by Grant Pies
“I understand,” the man said. “Nothing at the apartment either.”
Carter stuffed his gun back into his waistband and moved even closer to the window. Pushing a piece of newspaper aside just enough to peer through with one eye, Carter twisted his head to try and see the man.
“Should I go in?” the man asked. “They’ve been here. Taped newspaper over the windows. Wasn’t like this last night.” After a short pause, he said, “Probably.”
Carter pressed his cheek against the glass, shifting his eye, straining to get the right angle to see.
“Sure,” the man said. “You’re the boss.”
He shoved his phone in his pocket and walked towards his van. His neck and head were the same thickness all the way down to his shoulders, which slouched forward. The sleeves of his khaki work shirt were rolled up, exposing his forearms covered in tattoos.
He climbed in the van and cranked the engine on. On the side of the van it read MKZ Distributions.
Carter hadn’t seen this on the van before. Was it the same one? He pressed his phone against the newspaper and lined the camera with the tiny gap between two sheets of newspaper. He snapped a photo of the business name, then shoved his phone back in his pocket.
Carter stood and turned to Sam. “His partner’s gone. Injured.”
“Or worse,” Sam said, a scared look in his eyes, likely wondering if his kill count had now doubled.
“It’s not safe here. They’ve been to our apartments too. We’ve gotta stay away from the office, at least until we figure out what’s going on.”
“I’m fine with that, but where to? Another motel?”
“Dunno. That’s fine … temporarily, I gue—"
A bottle crashed through the window, sending shards of glass around the office. The bottle shattered, spilling fire and gasoline across the floor. Carter jumped back, pressed up against the wall, and Sam ducked just as a second bottle flew through the window. More flames burst and spread into the office.
The heat pressed against Carter’s face, scorching his skin. He gasped and inhaled the hot air down into his lungs. The melting nylon carpet sent fumes and smoke into the air. Tattered strips of newspaper twisted in the air, but the fire ate them quickly until they turned into floating embers. A third and fourth bottle flew into the office, splashing scalding liquid in Sam’s direction. He dropped to the floor as flames enveloped him.
“Sam!” Carter pushed off from the wall and hurdled over a flaming desk. He tossed his coat over Sam’s body and smacked at the flames until they dissipated, but the fire around them still blazed strong. His eyes burned and watered from the smoke and heat, but through his blurred vision he saw the van speeding away.
“You okay?” Carter coughed his words out.
With a dazed look, Sam nodded and crawled towards the back of the office. In only a short minute, the flames had taken over the front. Carter stood and hobbled towards his desk. The bright orange flames danced around the box of police files and donor records only a few feet away. A burning ceiling tile dropped down, knocking Carter on the back and singeing his neck. Black smoke rolled and spiraled to the ceiling.
At his desk, Carter grabbed the records and dropped his laptop in the box. Without the ceiling tiles holding them in place, the fluorescent light fixtures fell and dangled from wires in the ceiling, sparks popping through the black smoke like firecrackers. Through smoke and blurred vision, Carter could barely see in front of him. He tripped, fell forward, and knocked his head on the floor. The box spilled upside down and his computer crashed out.
Dazed, the flames wrapped around him, surrounding him from each side. Blood dripped from his head and into his eye, tinting everything crimson. He blinked rapidly and wiped the blood off, smearing it on his face and hand.
“Let’s go!” Sam screamed, his arms wrapped around Carter, pulling him towards the back exit. “Move!”
Even in the chaos, Carter wondered if Sam’s pack-a-day habit had somehow prepared him to function in a fire better than Carter. He hobbled to his feet, tripping again over the box of spilled records.
“Wait.” Carter broke free and crouched down over the spilled papers, shoving his computer and an armful of records back into the box.
“Leave them!” Sam yelled, still pulling Carter towards the exit. The flames jumped through the office, swallowing the desks, chairs, files, and eventually the large safe bolted to the office floor.
“We need them!” Carter screamed back and coughed, more blood dripping in his face.
