Crosshairs

by Harry Hunsicker

  I ended the call and drove to the VA hospital.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  My friend’s room was empty. The bed lay waiting for its next occupant, the covers stretched tight and crisp across the thin mattress. I went to the nurses’ station and asked an obese woman in purple scrubs what happened.

  “Baxter? Mike Baxter?” She frowned and stroked her chin. “He passed a day or so ago, I think.”

  I leaned against the hospital wall and closed my eyes, a canyon suddenly appearing in the middle of my stomach, a deep sorrow for all the lives lost or damaged beyond repair because of a few barrels of oil or an unnamed hill somewhere.

  “You okay?” The woman touched my arm.

  “Yeah.” I opened my eyes and blinked several times. “I’m fine.”

  “He was a friend of yours?”

  I nodded.

  “Sorry.”

  “Do you know exactly when he died?” I tried to remember when I had spoken with Susan, wondered if she’d had time to come and visit her father.

  “I just came on day shift.” The woman picked up a stack of files from the countertop. “You can ask my supervisor.”

  “He had a daughter,” I said. “Do you know if she stopped by?”

  The woman shook her head and began leafing through the medical charts.

  I left that floor and wandered around the lobby until I found the chaplain’s office tucked in a corner by a flower shop.

  The rotund middle-aged woman wearing a priest collar and gold reading glasses looked up when I pushed open the frosted glass door.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  “I’m looking for information on a friend of mine.” I let the door close behind me. “He died here a day or two ago. His name is…was Mike Baxter.”

  She picked up a file from the corner of her desk and flipped it open. After scanning the contents for a few moments, she put it back where it had been resting but didn’t say anything.

  “Do you know anything about him?” I said.

  No reply.

  “Would it help if I spelled his name?” I tried not to sound sarcastic.

  “Indigent burial.” She took off her glasses.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He put in the paperwork a few days ago, requesting assistance with his interment.” She twirled the glasses around in one hand.

  “Is there a service planned?”

  She nodded. “Two o’clock. Today.”

  “Where?” I looked at my watch. It was one thirty now.

  She frowned as if I should have been able to read her mind.

  “Give me a hint.” I sighed. “The VFW hall?”

  “No. Try the Dallas-Fort Worth National Cemetery.” She pulled a postcard from a desk drawer and slid it across the desk.

  Once back in the Escalade, I looked at the card and tried to figure out the fastest route to the cemetery. Dallas was my home, her streets the arteries that fed my livelihood. I knew every inch of the city, or so I thought until I looked at the address. Mountain Creek Parkway meant nothing to me. Mountains and Dallas in the same breath was an oxymoron.

  I entered the address into the dash-mounted GPS and a few seconds later saw the location of the facility, in the far southwest corner of the county, by a large lake. The southern half of Dallas peeled by my windscreen as I weaved in and out of traffic on Illinois Avenue, past several new subdivisions and shopping centers with all the signs in Spanish.

  Illinois Avenue and most signs of civilization ended abruptly at the Walton Walker Freeway, where the road I’d been on changed names to Mountain Creek.

  I wouldn’t go so far as to call them mountains, more like very large hills, but the terrain might as well have been from the moon for all the resemblance it bore to most of the flat North Texas landscape. The road became narrow and bumpy, nothing visible on either side due to the thick vegetation.

  After a few hundred yards, the thick mass of trees and shrubs petered out and the lake became visible, a power plant the size of a stadium belching steam on one shore. The entrance to the cemetery appeared on my left, a simple yet elegant stone wall bearing the name of the place, surrounded by a carpet of green, carefully manicured grass.

  I didn’t know what to expect, but the lump of emotion that lodged in my throat upon seeing row after row of perfectly arranged gray headstones took me by surprise. The cemetery had only been open for a few years, but already it seemed full. I drove on and finally saw empty green spaces as I passed an administration building on the right.

  In the distance, near a small lake surrounded by gravestones, were three cars and a group of people. I drove that way and parked behind the Toyota Prius with a FREE TIBET sticker on the bumper that had been in front of Susan Baxter’s place.

  I got out and stood beside the Escalade as two workmen lowered the pine coffin into the ground and the mourners headed my way.

  Five people total. Olson. A priest. A middle-aged sergeant in full dress uniform. An elderly woman using a walker to get around. And Susan, wearing a black skirt and white top.

  Olson whistled once as he looked at the gleaming new Cadillac. “Nice ride.”

  “It’s not mine. Belongs to Nolan.”

  “How is the new widow holding up these days?”

  “I think I resent your implications.”

  “I think I don’t care.” He looked once at Susan Baxter, who was walking toward me. “Where have you been the last few days?”

  “Leave me alone.” I crossed my arms.

  My friend shrugged once and got into his car.

  Susan walked to where I stood. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “He told me he loved me.”

  I nodded.

  “Said he was sorry for the way things happened.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “I just don’t understand why.” She rubbed her nose with the back of one hand.

  “Why what?”

  “Why anything?” She shook her head and got in the Prius.

