Gifts and Consequences (17 page)

Around midnight he noticed that Susan was growing tired.  He had always stationed the nurses in the hallway to give her privacy and dignity.  Months ago she had become concerned about modesty when men were around, even when she still knew he was her husband. 

“Wait just a moment.  There’s someone in the hallway who can help you get ready for bed.”

Susan nodded and Jonathan walked to the door and summoned Kiersten.

“This is Kiersten,” he told his wife.  They saw each other almost every day, but to Susan they were meeting for the first time.

“She’ll help you get ready for bed and stay here with you until you fall asleep.” 

Susan simply nodded. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he told her and reached up to her cheek.  As he wiped the imaginary smudge she grasped his hand and held it tight against the side of her face.  She looked at him with near recognition. 

“It’s me. Jonathan.  Your husband,” he said, trying to break through to where any memory of him remained.

But she failed to see it.  After a moment’s effort she dropped his hand and turned her attention to Kiersten.

Forgotten, Jonathan left his wife with the nurse and walked into his house.

Hi, my name is Porter.

I’m a food addict. 

This isn’t my first time here.  I came about four months ago.  I should say seventy-five percent of me came four months ago.  I’ve, uh, gained a little weight since then.  Shoot, not a little.  The last four months have been a non stop binge…like I knew I was about to go cold turkey so I pulled out all the stops.  One last fix, I guess.

I never…thought it would last four months.

I’m done, though.  If I can find a way, I’ll never go back.  I’d do anything if there was a way to get better.  But that’s the problem.  I don’t really know if there is a way out.  The hole I’ve dug is just too deep.

The one thing that makes me think it might be possible is hearing all of you talk tonight.  For the first time, in my life, I think it might be possible.

Because of all of you, and because of my sponsor, I’m ready to take Step 1.  Not that it’s hard for food addicts.  We are the one group of addicts that can’t hide our addiction.  It’s out there for the whole world to see.

But I admit to you here and now that I am powerless to overcome this addiction on my own.  There, I said it.  It finally hit me yesterday morning.  I woke up with evidence of a Ben and Jerry’s binge in my lap.  Three pints.  I ate three pints in one night.  I felt, physically unable to stop myself from going to the freezer for pint after pint, like I was no longer in control of my body.

Yesterday morning I had to choose between a box of sausage Hot Pockets and my sponsor, and for once I made the right choice.  For once.

But that’s not the lowest I’ve ever been.  A couple days before I attended the last group, I tried to quit.  I emptied my freezer and fridge of ice cream, cookie dough, soda, cookies, and candy bars and I dumped them down the drain.  But I didn’t rinse them or start the disposal.  I left the door open.  Ten minutes later I had a spoon down the drain trying to salvage anything I could.  There were bits of chicken, bread.  And some things I couldn’t identify.

But it didn’t satisfy me.  I started the binge but never reached climax, so to speak.  So I blended a stick of butter and a cup of sugar and finished it off.

Yeah, I’m powerless.  That’s easy to admit to you all, and it’s obvious to see.

So, on to Step 2.  I don’t really know about Step 2.  My parents never took me to church, and I don’t have any concept of God, or of a higher power.  Much less a belief that a God could or would actually help someone like me.  Or even care.

I want to believe.  I do.  Because, if there is no higher power, and I am as alone in this as I have felt, then it’s a lost cause.  I’ve tried too many times on my own.  I’ve failed too many times on my own. 

Thank you.

The Batphone rang in the dark, waking Oscar Mackintosh.  He had no idea what time it was, but the glow-in-the-dark bat symbol on the ceiling had faded completely, so he knew he had slept more than two hours.  He sat up and saw the faint blue numbers on his alarm clock.  8:25.  Three hours of sleep.  The tradeoff for working his own schedule was being on call twenty four hours a day, 365 days a year. 

Even if he traveled he would still be subject to call back at any minute.  But that didn’t matter to him.  The only place he truly wanted to visit was Ireland, and he would be mad to show his face there again.

It had to be Control calling; no one else knew the Batphone number.  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, in no hurry.  The phone would ring until he answered it.  Standing and stretching, he made his way in the dark to his window.  He pressed the button next to the pane, and the shutters began the protracted opening process.

Oscar had to shield his eyes against the brilliant sunlight.  The shades were programmed to open slowly, but the first blast was always a shock.  Someone walking into the Batcave from outside would have a hard time seeing in the dim light, but compared to the perfect darkness the light was blinding.

On one of the pedestals in the corner stood a replica of the Batphone from the original television series.  Even the ring was a perfect imitation.  Next to it was a bust of William Shakespeare.  As Oscar shambled across the room, he thought of Adam West and Burt Ward running the four steps to the phone when it rang on the television show.

The phone had rung at least twenty times by the time he stood in front of it.  “Yes Commissioner,” he said in as husky a voice as he could summon.

Someone on the other end giggled.  The girls in the office always got a kick out of the Irish Batman impersonations. 

“Wow, a direct connection to the Batcave, huh?”  It was Cheryl, the cute dayshift Tracker. 

Cheryl made no secret of her interest in Oscar and they had even been out on a few dates.  She was one of a handful of people to ever set eyes on the Batcave.  If Oscar ever did settle down it would be with someone like Cheryl who understood his job and strange extra-curricular activities. 

Oscar waited until Cheryl continued.  “Tony Warr broke his contract.  He’s asleep at his house.”

“On my way.”  He hung up the receiver on the matching red phone.  Reaching to the bust that sat next to the phone, he tilted Shakespeare’s head back and twisted the knob. 

The fake bookcase in the other corner of the room slid back, revealing not a bat pole, but a very mundane hallway.  At one end of the short hallway stood another Shakespeare bust identical to the one adjacent to the Batphone.  He tilted the head, twisted the knob and the panel slid back into place.    

