The Man Who Wouldn't Die

by A. B. Jewell

  My eye-level view didn’t permit me to see the area in the Richmond where the Perns kept their rental house, the one with the supposedly suspicious tenant. Now I was all but sure of it; the Perns were the ones doing the dirty business, not their tenant. Flippers, the name of the company I’d seen painted on the van outside their house, was a company specializing in fixing up houses for sale. I didn’t have proof yet, but I had a gut feeling: the Perns wanted to oust their tenant so they could sell the place and command a huge profit. They needed the money for Urban Ketchup, but ousting tenants in San Francisco was no small task with all the tenant-protection laws. So the Perns hired me to do the dirty work, dig up proof of the tenant’s bad behavior, or something they could intimidate him with, so they’d have an excuse to send him packing.

  “Deuce is a great guy to work for,” the Tarantula said.

  “Shut up and drive.”

  We were closing on the bridge. Cars had begun packing it, the precommute traffic. On the other side, a growing dot bounced—the yacht—which I assumed was our destination.

  “You should think about working for him. He’s in boomtown mode.”

  “What did I just tell you?”

  “Suit yourself. I’m just saying. When I got out of community college, I sold servers for Cipco. Had a couple of huge years but it was totally cutthroat, no loyalty. No unions in Silicon Valley, you know that. One bad month and it was like I’d never closed a deal in my life. But Deuce, he cultivates his workforce. You know that I got two weeks last year to study French?”

  “How do you say ‘shut up’ in French?”

  “Fermez la bouche.”

  “Fermez la bouche.”

  “Not bad, roll your r’s if you can. I mean, it wasn’t totally altruistic. We’re opening a front in France. Brilliant sales pitch, if you ask me. Deuce is selling the Adderall to schools there with the idea that people need to stay alert to thwart the threat of hostile immigrants. Sure, marking against immigrants is totally out of line with our values as a company—half of us are immigrants—but sometimes you’ve got to let the market dictate. There is truth in economic forces, something undeniable. That’s the lesson of the place.”

  I smacked him across the face.

  “Fanatique,” he said. “Roughly translated: racist, or bigot.”

  The yacht, dead ahead, seemed to have suddenly taken on much clearer definition. It was a reality now, not a distant thing. I hoped to hell I knew what I was doing.

  “Give me the throttle,” I said. I told him to sit in front of me; he’d be what they would see if they were even paying any attention to us.

  “I’m supposed to stay at the dock.”

  “You’re a numbskull,” I said. “They’ll figure this is just another screw-up move and pay you no mind.”

  He shrugged.

  “Keep your hands down.”

  I shoved my gun into his back.

  “LOOKS LIKE A submarine,” I muttered.

  Streamlined, a thing emerging from the water, practically connected to it. White wings on the side, dark glass around the front and sides; not a submarine, maybe instead like a huge floating pair of wraparound sunglasses.

  “What’s the layout?”

  He said something I couldn’t hear given that he was pointed the other direction and his words were being swallowed by the wind. I poked the gun in his back again, repeated my question. He told me he’d only been on it once, in the captain’s room up front. High-tech, he said, of course. Steps downstairs into what he assumed were bedrooms and a stateroom and all the rest.

  “How many men?”

  “Five at least,” he said.

  “Deuce?”

  He shrugged. Was I him I wouldn’t tell me either and he damn well knew I couldn’t shoot him now.

  The Last Dolphin pointed north and we were to its east. I told the Tarantula to wave. I put the jacket Honey had given me over my head.

  The yacht slowed and we pulled up alongside it.

  We stopped next to a steel ladder, bobbing in the whitecaps. I kept the gun poked into the Tarantula. I peeked out of the jacket. The wind and waves became an ally, making it hard for the guys on board to focus on what they were seeing, if they were even paying close attention. Without thinking much more about it, I whacked the Tarantula in the head with the gun to put him to sleep. I rushed forward to the ladder and scrambled up.

