by Ray Garton
Falczek was not a fighter. The man with the gun was.
They struggled clumsily just inside the door. Falczek kicked and punched while the man absorbed his blows and worked to debilitate him. Instead of falling over, the man ploughed forward like a train with Falczek plastered to the front of the engine. The man stomped forward, pushing Falczek so hard that his feet left the floor as he was carried backward. His back slammed into the wall so hard that his lungs emptied in an explosive rush.
His eyes clenched shut and he gasped for breath as the man pressed him to the wall. When he opened his eyes, Falczek saw the gun’s barrel as it moved forward and pressed to the spot just above the bridge of his nose. Beyond the gun, the man’s face looked at him with a surprising lack of tension, stress or emotion. Half of the red eyebrow over his right eye had peeled off and dangled like a piece of torn flesh. The eyebrow beneath it—the real eyebrow—was dark.
“John Falczek,” the man said quietly. He wasn’t even winded.
Falczek was mesmerized by the dangling eyebrow, confused by it. He stared at it open-mouthed. He somehow sensed the man was squeezing the gun, about to fire and put a bullet into his skull. His body went limp. A shudder passed through him and his insides seemed to loosen as he faced his death. In desperation, he decided to try one last thing.
“Others know all about it,” Falczek said breathlessly, his voice weak and hoarse. “They know you were sent here by Braxton-Carville to kill me, and even if you do, the whole thing will come out.”
8.
The words “Braxton-Carville” hit Rubinek like a punch to the gut, and in the space of a heartbeat, a series of images flashed in his head with the speed of bullets coming from a machine gun:
Oliva’s face when she was still alive and healthy.
Arnold Shipp’s surprised face on his severed head.
Senator Walter Veltman standing at a microphone calling the pharmaceutical industry a seven-headed hydra and talking about heads rolling.
Victor Gall across the table at that greasy diner saying “I’m” instead of “we” and “my” instead of “our.”
The face of Braxton-Carville’s silver-haired eye-patched attorney Ronald Shelldrake as he convinced a jury that Olivia’s death wasn’t such a big deal after all.
And Olivia again, eyes closed, face expressionless and dead.
Rubinek took half a step backward away from Falczek and pulled the gun away a couple of inches. He stared into Falczek’s frightened eyes, wide under a furrowed brow. Beads of sweat glistened on the man’s creased forehead.
“What did you say?” Rubinek said.
Falczek’s frown deepened with uncertainty, but he didn’t speak. He just panted and trembled as he stared at the man.
“Say that again. What you just said.”
Below the bushy mustache, Falczek’s chin moved up and down a few times. Finally, he said, “If you kill me, it’ll still get out. A friend of mine has already been talking about it on the radio—about how Braxton-Carville intentionally diverted Paaxone from California knowing what would happen because of the withdrawal effect. When she finds out I’m dead, she’ll know Braxton-Carville was behind it. And so will every else.” His frown relaxed a little. His eyes narrowed as his cheeks pushed up beneath them. His mustache was hiding a slight smile of confidence and satisfaction. “So you can kill me, but... the story’s still gonna get out. You got to me too late.”
Rubinek moved back some more and released Falczek. He lowered his gun. Just above a whisper, he said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Falczek stood on his own now and pushed away from the wall, still smiling. “I didn’t stutter. I think I might’ve pissed myself a little,” he added with a cold chuckle, “but I didn’t stutter. You heard me.”
Rubinek turned his head slowly from side to side. “I wasn’t sent here by Braxton-Carville. I don’t even know what the hell Paaxone is.”
Falczek’s smile melted away and the frown deepened again. He lowered his head slightly, but kept his eyes locked with Rubinek’s. He stared at Rubinek like that for a moment, then said, “Then what are you here for?”
