by S. L. Eaves
Catch shrugs, polishes the parts he’d cleaned. Twice. Never good at hiding his frustrations.
“Trent and Dade are more than capable.”
He spits onto the metal surface of the barrel in his hand. I take an assembled piece off the table and slip it into the small of my back.
“Well for what it’s worth, I wish you could join me.”
Catch strokes my hair.
“It’s been a few years. No one’s looking for you. Dye your hair darker. Wear a baseball cap or hooded jacket if only to calm your nerves… And whatever you do, do not visit anyone from your past.”
“I won’t, trust me, I know better now. There’s a good chance I’m wrong about this combination business. It seems too…I dunno know, simple. It may very likely be a code.”
Catch smiles. “What’s that saying? ‘The simplest answer is often the right one.’ I think it’s just like Adrian to leave you an encrypted document that turns out to be a simple locker combination. But I copied down the numbers. I’ll see if I can make logic out of it if the locker’s a dud.”
“Good.”
“What did Crina say to you?”
“To stop being a whiny little ingrate.”
“What?” Catch raises his eyebrows.
“Not precisely in those words, but that was the gist. I was being disrespectful to Marcus and to Adrian’s wishes. She was right. I mean this is some death bed stuff. I should be more considerate. I may not understand why we do what we do or the manner in which we do it, but what matters is that we carry out Adrian’s wishes and, ultimately, end this war.”
“Still…You won’t like my intervening, but I’ll feel I should say something to Crina.”
“It’s not important, Catch. She’s doing her job. And now I’m going to do mine.”
I sling the backpack over my shoulder.
As if on cue, Crina knocks on the door, opening it as she does so.
“Plane’s ready.”
I kiss Catch good-bye.
“Stay out of trouble tonight.” I wink.
Chapter 22
My familiar is not your familiar. The house you grew up in, the backyard you played in, the bedroom you took solace in…that space in my memory is occupied by an assortment of slummy foster homes and dilapidated shelters in the neighborhoods you won’t find on Sex and the City.
There is no mailbox with my name on it. There never was.
Now, standing on the edge of the sidewalk, I slip my feet past the tip of my sandals, letting my toes grip the rough surface as I rock back and forth on the curb. The cab that dropped me there sprayed exhaust in my face as it zipped off. For the first time, as far as I can recollect, I sense what one must feel when they return home after a long absence. I didn’t expect that, to feel anything warm and fuzzy.
I am afraid of being a stranger in my own home. The flight over took forever, there are not enough Sudoku puzzles in the world to distract me from my past. Now I stand in the middle of Manhattan breathing in the city’s fragrance (though under normal standards it’d make me glad I didn’t need to inhale).
For a short while I stroll the city streets, enjoying a classic summer night in New York City and wondering why I so vehemently resisted returning. I have a window of six hours before sunrise, before I am due back on the plane for home, my new home. It isn’t much time, but I hadn’t expected my old stomping grounds to summon such pleasant nostalgia. So I indulge in the memories less detrimental to my psyche, which are few and far between.
There is no family to track down, and friends? Not likely after my violent departure. I have to stay disappeared. Dead and gone.
I grew up in the bowels of this city.
I am its veins, its heart, its soul, its damned.
I work my way to the gym, a long, narrow building in Hell's Kitchen. Daylight hours, it functions like a normal gym for kickboxing classes and weight training, but nighttime is another story. The venue holds nightly amateur boxing matches and is hopping with fighters and fans with a lust for violence.
The gym smells as I remember it—like the inside of a hamper. I pay the cover charge and walk through the crowd. The flyers posted on the door indicate a big event tonight and I am somewhat relieved to find it much livelier than the night I’d met with Adrian. It will make it easier to walk around unnoticed.
Though the men’s locker room is still the men’s locker room. I keep my hood pulled far over my head. A quick glance around reveals nothing but rows of lockers and stacks of towels. Nobody hitting the showers tonight. About halfway across on the bottom row I find #131. It has a combination lock on it.
So far, so good.
I glance around, then kneel and try the combination. What is it? Right, left, right? 12…2…36. I can’t help but whisper out loud as I carefully turn the lock.
Click.
I sit back, eyes fixed on the open lock. The combination works. I can hardly believe it. I laugh at the idea of using a combination when I could have easily snapped it off. The irony being that I did not know if my hunch was right until the lock clicked open.
Now for the biggest part of the mystery: What is this locker holding?
I remove the lock and swing the door open. Nothing.
Well that’s anticlimactic.
I study the empty locker. New screws in the back panel, one in each corner. The lockers are old and in need of paint. Their screws are just as old. These four aren’t.
Now what?
I didn’t bring a tool kit.
I run my fingers along the metal panel, manage to stick my nails behind the metal and pry the panel outward. Cautiously, I glance around to confirm I am alone, then give the panel a rough yank. The metal screws pop out and the panel falls forward to reveal a shallow alcove.
I can’t help but smile.
Resting at the bottom is a thick envelop. I glance around as I inch it out. Paranoid that someone is watching, waiting to pounce on my newfound treasure. There are no markings on it, but the flap has the same “A” stamped on the seal.
