Pray for the Innocent

by Alan Orloff

  Nevertheless, out of habit, they kept their voices down.

  “How’s your sister?” Slattery asked.

  “Hanging in there. The more time that goes by, the more she’s convinced she saw Tanner in a dream and not in her bedroom.”

  “That’s good. She’s safe now.”

  “Oh yeah. Nice to have the resources of the United States Department of Defense at your back,” Gosberg said, wondering if his sarcasm registered on Slattery’s gung ho psyche. All agreed she should be put in protective custody. When Locraft had suggested a place in Springfield, Gosberg had countered with a better—and safer—place outside of Fort Lauderdale. And he hadn’t stopped countering until Locraft had agreed.

  Slattery flagged down a waitress roaming the floor with a coffee pot in each hand. He ordered a cup, but Gosberg passed, still revved up from the extra large Coke he had downed twenty minutes ago. Instead, Gosberg ordered a lemonade and a grilled cheese sandwich.

  While Slattery placed his order for a cheeseburger, Gosberg checked out the other diners. The closest person to them was a man with a walker parked next to his table, a white ring of hair around a slightly sunburned scalp. Out of listening range, unless his hearing aids were souped up. Gosberg waited for the waitress to retreat out of earshot before continuing. “Good job on the lab ‘evacuation,’ Will. Quick, efficient.”

  “That’s why I get the big bucks. The warehouse is now completely empty. All the proprietary stuff—procedures, lab notes, data, analysis—is locked safely away, and we distributed all the nonspecific equipment to various area labs and into pooled storage. No one raised an eyebrow; to everyone else, we were just another research lab who’d run out of funding.” Slattery fingered his coffee mug but didn’t drink.

  “What about the others?”

  “Officially, we’ve brought Ehreng in to assist us—with his knowledge, he’d be the most helpful. I sent Robinson to the monkey lab at Hopkins. I’m not sure how much he liked working with us, anyway. Finding Imprezza’s body spooked him pretty bad, I think.”

  “It would have spooked anyone, don’t you think? We have to find Dragunov before things get ramped up. If he gains access to a WMD or decides to unleash ricin in the subway or if he has a big stockpile of Bivex-N14, God forbid, this thing jumps to a whole other level. Utter catastrophe,” Gosberg said.

  “What’s the latest on King? Did his interview with the psychologist provide us with anything worthwhile?” Slattery asked. An army psychologist had spent close to two hours interrogating King, trying to wring out every possible piece of relevant information about Dragunov.

  “A lot of stuff got generated. Who knows if it will turn out to be worthwhile? Locraft has his guys feeding it all into that ridiculous mathematical model of his,” Gosberg said. He knew how much boys loved their toys, and the higher the rank of the boy, the higher the price tag of the toy. “Where’s King now?”

  “We took him back to his fleabag motel. This time, we told him we were watching him.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He’s a cantankerous guy, that’s for sure.”

  “Do you think he suspects we’re using him as bait?” Gosberg asked. Several times during the course of the day, he’d wanted to tip King off, but each time, his desire to catch Dragunov trumped his desire to be a decent guy.

  “No. Not that it matters. Even if he knew, what’s he going to do about it? Our guys are good.”

  Gosberg let loose an involuntary sigh, and Slattery picked up on it.

  “That kind of hopelessness doesn’t become you, Peter. We’re scientists. We’ve done something extraordinary here. We have to find Dragunov, alive or dead, to study him. Make improvements for the next round. We need to use every avenue available to achieve that. If we have to use King as bait, then so be it. Greater good and all that.” Slattery paused and slowly rotated his coffee mug three hundred sixty degrees. “Locraft wants me to synthesize some endgame scenarios.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning he wants boundaries put around potential negative long-term outcomes. To contain deleterious effects on the far horizon.”

  “You’ve been reading—and writing—too many government reports. What are you talking about?”

  Slattery pushed aside his mug and leaned forward. “If this thing goes public, and if a lot more people die, Locraft wants deniability.”

