Runaway Heart (51 page)

     
Chris Webb slammed his palm down on the table in victory.

     
"However," Judge Krookshank said. "There are signs
that grave criminal wrongdoing has been committed, and this court agrees with
counsel for the plaintiff that these human-chimp hybrids might well present a
serious threat to human beings if this experimentation is allowed to continue.
This court will therefore hear a case for injunctive relief to prevent DARPA,
or any other agency of the United States, from further engaging in this kind of
reckless experimental activity on these chimpanzees or any other life-forms
that have had their DNA unalterably changed. Mr. Strockmire, if you can find a
human client and get that
action filed, I will personally hear it at the earliest possible
date."

     
"Thank you, Your Honor. I have contacted the SPCA and will
file on behalf of that organization this afternoon."

     
Judge Krookshank looked down at his calendar and marked a date.
"Is June fifth too soon for the hearing?"

     
"Works for me," Herman said, grinning.

     
"I'm afraid June is going to be impossible," Chris Webb
said standing. "We have a lot of pretrial work to do on this."

     
"There are enough of you, so you'll just have to work
quickly. Let's say June fifth then." Judge Krookshank banged his gavel.
"Court is in recess." But before he stood he looked down at Herman
and smiled. "Good try, Mr. Strockmire. I almost went for your argument on
standing. Pretty convincing. Maybe next time."

     
"Thank you, Your Honor."

     
Herman turned and exchanged smiles with Sandy. Then he looked for
Susan, but she had already slipped away.

W
hile Jack lay in the hospital bed
waiting to be released from Cedars he read the story in the
LA. Times.
There
was a small picture of him next to Sandy's drawing of the chimera—a toss-up
which one of them looked better. Russell Ibanazi made a statement about how his
beloved reservation had been exploited by the federal government and that he
was personally offended by the horrible research that had taken place out there
without the tribe's knowledge.

     
Way to go, Izzy.

     
Donald Trump was interviewed about his plans to build a new,
luxurious casino on the Ten-Eyck land. He was calling it Indian Lakes Resort.
That meant there was going to be a lot of concrete pipe going in out there
because Jack couldn't recall seeing one drop of water on the reservation.

     
The paper confirmed that the nuclear devices used had been
low-yield "clean" weapons detonated from a satellite in space. A
sidebar story on the second page detailed computer-cracker Roland Minton's
death. His body had finally been returned to his mother for burial.

     
At the bottom of the story was a picture of General Turpin. Jack
had never seen him before. It said that he ran DARPA but had resigned two days
ago. His expression was as hard as Vince Valdez's. Both guys looked cold enough
to freeze mercury. There wasn't much info about General Turpin, just a brief
mention of a Senate inquest initiated by animal-rights activists who were going
to march on Washington.

     
There was a long story in the Metro section written by the Liar
for Hire. The diminutive PR man had profiled Herman and the Institute for
Planetary Justice and provided his picture.

     
Jack had been left in the wake of the story, which was probably
not great for the Wirta Detective Agency, but frankly he hated dealing with the
press so it was more or less okay by him. He'd been safely tucked away in
Cedars-Sinai and, except for a few phone interviews with a reporter at the
Times,
he had been left out of it.
Really
out of it. . . Susan hadn't been
back to see him.

     
Now, three days later, he was getting ready to leave the hospital.
His doctor had released him. Jack really liked his new doctor. When he'd asked
how often he could refill his prescription for Percocets, the doc said,
"Until the pain goes away."

     
Adios, Carbon Paper. . . at least for a while, anyway.

     
Things were definitely looking up. Except that Susan hadn't come
to see him.

     
It was ten in the morning and ten was when the docs at Cedars made
their final rounds. Jack's guy came in and wrote him a nice painkiller
prescription: forty Percocets.

     
"You can get this filled in the pharmacy downstairs," he
said. "If I were you I'd try and back off a little each day. Percocets can
become very addictive if you're not careful."

     
"Y'know, I've heard that can happen. I'll be sure and be
careful."

     
Then came the ten o'clock parade of wheelchairs—patients being
pushed into elevators carrying floral arrangements and get-well teddy bears.

     
Jack was wheeled out of his room by a nurse and found Miro waiting
for him. His face had lost its puffiness but the ugly bruises were still there.
He had a temporary bridge where his front teeth had been knocked out.

     
"Look who's going home today," Miro gushed.

     
"Thanks for coming," Jack smiled.

     
"Hey, it's the least Miro can do for his best bud."

     
They stood at the payment counter downstairs and Jack
handled the bill
with his Blue Cross card. "Hope I'm covered for gunshot wounds, since I'm
America's favorite standing target." He smiled at the girl behind the
desk.

     
"Oh, was this a gunshot wound? Let me see if your HMO
reimburses for that." She started flipping pages on his form, then turned
to her computer.

     
"I wouldn't talk too much," Miro whispered in his ear
and Jack nodded solemnly.

     
But Jack was covered, so he signed the release document, then told
Miro he needed to stop by the hospital pharmacy to get his pain prescription filled.