Yanking Carter hard one last time, Sam said, “No! We don’t!”
He pulled Carter to the exit, and the two burst out the back door. Carter looked in the box, not nearly as full as it was moments ago, then back in the office at the rest of the records burning inside along with everything else.
Sirens sounded in the distance and the red and white lights of a fire truck lit up the street. Carter walked a safe distance from his burning office and dropped to the asphalt. The flames billowed from every opening, like it knew to open every door and window to let in more oxygen so it could grow.
Sunken Cost Fallacy
The paramedics rushed Carter through the emergency room. His head throbbed and he still coughed from inhaling smoke.
“Is this really necessary?” Carter asked as the overhead lights of the ER flashed by him.
“Exam room three,” he heard a woman’s voice say.
“His buddy’s coming right behind us,” a paramedic said. “Smoke inhalation and minor burns.”
“Okay, put him in exam four,” the woman said, her British tones clipped and clear. “I’ll be right there.”
The paramedics rammed the heavy stretcher through the double doors of exam room three and placed Carter in the middle of the room next to a hospital bed. Counting to three, they slid him onto the bed and headed back into the bustling ER.
“They’ll be right with you!” one of them said on their way out. Carter groaned in response. The doors swung closed and blocked out most of the ER chaos. He glanced around. His exam room shared a large observation window with the room next door.
Bracing himself on his elbows, Carter sat up and watched next door. A man lay on the table writhing in pain, his arms flailing and feet kicking. His left thigh was cut open and the British doctor had her hand pushed inside the incision.
“Hold him still!” she yelled, leaning most of her body on the man’s leg. “I’m trying to help you!” She turned to another nurse. “Two hundred of fentanyl!”
A nurse rushed to a cabinet, grabbed a syringe, and drew a liquid from some small vial. She held out the syringe to the doctor.
“You push it!” she said. “My bloody hand’s on his femoral artery!”
The nurse jammed the syringe into the man’s thigh and pressed the plunger down. The man continued to thrash about for a minute more, slowly calming down until he laid limp on the hospital bed.
The doctor’s hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but a few strands had escaped. She flipped her head and blew out of the side of her mouth to try and keep it from tickling her face.
“Alright,” she said in a more relaxed tone and let out a sigh. “I’ve got the artery. Hand me a clamp.” She held her free hand open. Another nurse dug in a drawer against the wall where the window was. She glanced up and met Carter’s eyes for a brief second before pulling a clamp from the drawer and handing it to the doctor. She reached the clamp inside the man's leg and scrunched her face as she felt around.
“Got it!” she said and smiled, slowly pulling her hands from the man’s sliced open leg. “Take him up to surgery.”
The nurses rushed the man out of the room and down the hall. The doctor stood in the room, surrounded by bloody gauze and used latex gloves. She added her own to the floor, letting out another deep sigh, then looked up at the window separating the two rooms. She offered a quick nod to Carter, and then made her way out of the trauma room.
She came into Carter’s room holding his c
hart. “Let’s see. Will Carter. Fire,” she read through his intake paperwork. “I’m Dr. Abbott.” Looking at Carter’s face, she said, “Looks like more than a fire.”
“Oh,” Carter said, remembering what he must look like. He glanced away from her.
“Don’t worry.” She smiled. “Believe me, most people I see here look like death warmed over. Compared to most, you’re a supermodel.”
Chuckling, Carter said, “Most of this was from something else.” He circled his finger around his face. “I really think I’m fine. We got out before the fire got too bad.”
Dr. Abbott set the chart down and approached him. “Can you lean forward for me?” she asked and stuck the ends of her stethoscope in her ears.
Leaning forward, Carter said, “I’m not really sure how great my insurance is, so I don’t need to run up a huge bill. It’s really nothing.” He coughed and some phlegm gurgled in his throat.
