Dying Memories

by Dave Zeltserman

  G rummaged through a coat pocket and pulled out an iPhone which he handed to Bill.

  “You’re a smart guy,” G said, “if you haven’t used one of these before, you’ll figure it out. I’ve added a web-site to it, which is password protected. Your username for the site is withoutapaddle, your password is your mother’s birthday. You remember what your mother’s birthday is?”

  Bill felt his throat tighten as he nodded.

  “Good. Check the web-site every few hours. It amounts to a bulletin board. I’ll pass information as I get it, and you can communicate to me through it.” G stopped to scratch lazily along his jaw. Suppressing a yawn, he nodded to Bill. “There’s a safehouse we can let you use in Chelsea. My guess is, you’ve got three or four days before the police pick you up so you’re going to have be resourceful if you want to break ViGen before that happens. If you get picked up, we’ll be disappearing like the ghosts that we are, so don’t waste anyone’s time trying to drag us into it ’cause no one will believe you. These folks at ViGen have someone in place at your old job monitoring and filtering emails, so I wouldn’t try sending anything more to your boss. It won’t get to him, just like your last email to him didn’t, and all you’ll be doing is giving them more information. I think that’s about it, and it’s late and I’m tired. Anything you want to ask me?”

  “Yeah,” Bill said. He looked away and stared instead at his hands as he massaged the knuckles on his right hand. “If you’d been watching me you must know who Emily Chandler is.” With his voice dropping to just above a whisper, he added, “Can you let her know I didn’t kill those people?”

  “Come on, you know we can’t do that. Besides, she wouldn’t believe me if I tried. This is up to you, Bill, to figure out a way. But we’ll be helping where we can. Put your clothes back on and we’ll take you to the safe house.”

  G handed Bill the bundle that he’d been carrying when he was hit by the car. It wasn’t until he tried pulling those other shirts and sweaters on that he realized how sore and stiff he was, like he’d been worked over with a baseball bat.

  “We’re going to have to blindfold you when we take you out of here,” G said, handing Bill a black hood. Bill nodded glumly and slipped it over his head. After that G took hold of his elbow and guided him first out of the room, then out of the building and into a vehicle of some sort. About ten minutes into the ride, Bill asked G whether they were the ones to bug his car. He could hear the amusement in G’s voice as G told him that if they did Bill never would’ve found the devices. “At least not with that dime store contraption we saw you waving around,” he added.

  With the hood over his face, Bill lost his sense of bearing and time seemed to crawl slower. He guessed the ride took twenty minutes, but it could’ve been much shorter. All he knew for sure was that the car didn’t stop during the trip. Either they ran lights or it was mostly highway driving. When the car came to a stop, G told him he could remove the hood. With it off, Bill could see that the windows were darkly tinted so that no one would be able to look in.

  G said, “Bill, we know you’re good with locks, and these should do the trick for you. Better that you break in anyway. Here’s some cash that should hold you until you’re either able to clear your name or the police nail you.” G handed Bill a small leather case and a roll of bills. Inside the case was a set of burglar picks. Bill counted two hundred dollars in twenties and tens. He put both the burglar picks and money in his jacket pocket. As he was getting out of the car, G stopped him to offer his hand. “I sincerely hope you find a way out from under this mess,” G said. Bill nodded and headed towards the house. It was a small bungalow and in the dim glow of the streetlights it looked rundown on the outside, with its small postage-stamp sized lawn just as bad. Bill looked back once to see the beige Toyota Camry G had driven him in waiting at the curb. Once he got to the front door it took him all of twenty seconds to pick the lock and get inside. He heard the Camry leave then.

  Chapter 62

  Bill kept the lights off within the safehouse. Even in the shadowy darkness he could tell the inside was in better condition than the outside. It was small, and set up as a studio apartment with a single room furnished only by a card table, chairs, a small desk with a desktop computer and a futon bed, and a galley kitchen off to the side. Bill checked the refrigerator and found it was stocked with food. He took out a carton of eggs, milk, butter and a deli package of sliced ham, started a pot of coffee brewing, then found a skillet in a pan drawer and started cooking up scrambled eggs, mixing into it pieces of ham.

