by Jude Hardin
“Ah!” the man shouted, sounding more like a whiney kid than a lumberjack now. “Okay, okay. I give. Let go.”
Mike could have crushed every bone in the man’s hand if he’d wanted to. He was taking it easy on the guy.
“Are we cool now?” Mike said.
“Yeah, we’re cool. Just let go of me. Please!”
Mike let go. The man backed away, started shaking some circulation back into his bruised hand.
“It might be sore for a day or two,” Mike said. “But I’m pretty sure I didn’t break anything.”
The big man shook his head. “I didn’t want to work today anyway,” he said, massaging his hand and cursing under his breath as he moped back toward the gate.
The other men in line started laughing and applauding.
“I never seen anything like that in my life,” Wade said. “You some kind of kung fu master or something?”
“I can take care of myself,” Mike said.
“I’ll say! Remind me to—”
Before Wade finished what he was going to say, the porch light came on and Sidney opened the front door.
“I need two guys on this first job,” he said.
Mike and Wade climbed the steps and walked inside.
8
Blake used a prepaid cell phone to call Oliver Fennel. It was early, and he knew Fennel would probably still be in bed, but he didn’t care. He wanted to catch him before he went to the office, before he got busy with other matters.
“Fennel.”
“Good morning, Oliver.”
“Who is this?”
“Blake Howitzer.”
“Do you know what time it is?” Fennel said, whispering hoarsely.
“I have some questions for you.”
“I can’t talk right now. You’ll have to—”
“Did I wake you up?” Blake said. “Is your wife lying there beside you? Is that the problem? Rise and shine, baby. Get up and go to the kitchen or something. This won’t take long.”
“Look, Howitzer, you’re not the—”
“I shot a woman for you last night. You want to hear about that or not?”
There was a brief pause, and then Fennel said, “Hang on.”
Blake heard some rustling and some shuffling, and then he heard the distinct sound of urine tinkling into a toilet.
“Don’t forget to flush, Ollie.”
“I thought I told you never to call me at home.”
“You still in the bathroom? Reach over and turn the shower on. Cold water will be fine. You don’t want it to get too steamy in there. The sound of the water running will keep anyone from hearing your conversation, even if the room’s bugged.”
Fennel huffed irritably, but a few seconds later Blake heard the steady hum of the shower spray hitting the vacant stall.
“There,” Fennel said. “You happy now?”
“As a clam.”
“All right, so what is it? What was so important that you had to call me at home at six o’clock in the morning?”
“Who’s Oberwand?” Blake said.
“Who?”
“I found the doctor who dug the bullet out of your man’s arm. She drugged him before the procedure, and he said some things while he was under. Something about a man named Oberwand. The doctor got the impression that this Oberwand guy might have had something to do with the assault.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone named Oberwand,” Fennel said. “Are you sure that was the name?”
“Pretty sure. I would go back and ask the doctor again, but unfortunately she’s not up to answering any more questions right now.”
“You killed her?”
“You know me, Ollie. I don’t like to leave any loose ends. So you’re telling me you’ve never heard of Oberwand?”
“Never.”
“All right. Well, now you have. Apparently you’re not the only one interested in capturing this Mike person you hired me to find. You have some competition.”
“I knew that already, but this is the first time we’ve had any sort of lead on who it is. I’ll look into it. What else do you have?”
“Something about a game of hide-and-seek with someone named Becky.”
“Interesting,” Fennel said. “That’s his sister’s name. Some of his former memories must be seeping through. That wasn’t supposed to happen. There’s a firewall between the interface and his subconscious, but apparently the barrier has been breached.”
“He said all this stuff while he was sedated. So maybe the drug she gave him had something to do with it.”
“Maybe. Did the doctor mention anything else?”
“He missed a dentist appointment,” Blake said. “He was supposed to have a tooth filled.”
“That could be significant. If his tooth starts hurting, he’ll look for someone to fix it, someone who works under the radar, like the doctor he went to. If there’s anyone like that in the area, try to—”
“I’m way ahead of you, Ollie. I already have a couple of names, and I’m planning on paying them a visit later today.”
“Good. Keep me posted.”
“I will.”
Fennel started to say something else about calling him at home, but Blake hung up before he could finish.
9
As far as Mike could tell, Brighton Fence Company was a one-man operation. The owner, who insisted on being called Mr. Brighton, was in his mid-forties and looked as though he might have been through a war or two. He wore an eye patch, and he walked with a limp, and there was a nasty scar on the left side of his face that ran from the corner of his mouth to the bottom of his chin. He drove Mike and Wade to the job site, a one-story house in a new subdivision. He handed them each a pair of post hole diggers, said he would pick them up for lunch in four or five hours.
“We might need the rock breaker and the root bar,” Wade said.
“Take whatever you need,” Mr. Brighton said.
Wade grabbed the additional tools from the back of the truck, gave Mike the one with the flattened blade on one end.
The truck drove away.
Wade had been on the site yesterday, so he knew where to go and what to do. He led Mike to the back of the house, showed him the fence line and the spray-painted marks where they were supposed to dig.
