TWENTY-SIX
Mobile phones are bad for your health. It's a debate, with many well-argued pros and cons that has raged for almost as long as the devise has existed. And one that will no doubt continue until they are long since obsolete and the next technological wonder comes along to seduce mankind a fresh.
It's a question that may never fully be answered, unless you asked a certain out of favour lawyer if mobile phones are bad for you. Because, in the end Tommy Whitaker's mobile phone would play a pivotal role in his ultimate downfall, in more ways than one.
Firstly, it was the main reason he was still in his God forsaken hotel room, when by any measure of common sense he should have been well away from the place the instant Bill Fraker had left. And he would have been to were it not for his precious mobile phone’s all but empty battery. It was so close to dying that he had to keep it plugged into the wall socket while he was booking his ticket out of this mess.
Tommy paced the threat bare carpet of his room, as best the wire to his charger would allow, and cursed out loud as he was put on hold for the umpteenth time as he desperatly tried to book a plane ticket out of England and with luck safety.
“Sorry sir,” the thick Scottish accented kid on the other end said as he came back off hold. “But where did you want to fly to again?”
“Anywhere,” Whitaker snapped. “Spain, France, Italy. Christ Timbuktu for all I care.”
“Erm, we have an early morning flight available to Crete? I heard it's very nice, even at this time of year.”
“Great, book that.” Whitaker balanced the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he fumbled in his jacket pocket, which was hanging on the back of a chair, for is credit card.
“Do you require insurance, sir?” The kid asked helpfully.
That almost made Whitaker laugh out loud. He doubted a budget airline provided the sort of insurance he needed right now. “No,” he told the call centre drone on the other end, finally finding his credit card.
“Return?” The kid asked.
“Christ no.”
“I'll just get you our best price, sir. Please hold.”
“No!.. Shit.” The kid was gone, replaced by what sounded vaguely like Vivaldi but played on a child's Bontempi home organ. Whitaker could almost hear the composer turning in his grave. “Fuck it!” He cursed and eyed his beloved credit card, his life saver. He had no friends left and even less hope, but one thing he would always have was money. Money didn't give a shit who was after you, didn't care what was in it for itself. It just was. Bucket loads of the stuff floating around in the virtual world of on line banking, just numbers really with pound signs in front, they were all he had left. And so be it.
Now that he had the makings of a plan, Whitaker allowed himself to believe he might just get out of all this with his balls intact. The near suicidal gloom that had descended over him, brought on by that fat bastard Fraker's visit, was starting to lift little by little and he could see a future, dim for sure, but getting brighter, starting to shine through. Jesus, who knows he might actually live long enough to spend some of his only friend money on something other than a desperate escape. He idly wondered, as Vivaldi deformed twin droned on, if they needed any lawyers in Crete.
That was when the phone went dead.
“Shit! What the fuck?” At first he thought he must have pulled out the charger wire with all his pacing but it was still intact, he lamely shook the phone and pressed the 'on' button again but nothing happened. “Fuck it!” H glanced around, the rooms light was still on so that ruled out a power cut. He tried the button again, his hand was so slick with sweat the phone nearly slipped out of his grasp, he wiped it on his trouser leg and pushed the on button once more, this time he kept it pressed. “Come on, come on,” the phone was obscenely expensive but it could still be temperamental, especially when the battery was low.
“Yes!!” Whitaker let out a cry of relief as the display lit up. It had a full signal again and one bar on the battery meter, that was good enough. He pulled the wire out and grabbed his jacket, that was more than enough power to phone back the call centre robot and book that flight to Crete, and now he didn't need to do it from this dungeon.
He was about to hit the redial button when there were three heavy knocks on the door.
Whitaker spun and faced the door and just managed to stifle the cry that was escaping his mouth by literally clasping his hand over it. He held his breath and listened. Had Fraker returned? And if so, was he alone?
