W Is for Wasted

27

PETE WOLINSKY

August 1988, Two Months Earlier

Pete and the good doctor Reed ran into difficulties deciding where to meet. On the phone, prior to their get-together, the two had settled on a price: four thousand dollars for Pete’s services, which was stunning when you considered it was an hour’s work at best. Pete insisted on half up front and the balance once the job was done. He was surprised at how little argument Linton Reed put up but decided he was unaccustomed to bargaining, especially in touchy matters such as this. Pete’s first thought was to ask for six, but he didn’t want to push. Four was very reasonable for what the man was getting.

Pete had roughed out a plan and he was eager to test the idea. The problem was Linton didn’t want to be seen with him, which meant the university was out. Too great a risk of running into someone who’d recognize Dr. Reed and wonder why he was deep in conversation with a fellow who looked like Ichabod Crane. They couldn’t meet at Pete’s office. He scarcely dared go there himself. The property manager had offices in the same building, and Pete was still kicking himself that he’d bought into the arrangement. They’d talked about connecting up in one of the parking lots at the beach, but again, the setting was too public and Reed had nixed the idea. Pete thought Reed was being melodramatic. He doubted the good doctor’s comings and goings would interest anyone.

They finally agreed to meet on the sea wall that jutted out from the marina. Mid-August and it was late in the day. The sun had faded and the wind was blustery. Lines of spray shot up as each incoming wave crashed against the rocky barrier. This was an unpleasant place for Pete, whose bones often ached with the damp. The only virtue of the location was that the setting was so miserable that no one else was there.

Linton Reed stood with his hands jammed down in the pockets of his dark overcoat, looking out toward the islands, barely visible in the haze. “What’s your proposal?”

“Couple of questions about security measures before I get into it. The lab’s in Southwick Hall, is that correct?”

Linton nodded tersely.

“You have a guard in the lobby?”

Linton focused on him. “I hope you’re not thinking of going into the lab.”

“Just answer my questions and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking when I know what’s up. Guard or no guard?”

“No need for one. Electronic access only. The building and the lab both have swipe-card entry systems. Staff and employees are each assigned an ID badge with a magnetic strip and personal identification number. Every ID has an integrated circuit chip that triggers both locks. You slide the card through a reader and then punch in your code.”

“You use the same swipe card to get out?”

“In this system, yes.”

“What about closed-circuit TV?”

“There was talk of installing cameras but the university doesn’t have the funds. In the end, we decided this is a college campus, not a bank. I’ve seen security stickers on certain doors, but it’s just for show. Lots of signs—No Admittance; Authorized Personnel Only—none of it means anything.”

“How good is the lighting?”

“Campus safety’s a big deal, so there’s good visibility outside, especially along the paths and in the parking lots. Inside, lights are blazing all the time.”

“Lot of people work late?”

“That happens occasionally, but most of us have families. I’ve never seen anybody in the lab after nine. There are people going in and out just about any time of day,” he said. “Now, I’d appreciate an explanation.”

“Fair enough. So here’s the idea. You pick a night when there’s some big shindig going on that you and your wife plan to attend. You go and make sure you’re conspicuous throughout. Cocktails, conversation, dinner. Everybody knows you’re there. Airtight alibi. You have anything like that on the horizon?”

Linton looked off to the left and then said, “Close enough. August 24. That’s a Wednesday night. There’s an advisory board meeting of the local commission on alcohol and drug abuse. Dinner first and then I’ll be closeted for hours with a number of medical types. There’d be no question I was present and accounted for.”

“Sounds good. While you’re tied up, I let myself into the lab using the Bryce woman’s ID and PIN.”

“Her ID? How do you propose to do that?”

“My worry, not yours. I figure if I wear a white lab coat and employee badge, no one will pay me any mind. Make sure I have a map and then I’m just some schmo on the premises like anybody else. I go in, I stay a while, and then I come out. Swipe-card entry systems retain an audit trail of events at the door. Anybody checks on it later, it’s all set in stone—what time she went in, how long she stayed, and when she came out again.”

“Then what. I don’t understand. You go in the lab to do what? You don’t know anything about our work.”

“I don’t have to know. You handle that. Sometime the day before you get on your computer and make changes to your data. Nothing outrageous. You want it to look bad but you don’t want to overplay your hand. Elevate a number here and there, downgrade a few. Tamper, but not too radically. Just enough to suggest someone familiar with your work has been in there poking around.”

