by Dima Zales
Even in my confused state, I know that list isn’t complete. With pride, I recall that I also got punched in the face and didn’t cry afterwards or anything.
“He looks like aged steak,” the female voice says, and through the haze, I feel like her name is on the tip of my tongue, along with the iron taste of blood and medicine. Something tells me this woman doesn’t eat meat and wouldn’t compare me to steak, or any other non-vegan dish, as a compliment.
“The police officers want to ask him a few questions,” the male voice says. “Maybe you can shed some light on this situation for them instead? I don’t think he should be disturbed.”
“I already spent a few hours talking to them in circles,” the woman replies, and I’m finally clearheaded enough to connect the dots and name her as Ada. “I just wish the cops would focus on looking for Nina and the rest of our test subjects instead of hounding us. The last thing Mike needs is an interrogation.”
I will my eyes to open, and they grudgingly oblige, though I immediately close them again when the bright hospital light pounds the rods (or is it cones?) in my eyes like a sledgehammer. Trying again, I manage to keep my eyelids open long enough to glimpse a disheveled Ada standing next to some guy in a white coat—the sight of which instantly triggers my dentist/doctor phobia.
During my next eye-opening attempt, I take in my surroundings. The sterile whiteness reminds me of my recent nightmare. I try to focus my thoughts but find it much harder than controlling my eyes.
My throat feels like sandpaper, but I still try asking, “Where am I?”
This is when I realize a mask is covering my face and muffling my words.
“I think he’s awake!”
Ada’s exclamation is too loud for my hurting brain to deal with, so I mutter, “Too loud.”
“He tried saying something again. You should take off that oxygen mask,” Ada tells the doctor.
The doctor studies me skeptically.
Ada steps closer to me and softly says, “Mike, Mishen’ka, how are you feeling?”
That assault on my ears must’ve made my mind fuzzier, because I don’t believe the gentle way Ada is touching my hand is normal, and I’ve never heard an American properly use the diminutive Russian form of my name before.
The white-coat man finally feels the need to remove the obstruction from my face.
I try speaking again, almost instinctively. “Where’s Mom?”
Once the question leaves my lips, I realize that’s the reason I’m fighting the drugs or whatever it is that’s making me want to nap.
“The police and FBI are looking for her,” Ada says, and I note that her tone is indeed uncharacteristically soothing. “They’ve been grilling me and the other Techno employees about everything. They’ve also collected information on every study participant and even asked about the research.”
A wave of disappointment crashes against the sudden tsunami of nausea. My breathing speeds up, and I overhear Ada say, “I think he’s in pain. Give him something. Please.”
The doctor must agree with her, because he does something and a new wave of pleasurable warmth arrives.
Ada leans in and strokes my hair.
“Wait,” I say. “I don’t mind the pain. I want to—”
Before I can finish the sentence, the drug knocks me out.
This time, I wake up remembering everything. I guess it’s an improvement. I lie there trying to master my mind before I let anyone know I’m awake, lest they knock me out with painkillers again.
Somewhere, Ada is having a heated discussion with who I assume are members of law enforcement.
“He might know something critical,” a man says. “His own mother is—”
“I’m awake,” I half moan. “And I want to help in any way I can.”
I pry my eyes open and see Ada’s face as though through a haze. Her forehead is creased in worry, which I find both comforting and surprising.
Next to Ada are two vague shapes that must be the cops, though they aren’t wearing NYPD uniforms.
“Mr. Cohen, if we could ask you a few questions,” says the guy on the left, and I can’t help but think he looks like a German Shepherd.
“This is very important,” adds his partner. This one, perhaps inspired by my foggy brain, reminds me of a root vegetable—something between a beet and a potato.
“Of course,” I say and swallow to clear the needles from my throat. “Ask away.”