  “Don’t you think we’re way past that?”

  “It’s not just our jobs on the line. It’s our lives. In this supersensitive environment, with zealous media watchdogs, if we get blamed for this—for Dragunov’s escape, but more importantly, for not alerting the public right away—we’ll be put on trial and convicted faster than you can say God bless America. Our families will be hung out to dry right alongside us. You’ve got kids; if this thing blows up in our faces, their lives are over. We’ll be the greedy, selfish traitors responsible for the deaths of hundreds.”

  Gosberg blew out his breath, a long, slow exhalation. “Specifically, what does Locraft think we should do?”

  “First and foremost, continue what we’re doing—trying to predict where Dragunov will strike next. Second, he wants to put some distance between us and the project, to the extent possible. And try to lay some evidence that we aren’t trying to cover this up.”

  “Distance ourselves? This project was our idea. We’re the principal investigators. And Locraft was on board from the get-go.”

  “True, but the OATD is a special animal, operating under the radar. Locraft thinks he can obfuscate the truth, spread the blame around within DARPA. He’s aiming to pin most of this on other people, if everything falls right. But . . .” He glanced around. “But if this thing gets too far out of control, if more people die, and the press gets wind of the connections, then he won’t be able to fix anything. And we’re all fucked.”

  Gosberg shook his head, slowly, somberly, feeling as if he’d sold his soul when he’d accepted OATD’s research grant. He should have known better.

  #

  After King had been dropped off by Slattery’s men, he’d taken a quick shower. Being around so many government bureaucrats made his skin itch. Then he’d dug out the envelope of notes and drafts that Amanda had given him the other night, and he’d gotten busy. He wasn’t sure if he believed that the key to corralling Dragunov was buried in his stuff somewhere, but he was going to sift through it all, just in case.

  King spread his papers out on the spare bed. He’d already made an initial, cursory, read through them, and various passages had seemed familiar. The rest, however, could have been written by another man, in another state, with another vision. Of course, it shouldn’t surprise him. He’d worked on this novel some thirty-odd years ago, and he’d written millions of words since, published and unpublished. Hundreds of ideas and plots and characters and settings and incidents had been created, and revised, and deleted in the years since. These days, he had a tough time remembering the lesson plan he’d written the week before.

  He vaguely recalled that Attack on America was one of his cleaner novels. Fewer drafts, less garbage to revise, through and through. But there had been some changes, there were always some changes. Reworking of characters’ motivations. Altering settings to better capture the action. Devising new and improved plot threads. He pulled an early outline from the jumble and read through a few of the middle scenes. Using a copy of the printed book as a reference, he compared the scenes from the various notes and intermediate outlines with the scenes that had survived in the final draft. Many were identical, some were similar, a few were completely different.

  And this didn’t even include all those potential scenes King had rolled over in his mind during the writing process as he lay awake at night, did errands, took a shower. His mind, like most writers, was always churning. Chewing on new snippets of dialogue, mulling over new scene locations, choreographing more exciting action sequences.

  Giving his imagination muscles some exercise.

 
; He wasn’t sure exactly what Gosberg and Slattery were looking for, but he decided to jot down whatever he thought might be relevant and let those guys—and their fancy mathematical model—sort things out on their own.

  He vacillated between the outline and the text, writing down anything that might be useful—names, places, plots. When he’d finished the first outline, he repeated the process for the other seven outlines he’d found.

  After he’d been at it for two solid hours, he set his pen down and reviewed his notes. He’d amassed thirty or more possible “missions” for Dragunov, none of which appeared in the published book. A handful, maybe two handfuls, had been used, in some variant, in a subsequent Nick Nolan book. A couple even looked familiar from one of the movies, which was strange, because he hadn’t written any of the screenplays.

  He read and reread the list, adding notes and clarifications. When his eyes couldn’t focus anymore, he tossed his pen down on the nightstand. He removed his reading glasses, set them on his notepad, and rose, ignoring the creaky complaints of two balky knees. He stretched, trying to work out the kinks in his back.

