Fallen Angel

by Chuck Logan

  “John had a heart attack early this morning. He’s gone.” She sounds like a little girl being brave.

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “I’m standing on the porch looking at an ambulance and three cop cars.”

  “The porch?”

  “He must have got up during the night and made it down to the beach.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Asleep, in a chair in the living room.”

  Morgon triages the information and sets his feelings for John aside. He thinks but does not say that there’s a good chance if Kelly hadn’t left the group the old man might still be alive. He says, “Who’s there with you besides the cops and medics?”

  “Carl’s here; he came in early. He found the body.”

  Carl Mundt, the groundskeeper, is no Kelly, but he’s a retired Rivard County deputy and army before that. So he’s a trusted Rivard family retainer. “Let me talk to Carl.”

  When Carl comes on the connection, Morgon says, “What’s your assessment of Amanda. How’s she holding up?”

  “She’s pretty rocky.”

  “Call Doc Merriman at Lakeview Emergency. She may need more prescriptions to get through this.”

  “Whole county might. Okay, Morg; I’m on it.”

  When Amanda comes back on, he says. “Carl will keep you company until I get back. There’s no template for this, honey. It’s something you have to go through.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Morg. I buried my father and mother, and I’m perfectly capable of handling affairs here.” The tart repost is unexpected and almost snappish. But Morgon can’t worry about her now because Roger Torres, sitting at a table with three men, spots him and raises his hand. So he tells Amanda, “I’m real sorry, but I can’t talk now.” He ends the call as Roger gets up and pads smoothly through the clientele who hunch over their drinks sucking in their guts and watching high-definition gladiators rage in violent color on multiple flat-screen TVs.

  In keeping with the ad-hoc nature of this rendezvous, Roger’s smile is drawn in a thin line surrounded by stubble on his cheeks and chin. But his quick brown eyes flick on Morgon like a cougar measuring the distance to a moving target. Seeing Morgon’s expression, Roger steps back. “What is it, my friend?”

  Morgon gestures with his phone. “It’s John. His heart quit.”

  “Dead?”

  Morgon nods. “A few hours ago.”

  “Mala suerte,” Roger says under his breath and then places one hand on Morgon’s arm. “But, you know, he was a man who lived a real life. We are pygmies by comparison. Look what he did when he was not much more than a boy—he captured Hermann Goering.” Roger observes a moment of subdued silence, then declares, “I’ll be honored to come to his funeral.” After pausing for another interval, Roger motions and says, “Lousy timing, actually. I was going to give you shit about Grand Forks, cherry-picking my man, Cawker. My people monitored his phone. Don’t worry, we left no fingerprints.”

  Morgon glances around.

  “Not here, took some vacation,” Roger explains. “Like a big snake, he crawls away to digest after he feeds.”

  “And?”

  Roger shrugs, expansive. “But now, with John gone, I presume you’ll be writing the checks. You can have him. I’ll find a replacement. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the crew.”

  They enter the sports bar, and Roger points to three men who sit at a table apart from the other patrons sipping coffee. They are athletic, relaxed, and casually but expensively dressed for travel.

  “They are the best I’ve got, not the bunch who were smoked taking out Davis in Maryland,” Roger assures him. “The blond one, Hector, he’s Chilean; his day job was nurse anesthetist. He’s seen the target before. He was the one we put into Walter Reed to hotbox her IV with PCP. He knows his way around hospitals.” Roger’s cell phone rings. He answers the call and then waves to Morgon. “I have to take this. Go on. Fill them in. Show some canines to remind them where they are.” Roger winks. “So far from God and so close to Morgon Jump, huh?”

  “Who’s in charge here?” Morgon asks the trio.

  “You can talk to me. I’m Victor Jaurez,” the tallest of the three speaks up.

  “I see in the paper where your compadres are cutting hearts out of people down in Cancun. What’s going on, a religious revival, some Aztec thing?”

  Jaurez and his companions chuckle among themselves and salute Morgon with their coffee cups. Jaurez says, “So you have a problem you can’t solve with all your furious Nortre Americanos and their expensive toys. A big problem,” he says, tapping the dossier Roger has prepared, “that weighs about 130 pounds, has a pussy, and lives in a hospital lock ward. You are slipping, amigo.”

