The Patriots Club

by Christopher Reich

  “You’re getting good at this,” Patel said.

  “A real pro.” It was only when Jenny lifted her arm that she felt anything different. A sudden stiffness as if she’d been lifting weights strenuously, followed by a white-hot pinprick that made her wince.

  Nonetheless, Patel appeared pleased. “No nerve damage. The bullet didn’t touch anything but flesh.” Laying her arm by her side, he stepped to the counter and began preparing an antiseptic rinse. “How’s the pain?”

  “Right now, it just aches.”

  “I’ll give you something to take care of it.”

  “Will it make me sleepy?”

  “A little.”

  “Then I don’t want it.”

  Dr. Patel looked over his shoulder. “Why is that?”

  “I just . . . just don’t,” she stammered. “I need to be with it. I can’t afford to be woozy or drowsy.”

  “Are you planning on operating some heavy machinery this afternoon? Forklift? Backhoe?”

  “No,” she said, all too seriously.

  Patel put down the gauze bandages he was folding. “Jennifer, I am going to rinse out the wound with saline solution, apply a topical anesthetic, and then, my dear, I am going to have to cut away a little of your skin. We call it debridement. Bullets are famous for carrying all sorts of nasty bacteria. We can’t leave any of that behind, or we’re risking infection. I’m going to give you some Vicodin. You’ll feel a little woozy, but nothing more. At most, you’ll want to take a nap, which given everything you’ve been through today, is a good thing.”

  “No,” Jenny said more forcefully. She sat up too quickly, and the blood rushed from her head. Gasping for breath, she lowered herself to the table. “I mean, thank you, but no thank you. I don’t want any of that stuff. I’m not staying.”

  Dr. Patel folded his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “I can’t demand an explanation, but I’d appreciate one. It isn’t a coincidence that you’re here twice in one day, is it?”

  Jenny regarded the doctor, with his deep brown eyes and sympathetic smile. She sighed. “No, it isn’t. To put it in a nutshell, the men who shot at me are the same ones who slashed open my arm last night. They kidnapped my boyfriend, and when he managed to get away, they tried to kill him. Except that they missed, and hit me. Only I’m not so sure whether they really did miss.”

  She’d expected a skeptical smile, but Patel’s expression was dead serious. “Are you saying that these men might have followed you to the hospital?” he asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “And that they might wish to harm you while you convalesce?”

  “You got it.”

  Patel left the examining room without a word. He returned two minutes later. “I had a talk with security. All inquiries about you will be turned down, unless you care to give me a list of people you’d like to speak with. The admitting nurse has been informed. Any parties asking about you will be directed to security or to me.”

  “Thank you,” said Jenny.

  “Don’t thank me. It’s purely selfish. If they miss you next time, they might hit me.” Smiling, he took off his lab coat and folded up his shirtsleeves to the midforearm. Reaching toward the counter, he picked up a bottle of saline and began to rinse the wound. “How many weeks are you, anyway?”

  Jenny turned her head away. “Almost eight.”

  “Are you still feeling poorly?”

  “Miserable. But just in the mornings. By noon, it’s all gone.”

  “Boy or girl? Any preference?”

  “Just healthy,” she said, though she was sure she had a baby boy inside her. She placed a hand on her stomach. She could feel him there. Not kicking or moving. He was still much too small for that. But she could feel him growing. In the mornings, his demands on her system left her sapped and nauseated. The nights were a different story. Every evening at six on the dot, she experienced a rush of well-being she could only term euphoric. And she kept feeling good until she went to sleep.

  “Does he know?” asked Dr. Patel.

  “Tom? I wanted to tell him this morning, but then . . . events got in the way.”

  “I’m sure he will be thrilled.”

  “I’m sure, too . . . kind of.”

  Patel applied a film of topical anesthetic. Jenny felt it tingle and her shoulder grow numb. Patel picked up a forceps and began to peel away the top layers of the wound. “The good news,” he said, “is that this is nothing compared to childbirth.”

  “One or two slices?” the counterman asked again.

