Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  He walks over the rise to the first large tree and finds the phone in the usual drop-off spot. This is how you do it, he thinks looking back at Tony. Complete the mission and don’t mess up.

  His memory of Masen’s apartment is a floor covered in piles of clothes, sink of skimming filthy water stacked with dirty dishes and cups; the uni student that never grew up. Scanning through photos it matches exactly what he remembers. However there’s nothing of value. No clues, no laptop. Nothing to tell him how he knew Amanda Lane and if he was behind the fake communication. If he could afford to sit back and savor the moment he would. However, his thoughts gravitate back to Masen.

  Mooney can have Nash, but he’s not getting Masen. Black is solid on that.

  Plenty of bullets left. Wonders if he’ll ever workout how he knew Lane’s name. Throws the phone in the car, then kicks the body against the car, bends down and raises arms above his head, straightens limber legs and kicks the body over to hug the car in the shadow of the flickering light. Reaches in for his gun and silencer. Flicks a lit match to the ground and watches as the fire grows, and starts consuming everything like hungry little fingers. Just like he is, hungry. After the gym he usually goes out for Sushi near his apartment, but that’s a good thirty-minute drive away.

  Not familiar with South Boston, he opens a local eatery application on his phone and starts walking. The direction to the nearest restaurant is straight through the park on the opposite side. The time tells him it is unlikely to be full of people. A linked eatery ratings shows an excellent local reputation, five stars. Lingers for a second on the screen. ‘Makes you glad to be alive.’

  But what he wants more than rice, salmon and avocado is for a better, longer lasting rush. Maybe Masen’s death will give him greater satisfaction.

  Across the road and wedged between a boarded-up dry cleaners on the left and a sports memorabilia shop on the right, whose security light backlights framed pictures, gloves, and an assortment of bats and balls casting shadows through steel grates onto decorative windows, is the restaurant. In his mind’s eye the photographer might have taken the photo of the restaurant from this exact position. It looks a swanky place. Not the type that normally lets you wear sweat pants, T-shirt and hoodie.

  Craning for a seat, chooses a vacant booth next to the window overlooking the park. He takes out a napkin, spits and wipes dirt from around his fingers. Smoke starts filtering through the trees and glows dark orange against a dark sky.

  5

  Masen decides to take Longfellow Bridge over the Charles River because of the large sweeping road that shoots past Massachusetts General. He likes the adrenaline speeding into the bend and being pushed deep into the seat. He looks to where the window was only this morning, his gaze lowering to the shards of glass rattling in the frame. With all that is wrong with the car he wouldn’t part with it. He has plans of fixing it up some day: new paint job—same color—reworked engine and putting in on old eight-track tape system for that trip across the country he and his dad never made. He has accumulated a collection over the years of secondhand tapes bought online and found in shops and markets.

  Above him and unnoticed, a corner of the white envelope slaps the roof like a piece of plastic stuck in the spokes of a bike, but muted by the wind.

  A car, swerving wildly, crosses into his lane without indicating. Masen swings over to the next lane braking as the car shoots across for an exit.

  Beep.

  ‘What?’ Masen turns his head behind to see if he’s cut anyone off and throws up his arms. ‘You didn’t see me pal?’ Watches as the car accelerates ahead and disappears into the turnoff; as close as you can get without swapping paint. Glad the lane was clear. The car, lowered with dark tinted windows he recognizes as following him two cars back since he left work.

  He takes the next turnoff, and after winding through streets which narrow the closer he gets to his apartment, pulls up to the curb and slows to a stop where a dirty green Lincoln Town had been parked. What looks like oil stains on the road and…sidewalk? Kills the engine and takes out the keys. Palms are clammy.

  Filtered sunlight spills across half the steps and slices the height of the building at an angle, keeping a third of it in shadow. A hint of changing seasons. Budding leaves, the sweet smell of Jasmine. The welcoming familiarity holds a somber grip. Back to normal despite not long ago it was the scene where his dog and landlord were murdered. Both shot while disturbing a robber. Home. ‘I don’t know,’ he intones. And stares ahead gripping the keys not moving.

  The Director wants all data transferred.

