by Allen Wyler
The pain had returned and Jon’s temples were throbbing. Recounting the story was like putting his head in a vice grip. He grimaced in pain.
Wayne said, “It’s bad enough this should happen, but the timing . . . Jesus, it couldn’t be a worse time.”
Jon unclenched his jaw, rocked it side to side to loosen up, and tried to relax, but his brain was back into an endless loop of: They murder Gabe, then try to dictate my life. No way will I let them get away with it.
Well, it wasn’t his decision to make alone. Wayne held an equal vote. And Wayne was watching him as if expecting an answer. Jon asked, “What do you think we should do?”
Shaking his head, Wayne studied the floor a moment and clinked the coins his pocket. “I . . . to tell you the truth, this scares me.” He looked at Jon. “Scares the shit out of me, actually.”
Wayne closed the hall door, and continued to pace. “Let me tell you a story. This happened eleven, maybe twelve years ago, before I met Michael. A friend and I were in San Francisco, down in the Castro district, walking along, minding our own business when two guys jump out of nowhere and get right in our faces, start calling us fags and queers, cocksuckers. You know . . . all the terms of endearment. I thought maybe we could just walk away without a problem but my friend knew it wasn’t going to end so easy. He stared back at one of the dudes, like, daring him to do something. So what’s the guy do? Calls him a fucking queer right to his face and tries to kick him in the balls. They both jump my friend, start kicking the shit out of him. In those days we carried whistles for just this kind of thing. I start blowing mine like crazy and Jesus, you should’ve seen it; guys come pouring out of the clubs and within seconds they were all over those two homophobes, pounding the living shit out of them. And you know what? I just stood there, jumping up and down, cheering, watching the blood fly. I wanted to see more and more until they looked like roadkill. There was a part of me just aching to see those two fairy haters stomped into the concrete.
“It was scary, the intensity I felt. I can still remember my reaction the moment I saw that first guy kick Jeff. I thought, ‘how dare you! This is our tiny little space, our own neighborhood where we can finally be ourselves. You’re the one invading us.’ I felt rage. Pure hatred. And let me tell you, I pray to God I never feel that again. The point to this? Well, right now, this very moment, I’m closest to that exact hate that I’ve ever been since that night. And it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want it to cloud my mind and cause me to make a wrong decision.”
Jon said nothing for fear of interrupting Wayne’s story. Of all the life stories they shared over the years, this was the first he’d heard this one. Jon wondered if maybe it explained why Wayne held a Black Belt in martial arts. He started grinding his teeth, playing with the pain, as if it might focus his thoughts and somehow help him reach the right decision.
Wayne seemed to be winding down and stopped pacing. “I don’t know what the point of my little rant is . . . other than . . . those guys we’re dealing with—whoever they are—kill people in cold blood. They proved that with Gabe. I’m not so sure I want to mess with them. You?”
Jon avoided answering. “What do we know about them?”
Wayne looked out the window at the view of the Montlake Bridge, hands in his pockets, playing with some change. “Not much, I really haven’t paid attention to them other than a glance at the headlines. They’ve killed people. We know that. What more do we need to know?”
Good point. Fisher certainly took them seriously. “Fisher’s not totally convinced it’s really the Avengers.”
Wayne continued to stare out the window, coins jingling. “What difference does that make? That’s only a name. Whoever they are, they killed Gabe and threatened us, and want us to stop our work. Okay, so maybe we keep ahead of our competition by ignoring them, but what if they end up killing you or me? Would that be worth it?” He slowly shook his head to make the point clear.
Good point. Still, they’d worked too hard over the past decade to be shut down like this. Especially by someone who didn’t understand what they were doing. “Maybe there’s a way to continue without them knowing.”
Wayne shot him his you-got-to-be-kidding look. “In theory. Maybe. But we can’t hide what we do. What if they have sympathizers right here in this med school? They could monitor us and we wouldn’t even know it.”
