Chapter 40—Surveillance
When events had calmed down, Mark fell back into a normal routine. Granted, he now viewed everyone with a cautious eye, but he did begin to relax. Rooke was more present around the office, although he still based the majority of his work at his father’s house. Mark wasn’t left with much to do. Mixing chemicals had stopped and Heather and Finster were on standby until Whyte or Rooke requested their talents.
Heather approached Mark one day when he wasn’t busy. She dragged him away from Rooke Pharmaceuticals and back to his apartment under the pretense of “bulking him up.” “You need to get some training in. No use being able to take a punch if you can’t hit back or fight.”
The apartment building had an indoor gym Mark hadn’t known about. They headed for Mark’s place first, as he needed something more suitable than jeans for sparring and exercise. Once there, they ran into Gene, who impeded the pair in the living room.
“What’s the deal?” Gene asked, pointing at Mark’s hair. “Don’t like the hair we gave you?” He grabbed a clump of the black hair. “Looks ridiculous.” He stared at Mark. “You wouldn’t happen to be involved with that bank thing, would you?”
“What?” Mark asked.
“I saw it on the news. They got police sketches of the criminals. One looked a lot like you.” He leaned into Mark’s face. His breath was rancid. “Where’ve you been anyway? Been trying to call your office, but nobody can reach you.”
Mark panicked. There were pictures of him on the news? He would be discovered! “Just at the lab and stuff,” Mark said. “You know, working?”
Gene’s face twisted up. “That some kind of crack? You rubbing your job in my nose now? Huh?”
“N-No.”
“Remember who you’re talking to. You may be getting paid now, but I take care of you.” He put his hands on his hips.
“Yes,” Mark said, bowing his head.
Gene appeared unconvinced, but satisfied. “What are you up to?”
When Mark didn’t answer, Heather stepped in. “Training. Thought Mark could stand to learn some self-defense.”
His father guffawed. “Yeah, right! I tried that back when he was a little tyke! He kept knocking himself out!” Mark flushed red and looked at his shoes. Gene stopped laughing and crossed his arms. “But not today.”
“Why?” Mark asked.
“Because I said so.”
“Why can’t he?” Heather asked.
“Hey, lady,” Gene snapped. “I’m talking to him, not you. Mark needs to grow up and learn he can’t always have what he wants. I already let him run around with you people, doing who knows what.” He turned to Mark. “Have you eaten lunch yet? I’m pretty hungry. Go set out some dishes. I’ll call for a pizza.”
Mark found that to be awfully generous. Heather brushed aside a strand of hair. “I’m still not seeing the point of him staying here. The gym is in this building, after all.”
“I know that,” Gene said.
“Do you?” She eyed his bulging stomach.
“Listen to me, freak,” Gene said. He jutted his wobbly chin out and stuck a sausage-shaped finger between her eyes. “I’ve had just about enough of you.”
“Get your finger out of my face.”
“Or what?” Famous last words as he breathed in swirls of colorless gas. Mark covered his face. Gene’s tension ebbed away and he was left with a dopey smile. He lulled side to side in a stupor, blissfully unaware as Heather commanded him.
“Why don’t you sit down?” she said.
He was inclined to agree. “I think I’ll sit down,” he said, stumbling to the chair.
The television was already turned to the news. Mark gasped at the sketch of him. Below, a reward was being offered for information on his whereabouts. His eyes bulged at how many zeros he counted. On the kitchen counter was a hastily scribbled note with the phone number in his dad’s handwriting—the number given on the newscast.
Heather saw the story and note as well. She ordered Mark to grab his clothes, and then rushed to her own apartment. When Mark returned, dressed in some loose-fitting shorts, Heather was already messing with his home phone while talking on her cell phone. She unscrewed the home phone’s handset, fiddled around with the wires and circuitry inside, pulled out an item the width of a pen tip that Mark could not quite see, and then replaced it back inside the handset. She put the handset back together.
“Yes, I checked it. It looks fine. Are you tracking it? Everything’s green? Good. Call Rooke. Tell him we may have a problem and I’ll fill him in later. In the meantime, keep us informed hourly. Got it? Every hour.” Pause. “Alright. I’ll see you later.”
She snapped her fingers at Mark. “Let’s go.”
Once they left the apartment and were heading to the gym, Mark asked, “What did you do to the phone?”
“Rooke bugged this apartment when you first moved in.” Mark looked shocked. “We do it to everyone. My room is still bugged. It’s best to be prepared. I was making sure we could still pick up any incoming and outgoing calls.”
Mark didn’t care for being spied on. But considering that spying was now helping him, he decided to let it go. When he thought about it, he realized he’d spent more time at the office than at home anyway, so it didn’t matter much. Another question cropped up that he already knew the answer to, but he wanted to be sure. “Do you think he was going to report me?”
“Possibly.”
“What happens if he does?” Mark was envisioning being in prison, surrounded by thugs responsible for unspeakable acts, all ganging up on him.
