Runaway Heart (33 page)

     
Jack was right; she had been Herman's rear guard and tail gunner
for the Institute since graduating from high school. But now Susan was scared.
This time Herman had hooked too big a fish. DARPA was the government Great
White, and they were all in a leaking boat, hanging on for dear life, being
dragged through heavy seas. The angry shark had just spit the hook and was
coming back at them.

     
As she sat in the restaurant she felt such a sense of gratitude
toward the good-looking blonde detective sitting across from her that she
reached out and touched his hand. She had written a check that they couldn't
afford, but she reasoned she would much rather pay Jack Wirta than Judge King.
For the first time in days she felt the knot in her stomach ease slightly; felt
the warmth from the two drinks loosening her up.

     
She also began to evaluate Jack Wirta as a man.

     
There was no doubt he was attractive. But as she looked at Jack,
she wondered at his awkward embarrassment and self-deprecating humor. It was a
quality she loved in a man yet rarely found.

     
"You said you got shot in the North Hollywood Bank
thing?" she said, trying to find out more.

     
"Yeah. It was spectacular. Charged in. . . ate the first
Parabellum.
Didn't realize those two assholes were already out front in that white Ford.
The other guy, Phillips, damn near ran me over. Whatta mess. I really screwed
up."

     
"You risked your life."

     
"The idea in police work is the bad guy is supposed to be
risking
his
life; the police are supposed to make
him
bleed.
Anyway, after I got shot, that was it for me and police work. Now, five years
later, I'm finally outta court with the department. Settled for a partial
disability pension. My back got redesigned by a Winchester bullet, and here I
am, at your service."

     
"And you're addicted to those little pills you take,"
she said, surprising him, but before he could say anything, she continued.
"I've seen my share of addictions. I've watched you try to take them when
I'm not looking. You're on about a four-hour cycle."

     
"Jesus Christ," he said, shaking his head in disgust.

     
"It's okay, Jack, I understand. You got hooked on pain
killers—it happens. There's nothing to be ashamed of, but you need to deal with
it."

     
"You and Herm got your own little twelve-step program, am I
right?" he said, anger replacing embarrassment.

     
"When you and Dad were taken out to that base at Groom Lake I
had lots of time on my hands. I researched the North Hollywood Bank shooting on
the Internet. There were news stories about your injury and your lawsuit. I
read your doctor's courtroom statement."

     
He looked across the table at her, not sure what to say.

     
"I don't fault you for it." She was still touching his
hand. "But don't you think you should do something about it?"

     
Jack hated being hooked on the pain pills. He was furious that he
had been reduced to buying them from a street dealer, shamed by the fact that
he was committing a felony. But some part of him relaxed when she busted him.
He felt a flood of relief that somebody else finally knew—that she understood
and didn't hate him for it.

     
"I understand human weakness, Jack. It's been a big part of
my life. I'm scared to death that I'm not up to the tasks
Dad and I have
chosen. But Dad says weakness is only a problem if you give in to it. My God,
look at him. . . Daddy sure has his share of weaknesses. I've struggled to hide
them, struggled to put his mistakes right. But I love him
because
he
struggles on despite his defects and defeats. I see those same qualities in
you."

     
"If you start pitching a bunch of new-age bullshit at me I'm
gonna go into the men's room and blow my head off." He smiled ruefully.
When he looked across the table at her she had real concern in her eyes.

     
"I think you're a very special person, Jack, and worth
getting to know better. Sound okay?"

     
"Sure," he whispered. "Great."

     
They walked back toward the boat holding hands. Neither of them
wanted this time to end, so instead of going aboard, they went over to the
little beach at one end of the trailer park and sat on the sand. As they
listened to the sound of the water lapping on the shore, the bay was tipped
with silver light from a three-quarter moon. Across the harbor, a mile away,
old wooden car ferries, with their festive red-and-white hulls and
Christmas-tree rail lights, chugged back and forth from Balboa Island to the
big up-lit pavilion on the Newport Peninsula. Sailboat stays slapped in the
breeze. Hundreds of crickets serenaded them.

     
Then Jack kissed her.

     
He didn't know if she would respond, but he had to find out. She
did, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him down onto the sand with
her.

     
They were soon caressing each other—Jack determined not to mess
this up with some adolescent hormonal overload. He stopped, pulled back, and
looked carefully at her.

     
"Are you sure?"

     
"Yes," she said softly, then pulled him down again, and
they slowly began peeling off each other's clothes.

     
He kissed and caressed her, and their passion grew. Jack wanted
her more than anything on earth. But, more than the sex, he wanted a woman with
whom he could have an
honest relationship and a friendship—somebody who understood his
weaknesses and wasn't dismayed by them; somebody who saw events for what they
were and didn't try to arrange them to fit some narrow, self-involved
definition.

     
Susan Strockmire was more of a hero than he had ever been . . . much
braver and stronger. She had dedicated her life to supporting her wheezing,
lumbering father. She had followed Herman, serving his needs, loving him
without question, fixing his mistakes—standing in front of him, shielding him,
often taking his punishment. For the first time in Jack's life he needed to
give that kind of passionate dedication to someone.

     
Almost magically, they were entwined and he entered her. They held
off for as long as they could, each giving pleasure to the other, exploring
their newness. She held him tightly, kissing him, caressing him, taking him
deeply inside her, until they both released, lying in the dew-damp sand,
reveling in ecstasy.