When Jon didn’t answer Wayne stepped closer to study his face. “Don’t! You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you? Stop it! I’m serious. They have sympathizers all over the place. Just about every pro-lifer on the planet supports them. There’s no way we could get away with it. No way.”
Jon wasn’t convinced. Every obstacle had a solution. The trick was to discover it. There had to be a way to do the human implants without whoever these asshole were knowing. No one could be everywhere, see everything, unless you were an intelligence agency like the CIA. Even then . . .
Or was he just being obstinate? Reluctantly he admitted to having a tendency toward oppositional defiance as a personality flaw, an inclination to push against authority, a problem he had harnessed as part of growing up. One facet of being a good scientist was to question accepted theory. But this wasn’t science, it was common sense: don’t screw around with irrational people . . . Maybe Wayne had a point.
Still. . . .
Jon said, “A reporter called earlier. I didn’t talk to him. Maybe I should call him back, make sure he understands we’re working with mice and not humans.”
Wayne continued to stare out the window and shake his head. “What good will that do?”
“Just thinking out loud. You know, it bothers me, that Aussie calling me ‘baby killer.’ Maybe if I can get the reporter to do a follow up, explain what we’re really doing. . . . It’s a way to get the word out, correct any misconceptions.”
Wayne turned from the window, ears bright red, fists clenched. “What is it you don’t understand about the word no? Listen to what I’m saying: I’m afraid of these guys. I don’t want to mess with them. Easy concept. You shouldn’t have a hard time understanding it. I’m not comfortable with anything short of shutting down.” He threw down his arms in frustration, stood there glaring at Jon.
The vehemence of Wayne’s anger was shocking, such a marked deviation from his typical easygoing personality. Jon said nothing as Wayne’s words echoed in his mind. What just happened?
Wayne continued to stare at him, hands fisting and unfisting, making damn sure Jon got the message.
Don’t! You’ve been down this road before. Do not say what you’re thinking. Eyes clamped shut, Jon raised a hand, waited a beat. “Stop. Time out.”
The room fell silent.
“Jesus, Jon . . . I’m sorry.”
He waved the hand to silence him. “Whatever we do, we can’t let this destroy us.”
“I agree.” Slowly, Wayne sat back down and crossed his legs. “So what do we do, shut down?”
Their ten productive collaborative years together functioned by consensus, with neither one dominating the other in spite of the fact that the majority of their grant support was awarded to Jon’s department. But that was a simple matter of economics: Neurosurgery had a larger endowment than Neurology. In real terms, this gave Jon veto power. Jon knew what he wanted to do, but realized it would take some gentle persuasion to change Wayne’s mind. He said, “We need to think about this. It’s more complicated than it may seem. We’re dealing with terrorists.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Terrorists kill people. That’s how they incite terror. But, there’s not a country or government agency I know of that makes it a policy to negotiate with terrorists.”
“I don’t see that we have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice. We can’t just stop work because some asshole demands it.”
“Why not?” Wayne looked dead serious.
Jon didn’t have a good answer, and realized much of his resistance was on princi
ple. The Avengers—or whoever they were—didn’t have the right! Especially by ultimatum. Pressure began building in his head again.
Wayne said, “I can see you’re plotting something but I warn you . . . no, I beg you: don’t, for one minute, think we can go up against, or even reason with, someone we know nothing about.” He paused, cocked his head. “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.” He tapped Jon’s shoulder. “Hey, I’m talking to you. I know the grant’s in your name, but keep in mind that if you continue working the project, you put me in danger. This isn’t just all about you, you know. It’s about my life too. That’s what you’d be gambling with. Think about it.”
Wayne was just full of good points today. “I know.”
7
GARY FISHER WAS checking the reply to his Interpol query when his cell rang. The caller ID showed RESTRICTED so he debated answering, but with all that was going on . . . He flipped the phone open, put it to his ear to listen.
