by J. G. Jurado
“Yes, Julia. We all have to. But you’re little, and many, many years will go by before you die. You’ll be much older than Grandma.”
“And what happens when we die?”
“I don’t know, darling. Nobody knows. That mystery is part of life.”
“You’ll die, too.”
“That’ll also be a long time coming.”
“You don’t know that. You might choke on an Oreo, or have a corony.”
I didn’t know what to answer, so I just kept quiet and put my hand on her shoulder. She raised her head, at last, and when I looked her in the eyes I could see she already knew the answers to all of those questions, that she had merely been preparing the ground for what was really eating her up inside. In a smart girl, that didn’t surprise me. But I was terrified at what could be so awful as to make her beat about the bush.
“Daddy, did Mommy love us?”
“More than anything in the world, Julia.”
She hesitated a second.
“The Blacks’ daughter says she gave in. That she went down without a fight. That if she loved us she’d have faced up to cancer.”
The Blacks’ daughter, who lived two blocks away, was nine. She would have picked those words up from her parents at the dinner table. They were head lice in the mind she had brought to our house and infected Julia with. Maybe the hardest thing was to realize she had already thought it all out. As a neurosurgeon I had seen patients react in myriad ways after receiving a hopeless diagnosis. The vast majority turned to their nearest and dearest and made the most of every second they had left with them. In no time, those who had always been ornaments in the background took a front-row seat, ushered there by the final curtain. And strange to say, many were happier in those weeks they spent with their family than they had been their whole life.
Rachel knew all that as well as I did. But she had also seen the other side. She knew about the blurred vision, the sickness, the maddening migraines, the personality disorders, the dementia. She had seen glioblastoma patients talking normally one second, then three seconds later tearing their clothes off in the middle of a crowded corridor and rolling in their own feces. In front of a family who would never forget it.
“Julia Evans,” I said, raising my voice a little. “Your mother was an incredible woman. Full of life and wisdom. She became an anesthesiologist so others wouldn’t feel pain. She could put you to sleep in a second so the worst was over as quickly as possible. And then she would watch over you while you slept on the operating table, so everything was okay. She didn’t go without a fight, she simply fought in another way.”
I realized I was crying. Julia hugged me and tried to comfort me by patting me on the back. I was kneeling on the floor, the roles reversed, me being consoled by a little girl.
“Oh, Julia. I love you so much.”
“It’s okay, Daddy. We’ll fight for Mommy.”
And I’ll fight for you, Julia, baby.
I took three deep breaths, like a swimmer about to plunge in the deep end, then gripped the pistol and stood up.
Kate
A phone number written down on a scrap of paper. Ten digits in scrawl as thin and tight as a spider’s legs.
Kate memorized them before she shoved the paper into her pants pocket. She drove the whole way back with her hand in her pocket, guarding that bit of pulp that was her only operable lead.
The question was, what to do with it.
She drove south until she found an acceptable coffee shop near the Inner Harbor, and ordered the biggest, strongest and hottest coffee on the menu. A triple espresso, the first sip of which made her hands tremble slightly but did little to wake her up. She decided to take a walk along the waterfront to stretch her legs and try to think up the best way forward. The fresh, salty breeze brought her to her senses.
I can’t call the suspect cold. With no more details than his name and with no face time, all he would do is hole up and never come out again.
She had to track him down first, but that was the hard part. Vlatko would need to have his cell switched on, and the necessary tools were in Washington HQ. To complicate matters further, she would need authorization from a superior before conducting a search—and in theory, a judge’s warrant, although the Secret Service always skipped that formality if there was a serious threat to the president’s life.
She couldn’t go to DC to do it herself. She ran the risk of bumping into McKenna or one of those chosen for tomorrow’s detail, which would mean she’d have to drop the search for Julia immediately and join the assignment. There was only one option, and that was to seek outside help. She had to trust somebody else, even if that meant going out on a limb.
Finally she decided to call headquarters. She tried to remember who was on duty that Thursday, someone who wasn’t a dick or by-the-book flunky. There was a techie named Barbara Hill who owed her a favor. No big deal; Kate had done no more than slap around a couple of wretches who sprayed graffiti on her parents’ storefront at night. It was a small favor to call in compared to what she was about to ask, but it would have to do.
She punched in her department’s number and waited for them to put her through.
“Hill.”
“Hi, Barbara, Robson here. I need you to triangulate a device for me.”
“Okey-doke. What’s the case number?”
Kate cleared her throat.
“There is no case number.”
“Well, you’re going to need one before I activate the system. If you like, I can put you through to the supervisor and—”
“No, Barbara. I don’t want this on record.”
On the other end of the line, her colleague could be heard shifting about.
“What the hell are you mixed up in, Kate?” she said, lowering her voice.
“Nothing that’ll get you into hot water. But I just have to find this person.”
“Kate, I could get into trouble simply for discussing this with you. The bosses don’t give a goddamn if a search isn’t clean as long as it’s part of an active investigation. Talk to Soutine, he always cuts us some slack . . .”
“Barbara, this isn’t—” She interrupted herself to clear her throat again. “This isn’t about work. It’s personal.”
