“Dead?” Chuck responds with mild alarm. “What’s going on?”
“I’m wondering the same thing.”
He looks at the Post-it. “Let me do a little more investigating and make sure I got this right,” he says. He puts the yellow paper in his jacket pocket. He pulls out a clamshell phone. He hands it to me. “Take this.”
It’s a basic low-end phone, two years old at least, with a white scratch along the front casing. “I’ve got a phone.”
“This one is pre-paid. It can’t be traced, and our conversations will be private. The number is on the back. If you need to reach me, call on this line.”
“You’re kidding me,” I say.
“It’s my backup. I’ve got a regular phone.”
He extracts a second phone, a fancier device with a touch screen. As he does so, it buzzes with an incoming call. He looks at the caller ID and sends the call to voice mail.
“Keep your phone,” I say, handing the old clamshell back to him. He puts his hands up, not accepting it. We look like two mimes having a contest.
He responds emphatically. “Cops are like drones working for a big corporation. They lack real capitalist financial incentive. So when they get bored with their jobs or feel undervalued, they check out, or wield power in counter-productive ways. I hate cops, and I love journalism that speaks truth to the uniform.”
“Aren’t soldiers just cops with bigger guns and air cover?”
He smiles. “Touche. But soldiers get sent into messy situations, try to fix them, then get sent home. Our incentive is survival. Being a soldier is like working for a start-up, having real motivation,” he says, pauses, then continues. “Let’s break open a great story.”
“Let me think about it, Chuck,” I say. “But I should go.”
As I turn to leave, he grabs my arm. “You’re always in a hurry.”
I look at his hand, and he quickly retracts it.
“Sorry. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help you.”
“Not grab my arm.”
He clears his throat. “Fair enough. I’m prideful too.”
I’m irritated but want to sound deferential.
“Can I call you later, or put a pot out on my balcony to arrange another meeting?”
Before he can answer, I hear the roar of a car. I look up. Coming down the ordinarily serene street from our left is a Humvee with tinted windows, sun glancing off its black hood.
“Global warming explained,” I say.
I look back at Chuck, and see his eyes go wide and pupils constrict to a point. Extreme and sudden fear.
Chapter 9
A flash of light and a staccato burst.
“Son of a bitch!” he screams. His full weight blankets me. Limp.
“Chuck!” For a moment, he doesn’t respond and I’m sure he’s dead or mortally wounded.
“Foot,” he groans, and suddenly stands.
I crane my neck and see the Humvee speeding away. Dull pain pulses in my elbow where it slammed against the pavement. I rise more slowly than G.I. Chuck.
He grabs his ankle. There is a glaze of red on his hand. “Stay down, Chuck.”
“It’s a scratch.”
He’s getting one of nature’s most powerful drugs, a heavy outpouring of neuro-chemicals that outweigh the pain and enable him to flee danger. But the danger’s screeched off and Chuck needs to not aggravate the wound. We both look at the blood on his hand and I’m relieved to find it is just a spattering, confirming his impulse that he’s been lightly wounded.
“I graduated med school.” I take a few deep breaths to slow my heart rate down. “Let me look.”
He hops backwards. “What are you involved with?!”
“I’ll call the cops.” I pull out my cell phone.
Then he hops forward, with surprising alacrity, adrenaline screaming through him. His hand swoops forward and grabs my phone hand.
“Are you crazy?” he says. “Let’s go after him.”
“We need to call an ambulance. You’re in shock.”
“Call while you’re driving,” he says, releasing my hand and hobbling toward my car.
I again see all the zeal and risk tolerance that has made this guy a part of both the military and the venture- capital community.
I start to dial 911 on my phone but get only as far as “9” when my own competitive zeal bristles. I retrieve my backpack and storm past Chuck to my car, popping the door locks up with my key ring on the way.
I climb in my side. Chuck does the same, moving well for a shot guy.
I toss my backpack in back. I usually dump it in the passenger seat.
I put the key into the ignition. I turn the key. The engine won’t turn over. I try again. I make sure the car is in park, not neutral or drive. I try the key again. No luck. The engine is dead.
“Motherfucker!” Chuck shouts, and pounds his hand on the sun-cracked dashboard.
He climbs out of the car. As I watch wordlessly, he hobbles across the street. He pulls keys from the pocket of his long coat, clicks open a blue convertible BMW, and climbs in.
“Chuck!”
“I’m going after him.” He climbs into the car. “Get the bullet casings.”
“You’re in shock.” I shout my earlier admonition as I get out of the car.
He starts his engine. He pulls a tight U-turn, and heads off in pursuit of a gunman in a gas guzzler. One day I’m nearly shot by a hybrid driver, then by a driver of a Humvee. On my side, I think, G.I. Chuck in his sports car. I’m in the middle of a battle involving the entire automobile food chain.
I walk to the front of my car. Popping the hood, I immediately see the problem. Someone has disconnected my battery cable.
I reconnect it, and climb back into my Toyota.
I grab a handful of In-and-Out-Burger napkins out of the glove compartment and get most of the battery grease off my hands. I pull out my cell and dial 911, but again I don’t hit “send.” I’m thinking about Chuck’s plea that I don’t call the police, echoing the warning in the mystery note. It’s ludicrous. But something else nags at me. Maybe before I call the cops again, I should get myself to Magnolia Manor. I’ve got to keep Grandma safe. And I’ve got to find out what she knows — and what or who is hunting the one or both of us.
I turn on the ignition, then turn it off again. I step out of the car, walk over to where Chuck may have saved my life, and look on the ground for shell casings. I find two bullet remains, slightly charred, already cooling. More must have smashed into the concrete walls or sprayed into the alley, but a cursory look doesn’t turn them up. Against the wall of the alley, a neighbor has haphazardly left out for recycling a dozen or so folded cardboard beer and food boxes. They’re damp to the point of being limp from last night’s fog and I have the patience to scan the surfaces for holes for only a few seconds before conceding.
A few neighbors have wandered outside, and I figure the cops can’t be far behind. I need to jet.
I hustle back to my car and speed to the nursing home to mine the emptying remains of Lane’s hippocampus.
And I suddenly find myself thinking about snakes.
Five months earlier, I’d started interviewing Grandma for the magazine story I wanted to write about her.
We sat on a freshly painted bench outside the home, sunshine on our faces, a game of Boggle on the bench between us. I clipped a tiny microphone to Lane’s blouse so I could record our interview.
