Get Lost

by Robert D Kidera

  “What?” He stiffened.

  “Nothing. It’s just a check.”

  “That’ll be nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

  I put a twenty on the counter. “Keep the change.”

  “Wise guy.” The clerk slammed his hand down on a boxy postal machine. A long red strip of paper tape spat out from its side.

  I rechecked the address on my envelope: P.O. 57092.

  “Better seal that.” The clerk pointed at the envelope. “Wouldn’t want the contents to fall out.”

  I raised the envelope to my lips and touched my tongue to the flap. The young boy behind me knocked into the back of my leg again. The envelope slipped from my grasp and fell to the floor.

  “Apologize to the man, Cesar,” the young mother said.

  I turned and shook off her concern. “That’s all right. He didn’t…dnnn—”

  A powerful tingling sensation grabbed hold of my tongue and spread to my shoulder. A jolt of pain stabbed between my shoulder blades, searing deep into my chest and lungs. I gasped for breath. It wouldn’t come. I clasped my throat with my right hand and the countertop with my left. My chest tightened even more. I couldn’t move. My heart fluttered at first. Then it thudded over and over and over again. I opened my mouth to shout at the clerk, or to the woman, to anyone. “Help me.” I formed the words, but couldn’t hear them.

  Spots appeared in front of me, then a low, buzzing sound rattled inside my head. Breathe, Gabe! I sucked air into my mouth as fast as I could, hoping it would reach my lungs.

  My whole body prickled. Then all feeling ebbed away, even the pain. I let go of the countertop one finger at a time. The lights in the post office seemed to go out at once. A woman screamed from a hundred miles away. A man’s voice answered.

  Or maybe it was a bird.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The world was quiet, except for an intermittent whooshing and clicking at my side. Above me, an ethereal murmur. Barely audible. Ominous.

  The back of my head throbbed. Acid flames rippled through my stomach and chest. My mouth, on the other hand, felt nothing. I moved my tongue around, but couldn’t feel any teeth. I gave up and let myself float into darkness.

  When I opened my eyes, everything was blurry and remained that way while I blinked and tried to focus on something in the bright light.

  I lay strapped to a hospital bed. Tubes up both nostrils. Needles in my left hand and forearm. A figure in white stood by my bed. I tried to sit up, but something held me down. The room spun around. I leaned back on my pillow, struggled for a deep breath and closed my eyes. When the dizziness stopped, I opened them again.

  A nurse was leaning over me. C.J. stood next to her.

  “Take it easy, Mr. McKenna.” Her words ran together in my head.

  “What?” I tried to remember…anything. My head hurt too much to think. I mumbled. “C.J.?”

  “Take it slow man,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t know. Your cop friend called. He told me you were here. Asked would I come by and keep an eye, you know? Charmaine drove me over.”

  “How long ago? What time—what day is it?” Each painful word required effort and concentration.

  “They brought you in before noon, I think. The lieutenant called about one.”

  “Archuleta?”

  “He said you’d collapsed at some post office.”

  “Post office?” An image flashed in my mind, then it disappeared. “Water. I’m so thirsty.”

  The nurse rested a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not allowed to drink anything. Not yet. Doctor Aguilera will be in soon. Then we’ll see. In the meantime, you can have some shaved ice.”

  “What flavors you got?” I said in a weak voice.

  She was all business. “Frozen.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  She raised a tiny paper cup from somewhere and let a few bits of crushed ice caress my lips. A bit of the ice slid down my throat. “Oww, dammit!” If I hadn’t been strapped to the bed, I would have doubled over with the pain.

  “What’s wrong?” The nurse checked my eyes and then the monitors above my head.

  “My stomach. Feels like it’s full of rocks.” I laid my head back against the pillow and took a couple of slow breaths. Nothing helped.

  “Rocks?” The nurse half-smiled. “That’s pretty close, Mr. McKenna. We pumped you full of activated charcoal to clear the toxins out of your gastrointestinal tract. Don’t worry. It’ll pass.” She swabbed my forehead with a damp cloth.

