by John Barnes
“Clear. I’ll behave.”
“You know that if you don’t behave once I release you, you get cut no slack? You’ll get the Taser and the Mace right then?”
“I understand. I’ll behave.”
I let go of him and took a long step back. He brought himself around to where he was half-leaning, half-lying on the grassy bank in the streak of mud he’d made coming down it.
He wasn’t looking his best. The front of his shirt and pants were smeared with grass and mud, there were huge dark circles under his eyes, he’d gotten a slight bloody nose somewhere in the process, he was a few days behind in his shaving, and somewhere in the fight with me, or maybe the fight the day before with Payton, he’d torn out one knee of what used to be expensive trousers. He was breathing more easily, but his mouth was still open and gasping like a carp’s, and his eyes seemed to wander from thing to thing—Robbie and her Taser, me and the Mace, his sobbing soon-to-be-ex-wife, and then just off into space.
Finally he spoke. “What happens now?”
“Cops happen,” I said. “Lots and lots of cops happen. Once the trouble started Robbie called nine-one-one on the cellular. You’d really better just sit tight. If you like, Paula can call your lawyer for you.”
“Thank you very much.” He gave us the number, and Paula called; at least Brunreich had a guy who did some criminal practice, and knew about getting it together for the client in a hurry, even at a strange time.
It wasn’t nine o’clock yet—it had only been five minutes since we’d come out the door—but I was good and tired from the events of the morning so far.
I was a bit worried about the flight time, but the cops got right there and the handover was very smooth. I showed my license, and they agreed that I was indeed a licensed bodyguard in Pennsylvania, as was Robbie, as was Paula. We all three agreed that Mr. Brunreich had assaulted me, and I would be pressing charges, and they agreed that I could come to the station to swear out the complaint later.
At least Mrs. Brunreich was willing to corroborate it. Sometimes in these divorce things they’ll suddenly start lying to protect the bastard.
It didn’t take more than another ten minutes for them to book Brunreich and take him away. We still had a little slack at the airport, and Paula had phoned ahead anyway and been assured it would all be okay. I was a tiny bit nervous about the lack of security—I thought Brunreich was paying too much attention to the flight number—but I wasn’t much worried in that when they released him on bail he’d be restricted to Pittsburgh until his trial, and I figured a lawyer would know enough not to jump bail.
“All right,” I said, when the cops said we could go and started to hustle Brunreich into the police cruiser, “you all still have a flight to catch, and my contract’s not complete till you’re on it. Let’s roll.”
Everyone piled into the van; I sat in the back with Porter, Paula in the middle seat with Mrs. Brunreich, Robbie driving. Mrs. Brunreich was still sniffling, and Paula was talking to her in a low, soft way that I call her Sensitive Feminist Grandma Voice, which seems to be able to hypnotize even the most spineless or co-dependent people into doing something sensible.
Porter leaned against me, her face on my left sleeve. And said, “Thank you for not shooting him.”
“Aw, heck, Porter, it was never even close. Really.”
She nodded and kept leaning on my arm. “How do you get to be a bodyguard? Do you go to a special school or something?”
“Well,” I said, “it’s not the greatest job in the world.” The kid seemed to need a hug, so I sort of let her slide under my arm and found myself being held on to like a teddy bear. “But I guess if you really want to, you should start martial arts soon, and maybe learn pistol in a couple of years—that’s all competitive sports anyway, and it’s fun—and, oh, I don’t know, play a lot of sports so you’re strong and agile and used to thinking fast on your feet. And it wouldn’t hurt to go to college and take some psych and some police science. So you need to make good grades.”
At least I didn’t know anyone in any field who was actually harmed by good grades, and besides, if I was going to be stuck as a role model, it was the kind of things role models said.
“Should I enlist in the Army?”
“Some do, some don’t. I didn’t, but Robbie did. But don’t worry about it too much. You have a lot of time to decide what you’re going to be.” I was starting to realize, as the adrenaline from the fight wore off, that I was pretty tired, and on top of that I was beginning to sound like Mr. Rogers.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, “but how often do I get to talk to a real bodyguard?”
