Session 13

~SPIKE~

Oh God … am I alive? Or is this hell? I mean the real hell—not Deseado.

I didn't want to even think, my head hurt so bad. But my brain, for some reason, ignored my desperate wish imagining this might feel something like sticking my head into a vice while someone closed it all the way. I swore my skull was fracturing.

Trying to move ached and only made it worse—everywhere. Apparently I was lying down, but there was too much pressure in my eyelids to allow them to open easily to confirm that. Had I been pummeled? Maybe I was slumped against the wall in an alley?

No … I hadn't been there. I had been … something about being high up, jumping, falling … crows … the church. I had landed hard on my side. Yes, I could feel that now. My hand closed around something soft. Fabric? Beneath it was something soft. A couch? No … a mattress?

Something touched my forehead, instantly my head ached worse. I tried to turn away from the contact but there was no escape. I couldn't tell which way was up.

The contact remained, annoyingly yanking me to the surface I didn't want to reach. I cracked open my eyes as much as I could manage, a blurry slit of light invaded. One large blur leaned over me.

"Fever's still given you grief, huh." I knew that voice …

It was that strange fool … the oblivious idiot … what was his name?

Jet? But … why … when? Was I … ? Wait … my hand tugged on the sheet. That's it, I was in that bed again. He had brought me back to the hotel room. No wonder I was so warm. But I was sweating, I could feel it dripping down my neck. Damn it, wasn't just because I was under the blankets. I was worse than earlier, much worse. Trying to follow a thread of thought was like grasping around in the dark cellar without my lighter.

He'd asked me a question … a fever? Oh yeah, that must be why I was sweating... at least that would make sense. I nodded and a second later realized my mistake as the blurs moved out of sync. I tried to burrow my head but it wouldn't listen.

"Got a headache? Hurts behind your eyes?"

Don't draw my attention to it … yes, yes! It fuckin' hurts. I want to claw my eyes out to relieve the pressure, but I can't find the damn things! How did I get so sick! Oh shit, I'm going to die.

"Yeah." The one word lit my throat on fire. I had to get my mouth to close, it was drying out. Inhaling through my nose I tried to clear it … instantly my body repaid me with a coughing fit. I hadn't thought it could get worse until my brain sloshed around in my skull! Oh for pity's sake! Now I wanted to die.

It didn't end soon enough. That little bit of involuntary exertion took everything I had. My eyes were rolling back. I couldn't move if I wanted to. And frankly—I didn't want to.

Jet leaned in closer, keeping his voice down. "You're going to be alright, it's just a miserable cold. I'll heat up some more soup, ok?"

Soup? Food … my stomach was empty, growling like the torturous beast it was. But my eyes were shutting. Tell him yes, tell him yes! Tell him something! Move!

"Don't worry, I'll wake you up when it's ready."

A sneeze jostled my whole body, reigniting the misery. Why was I feeling like this? The last days ran through my cramped head … oh yeah, cause you thought you could be on your own, you dumb fuck! Of course in my right mind I knew better, I'd never really been on my own. I'd always had a place to go. Joe's … sure it sucked, he was a grade A asshole, but that roof was important. As if that wasn't blatantly obvious now.

A hand reached under the back of my neck. I groaned as it drug me back to the surface. Jet spoke quietly, "You need to wake up for this, ok? I don't want you to choke."

Just don't move m—OWWWW! Every shift of my head felt terrible, disorienting. Once more I forced my eyes open in time to see the blur of a mug, waves of steam battering against my face. They felt good. The warmth flowed down my throat, blessed relief as it soothed the dry-burning from back there. I couldn't taste a damn thing, but I could feel it. There were tiny bits of something in the broth … maybe rice and chicken? I could only guess. My body knew it needed this. Coordinating drinking and breathing was tricky, but I managed it. And Jet spaced it out enough to allow me to gasp in air. Breathing took so much effort right now, I was exhausted just trying to stay awake for this.

"Come up for air now, Kiddo. Nice and slow."

I had no choice. I tried to reach up, but the blanket trapped my arm and I lacked the strength to move it. That attempt rolled my eyes backward.

