by Gavin Reese
Michael stepped out into the main office, closed the bag’s outer flap, and started toward the broken-down hallway door. His conscience stopped him cold. I can’t leave, not yet.
Grabbing a lungful of fresh air, he hurried back into the storage room and kicked the African’s pistol to the far corner of the floor. Michael grabbed his adversary’s right foot and dragged him out into the middle of the office. I can’t intentionally leave him to die, nor can I allow the local cops to run into a hazmat scene that might kill them, too. No idea if they carry antidote kits like the cops back home. Michael stopped at Koenig’s desk and grabbed his cell phone. With another deep, relatively fresh breath, he stepped back inside and held its fingerprint reader to König’s right index finger. The phone unlocked and he retreated back into the office. As he passed by the felled African, Michael kicked hard at the bottom of his left shoe. “Hey! Wake up! You lost, by the way!”
He paused long enough to see that the man moaned and moved while Michael shook out his cassock as best he could. Gotta try to leave all the contamination in one place. A quick look at his watch confirmed it still worked. As he strode out into the hall, he started its stopwatch function. I think I feel okay right now, but it’s hard to know what’s adrenaline, what’s panic, and what’s gonna change. I don’t even know for sure that I’m not shot all to shit…
Distant sirens approached from somewhere outside the building, so Michael turned left in the hallway and walked toward the main entrance. It’s farther from my hotel room and safety, but it’s also the farthest from the police station on the other side of the building. He dialed the local emergency phone number, the equivalent of 911, and quickly assessed his ethical and Biblical obligations to König and the African. Neither of them confessed anything to me, so I can’t break that vow. As long as I don’t disclose anything that Father Dietrich told me in confession, I can say anything. The bigger concern is that I’ll be recorded and this will be one of Austria’s most public murder investigations this year, maybe this decade. John’s gonna go apeshit about the publicity.
“Was ist dein Notfall?”
Michael didn’t understand the exact question the female dispatcher posed, but he got the gist. He spoke in a very controlled, stilted voice despite his internal chaos. “Send police to König International in the Tourist Information Center. The office is contaminated with fentanyl and there is at least one body inside. Exercise caution and have medical help ready.”
“Uhm, okay, sir, your name, please?”
Michael paused, having no preplanned answer. “Keep your officers safe. I’m sorry.” He ended the call, entered a stairwell, and hustled down to the landing below. When he stepped out into the lobby a few moments later, he turned left and veered toward the service entrance and away from the security cameras that faced the main entrance. Michael turned the phone off, removed its battery, and divided the pieces between his two hip pockets.
As he pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk, Michael saw the late winter sun was already setting, and little ambient light remained. Dense traffic on Operngasse was nearly at a standstill. The sidewalks teemed with local, well-dressed pedestrians and tourists, all huddled against the cold and a lightly blowing snow. Inbound sirens grew closer, and a traffic cop walked over from the Royal Opera House. He didn’t show interest in Michael. It won’t take the other cops long to flood the area. There must be a performance tonight at the--
SMASH
Despite the continued ringing, Michael heard the distant, overhead impact and looked up and to his left. One of König’s heavy, metal-framed chairs fell toward the sidewalk amid a shower of broken glass. Pedestrians fled away from its apparent destination.
The chair landed with a loud crash and bounced toward a small crowd that didn’t move in time. Michael looked back at the window and saw the African peering out. The man leaned far over, with his waist just inside the glass remnants. His adversary scanned the sidewalk as though searching for Michael. That guy’s in a lot more trouble than I am. Maybe.
A quick scan revealed everyone else was engrossed by the African, so Michael hurried to the right, away from the crime scene and the one man who could identify him. Every cop in the area’s headed here by now, with all those shots ringing out right at quitting time. He looked down at his watch. 0:02:13…0:02:14…
As Michael pressed onward, away from the scene and to the far side of the Royal Opera House, two Hispanic males parked in the Tourist Information Center loading zone caught his attention. Both had extensive face and neck tattoos, and Michael understood who they were. MS13, I expected to see those assholes somewhere along the way. They can’t be here by coincidence. He saw the African’s antics had captivated their attention. Are they competitors, conspirators, or an aspiring rip-crew? Michael cursed at himself for not grabbing the driver’s cell phone, as well, but in light of the risk he’d taken to avoid carrying that man’s fate on his conscience, he easily dismissed the oversight.
As Michael closed the distance to the gangsters, he saw they looked both angry and nervous, as though unsure what they needed to do. They clearly wanna resort to violence. One of them spoke on a cell phone. Despite his fluency in Spanish, Michael only caught intermittent snippets of the frantic conversation. The second gangster glanced at him, but then returned his attention to the chaotic scene.
He passed by unacosted and looked back as the sirens closed in. Both Hispanic gangsters hustled toward an older Renault sedan parked nearby. Good decision boys. Live to plunder another day.
Michael reassured himself that the worst was behind him. I got away from the scene. I have no forensic or identification data in any European database. And, the most powerful of all, I can be on a private flight out of here in a few hours. All I have to do now is live long enough to board that plane. He turned left and strode through the crosswalk on Operngasse, intent on walking around the east side of the Royal Opera House away from the Tourist Information Center.
