Saboteur: A Novel (4 page)

Chapter 6

The Glass Case

Downy stared out the view across the campus quad with his arms
crossed. Students moved in packs silently; through the tinted glass, from his
fifth floor perch, they looked orderly and thoughtful. They weren’t. Like
cities at night they looked rather beautiful at a distance. Up close though, in
the light of day, they were full of pathos, curses and complaints. Not all of
them of course. Not Samara Lee Patterson. He looked at his phone, the message
light was blinking and he thought it would be wise to phone his wife. Her voice
would help cancel out some of the feelings at least—help calm him down.
Randomly, he thought of her thighs, his wife’s, and of course the short black
skirt that she wore when she wanted to get his attention. But then there was
Samara. It was
Samara
that had him
all charged up. He allowed himself a moment to think about her too--the simple
dress, which hung so perfectly off her shoulder, the soft nape of her neck,
olive colored skin. Perfect lips. And of course that tattoo across her back
left shoulder, a Latin script. He’d only made out the last word:
VERITAS
. Truth. Lots of kids wrote
things like that on themselves these days--reminders perhaps of what was
important. Samara, of course, was a scholar like her father though and was
already reading Latin by the time she was twelve. It had been their secret
language. His imagination finished the daydream, placing some beads of sweat on
her chest and the hungry sound of her voice in his ear. He interrupted himself
and pushed the blinking button, almost punching a hole in it.
 

“Uh, yello. Professor Downy, I need
a moment of your time some day this week, I wonder if--well I’m calling from
the prec--”

He punched for his secretary
ignoring the voice and the rest of the message.

“Janine, could you put all my messages through until
tomorrow, I’m feeling a bit of a fever coming on and I’ll be heading home for a
nap.”

“Of course, professor,” came the
voice on the other end.

“Janine, could you stop calling me
that for God’s sake.”

“No, professor, not when I so enjoy
how much it bothers you.”

“Thank you, Janine.”

“I hope you feel better boss,” she
replied.

He slipped down the back staircase,
which he always used when he wanted to avoid getting held up. His car waited
only a few feet from the back entrance. He would have been a professor for the
parking alone, never mind the paycheck. He slid into the bucket seat of his
Porsche Roadster and sped off like a banshee, hair blowing in the wind. He knew
it was imperative to get home to his wife, who he hoped would be willing to get
a drink and wear a certain piece of clothing that he could then carefully
remove. He never grew bored of that routine. But today, as he turned the volume
knob all the way up, there was a third member at the party. It was summer after
all and what hurt could come from letting himself dream a little.
 

***

The cloaked man pulled the carriage to a halt under a small
cover of trees in the otherwise open countryside. He had ridden until there was
nothing man made in sight in every direction. Stopping at last he grabbed the
cask of water from beneath his feet and drank voraciously. It was the best
taste of anything he could remember. His plan was going exactly as he had
imagined and most importantly he had escaped without notice, save for the
vagrant, who was of no concern. Her words would be considered those of a raving
fool. It pained him deeply to kill the boy though, but life and death had come
to mean something far different to him of late. It had been quick in any case,
though certainly not painless. Most of all it had been necessary, and in that
regard he had always maintained a clearness of purpose and of conscience. The
boy was not his own blood anyway, though he had been very fond of him. This
time, more than any other, he had killed for necessity. As shrewd as the boy
was, he might even have agreed with the decision himself, if he’d had the
chance. No difference now, it was the next twenty-four hours that presented the
most danger to his plan. He was being followed, of that he was sure, but he
must not let them catch up to him.

It was now completely dark. The birds in the grove, usually
silent by this hour, were strangely unsettled and he could hear the howling of
wild animals far off in the distance. The man pulled from his cloak the stack
of letters, finding the one from his dear friend and teacher. He read it
slowly. At the bottom was the list of names. His hands shook uncontrollably and
the veins in his neck swelled. His eyes hardened before a flood of tears raced
down his cheeks. He knew the names well, but the confirmation was more powerful
and disturbing than he had imagined. It all made such sense now. How had he not
seen it coming?