A seal which I promptly break.
I empty the contents on the nearby bench. Probably not the most covert action to take, but I do not care.
A beautiful amethyst pendent on a silver chain glimmers up at me under the beam of my flashlight. I turn the slender, translucent quartz in my hand. It even carries Adrian’s scent. I once read that the amethyst is considered a symbol of immortality. I place it delicately back into the envelope. The remaining contents are sheets of loose leaf torn from a notebook. I scan the pages.
Formulas, markers, compounds…and words scrawled across them—“Sialic acid,” “Keto,” “ACHN – OH – COO,” “glycoprotein,” “aldolase enzyme,” “hemagglutinin,” “neuraminidase”—all foreign to me.
I can make out a few key words: “infect” “outbreak” “antidote?”…parts of crazed rants surrounding scientific markers.
I return the papers to the envelope, slip it in my bag, and make my way out of the locker room. I take the comm from my pocket and debate reporting my findings into Jiro and Marcus. I decide to wait to report back to them. I may be a long ways from earning their trust, but they have even further to go to earn mine.
I’ll leave them in suspense for a little while longer.
I have another item on my agenda.
This item will require cash as I figure, knowing human nature, a bribe will be a much less violent method of getting humans to do my bidding. I cross the gym floor over to the manager’s office. The door is unlocked and the office is empty. I enter and scan the room until I spot the safe sitting under a table in the corner.
The safe is bolted to the floor. I can probably rip it free, but what good would that do? I press my ear against the side and spin the wheel. I can hear the clicking. After a few attempts, I manage to figure out the numbers and decipher their order. Might not have the hearing of a werewolf, but I get by.
Padlocks are proving to be a popular theme tonight. And I am two for two.
/> The stacks of money inside stare back at me.
Several thousand. I knew I could trust an establishment like this to keep some gambling funds handy. Someone isn’t getting their payout this week.
Chapter 23
There is a nice summer breeze by the Hudson. I crouch down by one of the roof’s many raised air ducts to block the wind and begin counting out the stash. Using mostly the larger bills, I divide the stacks into thousands, roll them tightly, and secure each with a rubber band. All total, it amounts to six grand and change. I make a mental note to stock up on cigarettes and booze before I board the flight home. I’d come to find we didn’t really buy things anymore, but the occasional purchase makes me feel normal again. I’d already stopped at a newsstand and picked up a paper just for the hell of it. I make my way across Central Park to Mount Sinai Hospital. The next step would require more candor.
After filling my pockets with the cash rolls and securing the gun under my jacket, I dump my bag behind a large medical waste container where I doubt anyone will touch it. The Fifth Avenue entrance is marked well with signs, too well, and with arrows pointing at every possible angle. Is this the hospital Catch had taken me on that blood run? I can’t remember. This entrance doesn’t look familiar though.
Radiology? Downstairs. West side.
I walk swiftly, trying to be as discreet as possible and jump into the first supply closet I come across. Should I catch a whiff of blood, which is highly probable, a surgical mask will serve to hide the teeth. I consider dawning scrubs to complete the look but opt for the overly cautious visitor look instead.
The MRI room is easy to find once you get into the right part of the hospital. A quick glance inside reveals three doctors huddled around a computer screen. The last one out will be my newly appointed doctor. I hope it’s not the muscular guy wearing surgical scrubs and rocking a dew rag over his bald scalp. He’s the least likely to be bribed to take on a new patient, especially when he’s making a surgeon’s salary.
I catch a break. He leaves the room first, pager in hand. I know this because I’m peeking out from yet another supply room across the hall. This one is more of a janitor’s closet. My patience is waning and I consider approaching the two doctors still inside.
Right now I should be on a plane back to England. Instead, I’m inside a hospital while the contents of the locker, Adrian’s last message, are leaning against a hazardous waste container for any nosey fucker to pick up. The longer I wait, the greater risk I take. And the more time I have to consider the implications.
This is far from the smartest thing I’ve ever done. But a big part of me doesn’t care. There is a suspicion I need confirmed and it will haunt my thoughts until I get closure. At this point it is nearly impossible for me to go back to being the obedient little soldier. Doctor number two exits.
And then there is one.
I ease out of the closet, make sure the coast is clear, and open the door to the MRI room. The doctor looks up from the computer he’s feverishly typing away on, surprised by my sudden presence. I shut the door behind me and lock it.
“Hey. Are you lost? Authorized personnel only in here.”
“Not lost. I have a proposition for you.”
I step toward him and he stands up from his seat. He’s taller than I would’ve guessed.
“I need some tests run. Now.”
I am holding a roll of cash up to his face while I say this and he eyes the money.
“You’ve got to be kidding. It doesn’t just work like that. You need to—”
“Save it. Obviously this is against protocol. This is a bribe, plain and simple. You run this test—or tests, I’m not really sure how this machine works. I disappear and you walk away with fuller pockets. Easy money.”
