Walk faster, I say.
TrevorJack moves closer and asks me to repeat myself. For an answer, I flick my thumb into his throat, just enough to set him coughing.
You like me better now? I ask.
We make the rest of the trip in silence.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Amid hacking and coughing and deadly glances, TrevorJack leads me to a small shack out on the pier. It doesn’t seem like Joe’s M.O. It’s a little too out in the open. Two sentinels on either side work extra hard to look like dockworkers taking a smoke break. I can see a bulge in their pants, and I know it’s not for me. Concealed holsters. 9mm Glocks, most likely. A nice, reliable, easily acquired piece.
They straighten up when they see us approach, one of them giving two sharp knocks on the door. The other motions for us to halt, gives me the once over before patting me down. He takes extra time around my hips and waist, probably making sure that all of those buckles and straps aren’t hiding any nasty surprises. Nice to see that Joe’s trust for me only extends so far. The sentry works quickly with the gear, loosening the buckles. I feel my thighs sliding inside of the cup, getting raw. I wish I had some socks to take the burn off.
“Legs off, Jack’s orders,” he tells me. “Need a hand down?”
I twist past him and brace against the wall, lowering myself. My legs roll away to either side. Guess Joe wants a captive audience.
The sentry leans back towards a small window in the door and says, “clear.” This guy obviously watches a lot of war movies.
The door swings open and TrevorJack turns sharply on his heel, motioning for me to enter. The sentry on the left shakes his head. “This ain’t the Air Farce, moron. Chain of command, yes. Protocol, no. Who you tryin’ to impress anyway?”
TrevorJack deflates, tries to strike a casual pose by leaning against the wall.
“You’re not standing post with us either, knob,” the other sentry says. “Think you’re hot shit since you got back from Delia’s. Why don’t you shuffle home, no-load?”
“Haul your pencil-necked, pasty ass out of here,” the other sentry barks.
—Why don’t you stop wagging your dicks around long enough for me to get by? I ask.
This of course, gets nothing but blank stares from all present. TrevorJack finds a spot on his shoe to examine for a while. Then, realizing that there’s more of me to see down here, he pretends to bird-watch.
From inside the shack, Joe says, “She’s right, you know. You should know better than to have a pissing contest in front of a lady. We’re all Hooded Jack. He’s back in the fold, so ease up on him.” TrevorJack relaxes at this, some of his bluster coming back. Then Joe tells me, “Come in and shut the door behind you.”
“Should we carry her in?” the sentry asks.
—Not unless you want your eyes scratched out, you no-dicked shit-swallowing pus-eating maggot, I say, batting my eyelashes.
After a beat, Joe says, “There’s a true soldier. Come in.”
I do as I’m told, not even looking back to see how the man-fest resolves itself.
“Got a lot of retired military working for me. You know, pension isn’t what it should be. Problem is, they keep those natural divisions going. I tried to fix it by dividing them in two: Street ops and water ops, Army and Navy. Didn’t help them like each other any more. But it did foster competition, so I know they’ll bust their asses trying to prove who’s best, and Hooded Jack reaps the rewards. Some of the Navy guys decided to specialize. I have a couple of old SEALs out there, some Rangers too. They’re my hard hitters. Long as they don’t fall apart or kill each other, I’m happy. You want a cushion?”
I shake my head. My eyes scan the room, looking for two things: weapons and a way out. Being on the docks like this, I suppose I could try swimming down the coast to make my getaway. Although I’ve never tried swimming since the accident. I could backstroke. Shit.
“Stop looking around like that. You ain’t Steve McQueen, and you ain’t escaping.” There’s no threat in Joe’s voice. He moves closer to me and leans back against his desk. “Prisoners try to escape. You’re a guest. Just not the kind of guest that can come and go as she pleases. But let’s keep it easy, right?”
A cramp hits my stomach and I flop to my left a bit. Joe doesn’t move.
“Did you take your Vicodin?”
I nod.
