by James Bruno
He walked for blocks, just heading for the lights of what he assumed was downtown. After fifteen hours on the bus, Mlavic had a gargantuan thirst and considerable hunger. He checked out a diner; it didn’t have a liquor license. He continued on, black boots scraping the moist sidewalk. He ignored the panhandling winos and twenty-dollar whores. A modest neon sign announced, “Red’s.” He went in.
Mlavic ordered a draft beer before choosing a barstool. A couple of men were shooting pool off in the rear. The nearly deserted place had a scattering of clients, all seated at tables. In the corner of his eye, Mlavic saw a lone youth seated near the bar nursing a drink. As he took a long draw on his beer, Mlavic took a closer look around. Something was different about this bar. By no means upscale, it also was bereft of the familiar raunch and functionality of a blue-collar establishment. He ordered a second beer, with vodka chaser.
As the alcohol lightened his head, Mlavic pondered his situation. No work. No sponsor. No long-term plans. No identity. No papers. Little money. Far from home. But the mission at hand, likely his last, obsessed him.
The youth rose, carried his drink to the bar and sat down, one stool removed from the Serb.
Mlavic ordered a cheeseburger with fries.
“Some game, huh?” the young fellow said cheerily.
“Huh?”
“The game last night. The Cavaliers clobbered the Bulls.”
“Oh.” Mlavic tried to ignore the kid. He plunged into a bowl of popcorn on the bar.
“From out of town, huh?”
Mlavic looked reluctantly at his neighbor. “How do you know?”
“No living male in Cleveland doesn’t know about the game. Besides, you don’t look like you’re from here. Or this country, for that matter.”
Mlavic shrugged.
“I’m Norm.” The young man extended his hand.
Mlavic perfunctorily shook hands, but avoided making eye contact.
“And you?”
“Peter,” Mlavic lied.
“So, where do you come from? Let me guess. Uh, Hungary. We’ve got a lot of bohunks in Cleveland.”
“What do you want?” Mlavic asked point-blank.
“Nothing special. Just breaking the ice.”
More people began to flow into Red’s. They were all males.
“What do you do?” Mlavic asked.
“Oh, I work at one of the hospitals. I’m a software guy.”
Mlavic looked quizzical.
“You know, systems. Computers.”
“I see. Which hospital?”
“Cleveland Clinic.”
Mlavic suddenly felt sociable.
“Is that so? Tell me about this clinic.” Mlavic leaned closer to Norm; he had all the time in the world.
Stimulated by Mlavic’s stream of questions, Norm described at length the sprawling health complex, where he worked exactly, how he got there, what he wore, the key internal checkpoints. At Mlavic’s request, he took out his work ID.
“And this little plastic card gets for you access to any place?”
“Well, most places. After all, I have to service systems gear, sometimes on very short notice. Lives could depend on it.”
“You are very important, I think,” Mlavic said.
“No. Not important. Maybe essential though.” Norm held Mlavic’s gaze.
Mlavic didn’t flinch. “You are also very interesting.”
“Thanks,” Norm replied, his eyes still locked onto Mlavic’s. “What do you plan to do in Cleveland?” he said in a soft voice.
“You tell me.”
“I can show you around.”
“I would like that.”
“I’d be delighted.” He looked at the door.
Mlavic got up. Norm followed. They left together.
Norm took Mlavic to his apartment, just ten minutes by car. He offered Mlavic a drink and invited him to make himself comfortable. Mlavic’s eyes took in every detail of the place with cold precision. He accepted the drink with a wicked smile. At this point, conversation was replaced by body language. Norm rose from his chair and proceeded slowly to the bedroom. Mlavic finished his drink, got up and followed.
His eyes needed time to adjust to the dark. He heard the sound of clothes coming off, followed by the rustle of bed sheets. He stood motionless.
“Peter?” Norm said.
“Yes.”
“I’m here. In the bed.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t be nervous, Peter. We can take it easy, if you’d like.”
“Yes. I would like that.”
“Come then.”
Mlavic removed his leather jacket, then took off his shirt. He seated himself on the edge of the bed.
Norm’s hand touched Mlavic’s neck.
Mlavic leaned down and placed one hand on Norm’s forehead, as if to caress his hair.
Norm let out a long sigh. He closed his eyes.
Mlavic placed his other hand gently on Norm’s throat.
The two men remained still, Norm relishing every delicious second.
Mlavic’s hand on Norm’s forehead tightened. Norm’s head sank deeper into his pillow.
“Peter?”
“Norm.” The serrated blade ripped through Norm’s neck with the violent rudeness of a train wreck. Speed and brute force brought stainless steel hard against cervical vertebra faster than Norm could contemplate that his life was coming to an abrupt end.
Mlavic positioned himself over the dying man so that both hands were on the knife, pushed forward by the Serb’s full body weight. A final, desperate breath gurgled from Norm’s throat. His arms, hands, fingers stretched outward, then fell limp. Mlavic slid the knife across, ensuring that his victim’s jugulars were completely severed. Death came almost immediately. The blood flowed seemingly by the buckets, infusing the bed, the floor, the walls, Mlavic himself, with a sickening, thickening morass of life’s essence.
