“It's a very serious matter, sir. We want you and your passenger out of the car. Now.”
“I'll get out, officer. But my buddy over there—” the cops opened the passenger door. Ansbach oozed to the gravel, leaving his feet on my dashboard. “Yeah, he's a having a few problems.”
“I can see that,” said the cop, alert but standing down a bit. “What kind of problems?”
“Marital. Or lack thereof.”
“Oh. Well. Then that might explain it.”
“Explain what?”
“The gunshots.”
“Gunshots, officer.”
“Sure. Get a couple reports of gunshots, didn't we?”
“Really.”
“Rifle shots.”
“Rifle?”
“Mr. Drake—is it?” said a cop behind.
“Yeah, that's me.”
“Mr. Drake, do you have a hunting license?”
“Hunting—what? No. My buddy here. We was supposed to go fishing. You know, the kind where you bring along a few beers and—”
“Alcohol is forbidden in the park, sir.”
“And if you'd let me finish, you'd note I said 'were going to.' But my bud there, he didn't want to fish—or drink—he's just kind of been laying there.”
The cops were putting Ansbach back into my car, bouncing his head against the wheel-well.
“So, you don't own a rifle, Mr. Drake?”
“Can't say as I do.”
“And you haven't been engaged in hunting, without a permit, on state lands, out of season?”
“Can't say as I have,” I answered truthfully.
“Would you mind opening up your trunk?”
Normally I have a pamphlet explaining why and how not to allow the investigation to proceed, and it's something I adhered to as a matter of course, but Ansbach's face pressed against my window in a wide-mouthed Edwin Munch scream, so I chose expedience.
“Right here,” I said, popping the latch and showing them the back. “No firearms”
A quick investigation showed no rifle. The basic olfaction no longer a requirement for entry to the police academy, not a blue suit caught the smell of gunpowder on my fingers. One enterprising officer did search a box near the middle of my truck for cough syrup, because that's bad somehow, was saddened to discover a few more cans of fix-a-flat.
Their priorities met and the cause of justice served, the officers ceased their milling, debated where to have lunch and absently waved my car through.
Out of their view I slipped the handgun from my coat pocket to a spot under the dash, wiped Ansbach's face on his sleeve, and sped away. Knowing where the cops were gave me that clear signal about where they weren't, so I hit the back roads at speed. Anyone following me would have had to know where you could hit the turns at 70, and where you couldn't.
I saw no pursuers. Ansbach kept flopping next me, but his breathing got more relaxed so I figured he wouldn't die.
Wanting out I called his boss to arrange a dropoff. Voice mail, but I figured she'd ring me back.
Twenty minutes, no reply and I found myself before the offices of Agate. Still daylight, but the parking lot looked extra empty, with realtor's signs and classified thumbnail to follow. Doc in the car next to me had one open through his slump, like an oriole chick waiting on its mother's worm. I grabbed his face in my hands to let him focus.
“Want to go in?” I asked.
Ansbach kept up his award-winning impersonation of a lard sack. We sat for a bit. My built-in home theater played an elaborate vision where the guy with guns tailing after us would double back to Ansbach's place of employment, fast-forwarding showed my house wasn't an option, so I sped to a hotel around the corner where I could screen my truck from the road and wait this thing out.
After check-in, some of the staffers looked at me mockingly. My hand had moved to the Doc's ass as I schlepped him up the stairs. The need for relative anonymity kept me from killing anyone.
TWELVE
Inside the room I unpacked a new phone, checked the doc's pulse and cracked a beer. He lay flopped on the mattress below the water-stained ceiling tile, but to my cred I first asked him if it was OK. I stared variously at the door, the phone and the TV, waiting impatiently for my beer to cool in the microfridge.
The Doc settled into his surroundings, drooling on the pillow. Recognizing the seriousness of his condition, I flicked peanuts onto his face and neck, enjoying the thwack sounds each legume made as it bounced off his skin. Unless you've got a very trim person, you'll get the best noise from a ricochet off the Adam's Apple.
Finally the phone rang.
