Palm Sunday (18 page)

Slocum assumed a look of innocence. “Oh. Maybe you’re too young to remember. I said Bozo. I thought that was your name, you know, like the…clown.” It was the halting way that Slocum pronounced the word ‘clown’ that set Bobo off.

“Are you saying I’m a clown?” He tilted his head slightly to the side and knit his brows. Slocum couldn’t help but think that with the full regalia he would indeed resemble the famous jester.

“Bozo, I mean, Bobo, now come on. Where’s your sense of humor?”

Bobo just stared at him. He could tell that a couple of the other gang members were snickering. “Humor? You want to see humor? Okay, how’s this?” Bobo backhanded Slocum across the cheek, barely moving Slocum’s stony face.

“If that’s the best you’ve got, against an unarmed, tied up old man, then you are a joke. Bozo.”

Several of the others laughed out loud. This, Bobo knew, was dangerous, because they were laughing at him.

“Shut up you idiots. You think this guy is so tough? I’ll teach him to mess with Bobo. Wait here, and try not to let him get away. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He turned and stormed out of the apartment.

Slocum let a minute pass before he addressed the remaining gang members. “So Bobo’s your boss, huh?”

One of them sat on the floor, his back to the wall. He answered without getting up. “No one’s our boss, man. We’re our own boss.”

“Seems to me that Bobo’s the man. You guys are pretty scared of him, aren’t you?”

“Shut up. I ain’t scared of nothing.”

“Sure,” said Slocum. “I’ll shut up. Just like you do when Bobo’s around. I’m scared because I’m tied to a chair and you have knives. What’s your excuse?”

The gang member was about to open his mouth, when the door opened and Bobo walked in. He could sense the tension.

“What’s going on?”

Slocum laughed. “Your boys were just telling me how no one is in charge here, and how they aren’t afraid of you. I didn’t believe them, though.”

“What’s the matter with you idiots?” yelled Bobo. “You let him start talking some crap to you?”

“No, man, it wasn’t like that. He’s just talking trash. Don’t mean nothin’.”

Bobo glared at him. “Better not.” He held a hypodermic needle in his right hand, a small vial in the other. He walked in front of Slocum and held the needle out. “We’re going to party now, dude. You know what this is?” He held the needle up.

Slocum shook his head. “No.”

“Black Magic. Special designer mix–just came on the market. I have to warn you, it’s still experimental. The dosage can be tricky, but man, what a trip.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” said Slocum.

Bobo laughed. “Oh, but I insist.”

He motioned for the others to hold his arm and pull his sleeve back. Slocum fought as best he could, but was powerless to prevent the injection. They released his arm and he ceased his struggling.

“Takes about five minutes to really get going, but you should start to feel a little lightheaded any time now,” said Bobo.

After several minutes he looked closely at Slocum’s face. The eyes were stony cold, unmoving. He was unaware of the internal struggle that Slocum was waging to fight the effect of the drug. In most people the symptoms would have already been manifested. Slocum was not most people. Bobo backed away.

“Wow, man. This must have been a weak batch. I better give him some more.”

He prepared a second shot, and this time easily administered it. Slocum was beginning to relax, and soon his head slumped forward. One of the younger gang members cackled.

“Wow, is he trippin’, or what!”

Bobo studied Slocum’s reaction with concern. He should be spacing out on a pretty funky high, but instead he seemed to be unconscious. “Shut up you moron.” He lifted one of Slocum’s eyelids and closely examined the pupil. “Damn. Get him back to the car.”

“Why? What’s going on, Bobo?”

“We gave him too much; I think he OD’d. He might die.”

“You gave him too much. We didn’t even know what you were doing.”

“You held him,” said Bobo. “That makes you as guilty as me. Don’t be stupid. Just get him in the car. We’ll dump him near the hospital.”

They hesitated for only a moment, and then quickly obeyed. Two scouts again went ahead to make sure the coast was clear, and the now limp form of Robert Slocum was dragged downstairs and placed in his own car.

