Skullcrack City (9 page)

“Robert Matthew Linson, better known by the stage name Robbie Dawn, is an American musician, singer-songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, activist, and philanthropist. Although initially popular for his early work with boy band Mode 5, he is best known for his solo career, pioneering production methods, and his innovative music label SonsJeunes.” Three pages of scrolling, and every linked result was Robbie Dawn, until I reached a smattering of Bob Linson pro-fishing videos, obituaries, social profiles, and corrupted partials.

“Fuck me, Deck—I’ve finally lost it. I’ve really lost it.”
But what other Robert Linson would have six hundred thousand dollars to send to a physician? The pro-fishing guy wore the same pants in every video—it ain’t him. No—“Robbie Dawn” has the stadium-filler money. This is real. It can’t be, it makes no fucking sense…but it feels real, doesn’t it? Are you sure you saw his name on that screen? Yesterday you tried to eat a granola bar with the wrapper still on. You’re losing it. This is your brain on Hex. You saw Robbie Dawn on
The League of Zeroes
and now he’s part of the puzzle. How convenient. Are you sure your mom isn’t the secret head of Delta MedWorks? How long until Deckard is part of the conspiracy? You are fabricating false twists to cover the truth: This was the wrong path, you’ve reached the end, and there’s nowhere else to go.

But as long as there was more Hex, more action, there was always somewhere else to go. I would keep trickling down this hill until I joined the larger river. A vast power was waiting for me to join its forward surge.

The new rabbit hole was a blur of band bios, big booty back-up dancers, and progressively more absurd/expensive music videos. Chronological clips charting a young man’s growth from a gangly pop pawn to a self-styled Svengali who felt comfortable saying things like, “The real key to the mastery of my art has been staying humble and staying hungry.” I watched everything in order, looking for a reason, a way in—I hoped to witness his face changing shape, taking on a leonine tightness, some way to explain his payment to Dr. Tikoshi. It had to be reconstructive surgery on the sly. But no—all this motherfucker did was age natural (and I’ll be damned if his wrinkles didn’t add charm), make hits, buy custom cars, and date starlets. I mapped his touring and studio sessions and there were no large gaps or extended stays when he came through town. Watched some of his videos twice, partially hoping his back-up dancers could stir Crooked D from his damaged slumber and partially because these songs were produced in the way that makes you shell out for serious headphones or a twelve point surround. I turned the music up—the swirling drums took on new resonance. Turned it up again and my bones shook. The gray tendrils of Hex-vision swirled in the periphery. The upstairs neighbor expressed his dissenting opinion with a double stomp on his floor and a muffled but still audible, “Turn it down, motherfucker.” I dropped the volume and smiled. Popped another Hex off the coffee table and drowned it with a mug of cold coffee. Something had changed. I could feel it. There was
something
here. Streetlight through the window called me delusional, forced its outside perspective. I closed the blinds.

You can tell when they’re coming for you if you study their faces. They smile more than they used to. They agree emphatically with casual statements and laugh longer than they should. It’s a hood made from synthetic interactions, and you’ll belong right up until the noose is snugged into place. I knew that, and things
were
too goddamned jovial that Friday morning. I even received a pat on the back and a “Doyle, howyabeen?” from a cowboy I hadn’t spoken to in months. That was a clear enough sign, but the Robbie Dawn/Tikoshi link had me in blinders and I was on the hunt for other entities which might front funds for the pop star. Then I received the email. The subject line was: “Quick Meeting in Conf. Room B?” The light tone and question mark—as if the meeting was just another fun choice I could make—said one thing:

I was fucked.

I hustled over to an empty office on the fourth floor and scanned the parking lot—two vehicles I hadn’t seen before near the entrance, both shiny black with deep window tints and incongruously colored plates. Government vehicles? Local cops? Whose jurisdiction was I even under anymore? Could be the FBI, FDIC, Secret Service, DEA, hell, maybe even the Postal Inspector. Whoever they were with, I knew I was facing thirty years minimum. They could bury me deeper—it all depended on the breadth of their knowledge. With the volume of Hex stashed at my place, I could even envision a trafficking arrest. No reasonable jury would believe all of those pills were for me. I’d almost feel too embarrassed to convince them otherwise. My stomach pinged acid pain like a whole field of bleeding ulcers had erupted. I could hear my teeth grinding as my panicked breath fogged my view of the offending new vehicles.
You knew this was coming. Maybe they only want to ask you about the Foreign Transit Comp GL? Can you spin it? Say the funds were being moved to test security levels for our Bruxton 505 compliance? But where did that money go, Doyle? How will you explain the missing funds?

