Deceived (8 page)

Scott swallowed
hard; blood rushed loudly in his ears.
Time to tell the truth?

Pu-Yi looked
into Scott's eyes, but did not repeat his questioning. Instead he smiled and
tightened his finger on the trigger
.

Scott's
eardrums exploded; the muzzle flash clouded his eyes. He felt nothing, for a
moment, then he looked at his hand. From the stump where his finger was once
attached, blood spurted rhythmically in time with his now racing pulse, forming
a growing pool of blood. He saw what remained of his index finger
—
small
and white
—
curled a half-foot from his hand.

His blood? His
finger? His hand?

Jesus.

The two
dockworkers released Scott's hand, and Scott reached instantly for the severed
finger, tried to refit it to the raw flap of flesh and shattered bone that once
held it. Rationality deserted him, replaced by horror as the futility of his
attempts sunk in. He clutched his mutilated hand to his breast as pain hammered
him in waves.

"Motherfucker,"
Scott screamed, rocking back and forth, blood streaming down his arm,
staining his shirtsleeve crimson. "
I'm a federal agent, do you
understand."
He choked on the words and then vomited.

"A
fed,"
he yelled again after recovering his voice.

Scott collapsed
to a sitting position, his eyes tightly closed, as if to wipe out the reality
of the last few moments.

He sobbed,
"Why'd you do this? Why the hell did you do this?" He looked to
Pu-Yi, fought to control his voice. "I'm a federal agent, do you
understand? I'm not a thief. I'm not going to run. I want the police here, and
I want them here
now
!"

Pu-Yi's face
showed indecision. "A federal agent? What kind of federal agent?" When
Scott didn't answer, Pu-Yi yelled the question again, louder this time.

"I'm a
special investigator for the General Accounting Office. Okay. I'm here on
official business. I want an ambulance and the police, and I want them
now."

"Stay
here," Pu-Yi ordered, before he again walked away. It was another few
minutes before he reappeared.

He knelt before
Scott. "The police will not be coming," he said coolly, lifting up
Scott's face by his chin. "No one will be coming. You can leave when you
tell me exactly what you were doing here."

Sitting in his
blood, in his vomit, Scott felt tears building in his eyes.

At a signal
from Pu-Yi, two dockworkers again leaned over Scott, this time grabbing his
left arm by the wrist. "You will tell me now," Pu-Yi yelled,
brandishing the handgun.

The world around Scott fell away, all but the gun and a throbbing hand.
When Pu-Yi asked his next question, Scott answered honestly, prepared to trade
the truth as needed to stay alive. But he determined to withhold certain things
—
McKenzie,
the disk
—
if possible. He wanted that evidence, wanted to be able to
track down this Pu-Yi and all who worked with him and see them rot in jail.

Perhaps it had
been a mistake to take Johnson's second index finger, Pu-Yi thought; afterwards
his answers had quickly turned disjointed, rambling. Pu-Yi convinced himself he
would get little else of use from Johnson
—
in truth he tired of the
pathetic whimpering.

The man may
have saved himself if he had identified himself as a federal agent from the
start. But with a finger gone, shot off, what choice was there really? John Li
had agreed: there was none
.

Pu-Yi uncorked
a bottle of whiskey and held it out with a simple order, "drink." He
slapped Johnson hard to convince him the order wasn't open for negotiation. Johnson
drank then, with the aid of a dockworker.

When Johnson
had finished almost half the bottle, Pu-Yi pulled it away. He then pointed the
handgun squarely at Johnson's chest. Johnson's eyebrows shot up; he struggled
to gain his feet. Pu-Yi tightened his finger
—
this man deserved to die on
all fours, like a dog not a man
.

Pu-Yi smiled
broadly, the only warning before pulling the trigger. Multiple explosions
knocked Johnson back against a shipping crate.

Johnson looked
down at his shirt, at the holes ripped neatly across his chest and stomach. Three,
rimmed in expanding red. He then looked up at Pu-Yi, standing over him, still
holding the gun outstretched, and shook his head slightly, as if to wake
himself from a bad dream
.

