by Alan Orloff
She eyed him. She seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to his state of being, sort of like how a dog smells fear. He smiled and tried to exude happiness. “You look tired. You should go on a vacation. How about next month? Go on a cruise or something.” She put a bag of Red Delicious apples in the fridge.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Maybe, maybe, maybe. You need to commit to it, or you’ll never do it. I know you.” She put a few cans of some kind of beans into the cabinet above the microwave. He didn’t even like beans, but she kept saying he needed more fiber in his diet.
“You’re right, as usual.”
Amanda smiled and resumed putting the groceries away. “I got you some nice cantaloupes, Dad. Don’t let them rot like last time, okay?”
“Sure, sure.”
He leaned against the counter, watching his daughter move in the kitchen with graceful efficiency. Just like her mother. King would be lucky to put the groceries away without dropping something on the floor. And usually it was the eggs.
Amanda finished unloading one bag and folded it up. Then she began on the second. Bananas, plums, a small sack of potatoes. Where were the frozen pizzas, potato chips, and six-packs? “Seriously, Dad. You need to get away. You haven’t gone anywhere since Barbara died. And that was two years ago.”
“Enough about me,” King said. If he didn’t steer the conversation, Amanda would nag him for an hour about all the things he should be doing. “How’s the landscaping business?”
“Growing,” Amanda answered, as she did every time King asked her. Their little joke. “But I’m not going to let you change the subject.” She dug into the bottom of the bag and removed two packages of whole-wheat spaghetti. Those went into the cabinet, next to the beans. More fiber.
“So how ’bout them Nats?”
“I wish you’d take me seriously, Dad.”
“I do, honey. You have no idea.”
“Then do me a favor and at least consider going away? How about a nice resort in Florida? Get some sun. Play a little golf.”
“Florida? In the summer? I don’t think so. Besides, I gave up golf. Self-flagellation wasn’t my thing.”
“Well then, maybe you can scout things out for when you retire.”
King snorted in response. Every time Amanda brought up retirement, he bristled. What was he going to do when he retired? Sit around and vegetate? That’s pretty much what he did now, with an occasional class or faculty meeting thrown in. Now, at least, he wasn’t entirely surrounded by doddering fools—just undergraduate fools. And there was a big difference; the undergraduates didn’t need absorbent undergarments.
Amanda finished with the food, then folded up the bags neatly, making sure the creases were sharp, and stacked them on the counter. Sometimes King wondered how they could be related. “I’d love to stay and continue our fascinating discussion, but I’ve got yoga, and if I don’t get going, I’m going to be late.”
King pecked her on the forehead. “Thanks for the food delivery. Without you, I’d starve.”
“No you wouldn’t. You might weigh three hundred fifty pounds eating takeout all the time, but you wouldn’t starve.” She began to collect her things, then spun around. “Oh. Almost forgot. I found this on the attic floor. It must have fallen out of that stuff you took the other night.” She produced a large envelope from underneath her purse on the counter and handed it to him. “It’s an early version of Attack, I think.”
King took the kraft envelope, forcing himself to hang on despite trembling fingers. Would this be the key to their hunt for Dragunov? “Thanks.”
“What are you doing anyway? I thought you gave up on all that thriller stuff. ‘Wasn’t worthy of your time and effort’ was how I think you put it.”
He thought of his last call with Lanny and the offer for the graphic novel. No matter how hard he tried to put it all behind him, it kept coming back, like a bad burrito. “Yeah, well. Just tidying some stuff up. Thanks for the groceries.”
“Anytime, Dad. Do me a favor and eat them, okay?” She kissed him again, then breezed off, leaving behind the scent of floral shampoo.
King hunted through the kitchen for some breakfast, skipping over all the fresh fruit Amanda had just loaded into the fridge, opting for a toasted bagel instead, with plenty of cream cheese. She’d brought in the newspaper, but he skipped that, too, not wanting to read any depressing stories. He was too lazy—or depressed or preoccupied or pick-your-malady—to make some coffee.
He nibbled at his bagel, staring into space. Maybe he should think about retiring. Playing golf. Hitting the early bird specials. Wearing checkered Bermuda shorts with black socks and sandals. Withering away, out of sight, out of mind, in sunny, bug-infested southern Florida.
Feh.
He stuffed the last bite of bagel into his mouth and shuffled off to the shower. Then he got dressed and fired up his laptop. Checked his email. Spam, spam, and more spam. And an email from Emily. I have some important information for you. I left a message on your cell, but . . .
That was all the email said. No important information, just an indication that some important information existed.
King sighed. He dug his phone out of his messenger bag and retrieved Emily’s voice mail message. Unfortunately, she didn’t leave any details there, either. He called Emily.
“Good morning, Professor. I see you got my message,” Emily said.
“Yes, yes, both of them. What’s the important information?”
“Um, maybe we should talk in person.”
King glanced at the clock over the stove. Still plenty of time before he needed to leave for the funeral. And he could use a good cup of coffee. “Okay. Meet me at the Percup in fifteen minutes.”
