Resistant

by Michael Palmer

  “So what’s your professional assessment, doc?”

  “I think we’re lucky we weren’t running in the Okefenokee Swamp, that’s what I think,” Lou said. “We’d both be gator meat. The nurses showed me your post-op films. You have what we call a comminuted compound fracture. Nasty but totally fixable. Things are really lined up well. I’m not sure there’s any doc out there who could have done a better job than Leonard Standish did. You deserved the best and you got it. And we can thank a pharmacy tech named Humphrey for that.”

  “Did someone call my name?”

  As if on cue, Humphrey came motoring in, maneuvering the heavy chair by joystick. Once again, Lou was impressed by the deftness with which he worked the controls.

  “Right hand a little better than left,” Humphrey said as if reading Lou’s thoughts. “You must be famous Cap.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch all that,” Cap said.

  “He said you must be the famous Cap,” Lou answered. “Think of listening to Humphrey like me getting the first boxing lesson at your gym. I had to concentrate or I was going to miss something.”

  Humphrey was dressed in a plaid, collared shirt and khakis. HUMPHREY MILLER, PHARMACY TECHNICIAN was stitched in blue script above the pocket of his short clinic coat. He motored closer to Cap’s bedside.

  “What are you, my interpreter?” Humphrey said to Lou, filling the room with his rich laugh.

  He reached out a shaky, wildly spastic hand, and Cap took it in his and held it for several beats. Connection made.

  “Thanks for your recommendation,” Cap said. “Seems you done me good.”

  “Glad to do it. Met Lou in ER. Saw him leaving gift shop with huge box of chocolates. I’m serious chocoholic.”

  He laughed again.

  “Here you go,” Lou said, opening the box and holding up the guide.

  Humphrey pointed and Lou fished out the piece and handed it to him. It took some doing, but he got it into his mouth.

  “Well, I’m glad you helped,” Cap said. “My leg thanks you as well.”

  “Looks like you’ll be taking lots of painkillers,” Humphrey said. “I’ll rush meds up here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’ll be sure to take them,” Lou said. “Right, Cap’n Crunch? Sometimes this guy’s too tough for his own good.”

  “Me, too,” Humphrey said, laughing. “You really look out for each other.”

  “He’s my brother from another mother,” Cap said.

  “Must be nice,” Humphrey replied, a faraway look in his eyes. “Don’t have brothers or sisters. One of me was too much. Listen, dropped off meds. You want nurse bring you some? Nurses on ortho like me.”

  “You da man, Humphrey,” Cap replied. “Thanks. If they have something in addition to the IV pump, I’ll take ’em. The leg is starting to really throb.”

  Humphrey motored out while Lou pulled up a chair to replace him at Cap’s eye level.

  “So what’s my future looking like, boss?” Cap asked. “How long will I be here?”

  “Not sure. This was big-time surgery you had. It may be too early for them to know, but I promise, Cap, in time you’ll be bouncing around the ring again. Speaking of ring, is there anybody you want me to call? Anybody at Stick and Move we should notify?”

  Cap bit at his lip and looked away.

  “I have Eddie Foster watching it for me, but I really can’t afford to pay him for long. Fact is, I been operating right on the edge of red for a while. I only decided to take this trip because it was you and I hadn’t been out of D.C in like forever.”

  Lou felt himself shrink inside. He remembered the cold, misty rain and Cap’s suggestion that they do the gym instead of a trail run. Then he realized Cap had turned back from the window and was studying him.

  “You’re blaming yourself for this, aren’t you, Welcome?”

  “It was my idea to run.”

  “Yeah? Well, get that notion right out of your head. I’m a big boy, bro. I make my own big-boy decisions and I own the outcomes of my actions. This ain’t on you or on me. This was an accident, a crappy, rotten, nothing but damn bad-luck accident, and nothing more. So if I catch you on the pity potty, I’m gonna break your leg just so you can feel better about yourself. Comprende?”

