The Nameless Dead (12 page)

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You tried to kill the President and you’ve got terms?’

‘Fucking right I have,’
I said, losing my cool. ‘I want a lawyer. Right now!’

Sebastian stepped back as if I’d spat in his face.

‘Just kidding,’ I said, without a trace of a smile. ‘Sergeant Quincy Jerome. I want him to watch my back.’

‘But he’s regular army.’

‘Fix it. You weren’t planning on putting Arthur Bimsdale on that detail with Sara Robbins out there, were you?’

He shook his head vaguely. ‘Is that it?’

‘I’ll need to be armed.’

‘Even with the sergeant in tow?’

‘Yes. Fix that, too.’ I headed for the door. ‘I have things to pick up from the apartment.’

‘Matt,’ Sebastian said, ‘Wait.’ He was fumbling in his jacket pocket. ‘I got this for you. I understand you might not want it now….’

I opened the blue velvet box and looked at the ring.

‘Platinum and three diamonds,’ he said. ‘As per instructions.’

‘It’s good. But you keep it ’til this is over.’ I managed to suppress the tears until I had passed him.

D
r. Lester Rivers wasn’t the kind of man who hit things when he was angry, but the conference room table nearly received a pounding.

‘No, Mr. Sebastian, this is not acceptable. I cannot agree.’

The FBI man stared at him stonily. ‘Your professional opinion is noted, Doctor,’ he said. His hands stayed away from the open laptop in front of him.

Rivers noticed that and wondered exactly what was going on. The Bureau paid his salary and funded his research center, but he had never been treated like a junior employee before. Usually a team of scientific officers reviewed his work and the atmosphere on their visits was cordial. Copious notes were taken and he was later sent copies of their reports. But ever since Matt Wells and his unfortunate partner had arrived, Peter Sebastian had run the show, despite the fact that he was a violent crime investigation specialist, not a scientist. Many things, it seemed, weren’t written down.

‘Mr. Sebastian,’ Rivers said, glancing across the table at Alexandra Brown. ‘My work with Matt Wells has
shown that the conditioning he underwent was complex and profound. Although we have been able to access many of the trigger sequences, it is very likely that he is still subject to control.’

Sebastian raised a hand. ‘You used the word
we,
Doctor. Let me bring in Dr. Brown at this point.’ He turned to the female scientist. ‘What’s your feeling about releasing Wells?’

Alexandra Brown kept her eyes off Rivers. ‘Extrapolation from trials suggests that my process has been highly effective. I consider the Rothmann conditioning no longer operational.’

This time Rivers did bring his hand down hard on the table. ‘Extrapolation from trials? Wells was the first human subject you treated. You can’t extrapolate from rats and monkeys or computer simulations. Besides, you were brought in here over my head.’

‘Yes. By me,’ Sebastian said firmly. ‘Dr. Brown’s work has been well received by other scientists.’

‘But its long-term effects are unknown,’ Rivers countered. ‘What if there are triggers at a deeper level of Wells’s subconscious? He might turn into an even more deadly killer.’ He glared at the FBI man. ‘And recently you’ve allowed him to sharpen his combat and firearms skills, again without my approval.’

Peter Sebastian stood up and closed his laptop. ‘Your approval was not necessary, Doctor. I am responsible for Wells.’ He turned to go.

‘I don’t suppose you’re at all concerned about his state of mind after the death of Karen Oaten and the baby. Grief and the associated emotions can have a major effect on rationality.’

‘On the other hand,’ Dr. Brown put in, ‘it can increase
empathy and certain forms of acuity, which may actually enhance the subject’s efficacy.’

‘Will you listen to yourself, woman?’ Rivers scoffed. ‘This is a distressed human being we’re talking about, not some automaton.’

Spots of red appeared on Alexandra Brown’s cheeks. She looked to Sebastian for support.

‘Please calm yourself, Dr. Rivers,’ the FBI man said. ‘That kind of language is inappropriate.’

‘Is it?’ the scientist shouted. ‘Well, try this for size. I’m going to send a formal complaint about your handling of Matt Wells to the Office of Professional Responsibility.’

Peter Sebastian sighed and walked back to the table. He opened his laptop and tapped on the keys. ‘Please come here,’ he said, eyeing each of the scientists. When they stood on either side of him, he hit the keys again. ‘This is a confidential authorization. You are at liberty to check its authenticity by calling headquarters and quoting the reference number at the top.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘You understand there may be disciplinary consequences if you do so?’

Doctors Rivers and Brown read the document in silence, the document that authorized Sebastian to determine the status of Matthew Wells as he saw fit, signed by the Director of the FBI.

