by Alton Gansky
This guy had the brains; he had the experience; and he had the mental illness to do great harm. He already had.
Linear interlaced his fingers. Garret could see the knuckles whiten. “You said you had a location.”
“I have an area. He’s moved across the country. I’ve had men on his trail from the first week you contacted me. Unfortunately, he had a head start and covered his tracks well.”
“What’s changed?”
“I believe our man has taken a job in southern California. He either needs money or . . .”
“Or what?” Diane prompted.
“He’s planning on doing it again.”
“How do you know this?” Diane shifted in her seat. The news had made her as uncomfortable as it had made Garret.
“Few work in his specialty. Synthetic biology isn’t a crowded field. A skilled technician who knows his way around a DNA sequencer is gold. Companies would hire him for the same reason you did. I’ve had operatives monitoring companies that have purchased the devices or advertised for the appropriate techs. We’ve been able to look at some of the applications.”
“How did you arrange that?” Linear narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t ask. What you don’t know won’t land you in jail. Then we got lucky. One of the firms is a new client. That gained us some access to their computers.”
Diane licked her lips like a hungry woman. “What now?”
“Now I fly to southern California and pin this guy’s ears back.”
“When do you leave?”
“This afternoon. Oh, and I’ll need your corporate jet. Say, three-thirty.”
Ten minutes later, Garret walked into a cool fall afternoon and slipped into the limo that awaited him, knowing that his life had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.
SEVEN
Quiet conversation mixed with muted music and the jingle-jangle of silverware and dinner plates. Café Orleans was anything but a café. Not the most expensive restaurant in Houston, it was still a place one went only for special occasions — like a son’s birthday party.
The restaurant had been Tuck’s choice. He had long since given up on asking the children where they wanted to eat. The very question stoked the fires of sibling rivalry, each trying to outlast the other so they could contradict the first choice. “I want chicken,” would be countered with, “Well, I want pizza.” “You always want pizza.” “So?” Best not to put that flame to the fuel.
Café Orleans would never be the first choice of the children, but they never complained when they ate there. The staff treated the family like royalty, something they did for all the astronauts and key NASA executives. The restaurant, which specialized in New Orleans cuisine, also offered dishes borderline teenagers could enjoy.
A long rack of baby back ribs rested on a plate in front of Tuck. Sharing the plate were collard greens stewed with spicy sausage and grits with cheese. Myra had settled for something more sensible: a plate of pulled pork, roasted corn on the cob, and coleslaw.
Gary ate like a twelve-year-old, moving food down his gullet like a vacuum sucked up dirt.
“Ease up, boy,” Tuck said. “There’s more food where that came from.”
“Yeah, slow down, you little freak.” Penny managed to squeeze more annoyed whining into her words than Tuck thought possible. Fourteen years old, but she is still a child in so many ways.
“Penny, don’t call your brother a freak. It’s his birthday. Wait until tomorrow.”
“Daaad.” Gary stopped chewing and tried to look hurt, but he couldn’t hide the smile.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, birthday boy. Can you forgive your old man?”
“I don’t know. You’re pretty old.”
“Watch it with the old cracks, bub. I know where you live.”
“Yeah, but will you remember tomorrow?”
Even Penny laughed.
“Okay, wise guy, I have a question for you. We’ll see how smart you are. I met a man in San Diego. I never heard of him, but someone said a guy your age would know all about him. His name is Roos, Ted Roos.”
Gary stopped mid chew. “You met Ted Roos? Really? In the flesh?”
“I take it you’ve heard the name.” Tuck glanced at his wife. She seemed amused.
“Well, duh. He’s only the best video game designer on the planet. Tell me you got his autograph. Is that my birthday present? You got Ted Roos’s autograph, right?”
Tuck felt ill. He had no idea that Gary would be so enamored. “I’m sorry, Son. I didn’t get his autograph.”
“Oh, man. You’re kidding. You didn’t even ask for his autograph?”
“I didn’t know you collected autographs. If I did, I could get signatures from the really famous astronauts and test pilots.”
“It’s not the same, Dad. We’re talking Ted Roos here.”
“I got his business card; does that help?”
“Maybe. Not much.” Gary’s face revealed his disappointment.
“Let me see if I can’t make it up to you. I have his number. Maybe I can talk him into mailing an autograph.”
“That’d be great.”
Gary’s smile warmed Tuck’s heart, but the memory of the conversation with Roos chilled it again. He had not been kind to the man. “I can’t make any promises other than to try.”
“I’m still lost,” Myra said. “How did you meet this famous game designer?”
“At the air show. He was waiting for me after my flight. I tried to brush him off, but he was determined we talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“Nothing really. He wants me to retire from the Navy, quit the astronaut corps, and go to work for him.”
“Oh, is that all?” Myra looked puzzled.
“He wants you to design video games?” The look on Gary’s face was priceless. “You don’t play video games.”
“Sure I do. We just call them something else — like flight simulators.”
“Not the same thing. You don’t know anything about video games.”
“He doesn’t want me for his video game business, Gary. He wants me to help another company he formed. He’s one of those guys who wants to commercialize space.”
