Collide

                                                                                                           

Rows and rows of white townhouses were like steps beneath the hanging quarter moon and dotted stars. Dorman Knott elbowed through people in suits, cashiers with name tags pinned to their shirts, and others in blue jeans, hard hats, and boots. He weaved his way around parents who clung to children’s hands with the odd child in a baseball cap. Why the child wore a baseball cap, he didn’t know. After all, there wasn’t any sun on the streets as the town clock banged eight beats. The children were most likely going to the School of Ebony Shells—or some other school that started at nine o’clock in the evening. The parents would then be off to work.

“Dorman! Old man, how are you this night?” John Neck clapped his back, and whether it was the smack or his voice, Dorman gulped in the air as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“Fine, fine.”

“It’s a beautiful night, don’t ya think?” John Neck’s muscles bulged under his tight leather jacket. His lips curled into a grin, and his yellow teeth stuck out. Neck’s breath had a hint of tobacco, coffee, and garlic. “Remember those days? Running after school to the arcade? And sometimes we would play paintball before sunrise? Good times, don’t ya think?”

 “Yes, good times.” Dorman sighed. “Well, mostly . . .” There was that one time when a car careened down the road—the white-haired woman with the cane never had a chance.

“It’s been good chatting with you, but I need to push off. Work and all that . . .”

Neck grabbed Dorman’s elbow and pulled him close. “Dorman, I need Rachel Sooter’s address. If you give it to me, you wouldn’t need to go to your shitty job. I might even be able to put in a request for a shift change?”

“I’ve never heard that name before in my life . . . and I like where I work, and when I work.”

Neck, let go of Dorman, and stuck his hands on his hips. His chest ballooned up. It reminded Dorman of the Zeppelin from history books.  

Firestarter. Highly explosive. Deadly.

“Listen . . .” Neck placed a hand on Dorman’s collarbone, and he sank under John’s hand. “I need her address.”

Dorman straightened. “And I’ve told you, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” Neck said as he slapped Dorman on the back. He walked backward down the checkered sidewalk. “If you can’t help me, you can’t help me.” Neck shrugged. “But if you’re lying to me, I’ll find out.”

John Neck was far enough away that Dorman could only make out the shine of his eyes and the outline of his build. “I’m not lying.”

John snapped his fingers. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about!”

***

Dorman stood over his desk and pressed the button on his phone. “Marcus, send in Rachel Sooter.”

“Yes, right away, Dr. Knott.”

The door opened, and Rachel stood in the doorway and dabbed a tissue to her nose. “Rachel, please, come in . . .” Dr. Knott walked across the room and ushered Rachel to the couch. Marcus closed his door.

“Dr. Knott . . . I can’t do this anymore. I’ve never been happy—and now with my report—” Dr. Knott slid into his chair and opened his book. “The head of the Committee said I should never have been put in charge of the research because I was biased . . .”

“Do you believe that?”

“A little.” Her voice quivered.

“But the Twilight Economic Development Committee funded your research.” Dr. Knott flipped back a couple of pages in his book. “You told me that your findings’ showed depression was higher with the cohort that worked at night and with the children who attended school in the evening and early morning hours . . .” he turned a couple of pages forward, “and costs of policing had tripled with more accidents, robberies, and petty thefts . . . and an outreach report showed homelessness on the rise.” Dr. Knott reclined in his chair. “I know those weren’t the results the Committee wanted. But the data was pulled from other sources. So, tell me, how your work is biased?”

“Because of me . . . I must have somehow skewed the results.”

“You told me the junior researchers conducted the interviews when required. The other data, you stated, was gathered from pre-existing hospital, police, and outreach worker reports.”

“The head of the Committee said I had acknowledged at the start of the report that I struggled with living and working at night. So, right there—it proves the report is flawed.”

Dr. Knott shifted in his chair. “Yes, but you’re supposed to reveal any pre-existing biases when you write a report. We all have them.”

“I know. But Rutherford Little said our numbers were too small, and I deliberately hunted for data that showed the day/night split economy was too costly to maintain. He said I dismissed any evidence that showed the model was profitable for the city.”

