by Alton Gansky
Controversy lay around every corner, but that couldn’t be avoided. For now it was a secret, but soon it would be world news. This is no mere project, Perry reminded himself. This was a mission for God, and he planned on treating it as such. The best research had been done, the best equipment requisitioned, and the best workers brought to bear. Each key man had in the past proven himself to be trustworthy and loyal. Each worker on the site had signed a detailed nondisclosure agreement—not that it was needed for his regulars. Perry would trust his life, and had in the past, to these men, Jack and Gleason in particular.
Again, Perry took a deep breath and released it. His mind wound backward, becoming a mental time machine that took him back to Seattle, back to the night when a young gunman attempted to kill Professor Jamison Henri . . .
The police arrived in the dark alley as Perry administered CPR to Henri. Perry prayed with each compression and with each breath he blew into the elderly man’s lungs. CPR was hard work. Perry was soaked from the inside with sweat and from the outside by the chilling Washington rain.
Paramedics relieved him of his efforts, doing the work with more practiced hands. Perry watched them load Dr. Henri into the back of a wide, modular ambulance. The ambulance might as well have been a tomb.
The police were full of questions, and Perry obliged them for nearly forty-five minutes before they let him go with a pat on the back and the words, “It’s a shame more citizens aren’t like you.”
“A lot of good it did,” Perry muttered to himself. He then asked to what hospital the ambulance had gone. He thought about leaving it alone. He’d done all that he could do, and it was late. The next day was packed from early morning until late in the evening. He needed the rest. The victim was in the best hands possible for now, if he was alive. Going home was the wisest thing to do.
Perry pulled the car from the curb, made a U-turn, and drove to the hospital. Beside him was the leather satchel that had mattered so much to the old man. He’d picked it up from the damp ground when the paramedics had arrived. At first he was just moving it out of the way, but then noticed that he held it tightly to his side. The police made no inquiries about it, and Perry offered no explanations. One thing of which he was certain was that whatever was in the case was more important to Henri than his own life.
With the case resting on the front passenger seat, Perry drove into a night that seemed far darker than it had a few minutes before.
They had taken Henri to the closest hospital, St. John’s Regional. The drive through the near-empty early morning streets took only fifteen minutes. A quarter of an hour after he’d left the crime scene, Perry was standing in the waiting area of the hospital’s busy emergency room. Surrounding him were mothers with sick children, a homeless man with gauze wrapped around a dirty hand, and a host of others with ailments Perry couldn’t fathom. He found the environment unsettling.
He approached a nurse who sat at a small desk behind security glass. After identifying himself, he asked to be informed of the patient’s condition. The nurse nodded and said, “They’re working on him now. Are you family?”
“Friend.” He had endangered his life and performed lifesaving techniques on the man. He also held a package the old gent was willing to die to protect. As far as Perry was concerned, that made them friends. He found an open corner of the waiting room and settled into it. A television mounted to a sturdy black wall bracket played quietly. On the screen was a well-dressed young woman touting the millionaire potential of real estate purchased with no money down. Perry tuned out the infomercial.
In his hand was the satchel. It was made of leather that had seen a great many years. Initials had been carved onto the wide flap that covered the opening. As yet, Perry had not peered inside and wondered if he should. For all he knew, he could be holding a package of heroin or counterfeit money. But he doubted it. The man he had tried to save in the alley didn’t seem the type. Still, he had to wonder. For what would a man sacrifice his life? If it were mere money, he would have handed it over to the thief. No, there was something else in there, something very important.
Perry studied the bag some more. It weighed maybe two pounds. The flap was held in place by a brass buckle. At one time it must have been an expensive item. Perhaps it still was. Perry certainly hadn’t seen anything like it. The style and workmanship suggested that it had been made a lifetime before. Perhaps it had been handed down from father to son.
He squeezed the case gently, and it gave easily. There was nothing hard inside. Trying to appear subtle, he gave it a little jiggle. Something inside moved but made no noise. Perry guessed it held paper. That would make sense. A professor with a bag of papers. Perhaps tests and homework from students? What didn’t make sense was why he was so agitated when Perry touched it. And why the attacker wanted it so badly.
All the questions could be answered by simply opening the case, but Perry couldn’t bring himself to do it. The man had entrusted him with it, and Perry would honor that. Of course, it might be a moot point if the paramedics and doctors hadn’t been able to get the old man’s heart kick-started again, and if they couldn’t, what would he do then? He would be forced to turn it over to the police or family, if he could find them.
The sliding glass door that led from the hospital parking lot swooshed open, and a woman with tousled gray hair hurried in. Her clothing was loose-fitting and disheveled. Behind her followed another person, a young man Perry judged to be in his early twenties. He moved with an odd gait: hands motionless at his side, torso hunched over, head down. He shuffled more than walked, and he followed no more than two feet behind the woman. He wore a jogging suit and bedroom slippers.
Perry watched as they approached the nurse at her glass-barricaded station. The young man stopped behind her and leaned his head on her right shoulder.
