The Pandora Directive

Chapter Six

The building complex at 771 Santa Cena was no different than a dozen others within a ten block radius. Nicely landscaped, on the plain side. Functional, not flashy. The sign on the front said it AUTOTECH. I found the stairwell on the east side and slipped quickly down the stairs. Outside the red door, I checked my watch. I was early… and nervous. Time for a Lucky.

I heard a parental voice in the back of my mind: do you do everything your friends tell you to? What if they’re all jumping off a cliff? I dropped the cigarette butt and crushed it under my shoe. The door clicked — I opened it and stepped inside. The interior was as sterile as a tyrant oppressor. Grey carpet, grey walls, grey fluorescent lights. No decorative touches inside. I pulled the door closed behind me and hurried toward the third door on the left. I was several paces away when I heard a faint clicking sound. They certainly weren’t leaving me any margin of error. I grabbed the door handle and pulled.

It was an office. I was a bit disappointed. I figured on something a little more, well, startling. I checked my watch. 2:46. Five minutes to search an entire office. Luck and speed. I was hoping for luck.

A computer sat on a desk; I flipped it on and began searching the desk as it booted. I tore open the drawers, rifling as fast as humanly possible. Probably hundreds of important documents, but nothing struck me as relevant to my search. I turned to the first of two tall filing cabinets, quickly checking the time. It was 2:47. I opened the top drawer and leafed through a batch of manilla folders. Photographs, autopsies, receipts. It all looked interesting, but again, nothing useful. I turned to the second filing cabinet. All the drawers were locked. 2:48. The wall was bare, except for a certificate bearing an unfamiliar insignia, and several photographs. I didn’t bother to inspect the certificate, I pulled the frame from the wall and checked the back. Nothing.

One of the photographs showed and middle aged man shaking hands with former President Linderman. I checked it and the other picture and came up empty. 2:49 — less than two minutes left. A waste bucket, bookshelf, and Rolodex turned up nothing obvious. The computer was asking for a password. There wasn’t enough time. 2:50. I swung my head around, scanning the office for something — anything. A laser disc player sat on a table in the corner. A stack of recordable laser discs was piled underneath. I inadvertently brushed against the small tower of discs, toppling them. Instinctively, I glanced over my shoulder to see if the clatter had attracted any attention. When I looked back at the dishevelled pile of discs, I spotted a tiny metal key lying on the floor.

I picked it up and rushed to the locked filing cabinet. 20 seconds left. I started at the top. No… no… no. I jammed the key into the bottom keyhole and turned it. Tumblers fell, and the locks surrendered. I grabbed the door handle and pulled. The interior of the draw was empty except for a small, antique tin with the Camel logo on the cover. I picked it up. Across the room, the door clicked.

Bolting to my feet, I lunged for the door. Cradling the tin, I hit the door with my shoulder; it opened. Like a half-back breaking through the line and heading for six, I spun to my right and raced down the hall. The door clicked a nanosecond before I hit it. I was on the stairs, running like a mad man. Despite the adrenalin rushing through my system, I was sucking air hard by the time I reached my speeder. God, I was out of shape.

The speeder lifted off, and I was screaming back toward the old city. I checked the radar display and decided that I wasn’t being followed. My breathing slowly returned to normal. The Camel tin lay innocuously in the passenger seat. Panic gripped me for a moment. What if I’d screwed up? Maybe the tin contained nothing but match books.

I sat at my desk, the Camel tin in front of me. My office was dark, except for the lamplight. The LCD flashed a “3” on my voice messaging unit. They would have to wait. I pushed my thumbs against the front edge of the tin lid. I felt like Charlie opening his Wonka bar. I lifted the lid. The tin was full of photographs.

I sorted through the pictures, holding one at a time under the lamp. Several of photos on top of the pile clearly showed Emily Sue Patterson in various stages of nudity, but most of the others showed nothing more than close-ups of Emily’s apartment interior. At the bottom of the tin were three photographs of a different young woman. Obviously taken without the subject’s knowledge, two of these pictures showed the girl in front of a large building, apparently on a college campus. The other photo showed her in what appeared to be her bedroom. Sandra Collins?

I examined the photographs of Emily closely. She certainly was a piece of work. God had probably taken the rest of the day off after making her. Good thing it was my job to inspect the pictures thoroughly. I scanned every square inch, then moved on to the other things in the pictures. Except for Emily, there was nothing unusual in the photographs. The shots of the empty apartment were definitely the room above the Fuchsia Flamingo. Where had these pictures been taken from? Finding the source seemed to be the next step.

I lit a smoke and stood at the window, looking down at Chandler Avenue. The pictures of Emily had been taken from a vantage point directly opposite the Flamingo. Rusty’s Fun House. I stared down at the vacant novelty shop. All the windows were dark, though the evil-leering Harlequins that adorned the store’s facade were lit up by a street light. An ancient water tower sat atop the building like a dunce cap. I followed the line starting at the Flamingo and passing through the water tower. The closest building behind Rusty’s was a good quarter mile distant. Technically, the shots could have been taken from the far building, but I doubted it. I needed to find a way up to the roof above Rusty’s. Chelsee’s newsstand was closed. It occurred to me that she might have left one of the messages on the answering machine back in my office. I’d forgotten to check them. The door to Rusty’s was locked, and a sign was posted: SFPD crime scene! Authorised personnel only!

