attempt to approach this
man. Do not befriend this man. He is perhaps the most dangerous con
man in history and has created phony backgrounds that can withstand the
most severe scrutiny.
***
Leonard scanned the rest of the article, which included background
information and other information on the various deaths that this man
was responsible for. Leonard read the article for a second time and
vaguely became aware that a crowd was forming. A couple of people had
picked up their own papers and quickly scanned the front picture,
surprised to find their favorite newsie handing a paper to the most
wanted man in America.
Leonard had to look at the picture four times to be sure that there was
no doubt: the picture was of him passing that Tacoma News Tribune to
Jarod Belmont yesterday. Leonard had never knowingly handed a paper to
a member of the FBI's famous Top Ten list, but he knew that Jarod
didn't belong on it. He wasn't so sure about the man who had given him
the paper to pass on to Jarod. That man either belonged on the FBI's
list or he belonged writing it, Leonard just wasn't sure which. Maybe
appearances were deceiving. They did claim Jarod was a con, after all.
Then again, maybe the newspaper lied.
Leonard wasn't sure which. . . .
