Redeeming Factors (Revised)

by James R. Lane

  On the way out S’leen ducked into the women’s rest room, and Green told Duncan, “I need to hit the head, too; my stomach’s not too happy with the Mongolian barbecue I had for supper. If you’d watch out for S’leen while I’m in the crapper I’d really appreciate it.” Before the young officer could say anything Green pushed open the men’s rest room door, and almost immediately Duncan heard the inner doors bang; apparently Green was in a hurry.

  A few moments later S’leen rejoined Duncan in the hallway, and he nervously said, “The Lieutenant’s, uh—”

  “I heard the doors slam, Officer Duncan,” and she smiled. Duncan felt his whole body blush, and the H’kaah quickly added, “My patron, Jack Ross, turns pink just like that when he embarrasses himself.” Her smile widened.

  “Uh—”

  “What is your personal name, Officer Duncan?” she softly asked, her smile still unnerving him. The man had obviously never conversed with a non-human, and S’leen was just tired enough to enjoy making the brash young officer squirm.

  “Uh, M-mike, Ma’am.”

  She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise and twitched her rabbit-like whiskers. “Uh-Mike-ma’am Duncan?” she responded, perfectly deadpan. “I find that unusual even for a human.”

  Teasing was the last thing Duncan expected from the fantasy creature standing less than two feet away, and before he could do more than sputter in response S’leen laughed. Duncan found that to be the crowning touch to an incredible morning, and he collapsed bonelessly against the wall, absolutely at a loss for words.

  “Sometimes I have that effect on Jack, too,” she stated with a smile, but then the smile dropped away and her face took on a tragic expression that melted Duncan like a love-struck schoolboy. “But I don’t know if…if I’ll ever s-see him again.”

  And then she began to cry.

  Once again Officer Mike Duncan was caught off-guard, and before he realized what he was doing he gently wrapped his well-muscled arms around the exotic—and, he suddenly realized, erotic!—alien, trying his clumsy best to comfort her. Of course that was the moment Green chose to surface from the dark confines of the rest room, and as he stood there in the doorway, blinking at the tender sight before him, he cleared his throat in a theatrical manner. The young cop jumped as if he’d been goosed with a nightstick.

  “Carry on, Officer Duncan,” Green firmly ordered. “You’re performing an important police service for the young lady (and if you have a tissue or handkerchief I’d suggest you let her use it) but when she’s composed herself we need to get on the road for home.” Duncan quickly produced a reasonably clean handkerchief and the alien wiped her eyes and honked her nose on it, then politely handed it back to the bewildered and thoroughly embarrassed man.

  * * *

  Neither Green nor his H’kaah passenger spoke until they were well on their way out of the city, and it was Green who broke the silence.

  “I won’t ask you if the cat got your tongue,” he gently drawled, glancing at the alien out of the corner of his eyes, “since that would probably spook you even more so than you already are.”

  S’leen had been mindlessly gazing at the golden, dawn-lit scenery, but not really absorbing any details. After a few seconds Green’s words seemed to sink in and her head snapped around to stare wide-eyed at the man as if he’d crawled out from under a rock.

  “Y-you—I…I—” she sputtered, seeming to press herself back into the door. Green kept his hand on the power door lock’s master switch since he didn’t trust her not to jump from the moving car. A few seconds later she seemed to get her panic under control and finally said, “S-sorry, I’m sorry, I—”

  “Dear,” Green soothed, “I’m the one who should apologize. Whether or not you realize it, you’re suffering from shock. The last thing you need right now is a cynical old Jew making trite jokes at your expense.” She slowly blinked her large amber eyes, and Green noticed that her breathing had slowed to a more normal rate. “Even with all I’ve seen and done, S’leen, I still can’t imagine how frightening all this must seem to you. None of our human-based races consider themselves ‘prey’, and regardless of our various social pacifisms, if you scratch a human’s civilized veneer you’ll invariably turn loose the predator we all keep bottled up inside.” He slowly extended his right hand and the alien first looked at the shopworn, rough appendage as if it were a snake, then hesitantly reached both her hands and took it with a soft, velvety-furred grasp.

  “Is this hand of a…a killer?” she timidly asked.

  Green was carefully splitting his attention between driving and tending to his passenger, and the alien noticed that his dry banter had stopped. It seemed several times that he was about to speak, but each time he stopped short of actually saying anything. Finally he sighed and replied, “With that very hand, Dear, I have killed. And like the man who is fighting for his life back there in the hospital, this hand no doubt has killed those who did not deserve to die.” He glanced at her and was surprised to see her face wrapped around a thoughtful expression.

  “I, too, have killed,” she stated, “and in my mind I still see how quickly, how effortlessly three people died—because of my hands, the killing hands that hold your killing hand.” She lifted her right hand to study it in the golden morning light. “It is strange, Nolan, but while I know my hands bear the blood of my victims, they do not feel any different to me than they did yesterday.” She caught his eye once more as he risked a quick glance at her. “Do your hands feel different to you, Nolan Green, or is my concern over this matter merely a product of my…my ‘prey mentality’?”

