The Fifth Vial

by Michael Palmer

  Ben was trying to look and act nonchalant, but he was on absolute red alert, his pulse hammering. He wanted desperately to go back outside and try another, more composed entrance. Instead, he introduced himself.

  “Welcome, Mr. Stepanski,” the woman said, her eyes unwavering. “I’m Janet, the office manager. You have your passport and the letter we sent you?”

  Ben set both items, retrieved from Stepanski’s motel room, on the counter. Janet gave them each a cursory examination, perhaps hesitating for a moment on the passport photo. Then she slid them both to one side. Ben pressed his hands against the counter to keep them from shaking.

  Do you know, Janet? Do you know what goes on here?

  “I stopped by yesterday to see if I could help get the flight ready,” he said for no particular reason other than to loosen up and get a little deeper into character.

  “I know,” she said. “That was me you spoke to. Our policy is to make plans and stick closely to them.”

  “I understand.”

  No real explanation, no apology for not being able to oblige him. Janet the office manager was all business. For him, maintaining eye contact was a must. From here on he was in enemy territory. If he were caught, it seemed doubtful he would be allowed to live.

  “Okay, Mr. Stepanski, weather permitting, you will be leaving at nine in the morning. You should be in uniform at this office at seven with enough clothes for a four-day trip. It is possible, as we wrote you, that several more days will be added. You will be tending to the needs of six passengers and a crew of three. The flight will be transporting a patient to South America for an operation that cannot be performed in this country. The patient will be with her doctors at the rear of the aircraft. You are forbidden from going back there unless specifically asked. If our passengers wish to engage in conversation with you, they will do so. Otherwise, their privacy is to be respected. Questions?”

  “None.”

  “Good. Here’s the key to room seven. It is in Building Two, just down this road and to your right. You are not permitted in any part of the Oasis except on the patio by your room and in the canteen located in Building Three, which is right behind Building Two.”

  “I understand.”

  He took the key and turned to go.

  “Mr. Stepanski?”

  Ben stiffened, then turned slowly back to her, his pulse in crescendo again.

  “Yes?”

  She handed him his passport.

  “It’s probably time for a new photo.”

  Ben decided to leave his .38 in the wheel well. There was no way he was going to be in any situation he could ever shoot his way out of, especially given that he had never fired a gun at anything other than a shooting range target, and on those rare occasions, with no great skill. If he had somehow given himself away to Janet, he would know soon enough, and there probably wouldn’t be a damn thing he could do about it.

  Room 7, small but neat enough, had little on the budget motels in which he usually stayed. Still, he mused as he unpacked his bag and set the alarm for six, Seth Stepanski would have probably given up his prized collection of beer steins to be spending the night in this room rather than where he was.

  Ben felt distressed at taking advantage of the man the way he had, and even worse at the discomfort he had to inflict on him to keep him immobilized where he was and yet alive. Whether or not Ben would have put Stepanski’s life in jeopardy, he wasn’t sure, but he did know that the moment he pulled his gun, he had stepped off a cliff. Now whatever he had to do to keep from crashing on the rocks below, he would do. In the end, with inspired imagination, a carefully chosen storage locker, a dozen padlocks and lengths of chain, and enough time, he had constructed a setup of which Rube Goldberg would have been proud.

  The key was the steel supports that ran across the ceiling and around the walls of the locker, which was one of Budget’s jumbo units—sixteen by twenty. Stepanski, undressed from the waist down, was fixed in the exact center of the room, chained to the ceiling and walls in such a way that he had only enough mobility to switch awkwardly from a bridge chair to the commode that Ben had purchased in a hospital supply store and attached to it. His hands were cuffed behind him, and duct tape was wrapped around his head, covering his mouth. A hole poked in the center of the tape made breathing easier and allowed him to drink by straw from any of a dozen bottles of water, juices, and protein beverages set up on a bridge table in front of him. The heat might be a problem, but Ben chose Unit 89 not only because it was one of the farthest from the Budget office, but because it was well shaded.

