The Iron Ring

by Matty Dalrymple

“I’m not drunk,” said Mitchell.

  “Whatever you say,” said the man, stepping around Mitchell and unzipping his fly.

  “I’m not drunk!” said Mitchell, louder.

  The man rezipped his fly, turned back to Mitchell, and stepped to within a foot of him. “If this is how you behave when you’re sober, I’ll bet no one wants to be around you when you’re drunk. If you’re done in here, why don’t you step outside and find someone else to declare your sobriety to. Unless hanging around men’s rooms is your thing.” He began to turn back to the urinals. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath.

  Mitchell felt his fist draw back and piston forward into the side of the man’s head. It happened so fast that the man had no time to react, no time to hit back, not even time to duck or twist away.

  But Mitchell knew it wasn’t really his arm that was striking out—it was the steroid-boosted power of his mind. He could almost hear the blood vessels in the man’s brain burst as the blow landed.

  The man dropped without a sound, his head hitting the tile floor with a sickening thud.

  Mitchell turned and stumbled out the door.

  He made his way toward the bar, his thigh hitting the corner of a table on the way and setting up a clatter of plates and silverware and a muffled squawk from the table’s occupants. He saw Erik notice him, register alarm, and rise from his barstool.

  With a little thrill of elation, Mitchell realized that if he cut across the restaurant directly toward Erik, they would meet up almost exactly next to the two women Erik was going to chat up to give Mitchell time to use the crush on the target. He felt a wave of almost manic glee rise above the churning anger of the encounter in the men’s room. This would work out after all.

  He reached the women’s table and noticed the occupants at both tables—theirs and the target’s—leaning warily away from him. Erik came up beside him just as Mitchell bent toward the woman.

  “My friend thinks he knows you,” Mitchell said. He had meant it to be a discreet whisper, but he realized he had said it much louder than he intended.

  Erik grabbed his elbow, then dropped it and stepped back as Mitchell wheeled on him. “Don’t you think you know them?” Mitchell almost yelled at him.

  Erik glared at Mitchell, then turned toward the women. “My apologies, ladies, my friend has perhaps had more to drink than he should have.”

  Mitchell turned toward the other table. The target had put his napkin aside and was rising, evidently to intercede on behalf of the two flustered women.

  “Perhaps you just need some fresh air,” the man said, and reached his hand toward Mitchell’s arm.

  The force in Mitchell’s mind was growing. Now it wasn’t a mere piston on some chugging machine, it was a whirling maelstrom, a supercell, a gigantic tornado touching down and flinging trees and trucks and whole houses into the air. The tornado of Mitchell’s thoughts reached out and touched the target’s brain.

  The man clapped his hands to his temples and doubled over. A noise that started as a groan and then crescendoed to a shriek ripped from his throat. He staggered, crashed into the table where the two women were cowering behind their shopping bags, and collapsed to the floor.

  The restaurant erupted in pandemonium. The closest diners shrank back, several jumping to their feet and heading for the door. Others, further away, were standing at their tables, straining to see what was going on. A woman turned her young daughter away from the scene. The daughter twisted in her arms, trying to see.

  Several servers and the maître d' converged on the target’s table.

  Erik grabbed Mitchell’s arm. “Kom igen!”

  Erik steered them toward the front door. Mitchell was afraid he would have trouble moving through the crowd, but he felt like he had suddenly become tremendously tall, a giant stepping over Lilliputians. He jerked his arm out of Erik’s grip and stumbled into one of the barstools.

  Erik grabbed Mitchell’s arm again and tried to keep him moving toward the entrance, but an authoritative man in a suit was turning people back.

  “Please return to your tables, ladies and gentlemen—everything is under control.”

  “Like hell,” Erik swore under his breath as they turned back toward the dining room. “We’ll find a back door,” he whispered in Mitchell’s ear.

  The door to the kitchen was near the restrooms, and as they neared it, they could see that it was blocked by a gaggle of kitchen staff trying to see what was going on without venturing into the dining room itself.

  Erik swore again and scanned the room for alternatives.

  “This way,” he said.

  The restaurant adjoined a hotel, and Erik led them to a glass door etched with the name of the establishment. It opened onto a short hallway that ended in a cavernous lobby.

  They had just stepped into the lobby when a cheer went up from a boisterous crowd near the big screen TV at the packed lobby bar.

  Erik started toward the crowd, then hesitated. “It’s a good place to hide in case someone comes looking for us,” he said, “but we can’t have any more casualties. Can you control yourself?”

  “I can control myself,” said Mitchell, trying to convince himself as much as Erik.

  Erik led him across the lobby. Mitchell no longer felt as if his legs were stilts, raising him above the petty concerns of ordinary people. Now each step shuddered up his spine, as if his feet were encased in concrete. It took all his concentration to keep moving in a generally straight line.

  They skirted the crowd, putting it between them and anyone who might emerge from the hallway leading from the restaurant. A couple who had been seated at a table on the periphery of the action got up just as Erik and Mitchell reached it, and Erik pushed Mitchell into one of the seats.

  “Take your tie off, we look too dressed up,” Erik said, as he loosened his own tie.

