Curse of the Afflicted

by David Chill

  "Where are you going?" I asked.

  Her cat green eyes flashed for a moment and she smiled briefly, but it was a sad smile, nevertheless. She was pretty, she'd probably always been pretty. But she seemed very tired, and her face had the look of someone who had been burdened with far more than it could handle.

  "Maybe Prague," she said a little dreamily. "Or Rio. Or Sydney. Capetown is nice. So is Alberta, this time of the year."

  "All right. Better that I don't know."

  "Yes. I wish I could do this myself. But I don't have the luxury of time. You do."

  I took a deep breath. I don't have the luxury of time. Those words echoed harshly inside of me. If only she knew. If only she had some awareness that I might not have a lot of time myself. She was entrusting me but endangering me, too. And a thundering realization suddenly struck me, that it wasn't just me she was putting at risk. I had a wife and daughter. If this assassin ever found out about me, their lives could be placed in grave danger as well.

  "No," I said, shaking my head. "I won't do it. I'm sorry. I have a family."

  "They'll be okay. This man is a pro. He will not go after innocents. He doesn't believe in collateral damage."

  "I can't take that risk," I said, standing up abruptly. "It's my wife and daughter. I'm sorry."

  "It's too late for that, Ned," she said, standing up with me and moving closer, taking me by the elbow, squeezing it. The gesture did not feel invasive, but rather, disarmingly intimate.

  I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

  "Ned, I told you a small lie a few minutes ago," she whispered into my ear. "I didn't go out and feed the parking meter. You have the identity of the assassin. You have photos, background info, criminal history. You have a fairly complete dossier. I've spent the past two days putting it together. It's all in a brown manila envelope."

  "I won't take it," I told her.

  "You already have," she whispered softly, drawing her body against mine. "I put it in your car a few minutes ago. It's under the passenger seat."

  "I locked my car," I said.

  "I know," she responded. "I unlocked it."

  Chapter 19

  Iris darted from the restaurant before I could say anything else. It mattered not; the entire surreal episode had left me dumbfounded, as if I had entered a parallel universe. I sat back down and tried to piece our conversation together again, but little of it made sense. I stared at the now-cold plate of tacos. A few minutes ago they had looked very appetizing; now the very sight of them made me nauseous.

  I finally got up and departed, walking down the street in a semi-coherent daze. I reached my Pilot, climbed in, and immediately bent over and glanced underneath the passenger seat. The manila envelope was there all right, looking both innocent and alien at the same time. Part of me wanted to open it and learn the identity of the closest living thing we had to a Lee Harvey Oswald. And part of me wanted to grab it, toss it in a nearby dumpster, and not get sucked into whatever insidious web Iris Hatcher wanted to ensnare me. Finally, I turned over the ignition, leaving the envelope where it was, unopened and untouched. I didn't have the foggiest idea what I'd do with this oversized nugget of what might well be a ticking time bomb. I didn't know where to begin or whom I could turn to. Best to let the envelope lie there for now, suspended in time, untouched by any more human hands.

  Traffic was light as I cruised north on Overland, past the Santa Monica Freeway entrance, past the various strip malls which all seemed anchored by various 7-Elevens. When I reached the gate at the Metro rail crossing, the arm was just starting to swing down, forcing traffic to a grinding halt. As I waited for the trains to glide through, I glanced into the rear view mirror and saw two men in ties and sunglasses behind me in a dark blue sedan. Had I not just met with Iris, I wouldn't have given these men a second thought. But fear is contagious, and even while recognizing how self-centered an emotion paranoia is, I couldn't help but let my curiosity get piqued. I briefly thought of doing an immediate U-turn just to see if they followed. Instead, I waited for the gate to go up and I drove slowly, turning west on Pico, then south on Sawtelle. The blue sedan, a Ford logo stuck on its grill, was still behind me, although it did allow one car to move in between us.

