Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

The office was locked, and a small sign told him to ring the bell. He brushed off the small accumulation of snow and pressed the buzzer. He felt a mind stir and a mumbled curse. A moment later, the handle buzzed, and Reisch pulled open the glass door.

“Evening,” said the portly, balding man in a blue T-shirt, with about as much interest as someone scheduling a dental appointment. He collected some papers and pushed them towards Reisch as he stepped up to the desk. “One night?” He had a large anchor tattooed across his left bicep. It covered a once well-muscled arm, which now sagged as much as his belly.

“Yes,” answered Reisch. Brevity served his purpose as well. He quietly filled out the reservation form. His right hand had recovered enough to use the pen that was chained to the desk, but the going was slow. The fat man watched impatiently with bored eyes. Reisch almost laughed out loud when his mind saw the TV dinner and the game show that waited for the surly clerk in the next room.

“Sixty-two fifty,” the man said, taking the forms that Reisch had filled out. He accepted the money from the German and quickly gave him his change and a key. “Room 127. Out the door, turn right, halfway down.” He stacked and filed the papers, and then as an afterthought said, “Checkout is at eleven.” Before Reisch could turn, the man had disappeared behind the office door.

Room 127 was exactly what he had expected. Threadbare carpet, cheap furniture, a smell of industrial-strength disinfectant, and an overly hard mattress. The television worked, and he turned it to the network news. Most of the bulletin was about the assassination of the governor. Reisch stripped the bed linen and lay fully dressed on the mattress while waiting for the local news. Twenty minutes later, the local news from Denver began. Again, it was almost all about the dead governor, but near the end of the allotted thirty minutes, the beautiful brunette newscaster switched to something more of interest to Reisch.

“There was other news today. An elderly man was found dead outside of his Colorado Springs home early this morning. Eighty-two-year-old George Van Der was discovered by neighbors just before seven. The police have described the circumstances surrounding his death as suspicious.”

Reisch was impressed with the woman’s ability to look both serious and seductive while describing murder.

“Since the first of the year, there have now been thirty-one murders in and around Colorado Springs. In a related story, a man is being sought for questioning in connection with the death of Mr. Van Der, as well as for an assault on a Colorado Springs patrolman.”

Two black and white sketches filled the screen, and with little surprise, Reisch recognized his own face. The image on the right showed him in a hat with dark glasses, but the one on the left was a dead-on likeness.

“. . stable condition with undisclosed injuries. The assailant is described as being six feet five inches, two hundred pounds, and wearing a black overcoat and pants. He was last seen driving a stolen black late-model BMW. The police ask that if anyone has seen this individual, they contact the Colorado Springs Police Department, or the Colorado State Police.” The brunette had reappeared, and two phone numbers floated beneath her. “This individual is considered armed and extremely dangerous and should not be approached.”

“Mandy, do the police have any comment on this unprecedented outbreak of violence?” The venerable, white-haired anchor set up his sexy co-anchor.

“Well John, as you know, the local, state, and federal authorities have been looking into this problem for a while now, and they admit to being stumped. Usually, this type of violence indicates a gang or drug problem, but that’s simply not the case here. What we are seeing are previously normal citizens suddenly becoming extremely violent. The Colorado Health Department has also looked into this, but they haven’t been able to provide an explanation either. At this current rate, Colorado Springs will log more murders this year than Chicago, New York, Philadelphia, and of course, Denver.” She managed to maintain both her grave look and the sparkle in her eyes.

“Pueblo is not that far from Colorado Springs, Mandy. Any speculation that the governor’s assassination may be related?”

“We do know that Peter Bilsky had spent time in Colorado Springs as late as three weeks ago, but no one is commenting on a connection.”

Reisch didn’t care about the Governor; the sketches were a different matter though. Under normal conditions, he could project any appearance he wanted, but he wasn’t in a normal condition. “Sleep, that’s all I need,” he said, closing his eyes for the third time in twenty-four hours.

It was late, and Martin was surprised to see so many people out walking the neat sidewalks. They flashed by at three times the legal speed limit, but no one seemed to be bothered by it. In fact, no one seemed to even notice. The Suburban braked suddenly, and Martin strained against the shoulder harness. The big vehicle turned sharply to the right, and he was squeezed against the door. McDaniels sat comfortably, convincing Martin that marines really were immune to the laws of physics. The driver accelerated for a moment and then once again braked sharply. Martin lurched forward as the lead vehicle stopped in front of a large, well-lit brick wall, where they waited only long enough for an oversized wrought-iron gate to swing open, and then both trucks were off again. They raced down a lane lined with tall, well-tended ivy hedges, and even if there had been enough light, Martin doubted he would have seen anything more than just a blur of green.

A half mile later, the driver finally pried his foot off the accelerator and expertly coasted to a stop in front of a large Tudor manor. Old money , Martin thought as he scanned the front of the mansion. At least three stories, the façade was as tall and as long as the Suburban allowed Martin to see. Etched lead-glass windows with brass inlays framed a two-story portico. Marble steps lit by a sparkling silver chandelier led to massive oak doors. This wasn’t one of the McMansions that were springing up all over the greater Atlanta area; this was wealth with a capital W.

“This is the place,” McDaniels said.

For once, Martin was at a loss for words. He tried to think of something clever to say, but the ride, the anticipation of seeing Avanti, and the fact that he had no idea what he was doing here, tied his usually glib tongue in knots. “Okay,” was the best that he could manage.

“All we need from you is a threat assessment. Let him lead the discussion. Don’t try to be clever, just listen.” McDaniels tried to sound encouraging, but to Martin’s ear, he sounded more like an old baseball coach who was forced to put him into a close game, all the while hoping that Martin didn’t screw things up too badly.

He had to stop himself from saying, “Okay, coach.” Instead, he said, “I understand. I guess I’m doing this alone.”

McDaniels nodded.

“Do I wear a wire, or something?”

“No, I don’t want you to be a secret agent. I just want you to listen, and tell me how badly we’re screwed.”

The driver of the Suburban suddenly opened Martin’s door, and he jumped. “You’re not even coming in?” The pitch of his voice was rising.

“No. It’s just you and Avanti.” McDaniels saw the color leave Martin’s face. “You’ll be fine. He can’t hurt you.”

“How do you know?” The words were out of his mouth before he even registered the thought. “I’m sorry; I’m just a little out of my element.”

McDaniels gave an almost imperceptible nod to the enlisted man who reached in and helped Martin out of the car. “I know. Just listen to the man. You can do that.”