Chapter 2

Her progress at first was slow — painfully slow. I forced in spoonfuls of milk to her as often as I dared, day and night, and looked for even the slightest signs of improvement. I was treading an extremely dangerous path now, trying to force in enough nutrition as fast as was safely possible so that she would have some meager internal body strength to fight the excruciating pains of drug withdrawal. I wasn't even sure that performing this balancing act was even possible. The doctors on those TV medical dramas would probably have immediately put her into some sort of drug induced coma for a week or two and filled her full of nutrient IV's, feeding tubes, and machines that go "Ping", but I didn't have that luxury.

I feared that the situation was bound to get far worse before things ever hoped to get any better. Privately, in the small wee hours during that first day of my vigil, I didn't put her odds at survival at any better than one in three.

By the start of my second day with her, some signs of recovery were beginning to appear. Her breathing became a bit less labored and regular, maybe even a bit deeper, and later I finally detected the pulse of her heartbeat once again on her shrunken wrists. She never moved, nor did her eyes ever open from their semi-coma. Yet the signs were there that her body was beginning to recover and fight back from the edge of the abyss where she had been. I doubled my efforts to feed her, slowly adding a minute fraction of the chocolate milk into the mix. The box said that it had some thirty-seven different vitamins and other nutrients. She'd need them all, immediately if not sooner.

I gave her a tablespoon of milk about every five minutes, day and night without a pause. To help stay awake I would talk to her constantly, inanities about myself mostly, but in-between feedings I'd also read to her from a book or the newspaper. Anything to help stay awake and give her stimulation for her fight for survival.

When I saw the very first hint of color on her otherwise pale cheeks, I knew that at least this first crisis had passed and I risked taking a short desperately needed nap.

Milk is supposedly one of the great 'complete' foods, but I wasn't sure if it was now the best possible strengthener for her. Probably it was and I should have left well enough alone. Being the utter fool that I am, I decided at the first physical signs of her starting her heroin drug withdrawal that she would need any additional nutritional boost I could find. She was mostly rehydrated now, but her body was still absorbing everything I could feed it, she had passed no urine or stools. I got some medical absorbent pads and put one underneath her anyway. She'd need it sooner or later anyway, I hoped.

Looking over the selection of liquid 'health' supplements at the local 24-hour mega-chain drugstore down the street was largely disappointing. Most of these meal replacement drinks were for dieting which was the least of our concerns at present. The rest apparently were more for senior citizens or those with special diets. This didn't seem particularly useful. Eventually, I found a few six-packs of a high protein exercise supplement and meal replacement shake designed for bodybuilders and athletes. This seemed more practical. I was worried about the high protein effects to her weakened organs but it did seem realistic to me that this might also help her body rebuild her atrophied muscles.

The book of Proverbs says, "As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly". I returned armed to the care of my patient, and somehow against all odds and fears, she slowly continued to improve, but it was a very near thing.

By the third day, her weakened body was shaking and shivering uncontrollably and her rest was far more disturbed, causing her to cry out and murmur with obvious discomfort while in her sleep. I kept her covered with a blanket, but she still appeared to be cold even after I added another one. I was concerned about the increasing flow of sweat at first, but decided that this was probably healthy, her body finally properly rehydrated and now rejecting the toxins from her drug use, but I increased her fluid intake, alternating small sips of water with a mixture of the milk and high protein vitamin shake.

Late during the fourth day, her eyes opened for the first time, but she didn't seem at all cognizant, and was still lost in a drug withdrawal delirium. She did faintly murmur a few feeble and scratchy words, as if they were a desperate begging plea.

"No Pete ... no ... please stop!"

The assumption that I drew from this was that my fallen angel's final crash to earth and her near unrecoverable fall into the abyss was perhaps not entirely of her own will and accord. Pete, or Peter, also happened to be the name of the mark from whose house I had recovered the stolen Pollock.

Somehow, this young lady had fallen under Pete's influence, and he had gradually corrupted her with drugs, sapping her will and robbing her body step by step of any ability to resist. His victim trapped and unable to escape, he preyed upon her helpless body and sought to crush her spirit and soul. Killing her an inch at a time, he watched her body wither away slowly, apparently savoring every moment of her certain demise.