  I slowed for a yellow light at National and then darted forward quickly, beating the light and momentarily losing the Ford. But as I drove further south, I had to stop at Venice Boulevard, and the Ford pulled up behind me once again. I turned right on Venice and did a full circuit around the block to get back onto Sawtelle, the Ford following slowly, but following me, nevertheless. There was no doubt now. I was being tailed.

  Having someone follow you is an unnerving prospect to say the least. That I did not know who these men were, nor did I know what they wanted from me, made the situation even more precarious. That Iris Hatcher had just placed an explosive pile of documents underneath my passenger seat made the situation complete. I started to shake. These men might be law enforcement, or they might be the people behind the assassination itself. They might be both. I briefly considered flooring my Pilot and engaging in a car chase, a ludicrous thought considering I was driving an SUV, not a sports car. I quickly concluded the most likely outcome of such a ridiculous endeavor would be to either get pulled over by the police or propel myself into a car crash. I further imagined pleading my wildly preposterous conspiracy theory to a uniformed police officer, that a pair of men in ties and sunglasses were following me. I decided the men were most likely in law enforcement, for the simple reason assassins were not beholden to a rigid dress code. But after my lunch with Iris, the possibility of being tailed by the Feds did not make me feel very safe.

  I headed a little further down Sawtelle when, thinking of the police, I hit upon an idea. Turning west onto Culver, I drove down the large street until reaching Centinela. I turned left, carefully allowing my tail to follow me. Moving into the center lane, I made another left into a parking lot, one with a large sign warning that this area was for authorized vehicles only. If I was going to have a problem today, I'd rather it be with someone at the Pacific division of the LAPD.

  The Ford followed me into the area, which turned out to be a parking lot for police officers to leave their cars while on duty. I felt a small sense of relief that I was probably not being followed by a professional assassin. Whoever these men were, they didn't object to being in a police lot. I pulled into a space and waited. The Ford sat there in the middle of the lane, idling. After a few minutes, I noticed a pair of uniformed patrol officers walking by and I got out and signaled to them.

  "Hi there," I said.

  They gave me a quizzical look. "You're not supposed to park here," one said.

  "I know," I replied, holding up my hands. "But I'm being followed and I figured this was the safest place to be."

  "Who followed you?"

  I pointed to the blue Ford. Its occupants were now rolling their eyes and already digging into their pockets for identification. The uniforms approached the vehicle, the occupants got out, and they spoke for a few minutes. They flashed badges at the officers, who pointed to me and smiled paternally. Finally, one officer walked back over to me.

  "It's all right, they're FBI," he said, patting me on the shoulder and walking away.

  His reassurance did not make things feel in any way all right, but it was probably the best I could hope for at this point. I thanked the officers and walked over to the Ford.

  "Hello," I began. "I guess you know who I am."

  "Most of the country knows who you are, Mr. Baker," said one agent, a tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties with black hair, slicked back.

  I stared at him. "Look, I've already spent a lot of time with the Secret Service. And the FBI. I answered their questions for a good six hours the other night. What else can I tell you?"

  "Well, maybe you can shed some light on your relationship with Iris Hatcher."

  I shook my head. "I don't have a relationship with her. I've only met her a few times, usually
by accident."

  "But lunch today wasn't an accident, was it?"

  I took a breath and thought how best to react to this. I didn't have a reason to lie, but I also had the uncomfortable feeling it might not be in my best interest to provide full cooperation. Again, thoughts of Iris Hatcher's trepidation about the people working for the United States government were weighing on my mind.

  "She's scared," I said. "She doesn't feel like there's anyone she can trust. She thought she was followed to the restaurant. At first, I thought she was paranoid, but, well, here we are."

  "Why would Iris need to trust anyone?"

  "I don't know. She didn't tell me everything on her mind."

  "But she did want something from you, didn't she?"

  I shrugged, and then I had an idea. Put some space between us. "She's been seeing my partner. They're involved. She wanted to talk about him. Women. You know."

