The Apostate (2 page)

Now the cop, his eyes flashing with anger, reached out to grab Ray's head in a lock. Ray wriggled loose, and caught in the fury of the unequal struggle, he lashed out with a blow to the policeman's face. More embarrassed than hurt, the cop made a motion to his gun. Instinctively, Ray kicked the cop in his groin. Surprisingly, the cop slumped to the concrete floor, his face contorted in agony.

Before anything else could happen, two non-uniformed men came rushing out of the office and separated the pair.

***

“Well, Mr. Dancer, your troubles are mounting. You just assaulted a police officer. He's in the hospital with pelvic damage.”

“He assaulted me,” Ray said, staring at the lean hard-faced man who identified himself as Henry Davidson from the Department of Homeland Security. Davidson was probably in his mid to late thirties, Ray thought. He had short-cut blond hair, black eyes, sunken cheeks, and a prominent chin. With his dark suit, white shirt and tie, he looked like a mortician.

This plainclothes man was studying him from across the bare wooden table in a depressing small room at the auditorium complex. He had been hustled into the room by the two other men. He had no idea what happened to the policeman he fought with until now. Pelvic damage? What did that mean? The thug didn't seem that hurt. He shouldn't have hit him, but what could he do? Let himself be pistol-whipped, or shot!

“That's not how the police will see it,” Davidson said. “You'll be charged with assault and battery on a police officer, and maybe more, pending the hospital report. But there's a more serious matter.”

Ray stared at Davidson with confusion. Just what was going on? Why was he here?

“Who did you intend to blow up?” Davidson asked with an accusatory stare.

“What're you talking about?” Ray asked, his face clenching with concern. “Why am I here?”

Davidson stared at him as if he were lying. “You were overheard saying you would blow someone up.”

“I said no such thing!” Ray shouted, dumbfounded at the accusation. “In fact, I didn't say anything out loud. I muttered to myself that I might throw up listening to the garbage being said, and the idiot next to me evidently made a stupid mistake. I said throw, not blow. I want to know his name. I may sue him.”

People were nervous during a nervous time. He should have been more careful with his semi-loud mutterings, Ray realized. But still this was a crazy situation.

“So you're a peaceful citizen and this was all a terrible mistake? Other than attacking a policeman?”

Davidson seemed unconvinced, and his laser-like gaze never seemed to leave him, Ray realized. He was being treated as guilty unless he proved his innocence, but how could he disprove this negative? Did anyone else hear him? It would be impossible. He had just spoken below his breath. But his seat neighbor's mistake didn't seem convincing to Davidson. And now he faced hitting a policeman who had really abused his authority, taking advantage of his uniform. The cop had treated him as if he were already a proven criminal or, as it seemed now, a bomb-throwing terrorist. It was such a mess. Ray wondered if their conversation was being taped. There didn't seem to be anyway others could be watching them from some unseen one-way window. Perhaps the tape was underneath the table or on Davidson's body.

“Exactly,” Ray said, trying to make his tone reasoned and civil. “Can I go now?”

“Not yet,” Davidson said before Ray could make any attempt to stand. “The local police are getting a report of this incident, and I suspect you'll be charged. But let's focus on what you claim was something misheard. Do you go to a lot of political speeches?”

Misheard!
It was more than that. One thing led to another and now he was still under suspicion of being a terrorist bomber. Did he look remotely suicidal? What was wrong with these people?

“No, not often,” Ray said, trying to remain calm. “In fact, this was the first one really.”

“Then why this one?”

Ray shrugged. He didn't want to mention the children's book idea. Then his employer, Kindred Publishing, would get involved. That wouldn't go over well at all. “I don't know. It caught my interest. I had the time, so I came out of curiosity.”

“But you didn't like what you heard?”

“Not particularly.”

“And it made you angry?

