The Brain Vault (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 3)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Eighteen

  “Do you like clams?”

  “How in God’s name can you even think of food at a time like this? Did you see the man? He’s a friend of yours, for Christ’s sake.”

  Ambler pulled into a head-in parking spot and shut the engine. “I’m sorry, I stress, I eat—you’ve probably noticed, I’m a pretty big fellow.”

  “Herbert, come on.”

  “Look, he threw us out of his house. He obviously wanted to be alone and felt well enough not to need us in attendance.”

  “Still.” It had been less than an hour since Zugg had passed out, only to come around seconds later. He explained to us that it was his body’s response to the medication, to the abrupt cessation of pain and that passing out was the psychodynamic equivalent to the rush a junky received from a spike of heroin. The explanation didn’t ease my mind one bit. Despite everything Ambler had told me about the man’s sterling credentials, I couldn’t help wondering about how much of the man was truly left. He’d found forensic evidence the all-knowing FBI lab had somehow missed. I had known him for the sum total of an hour, during which time he had emerged naked from baptizing himself in a scummy pond, donned a monastic robe, and passed out from his body’s response to pain medication—not exactly what I’d call a solid citizen—how about you? What I really wanted to do now, more than anything, was hug a puppy. The only warm blooded creature around was Ambler, and he didn’t quite cut it.

  “Clams you say?” I couldn’t believe that I was responding to Ambler’s craving for deep fried sludge.

  “Yeah, fried clams, fried calamari, popcorn shrimp; maybe wash it down with a cold one and a huge platter of Cheez Whiz encrusted nachos.”

  I almost hurled. “Okay, I can see you’re in bad shape—order everything. I’ll just pick.” I was praying they had a decent salad on the menu—what were the chances?

  “Atta girl, there’s a place right down the street that fries everything in beer batter and bacon grease.”

  “You really feel like shit, don’t you?”

  Ambler nodded. “I feel lousy—thanks for indulging me.”

  “In terms of heartburn, you’ll be going where no man has ever dared to go before.”

  Ambler put his arm over my shoulder and we strolled down the block, our noses sniffing the grease-heavy air.

  “It was tough having to see him like that,” Ambler said.

  “I know. Are you sure it was all right to leave him alone? Maybe we should stop back to check on him before we head back to the city.”

  Ambler looked pensive. I know he wanted to say that Zugg was fine, that he’s tough as a mule and would shake it off. Everything about him wanted to go that route, but he didn’t. The expression on his face gave him away. “Maybe that’s not a bad idea. I mean, I’m sure he’s okay, but—you wouldn’t mind?”

  “I know that you’re worried about damaging his self respect. Under the circumstances though, I’d risk invading his privacy. I’d want a good friend to do the same for me.” God forbid.

  “He was a very vital man. You can see how this is killing him… That came out wrong.”

  “I understand. We went through the same thing with my dad just a few years ago, you remember.”

  We were both sullen for a moment and then Ambler nodded. “Your dad was a dynamo.”

  “Right up until the end, but his body wouldn’t follow the game plan.”

  “Zugg’s kind of the same. His body wants to keep going, but his mind won’t let him. He can’t sleep and sometimes he gets so strange that I don’t know who I’m talking to, but then, the next time I see him, he’s okay again.”

  “Where would you place him today? On a scale of one to ten, was he weird or normal?”

  Ambler grinned at me. “I’ll take the fifth—let’s get some chow.”

  The place Ambler picked had outdoor seating. It was a sunny afternoon and I was glad to get some fresh air. The least I could do was try to dupe my body into feeling healthy while I doused it with fat, free radicals, and toxins.

  The restaurant was doing a brisk lunch hour business, so we opted for seats at the bar.

  The barmaid looked about eighteen, too young to drink herself, but obviously not too young to mix up all manner of exotic potion. I watched her preparing Long Island Iced Teas for two guys in business suits. She had the hand-eye coordination of a Ringling Brothers juggler—it looked like she had three bottles in the air simultaneously. Ambler seemed equally enamored as well. “She’s good isn’t she?”

