“I’m not the help,” he replied. “I’m the driver. Whatever you boys are mixed up in, I don’t wanna know it. Especially since you got a fed in on it too.” He offered Brome his most charming grin. Paul looked disappointed, but in a moment chuckled also.
“Why are we going to your bar, then?” asked Brome.
“It’s a safe place this time of day. I was told you needed a safe place.”
“Who told you that?”
“That’s a surprise.”
“I doubt it.”
Vernon Gulli glanced at him and guffawed again.
“There,” he said, pointing. “Patience, agent Brome. We’re almost there.”
They were. They passed the awning of the old theater with the misspelled bard’s name and turned into an alley. Gulli parked the truck in the single parking spot that was there, threw the door open and started extracting his limbs. His three passengers got out and waited for him in the snow. The moonless night was dark and cold. Somewhere far off, a siren howled. Another shortly answered its call. Whales clapped his hands and stomped his feet, grinning. Brome eyed him warily.
“Stupid bastards,” Gulli was mumbling, completely out now. “They can fit a factory inside a shoebox, but they can’t build a big enough car.”
“It’s just they built you too big,” Paul quipped. The bartender opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but settled for another guffaw instead.
“You should go on in,” Gulli said finally with a glance at Brome. “I am going to up to sleep, anyway. Figures to be a tough night at the bar tomorrow. Today, already. Good luck!”
He ushered them to the back door. The long hallway with peeled pink walls on the other side of it ended in a curtain. Beyond it stood the tables and booths of the main room, Brome remembered. As they passed by one open door, Whales said excitedly, “I called you from right here, see?” Inside was an old black phone in front of a mirror. Paul clapped Whales on the back. Whales grinned again.
Soon they passed through the curtain. The bar was completely empty, aside from the booth nearest to the curtain, in which the blond immigrant busboy was taking a nap. On the table in front of him stood two full glasses and two bottles of beer, looking to be “Hacker-Pschorr.” As they approached, the kid opened his eyes and grinned.
Brome had always been as cheerful a fed as you could find, but even he was getting pretty sick of grins.
“So we meet the driver and the waiter,” he said, turning to Whales. “Who’s next? A spokesperson?”
“No, agent Brome. You don’t need to meet anyone else. I’m the help.” It was the grinning Eastern-European youth. Brome faced him, frowning.
“I thought you didn’t speak English.”
“Didn’t need to.”
“How can a kid help us? Are you an arms dealer or something?” Whales’s friend asked.
“Never touched a gun in my life,” the kid replied. “I deal in messages. Do sit down and have a drink. I have a plan. Water for you, agent Brome.” He pointed at one of the glasses. On the busboy’s blue t-shirt in white letters was the phrase: No one knows what’s happening. Only what just happened.
Brome looked at Whales. Whales shrugged. He looked like a man resigned to his fate. In his mind, Brome compared the consequences of staying versus forgetting the whole deal and going back home. Yes, after Whales, he could be next, but it didn’t seem likely. His gaze wandered back to the blond kid.
“All right,” the kid said and slapped the table gently. “Time is short. Let’s get this out of the way. Don’t start shooting now.”
To hell with it, Brome thought. He was about to apologize to Whales and take his leave, when something happened. The kid at the table became another person. Not just any person either. His body was a blur for a moment and then his face and his clothes changed right there in front of them. In the booth before them, where the blond Eastern-European immigrant had been, sat Brighton.
“Whoa!” Paul blurted out.
“So who’s this?” asked Whales, stunned and seemingly nauseous. Brome was just stunned.
“That’s not the point,” Brighton replied. “I could become Vitalina if you’d like.”
“You’re one of them,” Brome stated when his breath returned.
“I’m one of a kind!” Brighton exclaimed, grinned and changed back into the busboy. They sat down.