He shakes his head. “Delia really goatfucked you with that Sweet Death. You can come down from it, but you never get over it. You have to find substitutes. Like it or not, you’re a junkie now. Welcome to the club.”
He offers me a pill, pale orange, hash mark in the middle. Probably a mild sedative or painkiller. I’m not taking it.
“We found some vials of Clearwater in your bag. How long you been on that?”
I shake my head.
—It was for a kill I was setting up, I say. Was gonna take Shakes out with an OD, that was the original plan.
“I used to count the track marks on your thighs when I fit your legs. Quit lying.”
—Better than the morphine they gave me at the hospital. When did you start caring?
“You never told me you had a problem. Anything you don’t tell me isn’t my business.”
—You never told me you were Hooded Jack.
“Anything I don’t tell you isn’t your business.”
—You’re still number four on my list.
Joe goes back to his desk and pulls out a small box. I recognize it. A little cardboard pencil box, the decorations long since worn off. He doesn’t need to open it for me to know that inside are three lengths of surgical tubing, two old dull glass syringes, and three vials of Clearwater, probably evaporated. There’s a fine residue of coke dust at the bottom, a blackened spoon with some heroin tar on it, my family photo taped to the inside of the lid. This was something I used to keep in my red case. Along with…no clue.
—I gave that to you…
“I know, I was there.”
—At…the funeral?
“What funeral?”
—The firebomb…My husband’s…Gavin’s…
“Your husband? Let’s not talk about him. He’s half the reason you’re in the shape you are.”
My heart stops. —Was Dr. Robert my husband?
This sets Joe off like a powder keg. I’ve never seen him laugh like this, long and hard, his face turning almost purple.
“No…Jesus no. You’re scrambled. We could sell your brain at Denny’s with a side of bacon and toast.”
—What happened to me?
“Do you remember what was in that red case you used to have? The one I tore apart to make a gun case for you?”
—I barely remember the fucking case. It was scuffed up. Beat up, ugly, tough leather. Like me. It’s the only reason I hung on to it.
Joe sets the box in front of me and opens the lid, and everything inside has changed. No residue, no dust, no vials, tubes, nothing but a small, folded piece of paper. I burst into tears. It’s one thing when the people you’re trying to kill lie to you, but it’s something else when you can’t trust your own brain.
I don’t know what’s in my head now, but I can’t call them memories. They’re not lies. Hints, clues, re-enactments, hallucinations, maybe there’s not a word for it. The Germans would have a word for it. They have a word for everything.
Joe shuffles away from me and smiles. “You know what my job used to be in the Navy? I was the guy you never wanted to meet, the guy in charge of DBT. Dastardly, Bastardly Things. I’m about a thousand miles from innocent. I paid for my mistakes. You saw to that. You were the queen of DBT.”
—It doesn’t make sense. None of it. We used to…I mean, you took care of me, you made my legs, you helped me…
“I helped me, too. This friendly chit-chat bullshit…it’s not gonna last, all right?”
—I don’t know what you’re talking about.
“You fucked me over once. Never again. We’re going to reach an understanding befor
e you go on your merry way.”
—But you helped me…you’re like a father to me, Joe, fuck! I just want to know who I am…what I am…what have I done? What have I been doing?
“You remember when you first came to my shop? I thought you stalked me, tracked me down, ready to finish…Soon as I figured out your brains were mush, I had to make some decisions. I was ready to kill you on the spot. But then you started talking about your plans. Showed me the list, which, except for slot number four, has been a tremendous boon to the business of Hooded Jack. I’ve had someone near you every step of the way to make sure you got the job done. Cars on the street. Roosters on their perches, all to see if you still had your old charms. And you lost them all. Not even a hint of your former self. My guys threatened, you hid. They banged up your equipment, you took cover. And rubber bullets? You should have known that’s the kind of shit that would come back to bite you. I needed to make sure that you weren’t who you used to be. You were trying to protect innocent people…and I knew…”
My hands are trembling, my gut heaves, and it’s all beyond tears. It’s the primal call, the knowledge that there are only two things that can fill my void now. And since I can’t kill Joe at the moment, it’s got to be Clearwater. Withdrawal, Hell, this is death if I don’t get something in my veins soon. Sweet Death, Clearwater, morphine, rubbing alcohol, I don’t care.
