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Pop Goes the World


"Will you quit hogging the arm rest?" Ford snapped, shoving Simonyi's elbow out of the way.

"What?" Frank asked. "Just because you drive you get to hog the arm rest?"

"Who's idea was it to get here two hours early anyway?"

"Yours," Frank replied. "As I recall, you read the note and barreled out the door."

"Ah," Ford said. "That's because I'm used to getting important messages five minutes before I…"

"Ssh," Simonyi hissed. "There's a car."

"Think that's them?" Ford asked.

"Who knows?"

"Wait a minute," Ford said, leaning forward until he was hunched over the steering wheel. "I know that car. That's Brubakker."

"Will wonders never cease," Frank replied, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"He's getting something out of the trunk. Is that a body?"

"Looks like it to me."

"In a plastic bag? How cliché is that?"

"Really. He could have at least used a duffle bag."

"Hit the lights, Fish."

The highbeams lit Brubakker, the car, and most of the surrounding scenery, but the lawyer didn't flinch. Instead, he slowly raised his hands, and turned around, smiling.

"Detective," he said, smiling in the bright lights. "I should have known someone of your skills would find me. It's almost as if someone tipped you off."

"Cut the crap," Ford said, walking over to him. "What's in the bag?"

"Shit," said Simonyi, kneeling next to the large, black trash bag on the ground. "It is a body, Chris."

"Oh dear," Brubakker smiled. "I guess you'll have to arrest me now, won't you?"

"I don't get it, Fish," Ford said, leaning on the one-way mirror. Inside the room Brubakker sat smiling. His hands, still cuffed, were knotted on top of the table. He hadn't said a word since they brought him in, and they'd left him in the interrogation room, by himself, for almost an hour while they tried to figure out what to do with him.

"Detective," an officer said, approaching Ford. "Forensics sent this up. It's the preliminary autopsy on the body."

"Hmm," Ford hummed, flipping through the pages. After a minute or two, he walked out of the observation nook and entered the interrogation room. Brubakker continued to smile as Ford took the seat opposite him. Simonyi came in and stood at the head of the table, facing both Ford and Brubakker.

"I was just telling Fish here that I don't get it," Ford said, without looking at him. "Fish," he continued. "Wasn't I just telling you I don't get it?"

"He did say that," Simonyi acknowledged. "He's says that a lot."

"You were the one who left me the message, right?"

"That's right," Brubakker said.

"Why would you set yourself up to be found," Ford said, turning the folder around and sliding it toward Brubakker, "with a dead escort from San Jose?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Brubakker said.

"No." Ford scratched his chin and looked up at him. "You had a stiff prostitute, her throat was ripped open. Forensics says she bled to death, that her skin was white as a sheet. Why let me know where you're going to be so I can catch you?"

"Exactly."

"Right," Ford said. "I know you wanted me to catch you. But why?"

"Because, Detective," Brubakker said, the smile sliding from his face. "He's going to kill me. Then he's going to kill you. This was the only way I could talk to you without giving him the opportunity to do both at the same time."

"You mean Commissioner Creepy, I presume."

"Zvolen. Yes." Brubakker slid back into his chair and folded his cuffed hands over his chest. "What did I tell you that day you came to our office?"

"You said that this was bigger than I could imagine."

"That's right. And have you figured out why yet?"

"No," Ford admitted. "I've found more questions than answers. Like, for instance, why are you, to all appearances, not a day older than you were in 1946?"

"I should think that, for someone of your interests, the answer would be obvious."

"Witchcraft?"

"No."

"You're a ghost?"

"No."

"You're a clone made from Area 51 technology?"

"No!" Brubakker screamed, pounding his hands on the table and sitting up. "Dammit Ford! Do I have to spell it out? How many creatures live hundreds of years and rip people's throats out to drink their blood?"

"Strom Thurman's the only one I can think of," Ford said, laughing at his own joke. When he saw that neither Brubakker nor Simonyi appreciated the humor, he continued. "Ok, you're saying you're a vampire?"

"No," Brubakker said. "Not me. I'm some sort of 'minion,' although I'm not exactly clear on the terminology. I only know that I'm... 'enthralled,' for lack of a better word."

"So Zvolen is a vampire."

"Yes."

"And you're his servant?"

"Yes."

"And where does that leave the little boy we found in the warehouse?"

"Joseph Zvolen."

"That's original Joseph Zvolen?" Ford asked.

"Right," Brubakker agreed. "I've only known the Commissioner since the 20's, but apparently he plays this bit where he assumes an identity every so often to avoid suspicion."

"So I was right," Ford said. "That birthmark was a dead giveaway."

"Yes, good call on your part, Detective," Brubakker said, in the tone of voice people usually reserve for critiques of kindergarten art projects.

