A Knife Edge

by David Rollins

  “What?” Anna had caught the slightest twitch, or perhaps it was the slimmest surge of electricity beneath my skin. Whatever, she read it like a polygraph.

  “Nothing,” I said, wondering how it was that women could do that—read a man's conscience.

  “You're looking fit,” she said, tracing the definition of my stomach muscles with a fingernail.

  “I've discovered Jane Fonda's home-workout video. How about you? Over the headaches?”

  “Hope so. Haven't had one for a few weeks.” She sipped coffee, holding the mug between two hands like she was praying. Those headaches were bad ones, so maybe that's exactly what she was doing, praying they'd gone for the duration.

  I'd been shot twice on my last case, once in the flesh under my upper right arm, the slug passing clean through the skin and missing the triceps muscle. Not such a big deal—a few stitches and purple, puckered scarring to remember it by. The other bullet, however, had shattered the humerus in my left arm—the big bone between shoulder and elbow—drilled a hole through the shoulder muscles, clipped a rib, executed a back flip with pike, and found its way into the subclavian vein, where it was then flushed through my heart. They located the slug in the bottom of my lungs. The good news, the doctors told me, was that I would live. The bad news was, so they believed, it would not be very well. I responded as I usually do to professional opinion and ignored it, in this instance the advice being to sit in a recliner rocker for the next forty years and watch sitcom reruns. Instead, I chose to do the opposite and put myself through eight hours of daily torture. Once I could crawl, I forced myself to walk. When I could walk, I tried to run. Now, most mornings, I was running twelve miles. After the run, I was doing pushups—a hundred or so. I'd more or less given up the booze and was working on my halo. In truth, I was probably in the best physical shape of my life, and I had the doctors to thank for it. Had they said I'd recover fully, I'd probably still be a pin up boy for Jack Daniel's.

  Anna also had permanent injuries by which to remember our case together. In fact, she lost the big toe off her left foot due to the car accident, or should I say car crash—it had been no accident—that put her into a coma for a week. There appeared to be no physical impairment resulting from her head injury, although she was now suffering from regular and terrible migraines.

  “Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing here?” Anna inquired.

  “I know exactly what you're doing here, and who you're doing it to.”

  She punched me in the arm. “No, I mean in D.C.”

  “So tell me.”

  “I volunteered to escort a prisoner Stateside.”

  “How'd you manage that?”

  “Like I said—volunteered. You know, took one step forward. The opportunity just came along.”

  Anna moved her head and I felt her hair slide across my chest. I pictured her standing in the doorway when I first arrived home, the hair that reminded me of melted dark chocolate flowing over her shoulders. I lingered on the image, the light from the kitchen behind highlighting her curves beneath my borrowed shirt. Anna's breasts were larger than I remembered. Back in the here and now, I cupped one in my hand. It was warm and heavy and it filled my palm, the nipple still hard with excitement from the recent sex fizzing through her cells.

  “I've missed you,” I said.

  “I can tell,” she whispered, reaching for the erection that refused to go away, stroking it softly, apparently happy that it wasn't going anywhere.

  “How's the Bible study going?” I whispered back, getting short of breath.

  “Coming along nicely,” she answered. I felt the heat in the caress of her lips as she kissed me on the way down. She bit me several times, in case I forgot who was boss, and then, beneath the sheet, I felt her mouth close around me. I clamped my eyes shut. The pleasure was almost unbearable. Almost.

  “So what was Japan like?” she asked, sitting at the table in Class As, eating a little reheated bulgogi and rice for breakfast. She had bought something from the vegetarian restaurant before coming up to the apartment, but after a night in my fridge, it looked far less appealing than Mr. Kim's finest, and there was nothing else in the fridge that was edible unless you were a mold.

  I poured Anna a cup of coffee. “What was Japan like? Well, they have vending machines there so that if you feel the need you can get a pair of girl's underwear—used—packaged up with a picture of the young woman herself wearing them.”

  “That's sick.”

  “I know. You'd think they'd at least wash them.”