  Lou managed a half smile.

  “Loud and clear,” he said.

  They talked some about managing Stick and Move in Cap’s absence. All of his good work in the community over the years had earned him the loyalty of everyone who knew him. But these were not people who could afford to work very long without being paid. Still, this was enough of a tragedy already without losing the gym. There would be a way.

  “So what’s happened since I’ve been decommissioned?” Cap asked.

  “Let’s see…” Lou pretended he had to think hard to come up with the biggest developments. “Um … Filstrup lost the election.”

  Cap made an “aw shucks” clicking sound with his mouth.

  “That’s too bad, but expected. Was it close?”

  “I don’t know,” Lou said. “I sort of missed the whole thing.”

  It took a moment for the implication to set in.

  “Oh, man, Welcome. You missed the speech. You never gave your speech?”

  “Believe me, it wouldn’t have helped,” Lou said. “Like I told you, he was doomed from the start.”

  “But you know how Filstrup thinks. He’s going to blame you for the loss.”

  “I’m sure he already has. I called him while you were in the OR. If his wife wasn’t in the ICU, I think he would have flown down here to bellow at me in person.”

  Lou stood up and went over to the blinds, adjusting them to let in a little more sunlight.

  “Your job gonna be in jeopardy?” Cap asked.

  “No way. He’s headstrong, but not that headstrong.”

  “Why am I not hearing that in your voice? Which job handles your health insurance?”

  “The Eisenhower one.”

  “Maybe you can get me a job there, then. I don’t have any insurance, you know.”

  “I know that. I have an appointment in a few minutes with the financial services office.”

  Humphrey cruised back into the room.

  “Who’s job is in jeopardy?” he asked.

  Lou gestured at the small parabolic receiver on the wheelchair console.

  “No one’s job is in jeopardy. What’s the range of that damn thing, anyway?”

  “I was at good angle. Wasn’t that far. Hope you keep job.”

  “Thanks, Humphrey.” Lou checked the time on his Mickey Mouse watch and turned back to Cap. “Listen, pal, I’ll stop by later. My flight home is first thing in the morning. I’ll catch up on work and settle things down with Filstrup, but I’ll be back on the weekend or before. Do you think you’ll be okay without me for a little while?”

  “What did I say about me being a big boy?”

  “Well, just in case, I may get in touch with Atlanta Central Service and see if some of our brothers and sisters in the storm can stop by for an impromptu meeting.”

  “Fine by me. Now, you go take care of what you’ve got to take care of. I’ll put in a call to my aunt Dorothy if I get lonely for company. Besides, ol’ Humphrey here will come and visit me. Right?”

  “Right.”

  Lou bent over between the IV tubing and hugged his friend.

  “I’m so sorry, buddy,” Lou whispered.

  “Nonsense. Go do what you need to do.”

  At that moment, surrounded by the ropes and pulleys and fixation hardware and pillows and IV infusers, the former unbeatable prizefighter looked extremely small.

  Lou paused at the door.

  “I got your direct room line,” Lou said. “I’ll give you a call before I come back and then tomorrow when I land.”

  Cap returned a thumbs-up and then pointed to the door, giving Lou his permission to leave without any guilt.

  With Humphrey not far behind, Lou hea
ded into the hallway. But he found it impossible to disconnect from his sense of responsibility. It was just that way with him. It had been for as long as he could remember. Stopping at the nurses’ station, he made several introductions and was charming enough to make sure Cap got every bit of attention he might need. Humphrey pulled next to Lou as they headed down the hall toward the elevators.

  “You guys really care for each other,” Humphrey said. “I can tell.”

  Lou had to stop walking so he could focus on Humphrey’s lips and speech.

  “You got that right, my friend,” he replied.

  “Do you mind if I ask what you are doing about the insurance?”

  Lou tried to mask his concern, but suspected the effort was futile.

  “We have friends,” Lou said. “Lots of them. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

  As before, Humphrey looked a little forlorn.

