by Dom Testa
For most of the run I tried to keep my mind off the case. Sometimes you can just overthink something to the point where it becomes a blur of coalesced color. I needed to flush out everything in order to see it all with fresh eyes. That’s easier said than done, especially when deadlines loom. But I knew, if successful, it would help.
I spent the first mile thinking about Christina and a vacation long overdue. We’d mentioned the UK several times, and even plotted the non-touristy spots we longed to see. But those thoughts tended to be more depressing than uplifting, so I shook them away and shifted into a faster gear. I needed at least 7-minute miles in order to feel in adequate shape. Not every body I occupied had the proper conditioning to maintain that pace, but this one did. I silently offered appreciation to the convict I’d never know, the man who’d sacrificed his body for me.
That thought spun me down a different path entirely. For several years I’d essentially leased bodies, using them up before a new shell became necessary. There was always a period of acclimation, and no guarantee that my host would take to my physical requirements without a revolt.
I’d had knees go out, various aches and pains within joints for unknown reasons, and breathing difficulties that could be merely irritating or downright dangerous.
Then there were the quirks you tried hard to just accept. One might have a strange twitch in the face or hands, while another might get caught up in embarrassing sneezing fits. Recently I’d been in a body with the worst freakin’ tastebuds of all time; all my favorite foods tasted like shit in that mouth. I couldn’t bitch about these issues to anyone — well, except my wife, and even she barely tolerated my whining. Her classic reply was, “Yeah, when you start having cramps, I’ll weep for you.”
That was the last time I complained to her.
It had become a problem, too, in a way none of the Q2 scientists ever considered, and something I’d never made the mistake of bringing up. Because so many of the bodies had problems or idiosyncrasies, whenever I found myself in a pretty good one I worried that it affected my decision-making.
Think about it: If the temporary body you’re occupying is a pain in the ass, you’re less likely to worry about losing it. Conversely, get yourself a fairly nice one and you might be tempted to be less aggressive. You know, throttle back and play it a bit more carefully.
Just like someone driving a 15-year-old beater car will be more carefree than someone driving an Aston Martin. When I got a good body I sometimes worried about behaving like the person who parks clear across the parking lot to keep from getting a door ding.
This one was pretty good. It even tolerated my sprints. So far the only problem I’d had was occasional heartburn, but I didn’t need spicy queso all the time.
I’d just begun the return trip to the hotel, running through a neighborhood of pricey homes and daydreaming about retiring into one of them, when my phone vibrated in my front pocket.
It was Jonas.
“Yeah,” I said, pulling up and breathing heavily.
His voice was panicked. “That Troy guy came for me. You’ve gotta get me outta here.”
“Whoa, slow down. What do you mean he came for you? Where are you?”
I heard a door pushed open with a bang, then Aiken was obviously running.
“He’s . . . he’s at my building. I just happened to be standing near a window and saw him park across the street.”
For a moment phone noise overrode anything he was saying. I yelled his name twice, but there was only the sound of furious activity for a while. Then, out of breath, he came back on the line.
“Shit. He’s chasing me. Wait. I think . . . I think I may have lost him.” He coughed twice. “Jesus, Eric, you have to help me.”
“I will help you,” I said. I began running back toward my hotel, then stopped and realized that would take too long. I’d call for a ride share.
“Jonas, stay hidden. Tell me exactly where you are and then hunker down, be quiet, and hold on while I get a ride.”
He rattled off cross streets in the Glendale area. It sounded like he was crying.
“Okay, hang on,” I said. Opening one of my ride-share apps, I requested a car.
“Jonas, you still there?” I asked. “Where’s this Troy guy?”
His answer was in the form of a whisper. “I think he’s half a block away. He’s looking behind every wall and bush. Shit. Shit, Eric, he’s getting closer. I have to go.”
“Wait wait wait!” I yelled. “I have to know which way you’re going.”
He’d hung up.
Pop culture portrays spies and secret agents as purveyors of miracles. Jason Bourne or Ethan Hunt, in my situation, would’ve absconded with some innocent bystander’s motorcycle and zipped across crowded city squares and down pedestrian tunnels to reach their destination in the nick of time.
Real life? I was standing there, cursing, sweating, and waiting for my ride. Sexy, right?
Screw Ethan Hunt and his fictional magic tricks.
Four minutes later the ride pulled up, a woman driving a Subaru. I jumped in and gave her the cross streets. She said it’d be about 20 minutes.
“There’s an extra 50 bucks in it for you if you make it 15,” I said.
She gave me a sideways glance. “Sir, I don’t break the law for anyone. Please buckle your seatbelt. There’s water in the door cup holder, if you like.”
Great. I’d rustled up a solid citizen.
She came to complete stops, she stopped at yellow lights, and her music playlist must’ve been titled, “I Have The Saddest Life in History.”
About halfway there my phone rang again. It was Jonas.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Shit, Eric, he’s right there. And he has a gun.”
“He has a gun out? Jesus, where are you, Jonas?”