I was lying on the sofa in the apartment, my face buried in the cushions. Karen’s scent was still on them. I breathed it in over and over again. Then I caught a glimpse of her. She had her back to me and was wearing a white surgical gown. She was in a narrow passage
and she started to move downward, the lower part of her body disappearing.

I heard myself call her name and she stopped. When she turned, I could see that she was carrying a bundle in both arms. It, too, was shrouded in white. Our son. Karen looked at me sadly but she didn’t speak—she had lost that ability, it seemed. Then she continued walking and was gone.

Great sobs tore from my chest. I tried to stifle them with a cushion, wishing that I could find my way back to them, the ones who had been taken from me. Then I saw another face—the imperious features of the Nazi, Heinz Rothmann. The implication was clear. I had to kill him to get Karen and Magnus back.

‘Hey, my friend.’ The soft voice took me by surprise and I raised myself from the sofa.

‘Quincy.’ I wiped my eyes with my arm. ‘I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be, man,’ he said, coming up to me and putting his arm round my shoulders. ‘Jesus, you must be suffering.’

I felt the need to sit on the sofa again to maintain that last link with Karen. I couldn’t speak for a while.

‘What’s this I’m hearing? They’re letting you out?’

I nodded.

‘You’re gonna work?’

‘There isn’t anything to keep me…keep me here.’

Quincy Jerome squatted in front of me. ‘You need to take it easy, my friend. Let it sink in. Come to terms.’

I appreciated his words, but they were meaningless. I had a mission. Peter Sebastian might have thought he was going to use me, but he had that wrong. I was going to take him for all he was worth.

‘Listen, Quincy, I don’t know how much you’ve been told about—’

‘Jack shit,’ he interrupted. ‘All I know is you want me to watch your back. Which is fine by me, even if my CO’s ass is on fire about it. Your man Sebastian has friends in high places.’

‘I don’t think he’s got friends anywhere, but he gets the job done.’ I filled him in on Rothmann and his probable link to the Hitler’s Hitman killings. He’d picked up a fair amount about the latter from the media coverage. ‘I’ve got to do this, Quincy,’ I ended. ‘For…for Karen and our son.’

‘Count me in, my friend.’

‘It’ll probably be bloody.’

‘Sounds like that Nazi asshole deserves to lose every drop of his blood.’

He was right about that. I got up and started to collect clothes and other stuff. I took the laptop, too. It had a wireless connection, which would be useful. Now all I needed was weapons. I mentioned that to Quincy.

‘I was told to go to the armory,’ he said, unzipping one of his bags.

‘Hey,’ I said, belatedly realizing what was different about him. ‘You’re not in uniform.’

‘That’s what I was told,’ he said, running his large hands over the black clothes he was wearing.

‘You look like a special forces operative.’

‘Don’t complain. I’ve got more of the same in your size.’

It seemed Sebastian had thought of everything. Quincy started laying out weapons on the table. There was a Glock 19 semiautomatic pistol, a combat knife in
a sheath, a pair of vicious-looking brass knuckles and a length of plastic-covered wire with a loop at each end.

‘I’ve never used a garrote,’ I said, picking it up.

‘It’s simple,’ the sergeant said, taking it out of my hands and whipping it round my neck before I could move. ‘See what I mean?’

I could have buried my elbow in his belly, but I wasn’t up to brawling. My legs were still unsteady from the sedatives.

When he’d removed the garrote, I went back to the table and picked up the Glock. ‘Where are the clips?’

‘I’ve got them. They told me not to hand them over to you till we’re out of the camp.’

‘Come on, Quincy. I’m not going to shoot anyone.’

He studied me thoughtfully. ‘I reckon they’re worried about suicide.’

‘After what I told you about Rothmann? I’m going to kill that fucker. What happens after that, I don’t know.’

Quincy took a clip from his pocket. ‘All right, man. Just don’t get me busted.’

I checked that it was full and slapped it in.

There was a knock on the door. It opened before I could say anything.

Peter Sebastian walked in and immediately focused on the Glock. ‘I hope that isn’t loaded, Sergeant.’

‘No, sir,’ Quincy replied.

Sebastian accepted that. I put the pistol in my belt and started gathering up the other weapons.

‘Thanks for having the tracking cuff taken off my ankle,’ I said.

‘No problem.’

‘You haven’t planted a bug under my skin, have you?’ Rothmann’s people had done that in the Maine camp.

Sebastian shook his head. ‘Listen, Jerome, we need to stop using ranks when we address each other. I don’t want us to stick out like cocks in a Hamburg nightclub.’

Quincy and I exchanged glances.

‘My friends call me Quincy,’ the soldier said.

‘Do they?’ Sebastian’s tone made it clear he didn’t see himself as one of them. ‘Those fatigues won’t exactly do for undercover work.’