So they ask. With the combination of drugs and adrenaline in my system, I feel like a captured spy pumped full of truth serum. Constantly fighting for lucidity, I answer all their questions as accurately and methodically as I can, which in my condition isn’t saying much. Eventually, I ask my own questions and learn the authorities haven’t made any headway in locating Mom and the others. No one stopped the minibus outside the Tunnel. There weren’t any cops there, and the tollbooth clerks were out of their depths after hearing the gunshots.
“We think they changed the plates shortly after passing through the tollbooths,” says the German Shepherd guy.
“But rest assured, we will stop every black Mercedes Metris driving in the New York metropolitan area,” says the beet-potato guy.
They’re interrupted when my old pal, the dread-inspiring white-coat guy, walks in and says, “Gentlemen, you said this would take two minutes.”
Ada puts her hands on her hips and gives my interrogators a look she usually reserves for people who don’t bother getting their code peer-reviewed.
“I’m okay,” I say, but even to my own ears I sound like an anemic anorexic.
The doggie guy gives me an unsympathetic onceover and says, “If we can just have one more moment.”
His veggie partner brings something up on his phone, places it in my hands, and says, “We got these from the hospital security footage.”
To my relief, I can lift the phone to my face, though it feels like it’s filled with osmium, an element denser than lead.
When I see the screen, I forget the strain of holding up the phone and fight for the energy to look through the photos in front of me.
There’s a different person on each of the three images. Two are caught at very odd angles, but it doesn’t matter since I already know I haven’t seen them before. The remaining photo is distinguishable, and the mug on it is very familiar.
It’s the guy who punched me in the face.
“Have you seen any of these men before today?” the second guy asks.
I shake my head but don’t stop looking at the ape-bison asshole.
I guess the beet-potato guy notices me burning holes into the screen with my eyes, because he leans in and looks at the image. “Is that the man who attacked you?” His voice is almost soothing.
“Yes.” My arm stings, and I realize I’ve clenched my fingers around the phone so hard the IV entry into my arm got messed up. “But I don’t think I’ve seen the others, and I’m sure I’ve never seen him before today.” I tear my eyes away from the screen and look up at the man leaning over me. “What about you? Can’t you look them up using facial recognition software?”
“No,” says the canine policeman. “I mean, yes, we tried. Two of the images didn’t capture enough of their faces to allow a lookup; the picture of the man who attacked you did allow for a scan, but he didn’t pop up in any of our databases.”
I shake my head and wince at the agonizing throb in my skull.
I hand the phone back to its owner, and he takes it. He must see the despair on my face, because he looks questioningly at his partner. It’s as though he’s trying to telepathically check if he should say something.
His partner gives him a slight nod. The beet-potato guy clears his throat and says, “The tattoos on the man who shot you are common within certain Russian criminal elements…”
Now that he mentions it, I realize he’s right. I’m no expert, but I’ve seen enough movies featuring the Russian mob—almost all the action flicks nowadays—to notice certain pattern
s when it comes to the ink Hollywood puts on its villains. It’s possible there’s a correlation between the tattoos in those movies and the ones in reality, at least if the studio people did any research. The latter isn’t a given, since everything else related to Russians in American films is far from accurate. The vast majority of the time, the atrociously spoken language doesn’t match the subtitles, and the actors who play the Russian characters don’t look remotely authentic, like the stereotypically Swedish-looking Dolph Lundgren from Rocky 4. And yes, as much as I don’t like terms like Slav, Aryan, Semite, and so on, I believe a movie should look realistic.
In any case, armed with this idea, I see that my attacker could easily be Russian; he has a rounder face with a brick-like jaw similar to my elementary school janitor. I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it earlier, but I guess my Rudar isn’t impact resistant.
The German Shepherd guy takes me out of my musings by saying, “You mentioned your uncle was there at the hospital, but you never mentioned your cousin.”
Finally understanding why they’ve been tiptoeing around this Russian-crime connection, I say, “Joe wasn’t there at all. Do you actually think he could have any connection to this? You think he would kidnap his own aunt?”
