Code of Blood

by George C. Chesbro

  “You’re a little jumpy tonight,” Wheeler continued in his nasal, slightly whining voice. “What you need is another drink or two. Why don’t you and I go someplace where it’s quiet and we can mellow out?”

  “I wouldn’t get into an elevator with you, Roger,” Jan replied in a voice quivering with anger. She instantly made a vow that the next time Roger Wheeler touched her breasts, legs, or buttocks she would, without hesitation, slam her fist into his nose. “Now, what did you come to say?”

  Wheeler, whose gaze had not left Jan’s breasts, glanced up, shrugged. “There’s a guy downstairs looking for you I showed him which desk was yours.”

  “Client?”

  “I assume so.”

  “Roger, it’s Christmas Eve!”

  “So what?” Wheeler replied, flashing a vaguely malicious smile “You’ve been doing nothing for the past half hour but stand and stare out the window, so I figured you wouldn’t mind helping some poor, unfortunate wretch looking for some”—Wheeler dropped his gaze to Jan’s breasts again—“milk of human kindness.”

  “I owe you one, Roger,” Jan said tightly as she stepped around the short man and headed for the stairs.

  She was depressed enough, Jan thought as she descended the narrow stairway to the large, common office area on the floor below. Tonight, at least, she simply could not deal with any more of the endless, reeking river of social waste that constantly flowed into this building.

  She stepped into the room, then came to an abrupt halt when she saw the man sitting in the straight-backed chair in front of her desk. Clean-shaven, his nose and cheeks were still red from the bitter cold outside He was inexpensively but warmly dressed in a down jacket, jeans, and sneakers. As had happened the first time she had seen him, on an emergency referral from Martha Greenblatt, Jan felt a curious pulling sensation in the pit of her stomach when he turned in his chair and looked at her, and she unconsciously reached up with both hands to straighten her long, blond hair. When she had first met with him a week before, the tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed man had been courteous but aloof, politely but firmly refusing her offer to provide him with vocational and social counseling; Jan found she was happy he had decided to come back.

  “Hello,” Chant said, rising. His smile was so warm and sincere that it made Jan suddenly realize how insincere were most of the smiles she encountered in her daily life. “I’d like your help now, if you can give it I’m still not in the market for counseling, but I’d appreciate it very much if you could simply help me find a job. It’s pretty rough out there, rougher than I thought it would be when I walked out of here last week, and it won’t be long before I run out of the little money I’ve managed to save.”

  Jan’s mouth felt dry, and she licked her lips It astounded her how, even when standing still, this man with the massive shoulders somehow projected a lithe, easy grace of movement “Mr Alter, it’s Christmas Eve,” she said quietly.

  “Christmas doesn’t mean much to me I was in the neighborhood, and I figured it was as easy to come up as to call Now I see that I’ve disturbed you. I’m sorry.”

  “Wait, Mr Alter,” Jan said as Chant turned and headed for the door.

  Chant turned in the doorway and studied the strikingly beautiful—and obviously sad—young woman with the long, silky blond hair and soulful, dark brown eyes Throughout the course of an hour-long interview, Jan Rawlings had never mentioned the possibility of his entering the research project at Blake College, and it had occurred to him that she might not even know about it Now he considered telling her outright that he had heard about it, then asking if she would refer him. Finally, he decided against that approach. There was always the possibility that the school was closed down for the holidays, and he thought it better not to press.

  “There’s no need for you to give me any more of your time, Miss Rawlings,” Chant said easily “I’ve said what I came to tell you I haven’t been able to get a phone installed yet, but I’ll call you after New Year’s—or sooner, if it’s convenient. I was just hoping you might know someone who’d give me work I’m going to run into a cash problem very soon.”

  “Please, Mr Alter,” Jan said, walking to her desk “Come back and sit down.”

  Chant hesitated, then walked back across the office. He remained standing, his hands resting on the back of the straight-backed chair.

  “I apologize, Mr. Alter,” Jan continued as she eased herself down into her own chair. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “You weren’t rude, I’ve been rude I dropped in on you unannounced, and I’ve made you leave your party.”

  “Do I smell of liquor?” Jan asked anxiously.

  “No. I can hear the voices and laughter upstairs.”

  “Oh Well, we can talk. Really; I wasn’t enjoying myself, anyway. I guess Christmas doesn’t mean that much to me, either.”

  Chant searched the woman’s face. “Why do you say that?” he asked quietly.

  “Because it’s true.” Jan tried to smile, but the effort made her face ache.

  “I’d say Christmas upsets you,” Chant said in the same soft, even voice.

  Jan found herself staring back into the man’s eyes, momentarily transfixed. Finally, she slowly nodded her head.

  “Then Christmas does mean something to you,” Chant continued matter-of-factly. “It means sadness.”

  “Yes,” Jan replied in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “I guess you’re right.”

  “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “You haven’t, Mr Alter.” Jan felt giddy, but not from liquor. Something about Neil Alter had an unsettling effect on her, and she dropped her gaze to her desktop. “You’ve been looking for work, I take it.”

  “Yes, but I haven’t been able to find anyone who’ll hire me with my record. I thought I could.”