“Drake?” It was Execgal.
“Yeah.”
“You got him?”
“So it would seem.”
“I—turn on—do you know what's happening?”
“Hadn't bothered with the news. Thought it might blast a reward at me. Then I'd have bad ideas about our future relationship. You and me, we've barely gotten to know each other. But there's that spark there, and I feel like we have to try and make this work.”
“Where is he?”
“Couple inches from my foot.”
“Where's your foot?”
“You're a biologist, do I really have to explain anatomy and proximity to my ankle?”
“That wasn't even funny, Drake.”
“I know. It's been a long day.”
“I'll come to get you, and take him off your hands.”
“Nothing I want more. And we could bond over his inert form. Laugh. Cry. You'll tell me secrets from your adolescence you've never shared with anyone. I'll go along, because that's what guys do. But there's a problem.”
“Which is?”
“My wife and I have never officially divorced.”
“I don't see what personal difficulties mean here. Why should I care about her?”
“Well, she or somebody else who despises me equally followed Ansbach and myself for a couple dozen miles, then took a shot or two with a high-powered rifle. I'm sorry. I'm just not up to seeing anyone seriously right now.”
“Shot at you?”
“Or maybe Ansbach. But he's been popular lately. So I'm thinking it's the ex.”
“Drake. I don't know what to say. Were you hurt?”
“Just my pride. Well, that and my faith in law enforcement has diminished. What's up on your end?”
“They want Ansbach to be brought in for questioning. He's—”
“Drooling on the floor here currently. Won't be answering any questions for a while yet.”
“Is he injured?”
“Nah, bullets missed us. Stress maybe. I asked his lady friend. He just does this sometimes. Isn't there a medical file on the man?”
“Yes—no. Nothing like that in the record.”
“Well, it happens. He's breathing, not bleeding, nothing in his personal stuff says 'for use in prevention of excess saliva flow.'”
“We need to think about this. Can I come see you? Where are you?”
“Wondering who the heck it was shot at me today. Hate to tell you, doll, but there isn't a lot of trust in our relationship.”
“OK... Mr. Drake. I'll come to you naked. It's what you want anyway, right?”
“Don't you think we ought to get to know each other a little better, first? Besides, I'll hint that I'm in a hotel that doesn't offer much in the way of bathrobes. A towel or two, that's it.”
“Drake, I'll handle the consequences. I need to talk to Ansbach. A lot of people do. I'm sure you've figured that out by now. He's the only one who matters for something very important.... I'm going the extra mile here.”
“Of course you are. Tell ya what, there's a nice open shopping center, mile or two from Agate's lead offices. You oughta know the place, full of soulless underpriced box stores that drive small towns into bankruptcy and moral decay. The anchor stars with a T. Meet me near the glistening shopping cart row furthest from the soda machines. There's a trail of a trash leading to the place i
f you get lost. And it's our first date, so wear what you want. Three's a crowd, so I'll pick you up alone.”
I debated carrying Ansbach with me, figured he was safer there, breathing had gotten more normal. Part of me wanted to tie him in place, but if he split and died, I did not care. I told him so, carrying on a lengthy critical monologue in his presence like I was an addled senior, he an indulged pet, and the both of us about to share a dish of cat food.
The execbabe waited for me down the road, wholly inconspicuous among the t-shirt-living store patrons in her natty pants suit with matching heels and briefcase. I sped around, got honked at a few times by a post-teen in a revved-up Japanese sedan that bore the scars of city driving around its front fender.
“Get in!” I shouted over the blasting stereo as our witness sat in the middle of the lane, cursing me. She was slow to reply, so I got out of the truck, stared at her, shouted again “Get in!”
The kid took one look at me, figured life was too short to get involved in domestics, and split.
The gal moved into my front seat, wiping away the dried remains of one or another of Ansbach's fluids.
We drove off in silence. I moved to the interstate, figuring I could lose any tail in the crush of traffic. Shift to the HOV lanes and a glance back yielded nothing, but I put 15 miles between us and my destination, doubling back along winding, bucolic country roads whose residents paid a great deal in property tax to keep the asphalt potholed and the peons in traffic past the Interstate fence.