“Now I’m sure you’re out of your mind. You can’t use the department’s resources to find out if your boyfriend’s playing around, Kate.”
“Barbara, I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important. I swear. I need help.”
The other woman tut-tutted.
“Damn it, Kate. All searches are recorded. An alert will pop up on the boss’s monitor.”
“Then assign it an old number from a cold case. Please . . .”
“Tell me more.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me why my ass is on the line. If I get caught, they throw me out, so the least I want to know is what sad story’s at the back of this.”
Kate waited, pretending to mull it over. She wondered whether Barbara could hear the seagulls squawking in the background.
“Swear you won’t tell anyone?”
“Girl, my lips are sealed. Remember the guy from ID Theft who knocked up someone in Accounts? I knew before everyone else and said nothing. Not a word.”
In her eagerness, her voice seemed to have gone up an octave. Not for one second did Kate imagine Barbara would keep her secret. She could just see her, eyes wide open and twirling her fingers around the telephone cord, thinking how to get the most mileage out of this gossip by the water cooler. Dishing up other people’s dirt, bit by bit, spicing it up with her shamefaced jokes and trying to feel better about her own humdrum life. There is no more valuable merchandise in the Secret Service corridors than gossip about colleagues, and better still if it’s to do with body parts below the belt. Kate only hoped she’d keep her trap shut for a few m
ore hours.
“I met a guy a while back. He’s with the Company, in Langley. Recently we’ve been an item, but he goofs off for days at a time. He blames it on the job, but I think there’s someone else. I need to know where he’s at.”
“Is he cute?”
“Tall, slim, sad green eyes. Sensitive and smart,” Kate rattled off, before she was aware, with a shudder, that she had just described David Evans.
“Wow, girl, I want to meet one of those, too. He got any brothers?”
“He’s an only child.”
“What a drag. At least tell me he’s got an ass you can crack nuts with.”
“His ass is okay.”
“Way to go! And are you really sweet on him? You hear, like, wedding bells?”
This time Kate didn’t have to fake her hesitation.
“Yes, I’m in deep. I’ve been smitten ever since I first saw him.”
There, you’ve admitted it.
Barbara squeaked a quick titter like a happy rodent with a lump of cheese.
“Say no more, I’ll come through for you. But next week we must do dinner and drinks,” she warned, in her element. “Your treat, I get to choose where. And you owe me, big-time.”
“Sounds like a plan. You won’t regret it.”
“Give me the number. And be patient, I’ll have to wait until the coast is clear before I can track him down.”
25
Our brain is an amazing machine. It processes eleven million bits of information per second, of which fifty are on a conscious level.
In the exact same second in which I leaped out from behind the car, I could discern the nine bits that counted, as clearly as when somebody presses PAUSE on an HD television.
I saw Hockstetter thumbing a text message on his cell. I could tell it was an iPhone by the colors on the screen. He was obviously so absorbed that he wouldn’t have heard me even if I’d come from behind the pillar. I could see every detail of the intricate arabesque pattern on his impeccably pressed and knotted tie. His glasses straddled the bridge of his nose. His eyes opened in surprise and fear when he saw the gun barrel aimed at his head. He was clean shaven, although there was a smidgen of foam under his left ear.
“What the hell is this?”
“A stickup, asshole,” I answered, straining my voice to speak from the throat. It sounds easy when you hear Christian Bale do it, but my words came out all puny and laughable, like somebody was tightening a rope around my windpipe. I tried to sound fearsome but came across as pathetic.
I took another two steps toward him. He was standing right next to the driver’s door. I saw him glance at the handle, but he had the cell phone in one hand and his briefcase in the other. I could not allow him to open the door and get in.
“What do you want? You won’t take my car, right?”
I took one more step and noticed the front fender next to my right leg.
“Do I look like your bitch? I have the gun, you obey.”
Hockstetter took a step back and held his hands up.
“Cool it, cool it. I’ll give you my wallet.”
I moved around the front of the Porsche, keeping the gun aimed at him.
“You’ll give me what I want. Turn around.”
“Yes, yes. Whatever you say. But don’t shoot.”
Two more steps. I was homing in. It was now or never.
“I said—”
I didn’t get to finish the sentence. Hockstetter leaned to one side and hit me with the briefcase, using it like a mallet. The brass-reinforced edge hit me in the arm and made me drop the gun.
“Like hell you’re going to take my car, you lousy punk!”
He swung his arm back and hit me with the briefcase again. I dodged it by a hair and aimed a kick at him which went very wide. My foot connected with the edge of the door and dented the bodywork.
“My Cayenne!” Hockstetter wailed.
He tried to swipe at me once more, but I managed to duck and the briefcase went over my head. The metal dials on the combination lock drew sparks as they grazed the pillar and the briefcase clicked open, scattering the contents in a whirl of papers and X-rays. I recognized them in a beat. The leader of the free world’s medical file now blanketed the floor of a grungy parking lot, but at that moment neither of us cared overmuch.
