Robert Wilson - Vortex

The kid in the rain kept walking at a steady pace. He passed a second guard car. The perimeter was even better defended than it had been when Bose did his first drive-around, hours earlier. So what was going on at the warehouse that required all this security? He guessed Findley had been alarmed by the news that Orrin had escaped from State Care. Probably he was afraid some federal agency might issue a warrant for the premises. But what he was doing to counter that threat remained an open question.

Bose hoped Turk would simply give up and go home; failing that, Bose might have to intercept him and warn him away. Too much time was passing and he still had Orrin Mather to worry about. He sped up a little, avoiding streetlights and keeping to the Dumpster-and-delivery lanes whenever possible.

The next time he came within sight of Turk the kid was only a dozen yards away, standing still. He was south of the Findley warehouse by a couple of blocks and there were no guards in sight. Bose ducked back as the kid surveyed the street in both directions, seeing nothing but locked doors, shabby sidewalks, the endlessly falling rain. The kid was nervous, shifting the heavy plastic bag he carried from hand to hand. Bose was about to step out, either to confront him or to scare him off, when the kid suddenly turned left, cradling the bag in his arms, and ran between two darkened buildings.

Shit, Bose thought. He followed quickly but cautiously, hoping the kid wouldn’t be spotted and get them both killed.

But the kid was quick and, at least in the tactical sense, smart. He knew the neighborhood was riddled with alleys and laneways, many of them poorly lit, and he managed to make his way undetected to the street on which the warehouse had its front entrance. That street was well watched, but Turk sidled up between two empty parked cars, dashed across the open space in a particularly heavy gust of rain, and made it unseen to the mouth of another alley. It wasn’t the front of the warehouse Turk wanted access to, Bose surmised. It was the back lane with the loading bays. Just like in Orrin’s story.

Bose followed along the same route, feeling absurdly conspicuous. He reminded himself that his only objective was to keep the kid from making a huge mistake and getting himself or someone else hurt. The problem was, any attempt he made to approach Turk at this point might startle him into unpredictable action. Nevertheless, he had to make contact.

He was weaponless but he brought some skills of his own to the situation. Unlike the hacked pharmaceuticals the longevity-sellers traded in, the Martian treatment suppressed and enhanced certain neurological functions. It suppressed spontaneous aggression, which meant Bose was what people called “slow to anger.” It enhanced empathy and it suppressed fear. It also improved visual acuity and reaction time, which had helped gain Bose his police academy reputation as a first-rate sharpshooter.

Turk moved up the laneway to the place where it intersected the alley behind the warehouse. He crouched down, almost invisible in his black poncho, darting his head out to see what was happening. Bose used the opportunity to move up behind him.

Now or never. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low but just loud enough to be heard over the rattle of the rain.

The kid jerked out of his crouch and whirled around. Bose held his hands out, palms up. “I’m unarmed,” he said, taking a couple of steps closer. “And I’m not one of them. ”

“Who are you, then?” the kid managed. He had the jug of methyl hydrate in it in his right hand, holding it so he could swing it like a mace.

“I used to be a cop,” Bose said. “You’re Turk Findley, right? The owner’s son?” The kid said nothing, but his unsurprised silence served as confirmation. “All I want,” Bose said, “is for us both to turn around and get out of here. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, it’s not practical. Not tonight.”

Rain guttered down from the kid’s sodden black hair into the collar of his poncho. He looked at Bose through the downpour. Then he said in a small, flat voice, “Behind you.”

“What?”

“They’re behind you.”

The kid crouched down hastily. So did Bose. He risked a look back. There were two men coming up the alley, wraithlike in the rain. They hadn’t seen Bose or Turk yet—the angle of the wall had hidden them—but unless they turned around they surely would.

Turk seemed reassured by Bose’s reaction. “This way,” he said.

Bose had no choice but to follow him around the corner into the back lane, where they would almost certainly be spotted… but no, there was a narrow gap between a green steel Dumpster and the ledge of a loading bay, just big enough for the two of them to squeeze into. Bose tried to get a good look around during the brief moment he was exposed. The bays of the Findley warehouse were half a block to his left. Three cars were parked in the alley and a white unmarked van had pulled up to one of the bays. The loading bay door had been rolled up, spilling a rectangle of light into the darkness. Bose tried to fix the scene in his mind, calculating relative distances and possible avenues of escape. Then he hunkered down next to Turk, who was shaking like a wet dog.

The two guards came up the alley and into the open. Bose caught a glimpse of their yellow rain jackets as they passed the Dumpster, heading back to the open loading dock. The presence of the van explained what was going on at the warehouse, Bose thought. Findley had gotten nervous and was cleansing the building of contraband. There were boxes stacked floor to ceiling in the back of the van—probably chemicals from Lebanon or Syria, bound for black-market bioreactors.

Bose decided he needed a better look. He went from a crouch to a kneeling position and then down onto his belly. The asphalt under him was wet but still warm from the heat of the day; it smelled like some kind of oil-drenched animal. He snaked forward and peered past the rim of the Dumpster. All he had for camouflage was his dark hair and dark skin.

He got a good look at the man supervising the loading, a middle-aged man with a haggard expression and a flashlight in his hand. Bose recognized him as the elder Findley. “Your father’s here,” he whispered.

After a pause the kid said, “You know my father?”

“I know him when I see him.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“I wish I could. But I’m not a cop anymore. I can’t arrest anybody.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Helping out a friend. What are you doing here?”

No answer.

Bose was about to suggest that they attempt to head back the way they had come—dangerous though that might be—when a fourth car pulled up by the van. The driver got out and climbed onto the concrete loading bay and approached Findley, who gave him a what now? look. The driver said something inaudible, pointing back down the alley. Suddenly Findley clapped his hands and began to shout loud enough to be heard over the rattle of the rain, telling the loading crew to finish up and pull in the security perimeter.

Bose checked his watch. The next bus was past due: it would have arrived minutes ago. Orrin, he thought. His best guess was that one of Findley’s security men had spotted Orrin Mather and brought the matter to the boss’s attention.

The elder Findley climbed into a car with one of his security guys. The car rolled down the laneway, its wheels splashing Bose and Turk where they crouched in the shadows. Bose saw Turk blinking at the ripples left by the car in the pavement’s skin of rainwater, aware that his father had passed within a few feet of him. Much of the rage that had carried him here seemed to have collapsed into confusion.