Devotion Apart Read online

  I listened as the older man described the changes in and around Devotion, but an ache had set in my gut, and it wasn't Janae's breakfast. It was Craig. The weight of Cora's death and the conspiracy surrounding Adrian Shay and his network of corruption was not something I could crumble in a week. Craig's original invitation to me in Brazil had been to come and put pressure on the local authorities to make an arrest. It had sounded reasonable, assuming the police would listen to a victim's brother.

  But now, not even twenty-four hours after arriving, I realized Craig hadn't been altogether honest. Or maybe in his isolation, he wasn't seeing things clearly. I was jumping into a situation that was completely over my head. The problems I was used to solving were more along the line of tribesmen fighting over ownership of a herd of alpacas. Knives and spears were usually wielded, and oftentimes blood was shed, but the offenses and intentions were direct, not covert. It could require weeks to uncover the truth, unless I acted aggressively and pushed vehemently for answers from the very beginning.

  As we entered the city, I sat up to survey the streets I'd once haunted as a boy. The first difference I noticed once past Montezuma Parkway were the vehicles. Self-driving cars were everywhere. Tyler said they were nicknamed auts, for autonomous autos. They appeared to be large golf carts with the cab covered in a capsule-like frame, though some were unoccupied altogether. I asked Tyler what the auts were doing driving around the city. They didn't seem to be delivering anything.

  "They're sent to parking garages or recalled by their owners. Some receive maintenance or refueling while their owners are at work. Like some of those drones above us, they go to the market where they pick up an order of prepaid groceries, then they return to their owners. Both drones and auts are a product of the pandemic lockdowns. Robots are taking over."

  But my fascination with the technological marvels quickly passed as I looked beyond the vehicles and saw the people on the streets. Men and women in suits walked to and fro along swept sidewalks of concrete, brick, and glass buildings. The city had grown vertically, but it had also grown in its transient population. Cardboard shelters spotted the sidewalks. Men, women, and children in drab, loose clothing mingled with the well-dressed pedestrian commuters. Their attire wasn't the only thing in contrast. The commuters carried briefcases or electronic devices, while the homeless people stood or sat motionless, eyes on their smart phones. And they appeared all the more miserable when I realized no one seemed to notice them. Pedestrians brushed past the outcasts without looking up from their own phones or wrist viewers.

  At a stoplight, two small children approached our Mercedes. I pushed the button to lower the window and dug into my satchel.

  "Keep your window up," Tyler instructed. "We have nothing for them."

  I looked from Tyler to the desperate children at my window.

  "What?" I scoffed. "They're hungry. A few dollars—"

  "Nobody carries cash in the city anymore. If you want to give them food, that's fine, but not like this." The light turned green and Tyler sped the car away. "That's how carjackings happen. Even if you did transfer a few dollars from your phone to their account, they wouldn't use it on food."

  I tried to blink away my confusion.

  "No, I don't understand. They're begging for money or food. What else is there to understand? They were so close to the car. You could've driven over their feet."

  "Devotion is plagued with addiction." Two intersections later, he stopped at a red light and pointed at a nearby store. "See that line of people? What do you think they're doing?"

  I frowned at the crowd gathered along the sidewalk. It stretched back for half a city block. More poorly-clothed people, obviously homeless, some carrying faded backpacks, sleeping bags, tarps, and blankets.

  "Prescriptions," I read aloud from a sign over a pharmacy. "They're all addicts, getting prescriptions filled?"

  "Like I said." Tyler turned onto Cactus Street. "Not all of them are begging for food."

  "Drugs?"

  "Or money for drugs or pills. We have our share of hard drugs all over Devotion, but this is a whole other cancer. Prescription medications are legal, but there's also a street market. People sell or trade their prescriptions for whatever they can get."

  "Well. . ." I shook my head as I witnessed a toddler crawling along the sidewalk, no parent in sight. "Why isn't this dealt with and stopped?"

  "Who's going to stop it? People are barely scraping by, recovering from one virus outbreak after another. Besides, there's no profit in ending it. It's just the way things are now. It's called the new normal." He pulled the car into a space against the curb. "Here we are. Shall I wait here for you?"