  Masen struggles at the convenience of Pascal’s suicide. Of the moment back in his office where they connected, or he thought they had. Pascal wore a look of resignation, that maybe he wasn’t totally in control. He wants to call Sparks, but knows all calls in and out of the building would be blocked. He looks down.

  My cell.

  He remembers throwing the cell on the seat. Unbelts and stops mid-stride catching the building framed perfectly in the side mirror as he leans over the passenger seat before rummaging and winces as a sharp piece of glass embeds in a finger. Too fine to see apart from turning his finger slowly to catch a reflection, rubs it free then sucks at a blob of blood squeezed out. Finds the cell on the floor. Knocks the unseen envelope that dislodged in the near accident and fell to the floor, wedging it under the seat’s metal frame.

  There are no missed calls or messages.

  His stomach rumbles as he teeters on the verge of going in. Trying for normality, whatever that is. The last few days have changed him. Not an analyst anymore and not a field operate despite what Black had said when he woke to find him at the end of his bed. No, this feels different. Like holding a half unwrapped present, or hopping with one leg in a pair of jeans. Staring at the front door, he remembers what the policeman had said about the killer. ‘Was probably already outside when he shot her.’ It’s exactly like he’s stuck in a doorway, and you had to decide to go forward or backward, in or out. Whichever way you have to decide.

  Why had Black, Assistant Director Zane Black, called? Right hand man? And why not lockdown the Barn? This DUST program arrived at the same time Pascal killed himself. As soon as he could he’d call Treagle and see if she could tighten things up a bit, disrupt data access with the slow moving cogs of bureaucracy. Wouldn't she? They are not on the greatest of terms, but at least she’d agree not locking access was a little strange.

  Dismisses the idea of being followed as probably due to his heightened sense of awareness around the fake communication and somewhere, someone was hunting those responsible. Wonders what Maloney’s serving. Plants his mind on the paper that’s soon to be published as somehow a path back, but it only raises more questions why Nash hadn’t called him back.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Masen aims for a spot under the flickering fluorescent light in the parking lot of Maloney’s Bar & Grill. Angles the car so the shadow falls on the passenger side window. More an attempt to disguise than hide the gaping hole. A small puff of dust from the gravel kicked up by the tires wafts past. Turning off the engine, he makes out a distant train and fading siren of an emergency vehicle, walks and shrugs shoulders looking back.

  If it can happen at work.

  Inside, Santana’s Black Magic Woman bursts into clarity as he pushes through the doors and sees a burly man stumbling his way, wobbling as if the floor is moving and his body overcompensates.

  ‘Sorry,’ the man slurs slamming into Masen’s shoulder. ‘There, friend.’ Adds wiping beer from his arm.

  ‘Ok,’ Masen says fending the man away with both hands and looks around. Maloney’s is busy. At the bar, a pair of suits are making hand gestures to a buxom barmaid busy pouring a round of shots.

  Masen spots a suitable table as a couple part in front; the woman makes for the bathroom, her male friend, the bar. The booth is empty and dark, and making his way over checks his cell, dismayed, puts it back in
his pocket, sits and gives the menu a quick once over. The plastic cover saves the paper underneath from muck, but not his fingers from sliding into something gooey.

  His cell rings. Sparks. And instantly remembers he was going to pick up food from Emilio’s.

  ‘What have you got?’ Masen cups the cell to his ear and shuffles across to the wall to hear better. ‘What have you been told?’

  ‘Pascal is dead,’ Sparks announces as much to himself as Masen. ‘Man, total mayhem. I’ve only just been able to leave work. Personnel sealed his office. We’ve all been interviewed. They asked after you, but they didn’t seem too concerned you weren’t here. Said they’d catch up.’

  ‘Pascal was a double agent,’ Masen says, although there’s doubt in his voice. ‘…Any news about Jessica?’

  ‘Nah, nothing,’ Sparks says. ‘I wonder who Pascal was working for?’

  Masen feels a chill. Black had said Jessica couldn’t be rescued.

  A pause.

  ‘Black—’ Sparks adds.

  ‘In charge of the Barn,’ Masen says. ‘Convenient, right?’

  Sparks whistles his answer. ‘Now can we talk about Candor and these kids?’ Sparks also asks if he can stay a few nights at Masen’s apartment building, something to do with the entire floor of his building being fumigated for rats. Masen agrees.

