Fringe 03 - Sins of the Father

by Christa Faust

  “Come on,” Micki said, taking his arm and leading him out through the back door. It let the two of them out into a skinny, crooked cobblestone alley. Peter wasn’t sure which way to go, but Micki just stood there for a minute, looking up at him with a kind of intensity he’d never seen before. He was trying to figure out what that look really meant when she put her arms around his waist and pressed her tense little body against him.

  “You were perfect,” she said, rising up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  “Um… thanks,” he replied, feeling a hot blush creeping up from his collar. Was she coming on to him? She’d never displayed anything beyond cool professional interest before, but the way she was looking at him in that moment, he could have sworn she was about to tear his clothes off and have at him right there in the alley.

  “Meet me at the Port O’Leith tomorrow night, to watch the fight,” she said with that little satisfied-cat smile. “Eight sharp.”

  She let go of his waist and turned on her squeaky rubber heel, stalking away down the alley before he could come up with an intelligent reply.

  * * *

  When he arrived at the Port O’Leith, she wasn’t there. Surprising, since she was always on time, but he just ordered a pint and took a seat at the far end of the bar.

  He sent her a text, then waited through several unremarkable undercard fights and several pints, but there was no sign of her. He was about to send her another text when the Munro fight came on. The pub patrons were galvanized around the television, crackling with excitement and friendly wagers. Everyone rooting for the hometown boy.

  It took less than a minute for Peter to realize why Micki wasn’t there. Munro knocked his opponent out cold in the first round.

  At first he wanted to believe that something had gone horribly wrong with the caper, that Micki had been hurt or even killed. But when he rushed back to the bookie joint to see if anyone had heard from her, he realized that the caper had actually gone horribly right.

  He was the mark.

  The quaint old barbershop was gone, leaving nothing but an empty storefront. When he questioned the woman in the neighboring kebab shop, she explained that there had never been any barber there, that some kids from the university were just using the unrented space to shoot a student film.

  He set up his laptop in a nearby café, and started searching around for any information on a local politician named Stephen Keith. There was nothing, nor did any of the local politicians he did find look anything like the man he’d filmed at the hotel with Micki. Also, none of them owned an interest in any fighter. Lucky Munro was sponsored by some wealthy London socialite who was rumored to like a little blue-collar roughhousing in the sack.

  How could he have been so stupid? He knew all the angles, all the scams and yet he’d fallen for this like some rube who’d just tumbled off the back of a hay truck. He should have done his homework, and if it had been anyone else, he would have. It was just that he trusted Micki. She’d made more solid, consistent money for him than any other partner.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just decided to turn on him recently, or if—more disturbingly—she’d been working him all along. Slowly, meticulously gaining his confidence. Making him believe she was solid, all the while grooming him to play this role in her big score.

  As angry and terrified as he was, he couldn’t help but admire her audacity. He certainly wouldn’t have had the patience to run a long game like that. But reluctant admiration wasn’t going to help him deal with his infinitely more pressing problem.

  Big Eddie.

  * * *

  Peter woke from a fitful doze to the announcement, in French and English, that they were about to begin their descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport. He couldn’t get out of that cramped middle seat soon enough. Unfortunately, he still had a long way to go before he was back in the States.

  A long way to go before he had a hope in hell of finally getting his hands on the money he needed to pay his debt.

  WASHINGTON, DC 2008

  Finley’s was a dive bar like any other anywhere in the world. The dank, hoppy smell. The cheap pleather booths. The irascible bartender. The weekday drunks.

  Same shit, different country.

  What wasn’t there was Tess. Not yet, anyway, so Peter ordered a beer and took it over to a small, rickety table by the door. He was antsy, tightly wound despite the jetlagged exhaustion that weighed down his shoulders and eyelids. He checked his watch, waited a moment, then checked it again.

  Finally, she appeared, looking annoyingly fresh and chipper compared to how he felt. She was dressed in her traditional American garb of jeans and a plain T-shirt, hair down and smiling. Sexy in an easy, unselfconscious way that was impossible to fake.

