11/6/86 Appt. cancelled. No message. Need to follow-up with T.C.
That was the last entry. Each note had been signed by Dr. Whitney. I closed the case folder and began to scribble notes and questions to myself. That done, I turned off the light, wiped my fingerprints off everything I’d touched and went back to the records room. The night security guard was seated at the front desk, watching the entrance and the waiting room. I walked up to him.
“Excuse me, I’m Dr. Yost. I’m covering for Dr. Whitney this week. Did Mr. Donnelly come in for his appointment last Friday?”
The guard turned to his daily log book and flipped the pages backwards. Over his shoulder I read the entries under Whitney’s name. The last entry was a 4:30 walk-in named Poindexter, Cleotus. I scanned the staffing for that night. Gutierrez was not on duty.
“Could he have called in sick or cancelled? He was due in and he shouldn’t go this long without his blood levels being checked.”
The guard, a bearded black man in his early twenties, twisted back to turn down the sound on the small T. V. on the desk. Captain Kirk was boldly going where no man had gone before. From the look of things there had been good reason to avoid the place. The guard pulled out the phone log and went down the list of that night’s calls with his finger. No calls from Donnelly to anyone. “Okay. Thanks. I’d better call the family myself.”
Back in the records room, I signed in the Donnelly file and took out the Poindexter case. Since I wasn’t going to leave the records room, I didn’t have to sign for the chart. Cleotus Poindexter was an ambulatory schizophrenic who heard and often followed a variety of voices. On the date in question, one of them suggested a visit to the nearest mental health center. Cleotus had seen the movie The Fantastic Voyage on T. V. and was concerned that a microscopic submarine and crew had been implanted in his penis by his mother and that they were obstructing things and keeping him from getting an erection. Cleotus wanted a catheter inserted and the sub flushed out of there.
Cleotus sounded like one of the casualties of the trend in the ’70s to close the mental hospitals and instead let these people wander the streets on thirty-day chemical leashes. Cleotus had his full civil rights to protect him from wrongful imprisonment and damn little to protect him from himself. The important fact was that the billing notation was one and one half hours to Medicare at sixty dollars per hour. Truman Whitney had been occupied with Cleotus Poindexter’s delusions when Malcolm Donnelly had died. I was handing the chart back when a yell came from the waiting room area. The records room clerk started up from her desk. I motioned her to sit and said, “I’ll look into it.” As I started back down the corridor I wondered what the hell I was doing. I was a private investigator, not a psychotherapist. I’d be about as much use up there as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking.
The waiting room was still empty. The guard was on his feet adjusting the television set and muttering, “Holy shit. Holy shit.” I came up next to him. The scene was horrifyingly familiar. A lone person, this time a woman. Her face was smudged with something black and she was visibly shaking. She clutched the microphone as if it would turn into a snake. Behind her it was all smoke, screams and sirens. “This is the scene here after the bombs were detonated less than twenty minutes ago. From what we can piece together from talking to survivors, the first bomb was in a bag carried by a young man who placed it on the ground at the intersection of the two wings of the mall. It seems to have been a fragmentation type. Thousands of pieces of metal exploded and flew across this area cutting everyone in their path to ribbons. You can see that all the storefronts in this area have been blown out. The carnage is incredible. There are bodies everywhere. The blood is so thick on the floor it’s like syrup. Some of the bodies were …” At this she stopped and turned sideways to wipe at her face with her sleeve. “Excuse me. I’ve never seen anything like this. Some of the bodies were decapitated and many have lost limbs. The second bomb went off approximately one minute later. It caught most of the people who were trying to help the survivors at point blank range. This is Rona Marcus, channel three in Westchester County. We’ll have more on our regularly scheduled news at six.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. They ought to kill those goddamn bastards,” the guard snarled.
“Amen, brother.”
A car had pulled up into the parking lot. It was time for me to disappear. I went back to the therapists’ offices, followed the exit signs painted on the walls and let myself out a side exit. Like a good boy, I looked both ways before I crossed the street. I walked quickly up the quiet, tree-lined streets of Georgetown. Standing on Wisconsin Avenue, trying not to feel like a target, I couldn’t help but think that John Donne’s message had finally arrived. From this day forth the bells would toll all over this land.
Chapter 22
My car phone rang while I sat in traffic, growing ever more claustrophobic.
“Hello.”
“Leo, I’m returning your message.” Samantha said flatly.
“I think we should talk, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m here at the Skyline Dalton. The signing should be over in about an hour.”
“Why don’t I come down and meet you there?”
“Okay.” She hung up.
It took just about the entire hour to get from Georgetown to Bailey’s Crossroads. I took the health club elevator down to the shopping mall. A large publicity photo of Samantha was in the bookstore window. Beneath that was a copy of the laudatory reviews that had appeared in the local newspapers. I stood off to the side and watched Samantha signing books and talking to her fans. A woman stood in front of her, her arms clasped around the book like it was a life preserver, and went on about how much she enjoyed Samantha’s books and how they spoke to everyone, not just women. The line of true believers wound around the front of the store. I caught the note of contempt in my thoughts, the desire to cut her down to size, and wondered what put it there. Samantha looked like she’d be busy for a good twenty more minutes so I walked over to the bar in a nearby restaurant, pulled up a stool and ordered a drink.