  “I assume Roger explained she’s already a runner. Shouldn’t be a problem, getting her out of the hospital,” Morgon says, tight-lipped.

  Jaurez grins. “For what you’re paying, I will overcome my dislike for skinny, flat-chested American women and personally fuck her to death.”

  “Be my guest. Just do it fast. She’s never to be found,” Morgon says coldly, staring down Jaurez’s glib bravado.

  “Claro.” Jaurez motions to his men to get up. “We have to make a connection to the Twin Cities.”

  “So,” Roger says, walking up, “are we good here?” He places two cups of coffee down on the table.

  Jaurez shrugs, “We should be in position tomorrow.”

  As they leave, Roger takes a seat across from Morgon and slides over one of the cups. Morgon catches himself staring into the black coffee, where his reflection flickers back at him, oily dark. Absent John, this is the first time, since Billy, he’s been off the leash. He looks up. “Roger, I need some advice going forward here.” He nods toward the exit, where the trio of killers have vanished in the pedestrian foot traffic. “I don’t mean this kind of thing.”

  “If you’re looking to branch out now that John’s gone, I’m all ears. The world has changed in the last few years. The whole antiterror apparatus is getting to be a top-heavy bore. But there’s a new international elite zipping around in private jets chasing the next killer app. Hong Kong, Mumbai, Dubai.” Roger shrugs. “They require high-end security, and the market is glutted with amateurs and wannabes.”

  Morgon shakes his head. “I like it fine where I’m at.”

  “Ah, you’re still determined to settle down and play house with Amanda.” Roger’s smile is both resigned and sympathetic. “So how’s she holding up?”

  “Not so hot. She was already kind of a mess behind the pilot popping out of the woodwork, and now with John . . .” Morgon exhales. “I’m going to have to ride herd on the place for a while. Maybe you could sit with me and go over the books; you know the foundation, the portfolio?”

  “No problem. We should wait a few days after the service.”

  “Of course. Tell you what.” Morgon is feeling better now, and the shadow of a smile creeps across his lips. “I’ll give you a deal on a Bell helicopter. Kelly gave his notice, and with John gone, we have no use for it now.”

  “Sure. I’ll take it off your hands, find a buyer. My pilot’s a qualified mechanic. He’ll check it out.”

  Morgon’s gaze wanders back to the entrance where Roger’s three men disappeared.

  “Don’t think about it,” Roger says. “Pretty soon it’ll all be over.” Then he fingers the cuff of Morgon’s suit jacket. “This is nice.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Jesse pulls the hood of her old college sweatsuit up around her head so she doesn’t have to look at people and heads for the computer station. She has retrieved Sam’s letter, which is now tucked in her fanny pack that is tightly strapped around her waist. Along with Janet’s cell number. She’s decided to take a chance, so she called and confirmed the meet at four this afternoon. She’ll just listen to what Janet has to say. She exhales and looks at the wall clock. In an hour it’ll be lunch.

  She sits down and stares at her reflection in the blacked-
out computer screen and snaps on the image of the dark-haired woman in Michigan, barefoot, in the apron, staring at her in stunned disbelief, looking at her like she wasn’t even supposed to exist.

  She logs on and Googles paranoia and opens the first file: Paranoia is a thought process characterized by excessive anxiety and fear, often to the point of irrationality and—the next word jumps out at her—DELUSION. Paranoid thinking typically includes persecutory beliefs concerning a perceived threat towards oneself . . .

  Jesse stiffens bolt-upright in the chair when she senses someone behind her. She turns and sees this guy reading over her shoulder.

  “Hey, what’s up?” He’s all edges and hollow eyes and wiry muscularity and looks like hunger. Six feet tall, he’s dressed in an old pair of sweatpants, a faded gray T-shirt, and tennis shoes with his bare ankles showing. His lean face is twisted slightly by a crooked smile that droops at the corner. A braid of scar tissue runs diagonal from cheek to cheek, and his nose looks newer than the rest of his face. Completing this tapestry of hurt is a pair of black horn-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses. The overall effect is what happens when handsome gets seriously run over by the Wheel of Life and makes a bad decision on glasses frames. In what she assumes he thinks is a friendly conversational tone, he says, “What’s the old saying? Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.”