Pu-Yi watched
the life drain rapidly from the body, fascinated as always by death. So
satisfying to have the power to condemn at a whim, to snuff out an existence on
impulse. Now he had only to dispose of the body.

As soon as the
door swung shut behind him, Nick relaxed. The air tasted almost cool, a light
breeze took the edge off the humidity. A beautiful night.

He sat in the
dark, on one of the hotel's balconies overlooking a small courtyard, the tip of
the Washington Monument visible in the distance, glowing white
.

At dinner Meg
had sat across the circular table from him; a tall centerpiece separated them. She
had attempted to start up a conversation, but all Nick caught was his name
—
the
rest came garbled. He had pointed to his ear, and called back "what?"
A few more "whats" voiced by each and both had given up. After
dinner, after the guest speakers, the dance floor had opened
—
Meg was
quickly monopolized. Too self-conscious to cut in, Nick had remained seated,
enduring periodic bouts of strained small-talk until he had sought refuge here.

 In the context
of work or debate, Nick considered himself almost dynamic, but at a cocktail
party or an event such as this one
—
A room full of people, and yet he
never felt so alone
.

He sipped his
gin and tonic, listening to the car horns and far off sirens, wrapped in a
strangely comforting blanket of melancholy
.

His mind
drifted, as it often did when he was alone, with a drink in his hand.

Second grade,
Woodhill Elementary School. The school bus ride in, friends sliding over on
their seats to make room for him. He could not remember names, not even faces,
just blurred snapshots of isolated incidents. Catching a garter snake in the
school yard; a stack of valentine cards; a chicken fight on the jungle gym
.

Surrounded by
friends. At ease. A very different time
.

Nick shut his
eyes hard, but could not keep his mind from finishing the school day and
heading home. He saw his parents then, as he always saw them: smiling, locked
hand in hand in perpetuity, changing only as the photo tucked in his wallet
yellowed.

Thirty-one and
twenty-nine, just kids, with a son, and a new home, and so many dreams. Funny,
that he still subscribed to them the wisdom and experience of parents, when
both, in the photo, were younger than he was now
.

The door to the
balcony opened, pulling Nick's mind to the present. He twisted, but caught only
a silhouette before the pie-slice of light pinched to nothingness with the
closing door.

"Nick?"
the figure said.

"Yeah,"
Nick answered as the figure approached, and then, "Meg, is that you?"

"Yes."

She stopped a
few feet from him.

"I was
just catching some air," he said, embarrassed to be found here in the
dark, alone.

Her head turned
up. "It's a beautiful night."

"It
is," Nick agreed.

"Tom
thought he saw you come out here. I just wanted to say hi before I left
—
I
didn't get much of a chance before."

"You're
leaving?"

She nodded. "Everybody
is moving on
…
'The Tower' I think they said."

"Should be
fun," Nick said, at once sarcastic and .

"You can
still join everybody if you hurry."

"You're
not going?"

"No. It's
late and I'm not really up for bar hopping
…
I think maybe I'm getting old
or something."

Nick chuckled. "I
know the feeling."

A long pause
followed; Nick searched for words to fill the vacuum but found none.

"Well, I'm
off," Meg said finally. "Good night."

Meg started to
turn, and Nick, too urgently, said, "I checked before, there was a backup
for cabs."

She shrugged. "I
planned to walk."

"Home?"

"It's not
much more than a mile." She lifted one of her feet and pointed. "These
heels aren't too bad
—
I'll make it.
…
Have a good night."

Meg's hand had
reached the balcony door before Nick spoke again. "Meg?"

She turned. "Hmm?"

So easy to say
nothing. To stay here alone with his drink, with no risk.
Remember, work is
your element. You don't have the capacity to connect on a different level. You've
tried, and always failed.

Nick forced the
thoughts from his mind, and said, the darkness somehow making it easier,
"I don't really feel like waiting for a cab either. Mind if I walked
along?"

She shook her head. "I'd enjoy the company."