Mlavic took off his pants and undershorts. He showered the blood from his body, then shaved. He found Norm’s work clothes and donned them along with the dead man’s work ID, then turned off the lights and departed, quietly closing the door behind him.
Mlavic drove Norm’s car the few miles to Cleveland Clinic with the help of a city map he found in the glove compartment. This, most likely final, mission was driven by pure rage and blood-red vengeance. Just as he had secured for himself his dream job, just when he was assured a substantial income, two citizens brought it all down, virtually overnight, in turn, rendering Colonel Dragan Mlavic a nobody, a zero. Lisa Valko and Michael Gallatin would be lucky to die as quickly as Norm. No. He would see to it that they suffered, would watch each other die at his hand. But he would start by making them irrational and furious, by getting the child first.
“Here, he’s coming,” D’Angelo said as a news anchor appeared on the TV screen over the bar.
“I don’t know if I can watch this,” Lisa said. She slumped onto her folded arms.
“Why? You write the speech?” Gallatin quipped.
Lisa sneered.
A smugly self-confident network news anchor on the TV screen announced a special address by the President. He gave a brief round-up of the scandal that had broken out in the Administration’s national security apparatus, giving center attention to the bloody suicide of Colonel Haley earlier in the week and the serious criminal charges being brought against Secretary of State John Tulliver.
President Merriman, seated at his desk in the Oval Office, came onto the screen.
“My fellow Americans,” he began. “It is with a heavy heart that I must address wrongdoing within my Administration. As you know, an individual working in the National Security Council…”
President Merriman’s handsome face appeared pained as he recounted the White House’s version of recent events. A single official had carried out a mission without his or the Vice President’s knowledge. Unfortunately, certain misguided officials in the State Department went along with the rogue operation. Th
ree officials were unstable individuals; one took his own life; another is in a mental asylum; the third killed his own family. The operation to bring in “illegal aliens” did not have the approval of Secretary of State Tulliver. But because it took place on his watch, he insisted on assuming responsibility for the events and turned in his resignation. This Administration has launched a “vigorous investigation” and will cooperate fully with the appropriate committees of Congress to get to the bottom of…blah, blah, blah.
Ten minutes later, President Merriman penetrated America’s television soul with his brilliant, sincere eyes.
“My fellow Americans. Rest assured that no stone will remain unturned as we vigorously seek the truth and impose measures to ensure that this kind of thing will never happen again.”
Merriman formed a well-rehearsed avuncular smile cum twinkle in his eye.
“I am reminded of a young girl I met recently, an African-American girl, who, visiting the White House, looked up at me and related how she had traveled all the way from southern Mississippi to see the President and to work under him…to assume a higher position…in the service of her country. I told that girl — Fanny was her name — that in today’s America, there is opportunity for all because there is truth and justice for all. Therefore, my fellow Americans, as throughout our history, truth and justice will prevail now as well.”
“Pat, turn it off. Please,” Lisa implored. She looked at Gallatin. “Mike. I can’t stand it. Let’s go.”
“I promised Lauren I’d tuck her in,” he said.
“She’s come out of it?!” D’Angelo asked.
“No,” Gallatin answered.
Mlavic pulled into Cleveland Clinic’s employee parking garage, sliding Norm’s ID through an electronic reader to gain access. Clean-shaven, clad in Norm’s pale-green hospital uniform and with the victim’s work ID pinned on his chest, Mlavic easily blended in as he sauntered confidently through the corridors and up the elevators of the prestigious hospital. A directory at the entrance listed the various wards. Children’s trauma ward was on the ninth floor. As he left the elevator, Mlavic paused, waiting until no one was around, then scrutinized a floor plan mounted on the wall. It was too confusing. He saw a nurse seated behind a counter further down the hallway.
“Hi. Patient named Gallatin please. Female.” He flashed a pleasant, professional smile, then glanced at his watch with the air of a busy staffer making the rounds.
The frumpy, middle-aged nurse examined Mlavic over her reading glasses. “And you are?”
“Maerkel, Norm Maerkel. Systems.”
“I’m not aware that there’s been any systems equipment problem in that ward.” She shuffled through the papers on the counter.
“It’s software. A software thing. Not equipment,” Mlavic answered.
The nurse examined him closely over her reading glasses. “I see.”
“Is it this way?” Mlavic asked with a benevolent smile, pointing to his left.
“Uh, yeah. Um, 9012. We’ll be putting the kids to bed in thirty minutes. Please make it quick.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Mlavic walked briskly down the corridor and through an access door. While his movements were studiously easygoing, his eyes scanned the horizon mechanically to register key physical points as well as any signs of potential danger.