The way she said “real bodyguard” made me feel about ten feet taller, which I suppose is a natural reaction to a cute blonde woman who thinks you’re wonderful. Even if she’s ten.
“You want to be a bodyguard like me?”
“Well, yeah, but more like Robbie. She’s awesome.”
I suppose I deserved that. The rest of the drive out to the airport we talked about names for dogs, the Hardy Boys and why real-life crime wasn’t much like that, and the riding lessons she was supposed to start soon.
Part of the back of my brain kept figuring that Brunreich was really well-and-truly crazy, and if his lawyer got right over to municipal court, and there was no line in front of him—and on this kind of weekday morning there might not be—
We had at least a forty-minute head start, which should be good enough.
At the airport, I just handed my automatic, holster and all, to Paula (much easier than getting it cleared through security), and Robbie and I took them through. We’d phoned ahead so we could have them preboard during cleaning; it’s a routine little trick, since it makes it all but impossible for the client to be physically attacked.
As we walked up the corridor, Porter asked, “Do you believe in ESP?”
“Not me,” I said. “But I wouldn’t mind having it, in this line of work.”
“Me either,” Robbie said. “I’m strictly a materialist.”
“You ask too many questions,” Mrs. Brunreich said.
Porter ignored that last and said, “Uh, I just had like a … like a dream but I was awake, this flash of the future, like … I’m always going to be walking between bodyguards.”
That got to Robbie. “Aw, honey,” she said, “it’s not like that. This kind of thing could happen to anybody. It’s not necessarily going to happen to you forever.”
“It didn’t seem like a bad dream,” Porter said, “just like that was the way it was going to be.”
Naturally, at the gate, the airline flunkies had decided they’d never heard of the arrangement, and that we would have to stand around in plain sight while they phoned the universe.
Mrs. Brunreich seemed just as happy, since it let her get another couple of cigarettes in (and with the way her nerves must be by now that was probably a plus). “And could I possibly get in a trip to the ladies’ room?”
It didn’t seem like there was much danger, even with the annoyance of having to wait around, so Robbie peeled off to escort Mrs. Brunreich in there, and I stuck around with Porter, doing my best to keep us standing where we wouldn’t be too visible, behind a couple of outsized plants near a column.
“You’re probably just getting those pictures because you want all this to be over,” I said to Porter. “When life sucks you think it’ll stay that way forever; but it doesn’t.”
She sighed. It was not a good kind of sound to hear out of a tiny little girl on a bright, sunny spring morning. “Mom’s sending me to camp in another few days, as soon as she finds a new camp since she doesn’t want to send me anywhere Dad knows about. So it won’t be my regular place, and I’ll have to get used to all new bunkmates.”
“That’s rough,” I said. “It would be nice to have the friends you’re used to.”
“Yeah.” She said it with a hopeless little shrug. “Anyhow when I’m twelve I get shipped to boarding school, and then I won’t be home
much after that. So it won’t last forever.”
All I could think of to say was, “You’re a nice kid, and anyone would like to have you around. Your parents have huge problems, but there’s nothing wrong with you.”
She nodded, but I doubted that she believed me.
There was a commotion down the corridor from us, and some instinct made me move Porter in among the plants, whisper “Stay put,” and step out to see what it was.
Brunreich burst out of the crowd. He was carrying a ball bat. His eyes looked utterly mad; I suppose whatever grip he’d had on himself, he had none now.
I strode out to face him, doing my best to draw his attention; the corner of my eye showed me Robbie taking a pop glance out of the women’s room and jumping right back in.
I walked straight toward him, kept my voice level, and said, “Put down the bat and go away. You’re in enough trouble already.”
Every now and then some lunatic will really listen to you. Usually not. This time it was the usual thing.