  Masen’s attention is drawn to a scuffle near the bar. ‘I’m at Maloney’s Bar & Grill. When you get here.’ Hangs up and walks to get that drink.

  ‘Nice throw,’ Masen says as the barman dusts himself off and walks back to the bar having thrown out a drunk. ‘Hi,’ he says recognizing Masen from the other day, ‘what can I get you?’ Asks lifting a section of the bar and walks behind.

  ‘Beer thanks.’ Masen ponders the specials board and scratches his cheek. ‘Better throw in a toasted three cheese and ham sandwich and a basket of fries.’

  ‘Sure.’ The barman gestures a tap. Masen nods which one. ‘Toasted Tuesdays are popular.’

  Other specials include a deep fried toasted egg, butter and cheese sandwich, a toasted Sloppy Joes and chili sauce sandwich, a pulled pork double bacon and cheese sandwich and something called the Monster Melt Hot Chili Toasted Smash Challenge. Masen cringes. For thirty-two dollars it’s free for anyone who finishes it in one sitting and under thirty minutes. At six and a half thousand calories, the Monster Melt comes with fries a bucket of soft drink and an early meeting with the maker.

  The barman smiles a knowing smile sliding over the beer. ‘I’d pull it off the menu but chef loves to make it and watch the victim choke on all that chili and cheese.’

  Masen hands over cash, and takes a sip.

  ‘I’ll bring over your food,’ the barman says handing over change.

  Masen navigates the crowd, taking an arc around a dancing queen swaying hypnotically near the jukebox back to the booth.

  He hadn’t given much thought about the shooting at Kennedy but in his mind he’s already tied Nash and this General Mooney to it.

  Something about Professor Nash Black asked earlier but didn’t elaborate. Looks at his finger doodling on the tabletop.

  It takes him back somehow, connects him to the blackboards in Nash’s office. Wets his finger and spells out DUST on the table. The General helped rescue Jessica, worked with Nash, and Nash works for Black.

  What has Nash got himself into?

  He remembers the night he was recruited into the CIA. Nash hinted he was recruited in a similar way, blackmailed to work for the Company, just like he was.

  He gulps and scribbles a physics formula on the table with a finger. Now focused on figuring out what DUST stands for, trying to tie his formula found written on Nash’s blackboard a lifetime ago to the letters.

  All the information is going to be stored at the Barn, streaming in over the next couple of days. He thought DUST referred to quantum gravity, but staring at the letters on the table, he twists the end of a finger and dots each letter. Tilts his head eyeing the table as if by doing so will reveal an answer.

  ‘I’ll get that for you,’ the barman says taking a cloth from his shoulder ready to wipe it clean.

  Masen umbrellas his hands over the table. ‘No. Leave it. I’m working on something.’

  ‘Looks like hieroglyphics to me… here you go.’ Stows the cloth over his shoulder and places the food down.

  ‘Quantum mechanics,’ Masen mumbles.

  ‘Good with your hands?’

  Thinks of the rattle in his car. ‘No’

  Blowing on smoldering hot cheese that drizzles down the sides of the sandwich, Masen toils at the letters. ‘Hmm…dust…DUal STate.’

  Dual State…for what?

  Only when Sparks sits down opposite and unknowingly wipes the scrambling, smudging it across the table with a paper cloth, does Masen look up.

  ‘Can I have some?’ Sparks points to the fries and has a handful in his mouth before Masen can say anything. ‘This place is awesome,’ Sparks adds turning to watch the woman dance next to the jukebox. Mimics her moves.

  ‘Black asked me to be his right hand man,’ Masen says tumbling the words ‘dual state’ over in his head.

  ‘Ha!’ Travis exclaims taking his stare off the woman. ‘I forgot to tell you, your car’s getting towed.’

  Masen jumps up and races for the door.

  ‘Don’t!’ Masen protests erupting out of Maloney’s.

  The car’s back wheels are secured to a yellow tow truck, attachable towing lights already fixed atop. The driver casually unbolting ties from around the tires, panics as he turns and sees Masen running towards him. ‘Please, it’s fixed. It’s coming down. I don’t want no trouble,’ he says working the lever and lowering the car’s back wheels. ‘Unhitching, see.’

