by Martin Clark
“Anything else you can tell us, no matter how small?”
Downs pointed at her. “I’m being watched. Okay, yes, I’m paranoid, but my sister will confirm it. It’s obvious. They’re sending me a message. I’m afraid.”
Lisa touched his shoulder. “I believe you,” she said. “And I’m sorry. Is there anything Joe and I can do?”
“Crack this case.” He sounded normal, composed, his tics and peculiarities momentarily suppressed. “These people want to kill me too, Mrs. Stone. This isn’t a Keystone Kops outfit. Money rules, and huge money rules like Stalin. Show trials and no prisoners.”
“You might be safer here. Joe and I have a strong relationship with the police. We’d be glad to arrange protection for you.”
“Lettie was safer here too?” He began his watch again: the road, the parking lot, the store, its roof, the area behind him.
“Lettie was surprised. You won’t be. Why don’t you let Joe and me put you in a secure place? Please. I really wish you would. At least for the short term, we could have an off-duty deputy stay with you. We’d handle everything.”
“I’ll consider it. But they’d find me.”
“You do need to be careful. I’m convinced these are dangerous people. The best choice is to let us help, Dr. Downs.”
“You certainly are eager.” He strayed off his routine to examine her. “I just can’t say. It’s so hard to make decisions.”
“You can trust us,” Lisa promised him.
“Mr. Stone, yes. Lettie didn’t care much for you. But you already know that. No offense meant. Only another fact for me to consider.”
“I understand,” she said. “But I think Joe would give you the same advice.”
“Probably. It’s not as if I have many good options. We are smack up against it, Mrs. Stone.”
“Do you recall what elements or ingredients are in VV 108?”
“Some. But not all and not the precise formulary. Nothing exact. Why?”
“You can’t match the ingredients with any known disease or use?”
“No. That’s what MissFit does. MissFit is genius. Mr. Garrison pioneered it. Despite everything, I admire him as a scientist.”
“Well, how many diseases are plugged into MissFit?”
“Over a hundred would be my guess. For instance, there are many different variations of cancer.”
“Huh. I guess that’s a big fat dead end.” She sighed.
“Mr. G knows what Lettie’s compound does. A few others.”
“Could there be any connection to animals? Cats and dogs? Lettie’s have gone missing under very strange circumstances.”
“Nope. None I can see. Benecorp does people only.”
“This is so frustrating,” she said. “We’re absolutely stymied. Damn it. Why’d you risk coming here if you don’t have anything else to tell us?”
“Mr. Stone asked. He sent me a message. We’re partners in this. He was Lettie’s counselor. I did provide you new information. Benecorp is lying about this being internal—new.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Yes.” Resolutely focused on the highway, Downs scratched his head again.
“Are you barred from having contact with Benecorp? Did a court enter an order?”
“Yes.”
“How many times have you been hospitalized for psychological issues?” she asked.
“Total? I couldn’t count. It’s the one number I choose to forget.”
Lisa smiled at him. “At least three in the last several years?”
He nodded. “Yep.” He sawed his thumb across his chin. “But my work has always been superior. I’m proud of that.”
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I believe you’re correct about Lettie, huh? Otherwise I might think you were unreliable and crazy.”
“Yes,” he said. “You’re very kind. I appreciate it.”
She turned and looked behind them. “Still clear in this direction,” she said. “Would you allow me to at least let a police officer follow you to your sister’s and make sure you’re safe?”
“I’m not positive that’s where I’ll go. I don’t know if that’s smart. Right now I have an advantage—a head start. But I need to return her van. I—” Downs broke off and violently rocked toward the door. He dropped to the floorboard, balling himself into the space under the dash. “It’s them! From my sister’s!”
Lisa watched a tan Ford sedan with a Maryland tag enter the lot. The car hesitated after making a left turn from Route 58, then moved toward the minivan and stopped alongside it. After a few stationary moments, the car began patrolling through the lot, passing in front of Lisa and Downs, the passenger hunting, scanning, staring at her, the eye contact direct and bold, the vehicle slowing while he checked her and the Mercedes, the man’s expression professionally belligerent, as if he had a license to do as he pleased, no matter how coarse or intrusive. The car parked, and he went into the store. He was tall, impressive, crisply dressed, creases in his trousers.
