8
Predator feels the needles enter his flesh and has the usual moments of pain and nausea, a sickly sweet taste in his mouth. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine that he is on the football field. Knocked out in a brave, brilliant sprint to score the last-second winning touchdown. The medics gather round, trying to revive him. A hundred thousand spectators are hushed, peering helplessly from the stands. It looks serious. Will he pull through?
He thinks he can feel the pain in his neck where he was hit by the opposing player’s boot. His eyes flicker and he smiles, faintly and so bravely. His female admirers sigh with a mixture of worry and relief.
That’s strange, he thinks. The pain really is there. Spreading up from his neck. The treatment usually gives him a headache, but not this quickly. And not this sharply. He realizes that he’s having trouble breathing.
He tries to turn his head to look for his mother. She must be outside. He sees the blonde nurse, tries to raise a hand.
“I don’t feel so...” The world is spinning. He can sense the nurse’s concern. Not yet panic, but she’s looking round for the intern as she checks the feed into his arm.
“15 ML priodin,” she confirms to herself. “That’s what the doctor said.”
No, he wants to cry. I can’t take priodin. Allergy: that’s what they found the first time they tested me. It’s impossible. He tries to shout it but the words are choked off as fresh pain shoots through his chest. He tries to keep still, knowing that even taking a breath will be agony. The pretty nurse sees his pinched face go white and she notices with horror that his lips are turning blue. She looks frantically around, her hands up to her mouth.
Now the intern rushes up to the gurney. He feels Predator’s wrist for a pulse and, prying open one of his eyes, peers at his iris.
“Christ knows. It looks like some sort of reaction. I don’t understand...”
***
Predator continues, through half-closed eyes, to be aware of the ceiling, the light fittings, more cracks in the old plaster. Part of his mind detaches itself from the pain and wonders at the view: nobody ever looks up at the ceiling normally, do they? Perhaps they should put paintings on it, to brighten things up for people like me...
He realizes that his mind is wandering. God, he thinks, does that mean he’s dying? He is vaguely aware of people rushing about him and he feels arms slide underneath his body and gently lift him off the gurney and onto some sort of a table. Someone presses an oxygen mask down onto his nose and mouth and he hears the doctor ordering electrocardiograph monitors and fresh IVs.
The smell of antiseptic assaults his nostrils: the odor and the sight of the equipment, cold and impersonal like a scene from a science fiction movie, bring terrors flooding in. A vague memory of another time he was in hospital, as a five-year-old boy with tonsillitis, swims into his mind. In his confusion, he becomes that child again, lying frightened and mentally huddled against whatever they were going to do to him. Mummy-y-y, he thinks. He tries to push his head further back into the pillow on which it is resting and gives an almost inaudible whimper.
The intern is back, standing over him, checking his pulse again. “David?” he asks. “Can you hear me all right?”
Predator tries to nod. He feels his mind slipping away from him again. What a stupid time to start asking questions! The doctor goes on.
“David, if you can understand me... You seem to be suffering a reaction to the drugs and the transfusion. We’re just checking back on your medical history now.”
Again, the doctor seems to expect an answer. Predator opens his eyes wide but it is all the contribution he can make to the conversation. People seem to be moving around rapidly just outside his field of vision and he can hear an electronic blip from the machine monitoring his heartbeat. He wonders where the fuck his mother has got to. He’s having difficulty swallowing. He tries to lift his right hand up to his throat but his arm will not obey his brain. He concentrates, illogically annoyed that his traitorous body is letting him down again, and his face screws up with the strain. It proves to be a mistake. He thinks he hears something give, like an elastic band snapping in his chest. The pain bursts through yet again, his body convulses and he starts to black out.
“Nurse, quick, he’s fading. I’m losing heartbeat.”
By now, Predator can no longer see or speak or move. He can imagine that he must look unconscious or even dead, but he’s still awake and can still hear what is happening.
“I think we’re losing the heartbeat.” He has a renewed flash of terror. What if they think he’s dead and put him in a casket, despite the fact that, down here in the depths of his consciousness, he’s still wide-awake? He’s heard of people being buried alive after being mistakenly declared dead, always thought it was a good story. Not so funny now. He wants to scream out, hey, wait, I’m still here, I’m still fuckin’ here. But nothing seems to work.
Another doctor runs up and starts pounding on his chest. His terror overwhelms him and for a moment he feels like he’s becoming smaller and smaller, infinitely tiny, like the guy in that old film, the incredible shrinking man, cowering back into some remote corner of his brain.
His hearing is the last sense to go and, just before his consciousness winks out, he hears the doctor, panic-stricken and frantic, already anticipating the malpractice suit, calling for confirmation that the treatment details were right, that the intern has not misread the message on the computer screen...
9
Sometime after midnight, arriving home, I drive the Morgan through the still-opening garage door without stopping, watching my rear view mirror to be sure that no one’s following me in. Everything seems to be cool.