Michael stepped up onto the tall sidewalk and almost lost his balance. His legs grew unexpectedly weak, and he felt dizzy. Stay calm, there’s still too many people around, it’s too crowded. Just, stay, upright. Michael pressed on but realized he couldn’t just walk through the crowds streaming around the Royal Opera House and its interior café. If I’m contaminated with fentanyl, I can’t let anyone else touch me, or my clothes. I can’t be responsible for harming anyone else, no matter how much I need to blend in and disappear right now.
Michael had to slow his pace and walk out on the edge of the asphalt street to avoid colliding with anyone. I don’t know what’s causing this, could be any number of things, not all of them devastating. He glanced back at his watch.
0:05:14…0:05:15…
Well, right on time if I am overdosing. Scanning the landscape ahead, he found nowhere that he could privately administer the Naloxone injector. I have to make it around the corner, I have to get out of sight, I, have to, get away. Just, stay, upright.
Michael turned left again, finally on the east side of the Opera House. The throngs dissipated somewhat, and he stumbled toward a low wall that surrounded a large tiered concrete fountain at the southeast corner of the building. Leaning on the wall, Michael looked at Hotel Sacher, which stood only one long block ahead of him. He scanned the crowd and saw that no one paid him particular attention or seemed aware of what had happened on the other side of the block. The increasing volume of sirens made his head pound. The hotel’s right there, but I’ll never make it.
Michael sat on the wall and rummaged through his messenger bag. The restraints spilled out onto the ground, which inspired curious glances from several passersby. Just wait’ll they call in my description...send cops to stop an exorcism. That’ll be a fun, to explain. Shoulda thoughta that, before. Despite their evidentiary value to imprison him, the straps became his second priority. Can’t arrest a corpse…
Panic again welled up inside Michael’s chest and throat. Can’t wait, any longer. Where, th
e hell, did I leave it... He rummaged through the bag again but still didn’t find the injectors. Feeling his time run out, Michael dumped the bag’s contents on the ground and sat down among them. His vision blurred and he lost dexterity in his hands. Come on, smooth, is, smooth...
He finally recognized the blue-and-white Zippo-sized injector. As calmly as possible, he pressed the device against his left thigh as hard as he could.
thunk
The injector plunged four pre-loaded syringes deep into his quadriceps. The sharp pain paled in comparison to the fear of succumbing to an opioid overdose. Can’t let my parents find out I died in the street with no chance to explain any of this! Michael breathed deep and waited. Within seconds, his mind and body emerged from the strangling fog, as though he’d been pulled up from drowning waters.
For a moment, Michael sat in amazement and looked around. His vision had cleared, he was no longer dizzy, and his panic had lessened. Despite his rational understanding that Naloxone instantly knocked all opioid compounds off his central nervous system receptors, Michael had never experienced the sudden resurrection. Seen it in the back of a few ambulances over the years, but I’ve never been on this side of it. He exhaled a sigh of relief, stood and urgently gathered his things, starting with the restraints. So that’s how Lazarus felt.
“Vater, bist du krank?”
Michael looked up at the couple stopped before him. Can’t let ‘em touch me! He didn’t understand what the husband had asked, but the context seemed clear. “Ja, Dankeschön. Diabetes.” Michael shied away from the couple and flashed the autoinjector, but he didn’t allow the man to examine it. He smiled as best he could and showed them a “thumbs up,” a universal sign of success.
The man nodded as though the answer made sense. They gave Michael a concerned once-over and continued on their way.
Michael knew he must look like hell as he hustled to repack his things. He stood, shouldered the leather messenger bag, and reset his stopwatch. I need to be back in my hotel room in three minutes, no more than four. I can get there by then. Suddenly faced with very real and imminent mortality for the first time in his life, Michael considered his willingness to die as he worked to avoid contact with any passersby. I’m willing to risk death to protect the Absolvers and their continued work. I’ll gladly risk death to save all the other victims, as most of them are likely unprepared for judgment. If this shit takes me down, I could cry out, call for help, and medical staff might get here in time, but all the evidence in my bag and hotel room could end up condemning everyone around me. Michael glanced up at the darkening sky as he walked. If I survive this one, God, I’m gonna do a better job of managing my forensic impact on the world around me. It’s okay, though, if that isn’t Your plan. Many thousands of lives will be spared from suffering for the cost of mine. One for many. It’s a good trade if I need to make it.
Michael closed in on Hotel Sacher, and he tried to even out his stride despite the new, additional injury to his leg. That autoinjector’s no joke. Who would have thought mechanically driving multiple syringes into your leg might suck? He strode across Philharmoniker Straβe and discarded the spent injector in a public waste bin at the southeast corner of the Hotel Sacher property. No need to hang onto it. Damned thing’s useless now to everyone but the cops. Got one more on me, but I need to delay using it for as long as I can.
Michael scanned the sidewalk ahead of him as he walked northwest toward the entrance closest to his room. A familiar, well-dressed Hispanic man stood at the far end of the same sidewalk in a long black overcoat, about a hundred feet past the hotel’s midblock entrance, and his angry, simmering demeanor made him stand out. That man’s rage is palpable, even at this distance. The stranger faced the Tourist Information Center and the growing police presence there, but scanned the curious throngs slowing and building around him liked a trained and competent professional observer.
