by Cameron Bane
“You’re saying I’m off-base?”
“Completely. I think he’s just lonely.”
That remained to be seen. “Is there a chance I could talk to some of Sarah’s co-workers? They might be able to shed some light on this.”
“More than a chance. How would you like to meet them, right now?”
That surprised me. “They’re here?”
“We’re doing a dress rehearsal this afternoon, with Sarah’s understudy. Right this way.” He pushed up from his desk and headed toward the door.
I fell into step behind him as we left his office and went down the hall, turning left and back into the showroom proper. Once there, I saw the stage was cluttered with a big set showcasing what looked like hell as imagined by Dante. The house lights were up, and about thirty or so people in full gothic costumes stood around, talking in small groups. Only one chair was there, facing the group, and on it sat Reynaldo Parker. In his hand he held a thick bound document I assumed was the script.
Harrison’s voice carried, interrupting their chatter. “People, let me have your attention. This is Mr. Wiltz. He’s trying to get a line on Sarah.” The group instantly quieted down, all eyes on me. “I’m sure any help we can give him will be appreciated.”
I wanted to keep this as casual as possible, so they wouldn’t spook, but I needn’t have worried. The cast was staring at me in shining wonder, as if I was a new form of aquatic life.
“As Mr. Harrison said, my name is Sullivan Wiltz. I’ll be brief.” I repeated the same questions I’d asked before. They shook their heads no to each one.
Taking a new tack, I said, “Okay, then, which one of you is Ted Larch?”
They began muttering, and as one all heads turned to gaze on the poor unfortunate, who was standing at the back and squirming in exquisite discomfort like the accused warlock in a Salem witch trial. All he needed was a red neon arrow over his noggin flashing down on him screaming I’m the guy!
My target was an average-looking dude, with big feet and wide football shoulders. Above a young, blank face his head was topped with a brown crewcut flat enough to carry a plate. If there was any drawback to him, I couldn’t see it. Maybe Sarah was too picky.
I looked at him in what I hoped was a kind way. “Ted, I understand you’d been dating Sarah. Is there any light you could shed on this?”
His mouth worked a moment before the words came. “M-maybe,” he said then. “I’m n-n-not s-sure.”
I was wondering what could have been making him so nervous when a skinny, acne-plastered dude standing near the wings sniggered. “C-calm down, Teddy. Th-they’ll k-keep the electric c-chair h-hot for you.”
Larch’s face glowed crimson.
I purposely kept my tone even. “Okay. You were saying?”
Again there was a pause before he spoke. “I l-like S-Sarah,” Ted mumbled at last. “W-we went out a f-few t-times. Th-that’s all. She d-didn’t care I’m j-just a lighting tech. She hardly ever n-noticed my st-st-stut …” With that his air ran out, and he trailed off miserably.
I glanced over at the crater-faced punk who’d popped off before. He was twisting his mouth around, clearly trying not to laugh at Larch’s handicap.
“How about you, Brad Pitt?” I put some of the intimidating snap I’d used in the service behind my words. “Anything to add?”
“No,” he muttered.
I gave him Scowl Number Five. “How’s that?”
“No.” A bit louder this time.
I shook my head. Twelve weeks of basic training at Uncle Sam’s expense would give this goober a whole new outlook on life. If he made it.
Harrison leaned a degree toward me. “Alan Hess,” he muttered with a nod at the smart guy. “One of the stage hands.”
Parker picked that time to throw in his two cents. “I don’t think any of my kids are going to able to help you with this, Mr. Wiltz.”
My kids? The universe was indeed an uncaring place if Parker started breeding.
Utterly ignoring him, I looked at the rest of them. “Sarah’s dad told me she’s pretty popular around here. Can any of you tell me anything that would help? Anything at all?” I waited patiently as they cleared their throats and shuffled their feet.
I was about to prod them once more when a rabbity-looking redheaded young woman perched on a tall stool at the back of the stage slowly raised her hand.