North, then
west, then north again
—
they agreed on direction, then started side by
side, his long strides setting the pace. Was she nervous too, Nick wondered,
and stole a quick glance.

No, he decided.
Her hair swung in an easy rhythm; her lips curled just at the corners, but not
self-consciously. She seemed cool, relaxed
.

It was not a
race, Nick reminded himself, and slowed his gait, falling in step behind
another couple who shuffled slowly arm-in-arm.

Another
couple?
He stole one more glance at Meg, finding the idea not unappealing.

Nick began on
his prepared list of questions: How's the job going? Are the hours long? Tell
me what you're working on? Obvious, work related questions
—
pro forma and
uninteresting
—
but a start nonetheless.

"You're
still working primarily with Scott?" Nick asked.

"Until his
vacation I was. Since then it seems I've been pulled in a couple of different
directions. Binley's just pulled me in on the Riegle-Neal Interstate Act."

"Interesting
project. I've talked to him about it. Of course there were always inherent
limitations in measuring loan and deposit activity on a state by state basis. Still,
with call reports encompassing multi-state transactions, their utility will
…
"
What the hell was he saying?
His voice dropped off as he finished the
sentence: "
…
necessarily diminish."

"I
suppose," Meg said, sounding disengaged.

Nick's insides
twisted.
Idiot.
He had spotted shelter
—
an issue he could examine
and dissect
—
and, unthinking, had run for it. What did she think of him
now? Characterless, bookish
,
boring, a few possibilities jumped to mind.

They walked on
in near silence, and Nick glanced again to Meg's face. Did she now appear
ill-at-ease or was it his imagination? He ran his tongue nervously about the
inside of his mouth, as if searching for dialogue.

Soon nothing
marked their passage but the click of heels on concrete.

What did Nick
have to look forward to now? A wordless mile? How long would that take? Nick
did a quick calculation in his head: at two and a half miles an hour, a mile
would take
…
Twenty-four minutes. Almost a half an hour.

Meg glanced up
and said, "It feels like rain."

Nick followed
her line of sight, saw the stars were now invisible, blotted out by unseen
clouds. He agreed
—
it did feel like rain
—
and used the comment as
an excuse to resume a quicker pace. Meg's long strides barely matched his own.

Suddenly Meg
jumped sidewise with a short yelp, bumping up lightly against Nick's shoulder.

"What is
it?" he asked, steadying her with two hands.

She shook her
head, embarrassed. "Something moved, hopped by my foot. Just surprised me,
that's all."

Nick
investigated, expecting to see a squirrel, or more likely a rat, scurry off
into the bushes. Instead he spotted the culprit in a tuft of tall grass
bordering the sidewalk. He pointed it out to Meg
.

"A toad. Big
one." He bent over it. "I don't think I've ever seen one in the
city."

Meg squatted
next to him. "Ugly," she commented, but without distaste.

"In a
way."

"I had a
book of fairy tales, growing up," Meg said. "Grimm's or Aesop's, I
suppose. It had ink illustrations. I remember one of them vividly: a toad,
sitting on a throne, with a scepter in its hand and a crown on its head.When I
see a toad, for some reason I always see that drawing in my head."

Different pictures
came to Nick, as his memory stirred as well. He tore a single blade of grass,
used it to gently stroke the toad's back as he considered the images. Things he
had not thought of for a long time. The toad sat unmoving, either unconcerned
or grateful for the attention
.

"My family
had a cottage," Nick said finally, tentatively, in a reflective tone,
"on a lake. A point." How long since he had mentioned the cottage to
anyone?

"At night,
in the summer, we'd go swimming
…
my parents and I. We made it a race. Cottage
door to the pier." He paused, the smell of water, sand, and pine needles
filling his nostrils. "
…
First one in the water earned bragging
rights. There were toads all over the place. In my mom's rock garden, along the
shore. I was always so afraid of stepping on one; at the same time I wasn't
about to lose the race. I'd fly down the path barefooted, my fingers
crossed."

The toad along
the sidewalk, evidently bored with its back rub, hopped once, twice, to the
security of a low hanging bush
.

