Marked Man II - 02

by Jared Paul

  “Just zis once? I must answer to my grandmozer zat I am okay.”

  “No.”

  “You are bully man! BIG bully! Cannot you let zis man e-mail his grandmozer even once.”

  Agent Clemons knew that Uri had no grandmother to keep in touch with. As far as he could tell the only messages Uri had ever received were from sadist and masochist porn sites. His patience was exhausted with the constant requests.

  “If you ask again Uri I’m going to drop you off in front of Shirokov’s front door and leave you there.”

  This threat usually worked to quiet him. While Uri Grigoriyevich was frightened of the desert, three o’clock in the morning, the state of Michigan, pomegranates, and an assortment of other nonsensical phobias, nothing got him to shut up faster than the sound of Shirokov’s name.

  Lately Uri had been telling the rotating cadre of federal agents that he was going to die. As spring transformed to summer it became an all-consuming terror. Agent Clemons was beginning to wonder just how well Uri could possibly stand trial when he was consumed by that level of fear.

  If Uri heard a faucet dripping he went into a frenzy until the drip was put to a stop. He was convinced that the United States government was dispersing biochemical agents through the water supply in a sadistic experiment on its citizens. If they were travelling Uri always checked the skies for trails left by airliners passing overhead. Uri called them chemtrails, and claimed that these too contained chemical agents. Every single airplane flying over U.S. airspace was party to a massive criminal conspiracy. All that was needed to create an extinction-level event was to introduce one extra compound into the toxic mix.

  Listening to Uri’s theories sometimes made Agent Clemons wonder why he had ever become a federal agent in the first place. Other times he thought about writing a memoir once he retired so he could include all of the absurd stories he’d been subjected too. In his psychological profile of Uri Grigoriyevich, Clemons classified him as a possible paranoid schizophrenic and an ideal example of the criminal thought process.

  Clemons had his own theory: that brain science would one day determine not only who would become criminals, but also could predict where, when, and who they would strike.

  Uri was the missing link in abnormal psychology; an absolute prodigy of an example of what happens when you take two parts poverty, one part bad parenting, and a dash of traumatic head injuries in childhood. Clemons was past trying to dissuade Uri from his paranoid ramblings.

  “Ok you’re right. You’re probably going to die tonight. But what do you want to eat for breakfast in the morning? I’ll bring it with me in the morning when I come to pick you up.”

  “Eggs, scrambled eggs. Wiz ze hot sauce on side.”

  “Alright. Well enjoy dying Uri. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Agent Clemons waved good-bye to Uri Grigoriyevich for the last time. On his way out he took Agent Packer aside and instructed him not to let Uri anywhere near a computer under any circumstances and to tell the midnight shift agents the same. The fed smiled and nodded and wished his superior a good night’s rest before the big day.

  …

  There was a new FBI man who came at midnight. Uri did not recognize him from any of the other teams that had been assigned to guard him. Upon his arrival Agent Packer and his partner questioned the man. Who was he? Why was he here? Why they weren’t notified of the switch?

  Apparently the FBI man was a replacement for another FBI man who had called in sick that morning. No other arrangements could be made in time. Because Agent Packer and his partner knew the other man they did not object too hard, and after a few minutes they departed, wishing Uri a sardonic good night’s sleep on the way out.

  Once they were gone the new FBI agent walked over to where Uri was sitting in the corner, chain-smoking cigarettes and pretending to listen to an NPR broadcast on the radio. He had a large American face that had age lines etched from the corners of his mouth, extending out to the rough-hewn plains of his cheeks. His eyes were green and they twinkled when he offered his hand to shake.

  “Uri Grigory… GrigoWhatIsIt… hell I’ll just call ya Uri. My name is Agent Winstone. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Absently Uri reached out and shook Agent Winstone’s hand. He was hypnotized by the green of his eyes and the blistering red cheeks covered in stubble that to Uri’s mind resembled cacti growing in an inhospitable stretch of the Sonora desert.

  “You are going to kill me.”

  The new FBI man chuckled awkwardly and looked at his partner.

  “He says that to everybody he meets. Going on a month now.”

  “Why are you here to kill me? Who has sent you to do zis?”

  The other agent who had spent six of the last twelve weeks keeping a very close eye on Uri sighed and apologized to his colleague.

  “He’s nuts. Now he’s going to tell you about his big covert CIA depopulation theory.”

  Uri’s mind was almost going so fast that his lips could barely keep up. He fidgeted in the seat, eyes watering from the smoke.

  “Is it Langley? Zey know zat I know about the chemtrails. Zat’s it isn’t it? Or the flouride in ze water supply, zey know zat I know and so zey must be rid of me.”

  For a while Agent Winstone tried to explain that he was not part of some shady international cabal of drug-and-gun-runners and only had Uri’s best interests at heart. He had been working with the Bureau for eight years and had never let anything happen to a witness under his charge, but it was no use. Uri Grigoriyevich made up his mind that Agent Winstone had been ushered forth from some seedy government orifice to slay him and once his mind was made up there was virtually no changing it.

