Chapter 4

When I got to the hospital, Marky Sloane still wasn't talking.

            Marky was a felon almost fifteen times over in the past seven years.  His ass shouldn't have even been on the street, but the jails were so full you had to commit murder to get there.  I found him in his industrial white bed, moaning.

            "Problem?" I asked him, raising an eyebrow in his direction.  I dangled my handcuffs for good measure, the metal jingling in the silence of his room.

            He was an ugly creature.  His skin was so tanned it looked like the worn-down saddle my daddy used to ride on for the races.  There were bags under his eyes and wrinkles around his mouth.  He was itching the itch of someone withdrawing from illegal substances.

            His black eyes narrowed; the twitching kinda took away the intimidation.  "I'm hurt.  You can't do nothin'."

            Grabbing a hideous orange armchair from the corner, I scooted it across the room to sit next to his bed.  Most people have a personal space bubble about four feet wide that strangers aren't meant to cross; I made sure I was at least two feet inside it.

            “Nice place you got here, Marky.”  I looked around, as always disgusted by the state of our local medical center.  The walls at one point probably fifty years ago were white, but years of cigarette smoke had stained them yellowish before the city banned indoor smoking.  Each room had some inane portrait of fruit or horses over a small wood dresser.  The bathrooms tended to be moldy but the beds were the latest in medical development.  Go figure.

            Marky cocked his head to the side, appraising me.  I know he saw a tall, thin redhead that looked too cute and pixy-like to be dangerous.  The man had no idea what he was up against.  I loved having the upper hand.

            "So, Marky, you want to tell me how much of your money he ran away with?"

            The man's lips became a long, thin line.

            I sighed, leaning back in my chair and crossing my legs daintily--wouldn’t do any good letting him get a glimpse up my pencil skirt.  Laundry day got skipped this week so I was wearing stained granny panties. 

            I posted my arms up on the sides of the seat.  "So, I had to go to my parents' house this weekend."

            He violently scratched the inside of his arm.  The bewildered look on his face made me smile.

            "Yeah.  Obligatory bi-weekly dinner.  My dad just started wearing Depends."  At his blank look, I pushed on, "You know, adult diapers?"

            "Lady, what the fuck?"

            I ignored him.  "He's not too happy about it, and he made sure to tell me everything." I sighed, resting my chin in my hand.  "It started with some explosive shits.  And something about a horse pill he had to shove up his--"

            "Three thou, for christ's sake."  Poor Marky was cringing beneath his thin, wool blanket.

            "Well, that's a start, dear.  Do you know who it was?"

            He shook his head.  "Nah.  Never seen him before."

            I pulled my notebook from my purse and flipped it open.  "Can you describe him?"

            “He was a big guy.  Huge, yeah,” Marky told me, nodding vehemently.  “Giant arms, carrying a crow bar.”

            I rolled my eyes, tapping my pen on the notebook.  “Why don’t I believe you, Marky?”

            “It’s true!”

            Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.  Every time some douchebag got assaulted by Robin Hood they came up with the same story only to relent in the end that he wasn’t that big.  The guy was an affront to a criminal’s masculinity.

            I leaned forward in my chair, eyeing him with my mean look--the one I reserved for my dog when she ate my high heels.  “What do you think we’d find in your apartment, Marky?”

            His dark eyes grew wide and terrified.  They were all so predictable.  “N-nothin’.”

            “Uh-huh,” I answered, nodding knowingly.  “Here’s what I think.  I think we’d find a grow operation.  Probably get you on several counts of intent to distribute.  I would also bet you’ve got something even harder.”  I looked at his grubby fingers, scratching ineffectually at his arm.  “Something that’s making your skin crawl.  Know what else?  I bet you’ve got some unregistered firearms that wouldn’t come back so clean, don’t ya?”

            The guy was literally shaking in his hospital bed, the liquid in his IV bag pulsing.  “All right, all right, well, maybe that ain’t true,” he relented, sighing.  “He was real tall, but skinny-like.  Long brown hair.  Ponytail.”

