Miracle Man (28 page)

Perrone continued to glare at Bobby, his body tense as if ready to pounce. He then broke into a broad smile. “I know that—I was just busting your balls.” He gave Bobby a playful punch in the shoulder that Bobby thought was a lot harder than necessary.

Perrone asked, “You think I’m making this stuff up?” He pulled out a laptop from his attaché case which he had stowed in Bobby’s office while he was waiting to “kill him.” “Here, I can access this stuff easily since my computer is pre-loaded for the sites. Enjoy reading. If you need a translation on any of the chatter, just press this button and it will put it in English for you.”

Bobby’s mouth went dry as he read.

Perrone’s tone turned serious. “So Doctor, you need real security, because you obviously don’t have any currently. And if you think nobody else can find this facility, you’re wrong. Obviously, my agents had no difficulty in planting the fake bombs and poison, just as I had no difficulty in gaining access to your office so I could shoot you.”

Shaking his head, Bobby replied, “Well, you’re the CIA so you have the expertise to do all that, but the crazies on the internet don’t.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t count on that. These fanatics can have sophisticated resources.”

Bobby’s eyebrows raised as he stared at Perrone. “And why is the CIA wanting to help me?”

“You’re a hot topic in Washington, Doctor. You’re a national asset.”

“I see,” said Bobby. “So it’s bad for business if I get snuffed out on the current administration’s watch.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Doctor. It would be bad for any administration. You’re one of the few that cross party lines.”

Bobby wanted to keep government meddling to a minimum, so the arrangement he made with Perrone was that the CIA technicians would design a state of the art security system for the lab, but it would be installed and monitored by a private security firm that Bobby would select from a list of recommendations. Additionally, the lab would engage a security service to patrol the premises with bomb sniffing dogs.

“So with this system, I’ll have nothing to worry about, right?” Bobby asked Perrone.

“I didn’t say that, Doctor. This system will protect you against the ninety-five percent. There’s no protection that this facility could realistically have that would protect against the other five percent.”

“And who is the ‘other five percent?’”

Perrone smiled. “Well, my boys, of course. And the other really good government operatives—ours or overseas. But we’re all on your side. As far as the private sector goes—there are very few outfits that have the necessary expertise. But there are some for hire that can be formidable. Unless you want us on the premises at all times, there’s nothing you can do about that.”

“Thanks for the offer, Calvin. I’ll take my chances with the five percent.”

43

S
everal weeks later when Bobby failed to show up at Tufts or the Manzini lab, Susan was relieved. He was overdue to go incommunicado. She knew he was close to a breakdown from the combined stress of working continuously on the malaria project and his lack of sleep due to the escalation of the nightmares. Every day she’d check his apartment to see if he had crash-landed. Finally, after six days, when she walked through the door, she saw from the disarray that he was back. But there were two things different this time that caught her eye in the apartment. First, there were a large number of sketch pad pages that had been torn out and were strewn haphazardly around the living room. When she examined them she saw that they all bore horrific images that Bobby had drawn. Many of the pages were intact, but others had been crinkled up, and the pictures on those were exceptionally disturbing. Secondly, in the middle of the living room, there was a trunk that was turned over on its side. Susan recognized this trunk as the one that usually sat in a corner of the room, piled high with books. Scattered around the trunk in a large perimeter were piles of magazines, newspapers and clippings.

Bobby was asleep in his bedroom. An empty bottle of vodka was on his nightstand. Happy to see him getting some sleep, she went back into the living room intent on not disturbing him. She stood in the midst of the fallout from the trunk. Unable to resist, she decided she wasn’t snooping because the items had been left out in full view. She sat down among all the materials and read for over an hour. Rollie Carter’s report wasn’t in the pile. She then cleaned- up the living room, loaded the dishwasher, emptied the ashtrays, placed the sketches in a neat stack, arranged the sofa cushions in place, and then righted the trunk and placed its contents back inside.

When Bobby finally stumbled into the living room, she said, “The prodigal son emerges. You look awful. I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

As hung-over as he was, Bobby instantly scanned the living room and realized that not only had Susan tidied up, but the contents of the trunk had been touched.

“Susan, thanks for cleaning up the place,” he said, trying to sound matter of fact. “You really shouldn’t have. I guess you just threw those papers into the trunk?”

Susan looked at Bobby. She could read him so well. He was uptight. “Yeah, I just threw the papers into the trunk after I read them.”

Bobby inhaled quickly. “You read them? Why would you do that? They were my private papers.”

“If they were so private, you shouldn’t have left them strewn all over the room for all to see.”

“All to see? This is my apartment. Nobody was supposed to see anything here. Damn it, Susan. That was my private business. Just because you have a key doesn’t mean that everything is open to inspection.”

“Bobby, I’m sorry. But I was curious. I couldn’t help it. Anything that’s important to you is important to me. And I’m always worried that something or someone is going to hurt you and I want to know what’s going on. Blame it on my maternal instincts.”

“This is just not how I wanted you to find out. I’m really pissed.”

“I’m sorry, Bobby.”

“Well, it’s done. You read it. So what did you think? Were you surprised?”

“The story was pretty terrible and shocking, but these things do happen,” said Susan.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“About what?” she asked.

“About me.”

“What do you have to do with it, Bobby?”

“What are you talking about, Susan?”

