Coming up with things he could say that weren’t overt lies wasn’t going to be easy. But, then again, was it ever easy?
Healing Revenge
(Carol Hancock’s POV)
“Office space in Houston’s fancy pork-built medical center turned out to be too expensive,” Hank said. “So, with Ying and Frances’ help, and after consulting with Focus Laswell and her people, we’ve leased this place.” He pushed a folder of pictures, blueprints and legal documents over the dining room table to me. ‘This place’ was the second floor of a three-story twenty year old run-down office building just southwest of Houston’s downtown. I had seen better, but we were on a tight budget, with most of the money already allocated for lab equipment.
Hank’s eyes twinkled today, excited at some tangible progress on our Transform research ‘center’ as well as getting to work with Ying. Although he followed the old-fashioned look-but-do-not-touch rules for dealing with fancy young women, he certainly had a thing for them. They definitely brightened his day. His skeezy weakness explained a bit how he got on so well with Focuses. He certainly had Focus Laswell charmed.
He was less enthusiastic about his fresh new identity, complete with fake MD and medical license. “I can’t decide if it’s a dream or a nightmare,” he had said. “I’m going to pretend it’s a dream, at least for now.”
“Sign the lease,” I said, after looking over the documents. This would come out of Keaton’s research account. I would be on the hook for the plane flights and his new identities, and I was starting to get extended again. I would need to pull some kind of major job sometime soon, which was going to be a pain in the ass, because I hated the big heists. They weren’t something I was good at.
“Thanks,” he said. He gave me a stern and pained look. “I guess it’s time for some more experimentation on duplicating Arm Eissler’s healing trick.”
“That it is,” I said, and got out my knife.
---
“You look like shit,” I said, when Hank came in. I was going to have to insist that Zielinski take better care of himself. Better eating, sunshine and some work in the weight room would make a new man out of him. Perhaps a few Arm incentives wouldn’t hurt, either. I swore he looked almost fifteen years older than his calendar age these days.
He mumbled dark things about politics and the state of the world. “I used to be a life-long Republican,” he said as he planted himself on the couch, “But with the Kennedy assassination, I don’t see any way Nixon won’t be elected. He wants to take us back to the days of the Quarantine, and…” He was still shook up about Robert Kennedy’s assassination. There were damned few people out there who would speak up for the rights of Transforms. It hit him hard to lose one of the few. It wasn’t as if either of us upstanding citizens was going to be voting, though.
“So,” I said, “it’s time you told me what you were doing at the CDC when I was incarcerated. What was going on there, anyway?”
The interruption caught him off guard, and he started to talk before he had a chance to worry about how I was going to take it. Hearing the story from his perspective chilled me, even though he left before the good part started. That is, before I broke and starting spilling all I knew. By that time, he had arranged for Agent Bates to take him into protective custody.
Some of the things he mentioned I couldn’t recall, even after burning a little juice to heal my mind. I told Zielinski about this, and he wasn’t surprised.
“All major trauma done to a Major Transform will involve memory problems, as will low juice,” Hank said. He then threw in some technical explanation of why this was to be expected for all Major Transforms, due to the fact the metacampus was nothing more than an enlargement of the hippocampus, the part of the brain that controlled the acquisition of memories. I boiled it down to ‘when the metacampus is busy healing a sucking chest wound or a blown off leg, it’s too busy to aid in memory production’. He followed that with a digression into something he called ‘allostatic load’, the fact that all Major Transforms were so loaded down with stress hormones that we all were an adrenaline surge away from a psychotic break. Having suffered too many of those at Keaton’s hands, I interrupted him with a more pertinent question.
“I’d also like to know about your history with me,” I said. “I remember you from my time at the St. Louis Detention Center, and visiting with you with Keaton, while I was training with her. You implied there was more.”
