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Authors: Frank M. Robinson

BOOK: Waiting
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Mitch snorted and stood up, ready to leave. Artie pushed himself off the couch, thinking once again about the long trip home. He slipped into his coat and turned to say good-bye.
“What do you mean, his physical strength was beyond the norm? How could you tell?”
Paschelke shrugged. “Just that. Beyond the norm. William Talbot twisted the steering wheel to swerve out of the way of the Merc. He still had it in his hands when the police pulled him out.” He looked up at them. “He twisted the damn wheel right off the steering column.”
“Superman,” Mitch sneered.
Paschelke was insulted.
“I didn’t say that, either. Who knows what somebody can do in extremis? I know a man who once lifted a car off a friend pinned underneath … . Oh, I thought Talbot was human enough. At the high end of the bell curve, obviously, but human. It was Larry who thought he was … different.”
“He could have taken a DNA sample,” Mitch said coldly. “Satisfied his curiosity easily enough.”
“He did, Dr. Levin,” Paschelke said, just as cold. “Five milliliters of blood and a small tissue sample from the kidneys. But I doubt that he had time to have the tests performed before his … death.”
 
It was dark and
the drizzle had changed to a cold rain. Mitch turned up the heater and slowed the car, searching for the turnoff to the freeway.
“Did you believe all that crap?”
Artie stirred, half asleep.
“I’m no doctor, Mitch.” After a moment’s thought: “Maybe. If everything he said was true, it’s the sort of thing that would’ve gotten Larry’s water hot. I can see him going off the deep end about it.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“Connection to what?”
“Between the man they autopsied and Larry getting killed in the Tenderloin.”
Artie blinked the sleep from his eyes.
“That’s some stretch.” He suddenly wasn’t sure. “Larry did the autopsy and wrote up his notes. The next night he’s killed in the Tenderloin and his family disappears and his home is ransacked—carefully.” He frowned. “I don’t know. Because events happen in sequence doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a connection. Paschelke was with him. He knew as much as Larry did and he’s still alive.”
The roadside sign said another twenty miles to San Francisco.
“Larry believed the guy was something else, and Paschelke didn’t. That might make a difference.”
Artie was wide awake now. Despite the heater, it suddenly felt colder in the car.
“He didn’t believe it until we stopped by and told him about Larry being killed. Maybe he’s rethinking his position. There’s a chance we didn’t do him any favors asking him about it.”
He thought about it a moment longer.
“Imagine there
is
a connection. Say somebody knew the old man was … different … and didn’t want anybody else to know and went to extraordinary lengths to shut up the one man who did know and those he might have mentioned it to. But first he would have had to know that the driver was in an accident. Then he would have had to know that Larry had done the autopsy and made notes. After that, presumably, he followed Larry into the city, somehow sicced the dogs on him before he could talk to us at the meeting, and then went over to Oakland to kill the family or confiscate all the research—or erase it—or maybe both. Not to mention going through the fridge looking for little test tubes of DNA samples. That’s a lot for one man to do in one night.”
“Maybe he had help.”
“Sure, Mitch, maybe it was all a secret experiment of some sort. Larry found out and so the government had to get rid of him. They sure chose a strange way of doing it.”
“Larry’s dead, Artie. Don’t make jokes about it.”
Artie felt irritated.
“What difference does it make if Talbot was … unusual? Who the hell cares? So the cops called Cathy and she freaked, grabbed the kids, and went to a friend’s house or maybe a relative’s. What would you expect her to do? At the very least she’d be looking for comfort and somebody to help handle the kids. What’s so surprising that the diskette was erased and the hard drive was fucked up? The office was probably forbidden to the kids, which meant it was a huge attraction for them. So they played with the computer when nobody was around and they screwed it up. They wouldn’t have been the first kids to do that.”
“You’re trying too hard,” Mitch said quietly. And after a few miles more: “I guess I just can’t believe Larry’s dead. I don’t want to believe that was him on the table.” He changed the subject. “What about the diskette you found in his lab coat?”
Artie had forgotten about it. “You saw me?”
“‘The Shadow knows’—there was a mirror by the side door so Cathy could see who was coming.”
“I’ll give the diskette to the intern down at work to print out. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s Larry’s notes—we’ll find out. We ought to think about services for Larry. His parents are dead, but I know he had a brother or a cousin back East. And we should contact Cathy’s relatives … .”
“The ones she went to visit last night without even packing?” Mitch shook his head. “Sorry, Artie, promise.”
Artie wasn’t sleepy anymore and was sorry that he wasn’t. In his mind’s eye he kept seeing Larry crouched in the packing crate, trying to fight off three feral dogs.
“Paschelke was something else—to coin a phrase,” Mitch mused.
Artie didn’t answer. He had closed his eyes, but much as he wanted to, he couldn’t doze off.