“Why would I alter my data when that’s what she’s accusing me of in the first place?”

Pete offered Linton a benign smile. “Morning after this event you go into work and discover your computer’s up and running. You’re confused because when you left Wednesday afternoon you remember shutting it down. It looks like someone’s gotten into your database and you’re worried. You can’t imagine what’s going on so you start checking sensitive documents.”

Linton stared at him. “And discover my data has been sabotaged.”

“That’s exactly right. Someone’s falsified your statistics, inflated the test results, and who knows what else? You go straight to your boss. You’re stunned. You’re white-faced with shock. You have no idea what’s going on, but someone’s undermined your work. You know everything was fine the day before because you started a printout of what you’d done to date. You can even show him pages you printed on both days and point to the discrepancies. Someone wants to make you look bad. If you hadn’t picked up on it, you’d have ended up submitting results that were way off. Doctored, if you’ll forgive the pun.”

“Do I mention Mary Lee?”

“You let him do that. You’ve complained about her before, haven’t you?”

“I did when she first came to work. I had to tell him I’d been involved with her in case she started bad-mouthing me.”

“Exactly. The woman’s trying to damage your reputation because you resisted her attempts to rekindle the flame. You rebuffed her and now look what she’s done.”

Linton thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “Don’t like it. Too risky.”

“That’s my lookout.”

“What if somebody’s in the building and wants to know what you’re doing?”

“Won’t happen. Look like me and nobody wants to stop and chat about anything.”

“But why would she give you her ID?”

“She won’t know I have it.”

“You can’t pull it off. There’s no way.”

“Let’s don’t argue the point. Give it some thought. If you decide we have a deal, we’ll meet again.”

“And if I don’t call you, the deal is off?”

“That’s correct.”

Linton stood for a moment, debating with himself.

Pete said, “Don’t decide right now. Let it sit. If I can’t deliver my end, I’ll let you know.”

Linton shook his head and backed up a step before he turned away. Pete watched as he retraced his steps, hands in his coat pockets. Wind blew spray, like a fine mist, across the breakwater, wetting the concrete so that Linton left a brief set of shoe prints in his wake.

• • •

The real hurdle Pete faced was talking Willard Bryce into playing his part, which was critical to the overall success of his scheme. Pete called Willard the next morning as soon as he calculated Mary Lee had left for work. They agreed on a time and Pete swung by and picked him up at the designated corner like a couple of spies. As with Linton Reed, Willard was a man who loved to self-dramatize. Why else go to such lengths when they were the only ones who gave a shit? Small talk back and forth on their way to the beach, where they parked and sat in the car.

Willard said, “I don’t understand why we had to meet. I thought our business was done. I have your report and I’ve paid you everything I owe.”

“I’ve been thinking it might be a smart move to check Mary Lee’s work space. Maybe there’s information to be picked up in a place she thinks is safe from prying eyes.”

“Stop right now. This has gone far enough.”

“Just listen to what I have to say. She feels comfortable at work, right? She’s relaxed. She assumes you have no access to the lab, so she might leave stuff around. Might be notes back and forth between her and this Pensky fellow.”

“You said there was nothing going on.”

“I said I didn’t think there was. I said there might be other explanations. All I’m saying now is it won’t hurt to look.”

“I won’t do it. How the hell would I manage that? I can’t ask for her ID and go off for an hour. Are you insane?”

“You don’t have the stomach for it, I’ll handle it myself. Here’s how I see it. There’ll be a couple of swipe locks—one to get into the building, the other to get into the lab. All you have to do is get me her ID and her PIN. You have any idea what that is?”

“It’s 1956. She uses that for everything. The ID I can’t help you with. She takes it with her when she goes to work. How else would she get in?”

“Then get it when she’s not at work,” Pete said, patiently. Willard was a moron. Did the man have no imagination?

“I never know when she’s going in. Especially lately. It could be any hour.”

“Does she sleep at night?”

“Of course she sleeps at night. What kind of question is that?”

“Where’s her ID badge when she’s asleep?”

“On top of the chest of drawers.”

“Why don’t you take it then and leave it outside your front door. I’ll pick it up, go into the lab, have a look around, and then return it when I’m done. Won’t take an hour and I’ll put it back where I found it. All you have to do is pick it up off the welcome mat and return it to the chest of drawers. She’ll never know it was gone. I’ll contact you first chance I get and tell you what I found.”

