Protect All Monsters Page 2

  Addey was too shocked to be touched by the act of brotherly protection. She couldn’t work up the courage to dial the police. The blood in the room was neon, beading its harsh tones against the artificial light. She shifted each time the widening circles from both ends of the room threatened to touch her until she had no choice but to step out of the office and into the night air. Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone else had summoned the police.

  She waited at the curb and wept.

  Chapter Two

  Paramedics collected the two bodies. Junior’s office was a crime scene. She was guarded by two officers, neither of whom had spoken a word to her. She waited awkwardly by the police cruiser for someone to initiate conversation. She wasn’t hysterical anymore. The weight of the events forced her into calm. She refused to think about tomorrow, or the next week, or even now. She was a blank slate.

  A half hour passed. Addey couldn’t help but again wonder why nobody had talked to her. She was a lead witness. The only witness. She reached out and touched the officer’s arm in front of her. “Excuse me, can I ask you what’s happening? Is…is there anything I can do?”

  The man’s nametag read Chief Kinderley. He regarded her with empty eyes. His thoughts were elsewhere. “Be patient, Ms. Ruanova. You’ll soon be informed.”

  I didn’t tell him my name.

  How does he know my name?

  The chief stood by as if guarding her. She wasn’t a crime scene or investigative expert, but wasn’t it customary to ask the witness questions? Perhaps it was that obvious, she thought, what had occurred.

  Officers nearby worked to ensure that the patrons in their rooms stayed back from the scene. She glanced at Junior’s office again. The yellow tape skewed her view, but she distinguished a crew mopping up the blood and cleaning the wall. Another was spackling the bullet hole where Deke was gunned down. Each of the crew wore painter suits. The room was clean within fifteen minutes.

  Why are they cleaning up the room already? They haven’t combed it for evidence.

  She had turned around to question another officer when she experienced another strange observation. The police cruiser was unmarked. The license plates were blank too.

  The police chief grabbed her by the arm, suddenly interested in her. “I’m going to escort you to the station now. Just typical questioning, Ms. Ruanova.” His smile was forced. “Can you handle this?”

  She wanted to protest, but what was she protesting? “Who are these people? Why are they cleaning up the crime scene like that?”

  He stared at the other officers. “You’re safe. I’ll help you into the car. We’ll take a trip to the station.”

  The twist of her stomach was instinct. The hairs on the back of her neck went rigid. The chief opened the back door and urged her inside. Once she was sitting, the sudden urge hit her to try the doors and run. They were locked from the inside as if childproofed. The chief piled into the front seat and sped onto the main road. She was trapped.

  She needed a form of validation that this was the real police. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “You’re going to make a statement. Then I’ll take you back home. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. I’m sure it’s all happening so fast for you.”

  She was overreacting. Nobody could absorb two murders, never mind a death in her own family—both very brutal—without anxiety. She was shaking now.

  This will be over soon was the best her mental voice could summon.

  But it wouldn’t be over soon. Deke’s funeral would have to be worked out. Then she’d have to tell her parents what happened. They were proud of their children, and it would break their hearts to learn of Deke’s death.

  Bitterness filled her up her while watching the empty shells of apartment buildings and run-down housing districts whiz by in the window. The cruiser crossed 45th and Hawker Boulevard. The change was instant in the surroundings. The poor housing district slowly turned into suburbia: cookie-cutter houses, strip malls, car lots and Herington Park. This was Herington City.

  One block makes a hell of a difference, doesn’t it?

  “Yeah, I’ve got Addey Ruanova on the way,” Chief Kinderley spoke into the dispatch radio. “She’s good to go. Ready as I’ve seen them.”

  Ready as I’ve seen them. What did that mean?

  The police station was four or five miles from her workplace. They’d cleared ten miles at least. So where was he really taking her?

  “Um, wasn’t the station behind us?”

  The chief glared at her in the rearview mirror. The eyes were harsh.