He walked back down the hallway, passing the hidden entrance, to the master bedroom where he kept his clothes.  Batman never took time to shave or shower when he was summoned and neither did Oscar.  He dressed in black and donned his immaculately shined Rockports.

In the garage his version of the Batmobile waited.  He had asked Jonathan to buy him a replica of the Batmobile—he didn’t care if it was the original TV Batmobile or a newer version from the movies—but Jonathan refused.  He did however consent to nicely outfit a solid-black Mitsubishi 3000 with features that aided Oscar in his duties.  Jonathan didn’t seem to care if Oscar used the car for his own activities in his free time.

The Batmobile looked like a standard sports car until Oscar entered the pass code by pressing the buttons on the radio in sequence.  The fake glovebox cover slid down, revealing a monitor.  The middle console opened to reveal a control panel, and the sunglasses holder popped open.  He retrieved the wireless headset from the sunglass nook and dialed into the bug he had placed in Tony Warr’s bedroom.

Bugging people, filing false reports, and slashing tires were minor infractions that didn’t even register on Oscar’s conscience.  The end was more important than the means.  As a member of the Irish Republic Army he had committed uncounted so-called crimes that would have carried significant sentences if he was ever caught.

When he arrived in the United States, two years before, he joined the Guardian Angels.  He patrolled almost every night, but within a few weeks he was jaded.  He respected the organization but realized it was just a crime deterrent that saw little real action.  When situations did arise, the Angels’ hands were tied by legal restrictions.  Plus, the red beret they wore always felt like a beacon, making it hard to hide in the shadows and watch. 

Compared to his current occupation, the Guardian Angels were like Pee Wee Soccer compared to Barclay’s Premiere League.

Yesterday he had been in the mall parking lot when he saw a fake blonde pull in and throw open the door of her Escalade, gouging the minivan next to her.  Without a break in her cell phone conversation she looked up and down the rows.  Spying no witnesses she shrugged it off and walked into the mall. 

Oscar got out of the Batmobile and inspected the minivan.  It wasn’t new, but it was clean.  Despite the car seats in the back even the inside was free from clutter and food stains.  The new dent and scrape were the only damage to the body.  Oscar got the license plate number of the Escalade and went about his business. 

It wasn’t hard for Annaya to find the registered owner of the Escalade.  Under cover of darkness he broke into the garage where the SUV was parked.  He applied his key and a ball-peen hammer liberally, and left a note that read,
Next time do the right thing
. 

Compared to some of his other activities it was small potatoes, but it was still much more fulfilling than anything he did with the Angels.

Oscar concentrated on the sounds coming from Tony’s bedroom.  Breathing and other quiet sleep sounds.  He inserted his left ear piece and programmed the computer in the console to voice the email he knew Cheryl would have already sent.  The message wasn’t long.  Warr had broken the contract.

The airport was only fifteen minutes from his house.  When he reached the private hangar entrance he pressed a button on the console and the gate slid open.  As soon as he was through the gate he heard Cheryl’s voice in his right ear. 

“Good luck,” she said.  She always knew where he was and made it a point to wish him good luck before he got on the plane.

Unfortunately the car couldn’t go with him on assignment.  After parking, he put away the earpieces.  In a clear, thickly accented tone, he said, “Vicki Vail.”  The consoles and hidden compartments closed automatically.

He retrieved a black backpack from the trunk and walked to the waiting Learjet, one of the two that Jonathan owned. 

An olive-skinned flight attendant greeted him with a wide smile.  “Good morning, Mr. Mackintosh.  Back to Des Moines today?”

“Aye,” he replied, already setting up his mobile office from the wares in his utility pack.

She alerted the pilot and the jet taxied to the runway. 

When the contract with Mr. Warr was arranged two days before, Jonathan called Oscar in to discuss it.  The case closely resembled Oscar’s situation, and Jonathan wanted to make sure Oscar wouldn’t have a problem if it came to enforcement.  As Oscar read the file, he visualized the enforcement and saw himself—not the reddish brown hair and subtle freckles, but a man who clung to a lifeline in a sea of chaos.  Having a child taken away was the worst thing Oscar could imagine, and he had pulled for Warr more than he had for anyone before.

But Oscar had stayed awake until his daughter’s body was found.  Mr. Warr had barely lasted more than a day.

Marcus checked the clock.  6:44.  He triple checked the file to make sure everything was in order.  Jonathan had taught him to be thorough and accurate over the last two and a half years.  At first he did it just to appease his boss, but once he saw the results, it had become second nature. 

By the time the alarm on his cell phone rang he had the phone receiver in his hand.

One ring and Jonathan picked up.  “Where to?”

“I’ll pick you up.  We’re staying in town today.”  Marcus hung up the phone and walked out of his office.  The day crew was settling into their workstations.  The Busy B’s were packing up to head home.

“Talbot today,” Marcus said to the day-shifters as he approached the desks.  “We shouldn’t need real time tracking today.  Just stand by in case we need any information.”

Cheryl, the day shift Tracker, nodded. 

“I’ll go on wire before I make contact,” he said as he walked to the elevator.  The parking lot was still empty this early in the morning.  Marcus got into his Trailblazer and pulled onto the street, shielding his eyes from the glaring morning sun.

Marcus usually loved his job, but on rare occasions it became almost unbearable.  After Lisa Knapp he’d been close to walking out of the office.  Even after Charlie came in and rescued her at the last minute he’d given serious thought to leaving.  Ninety-nine percent of the time he was thrilled to be a part of Jonathan’s team.  They truly turned people’s lives around.  Marcus was proof of that.  But there was still that one percent that ate at him.