“‘I’m a victim of soicumstance,’” Levin suddenly said, chuckling.
Artie opened one eye.
“Too easy, Mitch. That’s Curly.”
Artie picked up his car in the KXAM lot; he didn’t bother checking to see if Connie was working late. He’d see her in the morning and that would be too soon.
It was a little after ten when he got home. Mark had fallen asleep on the couch, a
Friends
rerun on the TV set. Artie didn’t wake him but went to the kitchen and ate half a bowl of cereal, then dumped the rest in the sink and walked out on the back porch. The rain had let up and it didn’t feel quite so cold.
He leaned his elbows on the railing and stared out over the city. They were on a hill, the porch three stories above Noe Street. It was a great view, one of the things that had decided him and Susan on buying the house. They had bought it in the early eighties and gotten it cheap. It was worth a lot more now—retirement money when the time came.
On the street below, a few young men were slogging through the drizzle to the bars around Castro and Market. Lonely people, he thought, everybody by themselves, almost nobody walking in pairs. They’d sit in a bar, get loaded, and pick up somebody at closing time so they wouldn’t have to spend the night alone.
He stared more intently at the sidewalk. Somebody was watching him from the street below, he thought, annoyed. Then the annoyance slipped easily from his mind and he went back to staring out over the city. It was one lousy time for Susan to go up north. Nobody should be alone on the holidays; nobody should have to be alone anytime. Too many people looked forward to going to work simply because they were surrounded by people they knew, then went home to TV dinners and their one reliable friend, the Tube.
To a part of Artie, it suddenly seemed like the air was alive with electricity. There were little crosscurrents of wind and whispers in the night. But most of him ignored the wind and the whispers and the tentative plucking at his mind, the twinges in the air around him.
Then a murmur in his mind, a bubble of thought.
that’s right … one fucking, depressing life
…
A part of Artie was suddenly frantic.
There was a flutter of wings a few feet above him, and he looked up to watch a gull wheeling by in the rainy night. If you had to settle for living, that would be the life he’d settle for. Just flap his wings and fly.
Only a faint sigh this time, a subtle urging.
go ahead … try it …
He wasn’t aware of climbing to the top of the railing that circled the porch and teetering on the edge, his arms outstretched. One step, he thought. One step off the railing to catch a rising air current and then he’d soar over the city like the gull.
“Dad!”
Somebody grabbed him around the waist and the next thing he.knew he was lying on the redwood deck of the porch, his face bruised and bleeding from smashing into the wooden planking. Mark was holding him, his T-shirt clinging limply to his chest, his hair plastered over his face from the rain. He must have lunged for Artie from his wheelchair, which was still in the doorway.
For a long moment Artie couldn’t even think. It was raining and he was wet and cold, though there seemed to be less electricity in the air. Just the wind and the rustle of the leaves and, somewhere in the night around him, a vague sense of surprise and disappointment.
“What? What the hell—”
“God
damm
it, Artie, you were standing on the railing! You were going to jump!”
Artie twisted around to stare at the railing. When had he made up his mind to go over? Or what had made it up for him?
He shivered. Larry had died because he’d found out something he shouldn’t have.
Now he knew part of what Larry had known and if it hadn’t been for Mark, he’d be dead too.
Which didn’t make any sense at all, because he didn’t know enough about the dead driver of the Saturn to believe or disbelieve—
Anything.
 
“This will hurt a
little,” Mark said. He’d wheeled his chair over to the sink and filled a basin with cold water, grabbed a washrag, and turned back to the kitchen table, where Artie was huddled in a chair clutching a cup of coffee. Mark soaked the rag in the water and wrung it out. “Lean back—I’ll wipe away the blood and pull out any splinters.”
It hurt like hell, but Artie held his head still and let Mark mop his face. He could feel Mark’s hands tremble. After a minute, Mark asked in a strained voice, “What happened out there?”
Mark was frightened, Artie thought. Afraid of what he’d just seen, afraid of
him.
He was probably convinced his father was losing it. What the hell did he tell Mark? Or did he tell him anything?
“I was staring out over the city and—Jesus, be careful with the goddamned rag!”
“Sorry.”
“I was staring out at the city and I was feeling depressed—” He stopped. It was coming out lame and weak and sounded more like an admission than he wanted it to be.
Mark didn’t meet Artie’s eyes. “You … can get help,” he said, picking his words, not sure what was appropriate.
Artie took a deep breath. “I wasn’t so depressed I wanted to go off the railing, for Christ’s sake.” He was talking to Mark like they were equals, something of a novel sensation, though it had to happen sometime. He picked up a dish towel and dabbed at his wet face. The towel came away streaked with blood, but he wasn’t bleeding too badly; no need to go to Emergency.
Mark rolled over to the sink to rinse out the washrag. “I knew you were going through a downer the last few days.” He was trying very hard to sound adult.