“I’m calling the police,” Lisa said. “And Joe too.”
“Now might be the time for it,” Downs agreed.
Lisa told the dispatcher she had an emergency. She asked if there were any cops nearby, and the dispatcher inquired if she was Mrs. Stone, the lawyer.
“Yes, it’s Lisa Stone. Who’s close?”
“I think Car One is. Sheriff Perry. He’s on Carver Road.”
“Great. Excellent.”
“Wait, okay, yeah, and Trooper Wilkinson just marked on. He’s en route too, Mrs. Stone. Are you hurt? In danger?”
“Not yet. Just tell them to hurry.”
Harold Wilkinson was at the store in minutes, lights strobing, his car’s siren wailing, the nose of his blue and gray state police cruiser floating skyward when he crested a hill at over a hundred and came into view, the tires seeming to tiptoe on the blacktop. He drove straight to Lisa and Downs, braked. He adjusted his hat as he strode toward her. Sheriff Perry arrived seconds behind him and sprinted for the Mercedes.
“Are you all right, Lisa?” Wilkinson asked. A few months short of sixty and retirement, he loved to spin hilarious stories about chasing 1970s bootleggers, backwoods characters who fashioned their stills from copper and never gave him a speck of trouble if he got the better of them in a fair pursuit. He was still agile and trim, his uniform squared away. Lisa stepped out and shut the door and stood beside him. As usual, he smelled of grocery store aftershave, the sweet, slap-on, watery variety that contained pure alcohol and had to sting like the dickens if it found a nick or scrape, a bygone scent that suited him perfectly and gave Lisa a quick sense of well-being. “What’s happening?”
“Thanks for coming so fast. Here’s my problem. The man in the car with me is a client of Joe’s, Dr. Steven Downs. He’s hiding because he’s scared. See that car?” She pointed at the tan Ford. “We’re fairly sure those guys are tracking him. We also think they might be a danger to him.” She saw Joe arrive, in a rush like the others.
“Joe,” the trooper shouted, “you stay with your wife while the sheriff and I check the car.”
“Oh shit,” Joe exclaimed when he reached Lisa and spied Downs. The doctor was still hiding, remained mostly on the car’s floor.
“Hello, Mr. Stone,” he said meekly after unrolling and stretching to crack the door. He gave Joe a choppy, harried wave. “I got your message. Sorry for all the fuss I brought with me.”
“So, either I’m as paranoid as the good doc,” Lisa said, “or two fairly threatening men followed him here. The driver’s still sitting in the car. He’s been wearing out his rearview mirror looking at me. His buddy went inside.”
“How in creation did you meet him?” Joe asked, gesturing at Downs.
“Yeah, well, that’s another tale completely. Suffice it to say, we are indebted to Elbert Hodges.”
“Why? How’s that?” Joe asked.
“I’ll tell you later. I want to see who these guys are. And if they’re here fo
r Dr. Downs.”
At the trooper’s direction, the driver was soon standing beside the Ford, the door swung wide open, the key reminder buzzing. He was squat, without any discernible transition between the back of his head and his meaty neck. His head was shaved bald. He was wearing a blue blazer, and he seemed pugnacious, his legs spread, his hands on his hips, his shoulders shot forward. Lisa could hear Trooper Wilkinson telling him something. She walked closer, Joe right with her and slightly in the lead, clutching her elbow.
“Minding my own business at a convenience store is a crime in these parts?” the bald man said.
“Nope. But tailing people and menacing a local lawyer might be. All we need is some ID and some answers.”
“If by ‘local lawyer,’ ” the man replied, “you mean Lisa Stone over there, I hardly think driving past her constitutes any kind of offense.”
Hearing his wife’s name in the conversation, Joe released her arm and pointed at her, his finger almost touching her nose. “You stay here. Do not budge.” The tan car was maybe thirty feet from him, and he exploded through the distance to confront the bald man. Simultaneously, the stranger’s companion pushed through the store’s smeared glass doors. The companion didn’t hurry or rush or appear concerned, simply joined the other four men. “Good morning, Officers,” he said genially. “What has Saul done this time?”
