Office Visit

by Dustin Stevens

  The name does nothing to penetrate the woman, her face still bearing the same confused expression. Shaking her head, she looks to each of us in order again.

  “Wittenauer Institute for Global Health Outreach,” I add, hoping something will resonate with her, will help us get past this opening volley. There is more I want to add, clarifying points I’d like to make, but not knowing the language, there doesn’t seem to be a point. All I can do is hope the name of the organization might jog something loose for her.

  It doesn’t.

  But what it does do is even better.

  The rear windshield of my truck barely had time to finish defrosting. Another bitter February morning in Corvallis had the temperatures dipping below freezing, bits of white condensation still frozen in the corners of the window.

  Inside didn’t seem to be much better, ten minutes of running the heater and defrost at full blast just barely managing to put the chill in the air at bay. No longer was our breath visible as we steered our way across town toward the Timberhill Athletic Club, though not by much.

  Raising two glove-clad hands to her face, Mira blew between her fingers. Once she’d unleashed an entire lungful of hot breath, she rubbed them vigorously together before slapping the padded palms together, the sound echoing through the cab of the truck.

  “Careful now,” I said, glancing over her way, “you’re going to need those here soon.”

  Flashing me a sleepy smile from beneath the stocking cap she wore, Mira countered, “Which is why I need to keep the blood flowing in them.”

  Hooking a left off Kings Boulevard and headed down the last stretch toward the athletic club, I glanced over, matching the smile. “As if you’ll even need both hands, Miss Odds-On-Favorite-To-Win-It-All.”

  Shrugging her eyebrows, Mira countered, “Still, you know what the temperature is in San Diego right now?”

  I did know what the temperature was right then, just as I knew what it had been the day before, and the one before that. I knew because every single morning it was one of the first things she checked upon waking, even going as far as texting it to me on the mornings we weren’t together.

  Much like I always knew how cold it was in Corvallis because the two were announced together, highlighting the disparity.

  “Warm enough to make you wish SDSU had a good racquetball program?” I asked.

  “Every damn day,” Mira replied, rolling her gaze my direction. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Of course,” I replied, mimicking her tone as I pulled off the main thoroughfare. Bouncing over a pair of oversized speed bumps, I turned into the parking lot of the Timberhill, the team charter already waiting, a tendril of exhaust rising from the idling tailpipe. Otherwise, there was nothing more than a small handful of cars, all from other players, the club not yet open for the morning.

  And considering the sun had not even risen yet, I would be concerned if it was.

  “You got everything?” I asked, sliding to the side and parking horizontally across a handful of spots. Sitting parallel to the bus, I could see a handful of people behind the tinted windows, none clear enough to make out any faces.

  Stepping out, a blast of icy air smacked me square in the face as I reached into the bed of the truck, lifting down a carry-on rollaway bag and a smaller duffel. Exiting the opposite side, Mira hoisted her racquet bag onto a shoulder, a plume of white extended before her.

  “Yep,” she said. “All set. Thank you so much for bringing me over here this morning. I know it’s cold as hell.”

  “Not as cold as that bed’s going to be without you,” I said, offering her a smile as I slid the bag her direction. Rotating it on the rear wheels, I positioned it so it was facing the bus, ready to be grasped and rolled over.

  “What?” she said, her jaw dropping in mock indignation. “You’re going back to bed?”

  Matching the gasp, I replied, “At least until the damn rooster gets up? Yes, I am.”

  Stepping in close, her white teeth flashed as she smiled. Rising onto her toes, she raised her face toward mine, our lips meeting just briefly before she stepped back.

  “Love you,” she whispered.

  “Good luck,” I replied. “Don’t come back here without another national championship.”

  The smile grew larger as she retreated another step. She hoisted the bag higher on her shoulder and grasped the handle of the suitcase, ready to be off.

  “Don’t think I don’t know the reason you’re leaving me here instead of taking this over yourself is that you’re afraid of Nancy.”

  “Damn right,” I said. “Have you seen the guns on that girl lately? If she had half a mind to, she could pound me down, squash me dead.”

  This time the smile transitioned from affection to exasperation, another puff of white air flashing as she exhaled. “Wuss.”

  “Be sure to tell her I said hi, though, okay?”

  The sound of the suitcase wheels was loud and crisp in the quiet morning air as she set off. “Oh, I’ll be sure to.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Where the young woman came from, I have no idea. I hadn’t noticed her in the background, had not seen so much as a shadow as she approached. Unlike the older woman, there wasn’t even the sound of footsteps to precede her arrival.

  One moment, we were looking at a woman somewhere around seventy, her face screwed up tight as she tried to make sense of what we were saying. The next, a young woman in her late-twenties is standing before us. With long dark hair and matching eyes, she looks at each of us before turning to either side, trying to see past us into the darkness.

  “Who are you?” she asks, the question sounding more clarifying than accusatory.

  “Hiram and Kyle,” I respond, the girl’s perfect English a welcomed transition. “Mira Clady’s brother and husband.”

  Following her gaze, I turn at the waist, glancing at the street before turning back to look her way. “Is everything okay?”