“Yes,” I smiled encouragingly. “What’s your name?”
“Holly Weiss. I’m Sarah’s understudy.” Her voice was soft. “And I don’t know how important this is …”
“You never know.”
“Well …” She kneaded her hands in her lap. “Oh, I don’t know. We’re good friends. Sarah will kill me if I tell it now …”
“Come on, miss,” I prompted, quickly becoming exasperated. “Time’s a-wasting.”
“One night, a week or so ago,” Holly began, “Sarah told me what she was planning on doing. But she said I had to keep it a secret. Especially from her folks.”
“Which was?”
She remained agonizingly evasive as she ignored my question. “Thing is, now that’s she missing it’s okay to tell, right?” Any answer I’d give would only slow things down, so I said nothing, letting her get it out at her own pace.
Holly blinked back tears, silently begging for understanding as without meaning to I impatiently shifted my weight from foot to foot. “I mean, she could be … Oh, who cares now! Secrets!” Suddenly animated, she spat the words. “What good are they?”
The silence deepened, and I noticed by that time the whole room had gone mute.
Holly shook her head, her face downcast. “All right, Mr. Wiltz. I guess there’s no point …” Her voice sank to a whisper. “Sarah had been going to a free clinic.”
Of course I knew that, so I quietly studied the others for their reactions. They didn’t disappoint. Assorted mutters rose up from the group, even from Handsome Alan.
Holly rushed her words, looking around at everyone. “She told me she was going to be helping people. More people than you could ever believe. And she said that was only the start.”
The start? I’d seen the place, and knew it wasn’t much. The start of what?
Holly twisted her hands in her lap, like she was strangling a chicken. When she spoke again, her words coated my spine with ice. “Sarah said what she was getting ready to do … it would change the world.”
Chapter Ten
Don’t you hate it when you get a snatch of a melody lodged in your head, and the thing just won’t leave? That was happening to me now as I slunk through the back door of the Brighter Day clinic.
The song was, of all things, one from Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance, occurring as the aforementioned pirates were in the process of sneaking up on General Stanley’s castle in the dead of night. They were silently slinking along when suddenly the whole bunch of them burst out at the top of their lungs, “WITH CAT-LIKE TREAD …!” I couldn’t recall right then how the rest of the ditty went, but I know it was howlingly funny.
Well, it wouldn’t do to start laughing now, that was for sure. If the police caught this particular cat, I’d have a lot of time in the clink to ponder just how the rest of the song went.
I’d arrived about ten minutes earlier, right about midnight, after first parking my car a few doors down at a closed BP gas station. I’d then made my way along a trash-covered rear alley, finally coming up on the clinic’s back door. Nearby I wasn’t surprised to see a sodium vapor security light mounted high up on a wooden pole, flooding the area in stark relief. Seeing that light, I was glad I’d come prepared. Above everything else, there’s one main tenet when you set out to burgle: plan ahead. To that end I’d dressed for the part before I left home, donning my night camo—mottled gray fatigues, gloves, boots, and face paint (most people have the idea all-black is better, but that’s not true).
Reaching into my dark gray field pack I pulled out my Crosman air pistol, which I’d loa
ded earlier with pointed steel pellets. Cocking it, I drew a bead on the globe at the top of the pole. As a kid back home I could knock the eye out of a squirrel at twenty yards, so extinguishing that light with one shot was easy work. The only thing I hadn’t counted on was how loud the breaking glass was as it fell. I crouched down after the shot, waiting.
Sixty seconds sauntered by while I counted each of them, one by one. Gratefully I realized the sound must have gone undetected, so I stood and started moving, and in three quick steps I was at the door, where I did a quick visual check for wires; so far so good.
Taking another glance around, from my bag I pulled out an instrument that’s saved me more than once, a device that not only detects wireless alarms, but sends out a cross-oscillating pulse wave that cancels them out. I did a slow scan across the door and frame with it, closely watching the screen. No spikes, no dips. Nothing.