His training might have been good, but it was pretty well gone from his mind by now—he just swung the bat at me, one-handed and overhand, down toward my head, like he was driving a huge nail.
Time slowed down. I was a step out to the side, so I reached up with my right arm—up, up, as if I were swimming in Karo syrup … my right hand got there, just barely, just to the left of the bat. It scraped down over all my knuckles and the bulge of my wrist, slapping my arm into a hard flop against my head, skipping the elbow to slam the outer muscles on the upper arm—
Time sped up again. My right arm slammed like a half-full sandbag against my head, and from wrist to armpit I felt the force of the blow.
I planted the ball of my right foot, pivoted, picked up my left in a tight coil, and snap-kicked him in the solar plexus with everything I had. He bent over, clutching his gut, and the bat went bouncing off on its own—he couldn’t have held on to it one-handed after hitting the unyielding floor that hard.
Sounds came back then—along with more pain—the bat ringing on the cold, hard floor, people screaming, the crash and bang of people dropping their things and scattering to get away.
I let him have another snap-kick, this time across the face, and when he didn’t rear up but didn’t go down, I stepped into him. He tried to swing at me, a funny groping little punch like he was doing a Barney the Dinosaur impression, and I slipped inside that and rabbit-punched him.
He hit the floor hard—was probably out before he landed. I backed away.
The airport cops showed up. They knew they were looking for Brunreich, so they didn’t have any trouble hauling him off; they let Porter and Mrs. Brunreich get on their flight, but the last hug I got from Porter was a bit strained since they had me in handcuffs.
By the time Robbie and Porter got that one talked out (at least Norm, my lawyer, didn’t have to get involved, and I didn’t end up with another arrest on my record), I had been up twenty straight hours. My right hand was swelling up into an interesting purple blob, which was going to be a hassle since I don’t do much of anything very effective left-handed.
“Relax,” Robbie said. “You’ve never shot anybody, anyway.”
“Unless that’s the hand you use—well, never mind,” Paula said. She was driving.
“Where are we going?” I asked, as we came around onto the Parkway, headed back into Pittsburgh.
“You’re going to a doctor and then home to bed, or else home to bed and then to a doctor. No other choices on the menu,” Paula said. “In fact why don’t you just try to fall asleep back there? We’ll get you home.”
I started to argue I wasn’t sleepy, and we could go someplace to get breakfast, but suddenly the pent-up sleep hit me, and I didn’t have the energy. I’d just close my eyes for a few minutes and then maybe I’d wake up before we got back to my place—
For some reason that silly kid’s face invaded my dreams. She seemed to be asking, again, How do you get to be a bodyguard? Do you go to a special school or something?
As I slid into uneasy dreams, part of me answered that kid: “Yeah, sure. Special school. Shadyside Academy then Yale for undergrad and grad.” And I was back into the dream … the dream that I always wanted to be interrupted from, where in the middle of things I would wake up and nothing would have gone any farther than that …
2
Used to be that I spent many long hours unable to sleep, sitting in Ritter’s or the Eat’n’Park, drinking coffee without end, and while I was doing it I would think: people get it all wrong about the trouble with being lucky in your childhood. They have this idea that if there’s money and parents who love you, and you’ve got a lot of natural talent, you get spoiled and weak.
Wrong.
Trouble is you grow up so healthy and strong that when things go really, horribly wrong, you’re too stubborn and too strong to just collapse and give up, wind up in a mental hospital or a casket the way sensible people would.
I won’t bore you, and a really great childhood is boring to hear about. The worst you could say about it was that Dad pushed us kids pretty hard to do well at everything, and the twins—Jerry and Carrie, two years younger than I—and I did pretty well at things naturally.
My father was at the Center for Studies in Islamic Politics at Carnegie-Mellon, and Mom taught part-time and got grants and edited the Journal of Formalist Method in Philosophy, not one page of which I’ve ever understood. All us kids (except Carrie, the math whiz) really had a handle on was that Mom worked at home, and you weren’t supposed to interrupt her, but that every so often she’d just take a day off and we’d all go do something together, like climb a mountain or go down into a cave or all sorts of things the other kids envied us.
