Pieces of the Puzzle

by Robert Stanek

  He tried to sit but found his legs were rooted to the floor.

  “And Cynthia?”

  “She doesn’t know. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

  “Will she live?”

  “She’s a fighter. Once we made the decision to perform surgery, things shifted in her favor.”

  He asked to be alone and Dr. Fitzpatrick left saying how sorry she was, but how lucky he was. Cynthia should recover and in time they could try to have another child. He didn’t say anything but wished for her optimism. Afterward he stood motionless for a long time. He didn’t sit, couldn’t sit. He just stood there, staring blankly at the wall.

  And then for a second time he found himself standing outside Cynthia’s hospital room, afraid to go in, afraid not to. He took a deep breath, opened the door. A dim lamp was turned on beside her bed.

  For a fleeting moment, he saw the wires, the machines, the IV feeding her intravenously and afterward, all he could see was the image of her face in his mind’s eye the last time he saw her. Her beautiful brown eyes, sad. The lipstick on her lips a shade less than rose. Her long brown hair draped over her left shoulder. He even imagined he could smell her perfume, exotic, sweet, flowery.

  He crossed to the bed, kissed her cheek. Her skin was clammy. Her eyes, bruised and swollen. Her lips, dry and cracked.

  Her head, wrapped in bandages. He kissed her cheek again, closed his eyes, and did a thing he’d never done before. He prayed, a real prayer, not a momentary fleeting prayer, but a real prayer.

  Through the night, he stayed at her bedside. Daddy Simons came and went. The doctors came and went. Glen and Janet stopped in for a few minutes. Janet told him it was a good thing Glen had been there to call the paramedics. But he didn’t see any of them. He only saw her lying supine on the hospital bed. The color gone from her face. The bruises deepening under her eyes.

  Every hour that passed made him more angry, more sure that her accident wasn’t an accident.

  ***

  Outside the broad windows of the den, the rain had finally stopped. Janet put three ice cubes in a glass, poured the scotch and added a splash of water. Glen watched. He liked to watch her move amidst the red-orange glow cast by the fire. The light danced off her thighs and back, revealing the subtleties of her curves.

  She grinned as she swished across the room and slid in beside him on the floor. She handed him the glass and nibbled his ear while he sipped his drink and the logs in the hearth slowly melted to fiery ashes.

  Later, Glen watched Janet stew over a question he knew she wanted to ask. And then when he thought she wouldn’t say anything, she whispered, “Do you think he got the message?”

  “One thing for certain, when it clicks, he’ll come running.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “You do have an early day tomorrow.”

  “This is hard on you, isn’t it?” She massaged his neck muscles.

  “Not like the old days. They were on one side. We were on the other.”

  “Times changed. The whole world changed.”

  “The dinosaurs are still the same. The game changed. We didn’t.”

  She stood, started dressing. “I’ll call you Friday when I get back.”

  “Call me before then.”

  “Don’t worry. You taught me everything I know, remember?”

  Glen grinned. “How could I forget?”

  She slipped on her black leather pumps. He walked her to the door. They were in the middle of a kiss when someone pounded on the door. Glen told her, “Go out the back door,” then clicked on the front porch light when she reached it. He shouted, “Just a minute,” as he started to dress.

  Glen chuckled when he heard Scott shouting, “Open the door or I’ll bust it in!”

  He turned on the den lights and put his drink away while he waited to see if Scott could break down the door. There were two deadbolts on it, so he seriously doubted if anyone could break it down, but if Scott wanted to try, why not let him.

  A moment later he heard a crack, and the wooden door frame came splintering inward. He nodded approval as he ambled to the foyer, grinning toothily and waiting for Scott’s fist to wipe the grin away.

  The blow knocked Glen to the floor. Scott continued screaming and towered over him. “You son of a bitch! You did it, didn’t you? You threatened to do it and you did it. I ought to kill you, right now, right here, just to see how many people would thank me!”

  Glen shook his head and struggled from the floor.

  Scott knocked him down again. “Don’t move. I’m not done yet.”

  Glen moaned. “I think you broke my jaw.” He tried to stand.

  Scott tried to hit him. He blocked. Two blows to the face were enough for any martyr. They struggled. Scott’s hands were around Glen’s throat.

  “If she dies, I’ll make you feel everything she felt!”

  Glen broke free, rolled, came up on his feet. He proclaimed his innocence while he held Scott’s fist at bay. “I made a mistake before. You’ve got to believe me when I say I’d never cross the line. I’d never hurt Cynthia. I was the one who introduced you to her, for chrissakes. I made an empty and stupid threat that I’ve regretted ever since. I did it because I needed you on the team. Do you think I’m an idiot? I need you in Miami, not here in Baltimore sitting beside a hospital bed. You know what’s going on.”

  Scott looked confused for a moment, but that didn’t stop him from landing a kick to the head that knocked Glen off his feet. He towered over Glen, looking down. “I suppose you just happened to be there when it happened?”

  “I need you in Miami, not here in Baltimore sitting beside a hospital bed,” Glen repeated as he shook his head and held his jaw. “I really think you broke it. Quite a kick.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Let’s sit. Can we sit?” Glen staggered to the couch. Scott sat across from him. “Cynthia was worried about you, that’s why.”

