Land of the Blind, Part 18
18 – Fathom
It was the start of a wonderful day. It always was when you spent an hour at a crime scene in handcuffs.
The Federal Way cops didn’t seem to like him. The lead detective on the scene, a guy named Guldbrandsen, the one who had the cuffs slapped on him out of what seemed to be pure malice, kept giving him the stink eye, and kept asking him for the full story of what he found and why he’d come here, clearly thinking he was lying.
As he sat in the back of a squad car, the door open so he could sit half in and half out of the car, waiting for this idiocy to end, an Asian beat cop so young he barely looked old enough to be served in a bar came over to lean on the car. “You’re McKichan, aren’t you? I read that article about you. Hell of a picture, man.”
“So I noticed. Can you tell them who I am so they can get the cuffs off me?”
The kid, whose name was Park, grimaced painfully. “I think they know who you are, that’s why you have the cuffs on.”
Yeah, that figured. Why’d he ever think differently?
Finally they released him from the cuffs, and he was let go. They no longer thought he was responsible for murdering Hockney, or they did think he had but couldn’t prove it. Guldbrandsen told him not to leave the state, and while Roan wondered who would be stupid enough to murder someone and call the cops, he remembered he may have actually arrested one of those people once.
No one told him anything, although his own perusal of the scene before the cops arrived told him whoever did this was very professional, and didn’t even try to make it look like a robbery. (Of course, the guy was a slob, so it could have been a subtle robbery.) He had the drugs in no obvious area, but Roan hadn’t even smelled any, although to be fair, over the smell of death, blood, unwashed laundry, and feet, he might not be able to pick up the scent of the drugs. But he wasn’t picking up that overwhelming chemical smell, which he was sure he would if tainted burn had been here or had been made here. Perhaps the chemicals were so dangerous they made it elsewhere; that would make sense. Clever meth cookers did just that.
He needed caffeine, so he drove to a near by coffee place, and he sat in the car in the parking lot and called Holden. He was beginning to think something was wrong – four rings and no response? Weird – but before he could fully panic, Holden picked up and answered with a sleepy, “Yeah?”
“How’d you get Pierce’s address?”
“How’d you know it wasn’t Dylan?”
“’Cause it wasn’t.”
He made an amused noise, and Roan could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Pierce sent a proxy to meet you, but he didn’t admit to being a proxy. So I took his phone and ID, and used a reverse directory to find him.”
“Just like that?”
“You really want the gory details?” Holden sounded so pleased with himself he was almost purring. That was the thing about Holden: he liked having power over other people. As much as being a hooker took power away from you, Holden managed to maintain a great deal by being smarter than anyone thought. He liked people to think he was a dumb hooker, so he could revel in his triumph over them. It was a motivating factor in much of what he did. He came off like he didn’t care much of the time, but honestly he was a budding supervillain.
“No, I’ll just imagine and hope I’m wrong. So who was the proxy?”
“Joe Cullen. He lives downtown, in the Pennington apartment complex, 12-C.”
“Is it too much to hope you memorized this?”
“What, I don’t get to keep a little souvenir?”
“Look, this may have turned dangerous. I just paid a visit to Hockney, and I found him dead. He was murdered execution style, and I’d say he’d been dead for a couple of hours.”
“Shit.” Now Holden sounded more sober and less high on his own cleverness. “You don’t think there’s a connection, do you? I mean between me taking Joe’s stuff and Pierce ending up dead?”
“No, but I really don’t like it. I’m gonna go check on Cullen now, and I want you to watch yourself. I can come visit afterwards, or you can go hang around with some of your leather friends.”
“Actually Doug’s in town. I was gonna go visit him in a couple hours.”
Ah, the airline pilot who liked being tied up and whipped. “Maybe you should go visit him early.”
“I could hang out in the hotel cafe, get a mimosa. Sounds good. Call me when you find anything out.”
“Will do. If you get a bad feeling about anything, call me.” Not that he had much to worry about with Holden, he could take care of himself. As long as they weren’t cops setting upon him with tasers and nightsticks.
