The Color of Wounds

by Frank Martorana

  “That’s easy for you to say. As many needles as I’ve stuck into animals over the years, I still hate getting stuck myself.”

  “I’ll be gentle,” Tice said, and rubbed an alcohol pledget over the vein below Kent’s elbow with exaggerated vigor.

  Seconds later Tice had his sample. He held it up. “Looks healthy to me. It’s red, anyway.”

  “Weekly, huh? Are you sure you’re not trying to create a stress?”

  Tice laughed and he pressed a Band-Aid to Kent’s arm. “Come on. These modern needles are so sharp you can’t even feel them. Hell, if you’re working around the house and you accidentally rap your knuckles on something or bump your head, it hurts way more than that little stick I just gave you.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know the finger rap or head bump is coming till it’s over.”

  “True. Anyway, that’s the hard part and you lived through it. All I need now is an EEG.”

  Tice untangled a cluster of wires, taped the electrodes to various spots on Kent’s head, and tinkered with the controls on a monitor.

  “Besides blood chemistry change, I’m also looking at changes in the brain’s electrical activity.”

  “How do you do that on the animals anyway?”

  Tice snapped on the EEG machine and a bank of needles began tracing wavy lines on rolling tapes of graph paper. “I can give you a tour of our lab when we’re done if you’re interested.” Tice turned to Kent as an idea came to him. “Better yet, I’m giving a seminar at lunch time today in the auditorium. Neuropathways of Memory. There are a lot of slides that show how it’s done. Maybe you can make it.”

  “I might do that.”

  “I hope you do.”

  Tice turned off his brain analyzer, freeing Kent of the wires. “You’re done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “My contribution to science.”

  “See you in a week.”

  “I’ll try to be stressed.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Kent carried a can of Coke and an egg salad sandwich into the auditorium. It was dark inside, the lecture already in progress. Beams from dual projectors flashing slides on a pair of screens provided enough light for him to find a seat in the back.

  He looked around, popping his Coke open as quietly as possible. To his great satisfaction, the auditorium had almost no empty seats, and a few stragglers like himself were rapidly filling those.

  A noontime series of speakers had been one of Kent’s more successful brainstorms. His hope was to promote the CVC’s academic image. Pure science. Pure knowledge and education. Beverly had dubbed them “The Lectures Over Lunch Series” when she sent the first memo announcing them, and it had stuck. Once a week, a member of the staff presented a current topic while any interested CVC employee munched in darkness.

  The staff had stepped up far beyond his expectations. In fact, the lectures had become matters of great pride within each division and sources of friendly competition between them. Brief talks soon evolved into multimedia noontime extravaganzas.

  Marvin Tice paced lively along the stage. He spoke enthusiastically, raising and lowering his voice. He flipped slides and used a laser pointer to cast its red dot on matters of interest. The audience was enthralled.

  Kent watched silhouettes of a hundred heads shift, first left, then right, then back again, all in unison following Tice’s laser dot. He thought of the game Barry played with the kittens and the flashlight.

  Initially the slides were mostly charts and graphs as Tice gave an overview of his experiments and results. But, as he proceeded, his slides showed more graphic images of animal subjects in tight restraints, some with open wounds where internal probes penetrated their skulls. There were unsettling pictures of anguished animal faces as subjects received noxious stimuli. At the same time, Tice became more frenetic, his tone more pitched.

  In what appeared to be a grand finale, Tice terminated the slides, opting instead for a video. It’s content was even more discomforting as real-life screams and struggles from birds, monkeys, and rats screeched through the auditorium’s speakers. Images of wires, and fear, and pain filled the screen.

  Whispers of disgust filtered through the audience.

  Kent stared at Tice in disbelief. The man seemed oblivious to the discomfort he caused in his experiment subjects or his audience. He no longer waved his laser wand, and his voice had descended into a hypnotic monotone. He stood at the podium, his eyes fixed on the images. They reflected light from the screen like an animal captured in headlights.

  As the video finished, the house lights began to rise.

  “I sense your uneasiness with our techniques,” Tice chided the audience after his barrage. “Do I dare call it revulsion?”

  He braced both hands on the podium and scanned his audience with a condescending smirk. Kent swore Tice stared directly at him before moving to fix on someone else toward the front whom Kent could not make out.

  “The world is awash in bleeding hearts, and science is the ship they scuttle,” Tice said, like a preacher haranguing his congregation. “How is science to progress if we cave to the ignorant politicians and left-wing special interest groups?” His eyes became slits and again moved from Kent to the person in front. “You folks are how,” he said. “You’ve got to stand up against those who would rather see mankind perish than see a few animals exploited. The CVC has a rare opportunity to be at the forefront, to be the flag bearer of all researchers.” He let his words echo through the room. Then in a sad whisper he said, “My own experiments, these projects I have shown you today, are a perfect example.” He stared down at his target in front. “They could have progressed faster, benefited mankind sooner, if it were not for…” He spit the words like a cobra… “government over-regulation.” He paused again, listening to the buzz of the crowd. Finally, in a deflated voice, he said, “Thank you all for coming.”

