Authors: Robert Masello

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers

Bestiary (50 page)

BOOK: Bestiary

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“You will, while the animals are here, give me unfettered access to them?” Carter asked.

“Of course,” al-Kalli said, leaning back and spreading his hands. He knew he had just won. “As far as I’m concerned, you can move into my house.”

“And whatever I recommend, even if it does mean ultimately moving them or calling in some other expert, you will do?”

“Yes,” al-Kalli replied, with well-feigned enthusiasm.

Carter didn’t know how, under these circumstances, he could possibly refuse. Nor, frankly, did he want to. “Then let’s get to work,” he said, rising from his chair.

Al-Kalli smiled up at him. “Splendid,” he said, clapping his hands for Jakob. “I’m so pleased.” He knew that he’d won this battle the moment Carter had appeared that morning, but it was good to have it formally concluded. People, al-Kalli thought, could always be made to do what you wanted them to—and then, just as easily, they could be gotten rid of.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“I DON’T BELIEVE you.”

That was just like his mother. Anytime he gave her good news—which, Greer had to admit, hadn’t been all that often—she thought he was lying.

“Show me your pay stub,” she said.

“They pay me in cash.”

She put a cup of tea on the tray, right next to her toast and jam, and waddled back into the living room with it. “Hold this,” she said, and Greer did, as she settled herself back into her chair. “Now, you can rest the tray across the arms.”

He wished he had something to prove it to her—a company ID, a contract, a uniform. “Remember that guy from the army who called here the other day?”

“Yes,” she said, spreading the jam and paying more attention to
The People’s Court
than to him.

“The one I told you wanted me to complete a survey?”

“You were lying about that, too, I think.”

Damn, her radar was really pretty good. “I was, a little. He wanted to know what I was doing now as a civilian, and I had to tell him I was having some trouble finding work.”

That she heard. “Of course you couldn’t find any—you didn’t look.”

Why did he bother? What had made him think he should even tell her anything? But he was going to plow ahead. He was going to get this out. “He told me about a guy—a very rich guy, up in Bel-Air—who needed someone to run his entire security operation. He put me up for the job, and I got it.”

He was standing to one side of her chair, and she was looking at the TV, and the whole setup reminded him uncomfortably of the time he came home to tell her he’d been made captain of the baseball team and she’d been watching something on the TV—the big old one that still had an actual aerial on top—and instead of saying anything like “That’s great!” or “Good for you!” she’d said, “Your father’s run off again, and this time I think it’s for good.”

“When do you start this so-called job?”

“I already have. I told you.”

She bit off a hunk of the toast—more jam than bread at this point—and shrugged. “Does that mean you’ll be getting your own place?”

He couldn’t tell how she meant that—whether she was hoping he would or hoping he wouldn’t. She hadn’t exactly welcomed him home when he’d returned from Iraq, but seeing as he’d been wounded and all, she could hardly turn him away. And then she’d gotten used to the extra cash his disability payments had brought in, for groceries and rent and utilities and stuff. If he’d had to guess, he’d have said she was kind of torn.

“Maybe,” he said, letting her twist a little. “I’ll see how far the salary goes.” He liked the word “salary”; made it sound more authentic than the wad of bills Jakob had tossed him.

“If you’ve got a job,” she said, having had a minute or two to think about it, “why aren’t you there now?”

“It’s not that kind of a job, where you punch in and out. It’s an executive position.”

She looked dubious.

“And I’m going there now, in fact.” What was the use? He turned and headed for the door. He grabbed his windbreaker off the hook, and just before he closed the door, he heard her turn up the volume on the TV.

But she was right, whether she knew it or not—it was time he got a place of his own. This shit was definitely not worth it.

On the way to the VA hospital, where he’d been heading all along, he listened to a tape of Grand Funk Railroad—the old stuff was still the best—at full volume. His life, he thought, was coming together, but in a very weird way. What had started out as a blackmail plot—never a very good one, as he could never figure out exactly where the leverage was—had turned into a regular gig. He’d asked al-Kalli if his title was “Head of Security Operations,” and al-Kalli had said that was fine with him. Now here he was, a decorated Iraq vet, working for an Arab billionaire, in L.A. yet, and guarding a bunch of . . . dinosaurs, for all he knew. That guy he’d seen on TV—Carter Cox—was a paleontologist, and that must have been why al-Kalli had let him in. The only other guy Greer had seen let into the bestiary had never made it out again.

And al-Kalli must actually think of him as more than just a security officer; why else would he have invited him to that fancy party? Although—Christ—that food had been some of the worst he’d had since his deployment.

At the hospital, he parked in his usual spot—a patch of shade off at the far end, just around the corner from the door—checked in at the front desk, and was halfway down the hall when the guard said, “Hold it, Captain!”

