Lunatics

Lunatics · Chap 036 · A stroll in hell

36 · A stroll in hell

BREAKING THE security codes of verifiers with specific devices was quite easy for trained professionals, breaking those same codes with ordinary tools was something totally different.

Marcus had a screwdriver, pliers, a tiny case of keyboards and his skilled hands. Luckily, the external cameras had been long deactivated. The drizzle made the wiring slippery and his mini keyboard misinterpreted the input.

After fifteen minutes of stressing labour, the gate creaked and began to open—the whole perimeter was protected with tall lanceted fences; the gate was the only safe option under the light rain.

When there was enough space for him to enter, he disconnected the wiring. The gate stopped and he passed through the narrow chasm, then he closed the circuit and typed a new command in his mini keyboard. The gate closed making some high-pitched noises.

He reached the garage and was surprised to discover a live camera. Although the lights were very dim he knew he should not risk triggering any alarm. Taking care not to be caught by the camera, he followed the wiring until discovering a spot where there was a leak dripping on it. He was able to pinch it and cut the plastic protection to expose the copper inside. He cut one of the poles and watched the light of the cam go off, then the dripping of the leak reconnected the extremes, making the camera go live again. He had some seconds to cross in front of the camera without being taped. He took the staircase and climbed up to Dante’s store. Having crossed a family of rats and a feast of cockroaches over a dead pigeon, Marcus wondered whether the building was really inhabited, even after having seen the few transporters in the garage.

Outside, the drizzle had become a strong shower and the distant thunders heralded a heavy storm approaching.

He was surprised again, as he found Dante’s door open. He entered the kitchen which lights were on and evaluated everything with care. He heard no one inside the apartment. There was the constant sizzle of the rain outside, the intermittent dripping of his soaked clothes and the buzzing of insects coming from the main room. There were some flies over a pack of crackers and a couple of them looped around the light bulb. Apart from the flies and a lightly putrid smell, the place seemed like an oasis in the middle of the deserted, dirty building.

Marcus looked for clues to decipher the arrangement of pins over the map of Brasilia but found none. The frigomatic was on with a humming sound.

Halfway to the living, Marcus saw Belizarius Dante’s body on the couch. A swarm of flies covered his eyes, his nostrils and his mouth. Marcus did not touch the old man he had seen leaving the bar with his target. The stench of vomit was intense; another group of flies distributed themselves over a noxious blob on the carpet.

After turning the lights on, he found a copy of The Astronomer by Vermeer right above a packed bookshelf. Dante’s apartment was not the one in the photographs of Chico Manoel and his friend Ibin.

Curious, Marcus read some of the books titles from the top shelf; Desroche’s Gods revisited: utopian theism and atheism; Fakkar’s Sociologie, socialisme et internacionalisme prémarxiste, l’influence de Saint-Simon; Cornu’s Moses Hess and the Hegelian leftists; Armand & Maublanc’s Fourier, textes choisis; Marx & Engels’s The German ideology; Ribeiro’s The civilizatory process… Marcus sighed, yearning to have time to read all of them before they were sent away to a recycling plant. In another shelf, he recognized authors as Plato, Heidegger, Freyre, Sagan, Webber, Gleiser, and More. All of the books had been costumized, bound with real leather.

The communicator on the wall had its keyboard exposed. Marcus used it to turn the machine on and to access the message box. The last one had Ibin in his apartment, the Vermeer clearly in sight.

“Leave a message, I can’t have you now. Thanks.”

Ibin’s voice was calm and the lad had a nice smile. Marcus knew he had seen that face before. In his reply, Chico Manoel had a worried, tired expression. There was a dark blood stain under his elbow; behind him, Dante’s corpse.

“Where are you, Ibin? What made you jump out of bed so early today? Especially today… I’m in trouble and I need you to give me back my jacket…”

A slight pause.

“I’ll contact you soon. Don’t call my personal comm nor my house’s. It ain’t safe. I’m serious, this is a case of life or death…”

Another pause.

“Yeah! I mean it!”

And it was the end of the call. Marcus saved Ibin’s communicator number to find the address later. So Ibin doesn’t know what his friend had done? What if that was a coded message to warn Ibin? What was that jacket talk about?

Chico Manoel was an intriguing character, leaving riddles as a professional would do, but acting like an amateur. This guy is crazy; he thought the whole thing would simply be a practical joke. The World’s full of that kind of jerk.

Marcus decided to search the apartment. He had fun with the pornographic magazines and albums, found Chico Manoel’s clothes left in the bathroom, and the medikit used to bandage his arm. While he was there, although feeling very uncomfortable, he left his mask and gloves on.

Dante showed no sign of violence. Marcus searched his pockets and some of the insects flew away, avoiding to land on Marcus’ wet clothing. He could not find Dante’s IDCard. Among the documents he found in one of the drawers of the chest in the dead man’s sleeping room, he discovered the licensing of a Vixen.

He walked up to the kitchen and sat on a chair to verify the communicator on the wall. Chico Manoel had arrived at the airport with Dante’s Phaedro Vixen-45, wearing the clothes of the dead old goat.

Marcus inserted the flashdisc he had used in the FID. He opened the lists—the one from Chico Manoel’s house and the other with the costumers of The Maiden—and compared them with a text editor. Two names were in both: Francisco Manoel Francisco and Ibrahim Mousmée. They had been looking for the wrong person. Ibin was a nickname, the way Chico Manoel called his friend Ibrahim.

Then, Marcus searched the World Net to look for Mousmée’s address. The search took just five seconds. Marcus discovered his address as well as his personal communicator. The number he had retrieved matched his home one. Marcus copied the data and saved them in the disc. He was about to close the program when he noticed the Online Piratininga Gazette news on the side column of the page. There was a picture of the burial to Elisangela Mussume. The sad expression on her son’s face hit Marcus with awe.

He clicked the news and it filled the window, clearly displaying the features of Ibrahim Mousmée. Cinema diva leaves rich heir, the article read. Ibin Mousmée was at the Pampas, attending his dead mother’s ceremonies!

The whole text was filled with frivolities and gossips. But it had very useful information: “Mousmée flies back to Alphaville tomorrow morning with a fat bank account. Brasilian movie industry loses its most fascinating diva and her heir leaves the Pampas with a mass of credits. Orphan but millionaire”.

While leaving, Marcus remembered Kenzo’s comment; the old goat was now the joy for a bunch of flies. He climbed down the stairs and left through the garage, taking no notice of the surveillance camera. He did not care the alarm; he would be far when the cracks arrive. The only human being he found there was as dead as the pigeon the roaches were enjoying. It was easy to open the gate again.

When he turned the corner of the street and unlocked his transportation door, he felt as if someone was staring at him. Marcus thought he had seen the silhouette of two men standing under a tree. It made him have a bad sensation. The rain was intense and he heard a branch of one tree crack. He looked up but no branch seemed to be falling. When he looked back to the other tree, the men had vanished, giving him the creeps.

There was only the heavy rain pouring down. He entered his vehicle and departed. With the information he had gathered he might complete the mission. For the sake of his companions and of his own hurt ego.