Pipe Dreams (12 page)

CHAPTER 23

J
eremy sat on the edge
of the bed, patting the worn flannel sheet that covered Michael’s good leg.

“You had us pretty scared, dog. How are you?” he asked.

“Head hurts like hell, leg hurts worse. I’d give about anything for some Earlz.”

Jeremy smiled at Michael
’s reference to the prescription painkillers so many kids had been hooked on before the rebellion. Except for an occasional joint, Michael had never been a user. His total contempt for the drug scene was infamous in the People’s Protest and he had suffered a fair share of ridicule for his righteousness.

“Yeah, bet you would, pussy. All big man, until you get laid up. Then it
’s whine, whine, whine,” Jeremy teased.

“Fuck you, Bro. You just here to razz me or what?”  Michael grinned.

“Yeah, that’s it. I’m just going to sit here, watch you suffer, and rub it in some. I ain’t had this much fun in a long time.”  They bantered for a few minutes before Michael sobered.

“Seriously, Jeremy, what happened?  I keep askin
’ Mariah and she won’t tell me anything.”

“She
’s just doing her thing. You know how she is. Mother hen and all.”

“Well I ain
’t no damned chicken.” 

“No. More like a lion.”

“For real, man. What happened?” Michael pressed.

“Some bad shit went down yesterday.”  Grabbing Michael
’s hand, Jeremy launched into an account of the day’s events, ending with Isaac’s death.

Michael pulled
free from Jeremy’s grasp, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and sat up. The knowledge Jeremy had imparted was like a knife twisting in his gut.

“I
’m sorry, man,” Jeremy sighed.

“Get the fuck out! Just go!”

Jeremy frowned and patted Michael’s leg “Yeah, I’m gone,” he said.

When the curtain swished closed, Michael picked up his water glass and hurled it across the room. The shattered glass did nothing to assuage the emotions running rampant inside him, so he reached for the next thing to throw.

A metal bed pan clamored against the wall. A thick, hardcover book landed with a dull thud. With no more objects in reach, Michael bucked against the plaster cast. Pain shot through him, searing all the way to his pounding head. Screaming, he punished himself relentlessly until spent. Then he dropped his head onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling, letting his tears flow unimpeded.

“I can come back later
,” Vanessa’s small voice wavered from across the room. Michael lay back, not responding. He didn’t want to see or talk to anyone, so he ignored her, hoping she would go away. She didn’t. As she approached, her soft footsteps grated on his nerves. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. When she stood at the foot of the bed, she spoke again.

“I just, well, I just wanted to tell you that we gave Isaac a service. Mariah said you were close and I thought if you knew it would help.” Her words tumbled like water over rocks.

Touched, Michael opened his eyes and inhaled her fresh, clean scent. Under the fluorescent light, her lovely face was pale. The only time he had seen her without a uniform and bun, he had been chasing her across the square in the park. Now, in a tight tee shirt and loose jeans, she looked younger than he had remembered and far more beautiful.

“Thanks,” he grunted.

“I’m sorry. I’ll go.”  She bit her lip and turned to leave.

“No. It
’s okay,” he offered. Swiveling around to face him, she flashed a smile before casting her eyes down.

“They were just going to drop his body and let him go. I couldn
’t let them. It wasn’t much, but Mariah gave me a candle and I said the prayer and his poem,” she said.

“His poem?” 

“His favorite poem. He made me learn it by heart a long time ago.”

“Do not move,” Michael recited.

“Let the wind speak,” Vanessa finished. They completed the rest of the verse together.

“You knew him well,” she observed, smiling.

“Did he teach you other poems?” Michael asked. She nodded.

“He said poems were the only art that could never be destroyed because, like prayers, they become your breath. A book can be burned and a painting can be torn. A sculpture can be broken and a cello…”

“Without a player is like a river without water,” Michael cut in, grinning. Vanessa laughed out loud, clapping her hands together.

“Sit,” he said, pattin
g the mattress. “I’m Michael.”

CHAPTER 24

A
s they put the finishing
touches on the long, mahogany conference table, Lucy and the other assistants tittered with excitement. The meeting would follow an elaborate dinner held on the first floor of the luxurious hotel, which they were not required to attend. Some of the administrators brought their wives to the opening event and wives harbored no good will toward the assistants.

The girls gathered the empty boxes and set them in a large closet before surveying their achievement. They had placed a faux-leather binder, crystal water glass, pen set, and notepad in front of each of the seats. Graceful water pitchers would be filled just prior to the meeting
’s commencement. A silver coffee service adorned a cloth-covered cart at the back of the room.

Satisfied, they retreated from the conference room, giggling and confident. In the bedroom of a luxurious suite, the nubile group shed their suits and lay in a pile on the silk covered bed, gossiping about their new lives and the various idiosyncrasies of their employers. Lucy told them about the small bedroom with the ring suspended from the ceiling. They shrieked with mock horror before collapsing in a fit of giggles.

“Does it hurt?” one of the girls asked when they had caught their breath.

“Sometimes, but he
’s always very sweet after. Besides, we only go to the room when I deserve it,” Lucy replied. The girls nodded sagely.