  "Your partner. That's Blair Lipschitz?"

  "Yes."

  The agent gave a small chuckle. "All right. Blair Lipschitz. He's on our watch list, too. But it's funny how you all keep popping up together. Why were you meeting with Iris the other night at the Century Plaza?"

  "I wasn't meeting with her. She just happened to be there."

  "Oh, right. A coincidence."

  "Didn't the Secret Service guys brief you?" I asked.

  The agents looked at each other. "Um, communications between agencies aren't so great. Information doesn't always get shared."

  I shook my head and refrained from inquiring about how efficiently our tax dollars were being used. "So, why follow me?"

  "Your partner's been making some ugly comments about our investigation," he said. "And we keep coming up with you, your partner and Iris having meet-ups. We need to know more about what you're doing."

  "We're doing nothing illegal," I said evenly. "At least I'm not."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I can only speak for myself. But why are you following Iris? What's her involvement in all this?"

  "Why do you think?" he sneered. "Take three guesses."

  And then things began to crystallize. Iris and Richard Sudeau. A former staffer when Sudeau was in the Senate. A late night rendezvous, a tryst at an out-of-town hotel. What did you do when you worked for Sudeau? Whatever he wanted.

  "I think I see."

  The agent shook his head and handed me a card. His name was Dirk Turner. "We're not getting anywhere here. Look, we won't hound you any more today. But if you think of anything concerning this investigation, anything at all, let us know. No detail is too small at this point. You can only help yourself by cooperating."

  "All right," I said, thinking about the manila envelope in my car and briefly debating whether to hand it over. I didn't have a good reason not to, other than to follow the advice of a former CIA operative I had first met less than a week ago. I finally decided there was no great urgency. Sometimes standing still is the best way to move forward. You'll do the right thing, Ned.

  "Oh, and Mr. Baker," the agent said, a knowing smile hovering about his lips.

  "Yes?"

  "Good luck with your procedure on Monday," he said, his smug smile telegraphing he knew even more. There was no point in asking him how he had learned this or what else he had come across. The agent seemed to be taking no small measure of pride to conceal his smarmy attitude, and suddenly I was glad the manila envelope was still lying untouched in my car.

  I watched him climb back into the Ford, share a laugh with his partner, and drive to the parking lot exit. I was still standing there, mouth slightly agape, alone in a cluster of police cars but not feeling very secure. I was suddenly feeling very unsteady, like the cartoon coyote who walks off the precipice of a cliff, not realizing the danger until he looks down and sees nothing beneath him.

  The Ford swerved onto Centinela Avenue, I heard the engine being gunned and watched the sedan lurch forward, barreling quickly out of view.

  Chapter 20

  Detective Karl Mooring was getting frustrated. He had thought of almost everything, but now he was stymied. He wished he had a cigar to puff on. A stogie always relaxed him, but his doctor finally convinced him to give up the silent killers. It was also his final promise to Mary Lynn. She had relentlessly pushed him to quit smoking, but she had also pushed him to retire after twenty years. Things change. In ways he never could have conceived. He thought of her often.

  Mendoza, his Forensics guy, had managed to pull both DNA and a thumbprint from the stairwell banister below the thirty-fourth floor. The two of them were cautiously optimistic, recognizing this DNA could have belonged to anyone. But they considered most people would not walk up or down thirty-four floors. And the law firm on thirty-four had no connection to any other office in the building. Thirty-three was under construction. There was no roof access. So most workers would simply be taking the elevator to and from the plaza level. There was little reason to do otherwise. The prints were fresh. There was a very good chance they belonged to the assassin.

  Forensics ran the DNA through the CODIS database, a national archive that could identify over ten million felons. And yet there was no match. Nor did they get a match through their local records. They couldn't even get a match from the Department of Motor Vehicles. Mendoza had a vague hunch the prints might simply belong to a janitor, perhaps undocumented, as was so common in Los Angeles. Illegal immigrants lived in the shadows, they rarely had legitimate drivers licenses, even if they owned a car. The Detective called the firm that subcontracted janitorial services for the building, and he tested every employee who might have had access to thirty-four that night. But nothing materialized. Zilch. Nada. Square one.