“No, it made me want to throw up. Look, Mr. Davidson,” Ray said in exasperation. “I was mishandled by the overzealous cop who treated me as if I was guilty of something, and I'm not. You've searched me. Did I have any weapons? A bomb strapped to my chest? No. You took my car keys, and I'm sure you didn't find anything of interest in my car. If you checked to see if I have a record, which you probably have, you can see that I don't. So why am I here being questioned like this?”

Davidson nodded. “In these situations, we have to check things out a bit more, so be patient.”

Ray scowled. “But for how long? Do you want to rummage through my apartment, look at my email on my computer, talk to everyone I've worked for, all my friends?”

Davidson just glared at Ray. “You're pretty upset, aren't you? Get angry easily?”

Ray shook his head. This security wonk was doing his best to make him upset, probably trying to justify his detention and questioning here. It was outrageous, and he felt a fury rising in him again. He wasn't a sheep. He could fight back, protest, lodge a complaint, do something. But he realized this was probably what Davidson wanted with his provocative questions.

“Do you want to check which books I've taken out of the library since you think I'm such a security risk? Are you tracing all my phone calls? How far does this intrusive nonsense go?”

“You do seem angry, Ray,” Davidson said with a shrewd glance. “Why is that?”

Ray forced himself to take a deep breath, and then he issued a tight smile. “Let's review things. I was sitting peacefully in the audience when I was forced to leave in a humiliating fashion. Then I was manhandled into this room, where you feed me a bunch of questions designed to make me angry, thus supporting your a priori assumption. I think I'm showing a lot of patience, not anger.”

Davidson smiled. “A priori! Hey, you're good with words, aren't you?”

“I try. Can I go now?”

“Sure. But we may want to see you again. The police will, I'm sure.”

“Why would you want to see me? Am I a person of interest?”

Davidson wasn't smiling any more. “We'll see.” He hesitated a moment, and then said, “There is one way you may be able to extricate yourself from this charge of assaulting a police officer.”

“And what's that?” Ray asked.

“We'll let you know,” Davidson said with a cryptic look.

Ray worked as a junior editor at Kindred Publishing in Los Angeles, a small publisher of children's books that are both nonfiction texts as well as general fiction. He was gaining excellent experience, though his salary was barely enough to support his rent for his tiny one-bedroom apartment as well as for groceries and car maintenance and insurance. But he was getting by. He hadn't heard from the police or Homeland Security and his hopes were up that the unfortunate incident was behind him. How much damage could a shot to the crotch have done? And the assault and battery charge, if made, was a sham; though, it would be his word against the cop and he'd lose. He wasn't afraid to fight City Hall, but one still had to be realistic.

However, alarm buttons were set off when his boss, Bruce Benson, the editorial director, summoned him to his office. The authorities knew where he worked and they could easily have contacted the company to check out that he actually was employed there. On a more positive note, the meeting might also be to discuss either a new assignment or his comments about an illustrated science fiction story he had edited. Both of the latter notions were quickly struck down by Benson, who was an affable man in his late thirties, though not the man who had originally hired him.

“Ray, are you in any trouble with the law?” Benson asked, with a look of serious concern. Benson had a globular and pallid face punctuated by a large nose and thick glasses. His sandy hair, tousled as usual, was beginning to creep back across a wide forehead. His voice, as always, was crisp and commanding. He had an affable manner, but there was no doubting who was in control.

“What!” Ray said, seeing his optimism was badly flawed but pretending to be surprised. “No. Why do you ask?”

Benson shrugged. “Someone from the FBI was here asking about you. Took us by surprise.”

“Me too,” Ray said, feeling his head might explode. What right did the FBI have to target him like this? Apparently he was a person of interest.
Throw, blow
– what a stupid mess! Didn't the feds have better things to do! Tax money, his included, was being subjected to serious waste.

“So what's up?” Benson asked in his usually agreeable fashion. A plaid tie hung over his dark blue shirt. Benson, Ray thought, was strictly an indoor person. He needed to get out in the sun more often. Divorced, Benson seemed to thrive on work, often taking manuscripts home over the weekend and returning on Monday with them fully edited or analyzed.

