Dresden glances at Val, and for a second Stanley could swear that something unspoken passes between them. Maybe he is getting paranoid.
He wipes his forehead against the shoulder of his coveralls, grimacing as one of the stitches—loosened by John’s kick to his head—catches on the seam. He sits on the bed. It groans beneath his bulk.
“Why haven’t we heard anything about that call we made to the news station?” he says.
Dresden sneers. “It’s too early, man! How many times we gotta go over this?”
Stanley shrugs. “We got nothing better to do.”
“They’re not gonna run something like that until they’ve checked it against other sources. As soon as they find out that the same thing’s going on at other places across the country, you better believe they’ll be broadcasting the hell out of that shit. Screw that horse race for the White House, this is gonna be the biggest story this country’s seen in half a century!”
Stanley shakes his head. “I don’t know…”
“What? What don’t you know?”
“I just got this feeling, like nothing we say or do is going anywhere. Like we’re in a fishbowl or something.”
“Stanley—” Dresden leans forward “—you understand that’s exactly what they want you to think.”
Now it’s Val who seems to be giving Dresden a look. Like he’s gone off-script. “What who wants him to think?” she says.
Dresden hesitates. “All right, look. What do you say you go get the Doc and bring him in here—we’ll all have a little powwow, see if we can’t come to some sort of an agreement about how to proceed.”
Stanley looks at Dresden, then at Val. “Looks to me like you two might have already come to some kind of agreement.”
Dresden laughs. “Oh, come on. Now you’re really acting paranoid.”
Stanley eyes the phone on the nightstand. He goes over to it.
“You know what, Stan, I’m really not feeling too good,” Dresden says. “I think I might need to get to the hospital.”
Stanley picks up the phone and flips it open. The display lights up.
Dresden is speaking loudly now, insistently. “I really think I need some help. Maybe we oughta just call this thing quits.”
Stanley looks at the old-school display. It’s been so long since he had a phone like this—it’s hard for him to read.
“Seriously, man. I’m getting light-headed. I think I’ve got a concussion. I could be bleeding in my skull.”
Stanley scans the tiny screen and sees, in the top right corner—superimposed over the petal of a tulip in the stock photo background—an icon in the shape of an airplane. His eyes widen.
“Please, Stan. I’m telling you I need some help.”
Stanley looks at Dresden. “You switched this to airplane mode.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s why we ain’t been getting any calls.”
Dresden scoffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Stanley fiddles with the buttons on the side of the phone until he finds the menu for the settings.
“Don’t you fucking do that, Stan!”
He turns off airplane mode. Silence.
“You see,” says Dresden, “nothing.”
Stanley sighs and closes the phone. As he sets it on the nightstand, it lights up and begins to buzz.
Dresden gulps. “Why don’t you let me talk to him?”
Stanley picks up the phone, flips it open, and raises it to his ear. “Hello?”
“You seem to be having some trouble, Agent #2,” says the distorted voice on the other end.
“I’ve got it under control.”
“Under control? You had one of the targets pointing a gun at the other agent. Now you’ve got them both taped up, but that hasn’t prevented them from forming a compact against you. And it’s taken you over an hour to figure out that they were sabotaging the mission. If you call that having it ‘under control,’ then you and I have very different understandings of that phrase.”
“Yeah, well…”
“You attacked Agent #1.”
“Did you see what he did?”
“We saw.”
“All of it?”
“Every bit.”
A new suspicion begins to nag at Stanley—something else that doesn’t add up.
“We understand that you were exercising your best judgment,” the voice continues, “but it was still insubordinate. And now that we have reestablished contact—”
“You ever seen that TV show House?”
A pause on the other end of the line. “Excuse me?”
“House,” says Stanley. “It’s a TV show about this doctor.”
“Agent #2, we have important business—”
“Thing that always got me about that show—”
“Agent. You need to pay attention.”
“—is that there’s all these hot shot doctors at this hospital.”
“Please put the Agent #1 on the phone.”
“Why you want to talk to him?” Stanley says. “He was sabotaging the mission.” Another pause. “Thing about this show is, for a whole episode they’re all totally focused on a single patient. They’re putting all their thought into that one case and having these little powwows about what might be causing their illness. Thing is, you ever spent any time in a hospital, you know that’s not the way it goes. In fact, it’s the opposite. You got your one doctor trying to juggle a couple dozen patients at a time, getting ‘em all jumbled, trying to keep up.”
“Is there a point to this little digression, Agent?”
“If you all are coordinating a bunch of these things all over the region,” Stanley says slowly, “then how is it you got so much time to watch every little move we’re making?”
A longer silence this time. Stanley looks at Val. She’s squinting and her mouth is slightly open, like she’s also piecing something together. Dresden is looking at the floor. His face has grown sallow and a bit greenish.
“Listen, you dumb shit,” the voice says, its tone clearly exasperated despite the distortion, “I will not suffer insubordination from a fucking field agent little turd. If you don’t step in line, I will have no choice but to shut your operation down. And you will not like what that means.”
Stanley scans the room, noticing for the first time the gently varied blue tones on the wall, giving a sense of wave-like undulation—like they’re in an aquarium.