“When would you do this? Go into the lab.”

“Haven’t decided yet. I’ll pick a date and let you know.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do. You have a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

“I don’t need a better idea. I never asked for any of this in the first place.”

Pete lapsed into silence. He knew from past experience that once you persuaded somebody to cross the line the first time, it didn’t take much to talk ’em into doing it again. Willard wasn’t nearly as scrupulous as he pretended.

Willard’s face had darkened to that brooding look, triggered by his insecurities. “Actually, anything she has at work, I’d never know about.”

“Exactly. And you can’t go there yourself because if she woke up she’d know you were gone. Aside from that, you’d be too conspicuous thumping across campus on that one leg of yours.”

For some reason, Willard laughed at that and Pete knew he’d won.

• • •

Pete’s next meeting with Linton Reed took place in the parking lot at Ludlow Beach, roughly across the street from the Santa Teresa City College running track. It had taken some arguing, but the good doctor had finally agreed to the spot. Pete arrived first and got out of his Ford Fairlane, crossing a patch of grass to one of the picnic tables. Beyond the wide expanse of lawn, the beach extended for another five or six hundred yards. Beyond, the Pacific Ocean stretched for twenty-six miles until the islands peeked up at the horizon.

By way of a prop, Pete had bought himself an oversize container of coffee, still too hot to sip. He heard a car and turned as the doctor pulled in, driving a turquoise Thunderbird. For a man worried about being seen, the car couldn’t be more conspicuous. Linton locked his car and approached casually with a copy of the Santa Teresa Dispatch under his arm.

Pete waited until he sat down on the far side of the table, neither of them making eye contact. Linton made a show of opening the paper as though he’d arrived solely for this purpose.

“Let me know when you have a minute,” Pete said.

“I’m listening.”

Pete said, “Somebody’s going to think we’re sweet on each other. Why else would you come over to my table and sit down?”

“Don’t mock me. Let’s just get on with it.”

“I take it we’re on or you wouldn’t have called again.”

“What do you think?” Linton said, snappishly.

Pete noticed that he’d neatly sidestepped consent. If Pete were caught, he could honestly say he hadn’t agreed to anything.

Pete said, “If we’re on, I want what was promised. The map for starters.”

Linton took a folded sheet of typing paper from his pocket and handed it to Pete. Pete opened it and made a quick study of the drawing Linton had done, showing the location of the building that housed the research lab in relation to the campus parking lots, some of which were designated for staff or employees only. There was apparently no restriction on vehicular ingress and egress.

Linton had marked the first point at which a card needed to be swiped. He’d also drawn the layout of the lobby with a series of directional arrows from the door to the elevators. Nice. If Pete were passing himself off as someone who knew his way around, he couldn’t be blundering down the wrong hall. The lab occupied the entire second floor. Linton had also roughed out the interior offices, marking his desk, the desk where Mary Lee Bryce worked, and a few other significant landmarks.

“Looks good,” Pete said. “You have the other business?”

Linton took out a thick envelope and placed it on the table without making visual reference to it. Then he got up and walked away.

Pete took the envelope and slid it into the inner pocket of his sport coat. He’d count the cash later to make sure it was all there before he tucked it away for safekeeping. Linton was right about the risk. Pete wasn’t nearly as sanguine as he appeared to be. The very notion of what he had to do made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He had no confidence the plan would work, but with the two grand in his pocket and two more on tap, what choice did he have?

He waited a day and then he called Willard and suggested the night of August 24 as the date he’d need the ID.

“Why then?”

“Middle of the week. Nothing else going on. Seems as good a date as any.”

“Students will be back on campus by then.”

“So what? I’m doing this at night. All you have to do is wait until she’s asleep and put the ID outside the door. Nothing to it.”

Willard seemed to concede the point, but he wasn’t happy. Pete eased the conversation along without giving him an opportunity to protest. It wouldn’t pay to argue because Pete’s position was weak and he didn’t want Willard to think about it too much.

• • •

Late afternoon on August 24, Pete did a dry run. He drove out to the university and used Linton’s hand-drawn map to get the lay of the land. He left his car some distance from the building where the lab was housed and proceeded on foot. He knew the lab was on the second floor. Even at that hour, he could see the offices and labs marked by a stripe of brightly lighted windows that extended all the way around. It seemed odd to Pete he’d be trespassing in full view of anyone who happened by that night. With his height and his odd build, he stood out like a sore thumb wherever he went, and while he’d equipped himself with the requisite white lab coat, he didn’t look like a scientist. Of course, scientists came in all shapes and sizes. Smart people could look any way they wanted and no one thought twice about it.

