Burdened By Guilt

  Burdened By Guilt

  Michiko Katsu

  Copyright 2014 by Michiko Katsu

  License Notes. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter 1

  It all came down to that moment. The life he led. The things he’d done. They all led to his current situation. Barely conscious, he knew. He wasn’t a genius. Hell, he wasn’t even smart but he knew. There was nothing random in his circumstance. Call it wrong-place-wrong-time. Call it coincidence. It didn’t matter. He knew what it was.

  Karma.

  And it came around. Hard.

  He shut his eyes as the pain from the filtered moonlight tore through him like a misplaced hand in a meat grinder. Light flashed through the blackness behind his leaden lids causing his stomach to retch, impatient to purge its contents onto the cold, pock-marked concrete floor beneath him. He inhaled deeply only to poison his lungs with air contaminated by the rancid stench of rotten food, burned rubber and the heavy iron smell of blood.

  His mind whirled increasing his nausea. He coughed once as the uncontrollable forces exploded from his mouth covering his face and distended belly with regurgitated bar food and sour whiskey. Aftershocks pulsated through his body until satisfied, leaving him covered in his own filth. He could not move except for the irrepressible need a body employs when survival was the only focus.

  He tried to remember what happened but his recollections were blurry and disjointed.

  Left work early. Check.

  Went to Dixie’s for happy hour. Check.

  Ed told that stupid Muslim-meets-a-Moyle joke for the five-hundredth time. Check.

  After that…nothing. A routine he followed religiously, he couldn’t tell if that was truly his last memory or just one of a thousand others.

  Maybe Dixie slipped me something?

  He tried to smile but his face would not respond. Too bad. Those were the details he wanted to remember.

  A car? No.

  A van? Yes, definitely a van.

  Or was it?

  Stripped down interior panels and two small windows on the back doors filtered in and out of his dulled senses.

  Dixie doesn’t drive a van does she?

  His frustration mounted as the tiny pieces of memory only confused rather than clarified. He willed his arms to reach up and rub the top of his hairless head, wipe the puke off his unshaven face, but they only mocked his impotence as they lay fixed at his side.

  Come on arms. Nothing.

  Face? Nothing.

  Legs?

  He tried moving his toes. Nothing. No response at all. Fear streaked through his mind as images of rotting corpses and dismembered zombies dragged themselves out of mass graves and through the abandoned streets of his over cinematized brain. The intensity of the images made his stomach churn again and he closed his eyes to steady the roller coaster. Regaining his composure he looked down over his cragged and ruddy cheeks to see if his limbs remained attached. His own body, as it was, was still intact and he sighed with relief.

  An uncharacteristically strong will and focused attention eventually moved his fingertips after what felt like hours. As if injected by a stimulant, the success ventured up his arms like creeping vines but with limited results. The effort caused his head to throb and he could taste the buildup of bile in the back of his throat.

  He tried to take a deep breath only to cough violently in response. His lungs burned with the drugs and smell that surrounded him like his own odor. Both took on a physical form worsening his ability to breathe deeply. The underlying wet, rusty smell reminded him of the repair shop he used to work in as a teenager. He had a hard time breathing there too.

  He tried to call for help but the only sounds he could produce were the raspy croaks of limited air forced through dry vocal chords. He was tenacious with his groans and restrained movements trying to get someone's attention never thinking the only attention he might draw was from his captor. But since mad-cannibal-scientist or zombie-virus-overtaking-the-world were no longer on the table, his only other choice was a horribly executed practical joke.

  As his head cleared he heard thrasher music playing above him. The heavy guitar riffs and growled lyrics wafted through his brain. He strained to determine the music’s origin but the walls were like a sieve allowing the heavy sounds to disappear into the murky blackness of the night.

  Not much of a fan he knew enough to recognize the inconsistent offbeat tinge of a distant alarm clock interrupting the song’s rant. The two sounds played off each other like the uncontained temperament of jazz without the same syncopated results. He pursed his eyes in a misguided attempt to quell the growing pain in his head but instead increased it. When he opened them shards of light disappeared and reappeared through the termite infested floorboards above as someone walked across the room.

  Then the music stopped.

  Seconds later booted footsteps descended dilapidated stairs. A thrill ran through him as he naively believed his rescue was imminent but his elation disappeared as quickly as it arrived. A dark sense of foreboding chilled his blood as icy fingers of impending doom played piano along his spine.

  Each step created a tingling feeling of an awakening limb which began in his toes and oozed its way up his legs as his skin prickled with renewed sensation. Its presence sucked the light from the room creating a black hole that consumed the building. Any thoughts he had of a poorly carried out gag disappeared leaving a gaping hole filled with dread. The fear of the unknown overtook him in the stinging pricks of a thousand needles as involuntary shakes rattled his body.

  "Pleath,” he moaned his tongue swollen. "Pleath.”

  "No one is going to help you,” was the quiet and unexpected response.

  A dim light filled the room as the filament of a single light bulb warmed with the electric charge. Encased in the grate covered fixture dangling from the ceiling, the full brilliance of the bulb had long since passed its prime. Now, only muted hues filtered through mottled skin of aged dirt.