Dr. Knott clicked his pen. “Again, you told me much of the data was gathered from hospital and police reports. Also, you said junior researchers gathered data from businesses, and the information was submitted anonymously—from my perspective, you did everything you could to ensure the integrity of the data.”

“Yes, but . . .” Dr. Knott stared at Rachel, his pen poised to add to his notebook. Rachel cleared her throat. “They won’t release it to the public.”

“They spent several million dollars on it. The public will demand something for money spent at taxpayers’ expense.”

“They said they’ll claim the report was never finished.”

“Is the report finished?”

“Yes! One hundred percent! Sorry, but I hate being accused of not completing a project.”

“Let’s say the report is flawed . . .” Rachel’s eyes widened. Dr. Knott lifted his hand and shook his head, “I’m not saying it is. But I think the report needs to be released and the findings shared with the public. Let the people decide. And that way, more studies can be done, if needed.”

“There’s been a reporter who contacted me about it—they wanted to know the status. I didn’t tell them anything.”

“Rutherford Little—who is he?”

“He’s the head of the Committee.”

“So, maybe let a few other members of the Committee know the report is done.”

“Shouldn’t I give the report to Rutherford Little to distribute?”

“He didn’t pay for it out of his own pocket. Taxpayers did.”

Rachel nodded. “Dr. Knott?” She glanced up. “I never asked you, but between the two of us, what do you think of the split economy?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is you and your well-being. And you don’t strike me as someone who would set out to fabricate report findings—under any circumstances.”

“No, of course not. I stated my biases in the opening remarks. Then, I outlined the testing methods used to compensate for biases—both my own and those of my team. I brought in researchers who struggle with the evening shift. And those who enjoy the late and early morning hours. Both types of researchers reviewed the data. I tried to be transparent.”

Dr. Knott sat in his chair—still.

“Is there something the matter?”

“No, of course not.” He checked his watch. “It looks like our time’s up.” He sighed. “So, I’ll see you next week?”

Rachel stood up and clasped her purse and coat. “Dr. Knott, are you okay? You look a little pale?”

Dr. Knott glanced at his leather couch, his lamps with the yellow light that glowed in the room. Books were stacked on shelves, lightly coated with dust. “Rachel, how many people do you have on your team?”

“About twenty? Why?”

“I had a man approach me tonight. He knew your name and wanted your address. He threatened me . . .”

Rachel covered her mouth. “Am I at risk?”

“I don’t know—I hope not. He didn’t get your name or any information from me. But tonight, when you mentioned Rutherford Little saw the report and how he’s trying to bury it—I had thought the whole Committee saw it—well, it occurred to me the man I’ve spoken with, and Little may be connected.” Dr. Knott tapped his pen on his notebook. “Given that you’ve been working with the same team over the last few years, it seems unlikely any of them are responsible for sending the man my way.”  

“How do you know the man you saw tonight?”

“A friend from school. I’ve said a quick ‘Hello’ when I’ve seen him around over the years. But that’s been about it. Until tonight . . .” Dorman ran his fingers through his thin hair. “I suggest you send it to the other Committee members as soon as possible. I wan to notify the police, if it’s okay? I would need to give them your information.”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Rachel’s lower lip trembled. “I’ve placed you in danger.”

Dr. Knott stood and clutched his notebook to his chest. “Our conversations are not the most dangerous ones I’ve had.” He walked over and rested his hand on the doorknob. “And it’s ridiculous. They’re going after you when someone else could have pulled the same numbers. And for what? Is it easier to recruit criminals with more people out at night? Does Rutherford Little have stock in light bulbs?” Rachel smiled. “I’ll call the police and ensure they have the details of the man who made the threats. You need to distribute your findings to the other committee members tonight. Once it’s out there, there’s not much anyone can do about it.”

“I’ll send it tonight. And also, to the Reporter . . .”

“Good. And please, make sure you’re not alone after work.”

***

The sun broke at the horizon as Dorman closed his office door, turned the key, and locked it. He glanced at Marcus’ empty desk and the dimly lit pot lights that cast light on the empty chairs in the waiting room. Dr. Knott craned his neck and caught some shadow on a wall. “Hello?” He shook his head and rubbed his face. “My mind’s playing tricks on me.”