  “Tell me what’s going on? You owe me that much. My brother died tonight. Have you ever watched a family member die? You don’t know what it’s like. Talk to me. Quit leaving me in the dark. Haven’t you ever heard of empathy in your line of work?”

  The chief mouthed, Brother was a goddamn hop-head.

  Did he just say what I thought he did?

  Self-righteous prick.

  Then he answered her question. “We’re not going to the booking station. You’re not being arrested. I take witnesses to a different location. You can relax.”

  I won’t relax until this is over. This is crap.

  She was wearing her work uniform, an ugly peach fabric with burgundy sleeves. She looked like a bellhop from the fifties. Blood had dried on her sleeves and her stockings. She wanted to expel the scene from her body. A cleansing, hot shower would do the trick.

  The chief announced, “We’re here.”

  His words tore her from her worries—at first. The station appeared legit. The Camden County Police District sign stood proudly at the entrance. The two-story, brown brick enclosure was surrounded by parked police cruisers. Black iron gates secured the perimeter. They stopped at a hub to check in. Here, they were greeted by three armed security guards. When they were allowed inside shortly after, she observed the cop cars were identical to Chief Kinderley’s, each without markings of identification.

  The chief parked, got out and helped her from the vehicle. This time he cuffed her hands behind her back. “This is for your own safety.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She thought back to the article she had read in the newspaper about the chief of police recently. This man’s name was Kinderley. The chief’s in the paper was McCullough.

  Then who the hell is this guy?

  He talked into the receiver strapped to his shoulder. “I’ve got her right here in the parking lot.”

  Two men in business suits stepped out from a side entrance. The black-suited one guided her into the building, and the gray-suited one stayed behind to chat with Kinderley.

  “Two in one night,” the business man said jovially. “Good work. You’re up for that bonus. I’ll see to it you actually get it this year.”

  They both laughed raucously.

  Their talk faded once the doors slammed closed behind them. Inside, two men in beige uniforms stood vigil six yards out from her and watched them as they proceeded down the long, narrow hall. The overhead lights were muted, the color of a brown beer bottle held up to the light. The black-suited man was stern faced, his ruddy-colored beard finely trimmed, his black hair combed back with gel. He smelled of expensive cologne and breath mints. His eyes were cold like Chief Kinderley’s. They were concentrated on unknown concerns.

  The hall was barren of posters or plaques or details about the establishment. They bypassed a public restroom and water fountain. The hall ended, and they started down an outlet toward a larger foyer, but the man turned left to a white door first.

  “Follow me inside, Ms. Ruanova.”

  The room’s walls were a drab off-white—an eggshell yellow due to cigarette smoke—with a large two-way mirror in the corner. A television set was propped on a cart beside the cheap foldout table and chairs.

  This was an interrogation room.

  “Why am I being interrogated?”

  The man’s expression was clinical. “You’re in the process of being infor
med.” He pulled out the chair for her. “Sit down. Please.”

  She did as she was instructed. “Can I change out of these clothes? You realize I just saw my brother killed, don’t you? What’s wrong with you people? Why am I being treated like this?”

  “Yes, I do realize what you’ve been through.” He sat down, acting more concerned about lighting his cigarette. “Let me tell you a bit about myself first. This is important, so listen up. I work for the government. So does the officer who brought you here. I’m the head of the agency called the PSA, or the Private Security Agency.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with me? I’m a legal citizen. My parents are legal citizens. I’m a native-born American. I haven’t committed any crimes. I’m hardly a threat to national security.”

  “Ah, you’re getting warm.” He blew out a fine blue smoke ring. “My name’s Toby Quinn. I’ve been doing my job for the better part of fifteen years. My organization has existed for about fifty years. Our system is perfected. We need good people to be of service to our country.”

  “Y-y-you want me to go overseas and fight in a war? You’re picking a heck of a time to recruit me. ‘Oh, your brother is dead…hey, join the Marines’.”