“He evidently has an issue with my wife,” Joe said. “And I plan to find out just what his issue is.” Even in a lawyer’s suit, striped tie and scuffed black wingtips, Joe was formidable, imposing, and it registered with Saul, caused him to reset his shoulders and soften his posture. “Who the hell are you?” Joe demanded, taking off his jacket and draping it across his forearm.
“Easy, Joe,” Wilkinson said. “He was gettin’ ready to tell us.”
The man who’d come from the store raised both hands to signal that he wasn’t spoiling for a fight, at least not right now. “No worries, boss.” He was speaking to Joe. “Our apologies.” He had thick black hair clipped high and tight and a reptile’s unpredictable eyes, cold-blooded and cagey. Unlike Saul, he didn’t seem fazed by Joe’s size and anger. He lowered his hands. “I’m Dillon Atkins. If the sheriff and the trooper permit me, I’ll reach into my pocket and provide you with my ID. My friend Saul will do the same.”
“Please,” the trooper said.
“Okay,” Sheriff Perry agreed.
Atkins quickly located two laminated rectangles and handed them to the trooper. Saul tugged his wallet free from his hip, then fumbled through the compartments and leather slits with brute fingers until he found his driver’s license. He dropped the license, muttered “Damn it,” grimaced, crouched, recovered it, stood up again and unhappily thrust it at Wilkinson.
“To speed us along, Trooper, uh”—Atkins leaned forward and angled for a closer view of the officer’s nameplate—“Trooper Wilkinson, we’re both private security, employed by Aegis Alpha, a global company with our domestic headquarters in Washington.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ve heard of you people,” the sheriff offered. “You ex-military?”
“Affirmative, sir. Ten years army. Three years with the FBI after that.”
“Can I see the IDs, Harold?” Perry asked.
“Yeah.” Wilkinson handed him the three cards.
“So what brings you gents to Henry County?” the sheriff asked. “And what business do you have with Mrs. Stone?”
“No business with her or her husband. Again, we apologize for upsetting you both.” Atkins had a salesman’s honey in his voice. He briefly humbled his head, broke eye contact with the other men. “Saul knows her name—and so do I—because she’s associated with Dr. Steven Downs, who I’m speculating is probably hiding in Mrs. Stone’s Mercedes, which is, of course, completely her prerogative. Not my concern.”
“What’s your interest in Mr. Downs?” Perry asked.
“Strictly professional. Our client wants him watched and wants to know his movements. Our client has verifiable reasons to believe that Dr. Downs is dangerous and an active threat. We monitor him twenty-four-seven and report. He left his sister’s home in Harrisonburg, Virginia, earlier today wearing a disguise. Soon as we realized he was missing, we followed him here.”
“How?” Joe pressed. “How’d you locate him?”
“We have state-of-the-art techniques, Mr. Stone,” Atkins answered. “But with all due respect, that’s our business, not yours.” His tone was politely antagonistic. “To finish my report to the officers, let me make clear that we’re simply tracking Dr. Downs at a professional distance. We don’t speak to him, impede him, bother him or interfere with him in any form or fashion. I don’t think there’s anything illegal in our surveillance coverage. We’re well trained to respect his autonomy.”
“What makes you think he’s a danger to your client?” Wilkinson asked. “You have some proof?”
“Proof?” Saul sneered. “In spades. He’s lucky all he’s lookin’ at is a couple babysitters.”
“Saul makes a valid point. If you’d allow me, I’ll show you our paperwork. It’s in the car.”
“Yeah, I’d like to see it,” Wilkinson said.
“It’s Benecorp, right?” Joe interrupted. “Benecorp hired you?”
“As a matter of protocol, we usually don’t reveal the identities of our clients. In this case, though, it’s no secret that your very unstable acquaintance, Dr. Downs, has threatened Benecorp and its CEO, Seth Garrison. So, yes, absolutely, sir, we are here on behalf of Mr. Garrison and his company.” Atkins nodded toward the tan Ford. “May I?”