  "Yeah, you can wait." I climbed out of the car and browsed the street. A digital sign on a building flashed a warning about an abduction victim, a blond woman with a cleft chin. It read, "You could be next!" in red, blaring letters. Homeless people ignored the sign, as if it were all part of their normal existence.

  All of this took place directly across from the police station. There was even a woman who sat under a shelter built out of two umbrellas not ten yards from me. She looked up and smiled, several teeth missing, then focused again on what appeared to be a hotdog on a solar-powered hot plate. At least, I hoped it was a hotdog.

  Although the fierce rainforest of screeching animals and buzzing insects would've seemed like another dimension to the citizens of Devotion, I definitely preferred it over this one.

  Inside the building, I walked through a booth with sensors that sniffed at my clothes and hands for contraband, then I was allowed to approach a desk where an array of soft light and a friendly face greeted me. A Hologram! Only her upper body shimmered above the desk where sensors and projectors were embedded.

  "Um. Detective Ian Fletcher?" I requested, feeling awkward for asking a digital blond woman for directions.

  The pretty computer image smiled, then motioned with a slender hand toward a steel set of electronic double doors.

  "Detective Fletcher is currently in the squad room at his desk. Do you have an appointment?"

  "Yes, I called earlier," I spoke toward the base component of the hologram. "Tell him Cord Dalton is here to talk to him about Cora Dalton."

  I imagined Craig Tasman watching me that very moment, through the police station's surveillance cameras in every corner of the room.

  "Please seat yourself," the blond offered, "as Detective Fletcher responds to your request in person or otherwise."

  "Or otherwise?" I raised my eyebrows. "You mean he could appear by hologram as well?"

  "I will ask him," the computer assured. "Please, wait in the space provided."

  Feeling foolish for obeying a computer, I sat on a bench in the waiting room and drew out my phone. While I was in Devotion, I needed to learn some of the tools available. I found a screen that listed the available functions and scrolled down. Remote banking, vehicle summons, restaurant services, even one that identified by GPS my exact position on earth. Everyone with a phone could be tracked, sure, but Craig's RASH system made it possible to track people with or without their phone. Yes, I preferred the rainforest, where I could track a tapir through the undergrowth, without a computer telling me where the mammal was digging for gourds.

  The waiting room doorway was suddenly filled by a man the size of a bear. In high school, Ian Fletcher had been on the varsity basketball team, a star player who everyone thought would get a scholarship. Now, he was twenty pounds of muscle heavier, in the chest and shoulders, but otherwise as lean and as tall as I remembered him. He wore a cheap-looking suit and bore a scar under his right eye.

  "Last I heard," his baritone voice filled the waiting room, "you'd burned down the school and had run off to Mexico."

  His face remained stern, apparently not pleased to see me. I didn't blame him, since he had been a jock, and I had run with the troublemakers—or I had led the troublemaker crowd.

  "Actually, it was Brazil." I rose to my feet, an easy ten inches shor
ter than this giant. "And I didn't burn the school. Someone dared me to mix a carton of hydrogen with a container of chlorine."

  "You're lucky no one died in that mess. Otherwise, I'd be arresting you for manslaughter right now."

  "I'm no chemist." I took a deep breath, realizing winning over this man for Cora's sake was not going to be easy. "But I was no terrorist, either. I was reckless and needed discipline, but that explosion was an honest mistake."

  He sighed and waved a digital tablet at me.

  "So, Cora, huh? Come on. I need to run this down to the locker room. You can join me and tell me what's on your mind."

  He turned and walked away so quickly, I had to hustle to catch up. On his heels, I passed through the double steel doors before they locked again, then we descended two flights of stairs to a sub-basement.

  "I was hoping to hear an update on Cora's case. Craig Tasman said it's been on your desk for four months, and there's been no arrest."

  "You heard right." He waved a clear wristband across a sensor, and another steel door clicked open. The air smelled like sweat. "Your sister's case is among eighty other unsolved murders just this year, and it's only spring. Welcome home."

