Flicker & Burn: A Cold Fury Novel (21 page)

GetUrLicksIn:
Perfect day tomorrow for sunshine and S-C at Wrigley Field!

IscreamUscream:
MKK fans are pumped! Go Cubbies!

MeltMyHeart:
Forget the Cubbies—go S-C!

AbeFroman:
Be careful, S-J.

SuperScooper:
Hey, Sausage King of Chicago . . . typo! You mean S-C!

MeltMyHeart:
Sausage and soft serve?! Eww . . .

IceQueen:
With S-C, I never crave encased meat anymore! Miraculous!

I stared at it—
Abe Froman!
—as blood rushed in my ears like Niagara Falls. There was only one person in the world who knew that name would mean something to me. It was Lou’s favorite part of
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

It meant that he was still alive.

I was so flooded with love that I nearly wilted from enervation, like a battery running dry, but shook it off as an urgent thought came to mind—it also meant he knew I was going to the Cubs game. For Lou, the scene in which Ferris impersonates Abe Froman is a perfect cinematic example of taking a risk to seize an opportunity. His message seemed to acknowledge that I was about to do that, as if he were being informed of my plans. But how, and how had he gained access to a computer? I touched the keyboard, hesitated, and then used Doug’s online name.

HotDoug:
AbeFroman is right! MKK fans—be careful at the game! S-C is not for all!

IscreamUscream:
Only the enlightened few! Like ex-alcoholics!

IceQueen:
Regretful potheads!

MeltMyHeart:
Former fatties!

HotDoug:
Thanks for the thoughtful reminder, Froman! You must have lots of friends!

I drummed my fingers impatiently, heard the
ping!
and read:

AbeFroman:
One friend in particular, whom I’m with now.

MeltMyHeart:
Boyfriend or girlfriend? Come on, Froman. Share!

IceQueen:
MKK fans share everything! Especially life-changing S-C!

AbeFroman:
Can’t say.

MeltMyHeart:
Froman’s shy! Loosen up, Abe! You need some S-C on a sugar cone!

AbeFroman:
Can’t because I don’t know. Impossible to tell.

IscreamUscream:
Sounds like some other MKK fans I know!

AbeFroman:
Signing off. Friend must go, right now. Please be careful, S-J.

SuperScooper:
Instead of the Sausage King, Froman’s the typo king!

A crackle of electricity crossed my shoulders, and I attacked the keyboard.

HotDoug:
You be careful too, Froman. If I could say thank you in German, I would.

My eyes held the screen, nearly dilating, and then a tiny
ping!
as I read:

AbeFroman:
It’s danke schoen, like the song. I still sing it now and then with my parents.

My parents
—the most beautiful words I’d ever read; Lou confirming that all three of them were still alive. I inhaled tears, swallowed them away, and looked over at Johnny’s slumping form, one hand wrapped around the glass of water. I eased him back and turned off all of the lights. The room was enveloped in grayness, the only illumination rising from the city far below. I gazed out the window, feeling the cutting loss of Max combined with the deficit of Doug. For every step forward I took to find my family, I’d taken two steps back in losing the other people who were part of me.

I cracked all ten knuckles percolating with a perfect hatred for Juan Kone.

Love could wait.

SATURDAY MORNING I CLICKED AWAKE LIKE
an alarm clock, fully alert to my surroundings and what the day could hold. I spoon-fed Johnny cereal and helped him guzzle more water like a big pliant baby as he gazed past me. Afterward I secured him (cuffed but comfortable) to the couch. At the last minute, I scribbled instructions of what to do if I didn’t make it back and pinned it to his chest. I didn’t know if he could read it or if anyone would find him, but it made me feel better to do it.

And then I rode the subway alone, despite the fact that Cubs and Cardinals fans stood shoulder to shoulder or sat butt to butt as the train burrowed from the Loop toward Wrigley Field. The presence of so many people barely registered. I was inside my head, blotting out the world and formulating a plan for when I encountered Juan Kone.

The train emerged from Chicago’s clay belly, morphing from subway to El.

Minutes later, it eased to a stop at the Addison Street station.