            “Anything stand out about him?”

            “Yeah.  Yeah, now that you say somethin’, he had this ugly scar on his face.  Here.”  He indicated his jawbone.  I wondered to myself how he felt like he could get off describing someone else’s scar as ugly when his own face looked like a bulldog.  Not even a momma could love that face.

            “That’s what I thought.”  I slapped my notebook shut and stood, my high heels tapping as I headed for the door.

            “Who the hell are you?” he called after me, sitting up in his bed to watch me leave.

            I rested my hand on my gun where it was snug in my shoulder holster beneath my suit jacket.  “Sergeant Brigid Gordon.”  I let the door slam shut behind me.

            Oh yeah.  He’d remember me, alright.

Chapter 3

            I was about a block from my small, five-hundred-square foot apartment with about half of my take from the dealer in my right jacket pocket and the other half in a blank envelope on the doorstep of St. Michael’s orphanage. The darkness outside was almost absolute. There are a scarce amount of street lights on my end of town; all two on my street hadn’t worked in six months. Not enough in the city budget to even think about replacing them.  I guess the aristocracy needs the money more for a new park for the stay-at-home moms to take their ADHD kids to so they can run off some energy, while the wives sit around and talk about how much their husbands make and how good their gardeners and pool boys are in bed.

            I let the pale moon light wash over me as I stood at the bottom of my front stoop. The moon was full and brilliantly bright, a hunter’s moon. It hung there looking down on me, not judgingly, but knowingly. We shared our darkest secrets, she and I, for a brief moment and then I bid a good night and walked up the six steps to the entrance to my apartment. As I opened the front door I couldn’t help but feel something trying to pull be back, something begging me to stay outside for the night.

            My building was an old Victorian that had been broken down into four different apartments. Mine was at the top of the old house. I always tried my best to be as quiet as possible when traversing the staircase but the ancient wood always creaked under my every step. I imagined old Mrs. Blakely cussing me from inside her second floor domicile for waking her up in the middle of the night.

            After a good two or three minutes of tip-toeing up four flights of stairs, I finally came to the maple wood door of my apartment. The walls on either side were done in a fleur de lis wall paper that I was positive hadn’t been changed since the early 1920’s. I fumbled in my pockets for my keys and rested the toe of my boot on the bottom of the door. Leaning forward to unlock the door (after what seemed like a twenty minute search), the door pushed open without me even having put the key in the lock. I went with the forward momentum, slowly entering the front living room. I didn’t bother turning on the light, just in case.

            “Malachy, the front door was unlocked, buddy. You okay in here?”

            Malachy is my older brother whom I’ve been taking care of since I was twelve years old. He’s a big intimidating guy when you first meet him, what with his scruffy red beard and the build of a pro-football defensive linemen, but he’s really just a big teddy bear. He would never put the landlord’s maintenance guy in the hospital because he thought he was breaking in when the guy was just there to replace an electrical socket. Nah, he’s just a big old sweetie.

            “Hey, Captain Red Beard! Stop playing World of Warcraft for two seconds, peel yourself from your computer, and come in here and talk to me,” I yelled.

            There was still no answer. The apartment was as silent as death. I navigated my way through the pitch black and to Malachy’s bedroom door. Even in the darkness I could still make out the poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger from The Predator with the phrase “Get to the choppa!” hanging on his door.

            Speaking a little more softly this time, I said “You asleep in there, buddy?”

            Nothing. Not a “go away I’m busy” or the sound of sawing lumber that is my brother snoring in his sleep. I lightly knocked on the door which revealed it to be open. This was a cause for alarm. I might, in an absent minded state, forget to lock the front door or even to close it all the way once in a blue moon, but Malachy never forgot to close his door all the way shut. He also never forgot to lock it. My brother was big on privacy.

