by Glenn Cooper
Frazier was in constant contact with the Area 51 Ops Center. He was driving east on Vernon, being guided by the location of Piper’s mobile signal. The tech shouted into Frazier’s earpiece, “The signal’s gone!”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“It’s gone dead. He must’ve turned it off or pulled the battery.”
Frazier banged the dashboard in frustration. “We were less than a mile behind him!”
His driver asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Keep driving. Let me think.”
Will was on Crenshaw, aimlessly driving north through the dark urban sprawl. The pain was making him crazy, and the dizziness was getting hazardous. In the distance, there was a sign for Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza, and he pressed on until he got there. When he saw there was a Wal-Mart, he pulled into the covered parking garage and grabbed a space as close to the entrance as he could find.
He painfully pulled himself out of the car and clamped his hands onto the first shopping cart he could find, to give him support and to hide his bloody trousers leg as much as possible. Grimacing, he hobbled into the store, passed an elderly man in a smock, the Wal-Mart greeter, who immediately saw his red-stained pants and red footprints but minded his own business, something you did in that neighborhood.
Will wheeled his cart straight to the pharmacy section and dropped sterile gauze, bandages, tweezers, and antiseptic into the cart plus a bottle of acetaminophen, as if that were going to make a dent in his pain. He needed narcotics, but that wasn’t in the cards.
Then he headed to men’s wear and picked up a pair of thirty-four-waist dark slacks and a fresh pack of underwear and socks. In the dressing room, he went to the back stall and peeled off his bloody pants. Standing shakily in front of the mirror he inspected his wound. There was a quarter-inch purplish hole in the inner thigh, about five inches from his groin fold, steadily oozing dark red blood. He’d attended enough autopsies to know he was lucky. The adductor muscle was a good distance from the femoral artery. But he wasn’t completely lucky. There was no exit wound. The robot must have decelerated the bullet enough to make it lose some of its energy. The bullet was lodged. Within a day or so, his leg would be infected. Without surgery and antibiotics, he’d be septic.
He unwrapped the three-pack of undershorts, rolled one of them into a tight cylinder, and bit down on it to keep himself quiet. He bathed the wound in a dark brown iodine solution, then got down to the painful business. With the tweezers, he pushed a ribbon of gauze into the bullet hole. He clamped down on the cloth, and his eyes watered in torment. He had no choice. The wound had to be packed to staunch the flow. If he didn’t clot, he’d bleed out. He subjected himself to repeated thrusts of the tweezers and pushed gauze through the skin and subcutaneous tissues, deep into the pulpy muscle.
When he had done as much as he could bear, he drenched the gauze in iodine and wrapped a bandage tightly over the wad. Then he spat out the cloth and sank to the floor, breathing heavily. In a minute, he was ready to put on fresh clothes. On the way out of the dressing room he trash-canned his bloody garments.
The pain was blinding but he had to suck it up to ask a clerk at the electronics department for help. “What’s your cheapest laptop with a USB port and a wireless card?”
The kid replied, “They all have USB ports and wireless cards.”
“Then what’s your cheapest laptop?”
“We’ve got an Acer for 498.”
“I’ll take it. And give me a shoulder bag too. Will the battery have any charge?”
“Should have. Why?”
“Because I want to use it out of the box.”
There was a taxi stand near the Wal-Mart. Will had all his provisions stuffed into his new shoulder bag and folded himself stiffly into the backseat of a cab. He touched his new pants and was relieved they were still dry.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
“Greyhound station. But stop at a liquor store first.”
Frazier got tired of driving around looking for a needle in a haystack. He had his man pull over into a diner. They had Piper’s info circulated to LAPD, including his rental-car tag number. He was suspected of murdering federal agents. He was armed and dangerous, possibly wounded. The police would take this seriously. The hospitals were on alert. All Frazier could do now was outthink him. What was he going to do with the database, assuming he had it? Where was he going to go? He wasn’t going to be able to fly back to New York without getting picked up. Then it hit him.