Satisfied with his reconnoitering, he returned to his car and threaded a course across campus, which was already chockablock with students. Most wore shorts, flip-flops, and T-shirts, bare limbs exposed, all that young flesh in evidence. UCST was known as a party school; beer and dope, kids loitering at every turn. Occasionally he’d see a student reading a book, but that was the rare exception. Pete wondered what life would have been like with so many advantages. Didn’t warrant too much thought at this point, as any options he might have had were gone by now.

• • •

He picked up a burger and fries and went back to the office. His message light was blinking, but he had no time for that. He ate at his desk with the cruise line brochure open in front of him. He’d told Ruthie he was on an all-night surveillance, so she wouldn’t be expecting him until morning. He reached the portion of the brochure that detailed a cruise on the Danube and leaned in close to read, tantalized by the descriptions of the amenities. All meals were prepared on board, it said, using the finest and freshest ingredients. Complimentary wine; bottled water replenished daily in each state room. Four countries, nine excursions. “Gentle walking options,” he read, which was good given his physical limitations. He still had a portion of the money Willard had paid him and with Linton’s four grand added to his stash, he was almost there.

At 11:30, he left the office and drove to Willard’s apartment complex. He parked on the side street, walked to the gated entrance, and stepped into the courtyard. He paused, making sure there was no one about. Assured that he was alone, he continued at a casual pace to Willard’s front door, where he anticipated finding Mary Lee’s ID. There was no sign of it. He lifted the welcome mat, thinking Willard had tucked it out of sight. He took out his penlight and flashed the narrow beam around the foundation plantings. Nothing.

He walked around the side of the building and checked the Bryces’ bedroom windows. Dark. No sound. No flickering to suggest the television set was on. Surely, Willard hadn’t gotten his dates mixed up. Pete was at a loss. He couldn’t call at this hour. Mary Lee might pick up instead of Willard and then what? Another possibility was that hubby might be waiting to make sure she was soundly sleeping before he took the badge from its usual place. If that were the case, a ringing phone would spoil everything.

He went back to the center of the courtyard and settled in a lawn chair, arms crossed, hands tucked away for warmth. The temperature had sunk into the low fifties and the air felt damp. All he could do was wait, so he waited. From time to time, he got up and returned to Willard’s door, which remained a blank. What was wrong with him? Pete couldn’t spend all night in the cold. At 1:30, he returned to his car, where he huddled for another hour before he fell asleep.

He woke at 6:30, stiff and desperate for a pee. The sun hadn’t quite shifted into view, so he got out of the car and relieved himself behind a nearby tree. In the car again, he waited until he saw Mary Lee leave the apartment, coffee container in hand, her purse under her arm. She got in the car, fiddled with her seat belt, checked her makeup, and adjusted her travel mug in the cup holder. Pete thought he’d go insane if she didn’t get out of there. She finally drove off, presumably on her way to work.

Pete was frosted. Willard, for whatever reason, had failed to deliver, and where did that put Pete? The night had come and gone and who knew when another opportunity would present itself? Linton Reed wasn’t going to be happy when he heard the plan had gone awry. He left his car unlocked while he crossed the grass and entered the center courtyard. He knocked on the Bryces’ door and waited.

When the door finally opened, Willard said, “What do you want?”

“What do you think? You want to tell me why you reneged on our agreement?”

“We don’t have an agreement. I left a message on your office phone. Mary Lee’s decided to quit. She’s giving her two weeks’ notice today. She’s fed up. She says life’s too short.”

Pete was taken aback. “I’m sorry to hear that. I guess it’s a done deal, then.”

“You better believe it is and if you ever breathe one word of this business to anyone, you’ll be sorry,” Willard said, his voice ominously low, and then he shut the door in Pete’s face.

Pete stood for a moment, trying to process the implications. Obviously, if Mary Lee quit, then Linton had no need of him. After today, all bets would be off since essentially there was no way to blame her for the data tampering. He’d been paid to go into the lab, launching a scheme that was suddenly completely irrelevant. Nothing to be done about it now. More problematic was the certainty the good doctor would insist Pete give his money back, which Pete had no intention of doing. That money was for him and Ruthie, with every nickel going toward their trip abroad. Linton had plenty more where that came from. Pete Wolinsky did not. For the moment, Pete was safe. For all Linton Reed knew, he’d done what they agreed.