  She walked up to him, took a large, sparkly purple vibrator from her roomy purse, and plunked it on the table in front of him. The bartender looked over at Peter and raised a bushy white eyebrow.

  “Um…” Peter managed, but then he trailed off. He could feel himself blushing, and knowing just made it worse.

  “That’s your package, silly,” she said, leaning in and lowering her voice. “No one ever wants to look too closely at a sex toy. Most of the time, they won’t even touch ’em.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “But how am I supposed to carry this? I can’t just walk down the street holding it like a light saber.”

  “Not my problem,” she replied with a smirk. “You asked me to get your package through customs, and I did. The rest is up to you.”

  He stood, trying to block the bartender’s view of the vibrator while casually slipping it into his hip pocket. It was way too large, and protruded by several inches.

  Tess put a hand over her mouth, quietly cracking up.

  “Is that a serum in your pocket,” she asked, “Or are you just happy to see me?”

  Peter couldn’t help but laugh, tugging at his shirttail to cover the end that was poking out of his pocket. It didn’t do the trick.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Don’t you have, like, a plastic bag or something?”

  She shrugged and shook her head.

  “Take care, Peter,” she said, her smile slowly fading and replaced by a thoughtful frown. “And be careful. Remember, Big Eddie isn’t the only one gunning for you.”

  “I’ll be okay,” he said, hoping it was true.

  “Somehow you always are, aren’t you?” She touched the left hinge of his jaw. “Not that you deserve to be, but you are.”

  She turned to leave.

  “I’ll make it up to you someday, Tess,” he called after her. “If you’ll let me.”

  She waved a dismissive hand without turning around, and walked out the door.

  NEAR HARTFORD, CT 2008

  Sitting in a room of a yet another generic franchise hotel, Peter felt keyed up and anxious. It was funny that he was so nervous, considering the fact that he was doing something that could almost be construed as altruistic.

  Well, maybe if you squint and ignore the eighty-thousand-dollar payoff thing, he mused. But given that he could have sold this little bug for quadruple that amount to some terrorist, it felt pretty damn altruistic. Altruistic for him, at least.

  When he heard the soft knock on the door, he jumped a little, startled. He used the fisheye to make sure it was Doctor Lachaux, and that she was alone.

  It was, and she was.

  She had her head tucked down, so all he saw was the top of her head, covered in red hair. He opened the door and motioned for her to enter, stealing a quick glance up and down the empty hall before shutting and locking the door again.

  Getting a good look at her now, he noticed several things at once. First, that she was gorgeous in person—more so even than her photos or video. Second, that she had a fading black eye.

  Third, that she looked absolutely terrified.

  “Wow, are you okay?” he asked, immediately regretting the words before he even finished the sentence. He’d meant to come off br
usque and businesslike, leaving no room for sympathy or negotiation. Ready to take the money and run. But instead, he’d managed to blow any hope of hard-ass credibility with one involuntary outburst of motherly concern.

  At this point, he might as well get her a sweater and make her some nice chicken soup.

  “I’m fine,” she said, her voice soft and halting. She had a very slight Boston accent. “I just…” She paused. Looked away. “When those men broke in and stole the virus, I was alone in the lab. We don’t have much in the way of security, because we never thought anyone would want to steal a cure for epilepsy. Science nerd tunnel vision, I guess. I did my best to stop them, but…”

  She shrugged, trailing off.

  Looking closely, Peter saw marks and bruises all over her long, pale arms and neck, some of them disturbingly hand-shaped. There was a deep cut on her hairline that had been stitched closed. He couldn’t help but feel like a jerk for extorting money out of her, after all she’d been through.

  That’s when he noticed that she didn’t have any kind of bag large enough to hold eighty grand in cash. All she was carrying was a small, unfashionable beige canvas purse.

