Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  “Oh, and one other thing,” the Maori said, as he paused in front of a hatch. “Welcome to America.”

  Dexter stepped into the walk-in closet, flipped a switch, and waited for the can-style recessed lights to come on. His neatly hung clothes made a subtle swishing sound as he pushed them out of the way. The door, which consisted of half-inch maple veneer plywood, whispered as it slid to one side. A sudden rush of cool air invaded the closet. It smelled of plasterboard, carpet, and sealant.

  He felt a momentary sense of pride as he stepped into the hidden room and paused to admire his handiwork. When sober, and in the mood to work, Dexter’s father had been good with his hands. And Dexter had not only learned at the old man’s side, but inherited all of his tools, which he kept in the shop just off the parking garage. But some, those that Dexter required to finish the job, lay waiting at his feet.

  The viewing room, as the businessman liked to think of it, was six feet long and three feet deep. A large portion of the wall opposite the secret door resembled a window, but actually consisted of a see-through mirror, similar to those used in police stations. It looked out into 6A’s master bedroom—a significant modification that had never been discussed with Dexter’s architect, the general contractor, or the city’s building inspectors, all of whom had plans that showed 6A’s bedroom as being three feet deeper than it actually was. It was sick, Dexter knew, but harmless. After all, the businessman told himself, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

  The room was something of a gamble of course, since there was no way to be sure that the people who rented the apartment would be worth watching, but that was part of the fun. If not the first renters, then the second, or the third. Eventually, if he waited long enough, Dexter knew his investment would pay off.

  But first there was work to do. Rather than mess around with complicated electronics, Dexter had rigged the overhead ducts to conduct sound, but the system worked in reverse, too. That meant he would need to be quiet when he used the viewing room or his neighbors would hear him. And that was why it was so important to finish the space before someone took the apartment. All Dexter had to do was install the trim around the window, paint the walls, and lay some leftover carpet. He’d be done within two hours, knock off, and head for the gym. The businessman whistled while he worked.

  In spite of the fact that Greg Aspee was alive, he very much wished that he wasn’t—first because of the pain caused by the second-and third-degree burns that covered nearly seventy percent of his body, second because he felt guilty about what he and the others had done, and third because Marci had abandoned him.

  That’s the way it felt anyway, even though the would-be terrorist knew she was dead, just like he was supposed to be dead, except that he wasn’t. Because unlike Larry, who always knew what to do, he was what his father always referred to as “…a worthless piece of shit.” Now, laying on his back in Harborview’s Burn Unit, Aspee had been reduced to little more than a carefully tended thing, a project people were forced to work on, but didn’t really want to, having seen the thing kill an innocent woman on TV.

  Further distancing the thing from the people around him was the fact that everyone who entered Aspee’s room was required to wear a cap, mask, and surgical gown in order to reduce the possibility of infection and thereby keep the thing alive long enough to kill it, because Washington State had the death penalty and there were plenty of people who believed that it should be a prime candidate. Or maybe the Feds would get to try it first. It hardly mattered to Aspee.

  Some of the people came to renew the thing’s IV, or to apply dressings, or to dispense medications. Other people came to ask the thing questions. They wanted to know why the triad lived together, why they wanted to die, and what they hoped to accomplish by murdering innocent people. Some of the visitors threatened the thing with the death penalty, or tried to organize the thing’s defense, or claimed that the thing could go to heaven if only it would repent.

  Still other people were noticeable by their absence. His father, who had told one of the television reporters that his son was “one sick puppy,” his mother, who couldn’t afford the trip up from Florida, and Marci, who had gone to Paradise without him. The only friends the thing could rely on were the medications that lessened his pain—plus the occasional release granted it by sleep.

  The thing’s left foot started to itch. A hand started to reach, metal rattled, and the chain brought the motion to a sudden halt. The thing swore and wished it were dead.