  Officer reflex: he’s got an attitude, because there’s a pack of cigarettes rolled in his right shirtsleeve, which gives her a better look at another scar that zig-zags down into his bicep.

  Female reflex: his hair—short, dark, and curly—is too vivid for his eyebrows.

  He leans too close and gives off a taut muscle-scented odor that reminds her of sleep deprivation and intense concentration. The way Tumbleweed Six’s cockpit smelled after a long night mission. And then there’s the smile: a Joker’s smile full of death metal–emo-punk energy right off a deck of cards. Like something extra’s going on. Like he’s stoned on meds, crazy, or both—all of which are perfectly acceptable on 4J.

  But.

  The disturbed grin doesn’t fit with his penetrating brown eyes. She checks the two small, faded words printed over his left breast on the shirt: Force Recon.

  “Back off. What you think you’re doing?” she demands, getting up. Strangely, in rising to her feet, she doesn’t move away but moves closer, and they shiver in a suspended moment with their scarred faces inches apart. She can feel his breath on her cheek. He’s chewing gum. Dentyne.

  “Meeting new people. I just got here,” he protests.

  “Go meet people someplace else.” Jesse is taking a second look now. Behind the downbeat Iggy Pop act he’s older and harder than the trippy smile suggests. And the smile can’t disguise the physical poise and kinetic focus of an elite athlete. He doesn’t quite add up. In fact, he’s a little on the scary side, but she in no way feels frightened. Maybe it’s something about the way he moves?A premonition that they’ve met before. She needs some time to process this, so she spins on her heel and walks toward her room.

  “Okay, I apologize,” the guy insists as he follows her down the corridor. “Lame start. Let’s try again.”

  At the door to her room, Tony catches up with them and eases the guy aside. “Whoa, there, Lemmer,” he says. “Maybe they didn’t explain the fraternizing policy, or maybe you just forgot. The women’s rooms are off limits.”

  Jesse watches the new patient adjust to Tony’s presence. He backs off and lets Tony walk him down the hall.

  ***

  Joe Davis blinks his heavy eyes at the nurse’s aide who wears an ID card on a lanyard around his neck bearing the name Anthony Grayson.

  “Hey, how you doin’?” Davis says, letting an ambiguous edge glide into his voice. He has to stay in character with the chart Mouse inserted in the system. The chart says he has boundary issues, poor impulse control, and a tendency to get aggressive. “Don’t worry, man. I get it,” he tells the aide. “No bugging the female patents and no going in their private rooms.”

  “Okay, good. Now, did you get settled in?” Tony asks as his watchful eyes take their time, appraising Davis. He stands a little closer than is polite, as if to remind Davis of the considerable leverage spring-loaded in his roustabout’s physique.

  “Yeah,” Davis says, “I brought my stuff into my room on the other side of the ward.”

  “You did intake with primary care this morning, right?” Tony says.

  “Uh-huh. Checked vitals, took a medical history, peed in the cup, like that. Then they sent me down to the lab to draw blood.” His eyes flit up and down the hall—then, with an almost palpable afterthought, he brings his gaze back and stares, unblinking, into Tony’s eyes.

  “You know your appointment schedule?” Tony asks, indifferent to Davis’ stare.

  Davis nods. “Got a printout in my room. Skate the weekend, then on Monday morning I see a psychologist in mental health.”

  “Mental health’s down on one, past the cafeteria,” Tony says. “I’m headed that way, so if you want to tag along I’ll show you where it is.”

  “So I can leave the ward, right?”

  “Sure, just sign in and out. You don’t have restrictions. Your chart says you’re here for tests, so just make it to your appointments.”

  “So where can a guy take a smoke break around here?” Davis asks.

  “There’s a patients’ smoking area, but I’ll show you where the staff goes. Give me a minute. I’ll meet you at the nurses’ station.”