  Mitchell’s fingers felt swollen, and he fumbled ineffectually at the knot.

  Erik jammed his tie into the pocket of his jacket. “Here, let me,” he said, and leaned toward Mitchell.

  “I can do it!” cried Mitchell. “Don’t treat me like a child!”

  “Then don’t act like one,” Erik shot back and reached for Mitchell’s tie.

  Mitchell’s hand swatted Erik’s away just as Erik winced, then put his hand to his head with a groan.

  “Fy fan, Mitchell,” he said, his eyes squinted in pain. “I’m trying to help you.”

  A thread of reason began to worm its way into Mitchell’s overheated brain. He fell back in his chair, trying to catch his breath and slow the hammering of his heart. He could feel the storm in his brain fading, the power gradually leaking away to be replaced by a gray fog of helplessness and hopelessness.

  Erik looked at Mitchell with a combination of revulsion and fear. “Are you done?” His voice was slurred.

  Mitchell nodded.

  Erik dropped his head into his hands and stayed that way for half a minute, then straightened and fumbled a phone out of his pocket. He pressed a speed dial and after a moment said, “Jag behöver hjälp. Sakerna gick inte enligt planen. Skicka någon för att hämta oss.” Mitchell heard him give the name of the hotel. Then he ended the call.

  “Shouldn’t we get to the car?” asked Mitchell.

  “I can’t drive,” said Erik. “Can you?”

  Mitchell shook his head.

  The crowd at the bar turned as an ambulance moved past the lobby windows and toward the restaurant’s main entrance, its lights spattering the night with blue and white. It was followed a moment later by two police cars. People craned to see what was happening, then a cheer from the hardcore fans nearest the TV drew their attention back to the game.

  Fifteen minutes later, Erik roused Mitchell from a half-sleep, half-faint and guided him to the hotel entrance where a limousine idled under the awning. Mitchell’s head was pounding, and the ache he dreaded was already settling into his bones.

  37

  Louise and Theo stood in the lab, eyes o
n a monitor displaying the bedroom of Mitchell’s suite. Mitchell lay on the bed, a pretty young woman pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. She said something—they had the sound turned off and so couldn’t hear what it was—and Mitchell gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. She sat down on the chair next to the bed and glanced self-consciously toward the monitor, then turned back to Mitchell.

  “You gave him the dose I specified?” asked Louise, her voice tight.

  “Yes, exactly what you specified,” he replied angrily.

  Louise crossed her arms. “Perhaps the effect is magnified with multiple administrations. Maybe some residual amount stays in the system longer than I anticipated.”

  Theo turned from the monitor to Louise. “I have an employee who is now having difficulty using his right hand and walking. He was a promising young man—I’m not pleased that he’s been incapacitated.”

  “I’m not pleased either,” Louise shot back. “It seems as if the situation you sent Mitchell into was almost certain to result in some undesired consequences.”

  “It seems very much like the situation you sent him into when you had him kill the attorney general.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I was with him from the time he received the injection until right before the attack, and George was there to get him away afterwards.”

  “Unfortunately, since you’re wanted in connection with an arson and a murder, we couldn’t very well send you with him this time, and thanks to your inability to control the situation with Ballard and Castillo, Mr. Millard is no longer available to us.”

  “I didn’t create a situation that resulted in a completely innocent bystander being killed.”

  “You tested Pieda out on a random individual in Philadelphia.”

  “It was a homeless man.”

  They glared at each other, then Louise continued, her voice tight with anger. “We might possibly have gotten away with having the congressman’s death deemed to be a medical anomaly, but the fact that another man was found in the men’s room dead of a massive stroke eliminates any possibility of that. The DC police, the FBI, Homeland Security—they’re all going to assume that it was caused by man-made forces, maybe even that it was a terrorist attack. At some point, someone’s going to tie this event to the death of the attorney general, and they’re going to compare the video of Russell Brashear’s news conference and security camera footage from the restaurant and realize that Mitchell was right next to all three victims when they died.”

  Theo folded his arms and glared at the monitor.

  “You’ve rendered him useless for any other assignments,” continued Louise. “Every security organization in the country—and probably outside of it—will be looking for him. And for me.”

  “I believe we’ve agreed that you won’t be anywhere the authorities will be able to find you, at least for the foreseeable future.”

  They were silent for a half minute, looking at the monitor, then Louise asked, “What about Mitchell?”

  “What about him?”

  “I have a stake in his well-being.”

  Theo looked up at her, his eyebrows raised. “You do?”

  “He’s my patient.”

  A bitter smile tugged at Theo’s lips. “I would argue that you relinquished your doctor-patient relationship when you violated the Hippocratic Oath in your work with him. Primum non nocere.”

  “Fine. Then if you do not consider him to be my patient, you should consider him to be my subject.”

  “Dr. Mortensen,” said Theo, “to you goes the credit for developing the drug. But Mr. Pieda has passed from being the subject of your experimentation to being the mechanism of my own agenda.”

  “And what is that agenda now?”

  “For you, the agenda is to continue your research and to bring me the results. The agenda for Mr. Pieda is no concern of yours.”

