Meds

by Ray Garton

  “You wanted advancement. That’s it, isn’t it, Victor? You’re a man on the come, lookin’ to get ahead, climb the ladder, see how high you can get. You want to be important, don’t you? Powerful and rich and important. That it?”

  Gall could no longer feel the chair in which he was sitting. He was paralyzed. Just get out of here, he thought. Get out of this office, get out of this building, and then just disappear. He thought of his escape plan, of his place in Morocco. It helped him relax. It would be a step down from the life he’d been leading, but it would be better than the alternative. Anything would be better than the alternative. Anything to avoid being taken into custody, held, imprisoned. Anything to avoid losing all control of his life—not some but all. That, after all, was his real motivation. Control. Power. He could tolerate not being able to amass any more, but he could not tolerate losing all of what he had.

  The Director moved his face closer until they were almost touching and raised his voice as he said, “Is. That. It?”

  Finally, Gall nodded.

  “Say it. Say it!”

  “I-I... I wanted advancement. I wanted promotion.”

  “Okay, now.” The Director stood up straight, put his hands on his hips and nodded. “That’s more like it. But we’re not finished.” He nodded at Rubinek.

  Gall heard Rubinek get off the couch behind him and approach. Cold metal touched Gall’s right temple and his eyes moved right to see that Rubinek was standing beside him with a gun to his head.

  Leaning on the desk again, the Director said, “I want to make sure you know just how serious I am, Victor. Do you? Is that clear enough now?”

  Gall nodded cautiously.

  “Now. Your actions have had some pretty serious and massive consequences. You know what happened? Because of that improvised shipment of Paaxone to Afghanistan, people who were taking the drug in California weren’t able to get it. The withdrawal Mr. Smurl was worried about—although he obviously wasn’t worried enough, and he’s gonna have to answer some pretty hard questions about that—made a lot of them go batshit crazy and people were hurt and killed as a result. That’s what happened. Do you know what’s gonna happen now, Victor? A shitstorm. That’s what. But do you know what’s not gonna happen? None of the shit from that storm—none of it!—is gonna land on my head. Do you know why? Because you are gonna be my fuckin’ umbrella.”

  Because he was such a large man, the Director always towered over Gall. But now Gall felt even smaller than usual as he watched his boss go back around the desk and sit down again.

  “Now,” the Director said, “what you’re gonna do is tell me everything. Top to bottom, everything you did, every single solitary goddamned step you took, everyone who helped you, every move you made. After you do that, you can go.” He nodded toward Rubinek, who still held the gun to Gall’s head. “But I wouldn’t do a whole lotta hesitatin’ if I was you, boy.”

  6.

  When it became clear that Gall was finished telling his story, the Director looked up at Rubinek and nodded once. Rubinek lowered the gun and returned it to the holster under his sport coat.

  Looking at Gall, the Director said, “Confession is good for the soul, as the old saying goes. I’ve always believed that to be true. Is it, Victor?” He leaned back in his chair. “You feel any better now that you’ve got this great weight off your chest?”

  Gall lowered his head and stared at his lap, but did not respond.

  “All of this... mayhem,” the Director said quietly, “all these people dead, all these people going loopy because they had to stop taking a prescription drug... all of this so you could get ahead. All so you could improve your station in life. Turns out you’re a hell of a lot more resourceful and driven than I originally thought, Victor. Turns out you’re resourceful and driven like a fuckin’ serial killer.” He smiled and chuckled. “You’re in one deep pisspot of trouble, boy. I hope you realize that.”

  Gall lifted his head. “No disrespect intended, sir, but it’s your word against mine. And really, you have no proof.”

  “That’s no longer the case, Victor. Our conversation here has been recorded.”

  Gall frowned and said immediately, without thinking, “Without my knowledge?”

  The Director tilted his head back and released a single barking, “Ha!” He turned to Rubinek with a smile and said, “You believe this?”

  Rubinek believed it. He knew Gall’s type. He was sure the Director did, too. Washington was full of them. Victor Gall was one that got caught.

