Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

Suspended in midair.

I thought again of Seaman Cross’s nose dive from celebrity to death. Missing notes in a public storage vault. Books recalled. Locked up, raped. Head in the oven time.

If you’re right about a tenth of this, we’re dealing with people with very long arms…

The copter kept climbing. I fought the shakes, worked hard at pretending this was an E ride at Disneyland.

Up, up and away.

We’d been traveling for more than two hours by my slow count when more radio noises burped from the front of the cabin and I felt the copter take a drop in altitude.

More radio stutter. One decipherable word: “Roger.”

We dipped for landing. I remembered reading somewhere that copters cruised between 90 and 125 knots. If my counting was near-accurate, that meant a 200- to 250-mile trip. I mentally traced a circle with L.A. at its center. Fresno to Mexico longitudinally. From the Colorado desert to somewhere over the Pacific on the east-west axis.

No shortage of desert in three directions.

Another sharp drop. Moments later we hit solid ground.

“Smooth,” said Hummel. In seconds I felt his breath, hot and spearminted, on my face, heard him grunt as he loosened the belt.

“Enjoy the ride, son?”

“Not bad,” I said, borrowing someone else’s voice- some Milquetoast’s quavering tenor. “But the movie stank.”

He chuckled, took hold of my arm, guided me out of the copter and down.

I stumbled a couple of times. Hummel kept me upright and moving, not breaking half a step.

The old heave-ho march- he’d probably used it on a thousand Vegas drunks.

We walked for a slow-count of four hundred. The air was very hot, very dry. Silent.

“Stay here,” he said, and I heard the horsey clump of his departing boot-steps, then nothing.

I stood there, unguarded, for a three-hundred count. Three hundred more.

Ten minutes. Left to my own devices.

Another five minutes and I started to wonder if he was coming back. Three more and I hoped he was.

His walking away meant escape would be folly. I tried to picture where I was- at the edge of a precipice? Playing target at the end of a shooting range?

Or simply dropped in the middle of nowhere, gift-wrapped brunch for the scorpions and the buzzards.

Donald Neurath’s obituary came to mind… unspecified causes while vacationing in Mexico.

Maybe Hummel was bluffing. I considered moving. Uncertainty locked my joints. I was a man with one foot on a land mine, immobility my life sentence.

I stood there, counting, sweating, trying to maintain. Enduring the molasses drip of time slowed by fear. Finally I forced myself to take a single step forward- a baby step. Mother, may I? Please?

Solid ground. No fireworks.

Another step. I swung one foot out in a slow arc, testing- no tripwires- was inching forward when an electric whine sounded from somewhere behind me.

Stop and go. Whine stop whine.

A golf cart or something like it. Coming closer. Footsteps.

“Cute little dance, son,” said Hummel. “We could use the rain.”

He put me in the cart. It had shallow seats and no roof. We rode under a blazing sun for about fifteen minutes before he stopped, eased me out, and led me through revolving doors into a building air-conditioned to frigidity. We passed through three more doors, each one opening after a series of clicks, then made a quick right-hand turn, went thirty more paces, and entered a room that smelled of disinfectant.

“Stay loose and no one’ll hurt you,” he said.

Multiple footsteps shuffled forward. Off came the handcuffs. Several sets of hands pinioned my arms and legs, braced my head, tilted it back. Fingers filled my mouth, pried under my tongue. I gagged.

My clothes were stripped off. The hands ran a marathon over my body, ruffled my hair, probed my armpits, my orifices- deftly, quickly, without a hint of prurient interest. Then I was dressed again, buttoned and zipped, all of it over in a couple of minutes.

I was walked through two more clicking doors and deposited in a big, deep chair- leather, tannically fragrant.

The door closed.

By the time I yanked off the blindfold, they were gone.

The room was big, dark, done in Neo-Home-on-the-Range: plank walls, Navajo rugs over distressed pine floors, wagon-wheel chandelier brass-chained from a beamed cathedral ceiling, a set of armchairs fashioned of cowhide stretched on a stag antler frame, wall-size oil paintings of tired-looking cowboys, and bucking-bronco bronzes.

In the center of the room was a big claw-footed, leather-topped desk. Behind it a wall display of flintlocks and engraved antique rifles ran from floor to ceiling.

Behind the desk sat Billy Vidal, bright-eyed and brush-cut, square-jawed and perfectly seamed. His strong-tea tan was set off nicely by an ivory-colored turtleneck under a white cashmere V-neck. No cowboy gear for the chairman of Magna; he was Palm Beach polished, golf-course fit. His hands lay flat on the desktop, manicured, baby smooth.

“Dr. Delaware, thank you for coming.”

His voice didn’t fit with the rest of him- a hoarse, wispy croak, cracking between words.

I said nothing.

He looked straight at me with pale eyes, held the stare for a while, then said, “That was an icebreaker that fell flat.” His last words petered out to a lip-sync. He cleared his throat, produced more laryngitic whisper. “Sorry for any inconvenience you’ve been caused. There didn’t seem to be any other way.”

“Any other way for what?”

“To arrange a chat between us.”

“All you had to do was ask.”

He shook his head. “The problem was timing. Until recently I wasn’t sure it was wise for us to meet. I’ve been debating that issue since you started asking questions.”

He coughed, tapped his Adam’s apple. “But today, when you visited my sister, you made the decision for me. Things had to be done quickly and carefully. So once again, I’ll apologize for the way you were brought here, and hope we can put that to rest and move on.”

I could still feel the chafe of the cuffs around my wrists, thought of the copter ride, mainlining fear while waiting for Hummel and his golf cart, fingers up my ass.

Cute little dance, son . I knew my rage would weaken me if I let it take over.

“Move on to what?” I said, smiling.

“Our discussion.”

“Of what?”

“Please, doctor,” he rasped, “don’t waste precious time being coy.”

“Short on time, are you?”

“Very much so.”

Another staring match. His gaze never wavered but his eyes lost focus and I sensed he was somewhere else.

“Thirty years ago,” he said, “I had the opportunity to witness an atomic test conducted jointly by the Magna Corporation and the U.S. Army. A festive event, by invitation only, out in the Nevada desert. We spent the night in Las Vegas, had a wonderful party, and drove out before sunrise. The bomb went off just as the skies lightened- a supercharged sunrise. But something went wrong: a sudden shift in the winds and all of us were exposed to radioactive dust. The army said there was little risk of contamination- no one thought much about it until fifteen years ago, when the cancers began appearing. Three quarters of those present that morning are dead. Several others are terminally ill. It’s only a matter of time for me.”

I studied his well-fed face, all that glowing bronze dermis, said, “You look healthier than I do.”

“Do I sound healthy?”

I didn’t answer.

“Actually,” he said, “I am healthy. For the time being. Low cholesterol, excellent lipids, a heart as strong as a blast furnace. A few lumps in my esophagus removed surgically last year, no evidence of spread.” He pulled down the collar of the turtleneck, exposed a hot-pink, puckered scar.