  “Toxins? You mean poison?”

  “You’ll have to speak to Doctor Aguilera.” She tossed the cup of ice into the wastebasket next to my bed.

  A muffled cellphone sounded. I Heard It Through the Grapevine, my ring tone. “That’s for me.”

  C.J. looked around the room.

  “I keep it in my pants.”

  “Always a good policy, Ace,” C.J. deadpanned.

  The nurse pointed behind my friend. “They’re hanging on the rack in the bathroom.”

  He turned and opened the door.

  “Get that, would you?” My voice rasped as I tried for more volume.

  “Hello? No, this is a friend of his. Who’s calling?” C.J. put his hand over the phone. “Some guy named Onion? Says he’s at the airport and where are you?”

  “Shit! I forgot. Tell him I’m here—nurse, what hospital is this?”

  “UNM.”

  “Tell him to take a cab. Tell him I’m okay.”

  After C.J. relayed my message from inside the bathroom, the door to my room opened. A bald, bespectacled wisp of a man in a lab coat entered, a clipboard tucked under his arm. His hair was a perfect white. His eyebrows came together over dark eyes.

  The nurse gave me a signal. “Hello, Doctor Aguilera.”

  The diminutive figure studied me from the foot of the bed. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. McKenna.”

  “Convince me.”

  He picked up the clipboard and stared. “You’re alive. You’ve ingested a deadly toxin. Specifically, the neurotoxin aconitine.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A chemical poison from the plant world. Specifically, the flowering plant aconitum. The common term is monkshood. Deadly even in small doses, even if absorbed through the skin.”

  It didn’t make any sense to me. “I don’t understand. I don’t garden. And I didn’t eat anything today. I don’t think, so…”

  “We need to find out where you came in contact with the toxin. If it’s still around, the next person may not be so lucky. Aconitum isn’t native to this area. Anything you can remember would help.”

  I tried to think. What was I doing at the post office? My memory was still too cloudy.

  Doctor Aguilera stepped around to the side of the bed, felt my pulse, and looked into my eyes with one of those little flashlights. “When they brought you in, your breathing was slow and irregular. You had cardiac arrhythmia and were displaying signs of a coronary event. Acute pulmonary distress as well. We gave you an EKG, then blood monitoring, and an EEG.”

  “And?”

  “And your tongue was swollen. That suggested contact with a toxin or strong allergen. We tested and found a dangerous level of aconitine.” He stared at me. “If you were my size, you might be dead.”

  A shiver coursed down my spine. “My tongue is still numb. I can’t feel with it. Sorry if I sound funny.”

  “We’ll proceed on the assumption that’s how you ingested the toxin. Did you eat any greens this morning?”

  I shook my head.

  “Or brush against a blue-flowered, three-foot shrub with your face? This would have been within a minute or two of when you collapsed.”

  I thought back. The post office… “The envelope.” I tried to rise but the straps held me fast to the bed. “I was mailing a letter. I licked the flap of the envelope. A child bumped into me—yes. A little boy bumped into the back of my leg. I dropped the envelope.”


  Aguilera’s brows rose. “That little boy saved your life. It’s imperative we find that envelope. Excuse me.” He spun and left the room with the nurse close behind.

  C.J. looked at the bells and whistles that surrounded me. “What were you doing at the post office?”

  “I don’t know…I do remember driving somewhere else first.”

  “Maybe you bought something and took it to the post office to mail?”

  I shook my head. The dizziness returned at once. “Don’t think so.”

  C.J. limped to the window and split the blinds with his hand. “Too nice a day to spend cooped up in the hospital. Listen, I’m going down to get some coffee. I’ll try to be back before your friend gets here. Can I bring you a cup?”

  “I can’t have anything to drink, remember?”

  “That was before the doc checked you out. You still take it black, right? Maybe a magazine or something to read?”

  My mouth dropped open. “The bank—I stopped at my bank on the way to the post office.”

