Symbiote Page 11

  “I don’t even have the energy right now, Markov. But now I want pizza.”

  Karen clutched her stomach and winced. According to Markov’s observations the hunger pangs were slowing down. Whatever her body was fighting, it must be winning. He held out his phone and leveled the screen in front of Karen.

  “I have a friend at the San Francisco branch of the Department of Homeland Security. I want to see what I can find out about Agent Shaw and Agent Brown.”

  •

  Detective Hall raided the fridge. She tore off the red wax on the wheel of Gouda cheese and bit in without cutting it into pieces. In seconds it was gone. Karen began opening cupboards until she found the pretzel sticks. She opened the bag and returned to the living room, forcing handfuls of pretzels into her mouth as she listened in on Markov’s conversation. On the way, she dropped a pretzel and Gizmo snatched it, carrying it away gingerly before Karen could stop him.

  “Really,” he said. “What about the FBI?”

  Karen’s stomach finally began to calm down. Markov was right. Whatever was happening to her was serious. She wasn’t about to let him know he was right. It would set a dangerous precedent. Karen was beginning to think whatever she had was working itself through. Maybe it was just a 24-hour bug. Not like any bug she’d ever heard of, but it was still a possibility.

  “You’re sure?” Markov asked. “What about another California office?”

  Markov’s conversation was beginning to get serious. His expression turned grave. From the side of the conversation Karen could hear, it appeared no one knew who these agents were. She continued to shovel pretzel after pretzel into her mouth greedily. At least she was getting better. Maybe that meant the agents wouldn’t be trying to find her. What would they do with her if they did find her?

  “Thanks, Mike,” Markov said. “Remind me we’ve got to go fishing this summer. Okay, bye.”

  Markov pressed ‘end’ on his phone and returned it to his pocket. He collapsed into the armchair and put his feet up on the coffee table, slouching back like he owned the place.

  “Hey! Feet off,” Karen said through a mouthful of pretzels. “What did I tell you?”

  Markov removed his feet and sighed. The way he acted like he owned the place whenever he came over infuriated her. She grew up in a house full of girls, apart from her father who left the house as often as possible to escape the estrogen. Karen wished she’d grown up bickering with an older brother. It beat the hell out of the squabbles she had with her two prissy sisters.

  “Well,” Markov said. “Agents Shaw and Brown are ghosts. According to the Homeland Security database and given my description they don’t exist anywhere.”

  “What does this mean?” Karen asked after swallowing an enormous wad of pretzel.

  “Who knows? They could be CIA or maybe something we’ve never even heard of.”

  “Wait,” Karen said, remembering something, “When I was on my way to the Pathologist’s lab, I heard two government-types pocketing evidence. I’m positive they took a sample of what the doctor was working on. This really could be a cover up.”

  “If that’s true, then there’s no way to know to what lengths they’ll go to keep this quiet. We need to tread carefully, Karen.”

  Markov’s phone rang.

  “Who is it?” Karen asked.

  “Blocked number.”

  Markov hesitated before finally answering it on the fourth ring. His eyes widened and he stood up.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Who is it?” Karen asked.

  Markov put up a hand signaling her to wait.

  “I understand,” he said. “So what are the options?”

  Karen didn’t like being left out of a conversation. Whoever he was talking to had him in his serious-mode. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Markov’s face. Karen knew she kept her apartment at a brisk 68 degrees. Something wasn’t right. He was nervous.

  “Thanks for your help,” Markov said cordially before hanging up the phone.

  Karen stood with arms spread wide, the bag of pretzels dangling freely in one hand and the other gesturing rapidly for answers. She realized, standing there in her white tank top with crumbs on her face probably wasn’t the most attractive sight in the world, but she was comfortable enough around Markov to be a bit of a slob. As long as she hit her targets at the range the most she’d get was some gently ribbing.

  “Come on, what was that about? Spill.”

  Markov stood still for a moment, and then looked at Karen with a serious sense of urgency.