     
"We can do that later. I need to drop you at your apartment
so I can get back to the office by noon." Something about the way he said
it shot a warning up into Jack's fuzzy brain. Cops had world-class bullshit
detectors. Miro wheeled the chair out of the hospital into the parking lot,
then helped Jack into his yellow Ford Escort.

     
"Wait till you see all the flowers at your place. Smells so
sweet, Miro couldn't believe how gorgeous." He had slipped behind the
wheel and back into third person as he started the engine.

     
"Yeah, flowers are always nice," Jack managed.

     
Jack's apartment was off Sepulveda in the Valley—a duplex that had
seen better times. The apartment was in the back. Miro pulled into the drive
and parked, then ran around to help the patient out of the front seat. Jack's
arm was in a sling and his back was killing him. He needed more painkillers and
he needed them now. He had the prescription slip in his pocket, but Miro had
pushed the wheelchair right past the hospital pharmacy, then had driven past
the corner drugstore. For a best bud this was not good behavior.

     
"Hey, Miro, you gotta take me to the pharmacy down the
street."

     
"In a minute Miro will get that done. In an itsy-bitsy
minute. Soon as Miro gets you settled."

     
"Okay, but my shoulder is killing me. So's my back."

     
"Stop being a noodge."

     
They were standing at Jack's busted screen door. Miro took the key
out of the flowerpot. "Bad hiding place, honey. A cop should know
better." He opened up and let them in. The house was full of flowers and
people.

     
Susan was there with Herman, Shane, Alexa, Lieutenant Matthews,
Chick, even some guy Jack didn't know who smiled way too much. Izzy was also
there, this time looking a lot like Wayne Newton in tennis togs.

     
"Hi," Susan said as she stood to meet him, then came
across the room and took his hand.

     
"What is this?" Jack asked. He could smell trouble.
Trouble and carnations.

     
"We need to talk to you," Susan said. "Sit
down."

     
"I don't wanna sit down," Jack grumbled.

     
Susan turned and motioned to the smiling man. "This is Dr.
Marion Trent."

     
"I don't need a doctor."

     
"Dr. Trent is a drug-intervention counselor."

     
Jack looked over at Dr. Trent the way you look at a big black
spider hanging in the corner of your garage.

     
Dr. Trent kept the old grin pasted up there, smiling like a
Halloween pumpkin. As an intervention counselor he was undoubtedly used to
silent disapproval. Jack's didn't bother him at all.

 
    
"Okay, so
what's the deal here?" Jack said.

     
"Jack, we're worried about you," Susan said. "And
we all care desperately about you. We're your friends."

     
"It's true," Miro said from behind him. "Your
buds."

     
"Okay . . . you're my friends. Okay, good." Jack knew
what was coming next and it pissed him off. After all, he needed to be in
charge of his own life . . .
didn't he? Wasn't he?

     
"Okay," Jack said. "But this still doesn't tell me
what's going on." Although he knew.

     
"Jack, I think you have a serious addiction to
painkillers," Dr. Trent said.

     
"You do? How can you tell? I never met you before."

     
"We do, too," Alexa Scully said. "Jack, sit down
and
listen to us,
okay? We have your best interests at heart."

     
So Jack sat. Alexa was a police lieutenant and the cop in him
always obeyed a ranking officer.

Miro perched on the arm of a chair, but
he got up quickly because there wasn't much upholstery there and it was like
sitting on a split-rail fence.

     
"Okay, gimme the pitch," Jack said sullenly.

     
"You're angry," Susan said.

     
"Hey, you people don't know my problems. Are you forgetting I
stopped a Parabellum with my spine a little while ago?"

     
"Hey, Jack, that was almost seven years ago. . .
seven
years,"
Shane said.

     
"Six," Jack corrected. But fuck it, even
he
knew
he was quibbling.

     
"Six then," Shane said. "Hey, pal, six years of
popping 'cets and you don't think you've got a problem?"

     
"No, I don't think I have a problem," Jack said. He was
feeling ganged up on and outnumbered. Jack looked at those furrowed brows and
said nothing.

     
"I think you do have a problem," Miro said from a spot
behind him.

     
"I'm not talking to you, Miro. You led me into this
ambush."

     
"Jack," Miro said, "I took a terrible beating to
protect you, so if I don't have a right to be concerned about your health after
that, who does?"

     
"Don't pull that old Japanese spiritual ownership crap on me.
You know how I feel about what you did, but it has nothing to do with
this."

     
"Yes it does," Miro persisted. "Because now I care
what happens to you, honey, and I'm not going to let you throw your life away
on some stupid pain pills."

     
"Listen to him," Chick said. "He's talking
sense."

     
This from the guy who was afraid to drink out of Miro's glass.

     
What the hell is going on here?

     
Susan came across the room and knelt in front of Jack.

     
She took his hand in both of hers. "Jack, you've got to do
this."

     
"Do what?"

     
"We've arranged for you to be admitted to the Betty Ford Clinic
this afternoon. Dad and I are going to drive you there."

     
"I don't have an addiction. This is crazy."