  Toby broke out in hysterical laughter. He leaned against the wall slapping his leg, really broken up. He was unable to collect himself for minutes. When he did, it was like a switch, and he was serious again.

  He offered her a cigarette. She accepted it. Needed it.

  “I appreciate your candor. I go through this process at least forty times a week. I’m going to be brutally honest with you, Addey. I’m like a United States Army recruiter. I pick the shitty, low-class parts of the cities to find my participants. Now, I can’t just ask them to join us. We can’t go public either. Nope. Human rights activists would shit a political brick. It’s best the general population remains dumb to our problem. I have to swoop down and capture people during some heavy shit to convince our recruits to join in the effort. I have to call my people—like the ones you witnessed at the crime scene—and have them do their thing before the media gloms on to what we’re doing.” His eyes narrowed in on her. “National security—global security—is at stake.”

  She was disappointed the cigarette was already three-quarters spent. “You’re hardly cutting to the chase.”

  He visibly took pleasure in what he shared next. “You’re low class, which means you’re poor. You’re exploitable, okay? Your brother was a drug dealer. Hardly the sultan of the earth. Your parents are Mexican. You’re minority. You’re single. You’re a workaholic. You’re a loner. You don’t have many friends. I’m not a racist, and I’m not trying to pick on you, but these are the qualities I look for when recruiting. You’ve been on a list for years. You graduated high school with a 3.6 GPA despite working forty hours a week. You’ve paid your bills and survived without giving in to drugs or crime. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. That’s also why you’re here.”

  What could she say to this except, “I’m still very confused.”

  Mr. Quinn checked his watch. “Ah, it’s about time.” He turned on the television that was propped on the cart across from her to Channel 5 Action News. “Give it a few seconds, and you’ll see.”

  The reporter, Linda Evans, stood in front of the Sunshine Motel amid a local police crew and an ambulance. Linda began: “Tonight, tragedy struck a local motel. Employee Addey Ruanova was shot dead tonight by a drug dealer trying to break into the manager’s office. The culprit was also gunned down. His name was Deke Ruanova. Junior, the motel's manager, was the only one to survive the vicious attack.”

  The camera panned to “Junior Alverez”. He was wearing the Lakers jacket and those thick-rimmed glasses. He was identical to the murder victim, a spitting image. Even his voice sounded right. “It’s terrible what happened. Addey saved my life when Deke tried to shoot me. I gave him what he wanted, the money, access to my safe, and he was still disgruntled. He shot Addey, and he was going to shoot me, but Addey managed to take the gun and shoot him first. Deke shot back in the scuffle, and she was murdered.” Crying now, “God bless her, she saved my life.”

  The pit of her stomach dropped a hundred flights. It slowly sank in: the news report, her death, and Junior standing in for the interview—the man who’d had half his head missing! She shot up from her chair, outraged. Mr. Quinn shoved her back into her seat. “Look, you’ve got a long few days ahead of you and some major adjusting, so calm yourself down. Please.”

  Addey pounded her cuffed hands against the table, feeling herself trapped in Toby Quinn’s exploitative grasp. “What the hell is this you’re trying to pull? I’m not dead. How could Junior be standing there? He’s the one who was killed tonight. Why do all this shit for me if I’m a low-class Mexican not worth a damn, according to you? I’m a nobody. I’m afraid to find out what exactly you’re planning to do with me for all this effort.”

  Mr. Quinn went to work to assuage her outburst. He set a laptop computer on the table. He turned it on and began typing. “Computer technology has worked wonders for us in the past decade or so. It’s easier to recruit people in your circumstances. You see, there are two kinds of police. The normal police, and then there’s us. Only certain people are in the know about what we really do. You have to be dead to help us—in the ‘on the books’ sense of dead, I mean.