  “We need to get out of here, now!”

  19

  1043 Hours – Day 3 – The Pinnacle Apartment Building Stairwell

  Detective Markov cascaded down the emergency side stairs with Detective Karen Hall a shadow in his wake. Markov caught Karen’s gaze as they turned the corner at the eighth floor landing. She appeared torn between being confused and irritable. It was becoming a classic look for her.

  The stairwell was the medium gray of thick concrete with few features other than a painted number at each landing and an array of white pipes lining the ceiling. Markov always felt claustrophobic in these kinds of places. He knew they were meant to remain intact for a while in case of a fire, but he’d much rather wait until such an occasion arose, rather than stuff his large frame down a deathtrap like this. It didn’t help that the stairwell smelled of stale beer and vomit.

  “Just what the hell is going on, Markov?”

  “That was Shaw on the phone.”

  “What?” Karen spat. “Why was he calling? How’d he get your number?”

  “Stop it,” Markov replied.

  He hated when she spouted off questions without giving him time to answer. The truth was, Markov didn’t know why the mystery agent had called. He had offered a thinly veiled warning. That was all. He wanted Markov to know that Karen might be dangerous and to report anything unusual to him immediately. What confounded him was that Agent Shaw didn’t give him any way to contact him. His phone wouldn’t redial a blocked number. Shaw must have known that.

  “Shaw is keeping tabs on you,” Markov said. “That means we’re not safe here anymore.”

  “Is that why we’re taking the stairs?”

  “There’s a security camera in your elevator.”

  “That old thing? I think it’s been busted for years. It’s just there for display.”

  Detective Markov let out a huff of air. Going down the stairs was hard enough. He dreaded the thought of ever having to go back up. They reached the fifth floor landing and Markov grabbed the railing and stopped to catch his breath. He placed one hand on his knee while he braced the railing with the other.

  “When I brought you back last night,” he began, taking a breath and continuing, “There was a red dot I’d never seen before. Someone must have fixed it.”

  “I guess we know who,” Karen mused.

  Markov envied her. She hadn’t broken a sweat or shown any signs of fatigue. Of the two of them, as much as it pained him to admit it, she was the super-cop. She did seem a little less fazed than usual after rushing down a set of stairs. Surely it was nothing. Maybe Markov was just more out of shape than he realized.

  “Let’s keep going,” Markov stated before continuing to descend the staircase.

  “We need to get in contact with Captain Riggs. He can protect us.”

  “I don’t know if Riggs could stop this. There would be a jurisdictional pissing contest and whatever strings Shaw controls will move in his favor.”

  They continued to descend until they reached ground level. Markov put up a hand, signaling Karen to stop. He pushed open the emergency exit a crack, half expecting an alarm to sound. None did. The emergency stairs emptied out into an alley, which appeared empty.

  “Come on,” Markov said, thrusting the door open with his massive hand.

  He might not be able to handle a set of stairs like a pro, but he occasionally liked to show off one of his stronger talents: bru
te force. They jogged up the alley and stopped at the head. They looked back and forth. It was a typical day in San Francisco. Joggers, Smart Cars, and the occasional passerby. Nothing out of the ordinary. Markov didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t what he saw.

  Detective Markov was beginning to think someone was playing a cruel joke on him. He looked at Karen, who seemed less on edge than before. She remained calm, her breathing hardly noticeable. She looked to him expectantly for instructions. Markov was worried. Normally she’d just go off on her own, but now she was uncertain.

  “I parked your car down the street a block.”

  Detective Hall nodded and led the way out onto the sidewalk. Her confidence seemed to be returning a bit. Markov took her hand in his and whispered for her to slow down. He might as well have a little fun with her.

  “Act natural.”

  “It’s kind of hard when you’re holding my hand.”

  “Fine, then act unnatural.”

  Karen squeezed his hand and hung on to his arm with her free hand. Markov hadn’t expected her to go along with it.

  “Why are we doing this?” Karen asked through gritted teeth.

