ONCE I’D SEEN SARAH off to work and was dressed, I hopped into Trixie’s car (I had to sort out this business of getting my car back from Kelton, maybe on the weekend) and drove to Bayside Park. I pulled into the same spot I’d been in three days earlier. I didn’t feel the need, this time, to put Lawrence on alert. The first time, I didn’t quite know what to expect from Brian Sandler, but felt confident now that he posed no personal risk to me.
I looked out over the lake, switched on the radio. It was a phone-in show, where everyday nincompoops got to sound off on important political matters because it was considerably cheaper to produce a radio show that relied on nincompoops rather than people who actually knew what they were talking about.
We’d agreed to meet at nine, and I’d arrived five minutes early. I’d brought along a notebook to take down more information from him, as well as the scrap of paper on which I’d jotted down his various phone numbers.
I wondered what the hell I was doing.
I was on suspension. I wasn’t even sure I was going back. Yet here I was, waiting to meet with a man who had a hell of a story to tell, a story that couldn’t help but end up getting splashed across page one. Provided, of course, Bertrand Magnuson allowed me to write it.
My original thinking had been that I could use this story as leverage to get my job back. And not just any job, but my feature-writing job in the newsroom.
But there was another person who could use some help restoring a reputation and getting back into the newsroom. I could take all this stuff I was getting from Brian Sandler and hand it over to Sarah. Let her write it, take the credit, get the hell out of Home!
I’d have to tell Sandler, of course. I didn’t want to mislead him. I’d tell him about the suspension, but not to worry, my wife was a seasoned journalist. She’d been an investigative reporter before moving up the ranks and becoming an editor. She’d do a better job putting this story together than I would, truth be known.
That’s what I’d tell Sandler.
If he ever showed up.
I glanced at the digital dashboard clock. It was 9:15. Okay, not really late. There were any number of reasons why he might be fifteen minutes late.
But it was harder to explain being thirty minutes late.
At 9:31 a.m. I dug out the slip of paper with Sandler’s phone numbers on it. With my own cell phone, I tried his cell. It rang four times, then went to his voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Next, I tried his line at the city health department, and again, I got his voicemail. I wasn’t interested in leaving a message there, either. The only number I had left for him was home, and I punched it in.
After three rings, I figured no one was going to answer, but after the fourth, someone picked up.
“Hello.” Quiet, sullen. A young voice, it sounded like. Male.
“Hi. I’m looking for Brian? Brian Sandler?”
“Who’s calling?”
Should I say? Had Sandler told anyone he was talking to me, that he’d made arrangements to speak to a (suspended) writer from the Metropolitan?
“Just a friend,” I said.
“Well, he’s not here. This is his son. Can I help you?”
“Maybe you could tell me where I could reach him. I have his cell and office numbers, and tried both of them, but he’s not picking up.”
“He’s in the hospital,” the son said.
“What? When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What happened? Is he sick? Was he in an accident?”
The boy paused. “He got all burned.”
My stomach felt weak. “I’m so sorry. Listen, is your mother there? Could I speak to her please?”
“My mom’s at the hospital. Me and my sister are waiting for my uncle and then he’s going to take us to see him.”
“Which hospital?”
“The Mercy one?”
“Okay. Listen, I hope your dad gets better real soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
I put the phone in my pocket, turned the ignition, and drove from Bayside Park to Mercy General Hospital. I parked in one of the short-term metered spots near the emergency entrance and ran into the building, approached the information desk.
“Brian Sandler,” I said. “He would have been admitted yesterday?”
I was directed to the west wing of the third floor, room 361. When the elevator doors opened, I got my bearings, saw which way the room numbers were running, went down the end of one hall, hung left down another, and found the room. It would have been difficult to miss.
It was the one with a cop posted at the door.
“Is this Brian Sandler’s room?” I asked the officer. He gave me half a nod. “Look, my name’s Zack Walker, I’m with the Metropolitan. Technically, at the moment I’m sort of on a leave, but Mr. Sandler and I were supposed to meet this morning, and when he didn’t show up I called his home and found out he was here. What’s happened to him?”
“Sorry,” said the cop, “but I’m not authorized to make any comment, I’m just keeping out visitors.”