Rubinek did some quick thinking. Gall had him kill Veltman’s press secretary, Arnold Shipp, and told him the job had come from his boss. Rubinek had known Shipp’s severed head had been a message to someone, most likely Veltman, and now that message seemed like a clear reference to Veltman’s speech about corruption and malfeasance in the pharmaceutical industry. Veltman’s plan to investigate that possibility was all over now that he’d resigned. His resignation appeared to be due to the messy sex scandal he was involved in, but Rubinek knew better. Veltman had gotten the message and he’d decided to step out of the way. But out of whose way?
“Why do you think I’m here?” Rubinek said.
“To kill me.”
“Why?”
“I’m a leak. I’ve learned too much about Braxton-Carville’s Paaxone deal.”
“What deal?”
Falczek hesitated. “I, uh... well, I don’t know all the details. Not yet. But I know Braxton-Carville sent the shipments of Paaxone meant for California to some other destination. And they did it knowing some of the people taking it would react badly. Maybe a lot of them. And they have. The withdrawal effect causes violence. And that’s what’s happened. Here in Santa Vermelha, and I’m sure throughout California. You can kill me, but others already know. The dots will be connected. It’ll all come out.”
“What kind of drug?”
“An antidepressant.”
Rubinek remembered prodding Gall for information as to why Falczek was to be killed. Gall had said, He’s interfering with an important shipment to the Middle East. Important enough for me to put a stop to him.
“Why would an antidepressant be sent to the Middle East?” Rubinek muttered.
Falczek craned his head forward and squinted. “What’s that? Middle East? What do you know about the Middle East?”
Rubinek considered the wisdom of what he was about to say. But only for a moment. “I wasn’t hired by Braxton-Carville, Mr. Falczek.”
“Then... who sent you?”
“A man named Victor Gall. Special Assistant to the Director of the NSA.”
Chapter 20
Into the Fire
1.
When Chloe turned right onto Hemlock, the police car’s light bar began to glow a throbbing red and blue. The siren came on just long enough to give her a single warning yelp as the cruiser followed closely.
Her stomach turned into a tightly-clenched fist, but she kept going. It wasn’t far to the dirt road and if she pulled over now, the cops might make her leave before she found out whether or not Eli was there. Knowing it was probably a mistake, she increased her speed.
I’ll explain it to them when we get there, she thought.
The siren came back on and stayed on as the police car kept pace with her and filled her rearview mirror.
“Shit,” she muttered as she kept going.
The empty lot was just ahead, and beyond it, the dirt road. Chloe chewed hard on her lower lip as she turned on her blinker—she wanted to show them she was a good law-abiding citizen—then turned right off the paved road. Her Sentra rocked and bounced over the potholes, but she didn’t slow down. She even pressed a little harder on the accelerator because she saw something up ahead that made her heart clench: Eli’s car.
Beyond his car was the patch of woods he’d taken her to on Sunday. Now it was filled with smoke. As she neared the grove, another sight made her cry out.
Eli walked into the woods, swaying, weaving like a drunk, although Chloe did not think that was what was wrong. She knew his problem was much worse than a tumble off the wagon. His back to her, he wandered into the smoke like a ghost.
She slammed on the brakes and came to a stop behind Eli’s car. Putting the car in park and pulling on the brake, she started calling his name even before she got out of the car. Once out, she ran over the uneven, rocky ground
in her turquoise high-heel pumps, her legs jittering unsteadily beneath her. “Eli!” she cried. “Eli, stop! Come back!” He was a shadowy figure in the smoke now.
The siren stopped and two car doors slammed behind her.
“Stop!” a male voice called.
Chloe nearly tripped over her own feet as she spun around, her wrapped skirt flaring briefly around her. She tried to look at the police officers while running backward toward the grove of trees. There were two of them, both male, the driver tall and broad, the passenger smaller and wiry. They hurried away from their car toward her.
“My fiancé just went into those trees!” she shouted.
“What?” the wiry one shouted.
“He’s sick,” she shouted. “A drug reaction! Withdrawals! He doesn’t know what he’s doing and he’s probably confused and afraid and maybe vio—” Her right heel broke with a crack when she stepped into a hole and she fell over backward.
