Bestiary

let into the bestiary had never made it out again.

And al-Kalli must actually think of him as more than just a security officer; why else would he have invited him to that fancy party? Although — Christ — that food had been some of the worst he’d had since his deployment.

At the hospital, he parked in his usual spot — a patch of shade off at the far end, just around the corner from the door — checked in at the front desk, and was halfway down the hall when the guard said, “Hold it, Captain!”

What, had he signed in on the wrong line? The army could find more ways to bust your balls…

“Got an advisory here,” the guard said. “You’re to report to the supervisor’s office.”

“I’ve got an appointment first,” Greer said. Through the glass wall of the therapy room, he could see Indira tending to Mariani in his wheelchair. He wanted to talk to her — he needed to talk to her. Things had been bad for a while, but now that he was straightening out his life, he wanted to tell her that. He wanted to tell someone who would care.

“No, you don’t,” the guard barked, coming out from behind the semicircular counter he sat behind. “You’re making an immediate left, and reporting to the supervisor. Last door at the end of the hall… Captain.”

These pricks really killed Greer; the guy was in uniform, but Greer was damned if he could see any combat patches on him. Greer glanced into the therapy room again, and saw that Indira was looking out at him. He raised one finger and mouthed “Right back,” then moved off down the hall.

The supervisor, Dr. Frank Foster, looked like he was in worse shape than some of the patients. He was a scrawny, walleyed guy with a glistening sheen of sweat on his pale face — even though the office air-conditioning was working fine — and the rabbity look of a smoker wondering where, and when, he could safely light up. Greer, gambling on his hunch, took out his pack of cigarettes and offered him one.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dr. Foster said, though his eyes did linger for that extra split second on the pack. “There’s no smoking in this building, and you shouldn’t be smoking anyway. Put them away.”

Greer slipped them back in his pocket and tried to get comfortable in the hard plastic chair; it was sculpted for somebody, but that somebody wasn’t him. And tempted as he was to ask what was up, he knew enough about the military and its protocols to keep his mouth shut and only volunteer whatever information he had to.

Dr. Foster swiveled in his chair, pulled a manila folder off a pile behind him, and slapped it on the messy desk. Greer noticed a telltale pack of matches mixed in with all the other crap. The tinny sound of a cheap radio, playing classical music, emanated from somewhere, maybe one of the desk drawers.

“We’ve made some corrections to your file,” Dr. Foster said, “in light of some new information that has come our way.”

New information? Greer wanted to ask, what new information? But didn’t.

Foster riffled through some papers again, and said, “How long have you had your drug dependency problems?”

Greer stayed silent.

“And what drugs are you currently using?” He looked up expectantly, pen poised, waiting for Captain Greer to start spilling his guts. “Well?”

“The clinic has records, doesn’t it?” Greer asked. “Ask my therapist, Indira Singh, what I’ve been prescribed.”

“We know what you’ve been prescribed. We also have information that leads us to believe you’re abusing other, nonprescription drugs. If you have drug dependency and addiction problems, problems that could affect the course of your treatment here, we need to know that.”

“Now how would you know anything like that?”

“We’re not at liberty to divulge that information, nor is it relevant. All that matters is whether it’s true or not.”

“It’s not true,” Greer said. “Okay? So we’re done.”

“Are you currently working?”

That one came out of left field. “Why?”

Foster shrugged. “We have to keep the records current, especially if your new employer offers any kind of private health insurance benefits. We’re here to help the veterans, Captain Greer, but we also like to see that the veterans are trying to help themselves.”

Greer was starting to smell a rat.

“So, are you currently employed, and if so where?”

A big rat with a grudge. Greer had to think fast, wondering how to play this one. His first inclination, as always, was to lie, and he saw no reason to depart from tradition now. “No.” Even though he’d been planning to tell Indira, he was going to ask her to keep it under her hat.

The walleyed Dr. Foster just stared at him blankly. Greer wondered if his eyes were enough in sync, or if he saw two different images. “You have not recently been employed as a security officer?”

Greer laughed, as if he’d never heard anything so absurd. “Yeah, a gimp with a bad leg, no experience, and no references. Where am I supposed to be working? Wells Fargo, or Fort Knox?”

“We don’t look kindly on the falsification of records, Captain Greer. If it comes to light that you have not been forthcoming, or that you have in fact provided us with misinformation, the Veterans Administration can, and will, take action.”

“That’s just what I’d expect them to do.”

“The file is still open,” Dr. Foster said, pointedly leaving it so on the desk. “I’d advise you to keep us up-to- date on the developments in your life, both medical and professional.”

“I’ll do that,” Greer said, starting to lever himself up and out of the chair. “But I’ve got a therapy appointment to keep.”

“Your therapy will have to wait today.” He tore off a perforated form with a number of black boxes on it and said, “Take this upstairs to the main desk.” Greer saw a lot of the boxes were already checked — for urinalysis, blood chemistries, etc. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what this was all about.

“We’re not here to punish you,” Dr. Foster said, with all the conviction you’d muster to read aloud from an eye chart, “we’re here to help you.”

“I feel better already,” Greer replied.

In the hall outside, he stuffed the form in his pants pocket; no point in getting any tests done today — he could think of at least three prohibited substances currently circulating in his bloodstream. And his blood pressure wasn’t going to be so hot either — all he could think about was finding Sadowski, the fucking snitch, and killing him. Hadn’t it even occurred to the moron that Greer had plenty of shit on him, too? He couldn’t get him fired from Silver Bear — that had already been done. But how about that arsenal he kept, and the supersecret Sons of Liberty? What exactly was their agenda, and wouldn’t the feds maybe like to be in on it? Greer even had the sense that they were planning their own little Waco to happen soon. That marked-up map he’d seen at the Blue Bayou, the new recruits, the meetings Sadowski had urged him to attend. Something was in the wind, and from what Greer knew of Sadowski and his mentor, Burt Pitt, it was going to be stupid, it was going to be destructive, and it was sure as hell going to be violent.

But he’d deal with that later. Right now he still had some business to conduct with Indira. Chances were pretty slim that he’d get another prescription out of her — Greer was confident his name was on some internal watch list — but it might be worth one last shot. And he still wanted to talk to her. She was about the only straight person he knew, the only one who might think this new job was for real and that he wasn’t just bullshitting.

Slipping quietly past the back of the reception booth, where the guard was watching the main doors, Greer entered the therapy room. Indira had Mariani’s wheelchair pulled up to a table where she was having him squeeze these metal hand clamps that were used to measure the power of your grip. It was one of the few things Greer had still registered well on. Mariani was squeezing one now, Indira was watching the meter to record the results, and Greer just stood off to one side waiting for her to finish.

A new guy, or at least somebody Greer had never seen, was lurching along on a treadmill with a prosthetic left foot. He had on headphones and a Yankees baseball cap. When he raised one hand off the bar to acknowledge Greer, Greer raised a hand back. Christ, Greer thought, at least he hadn’t wound up an amputee. What the hell was that like?

“You waiting for the treadmill?” the guy said, slipping his headphones down around his neck.