Michael focused on the entrance, now little more than thirty feet away on his right. Blend in. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. He glanced back at the stranger, who stared back and eyed Michael’s approach. Their eye contact made Michael’s skin crawl, and the man’s right hand was buried in his coat pocket as though he concealed a pistol there. I recognize him, maybe from the hotel. Who the hell is that guy?!
February 19, 5:28PM
Hotel Sacher. Vienna, Austria.
Michael’s instincts all screamed at him to get away from the Hispanic stranger. I could use an entrance on the other side of the block, but there’s no time. I have to get to my hotel room. He continued on, but kept watching this new, unknown threat. Michael scanned for anything that might offer him cover before he actually needed it, but the broad, open sidewalk offered only the Hotel Sacher’s external, carved stone window wells to protect him from incoming rounds. He risked another quick, nonchalant glance back at the man, and his internal fear elevated further. He’s not even bothering to hide his interest in me.
Michael hastened his pace and veered farther right toward the hotel entrance. He’s keeping his distance for now, must be deciding how to approach me in case he’s wrong. He’s not on a cell phone directing other assets around, not pointing me out to the cops, either. Gotta be another bad guy that’s somehow wrapped up in all this. If he thinks I made off with some portion of König’s drugs or money, he won’t give a damn if I’m a priest or not, even if he is ultimately disappointed that I’ve got nothing but injuries and an overdose with me.
When Michael stepped into the luxurious hotel’s main entrance, the new adversary hadn’t moved away from his sidewalk corner. He did his best to blend in, but his physical injuries and soiled cassock shone a light on Michael as he walked toward the stairwell in the west corner of the building. People parted as he approached and visibly reacted to his appearance. The diverse reactions, mostly concern, curiosity, and disgust, would have interested Michael from a psychological perspective, if he weren’t risking death or incarceration in the process.
Michael ignored the quiet attention and hoped it would die once he’d passed beyond their sight. I’m already creating too many memories for these folks, too odd. Need to avoid the surveillance cameras that’re guaranteed to be in the elevators, but that’s odd, too. People who stay in these hotels don’t take the stairs. Fuck it, I’d rather be remembered than recorded. He pressed on to the stairwell closest to his room. The overdose kits in my room oughta get me through the next few hours, but I need a Naloxone drip. Only way to get one of those is to land in an emergency room or hospital. That’s a guaranteed police interview, they’d absolutely wanna talk to a priest who got his ass beat and O-D’d a block away from their drug-filled murder scene. Can’t go into a local pharmacy for more O-D kits. They can give me just one at a time, and they might call paramedics if they realize I’m actively overdosing. That paper trail would delay my escape and tie my location and symptoms back to König’s office.
As Michael walked into the stairwell, the ground spun slowly beneath his feet and he stumbled. Not an earthquake, that’s just your friendly neighborhood chemical overdose coming on strong. Six flights of stairs stood between him and his remaining antidote kits. He slowed and checked his stopwatch. 0:04:13. This one’s coming on faster, that can’t be good. The antidote has a shorter half-life than the drug it’s combatting, so a single overdose eats up a lot of resurrection juice. He thought back to the white plumes that fell through the air in König’s storage room like drizzling rain. Fentanyl acts on contact with all human tissue, so my skin, eyes, nose, and lungs were all pathways to my bloodstream. I only had to take in a few milligrams, and I apparently got a shitload more than that.
Michael looked up through the center of the stairwell and worked through the probability that he could wait to use the last injector in his pocket. The ground swayed beneath his unstable legs. Nope.
Retrieving the second auto-injector, Michael pressed its pre-loaded Naloxone syringes into his thigh. Within a few seconds, his balance and coordination had again improv
ed, so Michael hurried up the stairs as fast as he dared. The stairwell door below him opened, the same one he’d entered from the lobby, and then slammed shut. Michael assumed the well-dressed Latino was in pursuit, so he focused on ascending fast and quiet. Gotta stay away from the opening in the middle of the stairwell, it’d just give him something to shoot at.
Michael’s fear escalated, even as he reached his floor and saw the door to his room. He dug through the messenger bag but couldn’t run and search for his room key at the same time, so he had to slow his pace. Opening a small, zippered pouch sewn inside the bag’s lining, Michael retrieved the keycard and hurried on to his door. Come on, slow is smooth, smooth is fast...
He rushed to insert the card into its slot but fumbled and it fell to the carpet at his feet. Dammit! Gotta calm down before my panic kills me. Michael retrieved the card and took a deep, calming breath as he inserted it and anxiously waited for the electronic lock to react. The ground tilted and spun beneath his feet again. I’m outta time! A glance back to the stairwell confirmed he was still alone.
beepwhhirrr
As soon as the lock stopped retracting, Michael turned the handle and pushed hard to get inside the room, desperate to be saved from the man chasing him up the stairs and the chemicals acting from within his own body. He lost his balance as the door swung away from him.
