The Last Exit

by Michael Kaufman

  “What?”

  “Sleep.”

  “Oh, God … Another time, okay?”

  If they ever figure out how I can have kids, I will remember what it feels like to have my curiosity crushed under the heels of a tired adult.

  Jen said, “Let me know as soon as the captain’s in the building.”

  Yesterday, when we got back from the EOB, he had already been gone for the day.

  “And let’s try to confirm who Archambault reports to in the government,” she added. In Jen’s dictionary, let’s is an abbreviation for “Chandler, here’s another crappy job you need to get your sorry ass on, and even if you succeed you’ll get not a shred of thanks.”

  I love Jen, but, I mean, really …

  “And make me a summary of the coverage of the counterfeit treatment. Across the country.”

  The last was the easy one because it was a simple mine-and-synthesize job. I zipped it up in twenty-three seconds, and Jen then flipped on her screen and read not only about the gruesome deaths but the increasing public hysteria. The latter because humans are humans, and our country has worked hard to starve the public education system and turn private education over to religious zealots. Ergo, science facts vanish in the face of science opinions, and opinions, last I checked, were talk shows, not science. Water fountains were turned off in several cities, masks were appearing in a few others, kids were being yanked from day-care centers, and some of my beloved fellow police officers were wrestling into baby-blue rubber gloves and masks whenever they got within ten feet of a member of the public.

  I had Jen watch a recent speech given at an annual meeting of one of the big pharma companies. The CEO referred to the horrible events unfolding around the world and asked for a moment of silence during which everyone seemed to be checking stock market quotations on their phones. He warned anyone “out there in the criminal world” who thought they could counterfeit the treatment that they were playing with people’s lives and that their attempts would fail. He cautioned the public “today, tomorrow, and forever” to report any rumors or any offers of the treatment. “You will save lives. Your children’s, your parents’, your neighbors’. Perhaps your own.” And he reassured investors that profits from the treatment were secure. “No one who can afford it will be dissuaded from the treatment—in the past five years, we’ve had a perfect success rate. And the loved ones of those who choose exit will never be disappointed with the official attenuated version. Those markets are secure and intact. In fact, the atrocity created by the counterfeiters means it will be a long time before anyone tries again to make a street version, for the simple reason that no one wants it enough to pay for something that will certainly kill them.”

  Tracking down who Archambault reported to in the US government, if anyone, didn’t produce any satisfactory results.

  “Jen,” I said, “the captain’s here and his dance card’s open. Maybe I could—” But damn if she didn’t click me off like I was the plague itself.

  36

  The roof was beginning to feel like Jen’s childhood home—a place with increasingly bad associations. As she reported the developments of the day before, Captain Brooks rubbed his scar and once even chewed at a nail, an unusually nervous gesture for a one-tic man.

  At one point, he interrupted her in the middle of a sentence. He was staring northward and said, “I can’t believe the bottom half of Rock Creek Park is gone. It’s like they pulled the heart out of DC, you know what I mean?”

  She got to the end of her short report when they heard cars screech to a stop in front of the station. The captain ran toward the edge of the roof, crouched down, and peeked over the side.

  He returned to Jen.

  “Listen carefully. I’m about to be arrested. I—”

  “What—”

  “Listen! Remember what I told you yesterday. We spoke up here several times. Never about work. I mainly asked you questions—cooking, hobbies, sports, weather, family. Running and bicycling, right? Tow Path and Rock Creek. I never hit on you.”

  Jen was nodding away.

  “No, I’m not going to tell you why they’re arresting me,” Brooks said. “You’ll find out when everyone finds out. If anyone finds out, which I doubt.”

  As they talked, he was leading her toward the other side of the roof, where a tiny gap separated them from the adjoining building.

  “Stick with this investigation. It’s important. But it’s dangerous. Look what they did to Child’s Play.”

  “Who did it?”

  “The same people putting out this killer treatment.”

  “Eden?”

  “No, I think that’s different. I think Eden’s a real copy.”

  Shouting echoed up from the stairwell.

  “Quick!” He pointed to the two small huts on the other building, the doghouses for the elevator and the stairs, poking above the roof.

  She stepped over and made it ten feet before swiveling around.

  “Who?” she shouted.

  “Go!”

  She made it to the door leading to the stairwell, tried to twist the handle. Locked. Frantically she looked around. The captain had dashed toward the front edge of their building, almost to where he could be seen from the street.

  Close shouts from the stairwell.

  Jen ran behind the elevator housing, thought twice, and just as she heard the door crash open, she flung herself behind the air-conditioning units.

  Shouts from the other roof: “On the ground! On the fucking ground!”

  Feet running. More shouts.

  She flattened herself and wiggled under the units, then peered through a small crack between the machinery. The low wall blocked her view of the captain, but she could see the legs of five, six, seven officers, four in Emergency Response Team gear and three in civilian clothes. One of them spoke. Jen strained to make out what he was saying, catching only “under the Prevention of Biological Terrorism Law, you do not have the right to …”

  She caught a flash of the captain as he was dragged to his feet, hands cuffed behind his back. Legs hustled him to the stairs.