  “Black sedan, six O’clock. A suit on a cell phone.”

  “Gee, Sherlock, did you think they might already have our descriptions? What’s the point of acting like a couple?”

  Markov turned to her and smiled.

  “I just wanted to see if you’d do it.”

  Karen released his hand and hit him hard on his arm.

  “Ass.”

  They had made it about a block when the sedan pulled out from its spot and drove past them. The driver never turned his head. Karen shot him a cold glare. It was a look he knew well. It was a look that said ‘you are a giant dickhead.’

  “So, paranoid much?” Karen asked sardonically.

  “Given the circumstances, yeah, a little.”

  Markov might have been having fun with her, but in the back of his mind he was constantly scanning his surroundings looking for any sign of trouble. He had meant to lighten the mood a little, but with Karen that was next to impossible.

  “You’ve got enough sense of humor to joke around,” she said.

  “You’ve always got to have a sense of humor, otherwise what’s the point?”

  “That whole conversation with Shaw was a joke too wasn’t it? Ha, ha, Markov.”

  Karen continued walking toward her car, leaving Markov a few paces behind. He called ahead to her.

  “Karen, wait.”

  She continued, “I’m calling Riggs and reporting in. Have fun honing your act. I’ll come see you at your comedy showcase.”

  “Karen!”

  A black van screeched to a halt at the curb. The side door slid open and three agents pointed their weapons at Karen and Markov. Detective Markov started to reach for his gun, when a familiar voice made him freeze in place.

  “Don’t try it, Markov,” Agent Shaw ordered.

  Agent Shaw got out of the van and walked up until he stood within inches of Markov’s face. His five o’clock shadow was more pronounced now, detracting from the image of a government man. His breath smelled of onions and garlic. Markov coughed slightly. Shaw’s angular face was far too close for comfort. Behind him, Agent Brown had his Beretta leveled at Karen, his large military build a stark contrast to Shaw.

  Shaw pulled out a business card and held it up for Markov to take. When Markov moved to grab it, Shaw dropped it and it fluttered to the ground. They both exchanged stares for a few moments which seemed to drag on for minutes.

  Asshole, Markov thought.

  “If you start exhibiting symptoms, call this number,” Shaw said.

  “Neither of us are infected!” Markov spat.

  “Piss off, Shaw,” Karen interjected, crossing her arms defiantly. “You and your cronies need to move along before I break my foot off in your ass.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Detective. And Markov, after our encounter at the morgue, I’m thoroughly aware of your status. Nevertheless, if you feel any changes, you’ll want to call when you wake up.

  “When I wake—” Markov began.

  “Watch out!” Karen yelled before Markov was pistol-whipped by an agent from behind.

  Detective Markov fell to his knees and then slumped over to his side. The world spun before his eyes, making him want to throw up more than the New Year’s incident of 2013.

  “Thank you, by the way,” Agent Shaw began, “For making my job easy. If you breathe a word of this to the department, I can make your life very difficult. You’ve tripped onto a matter of National Security. Consider yourself lucky my employers are only interested in the girl.”

  His eyelids drooped. Over the ringing in his ears he could hear Karen’s objections as an agent put a black hood over her head, the van’s door closed, and the tires spun, leaving a trail of melted rubber on the pavement. They were fragments of memory spliced together in between long drooping blinks. Markov’s last thoughts before fading to darkness were of a chorus of obscenities.

  •

  A young man with dyed blonde dreadlocks slapped Detective Markov’s cheeks gently, coaxing him to wake up. His brown roots showed underneath the long blonde locks, which matched his eyebrows and eyes. If there was one thing he hated more than waking up with a headache, it was waking up to the face of a hippy.

  “Hey man, are you all right?” the young man said with a voice that betrayed his opinion on Marijuana legalization.

  Detective Markov shifted his weight and managed to slowly sit up.

  “Do you need an ambulance or something?”

