Edited to Death

by Linda Lee Peterson

  “So,” I said, growing increasingly conscious of the cylinder in my purse, “is there some new special thing that you can give to perk up somebody really sick, so they’ll get strong enough to benefit from the combination therapies?”

  She gave a short, humorless laugh. “You mean something that’s the equivalent of jacking a car up and running new tires underneath?”

  I smiled, “Yeah, kinda like that.”

  She shook her head. “Not that I know of. But you have to remember that AIDS drug research is going on in so many places, so many trials, that it’s hard for us folks in the trenches just to keep up.”

  “Ever heard of something called BZT?” I asked.

  She shook her head again. “New to me, but like I said, there’s something different every day.”

  I thanked her and headed for the elevator. All the way down to the ground floor, walking to the garage, my head felt absolutely fugal—different voices asking related and unrelated questions, overlapping, tumbling over each other faster than I could consider an answer. What was going on? Was this some illegal drug? Were there pot-handle pharmacies all over the city dispensing this stuff? If the stuff was in the pot handles, it was clearly coming in from Asia, if Jorge’s analysis of the shipping codes were accurate. And why the secrecy? If the drug worked, why wasn’t some American pharmaceutical house cranking it out, pushing it through trials? And somebody, somebody, had to be making money on all this—and had it been Quentin? Was he dealing in AIDS drugs, and that’s where his unexplained cash flow came from? I shuddered at such an ugly thought. Quentin had been no saint, that was clear, but the idea of my friend—okay, my lover—trafficking in human misery was a little more than I wanted to contemplate.

  And was Bender really the guy who grabbed Josh yesterday? He didn’t seem very scary, but then… somebody had murdered Quentin. The question was, who? And would they commit murder again?

  30

  Revelations by the Bay

  By the time I’d edged my car out of the Alta Bates parking lot, I was working up a good head of anger. I was going to call John Moon, spill every single thing I knew or thought, and find the bastard who had scared my kid. And cook a good dinner. And tell Michael the thousand and one reasons I’d never, ever, ever stray again.

  Though it was only a little after six, it was already dark on the streets. As I carried on the eternal internal rush hour debate—surface streets versus freeway home—I dug in the bottom of my purse for Inspector Moon’s card, with his home phone number scribbled on the back. “I need to get my cell phone back from Josh,” I said to myself.

  “I could be calling John, getting things sorted out, getting lectured on off-limits detecting, all while I’m sitting in traffic.”

  Only the radio answered back, squawking traffic reports that told me what I already knew. Late rush hour, early winter darkness, an incoming fog bank and who knows what else were combining to create gridlock on Ashby, the main thoroughfare to anywhere from Alta Bates. I inched down Ashby towards the freeway and then slipped onto the frontage road, a little-used two-laner that edged the Bay. Even with the windows rolled up, the faint salty, sour smells of low tide drifted inside the car. Through the darkness, I could see the silhouettes of the driftwood sculptures that punctuated the coastline. Grotesque, oversized, exuberantly creative, cobbled together from trash and driftwood by renegade uncredited artists, they stood like winter sentries to the dark and murky bay.

  The frontage road was clear, and I headed south, looking with satisfaction at the headlight-to-taillight jam on the freeway on my left. A shadow slinked across the road ahead of me, some furtive creature trying out for roadkill, and I tapped the brake to slow down.

  And nothing happened.

  No slowing, no change at all. I squeezed the brakes again. Nothing. Pushed the brake pedal flat to the floor. Nothing.

  “Stay calm, Maggie,” I said, “you’re a professional driver,” remembering the all-too-short Road Atlanta course Quentin had put me through on my first assignment for Small Town.

  I lifted my foot off the brake and pumped gently again. Nothing. The road was taking a gentle dip, and the station wagon picked up speed down the hill and then, mercifully, slowed a little on the uphill.

  “Okay, Maggie,” I chatted comfortingly to myself. “Remember, that’s why they call those gizmos ‘emergency’ brakes.” I steered the car over to the side of the road and pulled up on the emergency brake.