  “That’s what I figured you’d say.”

  Without another word, the man motored himself toward the elevator.

  Lou fell into step behind.

  CHAPTER 18

  A country’s strong military will lose to its weak economy every single time.

  —LANCASTER R. HILL, LECTURE AT PRINCETON UNIVERSITY, NOVEMBER 12, 1938

  The three days Tim Vaill spent in the hospital had passed like months. All he thought about was getting out, getting back to work, and starting the hunt. Now, five days after his discharge, he was finally right where he needed to be—in Franklin, Tennessee.

  He was seated in his agency-issued Chevy Impala, parked across the street from the blue clapboard colonial home of the man who murdered his wife. The photo, in a white envelope, was tucked into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. It would be a weapon of last resort, but he would use it if he had to.

  Seated beside Vaill was his new partner, Charles McCall, a handsome African American man in his late twenties. Vaill was impressed by McCall, but more because of his street smarts than his Ivy League diploma from Penn. There were a lot of smart folks who joined the FBI. Most were idealistic and came into the Bureau with a strong belief they’d get back in action and adventure what they’d be giving up in private sector pay.

  Most of those young recruits were wrong. The Bureau was a lot of paperwork, a lot of waiting around, and, true to its name, a lot of bureaucracy.

  “How long are we going to sit here and wait?” McCall asked.

  Those were the first words either man had spoken in twenty minutes. Initially, Vaill had asked to go on this assignment alone, but his boss, Beth Snyder, immediately denied the request. He felt bad for giving McCall the cold shoulder, but he was still in deep mourning, and all a new partner did was remind him of the partner he’d never have again.

  Then there were the headaches—blinding, distracting pain, mostly above his right ear, where the bullet had been removed, but also behind his eyes. There was nothing predictable about what brought them on, and nothing reliable to make them go away. They usually lasted just three or four minutes, maybe two or three times a day, but the duration had been getting longer, and the pain worse. Yesterday’s attack had lasted nearly a half hour. Thankfully, he was alone in his hospital room at the time.

  Tylenol and Motrin were no help, and he didn’t dare mention them to his boss or his doctor. If he did, he would be out of the field in a blink, and in all likelihood, back in the hospital. Some sort of migraine, he convinced himself. Half the people he knew had them. A few of them every day. Until Alexander Burke was behind bars or roasting on a spit in hell, he would do his best to get through them and control his irritability toward McCall.

  Vaill checked the house using high-powered binoculars just as Lola Burke entered her living room. She was a slender, pretty woman with shoulder-length blond hair, wearing a blue knit sweater and form-fitting jeans. Her face was fresh and innocent, almost cherubic. It would have been tough to pick her out of a line-up as the wife of the FBI’s most-wanted man in America. Vaill kept watching as she passed out of the living room, then returned. Having aced all his psychological profiling and behavioral analysis classes at Quantico, he could sense the woman was nervous—maybe waiting for something.

  “I think we’re clear, Chuck,” Vaill said. “Let’s go have ourselves a little chat.”

  Vaill never dreamed he’d be doing fieldwork so soon after being discharged from the hospital. Against his wishes, Beth Snyder had tried to give him a cushy desk job with the task force assigned to monitor the Doomsday Germ. He was to work with the huge team trying, so far unsuccessfully, to pin down any of the Society of One Hundred Neighbors. Finally, with his doctor’s go-ahead and his own burning passion to avenge Maria, Snyder had relented, but only after extracting from him a pledge of objectivity.

  At the start of the Doomsday Germ crisis, a top-secret communications pipeline had been established involving every hospital. The goal of the pipeline was to record each documented case of the Doomsday Germ. The FBI put hospital administrators on notice that information leaks would not be tolerated. Any such leak could result in obstruction charges and even impact JCAHO accreditation, vital for a hospital’s federal funding.