  The gravediggers filled in the hole. After they finished, I walked up and down the rows of tombstones as thunderclouds formed overhead and the wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of lake water and ozone.

  After a while I got back in the Cadillac and drove north to the Time Out Tavern, a few blocks from Max’s place. I nodded hello to the day drinkers and sat at the bar, nursing a Shiner Bock for an hour until I switched to scotch. I wasn’t sure what happened after that.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Anita Nazari took a sip of latte and watched the people wander down Broxton Avenue in the Westwood section of Los Angeles. She and Mira were sitting outside at a coffee shop on the corner of Weyburn and Broxton. A palm tree jutted skyward from a grated hole in the sidewalk, the fronds dappling sunlight across their table.

  Anita assumed most of the pedestrians were students at nearby UCLA, where she had just accepted a position as temporary professor at the David Geffen School of Medicine.

  The women dressed so differently than in her college days: short denim skirts; tight, belly-baring tops. The men wore cargo shorts and sandals and colorful T-shirts featuring cleverly obscure slogans.

  Broxton was a tree-lined avenue, two-and three-story buildings on either side of the street offering a myriad of collegiate goods: clothing, books, electronics, incense, and inexpensive food. The pedestrians out-numbered the cars, unique for most parts of Southern California, giving the area an almost East Coast feel.

  “Do you like our new house?” Mira put down the book she’d been reading, one of the Lemony Snicket series, just purchased from a mystery bookstore down the street.

  “Yes, darling.” Anita patted her hand. “What about you?”

  “I wish it had a pool.”

  “Maybe in our next place.” Anita looked at the folder containing a six-month lease for a bungalow on Tavistock Avenue, on the west side of the campus. The rate was exorbitant, but the house had been rec
ently updated and was in a desirable area near the 405. That, combined with her request for a short rental term, ensured she would be spending top dollar.

  “Are we gonna move again real soon?” Mira asked.

  “I don’t know, darling. I wish I did.”

  Mira picked up her book but didn’t open it.

  “After lunch, let’s go see your new school and get you enrolled,” Anita said. “I’m sure you’ll make many friends there.”

  “I miss my friends in Texas.” Mira’s voice sounded wistful.

  “We’ll be very happy here.” Anita smiled. “I just know it.”

  Mira nodded and opened the book. Neither mother nor daughter spoke for a while. The parade of people walking down the sidewalk continued. A young man with a shaved head and wearing a red T-shirt sat down at the table next to them and opened an Apple laptop.

  As Anita finished her coffee, Mira spoke again. “He looked like the building inspector.”

  “What?” Anita stared at her daughter.

  “One of the men in the kitchen that night, when I came downstairs.” Mira snapped her book shut. “He looked like the inspector I saw in the alley.”

  “I thought we agreed never to talk about that again.” Anita wondered for the thousandth time where her ex-husband was. How he had survived. The Plano police department had been all too eager to write off what had occurred as the result of a botched home invasion, with no explanation whatsoever about the official status of the man claiming to be an FBI agent, found dead on the premises.

  “I don’t remember agreeing,” Mira said. “I mostly remember you telling me we weren’t gonna talk about it again.”

  “And when exactly did you see this man?” Anita felt a chill as she realized how close her former spouse had been without her knowing.

  “The day before, I think.” Mira looked at the ground. “I’m tired of things we’re not supposed to talk about.”

  “Someday when you’re older, you’ll understand.”

  Mira crossed her arms. “And tired of moving all the time.”

  “I-I-I’m sorry.” Anita felt the tears well in her eyes as she leaned across the table and kissed her daughter’s forehead. She’d tried so hard to give her child a life different than her own—and had failed. “I wish I could explain.”

  “I wish you could, too.”

  “Let’s go, then, okay?” Anita stood.

  “I have to go to the bathroom first.”

  Anita nodded, and together they walked inside the coffee shop.

  They were halfway down Broxton, near the parking garage where Anita had left the rental car, when Mira stopped as if she’d run into a wall.

  “My new book,” she said.

  “Please don’t tell me you’ve already lost it.”

  “I left it at the coffee place.” Mira turned around and ran back toward Weyward, dodging people on the sidewalk.

  “Wait for me.” Anita followed as fast as possible.

  Mira disappeared from view for a moment. Anita felt the fear rise from the pit of her stomach as she frantically scanned the sea of bodies on the sidewalk.

  The crowd shifted.

  Anita dodged between two women carrying oversized knapsacks. At the corner, she saw Mira stopped for the crosswalk sign.

  “Please, don’t run away again like that.” Anita placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and tried to control her panicked breathing.

  “My book, Mama.” Mira looked up and smiled. “I just want to get my new Lemony Snicket. It’s a good one.”

  The light changed.

  Mira and Anita walked hand in hand across the street.

  At the store, the table was as they left it, an empty coffee cup next to Mira’s plastic juice bottle. Between the two sat Mira’s book. The table next to theirs, where the young man had been, was empty.

  Anita gasped as she approached.