  Bolden glanced at the menu board above the ovens. A plain slice went for $2.25. A slice of pepperoni cost $2.75. “One. Make it a pepperoni. And a Dr Pepper. To go.”

  “Next!”

  Bolden slid down the counter. The shop was warm and fuggy, the smell of baked tomato, garlic, and hot cheese wafting in the air. Despite the inviting aroma, he had no appetite. A jackhammer was working overtime inside his skull. Grit from the explosion had lodged in his eyes, making them sore and watery. The cashier rang up his total. He paid and took a place against the wall, waiting for the pizza to come out of the oven. On top of the soft-drink cooler, a television broadcast the midday news.

  “News Four has obtained disturbing videotape showing the murder of Solomon H. Weiss,” the anchorwoman announced.

  Bolden’s eyes shot back to the TV.

  The anchor went on, “Weiss, chairman and cofounder of the prestigious investment bank Harrington Weiss, was shot dead this morning in an apparent employment dispute with a longtime executive. We caution audiences that the tape is graphic and has not been edited for broadcast.”

  Bolden watched the events of that morning unspool as recorded by a camera planted in the frame above the door. The tape lasted ten seconds and showed Bolden struggling with the security guard, the gun going off, and Sol Weiss falling to the floor. There was one difference, however, between the events of that morning and the scene broadcast on television. The security guard was wearing Bolden’s head and vice versa. To all the world, it appeared that Thomas Bolden had shot Sol Weiss.

  The anchorwoman reiterated his views a few seconds later.

  “The suspect, Thomas Bolden, aged thirty-two, is at large and considered to be armed and dangerous. If any viewer has information about Bolden’s whereabouts, they are asked to call the number below.”

  Bolden’s photograph filled the screen. It was his most recent passport photo and he wondered how in the world they had dug it up. He didn’t stare at the camera so much as glower at it. It had been taken after an all-nighter at an attorney’s office correcting the proofs of an offering memo. He was pale with dark rings under his eyes. He looked menacing. He looked like a murderer.

  “Here you go, sir.” The pizza chef handed Bolden his bag.

  The cashier, who had been watching the segment along with Bolden, turned toward him, then looked at the television again. Meanwhile, the TV station was replaying the images of Thomas Bolden, murderer, shooting Sol Weiss.

  “That’s you,” the cashier said, in a flat voice.

  “No,” said Bolden. “Just looks like me.” He turned to leave the pizzeria.

  “That’s you,” she said again. “That’s him,” she announced to her customers, this time louder, as if she’d just looked at her lottery ticket and realized she’d hit the jackpot. “Oh my God, that’s him!”

  Dr. patel returned to the examining room fifteen minutes later. “I am happy to report that the waiting room is free of all bad guys. No one carrying machine guns, machetes, or hand grenades has been seen.”

  “And elephant rifles?”

  “I’ll have to go back and check. Actually, I do have some good news. Your brother, Daniel, is here. The police brought him in. He’s quite concerned. “

  Jenny felt the ground shift beneath her. “My brother lives in Kansas City.”

  “Tall fellow. Blond hair. A handsome chap. I just had a word with him in the hallway. I didn’t know you had a history with da
ngerous firearms. He told me all about how you shot him in the cheek with a BB gun. I can’t say I see the resemblance, but I’m sure he’ll take good care of you.”

  “Danny’s five nine, and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds. He’s bald and can’t jog from the porch to the mailbox.”

  “No, but . . .” Patel looked over his shoulder, then back at her again, confused.

  “Where is he?” she asked, standing from the table. She wasn’t sure what frightened her more—that there was someone in the hospital trying to get to her, or that he knew that she’d plugged Danny with a Daisy Repeater . . . only it had been in the butt.

  “At the nurses’ station talking to Dr. Rosen, chief of the ER. I said I’d bring you out in a moment.”

  “A shirt. I need a shirt.” Jenny stood bare-chested, the bandage taped to her shoulder.

  “But you can’t leave. I need to get you some medicine . . . a prescription . . . you need to sign the charges.”

  “The man outside tried to kill me and my boyfriend,” said Jenny. “Give me your shirt.”