  Keeping her attention focused out, the young woman says nothing before resting her hands on the shoulders of the older woman. Gently steering her to the side, she reaches out and unlatches the screen door, shoving it our direction. “You two had better get in here.”

  Not sure what to make of the comment, or her behavior, Hiram and I share a glance as we pass inside. In doing so, I again check the street behind us, seeing nothing unusual, certainly not a thing that would explain her behavior.

  “Should I...” I ask, pausing inside the door. One hand on the knob, I keep it halfway open, waiting.

  “Close it,” the young woman says, lifting one hand from the woman’s shoulder and waving it at the door.

  Doing as instructed, I close it tight and take a post beside Hiram, both of us staring at the women across from us, neither quite certain how to proceed.

  The interior of the home is much the way the outside would indicate. Standing on the edge of the living room, the place looks like a snapshot from a sixties sitcom, a sofa along the wall, a coffee table before it, a braided rug on the hardwood floor beneath it. An open floor plan, a dining room set is positioned under a bright light fixture hanging from the ceiling, the smell of dinner in the air.

  A smell that is vaguely familiar, as if I know it, though I can’t immediately place from where.

  “Please tell me you two being here now doesn’t mean something bad has happened?” the young woman begins. Trepidation is threaded throughout the words, splashed across her face.

  “What do you know?” Hiram asks, the words out before he could have even thought to hold them in.

  Ignoring the question, I take a step forward. One hand I extend before me, careful not to seem imposing. “First, who are you?”

  The age gap between the women is such that looking for any sort of resemblance is almost impossible. Whereas the older woman is lined and grey, the younger is smooth and dark, the only similarity they share being the complexion of their skin.

  “My name is Valerie Ogo,”
the young woman begins, “this is my grandmother, Fran.”

  At the mention of her name, the older woman nods, confusion still coloring her features. Matching the gesture, I try to make myself appear friendly, though all I can think of is the list of questions on the tip of my tongue, the various things I’ve been trying for days to unravel.

  “And how do you two know my wife?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Byrdie’s first thought was that they were too late, or even better, unneeded. That Linc had already put plans in motion in case something happened and he couldn’t finish the job.

  Sitting in the passenger seat of the decrepit loaner sedan, the smell of fast food and animal piss in his nostrils, he had stared through the rearview mirror as the car pulled up. He’d watched as the two men crossed the street and headed for the house, his core tightening. Reaching down into the footwell, he’d pulled up the black leather holster and unsnapped the hasp on it, sliding his favored Sig P239 from it.

  “We a go?” Gamer asked, looking over from the driver’s seat.

  Byrdie remained silent, watching, picking up on the discrepancies, noticing the things that tamped down his initial impression.

  It wouldn’t be uncommon to use a two-man team, even one as seemingly disparate as these two. One was lean and lithe, dressed in black, carried himself with the ease of movement that suggested training. The other was bulbous, a bright blob dressed in white, almost twitchy on his approach.

  Not that far off from him and Gamer, if he really wanted to think about it.

  The parts that didn’t make sense were everything else, though. The way they parked across the street, cramming themselves into the very spot Byrdie had just dismissed. How they both went through the front gate, making no effort to split up and come in from multiple angles, or even cover the alternate exits.

  The way neither one made any reach for a weapon as they knocked on the front door.

  “What’s going on?” Gamer asked, his seat moaning slightly as he turned his bulk to get a better view.

  Choosing not to respond, to continue watching, it took until the door opened and the men were asked inside for Byrdie to know that something was amiss. Reinforcements had arrived, and whether it was because they’d been spotted or were victims of cruel timing didn’t really matter.

  It was time to move.

  “We’re going now,” Byrdie says. Extending the gun between his knees, he checks the chamber, making sure a round is loaded, before pushing open the door.

  “Now?!” Gamer asks, the surprise in his tone apparent, even as Byrdie slams the door shut behind him. Without waiting for his oversized cohort to catch up, he takes off at a jog. Keeping the barrel of the gun pressed tight against his thigh, blocking it from view as much as possible, he runs in a sideways gait, his heart hammering as he makes his way forward.

  Everything around him seems to fade as he goes, his singular focus on the house in the middle of the street. Attention square on the small concrete porch the men had just disappeared through, he covers the half-block in just a few seconds, unaware if Gamer is even behind him.

  Not that he cares. The man is here merely for looks anyway. Someone as muscled up as him is good for glowering at people, making them do what he wants, but is practically useless in a tactical situation.

  That’s where men like Byrdie come in. It’s how he was first able to initiate himself with the Wolves, how we will ultimately ascend to the utmost position.

  Barely breaking stride, Byrdie gets to the waist-high chain link fence surrounding the house. Not bothering with the gate, he uses his forward momentum, slapping his left palm down on the uneven top and hoisting himself into the air. A coiled ball of sinew and tendon, his body clears the metal fence by several inches, hanging suspended in the air before his feet land lightly on the soft dirt of the front lawn.