  “The scope of topics you consider to be my concern seems to be shrinking. And I don’t relish the thought of having you and Edmund Rinnert comprise the entirety of my human interactions.”

  “You must not be missing the outside world too much—it took you three days to realize your mobile phone was gone.”

  “There’s a difference between a refuge—which is what I thought you were offering—and a prison.”

  Theo’s eyes narrowed. “Louise, if you find the arrangement unacceptable, by all means, leave and contact the authorities. I will be curious to find out if the prison, as you call it, that I am providing for you here is worse than the prison that awaits you outside my compound.”

  After a beat, Louise said, “That is the quintain—the punishment for me not toeing the line?”

  “That is one option open to me.”

  “And what are the others?”

  “I would suggest that you not put yourself in a position to find out.”

  Theo looked back at the monitor for several moments, then glanced at his watch. When he spoke again, his voice had resumed its normal modulated tone. “Please continue monitoring Mr. Pieda. Elsa can provide you with information about his condition, and she can administer medication if needed. You can convey any messages through Maja.” He tilted a slight bow to Louise, then strode to the door. Before he stepped out, he turned back. “I must admit I am having to rethink my agenda. But I believe Mr. Pieda can perform one more valuable service for me. And I am counting on you to ensure he can do that.”

  38

  The next day at noon, Philip knocked on the connecting door to Rey’s room. “I’m hungry,” he called through the door. “Can we grab some lunch?”

  “Can’t we just order room service?” she called back.

  “I’m getting cabin fever.”

  “Okay,” she said, sounding resigned. “Step back from the door.”

  Philip stepped back. “Okay.”

  She unlocked the door and gave him plenty of clearance when he entered her room. They always left from her side so she wouldn’t have to disarm the alarm on Philip’s door.

  They went to one of the resort’s restaurants. The hostess led them to a booth, the high backs of the benches creating a private space.

  “Can we get a table instead?” asked Philip.

  “Sure,” said the hostess, and changed direction toward a table.

  “Better people-watching,” he said to Rey.

  She sighed. “Okay, fine.”

  When they reached the table, Philip beat Rey to the seat facing the dining room.

  They placed their orders, then Philip leaned back in his chair. “So, Viklund’s your uncle. Going into the family business?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  “As far as I can tell,” he said, “your uncle is basically asking me to go into business with him. I like to have a little more information about any business relationships I’m considering entering into.”

  “Considering?” she asked.

  “Should I interpret that to mean that I shouldn’t view it as an optional choice?”

  She shrugged. “I believe my uncle already explained the consequences of choosing not to cooperate with him. He just needs to let the authorities know where to find you, and they’ll take care of you for him. At this point, they assume you were responsible for the fire and murder in Pennsylvania. It wouldn’t be difficult to help them fill in any gaps in their case.”

  “How did your uncle get himself into the position of being able to get police investigations closed?”

  “Perhaps if you earn his trust, he’ll tell you himself.” She took a sip of water. “But you can think of it as a barter economy. He does favors for people or organizations and can ask for favors in return.”

  “He did a favor for the Lenape Township Police Department?”

  “The connection doesn’t have to be that direct. It might be a favor for someone who has some control over what a particular police department investigates. Or someone who has control over that person. In fact, in many cases, the more links in the chain, the better it is for my uncle
—harder to trace things back to him. But no matter how long the chain is, quid pro quo is still the best way to pave the way to the desired outcome.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” he said.

  “As true in prison as in the business world?”

  He looked at her sharply. “Yes.”

  “And what kind of bartering did you do in prison?”

  “You don’t expect me to tell you my secrets if you won’t tell me yours, do you?”

  She smiled. “Even a quid pro quo when it comes to sharing information.”

  “Absolutely.”

  The conversation switched to more innocuous topics—weather and current events—while Philip surreptitiously scanned the dining room. As they were finishing their entrées, Philip spotted the scenario he had been watching for—a young Indian man sauntering into the men’s room which, as far as Philip could tell, was otherwise unoccupied.

  “Excuse me,” said Philip, standing. “Need to use the restroom.”

  Rey folded her napkin and glanced around the restaurant, no doubt to flag down their server to sign for the meal. “We’ll go back to the room.”

  “Come on, I was looking forward to dessert. I won’t be a minute.” Philip hurried away before she could protest further.

  The young man, who was wearing a baseball hat sporting a King Ropes logo, was just zipping up as Philip entered.

  “Hey, buddy,” Philip said, “can you do me a favor and let me make a call on your phone?”

  King Ropes looked at him suspiciously.

  “I’m here with my girlfriend,” continued Philip, “but I was supposed to meet this other girl for lunch, and I’ve got to get a message to her. My girlfriend is always asking to borrow my phone—I think she’s looking at the calls I make—so you’d do me a big favor if I could just make the call on yours.”

  King Ropes sniggered. “Sure. Just make it quick.”

  Philip was only going to be able to make one call. He pressed in a number he hadn’t called in a long time, hoping he remembered it right, hoping it still belonged to the same person—and that that person was still alive.