“No chance in hell. I’ll lose my license. This violates—”
I sigh dramatically and pull the gun from where it’s resting beneath my jacket. His eyes widen. I hold the gun lax in my right hand and raise another roll of cash with my left, slipping my thumb inside to make the hundreds fan out.
“Two thousand now, three more after.”
“What kind of test?” he stammers, eyes darting between the gun and the cash.
“I need you to check for a tumor, so you tell me. What’s the quickest way to find out if there’s something up here that shouldn’t be?” I tap the barrel of the gun against my temple.
“Well, a CT scan takes x-rays of the brain; they are the quickest to run. However, you need to have a contrast dye in your blood and that’ll—”
“No. No dye. No time.” No blood flow, either.
“Well.” He indicates the machine in the room to his left, past the glass dividers.
“I can run an MRI. It’s a standard method of detection, but it takes time to run."
“How much time?”
“On average forty-five minutes to an hour.”
He glances above my head. There must be a clock up there.
Or a security camera. Fuck.
“Can you do a fast scan? All I need to know is if you spot anything abnormal. Nothing precise. Just a yes or no to ‘Is something there that shouldn’t be?’”
He looks me over.
“What symptoms are you having? Why do you think you have—”
“Does it matter?” I cut him off. “I just need you to look at my brain.”
I extend my hand with the cash.
He is silent.
“A few thousand would make a dent in those student loans.”
The door behind me is locked, and from what I can tell, the door behind him is the only way into the sterile room with the paneled walls, beeping machines, and long white cylinder.
“No one needs know. And more importantly, no one needs to get hurt.”
He hangs his shoulders in defeat.
“All right. But this is insane. Maybe you do have a tumor.”
“Let’s find out,” I say flatly, shrugging the gun upward.
“Fine. I’ll run an abbreviated version of the scan. Five thousand and I’m not writing any prescriptions.”
Since when did this city become a beacon for pill poppers? Or is it just me? With this pale skin and grey eyes, I probably look strung out. Great. At least it’ll keep him on edge.
“When this is over—you call the cops and you’ll be incriminating both of us.”
I want him as cooperative as he would be if he were legitimately my doctor. He points through the window into the Kubrick-esque setup.
“Ever have an MRI before?”
“No.”
“You lie still inside the cylinder, and a magnetic wave will pulse from a rotating band inside the cylinder. That’s pretty much it. And you can’t, uh, wear anything metallic or, uh, take anything metallic inside that room.”
I bet he’s lying about the last part. Shit.
He points at a stack of folded hospital gowns. He goes to the shelf and throws one in my direction.
“You should put one on. If someone does interrupt us, it’ll look less suspicious.”
He has a point. I reluctantly slip off my clothes and into the scrubs. I place the additional cash rolls into the pocket and the gun into the waistband, which I make a point to show him.
“Just don’t take the gun into the machine.”
He returns to his computer and begins typing away.
“Give me a minute to set everything up.”
He explains the procedure and warns me about people having panic attacks and claustrophobia. I assure him it’s not an issue. There is a microphone rigged inside the room so he can instruct me while he supervises my progress, or rather, the machine’s progress rather. This is good. I’ll hear if he tries to make a run for it or call for help. I’m fast enough to stop him.
I leave the good doctor alone in the room, but not before breaking the latch of the lock. Wasn’t sure if it would hold, but it certainly looks dramatic.
After nearly a half hour of me staring at the white surface of the cylinder,
a beeping sound signals completion.
I rejoin him in the control room. He still looks like he is going to piss himself. But the money has kept him cooperative. I change back into my clothes as he goes over the charts of data that dreaded machine had collected.
“Whoa, what’s that?”
Leaning over his shoulder, I pointed at the scans of my brain. There was definitely an abnormality.
“I can’t say definitively, but you appear to have several masses. This one here at the base of your skull, between your cerebellum and temporal lobe, is the most substantial.” He pointed at the regions around the brain stem.
“There’s a few tiny clusters around it that look suspicious too. Can I ask how you knew?”
I shake my head. “This is rare, right, for someone my age especially?”
“Yes, this is not something we come across very frequently, but it does happen and we can give you the proper treatment—”
He begins reciting phrases filled with medical jargon, and I raise my hand in protest.
“Treatment. So this sort of tumor is operable? Survivable?”
“We’d need to run more tests to—”
“Based on just this test.”
“Given its location, tumors of this kind present a challenge. A few years ago, based off this scan alone and no other information…it’d be malignant. Today, radiation is fairly effective at shrinking tumors. You need proper treatment.”
If he is expecting a reaction he doesn’t get one.
The background does not blur out of focus. There is no shock or dismay or anything remotely normal about the way I swallow this news. My world was already over.
I shove the remaining rolls of cash in his hands and leave.
I know all I need to know. There is closure and then there is closure.
Wind pushes the clouds quickly across the sky. Dawn is less than an hour away; I can smell it in the air. I’d been pacing in front of the church for a while. Sucking down cigarettes, wrestling with the voices in my head.
I feel betrayed, but in order for that to be the case, there has to be that element of trust. Something to be violated. Pinpointing the source of that emotion proves to be the challenge. I truly can’t explain, let alone justify, what I feel.