Her voice carried as she spoke. “Yes, I’m . . . I’m Mrs. Henri . . . Claire Henri. Someone called and said my husband was here.”
The nurse said something Perry couldn’t hear.
Yes,” the woman said. “It’s spelled like Henry but an i at the end instead of a y.”
Perry started forward.
“May I see him? How is he?”
He stepped next to the distraught woman.
“Just a moment,” the nurse said. “I’ll check.” She rose from her chair and disappeared into the back.
“Mrs. Henri?” Perry said softly.
She turned at looked at him. “Yes?” There was anticipation and fear in her voice. She looked him in the eye then let her eyes drift down.
“My name is Perry Sachs,” he began. “I’m the one . . .” How did he describe what happened? I’m the one who rescued your husband? I’m the one who beat up the attacker? Some rescue if the man was dead. “I’m the one who called the ambulance.”
“What happen—” Her eyes fell to the satchel. “Where did you get that?” she asked, eyes wide.
“It was with your husband,” Perry answered. His tone was quiet and smooth. “I didn’t think it should be left in the alley.”
“Have you opened it?”
Perry shook his head. “It didn’t seem appropriate—”
“Mrs. Henri.” The nurse had returned. “The doctor said you can come back. Your friend can come with you.”
“My friend?”
The nurse cut her eyes to Perry. “It might be good if he came along.”
Perry didn’t like the sound of that.
“Through those doors,” the nurse said, pointing to her right.
Reaching for the metal handle, Perry pulled the door open and stepped to the side to allow Claire Henri and the tailgating young man to pass. Perry followed a few steps behind.
The inside of the ER was unnaturally bright, belying the fact that it was now well after three in the morning. The overhead fluorescents could expel the dark of night but not the abysmal gloom of fear. That gloom seemed to hover over the woman before him, and she seemed to age a decade with each step.
Claire stopped, clearly uncertain where to look. She raised a tremulous hand to her mouth. Perry placed a gentle hand on her arm. “This way,” he said and led her to the nurse’s station.
Several eternal moments passed before one of the nurses looked up. She looked as tired as Perry felt. Perry initiated the conversation. “This is Mrs. Henri. Her husband is here. We were told to come back. May we see the doctor who—”
“I’ve got it, nurse,” a man said. The nurse said nothing and quickly went back to writing something on a clipboard. “I’m Dr. Reddy,” he said. His skin was dark, and he peered back through large eyes. He spoke with an accent that Perry recognized as Indian. In his hand was a metal clipboard, and a stethoscope hung around his neck. Both looked well-used. “I’ve been treating your husband. Let’s step over here.”
“Can I see him?”
“In a moment,” the doctor said. He led them to one of the empty beds. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“Just tell me about my husband.”
“Of course,” Dr. Reddy said. “Your husband was brought in about an hour ago suffering from a severe coronary event and a gunshot wound to the leg.”
“Gunshot?” Claire gasped.
“Yes. The wound has been cleaned and treated. It missed the bone and passed through the muscle cleanly. It should present no problems. It’s his heart that concerns me most. The attack was critical.”
“But he’s alive?”
“Yes, but he’s not conscious. I understand that someone gave him CPR at the scene. That kept him alive. The paramedics kept up the efforts from the scene here. We were able to get his heart going again, and it seems fairly stable for now. However, I’m sure there has been serious damage—how serious I can’t say until further tests are run. Those will be run by a cardiologist.”
“What is the prog–prognosis?” asked Claire. Perry could tell she was fighting back tears, and he couldn’t blame her. She had just heard horrible news.
“Unknown right now, Mrs. Henri. There are many things to consider, and many enemies to overcome.”
“Enemies?”
“Blood clots, renal failure, another heart attack.”
“I want to see him.”
“Of course, but I need to tell you one more thing first. Your husband is not breathing on his own. We’ve had to put him on a breathing machine. When you see him, there will be a tube down his throat.”
“So he won’t be able to talk,” Claire said.
“That’s true, but for now he won’t even recognize you. We have sedated him. It’s often called twilight sleep. He’s not fully out, but he can’t respond. Feel free to speak to him. Let him know you’re there, but don’t expect him to respond in any way.” The doctor paused and looked at the young man standing inches from Claire’s right shoulder. “Is this your son?”
“Yes,” Claire said.
“Developmentally disabled?” Reddy inquired.
Claire nodded. “He’ll be all right. He shows very little emotion.”
“Okay, this way, please.” Reddy turned and led them to the back corner of the ER and pulled back the curtain. He entered first, followed by Claire and her son. Perry entered last, the satchel still in his hands.
When Perry had first seen Henri, he had been lying on the wet pavement, looking up through terrified eyes at a gunman. With the attacker gone, Perry had approached and found a man in vicious pain. He’d looked as bad as anyone Perry had ever seen.
Here in the hospital, Dr. Jamison Henri looked worse.
