Dying Memories

by Dave Zeltserman

  He lost consciousness. Not for long, maybe half a minute. As those hands worked their way into his pants pockets, he recovered enough to strike out wildly at his attacker. His fist caught something fleshy and it made a crunching noise as it gave way. Bill heard the man grunting out in surprise, followed by heavy footsteps as the man stumbled away. The overpoweringly sweet onion smell faded, and that raspy voice which now sounded more nasal drifted further back as it continued to curse at him, telling him over and over again to fuck himself. Then it was gone and the only noise in the night was the ringing in his head.

  The first time Bill tried to stand the world spun wildly on him and he fell back to the ground as if his feet had been kicked out from under him. He slowly maneuvered himself onto his knees and waited until the spinning came to a stop. When he could hold his focus on a group of homeless men laying twenty yards away without them swimming in and out, he methodically worked his way to his feet and stood woozy as he searched for the homeless man who had beaten and robbed him, but he was already gone. Bill knew who it was. He had recognized the raspy voice as coming from the same homeless man who the other night had grabbed a handful of doughnuts and took a great deal of pleasure in telling Bill to fuck himself. A few feet away was the brick that the homeless man had used to nearly cave in Bill’s skull.

  Fuck, it was cold out, and fuck, his head hurt. Bill gingerly touched his jaw and then raised his hand so he could feel the sticky wetness oozing from the top of his head. Shit. He knew he was bleeding but he looked at his fingers to confirm it. At least it wasn’t coming out in a torrent. Maybe he wouldn’t need stitches. Moving his jaw from side to side, he at least found he hadn’t suffered any serious damage there. He winced as he touched the area under his eyes where he was kicked, but nothing felt broken. It could’ve been worse.

  He took a quick inventory. Along with his jacket, his watch was also gone. So was the money he took off Schlow and the cell phone with all of the MIT professor’s programmed phone numbers. He looked helplessly around as the chill from the night’s air bit into his exposed flesh. His teeth involuntarily began to chatter like some sort of cheap novelty toy. He had camped out under the overpass hoping that ViGen would show up again to round up more human guinea pigs. So far it hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have been much more than thirty degrees out, and the cold air over the last few hours had worked its way into his bones and joints. Now without a jacket to protect him it was near unbearable.

  Bill glanced at the sky. There was too much haze to see any stars, and the moon was barely a sliver. He had to guess it was past three in the morning. If ViGen were going to show up they would’ve already, and even if they did now, they wouldn’t select him in the condition he was in. Besides, without a jacket, he had to get out from the cold, and although he was ashamed that the thought crossed his mind, he wasn’t about to roll any of the other homeless men nearby for their jackets.

  Earlier he had dumped Schlow’s Range Rover a mile away. He was guessing it had an anti-theft recovery system and should’ve been recovered by now, but he had nothing to lose checking whether it was still there, especially since he would be passing the area anyway in order to head back to Charlestown and Jeremy’s apartment. While still woozy from the blows he took to the head, he forced himself into a half-jog, then when his legs felt steadier, a full-sprint in a futile effort to warm himself up.

  He was surprised to find the Range Rover where he’d left it. He thought for a moment that this was intentional, that they could’ve bugged the car hoping he’d use it again. Or maybe they were watching it. At that moment he didn’t care. A slow simmering rage burned inside, and he found himself hoping he’d have a chance to meet up with them that night. He still had Schlow’s car keys with him. The homeless man who had attacked him hadn’t been able to get his hands on those. Bill got in the vehicle and, after first putting the heat on full blast, drove away.

  As Bill’s rage receded and he realized how reckless he was being driving Schlow’s Range Rover, he found himself nervously checking the rearview mirror. No one was after him, at least not that he could see. It didn’t make sense that they weren’t. They should’ve been watching the car. Why wouldn’t they have been watching Schlow’s car?