He opened the door to the stairs, stepped down one step, and then another. When he rounded the corner, he looked at the number on the door—only six flights to go, and he would cross the road to the parking lot, and he’d be in his car, and then it was a short drive home. 

He clutched his briefcase in one hand as his coat hugged his knees with each step. There were five flights to go. Dorman quickened his pace, his heart thudded, and his breath became laboured. He was almost there. One more flight and he—

“Hello, Dorman,” John Neck said. He leaned against the door with the red exit sign above. “I told you not to lie to me, didn’t I?”

Dorman wiped the sweat that trickled down his brow. “What are you talking about?” he said, annoyed.

“Rachel Sooter—I had a couple of my guys follow her to your office. But then we never saw her leave . . . we lost her.”

Dorman doesn’t know how Marcus did it. The man’s a bit of an enigma and rarely talks about his military experience. Clearly, though, after he told Marcus to make sure Rachel left the building without being seen, he’d done it.

Dorman sighed. “You can’t stop the report from being released. You know that. It was a publicly funded report.”

John’s lips curled into a sneer. “I don’t understand it. When we were kids, we loved going to school at night and running free after class. Why the hell would you want the report to be released? The night economy is good for your business, isn’t it?”

“Business isn’t bad. But it’s not just about me. It’s about how the city is doing overall . . .”

“You’re going to make me do something I don’t want to do.”

“Do what you must.”

Neck poked Dorman in the chest. “You’re an idiot!” He spun around and shoved Dorman. He swayed. John stretched out his hands. “Why?”

Dorman laughed, quietly. “The data is out there. It’s everywhere. We know this experiment hasn’t worked. We’ve known it for years. Anyone paying attention and reading the papers knows it’s failed.”

Dorman saw the calloused, thick hand form a fist, and then it came down hard across his jaw and knocked him to the ground. Somehow, he still clutched his briefcase. So, when the Zeppelin’s foot was up and aimed at his head, he lifted his case, swung it hard, and Neck fell backward against the wall and slumped to the floor.  

Neck wiped the trickle of blood that dripped along the side of his ear. “You fucker!” he roared.

“Huh?” Dorman lifted the brown case and stared at it. John grunted. “Shit!” Dorman hissed. He scrambled to his feet, swung the door open, and raced into the hallway. Dorman’s heart pounded as bullets punched through walls, ricocheted off the copier, and a glass window shattered. Then, silence was everywhere except for the clicking of bullets that Neck reloaded into his gun. Dorman tried to move his feet, but for some reason, they wouldn’t budge. It was as if he’d fallen into quicksand, and he was anchored to this bullet-holed, riddled brown building. The gun was raised again at him. “Fight or flight,” he whispered and shook his head. He threw the door open as a bang rang out, and a bullet punctured the door.

Dorman, on the street now, saw some pedestrians, wide-eyed and crouched close to the ground. Others, further away, stood still. Other people skittered away in a zig-zag as they looked over their shoulders.    

A woman, hands over her head and face contorted, asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Dorman hurried down the sidewalk and to the parking lot across the road.

“Dorman, it’s time to go to sleep . . .” Neck shouted. John’s gun was aimed at him. Someone screamed. Other people scattered nearby, like orange-red leaves in the fall after the wind has blown them from a tree.

Dorman raised his chin. His normally slumped forward shoulders straightened. “Do what you must.” He watched Neck as he pulled back the trigger—

It was another scream Dorman heard first. John turned his attention from Dorman, and a garbage can lid banged against the Zeppelin’s head. Neck collapsed to the ground and shook his head. Marcus, in a plaid t-shirt and a toque, pushed Neck into the sidewalk and held him down. Rachel stood close to the wall of a nearby building out of view. Several other people piled onto the Zeppelin’s hands and legs.   

“Get off of me!” Neck roared.

“Shut up!” Dorman shouted. He held John’s gun now and pointed it at his old school friend. Sirens sounded. Red lights flashed from cruisers.

“You wouldn’t?”

“Under the right circumstances, anyone would. Now, stay down.”