#
King sat by the window of the off-campus coffee shop, nursing his cup of joe and watching a couple of kids at a nearby table finish their breakfast. He didn’t recognize them, but they were undoubtedly Mason undergrads. The Percup catered to college students on limited budgets who needed Wi-Fi almost as much as their morning dose of caffeine. Faculty and staff also frequented the place, and King had participated in many impromptu discussions over the years about campus politics, the role of education in society, and the Skins’ prospects for the coming year. It was truly a collegial atmosphere, in every sense of the word.
The bell over the door chimed, and Emily burst through, almost knocking over a lady about to exit. The lady juggled her tray of coffee, giving Emily the stink eye. Emily, oblivious, stopped to scan the room, and when she spotted King, she came bouncing over and dumped her backpack on an empty chair. Then she plopped down in another chair, across from King.
“Are you going to get something?” King asked.
“Nope. Already ate. Three chocolate chip toaster waffles. With syrup.”
Seemed about right for Emily. “Okay, then, what’s so important? Did someone from administration complain about our supply requisition again?”
Emily shook her head. “No, nothing like that. It’s . . . It’s . . .”
King’s nerves jangled. Something about her tone. “What?”
“He works in a secret warehouse. And he drives a black Chevy sedan.”
“Who does?”
“I can show you where, if you’d like. It might be hard to find on your own.”
King had a bad feeling about the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway. “Who are you talking about?”
“Dr. Gosberg.” There was a pause. “I, uh, I followed him.”
King took a deep breath. “Emily. I only asked you to google him. This isn’t some sort of fun adventure.” Actually, it had the beginnings of one of the crazy thrillers King had penned, but he didn’t say that to Emily, knowing how that might seem like an even bigger enticement.
“I know. But researching someone on the internet can only go so far.” She paused again. “There weren’t any signs or anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“No signs on the
warehouse. You’d think a legitimate business would have signs, right?”
“Yes, I would think that.” When King had first met Gosberg, he’d been put off by the man, felt suspicious. He should learn to trust his first impressions more. He took a breath, trying to tamp down his curiosity, but failed. “Did the place have a secret government lab kind of vibe?”
Emily nodded and flashed a knowing smile. “Once a thriller writer, always a thriller writer, huh, Professor King?”
“No, that’s not—”
“But you’re exactly right. It was totally secret government lab all the way. No signs, just the address numbers. Dark windows. Hiding in plain sight. I tried to peek inside, but I couldn’t see anything past the tall, creepy guy in the doorway. Even the parking lot was fenced in.” The words spilled out of Emily’s mouth like prisoners on a jailbreak. “I got a few license plate numbers off the cars in the lot I could see from the gate, but . . . Then I went home and spent about two hours surfing the net, but I couldn’t find anything at all associated with that address. It’s as if it didn’t even exist. I mean—”
King interrupted. “Whoa. Back up. You tried to get in?”
She offered King a sheepish smile. “I don’t like doing things halfway. I figured the more information I could get for you, the better. I’m sorry I didn’t do such a good job, Professor. I know this could be important.”
“First of all, don’t feel bad. I’m getting the feeling we’re dealing with some pretty slick operators.” He leaned forward. “Second of all, I don’t want you involved in this anymore. Forget all about Dr. Gosberg. Forget about secret government labs. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for it all.”
“Um, there’s more.” Emily wiggled in her chair, a release of nervous energy.
King pursed his lips. If he encouraged her, would she keep after it, like a dog on a chew toy? But if she had some important information . . . He evaluated the trade-off for a second. “Okay, Emily. Tell me what else you have.”
“A friend of mine’s brother works at the Pentagon. He gave me ‘read-only’ privileges on some budget documents.”
“Sounds fascinating, but I don’t want you getting in any trouble.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to get into any trouble, Professor. There’s no need to worry about me. I’m a big girl.”
King didn’t actually see steam coming out of her nostrils, but the room seemed to get warmer. “Okay. What did you find?”
“Just about every other word was blacked out. Redacted. But I was able to discern the word DARPA linked to Gosberg’s name.”
King tapped his chin. “That’s a defense research agency. What does that have to do with tracking down fugitives?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“If so much stuff was redacted, then it’s got to be highly confidential, right? Super secret military stuff or high-level espionage or something like that.”
“Makes sense. So?”
“Then they’re not going to be telling you the truth. It doesn’t matter what they say, it’s baloney. All crapola, Professor King.”
“It’s nice to see you’ve finally developed your BS detector. That’s something many people twice your age have never done.” He paused, considering. “But this is no longer any concern of yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Emily. Promise me you’ll drop this now. I’ve got what I need, and although you’re a great researcher, there’s absolutely no reason for you to pursue this.”
King’s plea was met by silence.
“Emily? Promise?”
“I promise, Professor King.”
King stared at her a moment, picturing Emily’s fingers crossed behind her back as she promised. “Okay, I need you to prepare to lead the workshop this afternoon in case I don’t make it back in time.”
“Where are you going?”
“To a funeral. An old friend.” King sighed. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Emily said, scooping up her backpack and shrugging it on. “See you later.”
The moment Emily was gone, King yanked open his messenger bag and pulled out a bottle of antacid pills. Gobbled four and washed the mess down with the last few gulps of lukewarm coffee. With each passing year, the number of funerals King attended increased, but there was one that came screeching to mind every time the f-word came up.