“What’s that?” Penny interrupted.
“In a nutshell, kid, it’s a private company that wants to make money taking tourists into space. Roos wants to send passengers into low-Earth orbit.”
Myra furrowed her brow. “So you’d be an engineer or a consultant?”
“That’s right. Well, he also wants me to pilot the craft.”
For a moment, Tuck thought the air conditioner was stuck on high. He watched Myra and the kids exchange glances.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I wasn’t interested.” Tuck saw them relax. “I’ll admit he has a persuasive way about him. Still, I have my work . . .”
“What?” Myra matched his gaze.
“Nothing. Just something he said.” Tuck waved a dismissive hand.
“And that was . . . ?”
“He said NASA would never let me fly again. Not in space anyway.”
“I hope they don’t.”
“Penny!” Myra snapped.
“Well, I don’t. It’s not fair to us. You know that, Mom.”
“Back up, Penny.” Tuck’s words were soft. He touched her hand. “What’s on your mind?”
“Your last flight . . . it’s not fair to us. Every time you go into space . . . every time you get in that stupid Shuttle . . . it’s like dying, Dad. It’s like dying. Last year . . . I thought we lost you.” Tears welled in her eyes.
Tuck looked to his wife for support, but she offered none. Gary refused to look at him. “But you didn’t lose me, kiddo. I’m still here.”
“This time. The others . . . the others had children too.”
Tuck’s heart deflated like a punctured balloon. That fact never left him, haunted him, as did the faces of his dead crew.
Penny rose from the table. “Excuse me.” She walked in
the direction of the restrooms, her head down, letting her hair hide her tears from the other patrons. Gary mumbled something and went after her.
“What’d I say?”
Myra shook her head. “It’s not what you said, sweetheart; it’s the work you do. The last year has been hard on them.”
“They haven’t shown it.” Tuck rubbed his eyes.
“Sure they have. You haven’t seen it.” Myra’s words bore no anger.
“So now I’m insensitive?”
Myra took Tuck’s hand. “No. The problem isn’t insensitivity. The problem is you’re a man. Guys like you don’t see the little clues kids give.”
“They’re overreacting.”
“No, they’re acting like normal kids who love their father — a father who came close to dying a year ago. They don’t want to go through that again.”
Myra rose from the table, leaned over Tuck, and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m going to check on them.”
“What should I do?”
“Order cheesecake. Cheesecake fixes everything.”
He was a dark man: dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. His eyes remained fixed on the BMW SUV as it moved down Gessner Street in the Bunker Hill Village area west of Houston. His eyes skipped up to the rearview mirror, then back to the vehicle fifteen yards in front of him.
The SUV fit the upscale neighborhood. The man was glad that he had rented a luxury Lexus. A cheap car would stand out in this neighborhood.
The SUV turned onto Stoney Creek Drive. It wouldn’t be long now.
The driver followed the SUV around the corner. He had to be careful. Too close would alert the driver, and she no doubt was packing a cell phone. Too far behind and he could miss the house where the woman and her cargo of children would end their journey. If they parked in a garage, then he would never identify the house.
The key was patience.
The SUV slowed and turned into the driveway of a large two-story home. Here’s where the professional separated himself from the amateur. The temptation, almost overpowering, was to look at the target car and its passengers as he passed. He didn’t. He kept his eyes forward and drove on at a speed just a hair above the residential limit.
Draw no attention to yourself. That was the first and abiding rule for people in his line of work. The second was confidentiality. He was good at both.
Continuing down the street, he pulled a U-turn at the next intersection, killing his lights before he finished the 180-degree turnaround. He moved down the street thirty or so yards and parked along the curb. An abundance of trees made it almost impossible to see the house, but he planned to pull closer in a few minutes. Give them time to get in the home and about their business. He killed the engine, then drew a cell phone from its place on the passenger seat.
He punched in a memorized number.
“I have another location for you.” He listened for a moment, then pushed end. He wasn’t finished with the phone. Using the keypad to activate the phone’s menu, he erased the record of the call.
EIGHT
Around shape on the space side of the bulkhead rose until the whole of it filled the window. A helmet. An astronaut’s helmet rose like the Moon over a horizon, the reflective gold shield mirroring the window. Tuck could see his own face reflected from the curved surface.
“Vinny? Vinny!”
Tuck pressed his face close.
Vinny’s gloved hand rose and pushed back the protective shield.
The face. Twisted. Marred. Eyeless sockets. Mummy-like grin. Thin lips screaming, “Don’t leave me out here.”
Tuck bolted upright in bed. Sweat dripped from his forehead and into his eyes. His heart tripped and tumbled and skipped. A second later, he sat on the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the oak wood floors. Air came and went from his lungs like a bellows.
Myra touched his shoulder. “You were dreaming.”
“Yeah . . . yeah, I know. Sorry.”
He had to force the words out. Dream or no dream, it had been real to him. The image of Vinny bore into his brain like a worm into fruit.
Several deep breaths later, his heart slowed and the pressure in his head eased. “Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.”