  “But you’ve been pardoned.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference. All that seems to matter when I fill out applications is that I’ve spent twenty years in prison.”

  Jan looked up, nodded. “Frankly, it doesn’t surprise me; New York City can be a very cold and callous place. Have you spoken to Mrs. Greenblatt about your problem?”

  “Mrs. Greenblatt isn’t in the job-getting business; I understood that you were.”

  “Not exactly. As I told you at our last meeting, we do vocational testing and counseling. Then we usually refer our clients to the state employment office for help in actual job placement If you need money right away, I can arrange for emergency financial assistance.”

  “I don’t want charity, Miss Rawlings,” Chant said evenly, “I want work. I misunderstood your offer I’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “No,” Jan said quickly, suddenly realizing that she did not want the man to leave. “You didn’t misunderstand. It’s just that—”

  “Miss Rawlings, I’m willing to do any kind of work I mean that literally You don’t have to give me aptitude tests, because I’m not looking for a career All I want is work, no matter how menial. I’ll be quite happy washing dishes, cleaning bathrooms, or digging holes in the ground. What I do doesn’t concern me in the least In fact, I enjoy physical labor. If you choose to recommend me to someone, I promise that you won’t be embarrassed An employer will find me a punctual and steady worker I work hard, I don’t steal, and I don’t often get sick.”

  “I believe you, Mr Alter,” Jan said quietly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The problem is, this just isn’t a good time The department stores will be laying off most of the part-time staff they hired for the seasonal rush; to be blunt, I don’t think I can find you a job in a store, anyway. It’s the slow season for most kinds of labor. Not much will be happening until after the holidays.”

  “I understand If I haven’t found a job on my own by then, I’ll give you a call after New Year’s.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Alter,” Jan said as she remembered the form letter she had received in the mail a
week before. “There just may be.” She quickly searched through the center drawer in her desk until she finally found the letter stuck between two client folders. She pulled out the letter and passed it across the desk to Chant. “You can keep this; look it over and see if it interests you We get a letter from these people every three or four months What it boils down to is a call for volunteers who were long-term convicts to participate in some kind of experiment they’re running in the psychology department at Blake College, in Brooklyn. All the men in the project must have spent at least fifteen years in prison. It doesn’t say anything about being guilty of what they put you away for, so I don’t see why you wouldn’t qualify. You’re the first ex-inmate I’ve ever worked with, so I really can’t tell you much about it—in fact, I didn’t even think of it until just now. They pay participants, although probably not much. If they accept you into the program, at least you can pick up some spending money for a few hours of your time; that could be some help until we can find you something more permanent. In the meantime, I’ll ask around.”

  “Thank you,” Chant said as he casually folded the letter and put it into the back pocket of his jeans. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “And you’ll call me a week or so after New Year’s? I may have a line on something for you by then.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jan watched the big man with the gentle voice and manner head toward the door. She still did not want him to go—or she wanted to leave with him, talk some more. She wanted to explore the strange feelings he excited in her—perhaps discover why she had the distinct impression that Martha Greenblatt knew this man much better than the lawyer had indicated. She wanted to ask Neil Alter to stay just a while longer, but she could not seem to make the words come out of her mouth.

  “I want to wish you a Merry Christmas,” Chant said as he paused in the doorway and turned back to the woman. “I mean that most sincerely.”

  “I know you do,” Jan said in a small voice. She felt short of breath.

  “Either you should make your Christmas happy, or you should make it absolutely nothing at all. To allow it to be a source of unhappiness is to indulge yourself in a negative fashion. You don’t have to feel the way you do.”

  Jan licked her dry lips, nodded slightly “Mr Alter, are you … uh, are you staying with anyone for the holidays?”

  “No,” Chant replied evenly “I came to New York because I thought a big city would afford me the best chance for starting a new life, but I don’t have any friends here.”

  Starting a new life, Jan thought, the words causing an ache in her mind as long moments passed in awkward silence. She knew that now was the time to speak, as lonely as she was, she imagined that Neil Alter was even lonelier—this was his first Christmas outside prison walls in twenty years, and he had no one to share it with She had no one she wished to share it with—except, perhaps, him She knew she should reach out.

  And then the moment was gone.

  “Well, Merry Christmas to you,” Jan said with a forced gaiety that was an absolute contradiction of the emptiness she felt inside.

  She watched him smile again—the smile that was so warm and that made her feel, for the moment, that she was the object of his undivided attention and affection. And then he was gone.

  Jan sat in the empty office for some time, staring out the open door into the dimly lighted hallway Then, for no reason at all that she could think of, she began to cry.

  the pit

  “We’ve been here ten days now, and this will be the last of these field trials before we return to New York for a few more laboratory tests.” Montsero paused, adjusted his glasses, then casually waved the fistful of bills he held in his right hand toward a pit, approximately eight feet deep and ten feet square, that had been dug in the frozen ground. “There’ll be a five-thousand-dollar bonus to the last man on his feet in that hole. Anyone who wants to go for the five grand just climbs down in there and defends himself, in any way he chooses, against anyone else who climbs down there with the same idea. Simple. Think of it as a game we’ll call ‘king of the pit.’ All right, go.”

