by Lyle Howard
Bock spun his chair back to face the window and stared out wistfully at a powerboat cutting through the current. It was much like the one he and Gwen had dreamed about buying in Baltimore. “What is it about Shayla Rand that sets you off, Damon?”
Washington walked around the desk until he was confronting his employer face-to-face. “You’re kidding me, right, August?” he inquired, banging his fist on the window for emphasis. “Why would you let a known terrorist set foot in these offices? What if someone recognizes her?”
Bock shook his head as he continued to stare out the window. “You’re blowing her reputation way out of proportion. Besides, every time you’ve ever met her she’s changed her appearance. She’s a chameleon.”
Washington wiped away the sweat that had suddenly appeared on his forehead. “That’s not all she is. She doesn’t kill because she has to, but because she enjoys it. We both know it. She didn’t have to murder Strofsky.”
There were two people on the deck of the powerboat and Bock imagined it was Gwen and himself out there. “She said he was a problem.”
Washington put his hands to his head. “A problem,” he screamed, spittle shooting out of his mouth in frustration. “He was an insignificant old man! We knew all about him! He was harmless.”
Bock couldn’t take his eye off the water. “She said she had her reasons. You worry too much.”
Washington was incredulous. “Do you know how many strings I had to pull to cover up that little mess of hers? She’s like the black plague, leaving a trail of corpses wherever she goes! Every time someone looks at her sideways, we have to clean up the collateral damage.”
“No,” Bock said, still daydreaming, “I haven’t forgotten. She said the deli owner was trouble, and I believe her.”
Washington tried to step between his employer and the window. “And what about the guy guarding the elevator in Vegas? What was her excuse for that one? Berger’s credentials were flawless! He would have made it anyway.”
The speedboat was slamming against the whitecaps in an effort to make headway. “Everyone has their own style, Damon. As far as I’m concerned, Shayla simply went above and beyond her responsibilities and ended those threats as she saw fit. You weren’t there; she was. That’s what we pay her for.”
Washington was getting a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was the same feeling he always got whenever he thought about the psychotic Shayla Rand. “You know what, August? This time you’ve lost your compass. Shayla Rand has no conscience. You need to keep her as far away from this place as possible.”
Bock glanced down at his wristwatch. It read 1:57. “If she terrifies you that much, perhaps you should go back to your office. I think I’d like you to run a status report of all our ongoing projects.”
Washington put his hands on his hips. “Don’t patronize me, August. Her coming here now is a huge mistake.”
Bock glanced over at Washington and smiled contritely. “She’s always on time. Maybe you shouldn’t be here when she arrives.”
Washington looked down at his own watch as the intercom on Bock’s desk buzzed.
Bock saw all of the color drain out of Washington’s face. “That would be her. Two P.M. and punctual as ever.”
Washington backed away from the window. Fifteen floors was a long way down. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”
Bock rolled his chair away from the window. “You know you’re more than welcome to stay if you want to.”
“Mr. Bock, Ms. Rand is here,” the voice over the intercom interjected.
“Last chance, Damon. Sure you don’t want to hang around?”
That simple phrase had never sounded so ambiguous before. “I’ll pass, but you can give her a big hug from me.”
* * * * * *
Before Washington had the chance to make his cowardly departure, the door burst open and Shayla Rand strutted in, sucking all the air out of the room as she entered. “Hello, boys!”
Standing an imposing six feet tall in flat heeled sandals, she didn’t only draw attention to herself, she demanded it. Today her hair was as red as a strong man’s heart, but yesterday she could have been a brunette, and tomorrow a sultry blond or even a haggard, gray-haired waitress. “Greetings, Damon,” she said as she walked by and toyed with one of the buttons on his shirt. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
As she slithered into the room, Washington detected the hint of a foul odor trailing behind her. She was wearing a short, black sequined dress that she filled like concrete in a mold. Her legs and arms were muscular, but not so much as to be unfeminine. As she moved past him, Washington couldn’t help notice that her rear swayed like it was dancing to a melody only she could hear.