            I searched the rest of the apartment, continuously calling his name to no avail. I had turned on every light during my search and it wasn’t until I stopped for a second that I saw what scared me the most. The place looked normal. Nothing was out of place, no sign of a struggle. My brother is semi-autistic and completely scared of people. He’s also an extreme agoraphobic who would not, under any circumstance whatsoever, leave his home. Ever.

            That means someone would’ve had to forcibly remove him. Which means there would’ve been a fight and a damn good one at that. Like I said before, Malachy is a big boy, not to mention he has superhuman-like strength. It would’ve taken more than one person to get him out of here and, in all reality, one of them would’ve probably ended up in the ICU in the process.

            Panic and rage surged through my body. My hands began to glow bright red. I closed my eyes for a second, focusing my energy, then I took off out the front door and down the stairs, towards the entrance of the building at lightning speed. When I say lightning speed, I mean it literally. The sound of static electricity cracking and popping echoed through the stairwell behind me as I rammed through the front door, leaving it hanging on one hinge behind me. I would have to leave the landlord a blank envelope on his door for the damage when I got back.

            I stopped just at the bottom of the stoop, the air around me still teeming with electricity. I tried to think of anyone who could’ve possibly taken him and where they could’ve gone. I’m sure I’ve made numerous enemies over the years; I mean, I do tend to steal and rob from people who operate in the world’s under belly, but I never actually take the time to get to know their names, who they are, what their sign is, etc. etc. I just watch them operate all around me, on every street corner of every block of the place I call home. I have no allegiance to anyone, I just like to see those who live to make others suffer feel a little of the pain they inflict.   

            I could see red and blue lights from what seemed like multiple police cruisers flashing from a couple blocks north of where I stood. I closed my eyes, felt the electricity still surging in the air around me return to my body, and took off again. What would normally be at least a five to ten minute walk took me around, oh, five seconds. The lights brought me to an old gothic style cathedral with a wrought iron fence around it, separating grass from sidewalk. I stood facing the side of it and couldn’t help but admire the beautiful, enormous stained glass windows, all depicting some story from the Bible or Christian folklore.

            The street was surrounded police vehicles, marked and unmarked, blocking off any entrance to the cathedral. Had to be the scene of some major crime. My heart sped up and my blood ran cold; I couldn’t help but picture my brother’s cold corpse lying on the other side. I slowed my heart’s pace and focused my mind on making my body blend in with the area surrounding me, a.k.a. going invisible. Once I was sure I could go completely unseen, I began walking around the block to the other side. I was having trouble staying focused on keeping myself undetectable; my nerves were raging inside of me.

            As I neared the opposite corner I could hear the voice of a woman barking off orders. Her voice was one of complete authority with just the hint of a honey-like smoothness. I saw a muscle bound uniformed officer with a close-cut fade that screamed former military shaking his head while he talked on a cell phone. As I rounded the corner and started up the sidewalk, the first thing I saw was the person whose voice had been hammering out the previous commands.

            She was the epitome of professionalism, in her tan skirt suit, but to say she was utterly beautiful wouldn’t have done her justice. She was tall and thin with an athletic build, the result of  many hours spent in the gym I’m sure. She had hair the color of the reddest rose you have ever seen, done up in a pony tail that still managed to reach between her shoulder blades, with high heels that somehow matched.

            She was holding a cigarette in one hand, conversing with a lady that looked like Oprah standing behind her, and staring at something in front of her. Whatever it was, she was trying to hide the fact that she was repulsed by it but her face was beginning to betray her. In the background, I heard roid-head tell her that someone named Robin Hood had struck again. Is that what they’re calling me these days?? They could at least be a little more creative.

            I finally got the courage to peel my stare from pretty cop lady and share in what was causing her to become seemingly nauseous. What I saw brought relief and terror at the same time. There sat a man the same build as Malachy who had been impaled through the eye socket by one of the spiked wrought iron posts. I was beyond relieved that it wasn’t my brother. But rage and terror again began to surge through me and I started losing control of myself once more. I had to leave before I exposed myself.