Quincy shrugged. ‘I figured you’d be taking us to the mall.’

Sebastian ignored that. ‘Are you ready to go, Matt?’

‘Just about. Can you get Special Agent Simms to box up what’s left?’

He nodded. ‘All right, let’s hit the world outside.’

Before I went, I passed by the hi-fi and picked up the CD Karen and I had listened to. Our son would have heard Monteverdi’s
Orfeo,
too. I wasn’t going to leave that behind.

Mikey Lister was in seventh heaven. Not only had the hooker brought the grass he’d asked for, but she was a stunner—Cuban, a beautiful deep bronze color, and a rack to stop the traffic. She said she was called Lucky, but he didn’t believe that for a second. After this, he was going to take that nickname himself.

She was in the shower now, so Mikey went through her clutch bag. There wasn’t much in it—some keys, cigarettes, condoms, gum. There was a man’s billfold containing over five hundred dollars and a credit card in the name of L. Sanchez. Maybe she was called Lucky
after all. He thought about lifting a couple of the fifties he’d given her, but decided against it. His brother Gordy had stepped up to the plate recently and, for the first time in his life, his bank account was healthy. Maybe losing his pins hadn’t been so bad after all. His smarmy shit-sucker of a lawyer had nailed the driver who had hit him for major damages. So a hooker a week was no big deal anymore.

Then again, he thought, looking at the uneven stumps that protruded from his boxers, he was stuck in the chair till he croaked. He did an hour on crutches every day, but they made his arms hurt. Artificial legs were out of the question. He had too little of the real ones left. At least Lucky didn’t mind. Some of the girls could hardly disguise their horror. That made him so mad that he made them blow him, so the bitches’ faces were up close and personal with the stumps.

‘I leave now,’ said Lucky, emerging from the bathroom in the least clothing that the cops would let her get away with on the street. Girls in the Tallahassee area weren’t what Mikey would call shy and retiring when it came to what they wore, but this one beat them all.

‘See ya, doll,’ he said, sticking his finger between her legs.

She slapped his arm. ‘We finished now, doll.’

Mikey Lister watched her go. Had she just given him attitude? He pushed the wheel toward the door and got there before it slammed behind her. He grabbed the golf club he kept for emergencies and rolled down the driveway.

‘Hey, Castro quim, get a load of this!’ he yelled, closing on her spectacular rear.

Lucía Sanchez sidestepped the chair and Mikey
trundled past, bouncing onto the road. ‘Get back here, bitch!’ he yelled, swinging the club.

‘Screw you, gimp!’ she screamed back, as she got into her scarlet Bonneville.

Mikey watched her accelerate away, still in the middle of the street. He looked around, but there was no one outside. Just as well, he thought. He wasn’t in the mood for whining from his tight-assed neighbors. About thirty yards away he saw a dark blue Crown Vic that looked familiar. Was it the same one that had been across the road from his place yesterday? Was he being watched?

He pushed the chair to the side of the road and thought about that. He didn’t know what Gordy was up to these days, but it sure wasn’t legal. He didn’t have that paper job anymore and he’d begun calling from different places each week. He’d also told Mikey not to talk about him, not that he did. Mikey had always thought Gordy was a pathetic runt and he’d given him hell when they were kids. Maybe Gordy had someone watching him to make sure the cops weren’t doing surveillance, too. Screw that.

Mikey Lister set off down the street, the golf club across his thighs.

‘Hey, peeper,’ he shouted, ‘you want some of this?’ As he got nearer, he saw the driver’s head rise from the back of the seat and heard the engine start. ‘Yeah, that’s right, get the fuck outta here!’

The Crown Vic pulled away, leaving Mikey in the middle of the road. He stayed there until it turned the corner and disappeared.

‘Yeah, Mikey,’ he said. ‘Way to go!’ Maneuvering the chair, he pushed himself back toward the driveway of
his building. The sun was beating down on the back of his neck and he could hear the cry of seagulls in the distance. Some place, he thought. Sunshine in the middle of winter. It sure beat the shit out of Oklahoma.

The pickup that had turned into the street ahead of him had large chrome bull bars. Mikey pulled into the side and gave it the benefit of his professional eye. ‘Nissan Frontier,’ he said to himself. ‘2003 or 4. Those bars are new, though. Hey, is that a woman driving? Come on, bitch, take off your cap.’ He imitated the action.

The blonde obliged. Her hair was short and she looked good. Then she jerked the wheel to the right and floored the gas pedal.

Mikey Lister flew out of his wheelchair and headfirst into the trunk of a nearby palm tree. The last thing he saw was the set of the woman’s lips. It looked like she was in pain.