  “Good? That’s not quite the adjective I had in mind.”

  I took a second look at the barmaid and knew where Ambler was going with his comment. She was young and thin, with a midriff top and an ample bosom. Her hair was long, silky, and flowing in the breeze, like a model’s in a shampoo commercial. “Herbert Ambler, are you lusting after that young girl?”

  “I can look, can’t I?”

  “You’re more than twice her age.”

  “I’m just looking, Chalice. I’m well aware that I’m off her radar, thank you very much.”

  I didn’t mean to bum him out. The morning had been pretty dreadful already. “I was just busting chops.” At that moment, the barmaid turned to us and said that she’d be right over. “See that—she’s totally into you.”

  “Stop it. I’m a Federal agent, not an adolescent school boy.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him—what could possibly be less attractive to a pretty teenage girl than a middle aged Fed wearing wingtips and a J C Penney suit with an elasticized waistband? He’d be far better off with a face full of zits, a pocketful of weed, and a pair of Green Day tickets.

  The barmaid swung by. She handed us menus and told us that her name was Allison. If you don’t see it on the menu, ask for it was emblazoned across her perky young breasts.

  “I love your blouse.”

  “Thanks, you should totally get one. It would look great on you. Ready to order? We’ve got a two-for-one special on Coors.”

  “So that’s why you’re so busy.”

  “Totally—the suits around here like to soak up the suds on their lunch hour.”

  Ambler didn’t need the menu. He ordered all the fried fish he could think of and wrapped it up with sides of onion rings and curly fries. He indulged himself, taking advantage of the Coors special, advising me while ordering that we’d share the two-for-one brews.

  “How about you?” Allison asked.

  “I’ll have a well done Zantac on a Kaiser roll.”

  Ambler snickered.

  Allison seemed confused. “What’s a Zantac?”

  “It’s heartburn medication.” I waited a moment to see if she’d get it. She didn’t. “We’re going to share.”

  “Whatever.”

  She grabbed our menus and ducked under the bar to run our order into the kitchen. Ambler watched her make the trip. “I’m getting old, kiddo.”

  “You’re just in a funk. Not that I blame you. The mortality issue, that’s pretty heavy stuff. It’s not easy to see one of your contemporaries at the end of his days.”

  “No, I’m serious. I’ve got twenty-four years with the Bureau. How long can I do this for?”

  “You’re not ready to retire. What would you do with yourself; fly out to the coast and produce a Mission Impossible sequel?”

  He flipped me the most discreet of birds, posting his middle digit just below his eye. “You know, I haven’t got a clue, but I know I won’t be able to chase psychopaths forever.”

  “What would you like to do?”

  “Honestly, I’d like to curl up on a bearskin rug with Anne Hathaway, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”

  This was a serious admission for someone as private as Herbert Ambler. I had always known him to be a lifelong bachelor, and though I had long wondered about his dating habits, I had never asked. I saw him more as an uncle than a colleague and wanted to respect his privacy. Clearly he wanted to talk. “Anne Hathaway, the Devil Wears Pr
ada girl?”

  “There’s a certain someone for everyone.”

  “Well, ya, but—” Ambler clearly didn’t want to face the reality of Zugg. He had never taken me into his confidence on the subject of his romantic interests. I guess I could indulge him in a few minutes of displacement activity.

  “Yeah, I know, don’t tell me—I’m setting unrealistic expectations for myself.”

  “Have you been dating?”

  “Once in a blue moon, between the Bureau and keeping late nights with Jim Phelps and the Mission Impossible team, I keep pretty busy.”

  Dear God, what an existence. I felt so guilty. “Why? You’re a good looking, hunk of a man. Just haven’t found anybody.” In truth, Ambler didn’t exactly fit the matinee idol mold, but he was funny, intelligent, and could be damn charming when he wasn’t munching down a handful of beer nuts.

  Ambler shrugged. I need something easy. You know, casual, no strings attached—something I don’t have to work at.”

  Uh, that’s why they have hookers. “That kind of relationship doesn’t exist, not for long anyway. All relationships take a lot of effort. Let me repeat that, I said all. You think Lido and I never argue?”