  Reviewing all his Attack on America materials had awakened a passel of dormant memories. Rina’s beaming smile at his book launch party. The bottle of Scotch Lanny sent him when his book hit number one on the New York Times list. The first time he saw someone reading his book on an airplane.

  Good times. If only he’d handled those good times better and realized how fleeting they would be. Whenever he thought about that period in his life, he always fell back on the saying “Too bad youth is wasted on the young.”

  For the past ten years, though, he had realized how full of shit he really was. He’d been thirty-three years old when Attack was published. Way past the age where you could blame your bad behavior on youth.

  A few years after Rina’s tragic death, King had stuck his hand in the sand that was academia. Surrounded by ivy-covered stone walls and ensconced in his ivory tower, King had tried to escape the violent world. But it touched him even there. Shootings in restaurants and at malls, in movie theaters and places of business. The massacre at Virginia Tech. There was no place to escape the terror, and his part in it, infecting the world with the plague of violence. He thought he’d been insulated from it all these years, but he realized now he’d only had his hands over his eyes. The violence continued, and sadly, it probably would keep on going.

  At the moment, he had the rare opportunity to stop one small part of it, and he was going to try his damnedest.

  King surveyed the mess of papers on the bed before him and sighed. More work to do, but he needed a break and maybe a snack. He and Barbara would often share a piece of pie or a big brownie right before retiring for the night. She always said if she was going to get fat, she was dragging him along with her. He patted his gut. He’d put on a few pounds, eating out and eating junk.

  From the top of the closet, King retrieved the bag of snacks he’d bought and took it back to his “work” bed. A bag of corn chips. A package of Oreos. A four-pack of chocolate pudding. A plastic container of pretzel sticks, the thick kind with lots of salt, arranged end down.

  Those were his choices. Of course, he could always venture out and try to find a place nearby that was still open, but it was late, and after the task force meeting—and subsequent psychologist’s interview—he didn’t feel like moving a muscle. For ten bucks, he could probably persuade someone from the Waffle Shack to schlep something across the parking lot to him. But as hard as it was to admit, he was getting sick of waffles.

  He picked up a little tub of chocolate pudding, peeled back the foil top, then realized he didn’t have a spoon. A minor obstacle. King brought the cup up to his mouth and squeezed half of it in. Another squeeze, followed by a good lick, and he’d emptied the container.

  Back to work.

  But instead of rereading his notes, King’s mind wandered. There he was sitting in a dingy room at the Stop Inn. How far he’d come from his bestseller days, when he’d stay at the Ritz, partying with Connelly and Feinbaum till the wee hours. He still didn’t know what the connection was, not really. That wasn’t quite true. He, Mathias King, was the connection. And he was the reason they were dead, too.

  King pondered that for a while.

  Then his anger grew. He knew he was a target; that’s why he’d gone to ground and was hiding in a motel. And Locraft knew it, too. That’s why he had men watching over him. But surely there was a more secure place they could have stashed him. Surely they could have at least put him in the kind of protective custody they employed for mob informants or state’s witnesses.

  They hadn’t, precisely because those kinds of places were more secure. And that would have messed up their plan—the extra security might have scared Dragunov away.

  They were using King as bait, to lure Dragunov in.

  And they hadn’t told him about their devious little plan. They were playing him for a stooge. They’d probably even staged that whole task force meeting as a way to make him feel like he had some kind of purpose—beyond simply being the worm on the hook.

  King felt like taking off right then. Barge through the door, hop in his car, and tear off into the night. But they’d stop him before he even got out of the parking lot. On several occasions, he’d casually peered out from the curtains, just to make sure they were there.

  And they were. Two men in a government car, parked six spaces down from his. Waiting. Watching.

  Not protecting him, but hoping Dragunov would show up so they could take him out.

  King didn’t like being an expendable pawn in their game of chess. He didn’t like being used.