  “Paying a late bill?”

  “No. I took out some money, I think—holy shit, no!”

  “What’s wrong?” C.J. returned to my bedside.

  “There was a check in that envelope. A bank check.”

  “How much?”

  “Half a million dollars.”

  “Say what?”

  “Unstrap my arm and hand me my phone.”

  C.J. held up a hand. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Come on,” I pleaded, “I’ll make like it came loose. I have to call Archuleta.”

  He opened the door a crack and peered out into the hall. “Okay.” He swung around to my right side. After a short struggle, we managed to loosen the strap. Reaching into his pocket, he gave me my phone.

  “When did Onion say he’d be here?”

  “A.S.A.P. No cab. He’s doing a rental.”

  I punched in Sam’s number and waited. The pain in my gut increased when I sat up. Damn. “Sam. It’s Gabe.”

  C.J. gave me a quick nod and left for the cafeteria.

  “You okay?” Archuleta said. “Almost didn’t recognize your voice.”

  “My mouth is numb. My body feels like shit. I’ve been poisoned.”

  “That’s what Dr. Aguilera told me.”

  “He says I’m lucky to be alive. The flap of that envelope was laced with aconitine.”

  “Bad stuff.”

  “Aguilera’s gonna call you. You need to find that envelope in case—”

  “Hold it. While you were dancing with the angels, we’ve been busy. Halfway down the block from the post office, we found a dark blue F-150, like the one you said was following you. Stolen plates. We combed it for prints. Should know within twenty-four hours what we’ve got.”

  “That makes no sense. Why leave that truck behind?”

  “Because they had another one waiting at the post office. One you wouldn’t be able to identify in case you survived. We’re dealing with pros here.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “That F-150 was waiting at your house in case you didn’t come out.”

  “Huh?”

  “If you already had the check and you sealed the envelope at home. Then they followed you to the bank, in case you sealed the envelope there. They’d have picked up the check before you ever got to the post office. That’s what they hoped would happen.”

  “At least I messed up their plans a little.”

  “We also have an ID on the man who grabbed your check and fled the post office. Probably a Honda Accord with Colorado plates. We questioned everyone at the scene. Lots of confusion, as you’d expect. But we do know this much—after you dropped that envelope, a man grabbed it and ran to a red car. We have two corroborating IDs, one from a teller, one from a customer who was just entering the bank.”

  “So who made off with my check?”

  “Jacob Gray Wolf Wallace.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I shifted in my hospital bed, feeling uncomfortable about everything. “I guess some of it fits.”

  “The Colorado license does suggest a connection between Wallace and the deaths of Klein and his bodyguards. The car that whisked them away from the Pueblo-66 Casino had Colorado plates. So maybe I’m wrong about Wallace not being a killer.”

  “We gotta find Rebecca.”

  “That check of yours is our best chance.”

  “Should I stop payment?”

  “You can’t. It was a chasier’s check. So we cross our fingers and hope they cash it immediately.”

  “What if they don’t? What can we do?”

  “Call in the Feds. I already notified Carlson. The FBI will monitor transactions in that amount from New York to the Cayman Islands.”

  I shook my head and glanced at the wall clock.

  “Hey, it’s something,” Sam said.

  “But that won’t save Rebecca. I have to get out of here.”

  “You’re in no shape, Gabe. Look, I had one of my men drive your car back to your house. I’ll stop by the hospital tonight and give you your key ring. We can talk. When you’re good to go, call me. I’ll drive you home.”

  “Okay.” I hung up. Aguilera and a nurse came in and stood on opposite sides of the bed. She replaced the drip on one of my IVs and disconnected the other.

  The doctor checked my pulse and shone his flashlight into my eyes again. “Open wide and stick out your tongue.” He looked inside. “Uh-huh.”

  “Uh-huh, what?”

  “Is your mouth still numb?”

  “Not as much as before. When can I leave?”

  “That depends.”

  “Give me a little more than that, Doc, okay?”