In one hand she held the keys to the black Corvette she always drove; in the other, a roll of beige parchment—the type messengers might have transported in medieval times to relay an important communiqué from one kingdom to another. The scroll was tied with a simple red sash. It was like watching a train wreck. Washington didn’t want to stare, but he couldn’t turn away.
She walked around the desk and planted a generous kiss on August Bock’s cheek and then wiped the lipstick off with her thumb. “How are you, Auggie?”
Bock smothered his cigar in the ashtray. “I’ve had better days.”
Washington held his position near the exit as Shayla rounded the desk and took a seat.
“What an invigorating few days I’ve had!”
Bock watched her sit down. Her movement was as graceful as a flamingo. “We’ve been keeping you busy,” he said.
She crossed her legs and both men held their collective breaths. “You don’t know the half of it, love.”
Washington instinctively reached behind his back and felt for the doorknob.
“To what do we owe this unexpected visit?” Bock asked, resting his elbows on his desk. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”
Shayla held up the back of her hand to examine her bright red nail polish. “I still have a few hours, but I thought this was important enough to stop by in person.”
Behind her, Washington grimaced.
“On my way back from Vegas, I made a little side trip just for you, Auggie. I wanted to get here sooner, but yesterday’s events were a bit more involved than we’d planned.”
“I understand completely. So you stopped somewhere between Arizona and here? How did you find the time?”
Rand shrugged. “It wasn’t really on the way, but well worth the extra trip. Ever heard of place called Chickaloo?”
“You flew from Sedona to Alaska?” Bock clearly knew the place.
She looked over her shoulder at Washington, like a mouse keeping an eye on the cheese. “Yes, my love. Alaska,” she teased.
* * * * * *
Bock leaned as far forward as his immobilized lower torso would allow. He could feel the tension and excitement coil in the pit of his stomach like the spring on an old wind-up toy.
Shayla Rand set the scroll on her lap and clasped her hands together serenely. “Through my own discrete channels, I managed to track someone down there. Someone I’ve been meaning to pay a little visit to for quite a while now.”
Shayla lifted the scroll off her lap, and tossed it nonchalantly onto the desk, where it wobbled into August Bock’s waiting hand. “What is this?”
Damon moved closer so he could see.
Shayla looked at August Bock with merciless eyes that widened playfully at his excitement. “I brought you a gift, Auggie. It’s just a little memento from my travels. I wanted you to know that I believe in what you’re doing, and I wanted to get you something very special to show my admiration. You can consider this one a freebie.”
Bock fumbled anxiously to undo the ribbon. When he pulled apart the scroll, both men gasped in horror. It wasn’t parchment paper at all; it was a sheet of skin—human skin. It was heavily matted with gray and black hair, and at its center was the all too familiar tattoo of a skull wearing a Nazi helmet, the image t
hat had been burned into August Bock’s memory. The skull was as he remembered it, with that same venomous-looking serpent curling out of its dead eye sockets. Only now, the entire emblem was crusted with dried, black blood … Earl Keely’s blood.
It is much more important to know what sort of a patient has a disease than what sort of disease a patient has.
- noted physician Sir William Osler
10
Miami, Florida
Jackson Medical Center
Room 683
“Hey, sleeping beauty. You finally awake?”
Gabe Mitchell’s eyes fluttered open, but he could barely discern the unfamiliar countenance of the old man looming over him. “Who… who are you?” the detective groaned, wiping the crust from the corners of his eyes.
The old man put his finger over his mouth. “Shhh … the name’s Chase … Bennett Chase. Glad to finally make your acquaintance. Now don’t try and talk if you don’t think you can,” he whispered softly. “You want me to ring the nurse for you?”
The room was pitch dark except for a ray of muted light coming from somewhere beyond the foot of his bed. “Where am I?”