She stared ahead the whole time. Shock, perhaps. Down the rearview, I caught her eyes, saw stress lines bulge and moisture form at the edges.
“Want to eat or something?”
“I just need to see Ansbach,” she hissed.
Nodding, I sped through a “road closed: local traffic welcome" message, waited five minutes for a flag crew, and zipped to the hotel.
“He's inside,” I said, and the same cleaning crews as before eyed me, then her, then me again. One or two went thumbs up, eyes blazing and hands in pockets in tribute to my multi-party evening affair. I snarled, let her in.
Ansbach lay still on the floor. The gal raced to him.
“Dr. Ansbach? Dr. Ansbach—it's Jill. Jill from Agate. Remember me? Dr. Ansbach?” She looked around helplessly. I went to the mini-fridge, opened a beer. Colder now. She cocked her head at the glorious sound of carbon escaping, looked askance at me, then back to her charge.
“Tell him you're a provider,” I said. “Or you might try slapping him.”
“A provider?” She was unfamiliar with the term. Maybe. Ansbach remained dormant. She kept at it, cradling his head between her knees. “Dr. Ansbach. Honey, come on. Dr. Ansbach.”
“It won't work,” I began. But something flashed in the Doc's eyes. He broke away from the girl, rolled on the ground, coughing and sputtering.
“Guns—a shot—” he shouted, then came to a sitting position. “You!” he said, pointing toward me. “You're—”
“OK, Doc. We're both OK. Sorry I was rough there, but I had to get you to duck.”
“You saw it?”
“The shooter?”
“From a distance. Gleam of a rifle is something you don't—” she was eyeing me. Keep it short. “Call it instinct. Anywhere, Dr. Ansbach, you're alive.”
“Yes. I am. But poor—”
“He's dead. He—they found his body in your office.”
“We know,” I chimed in.
Ansbach sat puzzled, looking anxiously towards me, wary. His eyes brightened as he saw my beer. I went to the fridge to pop another. Execgal clucked disapprovingly. My hand shifted slightly in the fridge, pulling out an athletic drink I'd bought for the morning after. I handed it to the doc. He drank eagerly.
“Ahh,” he said, red juice dribbling down his lip. “A wonderful concoction. Nutrients. Yes. I'm feeling more like myself. Why, if only—”
“Your other friend's not available yet, Doc. Want to tell us where you've been?”
“Yes, Dr. Ansbach. It's been so—trying without you. You must know, the sale was underway, both sales. We needed you. It's the company you founded.
“I—well, but of course, you know, that was never my side of things. Indeed, written into the partnership was my privilege to skip business meetings without any excuse or justification. I'd never have agreed, otherwise. I recalled, at the office, how happy I'd been, not worrying about, oh, budgets, and people, and business, and press. I only wanted to work. It's so stressful, you understand… the commerce portion. I only agreed to the sale on the condition that I'd again be able to keep my lab stocked. The latest equipment, you see—”
He was looking at the air as he droned on. I checked Execgal, but she nodded along, encouragingly.
“... and of course, I was promised, oh, the silliest things. Faster computers. Did you know, my dear, the computations I've been running go through a machine more than 8 years old. Eight years! Why, equipment now is at least 64 times faster, and 1/32nd the cost. One thirty-second! So much more work that I could do, but there was never anything in the budget for that. All of our precious funds, all spent on testing old material. And it already worked. Of course it did. We'd verified it. I never understood the time delay.”
“Ahh, so, yes. I had—had not very good feelings about the future of Agate. You know, it wasn't the money. I—I don't care much for that. My wife... this frustrated her. I am a man of simple desires, you, you know that, don't you—”
Here was the man, wrecking my date. I thought of bringing up his extra-curricular activities, but my role in this was done, or soon to be. So I sat, let him prattle on.