"Looks like
he's taking no chances," Meg said, pointing.

Nick looked to
her; they smiled at each other. "You ever step on one?" she asked.

"Nope. Never."

Nick stood; Meg
did the same.

"And the
races?" Meg asked.

"Never
lost one of those either. Of course it didn't occur to me that mom and dad let
me win.
…
Funny, I used to think dad could do about anything in the world
—
anything
—
and
yet I thought I could outrun him. And at what? Seven, eight years old?"

Meg laughed. "I
was the same way. My mom, she was prettier than any of my friend's mothers, as
beautiful as anyone on TV
—
that's what I thought. But for a few years
there, around twelve, thirteen
…
a competitive age I guess
…
I
convinced myself
…
" She looked at him suspiciously. "Don't
laugh, okay?"

"Of course
not," Nick lied.

"I
convinced myself
…
That I had a more regal face."

A wide grin
took Nick's face, and Meg swatted him lightly on the shoulder. "You said
you wouldn't laugh."

"I'm
not," Nick protested. "Let's see, give me a profile." Meg played
along, and Nick said, "Yes, I can definitely see the royal lineage
…
it's
the cheek bones, I think."

"All
right, all right," Meg said, swatting him once more. "In reality I
was a snot-nosed little kid with acne
—
I know that. I was just sharing a
story."

Nick could not
hold back a laugh any longer. "And now?"

"Am I
still a snot-nosed little kid?"

"No."
Nick smiled. "With the perspective of age, were you right? Was your mom as
beautiful as anyone on TV?"

"No, I
suppose not, but
…
A few months ago I went through some of the old black
and whites my parents have up in their attic. From the fifties, early sixties. I
found a photo of her in a dinner dress: poof dress, pill box hat. She looked
…
Elegant best describes it, I guess."

Nick nodded. "Those
were elegant times." He started down the sidewalk again, Meg at his side.

"Do you
think we've lost something, our culture I mean?" Meg asked. "I'm all
for blue jeans and sweat shirts, don't get me wrong, but did we throw out some
of the romance along the way? I mean once in a while dressing up and going out,
it must have been fun."

"Meg?"

"Hmm?"

Nick pointed at
her. "What do you think you have on?"

She laughed
shortly. "But tonight was different. A charity event someone had to twist
our arms to attend. I mean throwing a dinner party, not because you have to,
but because you want to."

"I think
I'd hate it. Playing Ward Cleaver; dressing in a suit for meals."

"I
know." Meg bobbed her head in agreement. "I would too. And that's
sort of the problem, isn't it? It's as if our generation can't be bothered
…
dressing
up, manners, all sorts of things."

"The
danger of a revolution
—
if that's what the country went through in the
sixties
—
is that revolutionaries often tear down the good institutions
along with the bad. Maybe the pendulum has swung too far
…
maybe we're just
coming to grips with that."

"I feel
that way
…
sometimes," Meg concurred. "Like maybe we're all
starting to grow up a bit after indulging ourselves for so long. You know, when
I was in high school
…
"

Nick listened,
and laughed, and shared a story of his own. Time no longer dragged. Twenty
blocks shrunk to ten, then to three, and what a short time ago seemed like much
too long a walk, now seemed much too short.

"Once,
when Scott and I were
…
" Nick stopped himself. "Did you feel
that?"

Meg held out a
hand, palm up. "Rain?" she asked.

"A few
drops." Nick gauged the sky. "I think we better hurry," he said
.

A block and the
scattered drops turned to a steady drizzle. Nick tugged Meg urgently by the
elbow, pointing to a doorway a few yards farther on. They jumped under its
cover just as the sidewalk ahead erupted in a torrent of falling rain drops.

The doorway was
small, much smaller than Nick had realized. They stood side by side facing the
street, backs up against the doorway, shoulders nearly touching.

Nick looked at
Meg. Hair damp, flattened in a few places to her scalp. She grinned wildly. "Just
made it," she said.

"What?"
Nick cupped his ear.

"Just made
it," she repeated, shouting to be heard over the downpour.