Pauperdelle - Chapter 7: Rats
July 25 at 12:00 AM
Photo by Sam Mugraby (Photos8.com)
Only a few minutes had gone by and already sweat poured down my brow. Had he gone left or right? It was impossible to tell. I'd always regretted choosing left over right, so it was right all the way. I plodded along, twisting and turning with the intricacies of the corridor, unable to catch a glimpse of my reluctant donor. The muscles in my lower back tightened as I wormed up and over a narrow pass. My breathing became more frequent as I barreled down the silver passage. I had to find Harold Fritz fast; otherwise it might be my heart on the chopping block.
I paused near a crack in the ventilation shaft and exhaled, a faint breeze teasing me from below.
"Excuse me, do you know where I can find Director Cahill?" came a voice.
"Sorry sir, he's not in at the moment," came another.
I leaned over and peeked through the gap. Faded almond chairs and torn sofas complemented the drab olive hues of the west wing reception area.
"Do you know when he'll be back?" said a man in a tan overcoat and matching hat. "I'm Detective Scott and I have a few questions for him."
"Oh crap," I blurted out.
The detective looked up, and then shrugged it off.
"He's with a patient now," Tara replied without the slightest hint of empathy. For once I was glad that Tara Monroe was manning the desk. Surely she wouldn't provide him any additional clues because that meant burning calories, which ultimately meant work. Of course, people were always full of surprises.
"He’ll be back shortly," she smiled.
Was that a smile? I hadn't been seen that in a thousand years.
"His schedule is clear for the rest of the day, so you're welcome to have a seat in the lobby until he returns."
"Don't mind if I do." Detective Scott tipped his hat.
"Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?" Tara asked.
"That would be great."
Coffee? She never offered me coffee. Not once, not ever. Not even when I was a damn patient.
As I looked up, a shadow receded into the darkness. "Harold Fritz, get back here this instant!" I chased after him, banging my knee on a metal outcropping.
"Awfully big rats you have around here," the detective's voice echoed through the chamber.
"The worst," said Tara. "I guess Director Cahill will have to call the exterminator when he gets back."
"No need," said Detective Scott. "I was an exterminator long before I got this gig." He cocked his gun.
"You're not really going to use that here, are you?" she said.
"Relax, sweetheart. I'm a professional."
A round exploded through the duct, pinging off the walls and burying itself in the pipes above. Hot steam blasted down. I scattered like a cockroach, pressing deeper into the west wing as more and more bullets ricocheted through the tunnel. I scurried to wit's end until at last the gunshots stopped.
"Corey," someone whispered. "Corey Cahill." Something else was in the ceiling with me, and it wasn't Harold.