“Stop!” the driver shouted again. “Just stay right there, miss.”
The officers hurried toward her, but Chloe did not wait for them. She rolled over and felt small rocks tearing her stockings and needling her legs as she scrambled to her feet. This time, she did not turn back to face the police. Instead, she kicked off her shoes and charged forward, trying to ignore the painful rocks beneath her feet.
“Wait!” one of the officers called. “Don’t go in there, lady, that grove is on fire!”
It vaguely occurred to her that if the grove weren’t on fire, it wouldn’t be so urgent for her to get to Eli—didn’t they understand that?
Up ahead, she could no longer see Eli. He had disappeared into the smoke.
Chloe heard a low thrumming sound as she hurried after him. She realized it was the roaring of the fire in the trees.
2.
Eli heard a rumbling inside his head accompanied by loud, thick cracking and popping sounds. Or were they outside his head? He wasn’t sure, and he was coughing too hard to care. He kept walking as tears dribbled from his burning eyes. Each time he tried to think about what he was doing, tried to wonder why the smoke was so thick, bolts of electricity fired inside his head. They were so severe, his entire body jerked and he winced in pain with each one.
That voice again: “Eli! Come out of there! Eli, please stop! It’s Chloe! Eli, please!”
The words were jumbled, as blurry as his vision.
As his left foot stepped forward, the toe of his shoe collided with something hard and unmoving. His left hand felt like a glob of lead at the end of his arm as he lifted it to his face and tried to wipe the tears from his stinging eyes. Aside from the tears, his face was wet with perspiration. He was hot, so very hot. His right hand firmly gripped the gun, his palm slick with sweat. He looked down through the smears of smoke that moved around him like hot, angry spirits.
A rock. Somewhere in his buzzing, zapping mind, he recognized it. He’d sat on it countless times in the past and watched the creek, mesmerized by the babble of water as it coursed by. He bent down and pressed his sweaty palms to its gritty surface. It was very warm. Too warm.
“Eli, where are you? Answer me! Eli?”
That meant he was beside the creek. But he couldn’t hear it. He stepped around the rock and peered down through the smoke as hacking coughs made his shoulders hitch.
There it was, right there at his feet. Its water tumbled by at the same pace it always had, splashing over jutting rocks, flowing between them. It was unconcerned, aloof and focused only on its own course. But he couldn’t hear it because of the roaring and cracking and popping that was probably inside his head. Or was it?
Eli dropped onto the rock, his ass hitting it hard and jarring his spine.
“Eli? Where are you? Eli! It’s Chloe! Please say some—Eli?”
Beyond the woman’s vaguely familiar voice, there was another, a man: “Stop! You’re endangering yourself and us! You’ll be arrested if you don’t—”
”Eli!”
Arrested? Eli turned around and squinted through the smoke. A shape materialized out of the gloom as it moved toward him—small, slender. He saw the skirt that fell just above the knees. A woman. Eli thought again of the woman from the bar, the screaming woman he’d kicked out of his car. And the siren he’d heard earlier. When had it stopped?
The woman went into a fit of coughs, then said in a pinched and gasping voice, “Eli, you have to get out of here!”
“There’s somebody else in here,” another man said.
Two different men. He heard them before he saw them. Then they, too, oozed out of the smoke and into view. Dark figures, different shapes and sizes, but the same somehow... alike... uniform.
Realization came to him with buzzing pains that made his skull feel too small for its contents.
Cops.
Just as he’d feared, the woman had found him and she’d brought the police.
Eli pushed away from the rock and rose unsteadily to his feet. As he turned to face them, he raised the gun. It felt impossibly heavy, but he struggled with the weight and aimed it at the woman.
“Stay back!” he shouted. He had difficulty hearing his own voice because the roaring in his head was so loud. Or was it in his head at all? “Leave me alone! Stay back or I’ll shoot!”
The two police officers immediately drew their sidearms and aimed them at Eli as they shouted simultaneously, “Drop it!” and, “Put the gun down!”