“You’re in good hands now, Mr. Mitchell. You’re in the Jackson Medical Center,” he said, his craggy face looking perplexed. “What do you prefer, Mr. Mitchell or Gabriel? I hope you don’t mind, but I snuck a peek at your wristband, and that’s how I know your first name. I figured since we’re gonna be roomies and all, you wouldn’t really mind. So is it Gabriel or Gabe? I don’t want to seem too forward.”
Something was tickling at Gabe’s nose so he reached up only to discover a plastic tube protruding from his nostrils. “What…?”
The old man put his hand on Gabe’s shoulder and pressed him back down on his pillow. “Conserve your strength, my friend. That’s just an oxygen line to help you breathe easier.”
Gabe’s head felt like it weighed a ton, but more clarity returned to his mind with each waking minute. Talking was something else though. He could barely poke his tongue out between his pasty lips to speak. “Ohhh … I feel like … I was hit by a truck…”
Chase reached over to the stand beside the bed and grabbed a wet washcloth to blot Gabe’s forehead. “You’re still sweatin’ like a pig. You must be running one helluva fever!”
The compress felt refreshing, sending a cool shiver down Gabe’s body. “Why … so dark in here?”
The old man shrugged. “Probably ‘cause it’s only three-thirty in the morning. I just got up to take my usual pre-dawn whiz…” He gestured with a nod back toward the bathroom. “I hope you’re not gonna mind, but I gotta leave the light on to see my way at night. It’s when I was coming out that I heard you moving around.”
Gabe tried to focus but, no matter how hard he strained, his eyes wouldn’t cooperate. In the faint light, he couldn’t tell if Chase’s hair was silver or white. He couldn’t focus well enough to make out the color of the old man’s eyes. He got the impression they might be gray … or maybe even blue.
“So anyway … I’m making my way back to bed,” Chase continued, “and I hear you mumblin’ something in the dark. Let me tell you, it scared me so much, I almost had to pee again!”
Gabe coughed hard and his whole body shuddered.
Chase cradled the detective’s head in his hand and fluffed up the pillow beneath his head. “Take it easy, pal. Don’t strain yourself.”
The detective groaned as he shifted his weight in the bed. “Where’s my son?”
The old man patted Gabe on the shoulder. “Ah, the little boy. An extremely large and affable Cuban woman brought him by here yesterday to visit, but the doctors thought it best for him not to see you like this. He seems like a strong young lad … appears to be handling the situation fine!”
Gabe closed his eyes. What would Casey do, if he wasn’t around for him? He needs the influence of a real father, no matter what his grandparents said or did to poison the boy’s mind against him.
“Hey, I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Chase whispered, “but you’re that cop from the television, am I right? I’d put money on it. This place has been a zoo ever since they rolled you in here!”
Gabe tried to wet his lips, but he couldn’t seem to manufacture enough spit. “Television?”
There was a weird sense of excitement in the old man’s voice that Gabe couldn’t fathom. “Yeah … you’re the one that shot and killed that crazy bastard that was going around dicing up those poor women, right?”
Gabe tried to raise himself up onto his elbows, but he didn’t have the strength to hold himself in that position. “Hold on a minute … did you say, shot and killed?”
Chase nodded. “Hell yes! Don’t you remember? They said you and your partner cornered the guy in an alley down on Flagler Street. You don’t remember any of it?”
Gabe massaged his forehead. It was like staring into a deep, black hole. Nothing was there but darkness and missing time. “I … can’t…”
“The television said your partner held the guy at bay until you finally nailed him! You’re a celebrity, pal!”
Gabe was getting frightened. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember a damned thing about that night. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated, but it was no use—he was drawing a big goose egg. “What … what about my partner? What did they say about her? Is she here too?”
The old man glanced around the room self-consciously.
“What? What’s the matter? What aren’t you telling me?”