After quickly driving to the hospital, the gang positioned Slocum behind the wheel of his car, which they parked near the emergency entrance. It wouldn’t be long before someone investigated the illegally parked vehicle, at which time Slocum would be discovered and treated.

The gang transferred to the other car and beat a hasty retreat.

“Call the police. Tell them we have another case of Black Magic.”

The doctor treating Robert Slocum shook his head in disgust. Why a man of this age and apparent social standing would be dabbling in dangerous narcotics was beyond comprehension. It wasn’t that the doctor didn’t understand addiction, but there were a number of other drugs that didn’t have such unpredictable side effects, so why risk it? He just didn’t get it.

The nurse wrote something down on a note pad. “Is he going to make it?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Lucky for him that he was blocking that ambulance. Otherwise he’d be in the morgue right now.”

The nurse shook her head and went to call the police. 

George Pampas had sources of information that would be the envy of most intelligence services, so it wasn’t surprising that he quickly learned of the incarceration of Robert Slocum. When the police ran his prints against the national database in Washington they figured out his name, but they also alerted the agency.

As soon as he found out, Pampas went to see Mason. His door stood ajar, and Pampas rapped on it once. Mason nodded for him to enter.

“Slocum’s in some sort of trouble. Drug related,” said Pampas.

Mason had been writing on a yellow tablet, and now looked up. “What did he do?”

“Overdose. He was treated in the hospital, and they notified the police. Apparently he had been using a new designer drug that the police were hot to track down.”

“That doesn’t exactly fit his profile, does it?” said Mason. “You think he was trying to kill himself?”

“Slocum? By taking drugs?” He shook his head no. “My guess is he got into trouble with his handlers, and they made it look like an overdose. Could be he wasn’t supposed to make it.”

“Why go to all that trouble?” said Mason. “Just shoot him in the head and be done with it.”

Pampas shrugged his shoulders. He was thinking the same thing–the pieces didn’t fit. It was like the situation at the Whipple house, and with the palmtop in general. Events didn’t support any particular conclusion.

“Without more information, it’s hard to say,” said Pampas.

“At least now we know where he is. I want you to bring him in.”

“Take him from the cops?”

Mason slowly nodded. “It’s the only way. Once he hits the street we won’t get another chance.”

“A couple of my guys can pose as federal agents and pull him out. It’ll take a few hours to put it together.”

“Top priority,” said Mason. “I want Slocum in our custody by the end of the day.”

“I’m on it.” Pampas was elated. He finally had an operation, something to focus his efforts on. He wore a determined look as he strode purposefully from the office. 

Stanley and Katherine sat side by side in Stanley’s cubicle, pouring over the latest in a series of test results. The situation at work had been tense, with little room for the good-natured banter that typically flowed back and forth.

Stanley whispered to Katherine as he made an adjustment to a program. “We have to bring the network analyzer back to Slocum’s apartment tonight.”

“I know,” said Katherine. “But I think Klugman’s been watching us.” She stole a glance at their boss’s office. She could see him moving about.

“You think he’s suspicious about the equipment we borrowed?” asked Stanley.

“No. I think he’s just worried about the project. If we’re going to take the analyzer, we’ll have to be extra careful. They keep close tabs on it.”

It was true. The device, which belonged to ScanDat, was a sophisticated model. It could be used both for general purpose network troubleshooting, and for radio frequency measurements, critical when working with wireless technology. The unit was expensive, and company policy was clear regarding its use. It had to be signed for, and it never left the premises.

“So we’ll be careful,” said Stanley.

Klugman suddenly appeared in the doorway of the cubicle. “What’s the verdict? Everything okay?” He gripped the top of the cubicle wall with his left hand, causing the whole thing to wobble. His unexpected arrival just as they were talking about him was unnerving.

Katherine forced a smile. “So far so good.”

Klugman nodded towards Stanley. “How about you?”

“The software needs some tweaking, but it should be perfectly in sync with the incoming data stream. I don’t anticipate any problems.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Time’s short, so let’s keep our noses to the grindstone.” He turned and left, his duties as taskmaster fulfilled.