He mopped my brow off, carefully. Almost like he knew too much pressure was torture. "Hey, hey now, stay with me, Spike. Come on, just a bit more."

I was trying, damn it. Couldn't he see that? It was hard to function through all this snot! He was so gentle. Why? Joe would have just kicked me and told me to get my lazy ass up or it was the streets where I'd die like a dog … or become food for them. You are what you eat, right?

Wait … that didn't work … if they ate me than they'd be me … that didn't make me the dog really. I was confusing myself. That was a new trick. My eyes were shutting again of their own accord.

Something squeezed my nose, the sound rather like something unpleasant getting squirted out of a tube. I opened my eyes to see Jet's blur and something bright white below my eyes.

"Ok, pard, give it a good blow."

Did he think I had it in me?

"Come on, close your mouth and exhale hard. Need to get that crap out of you."

Uh huh … from what I could tell that stuff was coming out no matter what I did. I really didn't have the strength to— "ACHOO! Uuuuggggghhhh … "

He laughed softly, "Well, I suppose that works too." He mopped up the mess with more than one tissue. "Now, get some rest. I'll give you some more soup in a few hours, ok?"

I sniffled, not that it did any good. All of that and my airway was still blocked. Why was he doing this? I had run off … I had …

… the church.

I had barely scraped enough to climb out of Nail's reach, the thug had me. I'd scrambled to get out of the way. A move I'd been able to do a hundred times before. But my balance had gone to hell. I'd slipped, the wind knocked out of me. That was it, all I'd had. The ground shifted, I was falling … but someone had grabbed me. My eyes glimpsed him, even in the dim light—in the flash of lightning I saw him clear enough to know. He'd come for me.

Why?

I was only a thief.

~JET~

Hours ticked by, the shadows shifting across the floor even as the never-ending rain pelted the windows. Spike hadn't so much as stirred since the last I had woken him. The poor kid sounded terrible. His voice raw from a dry throat as he muttered snatches of words, his lips had even cracked. But still the oozing continued, a never ending source.

It didn't look like anything serious, the color mostly clear. So he seemed more in need of regular visits from Dr. Chicken Soup than an actual doctor. Not that I even knew where the hospital was if he needed one. Certainly I could find out if I asked at the station. But only if he got worse.

So far things had leveled off. For the moment he needed to tough this out. I had no doubt he probably felt like shit. Honestly he looked miserable.

But at least he wasn't lying alone in that church.

Here I could force food into him. Soon now. I would let him rest for another hour.

My phone rang. I glanced at it, the local precinct. Hitting the button, I answered, "Jet Black here."

"Hey! Loany!" Rich answered. "Need you to come down to the station for a bit. We got a development in the case."

I glanced over my shoulder at Spike. This was not a good time. "Are you sure?"

"Uhh yeah. Chief's orders. This really can't wait. So if you can just come on down."

"I really should stay here at the moment."

"Thing is, you seem to be forgetting who you're working for. You got a duty. Now get in here!"

The line went dead. I hung up and rammed the phone into my pocket. Shit! What was I going to do? I couldn't bring Spike with me. Not as he was. He needed to stay in bed, warm and resting. Not out in the cold rain. More exposure for him could result in this turning to pneumonia. He sure as hell didn't have the stamina for that fight if he was struggling with just a sinus cold.

No, I had to leave him here. I grabbed my holstered gun and strapped it on before putting my jacket on. The last bit, my trench coat and fedora.

The moment I brushed my fingers through Spike's clammy hair his eyes cracked open. "Hey, I need to go down to the station for a bit. I didn't want you to worry where I was. You need anything before I go?"

"No … " he croaked.

I forced a smile. "You stay in bed and sleep. I'll try to make this short, ok?"

As I stood I watched him stir a bit as if trying to get comfortable. Closing the door behind me and walking out into the storm a horrid revelation nagged me. Damn it, the icy fingers went down my spine, if I hadn't found him there's no way he would have survived last night.

By the time I reached the station and walked through the rows and rows of desks with cops shoveling snacks in their mouths I was sick to my stomach. Something smelled rotten, and it wasn't sour cream and onion chips! I tromped up to the desks to find Rich leaning back with his feet propped up. I cleared my throat.