  Twenty-Eight

  A TARANTULA AT THE top of the ladder had his shaggy face buried in his phone, clearly not expecting hostile company. He looked up at me just in time to take my head butt to the cartilage above his nose. Crack went the world and I followed with another pistol-whip, sending him crumpling to the damp deck. I struggled to keep my footing, gun drawn, glancing left and right and seeing myself in the clear on the seventy-foot gleaming walkway of the mouthwatering floating mansion.

  I ducked below the darkened windows just in front of me, and crouch-walked to an opening midway through the boat. I gun-led, entering a small area, a mudroom of sorts, coats hung and damp boots neatly arranged and a door opposite me with one of those classic portholes in it. Cautious steps forward put me to the side of the window, at the edge of the swinging door. I peered in at an angle. I got an eyeful: middle of the room, Terry, tied to a chair, next to a table. Dining room, I concluded, taking a more straight-on look, or stateroom, stairs leading up to the right to what must be the cabin. Next to Terry, another Tarantula. This one fingered an electronic tablet.

  I swung the door open. Terry and the Tarantula looked up. Terry shook his head and grimaced. That’s when I heard the jackboots behind me.

  Trap.

  Deuce walked down the stairs leading from the cabin, arms raised, less in surrender than victory. I pointed the gun at him, but I damn well knew this part of the battle was over.

  “Howdy, Fitch.”

  I looked at Terry. I felt, perversely, relief. He was alive. A shiner colored his right eye and he looked tired. A hand landed on my shoulder from behind. I swung around and got slammed by metal and nearly saw the lights go out. I fell to my knees. A boot stepped on my right wrist, freeing the pistol.

  “The codger at the dock tipped you off,” I said.

  “Yes, true, but after our phone signal told us your whereabouts,” Deuce said. “Then we asked the aforementioned codger to concoct some nonsense about a MINI on the dock to get you heading this direction. You know, it’s funny how predictable people are.”

  I eyed him.

  He continued: “True to form, you followed all the bread crumbs. Anyhow, welcome. I’m glad you came. It’s much easier for us to do our business out here in the great, white international waters of the Last Dolphin.”

  “Seized from Klipper or a gift?”

  “Market forces at work. We promised him you’d help us find the Spirit Box.” He looked, more than usual, like a complete imbecile. His blue suit was ill-fitting, the white boating scarf around his neck held together with a wooden yellow cinch monogrammed with his initials. “Let’s have it.”

  “Screw you, Deuce.”

  A heavy foot slammed into my gut.

  “William,” Terry admonished me. “Go quietly.”

  I heaved for air. The room spun, the fine oak table turned upside down for a moment, the white leather chairs in the adjoining living room tumbling in my view, along with a big-screen television monitor hung on the wall. In a last-ditch effort, I rolled quickly and reached behind my shoulder blades to pull at the top part of my larger gun before a heavy boot put me back down on my stomach.

  “I know that one of my guys talked to you about future employment possibilities,” Deuce said. “I’m not sure. Were this an interview, it would be going very badly. You fell for an obvious trap and tried to pull a gun out under impossible circumstances. I do appreciate that you are currently motivated by love and we are a very family-friendly organization. We were well ahead of the Gripes and the Bleeds with dental and eye care. Full exam every eighteen months.”

  “Wh
at about paternity leave?” one of the Tarantulas mumbled.

  “This is not the time!” Deuce said. He turned back to me: “You can’t let affection cloud judgment. I myself am in the position of having to punish Dutch Abraham for warning you about the dolphin.”

  I looked down, not wanting to give him a tell.

  “Yeah, of course he told me,” Deuce said. “He’s developing empathy, which is great. He felt for you and Terry. In the end, that’s a quality that will work for him. In fact, in corporate America, empathy takes a very close second to loyalty.”

  “And loyalty takes a very distant second to greed.”

  “That’s two seconds but I do take your point. Enough patter. Where is it—the Spirit Box?”

  I looked at Terry and then back at Deuce and then at the Tarantulas, two behind me with guns, the one sitting at the table, and another at a white love seat in the living room area. All with guns except the one in the living room, who still had his head buried in his device.

