by Roy Johansen
Hound Dog dropped to her knees and screamed.
Another officer tried to lift her up, but she shook free and scrambled toward Mark’s motionless body. She grabbed his hands.
Ice cold.
Not him, not Mark. Jesus Christ almighty, not Mark.
Come on, honey. Please…don’t die, don’t leave.
She sobbed, bunching the bloodstained shirt in her hands.
A beefy officer knelt beside her. “Ma’am, an ambulance is on the way. We’re gonna help him, but you have to step back. Okay?”
Her face was so twisted in anguish, she could barely see through the narrow slits between her eyelids. “Please, you’ve got to let me—”
She couldn’t make herself choke out the words. She finally let the officer pull her away as she heard the approaching sirens of a paramedic unit.
—
In the hours that followed, Hound Dog remembered only that she talked to a great many people about the same things over and over. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, police officers…No one was listening. She kept telling them they had to save Mark, but they were ignoring her.
He went into surgery at five thirty-five A.M. While she waited, police officers took her statement. A picture of the event began to take shape: Someone had broken into the trailer and was surprised by Mark coming home from work at four-fifteen A.M. They scuffled, and during the fight Mark was shot once in the stomach with a handgun. The assailant escaped to an unseen car just outside the trailer park.
Most of this information was gleaned from an insomniac neighbor who heard the gunshot and squealing tires. The neighbor investigated, found Mark, and phoned the police.
Thank God, Hound Dog thought. Otherwise, Mark might not have been found until daybreak. Then it would have been too late.
It might still be too late, she thought.
“No news is good news,” one of the nurses quipped, and Hound Dog supposed she was right. But as the morning wore on, she looked toward every person in a scrub suit for some sign, any sign.
None looked back.
—
Ken was eating lunch at the corner deli when the television blared news of the shooting. He almost missed the story entirely, registering it only when he glanced up and saw the mobile home he had visited the evening before. There it was: the two plastic lawn chairs, the plant boxes, the awning…
He rushed from the deli and jumped into his car. His first fear was that something had happened to Jessica Barrett, but the gunshot victim was actually a twenty-three-year-old male in critical condition at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Apparently it was a botched burglary attempt.
Apparently.
Ken arrived at St. Vincent’s, parked his car, and followed a confusing series of colored stripes on the hospital floor until he arrived at Intensive Care. He found Hound Dog alone in the waiting area. She looked like she should be in a hospital bed herself, he thought.
“I heard what happened, Jessica.”
“I told you to call me Hound Dog,” she said dully. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I thought this might somehow be related.”
“Related to what?”
“To what we were talking about last night.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was. I’m just thinking—”
“Goddammit, it was a burglar! That’s all. There’ve been four other trailers broken into during the last month.”
“Okay, fine,” he said, trying to soothe her. “What was stolen?”
“Nothing. Mark surprised whoever it was before they could take anything.”
Ken sat next to her. She had started crying. Now her head bobbed wearily and finally came to rest on his shoulder.
“Do you have any family?” he asked.
“They live in Illinois, and I can’t call them.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m supposed to be in North Carolina. My parents think I’m an English lit major at Duke University.”
—
He stayed until she had pulled herself together and convinced him she was okay. So different from the tough number he had met the night before, Ken thought. Poor kid.
He drove downtown as he considered the unpleasant possibilities. If he found out about Hound Dog’s investigation of Myth, anyone could. The scanner geek had not been exactly secretive about her actions, and her carelessness just may have gotten her boyfriend shot.
It was time to confront Myth.
Ken arrived at the closest of the courthouse parking lots, and after some driving around, he found her car. He parked, waited, and watched. Within half an hour Myth stepped into the lot and headed for her car. Ken jumped out and approached her.
“Hi,” she said nervously. “What’s wrong?”
“You tell me.”
He filled her in on Gant’s searching his apartment, which Myth quickly dismissed as an act of desperation. She was also unconcerned about the statement by Valez’s widow.
“Hearsay,” she assured him. “Most of it is inadmissible. Anything else?”
“Yeah. How come I’ve never been introduced to Madeleine Walton?”
He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he had expected, but there was no gasp, no jerking of the head, not even an arched eyebrow. She looked no more disturbed than she would if he had asked for the time.
“Because Madeleine Walton doesn’t exist anymore.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. How do you know about this?”
“I have my sources.”
“I need to know.”
“There are some things I need to know. Like who you really are. What you’re hiding from. I’m not going to let you dick me around.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“I think it’s a distinct possibility. Start talking.”
“Ken, not here. We can meet someplace else. Maybe in a couple of days—”
“Bullshit! Tell me right here, right now. Or I go to the police and spill everything.”
“You won’t do that.”
“The shit’s starting to come down on me hard, and I’m not going to stand here without an umbrella. Tell me what I need to know right now, then we’ll talk about what I will or will not do.”