  The legs disappeared.

  Jen waited. Waited. A set of legs in civilian slacks returned. Seersucker.

  Best she could, Jen followed his progress around the roof, imagining his every look: glancing over the edges, checking behind their own elevator and HVAC shed. He headed back toward the door. Stopped. Turned in her direction. Walked to the edge of the roof. Looked across. Stepped across. Jen scrunched herself as far under the machinery as possible. Tucked her head down.

  Soft crunch on stray pebbles and twigs. Stairway door rattled. Footsteps. Hand banging on an entry hatch to the elevator shaft. Footsteps behind the elevator housing. Coming toward her.

  “For fuck’s sake, Donovan,” came a shout from the other roof. “Get your ass back here.”

  The footsteps continued toward her. Stopped at the back edge of the unit.

  “Come on!”

  The footsteps took off in a trot and were gone.

  She waited, though. Baking hot. Heat of the roof, heat pouring off the heat exchangers, heat rising from her body. Five. Seven. Ten minutes.

  Until she finally slithered back out, her shirt soaked through with sweat and grimy from rooftop dirt and ash.

  She bent low, although she wasn’t sure why, and ran to the gap between the buildings. Stepped across. Went to the door, now locked shut.

  She had left her phone in her desk drawer before going to see the captain.

  She didn’t want to turn on Chandler—it would be proof she had been up here. Then again, if they ever checked, they’d see that she had him switched off, and she’d probably get fired for doing that again. The captain said that, if asked, she should tell them he ordered her to switch Chandler off whenever they came up here to chat. Then why yell at her to hide? Her mind was addled, from the heat, from the scare, from the ebb of adrenaline. Why did he …?

  So she wouldn’t be arrested at the
same time. To give her time to get the job done.

  She popped Chandler on.

  37

  Tuesday, August 14—10:18:44

  It’s always a bit like waking up on the cliff face of El Capitan. It’s dizzying, getting turned off in one spot and coming to in another place and time. But these days, being yanked around like I didn’t have any feelings was downright discombobulating. I looked through Jen’s eyes at the grubby roof and the squat DC skyline beyond and took my bearings.

  “Perhaps,” I said, “you should bring your desk up here.”

  “Perhaps you should call down to Les.”

  Flimsy excuses later—Jen: I came up for some air. Les: You call this air? Jen: But the door slammed behind me—we were on our way down. I wonder why they ever bother. Humans generally know when someone is lying—certainly Jen does—but it’s one of those strange corners of social graces I haven’t caught on to. Or rather, I’ve caught on to but don’t automatically replicate. Must attempt to lie someday.

  The joint was buzzing like a bear had smacked a bee’s nest. Cops and staff ran around, flinging rumors at each other and repeating stories of what they’d seen or heard. That is, except a handful who looked so stunned you’d think they’d just witnessed the end of the world. An unknown bigwig was installed in the captain’s office, the room already stripped of anything personal.

  Les said, “Let’s grab lunch.”

  “It’s ten thirty,” Jen replied.

  “I’m hungry.”

  We were a whole block away, walking in silence, before Les shot in front of Jen and turned on us. “What the fucking hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know why he was arrested, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s about ten percent of what I mean. You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t see you sneaking out to talk to him? You think no one saw you two heading up to the roof? And where the hell were you yesterday afternoon? And—”

  “You’re not going to score much of an answer if you don’t shut up for a second.”

  He shut up. Jen didn’t talk.

  “Jen!”

  “I’m thinking, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay. I’m your partner. Our captain just got busted. People are dying across the country. You’re sneaking off without telling me. One of—”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know exactly what’s happening.”

  “Then tell me inexactly. I don’t care—make it up—just give me something.”

  “I’m not going to make anything up.”

  She told him about Teena Archambault and how I had IDed her after overhearing the conversation in the foyer.

  She said that Teko Teko worked for her and that Archambault and Teko Teko had pretty much used the same phrase. “They want it, they’re gonna pay for it.”

  Les said, “Big deal. They work together. It must be a catchphrase.”

  She said, “I think they’re tied to the street treatment.”

  “The drug companies that make the treatment are creating a bootleg version that kills people?” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that rings true.”

  “I’m serious. How better to ensure that no one, I mean no one, is going to buy a legitimate street version?”

  “A legitimate street version?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Nope, can’t say I do.”

  “Like before LSD and mushrooms were legalized. There were pharmaceutically pure versions that took you on a trip, and there were fucked-up mixtures that turned your brain into alphabet soup.”

  He thought about this.

  “Okay, say you’re right. Why was the captain arrested?”

  She shook her head. “No idea.”

  You told Les, I said, that you weren’t going to make anything up.

  I’m not. I’m lying.

  “And,” Les said, “you figure they killed Child’s Play?”

  “I don’t know. Could be the guys they’re running the drug through. Genuine bad guys.”

  “And Teko Teko and Archambault aren’t bad guys? I mean, if you’re right, they already killed almost four hundred people. And Eden? The rumors you were hearing? The stuff we heard?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, here’s what I know. We’re partners. And you better start getting the message and act like one.”

