The Nature of the Beast

by GM Ford

  The guy with the machine pistol had ducked from view, disappearing between the solid line of parked cars on the far side of the street. Craig kept his weapon trained on the spot where he’d last seen the shooter, sweeping his eyes back and forth over the area, hoping to pick up any movement, a muzzle flash, a shadow…anything.

  And then without warning a second burst of automatic weapon fire blazed from directly across the street. The shooter was moving their way. A steady stream of automatic weapon fire churned the beauty bark above the young woman’s head, sending shards of bark spinning upward into the loam laden air. Craig watched as she covered her head and tried to push herself down through the soil as the ground around her erupted.

  “Stay down,” Craig shouted.

  The shooter skittered across the sidewalk in a lumbering crouch, firing intermittently as he moved along, before finally disappearing around the stone garden wall that comprised the suburban street corner.

  They waited. Nothing happened. More glass tinkled to the ground behind Jackson Craig. The young woman was lying on her back now. Reloading and looking to Jackson Craig for instructions. A siren whooped and wailed.

  Jackson Craig was speaking into his radio. “Shots fired.” He recited the address. “Federal Officers under fire,” he said. “Suspect armed with an automatic weapon. I repeat…suspect armed with automatic weapon.”

  As if on cue, the gunman poked the Ingram around the corner and let go another burst. Craig could see half a sweaty face as it peeked around the field-stone corner.

  He snapped off a shot. The edge of the wall burst to powder. Craig thought he heard the gunman yelp but couldn’t be certain.

  Several new sirens had joined the others. All of them moving in their direction.

  “Stay down,” Craig shouted again.

  She nodded her understanding and then rolled back over into firing position.

  “Special Agent Craig,” a hoarse voice sounded from within the building.

  The floor-sweeping half of the Secret Service surveillance team poked his head through the shattered doorway. He lay on his belly, eyes the size of pie plates.

  “My partner…” he stammered.

  Craig remembered the surveillance car along the sidewalk. Remembered the woman in the blue flowered dress. He rose to one knee and lifted Karen from the ground. “Get her out of harm’s way,” he said.

  The agent reached out and took her in his arms.

  “I’ll look after your partner,” Craig promised.

  The guy didn’t argue. He bundled Karen tighter and crawled back through the shattered doorway. The alarms and sirens and bells and whistles had reached a screeching crescendo, making it nearly impossible to think clearly.

  “Hey,” Jackson Craig shouted above the din.

  The young woman looked back over her shoulder.

  “We may have an officer down out there,” he shouted.

  She nodded that she heard him.

  “Cover me,” he instructed. “Whatever you do, don’t let that son-of-a-bitch come back around that corner with that Ingram.”

  “Not a chance,” she said, settling herself deeper into the bark.

  Intuitively, Craig knew he could trust her with his back. He took a deep breath and sprinted for the nearest parked car.

  __

  He dabbed at his cheek with a dirty paper napkin as he hurried along the sidewalk. He fought the overwhelming impulse to crawl into the bushes and hide and instead kept on walking, using his fingernail to pick small pieces of imbedded rock from the wound. All these gates and walls and pools and dogs...he’d never seen any place like this before. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere…

  Approaching sirens wailed from every direction, preventing him from hearing the roar of the bus until it was right in his back pocket. He forced a smile onto his face and waved at the driver, who shook his head and pointed at the bus stop up the street.

  He turned and ran, covering the distance to the bus kiosk before the roar overtook him. The bus squeaked to a halt. The door hissed open. He stepped on board.

  “Two dollars,” the driver said closing the door.

  He pulled out a five and tried to hand it to the driver.

  The driver shook his head. “Exact change,” he said wearily.

  He patted himself down but failed to find anything smaller than the five.

  “I…I don’t,” he stammered.

  An angry voice rose from the back of the bus.

  “Let’s go dawg,” somebody yelled. “Get your white ass in a motherfucking seat.”

  He kept looking for small change. In the back of the bus, one of a trio of Latinos rose to his feet. “We ain’t got all day, Holmes,” he shouted.

  Twenty years driving for METRO taught the driver that this was just the kind of thing that got out of hand in a heartbeat, so he goosed the gas just enough to flop the kid back into his seat, smiled inwardly and wheeled the bus out into the street.

  “Siddown,” he whispered to the new passenger, who pocketed the five and took the seat closest to the front door. The bus driver fed the big rig enough gas to keep everybody down.

  “That’s the handicapped seat,” the driver said. “Find someplace else.”

  The sweaty guy moved back a row as the bus rolled down the street. The elderly Latino woman seated opposite the guy slid all the way over to the window, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and Mr. Sweaty.

  Above the rumbling of the diesel, sirens whooped and moaned like a pack of wolves. A blue and white Pasadena PD cruiser rocketed past the front of the bus, heading west, light bar ablaze, siren screaming. Behind them, another cruiser slid to a stop in the middle of the street, blocking the intersection.