  The elevator stopped at the garage level, produced a loud bong, and prepared to rise. The doors slid open. Kissler gestured for Rossi to precede him and waited for her to do so. Both said “Hello” to one of the Bureau’s support personnel before passing between a pair of parked cars and out into a pull-through. It was raining outside and wet tire tracks led toward the rear of the garage. Kissler found himself lagging behind and hurried to catch up. The female agent’s heels made a soft clacking sound as they hit the concrete. “Hey, Rossi, hold on…. My car’s over there.”

  “And mine’s over here,” the agent replied evenly. “Feel free to follow me if you wish.”

  “I thought we were going to lunch.”

  “And we will—right after we visit Harborview.”

  “Harborview?” Kissler asked, his normally smooth forehead furrowed with worry. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You’re on administrative leave.”

  “Was on administrative leave,” Rossi corrected him. “I came off this morning. Remember? Anyway, if you don’t want to come you don’t have to, but I have some questions for Aspee.”

  “But what about his lawyer?” Kissler asked desperately as they passed between a couple of cars and he was forced to follow her again. “Shouldn’t he be there?”

  Rossi stopped suddenly and turned. “Yes, she should be there, if Aspee wants her to be. But first I have to ask him don’t I? And, given the fact that he already agreed to see other law enforcement officers sans attorney, he may do so again.”

  Kissler was about to reply when Rossi took a full step forward and entered his personal space. Their noses were only six inches apart and her eyes were locked with his. “Listen, Kevin, Haxton told you to keep an eye on me didn’t she? Not just my ass, which seems to hold a special fascination for you, but my actions as well. She told you to make sure I stay out of trouble, or words to that effect, and you, being a spineless wimp, agreed. Right or wrong?”

  “Wrrrong,” Kissler stuttered. “It wasn’t like that! She said I should take care of you, let her know if you had any problems, and….”

  “Don’t embarrass yourself,” Rossi interrupted. “Come, stay, do whatever you want.” And with that she turned toward her car. Kissler considered his options, chose the one that was best for his career, and hurried to catch up.

  Although Americo Lopa wasn’t adverse to committing murder in order to further the cause, he preferred to let others handle the wet work for him, thereby maintaining a certain amount of emotional distance from the “corrective” aspect of the movement. Besides, forensic science had improved a great deal over the last twenty years, which meant that a single hair, fingerprint, or cell phone call could result in an arrest.

  However, balanced against the risks connected with homicide were the risks associated with leaving Aspee alive. There weren’t many people who could describe the terrorist but Aspee was one of them and that made him a threat.

  Of course there was the distinct possibility that Aspee had already told the authorities everything he knew in return for a deal. But, given the fact that no description had been released to the public, Lopa didn’t think so. That’s why the terrorist had gone to all the trouble of making himself over to look like a female janitor. Security was tight, and there were plenty of cameras, but he had the solution: An ID, stolen from an orderly who had been foolish enough to leave the card, her cell phone, and a copy of Parasite Rex on a table while she went to refill her coffee cup.

  Lopa had appropriate
d all three items the day before, wiped them clean, and tossed the two he didn’t need into a trash receptacle. The orderly would report the missing card, but not till Monday, and it wouldn’t make any difference by then.

  The ID, complete with a shot of his new female persona, wasn’t perfect but it was plenty good enough to fool anyone who failed to examine it closely. Lopa smiled at a doctor, pushed the janitorial cart onto the elevator, saw that the floor he wanted had already been selected, and nodded to the elderly couple who stood on the other side of the car. They smiled in return. The male visitor thought he detected an odor that didn’t fit the situation, but hospitals are rife with strange odors, so he didn’t pursue the matter. Later that evening, when he sat down to watch the news, he would realize what the mysterious substance was: Gasoline.

  Rossi steered the car out of the garage, turned left onto Spring, and headed up toward Capital Hill. She wanted to turn right after that but couldn’t due to construction—the story of her life, her recent life at any rate, since her fifteen minutes of fame had done nothing to smooth things with Ed. There had been an unexpected side benefit, however which derived from the fact that some of her sudden celebrity had rubbed off onto Missy. The previously canceled sleepover had been rescheduled, even more girls wanted to come, and preteen life was momentarily good. If she could find time to clean the house, if she could come up with decorations, and if she could handle all the other details that Vanessa was so good at.