Rina’s.
He’d never forget sitting there, in the front row, embracing a red-eyed Amanda in her black dress, knobby knees shaking.
Chapter Twelve
The funeral service was lovely, if you were into things like that. King wasn’t, but he felt good seeing others comforted. Two of Feinbaum’s three ex-wives were there; luckily, there were no catfights or other inappropriate outbursts. King recognized a handful of government drones from back in the day, along with a couple of Feinbaum’s old running buddies, and he nodded his greetings but didn’t speak to anyone either before or during the service.
Afterward, many of the people followed the hearse for the graveside service, their cars leaving the funeral home’s parking lot in a somber caravan, headlights barely visible in the bright sun. King stayed behind and waited just outside the doors for Theresa Danbury to emerge. He’d spotted her sitting alone toward the front of the sanctuary, her long elegant neck unmistakable, even from twenty-five yards and after twenty-five years.
Theresa had worked with James Connelly, the third member of the King-Feinbaum-Connelly triumvirate. While Feinbaum was a big cheese in government circles, Connelly was a larger-than-life DC investigative reporter—think Woodward or Bernstein—and he’d been instrumental in providing a unique perspective for King’s thrillers. Connelly also had written a few bestselling novels himself. He’d endorsed King’s book, coining the unforgettable—and now regrettable—tagline in his blurb: “Thrills, chills, and outrageous kills.” The tagline that would stick with King forever, like herpes.
For the next few years, Connelly had taken King under his wing, and they’d become frequent drinking—and hell-raising—buddies. King flashed back to some wild, crazy nights. And weekends. And one bizarre week in Indianapolis. Or was it Minneapolis? Connelly sure could put it away, and unfortunately, King tried all too often to keep up with his idol.
Feinbaum was no slouch in the hell-raising department, either.
King had learned from two masters.
Theresa shielded her eyes as she emerged from the dark building and paused for a moment, evidently waiting for them to adjust.
“Hello, Theresa,” King said, stepping out of the cooler shadows by the brick wall.
She canted her head toward King and squinted. “Mathias?” A wide grin spread on her still almost-perfect face. “Mathias King, in the flesh.”
Anyone else and King would have gone in for a hug. But Theresa wasn’t a hugger—or at least she hadn’t been, not in public. He knew she saved her passion for the moment the doors closed. He might be past his prime, but his memory hadn’t deserted him altogether, especially when recalling certain things. Theresa had been a very enthusiastic lover—and quite limber, too. “It’s great to see you. You look fantastic, I might add.”
Theresa didn’t speak, just sized him up with a small enigmatic grin. After a moment’s inspection, she nodded her head and started walking. King followed. She proceeded down the sidewalk toward the parking lot, heels clacking, then veered to her left, crossed twenty feet of close-cropped grass, and took a seat on a bench next to a small flower garden. King sat beside her, noticing a small plaque on the bench that read “In Loving Memory of Ann Jamison.”
Now that they were alone, Theresa’s smile seemed to grow. Of course, it could have been King’s wishful thinking. “Mathias King. It’s been a long time. You still an asshole?”
King laughed. “I was an asshole, wasn’t I? And I had my head up my butt too far to realize it.”
“I think your little crew elevated h
ell-raising to new heights. Or new depths. You guys were quite something, all right.” One eyebrow arched. “Of course, you and me were quite something, too. For a while anyway.”
“Yeah.” Their relationship had lasted a little over year. Unfortunately, they’d kept sleeping with each other for another four tumultuous months. King had met her at some publishing fete honoring that year’s bestsellers. One thing had led to another, fueled by an excess of booze. Those had been dark days, and nights—at least from what he could remember.
This had been a year or so after Rina had been murdered, and Theresa had been separated at the time, but their affair had put the final nail in her marriage. King had heard she’d gotten remarried shortly thereafter, although he hadn’t been invited to the wedding.
“Horrible about Fred,” Theresa said.
King shook off the memories. “Murder was way down my list of ‘Ways Fred Feinbaum Would Die.’ I figured he would go down in a conflagration of self-destructive flames.”
“Knowing Fred, he probably pissed off the wrong person.” She cocked her head funny. “How about you? You still pissing everyone off?”
He stared across a gravel path at the garden. Bright red flowers reached skyward. “No. My wild days are behind me.”
“Still drinking?”
“No. Not like before. I’m not doing anything bad anymore.”
“I’m glad. When you got like that, it was pretty scary.”
King nodded. He’d scared himself plenty back in the day. Back when he thought he was invincible. Now he knew better. “I couldn’t have rehabilitated myself without the help of my wife. My second wife, Barbara.”
“She must be a strong woman,” Theresa said, but her soft tone belied the words. She genuinely cared for him. Always did, despite how he’d often treated her.
“She passed away two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” Now Theresa stared out across the garden. A moment later, she turned back to him. “My youngest just graduated from Rutgers.”
“Congratulations. I hope he’s not an English major.”
“Business. Real savvy. We weren’t that mature when we were his age, were we?”