  “You're sick too.”

  “Actually, I haven't felt this good in a long while,” I said honestly.

  “Yeah, me too.” Anna smiled. Her eyes caught the morning sun streaming through the window and flashed blue-green like they'd received a jolt of electric current. We looked at each other in silence, neither wanting to speak and break the moment, perhaps because we both knew that a particular set of difficult questions and answers was hovering too close for real comfort.

  I broke first. “So, when are you heading back?” There it was. I'd said it.

  Anna took a breath and slowly let it out. I knew I wasn't going to like what was coming. “This afternoon.”

  “You're kidding.”

  She shook her head. “Got a court-martial at Ramstein starting midday tomorrow.”

  I said nothing, which pretty much said it all.

  “That'll teach me to volunteer.” Anna was suddenly finding eye contact difficult.

  A loud burst of silence followed. It reminded me of our telephone calls.

  I said, “Y'know, after our last conversation, just before I went to Japan, I was pretty sure things between us were done.” What had Anna said on the phone? You and me, us, our relationship—it's going precisely nowhere … We had fun … we should have just left it at that.

  Her turn not to say anything.

  “Why'd you come?” I asked. Our mood hadn't so much as shifted as completed a one-eighty.

  “Well, you know… a girl has needs,” she said, trying to lighten it up. The attempt flew like the Hindenburg, and she knew it. She glanced down at her coffee again. “Perhaps I shouldn't have come.”

  Yeah, perhaps you damn well shouldn't have, I thought. I was just getting used to the idea of being apart. But one night and I was hooked on her again.

  “I don't know when I'm going to be back,” Anna said.

  I nodded. “ Uh-huh.”

  “I was going to suggest you take the day off and spend it with me, but I think I know what you'd say to that.”

  Perhaps the heat in my face had given her a clue.

  Anna's chin trembled and there was a film of tears in her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said.

  “Me, too.” I stood and took my coffee cup to the sink and poured the remains down the drain. “Anna, I have to go,” I said. I wasn't being a martyr. Captain Clownfish was expecting me at 0930.

  “The defense of our great land waits for no one.” She forced a smile.

  “Stay as long as you like,” I replied. If she wanted me to be big and tough, I could be that guy. “Just leave the key downstairs with Kim when you go.”

  “OK…” she said. The privilege of surprising me in one of my shirts had been rescinded.

  I drove my old Pontiac Parisienne to the Pentagon. It was snowing lightly, the early morning sun having been swallowed by a sudden cold snap. I didn't have an accident, but I probably caused a few.

  SEVEN

  I was on time, 0930 as requested, but Captain Schaeffer wasn't. Fine by me. I told myself to snap out of the Anna thing and get busy. I started with the e-mails. The box was crammed with unread CC'ed crap. None of it was specifically sent to me, except for one with the inviting subject: “The proper completion of a DD Form 1351-2.” CC'ed e-mails are a waste of time, although the one about the 1351-2 reminded me to put in for my Japan expenses. I selected All and consigned the lot to the trash. I pulled my wallet and extracted the wad of receipts from my recen
t overseas junket and began filling out the form online. It was tedious going, but I don't earn enough that I can fund investigations for the government out of my own pocket. The online paperwork completed, I dispatched it and then forwarded the hard receipts to Accounts Payable through the internal mail.

  Checking my wallet for any hidden receipts, the great white's tooth given to me by Dr. Samura Hashimura, the coroner in Tokyo, dropped out onto the desk. I examined it, holding it between thumb and forefinger. It was white and hard and made for cutting and tearing. With so many of these teeth ripping simultaneously into Dr. Tanaka, the unfortunate guy probably wouldn't have felt a thing. I taped the tooth to the frame of the computer monitor. Thus were fifty-nine minutes of my working day accounted for. It was going to be one of those days.

  Next I pulled out my notebook and the voice recorder. There was a report to be written. An hour and a half later I was two thirds of the way through it and getting to the point where I felt I needed to rehash the interviews conducted on board the Natusima. I listened to them all, then tabbed to the time code marked in the device's memory.

