The Answer Man (18 page)

By rooting through the urine-soaked pockets of a dead guy, Ken thought. He didn't answer her question. “So what's so special about it?”

“Well, no one thinks it's a piece from an alien spacecraft, if that's what you mean. But it's a unique formulation, light yet strong, and it's not commercially available.”

“What about those numbers and letters etched on the side?”

“They're probably production codes to tell which batch this sample came from. One of the guys at the lab thinks Lyceum Metals uses those particular codes.”

Lyceum Metals. The company Vikkers was merging with. Ken jotted down the name on a scratch pad. Interesting, but still nothing to indicate why Don Browne was murdered.

“I don't suppose you would care to tell me what this is all about?” she said.

Before he could reply, a thunderous crash sounded behind him.

He spun around.

White-hot flames leapt into the air, singeing his eyebrows. He couldn't breathe. It was as if all the air in the room had been sucked out, replaced by thick black smoke.

It was a firebomb.

He stood and pushed his chair into the wall of fire.

Ducking low, he raised his arms, shielding his face. He bobbed and weaved, dancing with the flames as he stumbled for the door.

Something hit hard against his thigh.

The polygraph stand.

He gripped its handles and pushed onward, the stand's casters sliding across the burning oil-and-gasoline mix.

He rammed the door. It didn't budge.

He tried once more. The hollow-core entranceway cracked.

He charged at it again. And again.

The blaze tore through the office, swirling over the desk, the bulletin board, all around him….

Throwing all his weight behind the stand, he rammed the door repeatedly until with a glorious
crack,
he finally broke through. He hit the floor of the corridor.

Oxygen-hungry flames lunged after him.

He jumped to his feet, twisting and turning in the billowing smoke. He screamed in agony.

The back of his shirt was on fire.

He felt himself being shoved down the hallway, pushed to the floor.

Another roar. Snowflakes falling all around him.

Snowflakes?

Standing over him was a wiry man with a fire extinguisher. The accountant from down the hall.

The man ran toward the flames, trying to contain them in the office. Another man appeared from around the corner, armed with a second extinguisher.

“Get back!” he yelled at Ken. “Get the hell away!”

The men fought the flames, advancing, then retreating as the fire gathered strength.

The fire alarm rang. Shrill, earsplitting.

Tenants emerged from their offices, curious, then panic-stricken. They ran for the stairwells.

Ken pulled himself to his feet, choking on smoke and ash. His back hurt like hell.

He stumbled toward the nearest set of stairs. The others pushed and shoved past him. He didn't remember this many steps….

He still couldn't catch his breath. His eyes stung. He gripped the handrail and followed it down, down, down….

The first floor. Finally.

He staggered to the parking lot, coughing as flakes of soot floated onto the cars around him. He turned to watch the fire.

Already it had spread to the next office, and was in danger of taking out the one after that.

He peeled off his shirt. The wind licked against his burned skin. He slowly sat down, angling his body against the breeze. He was light-headed and nauseated.

He was going into shock.

He fought it by taking slow, deep breaths. The queasiness passed. He looked up, and by the expressions on his neighbors' faces, his back was not a pretty sight.

“I forgot to wear my sunscreen,” he muttered.

The fire crew arrived within minutes, and they extinguished the flames with only three offices lost to the blaze. Five, however, were temporarily unusable due to water damage.

Ken allowed the paramedics to salve and bandage his burns, which were diagnosed as first and second degree. While he argued with them about the necessity of having to go to the hospital, the arson investigator arrived.

Ken gave him the full account. The man wrote down the details and promised to call later. He seemed more interested in the characteristics of the fire than in the identity of the arsonist, Ken thought.

He then called Margot back from a pay phone in the parking lot, apologizing for the abrupt end to their call. He didn't mention the fire. She had worried about him enough.

He went to his car, opened the trunk, and found a grass-stained T-shirt rolled up next to the spare tire. He slid it over his head and walked back to his office building. The air was still thick with a sharp, smoky odor that tickled the back of his nose. The smell would probably hang for weeks.

The building's front doors were propped open, and as he walked inside, the first thing he saw was his polygraph. Somebody had moved it downstairs. He ran his hands over the vinyl cover, brushing pools of water onto the floor. He fingered a few places where the vinyl had melted, effectively welding the cover to the polygraph's metal surface.
He ripped the cover off with one fierce yank. The machine seemed okay.

The damned thing was indestructible.

“You burned down my building, you bastard.”

Ken looked up to see Downey. The manager wasn't joking.

“Impossible,” Ken replied. “This place is a hundred percent asbestos.”

“Very funny. I'll start laughing when you're out of here on your ass. Maybe even in jail.”

“You're in for a long wait. By the way, I need a new office. I understand mine's being remodeled.”

“Sorry. Got no place to put you.”