  “What? But . . .”

  She threw out a hand. “Give it to me now! And your jacket.”

  “But he’s with the police . . . they want to talk to you, too. I’m sure it’s all right.” Reluctantly, Patel removed his lab jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. “Here you are.”

  “Stethoscope?”

  “They’re expensive,” Patel protested, but he handed his to her, all the same.

  Jenny threw on the shirt, and the jacket on top of it. “Do you have a rubber band?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Patel rummaged in a drawer. “Just one?”

  “One will do.” Jenny tied her hair in a knot and put it up. She looked at herself in the mirror. Close up, she wouldn’t fool anyone, but from down the hall she’d look like just another doc. “Do you know a back way out of here?”

  “I’ve been living inside this tomb since July fifth of last year. I know ways out of here even the architect didn’t imagine.” Patel caught himself, indecision wrinkling his face. “But really . . .”

  Jenny walked to the door. “Which way out? Not by a front door or the ambulance port. A side exit. Someplace no one uses.”

  Patel looked around nervously, mumbling to himself. “Yes, all right then. I know the place. Go down the hall to the vending machines, then turn right. Take the stairs to the second floor. There’s a walkway that connects this building to the one next door, where the pediatric ward is located. Once you’re there, continue to the far side of the building and take the elevator to the parking garage. There’s a food court there. And stairs up to the street. That’s the best I can do.”

  Jenny looked at the doctor, thin and naked to the waist. “Thank you,” she said. “I hope we don’t see each other for a really long time.”

  “Good luck.”

  Jenny opened the door and turned down the hallway, away from the nurses’ station. She saw him out of the corner of her eye. Just for a split second, but it was enough. The white-blond hair. The wind-kissed complexion. She knew him in an instant. The man who’d stolen her watch last night. Thomas had said his name was “Irish.”

  She hurried down the hall without a look behind her.

  38

  Bill Donohue rushed across the floor of Triton Aerospace’s Alexandria-based warehouse. “Is the replacement for the President’s podium ready yet?” he asked the VP of consumer sales.

  “We’re getting ready to load it onto the truck.”

  “Check the wiring. The Secret Service is pretty steamed.”

  “Everything’s up and running. Waterproof and airtight.”

  “Where is it? I promised Fiske that I’d have the podium on the Hill by two.” Donohue checked his watch. It was already 2:40. Traffic had been bumper-to-bumper getting out of downtown. With the snow starting to come, it would only be worse getting back. He was on the verge of Excedrin headache number nine.

  “Follow me. You can give us a hand.”

  Donohue walked toward the loading dock. Forklifts noisily motored up and down the floor, carrying pallets stacked with electronics gear. Men called to one another from atop thirty-foot-high columns of packing boxes. All the while, speakers belted out Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.” The Alexandria warehouse handled shipments and repairs for all of Triton Aerospace’s nonmilitary products. These included shortwave radios, police band receivers, communications systems, public address systems, and spare parts.

  Like many Triton executives, Donohue had joined the firm straight out of the service. A graduate of the naval academy, he’d done an eight-year hitch driving an S-3 Viking, an aging warhorse whose mission it was to track Soviet submarines. With the Russians pretty much out of the sub business, the need for his specialty was low and falling. Donohue had been offered a promotion and a billet in recruiting if he would stay. He’d tolerated the military’s long hours and low pay because he loved flying. If he had to take a desk job—and this particular billet was located in Detroit, Michigan—he wanted to earn a little coin. He’d resigned his commission and joined Triton. As a newlywed with his first child due in six months, it was time to start putting some money in the bank.

  “Here she is,” said the VP, a guy named Merchie Rivers. Rivers walked and talked like a hard-charging ground-pounder who’d forgotten he’d taken off his green beret five years earlier.

  Donohue watched a pair of workers wheel the pressure-wrapped podium toward them. “Looks bigger.”

  “It’s the newest model. If we’re going to have a billion people watching, the boss wants to have the best up there. It’s two inches wider across the base. Weighs thirty pounds more.”

  “Why the increase?” asked Donohue. As a pilot, he’d been trained to question every extra pound his aircraft took aboard.