Silence, but for his heart hammering ten to the dozen in his ears. Whitaker slowly brought his hand away from his mouth, but only when he was sure he wouldn't just scream involuntarily despite himself. That was when he realized he could see his own breath misting in front of him when he exhaled. The room had been cold at the best of times but the temperature seemed to be dropping second by second. The sweat on his face turned to a thin layer of ice on his skin.
“Jesus,” the word came out in a cloud. As he stood there shivering.
Bang, band, bang. Three more impossibly loud knocks on the door shattering the frozen silence. This time Whitaker cried out loud before he had a chance to smother the noise.
“Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus, oh, Jesus.” The room was so could now he half expected the moisture in the air to turn to snow.
Outside in the corridor Randall smiled to himself. Ishrel however didn't see the funny side at all.
“Oh Randall, for pity sake, won't you just smash the door in and get on with this?”
Randall had his palms pressed against the paint chipped wood of the door. It was a simple enough trick to suck all the heat out of the room, but Ishrel's bleating in his ear broke his concentration. The collector pulled his hand away in frustration.
“Ishrel!” He rubbed his hands together, they where tingling from the power still surging through them.
“Well. I don't see why you don't just get on with it,” The demon complained.
“You really are a vacuous little turd.” Randall turned to look at where Ishrel was floating. As a reward for following Fraker and leading them here, Randall had let the creature keep its preferred form, that of a shapeless heat haze type distortion which floated at head height when it wasn't skulking around his feet. A rare moment of charity he was already beginning to regret. “Where's your sense of style?” He asked but it was a pointless question and one he already knew the answer to; 'I don't follow you.'
“I don't follow you,” Ishrel duly echoed, nothing if not predictable.
Randall turned back to the door, he could feel the waves of fear from inside radiating through the wood and it felt like sunshine on his face. He knew Ishrel was incapable of such subtleties of feeling, but he didn't care. Moments like this, moments to savour where lost on the demon. And Ishrel hated him for it. Which was a bonus.
Randall lent forwards slightly and closing his eyes he rested his forehead on the door, letting the fear wash over him.
“Randall!” said Ishrel.
“Tut, Okay.” Randall said testily and stepped back, the moment now well and truly ruined. But in truth, Ishrel was right. Tommy Whitaker was only a stepping stone, nothing more. He hammered on the door three more times.
“Tommy Whitaker,” he said in his best imposing voice of doom tone. “Open this door.” He wasn't a hundred percent sure, but Randall thought he heard a whimper from the other side. Either way the fear was fair flooding through now.
Inside Whitaker's knees buckled and before he knew what had happened he was on the floor. He curled himself up into the foetal position and covered his face with his hands, like a child trying to hide from the boogyman. In a futile 'if I can't see you, you can't see me' gesture. He lay there shivering from cold and fear in equal measure when the boogyman outside spoke again.
“Open the door Tommy. I won't ask again.”
The boogyman was angry and it knew his name. Whitaker dumbly shook his head 'no', and silently prayed for it to go away.
But tonight God wasn't listening to Tommy Whitaker. He had been a bad boy, and now it was time to pay.
The door exploded, silently, like all the sound had been sucked from the room along with the heat, but with the force of a hand grenade showering the room with a thousand splinters.
Outside Randall counted to ten, for dramatic effect, then stepped inside.
“Or don't,” he said entering and almost ruined a perfectly good entrance by nearly tripping over the prone lawyer. He looked down at him. “Come on Tommy, get up, eh?”
Whitaker was gasping for breath, his grubby white shirt was flecked with dozens of tiny drop of blood from where the shards of door had hit him, they grew as the blood seeped through the material. He didn't know it but he was lucky he had been on the floor when the door exploded and not in the direct path of the blast, the tiny wooden projectiles would have surely taken his sight at the very least along with most of the flesh from his face.
“Oh, God... Oh, Jesus...” Was all he could muster in way of response to Randall that was until he uncurled himself and then let out a scream of pain.