  To Gall, the Director said, “What fuckin’ idiot truck did you just fall off of, son? This is the goddamned NSA.”

  Rubinek looked down at Gall. He did not move in the chair, not so much as a twitch. He could have been a statue.

  “Well, I said you could go when you were done. And you know what? You’re done. Now get outta my sight.”

  Moving smoothly and calmly, but quickly, Gall stood, turned, and headed for the door with broad steps.

  “Oh, one more thing, Victor,” the Director said.

  Gall stopped but he did not turn around. He left his back to the Director.

  “Waiting for you outside that door are agents Wilcox and Brent from the FBI. They’re gonna take you someplace safe where you can get a good night’s rest. We wanna make sure you’re bright and clear-headed in the morning. Because when the shit starts to fall tomorrow, I wanna be sure my umbrella’s gonna open.”

  Gall stood there for a long time, staring at the door just a couple of yards away as if it were a gallows that had been built for him. Finally, he moved forward, taking shorter steps now, his back and shoulders not quite as straight as they were before. He reached out for the knob, turned it, and pulled the door open. Again, he stood there for a long moment. No one was visible outside the door. He stepped outside.

  The two men in dark suits moved in from each side. Each man took one of Gall’s elbows and escorted him out of the outer office at a good clip.

  The Director stood and approached Rubinek, offered his hand. As they shook, he said, “Thank you, Mr. Rubinek. I greatly appreciate what you did tonight. And again, I apologize for meeting you at the front door with a sawed-off shotgun.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable. No harm done.”

  “You’ve done me a big favor. If you hadn’t come to me, I would’ve been unprepared for this when the feces hit the oscillator. Running the NSA, I can peruse the closets and bathrooms of just about anybody I want, so to speak. But I couldn’t see what was right in front of me. And that’s damned unusual, too. Before somebody gets a job like Victor’s, we send a team of spelunkers up his ass with equipment that can tell us what kinda cake he ate on his tenth birthday. Somehow, that didn’t work this time. And I intend to find out why. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Rubinek thought about that for a moment, asked himself if there was anything he needed or wanted that the Director could provide for him. But no. The only person who could provide what he needed and wanted was Rubinek. What he needed and wanted to do would take some work and planning, but it would not be a job. It would be a pleasure.

  He said, “I appreciate that, but no. Thank you.”

  “If Gall has done anything that might get you into any kind of trouble, I want you to give me a call. I’ll do whatever I can to help you out.”

  “No, I’m fine.” Am I? he wondered. “What’s going to happen to him? To Gall?”

  “Oh, you won’t be seeing him anymore. He’s going away. Aside from causing a shitstorm for me, Mr. Gall’s job here has made him privy to things we can’t have floating around out there in the ether, if you know what I mean. Not only is he going to pay for what he’s done, he’s going to be kept under lock and key for what he knows. Can I walk you out?”

  I’m already out, Rubinek thought. In my mind, I’m already out.

  “No, I can find the way.” He smiled briefly. “Enjoy your shitstorm.”

  “I plan to enjoy it a hell of a lot more than V
ictor Gall’s going to.”

  Once outside, Rubinek took a couple deep breaths of cool night air. It was a beautiful clear night, free of the thick smoke that had clogged the air during his brief visit to northern California the day before.

  He’d parked at the curb in front of a small lawn with a few trees and two stone benches. The little park was a pleasant gap between two old buildings. He got into his car and took his cell phone from his pocket.

  Rubinek knew Falczek was in Santa Vermelha waiting to hear from him, waiting for the information that would tie his story together. At Roger Dreyfus’s house, Falczek had said to him, “If you can get me the information I don’t have, this story will be big. Very big. Which is unusual considering it involves no missing children or celebrity sex.” The memory made Rubinek chuckle. Although he’d spent a very short time with him, he liked Falczek. He was glad he hadn’t killed him.

  He opened the cell phone to make the call.