  Masen slows, watches in confusion as the man throws the lights into the back of his truck, then raises the tow-bar free from the Porsche. The door makes a fingernails raking down a chalkboard sound as the driver slams the door and speeds off with a racket of stones peppering the ground, leaving Masen wondering what just happened. His car exactly where he left it.

  He bends under the seat to investigate the laptop, but feels a slight bouncing resistance. Taking it out and placing it on the seat, he reaches deeper underneath and fishes for the source. Despite his elbow hurting as it rests on a metal plate, he continues and gets a nibble. With a heave of his body and a rush of blood to his head, manages a firm grip and pulls. An envelope tears in half. He kneels on the gravel and puts the two halves of the piece of paper together.

  Handwritten it reads ‘John Masen’ on the front.

  Masen splays the paper of the seat and reads the contents. A chill runs down his spine.

  ‘Pascal.’

  What he quickly reads is startling. Pascal was a double agent, but Masen never thought he might be set up in such circumstances. ‘Who’s Dana?’ He cranes the area and folds the letter into his jean’s pocket, leaving the majority unread. With so many cars in the parking lot, he doesn’t want to risk reading it out in the open. He stands, wipes his knees, pads his pocket to make sure the letter is safe from falling out.

  The Director didn’t say he wanted all data transferred, Black said that he did. Scalds himself for believing everything he hears.

  Takes two steps then hears his name being called out. ‘Jumbo you sly dog, fancy that.’ Stops in his tracks. Bozeman’s voice bellows in the silence of the parking lot. Turning, sees the detective leaning against an unmarked tanned Ford Crown Victoria out on the street. He pushes off and walks over.

  ‘Good to see you, detective.’ Masen stops and lifts a hand in recognition.

  Bozeman clicks his keys to lock his car. ‘Please, it’s Amos, no formalities here. I am a tad bit taken aback though.’

  Pascal must have punched the window and planted the letter. To hand it to me means he doesn’t trust anyone.

  ‘Earth to Jimbo.’

  ‘Why is that…Amos?’ Masen says
feeling for the folded envelope in his pocket.

  With a slap on the back, Bozeman smiles. ‘You are a dog, aren’t you? I was listening to the radio when they called it in. Must admit the plate escaped me at first, but when they said Maloney’s Bar & Grill, man I knew that white Porsche was you.’ Bozeman’s mouth widens as he throws his arms up. ‘And here I am.’

  The mints do a poor job of masking the smell of alcohol on his breath. ‘Here you are, Amos.’ Masen smiles with a lack of enthusiasm not lost on Bozeman. ‘Enlighten me, detective.’

  Bozeman gives him a reassuring side tap on the nose, as he leads Masen through the doors. Great, now I’m cozy with a boozy detective.

  The jukebox is silent. ‘Two beers,’ Bozeman proceeds to the bar. Masen raises a hand and makes his way over to the booth. The food is gone. Sparks shrugs as Masen’s gaze fall to the empty baskets.

  ‘Never mind, I forgot your rib sub,’ Masen says. Sparks’ face drops in disappointment. ‘A detective acquaintance of mine is coming over. He’s looking into the murders at the apartment building.’

  Sparks flinches.

  ‘Nothing to do with work,’ Masen says as a heads-up. ‘He’s smart, and if you don’t be careful, you’ll tell him things you wouldn’t normally tell people outside the Company.’

  ‘No secrets, I’m no idiot,’ Sparks says licking fingers. ‘I can take care of myself. Thought we were going to talk about—’

  ‘Not now, later, promise,’ Masen says lowering his head and leaning forward knowing exactly what Sparks was after: Candor and the two Chinese kids. ‘Play your cards close. There’s a question if he’s even a cop.’ Masen takes a look at the bar to convince himself of the appropriateness of the observation, before looking back. ‘Uses charm to get what he wants.’

  Masen squeezes and holds tight, needing to relieve himself, he doesn’t want Sparks buddying up to Bozeman and looks impatiently towards the bar, but settles on the dancer. Her body moves in close and unconsciously caresses and taps the jukebox with a song that is being fondly remembered in her head.