  Nothing. The brake came up loosely in my hand, making a soft, sickening, not-engaging-anything ratcheting noise. I steered the car back into the middle of the road and began praying very earnestly for a lovely, sustained uphill. Instead, the road dipped down, and just ahead of me was the intersection where the main drag of Emeryville poured across the frontage road. The frontage road, of course, had a stop sign. The intersection approached, and I began honking, honking, honking, hoping I’d scare off anyone who was in the intersection. “Oh my God,” I said, and on four wheels, a prayer, and a string of swear words, I sailed through the intersection safely, with the frantic honks of enraged drivers following me. Ahead, the frontage road took another dip. I knew I had less than half a mile to the next intersection, and with that, I steered the car into the soft, muddy shoulder and turned the ignition off. The car shuddered, lurched, and came to a stop directly in front of a Don Quixote–like driftwood sculpture.

  “I really, really need my cell phone,” I said again, just to hear the sound of my voice. The cold, black waters of the bay lapped outside. Okay, flares were clearly in order. I took a deep breath, unlatched the seat belt, opened the door, and stepped straight down into a foot of mud. A deep voice said, “Car trouble?”

  Through the dim, foggy air, I saw someone approaching me. “Need some help?”

  Great, I thought, serial killer offs dumb station wagon–driving mom.

  “Oh, I’m okay,” I began to babble, peering at the figure. And then he came closer, and I saw it was someone I knew.

  John Orlando extended his hand to me. “Come step out of that muck, Mrs. Fiori.”

  I grabbed his hand and hoisted myself out of the mud, back onto the frontage road. I realized I was shaking, and began to babble, “I can’t believe you’re here. I mean, that someone I know is here—or that anyone is here.” I had to shout over the roar of the distant freeway.

  “What happened?” he said, gently guiding me away from the car. I could see a blue van parked a few hundred yards away.

  “I don’t know. My brakes stopped working, and then I couldn’t get the emergency brake to engage, so I just kind of used the mud to stop the car.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “What are you doing here?” I asked suspiciously.

  “You must be freezing,” he said, ignoring my question. “Come get in my car. I’ve got an old sweater in the backseat and a cell phone; we can call Triple A.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I said, wondering how wise it was to get into his car. But I was shivering, and he had hold of my arm. It seemed churlish not to accept the help.

  “Are you always a Good Samaritan,” I asked as we picked our way to his van. “Or did you know it was me? I mean, someone you knew.”

  Orlando didn’t answer. We’d arrived at his van, and he wrenched the side panel open. “Hop in,” he said. “The sweater’s in the back.”

  “My shoes are all muddy,” I protested. “I’ll wreck your car.”

  He put his hands on both sides of my waist and unceremoniously half-lifted me up. “Get in,” he said roughly. And I did, landing on the seat with a thump. The door swung shut, clicked locked, and I found myself side by side with Glen Fox. He didn’t greet me, however. He was bound, hand and foot, and had a gag in his mouth. I regarded him with more curiosity than fear. And then the confusion fell from me like a warm cloak, and I began to shiver for real.

  I heard Orlando climb into the front seat and snap his seat belt into place. Oh, great, I thought. Got to keep those good safety practices in mind, even when
you’re in the middle of kidnapping innocent people. I looked around. I couldn’t actually see the front seat because there was a scratched metal divider between the front seat and the back. Suddenly, it clanged open, and I saw two things—the muzzle of a gun and Orlando’s eyes.

  “Okay, Miss Nosy,” he said, “here we are together. Now, we’re going to go for a little ride. You’re going to sit very still and make not one single sound or—”

  “Or what?” I said. “You’re going to shoot me? You’re supposed to be an artist.” I felt a thump at ankle level. Glen had edged his bound feet in my direction and was giving me a premonitory kick.

  “Yes, shooting you seems like a fine idea,” said Orlando. And with that, he slammed the divider shut, turned over the engine, and we took off.

  I looked at Glen miserably. “I feel really bad about suspecting you,” I said.

  He blinked rapidly, and I saw tears well in his eyes. “Don’t start,” I said. “I know I’m married to an emotional Italian, but I don’t do well with guys who cry.”