"And that's why he's going to kill you," Ford continued. "You were supposed to dispose of the body."

"That's correct."

"And now he's going to kill me because I dicked around with his cozy little setup."

"Right," Brubakker nodded. "Now you're getting it."

"Chris," Simonyi interjected. "I know you're crazier than a bugshit loon, but where does this leave the case?"

"What do you mean?" Ford asked.

"What I mean is that we can't exactly admit testimony from a middle-aged guy who claims to be eighty years old and who says his law partner is a vampire."

"You're right," Ford nodded. "We'll just have to wait for him to screw up. Mr. Brubakker,"

"Please," Brubakker interrupted. "Call me Rich."

"Right then," Ford said. "Rich, I'd like to keep you in a holding cell for tonight. We'll figure out what to do with you tomorrow."

"Very well," Brubakker sighed. "But I doubt I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

"That's it," Ford smiled. "Keep a positive outlook."

He wasn't sure what he was whistling, a catchy little tune that kept echoing through his head. It was just a small part of a song, but Ford kept whistling it over and over as he stepped off the elevator, hoping to figure out a title.

"Damn," He said to himself, shifting the bag of groceries to his left hand so he could dig out his keys. "I should just sing the 'Flintstones' theme and be done with it."

"Oh, Chris!" came a small voice from down the hall.

"Hey Mrs. Preston," Ford said, smiling to his elderly neighbor.

"There was a man knocking on your door earlier."

"Thanks Mrs. Preston," he replied, "Did he leave a message or anything?"

"I didn't talk to him," the woman said. "Oh Chris?"

"Yes Mrs. Preston?"

"Can you change a lightbulb for me? The one in my hall went out."

"Sure thing, Mrs. Preston. I'll be over in a few minutes."

He turned the key and opened the door to his darkened apartment. Inside, he dropped the bag of groceries on the couch and made his way toward the glasstop table under the mirror.

"Fritter!" he called, thumbing on the small lamp. "C'mere girl. Daddy's home. C'mon baby, I got some haggis, your favorite."

The message light on his answering machine was blinking, so he tapped the play button.

"Fritter!" he called, louder this time. "Come here, girl. You're not mad at me, are you? You never got offended when I made Scottish jokes before!"

"Look Chris," Lorna's voice said from the answering machine.

"I'm looking, I'm looking."

"I appreciate the flowers and everything, but this has to stop. Unless you've had some life-altering experience, I just don't think there's ever going to be a chance for us. Now please stop trying to win me back."

"I'm not trying," Ford said, making his way toward the kitchen. "I'm succeeding."

"You're not succeeding," Lorna continued. "Now please, stop."

He shut the refrigerator as the machine beeped and pulled a bottle-opener magnet off the door.

"Chris," Began the next message.

"Hi mom," Ford said as he opened his beer and walked back into the living room.

"It's your mother," The message continued. "I hope you remembered that your sister Patty's flying in from Philadelphia next weekend."

"I remembered," Ford said, picking up the remote and turning on the television. As the room lit up, he was startled by Zvolen, who was sitting in the easy chair in the opposite corner. The beer slipped from his hand and fell to the carpet.

"I know you two don't get along," his mother's message continued. "But unless you're dead or something, you better at least drop by long enough to say 'hello.'"

"Isn't it funny," Zvolen said, standing up, "how mothers have a sixth sense about these things?"

"Yeah," Ford said, backing away. "Funny."

"Now, Detective," Zvolen said. "Don't do anything stupid like run for your gun. It won't do you any good anyway."

"Right," Ford said. He was startled again when he bumped into the table below the mirror, tipping the lamp over and knocking the phone off the hook.

"Brubakker told me," he continued, as he righted the lamp and hung the phone up. He glanced up into the mirror and was surprised to see Zvolen reflected in it. Zvolen laughed behind him.

"I'd wondered where he'd gotten to. I take it he told you everything?"

"He told me you're not Joseph Zvolen."

"That's right," Zvolen agreed. "I killed the boy and took his identity."

"How come I can see you in the mirror?" Ford asked.

"Please," came the reply. "Don't believe everything you read, Detective."

Ford turned and ran for the door. As he grabbed the knob, Zvolen hit him from behind, slamming him against the door and knocking the breath out of him. With one hand, Zvolen picked him up and threw him into the dining room, where he crashed against the edge of the table and fell to the floor.

"I warned you, Mr. Ford," Zvolen growled, approaching him. "I told you not to get involved."

"I'll," Ford stammered, trying to catch his breath. "I'll scream."

"I don't think you can do that."

Zvolen kicked him in the stomach, then picked him up by the front of his shirt. Turning on his heels, he ran forward and slammed Ford against the curio cabinet. He smiled as he traced his fingernails down Ford's cheek, then dug them into the front of his throat.