  “You two seem to be pimpin’ it.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t working, but it’s not always a walk in the park—we fight, trust me.”

  “Come on, you two have it made.”

  “Oh yeah, well last year, just before Christmas, Gus wasn’t speaking to me at all.”

  “You’re kidding. What happened?”

  “You promise you won’t repeat this?”

  “Repeat it to whom? Aside from me, Ma, and Ricky, who else knows you’re dating?”

  “No one, I hope.”

  “So why weren’t the two of you speaking?”

  “Gus thought I was having an affair with Dr. Twain.”

  “Really, were you?”

  “No! Of course not, but I used to call his name out in my sleep,” I said, sounding guilty as hell.

  “Yeah, that would piss me off too. So what’s the scoop, do you have the dark, brooding shrink on your mind?”

  I didn’t want to get into it. I only put it out there so he’d realize that Lido and I had to work at our relationship too. Thankfully, the kitchen was fast. I saw that Allison was on her way over with a tray full of goodies. “Wow, look at the size of those onion rings.”

  That was the last thing I said, and Ambler didn’t pursue it further. It’s amazing how quiet it can get when you get busy eating, especially when it’s your emotional wellbeing that’s in need of nourishment. We both knew that there was unfinished business to discuss, but for the moment, we turned our focus to sustenance and Damien Zugg.

  Nineteen

  Damien Zugg chased the Imitrex injection with a can of Red Bull to constrict the blood vessels and trigger an adrenaline surge. It was one of the bad days, exhaustion and pain of sufficient intensity to cripple even the most robust spirit. Zugg was not one to go down without a fight.

  Almost twenty minutes went by before he found the strength to stand and the will to summit the staircase. And then finally up he went, using the handrail to drag himself up to the attic, one step at a time. If his condition continued to deteriorate, he’d have to move the terrariums downstairs to the main level of the house where it would take less effort to reach.

  With the air conditioning switched off, the house’s black roof kept the upstairs warm, just the right environment to keep the scorpions happy. The basement would have been a more convenient choice, but it was damp and the scorpions were used to an exceptionally arid climate. Zugg was happy with the heat as well. He’d lost significant weight in the last few months and was always cold. The morning’s baptism had chilled him to the bone and his body was having difficulty generating warmth.

  He stored the three species separately, in tanks designed to simulate their endemic environment. He checked the tanks before setting up the equipment. The scorpions seemed content, hiding under rocks during the day. He checked the Death Stalkers first, then the Cuban Blues, and finally the Israeli Yellow Tails. Zugg fed them generously. The tanks were crawling with a variety of spiders and centipedes, a veritable smorgasbord of scorpion delicacies.

  He set up a fresh collection tube and then put on his gloves to handle them safely. He extracted one from each of the tanks using long forceps and set them into small, but separate holding tanks. He milked the Israeli Yellow first, slipping the stinger into the collection tube and then squeezed firmly about the tail where the poison glands were located.

  He’d grown reasonably adept at the process. Working quickly but cautiously, he extracted enough venom to fill the collection tube, and then returned the scorpions to their tanks to rest and dine so that they’d replenish themselves for the next time Zugg needed them.

  The task required extreme caution and Zugg found himself spent from the high level concentration that had been demanded of him. He was about to plop into the chair when the doorbell rang. He went to the window and moved the shade just enough to see Ambler and Chalice standing by the front door. His immediate reaction was that of irritation, but it quickly disappeared. They were only there to look in on him, and though their timing was bad, their concern warmed him.

  He placed the collected material in the mini-fridge, locked the door to the attic, and carefully negotiated the stairs down to the main level, conserving energy so that he’d appear strong when he answered the door.

  “You again.” Zugg answered the door with a forced smile and an erect posture, somewhat overcompensating for the temptation to slouch. He knew they’d react to his initial appearance and that it would set their level of concern. He would make the bravest effort possible. “Come in, I was just about to prepare a Scorpion Cocktail. You’re just in time.”

