Aaron Elkins - Fellowship Of Fear

From the way he spoke-slowly and reassuringly, as if he were talking to a child-Gideon knew his own rapidly dimming faculties were apparent. As patently deceptive as his instructions were, Gideon longed to follow them. The pain in his face and his ankle was excruciating, his mind was growing more cloudy each second-he must have lost a lot of blood-and the world was beginning to tilt and slowly spin. He wanted terribly to sit down, but he held on and kept the gun pressed into Marco’s ribs, though he swayed on his feet.

"How tiresome," said the cool voice. "Well, old boy, you know perfectly well you’re not really going to shoot."

Gideon was having a hard time seeing. He blinked, trying to focus his vision. Suddenly the gun was no longer in his hand. The world turned entirely upside down, and he found himself sitting on the ground at last. He couldn’t imagine where Marco had gone.

The slender man was no longer smiling. He said a few quick words to the other one, who moved toward Gideon, stony-faced. Dimly, Gideon understood he was going to be shot. He sighed and waited, his mind empty.

A light, much more powerful than a flashlight, flicked on from the bridge, capturing them all in its fierce glare.

"Drop the gun! Quick!"

The older man spun and flashed his light at the voice. Gideon saw a familiar face lit up. Now who was it? Let’s see…it wasn’t anyone in his family, not Dad or Saul. Was it one of the kids he played around with?… Um, no, because it was a man, and his friends were only kids. Or maybe it was himself? He giggled. How did his face get so wet?

There was more shouting, and other noises too, but they were a long way off, booming and slow, like a record played at the wrong speed. He giggled again. What was Mom going to say about his dirty clothes?…And how did his face get so wet?

The nurse-large, clean, and handsome-bustled in carrying a tray and exuding a take-charge aura as welcome and natural in Sigonella Naval Hospital as it would have been in Kansas City General.

"Well, how’s my favorite patient? Were we taking a little nap? Wake up, sleepyhead. Lunchtime!"

"I can hardly wait," said Gideon, but he was glad to see her. "What color straw do I get today? Can I have yellow again? The kind that bends?"

"No straws today. Doctor says you’re on solids now. What do you think of that?" She put the bed tray down in front of him. There was a bowl of dark gray porridge, a cup of light gray pudding, and a glass of milk.

"These are solids?"

"Well, they’re not liquids. Would you believe mushies?"

"I’ll take ‘em. I’m hungry. Which feels very nice." He raised himself to a sitting position.

"We have to be careful with the spoon, now. Try to keep it away from the left side. Your cheek’s going to be a teeny bit tender yet. Oh, you have a visitor. He’ll be in after you eat."

"Who is it, Sue?"

"Name’s John Lau. Nice guy. Says he’s an old friend."

"Old friend" was stretching things a little, but only a little, under the circumstances. "Can’t you send him in now? I mean, of course, if the rules permit."

"They don’t, but I’ll make an exception, seeing as how you’re going to be such a good boy and eat up all the nice glop."

A few seconds after she left the room, the big policeman walked in with a twinkling smile that was good for Gideon’s soul.

"What’s up, Doc?"

"I don’t believe it," Gideon said. "What are you doing in Sicily? Or am I back in Germany?"

"No such luck; you’re in sunny Italy." As always, John’s babylike laugh made Gideon laugh too. Then he winced; the stitches had come out just that morning.

"Hey, I’m sorry, Doc. You want the nurse again?"

"No. It only hurts when I laugh." He held up his hand quickly. "Also when you laugh."

John smiled, which was better. "Don’t let me stop you from eating. It looks wonderful."

"I’ll tell you, it’s the closest thing to real food I’ve had since the shore patrol deposited me here Friday. Five days. Have a seat." He dug into the porridge and gingerly put the spoon in his mouth. Sue was right; it was still pretty raw in there.

John made a face. "What is that stuff?"

"I don’t know. Gruel, probably."

"Nah, gruel’s thinner." John watched in good-humored silence as Gideon worked his way through the porridge, which tasted wonderful. With hot food in him and a friendly face nearby, he was starting to feel nearly human again.

"Boy," John said happily, "you sure look like hell."

Gideon put down his spoon. He hadn’t seen himself since the bandages had come off. "I sure feel like hell. I may as well see the worst. How about handing me the mirror on the bureau there?"

John gave it to him. "You’ll be sorry."

"Holy mackerel," said Gideon, "look at that." It had taken twenty stitches to pull together the jagged tear at the junction of his upper and lower lips, and six to close a cut at the side of his left eye, probably from when he’d banged his head on the bridge support. There were another four stitches over his right eye (Marco’s flashlight?) and several nasty contusions that had left most of his face brown, black, and purple. Add to this a patchy five-day beard, and Gideon was surprised that he was feeling as well as he was, which wasn’t all that good.

John replaced the mirror. "How about the ankle?" he asked.

"Looks worse than it is," Gideon said, indicating the protuberance at the end of the bed formed by a metal framework that kept the covers off his foot. "Sprained a couple of ligaments. I’m supposed to be up tomorrow, but I’ll have to use a cane for a while."

"Well, Doc, you sure get involved in some pretty strange situations for a nice, mild-mannered professor-type."

"Amazingly enough, the same thought has been occurring to me. The Curse of the Visiting Fellow, no doubt."

"The curse of the who?"

"You don’t know? It’s an honorary curse; goes along with my position. The last fellow, two semesters ago, got killed in a car accident, and the one before that disappeared. Or maybe I have them backwards."

John took his notebook from the flap pocket of his shirt and wrote in it. "Go ahead," he said.

"That’s all. Dr. Rufus told me about it… the chancellor. He was sort of embarrassed to have me even know about it; he didn’t exactly gush with information."

John nodded. Gideon saw him print "Rufus" in the notebook. "Okay, Doc. Look, if this keeps up, you’re gonna get killed-or kill someone else, more likely. Let’s try to find out what the hell is going on. Now, I’ve seen the police reports and the transcripts of your statements, and I still have some big questions-"

"Wait a minute, John. I’ve got some pretty big questions myself. I’d like to ask them first, if that’s okay."

"Shoot." He flipped the notebook closed and dropped it into his pocket.

"First of all, what are you doing here, really?"

John’s injured surprise was clearly genuine. "Hey, look, you’ve been assaulted with intent to kill. That’s a crime, you know, even here, and I’m a cop."

"I know, I know, but why you? This is over a thousand miles from Heidelberg. Aren’t there any other cops? And why is this a NATO security matter at all? Why not the local MPs?"

John tipped his chair back against the wall. "Let me put it this way: USOC is my beat. The agreement they have with the army calls for protection for the faculty wherever they send you guys. And since the only places they send you are NATO bases, it’s natural that NSD has the responsibility. Traveling is no problem for us. We just hop a MAC flight."

"Why do we need protection at all? And why can’t the local military police handle it?" Gideon asked again.

"Believe me, it’s a lot simpler than negotiating with the local security people every time you go some place, and explaining who and what you are, which isn’t always so easy. You’re not military, you’re not civil service, you’re not tech reps-and you go to some pretty weird places."