There was nervous jostling as people debarked, fearful that the train would whoosh away before they got off. I was the last to step on the platform, looking up Addison, across Sheffield Avenue, squinting down Waveland Avenue, straining to hear the tinkle of ice cream trucks. It was crucial to scout the adjacent streets, since that’s all there is around Wrigley Field—bustling boulevards, grimy alleys beneath the El, and overparked residential lanes. It’s the last of the urban ballpark neighborhoods, with a billion places to ambush the unsuspecting. All I saw were fans competing for sidewalk space with vendors, scalpers, and cops, and the only sound was the hum of a crowd converging in an enclosed space for a public spectacle—voices and shouts, horns and brakes, and an express train that roared north, leaving airborne scraps of litter in its wake. I pulled the cap low and descended to ground level, hurrying up Addison.

An enormous pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses undulated outside the main gate.

It was as large as a school bus, pumped up by loud industrial air blowers.

Cubs fans wearing the same type of glasses posed for pictures next to the giant bouncy rubber thing, and a nearby sign read:

Dominic Hughes Day!

Honoring the Cubs Center Fielder’s Gold Glove Award!

First 10,000 Fans Receive Commemorative Eyeglasses!

Hughes had been my dead uncle Buddy’s favorite Cubs player, known for his speed on the field and thick glasses on his face; it felt like an omen, but I was unsure if it was good or bad. And then I joined the throng, allowing it to give me cover while being swept up a ramp leading to the party suites. It didn’t take long to find number sixteen. I took a deep breath, blew out any lingering fear, and entered. Cubs memorabilia hung from the walls, overstuffed furniture covered the floor, and a huge window looked out over the bright-green field, just now being populated by both teams.

What the empty suite lacked were people.

What did not belong there was a hospital gurney.

I spun for the door as fingers like iron squeezed a cloth over my face. I inhaled sharp chemicals, took a step to turn, kept turning, or maybe the floor was spinning, and then my head was not attached to my body. The world became a carousel twirling with color—red eyes, snowy face, black gloves lifting my neck, my arms—as I tumbled into weightlessness. I was unconscious for three seconds or a year, it was impossible to tell, pushed into the abyss by Doug’s betrayal.

When I opened my eyes, I was strapped to the gurney.

Two electrodes trailing thin tubes sucked at my temple, one connected to a laptop, the other spitting crimson droplets into a plastic bag. A nearby tray held a scalpel, hypodermic needle, and five glass vials filled with my blood. I wasn’t constrained but my limbs were as useless as the tentacles of a dead squid and my head was filled with a million stinging marbles. Woozily, I lifted it toward the picture window. Outside, the old scoreboard announced the bottom of the sixth inning, Cubs in the lead, two to one. With great effort I looked to the left at a commemorative bat hanging from the wall, and to the right, where Teardrop stared at me with devil eyes.

“You’re not a freak, you know. There’s nothing the least bit paranormal about you,” a voice intoned behind me, rippling with an Argentinian accent. “You are simply a human being . . .
un mortal
 . . . with a neurological abnormality.” I knew who it was but couldn’t turn, so I flicked my eyes at the laptop, seeing my brain composed of colored lines, the middle area pulsating with a blue glow.

“My limbic system,” I slurred, “where enzyme GF is produced.”

“
Muy bueno.
Very good, yeah,” Juan said, his tone like a concerned physician. “Enzyme GF cannot be extracted from the normal bloodstream. It must be harvested within inches of the source.”

A moist suction noise, like a thick milkshake through a thin straw.

The muted crack of a bat, muffled cheer of the crowd, my breaking heart.

“My friend, Doug. How did you force him to sell me out?”

“You’re partly correct. No force, but plenty of selling out,” Juan said. “He’s nowhere near the transformational stage . . . one eye must turn completely red to indicate the halfway point. But since he demanded unlimited Sec-C in exchange for you, perhaps he’ll get there sooner than expected.”

Washed with pity and hatred for Doug, I said, “He didn’t betray me. It was that sugary poison.”

He ignored me, saying, “Ah, see there, the blood bag is nearly full. I’ve already collected five vials from you. This beautiful plastic pouch comprises the sixth vial.”