What, had he signed in on the wrong line? The army could find more ways to bust your balls . . .

“Got an advisory here,” the guard said. “You’re to report to the supervisor’s office.”

“I’ve got an appointment first,” Greer said. Through the glass wall of the therapy room, he could see Indira tending to Mariani in his wheelchair. He wanted to talk to her—he needed to talk to her. Things had been bad for a while, but now that he was straightening out his life, he wanted to tell her that. He wanted to tell
someone
who would care.

“No, you don’t,” the guard barked, coming out from behind the semicircular counter he sat behind. “You’re making an immediate left, and reporting to the supervisor. Last door at the end of the hall . . . Captain.”

These pricks really killed Greer; the guy was in uniform, but Greer was damned if he could see any combat patches on him. Greer glanced into the therapy room again, and saw that Indira was looking out at him. He raised one finger and mouthed “Right back,” then moved off down the hall.

The supervisor, Dr. Frank Foster, looked like he was in worse shape than some of the patients. He was a scrawny, walleyed guy with a glistening sheen of sweat on his pale face—even though the office air-conditioning was working fine—and the rabbity look of a smoker wondering where, and when, he could safely light up. Greer, gambling on his hunch, took out his pack of cigarettes and offered him one.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dr. Foster said, though his eyes did linger for that extra split second on the pack. “There’s no smoking in this building, and you shouldn’t be smoking anyway. Put them away.”

Greer slipped them back in his pocket and tried to get comfortable in the hard plastic chair; it was sculpted for somebody, but that somebody wasn’t him. And tempted as he was to ask what was up, he knew enough about the military and its protocols to keep his mouth shut and only volunteer whatever information he had to.

Dr. Foster swiveled in his chair, pulled a manila folder off a pile behind him, and slapped it on the messy desk. Greer noticed a telltale pack of matches mixed in with all the other crap. The tinny sound of a cheap radio, playing classical music, emanated from somewhere, maybe one of the desk drawers.

“We’ve made some corrections to your file,” Dr. Foster said, “in light of some new information that has come our way.”

New information? Greer wanted to ask, what new information? But didn’t.

Foster riffled through some papers again, and said, “How long have you had your drug dependency problems?”

Greer stayed silent.

“And what drugs are you currently using?” He looked up expectantly, pen poised, waiting for Captain Greer to start spilling his guts. “Well?”

“The clinic has records, doesn’t it?” Greer asked. “Ask my therapist, Indira Singh, what I’ve been prescribed.”

“We know what you’ve been prescribed. We also have information that leads us to believe you’re abusing other, nonprescription drugs. If you have drug dependency and addiction problems, problems that could affect the course of your treatment here, we need to know that.”

“Now how would you know anything like that?”

“We’re not at liberty to divulge that information, nor is it relevant. All that matters is whether it’s true or not.”

“It’s not true,” Greer said. “Okay? So we’re done.”

“Are you currently working?”

That one came out of left field. “Why?”

Foster shrugged. “We have to keep the records current, especially if your new employer offers any kind of private health insurance benefits. We’re here to help the veterans, Captain Greer, but we also like to see that the veterans are trying to help themselves.”

Greer was starting to smell a rat.

“So, are you currently employed, and if so where?”

A big rat with a grudge. Greer had to think fast, wondering how to play this one. His first inclination, as always, was to lie, and he saw no reason to depart from tradition now. “No.” Even though he’d been planning to tell Indira, he was going to ask her to keep it under her hat.

The walleyed Dr. Foster just stared at him blankly. Greer wondered if his eyes were enough in sync, or if he saw two different images. “You have not recently been employed as a security officer?”

Greer laughed, as if he’d never heard anything so absurd. “Yeah, a gimp with a bad leg, no experience, and no references. Where am I supposed to be working? Wells Fargo, or Fort Knox?”

“We don’t look kindly on the falsification of records, Captain Greer. If it comes to light that you have not been forthcoming, or that you have in fact provided us with misinformation, the Veterans Administration can, and will, take action.”

“That’s just what I’d expect them to do.”

“The file is still open,” Dr. Foster said, pointedly leaving it so on the desk. “I’d advise you to keep us up-to-date on the developments in your life, both medical and professional.”

“I’ll do that,” Greer said, starting to lever himself up and out of the chair. “But I’ve got a therapy appointment to keep.”

“Your therapy will have to wait today.” He tore off a perforated form with a number of black boxes on it and said, “Take this upstairs to the main desk.” Greer saw a lot of the boxes were already checked—for urinalysis, blood chemistries, etc. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what this was all about.

“We’re not here to punish you,” Dr. Foster said, with all the conviction you’d muster to read aloud from an eye chart, “we’re here to help you.”

“I feel better already,” Greer replied.

BOOK: Bestiary

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