  Tomorrow was another day, and after a good night’s sleep, he’d do something about it. He was a creative guy, after all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JaVane Robinson eased onto his couch, careful not to tip over his plate of nachos or spill his beer. He’d set aside a couple of hours to watch a sci-fi movie, a tale of space exploration he’d wanted to see but Kyanne hadn’t. She refused to see anything too gory, too juvenile, or too lowbrow—all essential components of the movies he liked. Why had they gotten married, anyhow?

  She’d gone out for dinner and drinks with some friends, a one-Wednesday-night-a-month tradition, and JaVane thought he looked forward to those days more than she did. Now that he’d transferred out of Gosberg’s lab, his quality of life had improved. Less stress. Fewer hours. A more relaxed atmosphere at his new lab. Plus, working with monkeys was more interesting than working with people, in many ways.

  The first day or two after the incident had been rough. That a-hole Locraft just about ripped him a new one, blaming him for what happened. And Slattery wasn’t much better. He hadn’t caused the voltage spike. He’d only been following protocol, checking the generator. It wasn’t as if he’d wandered off his post to grab a smoke or something.

  At least Gosberg backed him up. Sort of. Said things weren’t his fault. Said it could have happened to anyone. Except his cold gray eyes weren’t sympathetic in the least. Gosberg rarely showed his emotions, but after a few weeks working with him, he’d gotten to know when the man was angry. And he’d been very angry.

  Despite the incident, they hadn’t fired him. Just gave him a transfer and told him to keep his mouth shut. When Kyanne heard they’d also given him a small bump in salary, she said how pissed could they have really been?

  He’d just smiled and nodded and changed the subject.

  Of course, he knew why he’d gotten a raise. They were buying his silence with a little hush money. But he was okay with that. Top secret projects came with their own sets of rules, and he knew if he blabbed about what happened, not only would the project get scrubbed—if it hadn’t been already—but ten other worthwhile projects would get shitcanned, too.

  He’d rehashed everything in his head a dozen times, and all options led to the same place. There, on the couch, watching a movie, trying to forget what had transpired at the lab. And more di
sturbingly, what had happened since the incident.

  Robinson needed to shut down his mind before the guilt tore him apart, so he settled in, had a nacho to kick things off, then hit the play button on the remote of his new Blu-ray player. For the next two hours, at least, he wouldn’t be thinking about his part in the fiasco.

  Fifteen minutes into the movie, Robinson had polished off his nachos—and his second beer. The landing party had arrived on the bleak, frozen planet, positive it was uninhabited. Judging from the trailers, Robinson knew they were in for a terrible, and bloody, surprise.

  Gory? Yes.

  Juvenile? Check.

  Lowbrow? Absolutely.

  Perfect.

  A sound from the adjacent kitchen startled him. He hit the pause button, thinking it might have been a scratch or a pop from the Blu-ray disc. He listened for a moment. Nothing. He glanced at his empty plate, deciding whether he should make more nachos or maybe crack open the bag of honey mustard pretzels that had been calling his name for the past two days.

  He heard the sound again. From the kitchen. For sure. Had Kyanne forgotten something? “Hello?”

  No answer.

  He rose and grabbed his plate, fingers grazing some melted cheese that had hardened. Their kitchen faucet dripped a little at times. Had the pile of dirty dishes in the sink shifted under the dripping water? He headed for the kitchen, nerves on edge, still a little jittery from the episode in the lab.

  Just before crossing the threshold into the kitchen, he tried again. “Hello?” Feeling like a wuss, he stopped and craned his head around the corner, steeling himself for a bogeyman, seeing Imprezza’s dead eyes staring at him.

  But there wasn’t a body, wasn’t an intruder. No menace at all, unless you counted a dripping faucet. He relaxed, straightened, and crossed the kitchen to give the faucet handle an extra twist. And where were those pretzels, anyway?

  He sensed the presence a split second before he felt the strong hand clamp down over his mouth from behind. He tried to twist to face his attacker, but a sharp pain split his shoulder blades, and his thoughts turned to baseball, space aliens, and honey mustard pretzels as his world blinked out and he joined Sal Imprezza on that bleak, frozen planet.