Now that he’d lost his blunt instrument, Hockstetter was defenseless. We both had the same idea at the same time: there was a nine-millimeter on the floor. We dived into the shadow cast by the pillar and scrabbled around where it had fallen, all arms and legs as we growled and panted. He got a hand on the handle and I on the barrel. We struggled for a few seconds. Although I was taller and ten years younger, the fat pig was strong, and he was furious. He elbowed me square in the ribs, which made me gasp. The blow buffeted the gun and it went off with a deafening bang.
Luckily, the shot went well clear of us.
My former boss tried to bite my wrist, but I leaned on his throat with my forearm to keep his pearly whites at bay. His face was flushed with the effort while I could barely breathe under my mask. Whoever came out on top in that tussle would win the day.
And I, against all odds, was losing.
My fingers relaxed their grip and slid over his sweaty skin. And the Glock’s muzzle was turning inexorably toward my face. Hockstetter cackled in triumph. He was within inches of blowing my head off. For a split second, I thought how cruelly ironic it would be that I, who had removed so many bullets from brains, would wind up with one pancaking mine.
No.
I snatched away the forearm with which I was squashing his neck. Hockstetter was suddenly let loose and his momentum carried him forward. He was momentarily stunned and I took advantage of that to elbow him in the throat. He abruptly dropped the gun and grabbed his neck with both hands, fighting for breath. I got tight hold of the gun and rolled out of range of his feet, with which he was trying to kick me.
I got up and aimed the Glock at him. What a genius I turned out to be, what a well-laid plan. I had thought the gun would make that arrogant bastard cower and quickly put him in his place. Evidently, the pistol had turned out not to be the magic wand we see in the movies, making people your slaves the instant you wave it at them. And Hockstetter had shown tremendous guts. The credit wasn’t all his, of course. In cases of extreme stress, our reptilian brain—the deepest and most primitive part of our gray matter—reacts with a fight-or-flight reflex. Fittingly, the guy had turned into the survival machine he liked to crow about.
I tried to get my breath back. The Cayenne was lopsided now. The bullet had punctured a front tire. Hockstetter lay on the floor and filled his lungs eagerly and noisily, so at least my elbow hadn’t broken his windpipe. I did not want to become a murderer.
But that is precisely why you’re here, isn’t it? So you can kill somebody tomorrow, a voice said inside my head.
For my daughter. I’m doing all this for Julia, I answered back.
“On your feet, loser. Gimme the fucking wallet. Gimme the cash.”
Hockstetter made a deep-throated sound and tried to crawl away to the car. I came up behind him and he planted a kick right on my shin. I shook my leg a few times to stop myself from crying out.
If I had been an honest-to-God mugger, I’d have shot him. Hell, I was tempted to shoot him anyway.
I’ll teach you, asshole.
He already had one hand on a door handle. He was on his knees, trying to stand up, with his legs apart and his back to me. I swung my leg back, as I did when I was about to kick Julia’s soccer ball. Just like the kick-arounds we used to have in the backyard, until it was too dark to see the ball and Rachel would call out for the third time that dinner was ready.
I took the kick.
At times it’s so cool to be a neurosurgeon. To know in wondrous detail the effect a blow to the testicles has o
n the central nervous system, to know the pain is equivalent to having twenty bones broken at once, and to look forward to the violent reactions to the trauma . . . but that’s mere data. Except when you apply it to a poor excuse for a human being such as Hockstetter.
My former boss hung on to the door handle and instinctively—or inadvertently—he managed to open the door. Then time stopped as the pain washing over him flowed and ebbed, then gave him back control over his motor system. He slumped against the side of the Porsche and tried to shout, but all that sallied from his lips was a bleat:
“Help.”
“You don’t get it, do you, dumbass? I own you and I want your dough. Just hand it the fuck over.”
I crouched down and probed inside his jacket until I felt a familiar lump on the right. I grabbed his wallet and put it in my pocket.
“See? How hard was that?”
He didn’t answer, too busy grabbing his groin, with his eyes and teeth shut so tight you’d think he wanted them to meet halfway.
“You’ve got what you were after, now leave me alone,” he groaned.
But I hadn’t gone there to take his wallet. The whole performance had been no more than a cover for what I really meant to do.
“No. You need to be taught a lesson and I’m going to give you one, asswipe.”
I aimed the gun at his head. His determination must have been in shreds after the kick, because this time he just opened his eyes wide and turned to crawl inside the open door. He leaned on the door sill and tried to get up.
That’s the ticket.
At that exact moment I placed my heel in the middle of the Porsche’s door and shoved it with all my might.
Hockstetter’s loud scream didn’t quite drown out the crunching sound the fingers on his right hand made as they were broken. I stopped pushing at the door and let him loose. He raised his hand to his face, with a look of complete terror and disbelief. His index, middle and ring fingers were at an odd angle to his palm, and stuck out in the opposite of the direction they were supposed to.
I took one look at the state he was in, then ran off, his yells following me, echoing off the ramp as I left the crime scene. I tore off the ski mask when I reached the floor above, where I had left the Lexus. I saw a car about to leave and for a second feared its driver might have heard the shot or the scream, and called the cops.