  The passenger checked his pockets again, found the paper napkin and blotted blood from the deep scratch running along his right cheek.

  “You ought to get that face looked at,” the driver said, using both hands to wheel the bus around the corner. “Thing’ll fester iffn you don’t take care of it.”

  __

  Audrey Williams watched as Jackson Craig finished giving instructions to the Mobile Security Supervisor. At the far end of the block a trio of Secret Service SUVs rolled slowly down the street.

  Last to leave was the ambulance carrying Craig’s father Charlie who was on his way to the bureau’s Secure Care Facility in West Hollywood. As far as Pasadena Oaks was concerned, the sooner he left and the further he went the better they liked it. Apparently, in the old folks trade, gunfire was bad for business.

  The moment forensics had finished with the scene, two teams of workers had arrived. The first began cleaning up the considerable mess, using a BOBCAT with a miniature front-loader to transfer the mounds of glass to a nearby dumpster. The second team of tradesmen followed closely on the heels of the first. South Pasadena Glass arrived like an invading army, at least a dozen of men in half that many trucks, measuring, cutting and then replacing the shattered glass front of the building one piece at a time. A few minutes ago, they’d towed in several banks of lights, indicating they planned to work deep into the night.

  Audrey watched as Jackson Craig turned his back on the street and headed her way. His face was too asymmetrical for Hollywood, where eternal boyishness was coin of the realm. Craig was more in the European mode of leading men, craggy and worldly, all bellicosity and big sad eyes. Very handsome in his own way.

  “My name is Jackson Craig,” he said offering his hand.

  She took it. His grip was firm and dry.

  “Sounds like the new James Bond,” she quipped with a smile.

  “Apparently any resemblance ends with the name,” he said disgustedly.

  “Audrey Williams.”

  “My guardian angel,” he said.

  “Your new partner,” she corrected.

  “Needless to say, my sister and I are grateful,” Craig said. “Without you…” He let the sentence peter out.

  She shrugged. “Right pl
ace. Right time.” she said. “Logistics told me where to find you. I figured I’d wait across the street until you were finished with family matters and then introduce myself. About the third time I look up I see this guy crossing the street with a MAC10.” She made a wry face. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Without you, my sister and I would have been history,” Craig insisted. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you again,” he said with great sincerity. She watched as he pulled back his jacket and deposited his Secret Service ID in the inside pocket.

  She nodded at his left hand. “That’s amazing,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “I had no idea that was possible.”

  Craig was momentarily taken aback by her frankness. Most people either failed to notice his hand at all or went to great lengths to pretend they hadn’t. Sometimes to the point of foolishness. But this young woman was right up front about it. He liked her immediately. If he was going to be saddled with a partner, she was probably as good as it was likely to get.

  “It looks exactly like the other one.”

  “It should,” Jackson Craig said. “It’s a computer generated representation of my right hand, except in reverse. Right down to the hair on the knuckles.”

  “And the dexterity…”

  Craig rolled the artificial fingers in the manner of a child waving bye bye.

  “I’m the poster boy for sensory reinnervation,” he said. Anticipating her confusion, he went on. “They take the amputated nerves and transfer them to skin and muscle tissue. Takes about a year for them to begin to grow into the muscle. Once they regenerate themselves the patient has sufficient nerve impulses to control the myoelectric function of the fingers.”

  She stepped in close. Looked down at the hand. “May I?” she asked.

  Jackson Craig lifted the prosthesis to waist level. She took it gently in her hands as if holding a wounded bird.

  “It’s actually warm,” she said.

  “In all ways superior to the original,” Craig said.

  “I’m blown away,” she admitted. Her eyes crinkled. “Figuratively speaking, of course,” she joked.

  Bomb jokes. Now he really liked her.

  “All I’ve got to do is keep my distance from swimming pools.”

  “Doesn’t like water?”

  “Rain or snow is fine but it doesn’t like being totally immersed. Synaptic response goes all to hell. I look like I’m playing air guitar.”

  She had a rich, warm laugh. “We’ll make it a point to keep you dry then.”

  Craig’s phone began to buzz in his pant’s pocket. As if to show off his manual dexterity he retrieved it with his artificial hand. He used the articulated thumb to push buttons and then stood for a moment staring at the screen.

  “We are officially summoned,” he said.

  She reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Hey listen…” she said. “There’s something…something I need to…”

  Craig once again pocketed the phone. She was having difficulty spitting out whatever it was she wanted to say. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and then blurted it out. “I can’t figure out why I’ve been assigned to this. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  Craig held up a single myoelectric finger. “First off, Special Agent Williams don’t ever try to figure out men like Bobby Duggan. They lie for a living. They’re duplicitous beyond your wildest dreams. Any notion that you understand their motives is just flat-out dangerous to yourself and others.”

  She nodded that she understood. She watched as an idea crossed his mind.

  “What’s your current standing within the organization,” he asked, seemingly out of the blue.

  “My…I’m…I’m a Special Agent in Training,” she stammered.