“Then we'll go to court. I'll sue you.”

“Sue me? For what?”

“For the suffering I just endured in this deathtrap of a building. I'll trot out all the building code violations.”

Ken was immediately relocated to a slightly smaller office on the short end of the L-shaped building. Downey opened the door, threw the keys at him, and stomped away. Ken rolled his polygraph into the empty room. He tried the light switch. Sickly blue-white fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed.

He glanced around. It was a dingy, depressing office with green paint chipping from the walls. Just like the old one. He snuffed the lights and left.

He drove to the nearest record store, where he found a copy of
Creative Loafing,
Atlanta's alternative weekly newspaper. He walked back to his car, flipping to the classified section. As he sat behind the wheel, the burns on his back itched, and he could feel a stinging sensation as the topical medication wore off. He shifted in his seat because of both his itch and the discomfort at what he was contemplating.

The classifieds were open to the “firearms” heading.

He had never owned a gun before, but he had taken a marksmanship class to satisfy a phys ed requirement during
his short college career. And now, with two attempts on his life in the space of a week, it seemed like a good idea to carry some protection. Buying secondhand meant he wouldn't have to ride out the mandatory waiting period. Five days, was it?

He circled two possibilities, walked to a pay phone, and dialed. No answer.

He tried the other number, and it was answered by a friendly-sounding guy in nearby Smyrna. They agreed to meet that afternoon.

Hound Dog didn't want to leave the hospital. It had been hours since the operation, and she wanted to be there when, not if, Mark regained consciousness.

But the police had urged her to go home and report anything that was missing. It might help them find the shooter.

She made a lightning-quick trip to the trailer, politely brushing off her well-meaning neighbors who wanted details of the morning's excitement. She glanced around the ransacked mobile home. Papers and photographs were strewn about, and every drawer had been pulled out, emptied, and cast aside. Her stomach turned when she saw the stain on the linoleum floor. Mark's blood.

It was so frustrating. When there was something to be done, some action to be taken, she was always ripe for the challenge. But when all she could do was sit and hope, she was completely out of her element. A victim-in-waiting.

Mark should
be
here, making love to her or maybe just doing his homework. She found one of his shirts on the floor, a big Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt. She pulled off her shirt and slipped on Mark's. It felt good. It smelled like him.

She found his gym bag and packed a change of clothes, remembering to take his address book. She had to call his friends and family.

She looked around the trailer again. She couldn't see that anything had been stolen, but it was obvious the burglar was looking for something.

For what?

She didn't want to believe it had anything to do with Myth Daniels. If that were the case, what had happened to Mark was her fault. She couldn't live with that.

But why hadn't anything been stolen? The intruder had obviously taken a lot of time to search the place. Time that could have been spent carting off the television, stereo system, and the silver candlesticks that had belonged to Mark's mother. Anything of value was untouched.

Only the papers and photographs were disturbed.

What if Ken was right?

She went to her darkroom bench, pulled up the tarp, and looked underneath. There, sitting where she had put them the night before, were the photographs she took of Sabini's murder scene, plus the faxed Madeleine Walton picture.

She picked up the photos, put them into the gym bag, and left the trailer.

K
en took careful aim with his Smith & Wesson N-Frame .44 special. He squeezed the trigger, and the gun kicked back as the roar echoed off a hillside.

He was at a rural dump site, where locals deposited old refrigerators, water heaters, and other junk. Forty feet in front of him was a row of beer cans set up on an overturned refrigerator for target practice. His first shot was a miss.

It was an overcast day, and a sprinkling rain began as he lined up his next shot. Staring through the sight, he shut one eye, even though that would have meant points off in marksmanship class. Any gunslinger worth his salt keeps both eyes open. Maybe later.

He squeezed off the shot, blowing away the second can.

He quickly aimed for the next one, squeezed, and it, too, was shredded.

He readjusted his grip on the handgun. It had a heavier kick than others he had used. The man he bought it from was a little guy, slight of build, whose main achievement in life was having gone to high school with Julia Roberts. He sold the gun for two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Ken had no idea if it was a good deal or not.

He aimed for the next target, pulled the trigger, and nicked the can, causing it to spin wildly on the refrigerator.

He tried firing after a few quick draws. Not only did he
miss the cans, but had there been a barn in front of him, he doubted he would have hit its side.

“The Sundance Kid I ain't,” he said out loud, his voice ringing eerily in the deserted field.

He discarded the empty shell casings and reloaded.

As he continued his target practice, he was struck by an odd sensation. He thought holding and firing the gun would give him a feeling of power, of control. But he felt just the opposite. Relying on this gun made him feel weak, and therefore strangely vulnerable. Maybe this was why he had never owned one before.

After thirty minutes, he felt reasonably secure in his marksmanship abilities. So he could hit a few tin cans. But could he hit a moving, breathing target?