Chapter Thirty
The gun was doing the River Dance in my hand. I wasn’t nervous. I was scared shitless, which was a noticeable improvement over the way I’d felt on my way out of the house. It was as though someone had sabotaged my First Aid Kit, and instead of a Motrin for hangover I’d swallowed a horse-sized fear pill that kicked in right when we left the condo. Now, almost three hours after Vernon Gulli had called to set up a meeting at Iris’s place, the effects were still going strong.
Good thing was, seeing me in this condition and with a gun, Dr. Wright wasn’t doing much better. At first, as I pulled him inside the twilight of the office illuminated by a computer monitor and shut the door, gun inches from his nose, he just gaped and panted and stared. When his eyes adapted, so that he saw who I was and saw, also, that the “emergency call” had been a set up, he actually relaxed. Bogdan — otherwise known as our holy crap friendly neighborhood alien — had made that call. Whatever he told Dr. Wright made the man get to his downtown office, fully dressed but unshaven, in less than thirty minutes. Then he saw that it was me and relaxed, but as I remained in my picturesque silence, ignoring his agitated demands, for an extended period of time, his confidence began to waver. He began to throw glances at Brome, who, to his credit, paid so much attention to the gun in my hand that it made him look like he was convinced I was going to just snap any moment now, sending the doctor to the boatman with a hole in his face and no fare.
“Time is short, man,” Paul said suddenly. Doc’s eyes shot towards him like a road kill’s at two headlights.
“What does he mean?”
I told him what we needed. I guess hearing me speak made him feel better again. So much so, he started pacing left and right.
“You know, Luke,” he said, “you were making quite a progress. Six more months and you would have been completely fine. I actually put that in your chart after your last visit. I’ll show it to you if you want. It’s all here. Even when you called me for that unscheduled refill all could still be made right. But look at you now! You’ve thrown it all away. Your career, your life — all of it. And for what? To be different? To be a hero? To fight the system? Nonsense! They don’t give a damn. You’ll die today and everyone will know Luke Whales was crazy. Just another star, cracked from all the money and fame. Serves the bastard well, they’ll say, and they’ll be right, because you’re nothing but a sad draft-dodger with a gun. Whatever you think you know, is only a schizophrenic fantasy inflicted upon your sick brain, devoid of proper medication, by someone who is manipulating you. Some enemy you’ve made unknowingly at some point. A deranged fan, or an old acquaintance envious of your success. I’m guessing they have you convinced there’s a hidden benefactor who is helping you against this army of evil that is out to get you. I’m also willing to bet you haven’t seen or talked to this mythical person. How does he relay instructions? Anonymous e-mails? Subliminal clues? Telepathy?”
He waved his hands dismissively and sneered. Then he sighed and spoke softly.
“Look around carefully, Luke. Do you really know the people here in the room with you?”
In the silence that followed, I took a deep breath and slowly lowered the gun. My hands were steady. Good old Doc Wright, I thought. He always did have the ability to make me feel better. Over my shoulder I looked at Paul who was leaning on the door, hands in pockets. In the gloom his teeth flashed a grin. To the left of me, Brome crossed his arms on his chest. Doc’s face was the one illuminated most by the blue glow, and in his eyes a flicker of hope lit up.
“Give us what we need, Doc,” I said. “Or I’ll shoot you.”
&
nbsp; His lips disappeared.
“Fine,” he spat. “I see you’re beyond help.”
He bent down to pick up the slender briefcase and put it on the desk. The locks clicked and my hand snapped up. I pointed the gun at his back.
“Not so fast,” I said. Those police dramas really stick with you after twenty odd years. “Step away from the briefcase.”
With an exasperated shake of his head, Dr. Wright complied. Brome walked over and opened the case. Evidently, there was no gun inside.
“It’s in the side pocket,” said Dr. Wright. After a brief search, Brome nodded.
“Good,” I said, stuffing the pistol behind the belt. “What time is Jane starting today?”
“What?”
“Jane. What time is she going to be here?” I pulled out a camera and took a few quick pictures of him, hiding it immediately inside my jacket. For a moment the flashes disoriented him.
“Nine. Why… What are you planning—?”