  When the eggs were done, he spooned the food onto a plate, poured a large mug of coffee, and brought it over to the card table. While he ate he turned on the iPhone G had given him. The website name added to it wasn’t anything cute like the username he was assigned; instead it looked like a random string of numbers and letters making it unlikely that anyone would stumble upon it. Bill logged in and saw he already had a message waiting from G that gave him the location of a nearby older model Ford Escort that he should be able to steal if he so desired. A car would be useful, but he wasn’t going to be stealing that one. He didn’t want G being able to keep track of him, and he knew that car would have a tracking device hidden inside it, and probably more than that. He wasn’t going to stay at their safehouse either. Or keep their iPhone, which Bill was sure had also been tampered with.

  He sat for several minutes trying first to clear his head, then repeating to himself the long string of letters and numbers that made up the web-site name until he was sure he had it committed to memory. Before putting the phone away he made a call that had been on his mind for several hours, calling the Cambridge police department to report the location of the homeless man that he had beat up. When they asked for his name, he disconnected the call. After that he cleaned up the dishes and pan that he used, as well as the coffee pot. He found a matchbook in a drawer, and jammed one of the matches in the space between the top of the door and frame. With that done he left the house through a back window, first cutting through several backyards and an alleyway before finding a rusted-out Chevy Nova. He used a rock to break the back window, then unlocked the driver’s side door. The car had to be at least twenty years old, and he left the iPhone by the curb next to it figuring that value-wise it was a fair trade. If the iPhone had been tampered with as he expected, G and his people would think he was still roaming around Chelsea.

  Bill knew G gave him the burglar picks for more than just breaking into the safehouse; there would be more houses that G would want him to get into. For the time being the tools came in handy for pulling out the Chevy Nova’s ignition wires, and within a minute he had the engine running. Grim-faced, his body aching, he first drove to where G had told him that the Ford Escort would be so he could swap license plates since he was guessing that G had left the car for him to steal and there was little chance the police would be notified about it. After making the swap he headed back to Charlestown.

  Chapter 63

  It was almost six o’clock when Bill pulled his stolen car into an alleyway several blocks from Jeremy’s apartment, and after leaving the car he headed off on foot. Another bleak, overcast day, with the chill from the damp air cutting right through him. He squinted through the murky grayness as he walked in an awkward gait, his leg muscles too stiff to move naturally. Physically battered, he felt awful with just about every muscle and joint aching. Once inside Jeremy’s apartment, he went straight to the bathroom where he rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found some remaining pills from a prescription of heavy duty painkillers. He swallowed a couple of these and made his way to the bedroom where he wrote down the seemingly random string of characters making up G’s web-site name so he wouldn’t forget it later, then dropped onto the bed. He fell into a dead sleep only seconds after hitting the mattress.

  With a start, he woke up, badly disoriented. A loud, angry meowing came from outside the bedroom door, and a key was being turned in the outside door lock. He fro
ze as he remembered where he was and realized the source of the meowing. If Augustine kept it up he would be leading Jeremy’s neighbor, Kate, into the bedroom. The next thing he heard was the light patter of Augustine running along the hardwood floor, then Kate admonishing the cat for being in such a sour mood.

  “For goodness sake, what a sour puss! You’d think I was starving you to death with the racket you’re making,” she said.

  Bill heard her voice trailing off as she continued to scold Augustine in a comically stern voice, and guessed she was heading to the kitchen. It was several minutes later when he heard the front door open and close, then Augustine again meowing angrily outside the bedroom door. Bill got up and let his little buddy into the bedroom, not wanting the meowing to attract any more attention. Augustine jumped on the bed with him, and Bill was out again shortly after closing his eyes.

