The Lover's Children

Chapter 108 – Summer’s Inferno – Part 18

PAT

Our eyes meet. Full in the face.

A glance, the briefest of looks, but just for a second, I get a good look at him. And he of me.

Those eyes.

I don’t want to meet those eyes again.

Who is he?

He was at the morgue.

Borje knows him.

Why’s he chasing me?

Why was he at Lily’s apartment?

What’s he to do with her?

I’d like to go somewhere quiet. Get a bit of sleep.

But they’ve got me on the TV. They know who I am.

It’s hot. It’s so hot.

And my arm… It hurts…

*****

KLEMPNER

Hoodie pelts ahead of me, dodging bag-laden shoppers, women with strollers, men with briefcases.

Barging between a pair of suits yammering over take-away coffee cups, he staggers as he knocks one

down onto the sidewalk. I hurdle the fallen, ignoring the indignant yells of the other as he tries to wipe

coffee from his shirt. He lashes out, grabbing me at the shoulder, but I lash back, propelling the rest of

the coffee over him…

And in the two seconds it’s cost me…

Crowds mill and push, and Hoodie has vanished in among the surge.

But he can’t have gone far…

Another squad car appears, but not now squealing by. Instead, it meanders, both driver and passenger

scanning the milling crowds.

Dropping once more to a dogtrot, I weave through the hordes. At a corner ahead of me, a police officer

stands, all too obviously watching, head swinging one way, then the other. His gaze slides my way and

past, then double-takes back. For an instant his eyes lock with mine. He nods acknowledgment, then

mutters something into a handset.

Never did I think to be treated as a fellow comrade by the police…

Surreal…

Then, I brush away my moment of unreality.

The officer has a complete view ahead and to the right. If Hoodie’s there, he should spot him. I turn left,

moving at a steady lope that, even in the heat, I can keep up indefinitely.

Police have the centre covered…

Where would he go to lose himself?

Where could he go…?

?

What’s ahead?

Ah, yes…

*****

The Golden Fleece Casino. I sometimes wonder if its owner, Vince Caproni, stuck his tongue in his

cheek as he named it. Certainly, the casino operates to painlessly separate clientele by the thousand

from their money, depositing it into Caproni’s waiting bank account, and all whilst convincing them

they’re having a good time.

Great business model if you can pull it off.

Cutting past the schmucks making their way up for their voluntary fleecing, I take the front steps two at

a time to the be-columned, be-arched and overly grandiose entrance.

A pair of men stand as doorkeepers, calmly vigilant in their remit of separating schmucks and suckers

from high-rollers, players and other annoying professionals. I’ve not a clue how Caproni deals with

anyone he thinks might be trying to work the 5%-in-favour-of-the-house to their own advantage, and

since I’ve never so much as bought a lottery ticket, I’ll probably never find out.

As I charge up the steps, the doorkeepers swivel to face me. Others emerge from inside, squaring up,

hands resting suggestively inside jackets.

But one of the doorkeepers, I’ve met before, Decker. He’s a good man. His startled face greets me. “Mr

Klempner? What…?”

“No time to talk, Decker. I’m hunting. On the trail of a killer. I’ll give my apologies to Caproni later.”

The urgency in my voice penetrates and he jerks jolts to attention. “Killer? Who?”

“The Surgeon...” His eyes widen and he reaches for his phone. He’s already talking into it, relaying my

words as I speak… “… Thirty-ish. Mid-brown hair. Medium height. Jeans. Undistinguished. Probably

sweating. Running from me. Check the local TV. His photo’s plastered up on Breaking News.

Decker spills the last few words into his phone, then jabs a finger at the other security guards. “You

heard the man. Jackson, Williams, into the main hall. Morales, go check the security cameras. Ring

through to me immediately if you see anyone answering this bastard’s description. Anyone who runs

into Hickman, tell him what’s happening.”

Weaving through the milling crowds of the casino hall, I cover the left-hand side, waving Decker to the

right. Paralleling one another, we work our way along the hall.

The Ever-Hopeful feed coins, one after another, into kaleidoscopic machines as reels spin, click and

ring. A croupier at one of the Blackjack tables scratches at her ear in a signal I know is used to signal a

possible ‘Counter’. At the roulette wheels, morons with more money than sense shove stacks of chips

across the table.

Many of the punters look to be here for the show, peering over shoulders, living vicariously through the

winners, indulging in a little schadenfreude with the losers. But I can see their faces. They’re no threat.

Others hunch over tables, faces huddled anonymously into clutched cards

But by the time I’ve reached the rear of the hall, I’ve not spotted anything untoward. Glancing up to

Caproni’s mezzanine office of glass and brass and upholstered leather, one of Decker’s men raises

palms to me, shaking his head.

A commotion rises from somewhere near the entrance. Someone’s screaming and yelling. Pushing and

shoving my way back, across the tables I see that Decker too is ramming through the crowds, making

for the same point.

But it’s not Hoodie. Instead, a slot machine wails and hoots, vomiting a clatter of coins to spill into the

tray, then bounce out and over the carpet. A beaming woman stoops, her purse open wide to intercept

the apparently endless waterfall of coins. Beside her, a man stands nose-to-nose with another woman,

scarlet-faced, hugely fat, almost incoherent with rage. Her collection of double chins wobbles with her

screams as she tries to shoulder past him. “That’s my money! It’s mine!”

An audience gathers around the drama, some cheering at the still-rattling jackpot, others egging on the

fight.

The man blocks Double-Chins. “No, it isn’t.” Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

“I’ve been at that machine all day!”