“Wait—that’s what all of this has been about?” I said. “Six vials of Rispoli blood? Then why . . . why did you keep my dad . . . my whole family, for so long?”

“I need only six
more
vials. Isolating the enzyme requires
gallons
of blood, to separate plasma from red blood cells, but this is of no concern to you. I drew nearly the full amount from your father. These six glass tubes finally fill the quota.” The suction noise sounded, and Juan’s tone turned accusatory. “It was a bitter disappointment to learn that your brother was not an enzyme carrier. It nearly caused me to drain your father dry. His blood supply regenerated, of course, but it took time, which is the sole reason I kept your mother and brother alive . . . to provide comfort, hoping to speed the process of his heart refilling his body. But then he did something with his brain. When I tested fresh samples of his blood for enzyme GF, they contained less and less, and recently, none at all. It was as if he were locking down his limbic system so nothing could leak out. Six small vials away from my goal! That’s when we came after you.”

“What is it?” I asked, feeling a whispery itch at the end of a toe. “What’s your goal? After what you’ve done to my family, I have the right to know.”

“You have the right to nothing. You’re less than human . . . a tree yielding sap, a mine giving up ore. Then again, every genius likes to hear himself talk.” He chuckled.

Teardrop came alive, pushing away from the wall.
“No le diga cualquier cosa!”
(Tell her nothing!)

“Hear me, you vile thing,” Juan said in the icy, assured tone of master to slave. “Speak out of turn again and your silver cone will remain decidedly empty.
¿Entienda?
”

Teardrop stared over me, dipped its head subserviently, and stepped back.

I felt a finger jump and then a thumb, the digits slowly reawakening.

Juan cleared his throat. “I learned of ghiaccio furioso when Abuelo Cohen told me about his spat with your great-grandfather. ‘Spooky Sicilian phenomenon,’ he said . . . valuable enzymatic mutation, I said. Years and countless experiments at Kone Quimica
later, I realized its origin had to be in the limbic system, where fears are formed, memories made, and pleasure and addiction frolic. I tried and failed twice to create a synthetic version of enzyme GF. In fact, I was my own
first
lab rat,” he said as the suction noise grew louder and he drew up alongside the gurney.

The NASA-like wheelchair Juan sat in whirred, elevating him to my level.

I turned to him, unable to stifle a gasp.

To say that he had lost weight was a grotesque understatement; he’d lost almost everything. His face, pale with piercing eyes, glossy hair, and goatee, stuck to his skull so tightly that it looked sprayed on. He was dressed in a black suit that clung like snake skin to a narrow, pointed cage of brittle bones. Arms like breadsticks, fingers like pencils, and legs thinner than broom handles were a shocking warm-up to the tight ball of stomach that visibly rose and deflated beneath his suit, making the suction noise with each revolution. Slowly he opened his coat, revealing a rubbery pump where his stomach should have been. “Disgusting, yes? This is the result of my first failure to create a Rispoli-like enzyme. I injected an experimental chemical into my bloodstream and
voila,
the little bugger ate away most of my guts. Without a steady stream of what I so deliciously call ‘blue goop’ forced into my digestive tract, my body will eat itself. Inconvenient, but at least I’ll live. Unlike Primero and the others.”

Hearing his real name, Teardrop—Primero—lifted his head.

“Real brilliance lies in the ability to merge surplus with need,” Juan said through papery lips. “On one hand, every country on earth has a surplus of human leeches, chemically dependent castoffs, and the generationally impoverished. On the other hand, dictators, terrorists, and criminals around the world require a continuous crop of fresh hoodlums to carry out their dirty work. When I isolate the Rispoli enzyme, the need will be met. I will happily sell it to the highest bidder.”

“The enzyme?” I asked.

Juan shook his head. “The hoodlum. An endless supply injected with a hybrid of Sec-C and enzyme GF! In other words, a thug with no moral consciousness or memory, but fully equipped with the electrifying power of ghiaccio furioso!”

“Sec-C,” I said, putting it together, “was a failed attempt to create supercriminals out of addicts, and the lost and lonely. You snuck it into ice cream, and by the time they started to feel good about themselves, they were hooked.”