He sat drinking his frothy mocha, which tasted more like cocoa than anything else, but gave him a good hit of caffeine. What did this all mean? So there was a drug out there, deliberately killing infecteds. Less than twenty four hours after he got the name of the guy who was distributing the drug on church grounds, the guy was found dead. Was there a mole in the church? Did someone pass the information on to whoever was behind it, and they had the guy killed before Roan could confront him? That might play in a bad crime thriller, but usually no pawn had that much knowledge of the top man to be worth the problem of killing. Usually the good drug ops ran like the NSA, with no lower peon knowing any more than they needed to know.
In that case, was it unrelated and coincidental? He really didn’t like coincidences, especially violent ones. Could it have been a warning for him? A ‘back off, infected’ ? Pawns were made to be sacrifices; that’s why they were called pawns.
He went to Cullen’s apartment, a very standard one that was just starting to show signs of going to seed, and Roan caught a glimpse of a man on the ground floor who was starting to step out of his place, but as soon as he saw Roan, he stared, and then suddenly jumped back inside the apartment and slammed the door. Who the hell was that? Somebody he arrested once? Actually, maybe. He didn’t remember them all, but he’d discovered they generally remembered him. One guy who was actually sanguine about it told him he remembered him because of his weird hair color (of course), and the fact that Roan had “the eeriest eyes I have ever seen”. He didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult, and never asked for clarification. Some things you were better off not knowing.
Cullen wasn’t home, and Roan was careful to sniff, to see if he could pick up a scent of blood, death, or cordite. He didn’t, so assumed the guy had a more standard day job or something. Rather than leave a note, he left, determined to return later. If he wasn’t home then, he just might see how good his lock picking skills were.
Back in the car, he called Dropkick, who picked up on the second ring. “What now, Angus?” she sighed.
“Need a favor,” he admitted, trying to win some honesty points. “I was just at a homicide scene in Federal Way, victim named Pierce Hockney. I need any kind of info you have on it when you get it, okay? This is important.”
“And illegal as fuck.”
“Granted. But I’m trying to track down the makers of the tainted burn, and he was in the loop. I’m wondering if his death is related.”
She paused long enough that he knew he had piqued her homicide detective interest. “To the burn trade? Or something else?”
“My mind is open at this point.”
“What do you know? Share.”
“I would if I could. All I know is the chemical in the burn is way too sophisticated to have been accidental or a byproduct of production.”
“I’ve heard of that. So it’s confirmed?”
“Very much so.”
She sighed wearily. “How much easier would our lives be if this was all accidental?”
“So much.” After a polite pause, he asked, “How are you doing?”
“Okay. I’d ask you how you are, but I heard what happened at the campus the other day, so I’m not gonna.”
“Coward.”
“I am. And busy. Can I call you back?”
“Chief coming over?”
“Uh huh.”
“Right. Good luck.”
They all needed some luck right now. Especially infecteds, but that was probably a given.
He was looking up what he could on Joe Cullen on his laptop when he got a call. He was hoping it was Dropkick, but it was a caller he hadn’t expected. “Hey Roan, what’re you doing right now?”
It was Scott. He looked at his phone doubtfully, even though Scott couldn’t see him, and said, “Working on something. Why?”
“Join us for lunch. We’re at the Tiki Hut, and Grey is determined to get you into the gym and teach some of the younger defensemen how to fight properly.”
He sighed heavily. “I can’t. I’ll say it a million times: I can’t spar with Humans anymore. I fractured someone’s skull with one punch, and I was trying to go easy on him. I can’t judge my strength anymore.” He didn’t say that when he meant to go hard, he put his fist right through a skull. It wasn’t something he liked to think about.
“I’ll grant you, that’s pretty bad.”
“No shit.”
“But you can still join us for lunch.”
“It’s a nice offer, but -”
“You owe me. Come by.”
Okay, yes, he did, but he never thought he’d call him on it, or at least not in such a meager way. As it was, his trolling for Joe wasn’t turning up anything useful, so he had little to do but wait for Cullen to show up, or go grill Bolt again, but he had a feeling that was less than useless. If there was a mole in the church, then he had to think of a way to play him (or her), make them expose themselves. He was just going to have to think of a way to make that happen.