  “Look, Mama.” Mira picked up a pair of mirrored sunglasses from her book. “These are just like the kind the building inspector had.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Seven days after Mike’s funeral, with no threats or rumblings on the street, I gathered my meager possessions from the extended-stay hotel by Love Field and moved into the servants’ quarters of Nolan’s new home, a smaller but no less expensively furnished place than the one she’d shared with her husband.

  It was only for a month or two, we both told ourselves. Only until I figured out a plan for my life.

  Seven days after that, I was drinking coffee on the patio of a bookstore in the Uptown section of Dallas, an area of high-rise apartments and trendy restaurants. I was watching a table full of twenty-something women talk to each other. Their conversation centered on the latest fashions, which, judging by their outfits, were all about very short skirts.

  I was smiling to myself and leafing through the latest issue of Guns and Ammo when a man in a fake beard and trench coat sat down at my table.

  The temperature was in the eighties, and his cheeks and forehead glistened with sweat. Several of the women at the next table pointed and spoke to each other, covering their mouths with their hands.

  He licked his lips repeatedly and looked from side to side, obviously trying to be surreptitious.

  “You auditioning for the CIA or what?” I said.

  He pulled his coat tighter.

  “You’re also blocking the view.” I nodded toward the table where a couple of the women were now laughing.

  “I’m a friend of Max’s,” he said.

  “Dead Max?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s your name, Friend of Dead Max?”

  “That’s unimportant.”

  “Okay, what do I call you?”

  “You don’t.” He leaned forward, his hands on the table. “You just listen.”

  “We do this my way or not at all.” I placed my right hand on top of his and squeezed, getting his index finger in a very uncomfortable position.

  “Owww. That hurts.” The man’s voice was nasally, almost childlike.

  “Why are you here?” I maintained pressure.

  “To warn you.” He squirmed in his seat. “Jeez, I’m trying to help.”

  I let go of his hand as the group of women got up and left.

  “You hired Max to track down someone, right?” Trench Coat said.

  I nodded. “Collin Toogoode.”

  “Shh.” The man looked around the coffee shop. “They are everywhere.”

  “No, they’re not.” I drained my coffee. “If they were, I’d be dead by now.”

  “He’s not what tipped them off anyway.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “It was the woman’s name.”

  “Anita Nazari?” I kept my voice low, remembering now that as we were leaving his apartment, Nolan had asked Max to check up on her, too.

  “Right.” He nodded slowly. “We ran her through a couple of databases we shouldn’t have. Her name rang all kinds of bells.”

  “She was being threatened by a man named Pendergast.”

  “That would be one of those names you don’t want to say out loud ever again.”

  “Who did Pend…he work for?”

  “Nearest I can tell, he was freelancing for a small firm owned by a multinational drug company.” The man paused and looked around before continuing. “A competitor of Fortunary”

  “And that means what?”

  The man sighed. “Fortunary manufactured the antibiotics given to a lot of the soldiers during the Gulf War. Supposed to be harmless.”

  “But Nazari proved they weren’t.”

  He shook his head. “The doctor whose name we shouldn’t be saying either proved that they maybe weren’t harmless. Nothing definitive.”

  “That’s it?” I said. “All these people died because of a maybe?”

  “Do you know what Fortunary’s market cap is? How much money vanishes if the shares slide a few dollars?”

  “A few pieces of silver.” I shook my head. “So h
e wanted her to keep going with the research, right?”

  “Bingo.” The man nodded. “Fortunary put Tom Maguire into place to keep an eye on her. Track her experiments. The other company, the competitor of Fortunary, learned about it and hired someone to take Maguire out. But for some reason he didn’t.”

  “Pendergast,” I said softly. “He let Maguire live because eliminating him would alert the other side.”

  “You think?” The man adjusted his fake beard. “Friends close and enemies closer, I guess.”

  “Or because he wouldn’t get the chance to do the bunny-boiling routine for his wife. Hell if I know anything anymore.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose, tired even though it was only midmorning. Anita Nazari had been a brutally frustrating individual, at times sweet and caring, other times condescending and manipulating in the extreme. I’d spent maybe three days total with her, and I wanted to break her neck. I could only imagine being married to that.

  “Enough with that name already,” Trench Coat said.

  I ignored his comment. “But Maguire and the FBI were working on the same side, right?”

  “Why am I talking to stupid people?” The man looked skyward as if addressing a celestial being.

  “Jordan was FBI. He and Maguire were on the same team.”

  The man laughed. “You really think this Jordan dude was getting a paycheck drawn on the U.S. Treasury?”

  “He had a full FBI assault team.”

  The man shook his head and smiled. “Let’s just say it’s hard to tell where corporate America ends and the government begins.”

  “Why did you track me down and tell me this?”

  “I thought you should know.” He craned his neck, looking from side to side. “They’re bound to come after you.”

  “Because if they let me live I might tell somebody?” I stood and tossed my coffee cup away.

  “Finally you’re getting it.” He got up, too. “I was worried you might be, like, stupid or something.”

  “And I’ll prove it with what?”

  He stared at me for a moment before walking away.

  I debated getting another cup of coffee. I thought about calling Nolan to see if she wanted to go shoot pool somewhere.