The Subaru driver’s head snapped around toward me. She actually hit the brakes and acted like she was going to stop. I pointed a finger at her and yelled, “I’m with the FBI. Do not stop this car, do you hear me? Floor it. Let’s go. This is a matter of life and death.”
She began shaking, but hit the accelerator again.
I couldn’t believe I’d actually said a matter of life and death. Christ.
Into the phone I said, “Jonas, I have to know where you are. Tell me.”
He stammered for a moment, and I could tell he was still crying. “It’s . . . it’s called Dust Devil Park.”
I looked at the driver. “Do you know a Dust Devil Park?”
“No,” she said, almost in tears herself.
“Shit,” I muttered. I pulled it up on my phone and gave her basic directions. “Just get me as close as you can. Hurry.”
She actually sped up.
“Jonas, I’m 7 minutes away. Are you hiding?”
“I’m trying. It’s not easy.”
“Just stay on the line with me.” After a pause, I said, “Listen, have you learned anything else?”
His reply was the loudest he could manage while trying to remain hidden. “You bastard! I’m on the verge of being killed and you still want information? Save my ass and I might help you. Otherwise piss off.”
I took a breath. “Hey. I’m almost there. Tell me this: Why is Steffan targeting Phoenix? He has to have told you something.”
“No, asshole. He hasn’t. I gotta go.”
Before I could argue with him the line was dead again.
The Subaru driver actually rolled through a stop sign and pulled up next to the park. I threw a couple of $20 bills at her as a tip and jumped out.
That was the moment I realized something very important.
I didn’t have my gun.
I mean, I’d been on a run. It’s not often you need to be armed for that, unless you’re in Baltimore.
Dust Devil wasn’t that big. There was a skate park, currently empty because of the chill, a typical modern playground built for bubble-wrapped kids, and a covered pavilion-type area with a few teenagers, probably va
ping. The only trees to speak of were sparse and widely scattered. Certainly no place to hide a terrified scientist, no matter how skinny he was.
Then I saw the restrooms on the far side. The same kind you saw at every city-run park.
I ran toward them, just as a man in jeans and a hoodie edged up to them. It had to be Troy. Even from a distance I could tell he had one hand in a pocket of the hoodie. I slowed to a jog, trying to seem as innocuous as possible. Just a harmless citizen, out for a run in the park.
Aiken, amateur that he was, had opted to hide in the most obvious place possible. Instead of staying in plain view, blending in with the crowd, he’d sequestered himself in a small, enclosed space. The sound of a gun might not even escape the concrete walls.
I grabbed my phone and called him. He didn’t answer.
Still a hundred yards away I saw the killer push open the door of the men’s room and slip inside. I picked up speed. But a moment later he was back outside and I slowed again. He wasn’t leaving. He seemed perplexed.
Then he and I came to the same conclusion at the same time and I began sprinting again.
He moved over a few feet and shoved his way into the ladies room.
Seconds later I was proved wrong; you could hear shots through the concrete. There were three of them total, two quick ones, then a third to be sure.
I got to the door just as Troy emerged. In that instant I recognized him from the hotel surveillance video, where my body had been evacuated in a wheelchair. Troy had been the guy helping Cox.
Without breaking stride I threw myself into him like a middle linebacker and crushed him against the concrete wall. He let out a grunt as his head and shoulders made impact. The gun he’d held fell to the ground.
But he was good. Recovering immediately, he adopted a martial arts stance and, shaking off the initial blow, he created a little bit of space between us. It would be hand to hand.
I thought. Until he pulled out the knife.
Shit, nothing could ever just be easy. These guys loved their knives.
That first contact and resulting grunts had attracted the attention of a couple walking nearby. Now they were riveted, seeing two grown-ass men squaring off in combat. The woman had pulled out a phone and was undoubtedly calling 9-1-1.
“C’mon, asshole,” Troy said, circling, the knife held like a pro.
“You’re better than Cox,” I said, squinting at him. “Why weren’t you the first team?”
“I am the first team,” he said, and slashed. It caught me along the chest, barely. I felt a slight trickle of blood.
“If you’re this good with a knife,” I said, “why shoot Jonas?”
He seemed amused by my conversation. “Because someone requested I put a bullet in his big pie hole.”
“Steffan actually said pie hole? That doesn’t sound like him.”
He shifted position and brought the knife up again, this time just missing my right arm. The son of a bitch knew what he was doing. And he was obviously done talking.
I backed up and found myself against the concrete wall, cut off. I may have actually muttered, “Oh, shit.”
This brought a wicked smile to Troy’s face, and he prepared to finish me.
About that time one of the bystanders yelled, “Hey!” It didn’t exactly distract my opponent, but it registered with him and gave me the split second I needed.
Feinting to my right, then dipping to my left, I sent a roundhouse kick against his wrist. The knife clattered to the pavement. Without waiting, I lunged and hit him in the jaw with a forearm. He was strong, and retaliated. His powerful right would’ve caught me square on the chin if I hadn’t deflected it.