Machines surrounded the bed, beeping and whooshing. A chrome metal stand held several plastic IV bags. A clear tube, held in place by a thin piece of white medical tape, ran from a high-tech looking machine into Henri’s throat. A catheter, used to empty the bladder, ran from beneath the covers to a bag that was hanging at the bottom of the bed. A heart monitor kept track of the heart rhythms. Taken as a whole, it reminded Perry of some absurd scene from an old science fiction movie.
Claire inhaled deeply and took a step forward to hold her husband’s hand. He remained motionless.
“I’ll let you have some time with him. We’ll be moving him to ICU in about fifteen minutes. You can visit up there as well.” Dr. Reddy left, closing the curtain behind him.
Claire turned to Perry. “You’re the one who did CPR?”
“Yes,” Perry said. “I happened along at the right time.”
“I see,” Claire said. She moved closer to Henri’s head, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. It moved Perry to his core.
She said to her husband, “The satchel is here.”
THERE WAS A pounding. Perry tried to ignore it, but it repeated itself, worming its way through his sleep. It took a moment, but he realized that someone was knocking on his door and knocking hard. He sat up, turned, and set his bare feet on the thin carpet, then attempted to shake the cobwebs loose.
The banging returned.
“Who is it?”
The only answer was more knocking. He rose on wobbly legs and peered through eyes still bleary from sleep. The clock said he had been napping for only forty minutes. Before lying down, he’d laid out the work clothes he planned to wear when he returned to the site. Certain that no one wanted to see him in his underwear, he slipped on his jeans and donned a brown long-sleeved work shirt. The shirt he left unbuttoned.
More knocking.
Perry gritted his teeth, took two long strides to the motel room door, and snapped it open. “What?”
Not a gracious greeting, but the incessant pounding coupled with his groggy mind drowned his normal genteel attitude. Before him stood a pleasant looking woman with short, blond hair and a determined look on her face. The determination gave way to surprise as the door sprang open, and she took a step back, treading on the toes of a brown-haired man. Both looked to be in their late thirties. The man released a yelp of pain and backed up a step too.
“Um,” the woman began. Perry could see she was trying to regain the intensity she had had moments before. “Are you Mr. Sachs?”
“One of two,” Perry replied.
The woman dropped her eyes and looked at his bare chest, then raised them again. Her face flushed slightly.
“I wonder if I might have a moment of your time,” she said. This time her words were more certain.
She recovers quickly, Perry thought. “I was napping, and I have to work tonight. I’m not really in a mood for questions.”
“I’m Mayor Anne Fitzgerald, and this is Bob Vincent. He’s the head of our planning department.” Perry gave a short and simple nod, which Bob returned. “We were just out at your work site.”
“Mayor?” Perry said.
“Yes, mayor. I noticed your caravan of equipment go through town, and since we had no record of permits for construction, we thought we would take a look.”
“We’re not building, and we’re not in city limits,” Perry said. “I don’t understand your interest.” He was being short with her, and a twinge of remorse nagged at him.
“Problems don’t stop at borders, Mr. Sachs. I spoke to some of your employees, but they just stonewalled me.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“Big guy . . . um . . . ,” the woman began.
“Jack Dyson,” Bob chimed in.
“Ah, Jack. I’ll have to give him a bonus.” Perry smiled.
The mayor’s face turned sour. “We may be a small town, M
r. Sachs, but we are not stupid. We have certain rights and powers, and I intend to use them.”
“Really?” Perry asked. “Like what?”
“Listen, Mr. Sachs, I just need a few questions answered.”
“No.” Perry was blunt. “Everything we are doing is within the scope of law. Trust me. I had six attorneys working on it. We’re breaking no laws, local, county, or state. Our work requires”—he paused for a moment, searching for the right phrase—“a certain measure of discretion.”
“Secrets, you mean,” the woman snapped.
“That’s one way of putting it, Mayor. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have only a short time to catch a few winks, and I’d like to catch every one.” He started to close the door.
“I have only a few questions. It won’t take too long.”
“With all due respect, this has already taken too long.” Perry closed the door, peeled his shirt from his back, and crawled back on the bed, not bothering to remove his jeans. He listened carefully. The knocking didn’t return. He heard several indistinguishable words. The tone, however, was clear. “Temper, temper, Mayor,” he said softly, then closed his eyes. He heard the sound of a car motor starting.
ANNE STORMED BACK to the pickup, cursing under her breath. Bob followed quietly and took his place behind the steering wheel. He fastened his seat belt and avoided eye contact.
“Who does he think he is?” Anne snapped. “He can’t treat us this way.”
“I think he just did,” Bob replied.
“This goes beyond the pale. I’m tired of city people thinking we’re nothing but backwoods idiots. He probably thinks we drink moonshine at barn dances. This is Southern California, and our citizens are every bit as erudite as the people he hobnobs with.”
“You may be overreacting, Anne,” Bob said softly. “He has a point. He’s outside our sphere of influence, and if he wants to keep secrets, he can. He sure seems good at it.”
“But why? What are they doing that requires such mystery? It makes no sense.”