“Mine likes feet,” another confessed and they burst into laughter.

A small girl with red hair and flawless skin admitted her administrator liked to watch her pleasure herself. “He can’t, well, you know!” she blushed. “The only time he wants me to touch him is when he asks me to rub his back.”

When their dinner arrived, they traipsed into the dining room, settling around a table made of thick, black glass. Their bright reflections shone in its polished surface. Unlike most teenaged girls, they took their pleasure and pain with equal aplomb. The assis
tants had been bred to serve.

After they had eaten, they separated to dress in eveningwear. Reconvening in the softly lit conference room, they served coffee to the administrators and then stood behind their men. Harry Rose opened the meeting with a small prayer of thanks and then asked each of the administrators to introduce his assistant. Concluding the formalities, he excused the girls so the men could get down to business. The girls curtsied and left the room, their tight, young bodies in a well practiced line. The men gaped as they filed out the door.

Harry called attention to matters at hand by asking each of the men to report on their respective departments. Lewis waited for the others to finish before launching into a planned assessment of the commonalities in their presentations.

“It would seem we
’re all suffering from staffing issues. Each of you has expressed the need to increase the number of available workers and yet all of you have given exceptional reports on your efforts to identify and cull the undesirables. We’re at a crossroads, gentleman. I believe it’s well past time to begin Phase II,” Lewis said.

A collective groan rose from the table. “Lewis, we
’ve been over and over this,” one of them said with disgust.

“Yes, we have been over and over this and, until now, your argument against the implementation has been valid. But we
’re not in the same place we were. There’ve been new developments,” Lewis replied. The men grumbled.

“Let him explain,” Harry interjected. Lewis swallowed a grin. The rabbi had done his job. Finally, Harry would cooperate. Lewis gave the man a nod before continuing.

“Over the last few years, we’ve seen the effects of Priscilla 278. Our lovely new assistants are an excellent example of its superlative success. As a result, we’ve been able to weed out a significant portion of the undesirable population and are just beginning to replace them with our new trainees. The problem is, boys, there aren’t enough innocents. Simply, we’ve waited too long and been too patient. The generation gap is killing us. Even when they do breed, we don’t have enough workers to care for the infants. I can control the nurture effect, but only to a point. Those little girls, with their brand new babies, aren’t going to take it lightly when something happens to the precious little bundles. We were supposed to implement Phase II three years ago and now we’ve got ourselves in a fix.”

Right on cue, Bowen cut in on Lewis
’s monologue. “There’s another problem Lewis here doesn’t know about. I was going to bring it up later, but listening to what he’s saying, I’m thinking the two situations might be related.” 

Over the course of several minutes, Bowen explained how a mid-level worker and a high ranking detective had recently disappeared. Given the particulars, his professional opinion deemed both victims of abduction. Evidence pointed to instability among the Fallen.

“Now I’m not saying I know for sure, but it seems pretty likely we’ve got a situation on our hands,” Bowen finished. Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Lewis waited for the tittering to subside.

“What do you think has triggered this
’instability’?” Lewis asked.

“Are you being sarcastic with me, Lewis? I don
’t tell you how to do your job and you don’t tell me how to do mine. I’ll tell you why I think there’s instability!  It’s because you’re all so goddamned focused on getting rid of the leftovers you’ve gone and made a mess of the whole thing. What did you expect? You keep throwing people out to starve, just hoping they’ll disappear and not be seen again, but they’re out there. I’d bet my badge they’re figuring out ways to get even!  This is just the beginning. I’d count on it!” Bowen retorted, red-faced.

“As you know, Chief, we need the Fallen. They
’re part of the plan. Without them, the workers won’t appreciate the benefits the NSO provides or comply with the mandates. That’s another reason we need Phase II. Priscilla 279 isn’t as dependent on environmental controls. Still, we haven’t had many incidents. The Fallen are too busy trying not to starve. Isn’t it possible these two decided to duck out on their own?  I mean, voluntary disappearance isn’t exactly new, is it?  Don’t you think you might be overreacting just a bit?” Lewis replied.

“I am not overreacting. Yeah, sure, we
’ve had lots of people go off their rockers and disappear on their own. It’s possible the woman snapped, but not a chance on my detective. In all this time, I have NEVER lost an officer. That just doesn’t happen!”

Listening to the
dialogue, the other administrators shifted uncomfortably in their seats and Lewis stifled a grin. Harry questioned Bowen on the details of the disappearances. When he learned Vanessa Kovalic was one of the missing, his bloated face paled.

A cold chill moved through Lewis. Harry should have already known. The news should not have been a shock
because Isaac was supposed to have laid the groundwork. Gripping the sides of his chair, Harry took a deep breath and called for a recess. They would reconvene after breakfast the next morning.

Entering the hallway, Lewis signaled to Bowen. “Let me buy you a drink, Chief
.” “Yeah, sure,” Bowen replied. As the two men stepped into the elevator, Lewis smiled to keep up appearances. They did not stop in the lobby. Instead, they went to the underground parking lot.

“What the fuck happened up there?” Lewis seethed when they were alone.

