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    The Suprahuman Secret: Charlie Madison, P.I., #2
    The Suprahuman Secret: Charlie Madison, P.I., #2
    The Suprahuman Secret: Charlie Madison, P.I., #2
    Ebook388 pages5 hours

    The Suprahuman Secret: Charlie Madison, P.I., #2

    By Milo James Fowler

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    About this ebook

    Collects the novellas Girl of Great Price, Immaterial Evidence, Yakuza Territory, and Chimera Effect:

    The public can't know they exist. It could start a panic. The average citizen is perfectly fine with superheroes saving the day or causing mayhem in movies and comic books. But if those suprahumans actually walked among us, what would happen then?

    In a crumbling post-war city of the future, private eye Charlie Madison stands in the gap. The last of his kind, a champion of lost causes, he confronts corrupt cops, violent bratva and yakuza, doing whatever he can for the average citizen in need of help. A war veteran with plenty of hardship in his past, he's not afraid to go toe-to-toe with the powers that be, whether they're in the criminal underworld or the federal government.

    Madison has encountered more than his share of unusual suspects over the years. But this time he's up against something he's never seen before, on or off the battlefield: people with unnatural abilities. Suprahumans. Gifted ones. Their powers are too incredible to believe, too dangerous in this unstable world. Their existence is a secret guarded by government agents who mindwipe anyone encountering them.

    For Charlie Madison, the Suprahuman Secret emerges when a little girl goes missing and no ransom demand is made. He takes the case, but time isn't on his side. After 48 hours in this town, it's unlikely an abducted child will be found in one piece. As the mystery unfolds, Madison uncovers a bizarre truth about the girl that seems impossible. But it could explain why she was kidnapped — and why she might still be alive.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFuture City Press
    Release dateAug 1, 2024
    ISBN9798227576293
    The Suprahuman Secret: Charlie Madison, P.I., #2

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      The Suprahuman Secret - Milo James Fowler

      GIRL OF GREAT PRICE

      1

      ––––––––

      It was a wet, awful night in the city, but the thundering rain against my windowpane had some serious competition in the tears streaming down the woman's face before me.

      Why would they take her? She begged for an answer, like there was one hanging in midair I could pluck down to satisfy her. She's just an innocent little girl!

      Her husband, a burly retired jarhead who'd served two tours and kept the bad haircut, put his arm around her.

      Will you help us, Mr. Madison? His eyes were intense, as clear and blue as the sky our city hadn't seen in weeks. The acid rains had a way of making our natives restless, wearing them down along with the eroding buildings and curbs along every street. But this guy had spirit. He had hope.

      I leaned back in my faux-leather desk chair until it squeaked. The streetlight outside pierced the slats of my venetian blinds, painting the earnest couple in horizontal streaks of amber that gleamed from the string of pearls around the woman's throat.

      No contact from her abductors? Only the real deal shone like that; these pearls were genuine, and they hadn't come cheap. No ransom demands?

      The man scowled. Nothing.

      His crew cut brought to mind an unwelcome flash of memory I'd be willing to trade my left kidney to lose: the front lines of old Mother Russia where my gunner squad had unexpectedly come upon a platoon of Eastern Conglomerate mandroids, two of my foot soldiers instantly decapitated by the sweep of a massive bayonet, their heads—both sporting the same close-cropped haircut—landing at my feet. In some of my worst nightmares, they roll to stare up at me and gasp, Why, Sarge? I still wonder what it was all for. The current cold war's nothing more than a stalemate between the EC and United World, each side expecting its own people to pay the damages for all those fruitless years of carnage.

      I cleared my throat. It's one thing to be a haunted man; it's something else if you allow it to interfere with your work.

      And you haven't gone to the police. Just one of my perfunctory queries.

      We— The woman glanced at her husband. "We were afraid they might do something to her." She hadn't left the verge of tears.

      Can you remember anything about the thugs who took her?

      The man blew out a sigh. It all happened so fast. One second, she was right there beside us, and the next thing we knew, that delivery truck pulled up to the curb and—

      Snatched her away. I nodded. It was all too common in the city these days. Ransoms paid the rent, after all. You wouldn't happen to have a photo.

