by David Chill
It was the same man, only there was no beard, no goatee, no glasses. It was a mug shot of a middle-aged man, unsmiling, with dark hair neatly combed. There was a height chart behind him, and he looked like he was about five-foot-ten. About as average as you could get.
"Same guy, no facial hair," I said. "Are you thinking ... this is the ... the one who just did this?"
"Good possibility," he said.
"And maybe ... the one who hunted down Iris?"
"That's what I'm thinking."
"And ... the vice president?" I whispered hoarsely.
The Detective nodded slightly, almost indeterminately. "Yes."
"What happens now?" I asked.
"I have a few ideas," he said. "But there is a very real chance this man will soon disappear. He's very clever and he's very dangerous. If he senses he's at risk, he'll go into the wind. And we won't find him. People like this can travel undetected for years. They're like chameleons. They change their identities on a dime."
The enormity of the situation was starting to dawn on me. "How much am I at risk here? I have a wife. A daughter. What do I do?"
"Like I said earlier, I don't think you're in any danger. But I can't guarantee it. Short-term, I'm going to assign a couple of officers to you and your family. It's only for a few days, but I want someone nearby on the slim chance that he does try something. After that, this man will have either been apprehended or he'll leave town. I don't think he has any more reason to stick around. In fact, I'm surprised he's stayed this long."
Chapter 29
I finished giving my statement to Detective Mooring, and he quickly arranged for a pair of plainclothes officers to watch over my family for the next day or two. The officers drove me home, a necessity given the fact that my Pilot would be impounded by LAPD Ballistics for review. And even after I'd be allowed to retrieve it, there was the unfortunate chore of replacing the left panel, where I sideswiped the other vehicle. Not to mention all the blood. Blair's blood, which would soon be dried, caked and difficult to remove. And even if I were able to rid the fabric of the stains, I could not rid myself of the memories. The haunting image would still be lurking. I began to think about a new car. Maybe I'd try a Toyota 4Runner this time.
Both Leslie and Angelina were in the house when I arrived. I gathered them in the living room and sat them down, taking noticing of the nervous glances they were silently sending to each other. I reassured them I was physically fine, that the chemo infusion had gone smoothly, and they should put that particular fear out of their minds. Then I told them about Blair, the gunplay, the subsequent accident, the horror of the entire incident, and most disturbing perhaps, the mystical disappearance of the shooter. I did not tell them about the manila envelope, or about my interview with Detective Mooring at the West L.A. station house. Mooring had instructed me to maintain an unequivocal silence about that subject. He said that if he could detain me overnight, he would. But that wasn't possible, the law did not permit it, so he needed to trust me to not utter a word. It was in everyone's interest, especially my own. Then I told them about the plainclothes officers downstairs in the unmarked police car. I had no good answer for what followed.
"The police? Daddy? Are we in some kind of danger?" exclaimed Angelina. I could sense her reaction was mostly driven by fear, but a small part was likely fueled by a warped sense of excitement. It was the type of outsized sensation for which only a teenager could envision lively possibilities.
"No," I said, reassuring them in a way I could not reassure myself. "Not at all. The Detective was very clear on that. I was not targeted. They wanted me to walk away from this. And if I'm not in any danger, you're certainly not in any danger."
"Then why are the police outside?" she pushed.
I struggled to come up with a reassuring answer. Having a gifted child meant becoming a parent who needed to stay on his toes. "They say it's strictly precautionary," I answered. "Routine. It should only be for a day or two. And frankly I don't think they're needed at all. But the Detective offered, so I thought, why not?"
Leslie spoke. "How are you holding up, Ned? Just when I think you can't have a worse day, things manage to become more horrible than I could ever imagine."
I took a deep breath. "I'm doing the best I can, Leslie. There's no opportunity to slow down here. But I really think I need to talk to someone right now."
"What do you mean?"
"I think I need to pay Dr. Heck another visit. I don't know if he can take me on short notice, we'll see."
"You can't talk to your family?" Angelina asked, wide-eyed.