  Without asking for questions from the audience, he exited the stage through a side door.

  The familiar fist clinched Kent’s intestine, and he was glad he had not eaten the egg salad sandwich he still held in his hand. He stood quickly, trying to catch a glimpse of the person in the front whom Tice had attacked from the podium. He took a few steps down the aisle and stood on his tip-toes just as the person turned toward him. The fist in his gut reached up and punched the air out of his lungs. It was Loren Summer.

  Her face held a dumbfounded expression that perfectly described the way he felt.

  He worked his way down to her. “Loren, Dr. Tice definitely overstepped his bounds. I apologize.”

  “It seemed like he was talking directly to me?”

  “I felt the same way.”

  Loren stared at the empty stage. “Let’s get out of here. I need a cigarette.”

  As Kent took the first step to follow, he felt the rattle of his pager. He fished it from among keys and coins in his pocket and read it. Call Phyllis Muelick. Urgent.

  He gave Loren an exaggerated bedraggled look. “Duty calls.”

  She shrugged disappointed. “Catch you later,” she said and left the auditorium.

  As soon as Kent was back in his office, he was on the phone to Dr. Muelick.

  “Kent, I have some information about the bombings.” Muelick said. Her voice was tight, her German accent more pronounced. “It has to do with…”

  Kent broke her off. “Hold on a second, Phyllis. Don’t say anything more.” He glanced at the police technician still parked on his couch. “I’m not sure about this phone. You know what I mean?”

  Phyllis didn’t answer.

  “I’d rather talk to you face to face. Are you in your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  The tech looked up from his magazine in response to Kent’s remark.

  Kent headed for the door.

  “
Something going on?” the tech asked.

  “I don’t know yet. One of our division leaders says she has some info on the bomber.” He reached for the knob just as the door burst open, barely missing his face. Beverly collided into his chest.

  “Beverly, slow down,” he said, before he saw her face was white, her pupils like black caverns.

  She pointed a shaky finger at the phone and ignored Kent’s admonishment. “He’s on the line. The scrambled voice.”

  “The bomber?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The police technician was already moving toward his headphones.

  Dr. Muelick would have to wait.

  CHAPTER 25

  Kent sank into his chair and stared at the tiny square that blinked next to line 2 on his telephone. He drew a deep breath, released it slowly, and rolled his head around on his neck the way a boxer loosens his muscles before the next round. He picked up the receiver, put it to his ear, and listened.

  Nothing.

  “Kent Stephenson,” he said.

  “I said no cops and there’s one camped out in your office.” The scrambler allowed the speaker to fire words quickly but neutralized any inflections. The effect was to make the bomber’s heated outburst sound like Donald Duck.

  The corners of Kent’s lips rose in a faint smile. “So what you gonna do about it?”

  The technician frowned at Kent.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do!” the words came back in garbled staccato.

  “Take it easy,” Kent said, in a syrupy tone. “You’re poppin’ off so loud your little machine can’t handle it.”

  “Don’t fuck with me!”

  “That’s better. Thanks. Now what were you about to say?” Kent winked at the technician, who rolled his eyes.

  “I want a premium for the wild goose chase you sent me on the other day. Let’s say a hundred grand. Then there’s the hundred you still owe me, and this week’s installment of a hundred. That’s three hundred grand. And I want it in hundred dollar bills, of course.”

  “Of course. Shall I drop it by your house?”

  “Listen, asshole.”

  “Sorry,” Kent said in a tone that was not the least contrite.

  “Put it in a clear plastic bag. Seal it with tape. Put it in a duffle bag and…”

  “Doesn’t have to be a Jefferson High bag, does it?”

  The bomber didn’t answer immediately. Finally he said, “Am I going to have to blast something else before you take me seriously?”

  “Nah. Don’t do that.”

  “Take the duffle bag to the pay phone in front of the drugstore. Wait for me to call. No cops.”

  “Right. No cops.” Kent let his voice sound bored. “Is that it?”

  “You’ve got thirty minutes to be at the phone.”

  The line went dead.

  Kent looked hopefully at the technician, who bit his lip and shook his head.

  Without replacing the receiver, Kent dialed his brother. They agreed to meet at the bank.

  “So they’ve upped the ante,” Fritz Luddington quipped as he counted bundles of hundred dollar bills into a clear plastic bag. It was impossible to keep anything secret in Jefferson, and by now Fritz was fully aware of his unwitting participation in the last failed ransom attempt. “Pretty smart, whoever it is. Clear bag will make it easy to see a transmitter or a dye bomb.”

  Merrill and Kent stood at the door of the vault. Kent had his shirt off, and Merrill was adjusting the straps on a Kevlar vest Kent had agreed to wear.

  “Remember what I said at the historical society meeting?” Merrill asked.

  “About paying off blackmailers?”

  “Exactly. It’s against police policy. It’s bad judgment. It doesn’t work. And you backed me up! I’m telling you, Kent, you are making a mistake. It could cost you three hundred grand—or worse.”