  Markov swatted him away, grunting in pain. The young man must have seen the badge clipped to his belt, because he quickly got up and started walking away. The cloud of incense and Marijuana followed him.

  “Okay, dude, good to see you’re okay. See ya.”

  Hippies, Markov thought grudgingly before maneuvering his aching body to his knees and searching for Shaw’s card. Several feet away he saw a glint of white. The card was partially under a candy wrapper, now covered in dirty footprints. He picked it up and examined it carefully. In the back of his head he knew that meant countless people had walked right by him, probably thinking he was a homeless guy sleeping off a hangover. Sometimes Markov hated the city. The medium stock card was white with simple black digits and a blank back. Just a phone number. The Captain was going to kill him.

  Detective Markov pulled out his phone and dialed a number, still sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. A fit man in his thirties wearing workout clothes walked by carrying a yoga mat. He gave Markov a wide berth. He couldn’t have looked that bad, could he? Markov could hear ringing on the other end of the line. He waited anxiously for three rings before someone answered.

  “This had better be good,” Captain Riggs growled.

  “You’re going to want to sit down for this,” Markov warned.

  20

  1210 Hours – Day 3 – Homicide Division – 5th Precinct

  “Give me one good reason not to take your badge!” Captain Riggs bellowed.

  Detective Markov sat dejected in the Captain’s office, leaning forward in the plush red chair with his elbows dug into his knees. He had been there for five minutes already, getting the chewing out of his life. The worst part was, the office blinds were open and the walls were thin. The whole of Homicide Division pretended to work at their desks, probably listening in on his worst hour.

  The Captain was in his fifties and balding, his pale scalp his most prominent feature. A lot of the department thought he should ‘embrace the bald’ and be done with it. But, he seemed to cling to what little hair he had left. Most people in their fifties had laugh lines engraved into their face after a lifetime of belly laughs and good times. The Captain had deep frown lines that sunk down into the corners of his mouth, making him appear to be unhappy even if he was smiling, which itself was a rare sight. He also had lines under his eyes, extending from the discolored
bags of a man who never got a good night’s sleep and down to the end of his nose. Markov didn’t envy the Captain in the slightest. He knew whatever stresses he had would be double, even triple what he’d experienced.

  “Captain, I-”

  “You don’t think, do you?” The Captain asked rhetorically, “You just bumble about with that big dumb head of yours and now one of our own is kidnapped. When’s the last time you’ve heard of a police officer being kidnapped? Never. It doesn’t happen.”

  The Captain paced the office, using his hands to make his points. His office was full of rich woods and in the center stood a sturdy oak desk with a piece of glass covering the length of it for protection. The angular lines of the room reminded Markov of the Captain; rigid and unwilling to budge. A fan twirled overhead slowly, in time with the second hand on his yellowed clock. It was an office that could have jumped out of a private investigator story from the twenties.

  “Captain, she was taken by Agents Shaw and Brown, they claimed to be from Homeland Security. She’s my partner and I should be the one to get her back.”

  “Bullshit,” Riggs retorted. “You’re grounded. You’ll tell Detective Goldberg everything you know and let him take it from there. You’ll be on desk duty for the rest of your career.”

  “There’s more, Captain.”

  Markov had told the Captain about the men posing as government agents, all about the agents taking the jumper’s body, and Karen’s abduction. What he’d left out were all of the…juicy details. He hadn’t meant to leave them out at first, but they seemed too crazy to bring up in normal conversation. His badge was already on the line. Maybe if he told the truth the worst he’d get would be a psych evaluation. He might be able to bullshit his way out of that.

  “The agents,” Markov began.

  “Don’t call them that,” Riggs interrupted. “Don’t give credit to their disguise. They’re criminals. Plain and simple.”

  “Shaw and Brown,” Markov rephrased. “They were interested in the case at Saint Mary’s. The coroner did the autopsy of the pathologist and discovered a parasite in the brain. This thing messed up our homicide suspect too. For some reason it killed the pathologist and turned that insurance salesman into the fucking MacGyver of death.”