The small apartment seems lonelier than ever. I step inside, bolt the front door and, turning, stare at the answering machine, wondering if there’ll be another message from Michelle. The message light is flashing. It will be from her, I know it. I can half-guess what she’ll say. Sorry about the scene in the restaurant. You know I can’t take emotional pressure. I’m too neurotic, I guess. Then what? More pleas to give our relationship another try? Understanding that I may have found another woman? Or anger, for the same reason?
Wearily, I wave a hand at the blinking light. I’ve had enough of machines. It can wait until morning. I walk into the kitchen. I’m tired but my mind’s too active for sleep. I take a carton of milk from the refrigerator to make myself a warm drink in the microwave. My mind wandering, I wait until the machine pings and walk back into the living room, clutching the steaming mug. I pick up the remote controls for the television and video recorder.
The VCR has been set to record the evening news. I switch it to rewind and settle down to see what’s been happening in the world.
The headline news is all about the upcoming election. And as the current administration continues to falter in the polls, it looks as if its lost points are being picked up by Stephen Garner. Given that his candidature was not even announced six months ago, there was a time when it seemed like a joke. Suddenly, no one is laughing.
Increasingly, it seems as if he can do no wrong. I lean forward as the anchorman introduces an item from Europe. The scene switches to a shot of a reporter standing in front of the Houses of Parliament in London.
“There was firm support today for Stephen Garner from an influential representative of the major EEC trade federation EFTA. Mr Jack Wallace, the federation’s assistant general secretary, has just returned to Britain after a visit to the United States during which he met with Stephen Garner. Mr Wallace says that Mr Garner’s policies, which include strong trade and defense ties with America’s traditional allies, would be a breath of fresh air for British businessmen after what he called the erratic and unconstructive attitudes of the current White House administration.
“Mr Wallace went on to state that senior members of the European Economic Community have also told him unofficially that they would welcome the election of Mr Garner and that they considered that the polici
es of the present US government are contrary to the continuation of harmonious relations between the two trading blocs. Mr Wallace refused to be drawn further on which policies he claimed the officials were referring to but they are believed to be connected with United States opposition to the EEC’s latest moves to try to reduce worldwide trade tariff restrictions.
“Officials from the White House had no comment to make on Mr Wallace’s claims this morning.”
Back in the studio, the anchorman takes over. “The government has disputed Mr Wallace’s comments, saying that its trading relationship with the EEC is in better health now than it has ever been and that Mr Wallace himself has no authority to comment on behalf of EFTA. It is understood that unofficial representations about the reported comments have been make to EFTA headquarters in Brussels. There has been no official response as yet.”
I sigh and sip the warm milk. I pick up the newspaper. Garner is even dominating the press now, I see. The paper’s own opinion poll, taken the previous day, shows the politician comfortably ahead of his opponents on the West Coast. It’s not just lunatic Californians, either. Polls in Oregon and Nevada show Garner ahead of his opponents and potentially able to pick up the vital electoral votes.
Besides this news, the front page is dominated by photographs of members of the public, underneath which are their comments on the election candidates. If this is a representative sample of the population, Garner is going to win in a landslide. A number of words and phrases—honest, charismatic, decisive, trustworthy, a new broom—keep cropping up.
Inside the paper, much of page two is taken up with an obviously favorable report of Garner’s latest campaign speech. I read through it. Garner is still saying that he’s going to “clean up” government and make it more accountable to the people. On top of this, he’s planning to wipe out unemployment and reduce the budget deficit, stamp out crime, improve the country’s growth rate and cure most of the other ills that concern the electorate. Nowhere in the speech, I notice, does Garner says what policies he intends to pursue in order to achieve any of these miracles. This minor detail doesn’t seem to have worried the audience for his speech who, according to the report, reacted ecstatically to the handsome politician’s message of hope. It seems they gave him a ten-minute standing ovation.
Alone and lonely in my arm-chair, I think gloomily about the old lines—Lincoln, was it—about fooling all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time: if Garner carries on as he’s going, it seems as if those lines may need to be rewritten.
I finish the warm milk and place the mug on the floor next to my chair. Tiredness is catching up with me and I can feel myself sinking into pessimism and depression. I’m startled by the ringing of the doorbell. What the hell? Nobody’s going to be making a social call at one a.m. I tiptoe down the hall and listen. The bell rings again and this time there is an insistent rap on the door itself. I hear a voice call out.
“Mr Ross. Police. Open up please.”
Puzzled, I unbolt the door and open it to find three men standing in the corridor. Two of them I recognize: the detectives who had visited me at the office. The third man is tall, thin with a cadaverous face. It’s he who speaks.
“Mr Ross? Special Agent Maldini. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Are you alone, sir?”
“Yeah. What the hell’s the problem?”
“I have to tell you that we are here as a result of investigations into alleged illegal activities, including industrial sabotage, theft and insider trading, by the late Malcolm McAllister. We have now received evidence that not only supports our suspicions about Mr McAllister but also incriminates you.”
My mind struggles to make sense of the detective’s remarks. He continues.
“Andrew John Ross, we are arresting you on suspicion of criminal conspiracy, fraud and theft.”
The younger policeman starts to drone out Miranda.
