The Phoenix Egg

by Richard Bamberg

  “Shut up for a second. You alone?” The man’s eyes shifted toward Weber’s patrol car.

  “Yes, but I’ve checked in and reported your plates. If I don’t call back in soon they’ll come looking.”

  “Give it a rest, all right? No one’s going to check on you for hours. What are you doing here?”

  “Someone reported a body. I thought you were dead.”

  “Well, they were probably closer than you know.”

  The pressure on his neck eased, but the gun barrel didn’t move. “Come on, man. Put the gun down. I’m not here to hurt you. Let me call you a doctor.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll have to decline. Look, I’m not going to shoot you or anything, but you know if I put my gun down you’re going to try to arrest me.”

  “No, I....”

  “Please, cut the bullshit. I’ll give you a chance. I don’t want to hurt you at all and I haven’t done anything that the police are after me for.”

  “Then put the gun....”

  “Shut up already, you’re getting boring. Look, there’s someone else’s life in jeopardy and I can’t take the time to explain. If you give me any grief, I’ll cripple you and then go on about my business. Do you believe me?”

  Weber met his gaze. His eyes were cold. Icy death lurked there. This was not a man to fuck with.

  “I understand,” Weber said.

  “Good. Raise your hands to where I can see them, and then back up.”

  Weber raised his arms horizontal to the ground and took three slow steps backwards. The door to the Jeep opened and the man stepped out. The sights of the Colt never left Weber’s middle. His pants were as tattered as his coat and in places raw flesh gleamed wetly through tears in the material.

  “Mister, you ought to let me get you to a doctor.” It was fucking amazing that this guy was ambulatory.

  “Are you an Ollie, officer?”

  “What? No, my name’s Weber. Carl Weber.”

  “I meant as in Stone, Oliver Stone.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Never mind. Look, I want you to take off your gun belt and radio. Then slide it under your vehicle.”

  Moving slowly, Weber complied. He unclipped his microphone and shoved it with his gun and utility belt about halfway under his cruiser.

  “Good, now step to the back of your vehicle.”

  Weber backed up, relaxing his arms to his side now that he was weaponless. Without taking the gun sights off him, the man opened the door to his cruiser, killed the motor, and removed the keys. He leaned in farther, gripped the microphone, and yanked it out of the radio.

  Standing, he tossed the broken microphone to Weber and jingled the keys. “As long as you don’t go for your gun while I’m still in sight, I’ll drop these at the other end of the alley. Don’t worry about calling in the report. It’s your job, but by the time you do, I’ll have changed vehicles and will be moving on. I don’t anticipate being here any longer than I have to and I won’t be breaking any laws.”

  Not knowing what else to say and still half afraid the man was going to shoot him, Weber nodded.

  The man’s features grew suddenly tired and lost all sign of menace. He returned the heavy Colt to a shoulder holster, turned, and walked back to his vehicle.

  Weber watched him until he reached the end of the alley. There he stopped and dropped the keys in the snow, turned left, and was gone.

  ***

  John drove east as soon as he was away from the cop. There was still no contact from Caitlin. He checked his watch and found it was nearly noon. As much as it burned to have her in Holdren’s power, he was going to have to be patient.

  He turned into Citadel and cruised the mall’s open-air parking lot until he spotted another Jeep Cherokee that was the same model and color as his rental. He parked as close as he could and got out.

  He took a screwdriver from the bag in the back of the Jeep and quickly removed his license plates from both the front and rear of the Jeep. He took another moment to ensure no one was watching, and then removed the plates from an old Ford Taurus that was parked next to him, and replaced them with his plates. Then he went to the other Jeep and exchanged the Taurus’s plates for the Jeep’s plates.