“Why are you here? They usually put you guys on the door if you think the patient’s going to try to escape or you think someone’s going to come in here and kill him.”
“Look, pal, if you need a quote or something from somebody, you’ll have to get it from the detective in charge or public relations.”
“Is Sandler’s wife here?”
“She’s off talking to the doctor someplace. She’ll probably be back in a bit.”
I glanced through the half-open door, saw a pair of hands that looked like they were inside enormous white oven mitts. Half of Sandler’s face was shielded by the privacy curtain, but the half that was visible was covered in bandages, except for one eye, which was closed.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “What did they do to him?” The cop kept his lip shut. “Just off the record, what the hell happened to him?”
The cop considered whether to speak, then said, “Someone put this guy’s face and hands into a goddamn fucking deep fryer. It’s a wonder he’s still alive. When they get the bandages off his face and he has a look in the mirror, he’ll be sorry he survived.”
“Is he able to talk at all?”
“Be a lot easier if he had lips. They haven’t been able to get much out of him so far.”
“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” I said. “I need to talk to him, or her, or whoever it is.” I didn’t have much doubt who was behind this, and I was more than happy to tell all.
The cop dictated a name and number, which I scribbled into my notebook. I thanked him and headed back to my car. Driving home, I dialed the number he’d given me.
“Hi. This is Detective Herlich. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
“Yeah, hi, my name is Zack Walker and I think I can tell you what happened to Brian Sandler. Look, I’m heading home, I’ll give you that number.” Which I did, and broke off.
Sandler’s instincts were right. His boss, Ellinger, must have suspected Sandler was up to something after he’d dropped by his office and asked all those questions. And then, and I was guessing here but it all seemed to make sense, Ellinger put in a call to the Gorkins, who brought Sandler in for a visit with the deep fryer.
I imagined Mrs. Gorkin and her girls must have had a few questions for him before they dunked him into the sizzling grease. Like what he was up to, whether he was going to play along, whether he was going to the police.
Whether he was going to the media.
Shit.
I decided that when I got home, I would put in a call to Lawrence Jones. Get a few tips on how to watch my back. Maybe drop enough hints, act frightened enough, that he’d come over and babysit me until I told Detective Herlich everything I knew about the Gorkins and Sandler. Herlich was welcome to hear the audio file as well. Wouldn’t take long, once he had all of that, I figured, before arrest warrants would be sworn out for the Gorkins, they’d be in custody, and I could let Lawrence go home and listen to his jazz collection or surprise philandering husbands in motel rooms.
I parked Trixie’s car in our driveway, got out my keys as I mounted the front porch steps, and opened the front door.
The twins were on me in an instant.
I spotted the one on the stairs first, and would have turned to run, but her clone had been hiding behind the door and slammed it shut once I stepped inside. She came up behind me and encircled me in her meaty, pasty white arms while the other one came at me like I was in a bullring waving a red flag.
I tightened the muscles in my stomach when I saw the fist coming, but I am not exactly a hundred-crunches-a-day kind of guy, and when she drove her hand into me I turned into a rag doll. The one holding me let go and I dropped to the floor, desperately trying to catch my breath.
“Oh God oh God oh God,” I said.
It took a moment before I was able to breathe again, but even once I had air going in and out of my lungs, I didn’t have the strength to get back up. I rolled over onto my back and saw that the twins had now been joined by their mother, who looked down contemptuously at me.
“Where is file?” she asked me.
“Give me a sec,” I said, still gasping. “I can barely breathe.”
“Give him minute, Momma,” said one of the twins.
I had a moment now to take them all in. The three of them standing there, looking like a trio of line-backers without the helmets. All short and squat and one of them getting on a bit in years, but no less threatening than the other two. Mrs. Gorkin, gray hair brushed back, hooknosed, a bit of hair on her upper lip, wore a drab dress that would have showed its grease stains to more advantage if it weren’t black.
The twins, both around five feet, about four hundred pounds between them, had short, bristly blonde hair. They were both in jeans, one in a red sweater, the other in blue.
I sat up, waved a finger at the twins. “So, who’s who here?”
The one in the red sweater said, “I am Ludmilla.”
The one in the blue sweater said, “I am Gavrilla.”
Ludmilla said, “We are twins.”