“Recycling the planet’s human garbage as weapons, yes. I failed with Sec-C alone. But mixed with enzyme GF—only six more vials!—and I’ll achieve it!”

“And then,” I said hopelessly, “you’ll let us go?”

Juan pinned his eyes to mine, his mouth a bluish line. With a sigh, he said, “Catching you was tiresome. I realized that I would have to be prepared to extract your blood on the spot, as you have a nettlesome habit of escaping. But now that I have you, why would I ever release a reliable source of enzyme GF? With a snip of the brain stem and a reliable life-support system, you’ll be my lobotomized fountain of Rispoli blood.”

Mine ran cold at the thought of it—lying in a motionless coma as my heart filled and refilled an endless line of plastic bags. I swallowed back the horror of it and said, “But my family. They’re of no use to you now. You could set them free . . .”

“I suppose,” Juan said vacantly. “Of course this is a money-making venture . . . I expect to earn billions. But all great achievements grow from emotion, and mine took root in revenge. Your great-grandfather ruined my grandfather’s life and made exiles of our family. So you see, I have the best of both worlds. I keep you, and when we’ve finished here—in a perfect act of vengeance—I’ll kill yours.”

The blood bag was filling like a crimson hourglass. I felt feeble life in my limbs but had little control and needed time, a few precious minutes, and said, “Sec-C was a failure, so Primero was a failure too?” I felt Teardrop’s laser gaze and sensed its coiled body ready to pounce, yet the force of Juan’s admonition held it in place.

“Oh yes. Completely,” Juan said. “Sec-C goes directly to the limbic system and suppresses memory, fear, hunger, and pain, so a user grows amazingly thin and can fight without feeling a thing! At the same time, it heightens pleasure and addiction zones, so the user feels sexy and always wants more.”

“¿Puedo? ¿Por favor?”
Teardrop said impatiently.

“¿Qué?”
Juan said, tapping a finger at the bag, which was nearing capacity. “
Sí . . .
you may begin.” He buzzed closer, pushing his skeletal face at mine. “Apparently, you killed a companion of his. Primero loved it obsessively . . .”

“No! It drowned while trying to kill
me
!” I said, as Teardrop inspected the scalpel’s pinpoint blade.

“And now Primero hates you with the same passion. That’s why Sec-C is a bust,” Juan said. “With every miracle drug comes side effects. It destroys pigmentation, rots the mouth organ, blots out sex characteristics, and erases short-term and most long-term memories. With too much Sec-C, users become infected, androgynous, amnesiac albinos. But wait, there’s more,” he said with a salesman’s grin. “Sec-C also drives love and hatred to explosive levels. Primero adored that sexless mummy . . .
verdad,
Primero?”

“Sí, verdad,”
Teardrop whispered as a red droplet pooled in the corner of its eye, plopped on my shirt, and it swung the scalpel, nicking my earlobe.

Oh God, oh no, oh Dad! Daddy, please, I don’t want to be sliced to pieces!

“The problem is that all of the intense emotion causes too much blood flow, burning right into the ocular capillaries . . . the eyes,” Juan said, pointing at his own face. “Very special contact lenses, my design, to keep ghiaccio furioso out. The addicts, however, are immune to your power. The more blood-soaked their eyes, the less you can penetrate them. Ah, but again, there is a downside . . .”

Teardrop jammed the small knife into my forearm, flinging my blood on the wall, and harpooned the scalpel into my leg, slicing flesh through my old jeans.

Oh God . . . oh Mom, help me,
I pled silently.
This isn’t how I want to die!

“So listen now, Primero,” Juan said, “and learn how you will die.”

Teardrop paused with the scalpel pressed behind my ear, ready to drive it into the vein that throbbed there.

“Eventually, too much blood will burn through, and then . . .
hiss-boom
 . . . brain implosion,” Juan said coolly. “You will expire, just like the hundred Primeros that came before you. No criminal organization would pay for hoodlums whose heads blow up. But for those fueled in part by long-lasting ghiaccio furioso, there won’t be enough money in the world. And all that my customers need to keep their armies under control are a simple pair of rose-colored contact lenses like mine . . . for an extra fee, of course.”