He glanced up. "Oh hey, glad you came down here."

"You said there was a development?"

"Mmm hmm. We uhh we ran the prints on that gun you brought in and it turns out we've seen those before." Rich dropped his feet to the floor and leaned over his computer keyboard, typing a good amount onto the screen. "Shit, where did it go now? … "

"So, you know who the guys are who tried to jump us?"

He lifted an eyebrow, still searching. "The guys who jumped you. And that's a yes and a no. Said we've seen the prints, but the guy doesn't have an arrest record. So we don't know who these mules are yet. Still, it's a print. Something about a prior unsolved B and E. So the guy's been around."

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Damn it, I was down here for him to yammer on about this?

"Dodge got the results on that case you brought us too." He whistled. "Premium grade shit! So, that really was a good intercept. All we need now is to find out how they're getting it into the crater and trace it back to the source. I mean, we can't have this stuff coming in here. Hrm, where the heck did that go now? I know I just had it here when I called you. But, heh heh, you know how busy things can get."

I glanced around the room. Funny, aside from eating the officers were discussing more cases of microbrews sampled at a local bar the other night verses actual cases. Some detectives!

But, I had to remind myself, I wasn't one. I took a deep breath. I'm just a beat cop on loan from Ganymede.

"Ohhh, here it is! Haha, ok, see here's the print we found." He pointed to the scan on the screen. "But uhh, not that one."

In a secondary window a file popped up showing a mug shot of a much younger Spike Spiegel, several years younger in fact. I would know that ornery smirk under the most unruly mass of hair anywhere. Next to his name a long list of his pick-up dates ran down, some of them mere days apart. Apparently he hadn't been fully charged. Mostly B and E's, petty theft, but I noted a couple assaults—one involving an officer! What was this about biting?

The screen closed before I could read any details. Rich snorted, "Yeah, we don't care about that piece of shit … "

The image lingered in my mind, the kid locked up in the holding pen among the riffraff of this crater even for just one night. I shuddered.

"This is the real prints on the gun. And yeah, that piece got hocked to a pawn shop and resold. But never transferred. So no idea who the perp is, just an unsavory thug. You said he had a scar on him?"

Like the file told me anything. It was just involving prints found from a break-in to a warehouse down on Oceanview street. I narrowed my eyes. Really? Oceanview? What jerk-off thought of naming anything after an ocean in this urban disaster?

Rich's phone beeped. He picked it up and glanced at it, brow furrowing before dropping it face down on the desk. He leaned back and crossed his arms. "Anyway. That's what we got. Thought you should see it."

He stared at me with a dismissive look. The more I stood there, the more I read the annoyance in his expression.

"Uhhh, you can go now."

What an absolute waste of time to come hoofin' it all the way here. I mean, a development would have meant something more. A lead, a clue to follow. Not just a 'we have a print with a prior but no arrest so … '

The cold air struck me as I opened the door. Why have me come down here to meet with them …

Wait … them?

Where was Dodge?

The message!

If my suspicion was right I didn't have time to hesitate! I sprinted as fast as I could through the rain back toward the hotel. Oh shit, I had been so stupid! Don't let me be too late!

In the hotel's hall … the door stood cracked open. My heart beat in my ears. I slammed the door all the way open, it rebounded against the wall. Inside the whole place had been tossed. My stuff co-mingled with the hotel's supplies all over the floor.

Spike … the bed was empty. The covers thrown back and the whole thing unmade in a fury. In the kitchen all his clothes were missing.

"No! Oh God no!" I halfway stepped back toward the door. To have to chase him down again, a daunting task … or had he been taken! Had somebody kidnapped him?

Slow down! Think! Look!

Spike's shoes were even missing. That was odd, and didn't make sense. Why would they go through all of that? Taking him with barely a stitch on his body would make more sense. He'd be less prone to run.

Maybe whoever it was had been looking for something else. Spike had stolen from that thug. Did they think he had brought it here? Swiftly I started to search. Whoever had intruded had certainly been thorough. But it had been hasty. Parts of the room hadn't been torn through in the same fashion. They could have missed something.