The Tiki Hut was one of those deliberately cheesy restaurants that wanted to seem fun and camp, but tried way too damn hard. There was lots of fake dried grass fringe, little figures of hula girls and boys, small tiki head decorations mimicking the larger one that sat in the corner of the dining room, wearing oversized novelty sunglasses and a multicolored lei around its nonexistent neck. The staff all wore Hawaiian shirts, and half looked mortified by it.
At a large table near the back of the room, Grey, Scott, Tank, and Jeff were sharing what looked like a platter of pineapple chicken and some kind of salad, and while he kind of expected it, no one was drinking beer. There seemed to be a preponderance of water, tea, and soda. Must have been a game tonight, or just a practice skate.
As he neared the table, Scott stood up, and said, “Hey, just in time to help me get a new pitcher from the bar.”
“They don’t have waiters for that?” he replied, but he knew that this was a ruse for some reason.
“You make a guest work? That’s just rude,” Tank said.
Roan gave them a sarcastic wave as he walked past, and the guys all waved back, except for Jeff, who for some reason gave him the black power salute. Maybe he meant it as just a power salute, or it was a gesture he just wasn’t familiar with.
At the bar, which was covered with the faux bamboo that the rest of the place was lousy with, the attractive dark haired, dark eyed bartender instantly appeared, eying Scott like a tasty snack. He asked for another pitcher of ice tea with lemon and lime slices, and while she agreed readily, she added, “You could have asked your server, you know.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to stretch my legs a bit,” he said, as a new customer appeared at the end of the bar, and the woman had to wander away.
Roan looked at him. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
Scott gave him a look he could only describe as melancholy. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. Last time we saw you, you were in pretty shitty shape.”
He nodded in agreement. “It wasn’t a shining moment for me. But I’m trying to hold it together.”
“Look, I’m not gonna preach at you, ’cause I’m the last person that should, but you need to get some help.”
Roan gave him a modified stink eye. “Help for what?”
“Whatever’s going on with you. I’m guessing depression, which I know all about. I spent most of my teen years splitting my time between hockey and therapy.”
He studied him warily. Scott was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt (not hockey related, unless you considered Molson beer a vital part of hockey), and looked more normal than he’d ever seen him, and it was almost weird. The same was true of Grey, who was wearing an under armor shirt as opposed to a t-shirt, and since it was essentially sleeveless, it showed off not only how well muscled his arms were, like limbs of sculpted concrete, but a new tattoo on his right bicep (it looked like a rose). Tank was wearing a mustard yellow t-shirt that had on it, in big white letters, ‘I Kick Ass For Free’, which Roan was willing to bet team members bought him. Tank always looked odd – again, like the French Canadian, jock Lane Staley – but he still seemed more at home than almost anyone else, even the poor employees in their Hawaiian shirts. Again, how did he end up with these weirdos? “So you’re a depressive too? Why? You’re a gorgeous bi jock – the world is made for your kind. Minus the bi, but keep that on the down low and you’re golden.”
He smirked. “I am. But I know you’re joking. Depression is a chemical imbalance, not logical.”
“Yeah, I know. So do you take anti-depressants?”
“Oh fuck no. The side effects fucked up my game. I’ve found other ways to cope. Sex is great.”
“That it is.” He noticed Scott smiling at him, and asked, “That wasn’t a come on, was it?”
Scott shrugged. “I’m gonna bag you one of these days. I always get what I want.”
“That why you’re such an arrogant bastard?”
That surprised a loud, genuine laugh out of him, and he slapped him on the back in a friendly way, but it was still hard enough to make him jolt. “Awesome. You’re like the coolest guy I’ve ever met, you know that? You’re like Tank, you’re fearless. And not in a bullshit, extreme sports kind of way, but in a genuine “who gives a fuck” kind of way. That’s rare.”
“You just compared me to Tank?” Again, was that an insult or a compliment? Really it could have gone either way.
“I know, he’s crazy, but he’s also a legend in the making. He has more natural talent than anyone I’ve ever played with; he’s gonna make it out. Most of us minor league players will never graduate to the NHL, but I know he’s going, because he’s too good to stay. And when he gets in, he’ll be a superstar. Or as close to a superstar as a goalie ever gets. And that’s how you’re like him: you’re a legend in the making. I’m gonna tell my grandkids about knowing you, and knowing him. You have it harder, though, it’s never easy being a trailblazer, as you take all the shit that the people coming up behind you will never take, but know that to many people you are and will be a hero.”