      The woman blinked at me. Of course. She started fishing through her purse, a big one made from genuine leather—not that synthetic crap. The lack of light didn't help in the search, but I wasn't about to flip the switch. I had to keep the electric bills as low as I could.

      I'll start nosing around. I stood and fixed the couple with a direct look. If they'd been able to afford those pearls and that purse, my retainer and rates would be chump change. Two hundred up front and a hundred a day from here on out, plus expenses.

      He reached into his fine pressed suit. You come highly recommended, Mr. Madison.

      I smirked. Even the best man on the job can only go as far as his contacts will allow. I had a few who knew better than to hang me out to dry. They owed me.

      You haven't given me a whole lot to go on. I took the bills he counted into my hand—just the two hundred to start. The man was old-school, preferring to pay me with paper. I didn't mind. Credit was credit.

      Perhaps this will help. The woman handed me a black-and-white photo of a small Asian girl grinning up into the camera. It was retro-chic in some circles to avoid lifelike color. I was never one for fads.

      Maybe. I gave them each a cursory once-over. Happily married couple, by the looks of them—cozy with each other. Nice to have someone by your side through thick and thin, the good times worth the bad. Love and me, we'd never hit it off. But I doubt she's related to you.

      For the first time since their arrival, the jarhead looked uncomfortable in his own skin. Glancing at his wife, he cleared his throat.

      My second tour against the EC, I-uh...suffered a lapse in judgment, I'm afraid. The girl's mother, she...died in a Nagasaki firestorm. When my unit—when we pulled out... His own flashes of memory seemed to fluster him.

      He couldn't very well leave her there, Mr. Madison. So he brought her back with him, stateside. She was only two years old at the time, but I welcomed her into our home with open arms. She demonstrated the gesture with tears shining in her eyes. She may not be my blood, but she's my daughter, and I want her back!

      I had more than enough reason to turn down this case; nothing about it seemed totally on the level. But I had their money in my pocket, and boy did I need it. Rent was due on this office in a big way—two months past. My reputation was solid enough, but Ivan the Terrible had tightened his grip as of late, and folks were afraid to cross the Russian crime boss by seeking my kind of help. Going to the cops had been out of the question for years; too many of them had their own idea of law and order, and justice seldom entered the equation. But now even private investigators were experiencing the backlash: folks were willing to live with the status quo, such that it was.

      But not these two. They'd lost a daughter, and by all appearances, they were willing to risk Ivan's wrath to get her back. Even though most Anglo women, from my experience, would show an Asian girl in their household no more love than they would a scullery maid. Ignorance ran deep in some folks, and it didn't matter to them that the Japanese had been on our side during the war.

      You'll hear from me. I extended my arm toward the frosted glass of the office door where slats of light shone across the backwards lettering: CHARLIE MADISON, DETECTIVE.

      Thank you, Mr. Madison. The jarhead nodded, rising. If anyone can find her—

      No promises. I had to make that clear up front. But I'll do what I can.

      Mrs. Jarhead bobbed like a pigeon, those pearls of hers shining like stars puncturing the dead of night. We'll pray that you find her soon. We need her back!

      She left as weepy as she'd arrived, and as my office door swung shut behind them, the rain slashed at my window and bubbled with its own share of grief. I fingered the photograph, turning it over to read the black lettering in all caps: MAO.

      2

      My first stop would be Mr. Newspaper, after locking up my empty office. I'd finally had to let Wanda—my secretary—go the week prior due to begrudging budgetary cuts, and the place seemed so dead now without her. It wasn't just her contagious laugh or feverish pounding on that antique Underwood, or those shapely legs that wouldn't quit. What I missed was the life she brought into this place. Without her, it was just a drab, overpriced office space for me and my internal monologue.

      Mr. and Mrs. Jarhead would have to be my sole benefactors as long as I could string them along. Not that I didn't plan on finding their kid. I've always had a thing against child abusers—I'd sooner shoot one between the eyes than ask him for a light. But the problem was how long the Jarheads had waited before coming to see me. I knew I'd do my damnedest to find little Mao; but I had a pretty strong hunch there wouldn't be much left of her when I did. Those were the odds when kids got snatched off the streets. If the Jarheads were lucky, I might find their little girl still in one piece, but she'd be cold and grey as the moon.

