“The DEA says there are more than a hundred and fifty thousand of these chemical manufacturing facilities in China alone. They also admit we’re not going to arrest or legislate our way out of this.”
Piper Ann was silent a long moment.
“Surreal,” she finally said.
“Yeah, surreal and worse. And so we have the free clinic. Like I said, one person one day at a time.”
–
Piper Ann Harrison reached over and turned off the radio in her Prius, and sighed heavily again. She had been listening to the news on WHYY, the public radio FM station, then pushed the button for the University of Pennsylvania’s WXPN.
They were playing a music program of classic jazz. Coming from her speakers was the sound of John Coltrane on the saxophone. The horn was soothing, especially compared to the news that WHYY had been broadcasting about the rally in Strawberry Mansion.
The WHYY reporter had hesitated to call it a riot, but from her description of burning cars and mayhem, not to mention the shaky tone of the reporter’s voice, a riot was what it sounded like to Piper Ann. It all had made her very nervous, and gave her all the more reason to hurry and get the delivery of the sandwiches behind her.
Because of that disturbance, she had had to go out of her way to avoid that part of town. Every other time she had made the drive to Needle Park, she had gone down Lancaster Avenue, then taken Girard Avenue across the Schuylkill River and all the way into Fishtown, then cut up to Front Street to reach the park in Kensington.
But that route took her right past North Twenty-ninth Street.
Taking the expressway now had been frustrating-she really had hoped to already have been there and back-but decided the inconvenience was worth it to avoid the problems in Strawberry Mansion.
Piper Ann turned up the volume on the radio. John Coltrane’s horn, playing “My Favorite Things,” was almost hypnotizing. She dug in her purse and produced a cigarette and lighter.
After her first puff, she pushed the button that opened her sunroof. She could feel the bitter cold air, and tilted her head back to exhale the smoke out the opening.
Sooner I get this done, the sooner I can get home.
And the sooner I’ll be enjoying the warm Caribbean sun in Cuba.
She pressed harder on the accelerator, and the hum of the electric motor grew slightly louder as the seventy-four-horsepower gasoline engine kicked in with extra power.
Ten minutes later, she approached McPherson Park.
She saw that, despite the winter weather, the park was busy as usual, with many people milling around its center, near the Free Library.
Well, I feel better now that I came.
I can just leave the boxes of food up at the library, then take the empty thermos and head home.
Speeding up to make it through the changing traffic light at F Street, she suddenly heard through her open sunroof the sound of a male screaming.
She quickly turned off the radio.
She turned her head, trying to find him.
And then she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye-someone running out of the shadows and down the slope of the park toward the street.
It appeared to be an enormous human figure, with a mop of dreadlocks.
Then she heard him scream again. The tone was one of sheer terror, and she could now make out exactly what he was screaming.
It sent a chill through her.
“They’re here! They’re here! Save me!” he screamed.
When she turned, she saw that the enormous human, despite the bitter cold, had absolutely no clothes on.
Then she screamed as the enormous naked male suddenly ran in front of her Prius.
She slammed on the brakes.
The tiny car shuddered when the man bounced off the front bumper, then slammed across the hood.
In that instant, she saw the terror in the man’s eyes, and the heart and peace symbol tattoos on his face, and, finally, the Family tattoo across his throat.
And then he hit the windshield, and it shattered, and then began to become coated in red.
Everything went silent.
Piper Ann began sobbing.
X
[ONE]
Word of Brotherly Love Ministry
Strawberry Mansion, Philadelphia
Saturday, December 15, 10:02 P.M.
Matt Payne found the doors locked on the Police Interceptor, leaned against its front right fender and turned up the collar of his suit coat in a futile attempt to block the icy wind. He surveyed the smoldering blocks-long scene while waiting for Tony Harris to catch up-What the hell’s taking him so long? I’m freezing-then noticed a strong smell.
“Jesus!” he said aloud.
And then he realized the source: His clothing reeked of everything that had been set afire, especially the heavy odor of burned rubber tires.
Another good reason to get the hell out of this suit. .
–
After ducking under the yellow crime scene tape when they’d first arrived in Strawberry Mansion, Matt Payne thought that he might have been a bit overly critical-Okay, so I was more than a little bit, but screw ol’ Raychell-since his tailored suit and tie was just as sartorially out of place in the hood as the pearls and high heels he had just mocked the Action News! brunette reporter for wearing.
Consequently-worse-the suit also turned him into an obvious target.
There may as well be a blinking neon sign above me with an arrow pointing at my back: LOOK! PUBLIC ENEMY #1 RIGHT HERE! SHOOT ME!
Those death threat postings are probably coming from chickenshit keyboard warriors.
But all it takes is one bullet from some emboldened bastard to ruin your day.
Walking toward the red front door of the mission, he scanned the area and felt some comfort in the fact that there were uniformed officers all over the scene.
Only a fool would try something now.
Trouble with that is, this city proves itself to be full of fools with nothing to lose.
He saw that smoldering mounds of debris, including one topped with a charred lectern and what was left of the poster of Public Enemy Number One, were in every direction. And there were broken beer bottles, the glass shards scorched by intense heat, indicating Molotov cocktails.
And some of those same fools came prepared to cause trouble.
And-big surprise-did. .
At the curb on the corner, there was a vile-looking heap of muck that had been left beside a storm sewer opening. Indistinguishable bits and chunks of trash poked out of the crude sludge.
Looks like the Crime Scene crew checked the storm sewers for evidence.
God-knows-what all winds up down that drain.
That’s some really foul-looking stuff. . almost like it could be hell’s version of a Ben amp; Jerry’s Chunky Flavor of the Month.
He stepped carefully, making a wide arc around the pile.
Ahead, a half-dozen plainclothes officers were standing in front of the red door of the former row house turned Chinese restaurant turned church.
Payne recognized most of them, some by face and others by name, including Harvey Simpson. The thirty-two-year-old detective had been in the old PECO van running surveillance when Payne tapped him to coordinate the operation to grab Tyrone Hooks after the rally-before anyone else could, if Sully O’Sullivan’s warning held true.
Simpson wore a faded blue winter coat with diamond-shaped stitching. An oval white patch with red cursive lettering was on each breast, the left one reading Carlos and the right one Doylestown Moving Co.