“Even now,” Joe says, “I feel like killing you. I look at you, and I feel it. What you did…I saved your daughter, and in return,” he taps his false leg, “you ‘helped’ me. Took it easy. So this is me taking it easy on you. You don’t deserve even the sliver of knowledge I’m giving you today. Open the box.”
I’m curled on the floor like a puppy that’s been kicked around. Joe’s not hitting me, but he might as well be. He pushes the box closer, and I cradle it, run my fingers over the lid, around the corners. It’s maddening because it should feel familiar, but it doesn’t. It’s mine. I know it’s mine only because my brain tells me so. I know what was in it, but I don’t remember. I don’t feel it.
I open the lid, stare at the piece of paper. Unfold it. It’s ordered, small typeface covers only the top left corner. This list was made on at least three different typewriters, so I know Joe did it.
10. Vasili
9. Susan Schrader
8. Grace Brooks
7. Shakes
6. Caligula
5. Delia Sugar
4. Hooded Jack I don’t belong here.
3. Dr. Robert Fortescu Finish this.
2.Veronica Madden –—-already gone
1. Focus on what you know.
In the box, tight in the corner is another small scrap of paper. This one yellow and brittle as a dried leaf. I had mistaken it for the lining of the box peeling away.
“Read it,” Joe says.
He takes it out and unfolds it carefully. The paper breaks anyway, and Joe has to lay it out in front of me in quadrants. It’s a half-page of handwritten script, smudged and fading, written in a hurry. It’s slashed with black bars redacting information like a classified government document, and taped to the bottom is one photo of me in a hospital bed. Tubes going everywhere. My head covered in bandages. The back of the photo says, “Jack, Sorry about that. Truce! —D.R.F.”
“That was sent to me after you left the first time,” he says. “That’s what Dr. Robert did to you. You remember something on your own, fine, but I ain’t telling you shit.”
If it was anything else, I’d spit on it and throw it in his face. But it’s a real link to me, about me.
—What else was in this box? I ask.
“You get the answers I give you,” Joe says. “You can read what’s declassified.”
Great. G.I. Joe is in full battle dress. So I read it, hoping that there will be something inside, some small detail, that kicks my brain over so that who I am now can finally meet who I used to be, and we can catch up on old times.
* * *
July 13, 1980 – Dear Diary, Veronica Madden is a monster. It’s all gone to shit. Susan and Dad have tried to keep her out of my life, but she keeps coming back. Veronica finds me, walking home from school, she threatens me, then she asks me if I miss her, if I believe the stories. What the fuck do you say when you find out your own mother is a fucked-up serial killer?
It has to stop. Someone has to stop it. I know this might sound dramatic, but I figure if you’re reading this, then I’m probably dead or near to it. She’s going to track me down. Dad’s work is enough for me to know that the police will be little to no help, since Veronica and the Doctor pretty much own all of the higher-ups. I have to leave what I know where someone will find it.
I made a map the best I could. Took a couple of subway maps and a walking tour guide, put X’s everywhere she told me there were bodies or kills. If I die, ask one of my friends what my favorite book was. Find the book in public view, and you’ll find the answers.
There are bodies, parts of bodies everywhere. Under the garage. In the park. In landfills. She’s shown them to me. Trophies. She always takes trophies. I feel helpless. Susan’s been like a real mother to me, but I know that no amount of wishing is going to help her save me.
The last time I saw her, she tried to hold me, and when I broke away, she told me there was nowhere I could go. Said there wasn’t a corner in the city far enough away that she couldn’t reach.
I need help. Someone help. Help. HELP.