      Shoe soles applauding my herculean efforts, I descended the eight flights of indoor stairs and threw my weight against the crash bar on the exterior door, meeting a blast of cold, wet air and the sounds of my city at rest—traffic, radios, horns and insults blaring anytime one driver moved a little too slowly for the guy at his six. There was plenty of two-legged traffic too, despite the bad weather, with dames strutting their stuff and playing coy under their escorts' umbrellas. I couldn't help wondering how many of these darlings were getting paid for their coquettish efforts. It was getting so I had a hard time telling the working girls from the ones next door; they all seemed to dress the same—not that I minded it any. I wasn't one to judge. In this economy, you took whatever work you could get. Too many years fighting a war against an enemy more technologically advanced had left the United World in sorry economic shape. We needed time to recover, lick our wounds. Make a few advancements of our own. And hope the damned EC would leave us alone while they did the same.

      Charlie, how's it hanging? Mr. Newspaper shouted his customary greeting with a gap-toothed grin.

      Low and lazy. Until now. I gave him a wink.

      He guffawed, puffing on his signature pipe and reclining on a tied stack of newspapers. From the looks of the bundles, they'd just been dropped off, but he was in no hurry to get them sorted and ready for his thirteen-year-old minions. For one thing, they were nowhere in sight; and for another, his stand already had plenty of other reading material to choose from. And it was doing a bang-up job shielding him from the storm.

      How are things in the world? I tipped my hat back from my brow and stuffed both hands into the pockets of my trench coat, glad I'd remembered to wear it—the sort of thing Wanda always used to nag me about. I was doing all right without her, but that didn't mean I had to like it. With a steady income from Mr. and Mrs. Jarhead, hiring her back on was a real possibility—after the rent was all paid up.

      Nothing but wars and rumors of wars, Charlie, said the old man. And plenty of shiny photos to take our minds off it all. He gestured at one of the magazine racks where Russian mafia and yakuza royalty vied for space. One prominent couple too beautiful for their own good was calling it quits, according to the boldface type and redundant exclamation points.

      No news then.

      You got that right.

      I tipped the brim of my hat forward so he'd know it was time for business. How about kids?

      How do you mean? His grin remained half-intact as he held the smoldering pipe.

      Kidnapping. I nudged the stack of papers beneath him with my shoe. Stuff that never shows up in there.

      Well, I don't know. He shifted on the pile and avoided eye contact. News is news. And most of it's bad these days. There ain't no law in this city anymore, none than counts anyways. The United World's too busy with international matters to be concerned with the municipal variety. Bad things tend to happen. Law of entropy or something, that's all this town knows.

      A little girl. Taken three nights ago, snatched off the sidewalk from her folks.

      Mr. Newspaper held up a gnarled hand to stop me there. Can't help you, Charlie. You know how things are.

      I nodded. Ivan.

      He blew out a sigh. He'd shut me down if he knew I was helping you out. He's got eyes and ears all over town.

      So do you. Why do you think I hit you up first whenever I'm working a case?

      You haven't had many of those lately.

      No, I hadn't—thanks to Ivan. He had this town squeezed tight in his big Russian fist, and he didn't want anybody squealing for help. He'd made me the last of a dying breed, due to a strictly enforced lack of demand.

      Can't you point me in the right direction? C'mon, for old time's sakes.

      It's as close as I'd ever come to begging. Besides, he owed me. I might have saved his frozen ass once in the war, back when we were stationed in St. Petersburg during the dead of winter. He was my commanding officer in those days, a time we'd both worked hard to put far behind us. Unlike Mr. Jarhead, we'd grown out our crew cuts as fast as we could once we returned stateside, and we never reminisced about the glory days. In my experience, war is hell. When you're drafted to fight, you do your job and you do it good. But the only reliving you do is in the middle of the night, when all the blood and the ear-splitting explosions won't let you sleep. That's more than enough, trust me.

      Mr. Newspaper sighed, the creases in his face sagging like dead weight. Why do you stick around, Charlie? Can't you see this city's a goner? It's got no soul to save, and the kicker is, it has no clue it's already dead!