“Sounds like more than nothing, Mr. Carter.” She lifted his shirt up and pressed the stethoscope against his back. “Deep breath, please.” Carter found her accent soothing, and he decided not to resist. “So, if not the fire, where did the cuts and bruises come from?” She nodded her head at the road rash on Carter’s arm. “Looks like it’s a couple of days old.”
“Mm-hmm.” Carter swallowed deep and, thinking fast, said, “Some guy, not paying attention. I was crossing the road. Tried to jump out of the way, but he clipped me and I rolled on the asphalt.” He shook his head and shrugged. “That was impressive,” he said and nodded towards the trauma room next door in a bid to change the subject. “What you did in there with that guy. But that’s probably just a normal day on the job, huh?”
“No day is a normal day on the job here.” Dr. Abbott smiled and moved the stethoscope around Carter’s body, listening to his heart and lungs. “That’s why I like it here. Keeps me agile.” Pulling a pen light from her pocket and shining it in Carter’s eyes, Dr. Abbot asked, “What is it that you do, Mr. Carter?”
He knew what it was like to question a person, probe without being noticed. Dr. Abbott was investigating in her own way, diagnosing and determining if there was something Carter was withholding.
As she tilted a large overhead light to shine on Carter’s cut, he answered, “I’m a private investigator.”
“Was this fire work related?” Dr. Abbott asked, raising her eyebrows. Carter hesitated.
“Nah. Probably just some vandals. Teenagers.” He coughed again.
“This laceration here needs just a few stitches. I’ll be done in a tick.” She dug out a sterile suture kit and unfolded it on a metal table. Holding a syringe up to Carter’s head, she said, “Just a little prick.”
She stuck Carter with the needle, and a warm feeling washed over his forehead before growing numb.
“They’d have to be pretty gutsy teenagers,” she said. Carter could feel the skin of his forehead tugging, but no pain. “Paramedics said they threw Molotov cocktails through your windows.”
Carter stayed silent, not feeding into her prodding. The last thing he needed was a do-good doctor reporting something suspicious to the cops, tying him up and keeping him from tracking the arsonist on his own.
“I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, Mr. Carter,” Dr. Abbott continued. “You know, being an investigator and all, but you might want to look into people who aren’t too happy with your work as of late.” She finished stitching up Carter’s head. “You know, I just assume you’d make some enemies in your line of work, digging up information. Raking over old coals.”
Carter nodded. “You have a point Dr. Abbott.”
“Done,” she placed a bandage over Carter’s forehead.
“That was fast.”
“I’m good at what I do.”
“Clearly.” Carter smiled and wished he didn’t look so horrible, covered in soot, bruised, swollen, and unshaved.
“Keep that clean, and change the bandage at least once a day. You can go to your primary care in ten days to remove the sutures.”
“Right, primary care…”
“Dr. Sheffield is working on your friend.”
“Sam, my partner.”
“You can have a seat in the waiting area until he gets out. It was nice to meet you Mr. Carter.” She pulled her latex glove off and stuck her hand out. They shook hands and she said, “Watch out for yourself.”
“Definitely,” Carter said. “I’ll stay out of trouble.”
“It’s a dangerous city, with all those teenagers and drivers not paying attention.” Dr. Abbott flashed a knowing smile and winked.
“Right.” Carter smiled.
Sometime later, Carter limped away from the hospital, his arms wrapped around the large box of wrinkled and half-burnt records. They were all that made it out of the office. Sam walked by his side. Before he left, Dr. Abbott had a nurse wrap Carter’s ankle and give him pain meds.
“You know what this is gonna cost?” Sam balled his hospital paperwork up and tossed it in a garbage can. “The ambulance ride alone is probably a thousand bucks! What kind of country is this that you can’t afford to get sick?”
“You think they’re gonna come after us?” Carter was in a daze, thinking of the office, thinking of the records he’d stolen. He wanted to study them, analyze them, and see what he could find, but until now, circumstances had kept him from doing so.
“I’m sure they’re coming after us! They don’t care about your health. They just want to get paid. Well, joke’s on them, they’ll have to get in line. A long fucking line if they want my money.”