  The Detective had hoped to solve this puzzle himself, to have something new to throw in the faces of the Feds. To keep showing them he wasn't just a local hick, but could outthink them. Outfox them. He considered handing over the DNA results to the FBI, but wondered if they'd botch this too. He knew he should cooperate with them, be a team player, especially in a matter this important. We were one country, he reminded himself, even if our law enforcement groups could barely stand one another.

  He decided he'd try one last course of action. One last attempt. He called a former LAPD officer he knew, an old Acquaintance, a bright guy with whom he had started in the academy. The Acquaintance had quickly tired of mundane police work, and after two years on the force, was hired into the CIA. He owed the Detective a few favors, and should help him without asking too many questions. The CIA was good that way. When he got the Acquaintance on a secured line, the Detective asked if his old buddy could run the DNA samples through the Interpol database. The one that covered members of terrorist organizations, renegades, global operatives who worked off the grid.

  The Acquaintance had asked him a few standard questions, but Detective Mooring was vague in his response. The Acquaintance did not like this and told him so. Matters of national security were not taken lightly, and no one was going to play cowboy on this. The Detective finally, grudgingly, told him his reasoning, his rationale, his theory. The Acquaintance agreed to help. He called the Detective a few days later with his findings. They had a match, but there was a problem. The man they had identified had indeed been a former CIA employee, a clandestine type who moved in the shadows. Or had at one time. But the agent was now dead, having been killed five years ago in a covert operation gone bad on the outskirts of Karachi. At least that was what his file stated. The body had never been found.

  So the CIA would provide him with no name, no picture, nothing. The CIA would investigate this matter internally. The old Acquaintance did thank the Detective for cooperating, and complimented him on his patriotism. The Detective felt his mouth tighten and his rage grow. He had been played, just the way a local yokel would always get played by the Feds. It was time to look for a new tack. Do some old fashioned police work. He ended the call with his old Acquaintance silently, hanging up, without bothering to thank him. Without bothering to say goodby
e.

  * * *

  Following my lunch with Iris and my latest unsettling encounter with the FBI, the rest of the weekend was spent in a quiet, idyllic cocoon. I wanted some peace before my procedure on Monday. Angelina and I watched a Dodgers game on TV, their pitcher tossed a one-hit shutout against the Mets. Leslie and I cuddled and held hands as we quietly listened to music, an eclectic mix ranging from Bruno Mars to Jerry Garcia, from Miles Davis to Gustav Mahler. I read a book on the healing power of the human psyche, wondering if it extended to healing metastatic lung cancer. We ate Chinese takeout. In short, we did what we might have done on any normal weekend. But our lives were no longer normal. I might not have too many more weekends like this. And whenever one of the ladies in my home started to bring up a maudlin subject, I bobbed and weaved, deflecting any deep conversation. My thoughts were dark enough; I didn't want them spoken. I wanted a weekend apart from the madness of the world. Monday morning would come soon enough, there was no doubt about that. It arrived quicker than I wanted.

  Saint John's Hospital in Santa Monica was an architectural masterpiece. The exterior shined with patterns of blue glass and brushed steel, the interior framed by soothing, blond oak paneling. A soaring atrium that rose a good six stories high made for an extraordinary lobby. Near the ceiling was a window made of stained glass, undoubtedly the sign of a chapel. The stairway looked like it could have been lifted out of a Disney movie. On one wall was a statement of the hospital's mission, a row of framed pictures meant to show off the associated physicians, but coming closer to displaying something akin to their employees of the month. I moved through the lobby in a daze, Leslie guiding me upstairs to the correct room. I had not fallen asleep until two last night, and my mood, already impinged from getting too little sleep and absorbing too much drama over the past week, was quite hazy.