  7.

  When Falczek sank into his favorite chair in his robe and slippers, Doug did not wait for him to settle in before hopping into his lap. He’d gotten Doug from Mrs. Fitch earlier that night and brought him back to the house, then gone on to the hospital. They hadn’t had a chance to spend any time together since his return from Washington and now Doug was eager to show how much he’d missed him. Once in his lap, the dog put his front paws on Falczek’s chest and enthusiastically licked his face.

  “Hey, hey, one shower was enough,” Falczek said as he embraced the dog. He’d missed Doug.

  Falczek was tired and achy and felt old. Normally, he enjoyed staying up late, but it was after one in the morning and he’d slept far too little lately. Every time his thoughts turned to Everett, a sensation of numbness overwhelmed him. He wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. He’d spent nearly two hours with the police after the mess at Roger’s house, and he expected to hear from them again in the next day or so. He’d told them an intruder had walked into the house and started shooting, apparently a robbery attempt gone wrong. He said he’d scared the guy off before he could take anything. Everett’s killer had not given him a name before disappearing, but he’d promised to call once he had the information Falczek needed.

  He thought about the writing he’d done so far. He tried not to get too lofty when thinking about where the story might land—Time? Newseek? Was there a book in it?—but that was difficult to avoid.

  His cell phone chirped on his notepad atop the end table beside the chair. As he picked it up, he hoped it was the call he’d been waiting for.

  “Falczek.”

  “Hello, Mr. Falczek. Sorry for calling so late.”

  He recognized the voice immediately. “Don’t apologize,” Falczek said as he put Doug on the floor. He picked up the notepad and a pen and prepared to write. “By the way, before we get started, here... what do I call you?”

  “Call me Ruby.”

  “Ruby?”

  “It’ll do. I’ve been very busy since I got back, and I’ve got a lot of information for you, so I hope you’re ready.”

  “Ready. Shoot.”

  “This whole thing was the work of two men. It was the brainchild of Victor Gall, the NSA man who hired me. It was carried out by Edward Smurl, CEO of Braxton-Carville.”

  As Ruby talked, Falczek scribbled on the pad in his own brand of shorthand. As he wrote on the pad, he wrote the rest of the piece he’d been working on in his head. It began to fall together nicely. When Ruby paused for a moment, Falczek said, “How did they find out about me? Was it my visit to Braxton-Carville? I talked to some PR flunky and told him what I knew hoping he’d spread the word and someone would get back to me. Was that it?”

  “No. Someone overheard you talking about this over lunch in the Pentagon’s Navy Mess. She mentioned it to her boss at the Pentagon, a man named Richard Stephens, who knows Gall casually. The name Paaxone caught his attention because he’d heard that Gall was working on getting a shipment of it to Afghanistan to treat troops with PTSD. So he called Gall and told him what this woman had heard you say at lunch. Gall decided to remove you and anyone you might have told from the equation. Later, he roped some NSA analyst into honing in on you, monitoring your whereabouts. That’s how he knew you were at Roger Dreyfus’s house when I was in Santa Vermelha yesterday. He told me to go there and kill you and everyone in the house.”

  Falczek closed his eyes a moment as the memory of what had happened in Roger’s house yesterday came back vividly.

  Ruby kept talking and Falczek kept writing until they’d covered everything.

  “Just in case you didn’t get all of this written down,” Ruby said, “I’m going to be sending you all the details. But I want to be clear on this—I’m just an unnamed source, right?”

  “Absolutely. After all, I don’t know your name.”

  “And you’re not going to reveal the fact that your unnamed source is the man who came to Roger’s house to kill you and your friends?”

  “That would be shooting myself in the foot. If I did, the cops would want me to tell them who you are, and when I didn’t, I’d get into trouble. I nearly went to jail for protecting a source once, but that was back in my misplaced youth. I’m too old for that shit now. You’re safe. In the course of writing my story, I will discover that the unidentified intruder at Roger’s house was an assassin sent to kill us. And that’s all I’ll know about it.”