I nodded. “Ludmilla. Gavrilla.” I turned and looked at their mother. “And Mrs. Gorkin. Nice to see you again.” I took another breath. “I’d just like to say, right now, that I’m really, really sorry about what happened at your place the other day. My son, he seemed to think there might be something wrong with the burgers, and some people heard us talking, and, well, you know the rest. So I can totally understand you being upset about that. Believe me, if I had it to do all over again, I’d just forget about it.”
Mrs. Gorkin said, “We are not here about dat.”
I feigned bafflement. “Well, I don’t suppose you’re here to offer my son his job back.”
Mrs. Gorkin said, “Stop being stupid!”
“I’m not trying to be stupid. I’m just trying to figure out what it is you want.” I’d always thought playing dumb came naturally to me, but Mrs. Gorkin didn’t seem to be buying it.
“Momma wants the file,” said Ludmilla.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. The thing is, I didn’t care if they had the file. I was more worried about what they might do to me if they knew I’d heard it.
“The man,” said Gavrilla. “The man who was going to talk to you. He sent a file to you. That you could hear.”
“Where is computer?” Mrs. Gorkin asked.
“My computer?” I said. “It’s up in my study. Upstairs. Help yourself to it.” It wasn’t like I had a nearly finished novel sitting in it. Cart it away, I thought.
“Upstairs,” Mrs. Gorkin said, “you take us.”
I shook my head like I didn’t know what she was talking about but was happy to indulge her little whims. Once I was on my feet, I took another couple of breaths. I realized now it was Gavrilla who’d held me, and Ludmilla who’d thrown the punch. It felt as though her fist was still in my stomach.
“This way,” I said, leading them up the stairs to the study. “Honestly, I don’t know what it is you’re going on about.”
“Shut the mouth,” said Mrs. Gorkin, giving me a shove from behind.
“Who’s running Burger Crisp?” I asked, just making conversation. It wouldn’t be long before the lunchtime crowd showed up. “Shouldn’t you be there? You want, I could bring the computer by.”
“We have people,” said Ludmilla. “Better than your stupid son.”
I led them into the study and took a seat in front of my computer. Mrs. Gorkin had her eyes on me, but the girls took a quick look around the room, taking in my various items of SF kitsch.
“Look!” said Ludmilla. “Wonder Woman!”
“Neat!” said Gavrilla, taking the busty superhero from the shelf. “Look, her arms move. She even has a little lasso.”
Mrs. Gorkin was not interested in Wonder Woman. “Show me where you have da files,” she said.
“I’ve got all kinds of files,” I said. “What kind of files did you have in mind?”
Ludmilla came up behind me. “Open your e-mail. Momma wants to see the e-mail.”
I did as I was asked, Ludmilla peering over my shoulder. She smelled of fries. “Go to Inbox,” she said, and I did. “There it is,” she said, pointing to the one labeled “Brian Sandler.”
“I don’t hear anyting,” said Mrs. Gorkin.
“Click on it,” said Ludmilla. “Momma doesn’t understand computers very well.” I clicked on the e-mail, and then, at Ludmilla’s instruction, the attached audio file.
And a moment later, the conversation between Brian Sandler and Frank Ellinger was coming out of the speakers.
“Dat is it!” said Mrs. Gorkin. “You say you not know what I’m talking about!”
“I didn’t know you meant this file,” I said. “Do you have any idea how many files I have?”
“Okay, kill da file,” she said.
“I’ll do it, Momma,” Gavrilla said, dragging me out of the chair and taking my place at the keyboard. I hoped she wouldn’t notice the tiny arrow attached to Sandler’s message, indicating that it had been forwarded to Lawrence Jones.
Gavrilla highlighted the e-mail, hit Delete, and it disappeared.
“Is gone?” Mrs. Gorkin said.
“I have to empty all the items in the Trash file,” Gavrilla said, switching to the Trash box. She highlighted all the items, hit Delete again, and they vanished from the screen. But she’d neglected to go to Sent Items, where the message to Lawrence sat.
“There we go, Momma,” Gavrilla said.
“Okay, now we smash it,” Mrs. Gorkin said. “So no one ever sees it.”
“Uh, we don’t have to do that, Momma,” said Ludmilla.
