Phantom Limb

by Dennis Palumbo

  “Yeah, right.”

  Then, abruptly, a guarded look crossed his face.

  “Tell me somethin’, okay? How come you asked me about Sykes, anyway? Is somethin’ goin’ on I oughta know about?”

  I took my time before answering.

  “The fact is, Skip, you already know about it. And you’re one of the few people outside law enforcement who does. Because Mike Payton told you.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “I spoke with Payton earlier today. He said he called you a few days ago and asked if you were involved in the kidnapping of Lisa Campbell. Because the guy who abducted her called himself Julian, which is your real name. As Mike Payton knew.”

  Skip flushed, then slammed his beer down on the table. One of the two cowboys looked up from his pool game, cue stick in hand, irritated. At the bar, Penny peered anxiously in our direction, too.

  “Listen, Danny, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Mike. I had nothin’ to do with any kidnapping. Shit, I didn’t know what the fuck he was talkin’ about. I mean, I never saw nothin’ about it on the news, or—”

  “That’s because it was kept out of the media. The story still hasn’t broken, even though Lisa’s been returned safely. Her husband, a rich businessman named Harland, paid a ten million dollar ransom to get her back.”

  The ransom amount leached some of the color from his face. Though he was still plainly angry.

  “And this guy who kidnapped her…Payton told me the prick said his name was Julian. Like mine. That’s why Mike called to see if it was me. Which really pissed me off.”

  “Yeah, he told me how you reacted.”

  “Did Mike also tell you that I got an alibi? He gave me the time line, and I was at Noah’s bar the afternoon this lady was snatched. And I was still there that night when the kidnapper called. So I’m sorry to disappoint you two, but I’m not your guy. I didn’t snatch nobody. And I hate this fucker for usin’ my name. I mean, who the hell is he, anyway?”

  I took a breath. “Okay, here’s where it gets a little weird. You should know that the FBI has been keeping tabs on Ray Sykes and Max Griffin since they came back from the war.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Sykes has become a pretty high-profile criminal, involved in drugs, human trafficking, that kind of stuff. Apparently, he’s known as ‘Splinter’ Sykes, because he’s unnaturally thin. Almost emaciated.”

  “Tell me about it. He was already startin’ to look like hell back in Kandahar. Rumor was, he’d contracted some kinda bug, like that flesh-eatin’ shit, then tried treatin’ it with black market drugs. Only made him sicker. Almost killed him, I heard. It didn’t, which sucks. But it left him lookin’ like a pipe cleaner. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  “I agree. But it didn’t stop him from building up quite a criminal operation. And Max Griffin’s working with him.”

  “I’ll be damned. I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised. Sykes and that psycho Griffin…Makes sense they’d end up together, after what they tried to do to me over there.”

  I watched him drain the rest of his beer.

  “That’s not everything, Skip. That kidnapping we were talking about? The man behind it was Sykes. When he called with his ransom demand, his voice was altered so it couldn’t be recognized. But he said to call him ‘Julian.’”

  He gaped at me. “Sykes was the guy who used my name…?”

  “Yes. I don’t know why, not for sure. Maybe to implicate you, in case things went sideways. But I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Me, neither. Knowin’ that arrogant piece o’ shit, he just did it for the hell of it. For kicks.”

  “It fits my assessment of him, of his personality. Sykes probably saw using your name as some kind of private joke. His own sick, self-titillating revenge on you for having survived the murder attempt in Afghanistan. For having gotten away with insulting him in front of his men. Not only that. Once he was safely away with the ransom money, he could revel in the thought that the authorities would always believe that Lisa’s kidnapper was someone called Julian.”

  Skip glowered down at the empty beer bottle, now gripped with both hands. I was afraid he’d shatter the glass.

  “I know this is a lot to absorb,” I said evenly.

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  Then he looked up, past my shoulder. Peering at the world outside the pool hall’s grime-streaked window.

  “I don’t wanna talk about this crap anymore. I mean, I’m done talkin’ about anything. Period.”

  And he was.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Lisa Campbell jumped up from her chair at her husband’s bedside and took hold of my forearm. She was wearing brand-new sweats and spotless Nikes, clothes obviously brought in to her from home. She looked like someone had also done her hair.

  “Danny! I’ll be damned, I was just gonna call you. Charles wanted to see you in person. To thank you.”

  The old man lay in his hospital bed, amid a tangle of tubes, with his bony wrist connected to an IV drip. The private room was as spacious as I’d expected, though with the jarring addition of a laptop and a bank of phones on a wheeled table beside the bed.

  I’d left Skip Hines at the pool hall, after he’d refused my offer to drive him back to his motel. He explained that since it was just a few blocks away, he’d rather walk. After which he again rapped his knuckles against his prosthesis. “Still breakin’ her in,” he said.

  I battled Monday rush-hour traffic all the way across town to Pittsburgh Memorial, my radio tuned to the news channel. I’d thought that the joint police-FBI briefing that took place this afternoon might result in some kind of press statement regarding the murders of Donna Swanson and Arthur Drake. Because both victims were employed by Charles Harland, and their deaths happened so close together, local media had been hounding the police about the progress of the two investigations. Accusations of cover-ups, political manipulation, and corporate conspiracies were rampant, especially online.