The bar television flashed the presidential seal and then the words Presidential Newscast. The bartender slid my drink over to me, looked at the screen and said, “Want to bet he appoints a committee? The guy passes the buck around like it’s a social disease.”
“I don’t know. He’s in a tough spot. He has to try to balance our freedom with the need to protect people. That’s a tightrope that gets harder to stay on the slicker it gets with blood. I guess we’ll find out what kind of wire-walker lives in the White House.”
The local channel logo appeared and then the great one himself filled the screen.
“This evening, my fellow Americans, I want to address the recent terrorist attacks in our great country. They are a threat to all we hold dear, to what makes us the greatest nation on earth, the home of the free and the land of the brave. First, let there be no mistake, the United States will never negotiate with terrorists. Nor will we capitulate to their demands. No dialogue can be forced this way. No grievance can be legitimate that is brought to us soaked in the blood of our citizens. We will interpret all such actions as acts of war against the people of the United States. Any demonstrated connection or support by a foreign power for these acts will draw an immediate reply from the United States. The entire spectrum of response and retaliation will be considered.”
“Okay, here comes the committee,” the bartender said.
“Give him a chance.”
“If we are to survive this attack, if we are to remain the home of the free, we must, more than ever, be the land of the brave. If America is to endure we must have the faith, trust and support of each and every citizen. I have this day authorized funding and staffing for a National Taskforce to Combat Terrorism. This taskforce will coordinate local action plans and make recommendations to congress on national policy. Effective immediately, we are increasing bor
der security and immigration staff to detect, isolate and remove illegal aliens from this country. Victims of terrorist attacks will now be eligible for disaster relief funds. Local officials will now explain what action plans have been implemented in your area. Have patience and courage, and God bless America.” With a wave he was gone.
Lieutenant Calvin Simmons appeared on the screen with the unenviable task of translating those grand words into action. He came to the podium, raised his hands to the audience and began to speak.
“Please, I will take questions after I have made my announcement. Please be patient. Credit for the attacks in New York and Los Angeles is now being claimed by a group calling itself The Hand of Allah. They have made no demands at this time. As of now, there seems to be no connection between them and The Standing Committee on World Justice which has claimed credit for the bomb at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. We have been able to assemble a composite portrait of the man who planted the bomb at the wall from pictures taken by visitors that day. The Washington Post and all other local newspapers will carry this picture in tomorrow’s editions. The strategy of the attackers, whoever they may be, seems to be to cause maximum death and destruction. They have so far chosen crowded public areas to attack. All federal employees are now on flexi-time schedules to ease rush hour congestion. Some local national guard units will be placed on temporary emergency status to assist in providing security in the downtown areas. We are asking all private businesses to cooperate by putting their employees on flexi-time schedules and to increase security in shopping areas and office buildings. In addition this week’s Redskins game against the Raiders has been rescheduled to four o’clock. The gates will open at ten A.M. to begin letting fans in. Expect lengthy delays because of the new security precautions at the stadium. State police will be increasing their patrols of the highways and all abandoned cars will be towed immediately. Above all, each and every citizen should keep his eyes open and report any suspicious activities to a policeman or national guardsman. A toll-free number will be manned around the clock to handle all reports. The number will be 800-FREEDOM.”
“What do you think?” the barman asked.
“As a start it’s not too bad. I’m not optimistic, though. Pretty soon we’ll be seeing militia on the street corners, roadblocks, bomb-sniffing dogs in the schools, bag checks in hospitals, random ID checks. Maybe that’ll all look normal to our kids. They won’t know that it was ever any different, that there was a time you could walk the streets of America unafraid. They won’t know what a precious thing we’ve lost.”
“That’s a pretty bleak picture.”
“Don’t I know it. We’ve been fat, happy and safe for a long time. I wonder how many payments of this ‘tax in blood’ we’ll have to make before we get smart and ruthless. I guess we’ll get as good as or better than anyone else at this once we take it seriously.”
I finished my drink, paid the bartender and walked back to the bookstore.
Samantha was standing in the doorway of the store looking up and down the mall for me.
“Hi,” I said. “How’d it go?”
“Fine, just fine.” Her face was a mask.
“Where do you want to go to talk?”
“My place. That way I can throw you out if I want,” she said without the slightest trace of a smile.
“So be it. Did you drive over?”
“No. Sandra dropped me off.”
We walked back to my car in silence. I let her in, walked around the car and let myself in. Backing out I broke the silence. “Do you want to hear my side of it?”
“No. I just want you to sit there while I dump all over you. Of course I want to hear your side of it. I’m here to talk and to listen.”
“The woman is part of the case, nothing else. She brought me home from the hospital and put me to bed. That’s it, period. The end. Nothing happened.”
“That’s the least of my concerns, Leo. You want to sleep with other women, fine. Just let me know that the rules have changed. By the way, I like your face. You look good in gauze and tape. Is that why you were in the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I got in a fight with a guy. He cut me with a knife. It was bad enough that I had to go to the hospital to get it fixed up. I’m fine now. I won’t even have a scar.”
