No Hope for Gomez!

by Graham Parke

  I didn’t want to take too much. I had to operate under the assumption that they were out to get me (even if I hoped they weren’t). If I didn’t, I might as well stay and let whatever was about to happen, happen. So I took just enough to get by. This would give me a head start. If Dr. Hargrove woke up alone in my apartment, my closets ransacked and my personal belongings gone, she’d realize I was on the run. They’d come after me immediately. As it was, Dr. Hargrove would find my closets only partly ransacked, if she even noticed at all. Most likely she’d assume I’d gone to work really early and really well dressed.

  We had no clear schedule of when we slept at her place or mine, so it could be days before she was sure I’d gone. Precious time I needed to get the (non-existing) proof I needed (didn’t need) to be safe (which I already was).

  Things were getting complicated.

  Blog entry: Sneaked into the kitchen, grabbed some bread and a bottle of water, pulled the front door closed behind me.

  The journey was long and arduous, especially as I wanted to stay completely out of sight. THEY could be staking out my place, waiting for me to bolt. I kept to the shadows. To the nooks and crannies. I scuttled from doorway to doorway, crept from hiding place to hiding place. I didn’t take a break until I’d been on the road for several hours. In my haste, I’d forgotten about breakfast, so I ate some bread and drank from my water bottle, careful to leave enough for later. Then I went on my way again.

  It was a long and difficult trek, the hours crept by slowly, but I reminded myself that every step took me closer to safety.

  Blog entry: When I was far enough to feel a little safe, I dug out my cell and called Detective Moran. It was still early and the call went straight to voice mail. My first idea had been to hide out at the store, ask Moran for round the clock protection. I quickly realized there were too many problems with that little scenario.

  Never mind that the city would never spring for such expensive treatment for someone who wasn’t in identifiable danger. Never mind that Moran wasn’t actually working the Miller case, but was instead assigned to wrapping up the Norton case. What worried me was that, even if I managed to get the protection, the clinic people would find a way to get to me and make me dead. They’d done it to Joseph. They’d done it to Norton – and he’d known something was up.

  I’d seen the movies. The cops sat outside in their car, talking banter and drinking coffee from oversized Styrofoam cups, meanwhile the Balaclava-Man entered the building from the back and killed everyone inside.

  Not for me. No thank you.

  So police protection was out. At least until I gathered enough evidence to have them relocate me.

  I left a quick message for Moran. Told him my suspicions (the clinic was testing a dangerous drug and getting rid of test subjects who wanted to spoil their models by dying all over the place), and I told him I’d be lying low for a while, gathering proof.

  Blog entry: Thought about adding something – how to contact me, where I’d be hiding – then decided against it. The fewer people knew, the better. For all I knew there was a leak in the police department itself. I hung up and continued my journey.

  Blog entry: I moved as stealthily as possible. Didn’t even let unsuspecting passers-by see me – any and all information could lead back to me. It was difficult, it was damn near impossible, it meant moving very, very slowly and backtracking a lot, but I did it. It was close to noon when I finally arrived at my destination.

  Grimy, dusty, cranky, I knocked on the door. I wasn’t even sure the guy was still living there. We hadn’t spoken in a while.

  Heard nothing for a few long moments, was beginning to think my journey had been in vain, then a sleepy face peeked through a crack in the door.

  “Whadaya want?”

  “I have to hide out at your place. They’re after me.”

  “Hide out? Here?”

  “Yeah, sorry man. I have nowhere else to go.”

  The door opened a little. I moved to go in. “Thanks,” I said, “I won’t forget this.” But the door didn’t open all the way. The guy’s bulk blocked my entry.

  “What about your friends,” he asked, “can’t you stay with them?”

  “Well, I could, but it would be too ob–”

  “And your family?”

  “Sure, but in this case–”

  “Or the police, that’s where people usually go when someone’s after them. Why don’t you go talk to them?”

  “I don’t think they’d be–”

  “And your landlord, what about him? Or your business manager? Or your doctor?”

  “Look, I can’t stand out here in the hallway discussing this. Just let me in and we can–”

  “Your shop,” he continued undeterred, “you could hide out there. Or you could visit your high school basketball coach, he’s sure to put you up. Or you could stay in the park, at a hotel, at youth hostel.”

  “Damn it, Warren! Just let me in!” I kicked at his door. “I don’t have time for this! If Dr. Hargrove comes wandering down this hallway, I’m done for!” I glared at him. “I’ll be dead and it’ll be on your head!”

  Warren shrugged. “I’ll let you in, Gomez,” he said, “of course I will. Just as soon as you admit that, out of all those excellent options, you chose my place simply because you want to stay here.”

  I hardly had the time to roll my eyes. “Sure,” I hissed. “You have a great place, Warren. I’d hide out here even if it wasn’t the closest and most illogical place for me to go. Even if it wasn’t the last damn place on earth they’d look.” I gave him a hard stare. “Satisfied?”

  Warren rubbed his chin. He’d spotted the sarcasm but seemed unsure where it came from or where it was headed. He relented. “Okay,” he said. “That’ll do, I guess.” A smile broke across his face. “Come on in, room-buddy! Make yourself at home!”