  Meanwhile, the ostensibly “sexier” story, the kidnapping of Harland’s wife—a homegrown, former Hollywood starlet—remained undisclosed. Prime red meat for a media feeding frenzy, yet remarkably nowhere on the menu.

  I pulled into the hospital parking lot, but stayed for a few minutes in the car. Replaying the conversations I’d had with Mike Payton and Skip Hines. Wondering if there was something I should’ve asked each of them but didn’t. Wondering if there was something I’d missed.

  The sun was still bright against a cloudless sky, though the steadily rising wind chased away whatever warmth it might provide. And the weather report claimed that the coming night would be even cooler than the previous ones, accompanied by increased winds. Great, I thought. I climbed out of my car.

  When I arrived outside Harland’s hospital room, I saw two nondescript guys standing on either side of the door. Private security, probably brought in by Mike Payton to ensure his boss’ privacy. It worked. There wasn’t a reporter or camera in sight.

  Now, as Lisa brought me to her husband’s bedside, the old man awkwardly raised himself from his pillows. Then he gave me his version of a welcoming smile.

  “Doctor…” His voice a dry, raspy croak. “My wife…told me that it was you who rescued her…from those sick bastards. I…words can’t express my gratitude.”

  “I got lucky, Mr. Harland. Lisa and I both did.”

  His thin lips trembled, as he struggled to reply. Taking deep, gasping breaths.

  “No, Doctor,” he said at last. “When a man does something for me, I don’t forget my…my obligation to him…There will be a reward…Money…”

  I shook my head. “Not necessary. Really.”

  If possible, Charles Harland looked worse than the last time I’d seen him. Skin more sallow, cheeks sunken. Even those glittering, penetrating eyes had los
t much of their vigor, their ego-directed fervor. Every word he uttered seemed to cost him air, energy. As though it was an act of will to keep breathing. Speaking. Living.

  A dead man talking.

  Lisa, at my side, leaned over her husband and none-too-gently lay his head back against the pillows.

  “Charles needs his rest. He’s been through a helluva lot. The stroke…and then learning about what happened to me.” She darted her eyes up at me. “I also told him about poor Arthur.”

  Here the old man’s eyes regained some life. He stared up at me with sudden urgency.

  “Yes…I know about Drake. Good man…Been with me for years…I was unhappy to hear he’d been…been killed.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry about him, too.”

  “But not as sorry as I am…” Voice rising. “Now I have to find another goddamn lawyer I can trust…And the good ones… they don’t grow on trees, as my father used to say…They—”

  He sputtered, and it turned into a harsh cough. Wracking his whole shell of a body beneath the covers. Without a word, Lisa took a glass of water from the nightstand, put it to the old man’s lips.

  As he sipped his drink, Lisa glanced up at me again. Gave me a cool, disgusted look. Welcome to my world, Doc.

  I got the message. Harland’s brush with death obviously hadn’t mellowed him. The only thing Arthur Drake’s murder meant to him was the loss of a valued asset. He probably felt the same way about the killing of his longtime nurse, Donna Swanson. Both deaths were merely annoying, troublesome. Inconvenient.

  People were possessions to him. Prized for their utility. For what they could do for him, or for what they represented.

  Lisa Campbell, as she well knew, was Harland’s most valued possession. But perhaps, I thought, not merely as the stereotypical “trophy wife.” Or as a much-younger woman who restored some image of himself as still youthful, vital. Someone whose Hollywood past gave their marriage a glamour the old man craved.

  Instead, it was possible that what he valued most about Lisa was simply how he felt when he was with her. That the miracle was that he could still feel anything at all. Maybe, in his mind, this meant that he did indeed love her. At least more than anything else he owned…

  Some of the water dribbled from Harland’s lips, so Lisa returned the glass to the table. Carefully wiped his mouth with a Kleenex.

  I looked down at his pale, hollow face.

  “Lisa’s right, Mr. Harland. You need your rest. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “No, no…I wanted to see you. Besides, I’m feeling better …much better. In fact…I just told my doctor…that I’ll be going home tomorrow…”

  “He agreed to that?”

  “He…He doesn’t have a choice…He works for me…There’s no reason he can’t…attend to my needs…at the residence.”

  Lisa gave me a half-hearted look of consternation.

  “My stubborn, pain-in-the-ass husband is having a hospital bed, monitors, everything the doctor might need, brought to the house. Including round-the-clock nursing care.”

  “A necessity…” Harland forced the words out. “I can’t… conduct business from here…I want to be home…In my own study…With my own people…”

  He tried to get up on his elbows again, but Lisa restrained him with a hand on his shoulder. He blinked up at me.

  “See, Doctor…it’s important that I be released from the hospital…as soon as possible. My board says it’s better…if I’m seen as on the mend…Even my worthless son James agrees… He says it sends a positive message…to the stockholders.”

  Her hand still on his shoulder, she patted it.

  “Maybe so, Charles, but I think it will be goddamn hard enough recuperating at home. You don’t need any extra stress.”

  Harland offered me a weak smile.