  He pulled up a chair and sat next to my bed. A frown creased his face. “What happened to this strap?” He lifted it and looked at the nurse.

  Her face turned crimson. “Doctor, that was secure last time I left this room.” She scowled at me. “Mr. McKenna—”

  I raised a hand. “Don’t blame her, Doc. I had to use my cellphone.”

  Aguilera glared. “The more you follow the rules, the sooner you’ll be out of here. I’ll authorize your discharge when it’s safe for you to go and not one minute before.”

  “What’s the earliest I can hope for?”

  “The half-life of aconitine in the human body varies from six to fifteen hours. We gave you atropine as an antidote and lidocaine to steady your heartbeat. We’ll ramp up your fluid intake and hope that clears the toxin by tomorrow morning.”

  “Can I do anything to make it happen faster?”

  “Drink as much as possible.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “No solids tonight,” he continued. “Soft food only in the morning. We’ll monitor the toxins in your urine over the next twelve hours. Your body should pass most, if not all of the poison by tomorrow. Then I’ll let you go, but you’ll have to take it easy for a few days.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll stop by in the morning. Like I said, drink as much as you can. If you experience any sudden weakness or if the numbness increases, call a nurse immediately. Use the button by your pillow.” Aguilera stood, hung my chart on the foot of the bed and left without turning back.

  “Here’s your water.” The nurse handed me a full glass with no ice.

  “Look, I’m sorry about the strap. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

  She ignored my apology and put a metal pitcher on the table arm next to my bed. “The more time you spend in the bathroom, the faster you can leave.”

  “Duly noted.” I rubbed my forehead with my free hand. “The glare is giving me a headache.”

  The nurse walked to the window, reached for the cord and let the blinds down most of the way.

  “Thank you.” I took another swallow of water.

  She rummaged through a pile of old magazines on the window ledge. “Here’s something for you to read.” People. The same issue I’d paged through at the bank. She placed it
on the table next to my bed and crossed to the door.

  Onion brushed against her on his way in. He made a sour face and watched her walk down the hallway. Then he closed the door behind him. “What the hell happened?”

  “I was poisoned.”

  “Figured it must be bad for you to fly me out here.”

  “I’m knee-deep in shit.” For the next half hour, he listened to the long-form account of all that happened since my return from New York.

  “Put me to work.” His smile reassured me. “Just one thing, Gabe.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I won’t carry a gun. Never again.”

  I imagined how he must have felt when he shot and killed that fourteen-year-old boy. “Understood.”

  There was a tap on the door. C.J. entered with a magazine under his arm and two cups of coffee.

  I grabbed Onion’s arm. “I want you to meet a friend of mine. Curtis Jester, this is Deke Gagnon, my old buddy from New York. His friends call him Onion.”

  C.J. put the coffee down and the two men shook hands.

  “Curtis Jester?” Onion said. “Used to be a pretty tough prize fighter by that name back in the day.”

  “You’re looking at him,” C.J. said.

  Onion’s face lit up. “In that case, you owe me two hundred bucks. That’s how much I dropped on you in the Harold Johnson fight.”

  C.J. rubbed his jaw. “I paid for that night in a lot of ways.”

  “Six rounds, right?” Onion said.

  “Coulda been eight. I don’t remember any of them.”

  I cut in. “C.J. runs the best barbecue joint in town. Maybe you can stop there on your way to Santa Fe.”

  “What’s in Santa Fe?” Onion asked.

  “The Sun Mountain Art Gallery. I need you to look the place over. A guy named Reginald Addison is the supposed owner. Knows less about art than I do. Find out everything you can about him. See if anything out of the ordinary happened at the place last week.”

  Onion wrote it all down on a small spiral notepad. “Will do. Anything else?”

  “Get yourself a room in a good Santa Fe hotel. Stay in touch. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

  “When’s that gonna be?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, if we’re lucky.” I looked at C.J. “Make sure this guy is well fed before he leaves. As you can see, he’s had lots of practice.”