Katherine watched Stanley as he continued to work. “Doesn’t that bother you?” she asked.

He smiled. “You mean the looking over our shoulders bit?” She nodded. “I guess it makes him feel important. Why didn’t you say something?”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” she said. “Besides, if we want to solve the palmtop mystery we may need to borrow a few more things. We should keep on his good side.”

“I see.” He finished entering a line of code. A loud click sounded as he thumped the Enter key. “Isn’t that a bit duplicitous?”

“A tad. But I’ve been thinking about Slocum’s agency, and I’ve decided that I’m not real crazy about how they do things.”

“You mean the secrecy?”

“Yeah, that. I also don’t care for the idea of men with guns running through your house.” She looked towards Klugman’s office, and could once again see him moving around. “And I’m really curious about that palm unit.”

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. That was the real reason. Katherine couldn’t stand the thought that there was a piece of electronic equipment that she was unable to master.

“Let’s get this module debugged and run through the simulation again,” he said.

When Stanley reached for the mouse, their hands brushed together. A brief glance was exchanged, and their eyes locked for less than a second, but it was enough. In the infinitely complex way that the brain registers attraction, the bond was cemented. Not a word was spoken, but they knew. They both knew, and they both felt it. Unspoken, without fanfare, love had been revealed.

For Stanley the revelation was startling, and he wanted to say something, and though his mouth opened, no words came out. Then the moment passed, and he retreated to the safety of his electronic display.

“We have to get this subroutine packaged,” he stammered.

Katherine, her heart still fluttering, simply nodded, as Stanley refused to look at her. She wanted to reach out, but his peck, peck, pecking at the keyboard kept pushing her back.

Pushing her out.

She watched him as he worked–the curve of his back as he hovered over the keys, and the way his hair curled up–just a bit at the ends. It was untidy, but not messy, and to her, not at all unattractive. She loved the way he set his jaw when he was concentrating. And his eyes–those mysterious, deep eyes! She wondered what secrets they held.

These were small things, perhaps, but they were things she loved about him. Because she loved him, she thought. But he seemed so unreachable. She looked away as he continued to click.

Stanley consciously suppressed the emotions of only a moment ago, and now forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Working at the level of bits and bytes, he fed instructions directly into the computer’s CPU. It was tedious doing it this way–without the benefit of a fourth generation interpreter–but the finished product ran very fast. And speed was essential for what they would ask their system to do.

The algorithms that Stanley was encoding would apply their logic against unknown threats from the data stream, and decide what to pass through and what to trap in a holding area for further examination. Of course, the algorithms would be given an unfair advantage for the demo, as they would know exactly what threats were incoming. This was the farce that both Stanley and Katherine found maddening.

“Stanley?”

“Yeah?”

“Quitting time in half an hour. Maybe we should start getting things together.”

Stanley leaned back and looked through the cubicle doorway towards Klugman’s office. He was on the phone, his gesticulations indicating that it was a heated conversation. Boyd was nowhere to be seen–probably in the lab.

“Looks clear,” said Stanley. “Go get the analyzer.”

Katherine pushed back from the desk and walked to the wire mesh-enclosed storage area. She returned several minutes later with the very complex, very expensive device.

Stanley was just closing his laptop case. “I’m ready,” he said.

“Good. The analyzer should fit in my bag. I’ll be right back.”

As Katherine left with the analyzer, Stanley snuck another peek at Klugman’s office, and noticed with alarm that he was no longer there. He spun around, looking over the top of the cubicles, until at last he spotted him, approaching Katherine’s desk from the opposite side of the room. He turned to his desk and picked up the phone, dialing Katherine’s direct line. It buzzed twice before she picked up.

“Miss me already?”

“Klugman’s headed toward your cubicle!”

She slammed the phone down, and looked around, panicking. She was too short to see above the cubicle walls, so she couldn’t tell from which direction Klugman was approaching. She guessed, and turned left after exiting her office space. It was the long way around, and she had no logical reason for going that way, but she chose correctly. A minute later she was back at Stanley’s desk with her tote bag and the analyzer.