“Not the hospital,” Carter snapped. “Whoever burned the office down. Do you think that’s it?”
“Oh … don’t know.” Sam lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
It had probably been hours since he smoked, and his body was jittery from short-term withdrawal. Carter guessed he would be looking for a drink next.
“You think the safe made it?” Sam asked.
“The safe? Maybe. It’s supposed to be fire resistant, but I’m more worried about water getting in than fire. The dial’s probably shot. Have to crowbar it open.” Carter sighed.
“Crowbar? More like jackhammer.”
“Maybe a blowtorch,”
“See here? Your laptop. Wasn’t I just telling you, you should keep your photos in here?”
“Whatever.” Carter shook his head.
“You just can’t do it, huh? Admit that I’m right. Is it that I’m right or that you’re wrong that you can’t admit? Hm?”
Carter ignored Sam. “Think the car’s still parked behind the office?”
“Only one way to find out. We’ll take the L there, but we can’t hang around much. We gotta find a safe place to lay low. Someone wants us out of the picture.” Sam took a long drag, and the ash on the tip of his cigarette grew.
“Out of the picture?” Carter scrunched his face. Steam wafted from a sewer grate, and an ambulance rushed past. Carter turned to see Dr. Abbott meeting the ambulance in the bay, dressed in full scrubs, gloves, and eye protection, likely ready for multiple injuries flooding the ER.
“Yeah, what do you think they want?” Sam asked then snapped his fingers in Carter’s face. “Hey, hey.” Carter turned back around to look at Sam.
“For us to stop looking into Rose Bishop. That guy thought we weren’t at the office. He wasn’t trying to kill us. It was a message.”
They walked up to the L platform. The train pulled up, its brakes screeching on the metal tracks. The doors opened and the two stepped on. A homeless man lay face down across three seats, his arm dangling to the floor. A few others stood, giving the sleeping man a wide berth.
“If they wanted to scare us off the case, then I say it’s worked.” Sam sat a few seats away from the homeless man. The train doors closed with a swoosh, and the train pulled from the station.
“You’d give them what they want? If they’re that worried about us, then we’re onto something, right? And what about the office? W
e just let that go unchecked?” Carter plopped the heavy box down on a seat between them.
“You’re assuming too much,” Sam said.
The train swayed along the tracks. It was a rhythm Carter found soothing, like a mother rocking a baby. Outside the gloomy city flew by in a black, brown, and gray blur.
“We don’t know if it’s related to Rose. The way I see it, your list of enemies could be pretty long. In the six months we’ve worked together, we’ve ruined at least a dozen marriages.” Sam said.
“Those marriages were ruined already.”
“What about George Kingsley? He threatened to kill us. You ever stop to think about that?”
Carter sighed. Sam had a point, but Carter didn’t want to let it go, move on from the Rose Bishop case. He wondered what Leland would do if he were alive. He was an old man, but he never let his age stop him. Even as the cancer progressed he was never one who would back down once he was attacked. Make this matter, Leland’s words echoing in Carter’s head.
Maybe Sam was right, maybe Carter was too stubborn. He would be chasing a sinking cost without knowing how far it went, like a gambler thinking his luck just had to turn around after such a shitty streak, or an investor throwing more at a failing company simply because he had already spent so much already. Walking away was tough, and even tougher when everyone else had already left.
The train’s brakes screeched against the tracks and slowed to a stop. The homeless man shifted in his seats, turning to his other side. The doors opened and more people climbed on.
“What was it all for?” Carter said and looked over at Sam. Even though he looked tired and worn out, he was still there, trying to talk Carter down, but there nonetheless. Carter glanced down at the box of records. “Why’d I even get these if we don’t at least look at them?”
“What’s looking going to do?” Sam leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. The train lunged, and the grayish city blur started back up. “I know you. Do you know what looking is gonna turn into?”
“We just look at the records. Go through them.”
Sam gritted his teeth and shrugged. Carter was wearing him down.