  Agent Winstone grew tired of trying to calm Uri down after a few minutes and settled in on one of the twin beds. He kicked off his shoes and sat half up with his legs splayed out and hands resting behind his head. Uri noticed a run in one of Agent Winstone’s black socks. It went from the big toe almost all the way down to the heel.

  “You mind if I put something on?”

  The imperfection in the FBI agent’s sock had so absorbed Uri that he didn’t notice the question was put to him. None of the other agents who were assigned to guard Uri ever had a stain or a blemish on their clothes. It struck him as incredibly odd.

  “Uri. You mind?”

  The witness shook himself out of his daze and looked at Agent Winstone.

  “Eh?’

  He was holding the remote for the TV and gesturing to the blank black screen. Uri shrugged and said that he did not care and was not truly paying any attention to the radio program anyway. The new FBI man nodded politely and flipped through the channels, clicking the button over and over until he stopped on a baseball game. Four pitches were thrown in three minutes and Uri’s attention span was lost, absorbed once more in the agent’s sock.

  Agent Hinckley came out of the bathroom stuffing his shirt into the waist of his pants. The weapon on his hip holster was the same standard glock that Uri assumed the FBI handed out to all of its people. Maybe when you graduated from the FBI academy they handed you a glock right along with your diploma. Uri had not spoken to the agents much about their jobs, he was satisfied to let his mind wander through the morass of possibilities. It was more fun to him this way, to imagine how a federal agent’s life might be like, rather than to learn of the dull reality. Perhaps when he was through testifying and relocated to Alaska he could investigate becoming an agent of some kind. Uri let himself day-dream about his future life in that bleak, cold wasteland until he drifted off to sleep.

  Shortly after three in the morning Uri was roused by the sound of shouting. Outside a man’s voice was raised in anger, but Uri could not make out the specifics. Agent Hinckley got up and went to the window and flicked the curtain aside.

  “What is it?” Agent Winstone asked from the bed.

  “There’s some guy knocking on all the doors. Looking for his girlfriend sounds like.”

  Uri’s curiosi
ty in the noise had already ceased. He was intensely studying the patterns in the hotel room’s carpet. The voice from outside kept going for several more minutes, a vague hum of discontent. Agent Hinckley kept watching at the window.

  “Don’t they have anybody to deal with this kind of thing?”

  Reclining in his lazy nest of pillows Agent Winstone shrugged.

  “Peace of mind costs money.”

  The sound of the disturbance got louder and Agent Hinckley commented that the man had walked upstairs and was now knocking at the second floor rooms.

  “He sounds drunk. I’m going to go tell him to knock it off.”

  After he picked up the electronic key card for the room Agent Hinckley walked to the door and swung it open. He paused in the doorway and told the other FBI man not to go anywhere, and to make sure not to answer for anybody but him. A rush of hot, dry air came in before the door clicked shut.

  Uri shivered and glanced over at Agent Winstone on the bed. He was staring.

  “Vat? Vat is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  The FBI man searched around in the sheets and covers until he found the TV remote again. While Uri was sleeping the game must have ended because the show playing was just a rehash of highlights from around the league. Two sportscasters were arguing whether a base runner should have been called safe or out. The TV replayed the slide into third base from one angle, and then another. Agent Winstone pressed a button on the remote and the sound of the sportscasters debating grew and filled the room.

  “Vat are you doing?”

  Agent Winstone had gotten up from the bed and was scrutinizing Uri from across the room. He replied that he was not doing anything as he twisted his feet into his shoes without unlacing them first. The volume on the TV turned up higher.

  You can clearly see here from this angle that Robinson does not bring the tag down in time to reach Munoz before he reaches the bag… Yes but that’s really a technicality, when the throw beats the runner by that much the umpire is going to call him out nine times out of ten regardless of what happens with the tag… That may be true but that doesn’t make it right… Now Tom Ianucci got ejected for arguing the call as you see here and he had to know they were going to toss him but sometimes you have to make a stand...

  The rules of baseball existed in some intangible universe that could only be reached by light speed travel, as far as Uri was concerned. Basically, somebody threw a ball, somebody else hit the ball, and then a bunch of other guys tried to stop him from running around. That was the extent of Uri’s expertise. The finer points of the conversation were lost to him. As the volume kept going up Uri felt increasingly frustrated by this. Why could they not agree on what happened on the play? After all the two men were watching the exact same thing over and over and over again. Why did they have to be so opinionated about it? More importantly, why was it so loud?

  All of the muscles in Uri’s face and neck tensed and bulged. He cringed and covered his ears to drown out the baseball talk but it came pounding through his eardrums all the same.