“... it was the most extraordinary thing. I just could not bring myself to return... to... to watch the thing that I'd created pass off. You know, away from it all, I could see the good sides. Really could. So many good things that might happen. But it was, then, a failure. To be sure, a leap, a climb, near the top of the mountain—but I might as well have stayed at the base. You understand? It wasn't... the money.”
Our corporate master was nodding sympathetically. I opened another beer. Too rapid, even Ansbach was perturbed at my consumption levels. Rather than explain it was nothing, I turned from accusing stares to the window, saw a police cruiser in the parking lot below.
Two other cars circled it, lights above flashing but without siren. There was no traffic light to beat, so they might have been working.
“Shut up!” I called to the pair behind me, and flipped down the windowshade, peering out from my knees.
“What?” asked both in unison.
“Cops.”
“So?” said Dr. Ansbach.
“It's too early for 16-year-olds to have beer. This joint is empty. They must have seen...” I looked to the exec.
“Or maybe somebody took time out of their busy schedule to call them.”
She looked downcast.
“You must understand, Mr. Drake. I had no intentions to...”
“I don't give a damn what your intentions were. Our agreement is at an end. You've made it noisy. Consider me paid in full, and he's your problem now. If you'll excuse me,” I went for the door, grabbing what was left of the beer. Ansbach turned to me in confusion, then to the woman. Outside I heard thundering footsteps, moved quickly into the hallway.
A half-dozen armed figures came racing towards me, hands waving me back, back. One brushed up against me, forced my head into the wall.
I went back, leaving the door open behind. The footsteps raced past us.
I looked again at Execgal. She stared at me, puzzled. The Doctor remained confused. I threw up my hands, shut the door as the pop of a tear gas grenade echoed. Further from our room, a mild explosion. Outside, a TV crew appeared, anchor person head down near the cameras, applying makeup or purging lunch, couldn't tell from that distance.
More than 20 cars in place now.
Execgal had clammed up, hand tapping erratically at the hotel phone. At the moment, all I could think of was getting her i
nto a poker game, and utterly destroying her self-image by working against the visible tells. Ansbach looked from one of us to the other, turned his face to the ceiling and lay flat again.
In the hallway, more heavy footsteps, muffled explosions, and what appeared to be mechanical wheels. I went to the peephole, paused, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, wet it down and placed it underneath the door. The lady crouched to the floor with Ansbach. Shouts from all sides beyond our enclosure as the irresistible police robot met the quite-movable franchise-spec walls.
We kept silent while the tumult continued. I noticed my left hand instinctively clutching beer, and made use of this foresight.
As the screams faded, I flicked the TV on, saw it carried the local 24-hour news channel. An amateur production, they clicked live to our location. In the lot, cameras zoomed in on two individuals, male/female, late thirties, caucasian, missing teeth, surrounded by more than two dozen police officers, heavily armed. The robot didn't make it into the shot, but they're no doubt be a feature on it later.
“Terrorism?” Ansbach asked. I turned the sound up.
“The methamphetamine lab was recently installed here. Police found drugs with an estimated street value of $450—$25,000, as well as various hazardous chemicals. With me now is County Council...”
I clicked the TV off.
“Meth?” I asked accusingly. “Either of you two been doing Meth?”
Both shook their heads. Execgal cracked a smile.
“Do you know anyone who's been doing Meth?”
No answer.
THIRTEEN
After the lot cleared, I split out for a time, letting the good doctor spew it all on his young and innocent victim. I had other calls to make, and couldn't take much more of either of them. Her especially. I get a severe allergic reaction to the chemicals they use in dry cleaning if I'm exposed to the stuff for two long. Sure they'd go through a lovely chat without me, and with every cop in town now dining out and congratulating themselves on keeping the city safe, I felt reasonably assured that I could walk the streets with an open container.
They'd not freed me completely from my obligations. Execgal had returned my dining favor, issuing me a very detailed set of instructions on the kind of dinner she would want that evening. It started with grilled chicken, and a salad on the side. Store that sold it was right next door to the hotel. But I had a reputation to keep, so I grabbed her a few hamburgers from another shop down the road. Extra mayo.
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