  The containment strategy was necessary to subvert the panic that would follow should news of the germ, and more specifically the plans of the terrorist group calling itself One Hundred Neighbors, spread to the public. Not surprisingly, there were some leaks, but mostly the media chose to act responsibly, reporting the story as an emerging strain of streptococcus pyogenes and nothing more.

  For now, the extent and deadly potential of the Doomsday Germ was a well-guarded secret. But with their deadline growing ever closer, the One Hundred Neighbors would not keep it a secret much longer. And when word got out, and the mutilation and death rates began to soar, confidence in our hospital system and health care in general would quickly collapse under the strain.

  Vaill had studied the files on Alexander Burke and sensed the man’s wife knew more than she had shared with the agents who had questioned her. He wanted a crack at her himself.

  “She’s already been interviewed by three other agents more experienced at interrogation than you,” Snyder said. “She doesn’t know anything. She and Alexander have been on the outs, and she hasn’t heard from him in months. What makes you think you’re going to find out anything different?”

  “Because she hasn’t spoken to the man whose wife her husband murdered,” Vaill had replied.

  The next day he had a plane ticket and a new partner.

  The flagstone walkway was bordered by neatly tended shrubs. Vaill led the way up three steps to the front door. He brushed a hand across the breast of his suit coat for reassurance the envelope was still there, and rang the doorbell. Lola Burke checked them out through her sidelight window. Her expression went from curious to saturnine in the time it took her to open the door. She did not bother asking who these latest suits were, or what they wanted. According to her file, well before her husband became first an agent, then a fugitive, she knew what a G-man looked like, and also that they seldom brought anything but trouble.

  “I guess there’s no shortage of Feds,” she said. “You people just keep rolling in like Old Man River. I haven’t heard from him if that’s what you’re here to ask.”

  Vaill and McCall flashed their badges—protocol. Lola sighed and made a face as if they were her least favorite vegetable. She kept her arm against the door frame, as a barrier.

  “Mrs. Burke, I’m Special Agent Tim Vaill and this is my partner, Special Agent Charles McCall. I know we’re not the first agents to come here to speak with you, but it’s very important that we find your husband. We were wondering if we could try again.”

  Lola rolled her eyes and lowered her arm.

  I’ve been through this all before and I’ve got nothing more to tell you, but go ahead if you really need to.

  They followed her into a bright and airy kitchen. Light spilled into the room from a bank of mullioned windows that looked onto a lush lawn. The hom
e, from Vaill’s quick inspection, was well appointed—nice furniture throughout, granite countertops in the kitchen, new appliances, too, but nothing that looked unaffordable on an agent’s salary. If Burke’s motive for murder was money, it certainly wasn’t ending up here.

  “Want something to drink. Water?”

  “No thank you, we’re fine,” Vaill said, speaking for both himself and McCall. If Maria were here, she’d be the one speaking for Vaill.

  Lola shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said. She took a seat at the kitchen table, with her back to the windows, leaned back, and waited. Vaill sat where he had a full-on look at her face. Either she was an expert with makeup, or her smooth, porcelain skin showed none of the strain he’d seen on other people who’s loved ones had gone missing.

  She doesn’t think he’s gone forever.

  “Before you get going,” Lola said, a slip of venom in her voice, “let me save you both some trouble. I haven’t seen him. I haven’t heard from him. I have no idea where he is, or where he might have gone. I don’t know why he did what he allegedly did. All I know is that he’s gone and you’re here to harass me some more, as if my life isn’t already enough of a shit mess, because you think my husband murdered two of your own. Does that about sum it up?”

  Just prior to leaving on this trip, Vaill had spent several hours with the brightest minds from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU), getting a crash course on some of their techniques. In the span of her short and embittered speech, Lola Burke had given away four glaring tells confirming she was a liar. She was fidgeting with her hands, acting nervous. She was also uncooperative, making negative statements and complaints, saying nothing to support the search. In addition, he’d get more eye contact from a blind person, but when she did look at him, her pupils were the size of two nickels, possibly the result of a pheromone found more commonly in liars than truth tellers.