  Twenty

  I looked at Ambler to see if he knew what Zugg was talking about. It was obvious that he didn’t. “A Scorpion Cocktail?” I mean someone had to ask.

  Zugg bid us entry. He looked much improved since we’d left him, certainly not robust, but healthy enough to get along under his own steam.

  “They’re delicious, a couple ounces of rum, a little brandy, orange juice, and a twist of lemon—toss it in a blender with ice and serve with one of those adorable little drink umbrellas. They’re very refreshing.”

  Refreshing, like Seinfeld’s notorious Junior Mint? It struck me odd for Zugg to be offering us a cocktail, or for that matter, that he himself would be contemplating the consumption of alcohol. I wasn’t exactly sure of what to make of it, but I let it go.

  “You seem much better,” Ambler said.

  “Well enough,” Zugg said, “Come on in, I’ll make sure I have all the ingredients.”

  “No drinks for us. Your friend here just took me to lunch at the local greasy spoon. I’m stuffed.”

  “Fried shell fish?” Zugg asked.

  I nodded.

  “That would’ve been my choice too. I’m sure you both needed comfort food after you left here. I must have scared the hell out of you.”

  How do I admit that he’s right without offending him? “We were just concerned. You looked pretty run down when we left you.”

  “Not to worry, Detective, the human body is quite resilient. There’s no end to the torture it can endure. I myself have seen several at the brink of collapse, who went on to survive for years.”

  The word torture served as a mental cue. If Zugg were the genius Ambler had so fervently bragged about, then perhaps it would help to see what he had to say on the subject of John Doe. “We didn’t get a chance to chat before—did Herbert have a chance to describe the circumstances around which the skull was recovered?”

  Zugg looked at Ambler and then shook his head from side to side. “Actually no, I have a feeling that my dear old friend was afraid to overwhelm me with too much information.” He scowled at Ambler. “You know, Herbert, this isn’t 222b Baker Street. Holmes was one of a kind. As for me, I have trouble p
iecing things together while puffing on a pipe and engaging in word play with my foil—knowing the facts can actually contribute toward the case’s resolution. Had I been up to snuff, I certainly would have asked on my own.” Zugg edged slowly into the living room, which, as before was arranged with the three chairs. “Please, fill me in.”

  We once again took our seats, Zugg in his wooden chair, facing ours. “The skull was found in a brown paper bag at the hand of a man lying unconscious in Central Park. The victim was mostly naked. All he had around him was a tattered bed sheet.”

  “The word victim usually connotes mortality,” Zugg said. “Am I to assume that such is the case?”

  “I didn’t mean to be vague. Our John Doe is still alive albeit in a deep coma. He was unconscious when we found him and the doctors tell us that he is unlikely to recover.”

  “Doe had lost a tremendous amount of blood. He apparently severed a small artery,” Ambler added.

  Zugg rubbed the bristle on his chin. “There must be more contributing toward his condition than simple blood loss. Consciousness usually returns shortly after blood volume is restored and the body is reasonably hydrated.”

  “Doe was brutally tortured. He appears to have been held captive for quite some time.”

  “Tortured,” Zugg repeated. “I see.” He grew quiet, seemingly to withdraw into the annals of his mind. A long moment passed before he returned. “Then lucky for all of us, he escaped. It tells us much about the skull specimen you recovered.”

  It does? Tell me, tell me, what does it mean? I had my own thoughts on the subject, but a credible explanation from Zugg would go a long way toward validating his pedigree.

  “The skull was not left behind as a clue for the FBI or for any other law enforcement agency to stumble across. It was discarded. It was discarded because the perpetrator of Kevin Lee’s murder, this torturer, and connoisseur of the human anatomy was disappointed with what he found. Our UNSUB went to extraordinary means in order to study this skull. He painstakingly selected his victim. He abducted, murdered, and decapitated Lee. He went through the arduous task of preparing it for study, and when all was said and done, he left his treasure with your John Doe, a living creature he values about as highly as a common moth. Yes, undoubtedly, it was discarded, my friends, because it was imperfect.”