  “She means the anniversary gala…next month…Lisa wants me to…to cancel it…”

  “Damn right I want to cancel it,” Lisa said. “In your condition, no way you should be hosting a fucking party. And you know it, Charles.”

  “We’ve held the gala every year…since our wedding…and I’m not going to stop now…Besides, as James said, it’ll signal that everything’s…back to normal…That it’s business as usual …for the Harland brand.”

  I frowned. “James said?…”

  “Yes…though he…he probably just wants to make sure… our stock prices stay up…Greedy little shit…”

  Lisa leaned closer to her husband.

  “But your health is more important than anything. I still think we should cancel. Believe me, people would understand.”

  “I said no!…” Wheezing now. Trembling. “I said…we’re going to have the gala…same as always…So we will!…”

  He suddenly began coughing again, at the same time waving Lisa away from the bed with a bony hand.

  “Charles!” Lisa said. “Calm down…”

  I turned to her. “I think you should call his doctor.”

  Nodding, she reached for the signal button on the wall.

  ***

  Outside Harland’s room, far enough down the hall to be out of earshot of the two security guards, Lisa and I met with her husband’s personal physician.

  A small, gray-bearded man with wire-rim glasses, he assured her that Charles was stable, and that the best thing for him was rest. He also repeated to her his reluctance to release Harland to home care, but that his hands were tied. His contract with his patient was apparently quite specific when it came to things like this.

  After he’d gone back down the hall to once more check on Harland, Lisa let out a gale-like sigh.

  “Could that guy be more of a pussy? Christ!”

  “He seems competent enough.”

  “Maybe. But, shit, I was looking forward to having the house to myself. Just me and the maids and the cooks and the drivers. But no Charles.”

  Her grin was forced. As though even she was aware she was trying to use humor to keep her hysteria at bay.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Lisa. And feeling. If the anniversary gala takes place…”

  Her face fell. “James gets to present his little horror show. And then I’m…I know it sounds melodramatic as hell…but then I’m destroyed. Finished.”

  Lisa’s tone hardened. “And I told you, Danny. I won’t let that happen. Or at least I won’t be around when it does.”

  “Lisa, listen—”

  “Don’t worry, Doc. I didn’t forget our deal. I’ll call you before I do it. If nothing else, I’ll want to say thanks…and good-bye.”

  She turned to go, but I grabbed her wrist.

  “Dammit, I can have you put under suicide watch. Right here in the hospital.”

  “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

  “Try me. Involuntary commitment for at least forty-eight hours. I can do it, Lisa. Comes with the license.”

  “And here I thought you were my friend.”

  “I’m your therapist, first and foremost. And I don’t want you to do this.”

  She smirked. “Fine. Put me in a goddamn padded cell for two days. Then my lawyers’ll get me out and I can do what I want.”

  “Please, Lisa. That’s not how I want this to go.”

  “Well, then, do something about it. Help me get the flash-drive back from that louse James.”

  “I would if I could. Any idea where he might be hiding it?”

  She glanced nervously up and down the corridor.

  “Fuck if I know. I’ve searched his bedroom, his office at the residence. I even stole his keys once, snuck into the garage and checked his car. Nada. Zip.”

  I paused. “I’m tempted to beat it out of him.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah, right. Though thanks for saying it. Probably the most therapeutic thing you’ve ever done for me.”
/>   Now I smiled. “Thanks…I think.”

  “But, seriously, Danny. We gotta find that goddamn thing. Or I will take my final exit…” Another pained sigh. “Hell, it’d be a relief, anyway…And pure Hollywood, to boot. The perfect tabloid end to my tabloid life.”

  “Now you are being melodramatic, Lisa. But my instincts say you don’t even believe your own words. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think the terrified, half-starved woman who tried to escape her kidnappers wanted to live. And still does.”

  For once, she seemed at a loss for words. Instead, she crossed her arms and slumped back against the wall. Pouting.

  “Besides,” I said quickly, “there’s a month before the anniversary gala. A lot can happen between now and then.”

  She shrugged, then peered past my shoulder at a calendar on the wall opposite. I turned, followed her gaze.

  “Actually, we’ve got less than three weeks,” she said. “Man, time flies when you’ve been kidnapped…”

  ***

  I walked Lisa across the hospital parking lot to her car, a silver BMW newly leased for her through her husband’s company. She was heading back to the residence, to supervise the clean-up once the few remaining cops and FBI techs finished their work.

  She told me that Payton had called right before I’d arrived at Harland’s room, saying it looked like they were nearly done.

  As she drove off, I realized this meant that, true to his word, Payton had left the sidewalk café soon after Gloria and I did. And that he’d returned to his duties at the residence.

  By now, the sun had dipped, its cool rays fanning out from behind the serrated urban skyline. Coating with a suffused white glaze the planes of the new downtown high-rises, while sending the buildings opposite into deep shadow. The entire cityscape funneled by a rising, oblivious wind.

  I crossed the lot and found my own car. I’d just climbed behind the wheel and turned the ignition key when my cell rang. I looked at the display. It was Charlene.

  “Danny! Thank God you picked up!”

  She was breathless, panicked.

  “Charlene, what is it?”