  36.

  Blog entry: The layout of Warren’s apartment was the mirror opposite of mine. Would’ve felt weird being there if his place wasn’t decorated so differently.

  Where I had the cheap IKEA furniture, he’d opted for heavy oak. Where I’d taken great liberties leaving my stuff around the apartment, Warren kept his place neat and tidy. In fact, there wasn’t a single flat surface that sported so much as a plant or a magazine or a photo. All his stuff was tucked away somewhere, out of sight. His place almost looked like a model home. Something generic that had been designed specifically not to look empty while at the same time not appearing lived in.

  Kept my stuff tucked in my bag, and my bag tucked under the sofa.

  Only removed my laptop to do some work.

  Blog entry: Hid out at Warren’s place the entire day. Got my blog entries up to date (without sending them in) and tried to figure out my next move. Nothing came to mind.

  Warren milled around, looking lost. I told him not to think of me as a guest. He didn’t have to wait on me or keep me entertained. He should, in fact, pretend I wasn’t there. Keep to his usual routine, that’d be safest for me.

  Warren told me he wasn’t sure how to do that.

  “Don’t you have a job to go to?” I asked.

  Warren shrugged. “Not in the traditional sense, no.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re actually a writer?”

  “Well,” he said, “not exactly. I have some income, but I don’t have a boss and I don’t have a fixed schedule.” He made some vague gestures.

  “Okay then, what would you be doing right now if I wasn’t here?”

  “I’m not sure.” He shrugged apologetically. “It’s difficult to think about that. I mean, you’re here so anything I come up with, I do with you here. And I can’t think of anything with you here.”

  “Right, well, let’s try something different then. What did you do yesterday at this time?”

  Warren pointed at the sofa. “I was sitting right there, where you’re sitting.”

  Blog entry: Warren balked at my suggestions of reading a book or watching TV. I decided
to tell him about my predicament. It might help me to get the facts straight in my mind so I could come up with my next move.

  “The thing is, Warren,” I said, “a while ago I entered a drug trial for some extra cash but then one of the other participants went into a coma and wasn’t discovered for days and I didn’t drop out of the trial because I liked one of the research assistants, a Dr. Hargrove, and because the trial might not be the cause of the coma, but then the coma guy died and the detective investigating his death disappeared and when he finally reappeared he was dead but by that time I was already dating Dr. Hargrove and I didn’t think it was all connected until yet another trial participant, whom I thought was named Tommy, turned out to be named Mr. Ferguson, and also turned out to be dead, which was even worse, and, being my girlfriend, Dr. Hargrove should’ve been worried but for some reason she didn’t show the slightest bit of concern for my well being which made me realize it was time to run and find out for myself what was going on.”

  Blog entry: Warren stared at me. Frowned. Scratched his head. “You know,” he said, “there is one thing we could do…”

  “There is?”

  “Yeah. Wait here…” He got up and disappeared into his bedroom.

  I didn’t expect much. Warren’s track record for coming up with logical or interesting things to do, say, or even write, was nonexistent. So far, all his ideas had either made me angry or tired or, more often, both. For all I knew, he was in his bedroom doing something weird like finding stockings so we could play dress-up.

  Warren returned with a triumphant look on his face. He also carried two pairs of stockings.

  “I’m not playing dress-up,” I growled. “You might as well put those away. It’s never gonna happen.”

  “These?” Warren swung the stockings in the air. “These are our disguises, man,” he said. “They’ll hide our faces when we break into the clinic and get you your evidence.”

  Blog entry: It was one for the books! I was actually beginning to appreciate Warren. A little. Not only had he put me up, not only did his manuscripts put me to sleep in troubled times, he was about to help me solve this dangerous puzzle!

  We prepared as well as we could; donned black clothing, cut holes in the stockings, rehearsed some secret signals, and, just to be on the safe side, I also gave Warren Detective Moran’s number. He stored it in his cell and then we were ready to go. Under the cover of darkness we made our way to the clinic. We pulled the stockings over our heads and broke in.

  That was to say, we circled the building looking for easy access points like windows or air vents (which there weren’t; all the windows were barred). Then we looked for a back door or a service entrance (which, sadly, were also heavily barred). Then we went to the front thinking to get past the guard in the foyer with a ruse (but there was no guard, the foyer was locked up tight, and we didn’t actually have a ruse, not even a little one).

  Things weren’t going well.

  Dejected, I kicked at the front entrance. It didn’t budge. It was made of thick layers of glass that I had no hope of breaking.

  I turned to Warren. “Now what?”

  He thought it over. “I’m not really sure,” he said, “I’ve never broken in before. Maybe we should go round the building again, look for a more unconventional entry?”

  We did. We circled the building, found nothing, just some debris round the back under a security lamp – some discarded building materials and assorted trash that looked utterly useless. It gave Warren an idea, though. He pulled a piece of metal wire from a broken office chair and said, “How about we pick the lock with this?” His grin was wide.

  I’d already begun to lose hope, some of it came back. “That’s brilliant,” I said. “Let’s do that!”

  Blog entry: We hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight. Amateurs.