  “So,” Kissler said out of nowhere, “what was it like?”

  Rossi forced herself to change mental gears. “What was what like?”

  “The shooting review.”

  Rossi glanced at her temporary partner. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. There was one guy who thought I should have knee-capped the terrorists rather than go for head shots, but the rest were pretty reasonable. The video made me look like Dirty Harry—but it also served to verify my version of what took place. That’s why I’m back on the street.”

  “Oh,” Kissler said thoughtfully, “I thought they were tougher than that.”

  “Sorry,” Rossi replied, as she took a left hand turn, and headed up hill. “Maybe they’ll apply the thumb screws next time.”

  Kissler wanted to tell Rossi that he truly admired what she’d done that night, that he had cashed in some hard-earned suck points in order to be partnered with her, and that she had a great ass. But he couldn’t figure out a way to say any of those things without getting himself into trouble. With that in mind he chose to remain silent, which, based on recent experience, seemed like a wise decision indeed.

  Lopa stepped off the elevator, paused to get his bearings, and pushed the cart down the corridor. A uniformed member of the Seattle Police Department had been assigned to guard Aspee’s room. The hospital had provided him with a chair, some old magazines, and a small table to put them on. His radio burped gibberish as a patrol unit responded to a car prowl near Pioneer Square. He had gray hair, a bit of a paunch, and the relaxed demeanor of a man who was no longer bucking for sergeant. He heard the cart coming, looked up, and smiled. He liked people and wanted them to like him. “Hi, how ya do’in?”

  Lopa had practiced both the voice and the slightly stilted version of English that his mother spoke. “Hello. I am fine thank you. I was told to clean this room.”

  The policeman wore a name tag. It read “Prosser.” He looked surprised. “Really? Benny was here about an hour ago.”

  Lopa shrugged. “Somebody spilled something.”

  Prosser eyed the badge that hung from Lopa’s neck, made a note on the pad that he kept at his side, and smiled encouragingly. “Okay, go ahead.”

  Lopa nodded and was reaching for the doorknob when the policeman said, “Wait a minute. You need to suit up.”

  Lopa swore silently, wondered how he could have been so stupid as to forget, and turned to a large cart loaded with hats, masks, and gowns. The error might have been fatal had he been trying to impersonate a nurse, but janitorial staff weren’t expected to know such things, so the cop was cutting him some slack.

  Five minutes later Lopa entered the room. He wore a hat, mask, gown, and latex gloves. Aspee would have slept around the clock had his body been capable of doing so, but there was a limit to how long he could remain unconscious, and the staff never left him alone for long. That’s why the terrorist was in a half-conscious reverie when the door swung open and then clicked closed. He heard the squeak of an unoiled wheel, followed by the gentle rustle of a gown, and a whispered male voice. “Greg? How’s it going?”

  There was something familiar about the voice—but Aspee couldn’t place it. “About the same as yesterday…. Dr. Schultz? Is that you?”

  “No,” Lopa replied, “it’s Marcos.”

  Aspee tried to see but couldn’t. “Marcos? No shit? They let you in?”

  “Sort of,” Lopa replied cautiously, “under a different name.”

  “I didn’t tell them anything,” Aspee said eagerly, “nothing at all. And I won’t either.”

  “That’s good,” Lopa replied somberly, “very good.”

  “I need a favor though,” Aspee said desperately, “and I need it real bad.”

  “Yeah?” Lopa said as he bent over and removed a one-gallon plastic bottle from the cart’s bottom shelf. “What’s that?”

  Aspee tried to roll onto an elbow and winced as the newly crusted burns broke open. He started to weep. His chains rattled. “I want you to kill me.”

  “Hey, that’s great!” the other terrorist replied cheerfully as he opened the bottle. “Because that’s what I plan to do.”