Nope—FUCKED. On my way to a pig-roasting bunk party at maximum security overflow, teeth punched out, Aryan rape squads trying to see who can prolapse my colon first.

What have I done?

My peripheral vision shrunk to pinpoint, and I couldn’t tell if it was a Hex fluctuation or consciousness fading fast. Then the low growl of a wolf came from behind me, a full-body electric shiver, the closest thing I had to the holy guidance of cherubim. The sound vibrated in my bones and cleared my vision, filling me with new purpose and animal exigency:

I was surrounded by hunters, and I would escape at any cost.

I moved through the building with a new kind of confidence. Having left myself without any acceptable choices, I decided to embrace the unacceptable and go all in. FUCK IT! WHY NOT?

That meant lighting a trash fire in the fourth floor bathroom, knowing that the sprinklers would kick in shortly and the full-building evacuation would override whatever today’s proceedings were to have been.

That meant a final jaunt to my office, head down, walking fast—I copped my last private, hand-written notebook and connected a nasty, virus-riddled USB stick to my laptop. Granted permission for baboon-fucker.exe to run and hoped to scorch enough of my trail to slow their realizations.

That meant throwing open the door to Conference Room B and only hearing, “Hello, Mr. Doyle. Thank you…” before my thumb depressed the trigger on my canister of Hi-Pepper Bear Spray, coating the tiny room in blinding, breath-sucking mist. Four occupants instantly dropped: my boss, his boss, and two younger men in cheap suits. I caught a glimpse of handcuffs flopping from the jacket of Cheap Suit #1, figured that meant pistols within reach. I didn’t wait to find out why they wanted to thank me.

My final Fire-Day Friday—flashing red lights and an alarm system blaring at Attention Must Be Paid decibel levels. I had reached the lobby by the time the expando-foam started slushing from suppression sprinklers. I regretted that they weren’t still on a water system, as that would have destroyed more of my office contents. I hit the parking lot, squinted, saw Delores getting out of her car, her arms full of pizza boxes. She saw me and flinched. I realized I was smiling, then, a full cat-got-the-canary grin, but I didn’t know I was bleeding from both nostrils until I reached my car. The Hex-speed was saving my life/the Hex-speed was killing me. I checked the rearview—my eyes were sparkling.

The key, I knew, was to maintain momentum. Powder to the gums. A fist full of lemony chemical dash wipes to staunch the nose bleed. A final stash run before the bank found the wherewithal to freeze funds across my network. Five hours before the branches closed for the weekend. Car engine humming in sync with the growls of my cherubim wolf. Killed the air-conditioning because it sounded like helicopter traffic. Stay ahead. Stay ahead. Shut down the crazy eyes. Come into each branch reserved, confident. Maybe smelling a little like pepper spray and flame retardant, but not in a way they can pin down. Cash withdrawal for Martin S. Peppermill/Trevor Bainbridge please. Apologize to the manager for requesting such a large amount without advance notice. A mix of hundreds and twenties would be fine. Thank you so much! Have a wonderful weekend! It’s supposed to be sunny, you know? About time, right? Thanks again. Thanks so much.

Green car was in the rearview again, and then it was gone. Pulled a Robert Linson on me.
Were they waiting for this? They want the full case. All the money. The whole stash. They’ve got a device reading my cash—RFID’s, security strips, radioactive paints…something.
I decided to leave two pick-up runs off my route: a few grand in Trevor Bainbridge’s name at Community Central, and the entire Maria Scharf account. Besides, the latter was too far away and my lipstick and scarf were at home. Maybe they’d wait until I’d collected all their money before they tried to arrest me. Could I buy time by keeping the Scharf money buried? Green car re-appeared in the rearview, a hazy oasis shimmer on vibrating glass. Green car disappeared again. A drop of blood fell from my nose to my pants. Good. I fucking hated khakis anyway.