     
Afterwards, he felt her hot breath on his ear, felt her tender
hands stroking his wounded back, gently touching the welts and scars left by
the North Hollywood Shootout.

     
"Don't worry," she whispered softly. "We'll do this
together."

     
A little later they collected their clothes, dressed, and walked
back to
The Other Woman
holding hands as then-shadows danced beneath
them in the moonlight.

     
It wasn't until they turned to go down the gangplank onto the deck
that Jack realized something was wrong. At first it was just a tickle in his
head.

     
What is it? What's wrong with this picture?

     
Then it hit him.

     
The Rent-A-Wreck Chrysler was gone.

     
They ran aboard the boat looking for Herman, throwing open doors,
but Herman Strockmire Jr. was nowhere to be found.

T
he DARPA van was parked almost a block
away
from the Malibu beach house. Captain Silver was asleep on an air
mattress next to Pan's cage while a video operator watched a bank of monitors.
Captain Pettis was seated in the command chair looking at an infrared shot that
focused on the street leading up to the house. They could both smell Pan's dank
odor, hear his steady breathing.

     
Suddenly, Pettis saw a Chrysler drive up the street and pull into
Barbra Streisand's driveway, parking in front of the closed garage door. He
turned in the command swivel and tapped Captain Silver on the shoulder.
"Got something here."

     
Captain Silver woke up from a sound sleep looking fresh and
rested. They squinted at the glowing, green infrared image on the monitor.

     
Less than a minute later a yellow Toyota Corolla pulled up and
parked next to the Chrysler. As a slender Asian woman exited the Toyota, Herman
Strockmire heaved his big, wide body out of his car. He lumbered toward the
woman, then the two of them appeared to be having some kind of an argument.

     
"Gimme her plate," Pettis ordered. The video operator
pushed in on the back of the Toyota using his twenty-to-one lens, finally
getting it full screen:
eki
154.

     
Pettis picked up the phone, dialed DARPA headquarters in Virginia,
asked for wants and warrants on California plate
eki
154, and waited.

     
Moments later, a man in Virginia was back on the line.

     
"Sandra Toshiabi, 1656 Huntington Avenue, Santa Monica,
California. No wants or warrants."

     
"Fax me her DL picture," Pettis said as he hung up. He
was already entering Sandy Toshiabi's name into the satellite uplink that
connected him to the DARPA mainframe databank in Virginia. Herman and Sandy
were just deactivating the alarm on the side gate. The video operator chased
after them with his zoom lens, moving in tight on the alarm. But Herman's squat
frame blocked a clear view of the keypad.

     
"Couldn't get the number," the video man said.

     
Herman and Sandy went through the gate and closed it. The red
light went back on as the alarm reset.

     
"Here she comes." Pettis watched as Sandra Toshiabi's
DARPA file came up on the screen. "One of our old flames: Doctor of
Veterinary Medicine, Committee to Protect Animal Rights, SPCA, Save the Whales,
Greenpeace, Coalition of Conservationists . . . animal-rights activist."
Then her picture came through and showed a pretty Asian woman with black hair
and brown eyes.

     
"Whatta we do?" Captain Silver asked.

Pettis responded, "We got the gene
map, so I think we should put your DU over the wall and jerk this problem out
by the roots. But we first need to get Valdez to sign off."

     
"What if Strockmire made a copy of the map?" Silver
wondered aloud.

     
"If he has one, we'll deal with it later. We've got to
contain these people now."

"You shouldn't have come
here," Herman said, still arguing with Sandy as they moved past the
Olympic-size pool. "I told you I'd meet you at your place. Why won't you
or Susan ever do what I ask?"

     
"Because we love you," Sandy grinned. "Besides, what
are they gonna do, kill us?"

     
"Yeah. That's exactly what they're gonna do." Herman led
Sandy into the pool house, turned, and locked the door.

     
Sandy watched as he punched numbers on the keypad, then waited for
the alarm to beep, indicating it had rearmed itself. "You're really
scared, aren't you?"

     
"You didn't read the coroner's report on Roland."

     
"On the phone, you said it's some kind of hybrid, a
chimera?" she said.

     
He turned on his computer, found Zimmy's decoded e-mail, then
brought it up. "Here's the gene map." He handed her the laptop, and
while she scanned the pages of decoded base pairs he gathered up his extra
batteries and cords, then stuffed them into his carry case.

     
"This is what they're trying to get their hands on?" she
said, frowning at the pages.

     
"We left a copy of that for them at Carolyn's house. They
don't know Zimmy sent this one to my computer."

     
"You say this hybrid is 99.1 percent of a human?"

     
"That's what the BLAST search indicated."

     
"That still doesn't make it human, Herman. To achieve
standing in federal court, plaintiffs have to be pure
Homo sapiens.
Add
to that the problem of representation and you're out of luck."

     
"Okay, I'll admit I'm not sure about the attorney-client
thing yet, but I've got a great theory on how we can bust the shit out of that
Homo
sapiens
restriction. If I'm right, I think I can get legal standing for
this chimera. Once we break that barrier, all the others should crumble right
behind it. But we can't stand around here and discuss it. They must have this
address, so we need to keep moving. I'm gonna file a TRO against DARPA, but I
need to collect my casebooks. I still have some legal precedents to
research."