  Ten minutes from the time he’d entered the parking lot, he left with new plates that would show up on any police check as belonging to a local citizen who, hopefully, wasn’t wanted for any crimes. With luck, neither of the other drivers would notice the switch for a couple of days since they hadn’t had personalized plates. Since the police would look for a Jeep Cherokee first and then at the plates, they probably wouldn’t notice his plates on the Taurus. The only glitch would be if a cop ran the plates on the other Cherokee, found they belonged to the Taurus, and then stopped the Jeep to see if it was John. There was always the possibility of a mistake, but he’d done the best he could do until he could change cars.

  Back on Platt, John headed east again until he passed the Peterson Air Force Base exit. Then he took the next exit onto highway 94, passing the small green sign advertising Schriever Air Force Base and continued east.

  About ten minutes later, he turned off 94 onto a side road that led north toward the small town of Falcon. Trees out there were sparse and few grew as high as ten feet. After a mile, he came to a driveway that led along an escarpment. Forty-year old pines bordered the east side of the drive; none were more than twenty feet tall.

  The drive ended at a small fenced-in yard. A weathered split rail fence made of lichen-covered cedar ran into the trees on the right. On the left, it paralleled the top of the drop for at least a hundred yards before turning east again. The house was a log home blackened from decades of sun. Its long front porch faced distant Pikes Peak. A thin column of gray smoke rose from the rock chimney.

  John parked beside a Dodge 1500 that had seen better days, killed his engine, and got out. Although less snow had fallen out here than back in the Springs, there was still a solid, untouched blanket covering the yard.

  He was halfway to the aged drooping steps when the front door opened. A large man with a full, graying beard and shoulder length, gray hair stood behind the screen door and called out, “What’s your business?”

  John stared up at him; the man’s right hand was out of sight behind the doorjamb. “Gunny, it’s John Blalock.”

  Instantly the screen door pushed back and the big man stepped out onto the porch. Although it’d been years since the knee replacement, he still walked with a limp. His right hand was in view now, and the Berretta 9 mm looked small in its grasp.

  “Well, Captain Blalock, as I live and breathe. What are you doing up this way, John? Come all this way just to pay respects to your ol’ Gunny?”

  John noticed that the Gunny hadn’t commented on John’s obvious injuries. “No, Gunny, although I wish that were the case. I’ve run into a little trouble.”

  “I can see that. Well, don’t stand out here being a target. Come on inside.”

  John climbed the snow-covered steps, holding onto the railing as he went, and joined the Gunny on the porch.

  The Gunny took his arm and John let him put it over his shoulder and help support John’s weight. They went inside where a log fire burned in a massive stone hearth. The great room was filled with old furniture and copies of Renaissance art. An elk antler chandelier hung over a massive polar bear rug.

  “Well, Captain. What do you need more, a drink, ministering, or sleep?”

  “That order sounds good.”

  “Then that order it’ll be.”

  Gunnery Sergeant Albert T. Zim, U.S.M.C., Retired, helped him to the sofa, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. To the tune of ice clinking against glass, John struggled out of his coat. He tossed it to one side and then found that he couldn’t get the shoulder harness rig off no matter how he tried.

  He’d given up getting it off when the Gunny returned with two drinks.

  “It appears that you’ve had more than a little trouble. Have
you been playing hero again?” Gunny asked as he passed John a tumbler filled with Scotch and a single ice cube.

  “No, Gunny, I’ve just been trying to survive.”

  “I certainly hope so. You know what I always say.”

  “Even heroes die,” they said in unison.

  “The Corps,” John said, raising his glass.

  “The Corps.”

  They each drained about half of their drinks. John lowered his glass to the coffee table, taking care to use a recent issue of Guns and Ammo for a coaster.

  “Gunny, could you help me out of this rig? I can’t seem to get my arm back far enough.”

  “Sure, John.”

  Gunny set his glass on the table, directly on the wood. He stood and helped John pull the shoulder holster first off his left arm and then the right.

  “Doesn’t look like that vest did you too much good.”

  “I’m not dead.”

  “You finish your drink. I’ll fetch the first aid kit and we’ll see what can be done for you.”