  It took Warren a while to locate the lock on the back entrance, longer still to get the wire in, but he did it. We were on our way. He jimmied the lock like a true professional, listened carefully to the mechanism while making small, deliberate adjustments to the wire. After only five minutes, he looked up and said, “Gomez, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “It’s not working?”

  He shrugged. “Let me put it this way, the lock didn’t budge and the wire just broke off inside.”

  I knelt beside him. “Let me have a go.”

  My hope was sinking again. If this thing came down to just me, we were in trouble.

  I located the sharp nub of wire jutting from the lock and pushed and prodded it. My reasoning was that sustained random movement might just do the trick. It was all I could come up with. With every sharp stab of pain that shot up my thumb and fingers, I got closer to giving up, then, finally, I gave up.

  Blog entry: “You know, there might be another way,” Warren said on the way back to his apartment. “I know a much easier building to get into. Also, you’re more likely to find the proof you need there.”

  I looked at him. “There’s another clinic building?”

  Warren grinned. “Not exactly,” he said, “but close enough.”

  37.

  Blog entry: “Take your shoes off,” I told Warren.

  He glared at me.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Take them off and leave them by the door. You don’t want the kind of trouble we’ll be in if we get caught tracking something on the carpet.”

  “Dude,” Warren said, “we’re breaking in. If we get caught we’re in major trouble. Never mind the carpet.”

  “We’re not breaking in.” I showed him the key I’d just used. “We’re on a friendly visit, just checking if my black, unpatterned socks are still here.”

  Warren shrugged. “I’ll check the bedroom,” he said.

  I didn’t like the look in his eye, so I told him, “You’ll do no such thing. In fact, you’ll be in charge of watching the door and finding ways to stay as far away from Dr. Hargrove’s bedroom as possible.”

  Warren harrumphed. He sulked back to the door and took off his shoes.

  “We’re here on serious business,” I reminded him. “My life may be at stake!”

  Blog entry: Switched on a small light in the living room, scanned round to get my bearings. Dr. Hargrove’s place looked different, strange. Like I was seeing it for the first time. Maybe it was the different lighting, maybe it was the fact I shouldn’t be there, doing what I was about to do.

  Put my feelings aside and went into Dr. Hargrove’s office. It was small, barely large enough to accommodate what little furniture it housed – a little oak desk with a swivel chair, three small bookcases, and a large, standing lamp. In between there was only just enough space to move around.

  Turned on a desk lamp and checked that the blinds were closed tight. Didn’t want people noticing someone was in the house. For all I knew, Dr. Hargrove had told a neighbor she’d be out. Or asked someone to keep a look out for her boyfriend (‘he’s missing you know, we’re all out looking for him.’)

  Blog entry: Turned the office inside out, found nothing. Moved on to the bedroom. Was quite familiar with the bedroom, of course, as I had been sleeping there several nights a week for almost a month. Had to admit, though, I’d never subjected it to a thorough inspection. Besides the double bed and its side tables, there were two large closets. I’d only ever opened the one on the left. That’s where I kept my black, unpatterned socks (together with the rest of my overnight stuff).

  Blog entry: Checked the left closet first. Perhaps to quickly tick it off the list, perhaps to see if my stuff was still there. I wasn’t kidding about wanting to find my socks. If they weren’t there, if Dr. Hargrove had cleared them out already, it’d mean something significant. Something I didn’t want to think about just yet.

  (Had she noticed I’d gone? Had she been looking for me? If so, who was helping her and why?)

  My socks were there.

  Relief.

  Not only were they there, they looked untouched. No one had moved them, lookin
g for clues or hints as to where I might’ve gone.

  Good.

  I quickly checked the rest of the closet. Clothes mostly; shirts, jumpers, pants, some sexy underwear I hadn’t seen before (should ask her about that sometime), and, at the bottom, in the back, a box of photos. I took a few moments to check it out. The photos appeared to be snaps from her childhood; vacations, Christmases, birthdays. A young Dr. Hargrove with assorted family members (no one looked like an ex-boyfriend, thankfully). Put everything back and made sure it looked the way it did before I touched it. Moved on to the second closet.

  Blog entry: Pay dirt!

  Among more clothes, and quite an extraordinary number of shoes, I found two more boxes. The first was filled with administrative papers (insurance policies, stocks, utility contracts), the second contained clinic folders. This was what I’d come for.

  I Rock!

  I Rule!

  I Rock ’n Rule!

  Blog entry: Took the folders from the box and turned on Dr. Hargrove’s reading light. The folders were marked ‘copy’. Apparently she kept a backup of her research at home, which was what I’d expected (what Warren had expected).

  Opened the folders and browsed through the documents. It wasn’t easy going. Not only were they highly technical in nature, containing many large and unusual words, they also didn’t appear to be in any clearly discernable order. When I delved into the second folder, however, I came across an outline of a proposal that was mostly in English. It started with a list of substances which Dr. Hargrove wanted to use in her trial. They were written up in a two-column table; one column giving the substance name, the other a short description:

  Niacin (vit. B3): Gives subject a flushed feeling. Skin turns red.

  Caffeine: Gives subject a jittery feeling.