Pete returned to the office and sat down at his desk. This time he pressed the play button on his answering machine. He listened to the message from Willard about Mary Lee quitting her job. There were two additional messages from Linton Reed, who neglected to identify himself, but he said roughly the same thing both times: the deal was off. In neither instance did the good doctor specify the reason for the cancellation. Pete’s only option was to play dumb. He put in a call to the doctor, whose answering machine picked up. Pete left his number without mentioning his name, asking if the doctor would call at his earliest convenience. Linton must have been sitting right there, letting calls go through to his voice message, because within minutes he called back. “You owe me two grand,” he said.

“And why would that be?”

“Something’s happened.”

“I gathered as much. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not on the phone.”

“How about let’s meet, then.”

“When?”

“Ten o’clock tonight?”

“Where?”

“Bird refuge,” Pete said. He depressed the plunger, cutting the connection before the doctor could argue the point.

• • •

Traffic was light when Pete arrived at the bird refuge shortly before ten. The Caliente Café was crowded, its parking lot jammed. Arriving patrons had snapped up additional slots in the strip lot across the way. Pete slowed the Fairlane to allow a pedestrian to cross in front of him. Belatedly, he registered the big panhandler’s red baseball cap and red flannel shirt; fellow heading home for the night after a hard day’s work. The panhandler turned and gave Pete a lingering look, which Pete ignored.

Pete hoped there’d be one last parking place, but he spotted the turquoise Thunderbird and realized Linton had beat him to the punch. Pete was forced to park on the street, which mattered not except for the psychological one-upsmanship. In a momentary nod to caution, he went around to the trunk of his car and swapped out the S&W Escort for his Glock.

The two men came together in a wide pool of shadows between two streetlamps. The path was lined with shrubs. A patchwork of rustling leaves created shifting patterns of light, adequate for conversational purposes but preventing either man a clear view of the other’s face. The damp night breeze coming off the lagoon smelled sulfurous.

Linton wore the same dark wool overcoat he’d worn at their earlier meeting. Pete’s sport coat was inadequate for the evening chill, and he envied the other man’s comfort. He was still debating how to play the occasion, so he offered Linton the first move, saying, “What’s this about?”

“Mary Lee Bryce quit her job. Game’s over.”

“Nice if you’d told me before I went out to the lab.”

“I left two messages on your office machine, telling you the deal was off.”

“When was this?”

“Two o’clock and again at five.”

“I wasn’t in the office yesterday. If I’d known she quit, I wouldn’t have put myself out.”

“Too bad. I want my two grand back.”

“No can do. I went in with her badge as agreed. You ask your computer techie and he’ll show you the trail she left.”

“Prove it.”

“I can’t prove it standing out here. You prove I didn’t.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Unlike yourself,” Pete said.

“I gave you two grand for nothing and I’d like it back.”

“No need to repeat yourself, son. Money’s gone. You want it back, you’re out of luck.”

“Where is it?”

“Something came up.”

“That’s it? Something came up and now you keep my two grand?”

“I did my part, so, technically speaking, you owe me two more. Under the circumstances, I’m giving you a break. Let’s consider it payment in full.”

“For what? I told you I didn’t need you. If you did it regardless, why should I be out the dough?”

Pete lifted his hands. “Hey, I’m done and I’m gone. Your money’s gone as well, so how about we call it square? I don’t owe you and you don’t owe me. Anything I have on you stops right here.”

Pete was dimly aware of the panhandler standing in a wash of darkness while the argument went on. Fellow must have decided to forgo his campsite and come have a look. In the dark, Pete couldn’t make out the red cap or the red shirt, but he knew the man’s size and body type and the lighter block of his face.

“Anything you have on me?” Linton said, shrilly. “What would that be?”

Pete kept his voice low. He was reasonably certain Linton had no idea there was a witness to their fight. “I know more than you think and I’ll use it if I have to. To be honest about it, I’d prefer not.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m just pointing out you got your money’s worth. With that woman gone, you can blame her for anything. She quits in a huff and before she leaves, she trashes your work. Same story plays and I came up with it. That’s what you paid me for.”

“What good does that do me now?”