  Giving up on the staggered stance of before, he lets his arms swing free, the front light glinting off the Sig as he strides across the front yard for the door. Slowing down never enters his mind. Trying to stop and formulate a plan isn’t an option. Right now, he doesn’t know who the men are or why they’ve come, but he knows their presence runs counter to everything he was sent to do.

  And that is unacceptable. No way does he return without making good on his assignment.

  Reaching the front walk, Byrdie increases his pace just slightly. He bounds up the stairs in a single stride, barely able to slow himself in time to grab for the metal outer door and pull it wide.

  Bending his arm at the elbow, he points the front tip of the Sig toward the sky, the barrel just inches from his cheek. He slides his finger inside the trigger guard, ready to tug back on it the instant he enters, and reaches out with his left hand. Giving the knob a turn, he presses his shoulder against it, bright light flooding out as he shoves the door open and steps inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  One moment, my entire focus is on Valerie Ogo. I am staring at her, waiting for her to answer my question, equal parts nervous about what she might say and excited to finally be so close. After days of digging, of lying awake in a shit box hotel staring at the ceiling, of combing through the remains of my destroyed home, I’m thinking I might finally be on the verge of understanding what that bastard in the cabin was trying to say.

  The next, my training, my heightened senses, my reptilian brain, all take over. Gone is any thought of the women standing before me, even of Hiram just a few inches away. Instead, my entire focus goes to the tiny squeak of the hinges behind me.

  Jerking my attention toward it, I see as the light shifts on the doorknob, the polished metal rotating slowly.

  Two minutes earlier, there was nobody on the street. Nothing save the small dog barking, and nowhere for anybody to park and approach. It would have been impossible for someone on foot to get here so fast, and we would have seen somebody on a bike, heard someone in any other form of transport.

  Which means either it is somebody that lives here – which seems highly unlikely given the way Valerie acted when we showed up – or someone was lying in wait.

  Taking one step back, I stagger my feet, balancing my weight between them. My right index finger I raise quickly to my lips, a quick flash, enough for every person in the room to fall silent.

  A quarter inch at a time the doorknob continues turning, reaching the end of its revolution and pushing inward in one fell swoop, the door swinging hard in a wide arc, clearly looking to take out anybody that might have been standing behind it. In the next instant, a skinny man with hair shaved into an odd-shaped mohawk and a leather vest pushes through.

  In his right hand is a gun, the tip aimed at the ceiling, swinging down fast as he enters.

  From my position, I see everything in a single snapshot, my body reacting just as it has dozens of times before. Snapping my hips forward in a quick twist, I shoot my right fist out fast, aiming for the man’s wrist in its downward trajectory. Catching it just north of level, my knuckles slam into his ulna bone, a quick jolt rippling up through my arm like electricity.

  The sound of bone-on-bone contact echoes through the air, one of the women letting out a slight yell in reaction. Just as fast it is replaced by the sound of the man grunting, his arm veering off to the side.

  Stepping through with my left foot, I reach out with my left hand, snatching at the same wrist. Catching him mid-forearm, I squeeze tight, bracing myself as he tries to swing the arm back the opposite direction. A steady groan of exertion rolls from the man as he presses back into me, striated muscles in his deltoids standing out as he raises his left hand to the butt of the gun, using both to push back into me.

  Sweat forms on my brow, in my armpits, along my back as I stand strained against him, holding the weapon at an angle that can’t do any damage. Hooking my fingers into talons, I dig them into the leathered skin of the man’s arm, the tips disappearing into his tattooed skin.

  Standing with my left hip pressed into him, I slide my body a little closer
, using the position to overextend him, removing any leverage he might have. Raising my left foot quickly, I stamp down hard, his posture slackening slightly.

  “You son of a bitch,” the man snarls in my ear, his breath rancid as he continues to strain, his entire body flexed, trying to hold the position. In desperation, he squeezes the trigger, the shot like an explosion in the enclosed living room. Again, I can hear one of the women scream, can see a puff of drywall dust ignited from the wall beside us.

  My left ear rings slightly from the gun going off so close to my head, but still I hold the position. Feigning like I might go for his feet again, I raise my left foot no more than an inch, letting him see me do it, feeling his weight shift to compensate.

  The instant he does, I keep my left arm on his forearm and twist my upper body beneath it, slamming my right fist into his solar plexus. Any air he has remaining slides out in a single burst, almost a wheeze as it escapes him. His entire body goes slack for an instant, long enough for me to slide in close and hoist him across my shoulders, an impromptu fireman’s carry lifting him from the ground.

  With my left hand still on his forearm, I dump him flat on his back. My breathing increases, my heart pounding, as sweat drips from the end of my nose, my shirt sticking to my skin. Making sure the gun is still aimed at the side wall, I drive my knee down into his chest, forcing my entire weight down on the man as I snap my right arm out in a hard jab, finding the soft skin in the corner of his mouth.

  Another shot of pain roils up through my arm on contact, my body reminding me of the wound I still have on my triceps, of the beating I just put my hand through a few nights earlier with this man’s cohort.

  Shoving aside every warning my body is giving me, I pull back a second time, swiping a vicious right across the man’s cheek. Again, the sound of solid bone contact rings out, this time giving the clear indication that something, somewhere, has broken.