  I looked around the back seat. Why had Orlando left me unbound? Well, for openers, there didn’t appear to be much damage I could do. The window and door handles were missing on the inside, and the windows were tinted so that no one could see in. I scrambled over Glen to get to the window side. Maybe if I pressed my face against the window, some passerby would spot me. I tried it, but for all I could see there were no passersby. We lurched and bumped along a road that was absolutely deserted. Between the darkness of night and Orlando’s lightless travel, it was hard to make anything out, but it looked as if he had managed to find the only absolutely non-trafficked road in the entire Bay Area. Since we were clearly off the frontage road, I assumed he’d taken one of the fire access trails leading down to the water.

  I turned my attention to my fellow prisoner. His hands and feet were actually shackled, and short of finding a key, I couldn’t imagine getting him loose. Glen watched me rattle the chain links and shook his head. The gag, though, might be an entirely different matter. I knelt on the seat and reached in back of him. Taking the gag off completely seemed as if it might provoke our charmless warden to retaliation. But if I simply loosened it, it could be slipped back into place. I got a few fingers between the back of Glen’s head and the terrycloth gag and edged it down just over his mouth.

  “Probably not a good idea, Maggie,” he whispered.

  “I’ll put it back in a minute,” I said. “What in the hell is going on?”

  Glen grimaced. “Long story. But don’t apologize for suspecting me.” He licked his lips. “I did it.”

  “You did what?” I whispered back.

  “I killed Quentin.”

  With that, the van lurched to a stop. I frantically slipped Glen’s gag back in place and composed myself on the seat. Staying calm seemed like the only possible option. Surely he wouldn’t just gun us down. Surely.

  The door slid open.

  Orlando, gun in hand, gestured impatiently. “Come on out, both of you.”

  “Let me come first,” I said, crawling over Glen, “and I’ll help him out.”

  “Ever the Helpful Hannah,” muttered Orlando. “Hurry it up.”

  Glen scooted across the seat to the edge. I helped him duck, and half-caught him as he propelled himself out the door. Orlando leaned down and unlocked the shackles on Glen’s legs. Glen shook one, then the other.

  “Move along,” Orlando said, and gestured with the gun to the edge of the water.

  We walked while I frantically consulted my mental store of useless information. Wasn’t there something I knew, anything that could get us out of this mess? Somehow, it seemed as if I should have been concentrating on collecting techniques in martial arts all these years instead of uselessly storing up the names of all the French Symbolist poets and how to get ketchup stains out of silk. As if on cue, Orlando broke the silence. “I have been wondering” he said, “how you figured out who I was in the first place?”

  I looked over my shoulder at him. “If I tell you, will you let us go?”

  He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Right.”

  “Shakespeare,” I said. “Orlando was the name of one of the sons of Sir Rowland de Boys in As You Like It.”

  Orlando lifted his lips in a grim approximation of a smile. “Aren’t you the clever girl?” he said. “Well, here’s a little more Shakespeare. ‘What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide.’”

  “Henry the Sixth, Part III,” I said promptly. “What do I win?”

  “An encounter with the tide itself,” said Orlando. “Hold it right here.” Glen and I came to a halt and looked bleakly at each other. We were under the pilings, nearly ankle deep in mud, and the icy, cloudy water of the bay was lapping near our feet.

  “Sit down,” said Orlando, and with a few yanks, he managed to get us arranged next to a splintery wood piling. He took a length of cord from his windbreaker and handed it to me. “Tie the little Irishman right up to the piling,” he said to me. “And make it snug. I’ll be checking on you.” My hands were stiff and growing more numb by the moment from the cold, but I did as he ordered, looping the cord around Glen’s torso and the piling. Then Orlando gestured me to sit on the other side of the piling. I felt the mud and water seep through my skirt. My mind drifted a minute as I wondered if I’d be able to get the smell off these clothes before I was jerked back to reality. I should be so lucky to have laundry problems ever again. Awkwardly, with the gun in one hand, he began wrapping the cord around me. I felt it bite into my arms, and for a moment the accompanying rush of blood felt wonderfully warm. Then, my arms began to ache. Orlando leaned in close to my ankles and began looping the cord around them. In one instant, I saw the gun droop and point toward the mud. I raised both feet and kicked hard at his face. He gave a shout, staggered back, scrambled for a foot hold on the muddy ground, and fell smack against a piling sticking out of the mud. As he did, there was a flash of light, a terrible noise, and a jolt of pain in my arm. And then, quiet.