      The man sure had a way with words. Guess I've always had a thing for the underdog.

      Yeah, you're a real champion of lost causes. His watery eyes met mine. You should get out while the gettin's good, Charlie. You don't want to end your life here.

      Is that a warning? This town was ugly, sure, but I wasn't ready to give up on her. Not as long as I had friends here—as well as folks who needed somebody like me to fill the gap left by those cops on Ivan's payroll.

      Take it or leave it. He popped his pipe between his teeth and grinned again as a couple strolled by arm in arm. You know, I don't hear too good these days. He dug a sausage-sized finger into his bristled ear to prove the point. "What do they call it? Cauliflower or something?"

      That was enough for me. I grabbed a copy of a shiny gossip rag and handed him twice the cover price. Try to stay dry out here. I stuffed the magazine under my coat and forged out into the rain.

      You too, Charlie, Mr. Newspaper called after me. But it just might be a lost cause!

      3

      The old man had given me the lead I needed, and so I found myself standing in a partially dry doorway on one side of an alley, shivering as I kept an eye on an unmarked, dimly lit door across the way. That dump was both the residence and business office of one Cauliflower Carl—a heavyweight champ once upon a time, but after a few too many KO's and not enough in the way of endorsements, he'd turned to an honest living as a bookie. Word was he'd also been dabbling in girls on the side as a way to make ends meet. Times were tough; nobody had to tell me that. But a guy like Carl who capitalized on human weakness? The lowest of the low, in my book.

      The sultry sound of clopping high-heels entered the alley from the street. A shadowy form came to the unmarked door, and the dingy lamp glowed down on a drenched dame with a bedraggled stole across her shoulders. Even from twenty meters, I could see she was shivering worse than me.

      She reached up a ghostly hand to knock twice, pause, then rap three more times. A few seconds passed in silence, broken only by the rain flooding the gutters and splattering across the pavement. She doubled over with a thick cough. Then two bolts slid back, and a flicker of blue television light came into view before Carl's frame blocked the doorway. He cursed at the sight of her and shook his head in obvious disapproval.

      I strained to hear, but the storm picked up at that moment. Yeah, real considerate. I could tell by the body language what their animated discussion was all about. It hadn't been a good night, and the girl had come to explain things, maybe dry off a bit, grab a bite or a fix.

      Nothing doing. Carl pointed at the street and told her to get back to work. He wasn't running no charity—that's what he bellowed before slamming the door in her face.

      The girl stood there looking as though she'd never move from that spot, trembling like a dead leaf about to drop. Then with her shoulders slumped, she trudged back to the street, those high heels working their magic around puddles in potholes so deep you couldn't see bottom.

      I stepped out from my poor excuse for shelter and cleared my throat. The girl half-turned to look back at me. Then she stopped—not something most women would do in a dark alley when a strange man makes a surprise appearance.

      You scared me, mister, she said all breathless and coy, sauntering over. But she didn't look scared. She looked like a drowning mime with that black eye paint streaking her cheeks. Y-you lonely? she stammered, shivering.

      I showed her the magazine cover, and her eyes lit up like a kid's on Christmas. What do you give the girl who has nothing? Pictures of girls who have everything.

      You want this? I hoped it would do the trick.

      Instead of cash, you mean? Her expression darkened at the prospect.

      In exchange for some information. I nodded toward Carl's door. Is he alone?

      What?

      I tucked the rag back into my coat and turned away.

      No, wait. She had her frail hand on my arm—a girl's hand. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, young enough to still have hope for a better life. I answer your questions, you'll give me that magazine?

      I nodded.

      All right. She sniffed. Yeah, he's by himself. Won't spare a bite, hogs it all to himself.

      Any new girls?

      What?

      New recruits. Little ones?

      She looked like she'd tasted something foul and stepped back from me. You into that?

      The magazine made a reappearance. Hey, I'm just asking.

      She blinked in the rain. I don't know. It's not like he lets us all hang out together or anything. But if you're looking for little girls, Carl's not your guy.

      Then who is?

      Hell if I know. You ask a lot of questions, you know that? My time's money.