  Green continued looking at her longer than was prudent, and when he snapped his eyes back to the road he discovered that they were about to run into the back of a slow-moving freight truck. “SHIT!” he yelled, wrenching on the steering wheel with both hands and tromping on the brake pedal as he tried to avoid a potentially fatal crash. Amid the blare of nearby horns and the squall of abused tires he managed to navigate the bulky patrol car around the truck while artfully dodging the other vehicles on the Interstate beltway that was carrying them out of Jacksonville.

  S’leen had been too startled to do more than squeak as she bounced against her seat belt and bumped her head against the passenger-side window. Once clear of the near-tragedy and with the patrol car firmly back under control, Green said, “Oy, but that was close! Are you all right?”

  The H’kaah was sitting frozen on her end of the seat, eyes wide and rabbit-toothed mouth open in a silent scream. After a few moments during which Green feared she would start screaming for real, or worse, S’leen resumed breathing, closed her mouth without undue noise and slowly relaxed her frozen muscles. She finally risked a look toward Green, who quickly glanced at her and repeated his question.

  But instead of answering directly she shakily said, “Perhaps…perhaps we should postpone this conversation until we get home. M-my nerves can’t take m-much m-more excitement today.”

  “And to think, the day’s still young,” Green sighed.

  Chapter 8

  *To the Nth Degree*

  One of the resident mockingbirds was raising merry hell in Jack Ross’ porch side rose bush, and she dutifully scolded S’leen and her human escort as they wearily climbed the front steps to enter the house. “What are you so pissed about?” Nolan Green growled toward the outraged bundle of feathers.

  The H’kaah appeared to be moving through a fog, her eyes not focused on anything in particular, her ears not even tracking the various noises around her. As the two figures passed through the front door the mockingbird arrogantly continued her early morning tirade.

  Inside the house most of the night’s madness had been cleaned up; only a few dark bloodstains on the thick tile-patterned carpet remained to give mute testimony of the lives that had ended there, as well as those that had been forever changed. S’leen paused just inside the doorway, and Green stood back and to the side, letting her come to grips with her emotions. After near
ly a minute of silence the alien shuffled to where Ross had fallen, then she knelt at the edge of the still-tacky bloody area. She dragged a finger across it, then raised the stained digit to her nose. A moment later she keened a long, mournful wail that set Green’s teeth on edge, then curled up into a ball on the carpet near the stain.

  Nolan Green, former Mossad agent, current police lieutenant, world-wise man well into his fifth decade of life, was at a loss as to what he should do. Had S’leen been a human woman suffering the loss of a husband or family member he would have offered his sympathies and whatever help she needed, then gone about his duties confident that the officers still working in the other parts of the house would be able to help her. This, however, was a slightly different situation, and a far different kind of “woman”.

  Police Sergeant Ron Washington bolted into the room, then spied the H’kaah on the floor and his lieutenant near the front door. Green made a sharp “quiet” gesture before the man could give voice to his obvious questions, then motioned for the young officer to join him on the porch. “It’s not as bad as it looks, son,” Green stated in low tones. “Our boy Jack is still sucking wind, and he’s getting the very best medical care our tax and insurance dollars can buy. Also, one of the JSO boys will stand guard over him in ICU once he’s out of surgery.” Washington nodded, pleased with what he was hearing. “I brought S’leen home so she could maybe get some rest, and for me to try and figure out what to do with her.”

  Washington looked startled, then confused. “Sir, I…I guess I don’t understand. What do you mean, ‘—Figure out what to do with her’? S’leen has resident alien status, and unless we’re going to file charges against her—”

  Green wearily shook his head, saying, “No, son, there won’t be any charges filed against her; trust me on that. There’s more going on here than you know, but I think everybody will agree that no court in the land would convict her of anything other than being beautiful. Hell, a grand jury would want to lynch any state’s attorney dumb enough to try to charge her with a crime!” He smiled at the thought, then ventured, “Crosby hasn’t found any kind of ID on the three intruders, has he?” To Washington’s headshake Green offered, “I didn’t think he would; we never do.”

  “Uh, Lieutenant, I—”

  “Ron,” the older man said softly, “there have been seven other instances of ‘mysterious intruders’ at this place, and a total of five more instances at two other homes, all during the past twenty years. One of those homes is mine.” The young sergeant looked shocked. “Yeah, I know, you haven’t heard anything about them. The last incident was about four years ago, right before you joined the department. We keep quiet about the intruders for a number of reasons, one of those being—hang onto your gonads, son—United Nations Security. Yep, you heard the capital letters there, and the UN folks mean business, too. It’s something the department just deals with, and we’ve been pretty good about keeping our mouths shut.” He looked sternly at the sergeant and the young man tried staring back at his commanding officer, but to no avail.

  “Sure thing, LT,” the young cop finally said, but his resentment wasn’t very well hidden. “I’ll keep a lid on it.”