  Scott’s expression revealed his disbelief.

  Glen continued, “I get this message on my answering machine to call the Chairman at once. So I called, and that’s how it all started. Cynthia was worried about you. I met her and we talked. I left. She left. We both happened to be going the same direction: Back to 695. That tanker truck driver never slowed down. The police report says it all. If I hadn’t been able to pull her out just before the explosion, I wouldn’t be here either. We’d both be dead.”

  Scott buried his head in his hands. “If anything happens to her, I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t think. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat.”

  Glen reached out to Scott. “That’s exactly what they wanted.”

  Scott shot back, “What do you mean?”

  “You said yourself you were close to something.” The phone rang. Glen ignored it, continued. “They wanted you off the trail and brought you all the way back to Baltimore. They’re good, indisputably good. We can’t let this go on. This is our only lead.

  The connection to Munich has to be obvious to you now.”

  “Munich?”

  “Yes, Munich. What did you think? Why do you think I need you? You’re the one, Scott. You got closer in this than anyone—and you came back. You’re the one who can put the pieces together. I’m counting on it and so are a lot of other people.”

  Scott jumped up. He’d known there was a connection, but if this was connected to Munich, Munich was connected to Paris and Paris to Berlin. “How far back does this go?”

  Glen knew that the pieces were coming together for Scott. “Been chasing this ghost my whole career, so have you and a dozen like you. I knew in ‘87 we were close to something but Black Monday happened anyway.”

  “Why me?”

  Glen walked to the table and unrolled a map of the world. “Teams and operations. Positive identifications and links. A lifetime’s work, the whole of their network. The magic question remains—”“Who’s at the top? Who’s pulling the strings?”

  “Exactly.
”

  Scott rubbed his eyes. “Glen, I don’t know what to say. I’m not thinking straight. I just made an ass of myself. Do you want some ice?” The phone started ringing again. “Do you want me to answer that?”

  “Could you pour me a scotch? Nice and stiff. I’ll get the phone.”

  Glen waited until Scott was on the other side of the room, then answered the phone. He didn’t say anything immediately. His desk phone took a little longer than the video phone in his office to verify the line. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end of the line said, “I did it.”

  “You closed the deal?”

  Silence greeted him.

  “Did you close the deal or not?”

  “Yes. He enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. We did it all night if that’s what you want to hear. Does that make you happy, you sick—”

  Glen clamped a hand over the receiver. He said to Scott, “I’m sorry, I have to take this. Pour yourself a drink. You look like you need it.” Into the receiver he said, “And the records?”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Glen saw Scott pour straight bourbon into a glass and gulp it down. “Deliver them, then you’ll get what you want.”

  “I want to hear her voice. I have to know—”

  Glen waved and smiled as Scott poured another drink for himself then started putting ice into another glass. “One word, one more word, and I’ll send something back to you that you’ll swear is a jigsaw puzzle and not a human being.”

  He heard sobbing on the other end of the line.

  “Deliver the records!” Glen slammed the phone down. He walked back to the couch. Scott was staring blankly at the wall. He picked up the drink Scott made for him and held it against his jaw.

  Scott looked him straight in the eye. “Let’s level the playing field. You tell me everything you haven’t told me about John Ellis Wellmen. Everything.”

  “There’s a lot more than you can handle, and sometimes when you know too much, you wish you didn’t know anything at all.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me everything.”

  Glen walked to his desk, unlocked a drawer, and removed it from the desk. A large manila envelope was taped to the bottom of the drawer. “Ever heard of the People’s Armed Police?”

  “Extremists. Isn’t there supposed to be a link between them and the importing of weapons into the U.S.?”

  Glen smiled. Scott wasn’t an expert on arms, but he understood the playing field. “No supposedly about it. It’s a multibillion-dollar industry, and it’s all very legal.” He handed Scott the envelope. “These documents date back to the early ‘80’s.”

  Scott was hesitant to open it. Glen indicated it was all right. Scott thumbed through the thick stack of documents. “What’s this? Everything anyone’d ever want to know about the arms business but were afraid to ask?”

  “Not everything, and only the dealings we’re tracking.”

  Scott gulped down Glen’s drink. Glen didn’t comment. Scott said, “Just how does all this relate? This isn’t about weapons. This is about something else entirely.”

  “Are you so sure?” Glen eyed the photograph in Scott’s hands. He tapped the map, didn’t say anything more immediately, then stood. “You want another drink?”

  “Just bring the bottle.”

  Glen knew Scott meant the bottle of bourbon. He made himself a drink and brought the bourbon for Scott. He sucked at his drink, dug his fist into the couch. “Billions weren’t enough for our Mr. Wellmen. He wanted to control an empire in the heart of the United States of America, and we let him.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He saw a way to make billions, simply and all very legal. Our government has known for a very long time of companies with ties to extremists. The extremists conduct business through these companies. They use the companies to recruit, to set up more businesses, the more legitimate the better, and then use these businesses as cover.”