“If you’re smart you’ll wipe the slate clean and dump everything you’ve done.”

“I don’t want to dump it. Why should I do that?”

“To cover your butt. Keep that data, she’s got your nuts in a vice. Now she’s unemployed, you think she won’t come after you? She’s a loose cannon. What’s she got to lose? She can accuse you, point fingers—whatever the hell she wants and you’re a sitting duck.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I might not, but she does. Now see here? Lookit. I’ll do you one more favor. This for the same two thousand dollars you were kind enough to shell out. She’s been in touch with a reporter. Are you aware of that? Journalist who has connections at the New York Times. Fellow’s done his homework. They’ll blow you out of the water.”

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Fine. Then our conversation’s over and I’ll be on my way,” Pete said, keeping his tone light.

Linton reached out and grabbed his arm, saying, “Hey! Don’t turn your back on me. I’m not finished.”

Irritably, Pete flung off his hand. “The hell you aren’t.”

“You know what? You’re more dangerous than she is,” Linton said. “She’s righteous. You’re corrupt.”

“I got no interest in you. We did business and now it’s done. End of story.”

“What if you flap your big mouth?”

“To who? Nobody gives a shit. She might nail you, but I got no dog in that fight. Trouble with you is you think you’re more important than you are.”

“Who’s the reporter? I want his name.”

“Too bad.”

Linton reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a gun, racking back the slide. Pete lifted his hands in a show of submission, but in truth he was more curious than cowed. What was this about? Linton didn’t seem to know what came next. This was apparently his big move and now what? Pull a gun on a fellow, you better be prepared to shoot.

Pete dropped his gaze to the weapon. He couldn’t see it clearly in the faulty light, but he was guessing it was a .45. Pete could feel the comforting bulk of his Glock in the shoulder holster under his left arm. He knew how to draw and fire a lot faster than Linton did. “Where’d you get that?” he asked.

“My father-in-law.”

“Hope he shared some safety tips.”

“He’s out of town. I borrowed it.”

“Trigger pressure’s tricky if you’re not used to it.”

“Like this?”

Linton altered the angle of the barrel and fired once. Both men jerked instinctively at the blast. The cartridge popped up to his right like a jumping bean.

Pete could tell the good doctor was showing off, making a point about how serious he was. While Pete wasn’t worried, his attention was fully focused on the man in front of him. There was something odd at work: Linton role-playing, trying on an alternate personality; tough guy, an overeducated Al Capone. Linton Reed was on unfamiliar ground but getting hyped on the power. The question was how far he’d be willing to push. Pete suspected this was the first time he’d brandished a gun and he liked the feeling it gave him. You’d think a man in his position would be fully accustomed to deference, but this was dominance of another sort.

Linton said, “What’s the reporter’s name?”

“What difference does it make?” Pete asked, irritably.

“I’m asking you a simple question.”

“Why don’t you go ask her? She’s the one in cahoots with him.”

Linton backed up a step and raised his arm. The weight of the weapon caused his hand to wobble ever so slightly. “I’m warning you.”

“Hey, fine. You win. Guy’s name is Owen Pensky for all the good it’ll do you.”

He thought Linton might put the gun away since his demand had been met, but the good doctor wasn’t ready to concede. It was possible he didn’t know how to make a graceful exit. Pete was trying to figure out how to resolve the standoff before it got out of hand. Pete was close enough that if he’d kicked upward, he might have been able to propel the gun from Linton Reed’s grip, but his Marfan’s made such a move impossible. Whatever he intended to do, he knew he better do it quickly before Linton had time to think. If the gun’s safety was still off and Pete made a move, there was a chance Linton’s trigger finger would tighten reflexively, causing the gun to fire, but Pete couldn’t worry about that.

He stepped to one side, put his hands together like a club, and brought it down abruptly on Linton’s outstretched hand. The blow failed to break his hold on the gun, but it did catch him by surprise. Pete swung a fist and Linton stepped aside more quickly than Pete thought possible. Pete swung again and missed, only this time, he stumbled into Linton and his momentum took both men down. Pete’s fall was buffered by his landing on the other man while the doctor’s fall was cushioned by his heavy coat. His right hand went down, the butt of his gun hit the pavement, and the impact jarred the gun loose. The weapon flew off and landed on the path three feet away. As Linton rolled over onto his side and stretched to retrieve the gun, Pete lunged across him and knocked it out of reach.