“Now put the other agent on the phone.” Stanley doesn’t budge. “I said, put the other agent on the phone.”
“So you’re watching us right now?” Stanley says.
“That’s right.”
“Why? Don’t you have more important things to do.”
There’s some deep breathing, which sounds ridiculous with the distortion. “Put. The. Other. Agent. On. The. Phone.”
“F. U. C. K. Y. O. U.” He snaps the phone closed and slams it on the nightstand.
Dresden, wide-eyed and reeling, looks up at him. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m calling the shots now,” Stanley says.
“Are you kidding me?” says Dresden. “You heard what the man said. You know what they’re liable to do to us?”
“I’m not sure the ‘man’ said anything.” Stanley turns to Val. The phone buzzes in his hand. He powers it off, then holds it up. “You got a strange feeling about this guy too, didn’t you?”
Val nods. “When I was on the computer with him earlier. The way he was writing. The things he was saying—the sense of humor. He reminded me of my son’s lacrosse buddies. If I had to guess, I’d say the person on the other end of that conversation is about fifteen or sixteen years old.”
Dresden laughs nervously. “Okay, that is just nuts,” he says. “How do you propose a fifteen-year-old puts together a sophisticated operation such as this?”
Water begins to pool at Stanley’s feet. He looks across the floor. A small stream is making its way und
er the seam of the door. “Shit,” he says. He heads for the door. Val squirms. Dresden heaves and spits as Stanley goes out into the hallway.
John has worked his way out of the bathroom, flopping like a flounder on the deck of a fishing boat, the pennies dislodged from the doorframe sticking to his skin like scales. Stanley stocks over to him.
“What did you do?” He glances into the bathroom and sees the water gushing out of the exposed pipe in the tub. How John was able to cause that much damage, much less get the door open, is a mystery.
Stanley takes a knee. Grasping John’s arm, he hoists him up, both of them groaning in pain. He hooks an arm around John’s elbow. Gritting his teeth, he drags him down the hallway and into the guest room. He tosses John down on the side of the bed opposite Dresden and stands in the center of the room, surveying the bizarre, untenable scene he’s created. He’s far beyond feeling anxious or uncertain about where this is headed. At this point, any outcome he tries to imagine seems unreal. In the morning, he suspects, his whole life will seem unreal.
“Okay,” he says, raising a hand with a ‘stay calm’ gesture. “This is obviously an uncomfortable situation all around. And I’m guessing I’m not alone in wishing I’d never got wrapped up in this in the first place.”
“Would you just can it?” says Dresden, sweating and glassy-eyed. “What’s the point? You know there’s only one way you and me stand a chance of coming out of this thing without a life sentence.” He nods at John and then at Val, making ‘pow pow’ sounds with his lips in imitation of a gun. Stanley notices that Val is giving Dresden that look again—like he’s said something he wasn’t supposed to.
“No one’s getting hurt any worse than they already are,” says Stanley. “Now, it seems to me—”
The doorbell rings. The room goes silent, apart from the white-noise rush of water coming from down the hall.
The doorbell rings again.
Stanley looks at John and then at Val.
“You gonna answer that?” says Dresden.
“No,” says Stanley.
The doorbell rings a third time, followed by a loud pounding.
“Whoever that is, they’re probably gonna call the cops,” says Dresden. “Unless it is the cops, in which case I’d give it about 30 seconds before they knock the damn door down.”
It makes him sick to admit it, but Dresden is right. No one comes knocking at four in the morning unless they’re intent on getting in. Besides, they left a couple of lights on downstairs. They can’t pretend there’s no one home. And considering the cop who came earlier, it’s already on the books that someone’s in the house tonight.
“Okay,” he says, “I’m gonna check it out.” He looks at John, who rests his head on the side of the bed, exhausted. He turns to Val. “You understand that if you make a lot of noise… That is… I’m trying to sort all this out. But if there’s a commotion up here, I can’t guarantee what result that might have.” Val stares at him blankly. He points a finger at Dresden. “And don’t you dare try anything.”
“What the hell you think I’m gonna do?” Dresden says, then retches.
Stanley goes out to the hallway. He takes a deep breath as he closes the door to the guest room. He walks down the hallway, stepping carefully between the branching streams of water coming from the bathroom, then goes down the stairs into the great room. He peaks through the slit of the curtains at a front window. There’s a police cruiser at the far end of the driveway.
The doorbell rings again, followed by more pounding. Stanley finds the remote control for the stereo and turns the music back on, hoping it might mask any sound filtering down from upstairs.
His heart pumping fire, visions of his daughter looping through his head, he goes into the foyer. He rests the rifle against the wall, dries his hands on his coveralls, and reaches for the doorknob.
Damien stops. Listens. Feels.
Yes. His heart is still beating. For a minute there, he wasn’t sure. The hollow pain in his torso, the dull ache that’s with him more or less every waking moment has flipped over into hyper-drive, putting his psychic motor in a gear that until tonight he never imagined existed. Every now and then, with the aid of chemical stimulants, his anxiety ramps up into a shrieking biological panic; but this is something else altogether. It’s like that moment in Star Trek when the ship goes into warp speed and the stars rush by—then everything goes still. He’s buzzing at such a frequency that everything has gone quiet. He feels weightless, disconnected, undead. This must be what it’s like for vampires, he thinks. Cold-blooded. No pulse.