  “Not your rank,” he corrected. “Your standing. Are you one of their golden children or are you ensconced somewhere among the masses? By now you must know where you stand. They make it pretty damn clear.”

  “Black sheep,” Audrey answered immediately. “Definitely black sheep. Not at all sure I’m going to get promoted next month.”

  “Of course,” Craig muttered.

  “I was getting a dressing down when they offered me this. It was either hook up with you or get reassigned way out in the boonies somewhere.”

  “What was your transgression?” he inquired.

  She told him all about it.

  “Eyesore and earsore. That’s us,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Your missing hand and my big mouth.”

  “Exactly,” Craig said. “I want to return to regular duty and you’re having trouble remaining anonymous.”

  “The only thing that matters is the Browning family,” she said after a moment. “They sound like nice people. They deserve our best efforts.”

  “Well then let’s get at it,” Craig said.

  15

  He stood in the doorway trying to cope with the mad bustle of the place. The din turned the inside of his head into a fun house. Sounded like a symphony, played loud, played backwards. He put his fingers in his ears but the noise blared unabated.

  She’d cut her hair. Made her look thinner, he thought. Not better but thinner.

  “How you been?” she tried.

  “Tired,” he said. His eyes scanned the place like a searchlight.

  “You okay?”

  He ignored the question. “You get it?” he asked.

  “As always,” she said. “One of your numbers has recently taken a little trip,” she said nodding at the shopping bag on the floor. “Seems to have landed in beautiful Arizona.”

  The look in his eyes scared the hell out of her. She’d seen the look before. On the Science Channel. Shark Week.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  She nodded and leaned in even closer. “I’m moving,” she whispered. “Permanently. Starting over. Trashing all my equipment and finding a new crib.”

  “How come?”

  “The identity source we’ve been using is suddenly very hot,” she whispered. “When I went in this time something was eating up my bandwidth faster than I’ve ever experienced before. It embedded some kind of worm in my software, something I can’t identify, something very cutting edge.” She nodded at the package again. “These are some serious ass people.” She checked the room. “I’m gone for the foreseeable future,” she said.

  She’d expected anxiety, maybe even anger, which was why she’d wanted to meet in the most public of places. A once in a lifetime source gone. Just like that and he was what? It was hard to tell. He seemed something akin to relieved.

  She nodded toward the parking lot. “I drove straight through from Florida,” she said. “Everything I own is in the car outside.” She frowned. “There was code in there I’ve never seen before. I’d be real careful with any of those names from now on, especially the ones you’ve used before.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “It was just a matter of time,” she said disgustedly. “People like this are in the business. They’re paying attention. Sooner or later they were bound to catch on. We’re lucky to have skated for as long as we have.”

  The good news was that his life had reached a turning point. He could feel it. He had only a few loose ends to tie up. After that, he was ready for whatever came next. In the meantime, however, he had to do his duty.

  Her voice broke the spell. “I’m going to take a little vacation and then, after a bit, I’ll look for some new sources,” she said.

  “Good idea,” he offered.

  “Maybe you ought to come on vacation with me.” She said it quickly, as if the notion had just occurred to her.

  As she’d expected it might, the offer seemed to annoy him. He met her gaze and then quickly looked away, as if angered by her temerity.

  “I’ve got a job to do,” he said.

  “Sure?” she pressed.

  “Gotta do my duty,” he said.

  “Come on.”

  “No.”

  “You need me�
�� page the emergency number?”

  He nodded and tried to dissipate the awkwardness of the moment by turning away from her.

  “I included topo maps,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I understand the north rim of the Grand Canyon is nice this time of year.”

  He grabbed the handles on the shopping bag and got to his feet.

  She lifted another French fry from the cardboard sleeve. Finding the morsel cold and uninviting, she dropped it onto the tray and wiped her greasy fingers with a paper napkin. When she looked up, he was gone.

  16

  Emelda eased the bedroom door closed. Gilbert looked up.

  “You wore them out,” she said.

  Rebecca and Michael seldom slept in the same room. Emelda had anticipated difficulty in settling them down, but, other than a short spate of snarkiness from Becky, everything had gone smoothly.

  “Wore me out too,” he said.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go tonight,” she tried.

  He averted his eyes, slapped the clip into the bottom of the little automatic and thumbed the safety into the ‘on’ position. He set the Beretta on the wooden countertop and covered it with a dish towel.

  She lowered her voice, walked his way. “Maybe we should just go in on our own.” She gestured surrender with her hands. “You know…like ‘here we are; help us.’ “

  “We both know what that means.”

  They knew, because they’d been there before and there consisted of an endless succession of rented rooms and round the clock security. That was the protocol, protective custody until all involved agencies saw fit to work out who was responsible for what and what, if anything, they planned to do about it.

  Five years earlier, with only one child to contend with, Gilbert and Emelda had lasted less than a month in protective custody. The situation proved toxic, as if the very air had become carcinogenic. They’d agreed they were never going back there. Ever. No matter what.