The Recipient (9 page)

CHAPTER 9.

S
he was perched on the stool in front of her workstation. Her arm was extended across her knee and her fingers held a joint. Long, languid wisps of smoke curled upwards in the darkness towards the ceiling.

It was the last one, Casey realised ruefully. She had not heard from her supplier in days now. Her calls to his number had gone unanswered which meant that he'd probably gone and gotten himself in trouble again.

Another idiot to contend with.

Cursing silently, her hand shook as she lifted the joint to her lips. She inhaled the smoke as economically as she could, then she reached for the glass of scotch—neat—that sat on the glass tabletop.

Casey hadn't moved from this spot for hours. Her emotions were fractious after the session with Kirkwood. As she had predicted, talking with Kirkwood yesterday had done little to help.

She was sick of everyone's fucking advice. She wished she could be left alone. And yet, there was a part of her that didn't want to be left alone. That made her angrier.

Even her apartment no longer felt safe. The walls here felt as though they were closing in, suffocating her and yet, to step outside right now would feel a thousand times worse.

Casey glanced at the clock.

It was 10PM.

She glanced at the painting of Jeanne Hebuterne and smiled bitterly.

“Thirty-six hours, Jeanne,” Casey remarked with a slurred and scratchy croak. The Randy Gardner world record flashed in her mind. “Wanna try for the record again?”

Casey gazed at the portrait as if expecting a response, but when none came, she exhaled in disgust. She considered pitching her glass at the wretched print but she hesitated, then relented. She was too stoned to be bothered.

The weight of her self-inflicted sleep deprivation bore down on her, yet she fought it by recruiting as much anger as she could, forcing a battle within herself that released her reserves of adrenaline.

Dangling the joint from the corner of her lip, Casey reached across the table, tapped a key on her laptop and checked her cloud folder.

Empty. Maddeningly empty.

Still no requests for her services had come. Just like the empty folder on her cloud storage, her post office box—where a lot of her work usually came to—had also remained stubbornly empty.

She sensed Prishna's hand in this, manipulating events in the hope it would trip up Casey. If Prishna had made contact with Casey's underground associates, they would be running a mile from any potential attention they might attract. The consequences were not worth the risk of dealing with her.

There had to be something she could do. Checking the clock again, a plan began to form in Casey's mind. Launching from her stool, she grabbed her keys from the kitchen counter and made for the door of the apartment.

___

Scott made his way downstairs, scanning the crowd in the front bar. He'd received Casey's text message and was concerned; it had seemed agitated, off balance. It wasn't like her. Stepping into the crowded bar, it didn't take long before he spotted her.

Something was off. Casey appeared dishevelled and she was clearly stoned. She gripped a beer bottle and lifted it to her mouth, emptying it. Approaching her, Scott noticed a male patron in a business suit leering at her. He immediately stood in between the sleazy patron and Casey.

Casey jumped as he tapped her arm. When Casey turned and glared up at him, Scott could see that everything about her was tense.

“Come on,” he said, nodding towards the stairs. “Let's go and have a talk.”

Once they had settled into their usual table up on the rooftop garden, Scott set a glass of water down for her and a beer for himself, which did not escape her notice.

“So. You wanna tell me what's going on?”

Unexpectedly, Casey began to shake. “Oh, everything,” she choked, fighting tears. “Everything. Where do I start?”

“How about at the beginning,” Scott suggested evenly, watching as Casey fished in her pocket for the remaining portion of her joint. She held it up and attempted to light it with her Zippo, but Scott snatched it from her grasp and crushed it in his fist.

“What the fuck!” Casey exclaimed angrily.

“Jesus, Case, you can't go lighting up that shit in a public venue,” Scott shot back. “Do you want me to lose my job,
yer midden.
”

Casey's expression lurched between hurt and shame. She slumped back in her seat, wiping angrily at her eyes. “I need
something,
Sasquatch. I'm going out of my mind sitting around and pretending like I'm enjoying taking all this time off. I'm desperate.”