  “Ron,” Green began, his voice very calm, his demeanor low-key, “I’m not trying to be a hard-ass about this.” He sighed, then made sure no other officers were within earshot before saying, “Listen, son, while this situation directly involves me, my personal involvement isn’t even the biggest part of it; besides Ross and myself, it also involves one other man here in town. And while the Chief’s not a directly involved party, he’s fully aware of the overall situation, and of many other related things. Jack Ross, along with the other man I just referred to and yours truly all worked international black ops during the years you were a rugrat, and even though we’ve been out of that unpleasant business for a long time, occasionally we have, um, ‘problems’ show up on our doorsteps.” He glanced back into the house where S’leen was still curled up on the floor. “This, however, is the first time one of us has been taken down, so either they’re getting better at it, or…or we’re just getting too damned old to deal effectively with them.”

  Washington was, to put it politely, shocked. “Sir, you…you’re not shitting me?” When Green just looked tiredly at him the younger man added, “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Green slowly nodded and Washington noticed the haunted look in the old cop’s eyes. “Oh my God—”

  Green just shook his grizzled head and said, “I’m afraid we’re beyond the help of anybody’s god, son. Otherwise I’d still have a homeland, and Jack Ross wouldn’t be fighting for his life forty miles north of here.”

  The two police officers slowly headed back inside to see what could be done for the other shooting victim, the one element neither of them knew quite how to deal with.

  * * *

  The surgery unit of River City Trauma Center was busier than usual for that time of a Sunday morning. It wasn’t that all the surgery suites were in use; they weren’t. The usual Saturday night fights had produced the routine crop of knife injuries and small-caliber gunshot wounds, along with the expected sprinkling of automobile crash-related cases, one of which died on the operating table.

  But nobody had ever seen a case quite like Jack Ross, the “human pincushion”. Most of the work-weary night shift elected to stay on as observers as Ross’ trauma surgery team continued its task of carefully removing the Jacobs rods and repairing as much damage as possible from the multitude of gunshot wounds the man had collected. Joining the team as both observers and assistants were the oncoming dayshift personnel, as well as off-duty staffers who had been notified of the highly unusual case.

  Jacobs rods had only been in limited use for a little over a year, and even in the big city’s trauma center it was rare to see more than one case a week that utilized one or two of the devices to plug puncture wounds. Ross had twelve of the foot-long rods—all that the EMTs had in their rescue truck— plugging the most-critical bullet wounds, and each one had to be carefully extracted after a catalytic solvent had been injected into it to dissolve the coagulant it had extruded. As each one was removed, the trauma surgeons had to clean out the wound channel (and remove what they could of the bullet that made it) as well as repair as much of the damage as possible.

  Some of the damage could not be repaired.

  They dared not touch one of the bullets.

  “Tell me again who this guy is,” one faceless nurse asked.

  “All I know is that he’s about fifty, and that he’s a major friend of the St. Augustine cops,” another faceless, blood-spattered nurse stated. “What I can’t understand is, what are all these little cuts and bruises scattered over his body? He shows obvious signs of numerous old gunshot wounds, as well as what look like old knife and burn scars, but what the hell are all these fresh—well, they look like…like bite marks to me—over so much of his body?”

  The nurses looked at each other for a moment, then the first one added, “Unless—he’s really kinky and they actually are bite marks.”

  After studying the marks for a moment the second nurse responded, “Naaahh. Those don’t look like anything a lover would do; there’s way too many, and they damned sure don’t match any dental patterns I’m familiar with. Gotta be something else, a bunch of pet rabbits or…or hell, I don’t know. Maybe he fell into a rose bush or something.”

  “Or something,” another nurse offered.

  * * *

  The smell of spicy sausage links and frying eggs tickled Teddy Shapiro’s large nose. “Breakfast almost ready?” he called from within the folds of the Sunday London Times. Before he received an answer the cell phone on a nearby table trilled. Not many people in nearby London knew the number, so he feared it had to be a long-distance call from the States. He’d flown directly to the historic old English estate from the Friday night party, and once settled in had managed to actually get some work done toward setting up Europe’s first Patrons branch on the outskirts
of Great Britain’s capital. Shapiro was customarily an early riser, but this morning he’d gotten up earlier than usual to get a head start on the mountains of work facing him, but a quick mental calculation told him that it must be shortly after midnight, Sunday morning, on the East Coast of the United States. He hoped with a sinking feeling that the call didn’t mean something bad. Then he saw the caller-ID number on the phone’s LCD screen and his stomach lurched.

  “Hello.”

  “Tzvi, Noach here. Here’s the short and sweet of it: A trio of black-suited mamzers hosed our old chaver Jack, and S’leen managed to chill them after the fact. Jack’s hanging on by his non-existent foreskin, and I think you need to be back here ASAP. I’ll call when I know more. Shalom.”

  The line went dead, and all Shapiro could do is look at the little phone like it had suddenly turned poisonous. “‘Shalom’ to you, too,” he absently muttered in the direction of the silent instrument.

  A russet angora-furred female H’kaah peered hesitantly around the corner from the kitchen before entering the room. “Was that a call from home, Teddy?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, then slowly looked at the plush-furred alien standing uneasily near the doorway. The look in his eyes was so full of misery that even she understood something was terribly wrong. “F’haan,” he slowly began, “go put on some clothes and get your things together.” When she looked questioningly at him he would only say, “We’ll be leaving in an hour, probably to attend a funeral.”