  It was mostly an unconscious sleep with the exhaustion from the last few days catching up to him, and it was only before waking that he dreamt. In his dream he was chasing Emily through the streets of Boston. She was terrified as she ran from him. Every time she’d look back her eyes would be liquid with fear. But he kept running after her, desperate to explain that none of the stories about him were true. Near the end, right before waking, she fell to the ground sobbing, too scared to move.

  Bill stood over her, his heart pounded erratically in his chest. “It’s not true,” he told her when he could find his voice. “None of it is. Emily, please, you have to believe me. You didn’t see what you thought you did. It was only because of what they injected you with.”

  She looked up at him, her face rigid in its fear. “Look at you,” she gasped. “Look at what you’re holding!”

  He looked down at himself and saw that he was covered in blood and gore and was holding a butcher knife that dripped red. He wanted to explain how this wasn’t real either, but he couldn’t figure out how.

  Bill woke up then, an intense loneliness overwhelming him and a terrible hollowness inside his chest. Augustine lay on his side next to him, one eye opened wide as the cat carefully watched him. He absently rubbed Augustine’s belly, which caused the cat to stretch his legs. Bill was surprised when he looked at the clock alongside the bed and saw it was almost three o’clock in the afternoon. He’d been out for almost eight hours. Fuck. There was a lot he needed to do and the day was already slipping by.

  Bill moved slowly off the bed, not quite as stiff as he was the night before. After retrieving his cell phone he moved over to Jeremy’s computer. He found a web-site that provided a reverse phone directory service and used it to discover names and addresses for five of the numbers that had been in Henry Schlow’s cell phone. The other numbers were probably for cell phones, and he would try those later at a payphone and see if he could match them to names. He was tempted to log onto G’s web-site to check whether there were any messages for him, but he couldn’t risk them being able to trace him back to Jeremy’s apartment. The longer they thought he was in Chelsea, the better. Maybe for the moment G was on his side, but there was no telling when that would change.

  Bill needed to clean up. He wasn’t going to be playing a street person that night. He took a quick shower and splashed on enough of Jeremy’s cologne to hide any lingering smell. He wished he could’ve shaved but Jeremy had taken his razor with him. He did find some mouthwash to gargle with, and after that he rummaged through Jeremy’s closet for appropriate clothing. What he picked out was loose on him, but would do the trick. He heard two women talking in the hallway and waited until their voices faded before leaving.

  Chapter 64

  Bill walked into the lobby at One Post Office Square carrying a package that he had picked up from another building’s lobby. He nodded to the security guard, telling him that he was making a delivery. The security guard had him sign in and only gave him a cursory glance as Bill moved past him and into one of the elevators, which he took to the thirty-eighth floor. Instead of heading to Forster’s hedge fund office, Bill stopped outside a locked supply closet. The lock was a cheap one, and within seconds he had it picked and was inside the closet, which was being used for janitorial supplies.

  It was cramped in there, and the time was only a quarter to five. He had hours to wait before it would be safe to check whether the hedge fund office was empty, or at least mostly empty. That would be the best case scenario. At least then the alarm system wouldn’t be enabled. If the alarm system was turned on he’d only have a few minutes inside before he’d have to get out of there.

  He cleared some space on the floor and took a seat. Over the next several hours Bill sat silently trying to sort out in his mind what he needed to do, and figuring out how Forster’s hedge fund fit into the picture seemed to be at the top of his priority. He was okay waiting like he was in a cramped space and in the dark. It flashed him back to his time in the army and the mountains outside of Bogotá when sometimes he’d have to hole up without any movement for as long as forty-eight hours before action. He found himself drifting asleep when the sound of a key in the door jerked him awake. Immediately alert, he squeezed himself into a corner and watched as the door opened and saw a man wearing blue overalls with the name tag, “Hank T.” sewn into them. He was in his forties, average height and size, and looked bored as he pulled out the vacuum cleaner, then other supplies. Somehow he never saw Bill, and wouldn’t have been able to hear him with the iPod that he had plugged into his ears. Once the door closed, Bill waited ten minutes, then left the closet.