It was just after 4:00 am and the street was still dark. I could hear Emily singing “Misty” inside the Fuchsia Flamingo, but there was no one out and about in the street. I stepped back and kicked the door, just under the lock. A white flash of excruciating pain shot up my leg — I’d caught my toe on the knob. I hopped around for a minute, running through a list creative expletives that would have made my grandpa proud. When the searing pain finally subsided to a dull ache, I tried again. This time shoulder first. The door gave way, and I burst inside.

I’d had the foresight to bring a flashlight. I turned it on and flashed it around the shop. Everything looked the same as the last time I’d been there, except for a strip of yellow barrier tape placed across the doorway into Rusty’s back room. A few months ago, I’d tipped Mac Malden off about the location of Rusty’s remains, which I’d discovered over the course of my last big case.

A two-bit crook named Mick Flemm had dumped Rusty, big shoes and all, into a barrel of toxic acid stashed in Rusty’s dark room. Naturally, Mac took all the credit for wrapping up the previously unsolved murder and parlayed it into a promotion. I didn’t care; my contact in the police force was higher up the ladder, and I was privy to better information.

Nothing had changed in the backroom either, except that the barrel of acid had been removed. I started a systematic search. There had to be a way up to the roof somewhere. Half-an-hour later, I found the entrance, on the wall opposite the front door, under a shelf full of rubber masks. The door was small, like an access panel to a crawl space. I pulled the panel off the wall and flashed a light into the hole. The room behind was pitch black. I set the flashlight on the other side, then squeezed through the opening.

I stood up slowly, moving the beam of light steadily around the interior. The room had odd dimensions, maybe eight feet wide and fifteen feet long. The space above me rose to the level of the roof, at least twenty feet. A few boxes lay strewn about the floor, empty or full of worthless looking novelty items. At the far end of the chamber, a metal ladder was bolted to the wall.

The ladder led to a trapdoor in the ceiling… rusty, naturally. I pushed it open and crawled out onto the roof. The lights of New San Francisco sparkled in the distance. The water tower stood exactly between me and the Fuchsia Flamingo. The tower was old and corroded. A rickety ladder led to a small door, high up on the side. A new looking, sturdy and who chain and large padlock were attached to the door handle. I suspected I’d found the stalker’s lair. It didn’t look like he was home, unless he was some sort of Houdini wannabe.

The padlock wasn’t coming off without a key, and I was fresh out of padlock keys. I decided to look for another way in. The reservoir of the water tower was suspended above the roof on four rusted support legs. It looked like a decrepit, metal shop version of an early lunar landing craft. I walked under the belly of the reservoir and scanned the surface. In the centre, I found what appeared to be an eroded panel. A small handle on the panel was just wide enough to wedge four fingers in. I hung onto the handle, pulling myself up and down. A sudden cracking sound made me hesitate. Either the panel was coming lose, or the handle was going to rip off. Putting all my weight back on the handle, I expected to drop painfully onto my knees at any moment. A few seconds later, the panel ripped open violently, showering me with rust confetti and decades-old dust.

With no small effort, I pulled myself up into the water tower. I made a mental note to ease up on the Coffee Mate and get back on my Bullworker programme. I laid flat on my back on the reservoir floor, catching my breath and hoping I wouldn’t be too sore the next day. After a short rest, I pulled a flashlight from a trench coat and checked out my surroundings. The fall was composed of wooden planks, walked and stained and loaded with splinters. The sides of the tank were copper, rusted to blue-green. The flashlight beams circled the innards of the tank until it crossed the legs of a tripod. I moved the light up the legs until the beam rested on the point where the the three supports met.

A camera.

It was an expensive piece of equipment. The lens pointed toward a small hole that had been cut in the wall. I leaned over and put my eye to the viewfinder. Couldn’t see a thing. I removed the lens cap and checked the viewfinder again. Still dark, though not lens cap dark. Pushing a small button popped open a door, revealing a number of switches and knobs. Looking again through the viewfinder, I began to flip switches randomly. The third or fourth switch did the trick. My vision suddenly turned green, giving me a blurry view of Emily’s unlit apartment. Careful to leave the last switch in place, I played with the other switches and knobs until the picture became clear. With a few minutes of experimentation, I was able to get unbelievable detail. I could read the title of a magazine from a distance of at least 30 metres.

I pulled the view back far enough so I could get a good look through all three windows in Emily’s apartment. A slight movement caught my eye. Trying not to blink, I concentrated on the spot where I’d seen the movement. Minutes passed. Suddenly, a figure emerged from Emily’s bedroom. It appeared to be a man, dressed in black and masked. He was carrying an object under his arm. The mysterious figure walked toward the door that led out of the apartment, but didn’t open it. Instead, he moved to his right and disappeared behind a dresser. I watched for several minutes, but the masked man didn’t show himself again.