  “It’s in my pocket,” I said.

  “Don’t do this,” Terry implored. “He’s a madman.”

  “An immortal madman now,” Deuce said. “Daryn, can you take it from his pocket? And Larry, can you get ready to shoot his husband if Fitch tries anything funny?”

  The Tarantula at the table responded: “I’m almost done with Level Six, Mr. McStein.”

  “Do as I say or you’ll have no screen time for a week.”

  “Whatever.” He exhaled, looked up from his gadget, and pointed a gun at Terry.

  The Tarantula called Daryn, the one who had tortured me, shoved a hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out the black box I’d been given by Alan Klipper. The gangster held it up to Deuce, who smiled. “Give me that!”

  He stepped forward and in the ensuing gleeful pause, I reached into my pocket and flicked the switch on the jury-rigged device Elron had made for me. My last hope. Desperation at its most desperate.

  “Fitch, thank you. I knew you could do it.”

  “So we’re free to go,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You told me we were making an exchange.”

  “Didn’t you read the disclaimer? Doing business with me can have serious side effects, including a horrible, painful death.”

  “Also disfigurement,” said Daryn.

  “Daryn, thank you,” said Deuce, “but I sort of think that pales in comparison to death.”

  “It’s my area,” the Tarantula thug said. “You told me we’d put more emphasis on that this year.”

  “Suck-up,” another Tarantula said.

  “You weren’t really expecting us to let you go,” Deuce said.

  I didn’t answer.

  He cradled the box. “Someone,” he said, “get me a laptop.”

  TERRY PUT HIS hand on my arm and the Tarantula allowed it. My husband gave me a searching look that I didn’t return. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “We’ll always have Montana,” he said.

  “That’s enough,” said the Tarantula.

  Terry and I had spent two weeks in Butte a few summers ago while Terry ran the tax numbers on a farming estate and we spent the hot afternoons fishing and swimming. Daryn returned with a laptop. He set it down in the living room. Deuce, hopped up on greed and who could guess what else, shoved the USB cord into the laptop and stared at the monitor, waiting for something to happen.

  I turned my attention to the Tarantula sitting on the love seat. He looked quizzically at his phone, then pushed the buttons on it. “My frickin’ signal,” he said. He looked up. “Anybody else having trouble getting service?”

  I watched Daryn pull out his phone. “Had five bars a few minutes ago. There’s an extender in the cabin. You should be fine unless you have T-Noble.” He chuckled.

  “Nice one,” said the Tarantula at the table. He looked at his device too.

  “Zero bars,” said the Tarantula near Deuce, who watched the screen materialize.

  “It’s happening,” the leader said. “This is it.”

  “What the heck?” said Daryn, looking at his big-screened device, tapping it. “Did you try turning it off?” The Tarantula next to him, the other one who’d had a gun trained on me from behind, pawed frantically at his phone. “Someone try texting me,” he said.

  “I just did,” said the guy at the table.

  Terry looked at me and I looked away, not wanting to make a show of it. The Tarantulas were freaking out. Three gathered beside the table, texting back and forth and having nothing happen. No messages going through. One tried to bring up his browser. “It’s working! Wait, no, it’s just cached. Check the extender? Can we reset the modem?”

  In the chaos and panic, I stood up calmly. I walked to Terry to untie him.

  “I think it’s in the cabin,” one of the Tarantulas said. “Hit the little button on the top for twenty seconds.”

  “You don’t think I know how to reset a modem!”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Calm down, we’ll get this fixed.”

  Deuce seemed not to notice. His face was entranced by the laptop screen.

  Terry nodded at me: nice work, it seemed to say. I got the last knot undone behind his back and, so entranced were the Tarantulas, that I picked up the gun of the one sitting next to us. We walked to the door, five feet from our captors but millions of miles away. They couldn’t peel their faces from their paralyzed phones. I pictured Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and wondered where electronic connectivity would fall in relation to food and oxygen. Clearly, above stopping the escaping hostage and detective.