She’s here…
* * *
When I look up from the paper, Joe says, “You gave that to me the night your daughter died. That’s the truth.”
It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Tears crest in my eyes. I pray with every fiber of my being that this thing rolling inside of my head is a genuine memory. My daughter was looking for help. She had nobody else to turn to, and I tried my damndest to answer the call. And still she died. And look what became of me. It doesn’t feel like penance. I can’t find her grave because I don’t know her name or how she died or when. But I tried to stop it. Sometimes you can never apologize enough.
“Sometimes you get stuck, and you need help. Something so bad, you’ll turn anywhere you can.” Joe’s finger traces the ridge of the leg socket, and I can’t tell if he’s lost in thought or if he’s talking about me. “You’re the only one that can get close to the Doctor. The only one he’d possibly let into his inner circle. Even if it was just to see you die. It’s the only thing stopping me from killing you, because I actually think you can do it. I’m gonna let you walk to see him die. But I can’t lose face. So you will be hunted. My dogs will be on your heels. We’ll just be giving you a healthy headstart.”
—Why did you mark it out? What does it say?
“You don’t get all of the answers—”
—What does it say? What the fuck do you want from me?
“Dr. Robert is still alive…”
—I don’t care anymore.
Joe shakes his head. I armwalk closer to him and repeat myself, swinging a punch at his good leg and miss by a mile. He smiles at me and I scream, something primal, fierce.
Pathetic.
“You burning?”
I nod.
Joe reaches into one of the many pockets on his pants and pulls out a small glass jar. From his jacket pocket he pulls a syringe. “I’ll let you get off the compound in one piece. Once you get up, you start running and don’t look back. You find the Doctor and you take care of him.”
—Why did Dr. Robert steal my daughter’s heart? Why did I kill Vasili? Why did I kill anyone? Who am I, Joe, who am I?
He slaps at my arm, trying to raise a vein. “Sweet Death is not easy to come down from. Methadone doesn’t help. Nothing does, really. But you can bury the pain if the medicine is strong enough.”
He pushes the syringe through the little rubber stopper on top, and two small drops of Clearwater squirt out and run down the side of the bottle. My old friend, crying to see me. Scolding me like I was a toddler who got away at the
toy store.
—What about Veronica Madden?
“You’ll never get her. It’s too late. It’s about the Doctor now. You want me to tell you the things you don’t think I know? Dr. Robert Fortescu took your daughter’s heart and showed it to you just before he tried to take yours. He orchestrated the entire night of your husband’s death. And you’re here fucking around hoping to kill someone who was a bit player in your shit show.”
I see my daughter’s face, I hear her voice, and it hurts because I don’t remember her. Really remember. Who she was, what she meant. What anything means. It just hurts. And the Doctor is going to feel it. And Veronica. Hurting them won’t bring my daughter back, but it will make me feel better. And that’s all I want.
All of the demons inside me rear up, fearful at the approach of the cleansing. Images bombard me: the Doctor waving that jar in front of my face. Losing my legs, real. The funeral, the explosion, imagined. Watching my husband burn, no clue. Watching my daughter die…I don’t know how it happened, but I was there for it. I couldn’t stop it. Nobody’s asking questions about her, why isn’t anybody…
I close my eyes as the needle breaks my skin and the temperature in the room drops fifteen degrees and my head empties and my pain stops and I can finally…
Breathe.
And focus.
Close by…
—What did you do to her?
Echoing, somewhere, I’m in a big room…
—Jesus Christ, I didn’t think someone could bleed that much.
—Get her up to Op-06, I have plans.
—They’re going to need a shop vac to pick up what’s left of that Baldacci guy. Cops are all over this thing…
—You don’t tell anyone she’s here. You didn’t see anything. —What do you mean?
And then they’re whispering.
—I mean you were not in this room. This never happened. She doesn’t exist. She is not a patient here.
Miss Massacre's Guide to Murder and Vengeance Page 20