  “Junior is computer-animated art. Tonight, he’ll commit suicide in his apartment. His head’s already blown off, so the story will stick. The reporters work for us. The police—our men—work both sides of the deal. It’s for the good of mankind, Addey. You’ll see very soon. I’m sorry your brother died, and I’m sorry we’ve taken liberties with your life. You can’t ask people to do this job. You can only create these exploitable situations when real shit actually happens—real deaths, real crimes. You’re the perfect candidate. We pool the names of people like you and wait for tragedy to strike. When the shit hits the fan, we’re there to clean it up. That’s being honest.”

  Mr. Quinn turned the computer to her angle. The Web site was labeled Private Security Agency. A file was uploaded: Addey Christine Ruanova. He deleted her name, social security number, driver’s license, home address, school records, birth certificate and bank accounts—the savings at a hard-earned five grand. He was a pianist, playing to his heart’s desire.

  “Stop that! What the hell are you doing?”

  The man was taking a demented pleasure in erasing her existence. Her life was unraveling. She was helpless to those orchestrating the downfall. “So I’m dead now in flesh and on paper? Is this getting you off? You’re really enjoying this. Well, I don’t think it’s so funny. Show some humility. Asshole.”

  “Humility? I might be ruthless, but it’s necessary. This is a tough job, dismantling people’s lives and sending them off to that damnable island.”

  “Island? Am I going on vacation?”

  “You wish.” Now he was somber. “Okay, I apologize for getting carried away. I’m scaring you, and you’ve been through the worst night of your life.”

  “This is the worst night of my life.” She stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray. “Can I have another one?”

  He handed her another cigarette and a book of matches. “Knock yourself out. You deserve it.”

  She smoked with a vigor unknown to her, though she normally smoked half a pack a day. She was taking in too much information and was already backed up with other questions. Understanding wasn’t an option, she concluded. She had to listen to the man talk, and that was it.

  Her mind churned out deplorable ideas. “So what’s my funeral going to be like?”

  He smirked. “Closed casket.”

  Chapter Three

  Mr. Quinn removed her handcuffs and directed her to a different wing of the facility. The building as a whole seemed uninhabited at this time of night. She could read it was one o’clock in the morning on the oversize clock in the foyer. The water fountain nearby eased the tension in her body, th
e sound of water pattering against water. She clung to anything to distract her from the night’s events. It wasn’t long before a security officer at the desk ahead of them monitored them with too much interest.

  “Good evening, Mr. Quinn,” the security officer said. “How goes you?”

  “Evening, Ted.”

  They shared a look that agreed she was in for something crazy.

  They cleared a short hall, where at each side of them was a wooden door, one marked “Men’s” and the other “Women’s”. It reminded her of the segregation of a public swimming pool. She heard the sound of a running shower in the far background. Mr. Quinn stopped at a hole in the wall marked “Receiving”.

  “This is your stop,” he said, tapping the bell on the counter twice. A person was awakened from the back. The woman was in her late sixties, her beehive hair an obvious wig. Her eyes were slanted and red from sleep. “How was your nap, Stella?”

  “Wonderful until you came along.” Stella studied Addey with sympathy. The woman dug into a shelf behind her, gathered ten different pieces of paperwork, stapled them and placed them on a clipboard. “Sign your life away.”

  Mr. Quinn sneered at her. “Thank you, Stella.”

  He flipped through the pages, showing her the document. “There is a positive side to this. You sign on for two years, you get a full ride to the college of your liking. Also, your folks will receive a two-hundred-grand handout from the government. Call it a giant food stamp.” He thought it was a clever joke Addey would enjoy. She didn’t laugh. “It’s for your trouble, okay? We’ll label it as a life insurance policy, and your parents are the beneficiaries.”

  He seized her arm, his grip cold as it was circulation cutting. He whispered in her ear, “You can survive. Watch your back and don’t trust anybody. You make it two years, you’re home free. Never be afraid to defend yourself. That could mean murder. Nobody will hold it against you.”

  He turned to the final page, returning to whom he had been moments before his strange warning. “Sign on the bottom.”