“I don’t know. I dropped Isaac off at his house after dinner with you and haven’t seen him since. Didn’t know I was supposed to baby-sit.”

“Well, you
’d better find out. I don’t need Harry caving to the whiners again, understand?”

“Yeah. Got it. I
’ll check it out and get back to you.”

“Fix this, Bowen. I mean it. Get it done,” Lewis commanded before returning to the elevator.

Hanging his head like a scolded dog, Bowen walked to his cruiser and started the engine. He eased the car onto the empty street, careful not to draw unnecessary attention. Things were sticky enough without the other administrators wondering what he was doing.

In the twenty minutes it took to cross the Zone and enter the dark of the
inner-city, he cursed the rabbi for messing up the plan. Bowen wasn’t privy to all of Lewis’ games, but he did know the bank account he maintained outside the city grew fatter every day. Phase II meant freedom. He was tired of being Lewis’ bitch.

Bowen had never wanted to be a crooked cop. Things had just worked out that way. At first, he had only accepted a cup of coffee or a meal from friendly restaurants, but after awhile he grew to resent the people he was supposed to protect. Every day he risked his life for a few measly dollars while they drove nice cars, had big houses, and took extravagant vacations. The rich condescended to him, treating him like the hired help.

Little by little, he had gotten to know the inside game. He had met Lewis then and learned about the whole screwy idea. He had never believed it would work, but he had to admit the idea of being an administrator appealed to him. As planned, the former Chief of Police was one of the first victims of the rebellion. After his death, Bowen had been given the job and his relationship with Lewis had evolved. He still had his doubts about the NSO, but either way it went down, he would never be one of the minions again.

Bowen parked the car in front of Isaac
’s house, grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment, and climbed the steps to the Brownstone. As he approached, tension gathered at the base of his neck. Something wasn’t right.

An unpleasant odor assaulted his senses as he pushed open the vestibule door. Inside, Bowen flicked on the flashlight and climbed the stairs to the rabbi
’s study. Papers and books were everywhere on the floor, tables, and large, oak desk. A prayer shawl was draped over the back of an armchair. On a low table, a candle sat in a wax-covered saucer. Isaac was not there.

Bowen searched the bedroom before following his nose into an adjacent bathroom. Opening the door, foul fumes assaulted him. Isaac lay fully clothed on the floor next to the bathtub. Gagging, Bowen dropped to his knees to examine the body.

“Bloody hell!” he cursed. How was he going to fix this? He backed out of the bathroom and paced in front of Isaac’s small bed. The window drew his attention. A string, illuminated by starlight, dangled from a rolled up shade in front of the single, glass pane. Suddenly, he had a solution. Isaac would be even more convincing dead than he would have been alive. 

He ran down the stairs, darted into the kitchen, and unlocked the backdoor to the alley. When he reached the car, he started the engine and put the motor in gear. Then, with his lights off, he wound his way around the block. In the alley behind the Brownstone, he popped open the trunk and fished for a length of standard issue rope. Finding it, he smiled.

Back in the bedroom, Bowen grabbed a heavy quilt from the foot of the bed and carried it into the bathroom. After wrapping it around Isaac’s stiff body, he dragged the old man down the stairs. The body thumped against the steps, each slow bump releasing vile gases. Bowen felt ill.

Getting the body into the trunk was difficult. He pushed and pulled, panting heavily, until a final shove broke a bone and he was able to get Isaac in place. After backing the car out of the narrow alley, Bowen skirted the Zone. In front of an abandoned post office, in the least populated sector of the city, he pulled to a stop.

When he had wrestled Isaac out of the trunk and onto to the ground, he grabbed the rope. It took several attempts to loop it over the horizontal flagpole attached to the building’s face. Then he wove one end of the rope between the legs of a small, metal bench bolted into the sidewalk and secured it to the car’s rear bumper. With the other end, he made a rough noose and placed it around Isaac’s neck.

Satisfied the knots would hold, Bowen put the engine in gear and rolled forward slowly. As he did, Isaac
’s body was lifted into the air. When the rabbi’s head dangled just beneath the flagpole, he parked and hurried around the car, released the rope from the bumper, and attached it to the bench. Isaac swayed in the air, his body a grotesque ornament against the light colored brick. Bowen grinned. If this didn’t get Harry to play ball, nothing would.

The next morning, Bowen joined Lewis and the other administrators at the hotel. They were working their way through Spanish omelets when the news came. An excited watcher burst into the dining room, stopping just short of the rumpled figures seated around the heavily laden table.

“Chief, I’m sorry to interrupt you but…” the watcher blurted.

“Didn
’t I leave explicit instructions not to disturb me?” 

“You did, Sir, and I
’m sorry, but the captain said you would want to see it.”

“See what?” Bowen asked.

“The body, Sir. They found a body hanging from a flagpole on the west side.”

Someone dropped a fork. As it clattered to the floor, the tension broke. Suddenly everyone was talking at once.

In the early years, it wasn’t uncommon to see members of the establishment hung, but the administrators had orchestrated that to create the NSO. A body hanging now implied a new threat. Bowen jumped up from the table and dashed out of the room. Seizing the moment, Lewis suggested they all go see the spectacle.