He blinked at me, shocked, and then turned away, in a futile attempt to hide his hurt. “Okay, Carol,” he said, then paused to take a breath. “Well, I found out about your transformation the day before you arrived in St. Louis…”
I kept the weeping hysterics hidden until later, when I was safely alone. There had been so much history between us, and he had helped me so much. What I had done to Zielinski when I recruited him had been horrible repayment for all the good he did for me. I had mentally misplaced so much, even the crucial episode where we broke into Focus Rizzari’s lab so he could sew me back together after Keaton had taken me apart. I owed him, and I wasn’t sure how to make it up to him.
“I think I’ve figured out what I want to do about Focus Biggioni,” I said. Keaton had forbidden me from revenge on the people who abused me in the CDC, but she meant murder, or torture. I had other things in mind for Focus Biggioni.
Hank closed down, wary.
“Yes, ma’am?”
Formal, because he was ready to argue against it. “Since Focus Biggioni was the Network representative at the CDC, the only information the average Focus knows about what happened is her version. Is that a safe guess?”
Hank nodded.
“In that event, I want to present my side of the story. Say, in a letter sent to as many Focuses as possible?”
“A political attack?” Hank said. I had him off guard, until he remembered what sort of life I led before my transformation. This wouldn’t be the first time I had used letters as a tool. Large numbers of offended parents could have quite an effect on school boards and school administrators. “That does sound appropriate, although I think you’re going to shock some of the Focuses who still believe that Arms can only talk in grunts and curses. Tonya does need to be reminded every so often that she’s still a human being.”
What sort of history did Hank and Focus Biggioni have, anyway? Perhaps someday I would ask.
We moved to the kitchen table in my new house, and I wrote out a letter stating my case. I showed it to Hank and he winced.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ma’am, I think we have another problem to put down in your journal,” Hank said. The damned journal was his idea – I would be writing down everything I did, including any problems I noticed along the way.
“So, what’s the problem?”
Hank took a deep breath. “Your composition skills are still about at the fifth grade level.”
I grabbed the letter from him, then a newspaper, and compared the two. He was right, though it took me a bunch of staring and thinking before I got it. This was going to be a pain in the ass to fix.
“Well, then, it seems I have a problem. Can you redo it?”
“Sure,” Hank said, relieved. Relieved that he didn’t have an angry Arm in his face.
The final draft of the letter was perfect.
After we finished, we made copies of the letter, and sent the copies to all the lower ranking Network Focuses he and I were able to get addresses for. Lower ranking meaning those not on the Council. Zielinski also strongly recommended against sending my letter to any of the first Focuses, even those who didn’t hold political power.
I followed his advice. If I worked this right, Lori would have Tonya’s seat on the Council and I would be free to dispose of Tonya privately.
Tonya’s Troubles [expanded]
(1)
“Polly! It’s a pleasure to hear from you,” Tonya said. Young Stalker, her current cat, wound his way between Tonya’s feet while she talked on the telephone
. She sat in what would eventually be her office, now nothing more than studs and construction materials. Her office currently took up a full suite in the Bridgeport, a turn-of-the-century hotel in downtown Philadelphia, and everything else remained a maze of dry wall and building supplies. She loved the place as much as she loved the location, near St. John the Evangelist. Within walking distance!
Her people expected to finish her office two weeks from now, but in the meantime, all she had were the bare studs and an old desk. At least they had finished with her bedroom. Finally, she had a place to sleep away from their old residence, the one Keaton had ruined with bad juice.
The construction went far more smoothly than it had in moves past. The construction business her people had started several months ago was showing results in the professionalism of her people. Now, if their business would start making money…
“Hello, Tonya,” Polly said. Her voice was thin and tinny over the long distance line. “Congratulations on your move. Is everything going well?”
“So far so good,” Tonya said. They made small talk for a while, households and families and living arrangements. Polly hadn’t called her to make small talk, though. Only a few locals called her these days to make small talk. This was business, and she suspected this was going to be bad.