Spence. Tomorrow was Spence’s DOD.
He lived in Las Vegas. It only made sense that Will was going to meet Spence there to hand off the database. That was probably going to be Bentley’s next stop.
He didn’t have to chase after Piper. All he had to do was go to Las Vegas and wait for him to arrive.
The Ops Center was in his ear. “Piper used his VISA card twenty minutes ago at a Wal-Mart on Crenshaw.”
“What did he buy?” Frazier asked.
“A computer, a bag, some clothes and a shitload of gauze and bandages.”
“All right. We’re heading back to Nevada. I know where he’s going.”
Will purchased his one-way ticket to Las Vegas at the Greyhound station and paid cash. He had a few hours until the departure time but didn’t feel comfortable waiting around the terminal. There was a donut shop across the street. He limped into a booth, with a coffee and an extra paper cup. Under the table he poured himself a half a glass of Johnnie Walker, put six acetaminophens into his mouth, and drank them down in a series of fiery gulps.
The alcohol helped dull the pain or at least distracted him enough to get the new computer out of the box and booted up. There were no wireless networks detected.
“You got WiFi?” he called over to the dull Mexican girl behind the counter, but he might as well have asked her to explain quantum mechanics to him. She stared through him and shrugged.
He plugged in the memory stick and downloaded Shackleton’s database. In a minute, he was prompted for the password and he instantly recalled it: Pythagoras. It had significance to Shackleton, he imagined, but he’d never know what it was.
The searchable database was ready for his queries. There was a God-like feeling to be able to type a name, some identifying information, and find out, in an instant, that person’s date of death. He began with Joe and Mary Lipinski, just to pay them a moment of respect. There they were. October 20.
Then he did a double check on Henry Spence. It was confirmed: October 23rd. Tomorrow.
He typed in a couple of more names and stared at the screen.
He had some idea of what was going to happen tomorrow.
It was after midnight in New Hampshire, but he had to talk to Nancy, even if it meant waking her up and worrying her to distraction. He had no choice. For all he knew, it would be their last conversation.
There were pay phones by the bathrooms. He got a bunch of quarters from the girl and dialed Zeckendorf’s Alton landline. The watchers probably had a complete log of all the prepaids he’d called and would be tapping them all. They wouldn’t have this number. Yet. As the phone rang, he noticed fresh blood seeping through his new pants.
Nancy answered, surprisingly alert.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Will! How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m in L.A.”
She sounded concerned. “And?”
“I’ve got the memory stick, but there’ve been some problems.”
“What happened?”
“They got Dane. There was a bit of a dustup.”
“Will, are you hurt?”
“I’m shot. Left thigh. Missed my nuts.”
“Jesus, Will! You’ve got to get to a hospital!”
“Can’t do that. I’m getting on a bus. I’ve got to get to Spence.”
He could tell she was trying to think. He heard the baby stirring. “Let me call the L.A. office,” she said. “The FBI can pick you up.”
&nb
sp; “God, don’t! Frazier’ll be all over that. He’ll be monitoring the local chatter. I’m on my own. I’ll make it.”
“You don’t sound good.”
“I’ve got a confession to make.”
“What?”
“I bought a bottle of scotch. Nancy?”
“Yes?”
“Are you mad at me?”
“I’m always mad at you.”
“I mean really mad.”
“Will, I love you.”
“I’ve been nothing but trouble.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I want to be able to take care of you and Philly in 2027.”
“You will, honey. I know you will.”
Chapter 37
If the alternator on the L.A. to Las Vegas Greyhound bus hadn’t given out, the next day might have ended differently. Such was the nature of predestination and fate. One variable influencing another, influencing another in an infinitely complex daisy chain. Instead of leaving L.A. at ten thirty the night before, the bus didn’t pull out of the terminal until four hours later.
Will suckled at his bottle for comfort for most of the six-hour trip through the desert night, dozing when he got numb enough. He had half the rear to himself. Most of his fellow passengers had bailed out for a later bus. There were only a few diehards who had hung in and waited for the repairs, and people who took the bus to Las Vegas in the middle of the night tended to leave each other alone.