Pete pushed himself upward. Staggering to his feet, he pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster and aimed it squarely at Linton’s chest. “Leave it where it is.”

Linton caught sight of the Glock and paused. Pete doubted the good doctor could even identify the Glock as such, but he must have recognized the ease with which Pete handled it. Linton pulled himself together awkwardly and stood up, brushing at his pants.

Pete said, “Back up.”

Linton stepped back a pace. Pete moved to his left, bent down casually, and picked up the errant handgun, which he holstered for safekeeping. His own gun he kept pointed at the doctor. Now that Pete was in control, he felt better. He had both guns; Linton’s weapon in his holster, his own held loosely in his right hand. He didn’t want this to escalate because the odds weren’t that good for either one of them. He was older and more experienced, but he was poorly coordinated and unaccustomed to physical exertion. Linton was the shorter of the two—five nine to Pete’s six foot two—and heavier by fifteen pounds, his stocky build a sharp contrast to Pete’s long-boned frame.

Linton said, “Give me my gun.”

“Kiss my ass. I’ll mail it to you at the lab.”

“Give it to me! I told you it belongs to my father-in-law. I have to put it back.”

“Not my problem.”

Linton snatched at Pete’s sport coat. Pete brought the butt of his Glock down on Linton’s wrist and then gave him a one-armed push. Linton righted himself and launched a sharp two-handed blow that knocked Pete to the ground. Still hanging on to his gun, Pete scrambled forward and wrapped his arms around Linton’s legs, leaning into him. Then Pete took him down. It wasn’t a tackle so much as a slow toppling as Linton was thrown off balance by the weight dragging at him like a bag of sand. Inadvertently, Pete’s trigger finger contracted as Linton went down. The weapon fired and the casing ejected into the dark. The shot had gone wide, but Pete’s ears rang with such intensity he was rendered momentarily deaf.

Linton took advantage of the moment to punch Pete in the side of the head. Neither man was in shape for a fight, and their clumsy blows and kicks left both floundering. In reality, they fought for less than two minutes, though from Pete’s perspective, the fistfight seemed to go on forever, his own responses weakening as Linton continued flailing. He managed to shove Pete away from him, then lashed out with a savage side kick to the knee.

Surprised by pain, Pete lost his grip on his gun. He heard it hit the pavement, but he was off balance and was dismayed to find himself falling into the shrubs. Grimly, he extracted himself, aware of how ridiculous the entire encounter was. He knew no good would come of it. He might not lose, but neither would he win.

Linton stepped back, as though declaring a momentary truce, which was fine with Pete. He was winded. He hurt. His lungs burned with every heave of his chest. He made a dismissive gesture and leaned forward, head hanging while he rested his hands on his knees. “Whoo. Forget it. This is nuts. I’m outta here,” he said.

He righted himself and dragged a hand down his face, feeling grit and sweat. He wiped his damp hand on his pants and straightened his jacket.

Linton said, “Look what I got.”

Pete didn’t catch the words. His scarf was missing and he was intent on finding it. He spotted it lying on the path behind him, picked it up, and hooked it around his neck, and then turned toward the street where his car was parked. There was no shame in withdrawing from a battle that was pointless from the get-go and had already played out. That was it for him. He was bushed. It would take him days to recover as it was. He hadn’t gone four feet when he heard the shots.

He looked down with astonishment. A fiery arrow of pain pierced his left side. Pete didn’t see the muzzle flash because his back was turned when Linton fired. Someone looking on might have caught that quick flame of superheated incandescent gas emerging from the barrel in advance of the slug, that small penetrating missile followed by the sudden intense burst of light as gas and oxygen ignited. A pungent smell hung in the air.

Pete turned to Linton with amazement. “Why did you do that?”

He saw that Linton held the Glock, which he must have snatched from the path while Pete’s attention was diverted. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off the man, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He tallied his wounds, neither of which seemed devastating. Linton had shot him once in the side. A second bullet had grazed his right calf. It wasn’t his injuries, but the insult that stung, the violation of the rules of fair play. He’d given up. He’d thrown in the towel. You weren’t supposed to go after a guy once he’d done that.

Pete shook his head, looking down at himself and then at Linton. “Help me out here. I’m hurt.”

Linton gave Pete the once-over, his glance taking in the blood seeping through his pant leg. Even to Pete, the bleeding from the wound in his side didn’t amount to much.

