Vegas in Red: I Won't Back Down8
John shoved aside another pile of folders. He stretched his arms over his head, interlocking his fingers. He groaned as his back protested the motion. He had been hunched over the reports for hours and was still getting nowhere. He lowered his arms. Eyed his wrists. Recalled the handcuffs and smiled. He fingered the white braided wristband he always wore. So far Moira hadn't asked about it. He had seen her curiosity, her concern. He hadn't offered any explanations and was glad she hadn't asked about it. Yet.
He wondered what she was doing right now. It had to be more exciting than what he was doing. Then again she was a paleontologist and was probably poring over some old bones. John smiled, a lewd joke coming to mind. With a sigh he grabbed another folder from the pile.
"Shep! Shots fired, one vic down, perp on the run. Let's go!"
John moved to his feet. Never had he been so glad to catch a homicide.
Following the phalanx of cop cars, sirens wailing he found himself in familiar territory. On the wrong side of town. The Athosian Fields was a low-end casino. Tucked in among other equally derelict casinos and strip joints and the inevitable wedding chapel. The street was tawdry, lined not with tourists but with drunkards and thieves and criminals and prostitutes that even John wouldn't consider touching much less fucking. He parked amid the cop cars. Pushed his way past people to enter the shoddy establishment.
It was a small place, crowded with slot machines and felt-covered tables for card games. It was dirty, dingy, dark but John felt right at home. At least he would have only months ago. He pondered the change and the cause of it as he headed for the body. The jingling of the slot machines had not ceased, nor had the gamblers for a mere murder.
The body was in the back of the casino. Blood was seeping into the blue carpet from a gunshot wound to the head. "Suspect in custody?" John asked.
"In pursuit, down an alley. But we've got him either way."
"Him?"
"Scott Hamen. Shot this guy over a bet. We've got witnesses to the whole thing. Pretty cut and dried for a change, eh Shep?"
"Looks like it, Sayles. Vic?"
"Business partner. Tom Troy Palmer. He had just finished some, er, business with a pross when he got into it with Hamen. The proprietor saw it all." He jerked a thumb towards an overweight man haranguing the police, gesturing wildly.
John frowned. A simple murder case, open and shut. It was already solved and wouldn't keep him out of the office for long. Wouldn't keep his interest either. "Put out an APB for Hamen in case you can't catch him. He won't get far. Tourists."
"How can you tell?"
"The shoes. Nothing else?"
"No. You wanna take witness statements?"
"No. That's your job. Mine's done." John turned as DeMouy entered. The Asian woman appeared tired. She glanced at the body as John said, "GSW, nothing fancy."
"You doing my job now?"
He shrugged. "Sounds like you need a vacation, DeMouy. Have at it."
"John? John, I didn't mean to snap like that, I just…oh shit."
John ignored her. He crossed the small expanse of the casino, passing the ever-ringing slot machines and the people plying them with coins. He shook his head. Suddenly every machine started to ring like mad. Every machine had spun and spun and lined up a triple jackpot. People were shouting, screaming as a river of wealth poured from every machine. John stared at the blinking lights, the flow of nickels, quarters, half-dollars and dollar coins. As stunned as everyone else. "Son of a bitch!" he muttered, regretting resisting the impulse to place a coin in one of the machines.
The owner started to weep.
"Son of a bitch!" Moira said, as she dragged and pulled the hapless reporter out of her lab, up the stairs and towards the exit. "You aren't doing the museum any favors! You are digging for a story? Fine, go out there and find one! There's no story here! Got it?"
"I know the story is right here, O'Meara! You can't just throw me out of here! I am here at the express behest of the museum and I know you know something! It's all tied together, I know it, and you know it, and—"
"If you're not going to do a story on the museum then get out!" She freed him, pushed him towards the glass door. She stopped as a bird hit the glass. Fell to the ground. "What the?"
"What the?" Chuck echoed, as startled as she was. He opened the door. Cautiously stepped outside of the building.
Moira followed. She knelt near the little body. The bird lay on the sidewalk. "It's probably just stunned. Got confused or—"
"I don't think so. Look! It's happening again!"
Moira stood. Stared in shock as the blue sky. Birds were falling out of it, as if being dumped by some huge hand. Like dark rain they fell, silent. Black feathers wafting on the breeze but the birds weren't flying. They were falling like stones, already dead. Littering the sidewalk, the street, the parking lot. Wave after wave fell and Chuck guided Moira backwards under the overhang of the building.
"I…I don't believe it," she muttered.
"I think I just found my story," Chuck stated. "Aflockocalypse Two."
Evan smiled. "I'm sure you will be quite, happy with it. It's one of a kind, an exquisite expression of light and imagery." He guided the two women out of his art gallery, glad to see them go at last. Tired of pandering to them, humoring them and finally clinching the sale. He headed back for the counter. "And I will enjoy spending that check," he muttered.
With any luck he would break even this month, maybe even enjoy a modest profit. He looked at the sketches he had been making. Drawings of the space alien, the alien ships, the facility. Despite himself he was fascinated by all of it, but particularly by the ships. He wondered what it would be like to fly one. To actually fly into space. It would be much more exciting to investigate that ship and the technology that took it to the stars. Much more interesting than selling overpriced paintings to wealthy but boring clients.
He sighed. Reprimanding himself for daydreaming, even though it was all true. Space aliens. Ships from space. He glanced at his watch. Frowned. It had stopped. He tapped the surface, but the little hands wouldn't move. He looked at the clock on the wall. Saw that it had stopped as well. At the same time as the watch.
Curious he moved to the back of the gallery. Switched on the television, but there were no stories of breaking news. Only the usual mix of reality programs and paid programming adverts for things no one really needed. There was a crawler on one channel about the increasing tornado activity in the Mid-West.
He turned to the computer. It was working fine. Except for one thing. The clock was frozen on it as well. Stuck at the same time as his watch, as the clock on the wall. He stared at the numbers, trying to find an explanation, a reason, any kind of significance. He shook his head at the numbers. They didn't mean a thing to him except for being the time.
6:15.