“Agent Fisher?” The male voice carried a slight ring of familiarity.
“Who’s calling?”
“Jon Ritter.”
It took a second to register and then Fisher realized it was who he thought of as only Doctor Ritter. He pushed back from the computer and without thinking picked up his pen and nudged the note pad closer. “How you feeling?”
“Still numb. The funeral’s back in Philadelphia this weekend. That’s where he’s from.”
“Huh?” Then it dawned on him: Ritter was referring to Lippmann. “Oh, right. You going?” Leaned back his chair and allowed his gaze to wander out the fourteenth floor window of the Federal Building to a spectacular view of Elliot Bay, Harbor Island, and the massive orange cranes alongside the container ships. Two Washington State ferries passed each other in opposite directions, shuttling cars and passengers between Coleman Dock and Bainbridge Island, and in the background, the snow-covered Olympic peaks across the horizon. A magnificent panorama, especially in striking contrast to the flat, sparse land around his hometown.
“No. I wanted to, but Louise, his wife, said only immediate family. We’re having a memorial service here at the school.”
“I see.” Fisher paused a respectful moment before asking, “You think of any new details?
“No. You turn up any leads, anything at all?”
He wished he could say yes, that at this very moment the bastard who killed Lippmann was in lockup with a signed confession on the magistrate’s desk. Far from it. They had nothing. “We’re working on it.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Ritter shot back, sounding pissed.
The intensity of the remark took Fisher by surprise. What the hell did he think they’d been doing eighteen hours a day since the parking garage incident? He squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried to massage fatigue from his eyes. “Look, I—” but stopped to rethink his tone. Ritter was a victim, why not share some details? Nothing crucial, just enough to let him appreciate how serious they considered the case. Besides, there was a chance he’d need his help before things were over. Always better to have allies than enemies. “We’ve made some progress. The garage has security video. The stills don’t give us as much detail as we’d like, but it’s better than nothing and it’s a hell of a lot more than we had before. We narrowed down their car.” Where the hell was that cup of coffee? Ah, on the corner of the desk. He sipped it, grateful for the lingering warmth. Nothing worse than cold stale coffee.
Fisher continued, “According to the time stamp, your assailants entered the garage at eighteen-thirteen hours and exited immediately after the shooting. We enhanced the images of the vehicle enough to lift a partial plate and trace it back to a rental agency.” He purposely left out the agency name. He didn’t want Ritter to start acting like some lone cowboy. “In follow up, I learned the vehicle is due back today, but in all likelihood those shitheads dumped it the night of the assault, so I put a BOLO on it.”
“A BOLO?”
Fisher paused for another sip. “Be On The Lookout For. Trust me; every cop in the area is looking for it.”
“I assume you checked into who rented it?”
“Holy shit, why didn’t I think of that!” And immediately regretted his sarcasm.
Ritter said nothing.
Fisher glanced at the display, saw they were still connected, and decided two could play the same game. He had to draw a line here. Otherwise Ritter would be riding his ass continually. As he listened, waiting for Ritter to speak, his gaze went back out the window. He noticed a layer of grime on the outside of the pane. How’d it get there? Was the air this high up that dirty? And what about the person who had to dangle twenty-seven floors above unforgiving concrete once a year to clean it? No way in hell could he ever do that job. Not for all the money in the world. Not with his fear of heights.
The silent standoff between them was broken when he heard Ritter say, “Oh, that was a stupid question.”
Fisher capitulated with, “A male using the name Warren Mattox signed the papers. We ran his California license but of course it’s bogus. He paid the deposit in cash and didn’t buy insurance. Which I take to mean your assailants knew what they were doing and went out of their way not to leave any sort of trail.”
“You talked to the clerk who rented it? Personally?”
Jesus! “Let me see if I have this straight: you’re in charge of the investigation now?” He squeezed the bridge of his nose again and shook his head, more irritated at his own lack of patience than Ritter’s accusatory tone. “Yeah, I personally talked to her but she couldn’t remember squat about him.”