  Agent Winstone had removed his glock from its holster. He calmly walked over to the desk and picked up the chair, then braced it against the door so it could not be opened from the outside. Uri observed this with a detached kind of fascination. The FBI man checked the window, pulling the curtain aside to have a look. Whatever he saw or didn’t see seemed to satisfy him. He reached for the coat rack and pulled down the rain jacket he’d been wearing when he arrived. In the front pocket Agent Winstone found a silencer, which he screwed onto the end of his glock.

  Uri grew agitated when the FBI man made his way towards where he was sitting. He pointed the gun at Uri but he did not shoot. Uri contorted in the chair like he was tied to it even though he was not, and he gritted his teeth.

  “Vy are you doing zis? Vy?”

  The FBI man sneered and kept his aim steadily trained on Uri. He kept coming closer, slowly. Judging from the commentary the baseball broadcasters were winding down their disagreement.

  ...Well Ianucci can expect to get a heavy fine and maybe even a suspension for this… You just can’t pick up a base and throw it around like that anymore… He made his point. Sometimes as a manager you have to make your point and defend your guy even if you know that it’s an argument that you’re going to lose…

  Agent Winstone stopped when he was just a couple of feet away from where Uri was cowering in his seat. He lifted his arm and pressed the cold tip of the silencer against Uri’s greasy forehead. Uri’s eyes were squeezed shut so tight it was physically painful.

  “Vous avez casse’ la foi.”

  Hearing the emperor’s tongue seemed to shake Uri out of his shell of despair. His eyes opened wide and Uri let out a bellowing yell as he lunged forward and charged the FBI man. The glock fired once before he collided with Agent Winstone and the two of them tumbled onto the floor, wrestling and reaching for the gun that had fallen in the struggle.

  Uri had been hiding in hotel rooms for three months. Before his arrest he was strung out on meth, pills and vodka. What little muscle he’d kept from his days of high school track and field had long since withered, but Uri fought with a ferocity and a passion that took Agent Winstone completely by surprise.

  They’d told him that Uri would be a slam dunk. He would barely put up any resistance whatsoever. An easy forty grand as could possibly be earned. But this, this wiry strong menace with red hair and bad breath was something else entirely. Uri Grigoriyevich was not only determined, he was winning. Even though Agent Winstone was slightly out of shape he would have laughed if anyone told him he could lose a contest of strength to this miserable Russian speed freak. But there he was, clawing at Agent Winstone’s face, and pulling ever closer to the glock waiting on the carpet…

  The television switched to a commercial. An ad for erectile dysfunction came on, blaring an extensive list of side effects and warnings. Despite being locked in a life and death struggle Agent Winstone caught himself wondering imprudently how awful it must feel like to have an erection lasting longer than four hours.

  Whatever infinitesimal distraction was provided by the commercial, it was all that Uri needed. With one final push he got hold of the glock. He brought it to bear on the FBI man’s face and pulled the trigger. Agent Winstone stopped struggling and his body went limp. Blood poured into the carpet from a hole in the back of his skull the size of a golf ball.

  Holding a sore spot on his abdomen, Uri got to his feet. He kicked the dead FBI man and almost stumbled over him but he caught himself. Uri staggered across the room towards the TV. When he got there he bent over, then turned the volume all the way down. He spat on the carpet which was changing from chamois to ruby.

  “Commercials. Alvays ze Americans vit commercials.”

  A much longer rant about the nefarious nature of manufactured desire was on the production line in Uri’s mind but a sharp pain made him bite his tongue. Uri took the chair away and pulled on the doorknob. The wave of heat even in the dead of night staggered him.

  Above the sky was overcast, and the moon was not visible. The clouds further out to the east were brightened by the reflected brilliance of the city’s lights. Uri swallowed and wiped a stray bead of sweat from his brow, then started walking up the outdoor hall. Somewhere below on the first floor he could hear the other FBI man’s voice. He was telling the loud man that it was very late and he was disturbing the hotel’s customers and that it was past time for him to go home.

  Uri was about to call the FBI man’s name when he realized he could not remember it. Something to do with water. Or water coolers. The names on the water coolers. Thinking about water made Uri suddenly aware that he was very thirsty and would have given anything for a cool, clean, refreshing tall glass of it. Uri stopped ambling along and leaned up against the wall. He allowed his body to slide down to the floor. Uri decided that he would wait for the other FBI man with the name that had something to do with water to come back up on his own. There w
as no need to go running around the hotel looking for him. Uri could yell just the same sitting down as he could on his feet. Maybe he would remember the agent’s name, if he just laid down for a little while.

  Yes, Uri was sure that eventually it would come to him.

  Chapter Two

  “All rise. The honorable Judge Moore residing.”

  With a creak of her knees, detective Bollier got up along with everybody else and waited until the judge told them it was ok to sit again. While the bottle of Canadian Club was tremendous company, hosting it always meant a late night and little sleep. The ache in Bollier’s bones was always worse when she hadn’t slept.

  Judge Moore was already sweating profusely when he clapped his gavel and told the court to be seated. Those heavy black robes couldn’t breathe easily, Bollier thought. The judge spoke.