  “I just agreed with you to stop all the arguing. And I don’t care about losing the money. It’s worth it if we catch these bastards.”

  “It’s not worth it if you get killed.”

  “I’ll be careful.” He patted the vest.

  “It doesn’t protect your head,” Merrill said and attached a tiny radio pack to the vest. He threaded a wire and thimble-size microphone up to Kent’s ear. “Try it.”

  “How?”

  “Just talk like usual.”

  “Hello. Anybody there? One, two, three.” Kent said.

  “Coming in loud and clear, Dr. Stephenson,” a tiny voice spoke into his ear.

  Merrill raised his eyebrows.

  “‘Loud and clear,’ they said.”

  “Good. If they can hear you from this vault, they can hear you anywhere.”

  Kent worked his shirt over the new gear. Fritz handed him the bag which he secured with duct tape. “Your three hundred thousand dollar withdrawal, sir,” he said, feigning a polite smile.

  Kent stuffed it in an ordinary-looking black nylon duffle bag and drew it shut. “I guess I’m ready.”

  Five minutes later he was waiting by the phone in front of the drugstore. He studied the rooftops nearby. There were a hundred places for a sniper to hide. He remembered what Merrill had said about it not being worth it if he got killed and that the bulletproof vest didn’t protect his head. He pushed tight against the pole that held the pay phone and made himself as small as possible. An infinitely long minute later the phone rang.

  Kent picked it up. “Stephenson courier service.”

  The familiar grinding mechanical voice said, “Funny. Walk east. Use the sidewalk on the south side of the street. When you get to the middle of the bridge, read the message. No cops.” The line went dead.

  “You hear any of that, Merrill?”

  “No.”

  “I’m supposed to walk east. There’ll be some kind of a message on the bridge.”

  “Sounds like he’s going to walk you around for a while,” came the chief’s voice through the tiny microphone. “Keep your eyes open. Be careful. He’s probably watching you as we speak.”

  Kent looked around nervously. “Where are you?”

  “We’ve got eyes on you. Pay attention to what you’re doing.”

  Kent headed east on the south sidewalk. It was only three blocks to the bridge. Normally on a sunny day like today, it would be a pleasant walk. But now he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. Every movement his eyes detected, every stranger he encountered signaled danger. He forced himself to keep an even pace with other pedestrians, trying to look less conspicuous, but he felt as though he stood out like there was a beacon on his head.

  “High on adrenalin,” he scolded himself.

  “What did you say?” Merrill’s voice spoke in his ear.

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Chittenango River was the outlet for Heron Lake and coursed through Jefferson on its way north. George Washington could have chucked a silver dollar across it without half trying. Probably a ten-year-old girl could, too. The bridge over it was cement, built in the forties. The road bed was about eight feet above the water and just wide enough to accommodate a lane of traffic both ways and two sidewalks. On the village side the nearest buildings were a hardware and a convenience store. On the far side there was a small shopping plaza, a gas station, and dry cleaners.

  Kent stepped onto the bridge, half expecting his weight to trigger some sort of explosion or collapse. Nothing happened. He started across, looking for the message the bomber had promised. He was halfway across when his eye caught a patch of white on top of the concrete side rail. He looked closer and felt a sudden chill as he recognized the childish off-handwriting of the bomber. A message scrawled on the concrete with white chalk read: Drop the plastic bag over the side. Take the duffl
e bag and walk back toward town.

  Kent spoke into the microphone. “I’m supposed to drop the money off the bridge.”

  Merrill’s reply shot back. “Then do it!”

  CHAPTER 26

  Kent leaned over the railing of the Chittenango River bridge. He squinted into the mustiness under the road deck and saw nothing but lazy green water carrying leaves and foam into the darkness.

  “Drop the damn bag, Kent!” Merrill ordered, obviously observing his brother from a hidden location.

  “He’s got to be under the bridge!” Kent said. He stood straight and scanned for Merrill. “We’ve got him trapped.”

  “Kent!” Merrill’s voice came through so loud that it hurt Kent’s ear. “Drop the damn bag over the edge and get the hell off the bridge.”

  Kent glanced over at the water one more time, then pulled the plastic bag out of the duffle and dropped it over. It made a light splash then settled on the surface like a gigantic Portuguese man o’ war. Kent watched the current carry it under the bridge. “You’ve got the money, but we’ve got you, you sonofabitch,” he said and headed back toward the village at a dead run.

  As he stepped off the bridge, he heard tires squealing and engines roaring. Out of nowhere two police cars raced up to the bridge and skidded to a stop, forming a road block. He saw two more perform the same maneuver on the other end. Merrill jumped out of the car nearest him.

  “He’s got to be under there!” Kent yelled, pointing at the bridge.

  “Stay put!” Merrill said. Then, using hand signals, he instructed heavily armed officers at each end to move down the bank, blocking escape from either end.

  Just to be sure, Kent moved to where he could watch that the bag did not float out from under the bridge on the downstream side.

  Nothing. Perfect!