Shadow of a Broken Man

16

The bald man's face was impassive, but his eyes seemed larger than before, swollen by a controlled but seething anger. He wore a light blue gabardine suit that shimmered almost hypnotically in the morning light that filtered in through the window.

Lippitt approached the bed, shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket, and stared down at me. 'How are you?' he asked after a long pause. The anger was in his voice as well as his eyes, but he seemed oddly distracted, as though his mind-and possibly his anger-were directed elsewhere.

'How'd you know where I was?' He didn't seem inclined to answer my question, so I answered it myself. 'You've been following Tal.'

'Perhaps I should have been following you,' he said with a trace of irony. 'It looks like you've had an accident.'

'It wasn't an accident: It was an on-purpose. You lied to me about killing Rafferty, didn't you?'

Lippitt's eyes went distant and cold. 'Is that what you've concluded from your investigation so far?'

'Oh, I've got lots of company. The field's crowded, and it's a fast track.'

'I warned you this would happen.'

'Somehow I just knew you were going to say that, Lippitt. The same thing happened five years ago, didn't it? You were one of the hunters. Maybe you found Rafferty, but you didn't kill him.' I watched his face carefully. 'What the hell is so special about Victor Rafferty?'

Inexplicably, my voice broke at the end and I began to sob uncontrollably. There had been no warning; it was as if my emotions were being controlled by someone else, a mad dwarf who looked like me but loved to cry. Mortified by the behavior of this stranger, I turned my face to the wall and wiped away the tears. Finally I turned back to Lippitt and stared at him defiantly.

Lippitt casually lighted a cigarette and dropped the match onto my breakfast tray. 'Whoever got hold of you hurt you very badly, didn't he?' he said evenly. There was neither sympathy nor lack of it in his voice; it was merely a statement of fact.

'A few screws are loose, but I know how to tighten them up. Why won't you tell me now about Rafferty?'

Lippitt blew smoke into the air over my head. 'I didn't come here to trade information. I came to present a bill.'

'What bill?'

'It's for the suffering you've caused. The Russians have the Fosters inside their consulate. You and I are going to get them out. We're going to see just how good a tumbler and acrobat you are; that's the price I want you to pay for the harm you've brought these people.'

'What the hell are you talking about, Lippitt?'

'I thought I was making myself perfectly clear. I consider you responsible for placing the Fosters in jeopardy, so you're going to help me rescue them.'

'You're putting together a D.I.A. operation?'

'That's not what I said, Frederickson. It's just you and me. I have a plan.'

'I can't wait to hear it. Isn't it pretty risky for you? I'm betting your superiors won't be too happy about it if you get caught inside the Russian consulate.'

'That's my concern. Will you agree to come with me? I do need you.'

'What do you have in mind? I have an interest in the Fosters too.'

'Frankly, I haven't figured out all the details. But I'll need a small man with exceptional athletic ability… and courage. From your press clippings, you seem to fit that description.'

The fact of the matter was that I found the prospect of going anywhere Kaznakov might be terrifying. But I said, 'I'll need some time to get back into shape; I'm a little stiff right now.' I was gratified to find that my voice was reasonably steady.

Lippitt's eyes narrowed. 'What happened to you?'

'I fell off a mountain called Kaznakov.'

Lippitt stiffened. His right hand came halfway out of his pocket, then went back in again. 'A madman.' He spat the words out. 'It's remarkable that you're here. You're the first person I know of who's suffered that particular fate and lived to tell about it.'

'He thinks I'm dead.'

'Good. It's best that he continue to think so. How did you get away?'

I managed a smile. 'Sheer dwarf cunning.'

'What did he do to you, Frederickson?'

'If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it. As I said, I'll need some time to get myself together.'

'Of course. And I'll need time to formalize a plan. You still have my number?'

'I do. When I'm ready I'll order some flowers.'

Lippitt ground out his cigarette in my oatmeal bowl. 'You must pull yourself together, Frederickson,' he said quietly. 'I can only guess how badly Kaznakov hurt you, but I suspect the real hurt is now in your mind. You can't forget, but you must learn to control your fear.'

There was something oddly authoritarian about his voice, as if he were experienced in such matters and knew what he was talking about.

'It shows, huh?' The words blurred together into a whimper.

'I hope you're feeling better,' he said formally, then turned on his heel and started toward the door.

'I'll be all right!' I heard myself shouting. 'I'm going with you!'

Lippitt stopped, turned. 'We'll see,' he said simply, and walked out of the room.

Over the objections of my brother and a battery of doctors, I checked myself out of the hospital on Monday. It had reached the point where the hospital's knockout pills weren't working. I didn't want to sleep, because sleep was infinitely worse than staying awake; Kaznakov always visited me in my sleep. If I was going to stay awake, I reasoned it was better to be getting some things done.

The first thing I did was book a seat on a flight to North Carolina for the next morning. I still couldn't bring myself to pick up a telephone, so I decided I'd simply drop in at the Institute and hope to get lucky. I hung around the apartment the rest of the day and drank myself to sleep that night.

The only effect the booze had was to make it impossible for me to wake up when I wanted to. Kaznakov, his face dripping blood, continued to chase me; the difference was that I was drunk in my dreams, easier to catch.

I struggled awake at dawn and promptly threw up. I stood naked in a dry shower, leaning against the tiled wall and shaking. I wanted to cancel my flight, but the travel agency where I'd made my reservation wasn't open until nine, and my flight was at eight. I could, of course, simply not show up, but something told me that much more than the answers to a few questions could be riding on my ability to make myself get out of the apartment and onto that plane. I finally forced myself to shower, shave, and dress. Too sick to eat, I stumbled out into the street to flag down a cab.

Despite a hangover, or because of it, I wanted another drink on the plane. I decided I wouldn't help my cause by becoming an alcoholic, so I settled for two Alka-Seltzers and a lot of tomato juice.

Late morning found me in Durham, strong enough to walk a reasonably straight line. I celebrated my newfound resolve by forcing myself to use a pay phone. Then I rented a car and drove out to the Duke University campus.

It was a lovely campus, with acres of rolling green, a mixture of old and new buildings, and an overall Gothic atmosphere. The summer session had begun and the landscape was decorated with students, most of them wrapped around each other in various phases of lovemaking. Cicadas droned a steady accompaniment to the strains of guitar music and folk songs that floated on the dry, hot air. The liquor from the night before must have lubricated my joints; I walked without a limp.

The Institute for Parapsychology, not actually a part of Duke, was housed in a converted mansion just off the university campus. I asked for Dr. Fritz James, the man I'd spoken to on the phone, and was ushered into his