  My voice: “What was he drinking?”

  Boyle's voice: “Scotch. We only had that and sake on board.”

  “Do you know how much he drank?”

  “Enough, obviously, though I didn't realize it at the time. I topped his glass up maybe twice, I think. As you may or may not know, Special Agent, many Asian people don't have the gene that allows them to metabolize alcohol effectively.”

  “So you had never seen Dr. Tanaka drunk before?”

  “No, never.”

  “Did you see him leave the party?”

  “No. I wish I had. Then perhaps he'd still be alive.”

  Yeah, maybe. Boyle was one condescending asshole: “As you may or may not know, Agent Cooper, many Asian people don't have the gene that allows them to metabolize alcohol effectively.” I tabbed the memory button again.

  “Dr. Tanaka wasn't discovered missing for some time—twelve hours, according to statements. Isn't that a long time to not notice somebody missing?”

  “It might seem that way, but no, not really. The expedition was over and everyone saw how drunk Tanaka was when he left. I guess everyone assumed, as I did, that he was in his room, sleeping it off.”

  Did you see him leave the party? I'd asked. Boyle had replied, no. A few minutes later, under a bit of stress, suddenly everyone including Boyle is watching Tanaka reeling out of the joint legless. Did this mean something? Or nothing? Very few statements contain no contradictions. The ones that don't more often than not tend to indicate coaching. And yet—

  “Ah, Cooper, you're back,” said Captain Schaeffer, interrupting my thoughts, his head peering around the edge of the door. “What are you doing?”

  “Sir,” I replied. “The report on the death of Dr. Tanaka. I'll send it over in about half an hour.”

  “Forget about it for the moment. I'm afraid you have some visitors. I did warn you…”

  Warned me? What about?

  The two men swept into the room like a couple of big cats released from their cage, circling the space in front of my desk, ready to eat. One was Caucasian; his buddy, Asian. Both were in plainclothes. Actually, there was nothing plain about their clothes. Their suits were possibly Italian and improbably expensive, and they carried themselves a little like spooks, but far more like stockbrokers with a pitbull cross. I recognized their manner immediately. I was getting a visit from the most feared government department in D.C.: the General Accounting Office.

  Schaeffer closed the door. I pictured a steel bolt slamming home. Escape was futile. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” I asked.

  They flipped their credentials at me and then glanced around for something to sit on. The room was empty except for my desk and a faded color photo of our last President stuck with tape to the wall behind me. If they wanted to sit, they had the choice of the floor or my desk. Both chose to hang a cheek off the latter. I leaned back in my chair to get out of their personal space, or rather to get them out of mine.

  “Don't think much of your decorator,” said the white guy.

  “I'm living in it for a while before I renovate,” I said. “You guys got names?”

  “De Silver,” said one.

  “Wu,” his partner said. “We've had our eye on you, Cooper.” They were playing Good Accountant Bad Accountant.

  “Really, which one are you sharing?” I asked.

  “Watch your mouth, Special Agent. We can make this pleasant or we can spoil your day. Your choice.”

  “You're too late,” I said. “It's already curdled.”

  Wu slapped down a piece of paper on the desk in front of my keyboard. I leaned forward to get a closer look. It was DD Form 1351-2. Receipts were attached.

  “That yours, Cooper?”

  “Looks like.” I glanced over the figures. “Problem? Didn't I carry the one?”

  “We sent you a priority e-mail about this and the system told us you never opened it.”

  “Right, the e-mail. I filed it.” It was a half-truth. I still hadn't emptied the trash.

  De Silver took a notebook out of his inside jacket pocket and opened it. “You went to a Sea Breeze Aquarium three weeks ago?”

  “Correct,” I said.

  “You got a receipt for a cab ride there that cost thirty-five bucks. Seems the return journey cost just ten.”

  “And?”

  “Why the discrepancy?”

  “So this is about twenty-five bucks?”

  “It's not just the twenty-five dollars, Cooper,” said De Silver.