“Here. Let me help you,” Randall grabbed his collar an unceremoniously dragged Whitaker to his feet, causing him to let out quite an impressive scream especially from one so obviously exhausted.
Still gasping, Whitaker looked up at Randall in dismay as if only now realizing he was actually there and not some phantom of his fear addled imagination. “Oh, God,” he choked out. “It's all true.”
“'Friad so buddy,” Randall replied and without thinking dusted Whitaker off causing the wounded man to wince violently. His legs threatened to give out so Randall grabbed his arms to keep him upright. “Shit, sorry about that,” Randall winced in sympathy seeing the pain on Whitaker's face. “That wasn't such a good idea.” He gingerly let go of Whitaker's arms after he was sure he wouldn't just keel over. The lawyer swayed slightly bit at least stayed on his feet.
“It's all true,” Whitaker repeated his face was a mask of pain.
“All of it,” Randall stated. “But by the look of you, you knew that already.”
Whitaker nodded forlornly. Then his face suddenly straightened as if a self-preservation switch had just clicked on in his brain. “Randall, wait,” he licked his chapped lips searching for the right words. “I gave Fraker McCulloch's number. That's all I have.” Then he actually held up his right hand palm out. “I swear.”
“On your life?” Randall asked melodramatically.
“God yes,” Whitaker replied nodding like an idiot.
“Truth is Tom, the number on its own isn't any good to me...” How could he put this? “I need someone with a personal connection to McCulloch to make the call. That's how we trace him.”
It was the truth, Ishrel could follow the signal but only if it was laced with emotion. Hate, fear worked best but something more than just a radio signal, after all they weren't the CIA. That emotional connection between the two ends would enable Ishrel to surf the ether from Whitaker and nail McCulloch's location.
“Sharks,” Whitaker said somewhat obliquely.
“Huh?” It took Randall a moment but then he got the ripples analogy. “That's right,” he said brightly. “Ripples. All I need is for you to call him, I have a colleague who can follow the ripples right to McCulloch. Then you can go.”
Whitaker looked sullen. “I don't believe you.”
“Hmm,” Ishrel buzzed in Randall's ear. “He's not as stupid as he looks.”
“Hush now,” Randall said still looking at Whitaker.
“Huh?”
“Not you.”
Whitaker let out a slow breath and straightened himself up as best he could, the motion obviously pained him but he bit back any reaction in his face. “Will it be quick?” He asked, looking Randall firmly in the eyes.
“What? The call or your death?” He asked flatly.
The bluntness of the reply made Whitaker wince ever so slightly, more of a twitch of the eye than anything, barely noticeable really especially considering the subject matter and his hopeless situation. The man was struggling to keep what dignity he had left, and much to Randall's admiration he was managing to do just that. He must have been quite something in his prime, Randall mused.
“Stop toying with him,” Ishrel interrupted. “He knows you are going to kill him. I can smell it on him.”
It was true, they both knew clear as day only Randall would be walking out of the room.
“Make the call,” Randall said softening his tone. “After that I'll send you on your way. And yes, it will be quick.”
Tears filled Whitaker's eyes and he nodded.
The truth was, despite Whitaker's new found courage, Randall really wanted to make him suffer for all the running around he had made him do. But again as Ishrel had put it, Whitaker was little more than a stepping stone to McCulloch.
Larry McCulloch, now he was a different matter entirely. That particular meeting when it finally came wouldn't be pretty at all. Randall would get extra points for making him suffer.
“Will I...” Whitaker's voice broke for a second, he tried to clear his throat before continuing. “Will I go...” It was no good he just couldn't finish the sentence.
“To hell?” Randall finished the sentence for him.
For a moment it looked to Randall like Whitaker was finally going to break down into the quivering mass of hysteria he had been trying so hard to keep at bay these past few minutes. Now that he had heard those dreaded words out loud. So much for rumour and paranoia and now so much for hope. Now that it was said out loud that somehow made it a fact. 'to hell'. The Lawyer seemed to let the words sink in, then he nodded ever so slightly as if accepting his fate.