            When I made it back home, I fell on my couch and began meditating to calm my mind. I was going to have to make contact with some people I swore many years ago I would never see or talk to again. Someone had my brother out there somewhere. I thought of Malachy and how frightened he must’ve been. I was going to find out who and where they were keeping him and when I did, they were completely and utterly fucked.

Chapter 2

      The victim was impaled through an eye socket on one of the black fence posts.

            If it didn't look so damn painful, I might have collapsed into bales of inappropriate laughter.  The angle at which the body hung looked like something out of an old Roadrunner cartoon.  He was literally "S" shaped with his skinny ass in the air. Blood had dried in almost invisible rivulets down the rod iron; textured rivers.  His hands dangled limply, the backs resting against the fence, and his mouth hung wide enough for a bird to nest in it.    

           With one gloved finger, I tested the sharpness of the post beside the corpse, shaped like an arrow and just as deadly.  “Tell me he was dead when it happened.”

            The Coroner shrugged, blowing out a breath that jarred the lock of brown hair hanging in his face.  “We've got defensive wounds on his hands and arms," he told me, gripping the vic's arm and waggling it at me.  I rolled my eyes.  "Just at a glance?  I don't see any murder wounds.  He ain't got a slit throat or visible knife slashes or gunshot wounds.  Until we get the toxicology reports back on the autopsy, I think it’s safe to assume he was very much alive.”  He gestured to the post under the dead man’s face and the sticky red pool on the asphalt under him.  “The amount of blood seems to agree.”

            I shuddered, my eye twitching.

            "Call me when the reports come in," I said with a sigh.

            I turned to the rookie standing behind me, fluttering his hands like a sparrow, and shoved the victim's wallet at him.  If I asked him to wipe my ass for me, I'm about 98% positive he'd do it.  "Get me something, Ted.  Anything.  If his mother burned the toast yesterday morning, I want to know about it."

            "Yes, ma'am."  I watched him scurry away in his dress-up clothes, the toddler going to paint pictures for mom.  I swear to god, I haven't a clue where they find these guys. 

            "Any thoughts?" my partner said, sidling up next to me with her Iphone in hand.  Neesha Barnes was as big, black, and beautiful as a woman could get, with hair the mahogany color found most often on emo teenagers and odd gray eyes that looked out of place in her plump, dark face.  She'd been my partner for five years and a cop for double that. 

            I tipped my thumb at the corpse.  "Glad I'm not that guy."

            Neesha clucked at me, tucking her phone in her pocket.  "Not what I meant, Sarge."

            I gave my face a vigorous rub-down with both hands, not for the first time glad I don't wear make-up.  "Fuck, Neesh, I have no idea.  How the hell could anyone manhandle a 250 pound guy into position to impale his fucking eyeball on a fence post?  It's insanity."

            "Stranger things have happened."  She popped her bubblegum, adjusting her gun belt around her substantial waist.  Bless her heart, I could hear her bulletproof vest screaming.  The next time she asked to stop at Krispy Kreme for the "Hot" sign I was saying "NO."

            "I'll stick with stranger things, thank you." 

            "Sergeant Gordon?"  The voice called from behind us, and Neesha and I both turned; she a little more expectantly than I.  I had reached that point where I was in desperate need of a vacation.  Thompson, another newbie with a disastrous ego I was determined to break, came hustling up to us.  He was ex-military with the large chest, no neck, and faded haircut to prove it. 

            "Yeah?"

            "Sarge," Thompson started warily, his phone pressed to his ear.  He had his handcuffs on the wrong hip.  I tilted my head just a bit to the left, wondering whether to ream him then or write him up later.  Decisions, decisions.  "Robin Hood strikes again."

            "God damn it," I muttered, yanking my menthols from the inside of my coat pocket.  "Did they get him?"

            "No."  Of course not.  They never do.