  Chant slipped out of his parka, removed his boots and socks. He leaped nimbly down into the pit, then turned with his hands at his sides to wait for the other combatants.

  The other eleven men slowly fanned out around the edges of the pit.

  Chant assumed that the others would band together and all come after him first before trying to decide the issue among themselves. He decided, if that happened, to—for the first time—fully extend himself and his skills as much as was necessary to emerge as the winner in order to see what effect, if any, it would have on what Montsero did with him next.

  But nobody jumped down into the pit to challenge him. Over the ten days they had been on the abandoned military preserve, the others had come to appreciate Chant’s awesome mental and physical strength, not only in the run and on the field of flame, but in dozens of other tests of skill, strength, intelligence, and endurance; now they had no desire to face him in hand-to-hand combat—not as individuals, nor even as a group.

  Tank Olsen was the first to turn and walk away from the pit, as Chant had expected he would Chuck Politan, absently rubbing his right forearm, was the second to disappear from Chant’s field of vision. When all of the men except for Montsero had walked away from the edge, Chant casually climbed up out of the pit, put his parka, boots, and socks back on.

  “It looks like you’ve made quite an impression around here, Alter,” Montsero said in a flat voice as he held out the money to Chant.

  Behind the man in the reflecting aviator glasses, Chant again saw sunlight glint off binoculars or a rifle high up on a mountain in the distance The Watcher again, Chant thought, and he was glad he had not been forced to display the full range of his fighting skills.

  If, after all of the other men had refused to fight him, that any longer made any difference.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chant had risen at dawn, emptied the roach traps he’d set, scoured the bathroom, then swept the small studio apartment with a stiff-bristled broom. He’d showered, and was now in the process of shaving. Tea, which he would take with his simple breakfast of bread and cheese, was brewing on his hot plate.

  He reacted to the knock on his door with a slight raising of his eyebrows, then quickly put in his contact lenses and donned his dark wig. He could think of no one who would come to see him, and it was an unlikely hour for the legions of burglars who hunted in the neighborhood to be checking apartments to see which were empty.

  “Come in,” Chant said after the second knock, and deliberately continued his shaving in the small sink by the door as a man in a heavy tweed overcoat and black wool scarf stepped into the room.

  Chant glanced over at the man, who unceremoniously unbuttoned his coat and stood waiting in silence. About six feet tall, the man was whippet-thin, with pale brown hair and eyes An angular, rodentlike face was accentuated by a wispy mustache. There was an antiseptic smell about him, like strong mouthwash or scalp medication.

  Chant finished shaving, splashed his face, dried off with a rough, frayed towel “Who are you?” he asked as he began putting on a shirt he’d hung from a nail driven in the wall.

  “My name’s Insolers, Mr. Alter,” the man said in a high-pitched, reedy voice “I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  The muscles in Chant’s stomach fluttered and he felt a slight chill at the base of his spine at the mention of the organization that had been relentlessly hunting him for so many years, but he displayed no reaction as he finished buttoning his shirt No CIA field operative—if that’s what this man really was—would know why top executives wanted John Sinclair dead, Chant thought, but his visitor would most certainly experience a little chill of his own if he knew who he was really talking to.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just a few minutes of your time, Mr. Alter That’s all it will take to find out if we can do business.”

/>   There were no chairs in the room, and Chant nodded toward the narrow, swaybacked bed. “Sit, if you’d like.”

  The man shook his head.

  “What business could the CIA possibly have with me?” Chant asked in an even tone, suppressing a smile.

  “We know that you’ve been accepted into Professor Montsero’s latest experimental group of ex-convicts. That makes you potentially very valuable to us, Mr Alter.”

  “Why?”

  “We think you can be trusted You were wrongfully convicted. That makes you an innocent man, an honest man, chosen to participate in a project with a crew of perverts, murderers, thieves, rapists—and worse. Losers, every single one of Montsero’s subjects. Except you. We’d like you to be our eyes and ears in your group You mind if I smoke?”

  Chant stepped into the tiny alcove where he kept his hot plate and a few dishes He brought a saucer back to Insolers, who had removed his overcoat and sat down on the edge of the bed. Insolers wore a well-tailored suit that matched his eyes, and highly polished boots of fine leather Chant handed Insolers the saucer The man lit a Benson & Hedges, dropped the match into the saucer There was an air of confidence and unhurried appraisal about Insolers, Chant thought as he met the man’s steady gaze through a thin haze of smoke The man knew how to wait, and was probably good at his job—whatever that job might be.

  “You have identification?” Chant asked quietly.

  The man withdrew a thin leather wallet from his inside coat pocket and handed it to Chant, who flipped it open and examined the laminated, embossed card inside The real Neil Alter wouldn’t know an authentic CIA credential from a parking ticket, but Chant certainly did. The one Insolers carried looked genuine.

  “You mind if I check this out?” Chant asked, curious as to what the other man’s reaction would be.

  Insolers dragged on his cigarette, blew a smoke ring He seemed almost bored. “Be my guest. The last seven digits of that humongous number on the bottom of the card are an eight-hundred telephone number direct to Langley. Go ahead and call it.”