  “No, then what is it about?” Actually, I was anxious to know because, among the three of us, we'd already blown more than that in lost productivity.

  “It's about procedure, systems, accountability,” Wu informed me. “You haven't answered the question.”

  “Which one? There've been a few.”

  “Were you on DoD business the entire time you were in that cab?”

  I was about to answer when Wu said, “We've red-flagged you, Cooper. We're going to go over every receipt you've entered for the last six months. And the paperwork had better be in proper order.”

  “So, you want to tell us about the cab ride?” De Silver again.

  I can only take so much bureaucracy in one hit and I was starting to overdose. “There's nothing to tell. Stevie Wonder drove me out. A homing pigeon brought me back.”

  One of them snorted.

  “Your expenses will get reimbursed this time, Major. But know you're on our watch list.” So that's what this was all about. They just wanted to let the new kid on the block—me—know who was boss.

  “Sure. Thanks,” I said with my best have-a-nice-day smile as they snatched back the 1351-2 and moved toward the door. “And, guys—no matter what everyone else around here says, you're doing a great job. Keep it up.”

  Wu and De Silver turned and glared. They weren't used to receiving a “ fuck-you,” no matter how it was couched. The GAO had a problem. They were worried that there was another of those Defense-procured $7600 coffeepots out there, or a $9000 wrench worth a buck fifty, ready to be thrown into their works.

  Schaeffer's head appeared around the door again seconds after they left. I wondered whether he'd had a glass to the wall. “You want to fill me in on Japan?” he said. “Now's a good time.”

  He disappeared. I gathered I was to follow.

  “I warned you about the GAO, Cooper,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir, you did.”

  “What's the upshot?” he asked.

  “Don't hurry back, I think is the lesson, sir.”

  “Good advice,” he said.

  I have no idea if he knew what I was talking about. In the six months I'd been in Chip Schaeffer's section, I'd learned that you could say just about anything as long as you said it nice. We walked past a number of offices, all occupied with personnel hunched over paperwork. I wondered if they were working on cases or
sentence construction, and if, like me, they were on probation. I noticed they all glanced up when we walked past—not much happens around here. I also noticed they all sat facing their doors. They reminded me of moray eels in their holes. The area was gloomy, the dour atmosphere accentuated by the extensive use of overhead fluorescent tubes, most of them dusty. We were in D-ring, the hall that, colonlike, runs right through the center of the complex. This meant we had zero natural light. In fact, our offices had very little of anything in the way of staff-friendly amenities, an indication, I believed, of the department's true place in the pecking order. By comparison, I'd heard the GAO had a wet bar and sauna in theirs.

  Captain Schaeffer's box was twice the size of mine, though also windowless. I finally understood why he was so keen on the fish tank. It bubbled away happily in one corner, lit up like a Tokyo shopping center. I counted two clown fish plus a couple of arrivals that had been added since my trip to the Sea Breeze, and saw that the octopus was still throttling the boat. I didn't see any sharks.

  Schaeffer's desk was littered with paperwork. The wall behind his chair was a shrine to the heavyweights of D.C. There was a picture of the current President, flanked by a snap of the Secretary of Defense. Between and below the two men hung a photo of the Chief of Naval Operations, a woman. She smiled like she had something going with the other two.

  “So, this scientist. What happened? Give me the bottom line.”

  “Sir, Tanaka had been drinking. He went out on deck, presumably to get some air. Somehow, for reasons that may never be established on account of there being no witnesses, he ended up in the near-freezing water where he was eaten by a shark.” I neglected to add that this was one of the rare instances where the sashimi actually got even.

  “Just as the preliminary from the Tokyo Police had it figured.” Schaeffer nodded. “So you're done with the case?”

  “Pretty much, Captain. Got a few procedural aspects to clear up.” This was me, playing for time. It would hardly do for the department supposedly overseeing matters of procedure to be seen bucking it. What I wanted was time to check up on Professor Boyle and his employer, Moreton Genetics, before being redeployed in the war on grammar. Something about the guy troubled me, besides the odd Tupperware haircut.