“Go ahead,” Wilkinson told him.
Atkins walked to the passenger door, opened it and retrieved a file. He removed the key to stop the warning racket. He returned to Trooper Wilkinson. “The first document is an e-mail sent to several Benecorp employees on April seventeenth, just last month. In it, Dr. Downs states that my client, Seth Garrison, ‘must be eliminated at any and all cost.’ He adds seven exclamation points to that very direct threat. A variation of this attack on Mr. Garrison was posted on a website called Token Rock a few days later. Though the poster used an alias, we have proof it was Downs. This all comes on the heels of a court order entered against Dr. Downs because of repeated threatening conduct. He is barred from any contact with Mr. Garrison or Benecorp. You are also welcome to check Dr. Downs’s history with Dade County and the FBI.” Atkins made a production of handing several documents to the trooper, highlighting what each set of papers contained.
“Is this Downs fellow with you, Lisa?” Sheriff Perry asked.
Lisa started for her husband. “Yes. He’s hiding in my car because he’s afraid of these two for-pay bullies.”
“Ought to be the other way around,” Saul suggested. “We aren’t the people on the wrong end of an official court order.”
“You might find yourself on the wrong end of more than a court order,” Joe snapped.
Wilkinson returned the documents to Atkins.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Saul complained. “You didn’t even read ’em.”
“Read all I needed to,” the trooper told him. The response was pleasant, measured. “Read the very first line, which is typed in all capital letters. It says ‘Circuit Court of Florida.’ ”
“So?” Saul’s mouth remained rounded after he spoke the word.
“This is Virginia, sir,” Wilkinson noted. “Henry County, Virginia. Not Miami, Florida.”
“Hey, an order’s an order,” Saul argued. “You sayin’ you ain’t even going to read it? It’ll tell you all you need to learn about this Downs character.”
“I’m not sure we need to learn much of anything,” the sheriff said. “He’s here, not bothering anyone, visiting with two respected lawyers.”
“Exactly,” Atkins said. “We have no problem with him being here, and we certainly share your respect for the Stones. My only point is we are simply doing our job and have a legitimate reason to be watching Dr. Downs.” He locked on to the
sheriff. “You would agree, I assume, that we’re free to continue our work.” He drilled the word agree. He didn’t blink while he was speaking. Lisa noticed crinkles form—two delicate lines—at the corner of each eye.
“You might want to be mindful of the difference between proper surveillance and stalking here in the commonwealth,” the sheriff warned him.
“Code section 18.2-60.3,” Atkins replied. “Saul and I are well aware of it. I actually have testified before the Virginia legislature about proposed amendments to the statute, so we’ll be on top of it, don’t you worry. More importantly, we are exempted from its terms since we’re licensed as private investigators.”
“You’re planning to sit here until Downs leaves and then follow him day and night?” Lisa asked, now shoulder to shoulder with Joe.
“Yes. At a respectful distance.”
“There he is,” Saul interrupted. “In the Mercedes.” Downs’s head and neck were visible above the car’s dash, like a newborn bird peeking from its nest.
“We always want to work in conjunction with local agencies, Sheriff Perry. Here’s a card for you. Trooper Wilkinson too.” He gave them each a small white card with a shiny, embossed logo. “Now, Saul and I are planning to create a comfortable buffer between us and our subject and wait for him to begin travel. We’ll drive to the opposite end of the building, as far away as anyone could want.”
“We don’t have to tell you jack, not really,” Saul bitched at Joe. “We could have our people on this like white on rice. It’d be no contest against you Hooterville chumps.”
“I’d welcome that, Saul.” Joe glared at him. “Here’s some more Hooterville for you: You ever bother my wife again, and I’ll stomp a mud hole through your bald little ass.”
“That’s a threat, isn’t it? These officers heard it too.”
“They’ll hear this as well: You’re a pussy, Saul. I can spot your type a mile away. I’m holding you responsible for anything bad that happens to Downs.”
“Joe,” the trooper cautioned. “Let it alone.”
“Sorry, Harold.”
“If we’re done here,” Atkins said, “Saul and I will leave you gents be.”