My distain for the community of collectors had always been deep, but this new degradation was utterly beyond comprehension. To 'collect', torment and destroy a young woman, gloating over her imminent demise like a ghoul, was unconscionable. Assuming the poor victim could fully recover herself, some sort of retribution or revenge was going to be necessary. Hell, I was darned near ready to find Pete's regular house and exact some revenge myself. It had to be the work of pure evil.

I've felt pure evil before twice in my life. Once with a fire opal ring that had been imprinted with a long history of death by murder of its owners, and the other a blue beryl necklace with a similar history of tragedy. For some reason jewelry, especially precious stones, is more susceptible to the imprinting of negative energies than most other items of wood and stone. The necklace was so innately evil that I sent it to a certain holy man in India for cleaning or permanent disposal. He didn't thank me. The ring is securely hidden in my old family ranch house in Texas. It's a very bad ring, but not hopelessly evil, and it has certain powers of its own that in the right hands could become useful some day to somebody ... but not to me.

Not in my hands, because I know my own weaknesses too well. It would take a very strong willed person to wield that kind of power and they must be nearly incorruptible. That's not me, nor anyone else that I've ever met in my life.

On the morning of the fifth day, her sweating began to decrease and she seemed to rest more comfortably, finally dropping into a true sleep state for the first time. I was exhausted myself and was dying for some real shuteye, but I had one final task to do that I had been postponing— getting rid of the Pollock.

I had a disposable cell sent by the client's middlemen with the contact number for delivering it, but I took the precaution of driving a few miles away from the hotel to a local large shopping mall to make the call from there, in case anyone was actively tracking what cell tower my call was originating from, to triangulate my position. This cheap phone had no built-in GPS, but there are clever tech ways of tracking a phone, even if it is not in use. This is why I take the batteries and SIMM chip out unless I'm actually using the phone.

"Cheatum and Associates", my contacts voice cheerfully announced.

They were a typical bottom-feeding law firm with a toe stuck deeply into the pond of private investigation as well. They were an amoral bunch; a wretched hive of scum and villainy. They handled top collectors and raked in huge fees for their services of being the middleman for illegal or immoral transactions. They had big monkey no-necked leg-breakers to threaten and collect past due payments, and other gunsels and assorted life-takers on speed-dial. I'd worked for them successfully before, but I had no illusions that they were concerned at all with my best interests.

"This is the Foole, I've got the item that you requested ready for delivery, let's arrange the final payment of my invoice. There were complications with the original pickup from Mark, so let's make this bit quick and simple, with the final payment to the usual account and delivery as previously arranged."

Quick and dirty, I hoped. They would make an immediate wire transfer to my account offshore of the remaining 50% of my commission, and after I had confirmed payment, I would arrange immediate shipment of the painting to their office via a local hot-shot delivery company. Sometimes I parked recovered items in a large rental car at the long-term lot of an airport. For smaller items, the old standby of a locker at the local YMCA or bus/train station worked just as well also. I used to accept payment dropped off in a locker as well until the time I discovered that the backpack supposedly containing my fee contained a bomb instead. Without my knack, I would have been dead at least twice already by now. Collector clients and their middlemen didn't like my terms and safety precautions, but they didn't have to agree to hire me either.

"Complications are a bit of an understatement. We heard that Mark is indeed very unhappy with your pickup service, and has filed a complaint, concerning some inappropriate handling of some of his other property. Payment is not possible until after the boss has had a personal word with you. He is extremely unhappy with your service."

Shit. I didn't like the sound of this at all and it had absolutely nothing to do with the Pollock. The 'Mark', the collector I had stolen from, was apparently an extremely powerful one that had ready access to the pipeline of transferred stolen artworks. He'd recognized nearly immediately what had happened and put out the word through the collector grapevine that he wanted his property back — the girl, not the Pollock. Sorry, but that was not an option. If he didn't want to keep or care for the angel, I was more than willing to keep her.

"The very broken and damaged item that I salvaged from his trash very definitely appeared to be unwanted. Return in its original condition is quite impossible and likely impractical for all parties concerned. Mark can stick his complaints up his ass and find more important things to occupy his time with. He should be too old to be playing with dolls anyway, let alone breaking the wings off of beautiful angels. It's not good for business."