  By eleven that night, Stepanski was secured and the setup checked and rechecked. Still, Ben made two more visits to the locker to look in on his prisoner and to replenish the beverage supply. At noon, just a few hours before he headed out to Whitestone, he sat down on the floor and, arms wrapped around his knees, told the flight attendant in detail exactly what was going on at the lab and what he hoped to do about it. Stepanski begged to be released and promised to head home and say nothing, but Ben had gone as far as he dared to go.

  “I have sent a box to a friend of mine,” he said, “a professor at the University of Chicago. It contains the keys for these locks and a letter of explanation. In three days, she will either send the box overnight to the Fadiman police or drive down and release you herself. Hopefully, that will be enough time for me to figure out who and what Whitestone is, and to gather enough evidence to put whoever’s running things out of business and into prison. I’m really sorry to put you through this, Seth, but I believe that what’s going on with these people is way bigger than either of us.”

  He put a pair of earphones around Stepanski’s neck and set a pocket radio behind him.

  “I tried this out myself,” he said. “With a little practice you can learn how to adjust the volume and change the station. You’ll get three or four stations in here, but I sure hope you like country-western.”

  Finally, he set three nips of Jack Daniel’s and three of Jose Cuervo Gold tequila on the bridge table, with straws in each.

  “Because you’re traveling first class with us,” he said, “there’ll be no charge for these beverages.”

  He set the earphones in place, then patted the man on the shoulder, and left.

  From the moment he opened the door to Unit 7, Ben was locked in a debate as to whether it was worth the risk to try to make it around the Oasis, and ultimately to the Winnebago. If he went, it would have to be with his contact microphone. His particular model of the spy gear was low-end, but still serviceable for listening through walls. If he was caught carrying it, no amount of excuses would bail him out. Hoping against hope, he tried calling Alice Gustafson on his cell to discuss the situation. There was no signal whatsoever.

  For a few hours, until darkness had firmly settled in, he rested and tried reading one of the magazines on his bedside table—a recent People. Usually for him, reading People was like drinking a chocolate frappe—absolutely effortless. Tonight, the celebrity-studded articles went down like ground glass. Somewhere out there a plane was being readied for a flight to someplace in South America. At the end of that flight, Ben felt fairly certain, someone with money, perhaps even one of the People stars, would be given life at the expense of someone like Lonnie Durkin or the chambermaid, Juanita Ramirez.

  Wearing dark clothing, he stepped outside onto his room’s small patio. The air was still quite warm and humid, but the vast, black sky was starless, and a hot wind had picked up from the west. Unit 7 was at the end of Building 2, not fifteen yards from the chain-link fence. Ben walked to the fence across a small corridor of grass. Beyond it, the blackness of the desert was indistinguishable from the sky, but in the distance, jagged spears of lightning pierced the night in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree cyclorama.

  The Oasis itself was not well lit, and the buildings were close enough together to offer some protection. Ben scanned the nearest structures for cameras, not really expecting to see them even if they
were there. Then he carefully made his way back to the Sebring for his contact microphone and, he decided, his pistol. At this hour, any trouble he ran into might be with a single security guard. If the gun could help him make it to the car, there was a chance he could ram through the massive gate at the end of the drive. Just the idea of having his life depend on surviving that collision sent a jet of acid percolating into his throat. His fictional heroes never had trouble crashing through such gates unscathed, but he suspected that this particular gate might be more unyielding.

  Continuing his scan for security cameras, he crossed to the canteen in Building 3 and got a Diet Coke. Then, trying to stay under cover, he moved into the shadows of first one building, then another. The lightning spears appeared much closer now, and he swore he could hear thunder. The largest building, 5, had some pale light inside. Through the windows, he could just make out rows and rows of sophisticated laboratory equipment. It was neither difficult nor pleasant to imagine a tube of blood with his name on it being opened and processed by a tech working at one of those stations.