The bedroom remained dark as Myra crawled across the bed and sat next to her husband. She took him in her arms and he let her. He wanted her to hold him. He needed her to hold him. In any other moment, at any other place, Tuck would have assumed the manly role, telling himself that everything remained fine and he still controlled his future. Not now. Besides, his wife knew him too well.
“The same dream?”
“Yeah. Always the same dream. Different details. Same terror.”
“It’s been awhile.” Her voice was soft, soothing, her skin warm and welcome against his own. She kissed him on the side of his head.
He gave her bare leg a pat. “Sorry to wake you.”
“A few extra moments awake are fine with me, as long as I get to spend them with you.”
“I’m afraid your husband is a bit damaged.”
“Not in my eyes.” She rested her head on his shoulder.
“I thought this nonsense was over. I thought I was done with it. It’s been a few weeks since my last one.”
“I know, baby. I know. Maybe it’ll be even longer before the next one. Maybe this was the last.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear.”
“It has been.”
“Thanks, kid.” He took a deep breath. “Listen, you go back to bed. I’m going to get a glass of milk and watch some television. It’s going to take me a few minutes to shake this.”
“It’s amazing how real dreams can be.” She paused. “I’ll stay up with you. I’ll make cocoa. It won’t take long.”
Before he could answer, Myra was off the bed and making her way through the dark room like a cat. He looked at the clock on his nightstand. Blue numbers shone 1:03. A lousy time to be awake.
“Last call, folks.” The bartender’s voice rolled through the dingy bar, falling on the ears of the last hangers-on. Most had been in Chucky’s Bar since early evening. All had entered chattering and telling jokes, but hours of drinking had left the remainders a maudlin bunch gazing into their drinks like a fortune-teller hovering over a crystal ball. But where the psychic boasted of seeing the future, these men saw only the past.
Ronny Mason knew this because he had been one of the dopes who spent their evenings seeking the company of people worse off than they. After losing his truck-driving job because of back problems, Ronny had begun a consistent regimen of self-medication in the form of shots of whiskey. Ronny’s change came in the form of an ultimatum from a wife he loved more than life. “Get over your problems, get a new job, or get a new wife.”
The prospect of returning home to an empty house frightened him. It was one thing to lose a job, but to lose a woman like Betsy was nothing short of criminal.
Ronny’s solution: buy the bar. Chucky’s became his two years ago, and he had been sober each day of those two years. His back still hurt and he needed help lifting cartons, but he got by.
“Did everyone hear? Last call.” He rubbed his ample belly then began the final cleanup behind the long wooden bar. When everyone was out, he’d lock the door and spend the next hour sweeping the floor, wiping tables, and closing out the register. Then it was home to a warm bed and the smell of his wife.
“Aw, come on, Ronaniro, don’t nobody care if you close late.”
“State of California does, Mikey. If they closed me down, then where would you go every evening?”
“Um, the place down the street.”
“You know they don’t let the likes of you in their place. They cater to a better class of losers.”
“Ain’t no better class, Ronjamite. We is the best lot of losers ever knocked back a beer.”
“True.” Ronny gave a little laugh. Some of these men he considered family. “And I love you all like brothers. Now finish your drinks and get out. Any of y
ou need a ride, best let me know now. I know you do, Mikey.”
“Not me, pal. I’m sober as a judge on Sunday.”
“Right. I think you had better hand them keys over now. I’ll call you a cab.”
“Hey, everyone, the Ronster thinks I’m a cab.”
No one laughed. The joke had been played too many times.
Ronny moved down the bar, wiping up spills, salt crystals from pretzels, and shells from peanuts. He stopped when he reached a young man with thick brown hair, bloodshot eyes, and a puffy, awkward-looking ear.
“How about you, young man? You need a cab?”
“Nah, I’m fine, and I’m not that young. I’m almost thirty.”
“Almost thirty, eh? Well, when you’ve got fifty-five in your rearview mirror, then almost-thirty is young.” Ronny paused and studied the man. This was his first night in the bar, and he stuck out like a palm tree on a glacier. “You okay?”
“Never better, old man. Why?”
“’Cuz you been tossing shots of Wild Turkey like Kool-Aid.”
“So?”
“Nuthin’. Just that most people who hit the juice that heavy have just lost a job or someone’s died.”
“Well, you’re wrong about me. And I don’t appreciate your barroom psychology.”
“Have it your way, buddy. I just pour ’em. You can drink for whatever reason you like. Don’t mean nuthin’ to me.”
“Smart man.”
“This boy giving you trouble, Ronny?” It was Mikey.
“Naw, he just likes his own company. Nothing wrong with that.”
“You want me to toss ’im, Ronny? I’ll toss the young punk if you want.”
The new guy grinned. “You? Toss me? Listen, you old booze hound, you can barely stand. Take a step back before I have you licking dirt off the floor.”
“What makes you think you can talk to me like that? I was whipping guys like you when I was in junior high.”
“That’s enough, Mikey.”
“Hit him, Mikey. Hit him good.” The voice came from an old man in the back.
“Shut up, Henry. Finish your drink and go home. I’m not going to have a fight ten minutes to closing. That goes for you too, Mikey. Finish your drink and call it a night.”