"Of course I can, sweetheart," I said slowly. "But neither of you are trained in dealing with this."
"I think," Leslie said, "all things considered, that's not a bad idea. Do you want a sandwich? I don't think you've eaten much today."
"Not hungry," I said. "And after what I've been through, I'm not sure I could keep any food down."
I gave both of them hugs, the physical embrace that communicated more than I could speak. They both clung to me for a very long period, ten to fifteen seconds each, the tears spilling out onto my shirt, the raw emotions they could allow to float to the surface in a way that I could not. I went into another room and left a message for Dr. Heck. He called back in twenty minutes and told me he could see me later in the day. I made arrangements for one of the plainclothes officers to remain outside our house, the other would ride with me in Leslie's Prius.
It was nearly six-thirty when we arrived at Dr. Heck's office, and this being June, with the summer solstice approaching, there was still plenty of daylight. The clouds were fading, and large swatches of blue was visible overhead. The sunset would still be blocked by a myriad of gray and white clouds on the horizon, but the sun looked like it was starting to burn its way through the mire.
We sat in Dr. Heck's waiting room for a few minutes, the plainclothes officer picking up a copy of Sports Illustrated, while I stared aimlessly at a wall. The doctor opened the door a little after six-thirty, and invited me in. Noticing the plainclothes officer, the doctor asked if he could help him. The officer did not look up from his magazine as he said no and flashed a badge. I motioned to the doctor that he was with me.
"This is highly unusual," he said.
"Let me tell you about unusual, doctor," I said as he closed the door. "I can redefine that word today."
"You sounded very stressed out over the phone. What is going on?"
"Have you seen Wilshire Boulevard this afternoon?"
"Yes, coming back from lunch. I was headed in the opposite direction. Terrible accident. Do you know what happened?"
"It wasn't just a car accident. My partner was murdered, sitting in the front seat of my SUV. Someone in another vehicle shot him. He was targeted."
Dr. Heck said nothing, looking at me expectantly, the tactic that is employed to get others to speak. Questions do not need to be asked when silence serves as the open invitation to talk. I blurted out an overview of Blair's many indiscretions, mostly verbal, some sexual. One of those inappropriate actions apparently led to someone deciding his life was expendable. And in a brief and violent moment, he was extinguished. He was forty-five years old and he would always be forty-five years old. Death not only ends life, but it freezes and frames their persona as well.
"Blair and I had unfinished business," I said. "And now we'll always have unfinished business."
"How so?"
"Lots of things, although the least of which is going to be our company, but that's something the lawyers will work out. There were betrayals. I am a private person. I'm not interested in the world knowing about my cancer. I know that must seem strange to people, we hear about the patients who share their whole regimen with the world."
"And the world provides support, doesn't it?" Dr. Heck asked.
"Sure. Maybe more than you want or more than you can handle. I've seen others go through it. People call them brave, but I'm not sure that describes it. When you're on the other
end of the battle, It feels more like having become a victim. People ask how they're doing but they really don't want to know. They just want to hear you're doing well. If you're having a bad day, you don't know how to tell people, and they don't know how to process it. People are used to success stories. They want success stories. They want to feel insulated from whatever pain surrounds them."
"Maybe they're just rooting for you."
"Sure they are. And they may get disappointed. They may have known someone who died of cancer. And that colors how they approach you. Blair went and told one of our employees about my affliction. I saw that maudlin look in her eye, the sadness, the pity. That was my concern. It wasn't what I wanted."
"No one wants that. But do you think maybe you're not giving people enough credit?"
"I don't know. I'm new to this. My story hasn't been fully written yet. But on my first day of getting a chemo needle inserted into my arm, I get to witness the instant death of a man I knew well. I can't say as I liked him or respected him, and frankly I was pretty ticked off at him. But he's gone and I won't have any opportunity for resolution, or to tell him what I fully think. Or even to forgive him, not that I'm in a forgiving mood right now. And that really sucks."
Dr. Heck thought about this and his lower lip protruded for a moment. "What did you want to tell him?"