“Or someone who wants to get to him might’ve taken her,” the vegetable guy mumbles defensively. “We need to think of every possibility. Your cousin is—”
“Thank you for your time,” his partner interrupts. “Here.” He hands Ada a business card. “If either of you recalls anything of note, please give us a call. We have your information, and we’ll stay in touch.”
“Wait,” I shout at them, but they’re too far away to hear me. To Ada, I say, “Why would Joe’s enemies, if that’s whom they suspect, take a dozen strangers and Mom?”
Ada shrugs. “Your cousin did call your uncle when we were having lunch…”
“What are you saying? That my uncle is part of this?” I stare at her. “That’s crazy. My uncle adores his sister. In fact, that reminds me. He needs to know what happened.”
“I believe they already talked to him,” Ada says. “They spoke to everyone who was at the hospital and the families of every participant. I guess they’re still trying to reach your cousin.”
“Look, Ada, about my cousin…” I pause, searching for the right words, then end weakly with, “He’s a complicated person.”
Okay, so maybe that’s the understatement of the century. The labels people use when referring to my cousin are psychopath and sociopath. Though I hate those psychological terms, in this case, it’s quicker than saying, “He who flouts the law while being prone to aggression, and who shows little remorse over any of the atrocities he’s committed.”
Gathering my thoughts, I start over. “Okay, he’s not a nice person—maybe even a horrible person—but I believe he has a code, or something that passes for ethics, and in his own way, he has deep respect for my mom, who helped him—”
“I didn’t mean to imply anything,” Ada says. “I’m sorry.”
I nod, accepting her apology, and wonder if I’m giving Joe too much credit. Past events replay in my mind. The time I found him beating a bird with a rock when we were kids. The time in Sheepshead Bay High when he put that big kid in the hospital with five broken ribs for using the funny Russian nickname of Josya instead of Joseph or Joe. Then again, I also recall Joe’s face at the hospital after Mom’s accident. He looked like he might strangle one of the nurses. At the time, I took that to mean he didn’t like his aunt being in that situation.
“I think your conversation is too stressful for Mr. Cohen,” the white coat suggests to Ada, and I remember he’s still here.
I shift in the bed and grimace, unable to fight the rush of pain made worse by my dread for Mom.
“Do you want me to give you something for the pain?” the white-coat guy offers.
I look at him and finally get around to reading his nametag. His name is Dr. Katz.
“No more painkillers,” I say. “I want to clear my mind so I can focus on the kidnapping.”
The doctor looks momentarily surprised. I guess he thought I was too wimpy to refuse painkillers. In the next moment, however, he returns to that professional detachment they teach in medical school. “You’ll have difficulty breathing without medication. Your ribs are—”
“I’m actually feeling much better,” I lie. “When and if I’m in pain later today, I’ll take something.”
To create the illusion of vigor, I try to sit up, hoping it’ll also help with my sudden bout of lightheadedness.
I have to almost literally bite my tongue to keep from screaming in pain. When my head stops spinning, I glance guiltily at the doctor. He either didn’t notice or doesn’t care—no doubt another thing they teach in medical school.
Ada grabs the remote control for my bed and helps me get into a half-sitting position. When I’m more upright, I’m surprised that I don’t projectile vomit, shout obscenities, or lose bowel control. The performance must be convincing enough, because Dr. Katz looks mollified.
Pushing my advantage, I steady my voice and say, “Thank you, Doctor, for all the help so far. I really don’t like hospitals, and I hope I can get out of here as soon as possible. For now, maybe you could give me a few pills I can take as needed? Perhaps Percocet?”
Dr. Katz considers this. His expression implies he doesn’t approve of his patients deciding what painkillers they should take, but since I must have suggested the right one, he simply says, “Sure. I’ll write the prescription,” and walks away.