“That’s it?”
Fisher pushed out of the chair and arched his back, working on the ache burrowing in between his shoulders. “No, that’s not all. Let me assure you we take this case seriously. Both the University and Seattle cops are also all over it. Last night SPD had two detectives going door to door in your neighborhood asking if anyone remembered seeing anything out of the ordinary the past two weeks. Your assailants knew your routine, so they must’ve had you under surveillance for at least a few days.
“We went a step further, checked the other car rental companies within a block of the airport. Turns out our guy Mattox rented a different car the previous week. Meaning you were under observation ten days or so. But there’s no way of knowing for sure. Satisfied?” Ritter couldn’t possibly know how personal the Avengers investigation was for him, and he wasn’t about to explain.
“Yes, that makes me feel better. Sorry if I seem angry. I am. Gabe meant the world to me. I’m having trouble dealing with it, is all. . . .”
Fisher dropped into the chair again, began drumming a ballpoint on a pad of yellow legal paper. “Understandable. Okay, change of topic. You made a decision yet?”
“About?”
“Shutting down.”
Ritter said, “Which raises a question. When you saw me on their website, why didn’t you warn me? Give me some protection?”
Here we go again. Fisher flipped the pen in the air without bothering to catch it, turned to focus on the view again. “Hey, blaming me for Lippmann’s death isn’t going to do a damn thing but piss us both off again, so let me put it to you this way: am I qualified to do brain surgery?”
“That’s ridiculous. What kind of question’s that?”
“Here’s the point: I’m not qualified to do brain surgery and you’re not qualified to run this investigation. So back off and let me do my job. Nobody wants to get these shitheads more than I do. Do I make myself clear?”
Fisher took Ritter’s silence as petulant agreement. He mentally patted himself on the back and sipped the dregs of the coffee that had turned cold. “What I’m suggesting is, until we get the situation cleared up, you shouldn’t do anything to provoke them.”
Ritter said nothing. Was he pouting, thinking, or what? Regardless, he needed to get on with his work, so he said, “I’m late for a meeting. Got to go. When I have something new, I’ll call. If you think of anything addition
al you think is important, call me. You have my numbers. We’ll talk.” And hung up.
8
GODDAMN FBI! JON slammed the phone on the desk. Five days since Gabe’s cold-blooded murder and one fictitious name was the only piece of information the nation’s premier law enforcement agency could dig up. Furious, he stared at the rapidly enlarging list of unanswered emails accumulating on the computer, his temple throbbing with each beat of his racing heart. He absentmindedly probed the puffy ridge of scalp where the sutures had been removed that morning. Pressing the wound now provoked less pain than it did in the ICU, which, he supposed, was a good sign, an indication of collagen knitting the edges together. All wounds heal. Eventually. The flesh just more easily than the mind.
His wound began throbbing again, the result of fingering it.
For a distraction, he tried to concentrate on sorting emails, deleting unread the ones he knew were trivial, leaving more important ones to deal with at a time when he could concentrate fully. He glanced at the latte next to the phone, cold now, untouched since . . . ? He checked his watch. Jesus, what time had he come back to the office? Sometime after the suture removal this morning, but when exactly?
Being so forgetful these past few days was irritating, this inability to focus on anything. Okay, sure, he’d sustained a concussion, but still . . .
Three months now since Emily’s death. Now, Gabe, gone too. The two most important people in his life . . . He felt robbed.
As if this weren’t enough, the fucking Avengers were stealing the one remaining part of his life that held any true meaning: his research. This was the activity he buried himself in after Emily died. The place that, in a funny way, he’d felt closest to Gabe. After all, Gabe was how Jon came to be there . . .
Gabriel Lippmann sits across his desk from Jon Ritter, the young medical student applying for residency. Jon is sweating as Lippmann asks why he applied to go to med school.