  “Did you bring the money?” he asked, trying for tough and getting something more like cranky.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, fumbling for a moment in her purse and then pulling out a checkbook.

  “Are you kidding?” Peter asked. “What am I, the power company? I can’t take a check.”

  “What did do you expect?” she asked, looking hurt. “A briefcase full of cash?”

  “Well, actually…”

  “I don’t have that kind of money lying around,” she said. “I have to pay you out of the foundation’s account.” When he didn’t reply, she continued. “I can authorize an electronic transfer, if that would be better for you,” she offered.

  This was going from absurd to worse. Like an idiot, Peter had expected this naive, nerdy—albeit attractive—scientist to have a clue about conducting underworld business. And the more time he spent with her, the more flummoxed and unsure of himself he became.

  The next thing he knew, there was the harsh sound of fists banging on the door.

  “Oh, my God,” she hissed, gripping Peter’s arm. “They must have followed me!”

  “They?” Peter backed away toward the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. “They who? What the hell is going on here?”

  “The men who stole my virus,” she whispered, eyes huge and panicky. “We have to get out of here!”

  There was a vicious kick, and the door shuddered in its frame. Whoever “they” were, they’d be in the room any minute now.

  “Go,” he said, opening the sliding door and shoving Doctor Lachaux out onto the balcony.

  “What about you?” she asked, but he closed the door on her question.

  The next thing he did was tip the heavy desk up on one end and shove it against the door. It wouldn’t hold them for long, but long enough for him to retrieve the virus.

  It still was hidden inside Tessa’s sparkly purple vibrator. He’d stashed it in the bedside drawer and was about to grab it when the lock on the door broke loose under the assault. Because of the desk, however, the door still wouldn’t open more than a few inches. Whoever was on the other side was shoving at it, slowly pushing the barrier out of the way.

  Then a gloved hand holding a gun slipped through the crack, squeezing off a single shot. The bullet hit the bargain-basement abstract art print hanging over the bed, peppering Peter’s arm and cheek with flying glass. He pulled open the drawer, grabbed the vibrator, and ran for the sliding glass doors.

  Once he was out on the balcony, he slid the door shut and wedged one of the two rickety patio chairs into the track, to prevent it from opening. Doctor Lachaux looked at him, glanced down, and burst out laughing.

  “What?” he asked, touching a fingertip to a warm trickle of blood running down the left side of his neck.

  “Nothing,” she said with a stifled snort. “I mean, I admire your priorities, but…” She tipped her chin at the sex toy in his hand, and failed to suppress another giggle.

  He looked down at the purple vibrator and smiled.

  “You can laugh later,” he said. “But first, we better get the hell out of here. Is that Plexiglas cylinder—the one that contains the virus—waterproof?”

  “Of course,” she said. “It’s airtight. It has to be.”

  Peter nodded.

  “Okay,” he said. “Then jump.”

  “What?” She frowned and peered over the edge.

  Three stories below, the water in the pool was green and cloudy, with a scrim of leaves around the edge. But there was a gate at the far end that led out into the rear parking lot. On the other side, just to the left of that gate stood Peter’s rental car.

  He always had an exit strategy. This one was far from ideal, but it just might be workable.

  He looked down from the balcony. There was a small lip of concrete directly below them, but hitting it from this height would be dangerous. The pool itself was the only real option.

  She opened her mouth to say something.

  “Don’t talk,” he said. “Jump!”

  “Well,” she said. “It’s just…” She blushed a little, looking away. “I’m not wearing a bra.”

  Before he could stop himself, Peter glanced down at her chest. She had what looked to be a perky, larger than average bust beneath a loose-fitting, white button-up blouse. That blouse itself was relatively unremarkable while dry, but it was easy to imagine what it would look like when it was wet. Never mind what was underneath.

  Then he mentally kicked himself for wasting the time.

  All thoughts along those lines evaporated when the men in the room started yanking on the sliding glass door, slamming it over and over into the flimsy chair. The aluminum frame wasn’t going to hold for much longer.