Periodically, he visited the restroom to stuff more gauze into the wound and douse it with iodine. But he was still bleeding and getting weaker by the hour.
He awoke in the tinted glare of the morning, in pain, with a dull headache and a dry mouth. He was shivering, and he clutched his jacket to his neck for warmth. The terrain outside the window was flat, brown, and scrubby. He wished the air-conditioning would fail and the temperature would equilibrate to the desert heat. Infection was probably setting in.
The last hour of the journey was an ordeal. He endured nausea and pain and spasms of teeth-chattering chills, which he fought by stiffening his joints in anger. It was going to take sheer determination to finish the job. If he gave in to the advancing infirmity, Frazier would win. He refused to let that happen. He concentrated on Nancy and his son. An image of Philly breast-feeding while she dreamily looked out their apartment window settled into his mind. Then he found himself laughing when the image was replaced by an image of Spence’s huge RV.
“I want that bus,” he cackled out loud.
Through the green-tinted windows, Las Vegas appeared in the distance, rising out of the flat plain, crystalline, like the Emerald City. He pulled himself up for one more bandage change. The fellow who cleaned the restroom bin was going to think there’d been one heck of a situation on board.
Finally, the bus pulled into the Greyhound terminal near the Golden Nugget Casino just off the Strip. Will was last off, the driver watching him suspiciously as he struggled to make his way down the aisle and down the stairs. “You okay there, fellow?”
“Feeling good,” Will mumbled to him. “Feeling lucky.”
He hobbled straight for a taxi. The hot sun made him feel more comfortable. He slowly pulled himself into the back of a cab. “Take me to Henderson. St Croix Street.”
“Fancy neighborhood,” the driver said, giving him the eyeball.
“I’m sure it is. Get me there fast and there’s an extra fifty for you.”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather go to a hospital?”
“I feel better than I look. Turn off the AC, will you?”
His previous time in Las Vegas he’d made a mental note to make it his last. It was more than a year earlier, when he flew out to interview the CEO of Desert Life Insurance Company as part of the Doomsday investigation. It had been one of those right-church, wrong-pew deals. Nelson Elder, the head of the company, had been involved in the case, just not in the way Will ever expected. And his social call to his old roommate, Mark Shackleton, had also been far from a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of experience. The trip had left him queasy about Vegas and, frankly, he’d never been a fan anyway. One way or another, this really was going to be his last time, he swore.
The rush-hour traffic was heading north into Vegas, but going in the opposite direction, they made pretty good time to Henderson. The chocolate mountains of the McCullough Range occupied the windshield as they got closer to MacDonald Highlands, Spence’s exclusive country club community. As Will pressed himself to stay conscious, defiantly balling up his fists, the driver kept checking him out in the rearview mirror.
It was a gated community on the verdant grounds of the Dragon Ridge Country Club, an enclave of ultra-high-end homes, nestled in the hills overlooking the fairways. At the gatehouse, Will lowered his window and told the guard that Will Piper was there to see Henry Spence. Will could hear Spence’s voice through the guard’s phone. The cab was waved through.
At the curb, Will was looking at the biggest house he’d ever seen, a huge Mediterranean-style affair the color of sandstone. He could see Spence at the open front door, sitting on his scooter. Kenyon came bounding down to the curb, waving and calling, then stopped with a start at the sight of Will staggering out of the taxi. He ran forward and circled him with an arm to help him up the path.
“Good Lord! What happened to you?” Kenyon gasped.
Will gritted his teeth. “The watchers. I think they got Dane.”
“We were worried sick,” Kenyon said. “We heard nothing. Come. Come inside.”
Spence backed his scooter up to let the men past. “Alf, put him on the couch in the family room! Christ, he’s bleeding! Will, were you followed?”
“Don’t think so,” he rasped.