“Somebody was watching me from the street,” Artie said slowly. “They … got inside my head.” He started to shake with reaction.
Mark stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
Artie thought of telling him everything that had happened at the office when Connie had been off the wall, and then what Paschelke had told him and Mitch. But it was going to be tough enough trying to explain his sudden desire to imitate a seagull. He changed the subject.
“Larry Shea was killed last night. He was in the Tenderloin and a pack of dogs got him. Feral dogs.”
Mark was shocked, the expressions fleeing across his face like shadows.
“You can read about it in the morning paper,” Artie said. He got up from the chair, grimacing at the sudden pain. He’d twisted his leg when Mark had pulled him back from the railing and it hurt to walk. He limped over to the sliding doors that opened onto the rear porch. Mark wheeled after him, alarmed.
“What the hell you going to do?”
“I want to see if they’re still out there. I’ll be on guard this time.” He wondered if it would do any good even if he was.
It took all the courage he had to step back onto the porch and walk to the railing. But the evening was still, the rain a steady drizzle, the wind a quiet murmur in the trees. Artie shivered. Somewhere down the block a dog barked and then there was nothing but the small noises of the night. There was no sense of anybody on the street below, no feeling of being watched, no feeling of
something
slipping into his mind.
When he came back in, Mark wheeled over to the doors and locked them. “We’re in deep shit, aren’t we?”
“I may be, Mark—you aren’t.” He wondered if that was completely true. “I don’t know.” Artie suddenly ached with exhaustion. “Honest to God, I don’t know what the hell’s happening.” It was true, but it was an admission and he was ashamed because it made him sound weak in front of Mark.
Mark put a pot of coffee on the stove. “Sleep on the couch. I’ll take the first watch.” His voice was calmer now, his hand steadier when he lifted the pot.
“Against what?” Artie asked sarcastically.
Mark rolled to the desk and rummaged around in the bottom drawer where Artie kept his old army automatic. It had been special issue for Intelligence, small and easy to conceal, the grandfather of the Saturday night specials that soon followed. Not good for long range, deadly at short. “Neither of us knows, do we?” It was a brave, smart-ass answer and oddly cheering. Mark was sounding more like himself. And besides, he was right. Mark took out a magazine from another drawer. He loaded the gun quickly, efficiently.
“I told you never to go into the desk,” Artie said, surprised not so much that Mark knew where the gun was but at the obvious familiarity with which he handled it.
Mark hesitated. “You want me to put it back?”
“Hell, no.”
Artie stumbled over to the living room couch, only half aware when Mark spread the afghan over him. There was a lot of his mother in the boy, Artie thought, and right at the moment he was desperately grateful, though a sense of shame lingered. Mark was protecting him, not the other way around, and that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.
So much for a terrifying night, Artie thought, slipping off. The hard questions would come the next day, and he didn’t know how he was going to answer them. Or if he wanted to.
 
In the morning, they
ate in silence. Artie’s face hurt when he chewed, and he’d passed on shaving. Mark hunched over his bowl of cereal, not looking at him.
“You don’t want to tell me anything more?”
“Not at the moment, sport.” Mark was at the age where you first realize your parents have feet of clay, but there was no need to hurry the process. He wouldn’t be able to make sense of the truth, even if he was told it. On the other hand, if he asked a specific question, Artie knew he couldn’t lie to him.
“You going to call Mom?”
“Yeah. Find out how your grandfather is. And when your mother’s going to come home.” Christ, he wanted to talk to Susan so bad it hurt. He pushed aside his cup of coffee. No time like the present.
Five minutes later, he sat back down at the table and poured himself some more coffee. Mark had been watching him like a hawk, picking up on his end of the conversation and trying to fill in his mother’s end.
“She’s not coming back, is she?”
“Not right away. Your grandfather’s doing worse; she’s going to have to stay. She wants you to fly to Eureka as soon as possible. She’ll meet you there and drive you to Willow. She was pretty insistent.”
Mark went back to chasing the last Cheerio around the bottom of the bowl. “What about you?”
“This weekend. I’ll take some sick leave. I’m working on a project with Connie Lee, but she can carry it for a few days.”
Mark nodded. “I’ll go up with you. There’re two more days of school left and I want to finish. If you can wait until the weekend, so can I.”
Susan had been definite about that—she wanted Mark up there now. She hadn’t been nearly so definite about
him
.
“Your mother wants you today, sport.”
Mark’s face set. “I’ll go up with you,” he repeated.
He should make him go, Artie thought grimly. He’d told Susan about Larry Shea’s death without going into any of the details, but she’d sensed something in his voice. After fifteen years, she could read him all too well. She knew something was going on and she wanted Mark out of there.
Another milestone, Artie thought. When your son develops a mind of his own and he’s too big and too determined for you to use either force or argument.