  Aspee smelled the characteristic odor of gasoline, realized what it meant, and tried to scream. But Lopa jammed a cleaning rag into the terrorist’s mouth before he could do so. A piece of pre-cut duct tape served to hold the gag in place.

  Aspee was fumbling for the call button by that time, but Lopa made a clucking noise and pulled the device away. “Sorry, Greg. I wish I could handle this with a bullet or something, but the whole point is to send the establishment a wake-up call. The fact that you were determined to sacrifice yourself, and that the ELA is so powerful that it can reach inside the hospital to help you, sends a powerful message. Just like the suicide bombers in the Middle East. Now those guys have balls! Or had balls, before they blew themselves up.

  “It’s all about fear Greg,” Lopa continued conversationally. “Fear that will slow their research, fear that will keep the sheeple awake at night, and fear that will influence who they vote for. Now lie back and take it easy…the whole thing will soon be over.”

  The gasoline felt cold, very cold, as Lopa slopped it over Aspee’s nearly naked body. The pain came next as the harsh substance flooded the burn patient’s open wounds and set them on fire. Aspee was thrashing by that time, jerking at his chains, and screaming into the gag.

  Lopa ignored Aspee as he opened another jug of gasoline and doused not only the patient, but the bed. That was the most dangerous moment because a single spark could trigger an explosion that would kill them both. But there was no spark, which meant Lopa could toss the empty bottle into a corner, and open the door a crack. The falsetto came more naturally now. “Officer Prosser? I need your help.”

  The police officer caught a whiff of gasoline, frowned, and dropped the month-old copy of Time magazine. The cop was pretty mobile for a guy with a pot belly and was on his feet in no time. Prosser had the door open and had just started to speak when Lopa grabbed hold of the police officer’s shirt and pulled him into the room. Prosser went for his side arm at that point, but the terrorist was ready, and brought a piece of pipe down on the top of the cop’s head.

  The policeman was already falling when Lopa struck him twice more, laid the length of pipe on the floor, and checked the $20.00 Timex Ladies Gold watch that was strapped to his wrist. A full ten minutes would pass before the trigger was scheduled to arrive, plenty of time for the fumes to accumulate while he left the building. Lopa walked over t
o the bed. “Hey, Greg, say hello to Marci for me.”

  Aspee thrashed back and forth and made gagging noises.

  The terrorist laughed and left the room.

  Aspee heard the door close and pulled at his chains. They rattled so he did it again. Maybe someone would hear…maybe someone would arrive to save him. But somehow, deep in Aspee’s heart, he knew that they wouldn’t. The seconds ticked away.

  Mary Marie Brenner paused, placed the cake on a deep windowsill, and checked her watch. As with all surprise parties timing was important. Her contact had stressed that—and she didn’t want to screw up. In spite of the fact that she had participated in the WTO demonstrations, and even spent a night in jail, the inner core of the group to which Brenner belonged had never fully accepted her. Perhaps that was because her father was vice president of marketing for one of the very companies that her friends held responsible for the economic and cultural colonization of the third world. Or maybe it was her tendency to come on a little too strong. Whatever the reason, she had yet to bond with the other members of the group and desperately wanted to do so. Now, with the invitation to play a key role in a counter-culture celebration of Aspee’s birthday, it seemed that she had finally been accepted.

  Brenner removed the book of matches from her pocket, lit each of the twenty-four candles, and continued down the hall. A man and a woman were approaching her but they looked like visitors. Brenner saw an empty chair, a cart loaded with gowns, and the isolation sign. But where was the crowd? The other members of the group? The people from the media? Perhaps it was a large room and the guests were inside. Brenner imagined how impressive her entrance would be and was singing, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” as she approached the door.

  Rossi saw the empty chair, wondered where the cop was, and began to walk faster. In the meantime Brenner balanced the cake on one hand—and opened the door with the other. “FBI!” Rossi announced. “Hold it right there!”