Tonya used her own strong charisma on herself, to calm herself down, and ran her left hand through the waves of her black hair. Although, as all Focuses did, she appeared to be a beautiful nineteen year old, Tonya was in her fifties. She knew very well when the hammer was poised to fall.
“So,” Tonya said, after a bit. “What do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“I have a favor to ask of you,” Polly said.
“Hmm? What sort of favor?” Stalker stopped rubbing her legs and jumped up on her desk, eyeing the plate of sandwiches Arthur had brought in. Tonya tore a substantial piece of bologna off one of the sandwiches and tossed it. Stalker leapt and caught the treat in mid-air, then scurried under her desk to make a snack of the bologna.
“Our backers would appreciate it if you made a formal presentation at next week’s Council meeting. They’d like to hear about the Arm flap of last March.”
Four months in the proverbial doghouse due to the fallout from the Arm Flap, and now Polly was ordering her to rub salt in the wound, yet again. “Whatever for? I’ve already done a formal report, and…”
Polly cleared her throat. “They would like it to include what you left out, Tonya. A Sunday morning report.” Sunday morning. The time for discussing the darker aspects of Focus life. Tonya’s breath caught for a moment.
“I’m not sure that’s wise, Polly. There’s a lot of things about this mess that shouldn’t come in front of the Council.” The problem was Keaton’s rescue of Hancock from the CDC Research complex. Tonya hadn’t been particularly informative the last time she made the report and she didn’t see how she was going to do any better this time. Officially, according to Council edict, Crows didn’t exist. Yet, without the Crows’ involvement, the rescue wouldn’t have occurred. Thus, she couldn’t give the full story.
Nobody trusted Tonya much these days. Focus business used to weigh her down, requiring her to act directly or as a facilitator. No longer. Council business had also stopped. The other Council members either ignored her or dealt directly with her boss, East Region President Schrum. Esther Weiczokowski, the Midwest Council Rep, had said it most cattily: why bother with Tonya when you can deal with the real decision-maker directly. Even her secret letter writer, likely the Madonna of Montreal, had given up on her after the Arm Flap, not sending even a single bit of cryptic advice. In her newfound free time, Tonya had found a way to leverage herself into the local Crow letter-writing circle, under an assumed Crow identity. All that had gotten her, so far, was the knowledge the Crows feared her more than the Focus community feared her. Even Keaton no longer returned her letters or phone calls.
“The Council needs the information,” Polly said. “Someone is still kidnapping female Transforms at the rate of one a month, and killing about three male Transforms a month. We need to do something about it.”
Meaning the Council needed to appear to be doing something about it, Tonya thought. This was a bad time for all Transforms: the Focus Network was crippled, an unknown enemy was kidnapping and killing Crows, and someone was ambushing and hunting the Arms on a regular basis. Tonya was the only one who cared about the big picture, but she couldn’t do much to help in any event, not when she was this far out of the loop. Right now, she half-wished Rizzari’s rebellion would succeed and toss Tonya out of her Council Seat.
It would have been extremely impolitic to say any of her thoughts aloud, though.
“Polly…” Tonya started. The scream of a circular saw roared in from the next room, drowning out her voice. Tonya waited, and then told her people to go work somewhere else. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” Polly said. “We’re looking at the possibility of having the Arms protect us from whoever is behind it.”
“I’ll support that vote,” Tonya said. Lupe Rodriguez officially handled the Arms these days. Both Arms lived in the West Region, where Tonya had the fewest supporters. “For what little my vote is worth.”
Polly laughed. “Are you worried about Lori Rizzari’s rebellion and her Council candidacy?”
“I’ve spent the past month making sure I don’t have to worry,” Tonya said, trying not to think about the time and money she had poured into the effort.
“Suzie just wants to make the vote look legitimate. You don’t need to worry.”