“I don’t know. I’ve lost the plot. What’s going on?” she asked.

“What’s going on? I can’t believe you read all that stuff and missed the whole point. Susan—I’m #2764. I’m Dumpster Baby.”

Susan’s pale face drained completely of color as she collapsed into one of the living room chairs. She stared at Bobby. “What did you just say?”

“I’m the baby in the garbage bag. I’m the kid you were reading about. Alan Gottschalk saved my life. He was the guy you hired the PI to find.”

“I never knew his name. I never looked at the stuff you gave me for the investigators, or their report, because you asked me not to.”

“Well now you know. That’s who I am.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” she asked.

“I’ve never told anyone.”

There was silence as Susan and Bobby looked at each other forlornly. Susan put her arms around him. She hugged him tightly and sensed the tension in his body. As she pressed her head against his chest, he could feel the wetness of her tears penetrating his thin undershirt. “I wish I could take away all the hurt from you Bobby. I wanted to be your Anna. I wanted to protect you like she protected me.”

“I just can’t understand why they did it to me. To leave me alone to die like that. What was wrong with me?” Bobby said.

Releasing her grip on Bobby, Susan stood straighter, took a few steps back and commanded, “Sit down.”

Bobby sank into the couch obediently. He looked like a lost teenager. Sitting close to him, her knees touching his, she said, “Bobby, people do terrible desperate things for all sorts of reasons, and if they are fueled by drugs or alcohol or have mental problems, horrible things happen. But one thing’s for sure— a baby who’s a few hours old, didn’t do anything wrong. You have nothing to feel ashamed or guilty or embarrassed about. They were defective —not you.”

Bobby got up and began to walk around the room aimlessly. Shaking his head, he said, “But there’s too much that’s unexplained, Susan. Look at what I am. How did that happen? What are the odds that a newborn who’s thrown into a dumpster is going to turn out like this? It’s too weird. Sometimes I think that what’s been said behind my back all these years is true.”

Susan put her hands on Bobby’s shoulders, giving them a squeeze for emphasis.

“The only way you’ll find the answers you’re searching for is to look to your faith. I believe you were given your abilities for a reason. I believe you were saved for a reason. Everything that has happened in your life has happened for a reason. You are not alone. And you’re worthy of being loved, and you have been loved. Edith and Peter loved you, Joe loved you, and I love you.”

Bobby interrupted, “And I worry about that every day when I see you. Everyone who’s ever loved me is dead. So what does that say about your prospects? When people get too close to me, they die.”

“That’s crazy,” Susan said, smiling, as she brushed a strand of hair away from Bobby’s eyes. “To get rid of me, you’ll have to tie me up and put me on a boat to Shanghai. Otherwise, I’ll be around to badger you until you find a special woman to build a life with. And I don’t mean a bimbo. I mean someone I approve of.”

“Fat chance on that
.”

“And believe me—when you find her, she’ll love you back. But first you have to let go of these demons from your past. You have to put them in that trunk and close the lid tight. You can’t keep looking over your shoulder. You have to move on Bobby.”

44

C
alvin Perrone sat in his small office at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia and gazed out his narrow window at a vast parking lot, which was now beginning to accumulate snow as the flurries escalated. He answered the phone and was informed by an officious female voice that the director wanted to see him immediately. He couldn’t believe it. The director of the CIA was summoning him, a plain talking guy from a blue collar background, with a Puerto Rican mother and Black father, who grew up in the Bronx and graduated with a B average from St. John’s College in Queens. Hired at a time when the agency had fallen into such disfavor that it had no choice but to expand its recruiting practices to include ‘types’ like him that it had previously shunned, Calvin Perrone was now being invited into the director’s inner sanctum. The director knew he existed. Calvin had made the big time. In the ten year period during which Calvin had been a CIA agent, there had been three directors of the CIA, none of whom Calvin had ever met or been permitted to communicate with. The individual who currently held that position was new to the Office, having been confirmed by the Senate only six months previously.

Calvin pulled out the mirror he kept in his desk drawer. He spread his lips into a broad clown’s smile so that he could examine his teeth to be sure that no remnants from his lunch were discernible. From his waste basket, he fished out the napkin he had discarded with his food, and wiped his face so it didn’t look oily. Holding the mirror up, he straightened his necktie and then maneuvered the mirror so that he could see how his suit looked, or at least how segments of it looked. Walking out of his office, he headed to the far left elevator bank, over which a sign indicated, “Restricted Access.”

“I presume you are Agent Calvin Perrone?” The woman in the director’s private reception area who asked the question spoke in a voice that was simultaneously authoritative and condescending. “The director will see you now.”

As Perrone entered the director’s office, the director was standing with his back to him, gazing out his wall of windows onto the CIA campus below. Perrone quickly estimated the size of the director’s office as being at least ten times the size of his. The director wasn’t a tall man, but he was extremely broad shouldered.
Good guy to have on your side in a bar room brawl
, thought Perrone. “You can sit down, Agent Perrone. Make yourself comfortable,” he said without turning around.

Perrone took a seat as the director slowly paced alongside his wall of windows. “So tell me about your meeting with Austin.”

Perrone’s mind raced.
So that’s what this is all about? The lousy little cat and mouse game I played with that crazy scientist.

“What would you like to know, sir?”