Paul, who had meanwhile snuck up behind him, grabbed his arms just as I placed a previously cut piece of tape over his mouth. He struggled and made sounds.
“Calm down. No one’s going to hurt you. We’ll leave you here to wait for Jane.”
Brome lifted the chair from behind the desk and placed it in the middle of the room. I checked Dr. Wright’s pockets, found a cell-phone and, with a certain measure of satisfaction, ground it to pulp under the heel of my boot. We sat him down in the chair. Paul was having a hard time holding him down while I applied the rest of the tape. The way he writhed and groaned and rolled his eyes, you’d think I was tying him to a stake to be burned. He continued to struggle even after we were done securing him.
“Calm down. In a couple of hours you’ll be free,” I told him again. He would have none of it. I shrugged.
Brome had just then put the desk-phone out of commission. We were ready to go.
Paul went outside. Brome and I paused in the doorway and looked back at the man taped to the chair in the middle of the office. He shook the chair and tried to shout something that sounded like the same phrase over and over through the tape. After a brief hesitation, Brome went back to him and pushed the chair over, so that Dr. Wright rested on his side. If anything, his struggles intensified.
We left him there. Outside, the sky was graying in the east. There wasn’t much time left. In two hours it would be over, one way or another. Brome went to get the “Yukon” we borrowed from the bartender. Paul and I jumped into Dr. Wright’s Mercedes. Now I needed to get my junk out of the garage.
.
Chapter Thirty-One
To get blood circulation going in his legs, Ted Boone was pacing the tiny guardroom when Dr. Wright showed up with a sidekick. On Ted’s portable the news girl had just managed to squeeze in a mention of that talk-show guy, Whales, getting into some new trouble. There had been an explosion in his building that morning, and Whales was seen leaving the building in distress at the same exact time. Then he supposedly broke into his wife’s house, but no one really cared. The whole morning had been about the Pope and the Antichrist. “He walks among us.” Eerie stuff, to be sure. Ted glanced at the clock. It was seven minutes to the end of the shift. Antichrist or Jesus himself, he was in a mellow mood, knowing that in half an hour his head would be slowly denting the pillow. He smiled widely in greeting.
“Haven’t seen you around these parts in a long time, Doc,” he offered. “And never that early, I’d wager. Aside from a couple of work junkies and poor slaves like myself, the place is empty. You hear about the Antichrist?”
“Yes, yes,” the man rasped. He raised his hand without slowing down. “Listen, I have a very urgent appointment.”
Only then did Ted notice that Dr. Wright didn’t look himself. Pale, hunched, sweaty, with eyes as red as Ted’s own, he clutched a square metal case to the side of his wrinkled black suit. The sidekick, also in a wrinkled suit that didn’t seem to fit him too well, gave Ted a slanted nod and stared straight ahead. These guys looked like not only they had heard about the Antichrist, they were about to meet him in person.
The pair halted in front of the glass door of the scanner and stood stiffly with their backs to him, waiting.
Ted checked the clock again. Six minutes. And that bastard Stauffer nowhere in sight. Hating every step, he walked up to the visitors from behind, keeping a very deliberate pace.
“What’s in the case, Doc?” he asked as he came around the side, hands hanging at his hips. Dr. Wright’s head snapped towards him, red, exhausted eyes rising slowly to meet his.
“Something you don’t want to ask questions about, Ted. Please, open the door.” There were resolve and menace in his voice. Ted didn’t recall hearing the like from Dr. Wright before, nor did he like it. On the other hand, he was a security guard. A security guard was not paid — and paid well — to hear things that soothe the ear. A guard was expected to defend the facility from reporters and other scum, not a regular who wore a VIP Visitor tag and shook hands with the Man himself. But there was something wrong. Something had gotten Dr. Wright real worked up. Also, the sidekick had no ID tag, VIP or otherwise, and no one had ever refused to open a metal case, which would otherwise set off the scanner automatically. Why me? Ted thought. Why not that stinking Stauffer?