  He could feel the steely gaze of his abductor watching him, laughing at him. Was he laughing? He couldn’t hear anything but his own panting but he knew he was laughing at him. He could feel it.

  Through tear filled eyes, he watched as his captor moved around the room. Shadows from the single light bulb made it impossible for him to follow increasing his already uncontrollable anxiety.

  Unwilling to go out like some punk-bitch he scoffed at so often in the movies, he refocused his attention on moving his limbs. Feet and hands wiggled to his surprise although the still present drugs made his movements stilted and limp. Rocking himself onto his stomach his labored, his movements like a walrus missing a flipper as his fingers and toes provided his only propulsion. His breathing intensified as his huge frame limited his progress and with only inches marking his success hope rerooted itself within giving him renewed energy to push forward.

  He yelped as two hands gripped his right shoulder pulling him onto his back. Only the black cutout of his abductor was visible as the light overhead slowly swung back and forth like a metronome. The glint from the knife caught his eye as “why me” were the last self-pitying words imprinted on his brain.

  His clenched fists could not cover his throat in what would only be a feeble attempt to stem the spurting blood emanating from the folds of his fleshy neck. He thrashed like a freshly caught fish as
the sucking sounds of draining water gurgled from the pooling blood in his mouth.

  Chapter 2

  Detective Mike Anderson sat in the Gustav Stickley chair across from his Lieutenant seething with frustration and anger over what he heard. Although the ambient temperature of the room had not changed the air surrounding him increased as his Lieutenant explained. Mike longed to remove his jacket but sat still as sweat formed on his scalp, hidden under thick, dark hair.

  "Now Mike,” Lieutenant Ed Smythe continued his tone patronizing as if speaking to a petulant child. "I understand you’re not comfortable with this decision but it’s important you understand this is for your own safety. There’s nothing more important to me than ensuring my team is protected.”

  Mike shifted in his seat. His long legs rammed up against the desk in front of him. It was no use. His discomfort was inevitable no matter how long he sat.

  "Listen, if it were up to me I wouldn't even be pushing this on you but you have to put yourself in my shoes. My hands are tied. I really think—”

  "I got it,” Mike interrupted, disgusted with the explanation that only increased his irritation.

  "Mike, I'm not sure you understand the implica—”

  "I said…I got it.”

  Lt. Smythe stood, visibly contemplating his next choice of words as he brushed his Versace tie into his buttoned, gray Brioni suit jacket. "I trust you will find a creative way to vent your frustration at this new arrangement,” Smythe said as he straightened his shoulders. He smoothed an errant blond hair back into position before continuing. “What I don't want to hear is that you're taking your irritation out on your new partner. It isn’t his fault we are requiring all detectives to have partners so it isn’t fair—”

  "Is there anything else?” Mike stood.

  Smythe raised an eyebrow. "Well then. I guess we understand each other.” His smile stopped at his lips.

  Mike didn’t respond as he turned and headed toward the door.

  "That's great Mike,” Smythe’s volume increased with each of Mike’s advancing steps. “Thanks so much for being a team player.”

  Mike crumpled up the yellow note that summoned him and threw it in a passing trashcan. Oblivious to the greetings of passers-by he was too busy berating himself for continuously allowing Smythe to get under his skin. They shared a fully acknowledged, mutual contempt but unfortunately Smythe had the upper hand as his superior, a fact that only increased Mike’s irritation. No doubt, Smythe salivated at the idea of rattling him with this new policy. He hadn’t had a partner in years and now he was saddled with some kid who probably thought Tagalog was a Girl Scout cookie.

  Stopping to get a cup of coffee before heading into his office Mike slapped down the manila file folder Smythe gave him, one corner crushed from his fist balled in frustration. Inside contained details regarding his new partner’s background and education, information Smythe thought useful for Mike to review prior to his arrival later that day.

  Seniority placed Mike in one of the corner offices which boasted two full walls of windows overlooking the parking lot and an adjoining park. Standard wood and metal desks sat in indiscriminate directions littered with papers, folders, a computer and a phone. Notes, news clippings and take-out bags covered in poorly timed epiphanies filled a forest of dry erase and corkboards, each tacked with a variety of adhesives ranging from tape and push pins to deli sandwich stickers and chewing gum.

  He sat at his dust covered desk and flipped through the file. Inside was the usual stuff. Graduated early from U.C. Berkeley as a political science major with a psychology minor. Graduated early from the academy. One of the youngest officers promoted to detective. No family. Blah, blah, blah.

  Mike shook his head at the picture forming in his mind. Not only was he getting a new partner but he was getting an over-achieving new partner, a liberal, over-achieving new partner. He imagined him pulling up in his hybrid vehicle, his Starbuck’s save-the-rainforest bottled water and soy latte, no doubt anxiously waiting to discuss the plight of the polar bears while recycling his gum wrappers.

  He wondered what he did in his past life to deserve this until the litany of transgressions running like ticker tape refocused his attention on the file. The kid had no family and more importantly, no wife or kids which meant he was available 24/7, which also meant he would be in his grill constantly.