“These red ones are for the line posts,” Wade said. “Two feet deep on those. The yellow ones are the terminals, and they have to be deeper. About three feet. We can work side-by-side if you want to, and then take turns on the yellow ones. That’s what me and the guy I was with yesterday did.”
“Don’t they make motorized augers that do this kind of thing?” Mike said.
“Yeah, but Mr. Brighton’s is in the shop right now. I don’t know how much it costs to rent one, but I guess it’s cheaper for him to hire an extra guy from the labor pool. Be happy. This is about the easiest job you’re ever going to get from Sidney.”
Mike set his backpack on the patio, unzipped it and let Slick climb out. The cat stretched and yawned and then padded around curiously while Mike and Wade started digging post holes.
Mike probably could have finished the job by himself in less than three hours, but instead of going full steam ahead, he used Wade to gauge his pace. He didn’t want to call any more attention to himself than necessary, for one thing. The incident back at Sidney’s was bad enough. The men who’d been waiting in line would be talking about that all day now, and the giant with the sore hand would be talking about it for the rest of his life. Mike had people looking for him, and he didn’t need any publicity. He needed to keep a low profile. He needed to be a regular guy.
Plus, he was being paid by the hour, and moving at a slower pace would earn him more money.
After digging two holes each, Wade stopped and lit a cigarette.
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “No point in rushing it.”
“All right.”
“You want a cigarette?”
“No thanks,” Mike said. “What I cou
ld use is a pair of work gloves.”
The wooden handles on the post hole diggers were rubbing blisters on Mike’s hands.
“You could use a pair of work boots, too,” Wade said, looking down at Mike’s sneakers. “Those won’t last long out here on the fence line.”
“Yeah.”
The New Balance cross trainers were holding up well, considering the mileage Mike had put on them over the past few days, but he knew Wade was right. He needed boots.
“I should have grabbed some gloves off the truck,” Wade said. “Didn’t even think about it. You build up calluses after a while.”
He showed Mike his right hand. His palm was toughened with thick brown patches from heavy manual labor, and his first two fingers were yellowed from heavy tobacco use.
Mike looked at his own hands, which were pink and soft and missing a layer of skin in several spots.
“I guess it’s pretty obvious I haven’t done any hard work in a while,” he said.
“You’ll get used to it. Where you from?”
“Memphis,” Mike said, just to be saying something. He really had no idea where he’d come from.
“I lived over there for two years,” Wade said. “It’s all right. Tell you the truth, you don’t sound like you’re from anywhere around here, though.”
“I made an effort to get rid of the accent,” Mike said. “I was thinking about a career in broadcasting at one time.”
Wade nodded. “Yeah, we were all thinking about a career in something at one time. You ready to dig another hole?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
They continued down the line, taking breaks every few holes, getting drinks of water from the spigot on the side of the house. It was November 1, but it was sunny and unseasonably warm. By noon, the temperature had risen to 64 degrees Fahrenheit. Mike knew this from the MK-2’s on-demand holographic readout in the upper left corner of his visual field. He even knew the barometric pressure and the wind speed and the relative humidity. Along with everything else it did, the MK-2 was great at updating the current weather conditions.
“There’s the truck,” Wade said, gesturing toward the driveway. “Let’s go eat.”
“I’ll wait here,” Mike said.
“Look, I know you don’t have any money. Mr. Brighton bought us lunch yesterday, and I’m assuming that’s a regular thing. If not, I’ll loan you a few bucks.”
“All right,” Mike said.
They ate at a place called Brown’s Diner. Mr. Brighton must have had some kind of deal with the owner. He ordered three blue plate specials and three iced teas. Mike and Wade were never offered a choice. If they wanted to eat, it was going to be the blue plate special. Today it was meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas. And a biscuit. It was good food, and Mike was happy to get it.
Someone had left a newspaper on the seat next to Mike’s. He picked it up and skimmed through it while he ate. It would have been a rude thing to do in most circumstances, but Wade and Mr. Brighton didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation anyway. Mr. Brighton never said much of anything, and Wade seemed to be the type that clammed up when the boss was around.
So Mike sat there and read the paper.
On the front page of the Metro section, there was an article about a woman named Aashi Manda. Originally from India, she’d apparently been practicing medicine illegally in the United States for several years. Someone had murdered her at her place of business, a decaying building that had formerly been a pharmacy.
Thornton’s Drugs.
Mike dropped his fork on the floor. A wave of nausea washed over him. It was her. It was the doctor who’d extracted the bullet from his arm.
“You all right?” Wade said.
“Yeah. Sorry. Is there a restroom in here?”
Mr. Brighton pointed toward the front counter. “Up there,” he said.
“I’ll be right back.”
Mike walked past the cash register and into an alcove, veered to the left and pulled open the men’s room door. He almost collided with the guy coming out. He locked himself in the stall, stood there and fought the acid rising in his throat. He wasn’t accustomed to so much food being in his stomach, and the news about the doctor nearly took him over the edge.