Ray felt forced to provide the entire background and Benson listened carefully. Then he said with a mused air like discussing a dubious book project, “So this is all because someone thought you said blow when you said throw, and then you tangled with the police?”

“Muttered beneath my breath, not said, but apparently that's enough nowadays to make one a person of interest. It's outrageous!”

“Scary, yes, but I suppose it captures the age we live in.” Benson hesitated as if he was going to comment further, but then was silent.

“And that cop assaulted me, not the other way around,” Ray said, the memory still all too vivid in his mind. The slight bruise on his arm had disappeared, and he hadn't any evidence at all of the cop's excesses.

“Have you been charged?” Benson said, his expression turning even more serious.

“No, not at all,” Ray said quickly. This was the sticking point, and one still in his favor.

“Well, that's good. Maybe it will blow over.” Benson laughed at himself. “Sorry, wrong word.”

Ray grinned, too. Levity was what he needed now, grateful that Benson was taking such a reasonable attitude toward his still uncertain situation. He was still curious what Davidson had meant by a way to get over this pernicious charge lingering over his head.

“As far as the FBI agent we gave you a clean bill of health, so to speak. But Ray, understand the company obviously doesn't like the FBI asking about one of our employees. Keep your mutterings to yourself and don't do anything to bring the FBI back here. That goes for the police, too. Okay?”

“Certainly,” Ray said, feeling chastened by the whole stupid imbroglio. “I'm sorry all this happened.”

“Chalk it up to a bad experience,” Benson said. “Now, I also wanted to see you about your comments on the science fiction book. They were, for the most part, very apt and insightful. Good work.”

Ray was elated at this verdict on his editing, but he wondered what else the FBI might be doing in this check on him. Who else did they contact? Kindred was just his second job out of college, with the first writing sales copy for a toy manufacturer. He didn't have a ton of friends. His best friend, Mike, had just relocated to Baltimore a few months ago for a higher-paying job. It was grating that he had to keep worrying that he still might get charged by the police. Arrested or what? Handcuffed and marched out of the office in full sight of everyone.

“The reason we want to see you again,” the dark-haired man said in a tiny voice as Ray settled in a chair at a small office in the FBI's headquarters in Los Angeles, “is to see if you want to help your country.”

Ray had been afraid the agency was still monitoring him, and for no valid reason. Perhaps they had found some other innocuous utterance to stretch out their scrutiny. They wouldn't be satisfied, it seemed, until they got him fired from his job. At least he still hadn't been charged with anything by the police.

However, his new questioner, Sam Perkins, was presumably with another branch of the Homeland Security department, one Ray had never heard of. The PAS, Protect America Service. Was someone in the federal hierarchy in charge of coming up with these names of agencies? If so, it was a poor use of tax money.
Protect America Service
had a blackmail patina, Ray thought. The aphorism of another Sam, Samuel Johnson, came to mind.
Patriotism was the last refuge of a scoundrel
. But that obviously wasn't Perkins' outlook.

Perkins, probably in his early forties, had a husky build like he might have played collegiate football. He seemed at first glance to be the very model of a model security agent. He was dressed in a white shirt and a bland blue tie. His hair was cut close, and he was freshly shaven. Shiny black hair was combed mercilessly back on his tan forehead.

“I don't understand,” Ray said.

“It's very simple,” Perkins said. “We think you can be of help to us.”

“How?”

“First,” Perkins said, “you may be wondering why you haven't been charged with anything by the police.”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

Perkins nodded with the barest hint of humor in his dark eyes. Small bags, like skinny pouches, lay like upended spoons beneath his eyes, which flitted restlessly around the room but always came back to study Ray's reactions. “Ordinarily, you'd be facing some jail time. A liberal judge might give you probation, but you'd still have a record as a felon. You can check with a lawyer, if you want, on your chances of beating this rap. They aren't very good. Hitting a cop, who had to be taken to the hospital. No witnesses. His word against yours.”