  His palms were sweating as he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles bone-white. He kept driving, ignoring the knotting in his stomach. It wasn’t until he was three miles from Jeremy’s apartment that he ditched the Range Rover in a strip mall parking lot. After that he took off running, his heart pounding in his chest as he kept looking over his shoulder to see whether they were coming after him. They weren’t, though, at least not that he could tell. As cold as it was, he was drenched in sweat by the time he approached Jeremy’s apartment building. He found it hard to believe that they hadn’t tracked him down and followed him, but at this point he’d take any break he could get.

  The fear that they must’ve been watching Schlow’s Range Rover left him numb and emotionally deadened. Even as Bill slipped into the building and listened through the silence for any approaching noises, he couldn’t feel safe, not even after he had locked himself inside of Jeremy’s apartment. Slowly thoughts of Emily crept into his mind; of how miserable and hurt she must also be at that moment, and his fear was replaced by a feeling of intense loss. As he stood silently in the darkened apartment the full magnitude of what had happened to him, and worse, what he was up against, came crashing down on him. It left him staggered. He almost started sobbing, but he fought against it and held back his tears. He’d be damned if he’d start crying now. Not with how he hadn’t cried since he was thirteen, especially with everything that had happened to him in his life. Instead, he made his way to the bathroom and turned the hot water on in the tub.

  As he waited for the tub to fill up, Augustine came padding over to him, yawning lazily. Bill absently picked up the cat and stroked him. Once the water was high enough, Bill placed Augustine back onto the floor, turned the water off, stripped off his clothing and got in the tub.

  The heat of the water nearly burned his skin, but that was fine. The bath thawed him out and took the chill out of his bones, and it helped to slow the thoughts that were bombarding his mind. He tried to think things out logically so he could come up with a plan, but it all came back to the same thing. He needed to get inside of ViGen. He had to find proof of what they were doing so he could expose them. He needed to do that so he could get his life back. So he could get Emily back.

  Bill found himself wondering about the security card he took off Schlow. He still had it. He considered heading out again and seeing whether the security card still worked, but as he began to push himself out of the tub, he decided that the hot water felt too good and his stomach too empty. He slid back down into the water. Tomorrow night. He would check then, at least if they weren’t back under the overpass collecting more human guinea pigs.

  Bill dipped a wash cloth into the water and dabbed at the top of his head with it. When he examined the cloth he saw that he was no longer bleeding. He continued to use the cloth to remove the dried and matted blood from his hair.

  After the bath water began to cool off, Bill reluctantly left the tub. First drying off, then wrapping a bath towel around his waist, he gave himself a hard look in the mirror. His face looked beat-up; patches of skin scraped off from around his jaw, and the area was swollen and purple. Same with the other side of his face along his cheek. At least it helped disguise his appearance somewhat.

  When Bill was done grimacing at himself in the mirror, he gritted his teeth and slipped on the same stained and soiled clothing he had worn earlier. It would’ve been nice to put on some clean clothing but he had to continue to play the street person. With a harsh smile he realized he wasn’t really playing one any longer. For the time being he was homeless; he just had the benefit of being able to break into his friend’s apartment.

  Before leaving the bathroom, he cleaned up to make sure there was no obvious sign that he’d been there. With his st
omach empty and rumbling, he headed to the kitchen where he foraged through the freezer and came up with a package of frozen lasagna which took six minutes to cook in the microwave. As he was eating, Augustine reappeared and jumped up on the table, first stretching, then meowing as he demanded his share. Bill complied. The two of them ate silently. When Augustine was done, he gave Bill a cockeyed look before jumping off the table and disappearing into the darkened living room.

  Chapter 52

  Five fifty-eight.

  Too early for the sun to have made an appearance. A gray, dreary overcast day with a damp chill in the air. Along with his bomber’s jacket, Bill wore Jeremy’s Mets cap pulled low, almost to his eyes, and a pair of his friend’s wraparound shades that he found in a night table drawer.