  The streets of the Oasis seemed deserted, although in spots, the light from scattered windows washed into the night. Keenly on edge, clutching the case containing the contact microphone, and listening between every step for the sound of someone else, Ben maneuvered toward the Winnebago. Beneath his black, long-sleeved tee, he was unpleasantly damp.

  The five minutes it took to reach the RV seemed like an hour. There was a faint glow from around the dining-area shade on the left side and the curtain pulled across inside the front windshield. Breathing heavily from tension more than exertion, Ben knelt just forward of the left rear tire and soundlessly unzipped the microphone case, which contained small earphones, an amplifier, and a thick, cylindrical receiver, about the size of half a roll of quarters. He worked the earphones into place and pressed the receiver against the side of the Winnebago. The quality of the reception wasn’t great, but he could hear voices and make out most of what they were saying.

  “Please, please let me go. I never did anything to you.” The woman’s voice, probably coming from the rear of the van, was quite clear.

  “He’s shooting the moon. For chrissakes, Connie, do you know how to play this game or not?”

  Vincent! Ben was almost certain of it.

  “Listen, Rudy, I have a kid, a son named Teddy. I told you all about him. Please, he needs me. Please let me go. Find someone else—someone without a little boy who needs her.”

  “Jesus, Connie, you dumb shit! You had to pass a couple of hearts when you had the chance! Now he’s going to get them all. Couldn’t you tell that all he had was spades? Listen, Sandy, either you stop whining or I’m coming back there to put a sock in your mouth. And stop calling me Rudy. I hate the fucking name. I’m sorry I ever made it up.”

  The left earpiece was painfully tight. Ben pulled it out and was adjusting it when he heard the soft crunch of footsteps from his right. Pulling the .38 from his waistband, he flattened out on the ground and quickly worked his way under the van. Seconds later, a pair of cowboy boots appeared no more than two feet from his face, and only an inch, he realized, from where he had dropped the contact microphone.

  For an interminable ten seconds, nothing moved. Then the boots turned, passing so close to the microphone that one seemed to have brushed it, and headed toward the front of the van. Still frozen, Ben watched as the boots passed beneath the windshield and moved to the door on the far side. A moment later, two sharp knocks cut through the heavy quiet.

  “Vincent, Connie, it’s just me, Billy,” a youthful voice said.

  The door to the Adventurer swung open, bathing the ground with light. Instantly, from within, Sandy began screaming.

  “Help! Please help me! For God’s sake, they’re going to kill me! I’m in a cage. My name’s Sandy. Please, please help me. I’m a mother. I have a little boy! He’s only eight!”

  “Oh, I have had enough of this shit.”

  There was a brief scuffling of feet from directly above where Ben was lying, and instantly, the screaming stopped. Ben felt ill. He had to do something. Should he simply charge into the van shooting? He would have to kill the guard named Billy, Vincent, Connie, and someone else as well. Kill four people. Was there any chance he could do it? Would it be better to wait?

  Clutching the pistol, feeling detached, almost dreamlike, he inched out from under the van. He wondered what John Hamman had been thinking and feeling just before he charged the machine-gun nest or whatever he did to earn a posthumous medal and a godforsaken road named after him.

  Ben pushed himself upright. If he was going to move, it had to be now, while the door to the van was open. Was there any way to stop—any way he could just slip back to his room and let them proceed, at least for the time being, with whatever was planned for the terrified woman named Sandy? In exchange for leaving them all, he would be keeping alive his hope of exposing the horror of Whitestone. He hefted the .38 in his hand and moved to the rear of the van.

  “Hey, Billy, what gives?” another voice from within the van asked, as if the woman’s outburst had never happened.

  “Paulie, hey, whassapnin?”

  “Nothin’ much, Billy. Jes playin’ a little hearts with Vincent an’ Connie t’ pass the time.”

  Ben moved silently to the corner of the van. He had never fired a gun at anything but a range target, and once a couple of bottles. Now he would have to take out the guard at the doorway and then climb over his body to shoot three killers before they could reach their weapons. Did he have any chance? At some level he knew the answer was no, but he felt unable to stop.