Roan scoffed. “Some hero.”
“So you’re not always heroic? So what? No one can be. That isn’t the point. You’re an infected who refused to become a hermit just because society is scared of you and treats your kind like dangerous lepers. That’s a bravery few have, and you’re clearing a path for others to follow behind you. You’re not gonna be perfect, you’re gonna fuck up, but none of that negates the fact that you’re the first. So when you get down, try and remember that you have a smoking hot guy who loves you, a ton of people who need and admire you, and a great looking dude who’d be happy to fuck you stupid. That’s more than most people have.”
He looked at him dubiously. “Let me guess. You’re the dude?”
Scott kept smirking, but it was almost a smile. “See any other great looking guys here?”
He was partially joking, but Roan decided to think about it. “Well, Tank’s pretty cute, if you go for that type.”
“Sir, you wound me,” he replied, almost laughing.
He felt like he had a rebuttal for nearly everything Scott had said about him, but he had a feeling Scott would rebut his rebuttals. There was something about him that suggested you could give him nonsense, but he’d swat it right back at you without breaking a sweat. You couldn’t make an argument he couldn’t counter in one way or another. “You’re a good Captain, aren’t you?”
“I try. I treat all my guys the same, even those that I’d happily shove in front of a bus.”
“Are there a lot of those?”
“Let’s put it this way: those guys back there, I can imagine being friends with them still in five years,” he said, jerking his head back towards the table. “But they’re pretty much it.”
“Even Zach?”
“Ah, poor Zach,” he replied, as the bartender returned with a sweaty glass pitcher, jingling with ice. “I love that kid, but hockey’s gonna eat him alive.”
He was pretty sure he knew what he meant. He seemed like a sweet kid, but that was the problem – sometimes sweetness hurt more than helped. In this world, you needed a little animal in you to see you through.
Ah, so that’s what he had in common with Tank.
He enjoyed some pineapple chicken and lemon lime tea with the guys, who talked about a lot of things, none of them important or involved with death. It turned out that Jeff had seen Milk, and he felt the raised fist thing was like a gay power salute. That made Roan laugh until he was almost crying, and the other guys did too. Even Jeff joined in when he stopped being annoyed. He couldn’t deny it – these guys often made him feel better, even when they didn’t mean to. And some of what Scott said was still sticking with him, still rattling inside the empty cave that was his skull. He had made some very valid points.
There was an evening skate, and they invited him to come by and get in a trash talking contest with them (they were inviting heckling; was this a macho guy thing, or a macho team sports thing?) when his phone rang. It was Dropkick, so he excused himself and stepped outside to answer it.
“Hey Dropkick. Got something for me?”
“Yeah. It’s not solid, it’s tentative, but if it’s true, you’re fucked.”
“How is that news?” With a sigh, he asked, “What is it?”
“It seems the gun used to kill Hockney might be the same exact kind – if not the same exact one – used in a few drug murders throughout Washington, all connected to a Mexican gang that calls itself Demonios Sin Miedo, DSM for short.”
“Demons Without Fear? Very dramatic.”
“You get what this might mean, right?”
“Hockney was white.”
“The majority of the victims have been white and Asian; there’s only two Hispanics on the victim list so far, and only one was non-resident. We’re not sure if they’re trying to move in on someone else’s territory or have been using people of other ethnic extractions as low level stringers, but if the Feds know they’re not sharing that information with us.”
“Oh shit. The Feds are in on this?”
“On the DSM case, big time. If Hockney’s one of the vics, they’re gonna take the investigation.”
“Fuck.” The Federal guys weren’t big on sharing with anyone. Unless it was blame, then they were more than happy to spread the wealth.
But there were worse things. If Hockney was somehow connected to DSM, and the DSM were supplying the burn, it was the infected who were fucked most of all. There’d be no finding the source, not any time soon, and there’d be no containing it either. Tainted burn would start spreading out worldwide; it would go global. All infected stupid enough to take it would pay the price.
And he’d be unable to do anything about it, except watch them all die.