  “Skip to the part where you tell me about Wellmen. You think he’s the one?”

  “I am telling you about Wellmen. Profits and greed are the order of the day, as it’s always been. Nothing’s changed.”

  Scott held up the picture. “And this?”

  “Pretty, isn’t it? I always liked a picture of an explosion and there was none better than a perfect mushroom cloud…” “How does this relate to Wellmen?”

  “Seismographs all over the world picked it up moments after it occurred.”

  “The box in Florida’s a bomb?”

  Glen knew every word in the document attached to the photo. He’d read it hundreds of times late at night. He said quietly, “We knew the day, the hour, the instant it happened, but we couldn’t do anything about it.”

  Scott shouted, “This is about a nuclear bomb?”

  Glen laughed. “Compared to Wellmen, bomb-toting wackos are amateur hour. Why use a bomb when you’ve got a better weapon? A weapon that leaves no trail, doesn’t harm the innocent but can topple governments.”

  “Damned booze,” Scott cursed as he threw the bottle of bourbon across the room. It shattered the glass mirror behind the bar. “Do I have your attention now?”

  Glen was wide-eyed and more than a little irritated. First the front door and now this. “You’ve had my attention. Don’t forget who’s in control here. I give the orders. You follow them.”

  Scott picked up Glen’s glass and dumped the contents on the floor. “If you say so.”

  Glen knew he was being played right then. “You want to know about the box. I’ll tell you. Don’t blame me if it comes back to bite you in the ass.”

  “The box.”

  “High-tech, next generation, A.I. fuzzy logic heart. It’s the next piece they need.” Glen hurled his empty glass at the bricks above the fireplace.

  Scott smiled. “Maid’s gonna love you.”

  “Get this bastard, Scott. Find the box. Follow the trail. Trace it all back to Wellmen. Let us take care of the rest.”

  Scott leaned forward, pursed his lips. “Is Wellmen the one?”

  “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

  Scott nodded. “Spell it out for me. I want to hear you say it.”

  “Scott, get back down to Florida. Get these sons of bitches. Get them for me. Get them for Cynthia. Get them for yourself. Get them.”

  Chapter 8

  Tampa, Florida Friday, 7 January

  Scott dropped the bottle, heard it shatter when it hit the concrete. The flight to Tampa International had been awful and turbulent. He spent most of the time in the bathroom. He staggered up to the second floor of a small rundown apartment building, lost his liquid lunch over the railing, then pounded on the door to Apartment 2E.

  No one answered.

  He continued pounding.

  Scott stopped when he thought he heard a voice. The door opened a crack.

  He saw the chain was on, didn’t care, and kicked the door open. He backed Helen into the couch with his eyes, put his hands around her throat and squeezed.

  “Now we’re going to have a conversation,” he said. “I ask the questions. You provide the answers. Do you understand?”

  Helen bobbed her head. Scott liked the terror in her eyes and the fact that he liked it surprised him.

  “Have you seen Jessica?”

  Helen sucked at her lip and shook her head.

  “Where is Jessica?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can I reach Pattie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He smacked her backhanded across the face. “Where is Jessica’s date book? Where are the files?”

  Her eyes darted around the room. “I don’t know.”

  He smacked her again. For an instant, it seemed the room moved.

  She tried to kiss his mouth. He pushed her away.

  “How much did they pay you to lie to me?”

  “No one paid me to lie.”

  He let her go. He
r eyes widened. He staggered toward the door. “I don’t need you. You need me. Remember that when they find Jessica floating face down.”

  She ran after him. She grabbed his hand and pulled him against her.

  The room shifted under his feet. Scott wobbled and started to fall. Helen supported him. The room had a ceiling fan, he saw suddenly. It was going round and round and round.

  “Scott, stay with me,” she said. She draped his arm around her shoulder and helped him into the other room.

  Everything was moving. A door opened. There was a bed. He fell onto it face first. Everything went black.

  Hours later, he smelled something, opened his eyes, tried to sit up, found it difficult. Helen was standing over him in her underwear. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was lying in bed with a sheet over him. His clothes were in a heap on the floor. She stuck a plate of food into his hand.

  He took the plate, set it next to him, then looked under the sheet to see whether he was really naked or not. “We didn’t?”

  She handed him a cup. “We did.”

  He took a sip and spit. “Bourbon.”

  “Water.”

  “Bourbon, get me a bottle. I’m not going to do anything today sober.”

  “You’re an angry, mean S.O.B. when you’re drunk. You’ll get no booze from me.” She threw a bottle of pills at him.

  He looked at it. “Midol?”

  “Maybe it’ll cure more than your hangover.”

  He tugged at his hair. “We didn’t really, did we?”

  “Eat. It’s getting cold. You should be hungry.”

  He collapsed back on the bed, set the cup on his forehead.

  The cool oozed out of the cup and into his aching head.

  He was famished, hated the fact that he was, hated the thoughts running through his aching brain. There was no denying the fact that Helen aroused his sense of curiosity. But if he had slept with her, he should remember something. He remembered nothing, nothing since Baltimore. Frustrated, he screamed, “Put some clothes on!”