A double door led to the children’s trauma ward in room 9012. Mlavic stood and peeked through the glass in the doors. No movement. He pulled the right door open and calmly entered the ward. There were ten beds, all occupied by very young patients. The walls featured Disney posters; get well cards were pinned to the wall over children’s beds. Boys and girls hugged their favorite teddy bear or doll. Other paraphernalia of kiddies’ entertainment — model airplanes, coloring books, assorted toys — lay scattered in and around beds. The TVs had been turned off in preparation for bedtime. The children all were entering the lethargic state of oncoming slumber.
Mlavic checked the medical charts at the foot of each bed. He spotted an unconscious girl at the end of the ward. She had short, brown hair, and a delicate, thin, impassive face. The chart read “Gallatin, Lauren — Shock.”
Mlavic moved to the head of the bed. He placed a hand on her cheek and nudged her head. No response.
“She never wakes up,” a small voice said.
Mlavic wheeled around. A boy, perhaps seven, lay on his side staring at Mlavic. His head was shaven; he was gaunt and very pale.
“Oh?” is all Mlavic could bring himself to say.
“Yeah. She’s been here a long time. I’ve never seen her wake up. She’s in shock,” the little boy said.
“I see. Well, go to sleep. It’s late.”
“It hurts too much.” He pointed to his head.
“Close your eyes. It will go away.”
The boy stared at Mlavic. Mlavic pretended to check out the wiring on a nearby monitor. The boy’s eyelids became heavy. He nodded off.
Mlavic placed his arms underneath Lauren and lifted her. Steps in the corridor became closer. One of the double doors swung open. Mlavic quickly put Lauren back and strode business-like toward the exit. He passed a visiting couple.
Gallatin and Lisa barely took notice of the departing hospital worker.
They stood next to Lauren. Gallatin caressed her head and kissed her forehead. “Baby, I’m back,” he said. “I brought Lisa with me. We have an important announcement. We’re going to get married. Won’t it be nice, the three of us together?”
“She’s beautiful, Mike,” Lisa said.
“I’m taking her home. Soon. They can’t do anything more for her here. She’ll come to. I know it. Familiar surroundings and lots of love will do it.”
They were silent for several minutes. A nurse entered the ward. “Visiting hours are coming to an end,” she whispered with a smile.
Gallatin again caressed his daughter’s face. He said a silent Hail Mary and crossed himself, then bent down and kissed Lauren good night.
Gallatin and Lisa left the ward.
Thirty seconds later, Mlavic reappeared. He looked at the boy with the shaven head. The boy’s breathing was deep and regular. His eyes moved actively behind their lids.
He looked down on Lauren. He did not see an innocent girl in repose. He saw a Muslim. A target for his vengeance. A convenient victim through whom to channel rage and by whom to lure his ultimate targets to their deaths.
Mlavic looked about furtively. No hospital staff. The children were all asleep. He reached into his tunic and took out a black, folding stiletto. A swift slash across the girl’s tender throat would do it.
He placed the tip of the silvery blade ever so tentatively below Lauren’s chin; her smooth flesh yielded to the blade, but he did not apply pressure. He looked the girl up and down. Slowly, he drew the blade from Lauren’s throat and languidly traced a line on her skin, across her larynx, down into the small valley above her collar bone, until the steel met the cotton whiteness of her nightgown. A drawstring at the top was tied in a bow. Mlavic placed the blade under the string and jerked upward. The razor-sharp stiletto cut the string cleanly in two. He reached down with his left hand and pulled one side of the gown away, revealing an adolescent’s small, white chest. Mlavic grinned evilly.
The double doors swung open.
Gallatin walked briskly back to Lauren’s bed. He reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a silver crucifix on a delicate chain. He brought it to his lips and kissed it, then placed it around Lauren’s neck. The cut drawstring, put back in place by Mlavic before he ducked under the shaved boy’s bed, did not move.
“This was your grandmother Bess’s. I almost forgot about it. It’ll bring you blessings. Don’t worry, baby. God is looking down on you.” He kissed her again and exited the dark ward.
Springing out from under the neighboring bed, Mlavic knew he would have to finish the job quickly and run. He took a deep breath, hovered over Lauren and directed his knife just below her right ear. With a slig
ht yank, he effortlessly severed the crucifix chain.
Lauren’s eyes opened. She focused on Mlavic.
Mlavic was stunned. Plunge the blade in! he told himself.
Lauren popped up and completed the scream she had stifled on that cold night when she flung her best friend’s burnt and scarred body out the window of the Suleijmanovics’ home. It was powerful and piercing. The adrenaline surge it induced in Mlavic made him jump back.
In sequence, one high-pitched scream after another sliced through the air as each child awoke terrified. As instructed in case of emergency, they pressed their bedside call buttons. Mlavic could hear fast-paced footsteps approaching the ward. His eyes shifted back to Lauren. Oddly, she held his gaze with sober, unafraid eyes while, at the same time, screaming at the top of her lungs — as if what she was doing were calculated.
“Who are you?!” demanded a large-framed nurse at the other end of the ward.
Mlavic spat. He lunged ahead to the double doors, shoved the nurse against the wall and sprinted down the corridor to the nearest stairwell. He threw himself into it and frantically leaped down the steps three at a time.