The woman turned to the officers and, with great emotion in her voice, cried, “No, don’t shoot, please! He’s sick!”
The cops kept shouting for him to put down the gun, their shouts interrupted by fits of coughing.
The woman turned to him again. “Eli, you have to get out of here before—oh, Christ, Eli, behind you!” she screamed, pointing at something. “Fire! Fire!”
Was she telling him to shoot her? Did she want him to fire at her? So be it.
Eli fired the gun once, then again. The woman screamed, “No! No! No!” as she turned and threw herself at the police officers.
The cops fired their guns a fraction of a second apart.
The woman dropped to the ground in a heap.
The police officers shouted curses—”Oh, shit!” and “Goddammit!”
Even after hitting the ground, Chloe screamed, “Don’t shoot him! Please! Don’t shoot him!”
Eli became aware of intense heat behind him. It seemed to be growing worse. He slowly realized that the roaring and popping and cracking sounds were not inside his head but, like the heat, were behind him. The gun became too heavy to hold up and his arm dropped to his side. The gun slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. He turned around slowly, feeling dizzy.
Deeper in the grove, glowing through all the smoke, orange flames swallowed up trees like appetizers. A single raging entity of fire moved toward him like some kind of angry god.
3.
Falczek’s heart hammered and he got control of his breathing. He squinted at the man who’d almost killed him, trying to process what he’d just said. Over the speakers, Russ Campbell’s show continued, although to Falczek it was nothing more than a distant drone.
“The Middle East?” Falczek said. “You’re telling me that a bunch of Paaxone originally meant to be distributed in California was sent to the Middle East instead? By the National Security Agency?”
“Not exactly.” The red-haired man frowned “I’m telling you I was hired by a man at the NSA. But I’m not so sure he’s working on behalf of the NSA. Not in this case, anyway.”
Falczek looked at the dangling eyebrow again. “You’re molting.”
The man’s eyes rolled upward and spotted the eyebrow. He reached up and pressed it back into place.
One of Falczek’s bushy eyebrows rose as he took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, then said, “A master of disguise, huh? Who the hell are you?”
“I’m an independent contractor. Gall, this man who hired me—I haven’t felt right about him from the beginning. He told me you had to
be gotten rid of because you were interfering with an important shipment to the Middle East.”
Frowning, Falczek’s eyes wandered away from the stranger as he remembered Renny’s words: The Middle East. It’s got something to do with the Middle East. That’s all I can tell you because it’s all I know.
He thought back over the last couple of days, trying to figure out at what point he’d shown up on the radar of someone at the NSA. He’d gone to Braxton-Carville’s corporate headquarters and talked to that PR flunky in the hope he would light a fuse of information. But how did that connect to the NSA? Was there some other way the agency had become aware of him? Someone he’d spoken to about Paaxone, perhaps?
Falczek looked at the man and said, “The Middle East. What would be so important about getting a shipment of Paaxone to the Middle East and covering it up? How does that justify killing people to keep it a secret?”
“It’s not that much of a secret. The manufacturer would have to know about it, right? I mean, they can’t very well ship the drug there if they don’t know about it.”
“Oh, they know about it, all right. And they knew what the consequences would be. They didn’t care. But somebody wants to keep it a secret because they sent you here. And before they sent you, they sent a guy in a police uniform who killed two of my friends in Virginia and tried to kill me.”
“Why would Braxton-Carville risk so many possible problems to send an antidepressant to the Middle East?”
Falczek thought back over the research he’d done on Paaxone and what he’d learned. When it occurred to him, he rolled his eyes because it seemed so glaringly obvious.
“PTSD,” Falczek muttered.
“What?”
“The troops in Afghanistan. I’ve been hearing about it on the news, read about it in the paper. The terrorists are strapping bombs to little kids and using them as suicide bombers. The troops have been shooting them when they see them coming, except some of the kids they’ve shot didn’t have bombs. It’s tearing down morale and seriously messing up the troops. Several have committed suicide lately. They’re suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”