  I felt Terry tug my arm from behind. As in: stop admiring your handiwork. I turned to follow him. Deuce yelled: “What is going on?! Stop them!”

  The door with the porthole swung behind us.

  “We have no coverage,” a voice yelled back as a shot shattered the door and whizzed past us and we leaped onto the deck.

  Twenty-Nine

  I GAVE TERRY AN unnecessary push from behind to urge him on, then fired a shot to hold the bad guys behind the swinging door. I pointed Terry down the silver ladder, followed him, sent two more bullets screaming toward the door, mindful I might not have many more. As I reached the ladder myself, I caught sight of a Tarantula moving around the front of the boat, cabin-side. The bad guys, awakened, were coming strategically and in force.

  A shot buzzed over my head. I jumped onto the skiff and unlatched us. Terry had already found the motor. The first Tarantula appeared over the edge of the Last Dolphin, shooting indiscriminately. There was nowhere to hide. So I shot back, giving enough cover for Terry to rev the outboard. Two more Tarantulas appeared. On the skiff, the bad guy I’d gun-swiped remained unconscious but gurgling. I propped myself behind him, a human shield that left me feeling some instant guilt, but it was him or us and I hoped it would at least give pause to the bad guys amassing in view on deck. It did that—gave them pause. But only for a second. Three shots rang out, one of them slamming into the arm of the Tarantula I held up between us and the yacht. This shocked the stupor out of our captive, blood spurting from his forearm.

  Deuce appeared at the yacht’s edge, laptop in hand.

  “Hold it,” I said to Terry.

  “What?” He didn’t understand.

  Twenty yards separated us from the boat. Not much by munitions distance but the shooting conditions were nearly impossible with wind and surf. Bullets flew around us. I poked my gun out from the bleeding Tarantula and fired two rounds. I couldn’t be sure but it looked like I’d hit my marks: one bullet speared the Spirit Box and the other pierced the laptop and then exploded into Deuce standing behind it.

  “Nice shooting,” I thought I heard Terry say. And he throttled the skiff across the choppy waters.

  NO MATCH FOR the yacht, but more maneuverable and well ahead of it, we headed into the crowded San Francisco side of the marina. As we neared shore, I pulled out my phone to call Lieutenant Gaberson. I discovered a text from Veruca Sap. It contained a revelat
ion: she’d broken the code on the papers I’d found in The Selfish Gene. She gave me an address for where to meet her. She added: Come ASAP. It’s complicated.

  I dialed the lieutenant. I told him where he could pick up a bleeding Tarantula and tied the poor sap to the skiff. I tossed my phone into the ocean.

  We hailed a cab.

  “THAT WAS SLICK,” Terry said. “The thing you did turning off their phones.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Never better. You know, these guys, killers, yes, but they take their hospitality seriously. They asked me which eye I preferred to have bloodied and the frozen steak they put on it was grass-fed.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Grass-fed is true. But, yes, largely I’m kidding. You can dress up a killer in locally sourced hemp but he’s still a killer. This is a world gone mad, William.”

  “Fitch.” I half smiled.

  He kissed me on the cheek. I felt relief flood me, water in my eyes. I wanted to say, I thought I’d lost you, but I managed: “How does a guy like you get kidnapped?”

  “You thought you’d lost me, didn’t you?”

  I smiled. “How did you get kidnapped?”

  He pursed his lips. “Gun malfunction. I heard them come in, sat up, gun over my lap, and when the bedroom door opened, I made sure it wasn’t you and then shot for the eyeball. And, click. The Winchester let me down.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Where are we headed?” he asked.

  “Later, to dinner. First, we have to finish the job so we get paid.”

  “I don’t see why that is really necessary at this point,” my husband protested. “You smell of fish.”

  I didn’t answer. I was sure he didn’t. I wasn’t sure I saw the point either. But just because you love someone and marry him doesn’t mean you have to see eye to eye.

  “How’d you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Shut down their phones?”

  “Simple thing Elron came up with. Killed the signal in the immediate area.”