The briefest moment of reflection:
Are you sure they were there to arrest you today? What if the Feds were on the Delta MedWorks case too and looking for you to collude? Did you just commit arson, destroy bank property, and assault two bank officers and two agents under false pretense? If they weren’t on to you before, that was a grand way to announce your suspect status. And how did that even work, anyway? You think your magic pills turned you into fucking James Bond? Did that even happen? How do you know you’re not passed out somewhere, overdosing?

No answers. The injection of reason was quickly replaced by two more questions:

Are they already at my apartment?

And

What about Deckard?

I convinced myself it had to be done, hoping that I’d thrown things into such chaos back at the bank that they were still reeling. There was no option but to raid my house on a rescue mission: grab Deckard/grab the Hex stash/grab the data drive containing the distillation of my hard copy conspiracy maps. Use part of my ill-gotten gains to buy my way underground via Port and Egbert. Finalize the Delta case and find the right buyer for the information.
That was always the plan, right?
Wait, was that really my plan?
Sirens wailed in the distance, which was always the case as I approached home and the glories of 45
^th
. But the day possessed an awful new possibility—those sirens could be for me. I parked on a side street to avoid being trapped in my parking garage. Grabbed the black plastic garbage bag of stolen cash from my trunk and flung it over my shoulder like Sketchy Santa. Took two of the deepest breaths I could, slammed shut the trunk, and decided the rescue mission was a Go.

I only used Deckard’s travel enclosure for trips to visit my mom, and it was tight quarters. I was sure he hated it. I apologized, kissed the back of his head, and placed him inside. “Sorry. I’ll grab you some water and an extra worm.” Pocketed his dry food. Shifted my garbage bag funds over to a new tan sports duffel, packed to brimming. Filled a backpack with my Hex bundle, a fist-sized hard drive containing the core of my Delta findings, two pairs of boxer shorts, and a couple of t-shirts. Ditched the chemical-doused, blood-spattered work shirt for a gray tee and a black hoodie, replaced the khakis with jeans. Snugged a baseball cap low on my head and caught a vision of myself in the mirror: I’d expected Mission Impossible but was instead startled to see an emaciated tweeker was robbing my place. I waved. He waved back. Christ. I remembered the green car on my trail, hit the kitchen and rifled my utensil drawer for the biggest knife I owned. Ice-hardened eight inch blade. Worked great on lettuce—as long as I was only attacked by salads I’d be fine. Tucked it into the side pocket of my backpack and a cardboard sheath kept it from cutting through. One more frantic scan of the place. Half second’s consideration:
Do I grab Big Booty Vol. 3?
Wolf at low growl, warm breath on my left ear. Odd confidence fighting confusion for mental space.

How was I still free?

“Cover your ears, Deck. Tuck in.” I grabbed a hammer from the top of the fridge and did my best to decimate the undernet system in the living room. Grabbed a few pieces of the main drive to throw in the sewer. They’d find some of what I was working on, but not the whole picture. I contemplated lighting a fire for a moment, but this building was so old and under-maintained—I couldn’t stomach the idea of all those low income families and worker drones gone barbecue. My hammer job would have to suffice. Felt fresh blood pool at the base of my nose. Tightened my backpack straps, grabbed the cash duffel and Deckard, and waved a final goodbye to the place where I’d pretended to live.

The car died two blocks after my turn onto 45
^th
. Maybe my cash-grab speed run had finally broken the engine. Maybe a man in a green car had decided I’d be easier to track on foot and cut the fuel line. I wouldn’t have smelled the gasoline through the blood and thick new coat of powdered Hex. Regardless, I had suddenly become a worldly possession-toting refugee—still in Kept Squad territory with enough pills to guarantee my immediate murder if caught—and there was no choice but to keep moving forward. The momentum had brought me this far. The Hex refresher had reset my system to one hundred percent confidence. And I hoped maybe the turtle would give me an extra crazy sheen:
Oh, man…Don’t fuck with that turtle guy! He’s out of his mind!
Confidence was not the same thing as reason.