      I handed over the magazine. Beat it. I didn't want her around for what came next.

      She didn't have to be told twice. Cursing me like a sailor, she staggered back to the street. I waited until she was out of sight before I came alongside the door and knocked twice, paused, then rapped three more times, reaching for my shoulder holster and snub-nosed revolver. I put it to good use as soon as the bolts slid back and the door swung open.

      Cauliflower Carl let out a disrespectful oath as the butt end of my gun cracked him between the eyes, and he staggered back flailing, arms out to the sides and crossed-eyed—kind of how he'd always looked right after a KO, just before he ate the mat.

      Stay on your feet. I kept the gun muzzle level with his gut as I shut and locked the door behind me. He released another belligerent oath. And quit using the Lord's name in vain. He doesn't like it, and neither do I.

      He slumped into a well-worn armchair facing the ancient cabinet TV and turned toward me with his good ear. The other one was a swollen, shriveled mess. You'd think he'd wear something to cover it, but he shaved himself bald, skin white as a maggot's, and he never wore hats. Dark-eyed and broad-jawed, he had the look of a Scandinavian Neanderthal about him, the world's first documented missing link. Screw you, Madison!

      No thanks. I glanced at the TV screen where two men sporting genetically enhanced muscles duked it out with 'roid-fueled vengeance. Who's carrying your stake tonight?

      He smirked up at me, and it was the ugliest thing I'd seen all day. His own mother must have near had a heart attack when the infant-sized version of that mug had popped out between her thighs.

      What the hell do you want? He dabbed at his forehead gingerly. There'd be a goose egg come morning, maybe sooner. Already I could see the swelling, and it would be getting a helluva lot worse without ice.

      Met your girl out there. She's a real peach.

      Carl grumbled something unintelligible.

      How's that? I don't hear so good, I mimicked his cauliflower catchphrase.

      He lapsed into a string of curses, ending with, You've got no right coming in here like this, throwing your weight around. Ivan hears about this, he'll—

      So you're working for him now?

      I work for nobody but myself. Nobody! You hear me?

      I'm sure there are worse nobodies to work for, I muttered.

      How's that?

      You're a real self-made man, I spoke up so he could hear.

      Yeah! He glanced at the fight, broadcasting live from Ivan's massive casino: The Coliseum.

      Nobody bosses you around, I added.

      Damned straight.

      You want to pimp out little girls on the side, earn a little extra moolah, then you do it. Make them stand out in the pouring rain—

      I don't know what you're talking about. He glared at the TV.

      And if they die from pneumonia, you go and snatch a pretty little one from her parents, fresh meat, ripe for the picking. A mixed metaphor, but regardless, I flicked the photo of young Mao at him and he grappled with it, flustered by the unexpected assault. Despite the punchy reflexes, his reaction time was fast enough when his eyes managed to focus on the picture.

      It's a damn kid!

      What do you call that girl outside?

      A nuisance, he spat. Listen Madison, I don't know what you're getting at here, but I run a legitimate business. You don't like it, you can take it up with Ivan.

      Maybe I will. If I could get to the bastard. His security was tighter than the Prime Minister's.

      You can bet your ass I'll be telling him about this. His eyes twitched toward my gun. Busting in here, playing cowboy. You're on thin ice. You hear me?

      I'm not the one missing an ear.

      Thin ice! he roared, rising to his feet.

      Stay put, Carl. I'm not through with you.

      "Yeah? Well I'm through with you. He took a step forward, flinging Mao's photo back at me. You come in here making accusations, insulting my dignity. You get the hell out!"

      I held up the photo, one last-ditch attempt. You're telling me this isn't one of your girls.

      You're a sick man, Madison, even to suggest it. More curses from the former heavyweight.

      My mistake. I slipped the photo into my breast pocket. Keeping my gun trained on him, I unlocked the door and prepared to enter the onslaught outside. I could hear the downpour intensify as if in anticipation, eager to soak me to the bone—after eating through my coat. A few more weeks of this lousy weather, and I'd need another one. Synthetic leather never lasted long under the acid, even with that pricey polymer sealant available now. You said you'd speak to Ivan.