Putting it back in the satchel, I then drew out a black and yellow lock-release gun. It’s quick to use, but not exactly quiet, so I needed to get this done and inside in a hurry.
I placed the front of the gun tight against the lock and pulled the trigger, attempting to stifle the noise with my own body. There was a short, muffled ratchet sound, and then a click. Three more times, and the last tumbler released. Slowly I twisted the knob, my body as tense as stretched elastic. At the first electronic whoop I’d be off like a scalded ape. But silence still reigned. Easing the door open, I stepped through.
The room looked different in the dark, as most do. The moving rectangles of yellow light on Manfred’s floor caused by the passing cars outside gave the place a surreal feel, like a funhouse at a deserted carnival.
Stopping again, I sniffed. That same funky odor that had made me sneeze earlier in the day was still here, albeit not as strong. Maybe I was right, and it was Manfred himself that had been the source of it; could be his pheromones were as sour as the rest of the man. Whatever, there were still enough particles in the air to make my nose tingle and twitch.
Closing the door I passed the desk, halting at the filing cabinets behind it. I turned to the first one and gave it an experimental tug, fully expecting it to be securely locked. To my surprise it slid out smoothly. Too smoothly. Either the man had an overweening trust in his door locks, or this cabinet didn’t contain anything important. I shone the penlight inside.
Empty.
I did the same with the other three drawers, and after those checked the remaining two cabinets. They were all as hollow as a movie star’s head. Frowning, I slid the last one closed. I really shouldn’t have thought it would be that easy. Had anything on this jaunt gone that way yet?
Drawing out Manfred’s desk chair I sat down and glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes after twelve. I’d really hoped to be done and gone in another five minutes. Really hoped. As I began opening the desk drawers and examining them one by one, I recalled something an old cat burglar had said to me years ago.
One humid night during my rookie year on the CPD, Sergeant VanDerBeek and I had been walking our beat, both of us trying to ignore the itchiness of our serge uniforms, and not having a whole lot of luck. Passing a darkened drycleaner’s, a sudden banging coming from inside caused us both to instantly stop, hands on our weapons. We glanced at each other. Whoever was whanging around in there was either deaf or stupid.
I opened my mouth to yell out the standard “Freeze! Police!” line, but never got the chance. A second later the door flew wide and a rickety, old baldheaded codger backed out, the take from the day’s register held loosely in a pillowcase in his hand.
He fell straight into Sarge’s arms.
Later as my partner and I were booking the burglar back at the precinct house, he looked up at me from the prisoner’s chair where he was chained, and did something surprising. He winked. Sarge was filling out the paperwork and missed it, but I didn’t.
Lifting his manacled hands, the old man crooked one finger, motioning for me to bend down. Shrugging, I did. The codger’s smile was toothless, his sour breath harsh enough to fry my sinuses. “You know what today is, sonny? Today’s my birthday.”
What did he want me to say? Congratulations? Wanting to get above that fetid aroma, I stood. “Well, happy birthday.” I shrugged again. “I guess.”
“Huh. Ya don’t get it, do ya, boy?” He squinted up. “At eleven forty-three this morning I turned eighty-one.”
“Eighty-one. How about that.”
Sarge caught my eye and just grinned, shaking his head.
The old man pressed, “That’s pretty good, ain’t it, to make it this far without croaking?”
My reply was still deadpan. “If you say so, Pop.”
Not missing a beat, he charged ahead. “In all that time I ain’t never been caught, until tonight. And ya know why?”
I figured I’d play along. “No. Why?”
“Speed, boy.” He nodded in ragged dignity. “Years and years ago the guy that taught me the trade said there are only three rules I had to never break. Just three.” Before I could reply, he stated them. “Get in. Get it all. And then get out.” Dropping his hands he leaned back, beaming as if he’d just passed on the wisdom of the ages.
Who knows? Maybe he had.