“Who was the guy? That woman’s pimp? The one we saw at the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ. I knew it. I know that look on your face.”
“Just wait a damn minute. For what it’s worth, I didn’t do this for vengeance or out of some misguided sense of honor. I wanted some information and taking Jack down was the price. I planned it as well as I could. To do the job and not get caught at it, not by the police or by Jack. I have no interest in doing time or in getting killed. I have too much to live for.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“Sam, look around us. You can’t live scared. You could be blown to hell signing books in a mall bookstore.”
“I know that, but you don’t have to go looking for trouble.”
“I don’t.”
“The hell you don’t. That’s your business.”
“Okay. You’re right. That’s what I do. But I’m good at it and it’s what I like.”
“It’s just a job, Leo, not a calling. You could quit if you …”
“What? If I loved you? Bull. I do love you. I think about you all the time when I’m out there. You’re part of the equation for every decision I make. But if I walked away from what I thought was right, I couldn’t live with myself. I try to balance that with loving you. I’m really trying to give you equal weight, no more and certainly no less. If you don’t feel that, I don’t know how to make you see it.”
Samantha was silent for quite a while. I kept sneaking glances at her as I drove. Finally, she spoke. “I believe you, Leo, and I’m sure there are ways that you take me into consideration that are invisible to me. I still feel more vulnerable in this relationship. What are you risking with me?”
“Apart from the risks of loving anyone, you mean? How about your fame?”
“My what?”
“You heard me. Oh, I know it’s just starting. But it’s you doing television interviews and autographings, not me. I’m a nobody, a private eye. The only private eyes anyone’s ever heard of are the ones you writers invent: Spade, Marlowe and Archer.” Samantha tried to interrupt me. “Yeah, fame and fortune could be yours. You could leave a mark on this culture. Me, my contributions are about as enduring as bubble gum. Wait until you do become famous. It’s pretty heady stuff. Next to being idolized, love can look real plain.”
“Leo, you can’t think that I’m going to run off with the head of my fan club?” She laughed.
“No. I don’t. But don’t tell me that I’m not risking anything. It’s happened before.”
“Okay, I hear you. I’ve honestly never thought about being famous before. I guess I didn’t want to be disappointed if it didn’t happen.”
“It will. Then you can keep me on as your bodyguard.” I smiled hopefully.
“You have that job already.”
We stopped at a traffic light. Samantha took my chin in her hands, turned my face towards her and gently kissed me. Our tongues negotiated a peace.
“Are we still fighting?” I asked as I stepped on the accelerator.
“I’m not. I have to think about what we’ve said. I do know that if you die doing something stupidly ‘heroic’ or whatever you call it, I will never forgive you. Do you understand? Never.”
I nodded. “I hear you. Sounds like I’m pretty important to you.”
“You want me to put it in writing?”
“Sure. What do you have in mind?”
“How about a great big Technicolor hickey with my name in the center in raised letters?”
“I’m going to hold you to that when we get home.”
“Step on it then.”
No sooner were we in her apartment than Samantha kicked off her shoes and started to unzip her pants. I watched her silent retreat to the bedroom and then followed, unbuttoning my shirt.
She stepped out of her slacks and kicked them away. Her top followed suit. I kicked off my shoes and unzipped my pants. My eyes were fused to her body. There was an old ache in my chest and my pulse was in my ears. I peeled off my shorts.
We pulled back the cover and slipped underneath it. I rubbed her body as if it were a magic lantern and I had come to free the genie. She responded and our mouths leeched and fed each other. I gently made my way down the left side of her neck. We kissed again and I began to explore her right side. A world of one and world enough for me.
Our need rose like a flood through a canyon. She pulled her legs up and around me like a swan’s wings. I entered her and we crashed together with the fit and fury of the surf and the shore. Finally, drained, I rolled over. She rolled with me, unwilling to break the connection. We kissed and rubbed noses. Finally we came apart. After a few minutes I looked over at her. We rolled towards each other and once again I was priest and initiate at her dark altar.
Later I got up to set the clock and sat for a moment watching her. She stirred once in her sleep and smiled briefly. I thought I might sit up all night and watch her but I decided that was crazy and that I’d be of no use to anyone if I didn’t get some sleep. I climbed back into bed next to her, reached over and gently cupped her breast as if I were calming a frightened bird. She stirred and I took my hand away. At last, I curled up around her and we slept as close as sleep itself.
Chapter 23
I awoke when consciousness filtered in and my groping hands couldn’t locate Samantha. I stretched and growled and flung my legs over the side of the bed hoping that, like a kid’s punching dummy, my head would snap up behind them. I toddled off to the bathroom, washed the grit out of my eyes with warm water and brushed my teeth. I padded across the living room to the kitchen. As I rounded the corner I stopped to watch her, nude, stretching to put something away. I followed the long line of tensed muscle up her leg and back and, counterpoised, her round uplifted breasts.
A Tax in Blood Page 12