  As he watches the hefty aide trundle away, Davis figures this guy has a proprietary interest in protecting Jesse Kraig and wants to talk to him, man to man, off the ward, straighten him out to the program.

  Waiting for the aide at the nurses’ station, Davis takes a quick inventory. The ward floats, all easy colors, the sounds muted. A pulse oximeter chirps softly from an open doorway. A nurse pads by on silent moccasin feet. Less quiet is a young man who stamps—crow-like—up the hall on knees that end in steel struts. He nods to Davis, who nods back, and Davis catches a glimpse of red grit in his eyes that lingers from where he left his legs.

  Focus, Davis tells himself.

  Now that this Anthony guy is giving him the evil eye, he’s worried they might run room checks in his absence and dig in his go-bag and find his tactical vest that contains a .45 automatic, numerous magazines, a small pack of plastic explosives, and a tidy drugstore of narcotics, tourniquets, and Kerlix combat bandages.

  He looks around. The hospital is just too damn big, with too many people. His only play is to get her out. Tonight. With force if necessary.

  Davis sags against the desk and enters a sign-out time and a destination: smoke break. Think positive. You’re inside and operating in your element, which, at the moment, is midair. On the plus side he’s finally reconnected with Jesse Kraig in the flesh, and the encounter has left him a little stunned. His hands throb with the sensation of digging her out of that shattered cockpit months ago in a nameless patch of desert. She’s no longer a phantom flirting in his imagination, not a memory of the manqué-like staring patient at Walter Reed. Even cowled like a monk in her hoodie, he could see that her embattled blue eyes were clear and focused. As for the scars stamped on her face, they only make her more crash-and-burn, heartbreak beautiful. And he can’t help thinking that if he put his lips against hers, the drooping corner of his smile would hook into the scar that splits up her chin over her mouth and they would fit together like two lost halves of a treasure map.

  Then Tony is back and leads Davis to the elevators, and they stop on one. Tony shows him the way to mental health, a suite of offices in an atrium flooded with green planters. They return to the elevator, and Tony hits the button for the basement. They get out and wander through a warren of industrial halls until they pass some vending machines, then exit a set of warehouse doors that open on a cement platform at a right angle to a loading dock. Tony leads him past a covered structure like a bus shelter that is
filled with a scatter of newspapers, magazines, and a tired-looking man in blue scrubs who sits smoking by himself. They stop at the far end of the platform at a corrugated metal table. Davis holds out his pack of Spirits. Tony takes one. When Davis pops the dead Mexican’s lighter, Tony studies the insignia briefly. While this inspection is under way, Davis takes in the loading-dock parking lot that is enclosed by twenty-foot concrete walls topped by a chain link fence. A sliding cyclone wire gate controls entry.

  “So what’s on your mind?” Davis says when they are both lit up.

  “Don’t crowd Captain Kraig,” Tony says, speaking over turbines that whine along the wall venting exhaust from the hospital air-conditioning. “She’s under a lot of pressure right now.”

  “I guess. A guy told me she’s the ward celebrity. She jacked a car and went off on her own for a couple days and was brought back under military escort.”

  Tony takes a drag, makes a face, then tosses the cigarette aside. “That’s right. She’s in a lot of trouble, and we’re all trying to figure out how to cut her some slack. So she doesn’t need any extra bullshit coming her way. Word to the wise, Lemmer: we try to keep the boy-girl at a minimum on the ward. Do we understand each other?”

  “Sure. Absolutely; I don’t intend to take up permanent residence. I’m just here to get a clean bill of health so I can get back to work.”

  “So we’re cool?”

  “Chill out,” Davis plucks up the aide’s ID card, studies the name, then lets it drop, “Anthony. We’re all in the violence-management business together, right? This hospital is just a big spare-parts depot. I don’t need an arm or a leg; I need—what’s the buzzword these days?—my resilience tweaked.”

  “Great. Any other questions?” Tony is smiling, but his eyes are unconvinced.

  “Nope, it’s all good.” Davis flips his smoke over the platform, and they head back into the basement maze. About thirty paces from the dock Davis laughs out loud.