  “Aye, aye, Gunny,” John said and retrieved his glass.

  This time he sipped and enjoyed the flavor of the single malt while the massive first sip continued to spread fire throughout his chest.

  Gunny returned a couple of minutes later with a first aid kit, a bowl of water, and a white towel in one hand. His other hand held a bottle of Glenfiddich and two ice cubes. He dropped one ice cube into each of their glasses, refilled John’s glass, and topped his own off.

  “Where do you want me to start?” Gunny asked.

  “I think the back.”

  “All right, off with the vest and shirt then.”

  With Gunny’s help, John was able to shuck both items.

  “When did you start wearing jewelry?”

  “What? Oh, this. It’s not jewelry, but it’s a long story.”

  “Well then, save it for when I’m done. Now let’s see that back.

  As John leaned forward on his knees, Gunny examined the wound.

  “How’s the lung?” he asked.

  “I don’t think the bullet got that far. If it weren’t for the blood, I’d think the vest stopped it and my shoulder was just bruised.”

  “Well, it’s not just a bruise. Let’s clean it and see what we see.”

  Gunny dipped one end of the towel into the water and softly rubbed. The water was warm, but the touch was pain. John tightened his jaw and waited.

  After a minute, Gunny stopped. “There’s discoloration and swelling. I believe the bullet is lodged against your shoulder blade.”

  Gunny set back and picked up his first aid kit. “I’ve got topicals and the heavy stuff. Which shall it be?”

  “You’d better make do with the topicals. We need to talk and I don’t think I could stay awake if I have the heavy stuff. Besides, I may have to leave again.”

  “The Captain is always right.”

  John coughed. “Please Gunny; I don’t think I could laugh just now. It’d hurt too much. Besides, since when have you ever thought the Captain was always right?”

  “Most of the time, Captain. I just didn’t want it to go to your head. Too many officers go bad when they start to think they know better than their senior noncoms.”

  John stared at the older man in amazement. He couldn’t remember the Gunny giving out many compliments.

  “Now, lean forward again and let me numb that wound.”

  John obeyed and a second later felt the cold spray against his flesh. It stung at first, then the feeling faded.

  Gunny pulled out a pair of narrow forceps and clicked them together, twice. “Well, I haven’t done this in some time, so if it hurts, keep it to yourself. I don’t like to be critiqued while I’m working.”

  “Aye, aye, Gunny.”

  “You can start your story anytime you like,” Gunny said and leaned over John’s back.

  While Gunny worked, John retold the events of the last few days, leaving out only what he considered too personal to relate. His dialogue was interrupted several times by pain, but he recovered and continued.

  Gunny dropped a bloody piece of copper on the table in front of John. It was sharply conical. “Haven’t seen one of those in years. I thought only the French had them now.”

  “Yes, the French,” John agreed and went on with his story.

  Gunny dressed his wound and then cleaned and examined the cut along John’s ribs. He numbed it and took sutures from the kit.

  By the time, he had finished stitching up the wound; John had his story up to date.

  “Now let’s have a look at that ear.”

  John was having trouble hearing on that side, but he was hoping that it was because the ear canal was filled with blood rather than actual damage to his inner ear.

  The Gunny cleaned the area, which hurt almost as much as pulling the bullet out of John’s back and then shook his head. “This is going to take plastic surgery to really fix. I don’t think it’ll do any real good to stitch it up. You’ve lost nearly half the ear, but there’s no wound to sew together.”

  “Great, just slap some antiseptic and a bandage over it.”

  “How about this other bandage on your shoulder? Do you want me to change it?”

  “I think it’s all right. Is it seeping?”

  “No, but some of the blood from your gunshot soaked the edges.”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  Between the warmth of the fire and the scotch, John’s aches and pains had faded to a dull roar, but when he blinked, his eyelids kept refusing to open.