It was dusk as Ken climbed the stairs to his apartment. With the cardboard box containing the gun tucked under his left arm, all he could think about was getting to bed. His right leg still hurt, and his back was stinging. It had been a rough few days.

He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stopped.

He heard something.

A whisper. Some shuffling.

He turned to see several figures huddled in the darkness, silhouetted against his living room window.

They were moving toward him.

Ken knelt low and tore into the box, struggling to pull out his new revolver. He clawed at the Styrofoam packing material, breaking and crumbling it as the pieces wedged under his fingernails. The figures moved closer. He gripped the gun and waved it in front of him.

“Stand back! Move and I'll splatter your goddamned brains. You hear me? I got a gun!”

The gun's shiny barrel caught what little light there was in the room.

The figures were still advancing, and he took aim at the one closest to him. He gripped the gun harder, and…

The lights came on.

“Holy shit…”

The room was decorated with balloons and streamers.

The first person he saw was Margot. She was coming from his kitchen with a candle-laden cake.

As he looked around, he saw almost everyone he knew. Twenty-five friends wearing party hats and holding noise-makers. His flag football buddies, their spouses, and friends from Elwood's.

“Happy birthday to you…” the guests started to sing, but their voices trailed off as they saw Ken kneeling with the gun.

Dead silence.

Some of the guests started to laugh. Just a chuckle at first, but it built until almost everyone was roaring.

Colby, whom Ken had squarely in his sights, stepped forward. “How did you know?” he whined. “Aw, crap. Bill leaked it, didn't he?”

Ken shrugged as he looked at Bill. “You never could keep a secret, Fred.”

Bill went along. “I sure tried, Barney.” Bill looked around at the group and cut loose with a near-perfect imitation of Ken.
“I'll splatter your goddamned brains!”

The gang roared again.

As Ken stood up, he glanced at Margot. She wasn't laughing.

In the next two hours, more guests arrived and the party went into high gear. The refrigerator was soon overflowing with beer and wine, and eardrum-shattering music threatened to raise the neighbors' ire. Ken, drinking both beer and Jägermeister, proceeded to get wasted. It was the only way he could get through the evening; he wasn't in the mood for a party, particularly not one in his honor.

Margot was avoiding him, even shunning eye contact from across the room.

Bill finally approached him in a reasonably secluded corner of the apartment. “That was a grand entrance.”

Ken smiled. He hadn't been this drunk in a long time.

“You didn't know about the party,” Bill whispered. “Not from me or anyone. What the hell's going on?”

“I didn't know
who
was in here. I just wanted to defend myself.”

“Since when do you carry a gun?”

“Since today. A birthday present to myself.”

“Why?”

Ken didn't respond. He finished his drink and surveyed the party. “This is cruel. You know how much I hate birthdays.”

“Talk to me. Before you get totally hammered.”

“Too late.”

“Are you dealing drugs? Something like that?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then what? Why are you so jumpy? Are you still upset about what happened with the boat the other night?”

Ken looked at Margot through the crowd. “Your wife's avoiding me. She knows something's up.”

“Nah. She thought you were joking around with the gun, like everyone else.”

“She didn't believe that.”

“Sure she did. If she didn't, she'd be here talking to you like I am.”

Ken shook his head. “She doesn't want to talk to me because she doesn't want to hear me lie. You know, Bill, that's why I lost her.”

“You lied to her?”

“No. I lied to myself. All the time. It's a bad habit.”

He leaned back against the counter, struggling to maintain his balance. He managed a crooked grin.

“A habit I need to break…if I want to stay alive.”

S
quirt.

Ken woke up on the sofa with a nasty hangover. And was that water squirting in his face?

Squirt.

Ouch.

His whole body ached. His head throbbed.

The morning sun blinded him even though his shades were drawn.

Squirt.

He looked up to see Hound Dog standing over him, aiming a water-filled Windex bottle at his face.

“Are you awake?” she said.

“No.”

Squirt.

“Stop. Please.”

“Are you awake?” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“Good answer.”

Ken sat up. He glanced around the apartment. It was amazingly clean, considering that a party had been there only hours before. Margot probably led the cleanup crew.

He turned to Hound Dog. “How the hell did you get in here?”

“I knocked, and you said, ‘Come in!' The door was unlocked.”

“Oh. I guess I wasn't quite awake yet.” He rubbed his cheeks. “I had a birthday party here last night, and things got out of control.”

“Belated happy birthday.”

“Thanks. How's your boyfriend?”

“Hanging on. No more, no less. No one can tell me if he's going to make it. They have my cellular number if he wakes up…or anything.”

“Try not to dwell on the ‘or anything.' ”

“I won't. That's why I'm here. I want to find who did this to him.”