He feels, more than ever, that he’s totally free and capable of anything. It’s a black, dreadful thought—both terrifying and thrilling.
He rings the bell again and gives the door a few good whacks with the butt of his hand. A shadow appears through the slit in the curtains. The music comes on. That’s odd, that they would turn the music on before coming to the door.
He sees a tall figure through the small stained-glass window in the door.
The door swings open, and the big guy standing there looks like he’s had a night to match Damien’s. The armpits of his work clothes are deep blue with sweat. The patchy hayfield of hair on his head is a tousled mess. Blood trickles from a torn stitch at his temple.
Damien’s hand goes to his service weapon. His thumb unfastens the snap.
“Good evening, officer,” the guy says.
“More like morning,” says Damien.
The guy chuckles and shakes his head. “Right. I haven’t been down yet. So it’s still night to me.”
“Where’s Benjamin?”
The guy looks confused. “Who? Oh, you mean… sorry, I’m not used to hearing him use that name.”
“What do you call him?”
The big guy swallows. “Dresden.”
“Dresden?”
“Yeah.”
Damien’s fingers encircle the handle of his weapon. “Where is he?”
“He’s upstairs.”
“You’re not the owner of the home, are you? Mr.…”
“Mr. Lavando?” The guy laughs. “Oh no, no way. I’m just… I’m a plumber. I’m a friend of Dres—of Benjamin’s. He was having some trouble with the upstairs toilet. Asked me if I could come over.”
Damien nods skeptically. “You get it squared away?”
“Oh yeah. But then, you know, he offered me a beer… and then another… and you know how it goes.”
“Were you on the premises when I came by earlier?”
The guy shakes his head. “I don’t believe so. Benjamin did mention it, though, now that you bring it up. Said this cop came by, turned out to be a real cool dude. Said you might be back to party later.”
“Yeah, well…” He looks the guy up and down. “… I’m not here to party. There was a message sent to our dispatcher from the home’s security system. Seems somebody set off the panic alarm. Would you happen to know anything about that?”
The guy’s eyes glaze over for a moment, like he’s trying to recall something. He grimaces. “Ah, shoot. I knew I shouldn’t’a been messing around in there. You see, what happened is I was getting a glass of water from the faucet in the kitchen—” he cocks a thumb over his shoulder “—and I wanted to get a bite to eat. So I opened up this… this like breadbox thing in the corner, and inside was this button. I think I might’ve hit it with my hand when I was grabbing an English muffin. What can I say—I’m clumsy. That must’ve been what it was.” He bats himself on the forehead with his palm. “Such a dummy.”
Damien nods, his eyes narrowing. “And what is your name, sir?”
“J.S. Lajoie.”
“J.S.?”
“Jason Stanley.”
“Do you have identification, Mr. Lajoie?”
“It’s in my bag. You want me to go get it?”
“How about I just come in with you and have a look around? Then you can get it.”
“Oh…” The guy takes a step back from the door. “I sho
uld probably talk to Benjamin before you come in. He’s kind of—”
“You understand, sir, that I was sent here because an alarm was triggered. And being that the home’s legal occupants are not present, that gives me probable cause to enter the premises.” (Does it?) “I’m doing you a courtesy by asking.”
The guy nods, looking down at the floor. “Right. I totally get that.” He lowers his voice. “It’s just that Benjamin’s got company, you know? And I’d hate to interrupt them.”
Damien eyes the guy’s forehead. “That’s a pretty mean cut you got there.”
“Oh, yeah. Would you believe, I joined a rugby league. Figured my size, I’d be at an advantage, but those guys are tough as nails, I tell you. Opened it up fresh tonight when I was bent down under…”
The guy trails off. He’s looking down at his feet.
Damien looks down and sees a stream of water running slowly across the floor of the entryway, beginning to pool where it meets the lip of the door. His fingers clamp down on the handle of his weapon. “I thought you’d fixed that toilet.”
The guy is breathing heavily now, his eyes darting left to right. “Um, officer…”
Damien takes a step back and draws his weapon, aiming it at the guy’s broad chest. “Don’t move!”
The door slams shut.
“Open the door!” Damien shouts. “Now!”
He kicks the door as hard as he can, wheels back, and kicks it again. It doesn’t budge.
“Open the door now, or I will deploy my weapon!”
No answer. He aims the gun just to the left of the doorknob and fires. He kicks the door again, but it doesn’t budge.
He steps back and fires two more shots, surely enough to destroy the latch. He kicks the door again. Still, it won’t give.
He kicks and kicks and kicks, leaving a cluster of size-eight footprints on the door.
“God damn it!”
He takes aim and fires off three more rounds, pauses, and lets loose another five for good measure, blasting the doorknob clean off, exposing the inner workings of the heavy wooden door. Gun smoke wafts about the porch.
“Now, that’s the way you bake an apple pie,” he mutters. He gives the door one more solid throttle, and it swings open, crashing into the wall.
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