I searched through the bathroom, but everything had been flung open and pulled out. There had been nothing in the closet to begin with. So that left …

Some of the kitchen had been trashed. However, I opened the corner cupboard in the kitchen, it hadn't been rifled through. I nearly closed it … then I spotted it—the end of a shoelace. Shoving the stuff aside I found him, wedged back as far as he could get in the shadows, the kitchen knife gripped in his hand. But his head was lulled forward, chin to his chest as his nose dripped—obvious by the moisture on his shirt it had for sometime. He was passed out.

Carefully I nudged his forearm.

He jerked awake, a bleary gaze fixed on me.

"Easy Spike! Don't stab me. It's ok. It's Jet. Let me take that from you."

He death gripped the knife, even as his head wobbled.

"Fine … ok, keep it. I'm just gonna pull you out of there, alright?"

Spike didn't fight me as I reached in and pried him out. I had no idea how he'd managed such a tight fit in his condition, but somehow in an act of desperation he'd done it. And clearly whoever had been here hadn't thought to search behind the narrow door.

I leaned Spike against the cupboard and heaved a sigh of relief. He seemed alright, other than being sicker than a dog. He was fully dressed gripping the knife, but struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Kid, how did you get in there?"

"Crawled." He tried to sniffle and ended up coughing. After he caught his breath he added. "Good thing too … or I wouldn't be here."

"Who did this?"

He took a few deep breaths. "Dodge."

"Spike, you're delirious!"

"You're in denial."

"I am not!" Shit, he was right. I had come to the same conclusion myself. But I didn't want to believe it. Dodge was a fellow cop! "It doesn't make sense he would try to kidnap you."

"You're a terrible judge of character."

"I am not!"

"I know you are … you trust the wrong people."

"I do not!"

"You trusted me."

My mouth hung open. I had no reply for that, and there was such shame in his tone, even for being ill. I held up my hands. "Ok, let's discuss that later. What are you doing dressed and everything? When I left you … "

"I had a bad feeling. And I haven't survived this long by ignoring those." He drew his knees up and rested his cheek against his arm. The knife still in his loose grip. "I got up and prepared to bolt. But realized it wasn't happening. I almost passed out just reaching this room. So I did the next best thing—hid. Ten minutes later, dick-wad picked the lock."

"How do you know he wanted you?"

"Cause the loudmouth can't shut up. 'Rich said the little shithead was here! Where is he now?' That enough proof? If I'd still been in bed we wouldn't be talking now."

I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Spike, you gotta tell me—what did you do?"

"Tsh, so we're back to that again." His knuckles gripping the knife flared white.

I held up a hand. "No … that's not what I mean. Why was Dodge after you? And that guy at the church—he said you stole something."

"Shit." Spike grumbled, wiping the back of his other hand under his nose. "I knew that was fuckin' important."

"What? Where did you hide it?"

"Back at the church." Spike pushed up from the floor. A clear mistake, he'd barely made it upright when his grip on the knife dropped it in a clatter to the floor. He went limp, slumping into my arms as I caught him. Not unconscious, but he was moaning and holding his head.

"Kid, your balance is still shot. Just tell me. Where did you hide it?"

Slung over my forearm he shook his head, wincing. "You can't get to it."

"Try me."

He pointed back into the cupboard. "Can you fit in a crawl space that small?"

Fuck. My shoulders fell. "Do you think this is that important?"

"Nail's wanted to kill me. Dodge came searching in a short period of time after Nail's failed to get it back. So … you tell me. How and why did Dodge find out about a thug's picked pocket?"

I grunted and hefted Spike up. "Alright, let's go see what got them worked into a frenzy."

On the walk down to the church, Spike didn't say anything. I hated how quiet he was, but I didn't dare try and start a conversation. His stamina was already seriously flagging. He must've summoned up what little the rest in bed had restored. No sense in wasting it on idle chatter.

At the church Spike guided me toward what used to be the confessional. I set him down and he pried a loose board from the floor. Even half blind he slipped into the darkened space as easily as a rat. In a few minutes his hand appeared holding a small pocketbook. I helped him out of the hole and was about to look through it.

His hand clamped on mine, he was shivering. "The hotel … they might come back here."