“We’ll wait and talk to Rooke. This needs to be handled carefully. Until then, it might be better if you don’t see your father at all.” She opened the door to the gym.
That was easy on Mark’s part. He wanted nothing to do with Gene. Why would he turn Mark in? It didn’t make any sense. Rooke was paying well and they lived in a nice place. “I don’t get it,” he mumbled.
“What’s that?” Heather asked.
“Why he would turn me in?” Mark said. “I mean, I make enough money from Rooke. Why cut off this support?” Heather looked at him as if the motive was obvious. “What? I do. Rooke’s paying me more than I could ever get with a college degree.” She kept watching him until he made the connection. I make the money. Not my father. No, his father had to rely on him and was at his son’s mercy. Mark had failed to see that before, but it did line up with how Gene had been acting. “He’s jealous?”
“Maybe, maybe not. It would be my guess,” Heather said. “Having your young son and your wife both have jobs while you laze around uselessly—it’s enough to emasculate a man, depress him, make him feel like he’s nothing. Could drive him to any lengths to fix it, even if it means betraying his own blood. I told you not to trust anyone.”
If you want to survive, he thought.
They turned the corner and entered the gym.
Although not exactly grand, the room was fairly large. There was plenty of equipment, depending on one’s preferred focus of exercise. Weights abounded here and there, and several people ran laps on the outer ring circling the rest of the gym. But Heather guided Mark to the sparring rings. Finster waited in one, already dressed to train. He had regained his health and was itching to go, thanks in no small part to the new tubes reinserted around his body. Rooke had improved their elasticity, allowing them to withstand greater stretching.
“Ready?” he asked Mark as the boy stepped into the ring.
Mark nodded and held up his fists in front of his face. Finster sighed and shook his head. “No, no, no. Like this.” He adjusted Mark’s positioning, bending his knees, spreading his legs, and angling his arms. Mark had trouble holding the stance. “Good,” Finster said, standing back and appraising him. “Now, watch me.”
Finster stood across from Mark. “Hit with your left, then right, then finish with the ribs,” he said, demonstrating a series of punches. “Got that? Left, right, ribs.” He sped up. “Left,
right, ribs. You try.”
Taking long strides, Mark followed Finster’s lead. “Left, right, ribs,” he said, striking the air powerfully. “Left, right, ribs.” He pretended to hit a person, imagining the impact of each punch. “Left, right, ribs.” His father came to mind and he gleefully threw more weight behind his curled fists. “Left, right, ribs!”
“Stop,” Finster said. “You’re hitting wildly for nothing. Don’t worry about hurting the air. It’s air. See?” He waved his hand up and down. “Worry about being on target.”
Mark nodded. Finster stepped back. Trying again, Mark went back and forth until Finster was satisfied. “Alright, you got your floaties on. But if you want to learn how to really swim, you just got to dive into the ocean headfirst.” He squatted and clapped his hands. “Let’s see what you got. Try and hit me.”
Standing as Finster taught him, Mark punched. “Left, right, ribs! Good!” Finster said, catching his fists. “Left, right, ribs! Good! Mix it up. Throw in some other things!”
Mark gave a kick here and a backhand there. Mark used varied, but ineffective hits, all of which Finster countered. When Finster stood up, he stopped. “Alright. I’m going to start hitting back now. Get ready.”
What little fighting ability Mark believed he had before quickly dissipated. Finster swung hard, knocking Mark to the ground. Mark crawled back up. He tried to left-right-rib his way against Finster.
Yet the taller man was having none of it. He grabbed Mark’s arm and twisted hard. “Come on! You have to dodge!” Finster said, landing a smashing elbow to the nose. He deflected Mark’s three-hit combo. “I told you. Mix it up!”
Mark skirted away, surveying his poor predicament. He was at a loss what to do. He looked to Heather for help, but she merely pushed him on. “Get in there,” she said. “Stop trying to hit him, and hit him!”
Finster spread his arms, leaving himself wide open. Mark took the opportunity and jabbed at his chest. But Finster picked Mark up. He slammed the boy onto the ground. He stood over Mark, clucking his tongue. “How do you expect to win like that? Don’t think because you can’t be hurt that you can afford to be sloppy.” He helped Mark to his feet. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
And work him they did. Finster put Mark through rigorous routines of weight lifting and running. Heather showed him advanced techniques, such as holds that could incapacitate or kill. At the end of the session, when he was weary and barely able to stand, Mark fought Finster again. The rematch was very one-sided. Finster continued to note Mark’s inept fighting, but was satisfied at the end of the day.
Before they left, Heather checked in on Gene. She doused him with more gas and drove Mark back to Rooke Pharmaceuticals. Mark was very thankful he didn’t have to contend with sore muscles or injuries of any kind. For the rest of the day, he gladly lay in bed.
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Halfway Heroes Page 67