“Well, you weren’t there just now, were you...”

And there, I see him, Hoodie, standing at the exit, smirking, giving me a little wave as the rabble swarm

in, blocking the aisle, the crowd thickening and clotting ahead of me while I jostle and curse.

“You should have picked a different machine.” Double-Chins voice rises an octave. “That one’s mine! I

gotta use the john sometime.”

“Not my fault,” shrugs the man. “I only came in to pick up the wife.” Moving to block Double-Chins

again, he casts over the crowd to an approaching bouncer. “I was lucky. My Josie won the jackpot. You

didn’t.”

She shrieks at him, arms flailing in some attempt at a punch, and I duck to avoid a clout on the chin,

then still stooping, slide under and past to the thinning edge of the mob.

The bouncer moves in, all looming six-three of him, grabbing Double-Chins by the elbow, steering her

for the door. “C’mon, Maggie. You know the rules. Her cash went in last. It’s her cash coming out.”

Double-Chins squawks, batting uselessly at the slab of muscle towing her to the exit but I don’t get to

see the end of the micro-drama. Decker arrives, another grunt in tow, clearing our way through.

Finally clear of the rabble, we barge out through swinging glass and brass.

*****

As we burst out into the daylight, Decker sweeps off to the right, waving his grunt across the road, me

off to the left. Hoodie was perhaps thirty seconds ahead of us. He has to be close.

I’d not realised I’m still clutching my water bottle. Running as I go, I take a final swig of my water, the

bottle tilting back as I drain it.

And as I lower it again, Hoodie’s there, running like the Devil’s on his tail…

Not slowing my pace, I toss the bottle at a trash can, miss and it bounces off to the side…

So, sue me…

… freeing the hand to tug my knife from its holster.

He’s still running, but he’s sagging, staggering almost. Elbows vee’d, he grips his ribs, twisting to look

back over his shoulder. I treat him to the sight of my blade, holding it up to let the blood-streaked steel

glint reflections back to him…

…and he picks up speed once more...

The power of adrenaline…

Where he sank his teeth into me, my hand aches. But the slash I gave him was worse, and as fatigue

bites in, corroding the adrenaline high, the pain will increase. As it is, blood drips, half-inch splashes

making a trail at my feet. His improvised dressing must have soaked through.

And while he’s younger than me, by maybe twenty years, he’s soft. I doubt he’s ever had to deal with

real pain and fatigue. Few outside the medical or military professions realise it, but it’s a learned skill,

handling pain. Something you can train for. It may hurt. But you learn not to mind that it hurts.

Then too, the brief respite in the casino has reinvigorated me. I have my second wind now, gaining on

him moment by moment.

So…

… Hoodie’s stamina versus mine…

And my grin returns…

*****

PAT

The sun beats down on my head, the breath rasping in my lungs.

Who the fuck is he?

Not a cop…

Whoever he is, he doesn’t give up.

I fling a look back over my shoulder.

He’s still there.

*****

KLEMPNER

My lungs burn. My throat burns. My thighs and calves burn. Summer’s inferno reflected in my body. But

I’m close. He’s clearly in view. And there’re no crowds now. No comforting anonymous masses for him

to melt into. It’s him and me. He can’t lose me.

From somewhere ahead, traffic roars: a major junction. As I run, the junction grows larger, brighter,

louder. And Hoodie’s lead shrinks, growing smaller all the while.

He flings another look behind him, sees me closer, ever closer, gaining on him.

The junction is a five-cornered monster, bringing in trucks and wagons, long-vehicled eighteen-

wheelers with their night-time deliveries into the City. Saloons, station-wagons and 4x4s accompany

them, delivering families, commuters and shoppers. Stop-Go lights flicker red and green, staying and

releasing traffic in a pattern that makes no sense to anyone but the cone-heads that designed the

system.

I’ve almost caught up with him…

He can’t have more than five yards on me now

A concrete-truck rumbles across the junction, the cylinder revolving as all three of its axles bang and jar

over a rut in the road. Right behind it, a bus, loaded with schoolchildren.

He’s almost in touching distance. As I reach and snatch, in a suicidal manoeuvre, Hoodie charges out

onto the highway, dodging between bus and wagon. Momentarily I halt, convinced I’m about to see the

world rid of the Surgeon as the bus swerves, tires spewing black smoke, screams rattling from inside

before the vehicle screeches to a standstill.

But astonishingly, Hoodie’s still moving, stumbling before, tottering upright again, he lurches across

streams of traffic.

And the momentary delay is enough.

Four strides…

Five strides…

Then, throwing myself after him, arms outstretched… my hands brushes over his shoulders… and

misses the hold.

But he jolted…

…and looked…

…and hesitated…

…and on the second swipe, I’ve got him, hooking fingers into the neck of his tee-shirt, pulling him up

short.

Shrieking rage and fear, he yanks upwards from the hem, tugging it over his head and off. Leaving it

flapping loose in my hand, naked from the waist up, he bolts.

Blood pounds behind my ears. My forehead drums. Black dots swim though my vision. Tossing down

the fucking useless fucking tee-shirt, I hurtle after him again…

Brakes howl…

A yell.

Of warning...?

The clamour of horns…

The scream and smoke of ripping rubber…

And a bare heartbeat to see the vehicle bearing down on me…

The impact rips the air from my chest and the thought from my brain.

For an unending split-second…

Pain…

A brief moment… lifted from my feet, I roll across the hood...

Shrieks of alarm...

Screams for help…

The wail of a siren…

And as darkness blooms, the triumphant grin of the Surgeon looking down at me…

*****