There was blood at the bottom of
his boot and up his arm, now dried. It was not the boys. He hadn’t had time to
clean it and now he thought of a bath. Probably the safest place for him, but
he couldn’t risk re-entering the city. The river stream was all the way at the
bottom of the ravine, but he would be able to watch the carriage from there at
least. It wasn’t likely his hostage would wake up anyway. He had slept for
three days after the first shock himself, not to mention the days of sickness
afterward. Gratefully, you only suffered the sickness once with such acuteness.
After, it was purely a matter of maintenance. Plenty of water and of course as
many sugar cubes as you could carry. He reached into his pocket and pulled two
out, popping them into his mouth. He could feel them taking effect instantly.
He had felt a cold sweat coming on, the nauseous and now the relief was
undeniably pleasurable. He looked into the back of the carriage at the man
sleeping. He looked like a child, peaceful and harmless, as all men do when
they slumber. He punched at the ribs.

“Hey, old man, you in there,” he prodded with a fake growl.
There was no response. “Sleep it off my friend. We will have our day together
soon. The future belongs to us.”

Chapter
7

Downy’s car sailed silently into the garage of his home
overlooking Mission Bay. It was empty which disappointed him mightily. It could
mean but one thing: Naomi was trapped at work. He reached into his pocket to
look at his messages. It read six. It was a lot, even for someone in as much
demand as he had been lately. Only a very few close friends had his number now.
It was the only way he could get any work done. Sure enough Naomi was the first
two.

Be
home late…sorry my love. Eat without me.

N

And then a voicemail saying the same thing. Then a number he
did not know appeared. It too was a text.

Your
secretary is a pushover...gave me your digits…sorry, but I have to see
you…Woody’s at
7?...
tell Naomi not to wait up…

your
dutiful student,

Sam(ara)

His pulse raced. It was worse than
he thought. He put the phone down and stared into the rearview mirror. Samara
must have remembered that Woody’s had been he and Charlie’s favorite drinking
spot. Why couldn’t Naomi have been at home waiting for him tonight of all
nights? It was very bad luck and a familiar but almost forgotten feeling came
over him of the exhilaration of misdeeds. It had been a long time since such an
opportunity had dangled itself in front of him, one so enticing at least. Age,
relationship, proximity to his wife--there were a thousand reasons he should
simply decline. He laughed at the pressure he suddenly felt. He had done
nothing wrong and already he was trying to figure out how to rationalize the
situation. It ended badly any way you looked at it and so that was that. He
looked at his watch. It was 6 pm. In an hour she would be waiting for him. His
other option was reheated Mexican food and bad TV for the whole evening. It
would be easy enough to get away, go out drinking with the guys. It would give
him time to explain things to Samara and put out that fire before it ever
started.

He put his fingers to the keypad
and muttered aloud, “This is the grown up thing to do. Yeah sure, exactly,” he
said before typing:

Samara,

See
you at 7.

***

Downy realized as he pulled onto
Third street that he hadn’t been to Woody’s for years, however many he couldn’t
count. While he had been Charlie Patterson’s favorite grad student and protégé,
the two had become a permanent fixture there every Friday night. Woody’s wasn’t
your typical college bar. No one yelled. Whatever your reasons for wanting to
drink in peace, or even by yourself, you could rest well assured people would
respect you. It was also a primo date spot. Dark enough even in the day to feel
like you were part of the wallpaper. You could blend in. The gourmet Greek
coffee, still boiled, helped flush the toxins of whatever poison was your pick.
He missed simple pleasures like these now more than ever. He thought of Charlie
and their endless conversations in the back, darkest corner of the place, a
table that was reserved for them exclusively. Any guys that spent as much on
fine scotch as they did “had earned a regular spot,” the owner had said. He had
once threatened to hang a plaque in their honor with their names on it. Both
were shocked when a month later one appeared. Charlie had jokingly dubbed their
booth “the couch,” in honor of the picture of Freud just above the table. It
had made the both of them laugh uncontrollably, especially when they got drunk
and started talking about their fathers, which happened almost every night. Two
glasses of scotch erased all need for self-analysis thankfully. Tonight though,
he had to stop thinking of his old friend. He was there to see Samara and
drinking like that was out of the question.