      Carl clenched and released his fists with every breath. He was doing well at containing himself for an old punching bag.

      Start saying your goodbyes to this town, Madison. The last thing we need is some Lone Ranger playing hero.

      I've got a living to make, same as you. I had the door open, but I paused. A chilled gust of wind flapped the coat around my knees. Feel free to tell him about this kid. I tapped the photo, located over my heart now. I'm just trying to get her back to her folks. That's all.

      Carl didn't say anything, and he didn't advance on the door as I shut it, holstering my revolver and flipping up my collar against the cold. Blowing out a short sigh at this dead end, I stepped through sheets of rain and forged ahead. That's when a clatter arose from the door, and I turned back, reaching for my gun reflexively. The bruiser leaned outside, squinting at me. The egg I'd given him looked more pronounced in the lamplight.

      Madison, you'll never find that girl. Don't waste your time, he shouted.

      Ironic advice, considering the time I'd already wasted here. Give me something, Carl. You said it yourself: she's just a kid.

      She's more than that. He blinked at me, weighing his words in that thick, Cro-Magnon skull. Then he blurted, She's a golden goose!

      As much as I wanted him to clarify whatever the hell that meant, he'd already slammed the door and bolted it up tight. I'd worn out my welcome.

      4

      Unfortunately, Cauliflower Carl wasn't the only schmuck in town working out of his living quarters, and vice versa. For yours truly, my office was also home sweet home and had been ever since the rent on both had become too much to bear. When I'd had to let Wanda go, the angel was kind enough to offer me the couch at her place.

      You gotta sleep somewhere, Charlie, she'd said, smacking that signature wad of gum as she packed up her office—a potted lily, a framed photo of her mother from before she'd passed, a book of poetry by Dickinson. "Whatcha gonna do, spend the nights here?"

      Wanda the Prophetess.

      I'll be okay, she'd continued. I got the apartment Ma left me. Rent controlled. Don't you go worrying about me any.

      We'd talked by phone a couple times since. She had a desk job in the mayor's office now, located stage left in Ivan the Terrible's political puppet show. You know what they say about crime thriving when good men do nothing? The same's true when there are no good men left around, period. The United World had taken most of them, ground them up in a war machine and spit out the bones, all in the name of protecting democracy. Well, this was what democracy looked like when the government couldn't afford anything besides maintaining its war efforts: all manner of scum rose to the surface in the cities to fill the void.

      How's the pay? I'd asked her. I had to know.

      I can eat. You might want to apply yourself.

      Maybe I would—if I could ever stomach the thought of not being my own boss. And the prospect of playing a part in Ivan's machine, no matter how loosely affiliated, made me sick. There were very few actual civil servants in local politics anymore; most were just monkeys on the Russian mobster's payroll. I didn't like the idea of Wanda working there, and the sooner I could hire her back on full-time, the better. But she was her own woman. I'd never been the boss of her except in title only.

      I slipped the key into my office door and shook the rain from my coat. But it didn't take more than a split-second to tell that the place wasn't locked the way I'd left it.

      I went for my holster just a fraction of a second too late. The door had already whipped open, tugged from the inside, and I stood face to chest with a goon crammed into the biggest suit I'd ever seen. He smirked down at me, my hand frozen inside my coat like a kid's in the cookie jar.

      Charlie Madison? he rumbled, a jolly enough giant, but there was nothing friendly about the eyes under his black fedora. You Charlie Madison?

      I don't think so, I said.

      He frowned. Huh? Knuckles on fists the size of Easter hams crackled at his sides.

      "According to that name on the door, you must be Charlie Madison, I said, slipping my fingers around the grip of my revolver. Isn't this your office?"

      No.

      Then what are you doing here?

      I pulled out my gun and squeezed the trigger, but the shot went wild, exploding in the narrow hallway with a round that punctured my doorframe, splintering the molding. The goon's physical reflexes were ten times faster than the cold molasses between his ears, and when one ham-hand had knocked my shooting arm aside, his other came up under my chin and tightened, lifting me off the floor.

      "This is your office," he rumbled.

      We have a winner, I wheezed, face flooding with hot blood. "Ivan

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