I pulled open Manfred’s center desk drawer, shining the light inside. At first all I could make out was the usual detritus all of us accumulate: paper clips, rubber bands, broken mechanical pencils, dried bottles of Wite Out. But then I noticed something further back, and maneuvered my fingers beneath it. Drawing it out, I discovered it was an envelope from a local bank.
The stamp cancellation showed last week’s date, and it was already slit open. Reaching in a glove-clad hand, I pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. I shined the penlight on it, and saw it was Manfred’s statement. Now we were getting somewhere. And it was for a personal account, not one belonging to Brighter Day clinic. Even better. Keeping two sets of books, are we? With my right index finger I began following the entries down.
The document seemed straightforward, just deposits from patients, none of the drops larger than a hundred dollars. But then halfway down I found another entry. The amount shown was for three thousand, drawn on something called GeneSys Technologies.
The next few entries were mundane, just more patient fees. And then, exactly two weeks after the first GeneSys deposit, I found another: for another three thousand dollars.
Son of a gun. Reaching back inside the drawer, I felt for more envelopes. Behind some chewed-on Bic pens I found a handful and pulled them out.
They were like the first, all containing statements from the same bank, all going back a year. And every one of them showed biweekly deposits from GeneSys. Each deposit was for the same amount as before, all of it going straight into Manfred’s personal account.
Mentally I calculated the take. Multiply three grand biweekly times twenty-six weeks, and that equaled over seventy thousand dollars a year. Add in his earnings from his practice, and old Doc Manfred was, as we say down South, walking in tall cotton. He was also as stupid as they come. Leaving easily-found personal information like this showed either incredibly sloppy planning, or imperious disdain against it ever being discovered.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out my Blackberry, quickly entering the routing and account numbers from both Manfred’s bank and the one GeneSys had drawn the checks on, taking pictures of the statements as well. I had no idea if they were important, but I’d find out. Bank on it. Heh. Heh.
Putting the envelopes back where I’d found them, I flipped on Manfred’s computer. Waiting as it booted up, I checked my watch again. Going on twelve-twenty. This deal was taking an obscenely long time, but I was in too deep; I just hoped it would be worth it.
A minute later, fate was kind. Right where they should have been on the system Manfred’s patient files came up. Lips dry, I typed in Cahill, Sarah M., and hit enter. A short whirring was heard as the screen went blue. And then, in neat Arial at the top of the page the words Cahill, Sar
ah Michelle, flickered into life, along with her date of birth, address, blood type, and patient number.
And that’s where things fell apart.
Right after the patient number the words Locksmart Systems glowed, and then the biggest mishmash of numbers, symbols, and letters I’d ever seen. The effect was as if Manfred had allowed a chimp to do his data entry. With a sick feeling, I knew exactly what this was.
The doctor had encrypted the girl’s files.
I tried to make things gel in my head. Okay, we have a moderately successful family practice physician running a small clinic and is being paid under the table for something else by a shadowy company. For what, I didn’t know, but couple the fact he needed to conceal that with Sarah’s disappearance, and it made me wonder if the two weren’t linked. And if that was true, could that mean she was being held at wherever GeneSys was located? It seemed a stretch, but maybe it was true.
I checked the clock at the bottom of the screen. Twelve twenty-five. A feeling of dread was breathing down my neck. I was out of time. Somewhere a game whistle had blown, and I knew if I stayed just five minutes longer, I was going to get caught. Before I blasted out of there, though, there was one more thing to be done.
Earlier that evening I’d tossed a new flash drive in with my gear. Pulling the drive out, I located the port on the computer’s back, inserted it, and ran my fingers over the keys. Seconds later I had a copy of every patient file had. And whatever they contained.
Trying not to rush too fast, I pulled the drive out and shut the system down. After taking a few more moments to police Manfred’s office, ascertaining I’d left no evidence of my visit behind, I made my way back outside. The last thing I did before I left was rub some dirt into the scratches I’d made on the lock with my release gun. Leaning back, I gave it a final critical look. It would have to do.