Scott shifted uncomfortably. “Look. The thing is…I've
asked,
Casey,” he began apologetically. “It's just that there's nothing out there. I put the feelers out—more than once—but the usuals are being cautious. They're not willing to offer much just now. Because…”

His voice drifted off and Casey glowered at him. The way he said that last sentence caused her to bristle.

“
Because why
?” she challenged, much more forcefully than she intended.

“There's been talk, Casey. About you. You've been in Cyber-Crime's pocket for a long time and the word is getting out. That detective friend of yours—”

“She's
not
my friend.” Casey cut him off.

Scott continued, undeterred.

“Well, she's been sniffing around. And it's gotten a few of the grey hats nervous. A lot of them suspect that you've been double dipping. Playing both sides.”

His last sentence, in particular, stung Casey.

“That's not fucking true and you know it!” she blurted viciously, causing numerous patrons nearby to turn in her direction. “You know I've always protected the Circle.”

Scott held his hands out in an attempt to placate her.

“
I
know it's not true, Case.” He lowered his voice and sat forward in his chair. “Believe me, I know. But look…until things settle down…maybe it is best that you continue to lay low for a while.”

He allowed the import of his words to register with her. But Casey seemed to grow more agitated by the minute.

“Look at yourself,” he said, exasperated. “You look like shit. Why don't you take your old man's advice and get yourself out of here. Go catch some sun and reboot.”

Casey's expression twisted and she gripped her glass so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I'm so sick of everyone giving me advice!”

He flinched as her spittle struck him in the eye.

Her pupils dilated and she snarled at him. “You sound just like everyone else. Why don't you all just go and fuck off!”

Bolting upright, she slammed the glass down on the table and it cracked in her hand. Both of them blinked and looked down to see a rivulet of blood sliding down the glass from underneath her grip.

She immediately regretted her words. Staggering back from the table, Casey knocked over her chair. She felt an awful snapping inside her head as she glared at her speechless friend.

The rooftop garden began to spin. Her eyes darted left and right. Everywhere she turned, Casey was confronted by the faces of patrons staring at her in shock.

Her drug-fuelled fog was beginning to fade and tendrils of panic began to finger the back of her neck.

“I'm…” she stumbled, letting go of the glass which toppled onto its side before rolling off the edge of the table and smashing on the ground. Looking down at her hand, she saw a deep gash in her palm. Without thinking, she wiped the hand against her top, smearing blood all across it.

Casey turned and stumbled from the rooftop garden and down the stairs, disappearing to the street.

___

Slamming the industrial door shut, Casey slapped the locking mechanism across and shoved the padlock securely in place.

She was panting, her mind reeling from having verbally assaulted her best friend. She couldn't believe she had behaved so awfully and choked at the recollection, bringing her bloodstained hand up to her mouth.

The metallic taste caused her to recoil and she looked at the thick laceration she had inflicted. Tears streamed down her cheeks, distracting her from cleaning the wound. Instead, she fumbled with her phone. She wanted to call Scott right away, apologise to him, try and make things right, but she had no idea what she would possibly say. Faltering with the device, she set it down on the kitchen counter. As she did so, it began vibrating and she blinked at the screen.

It was Scott calling.

She shook her hands wildly, afraid to pick up the phone.

I can't!

Reflexively, Casey slammed her thumb down on the touch screen, hitting the dismiss button and she slapped the phone away. It shot across the counter and clattered noisily to the floor on the far side, out of view.

She went to the kitchen cupboards, throwing open the doors above the stove and spilling their contents at her feet. She dropped to her haunches, searching for the tin box in which she usually stored her marijuana. The box had toppled to the floor along with containers of flour, rice, bread crumbs and other assorted condiments and she looked down, identifying the upturned container with its lid open, in the mess. Her stomach plunged. The box was empty, as she knew it would be.

“Fuck!” she cursed out loud.