  “Good to hear. Thanks. Uh, I suppose you’re going to try to talk to Edward Smurl at Braxton-Carville.”

  “I’m going to try. Whether or not he’ll talk remains to be seen.”

  “Well, in that case... a piece of advice. Try to do it as soon as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Just... take my word for it. The sooner the better.”

  Once the conversation was over, Falczek put the phone and the notepad back on the end table and patted his thighs, saying, “C’mon, Doug.”

  The dog jumped back into his lap and started licking his face again as Falczek ruffled his ears and patted his back.

  “You want to come on Larry King with me when I become an important reporter again and everybody wants to talk to me?” he said. “Maybe they’ll ask me to be on Nancy Grace’s show. You’ll have to come with me then so you can do the country a big favor and rip that nasty bitch’s throat out. Huh? Sound good? Huh?”

  Doug barked his approval.

  Falczek embraced the dog, thinking of how very lonely and empty his life would be without him.

  EPILOGUE

  1.

  In the last three weeks, everything had gone straight to hell fast and there’d been nothing Smurl could do about it.

  At the moment, he felt relaxed for the first time in weeks. He had his feet up in a plush recliner facing a crackling fire while rain whispered on the roof outside. No television, no radio, just the sounds of the rain and the fire and the jingle of ice in his vodka tonic when he drank. No Delia, no twins, no reporters. He felt himself sink a little deeper into the chair. After three weeks of hell, he deserved this.

  First, the radio news reporter in northern California had gone on the air and mouthed off about Paaxone and Braxton-Carville. That started it all, and with luck, it might help end things, because Shelldrake had pounced on that. He’d learned that she’d said those things on the air without a solid, reliable source of information, only on the word of an acquaintance. Shelldrake had looked into the reporter’s background, and learned she was an alcoholic. They’d been doing their best to tear the reporter down in the media at every opportunity—and the opportunities were endless.

  Reporters were everywhere. CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, the three television networks and every news and tabloid outlet known to man had been parked outside his front gate and flying over his house in helicopters from that day on. Every act of violence that had taken place in California while Paaxone was unavailable was being examined for a possible connection to the unavailability of the drug. “Next thing you know,” Smurl had growled at D
elia one evening while watching the news, “they’ll be saying Braxton-Carville killed Christ.” Seeing an opportunity to give the impression that they had even a shred of concern for the American citizenry, politicians were beginning to harrumph and grandstand in front of cameras and microphones.

  Delia had used the outbreak of chaos as an excuse to do something she’d been wanting to do for a long time—get a divorce. She’d kicked him out of the house at the end of the second week and he’d rented a house closer to work. He hadn’t moved all of his things in yet, but he was working on it. It was a small, gated place, rather remote, located at the end of a long, narrow dirt road. So far, it had not been discovered by the media, but Smurl didn’t expect that to last much longer.

  Braxton-Carville’s board of directors had remained surprisingly quiet during it all and at first, Smurl had thought they were taking it in stride—until he’d met with them a few days ago. They didn’t need to say a word. The glaring look in their eyes alone made it clear they were ready to hang him up by his genitals in the town square.

  Victor Gall had disappeared. He was discussed on the news, but it was said he was “in custody.” Smurl suspected he was being protected by the government. After all, he was NSA and they protected their own. The way Smurl saw it, the whole thing was Gall’s fault, and if he knew where to find the lying bastard, he’d happily choke the life out of him with his bare hands.

  The rain got a little louder on the roof.

  Smurl frowned when he heard a small, unidentifiable sound. Movement overhead caught his attention and he tipped his head back.

  An unfamiliar man stood behind the recliner and leaned over Smurl, smiling down at him.

  “Hi,” the man said.

  “Jesus Christ!” Smurl shouted. The chair thunked as he kicked the footrest down and stood so fast that vodka and ice splashed out of his glass. Then he dropped the glass and his drink spilled over the carpet as he spun around to face the man.