10.

At just past one in the morning on a Sunday night, Amphion woke with a start. He bolted upright in bed and attempted to digest the haze which smothered his vision. He’d heard something -- he was absolutely certain of it.
    A moment’s instinct told him he ought to check on Rachel, but those feelings were quickly replaced by the need to investigate the sound. Towards the beside table Amphion lurched, and flicked the lamp on.
    Immediately, warm light swallowed the room and made it appear safe and familiar. Amphion slipped out of bed and immediately confirmed his suspicions. The window had been shattered and the weapon of destruction, a brick, lay amid a minefield of glass on the floor.
    He slung the nightstand’s top drawer open and from it snatched his Colt pistol. As he sprang out the apartment door and thundered downstairs, Amphion tucked the gun into his pyjama bottoms’ waistband.
    He’d heard of vandalism like this taking place downtown, but not here, not in this neighbourhood. There was a school just across the street, for crying out loud! He came to the conclusion someone must have known he was a cop. A rat with a chip on his shoulder -- or some bloody humanitarian with a slate on his.
    As he burst through the building’s front door, Amphion caught sight of a hooded figure hunched over the gutter. Garret Quinn lifted his head and nodded at Amphion.
    “Evening, Love.”
    Out whipped Amphion’s gun. He trained the barrel on Garrett, who rose to his feet but made no movement. His palms were turned outwards, fingers slightly curled, to show he held no weapon.
    For a moment, Amphion knew he would pull the trigger. In his head he could rehearse the movements: bullet, brain, blood. He didn’t give a damn for this poor man’s prophet, and he owed him one for the kidnapping.
    “You going to shoot me?” asked Garrett. His voice, which was mechanical and unfeeling, frightened Amphion. “Go ahead. You’ll have a million more heads to pop before this city gets cleaned up. Well, go on now. You’re pathetic.”
    Amphion took a moment to collect himself. Slowly, he lowered the gun, but kept his finger tense on the trigger.
    “How’d you find me?”
    From his pocket, Garrett drew a palm-sized object and tossed it at Amphion’s feet. It was his wallet.
    “What do you want with me?” asked Amphion.
    “I want a good number of things, Mr. Oswald. But those can all wait. Tonight, it’s about what you want from me. Don’t look so surprised. If you want answers, you’ll have to follow me.”
    “And you think I ought to trust you?”
    “Don’t be stupid. I could’ve popped a cap in your head long ago if that’s what I wanted.”
    Amphion returned the pistol to his waistband and nodded to the building’s parking lot. It seemed these days he was doing a good many things against his better judgement, but allowing Garrett to take the lead was not one of them. “My car’s the green Ford. Get in. I’ll change and be there in a minute.”
    In the penumbra of the streetlamp above his head, Garrett’s face was the pallor of death. He smiled -- a silver crag cleft his lip, a scar that had never completely healed -- and bowed his head. “As you wish.”
    Minutes later, they were cruising down a black ribbon of city street. Garrett had been placed in back, his cooperation assured by a set of cuffs Amphion had insisted on slapping around his wrists. In the mirror, he continuously glanced. Half a decade of being in uniform had rendered him suspicious of every movement. He was a wary soul who found himself trapped in a routine of paranoia and surveillance, each being consequence of the other.
    “Give me some direction here,” Amphion growled.
    “The city Rectory is where we’re headed,” Garrett informed him.
    “What for?”
    “Tyler Ryan -- you’ve heard of him?”
    The name sent a flash of heat across Amphion’s cheekbones. He’d arrested Ryan two years back. The man was a gaunt thing, no more than skin and bones to his name, who’d murdered his mother and raped two school girls. His frame did not seem to posses the capacity for such atrocities but somehow, he’d managed it.
    “He got off scott-free on all charges,” said Amphion slowly. “The judge suspected the evidence had been tampered with.”
    “I knew that. He’s been living on the North-End some past few months. Buddy of mine gave me a tip on his address. Tonight, you and I are going to kill Mr. Ryan.”
    The car’s tires screeched in protest as Amphion forced it onto the curb. “Get out,” he said sharply. “I’m not having any part in your activities, Mr. Quinn.”
    Garrett held up his manacled hands. “And the handcuffs, Love?”
    “You can keep ‘em, free of charge.”
    “You have a sense of humour, I see. Well. Don’t you at least want to see how it’s done? From the sounds of things, I have your boys running amuck over at the station.”
    Amphion hesitated, then put the car in gear and pulled out onto the street. He thought of Cossack, furiously chewing cigars down to the butt in his office. “You’ve got them running alright. Any funny business, and I’m leaving you at their mercy.”
    Two blocks from the Rectory, they ditched the car and walked. As they approached, from the buildings towered a barb-tipped fence, and an odious scent of fecal matter mixed with chemicals and decaying refuse met them.
    The Rectory was the successor of junkyards of old. It had sprung up following the Minute War; where ground zero had been became the dumping ground for debris, and later, garbage and waste. From the mounds of trash rose an ebony, metal building surrounded by half-a-dozen riveted, flying buttresses on all sides. The building’s windows were amber, like the eyes of an insect. They were testing chemicals that could break down any man-made material in that facility, Amphion had heard. He was not sure what exactly to believe, but one thing was certain: somehow or another, the amount of refuse on the Rectory grounds remained stable, never overflowing.
    Garrett lead him along the perimeter until they reached a section of the fence that someone had burrowed under. Stagnant, reeking water lapped against his belly as the boy helped him crawl to the other side.
    Amphion gagged. “I don’t know what you’re expecting to find here. Rat s**t, maybe.”
    “Look up.”
    Involuntarily, Amphion jerked his head skyward. Drifting on the fumes of reeking piles of trash was a flock of vultures, their wings stretched to full capacity and beaked heads drooped low. They seemed to be after something. “Dog carcasses?” he asked to that effect. He’d seen a few of the poor creatures in the past, scattered in the slums around Old Seattle.
    “Something to that effect,” said Garrett. “Follow the pretty birds, Lovely. They know the way.”