“You’ll be fine,” Linton said. His tone was light, with a touch of condescension, the sort of reassurance a specialist might offer a patient with a medical condition of no real consequence.

He slipped the gun into his coat pocket and turned away, strolling toward the parking lot. His pace was measured. He wasn’t hurried. There was no panic that Pete could make out, though it seemed clear he wanted to get out of the area in the event someone had heard the shots and dialed 911. Pete could conceive of Linton as a man who’d always wondered what it would feel like to shoot another man down. It must have crossed his mind, the idle thought of someone who’d never done much of anything except pull the wool over other people’s eyes. It made a certain amount of sense. If Linton had been good at what he did, he wouldn’t have had to cheat. The gun established his superiority, making him better than he was. It was as simple as that.

Pete felt a fine sheen of sweat break out on his face. He wasn’t sure he’d be fine at all. His early outrage had drained away and he wondered what kind of trouble he was in. Just like that, his vision crowded in on him and he toppled. The arms he flung out in front of him to slow his fall were useless. When his face hit the pavement, he registered little if any pain.

Dimly, he realized he’d broken his nose. He hadn’t believed the good doctor would shoot him and yet here he was, down on the asphalt, a hole in his side and a stinging gash on his calf. His leg was the least of his concerns.

When the bullet tore into him, a fragment of jacket lining had traveled into his flesh along with the slug. A large temporary cavity had bloomed and collapsed. That same slug had struck his rib cage, shattering bone before it veered off at an angle, taking a ragged zigzagging path through his descending colon. The trajectory of the lead had scarcely slowed when it nicked a far-flung tributary of his superior mesenteric artery no bigger than a piece of string, which began to pump out blood in a series of tiny spurts. Even if the bleeding had been caught, the resulting spill of fecal matter into his abdominal cavity would have overwhelmed his system soon afterward. None of this—the nomenclature, the knowledge of anatomy, or the acquaintance with the consequences of internal rupturing—was part of Pete’s thinking as he puzzled the sensations besetting him. He was intimately aware of the savage and destructive tunnel the pellet had plowed as it whipsawed through his organs, but he lacked the language necessary to express his dismay. It would fall to the coroner to translate the damage into its myriad elements, reducing fierce heat and sorrow to a series of dry facts as he dictated his findings, days later, in the morgue.

Pain was a bright cloud that danced along Pete’s frame, expanding until every nerve ending jangled with its flame. He wondered where the other gun had gone. He’d pulled his Glock, thinking to deter the doctor, though the sight of it might well have egged him on. He felt something press against his ribs and he wondered if the gun was under him. He closed his eyes. Mere seconds had passed when he heard the doctor’s car door slam. Headlights flashed across his eyelids, receding as Linton Reed backed his turquoise Thunderbird out of the space, turned the wheel, and pulled out of the parking lot.

Pete rested. What choice did he have? All of his faculties were shutting down. He lost a moment, like nodding off and jerking awake again. When he opened his eyes, he saw boots. He angled his gaze, taking in the big fellow with his red baseball cap and his red flannel shirt. Pete longed to speak, but he couldn’t seem to make himself heard. This was his chance to say Linton Reed’s name, putting the blame for the shooting where it rightfully belonged. Tomorrow, when the panhandler read about his death, he could go to the police and tell them what the dying man had said.

The big man hunkered beside him. His expression was compassionate. He knew as well as Pete did that he was on his way out. He leaned closer and for a moment, the two were eye to eye. The man reached out and slid an arm under him. Pete was grateful, thinking he meant to lift him and carry him to safety. It was too late for that, and Pete knew instinctively that any jostling would waken the pain that had faded to almost nothing. The man fumbled, turning him over onto his side. Pete wanted to shriek but he didn’t have the strength. He was aware of his watch sliding over his wrist. He felt the man pat his pants until he found the square of his leather wallet and slipped it from his pocket. The last conscious thought that registered was the man lifting the handgun from the holster, tucking it into the small of his back. Pete watched him amble away without a backward glance.

There was no way Pete could rouse himself. Who knew dying could take so long? He was bleeding out; heart slowing, belly filling up with blood. Not a bad way to go, he thought. He heard the beating of wings, a nearly inaudible whisper and flutter. He felt quick puffs of wind on his face, feathery grace notes. The birds had come back for him, hoping he had something to offer them when, in fact, every kindly impulse of his had fled.