  The thirty-eighth floor was divided into three offices: Forster’s hedge fund and two law firms. The sound of a vacuum cleaner could be heard from inside Forster’s hedge fund office. It sounded faint, as if the vacuum cleaner were being run from deep within the office, probably a conference room. The outer door lock proved trickier than the one for the closet, but still it didn’t take long for Bill to open it. Past the reception area were three offices, all with their doors closed. Bill tried the one closest to him, picked the lock, and found a massive office that might’ve been larger than Emily’s North End apartment. The blinds were open and revealed an impressive view of Boston and the waterfront beyond that. Outside of a very expensive-looking cherry wood desk and leather chair, the office was empty. All that was on the desk was a phone and a couple of photos in silver frames. No computer, no papers. The desk drawers were unlocked, but also empty.

  One of the photos was of a woman in a wedding dress. Brunette, attractive, bright smile. The picture was faded enough to show that it was taken years ago. The other photo was a studio shot of a boy, maybe ten and a girl a few years younger, the two of them holding hands. The boy was dressed in a suit, the girl in a fancy white dress with lots of bows and ribbons, almost as if it were Easter. From their physical resemblance, they were clearly brother and sister. Bill guessed that this must’ve been Forster’s office and the photos were of his widow and two children. He put the photos back on the desk and left.

  The dull whine from the vacuum cleaner still came from the far end of the office suite. When Bill broke into the next private office he locked the door behind him. This office was smaller, but it had a computer on the desk, as well as several stacks of paper. The computer was turned off but once he powered it back on he found it wasn’t password protected. Whoever’s office it was must’ve thought the surroundings were secure enough without bothering with the nuisance of keeping track of another password.

  Bill checked the email first. The recipient of the emails was one Elliot Johnson. He couldn’t find any emails sent or received from ViGen corporation. Johnson’s emails either seemed to be personal or directives on how to move the money around that was being transferred to their accounts. There were too many emails to sift through, and he knew he was running out of time. He was looking through the papers stacked on the desk when he heard a key in the door. Putting the papers down, he picked up the phone and acted as if he was in the middle of a conversation. Hank T walked in pushing a vacuum cleaner. As his eyes lifte
d and he saw Bill sitting behind the desk, he stumbled backwards a step and mumbled out an apology while at the same time turning off the vacuum cleaner. Then he stopped, his eyes narrowing to a squint as he focused on Bill’s face and all of his cuts and bruises.

  Chapter 65

  Hank T’s face hardened. “You work here?” he asked.

  Bill put his hand over the phone’s receiver, and in an annoyed tone that matched his expression, said, “Yes, of course I work here. You on drugs or something? Why the hell else do you think I’m here?”

  “I don’t know. Um, I just don’t think I’ve seen you here—”

  “Look, I’m on an important phone call right now, okay? Why don’t you get out of the room. Now!”

  Hank T took an awkward step backwards, but stopped. An uncertainty clouded his eyes. “How come the alarm was set when I came in?” he asked.

  “It was? Godammit, it shouldn’t have been. The last one out is supposed to check all the offices before setting it. Thanks for letting me know. Now if there’s nothing else...”

  Bill made an impatient shooing gesture, and Hank T reluctantly closed the door behind him but not before giving Bill one last wary look over his shoulder as if he were trying to remember where he had seen him before.

  Bill knew he didn’t have much time. Hank T would soon be placing him as the murderer on the lam from all the news stories he’d been seeing, or at least doubting enough that someone dressed as casually and looking as beat-up as Bill could work there. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be making a phone call. Bill broke into the desk drawers where he found more files and added them to the papers piled on top of the desk.