  "Eighty?" I double-timed my steps. "How are there still people alive in Devotion if they're dying at that rate?"

  We moved down a corridor where dust bunnies lay on the edges of the linoleum.

  "Do your homework," Fletcher said. "Devotion is the armpit of America without deodorant. Every criminal in the country and every drug in the world flows through here. I wish Cora's was a unique case, Cord, but it's one of dozens, and there's only sixteen of us working homicides in a growing city of two million. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find one particular criminal in a city of criminals? How about this Tina Leaf woman? You've probably heard of her. The whole city's obsessed with her pretty face right now. She disappeared a few days ago. In two weeks, she'll be old news. There are hundreds more no one cares about."

  We stopped at another door, and he turned to face me, maybe expecting me to be daunted by the discouraging information.

  "I'm just asking about Cora. If it's bad news, then I want to hear what you've got. If you don't have the manpower, then I'll do some investigating myself."

  "You?" He smiled in amusement. "What do you know about investigations? With your past"

  "What?" His statement confused me until I realized he was talking about Cora's death. "I was out of the country."

  Before I could say more, he entered the squad locker room. I followed him inside and found myself in the midst of two shifts of officers—one changing into their uniforms, and one changing into their civilian clothes.

  "Grahm?" Fletcher approached a broad-shouldered man with a pockmarked face and long, dark hair that I guessed broke the dress code. "Here's the requisition database you asked for. It's your responsibility now."

  The man named Grahm accepted the tablet. His sneer grew as he looked up at Fletcher.

  "What happened, Fletcher?" Grahm scoffed. "You decided to get your hands dirty by coming down and slumming it with us rejects? Who are you putting on notice today, huh?"

  "Not today, Grahm." Fletcher turned away, and bumped into me.

  "Wait, wait, wait." Grahm hurried to block Fletcher's escape, then the officer's eyes lit up at the sight of me. "What do we have here? No, let me guess. Look at this, everyone. Fletcher turned out another funny-looking transient into a rat. They're breeding like rabbits upstairs, huh, Fletcher?"

  "Leave him alone, Grahm." Fletcher eyed me, communicating a silent warning not to react. "He's just someone from out of town."

  Grahm reached out and felt my coarse shirt, then grimaced at my cargo pants that reached only mid-calf.

  "The company you keep amazes me, Fletcher. It's embarrassing!"

  "Back off, Grahm." Fletcher set a hand on my shoulder. "He's nobody special. He shouldn't even be here."

  "Nobody's a nobody." Grahm eased up to my face so that the toes of our boots touched. His breath smelled of spoiled milk. "So? Who are you? One of Fletcher's little church projects? You here to save us sinners?"

  "He's right." I shifted away, forcing a smile to the others in the crowd. "I'm nobody."

  "What's your name?" Grahm pressed. "Don't be afraid. We're only half as bad as Fletcher told you."

  I was more amused than disturbed. The Amazon had its share of tough characters, too.

  "Cord Dalton." I offered my hand, but wasn't surprised when Grahm scoffed at it.

  "Dalton, huh? What's your story?"

  "Just visiting an old high school friend."

  "You and Fletcher?" He laughed. "Was he having Bible studies back in high school, too? No wonder he failed as an athlete. He never figured out self-righteousness doesn't work as a team player."

  I noted the posture of the other officers, and the way Grahm didn't seem to be giving any ground for us to leave. Fletcher seemed unsure how to get us out of the locker room, so the situation was in my hands.

  "Grahm," I said, "you're the perfect candidate for a little challenge."

  "Challenge?" He scowled at me. "What kind of challenge?"

  "It's called a slap challenge. It's something I've seen in the Amazon. It's not hard. And I'll even let you go first. You have to slap me hard enough to make me blink. If you can make me blink, you win. But if you can't make me blink, then I slap you. To try and make you blink. Whoever blinks first, loses. Open palm. No big deal. A slap challenge. You in?"

  "What?" Grahm cursed and stood back. "What kind of nonsense are you bringing in here, Fletcher?"