“You know I can’t let you in without checking that box. Come on,” he said. The sidekick began to move. No, he remained in place, but he was moving. Dr. Wright, meanwhile, took a look around.
“Listen to this,” he finally said. “If I open this box, we’ll both be in trouble. If I stand here for too long because you won’t open the door, we’ll both be in trouble. If I make a phone call to you-know-who and explain why I’m bothering him at this early hour, we will both be in trouble, but one of us will be in bigger trouble than the other. Want to guess which one?”
Before Ted could respond, he continued.
“There’s another option. You open the door, let us in with the box intact on my responsibility and go home to sleep in five minutes. This day has started out rather disappointingly. I would hate to get into more trouble, but I have to deliver this box.” With that, he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and held it up.
All three were silent for the whole minute. The sidekick kept moving, right on Ted’s nerves. Stauffer still didn’t show up.
“Damn, Doc. Why you putting me on the spot?” Ted demanded finally.
“You know me, Ted. I would never do it, unless I absolutely had to. They tell me to bring it not tampered with, so I must deliver.”
“Stupid bastards,” Ted grumbled, referring to “them.” He turned to go back to the guard room. “They put you to guard the place, then change their minds and no one sends a word. And who’s on the spot in the end? Ted Boone, of course, who else.”
He slammed the button with the palm of his hand and turned off the scanner with the other. The glass door slid to the side. The men in wrinkled suits hurried through, leaving Ted with a bad taste in his mouth.
Less than a minute later he heard a badly whistled tune from that show on Food Network and cursed. Stauffer came to take over the post.
* * *
This was it, Dr. Coughlin thought, unclenching the steering wheel and moving the moisture from his hands onto the sharply ironed khaki slacks he’d worn that morning. They were supposedly waterproof. A quarter of a mile ahead of the nose of his BMW, at the end of a straight thick line of black asphalt, was the gate and the wall, and beyond that, looking even more black against the snow that had submerged the countryside around it in the course of one night, Freedom’s Tomb.
Might be someone else’s tomb before lunch break starts, Dr. Coughlin thought, turning off the heater. Better someone else’s than his. He didn’t know much about the plan, but he knew enough about the planners not to question. Nor to disobey.
And really, even what he’d told Whales was largely true. He might not have seen the two prisoners himself, but he knew they were there. He also told him repeatedly
that it was madness to go in. Whales was given every chance not to attempt the rescue. Would he listen? Of course not.
Now Whales lay in the trunk with some kind of a stupid plan of his own, and his friend or friends probably crept through knee-deep snow somewhere nearby, prepared to scale the electrified wall. Maybe they will be lucky enough to fail climbing over it.
Dr. Coughlin considered the thought for a moment. If these friends do turn around and leave… And Whales is captured, or… They will know where to find him. Or worse, they might go public with the story of Dr. Coughlin being the man who helped Whales get access to a certain facility in Long Grove, from which the latter never came out… No, nothing serious would become of that, of course, but he may end up answering questions…
Maybe if I warned them in time about these friends, he thought, extending his hand towards the car-phone’s dial. It froze halfway there. No. They must have some kind of a failsafe against that. Besides, he had been specifically warned against all verbal communications.
All he had been ordered to do was tell the story, take the passenger if there was one and press the speed dial button on approach. Let them care about the rest. He found the button with his finger.
Arm-thick steel bars of the gate gleamed dully less than a hundred yards ahead. A uniformed giant, Tim or Tom or Todd, stepped out of the guardhouse with hands in his pockets as the car rolled to a stop. Dr. Coughlin pressed the button and leaned back in his seat, raising a hand in salute to the guard. He was done.
* * *
Out of the third-story window Millard Fillmore watched the crimson BMW crawl ever closer, bright red flame on the black fuse. The thin clear plastic card in his hand made his bicep contract involuntarily from strain, and he switched hands for the twentieth time. In the dead middle of the card the single button was also clear. All of it was clear, his task especially, but that didn’t stop him from being anxious.
Project Antichrist Page 20