She cast a nervous glance around. “I’ve been honest with you, Ken. I told you I’m not happy about the person I used to be. I—I killed a man. In self-defense. There was a scandal…. Some people thought it was premeditated.”
“But you were never charged.”
“You know about this too?”
“Yes.”
“Some reporters started dredging up my parents’ death, speculating that maybe I killed them too. Can you believe that? I knew if ever I was going to make something of my life, I had to be someone else. So I left Madeleine Walton behind and became Myth Daniels.”
“Myth,” he said. “Appropriate name you chose for yourself.”
“None of the top law firms would have hired a woman with my past. That’s one of the reasons I struck out on my own. I was constantly afraid I’d be discovered.”
“And now you have been.”
“How did you find this out?”
“I think I’ve had about enough. I want off this ride.”
“Before you make up your mind…we should give some more attention to that idea you had.”
“What idea was that?”
“Looking for the money.”
Myth raked her hair back, flipping it over her shoulder. “Enough time has gone by that I think it’s all right. I have some ideas.”
Now she had some ideas. When he started to back away, she began to come closer. “Let’s hear them,” he said.
“I need time to come up with a plan. Can we meet in a few days?”
Part of him wanted to tell her to go to hell. But only part of him.
He nodded. “When?”
“I’ll call and let you know. We’ll have to
be careful though. You’re still getting a lot of attention from the police.”
—
“Bumping off customers can’t be good for business.”
The receptionist turned off her television as Ken walked in. She was the only one in the building who dared mention it to him, though he knew it was on everybody’s lips.
“Neither is a receptionist who watches TV on the job.”
“If you had more clients coming through, I wouldn’t have to. It gets boring around here. Except when the cops come and interrogate me.”
“They can interrogate all they want. It doesn’t mean I did it.”
“Don’t say that. I like thinking that you did it. And so does everyone else.”
“Why?”
“It gives you a little style. It shows you have more initiative than we gave you credit for. And it also gives us something to talk about. Something besides the copier that still doesn’t work.”
“I’m glad I can oblige.”
“Watch out for Downey though. He’s looking for a reason to kick you out.”
“So what else is new? Anyway, I’m paid up through next month.”
“This isn’t about money. He thinks you’re degrading the character of the building.”
“Is that why he leases offices to a phone sex service on the first floor?”
“We call it a telemarketing firm. Besides, Downey’s their biggest customer.”
Ken smiled and walked back to his office. There was a message on the machine from Margot. She rarely called him during work hours, so it might be important.
He dialed her work number and she answered. “Margot Aronson.”
“Shrug off the suit mode. It’s me.”
She laughed. “Easier said than done. Where did you get this hunk of metal you wanted analyzed?”
He sat up straight. “You got the results back?”
“It’s an aluminum-based alloy that no one’s ever seen before. How did you get it?”
By rooting through the urine-soaked pockets of a dead guy, Ken thought. He didn’t answer her question. “So what’s so special about it?”
“Well, no one thinks it’s a piece from an alien spacecraft, if that’s what you mean. But it’s a unique formulation, light yet strong, and it’s not commercially available.”
“What about those numbers and letters etched on the side?”
“They’re probably production codes to tell which batch this sample came from. One of the guys at the lab thinks Lyceum Metals uses those particular codes.”
Lyceum Metals. The company Vikkers was merging with. Ken jotted down the name on a scratch pad. Interesting, but still nothing to indicate why Don Browne was murdered.
“I don’t suppose you would care to tell me what this is all about?” she said.
Before he could reply, a thunderous crash sounded behind him.
He spun around.
White-hot flames leapt into the air, singeing his eyebrows. He couldn’t breathe. It was as if all the air in the room had been sucked out, replaced by thick black smoke.
It was a firebomb.
He stood and pushed his chair into the wall of fire.
Ducking low, he raised his arms, shielding his face. He bobbed and weaved, dancing with the flames as he stumbled for the door.
Something hit hard against his thigh.
The polygraph stand.
He gripped its handles and pushed onward, the stand’s casters sliding across the burning oil-and-gasoline mix.
He rammed the door. It didn’t budge.
He tried once more. The hollow-core entranceway cracked.
He charged at it again. And again.
The blaze tore through the office, swirling over the desk, the bulletin board, all around him….
Throwing all his weight behind the stand, he rammed the door repeatedly until with a glorious crack, he finally broke through. He hit the floor of the corridor.
Oxygen-hungry flames lunged after him.
He jumped to his feet, twisting and turning in the billowing smoke. He screamed in agony.
The back of his shirt was on fire.
He felt himself being shoved down the hallway, pushed to the floor.
Another roar. Snowflakes falling all around him.
Snowflakes?
Standing over him was a wiry man with a fire extinguisher. The accountant from down the hall.
The man ran toward the flames, trying to contain them in the office. Another man appeared from around the corner, armed with a second extinguisher.