That’s when I bent down and delivered another kick, connecting with his throat. His eyes popped and he staggered back a step. I threw a hard right into his face, breaking his nose. But as he fell backward onto the ground, he landed right next to the knife. My only defense was to pounce on him and we were soon engaged in a wrestling match with the blade. The bystanders were now both screaming.
I felt a streak of panic when it seemed like he was about to wrest control of the knife and drive it into me. At the last moment I twisted, gained a grip on his hand holding the knife, and plunged it into his chest. He let out a gasp, and blood squirted from his mouth.
Unsatisfied, I retrieved the blade and shoved it in again, this time into his heart. A death sigh escaped his lips and he went limp.
I rolled over and lay back on the ground, bleeding and breathing hard.
One of the witnesses yelled, “Hey, man! What the hell?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It took all of one minute before I heard the sirens. Still on the ground, and with the witnesses careful to not get too close — who could blame them? — I called Poole and requested Sanitation. There had to be at least one nearby in a city this size.
That department had an official name, which wasn’t important. Internally we called them Sanitation because their speciality was cleaning up messy incidents, like the one lying next to me with a knife sticking out of his chest. They would swoop in and deal with law enforcement and, if necessary, politicians who got uppity when it came to violence in their district.
I had no idea how they did it, but their repair skills were off the charts. They’d scrubbed more than a few sticky situations for me.
The police car now squealing to a stop would disgorge one or two officers who’d start by pulling their guns on me, and then would want to haul my ass in. I couldn’t have that, and would need to stall them until my help arrived.
The call with Poole lasted less than 20 seconds. I told her I needed Sanitation at a place called Dust Devil Park in Glendale, Arizona, and time was of the essence. She didn’t even say goodbye before disconnecting and going to work.
Sometimes Q2 operated like the best well-oiled machine in the world. I certainly needed that at the moment.
As expected, the lone police officer, who looked to be about 25 years old, went on alert when he saw the body and me next to it. I’d raised myself to a sitting position and had my hands held high, saving him the instruction.
“Before you say anything,” I told him, “I’m with the FBI.” Nobody would, or could, know what the hell Q2 was. We usurped the FBI’s name all the time. “I have no identification, so I don’t blame you for being skeptical. But one of my fellow agents is on the way and should be here within half an hour. Understood?”
He responded by pointing his gun at me and calling for backup.
A small crowd had now gathered and the officer had his hands full keeping me covered and the crowd back. At least he was cool enough to converse with me.
“Is he dead?” he asked.
“God, I hope so,” I said, “because I went to a lot of trouble and contributed my own blood.” I nodded to my left. “I believe you’ll also find a body in the women’s toilet. I haven’t confirmed that, but this gentlemen shot him in the head. At least he said he did, and I heard the shots. Three of them. The gun is over there.”
There was a little more back and forth, but the young officer was stuck. He couldn’t go into the restroom to confirm my claim without risking me running away, so we waited. When the backup arrived — not one, not two, but three police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance — relief washed over the first cop’s face.
What happened in the next few minutes was standard protocol. I was yanked to my feet, and after it was determined that my wound wasn’t fatal or even remarkably serious, I was pushed face-first against the wall, frisked, and cuffed behind my back. Someone read me my rights. Another cop came out of the bathroom and announced that, indeed, there was a second victim in a stall, missing most of his head.
Shit. As strange as our relationship was, I’d really grown fond of Jonas. What a pisser to die in a filthy restroom in a crappy little park.
Another car pulled up, of the unmarked variety. A police lieutenant strode up to the scene, and after a quick conversation with the first cop, walk
ed over to me.
“You say you’re FBI? But no ID?”
“I was out for a run and trouble found me. My ID is back at the hotel. But I have someone on the way. Should be any minute. Can we wait for them? And while we’re waiting can someone please put some ointment on this cut? It stings like a mother.”
He studied my face and must’ve felt it couldn’t hurt to wait a few minutes. He looked down at the body.
“Who’s this guy?”
“His first name is Troy and I don’t care anymore what his last name is. We’re working a case in this area and he’s some hired muscle for a very bad person. I’d rather not say more at the moment.”
“You might have to say a lot more, my friend.”
Another car pulled up and a man and woman, dressed impeccably, flashed identification to get past the perimeter the cops had set up. These two new arrivals ignored me and walked directly up to the lieutenant. Again the badges came out, and, after a conversation I couldn’t hear, the police lieutenant ordered my cuffs removed.
Bless Poole’s heart.
An EMT was summoned. She removed my shirt and went to work cleaning up and disinfecting my wound. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, but it one place it required a few stitches. She sat me down on a bench, deadened it, then sewed me up, all the while stealing glances at my head.
Finally curiosity won out and she asked, “What happened to your ear?”
“I have no idea,” I said.
She laughed. “So you just woke up one day and it was like that?”
“Pretty much.”
There was no more chit-chat, but I liked these people; none of this you’ve got to get to a hospital. See it, sew it, shoo me away.
The crew from Q2 Sanitation had spoken in hushed tones with the police lieutenant the entire time I was being treated. Now the woman nodded for me to follow her while the man stayed behind and continued the conversation.
Back at their car she looked from me to the crime scene and back again.