  Great.

  He finished reading the details and closed the file. On paper the kid looked perfect. Too perfect. He appreciated excelling in certain areas but preferred experience especially when it came to police work. All that education was fine but it didn’t help in the instinct category. Mike could deal with how quickly he finished college and even the academy but he didn't like how quickly he became a detective. He didn't like it at all. This kid would be a problem and he wasn't sure how he would deal with him.

  "Hola Miguel,” came a graveled, bass voice from the doorway. "What the hell are you doing in the office?"

  "Got assigned a new partner,” Mike responded as he dropped the file on the desk and leaned back in his chair.

  "Nice. I guess the Lieutenant just keeps moving higher and higher up your list.”

  "Laugh it up Paco. There’s a new policy and no doubt your name is on the list too.” He derived some satisfaction as the smile fell from Detective Rojilio “Rudy” Rubio's face.

  "What?” Rudy asked rubbing his overgrown black mustache as he found his way to his desk.

  "Hey, you didn't think it was because the L.T. and I are so close did you? Apparently there's some new policy they’re implementing and all detectives who don't already have partners are getting assigned one. Safety reasons or so he said.”

  "So why didn't they just pair us up?" Rudy asked the logical question.

  "No doubt this is Smythe’s way of continuously making my life a living hell. Besides, if he brings in an outsider he can try to manipulate him into being a mole or something. When the team is united he can’t infiltrate. If he can’t infiltrate he can’t destroy.”

  Rudy smiled. “Paranoid much?”

  Mike shook his head. “Mark my words Paco. Mark ‘em.”

  Rudy laughed and sat in his chair. In his mid forties he still looked twenty-five. Good genes and nutrition growing up kept him in continued good health even as his adult personal habits labored against them. His dark skin and coal, black hair only perpetuated his youthful appearance. The women at the station said he looked like Benjamin Bratt with a mustache and a little potbelly. He was an insatiable flirt but even after twenty-five years of marriage and six kids he was still a newlywed at heart.

  Rudy mumbled to himself in Spanish. A third generation American from Connecticut, Rudy was as Mexican as Taco Bell but after years of playing up his heritage to his advantage he mindlessly fell into character whenever he lost his temper. It was easy to see him slowly transform with his anger as his English morphed into Spanish with marked transitions.

  “Rudy?” Mike barked.

  “Que?” Rudy responded looking over at Mike from his desk.

  “Cool it with the Spanish man. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “Oh, right sorry.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Whad’ya gonna’ do, right?”

  “Slash his tires?”

  “That’s an option,” Rudy rocked his head back and forth in mock contemplation. “When does the chosen one arrive anyway?”

  “Any minute now.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Ka-li-forn-ia,” Mike did his best Arnold impersonation. “Berkeley.”

  Rudy chortled. “Wow, even better. Gotta’ get your tambourine and hemp pants out of storage eh, amigo?” Mike’s impending doom was always the cure for Rudy’s personal concerns as they enjoyed each other’s misfortune.

  “I know I’ll be fine. But I won’t make any promises about the kid.”

  “You know what this could be?” Rudy asked. “This could have something to do with those rumors flying around abo
ut the missing drugs. From what I hear, I.A. is involved and you know what that means.”

  “Yeah…I know,” Mike sighed.

  “Smythe would love nothing better than to stick this on you. Why not saddle you with some stooge he can quietly manipulate behind the scenes. You know, try to get something like this or something else pinned on you.”

  “Now who’s paranoid?” Mike joked but the thought had crossed his mind.

  Chapter 3

  Mike envisioned his new partner as a pimply-faced kid in khaki pants, poorly ironed shirt and Goodwill tie. He saw him trailing after him like some nosy reporter looking for a story or by-the-book snot nose criticizing his actions in comparison to his textbooks.

  “Regulation code 231b states that all officers…”

  He winced. At this point, all he hoped for was patience and the ability to resist the urge to strangle him every time he spoke. He conceded the situation wasn’t the kid’s fault but he couldn’t take it out on Smythe so the kid would have to do.

  As he refilled his coffee he noticed Smythe walking down the hallway with his son.

  “Mike, glad to see you,” Smythe said with exaggerated enthusiasm. His hand was on the boy’s shoulder pushing him two steps forward. “Actually I figured you might run away like some spineless coward given our earlier conversation so I’m glad you’re still here.”

  Mike glared at him. He was about to respond but stopped before he said something he would regret. Smythe was a dickhead but it would be inappropriate to disrespect him in front of his son.

  He turned his focus to the boy. Mike never realized Smythe was a father. The idea of natural selection negated his belief in Smythe’s ability to reproduce. Besides, it didn't match his image. In the six years Mike had known him, he never heard of a kid.

  Maybe it’s his nephew.

  “What is this, bring-your-kid-to-work day or something?” Mike asked with forced curiosity.

  Smythe laughed as if what Mike said was hilarious. “Mike, don’t be silly. This is Kevin McKay. He’s your new partner.”