And dissolved into a pile of black cats. They howled and skittered across the floor and ran up the walls, disappearing as they reached the ceiling.
A hallucination, Patrick realized, his heart hammering in his ears. He looked at the can and saw dark beads of toxic liquid at the opening, a giveaway to the tampering. An army of cockroaches appeared on Patrick’s arm but he ignored their clacking, metallic legs and dropped a shoulder, rolling back to his original position.
He resumed the slack-mouth staring, trying to ignore the insects crawling across his body. The door opened again and a second Scott entered, naked and aroused and bearing a new syringe and a pair of handcuffs. It took seconds to lock the cuffs in place. Patrick felt the needle sting his thigh. “Fifteen minutes,” Scott whispered, setting the glowing linoleum cutter on Patrick’s belly. “Then we’ll have an anatomy lesson, Patrick. Just you and me.”
Scott retreated to the chair. He picked up the beer can, rolled it between his palms. Held it toward Patrick like offering a toast, tipped it back …
And drank.
“Think,” I said to Gershwin. “Where would Scott be?”
We were on the streets, too restless to sit at the department. We had every damn invisible wire in hand except the one that led us to Scott’s lair. Night was falling, and what would normally seem a pleasant orange cast to the sky seemed like a blanket of fear turning darker by the moment.
My phone was in my lap and I kept wishing it would sound, a cop saying he’d just spotted Derek Scott’s 2012 maroon Explorer. We’d been looking for a silver sedan, possibly with a bike rack. Scott had moved us like chess pieces.
“How would Scott acquire property?” Gershwin asked as I turned on to I-95 and headed south. “Without using his name?”
“He might rent it,” I said. “Pay enough and there’s no questions asked.”
“There’s a risk the owner might show up to check out the property. Scott is risk-adverse, Big Ryde.”
Gershwin was right. I replayed his relationship with Gary. A thought hit.
“Gary’s cloud data. He kept business dealings there.”
I saw the nearest exit and took it, pulling into a clothing-store parking lot. I dialed Sparrow at computer forensics.
“Yo,” she said. “S’up?”
“The download from Ocampo’s cloud account. There were some business records with the videos, right?”
I heard her scratching through files. “Usual stuff, tax records and whatnot. Inventory. Plus some property papers.”
“More than the shop?”
A minute of keystrokes. She told me what she found.
I hung up and looked at Gershwin. “Eleven months back Gary Ocampo bought a building in Kendall. Two stories, almost three thousand square feet. How far is Kendall?”
“Fifteen minutes from here,” Gershwin said. “But I know a shortcut.”
Scott left the room and returned with another beer, sitting in his chair and playing with himself as he studied Patrick. His hand made an ugly squeaking sound as it rose and fell, an aural hallucination, Patrick knew. He also knew the anti-toxin was overcome, the floor now glowing as if lit from below. Lightning had started crackling against a far wall. Sickly purple clouds sped across the ceiling.
Derek Scott rose from his chair, fifteen feet tall. He lifted the knife.
“Time to study anatomy,” he said, his voice coming from inside Patrick’s head. Scott pulled the cushion from the lounger and propped Patrick’s head high, Patrick staring at his chest, his open and bare belly. Scott’s hand closed around the linoleum cutter’s wooden handle, its wicked curve echoing the curve in Scott’s smile as Scott made the blade draw circles in front of Patrick’s eyes. The blade left trails, like a sparkler.
“Wonder what we’ll see first …”
Scott paused. His eyes flashed to a corner. His head cocked, like hearing a distant voice.
“Gary?” he said. “Gary?”
Scott stood and walked tentatively to the corner and waved his hand in the air, like trying to touch something only he could see. He turned slowly, looking between Patrick and the can of beer on the floor, the vial at its side.
“YOU BITCH!” Scott screamed. “I’LL GUT YOU!”
Lightning crackled through the room as Scott stumbled toward Patrick, the knife glowing and buzzing in the sparking air. Scott dropped to his knees at Patrick’s side, his face black, his mouth dripping fire. He slipped the knife under Patrick’s chin. NO Patrick croaked, trying to roll away as the room spun like a wheel and the glowing blade burrowed toward his heart. PLEEEEASE NO …
Lighting exploded again. Two blinding flashes, like twin suns exploding. Waves of thunder spun the room so fast it turned inside-out.
Time stopped.
Took a breath.
Re-started. Patrick blinked his eyes open to the sound of wind blowing inward from the door, turned his head into the wind. Superman stood at the door, his cape flapping in the breeze, his dark hair rippling, and smoke drifting from a hole in his palm. He lifted from the floor with a swoosh and flew to Patrick. But it wasn’t Superman’s face above the massive cartoon shoulders, it was Detective Ryder’s face.
“I’ve got to get you to a hospital, brother,” Superman Ryder said in a voice that sounded like trumpets. “Hang on.”
Clouds surrounded Patrick and he could not tell if he was rising or falling.