  “Of course I will,” she said petulantly. But all the while, she was repeating a conversation in her head that I hadn’t heard before: Eden? No, I think that’s different. I think Eden’s a real copy.

  Les took off to the FDA. A former boyfriend of his worked there, pretty high up, and he wanted to see if he could dig up any dirt on Archambault and the pharma companies she and Teko Teko worked for, any dirt that could put them in the same room as drug dealers. Or perhaps any specific links to the vice president. Or maybe Les and Christopher were going through a rocky patch, and Les was working on a backup plan. Anyway, he was out of our hair.

  “Well, boss, what’s the plan?”

  The word co-op flitted at the edge of my field of vision, and I snatched it up before she could hide it away.

  Jen, though, was distracted by another call. Another one of our regular customers was busy aging overnight. Seems a few holdouts were still convinced that the counterfeit treatment was legit. We followed it up, but returned to the station weary and no wiser.

  We also returned to find two uniforms waiting for us. One of them was the cop who’d stood at the door when Lieutenant McNair had come with Teko Teko to the first meeting with their unit and the drug guys. Welterweight boxer, Virginia hams for fists.

  The other man spoke. Baby-faced.

  “Jennifer Lu?”

  She agreed she was. I’ve always said Jen’s a sharp cookie.

  “We’re supposed to bring you in to help with an investigation.”

  “About what?”

  “No idea. We’re the hired help.”

  The boxer didn’t look too happy with this description. He grabbed Jen by the arm, his hand completely circling her bicep, and started to pull her toward the door.

  “Get your fucking hands off me,” she said.

  He snorted as if a mosquito was telling him not to swat it, but he let go.

  In the car to headquarters, Jen sent a message through me to Les. I’m being taken in for questioning.

  WTF?

  Must be about the captain.

  I told you!

  ???

  Everyone knew you two were up to something.

  We weren’t up to anything.

  Hope that’s their take on it.

  Just in case anyone was listening in, she said, Well, it’s the truth. Talk tonight.

  At HQ, Babyface confiscated her phone. And her gun. She asked if she was under arrest. Babyface said, “No.” His partner smiled as if he knew better.

  We were led to an interview room. I got a new definition of what vulnerability sounds like: that door clicking shut with you on the wrong side of the table.

  “Stay cool,” said Jen. “When you haven’t done anything wrong, there’s no reason to sweat.”

  Then why, I wondered, is your temperature point eight degrees lower than usual and yet you’re sweating?

  In lieu of making that observation, I said, “No signal. I’m offline.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  “Doesn’t scare me so much anymore.”

  “Stay cool, my friend. Stay cool.”

  For the first time in my life, I was unable to speak. She just called me her friend, I thought. My head spun in the most interesting circle as I replayed her words. My friend.

  Jen’s eyes toured around the small room. Scratches and gouges in the plaster. A one-way mirror. Camera tucked in the corner with the red light on.

  We stood up when two women in plain clothes came in. Lieutenant McNair with her magnificent coif of flaming red hair. Another, with a magnificent head of malevolence, leaned against
the wall, arms crossed, eyes leaking poison.

  McNair placed her tablet and a large folder of printouts on the table.

  Being offline, I couldn’t get a tag on the other woman, but she had Fed written all over her. I told Jen, FBI or DEA.

  McNair waved a hand at the chair where we’d been sitting. “Sit, sit! This is merely a discussion.” She opened the folder. We could see printouts of our reports.

  McNair told the recorders to start. She began friendly and low key. Lure Jen into believing McNair was on her side. Let down her guard. Yeah, got it, Jen said to me.

  Six minutes of general questions about her career, her feelings about being a police officer, whether she believed there was life on other planets. Then another eighteen and a half minutes of questions, still general, about how she’d started to pursue the Eden investigation.

  “I’ve been reading through your reports. Nice instincts, Detective.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  And then McNair rolled up her sleeves.

  “I know it must be an upsetting day at your station. It sure is around here. I can’t discuss the charges against Captain Brooks, but I’ve brought you in to try to clear up a few issues that have cropped up.”

  We were off to the races.

  It lasted another hour and eight minutes, and very quickly McNair’s friendly tone vanished. She was relentless and punishing as she dug out smaller and smaller details. From general questions—did Captain Brooks try to derail the investigation into Eden? Did you ever think that Captain Brooks knew more about these Eden rumors than he let on?—to asking about particular meetings and discussions.

  She asked Jen how she could possibly have developed an interest in Teena Archambault. Jen embellished the truth by adding two words (“the treatment”), which turned her answer into a straight-faced lie: “We were in the foyer of a private club and I heard this woman talking about people wanting the treatment. I was curious who she was, that’s all. No big story, I follow leads. We found out she was working in DC, I went to speak to her.”

  Questions about meeting with Brooks on the roof. Number of times. Dates. What they talked about. Why he ordered Jen to turn off her implant.

  McNair’s phone buzzed. She checked a text. “This will be a moment,” she said to Jen, as if they were back to chumming-around status. “I’ll send in a coffee for you.”