As soon as Dr. Katz is out of sight, I let my shoulders stoop slightly, but for Ada’s benefit, I don’t slouch in proportion to the agony I’m feeling. She’s staring at me with the intensity of a jeweler pricing out a diamond, so I say, “I’ll need your help getting out of here as soon as I can walk.”
“What good will that do?” Ada crosses her arms. “Besides make things worse.”
I hold her gaze. “I might come up with a way of locating everyone.”
She looks away for a moment, then touches my IV-less left elbow. “Look, Mike,” she says softly. “I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling, but you have to realize the cops are professionals at this, and you—”
“I care about this more than they do,” I say. I know it’s an illusion, but I feel healing energy spreading through my arm from where Ada’s tiny hand is resting. “More importantly, I can approach this analytically, like an engineer.”
It might be another drug-induced delusion, but as soon as I say those words, an idea forms in my head. It must illuminate my face like the proverbial light bulb, because Ada pulls her hand away and looks at me intently. “What is it?”
“The engineering approach,” I say, stressing every syllable. “I think I know how to find Mom.”
Chapter Ten
I must’ve given Ada a clue, because she looks thoughtful for a moment. “If it’s what I think—”
“Do you know where my phone is?” I pat down my gown-clad body, realizing for the first time that I’m naked under the thin layer of cloth.
Ada grabs my phone from a random pile of objects on the side table and hands it to me.
“Wow,” I say as I examine the sleek device’s flawless surface. “There’s not even a scratch on it.”
“You were overdue some good luck,” Ada says. “Let’s hope it holds.”
“The sense of relief I feel is disproportionate,” I say, the phone shaking along with my hand.
“You could be projecting something onto it,” Ada suggests.
“Maybe. Then again, I did nickname my phone ‘Precious.’ I bet you didn’t know that.”
For the first time since I woke up, mirth twists the corners of Ada’s lips. “I like that,” she says. “Only you do realize that instead of prolonging your lifespan the way Precious did for Gollum, yours just shortens your attention span?”
“It’s a prototype,” I say and unlock Precious. “The first wave of super-
smart phones from SandoMobile, a firm my fund is invested in. These puppies will cost two grand when they come out, and not because they have any gold or diamond bling built into them, like other luxury cellphones. The cost is all due to its fancy hardware, most of which I can’t even leverage because of the lack of proper software.”
“If you want me to write software for this thing, you can forget it.” Ada’s smile touches her eyes. “Brainocyte apps will keep me busy for a couple of years.”
I mumble that it wasn’t what I meant and check the screen. Precious is already on the hospital’s Wi-Fi.
Einstein’s tiny face looks at me from the screen, his cartoon eyes wise and patient.
“Einstein,” I enunciate, “start a video call with Mitya.”
“Done,” the AI responds in his German-accented voice, and Mitya’s company’s video conferencing app launches.
“Let me hold that for you,” Ada offers and leans in so close I can smell her coconut shampoo.
“Thank you.” I hand her the phone, and our fingers touch for a second, generating a spike of oxytocin that goes from my hand straight into my brain.
She sits on the bed next to me and holds the phone as though we’re about to take a selfie.
To my relief and surprise, it only takes twenty seconds for the app to indicate that someone has picked up the call. Considering we’re about to chat with a multibillionaire C-level honcho of multiple corporations, I’d say I just got lucky.
The rest of the world knows Mitya as Dmitriy Levin. Unlike my name, Dmitriy isn’t easy to Americanize, but it does have two short forms—Mitya and Dima. My friend prefers the less commonly used version of the two. As I look at him now, I recall how people thought we were related back at MIT, calling us the M&M brothers. I’d like to pretend it’s because of the same keen intellect in our eyes, but I suspect it’s really because we have the same brown hair, which we still keep equally short, and the fact that we’re both allegedly immigrants from Russia—even though that last part is inaccurate, since Mitya is from a part of the former Soviet Union that’s now Ukraine.