This was as close to an "I'm sorry" as they were going to get. Basically, this was my promise that I'd play ball and keep the mark's dirty little secret (for now) if he'd drop the matter. No dice.

"My boss would still like a private word in your ear before we smooth this whole mess over. A few friendly words and everyone can go home happy. What do you say? Where can I send one of the boys to come pick you up?"

Doing meetings was one of my big no-no's, but I really wanted that final half of my payment. They were firm and wouldn't budge — no meeting, no payment. After a good deal of squabbling, I finally agreed to a public meeting at an outdoor café just across from the big art museum, set for this afternoon at 3 pm.

On the rare occasions that I have to do meetings, I usually prefer to be early, very early, to scope the scene well in advance. Having had no sleep for a couple of days, I instead opted to take a long nap. Getting there early wouldn't do me any good if my brain couldn't think. I'd need my wits working, and would probably also need a good dose of my knack as well.

I drove the van with the Pollock in the back to a nearby parking garage about three blocks from the museum. Too close, but I needed every minute of time. Then I took a city bus four blocks past the museum, crossed the street and took another bus back those few blocks. I would be seen getting off the bus, but leaving a false trail in the opposite direction from my hotel lair. I'd left my hotel key and any other identifying materials in the van, even if bad things happened they would find no clues to finding my fallen angel. I did put on my working costume suit and mask along with the prerequisite 'white carnation' in the lapel so that I could be identified. Perhaps I should go buy a motley so I'd be better dressed for the next foolish occasion I needed to meet a client.

This precaution turned out to be quite necessary. Instead of a simple meeting at a café, I realized nearly immediately that I was walking into a prepared ambush. One obvious gunsel was waiting for me outside the café, another one was 'loitering with intent' next to a large dark sedan, and another couple of thugs were sitting in a parked car across the street also watching the café. I decided to take care of this last batch first.

Intent on watching the café, they never noticed me sneak up from behind and casually run my hand across the trunk of the car as I walked past it to the crosswalk. With my caress, my knack told the car to not start, to lock up the door, windows and starter motor, drain the battery, freeze the valves to the fuel lines and jam the transmission in place. In short a full hex of the entire car. Nothing short of an overhaul in a garage would get that car going again anytime soon. I had other plans for the one parked next to the café, and I left it untouched as I seated myself at an outside table to see what the gunsels had to say.

It was taking quite a risk to my safety but I was sure, at least right this minute that the goons would want to talk first before anything remotely threatening occurred. The mark wanted his toy back, so I would need to be in good enough condition to be able to answer questions. For now this gave me the edge, even when I nearly immediately felt a gun pressed into my back.

"Boss wants to see you. He wants the girl to trade back to her owner. And the painting too, so you'd better have them both close at hand."

"I suppose this means that I'm not going to get paid?" I politely asked, but I already knew the answer.

"That's up to the Boss, and how happy you make him." The gunsel replied with a laugh.

He pulled me out of my seat and began to herd me nonchalantly with his gun hidden towards the waiting car. About what I had figured. A hustle off to some private remote warehouse and then some very direct and pointed questions performed by brutes with thick leather gloves and very hard knuckles and other persuading devices, after which they'd make a short drive to the river to dump my body ... after the girl and the painting had been secured. Typical.

My knack to manipulate inanimate objects isn't dependent upon me using my hands. It's much harder to concentrate using it without fingers, I must admit. That was part of the reason I elected to get some sleep instead of setting up a more prepared counter-ambush of my own. I had half expected to be in handcuffs or otherwise restrained nearly from the start. Concentrating on the feel of the gun against my side, I sensed it and then froze up its mechanism, a smaller caliber revolver, maybe a Smith & Wesson .32. He could still beat in my skull with the pistol grip, but that gun wouldn't be shooting anyone until a gunsmith took it completely apart and fixed it.

Shoved firmly into the back seat of the dark sedan, I waited for the driver and my kidnapper to get in before setting my plans into action. I simply told my passenger door to unlock and I hopped right out, slamming the door fast and again triggering the full force of my knack. My kidnapper hadn't tried to physically stop me; instead he had tried to shoot me in the leg to wound me and was caught completely by surprise when his gun malfunctioned. The driver didn't notice me hop out until it was too late. Now they were going to play my game.