I took a breath. "I wanted to end our partnership. Dissolve it. Move forward down a different path. I had grown weary of Blair and his antics, they brought in money but they also brought in complications. And I don't need any more complications in my life. I have plenty that are deep inside of me."
"Well, if you don't mind my saying so, it appears the world has ended your partnership for you. Brutally, perhaps, but the world has a funny way of working. It's not always what you expect. That's the challenge, but also the opportunity."
"Opportunity?" I frowned.
"I know you can't see it now. But you have an opportunity to do something else with your life. In this case, it unfortunately comes cloaked in tragedy. But the opportunity for you is still there."
"If I get through this," I agreed. "But what if I don't?'
"What if you do?"
I put my face in my hands. "Some days I'm confident I'll beat this thing. That I'll be one of those single digits that live for five years and then some. Those are real people, and I think, Why can't I be one of them? I wonder what their secret is, if they even have one, if they even know what it is. On other days, I'm not so full of bluster. I think about the odds. They're not good."
"But some people survive, don't they?"
"Yes," I said and thought of something. "Last time you talked of my needing an approach. And my approach has become I want to live as normal a life as I can for as long as I can."
"I remember."
"But the world isn't letting me do that. What I'm going through now is anything but normal. I am literally surrounded by death."
"Maybe the world has other plans for you. Remember what I just said about opportunity."
I considered this. "Yes, I suppose. Opportunity to do something else, whatever that might happen to be. I don't know what that is. But I keep thinking back to my wife, and especially my daughter. I'm the provider. I have a responsibility to my family. When you bring a child into the world, I've always felt it's on you. They rely on you. And I don't know that I can be relied upon going forward."
"Maybe that's okay. Family has a way of adjusting. I'm more concerned about you adjusting. You've been putting on a brave face and that's admirable. But maybe it's okay to let them take care of you for a change."
I slumped and thought back to when I first told Leslie and Angelina about my diagnosis. How I tried to be strong for them, to absorb their burden. But what I really absorbed was a curse, the curse of the afflicted, the perceived need to be the exclusive owner of my illness, to lock everyone else out. To suffer so their suffering would be minimal. And yet I still couldn't control their torment, and my attempts to sugarcoat it came up flat and empty. Neither were fooled; even Angelina, teenager though she was, saw straight through my performance. It wasn't fair to her, and it was most likely selfish. I could not stop her from feeling pain, nor should I have tried. Even children have the right to feel sad at a sad event, the right to mourn, the right to cry. I wondered why I hadn't afforded her that license. I wondered why I hadn't afforded myself that, either.
The first sting of regret hit my eyes, the wall of tears that I had managed to corral and control was starting to crack. The dam was bursting. I felt the sudden sting of deep sadness, a physical twitch that jerked my body forward for a moment and forced my eyes to snap shut. I felt the raging stream of self-pity begin to emerge, the raw, shameful emotion to which I never wanted myself to succumb. And yet there it was, flowing out of me suddenly, effortlessly, easily.
I reached across the coffee table and grabbed a handful of tissues, swiping them one after another until I had a bundle, a wad large enough so that my face could be buried in it for an interminable period. And I stayed that way for a long while, my body hunched over, heaving at times, moving the wad slightly away for a moment so I could take a breath and then return, the tissues pushed hard against my face, not to block the tears or hide the tears, but rather to absorb the tears. I thought of Rich Sudeau and Iris Hatcher and Blair Lipschitz, lives cut short through the whim of a dark evil force, someone who managed to inflict horror and mayhem, and then disappear untouched. But those thoughts formed a trail that soon led back to me. The life I might no longer be able to live. And the loved ones I might soon leave behind.
There are times in life when you have a right to be selfish, and this was one of them. It was a selfishness borne of a desire to wallow in emotional pain for a long moment. To try and cleanse myself of the horror of my prognosis and the horror of today. To try and heal myself. I had once heard that sadness was simply anger turned within. I was indeed angry, and I had no worthwhile outlet for it. It was an anger at unfairness, at injustice, and at the tragedy that life displays at times. And oddly, the jagged emotions flowing out of me started to feel good, after having blocked them so desperately. And the more agony that bubbled to the surface, the better I felt. For quite a while, I did not want this to stop. And I made no motion to do so. I figured I'd let my body tell me when I was done.