The house was nine thousand square feet of opulence, a Vegas-style Taj Mahal built for Spence’s socialite wife. Kenyon dragged Will through the horseshoe-shaped interior to a room with a fireplace, a computer desk, and a large brown sectional facing the backyard pool. Will slumped onto the sofa, and Kenyon carefully lifted his legs to get him recumbent. He was pale and sweaty, breathing rapidly. His pant leg was soaked through with sticky blood, and there was a sickly, ripe aroma in the air. “You need a doctor,” Kenyon said quietly.
“No. Not yet.”
“Henry, do you have a scissors handy?”
Spence wheeled up next to them, his oxygen lines hissing. “In the desk.”
Kenyon found the pair and cut a big square out of Will’s trousers, exposing the bloody bandage. He sliced through it, laid the gauze back and took a look at the wound. During his stint in the Nicaraguan jungle, he had learned rudimentary first aid. “You packed this yourself?”
Will nodded.
“Without painkillers?”
“Afraid so.”
The thigh was beefy and swollen. The gauze had a fruity, fetid odor. “It’s infected.”
Spence said, “I’ve got a whole drugstore in my medicine chest. What do you need?”
Kenyon answered, “Get me some pain pills, codeine, Vicodin, whatever you’ve got, and any antibiotics you have lying around. Is there a first-aid kit somewhere?”
“Trunk of my Mercedes. Germans think of everything.”
Will tried to prop himself up. “I’ve got it,” he said. “It’s in my bag.”
Spence closed his eyes. “Thank God.”
“Let’s sort you out first,” Kenyon insisted.
Kenyon worked quickly, pumping Will full of Percocet and Cipro, then asked him to forgive him as he pulled out the old gauze pack and painfully replaced it with fresh packing. Will groaned and gritted his teeth, and when it was done, he asked for a scotch.
Kenyon didn’t think it was a good idea, but Will persuaded him to pour a stiff one anyway. When he handed back the empty glass, he said, “I’m quitting tomorrow.”
Kenyon sat down beside him, and Spence drew his scooter near. It was then that Will noticed that Spence was all dolled-up, looking his best. His hair and beard were carefully combed. He had o
n a nice shirt and a tie. “Why’re you dressed up?” Will asked.
Spence smiled. “I don’t have any more birthdays to celebrate. We thought we’d celebrate my death day. Alf’s been a peach. Made me pancakes. Planned the whole day, not that I’m guaranteed to participate in all the activities. Pizza and beer for lunch. We’re going to watch Citizen Kane in the media room in the afternoon. Steaks on the grill for supper. Then I’m going to unhook the oxygen and have a cigar on the patio.”
“That’s probably what’ll kill him,” Kenyon said sadly.
“Sorry to interrupt your plans,” Will said. “Hand me my bag.”
He took out his laptop, and while it was booting up, he told them about the retrieval of the memory stick and the deadly encounter with the watchers. He hadn’t seen Frazier, but he sensed his presence. “Let’s finish our business before we watch any movies, okay?” he urged.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Spence said. “Besides, I already know all about Rosebud.”
Will opened Shackleton’s database and unlocked it with the password. He announced he was ready.
Spence took a deep breath and wet his dry lips with his tongue. He wanted to know but the process was going to be agonizing. He spoke the first name. “William Avery Spence. Baltimore, Maryland. He’s my oldest son.”
Will started typing, then, “He’s BTH.”
Spence exhaled and coughed a few times. “Thomas Douglas Spence, New York City.”
BTH.
“Susan Spence Pearson, Wilmington, Delaware, my daughter.”
BTH.
“Good,” he said calmly. “Let’s move on to the grandchildren. I’ve got lots of them.”
All BTH.
There was a list of daughters-in-law and sons-in-law next, his younger brother, a few close cousins.
One of the cousins had a DOD, in seven years’ time. Spence nodded at the news.
He was nearly done now, relaxed and satisfied, his tension melted away.
Then finally, Spence said, “Alf, I want to know about you too.”
“Well I don’t!” Kenyon protested.