True, the light was poor as the dusk fell. I tucked the book away and picked him up, carrying him through the darkening streets. I hated how much he winced when I accidentally jostled him.

"When we get back to the hotel, it's back to bed for you."

His teeth were chattering, arms locked tight around his body. "Not arguing."

"Did you stay at the church these past nights?"

"Where else." Defeat marked his tone.

I should have known. I should have checked there. Some detective I turned out to be.

When I opened the door I was shocked to find that housekeeping had been here. The bed had been reassembled and everything put to right. I cringed, imagining what they would have thought had happened to make such a mess. But at least everything was clean again.

Setting Spike on the edge of the bed I handed him the undershirt. "Here. You want some more soup?"

Hanging his head he minimally nodded. "Please … I … I'm sorry I'm such a pain in the ass right now. I made you go out in the rain and … " A sneeze stole anything else he intended to say.

"It's ok, kiddo. Let's get some more food into you followed by a long nap." I left him, taking the time to heat up the chicken and rice soup. While I waited for the soup to heat up a bottle sitting on the counter caught my attention, whiskey … and several of whiskey's friends. Hrm, well, the kid whined about me not letting him drink. I mixed something else up and brought it along.

He was about to either forgive me for earlier, or really hate me for what was in the glass.

By the time I came around the corner his clothes lay in a pile in the floor, he was tucked back on his side under the covers with his eyes shut. Before I had thought his reserves were gone. But from somewhere he had dredged up the energy to stay with me for that trip down to the church and back. Now—he was truly spent.

"Spike, wake up."

He cracked open his eyes, weary as hell.

Carefully I helped him with the mug of soup, not trusting his shaky coordination.

Afterward, I held up the glass. "How about we do something to break through that shit." Holding the glass to his lips I watched as he took a gulp.

The reaction was immediate. I doubted he could taste a damn thing—but he felt the punch! Instantly he coughed and recoiled back from my hand, gasping for air! He couldn't even speak, but he tried.

I laughed. "Thought you liked drinking. This is a pretty strong combination, but trust me. Drink it all, it'll power through that clogged head of yours. Course, you're gonna sleep like the dead."

He gasped, " … it … burns … "

I held the glass up. He rolled his eyes and let me hold it there again, downing the rest of it followed by a harsh hacking. I doubted that felt good. But he would thank me later. At least I hoped.

If he had sunk down quickly before, my grandma's patented home-brewed cold medication slammed him into the pillow. In no time he was passed out.

"Sleep tight, kiddo." Well, at least he wouldn't feel anything for the next handful of hours.

Leaving him to rest, I sat on the couch and opened the little pocketbook. Time to see what all the fuss was about.

Scrawled in the pages I found utter nonsense. It wasn't even words. Just letters in odd arrangements. Thumbing through, a piece of paper fluttered down and landed in my lap. I blinked.

In tiny scripted letters set in a series of pairs numerous sets ran down the page, each set divided by a line. This was all handwritten, and the penmanship did not match what was in the pocketbook. That was larger, sloppy, and loose. Ciphers. That's what this page displayed!

I grinned. Well now. One of these must be the key to cracking the pocketbook. Taking out a piece of paper and a pen I started to go through with the first code.

Nonsense.

The next one.

Also utter nonsense.

I got up and made myself a quick omelette, scarfing it down as I tried a third. After all, third time is the charm, right?

Nope!

The hours ticked by, page after page of scratch paper sacrificed … dawn's light spread across the sky as at long last I stared at the sixth sheet of paper I had translated onto.

I couldn't believe my eyes!

"It's a delivery schedule! This whole damn book—where and when. And now we have it!"

The cipher page fell from my lap, landing backside down. I picked it up. The block cut image of an angel with folded hands caught my attention. I read the typed words on the page.

"Hymnbook of the Blessed Angels. Property of the Feather Heart Perish. Deseado." I held my breath. My gaze drifting to Spike still deep in sleep from the overabundance of alcohol I had forced into him.

Holy shit … I flipped the page over and stared at the ciphers. The page torn from one of the church's hymnals. This meant … this had to have been Spike's handwriting. The boy could not only read and write, but he'd memorized numerous gang codes by heart!

"Well … I'll be damned."