  After walking a block, Bill gave a quick look around, didn’t see anyone, and headed to the shed to retrieve his laptop. He felt exposed, and wished he’d been able to find one of Jeremy’s jackets that he could’ve worn that would have given the impression of him living on the streets, but the two remaining jackets in Jeremy’s closet were too high end, so he was stuck with his own bomber’s jacket. The photos they showed of him on the news had him in the same jacket, and he knew it was risky wearing it. First chance he had he’d find something at a secondhand store. Maybe if he was lucky, in a dumpster.

  His laptop was where he had stashed it. There were no signs that anyone else had been in the shed since him. He was anxious to check his email, hoping to have something from G., or maybe even Jack letting him know that he had read Bill’s email about ViGen, seen the recording and decided it all made sense. Christ, he hoped for something like that.

  Bill walked briskly towards Monument Avenue and the same coffee shop where the other day he was able to tap into their Wi-Fi signal. After a couple of blocks, he came across a newspaper vending machine that sold the Tribune. He fished some loose change from his pocket and a bought a copy.

  The front page story was all about him and continued on inside to three full pages. He stood frozen as he read it. Along with all the details of what he had supposedly done to Karen and her fiancée, they dug out the stories from his past about him killing his dad. They left out the part that he’d done it in self-defense. Or that his dad had murdered his mom for the insurance money. They even hinted that he might’ve had something to do with his mom’s death. They had so much of it wrong, even somehow coming up with that he had been dishonorably discharged from the army. That hadn’t happened.

  For a long moment the newspaper print seemed to bleed together and he couldn’t make sense out of any of it. He realized he’d been holding his breath since he had picked up the paper, and he let it out in a rush, then took several deep breaths and tried again. This time he could focus and read the rest of the article. When he was done he went through the entire paper. There was no mention of ViGen. Nothing about the recording he had made of them rounding up the homeless for illegal human trials.

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a man staring at him oddly. The man was in his fifties, short and squat, and wearing a heavy overcoat and a hat with flaps that covered his ears. He was walking an English Bulldog that had the same short and squat look as himself. When Bill met the man’s gaze the man looked away and hurried his pace. Bill stood and watched him until the man turned the corner nearly dragging the bulldog after him, then Bill tossed the paper in a trash can and continued on towards Monument Avenue. When he got there he found the coffee shop from the other day closed, and none of the other shops he passed had a Wi-Fi signal that he could pick up. Off in the distance he thought he heard sirens.

  He got off Monument Avenue and headed towards Boston, figuring he’d make his way to Downtown Crossing. Stores there would have Wi-Fi signals that he’d be able to tap into. From where he was he had a two mile walk, and he tried to stay as hidden as he could, occasionally stepping into alleyways and behind buildings. It didn’t take long for the wailing of police sirens to pass him from several streets over. Maybe someone had spotted him and called the police, possibly that man with the bulldog, or maybe the police were after someone else. Bill kept moving. Soon he was passing the strip mall where he had dumped Schlow’s Range Rover. He tried to look inconspicuous as he scanned the lot. The Range Rover was where he’d left it. He wondered about that. Wondered also whether they were watching it. If they were, he couldn’t spot them. He moved faster, his head down.

  Chapter 53

  It was a quarter to eight when Bill arrived at Downtown Crossing. Along the way he had stopped at a dozen or so dumpsters and trashcans outside residences when it felt safe enough for him to look in them, but he wasn’t able to find a discarded jacket that he could use. He almost offered a panhandler a swap of jackets, but he’d had his bomber jacket since leaving the army, and couldn’t get himself to part with it.

  He hesitated briefly as he walked down Washington Street, then making up his mind, took a detour and stepped down into Filene’s Basement. He found several racks of discounted winter coats but the ones he looked at still cost more than the cash he had on him and he couldn’t risk using a credit card. He also noticed people looking at him funny, which made him just want to get out of there. As he was leaving the store, a hefty-looking kid wearing a store security guard uniform stopped him.

  “You pay for that?” the kid asked him.

  Up close the kid looked like he was maybe in his early twenties. Big, with a round face, wispy blond hair and rosy cheeks, his body more flab than muscle. He stared with small, mean eyes at the laptop computer Bill carried. The security guard uniform looked fake and Bill had the idea that this was a scam, that the kid didn’t actually work there.