Undeterred, Casey sprang drunkenly to her feet and fumbled her way up the stairs to the mezzanine level, throwing open the door to the unused guest room.

Stumbling over a maze of boxes, disused furniture and a queen bed that was covered in plastic, she identified a bedside cabinet on the far wall. Leaping over the bed, Casey fell to her knees in front of the cabinet, tearing the drawers from it. She desperately picked through the contents, picking out several plastic zip-lock bags, searching for one that was filled.

Again, she was thwarted. There was nothing here either.

Her anger peaked and she clutched at the handle of one of the discarded drawers, flinging it across the room. It struck the opposite wall and shattered into a dozen jagged pieces.

Screaming at the top of her lungs, she grabbed another drawer, and then another, hurling them and watching them obliterate in a similar fashion to their counterpart. Then she was on her feet, upending cardboard boxes, another bedside table, the bed itself. She destroyed anything she could get her hands on. Her anger could not be assuaged and she relished in it.

Exhaustion quickly crept upon her and all at once her remaining energy left her. She stopped abruptly and fell to her knees. Blinking at the destruction she had wrought, Casey suddenly laughed out loud.

She lurched to her feet, swaying back and forth. Her laughter disintegrated into loud, wracking sobs and her legs buckled. She collapsed to the floor, oblivious to the chaos. Shards of broken glass from a small vase cut into her lower legs and the tops of her feet. Blood bubbled forth from the wounds.

She was oblivious to any pain.

Without warning, a loud rapping at the door downstairs broke through the silence in the apartment. Casey jumped, gasping in the darkness. A moment or two passed before the knocking repeated itself, followed by a voice.

“Casey!”

It was her father.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Shaking her head, desperately trying to clear it, Casey staggered and lurched forward, tripping over the disaster zone as she made for the door and then the stairs. Stumbling down them, she darted across the living area to her bathroom.

“Casey! Are you in there? Open up!”

Outside, in the corridor, Peter tested the door. This wasn't like Casey not to answer. She must have heard him.

He cocked his head, listening for signs of life from within. “C'mon, Casey! What's going on?”

Finally, her voice sounded from the other side. “Just a minute, Dad.”

Casey splashed water over the cuts on her legs and her hand, cursing the tenacious blood that continued to ooze.

Patting them dry as best she could, Casey straightened her top and glanced at her reflection. She was repulsed by what she saw but there was no time to do anything more. She couldn't put her father off.

What was he doing here at this hour anyway?

Unlocking the door, Casey slid it aside and looked up at her father who recoiled upon seeing her.

“Christ, Casey!” he gasped, pushing past her and into the apartment. He spied the mess on the floor in the kitchen and noted her smartphone nearby. It was vibrating again with an incoming call from Sasquatch.

“What the bloody hell?”

“What are you doing here, Dad?” she shot back. “It's gotta be like,
ridiculous
o'clock?”

Peter paced around the kitchen bench, retrieving her phone from the tiled floor. He held it up, revealing a cracked screen through which she could see Scott's caller ID.

“Scott called me,” he replied angrily as he tapped the answer button on her phone and took the call.

Casey stood awkwardly, hands on hips as Peter reassured Scott that he was with her now, glaring at his daughter as he spoke. She couldn't do anything except wait.

Finally, Peter ended the call and set the phone down on the counter. He continued to glare at her for a long moment. Then, he closed his eyes and breathed in and out audibly, calming himself. His expression morphed accordingly; his anger replaced by grim concern.

“What's going on, Casey?” he repeated. “Seems you made a hell of a scene over there.”

Casey felt her cheeks flush and she looked away from him. She reached for the door and slid it closed as she tried to come up with something, anything, to answer him.

“It was nothing, Dad,” she answered weakly. “A disagreement.”

“A disagreement? Casey, Scott was pretty shaken when he called me, and he wouldn't call me if it was just a disagreement.”

Lifting a hand up to her forehead, Casey closed her eyes, trying to remain calm even as her defensive hackles threatened to stand up in the presence of her father's questioning.