“I won’t, then,” Tonya said, not believing a word of what Polly said. Although Suzie said she still wanted Tonya to be her handpicked representative on the Council, Tonya sensed new tension, and tension meant problems.
“There’s one other thing,” Polly said.
“Hmm?”
“You need to watch what you say to the FBI when they come calling,” Polly said, a tone of light artificiality in her voice.
“Always,” Tonya said. Why would Polly need to ask? “Why?”
“They’ve started a formal investigation of Ginny Mansfield. Racketeering.”
“Where could they possibly have come up with that kind of nonsense from? As hard a time as she’s had, having the FBI on her case is just terrible. Whoever thought up this bright idea ought to be hung.”
Tonya remembered Ginny from the Council meeting back in March, after she had lost much of her income. Ginny had been distraught, and in tears, with no idea how she would be able to support her household. Adding in this kind of nonsense was just cruelty.
“Nevertheless, it’s time to guard our words carefully.”
Tonya always did. She had her own off-the-books income sources, several of which an overzealous prosecutor might consider racketeering. Many other Focuses did as well. If the FBI cracked down on the Focus off-the-books activities, lots of the Focuses, including Tonya, could find themselves in trouble. Even worse, Tonya did business with Philadelphia mobsters, something she wanted to keep secret from the FBI and the Council. Legitimate business. Well, nearly always legitimate business, mostly verifying the authenticity of smuggled jewelry and artwork. Suzie already knew, of course. This was her hold on Tonya.
Ginny, however, had always been so clean. Polly’s comment was nearly an accusation. “Of course. What is Ginny doing for money these days?”
“I’m not telling you anything,” Polly said, her false tone replaced by a hard firmness. “I don’t know anything, and neither do you. Remember this when you talk to the Feds.”
“Of course!” Tonya said, mildly offended that the question even came up. The damned Arm flap had lost Tonya what little remaining trust Polly had in her. They had once been best friends, allied lights against the dark world surrounding them.
Their alliance had foundered far too many years ago.
Polly continued with a series of questions about some dues collection problems in the Midwest Region.
No, Tonya didn’t know a thing.
“One last thing,” Polly said, many minutes later, hopefully with the last bit of annoying Council business. So far, no hammer. “As you suspected, the firsts and the Council weren’t pleased with the ultimatum the Arms gave to us after they took out Focus Peshnak in Houston, when they demanded all the Arm business go through Keaton.”
“Uh huh,” Tonya said. She had made the Arms aware of the Council’s easily predicted displeasure, through Zielinski. Neither Arm had bothered to respond.
“So, to prevent a range war between us and the Arms, several of us” meaning the firsts and their current Council favorites, which didn’t include Tonya “have decided we need to rein in Hancock.”
“We.”
“You, actually,” Polly said. “You have the most experience with the Arms, and you aren’t going to fall for Hancock’s charismatic blather the way certain other unnamed Focuses have.” Meaning Rizzari, Laswell and Rodriguez, all of whom said that if you wanted to deal with Hancock you had to go through Keaton. Everyone on the Council now realized the Arms, like some of the Focuses, possessed juice-powered charisma potent enough to sway even the powerful. Hancock, the Arm with the most noticeable charisma, was a grave danger to the Council, especially since she wasn’t the boss Arm. Such nonsense made a complete hash of the way the world worked, at least from the Focus’s understanding of things.
“Look, Polly, I’d love to take you up on this, but because of my experience dealing with the Arms, I need to tell you that your proposed course of action is more likely to cause a range war than stop one,” Tonya said, attempting to dodge Polly’s hammer. “Keaton won this round. If you want to avoid violence, take the hit and do things her way.”
“You’re not thinking,” Polly said. “If we do it Keaton’s way, we’ll end up recognizing the Arms as an independent organization. That’s not going to happen. There’s only one organization: the Focus Council. Period. End of question. So.” Polly paused. “You are going to rein in Hancock for us. Understand?”
The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Eight Page 3