  Gunny finished with his shoulder and then examined the various cuts and burns that showed through tears in John’s clothes.

  After a minute, he shook his head. “These don’t look too bad, but they will need to be cleaned properly before I bandage them. You might as well take a shower.”

  “All right, in a minute.”

  “This bauble you’re wearing. You say it’s like a radio connected to your head?”

  “Essentially.”

  “And you know the frequency it’s broadcasting on?”

  “Yes, it’s in the C-band.”

  “Then you have to assume this Holdren fellow knows the frequency too. If you try contacting Caitlin he’s going to triangulate your location.”

  “Yes, of course. I won’t use it while I’m here.”

  “Unless she wakes up and calls you.”

  “Ah, well I guess I could wait until I move away from your house to respond.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. You have a repeater in the Jeep?”

  It was part of the equipment he’d purchased the previous day. “Yes.”

  “I’ll take it down the road a ways and hide it in the trees. Then if they spot your signal, it’ll be the repeater they home in on. I’m sure it puts out more power than that little bauble.”

  “Ten watts for it, less than a half-watt for this,” John said.

  “All right. Let’s get you into bed and I’ll take care of that.”

  John let the Gunny help him to his feet. “I’m going to need a few more things.”

  “Yes sir, I imagine you will. Heroes always have needs. Let me worry about logistics.”

  “Thanks Gunny.”

  ***

  “John. Oh, John, I feel so groggy. What’s happened?”

  John snapped from dream to full awareness. “Caitlin? Where are you?”

  “I don’t know. Everything is dark. I feel ... I don’t feel good. John! John, are you all right?”

  “I’m safe. It’s you I’m worried about. Holdren is near you. They took you from the airport to a hospital, Memorial, over on Union. I’m sorry; I had to let you go. There was just no way for me to get to you.”

  “The airport. Yes, I was there with Dewatre. I remember now, he gave me something to knock me out. I guess it worked.”

  John rolled over and looked at the clock next to the bed. It was nearly seven. The clock indicated A.M. but the room was pitch black. “If you’re
just coming out of it, then you’ve been down for more than twenty-four hours.”

  “Lord, no wonder I feel groggy. John, what happened to Dewatre? The last thing I remember he had me on a plane ready to leave the country.”

  “Dewatre’s dead. I wish I could say the same for Holdren.”

  John threw back the covers and sat up. His body was stiff. Every muscle ached. He was a little groggy himself. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken Gunny up on the drinks. He needed to be alert more than he needed relief from the pain.

  “Good riddance. Did you do it?”

  “I guess I can take some of the credit, but only indirectly.”

  For three or four seconds he sent her his impression of the fight. It was one of the marvelous aspects of the egg. Words weren’t necessary, merely recalling a vivid memory would transmit it to whomever you were connected to.

  “Oh my God, John. You’re injured.”

  “Ah, well, yes. It’s nothing serious though.”

  He hadn’t really expected her to pick up on that part of his memory.

  “John, I hear voices. One of them sounds like Holdren.”

  “Pretend you’re still unconscious. If they think you have a serious injury, they probably won’t move you until you’re awake.”

  “All right, but don’t leave me. Please.”

  “Caitlin, I swear I won’t leave you. If they move you out of range, I’ll find you. I will come for you, Caitlin. You have my word.”

  ***

  “You can drop the ruse, Ms. Maxwell. I know you’re awake.” He stood over her and waited. After a few seconds, she still hadn’t responded. Holdren placed one hand over her mouth and then pinched her nostrils shut with his thumb and index finger.

  A half-minute passed without movement, and then she grasped at his hand and bent his thumb backwards.

  He laughed. When she continued to bend his thumb back, Holdren slapped her, hard.

  She let go of his thumb then and opened her eyes. “You murdering bastard. I hope you rot.”

  “Now, now, you’ve got to learn to control your temper if we’re going to get along.”

  “Tell you what. Let me go now and I’ll try to keep John from killing you.”