“Suit yourself. We’ll drive up on the weekend.” Then, casually, “Stick around the house after school tonight.” Mark was popular; his friends from school were always driving over to pick him up. “And stay away from the porch.”
Mark hesitated and Artie would have bet he was going to say “I can take care of myself.” He probably wanted to, but they both knew he couldn’t.
“Sure, Artie.”
After the school van had left, Artie packed his briefcase for work. Touching, Artie thought. Mark had wanted to stay because he was worried about him. But not nearly as much as he was worried about Mark. He hesitated at the door, then turned and walked back to the living room, taking the automatic from the drawer where Mark had put it and slipping it into his pocket. From now on there would be very few places he would go without it.
On the way out he wondered if he should call Susan back, tell her that Mark would be coming up with him on the weekend. But that would be a long conversation, and right at the moment he wasn’t up to it. He’d call that night.
He got the car out of the garage, pausing a moment before getting in. There wasn’t the same presence he’d felt the night before. There was no electricity in the air, nobody trying to open his head like they might open an oyster.
But
something
was out there.
Something very watchful.
Something very still.
 
“Hey, Jerry, catch.”
Jerry Gottlieb plucked the floppy out of the air and glanced at it. “No name—mysterioso, right? What do you want me to do with it?”
Artie shucked out of his coat and threw it over his shoulder. “Print it out. Everything that’s on it.”
Jerry groaned. “One-point-four megs—that could be close to eight hundred pages.”
Artie made a guess. “It’s not full—maybe thirty, forty pages at best.”
“You got it, but don’t bug me for a while.” Gottlieb disappeared down the hallway to his own cubbyhole, which was jammed with printers and computer gear. Artie headed for the glass booth, where he could see Connie already at the desk, thumbing through some pages.
“You’re ten minutes late, Banks.” She said it with a smile, but Artie didn’t smile back and Connie looked uncomfortable. “I’m joking, Artie—just trying to make up for things.”
Artie hung his coat on a hook and pulled over a chair. “I hope you’re going to try harder than that.” An image of a seagull fluttered through his mind and he felt some of his anger evaporate. He had a very good idea of what Connie had gone through yesterday.
“So just what happened?” he asked, deliberately trying to keep his voice bland.
A light coating of sweat covered Connie’s forehead. “It’s getting hard to remember, Artie. I was talking to you and then … it was like somebody else was using my mouth and my tongue. I swear to God, it wasn’t me.”
“Somebody else,” Artie repeated, feigning skepticism.
“It sounds nuts, I know.” Connie nodded toward the newsroom on the other side of the glass and shivered. “I thought … I don’t know what I thought. I talked with Security to find out if we had any visitors. The usual messengers and such and then one guy who signed in from our ad agency. Nobody checked—who would? I called the agency and they’d never heard of him.”
“What’d he look like?”
She shrugged. “The guard didn’t remember anything. Just a guy in a coat. Not skinny, not fat, not tall, not short. Had hair, don’t ask what color. He signed out shortly after you left.”
“Nobody else saw a stranger in the newsroom?”
“Nobody I talked to.” She shivered again. “Fucking creepy … Look, Artie, it wasn’t me. I swear to God.”
Artie got out his own pad of paper. There was nothing he could do, not until the Grub came back with the printout. And there was still the series. Probably a saving grace, take their minds off everything that had happened.
Connie shivered for the last time and penciled something on her tablet. “I think I know how to go with it. Extinctions.”
Artie looked up, suspicious. Connie shook her head, her expression gray. “It’s still me.” She cleared her throat. “Extinctions,” she repeated.
“What about them?”
She hunched forward over the desk, as if she were about to confide a secret. “Whole species are dying, Artie, and more of them are endangered. More extinctions are happening now than since the dinosaurs vanished. There’ve been five big extinctions before this—this is the sixth.” She hesitated a moment, trying to read the expression on his face, then continued, a little defensive. “People are the cause; there’re too many of us. Nobody’s covered it except the science shows. And it gives us an overall view.”
Even though Connie sounded like the old Connie, it still wasn’t quite her, Artie thought. The old Connie would go for the immediate: the spotted owl, the whatever-you-call-it frog. Not for the philosophy of it, not for the big picture. She usually went for the little things that could give the viewer a perspective on the whole. Like the image of a child rooting around in a Dumpster for a feature on hunger among the homeless.
“You
have
been boning up, haven’t you, Connie?”
She looked blank. “I don’t follow you.”
“When did you first think of ‘extinctions’?”
She put her pad down on the table and looked out at the newsroom. “When I was talking to you yesterday,” she said slowly. “I was going to bring it up but you were getting angry and I didn’t want to push it.” She turned back to Artie. “But whether I thought of it or … somebody gave me the idea, I thought it was worth following up on. So I had the Grub search the Internet.”

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