I straightened up from the camera. The man was waiting for Emily. I needed to move quickly! I lowered myself to the roof and hurried toward the trapdoor. The faint sound of applause and whistling came from the direction of the Flamingo. Emily had finished her set. The man was going to kill her. I stumbled down the ladder and ran to the hole in the wall. Dropping onto my belly, I wriggled through the opening, struggled to my feet, and ran for the door. Bursting through Rusty’s front door, I sprinted across the street. I wasn’t going to get there in time. The bouncer had no time to react as I raced past him. Heads turned as I sped towards the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Gus Leach moving to intercept me. He was a step behind — I vaulted up the stairs. Gus was swearing a blue streak, his pounding footsteps at my heels.

I reached the door to Emily’s apartment. My hand had just curled over the doorknob when I was spun around and hit by a large rock. As I crumpled, Leach grabbed me by the lapels of my overcoat and slammed me into the door.

“I told you not come back here.”

“There’s someone in Emily’s apartment. He’s gonna kill her!”

Leach raised his fist.

“I swear to God, Leach! Someone’s in there!”

The Mutant hesitated, then pushed me aside. His hand went to the doorknob. It didn’t move. Leach glanced down at me, then back at the door. Taking a step backward, he lowered his shoulder and smashed through the door. A gunshot. Still dizzy from Leach’s right hook, I braced myself and started to stand up. A figure in black burst through the doorway and hurdled me. I staggered to my feet and followed the man down the stairs. At the base of the stairs, the emergency exit door slammed shut. I reached the door and flung it open. Ducking my head out and back, I caught sight of a man racing out of the alley, an object cradled in the crook of his left arm.

I followed the fleeing man onto Chandler Avenue, then back into the alley where the fire escape leads to my office. He ran down to the end of the alley and turned left. I followed and looked down the long passage that runs behind the Electronics Shop and the Brew & Stew. He was increasing his lead. Instead of following him, I doubled back and ran out to the street. I headed for the newsstand and dove for cover. Peering over the counter I saw nothing. I waited a minute, maybe two, then decided to move. As I straightened up I saw the killer come up from behind the Brew & Stew and dash across the street, toward the fence between the pawnshop and the Slice O’ Heaven. Without much effort, he scaled the fence and dropped into the alley beyond.

I moved as quietly as possible toward the fence. The sound of clanging footsteps was barely audible. He was climbing the ladder to a roof over Rook’s pawnshop. This guy obviously had done his homework in getting around the neighbourhood. I couldn’t understand why he wanted to be on the roof, but it was my neighbourhood, and I did know a way to cut him off.

I followed the hidden trail through Rusty’s and climbed the ladder to the roof. I opened the trap door slowly, fully expecting a bullet in the face. With a level of stealth that surprised even myself, I slipped out of the trap door and closed it behind me. Hunkering down behind a large swamp cooler, I listened for the sound of footsteps. I heard nothing, except the distant city sounds and excited voices drifting up from the direction of the Flamingo.

Until I heard the speeder. It had to be a Black Avatar. It sounded nothing like my little Lotus model. The engine had a deep throb of staggering power. Only the government and drug lords owned speeders like that. I searched the night sky. It took several moments to locate the speeder — it was flying with the lights off. The Black Avatar was no more than a hundred metres away, moving slowly, headed straight toward me.

Suddenly, I saw my quarry jump up and wave his arms, his back toward me, facing the oncoming speeder. He was on the sunken section of road between Rusty’s and the pawnshop, maybe ten metres from me. The speeder was closing in. I got my feet and ran toward the man. As I leapt towards him, he saw or heard me, but had no time to dodge or fire his gun. I hit him square, and we fell in a stunned heap. He was the first to recover and planted a fist into the left side of my head. As I reeled back, I saw the speeder hovering a short distance away. I managed to unleash a kick into the man’s ribs, which left him gasping for breath. Then I got to my feet and lunged, but he avoided me neatly and jammed an elbow into the space between my shoulder blades. I dropped to my hands and knees. A boot slammed into my ribs, rolling me onto my side.

The man moved away from me, toward the edge of the roof overlooking the street. His gun had been thrown clear, three of four metres from where he’d left me. I grabbed a handful of loose gravel. As he bent to pick up his gun, I gathered the last of my strength and jumped to my feet. Everything shifted into slow-motion. I started to run toward the man. He looked up, saw me, raised his gun. I threw the gravel. He flinched and threw his left arm up to cover his face. The gun went off. I lowered my shoulder, felt it hit his chest. Another gunshot. He staggered backwards, hit the barrier at the edge of the roof, and toppled over the side. The gun went off again. A scream, the fall, the horrible sound of crushing bones.

The Black Avatar shifted down and sped off into the night.