"I'm going to enjoy killing you."

"Then do it," Ford hissed, as Zvolen tightened his grip on Ford's windpipe.

"I'm not sure how I want to do it," Zvolen whispered, moving nose-to-nose with Ford. "Should I strangle you? Or just tear you apart piece by piece?"

A knock at the door startled them both.

"Chris?" Jake called from the other side. "Chris are you in there?"

"Jake!" Ford squeaked, as Zvolen's other hand closed on his throat. There was no way Cisneros could have heard him.

"Chris, I got the registered letter you had rushed to me," Jake continued. "But this is about the Zvolen case. That's your case, not mine."

"Keep quiet," Zvolen said, as Ford started waving his arms frantically.

"Jake!" Ford hissed again. His head was throbbing, large purple and green spots filled his eyes and he felt himself passing out. He flailed around, trying to gain purchase on anything he could.

"Chris, are you home?"

Jake was going to leave, and Ford was going to die. His hand grabbed onto something cold and metallic. He tried to pull himself away from Zvolen, but the object was loose and came up in his hand. Desperately, he swung it at Zvolen, and hit. Zvolen screamed and dropped him to the floor.

"Chris!" Jake shouted. "What's going on? are you all right?"

Ford was lying on his stomach, dazed, when Zvolen jumped on him again. He wrapped his hands under Ford's chin and started pulling his head backward.

"I'm going to snap your neck!" Zvolen growled.

Ford realized he was still holding on to the metallic thing and moved his hand in front of his face. He was holding the silver Japanese sword he'd bought from the Queen. Jerking his hand upward, he stabbed at Zvolen, who once again screamed and hopped off of him. Something heavy slammed against the front door as Ford rolled over. Zvolen staggered backward, the sword stuck into his shoulder. Small, white wisps of smoke trailed up from the wound as Zvolen yanked the sword free.

A second blow to the door and the frame split. The door opened. Jake rushed into the room with his gun drawn. He looked down at Ford, then looked up at Zvolen. He raised his gun and fired as Zvolen turned and ran toward the window.

"Freeze!" Jake yelled. "You're under arrest!"

Ford heard the shattering of glass and Zvolen was gone. Jake ran toward the window and looked out, then holstered his gun.

"Chris!" Jake said, making his way over to Ford and kneeling next to him. "Chris, are you all right?"

"Men Without Hats," Ford gasped.

"What?" Jake said, tilting his ear closer.

"The song that was stuck in my head was 'Pop Goes The World' by Men Without Hats."

"He must've choked you long enough to cause brain damage," Jake said.

"It's funny what you think about when you're dying," Ford agreed. "Oh, and Jake?"

"What is it, Chris?" Jake asked.

"You're supposed to yell 'Freeze, You're under arrest' before you shoot."

"Sorry," Jake laughed. "That was the one question I got wrong at the Academy."

"Don't move!" shouted a voice from the doorway. Both Ford and Jake looked up to see Ford's neighbor, Mrs. Preston, pointing a .45 at Jake. Jake slowly raised his hands and stood up.

"I saw this scumbag breaking into your apartment and called the police," Mrs. Preston said.

"It's ok, Mrs. Preston," Ford said, pulling himself up on the side of the couch. "He's a friend of mine."

"Oh, sorry dear," the old woman said, pointing the gun at the floor. "You can never be too careful these days."

Ford nodded and stumbled toward the glasstop table.

"Oh good," he said, to nobody in particular. "It worked."

"What's that?" Jake said, standing next to him. Ford pushed a button on the answering machine.

"He told me you're not Joseph Zvolen," came Ford's recorded voice.

"That's right," the recorded Zvolen agreed. "I killed the boy and took his identity."

"I've got my evidence," Ford said, picking up the phone and dialing. "Cathy? This is Chris. I need you to call Judge Carleton. Yes, I know it's late, but I need an arrest warrant. Joseph Zvolen. Yes, that's right. Attempted murder, breaking and entering, assaulting an officer. Jake Cisneros will witness. Right, thanks Cathy. Oh, and Cathy? Can you call dispatch? I'm going to need at least two cars for backup."

He turned around to find Jake admiring the silver Japanese sword.

"I take it back," Jake said. "This was worth every penny you paid for it.

"Jake?"

"Yeah Chris?"

"Help me find my cat."


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Christopher Ford, Amateur Paranormalist, is a work of speculative fiction. No philosophies are implied or endorsed by this work. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, except public figures, is purely coincidental and no infringement is intended. All materials on the Christoper Ford page, including text, images, and site design are © 2000/2001 ~Steve-o and may not be reprinted without permission.

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