My mind races crazily.
The phrase that keeps going through it is:
Catch you soon.
PART SEVEN
1
Saturday. Eight o’clock in the morning. There’s never been a Saturday morning like this one. Nor was there ever a Friday night like the one I just lived through. Two a.m. in a downtown police holding tank. Awake through the rest of the night, watching my back. Pimps and muggers and junkies and god knows what else all around me. At least now they’ve moved me to a cell. On my own. Where I stay, it seems, until the police work out what to do with me.
I sit on a wooden bench in the cold cell. I contemplate walls decorated with liberal applications of gray emulsion and graffiti. Crude anatomical sketches of the sort that would normally bring an indulgent smile to my face now seem alien and threatening.
I’ve never even been inside a place like this before. The tiny room has a high window at one end and a peep-hole-studded door at the other. The only furniture is a narrow cot and a chair on which I’ve hung my jacket. In one corner there is a washbasin. A toilet perches like a throne on a raised part of the floor. The cell is the loneliest place in the world.
I’m taken with a fit of shivering. I wrap my arms around my body and try to stop my teeth from chattering. My only consolation is that at least I’m still alive: I have no doubt now that a link exists between my arrest and Malcolm McAllister’s “accidental” death. I wonder why I have, at least, fared better than my late colleague. I guess whoever is behind my apparent framing considers that another accident may be too difficult to arrange—or too risky.
And always present at the back of my mind, the worst fear of all. Is Kathleen also in danger? It’s possible that she’s already been arrested. It all depends on how much the police—or whoever is really behind my arrest—know. My concern for her constantly invades my thoughts. I suppose—based more on memories of countless TV dramas than any knowledge of legal process—that I will be allowed to make at least one phone call and I consider using it to warn her. The problem is that, if she is still in the clear, I might just incriminate her. After everything else I’ve seen, I figure that a little thing like tapping a phone line will present little difficulty to my unrevealed—and unknown—enemies.
The other option is to call a lawyer. Problems here, also. The last occasions on which I used the services of a lawyer were during my divorce and when I bought my apartment. Michelle’s suborned the divorce lawyer and I doubt whether old Mr Renwick will cope too well with switching from property law to the vagaries of the criminal code. Especially where it involves allegations that the FBI and the police have brought false charges.
I rest my head in my hands, wondering what the hell I’m going to do. My thoughts return to Kathleen—I realize that, if she is still free, she’ll soon be leaving home to go back into the office, expecting to meet me. I wonder what she’ll do when she finds herself there alone. My head spins. I sit back and try to think clearly. My thoughts remain a turmoil. I’m unable to stop thinking about her. Contradictions. I’m grateful that she’s not here, sharing the trouble. But I miss her calm presence and would give anything to be able to talk to her. Sadly, I reflect on hopeless attractions.
Eventually, I hit on a plan of sorts and bang on my cell door to ask my guards if I can now make a phone call. To my relief, I am taken into an interview room where I am met by a uniformed sergeant, a man near retirement age with a drab air of disillusionment hanging over his rounded shoulders. The room has no windows and is small and drab, not even a poster on its faded walls to relieve the monotony. A bright red telephone sits on a gray metal table, its brightness curiously out of place in the otherwise gloomy surroundings. I plead my case on the grounds that I have to let the other partners in my firm know what has happened. Anyway, they’ve taken my cell phone away from me but don’t I have a legal right to make a phone call? Isn’t that what they say in those Dirty Harry movies? The straight cops, that is, the ones that are complaining about Clint Eastwood’s little departures from procedure, like beating cons to a pulp and blowing
the heads off innocent by-standers with a hand-held cannon. I mumble something incoherent about Clint and I guess from his expression that this sergeant doesn’t care about art but he does finally agree to the call, with a warning that I’m not allowed to discuss any details of the charges at this stage and that the call will be limited to two minutes.
The cop stands and waits by the door as I press buttons on the phone. I know that the office will be largely deserted on a weekend morning. I hope that Kathleen will be the only person there and that she’ll be the one to answer the night service device on the switchboard. I pray that her ability to think quickly will not desert her.
I stand and listen to the ringing tone. Several ages pass before I hear a receiver being lifted and Kathleen’s voice answers.
I know I’ll have to talk fast and I will her to keep quiet and listen.
“Miss Bennett,” I say. Jane Bennett is one of the firm’s secretaries. “Am I pleased you’re there. It’s Ross here.”
She starts to says my name and I rush on, trying to remember the lines that I’ve rehearsed like this is a performance in a play, words intended to inform her while at the same time lulling any other listeners. “Now please, don’t say anything, just listen carefully. I don’t have much time. I’m in some trouble and there are people in the firm who need to know about it. I’ve been arrested by the police or the FBI or both of them on allegations arising from the investigation I’ve been working on. I’m being held in the police station house on south Michigan Avenue. Obviously, in the circumstances, my investigation will be halted and I think it best that nobody else gets involved—at least until this business gets sorted out. The whole thing is obviously a lot more complicated than I had thought and needs to be treated with a great deal of caution.”
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