He knew it wasn’t exactly his fault that the doctor had been killed, but he still felt somewhat responsible. If he’d never gone to her, she would still be alive. Three days after he was treated, someone waltzed in there and blew her brains out. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Someone was on Mike’s trail. Someone associated with Oberwand, or someone associated with the CIA.
If it was Oberwand, Mike would welcome the engagement.
Oberwand had abducted Nika. Mike knew that from the phone conversation he’d had with him. It was the only way Oberwand could have known to call the Shell station at seven o’clock last Friday evening.
“Where is she?”
“Charming young lady. But I’m afraid she’s not really relevant to your situation anymore. Kind of a shame. The two of you would have made a cute couple.”
Maybe Oberwand had killed her already, but maybe he hadn’t. Mike needed to find out. Either way, Oberwand was a dead man if Mike ever had the pleasure of meeting him face to face.
The CIA was a different story. They were too powerful, too much for Mike to deal with. Plus, they were a United States government agency. They were the good guys, even though someone in the upper echelon seemed determined to see that Mike was destroyed.
So it was a catch-22. Mike wanted to be found by Oberwand, but he didn’t want to be found by the CIA. He needed to stay hidden, yet it was imperative for him to be found. He could only hope that the guy tracking him was good, and that he’d been hired by Oberwand rather than the CIA.
He unlatched the door to the stall, walked to the sink and splashed his face with water. He dried himself off and went back out to the dining area, but the table had already been cleared.
“They’re waiting for you in the truck, sweetie,” the waitress said.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Mike grabbed a couple of peppermints at the counter, and then walked outside and climbed into the cab of the pickup. Mr. Brighton drove him and Wade back to the jobsite.
10
Mike earned one hundred dollars for digging holes all day. Ten dollars an hour. Mr. Brighton paid him and Wade in cash when he dropped them back at Sidney’s at six o’clock.
It was dark already, and Sidney was gone. He’d probably left the premises and locked the gate hours ago.
“My girlfriend’s picking me up in front of the shopping center,” Wade said, clicking off his cell phone. “You need a ride somewhere?”
“No thanks,” Mike said.
“You staying somewhere close by?”
“Yeah. Real close.”
“All right. Well, I guess I’ll see you in the morning then.”
“Bright and early,” Mike said.
They walked together to the front of the strip mall, and then they parted ways. Wade stood there and waited for his ride, and Mike crossed the street and walked two blocks east to a supermarket he’d seen on the ride back. He bought some cat food and two frozen dinners and some replacements for what he’d eaten at the trailer yesterday. Sidney probably never would have noticed, but Mike felt compelled to make it right. He wasn’t a thief.
He walked back to the lot and jumped the fence again and picked the lock on the front door again with his paperclip, which was still under the doormat. He made dinner for Slick and himself, took a long hot shower, and then headed back out. There was a place called Joe’s Tavern not far from the grocery where he’d bought the food, a little hole in the wall with a dozen or so pickup trucks in the parking lot.
He figured it might be a good place to strike up a conversation.
All the barstools were taken, so Mike sat at a table against the wall. A lady in her mid-to-late fifties walked over and asked him what he wanted to drink. The man behind the bar looked to be
about the same age as the cocktail waitress. Joe and his wife, Mike thought. Mom and pop.
Mike ordered a shot of whiskey, thinking it might help his toothache. He told the lady to start a tab for him. She brought the drink and he sipped on it and stared up at the television behind the bar. There was a game show on called Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Mike knew the answers to all the questions. He didn’t even have to think about it. He just knew. Maybe if he could alter his appearance enough, he could go on one of those shows and win a bunch of money. It sure would beat digging holes for a living, he thought.
His palms and the insides of his fingers were raw, blistered from gripping the wooden handles all day, and he was starting to feel some soreness in his neck and shoulders. He was in excellent physical condition, slim and strong and toned, but the workout you get from hard physical labor is different than the workout you get in a gymnasium. With the MK-2’s ability to override mental barriers, Mike could run faster and jump higher than anyone on the planet, yet keeping up with Wade for ten hours, matching him stroke for stroke, had worn Mike out. He felt ragged. Drained. His shoulders were knotted, and his hands burned as though they’d been dipped in acid. Going back out and doing it all again tomorrow seemed doubtful. He needed a day or two to recuperate.
“You want another one?”
Joe’s wife again. She wore jeans and a black t-shirt from the Hard Rock Café in Orlando, Florida. Her hair showed gray at the roots, and her red lipstick was a shade too bright for Mike’s taste, but all-in-all she was an attractive woman, even though she was old enough to be Mike’s mother.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Paula. But don’t get any ideas, young man. I’m happily married.”
She winked and smiled.
Mike laughed. “That’s your husband tending bar, right?”
“Twenty-seven years. Old Joe’s a pretty good guy, I guess.”
“Twenty-seven years is a long time,” Mike said. “The two of you must be very happy together.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll keep him. You want another shot?”
“Sure.”
“Be right back.”
Paula walked back toward the bar. She was old enough to be Mike’s mother, and for all he knew she was his mother. Of course if that was the case, if Mike had somehow stumbled upon that particular needle in this particular haystack, she would have recognized him, even with the shaved head. At least he hoped she would have.