  "It's just a game." I shrugged, hearing the taunt in my voice. "What's the problem? Slap me and I blink—you win. Easy. You slap first. You can't beat that, right?"

  "Cord. . ." Fletcher tugged on my sleeve. "Let's just go."

  "I've got twenty bucks on Grahm," announced an officer behind me, then a dozen more bets were placed. But there was no cash flashed. Everything was done somehow on their phones. Officers were jesting and laughing as Grahm sized me up.

  Although I was a few inches under six feet, I'd stood against stronger men for years, and faced their strength and weight with my technique and stamina.

  After the bets were placed, everyone backed off to give Grahm room. Several held up their devices to record everything.

  "You won't duck or move?" Grahm asked as he flexed his hand and shook out his arm. His forearm rippled with muscle, and the breadth of his shoulders was inches wider than my own. In the bush, I'd been called Cocoanut Wader on account of my skinny legs, so it was no wonder the bets were overwhelmingly against me.

  "I won't move," I said. "But make it count, because if you can't make me blink, it's my turn."

  Grahm cackled with laughter as the other officers hushed themselves. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fletcher standing tensely, but he didn't interfere.

  I placed my feet wide apart and braced for the blow. Grahm was right-handed, so I squinted my eyes, locked my face in a fierce frown, and angled my cheekbone so it appeared it would take the brunt of the blow.

  The instant Grahm started to swing, I ducked my chin just slightly, and took the slap hard on my left brow. The challenge was psychological, completely based on willpower, which natives in the forest love to test. I'd known the blow would hurt, but blinking wasn't an option. Resisting the urge to blink, when every reflex in my head urged my eyelid to close. . .

  I hadn't blinked, but we were just getting started.

  "No, no, no," I said, and stepped close to Grahm. "You did it wrong. Hold up your hand. Firmer. Firmer! Now, try it again. You get a do-over. Come on. Make this one count."

  I returned to my stance in the middle of speechless observers. Grahm didn't argue against a second chance. This time, he stretched his arm and moved slowly through a practice swing. Finally, he gritted his teeth and swung again. And once again, I took the firmness of his hand on my brow, which felt like it was swelling by the second.

  "He still did
n't blink!" a female officer announced. She wore a loose ponytail and held her phone up higher. "I'm streaming this on ReVo. It's gonna go viral!"

  "Grahm," I said, touching his shoulder. "Look, you have to put your shoulder into it, and roll your hips. You want to be taken seriously as a man, right? Imagine you're pitching a baseball. Really whip your hand in an arc. Again. Come on. Once more. Let it rip."

  I returned to my place, braced myself, and angled my head. From his stance directly in front of me, he couldn't possibly impact my eye, as long as his hand remained rigid.

  He hit me so hard, my vision blurred and I stumbled to the side.

  "He still didn't blink!" another officer shouted.

  The rest didn't seem certain how to respond, so the locker room remained quiet, outside of a few concerned whispers.

  "Okay, my turn." I took a position to the side of Grahm. My face burned like fire, and I was certain the skin on my brow would split if I were hit once more.

  Grahm glanced at his peers, and I saw uncertainty in his eyes. His jaw trembled an instant before he clenched his teeth. He bravely presented the left side of his face to me, and I could've struck him in a way that I would've hit the eye itself, forcing him to blink.

  Instead, I relaxed my stance and raised my hand.

  "No." I shook my head. "I can't do it. If we keep going, this won't end well."

  "What?" Grahm chuckled nervously. "Hit me. I can take it. Come on. Win or lose."

  "Nah. I'd better not." I clasped my hands and turned to the others, their mouths agape. "Sorry, everyone. I'll just concede right here. You guys have a nice day. Fletcher?"

  I marched out of the locker room, with Fletcher on my heels. At least no one stood in our way now. In the corridor, I hustled away, wanting to plant the side of my face in the ice for an hour, but this was Arizona in the spring. There wasn't much coolness to offer my burning face unless I found an ice machine.

  Halfway up the first flight of stairs, Fletcher caught me from behind and stopped me in the stairwell.

  "I don't get you!" His arms flung wildly. "Tell me what that was!"