  “You don’t sell laptops inside the store,” Bill told him flatly. He tried to push his way past him, but the kid stepped in front, blocking him. “I better take a look at that,” he demanded.

  As the kid grabbed for the laptop, he stopped, frozen-like, his eyes growing large as he stared at Bill. It was as if he’d seen a ghost. Or a wanted murderer whose photo was everywhere. His lips moved soundlessly for a few seconds before any noise came out. “You’re that guy,” he finally sputtered. He took several steps away from Bill, his voice rising as he repeated himself, “You’re that guy!”

  The kid looked uncertain as if he were trying to decide whether to make a run for it or be a hero. Bill didn’t give him a chance to make up his mind. He stepped forward and clocked the kid in the jaw with a straight right hand. The kid’s body sagged and his eyes fluttered. He wasn’t out, but he was close to it. Bill caught him and lowered him to the floor. A woman behind him started screaming. Whether she recognized him or not, he didn’t know or care. He just started running. Hard. Voices yelled out from behind him, pleading for someone to stop him. Nobody did.

  Once he was out of the store and onto Washington Street, he pushed himself faster, zigzagging past the pedestrians clogging up the sidewalk for the eight o’clock rush to work. Reaching Summer Street, he took a hard right. He had a sense that one or more persons were chasing after him, but he didn’t risk slowing down to look behind him.

  Up ahead he saw the entrance for the Downtown Crossing subway station, and he darted past a small mob of commuters leaving the station. He jumped the turnstile and caught his first break that morning by stepping onto a subway car as its doors were closing. For several agonizingly slow seconds the car stood still, then after a sputter, it began to move. Avoiding eye contact with other passengers, Bill turned and looked out the Plexiglas paneled door. If anyone had been chasing after him he couldn’t see them.

  As he stood with his back to the rest of the car, he felt eyes on him. He didn’t dare turn around and give them a chance to get a better look at him. Feeling jittery and exposed, he absently rubbed his bruised knuckles along his right hand. He tensed as he waited for someone to grab him, but no one did. He could hardly believe it, but nobody had recognized him. As the adrenaline from the past few minutes wore off, he realized his wrist hurt also. Prob
ably sprained it. Which was the least of his problems.

  For what seemed like an eternity, the subway car crept along at a snail’s pace before arriving at its next stop. When the doors opened, he resisted his inner voice screaming at him to flee, instead stood where he was and felt the press of other passengers moving past him, then more of them pushing themselves into the subway car. He waited two more stops before stepping off at Back Bay station. When he emerged from the underground station, he was half-expecting to be met by a swarm of cops, maybe a SWAT team, but all he saw were people heading hurriedly off to work. No one paid him any attention. Even those who were carrying newspapers that had his picture covering a good part of the front page.

  Bill stood silently watching them. Once his heartbeat slowed to something approaching the normal range, he joined them.

  Chapter 54

  Boxer felt like crap. Too many shots the other night. It didn’t help that he stayed out until last call and didn’t hit the sack until two-thirty in the morning with his alarm blasting in his ear at six. Jack O’Donnell, the city desk editor for the Boston Tribune, didn’t look like he was faring any better with his pasty complexion and bloodshot eyes. The guy also looked harried as hell and kept glancing at his watch. Boxer took a long sip of the high-octane coffee he’d brought with him and asked O’Donnell to go over again what happened the other day. The city desk editor did so, his grimace tightening to show how exasperated and put upon he was.

  “Sorry to have to be inconveniencing you about a murder investigation involving one of your employees,” Boxer said dryly.

  “Cut the sarcasm, detective,” O’Donnell said. “It’s only twenty past eight and I’m already half a day behind where I should be.” He held up his right hand showing a thick bandage around his wrist. “The only time I’ve been out of the office over the last twenty-four hours was to have my wrist x-rayed because I thought that paranoid delusional sonofabitch broke it. And guess what, I’m also now understaffed because of that paranoid delusional sonofabitch.”