  One of them raised a gun to smash the glass.

  “Go!” he said, giving her a shove toward the railing.

  Once she committed herself, she was surprisingly graceful. She climbed over the rail and then launched herself at the rippling water, moving like a high-diver.

  Peter was less graceful, but just as committed. He flopped over the railing, nearly falling, and then jumped, feet first and arms flailing, into the pool.

  The water was shockingly cold, short-circuiting his brain and forcing all the air out of him in a bubbly rush. His kicking feet scraped bottom as he awkwardly dog-paddled upward toward the surface. He got his head above water and found that he had somehow twisted around on the way up, and was facing back toward the balcony from which he’d just jumped.

  It was occupied by three men in dark suits.

  The biggest of the three was a ruddy-faced blond with a stubbly, steam-shovel jaw and a massive, barrel-chested gorilla’s build that seemed to deeply resent being stuffed into his ill-fitting suit. A good three inches of thick, freckled forearm stuck out of the too-short sleeves. His pistol was dwarfed by huge, hairy fingers.

  The other two were a hamburger-and-hotdog pair. One was tall, thin, and white, the other short, stocky and black. Different in every way, except they both wore the exact same cheap blue-and-gray striped tie, and the same practiced bad-guy scowls. If they had guns—which Peter didn’t doubt for a second—they had yet to draw them.

  Doctor Lachaux was climbing out of the other end of the pool, and so Peter started swimming toward her. He had to do it one-handed, the precious virus clutched against his chest in the other.

  The blond gorilla fired at Peter, missing him by an inch and sending a tiny, needle fine spray of water up into his face. Peter swore and called out.

  “The gate!” he cried. “Run for the gate!”

  Doctor Lachaux looked back over her shoulder at him and made a nervous, rabbit-like lunge toward the gate, just as a glass-top patio table a few feet in front of her exploded into a thousand glittering shards. She cringed and spun toward the balcony, staring u
p at the shooter like a deer in the headlights.

  Peter dragged himself up out of the pool and tackled her bare, wet legs, knocking her to the ground just in time for a bullet to pass through the air where her head had been.

  A hotel security guard appeared on the other end of the pool and shouted, drawing fire from the men in the balcony. He pulled out his own pistol and fired off a shot.

  “Go!” Peter cried, shoving Doctor Lachaux in the direction of the gate. But she wouldn’t budge. She was turtled up on the concrete lip of the pool, arms over her face and shaking her head.

  “Move, will you?” Peter looked back over his shoulder as the security guard cried out. He’d been hit in the belly, but was still firing. Judging from the amount of blood, it didn’t look good for him. “Hurry,” Peter added.

  “I can’t,” she wailed, curling up tighter. “I don’t want to die!”

  Knowing that the security guard might have bought them their only opportunity to get away, he weighed his options.

  He didn’t know her.

  He didn’t owe her anything.

  Clearly the thing to do was to leave her behind, and save his own ass.

  But she owed him. If she were killed, there would be no payoff. No way to get Big Eddie off his back. And even though his tidy little deal was rapidly devolving into lethal chaos, he still had to pull this off.

  So he grabbed Doctor Lachaux’s arm, and hauled her to her knees, gripping her chin and tilting her face up toward his.

  “Look at me,” he said. “We need to get out of here, right now.”

  Her eyes flickered in the direction of the bleeding security guard. There was way too much white visible around her pale blue irises.

  “Never mind him,” he said, turning her face back to him. “Just look at me, okay? I’m gonna get you out of here.”

  She looked up at him, pulling in a deep, shaky breath.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Then let’s go,” he said.

  He tucked the sparkly purple vibrator into the waistband of his pants like a weapon, slung a protective arm around Doctor Lachaux’s shaking shoulders, and duck-walked her as fast as he could toward the gate, keeping her head low. He could hear footsteps behind them, pounding on the metal exterior stairs that led from the third floor breezeway.