            "Jesus, the guy's a fucking creeper," I moaned to Neesha, who just shrugged amiably.  I stuck a cigarette between my lips and struck a match, shielding against the wind.  "Who was it?"

            Thompson listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone--probably dispatch--and then moved the phone away from his ear.  "Some big-time dope dealer.  Guy's got a rap sheet a mile long."

            Taking a long drag on my cancer stick, I let the soothing mint seep into my bloodstream before I blew out a stream of smoke at him.  "How much?"

            Nodding at the phone, he shot his dark eyes back up to me.  "Dealer's not talking."

            "Of course he isn't," I said, disgusted.  "Keep him in lockup until I can make it down there."

            "Um, Sarge?  He's in the hospital."

            "Oh for crap's sake."

            Neesha patted my arm.  "Dude's a guerilla."

            "He's going to be a paralyzed-from-the-neck-down-guerilla when I get my hands on him," I grumbled, dropping my half-finished cig to the ground and stomping it out with the toe of my high heel.

Chapter 1

            My lungs were straining to grasp air, my legs were starting to feel like rubber, and my body was beginning to quake. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest like a Jehovah’s witness at a front door wanting to know if you’ve found Jesus yet. My pulse was quickening by the nanosecond; everything was coming together for the final exhilarating moment. It may sound like I was in the midst of some grade-A sex but unfortunately I was being chased by a cop.

            Actually, I was in the middle of assaulting and taking money from a common low-life street corner dope dealer when a black and white just happened to come rolling up on us. Must’ve been a rookie, they seem to have a knack for that shit while the older officers know exactly where to go to avoid instances like this. He shoved his car over the curb and on to the sidewalk, lights flashing and siren blaring. I turned to face the vehicle with my cash filled hands in the air, just as he was exiting the driver’s side. Standing behind the car door, the Irish-looking peace keeper drew his weapon, pointed it at me, and proceeded to give me commands like “Turn around” and “Lay face first on the ground!”

            Oh yea, this kid was totally a rookie.

            I complied with his first request but decided that it would tarnish the age-old tradition of cops and robbers if I didn’t run, so I took off at a dead sprint. My first step I took semi-carefully, making sure my size 12 tactical boot landed right in the middle of thug life’s chest. I heard some ribs crack and a gurgled groan escape from him and couldn’t help but crack a smile.

            After my moment of satisfaction I focused on the task at hand; not getting my ass arrested. I ran full speed down the dimly lit sidewalk for about 200 yards with Fife trailing behind me by about fifty yards and losing ground, trying to run and call out on the radio at the same time. I stopped just before an almost completely dark alley on my left. I could lose him in there. I turned my head to him, he was yelling something along the lines of “stop right there you asshole,” so I gave him a mischievous grin and took off again.

            About half way down the alley was an eight foot chain-linked fence. I considered jumping it but figured it’d be more fun to mess with the newb and hide in plain sight. As I was running towards the fence I began focusing my energy on making myself disappear. I stood right beneath the only light in the entire alley and waited.

            “Baker 312 to radio, I lost sight of my suspect. Must’ve jumped the fence in the alley just east of 28^th street.”

            “10-4 baker 312. Do you have a description?”

            “Yea, he’s a white male in his late twenties. About 6’3”, with long brown hair tied in a pony tail. He’s wearing a black jacket with black fatigue pants and combat boots. He had a scar down the right side of his face.”

            “10-4, we’ll put out an attempt to locate.”

            I stood not two feet away from the confused young officer. He was staring up at the fence wondering how the hell I could’ve made such a climb over it and be able to exit the other end of the alley in the split second before he made the turn off of the sidewalk. Shaking his head, he began walking back towards the original scene of the crime.

            I waited a good five minutes so I knew it would be all clear and released the energy I had been holding. A subtle pop sounded and my image was once again clear beneath the yellow alley light. Don’t be too hard on the kid, it’s hard to catch the invisible man.