“You have sown my friend,” Randall explained as Whitaker's shoulders sagged under the weight of it all. “Now it's time to reap. Just like in the good book.”
Again Whitaker nodded, he was clearly fighting the panic that was wanting to burst out from every pore of his being, but still he was winning that fight. Just.
“Come on, Tom, you're doing great.” Randall felt a sudden urge to slam him on the arm but remembered the multitude of cuts the man had suffered and decided against it, he would have to make do with words of encouragement for now. “Keep your dignity, just a little while longer. It's really the only thing you have control of. Make the call, then you can lose it all you want. Christ knows no one will blame you for that. Least of all me.”
“Nor me,” Ishrel chimed in. “I'm even counting on it.”
Whitaker straightened himself as best he could, he even made a half-hearted attempt to smooth down his famous hair one last time. “Okay,” he said firmly and betd down and picked up his mobile phone which was laid amongst the debris of the door on the floor by his feet. He dusted it off and began to scroll through the address book.
Randall felt Ishrel move over closer to Whitaker and could just make out his heat haze of a form over by his shoulder. He was studying the Lawyer’s face who of course felt nothing.
“Hmm,” the demon mused. “Interesting. I thought this one would be a beggar and a screamer. Just goes to show you never can tell.” Randall thought he detected the merest hint of disappointment in his colourless voice.
Then Ishrel drifted away to the corner of the room to prepare to follow the phone signal as only his kind could once the all-important emotional connection was made between Whitaker and the errant McCulloch. Then he added with a definite hint of mournfulness. “Shame really. I'm all for begging and screaming.
Oblivious to half of his audience, Whitaker found the number and hit the dial button the held the phone to his ear. “It's ringing,” he said hoarsely.
“Good boy,”
“What should I say?”
“Doesn't matter,” Randall replied. “Just say his name when you're sure it's him who's answered. Then you can give the phone to me, and I'll say something ominous.” He added with a smile.
“Remember, it has to be McCulloch,” Ishrel said from the corner, “If one of those shit eating God squarders with him answers, I won't be able to find him.”
“He'll answer, just get ready.” Randall told him
Although Ishrel was the real expert at this, Randall could already see faint tendrils of cold blue light emanating from the phone as its signal drifted off into the ether. He could hear the demon behind him purring softly in anticipation as it tried to tune itself into the energy signature it would use to find McCulloch.
Randall had seen the little shit do this a couple of times before, both times with amazing success, it was all down to the emotional link between the two ends of the signal.
He knew this whole thing would have been over the moment the demon found McCulloch if the creature could inflicted violence of its own. Ishrel would make the perfect assassin in that respect, no style or imagination but still it did have unerring instincts in such things, not that Randall would ever admit it to Ishrel, besides he would be out of a job, dead in a New York alley all those decades ago. Whereas there were times when he wished that had been his final fate, but not today. Today he was enjoying this crazy after life of his.
“Come on, come on,” Ishrel hissed.
“Trouble?” Randall asked.
“No, the bastard isn't answering. I hope he still has his phone.”
“Give him chance, Ishrel. It is four thirty in the morning.” Randall said
“Soundly sleep the damned,” Ishrel said. And Randall liked the sound of that.
* * *
Soundly slept the damned, until they are so rudely awakened. Larry McCulloch was pulled out of the best dream he had had in weeks. He was laying on a foreign beach somewhere hot, perhaps Greece, but it didn't really matter. What did matter was that he was surrounded by a bevy of scantily clad local beauties and if that wasn't good enough, the best part was that he was being waited on hand and foot by that prick Lewis who he had running back and forth catering to his every whim, dressed in a winter coat and thick woollen trousers. The poor sap was almost drowning in his own sweat.