Pearce Hansen - Stagger Bay

Nobody said anything for a while – the stenographer stared straight ahead with her languid fingers poised idle above the keys of her livelihood. The internal mechanism of the camcorder whirred as it continued recording my deposition for posterity.

“I couldn’t let them die alone, could I?” I blurted out to the friendlier looking cops, surprising even myself at that failure in self control. “I had to make them think someone was coming to save them, maybe make them a little less scared even if they wereall doomed, right?”

The Chief nodded after a few seconds and then stood. “Perhaps it is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, it does not even matter – but I know the Beardsley kill by heart, and I know you did not do it. And now the wonderful science of DNA has brought you back to us.”

He smiled at me. “Welcome home Markus. I know I speak for everyone here.”

“What was her name?” I asked the Chief, as he shook my hand preparatory to leaving with his entourage of media recorders. “The woman officer they shot at the school, I mean. The one driving.”

“Her name was Kendra Tubbs.”

Most of the force stood in line after that to shake my hand as well. I figured I could probably jaywalk with impunity in Stagger Bay for a little while.

Not all the cops stopped to pay homage however. Some left without even looking my way, apparently having more important business to attend to than pressing flesh with the likes of me.

My scowling friend in the corner waited until everyone else had left the room and we were alone before coming over to stand next to my bed, mad-dogging down at me with baleful eyes. He’d been drinking and the smell of cheap beer wafted off him. Seeing his face without the Stetson pulled down to conceal it, I saw he’d forgotten to shave for a day or three; his lower lip stuck out from the load of dip he had parked there.

This guy was a rough cob, the kind of thick-skulled hard-knuckled redneck I’d always given full respect and attention to when I’d had to bump chests with them back in the day. He was a dirty fighter born and bred, a man who would have you spitting plenty teeth if you weren’t careful.

“You’ve sure got all those rookies from out of town fooled, but I’ve got your number,” he said. “You’re right in my sights, bub.

“So you didn’t kill the Beardsleys? So you saved those kids? Point of fact, you’re just as bad as those animals you killed at the school – you were just fighting on the right side for the first and only time.”

“Does this mean you don’t want my autograph?” I asked.

A sudden expression of agony writhed across his face for an instant before disappearing, but not in reaction to my feeble wisecrack. “Why’d she have to die, and not you?” he asked, even as his sneer returned.

He spat again but his accuracy was curiously inexpert, as the brown juice completely missed his can and instead stained my blanket in a widening pool of brown. Strangely, I felt no urge to comfort him. As he left, I didn’t beg him to stay.

Hoffman stuck his head around the corner, aiming that submissive smile at the floor until he gave me a semi-direct glance and saw the expression on my face. He squinted back down the hall in the direction my newfound buddy had gone, then nodded to himself before coming in.

“Markus, I like you just fine, please believe that. I understand you. But not everyone in this town appreciates you as much as I do; they don’t know you at all.”

“So who the hell is he?” I asked Hoffman. “And what’s his beef with me?”

“His name’s Reese. And the female officer who died behind the wheel, the one you watched shot? That was his fiancée. They were going to be married next week.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, his feelings for her are certainly understandable, but I think you’re probably right – he and I ain’t going to be very close.”

“Excuse me, Markus?” A man stood by my hospital room door. He looked to be Chinese, with an expensive haircut, an Armani suit, and a watch the price of which could have fed a third world village for a decade. “I’m here to do you the biggest favor of your life. May I speak to you for a moment?”

“My card, Markus,” he said, handing me an elegantly embossed rectangle of bone-white pasteboard.

He took a step back away from my space. His coat was unbuttoned and open; his hands were at his sides with empty palms facing me, fingers spread. His face was blandly polite but he was reading me like human radar, receptive and open to my every mood – this guy was slick as snot.

The card read ‘Alden Wong,’ followed by contact info: cellie, fax, and email – no more. I gave him a questioning look and he smiled:

“I’m a PR man, Markus, an agent. I negotiate and make deals: sell, promote, maximize distribution, whatever makes money for my client. I’m the best there is at what I do,” he said.

He leaned toward me, clasping his hands together in front of him. “Have you given any thought on how to take advantage of your current situation?”

“I just want to be left in peace and left alone,” I said. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I know you didn’t, Markus. But you’re a bona fide national hero – and Lord knows America is starved for heroes these days. Like it or not you’re part of something bigger now, and they figure you belong to them,” Alden said, nodding toward the outside world.

“Cameras are going to follow you, Markus. Microphones are going to be stuck in your face wherever you go. The media will hound you; the public will want to see you, to know who you are.

“You’ll have interview requests from newspapers, from television networks. It’s going to happen – your only choice is in how you use it, how you consume this energy. Are you ready for that kind of attention?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not. Okay, so my face and name are bouncing around right now. But it’ll be a flash in the pan – I’ll endure my fifteen minutes of fame, and then they’ll all lose interest.”

Alden stepped closer and looked at me with eyes wide and brows lifted. “That’s my point. We have to strike while the iron is hot, and that’s what I do best: I’ll make a better fifteen minutes of fame for you, with a fatter financial reward for your actions.”

“I’ll have you on daytime, primetime, and late night. I’ll get you on syndicated and satellite radio,” he said. “I’ll get you book contracts and movie deals, athletic gear and men’s cologne sponsorships; I’ll put you on the lecture circuit and have you do mall openings. You’ll have lunch at the White House and maybe even throw the opening pitch at the World Series – hell, I’ll have you giving seminars on close combat tactics at Quantico, and at Coronado for the Teams. The possibilities are endless, if you’re interested.”

“I’m sure you mean well,” I said. “But can’t you see I hate this kind of attention?”

Alden pursed his lips and shifted gears. “That was a noble thing you did that day, Markus. I’m here to tell you, you deserve to get paid – and I’m going to make you a lot of money. You’ve got it coming – I know you’ve been through a lot, the false imprisonment thing and all.”

“That’s the past,” I said. “It’s not even worth talking about.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Alden said. “Seems to me a man with a background like yours has a lot to talk about: the kind of childhood you must have had, and being an innocent man in prison like so many others. About doing what you did in a situation where you had no chance at all, and pulling it out of your hat like that. If you do this with me, you’ll have the biggest soap box in the world to speak your piece from.”