  “The thing’s got enough bulletproof armor to stop an RPG. Kevlar ain’t light.”

  “Good. There’s no such thing as being too safe on this one.”

  “Amen,” said Rivers.

  The workers lifted the podium into the payload of a delivery van and strapped it in place.

  Donohue slammed the rear doors closed. “Just make sure it has the presidential seal on it.”

  “Not to worry, buddy,” said Rivers, shaking his hand as if it were a rag. “This one was custom made for President McCoy.”

  39

  Godforsaken machines.

  Guilfoyle sat at the head of the conference table inside the Quiet Room, surrounded by four of the firm’s top information analysts. Scattered across the table was Thomas Bolden’s credit history, his medical records, school transcripts, credit-card bills, gas, electricity, and phone bills, banking and brokerage statements, a list of magazine subscriptions, travel records including his preferred seat assignment, driving record, insurance policies, tax returns, and voting record.

  All of it had been fed into Cerberus, and Cerberus had spat out a predictive model of Thomas Bolden’s daily activities. The forty-page report, bound neatly and set on the table in front of Guilfoyle, was titled “Core Personality Profile.” It told Guilfoyle where Bolden liked to eat, how much he spent each year on clothing, in what month of the year he tended to have a physical, what kind of car he was likely to drive, his “must-watch” TV, and not incidentally, how he would vote. But it could not tell him where Thomas Bolden would be in an hour.

  “We can ascertain, sir, that Bolden has a point-four probability of eating at one of three restaurants downtown,” one of the men was saying. “Also, that he has a point-one probability of going shopping after work and that he has a point-ninety-seven probability of visiting the Boys Club in Harlem tonight. I caution that the results maintain a bias of plus or minus two standard deviations. Regardless, I’d suggest stationing men at all three restaurants, as well as the Boys Club.”

  “The man is on the run,” said Guilfoyle. “He is not behaving according to his regular daily patterns. He went shopping, but it was at ten A.M. in a store he’d never visite
d before. I can promise you that he will not be visiting the Boys Club tonight. If for no other reason than he knows that we’ll have a dozen men surrounding it.”

  “If I might interject, sir,” said Hoover, a flaxen-haired giant with skin as fluorescent as the damnable lighting. “The acute psychological profile Cerberus provided shows that Bolden is aggressive, proactive, and that he tends to cope well with physical stress. . . .”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Guilfoyle said, his calm fraying by the minute. “The man is a cipher, as far as I’m concerned. He’s supposed to be an investment banker, yet he acts like a seasoned operative. Where does Cerberus tell me anything about that?”

  “It’s his childhood, sir,” said Hoover. “Clearly, we don’t have a complete picture. If only we could input some relevant data pertaining to . . .”

  Guilfoyle raised a hand, indicating that Hoover should contain himself. Hoover had spent too long with the machines. His answers always began with “If only . . .” If only we could improve this. If only we could get more of that. Like the mother of a mischievous child, he had become an apologist for the system’s shortcomings.

  A picture window ran along one side of the Quiet Room, giving a clear view of the communications center. Guilfoyle slipped on a pair of glasses and directed his attention to the wall. Projected onto the screen was what was called a link map. A bright blue ball with the initials “TB” glowed at its center. Phone numbers belonging to his home, office, cell phone, and BlackBerry ran beneath it. Emanating from the ball, like rays from the sun, was a cluster of lines each leading to its own ball, some small, some large. Those balls, too, had initials, and below them tightly scripted phone numbers. Many of the balls were interconnected, lines running between them. The whole thing looked like a giant Tinkertoy.

  Each ball represented a person with whom Bolden maintained contact. The larger balls represented those whom, according to his phone records, he spoke with most frequently. They included his girlfriend, Jennifer Dance (at last report, undergoing hospital treatment), several coworkers at Harrington Weiss, the Harlem Boys Club, and a dozen colleagues at other banks and private equity firms. The smaller balls included less frequently contacted coworkers, other colleagues, and a half dozen restaurants. In all there were approximately fifty balls in orbit around Bolden’s sun.