Grade school faded into high school, where I was a valedictorian, as was Carrie (poor Jerry got a B in Driver’s Ed, leading to a standing joke that he was the “family dunce” and god knows how many times we told him we wouldn’t let him drive). Between the three of us we lettered in everything.
Girls were a pretty simple matter to me; not every one I asked said yes, but if the one I asked out didn’t, there was sort of a bench waiting, and if I do say so myself, the team had depth in those years.
It stayed the same way at Yale. The first girl I ever really fell hard for was Marie, whom I met because she and Carrie roomed together on gymnastics team road trips, and after that there wasn’t anyone else; I married her a month after I graduated, when she had a year to go, and I was going right back into Yale to get a doctorate in art history.
By the time I was twenty-six I was about to start a dissertation and had already had a job offer or two; I had settled into a rhythm of teaching and writing during the school year and going to archaeological digs (taking Marie along) during the summers.
I never really appreciated my wife, I suppose. She was beautiful and highly intelligent, and I appreciated that; she supported everything I did, but having only my parents’ very happy marriage to judge by, I didn’t realize it wasn’t always that way. And I think I didn’t pay enough attention in those years, because to this day I wish I remembered more of the things she used to say that made me laugh. Or more moments when the light hit her just right, and I thought what one painter or another might have made out of her … or the way she could be on a long day on a dig, the patience with which she would clean one little artifact, the neat way she noted down every one of the tiny facts …
No, I never appreciated any of them enough.
I don’t know exactly when I figured out there was anything at all dangerous about what Dad did for a living. Not much before I was in junior high, I guess. When he came back from every trip he had a lot of fascinating stories, most of which were about how he got to meet the “real people involved” and get the “real story behind it.”
It took me a long time to realize that Dad’s specialties were political violence and terror, and that that meant those people he was talking to were top security people, both Communist and Free
World, and the people who trained terrorists (East, West, freelance, anybody)—and the terrorists themselves.
I remember realizing that when he described a secret PLO/Mossad prisoner swap, he was talking about going there with the PLO and leaving with the Mossad, not as a prisoner but to get both sides of the story. I have a vague recollection, one night at the dinner table before I went off to a movie with some interchangeable cheerleader, of abruptly realizing that to talk about what he was talking about, he must have spent time inside a ChiCom terror and subversion school, must have interviewed the instructors after observing the classes.
It still didn’t really register with me. I suppose everyone with good luck as a kid thinks their family leads a charmed life. Dad went everywhere, alone and unarmed, to talk to everyone; Mom ran the house and had the occasional phone call from a Nobel laureate; I won judo tournaments, Jerry won shotokan tournaments, Carrie competed in women’s rifle and gymnastics, and we all excelled at Scrabble. So what?
Marie fit right in—bright, athletic, beautiful, from the same kind of family.
By tradition Dad always got us all together on the Fourth of July. He said he was an old-fashioned patriot and besides, he needed an excuse for homemade ice cream. Usually—a law student like Jerry, a physics grad student like Carrie, and young marrieds like Marie and I didn’t have much spare cash—he’d end up springing for the plane tickets, not to mention flying himself back from wherever. It was one of the few predictable things Dad did, and one of the most predictable—every Fourth of July we’d all be there in the big house overlooking Frick Park.
That particular year, the Fourth fell on a Saturday, and we all got there on Friday night in one big laughing and giggling gaggle at the airport. Marie and I had to be back at the dig in Tuscany Tuesday morning, but it was great to be back for these couple of days.
The Fourth itself, we all slept late, and then got up to just walk around the old neighborhood after a pleasant brunch. Jerry leaned close to me at one point, while Marie and Carrie were talking about whoever or whatever Carrie’s latest flame was, and said, “Did Dad seem a little strange to you?”