  I heard Glen breathing hard, and then his voice,

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, Maggie, have you killed him?”

  “I wish,” I said grimly. “I think he’s just knocked out. He’ll wake up in a minute and he’ll be pissed.”

  “I’m not sure we’ve improved our situation,” said Glen.

  “Well, you got the gag off,” I said bitterly. “At least we can chat to the end.”

  “Are you ever serious, Maggie?” asked Glen.

  I bit my lip as, all of a sudden, the ache in my arm seemed to deepen.

  “Glen,” I said, “can you look over at my arm a minute?”

  I heard him struggle against the cord. “Maggie, you’re bleeding.”

  “Yeah, I seem to be,” I said. “I don’t think it’s serious. It just hurts like hell.”

  “Help!” I yelled.

  “Shh, Maggie,” said Glen. “You’ll rouse the bloody bastard.”

  The light was fading fast.

  “Tide’s rising,” observed Glen, in a whisper.

  “So since we’re in all this trouble,” I whispered back, “why don’t you distract me from the thought of my kids growing up without a mom and your kids growing up without a dad, and tell me what the hell this is all about.” I felt my voice thicken and the pinpricks of tears starting in my eyes. Moon and Michael had warned me away from all this, I was irresponsible beyond belief, and my kids would grow up without a mom. How could I have been so arrogant?

  “Ah, Maggie,” said Glen. “Maybe my dear Corinne and your Michael will fall in love and give our youngsters a full complement of parents.”

  “My mother-in-law would love that,” I said. “At long last, a nice Catholic wife for her precious son.” I gave an anxious glance over to Orlando. Still not stirring.

  “So tell me the story,” I said, “before the tide comes in all the way, and we either drown or freeze to death. Or that son of a bitch Orlando wakes up
and just shoots us.”

  “I think you know some of it,” said Glen.

  “I think I do,” I said. “Skunkworks is a drug smuggling operation—but I can’t figure out why.”

  “It’s a subsidy,” said Glen. “Orlando and his partners smuggle all sorts of drugs, but they use most of the money they make on the hard-core street stuff to distribute any promising new AIDS drug. And then they sell it at a premium to AIDS patients.”

  “Geez, don’t the insurance companies pay for that stuff?” I asked.

  “God, are you naive,” said Glen. “Comes of having a husband with a great insurance plan, I imagine. They’re smuggling stuff to late-stage AIDS patients, the ones who aren’t responding to conventional therapies. And a lot of this stuff is very experimental. There’s a small amount of it available in highly controlled clinical trials, and you’ve got to get in queue to get access to any of it. Orlando was a natural at this, because he’s supported himself all these years with dope dealing gigs wherever he’s been. And now he’s got partners who help him run little kitchen-table labs all over the world, shipping this stuff in.”

  “But he wasn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart? Wasn’t Skunkworks a nonprofit?” I asked.

  Glen snorted. “Skunkworks was a nonprofit on paper. It was just a cover. Orlando and his retail pals were making big, big money on this deal. They’re selling to people who cash in their life insurance to buy these drugs.”

  “And do they work?”

  “Long-term, I have no idea. But in the short term, several people seem to buying a reprieve.”

  I thought about Joe Connolly’s rapid comeback and remembered the cylinder I’d fished out of the trash can.

  “And how did Quentin get involved?”

  “He owed Orlando a couple of favors from the old days. And for all of Quentin being a self-centered SOB himself, he did have a lot of compassion for people with AIDS. And besides, all Orlando was asking him to do was run his damn little drawings with his communication codes in them.”

  “What was all that about?”

  “You mean Jorge, the boy wonder, didn’t explain everything to you? I couldn’t believe how much that kid figured out.”