Timecaster

FORTY-THREE

I hid around the corner, holding the cage while McGlade rang Chomsky’s videobell.

“Who is it?”

“Animal control,” McGlade said. “We heard you have a raccoon on your premises.”

Chomsky made a face. “It’s about time. The damn thing ate half my coca plant. It’s running around like a spaz.”

Just what I needed. A raccoon racing on cocaine.

“I’ll take care of it for you, sir,” McGlade said. “I’m a professional. I have years of varmint killing experience.”

“Can I see some ID?”

My heart sank. But McGlade was on top of it.

“How’s this for ID?” he asked, holding up the raccoon coat.

Chomsky opened his front door, and McGlade went inside, me behind him.

“You!” Chomsky said, pointing a finger at me. He was walking bowlegged and had an ice pack clutched to his groin. “I’m calling the cops on you right now!” He pointed at McGlade. “And you, too! Aiding and abetting! You’re going to jail for the rest of-”

McGlade shot him with the Taser. When Chomsky fell over, McGlade injected him in the thigh with something.

“Your neighbor is a dick,” McGlade said, putting the coat over his shoulders.

“Tell me about it. Come on.”

I led him up the stairs, pausing to pat Barack O’Llama on the head. Once on the roof, I looked around for the raccoon while McGlade baited the steel-cage trap with cat food. It worked on a simple lever principle. The animal walked in to get the food; the door closed behind it.

“You see him?” he asked.

“No.” I checked the GPS. He was hiding in the northwest corner. “He’s over there. Okay, set the trap down here. If he runs past, grab him.”

McGlade appeared dubious. “He’s a wild animal. Is he safe to grab?”

“Yesterday I fed my chip to him. He’s gentle as a lamb.”

McGlade set down the cage, and the raccoon jumped out of the bushes and onto McGlade’s chest. It hissed, teeth snapping, while McGlade fell onto his butt, screaming like a girl.

“GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!”

“He thinks you’re a raccoon,” I said, pointing to the coat. “You’re invading his territory.”

“TELL HIM I’M NOT A RACCOON! TELL HIM I’M NOT A RACCOON!”

I picked up the cage and fit it over the raccoon, manually shutting the door. Its little hands grabbed my fingers and he tried to bite me through the steel mesh. I quickly dropped it and backed away.

“Gentle as a lamb?” McGlade said, breathing heavy. “Maybe a lamb with fucking rabies!”

“Did it bite you?”

His face twisted up. “I think he got my leg. It feels wet.”

“You pissed yourself.”

“Fuck. Look at that crazy little bastard.”

The raccoon was shaking the cage, hissing and spitting. McGlade took out his Magnum and aimed it.

“McGlade! No!”

“It’s evil, Talon. It needs to die.”

“He was fine yesterday. It’s probably the coke.”

“Bullshit. It’s Frankencoon. If we don’t kill him, he’ll eat the city.”

The animal did seem a bit more hostile since I last saw him.

“Hit him with the sedative,” I said.

“I gave it to your dick neighbor.”

“Shit.”

“Why don’t you let me cap it? You have to cut the chip out anyway.”

I shook my head. “I’m not slicing through innards and intestines trying to find the chip. He’s going to give it to me in a different way.”

“How? You’ll ask him nicely?”

“Laxatives.”

McGlade shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, Talon.”

I picked up the fallen can of cat food, then pushed five laxative pills into the mush. Now it was just a matter of opening the cage.

“Okay, McGlade, I’ll open the door; you put the food inside.”

“Fuck you. Keep the Monet.”

To say the animal seemed extremely agitated would be putting it mildly. It looked angry enough to eat a mountain lion.

“Come on. I can’t do this alone.”

“Did you join a dissy monastery this morning and take a vow of stupid? There is no way I’m getting anywhere near that thing.”

I thought about Chomsky’s atomizer, still on my roof. That would mellow him out. Maybe I could sneak over, grab it, bring it back, atomize some marijuana…

“Fuck it,” McGlade said.

He shot the raccoon with his Taser. A bolt of Tesla lightning zapped the little guy right between the eyes, knocking him over.

“Dammit, McGlade!”

“Had to be done. You can send me the medal.”

The animal had keeled over onto its back, all four legs sticking straight up. But it still appeared to be breathing. Without hesitation I opened the cage and shoved all five pills down its throat, managing to lock him back up just as he was reviving.

“My work here is done.” McGlade folded his arms. “Where are the books?”

“The Magnum first. And the living skin.”

He handed them over. “I’ve only got those six bullets. No idea if they work or not. Now the books.”

I gave him Aunt Zelda’s address and said, “They’re yours. But you might want to wait a few days to pick them up.”

“Why?”

“Because the man I’m chasing has threatened to destroy Chicago in less than two hours.”

“I hate you, Talon. I really-”

The raccoon squealed, spinning around and lifting its bushy tail. He ejected an impressive fountain of animal waste, soaking McGlade’s pants. I’d seen less force come from fire hoses.

Ignoring McGlade’s string of invectives, I toed through the mess and found my chip. I brought it over to Chomsky’s sprinkler, rinsing it off. Then I went into the house.

In Chomsky’s bathroom, I found a bottle of hydrogen peroxide under the sink. I poured a liberal dose on my arm, and on the chip. Then I set the chip on a clean towel and unsheathed my Nife.

Removing the chip had been easy-a quick gouge in my arm fueled by panic and adrenaline. To put it back in, I’d have to fillet my skin and muscle down to the nerves, and I wasn’t looking forward to the experience. Chomsky had a decent assortment of painkillers in his medicine cabinet, but I didn’t want to take anything that might dull my senses.

Making a fist, I held my forearm over the sink. Gripping the Nife in my bad hand, I waited for the shakes to stop. They wouldn’t.

I’d just have to try my best.

I placed the flat of the blade against my skin. My fingers were numb, my control marginal at best. I took a deep breath, then got ready to “You need help?”

I startled, spinning around. McGlade stood in the doorway, buttoning his pants.

“Do I want to know why you’re pulling up your pants?” I asked.

“The little bastard shit on me. I returned the favor.”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“Give me the Nife. You’re gonna cut your arm off.”

McGlade washed his hands, then took the blade. Unlike me, his hands were rock-steady. He opened up a U-shaped flap in my skin, deftly avoiding the major veins and arteries, while I chewed on a bath towel. Then he placed the chip back inside its nerve slot, closed the flap, and sealed it with the living skin. For my part, I only cried a little bit.

“Thanks, man. Let me know if I can ever return the favor.”

He looked at me, hard. “Just stop the bad guy and save the city.”

I appraised him. “You turning humanitarian on me, McGlade?”

“Fuck, no. I just don’t want all the stuff you owe me to get destroyed.”

He offered his hand. I took it.

Then I covered my chip with the obfuscation disk and went off to find Vicki and save Chicago.