  “You ridin’ shotgun on the flight tomorrow?” the guard asked.

  “All four of us.”

  “Oh, hey, Smitty, I didn’t even see you there.”

  “Hi, Billy. Quiet out there?”

  Five.

  Ben lowered his gun as sanity took over.

  “Must be big stuff,” Billy was saying. “Put in a word for me, Vincent, will ya? Doin’ security here gets a little wearin’. In case you hadn’t noticed, nothing much ever happens.”

  “I gotcha. We’ll do what we can. Well, back to the cards.”

  “You guys take care.”

  “See ya, Billy.”

  The door closed and was bolted from the inside. Ten minutes later, still badly shaken by how close he had come both to killing and dying, Ben was safely back in his room.

  At midnight a violent thunderstorm swept through the Oasis, and then vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

  At three, still far too wired to sleep, he was standing by the window when suddenly, out in the desert well beyond the fence, the blue lights of a runway lit up the vastness, stretching as far as he could see. A few minutes later, accompanied by a roar that shook Building 2, a huge jet, possibly a 727, landed smoothly, taxied to the far end of the runway, and stopped.

  Stepanski’s uniform had been taken in by a greedy tailor in Fadiman. Now Ben removed it from the closet and brushed some lint from the lapel.

  The alligator was in his net.

  Twenty-Five

  Women must be taught…the art of war, which they must practice like the men.

  —PLATO, The Republic, Book V

  Dom Angelo.

  With only those two words to go by, Natalie commenced a desperate search through every phone book she could find. Nothing. She spoke with the desk clerk at her hotel, who questioned whether or not she might have misheard, and the woman actually said Don Angelo.

  “Would that make any difference?” she asked, instantly buying into the possibility.

  “No,” said the man.

  His Portuguese-English dictionary said that dom meant gift, or gifted one, and was also a title, specifically, lord.

  Now, uncertain over what the anxious nurse in the floral print dress might actually have said, Natalie trudged up to her room, totally spent from the long day, the hills of Rio, the heat, and probably some lingering jet lag. She f
elt as isolated and alone as she could ever remember. She was an athlete with a single, damaged lung that there was little chance of ever getting replaced. Don or Dom Angelo, even if she ever did find him, wasn’t going to change that reality.

  There was no need for Brazilian whiskey to help her sleep this night, or in fact, for anything other than the white noise of the air conditioner. Tomorrow she would make two stops at Santa Teresa’s—the first to vice president Gloria Duarte’s office, and the second to the surgical ICU. If she was unsuccessful, it would be back to the police.

  Don Angelo…Dom Angelo…

  As she drifted off, the names generated an unending Möbius loop of questions. Was one of them a title of some sort? A first name? Why had the woman not even tried to explain? Did it seem that obvious to her that Natalie would understand?

  One thing that their brief encounter had made clear to her: There was more to the assault in the alley and the subsequent loss of her lung than she had believed.

  With time, the drone of the air conditioner rocked her into an uneasy sleep, but twice during the night, her exhaustion lost out to the familiar, vivid reenactment of her attack. As was the case so many times before, the horror was more intense than mere memory, and in many ways more real and detailed than any nightmare. After the second episode, she was too shaken to fall back to sleep. She was deceived by the cabbie at the airport, she was shot, she was operated on, her lung was removed, she was well cared for, and she was flown home as soon as her identity was established. All of that was completely and absolutely true…and yet, it wasn’t.

  At some point, Natalie reconnected with sleep. It was nearly eleven when she awoke. By the time she had showered, dressed, and made it back to the hospital, it was just past noon. Duarte was at a meeting, she was told, and would not be back in the hospital until the following morning. On a lark, she asked the woman’s secretary if either Don or Dom Angelo meant anything to her. The woman smiled politely and suggested that her boss, who knew almost everything, would be the one to ask.