He remembered with sober clarity
the question he had once posed to Charlie during one of their all night orgies
on philosophy: “What do we do when the ones we love die?” It was the only thing
he ever truly felt lost talking about and he was sorry as soon as he asked it.
It was too heavy a remark for what was usually a light occasion, a chance to
decompress from work. Charlie’s response stung now.

 
“You must go on living. Bury the dead,
they stink up the joint.”

Typical Charlie. He was a hard man
to bury though.

It was at that same table that
Charlie had forced him to tell his stories about Roman history. Charlie had
been the teacher for so long that he had never really considered himself any
kind of authority. When he finished Patterson had applauded.

“You’ve far outgrown my teaching
Noah,” he’d finally admitted. “I’m serious, you know this subject better than
anyone in the field, myself included. I have nothing left to teach you, I’m
afraid.” Then at the end of the conversation he had produced the tape. He had
recorded everything Downy had said into a tiny recorder without telling him.
“My dear boy, here is the first few chapters of your new book. Just have my
secretary transcribe it for you and you should be able to finish by Christmas
easily. I will submit it to my publishers, then and you can cash big fat checks
in perpetuity. Drinks are on you from now on though, ok?”

And that night they had both
laughed hard, but early the next morning he was wide awake working on chapter
two of his multi-volume history of Rome, beginning with the strange twins,
Romulus and Remus, credited with Rome’s founding and ending with Cleopatra’s
dramatic death in Egypt. There was still more to tell of course. The death of
Caesar, the reassessment entire of Caesar himself, who to both Downy and
Charlie was no tyrant, more hero, and finally the ascension of his adopted
nephew Octavian, one of the shrewdest men in all of Rome, whose reign truly
began the golden age of Rome; To Downy though, the death of Caesar marked the
end of something that was never recovered. For him, Caesar was the ultimate
Roman. His book had begun right there in Woody’s with Patterson as the
ever-eager audience.

Unbelievably, it had happened
exactly as Charlie predicted; checks and all, then came the documentary film
and then of course being made advisor to the mini-series. He had even met Naomi
while on set. She was playing Cleopatra’s sister, Arsinowe. Gratefully Naomi’s
job had lasted only a day, since Cleopatra had had her sister killed, fearful
that she too would try to take the throne. He remembered telling Naomi that she
died with great majesty. He hadn’t been joking, but she had cracked up anyway.
In some ways he owed Charlie Patterson his whole life and when he died
suddenly, so unexpectedly, he found he could hardly breathe, much less work for
months. Even Naomi couldn’t help. He knew he should have been there with
Charlie on the boat that day, but he’d backed out at the last second when his
publisher demanded another volume of his series. It was the first and only time
anyone had given him a hard deadline. Some timing. How often had they both
talked about the strange Roman conception of fate? Downy had been the first to
know. It was Nazim, their boat handler, who had made the call. His sorrowful
voice over the phone sounded ancient and foreign. He strangely remembered the
calls to prayer he could hear in the background, ringing out in seeming looped
echo. It was awful. He had screamed at Nazim to go find Charlie, but Nazim
could only weep himself.

“Mr. Charlie has been lost
overboard and he is not with us any longer professor, sir. I am so sorry. I
have lost him. I do not know how. He is gone.” At the funeral Nazim had fallen
to his knees and begged Downy’s forgiveness for not looking out for his dear
friend more carefully. Nazim was a good man though and had done nothing wrong.

It was better not to think of these things. His mood was
sinking until he thought of Samara again. He remembered looking for her at the
funeral, but she had been a no-show. Her mother claimed it had been simply too
much to bear, that she wouldn’t leave the back garden except to sleep for a few
hours in Charlie’s favorite hammock. She was a piece of Charlie in so many ways
and it felt good to be near her, even if her beauty did scare the hell out of
him. Now if he could just figure out how not to sleep with her.