Bennett Chase swallowed hard. “Uh, maybe we should put off the rest of this conversation until you’re feeling up to it. You should get some rest now…”
With a lightning-like reflex that caught the old man by surprise, Gabe’s right hand shot up and grabbed him by the wrist. Even in his debilitated state, he still could get his point across without saying a word.
“Okay,” Chase gave in, prying off the detective’s fingers. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your partner,” his voice trailed off, “that psycho killed her … shot her in the head.”
Gabe’s head rolled back onto his pillow and he clamped his eyes shut to stem off the rush of heartache and the feeling of utter helplessness. Everything was so cloudy. Shot her in the head? He didn’t even remember the guy having a gun. Oh my God, Joanne. Was this somehow my fault? Why can’t I remember?
“I’m really sorry, Gabe. The guy on television made it sound like this Billy Ray Silva guy was a major nut-job. They said he’s some kind of mute who had been abused by his mother. Do you know he was wearing all those women’s tongues around his neck when…”
The detective turned his head away.
The old man caught himself. “You probably knew that already … sorry…”
Gabe put his hand over his eyes. “Please … don’t say anything else.”
Chase looked as though he could have swallowed his own tongue for being so insensitive. “Of course, Gabe, I understand.”
It seemed like an eternity passed as Gabe tried to recollect those last few minutes of consciousness, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle scattered to the unattainable corners of a table top. A piece too far away to reach, two more fragments way over there—his mental fingertips not long enough to grasp them—to fit them back together. A flash of blue light … some red lights too. The macabre image of the giant’s face emerging out of the shadows. Joanne Hansen … arguing about his eating habits … fearless as she headed into that rain-soaked alley. A steady drizzle and the booming thunder. The school building … wind and splintering glass. Was there a gun? Snippets of blurred memories. A hazy recollection … then a void. He couldn’t have shot his own partner by mistake, could he? Gabe was balancing by the thinnest of threads over a bottomless pit of repressed guilt.
Chase paused with his hand over the light switch. “Do you want me to shut off the bathroom light so you can go back to sleep?”
The detective shook his head ruefully. “I may never be able to sleep peacefully agai
n…”
After a long, looming silence, Chase attempted to change the subject. “You know it’s about time you woke up anyway!” He said, trying his best to sound upbeat. “Do you realize that you’ve been lying around here like a sack of nails for nearly a week?”
The old man wiped the damp washcloth over Gabe’s lips and then turned the rag inside-out. Now that his lips were moistened, the detective was able to exhibit the thinnest of smiles. “That feels good … that’s very kind of you. I … I guess someone must have forgotten to set my alarm clock…”
The old man winked jovially. “Well, don’t look at me! Besides, I was getting awful tired of staring across the room at your motionless carcass all day! A person can only play so much solitaire, you know what I mean?”
There was a steady beeping sound coming from somewhere off to Gabe’s left.
“Don’t panic,” Chase assured him, “that’s just the heart monitor they’ve got you hooked up to. Boy, oh boy, let me tell you … it’s probably a good thing you’ve been passed out for as long as you have been! Those doctors of yours have been poking and prodding at you as if you had grown a third testicle!”
Footsteps out in the hallway grew louder and then just as quickly padded away. Gabe turned his head toward the door to listen. “You … you know anything about what they might have found out?”
Chase rubbed the washcloth around Gabe’s neck. “Honestly? I’m the last person you should probably ask. I wouldn’t understand that medical double-talk if they gave me a dictionary! I’m a retired pilot, not a doctor. Ask me the ascent rate of a 767 and I can tell you in a heartbeat, but when it comes to anything medical … they may as well have been talking Portuguese!”
Gabe rubbed his hand over the week’s worth of coarse growth that was sprouting from his cheeks. Missing days was one thing, but it was the frighteningly rapid growth of his beard that was always a more definitive and tangible means of marking the passage of time for him. Now his cheeks felt like the top of his head. “Oh, Jeez, I think I’ve gotta pee now…”