“Get back!” he yelled at Ken. “Get the hell away!”
The men fought the flames, advancing, then retreating as the fire gathered strength.
The fire alarm rang. Shrill, earsplitting.
Tenants emerged from their offices, curious, then panic-stricken. They ran for the stairwells.
Ken pulled himself to his feet, choking on smoke and ash. His back hurt like hell.
He stumbled toward the nearest set of stairs. The others pushed and shoved past him. He didn’t remember this many steps….
He still couldn’t catch his breath. His eyes stung. He gripped the handrail and followed it down, down, down….
The first floor. Finally.
He staggered to the parking lot, coughing as flakes of soot floated onto the cars around him. He turned to watch the fire.
Already it had spread to the next office, and was in danger of taking out the one after that.
He peeled off his shirt. The wind licked against his burned skin. He slowly sat down, angling his body against the breeze. He was light-headed and nauseated.
He was going into shock.
He fought it by taking slow, deep breaths. The queasiness passed. He looked up, and by the expressions on his neighbors’ faces, his back was not a pretty sight.
“I forgot to wear my sunscreen,” he muttered.
—
The fire crew arrived within minutes, and they extinguished the flames with only three offices lost to the blaze. Five, however, were temporarily unusable due to water damage.
Ken allowed the paramedics to salve and bandage his burns, which were diagnosed as first and second degree. While he argued with them about the necessity of having to go to the hospital, the arson investigator arrived.
Ken gave him the full account. The man wrote down the details and promised to call later. He seemed more interested in the characteristics of the fire than in the identity of the arsonist, Ken thought.
He then called Margot back from a pay phone in the parking lot, apologizing for the abrupt end to their call. He didn’t mention the fire. She had worried about him enough.
He went to his car, opened the trunk, and found a grass-stained T-shirt rolled up next to the spare tire. He slid it over his head and walked back to his office building. The air was still thick with a sharp, smoky odor that tickled the back of his nose. The smell would probably hang for weeks.
The building’s front doors were propped open, and as he walked inside, the first thing he saw was his polygraph. Somebody had moved it downstairs. He ran his hands over the vinyl cover, brushing pools of water onto the floor. He fingered a few places where the vinyl had melted, effectively welding the cover to the polygraph’s metal surface. He ripped the cover off with one fierce yank. The machine seemed okay.
The damned thing was indestructible.
“You burned down my building, you bastard.”
Ken looked up to see Downey. The manager wasn’t joking.
“Impossible,” Ken replied. “This place is a hundred percent asbestos.”
“Very funny. I’ll start laughing when you’re out of here on your ass. Maybe even in jail.”
“You’re in for a long wait. By the way, I need a new office. I understand mine’s being remodeled.”
“Sorry. Got no place to put you.”
“Then we’ll go to court. I’ll sue you.”
“Sue me? For what?”
“For the suffering I just endu
red in this deathtrap of a building. I’ll trot out all the building code violations.”
Ken was immediately relocated to a slightly smaller office on the short end of the L-shaped building. Downey opened the door, threw the keys at him, and stomped away. Ken rolled his polygraph into the empty room. He tried the light switch. Sickly blue-white fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed.
He glanced around. It was a dingy, depressing office with green paint chipping from the walls. Just like the old one. He snuffed the lights and left.
He drove to the nearest record store, where he found a copy of Creative Loafing, Atlanta’s alternative weekly newspaper. He walked back to his car, flipping to the classified section. As he sat behind the wheel, the burns on his back itched, and he could feel a stinging sensation as the topical medication wore off. He shifted in his seat because of both his itch and the discomfort at what he was contemplating.
The classifieds were open to the “firearms” heading.
He had never owned a gun before, but he had taken a marksmanship class to satisfy a phys ed requirement during his short college career. And now, with two attempts on his life in the space of a week, it seemed like a good idea to carry some protection. Buying secondhand meant he wouldn’t have to ride out the mandatory waiting period. Five days, was it?
He circled two possibilities, walked to a pay phone, and dialed. No answer.
He tried the other number, and it was answered by a friendly-sounding guy in nearby Smyrna. They agreed to meet that afternoon.
—
Hound Dog didn’t want to leave the hospital. It had been hours since the operation, and she wanted to be there when, not if, Mark regained consciousness.
But the police had urged her to go home and report anything that was missing. It might help them find the shooter.
She made a lightning-quick trip to the trailer, politely brushing off her well-meaning neighbors who wanted details of the morning’s excitement. She glanced around the ransacked mobile home. Papers and photographs were strewn about, and every drawer had been pulled out, emptied, and cast aside. Her stomach turned when she saw the stain on the linoleum floor. Mark’s blood.
It was so frustrating. When there was something to be done, some action to be taken, she was always ripe for the challenge. But when all she could do was sit and hope, she was completely out of her element. A victim-in-waiting.