“I smash it!” Mrs. Gorkin said, and grabbed a stapler off the desk and used it to shatter the computer monitor. Shards of glass littered the top of my desk.
To me, Ludmilla said, almost apologetically, “Momma doesn’t understand that it could still be there in the computer. She thinks, you smash the screen, it’s gone.”
I smiled. “That’s sweet,” I said. “So, you’ve done what you came to do, the file is gone, so don’t even worry about the monitor, I can get another one of those. Don’t worry about it.”
“You come,” said Mrs. Gorkin. “Come to restaurant.” She smiled, showing off a brown, crooked tooth. “We make you lunch.”
“Listen,” I said, “that would be great, but I have this thing I have to go to. Maybe, later, I could drop by. Love to get an order of fries. Honestly, terrific fries.”
Gavrilla had hold of my arm. “Momma wants you to come with us.”
I had a mental image of Brian Sandler, the twins dipping his hands in first, then pushing his face into the fryer. If I could just break free of Gavrilla’s arm, get out the study door and down the stairs, I could be out the front door in a shot. The girls were strong, but they didn’t look as though they were built for speed. I was sure I could outrun them.
Then Mrs. Gorkin pulled some sort of short-barreled pistol from the bag hanging over her shoulder. “You come back with us,” she said, pointing the weapon at me. I could outrun the twins, but a bullet was something else altogether.
The phone rang.
I looked at Mrs. Gorkin. “I should answer that,” I said.
“No, it can ring,” she said.
“But there are people who are expecting me to be here, who might wonder why I’m not coming to the phone.”
“The bullsheet,” said Mrs. Gorkin. “You could be in bathroom, having crap. Let it ring.”
And it rang. Once, twice, three times. And then it went to the machine.
“Hi, Mr. Walker? This is Detective Herlich returning your call about the Brian Sandler investigation. Feel free to try me again, or I may try you again, too.”
The message ended. Mrs. Gorkin looked very displeased with me. “So you don’t know anyting. But you call police to tell dem what you don’t know?”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. Especially with the pistol pointed at me.
“We go back,” Mrs. Gorkin said. “Ludmilla, go down street and bring up car.”
We were going down the stairs, Gavrilla in front, then me, followed by Ludmilla and Mrs. Gorkin, when there was a knock at the front door. Everyone froze.
“Sheet,” whispered Mrs. Gorkin.
It couldn’t be Sarah, I figured. There was no reason for her to come home late morning from work. Paul was at school, Angie at college. But whoever it was, it presented an opportunity. Maybe, if the Gorkins allowed me to answer it, I could mouth “Help!” Roll my eyes, nod my head back into the house, somehow indicate that I was in a great deal of trouble.
“I should see who it is,” I said, turning and looking at Mrs. Gorkin.
Another knock. Harder, more insistent. Maybe it was Detective Herlich. No, that made no sense. He’d only just called. Unless he’d called from his car. Maybe he was out front.
Yes. Let it be Detective Herlich.
“Really,” I said. “Just let me answer it. I’ll get rid of them.”
“You girls,” Mrs. Gorkin whispered. “You get on sides of door.” To me, she said, “I stay up here on stairs. Have gun. You be stupid, I shoot you.”
“Of course,” I said.
Gavrilla cleared the way for me to get down the rest of the stairs, then she and her sister hid on either side of the door.
There was another knock. Whoever wanted me to answer it was banging it with his fist now. Would a cop bang a door like that?
I approached the door, my heart pounding. I took hold of the knob, turned it, and opened the door wide.
It took me a moment to recognize him. Even though I’d heard so much about him, I’d only seen him once in person, at the stun gun demonstration.
Gary Merker. Arms down at his side, one hand, his right one, held slightly behind his back. Beyond him, in the driveway, I could see an old Ford pickup with one adult in it, on the passenger side, and possibly a child in the middle.
“You Zack Walker?” he said.
“Uh,” I said, wondering how much crazier things could get. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Then Gary Merker raised his right arm, and I saw that there was something gun-like in it, but not a gun exactly.
Okay, now I knew what it was. A stun gun.
Merker squeezed the trigger, and then I had, and I hope you’ll forgive me for this, the most shocking experience of my entire fucking life.