Ken looked at her. She was dead serious. She carried herself with such strength and confidence, yet she had a face that was so youthful and delicate.

“What makes you think I can help you find who shot him?” Ken rubbed his temples. Dull, throbbing pain.

“I've had some time to think about it. Maybe you were right. Maybe it
did
have something to do with Myth Daniels. You know her and I don't, and you must have some reason for suspecting her.”

“I just offered her up as a possibility. You were digging around in something she'd rather keep hidden.”

“There's more to it than that, isn't there?”

Ken didn't answer.

She shoved his legs aside and sat on the sofa. “I want to know everything, Ken. I let you slide by on that half-assed story about hiring her for a case. We both know that was a lie. I think I deserve to know the truth. Don't you?”

He was silent for a moment. Since this whole mess began, he hadn't discussed it with anyone but Myth. Not with Margot. Not with Bill. Not with Bobby. Now this young woman wanted some answers.

She was entitled, he thought. She had suffered for it.

He told her everything. About Myth, about Burton Sabini, about the money.

Hound Dog listened intently, nodding occasionally.

“Do you think Myth Daniels is behind your firebombing and boat attack?”

“I don't know. I'm watching my back though.”

She sighed. “Mark told me not to do this. I wish I had listened to him.”

“You can't think that way. No matter what, it's not your fault.”

“I've been in scary situations before. I've seen some pretty wild things. But it was always
my
neck on the line, no one else's. It didn't even occur to me that I might cause someone else to be hurt, least of all Mark.”

She sat down on the couch as tears welled in her eyes. She was reverting to that scared kid in the hospital waiting room.

Ken quickly changed the subject. “Why do you do it?”

“You mean the scanner surfing?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't know. Why do some people jog seventy miles a week? Why are some people addicted to the Net?”

“Is it something you
have
to do?”

“Like an obsession? I don't think so. It started when I was in high school. I used to listen to a police scanner my grandfather gave me. When I moved away from home, I started going to the places I'd hear about. Then I started taking pictures, and it kind of grew from there.”

“Unusual hobby.”

“It gives my life…
texture.
I grew up in the northern suburbs of Chicago. My family always had a lot of money, and they used it to shelter me from everything that didn't belong in their charmed little world. I never even saw a cemetery until I was in high school.”

“You're lucky.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I was a boring, insipid little girl turning into a boring, insipid young adult. There are enough of those around already.”

“ ‘Boring' is not a word I'd use to describe you.” He added, “ ‘Insipid' neither.”

“Thanks for tacking that on. I'm grateful for what my parents gave me. I love them, but I need to go my own way right now.”

“You're certainly doing that. Just how do you make your parents believe that you're a college student in North Carolina?”

She smiled. “What a tangled web we weave…When I decided to leave, I couldn't bring myself to tell them. They would have freaked. I was there on scholarship, so money isn't an issue. I lived in a house off-campus, and my old roommates take my parents' calls, phone me with the messages, and forward any mail from them. And my family has never expressed any desire to visit me at school. It's been amazingly easy to pull off.”

“If you say so.”

Hound Dog thought for a moment. “It seems to me you're already doing a good job of checking Myth Daniels's paper
history. What if I take it a step further? Talk to some people, maybe follow her a bit, see who she's talking to?”

“I can't let you do that.”

“You're not
letting
me do anything. It's my decision. If she's the reason Mark is in that hospital room, I want to know. I'll share whatever I find with you, and you can do the same with me. We'll be partners.”

Ken felt uneasy, but a part of him liked having someone to work with. He suddenly felt less alone, less isolated. “You could go to the police,” he said.

“And tell them what? I'll wait until I have proof.”

She stood and bounded toward his kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

She opened his refrigerator. “I know a great hangover cure. Got any relish?”

Breaking and entering.

That's exactly what he was going to do, Ken realized. He was parked across the street from Don Browne's house, which had been for sale even before the man's death. A call to the Realtor had told him that the house was unoccupied, and a quick glance through a window told him that the house was still fully furnished. And now he was going to break in like a common thief.

Ken spent a few moments trying to talk himself out of it. What did he expect to find? Surely the police had already investigated.

But the police didn't know about Sabini's stolen data files. Maybe there was something in that house that would tell him why Don Browne was killed, while the other executives with Sabini's data were spared.

It was worth the risk.

Ken walked toward Browne's house with the Super Soaker squirt rifle he had just purchased at Target. He glanced around as he approached the garage doors. No one was watching.

He inserted the Super Soaker barrel into the garage door
opener's key receptacle. As he squeezed the trigger, water blasted into the key mechanism and conducted a charge between contact switches. The motor kicked on and the door rose to a fully opened position.

Wow. Ken looked at the squirt rifle with newfound respect. He had seen the trick on the evening news, but he wasn't sure it would actually work. How many burglars had learned the trick the same way?