I wasn't entirely certain how long I stayed that way, my body curled forward in a state that probably resembled a fetal position more than anything else. I finally moved the wad of tissues from my face long enough to reach over and grab another pile of them. This time it was merely to clean up, not to descend back into another outpouring of emotional agony. I wiped my face, sniffled a little, swallowed, and cleared my throat. I composed myself, tried to make my appearance presentable again. My vision, blurred from the tightly clenched eyes and watery fountain of tears, struggled to focus. I managed to look down long enough to allow my eyes to hone in on my watch. It was five minutes to eight, well beyond my fifty-minute hour. To his credit, Dr. Heck never interrupted me, did not, in fact, say a single word. He understood what I needed, the place I had to descend to, the rock bottom I need to hit in order rebound, in order and pull myself back up.
"I'm sorry," I finally managed.
"For what?" he asked.
"It looks like I've blown well past my time."
He waved a dismissive hand. "You were my last patient of the day. I normally leave at six-thirty but from the sound of your voice, I figured your session couldn't wait until tomorrow."
"Thank you. I hope you didn't have dinner plans."
"I did, but it's all right. This is why I became a doctor. It's not a nine-to-five job."
"I appreciate that," I said, standing up. "I should go."
"Are you okay now?"
"Yes," I said, taking an unsteady step. "This has been more than helpful."
"You know, I can wait a few more minutes if you want. Take your time."
I reached over and shook his hand. "I'll be fine. But thank
you. Again."
I walked out of the office, the exit door leading straight into the hallway. I walked halfway down the hall before realizing the officer escorting me was still in the waiting room. I went back and got him. By this time he had finished with the Sports Illustrated and was quietly napping. I cleared my throat and got his attention. Interestingly, he snapped awake immediately and was on his feet in an instant.
"You all set?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered, and we took the elevator back down to the ground floor. We walked across the lobby, the gray marble floor shiny and gleaming. It was getting a little dark outside, and when we pulled open the glass doors, I immediately began to feel lightheaded.
It was a feeling I had never experienced before. I initially attributed this to the searing emotional experience I had just undergone. But I was suddenly feeling faint. I stopped for a moment to try and steady myself. It was as if sparkling water had washed over my brain. My face felt slightly flushed. I tried taking another step, but I felt myself stagger, as if I had lost the ability to control my body. I felt the ground beneath me begin to sway. I tried to steady myself, to regain my balance, to regain my bearings. I reached out to grab onto something, but there was nothing to grab onto. I saw myself lurching forward, hurtling toward something, although I couldn't be fully certain if I was actually moving, or if it was the world swirling around me. And then suddenly, and quite harshly, the pavement seemingly floated, and the ground rose up to meet me. I sensed my face striking the cement sidewalk, but I didn't feel any pain; my body had grown numb. And then everything began to fade, the world became blurry, and reality slowly, quietly, began to leave me.
Chapter 30
It was almost time to leave L.A. The Assassin had just received his payment from the two young men, the clean-cut preppies who said they were from Yale. They had no idea how much cash was sitting in the locked briefcase they handed him. The text from Greece gave him the key code. He opened it and counted his payment. It was all there, tight piles of hundred-dollar bills. The fee for services rendered. There was still the unresolved matter of his compensation for taking out Iris Hatcher. Greece had gone cheap on him, insisting that this was not part of their agreement. The Assassin knew otherwise, that the presence of Iris in Century City that night was no accident. Even if she hadn't seen him, Iris was there because Greece wanted her there. The same reason he wanted Ned Baker there. Removing her was a necessity. Removing him was an option. The Assassin made a mental note to deal with Greece at a later date. In his own way. He had a long memory, and he always evened the score.
