Fredric Stern - The Endorphin Conspiracy

Geoff passed the stairs, deciding to take the elevator up to his third floor apartment. The old metal door slid closed with a loud clang, and the elevator departed with enough of a jolt to cause him to lose his balance. Amazing the old lift still worked.

As he walked down the dim hallway towards his apartment, something felt different. Just a feeling, nothing concrete, nothing he could put his finger on. He paused and looked up and down the hall, then looked at his watch. Six a.m. A strange silence enveloped him.

He paused by the door of his next door neighbor, Mrs. Lubka, and leaned close to listen for any sounds. Nothing. She must not be feeling well. Geoff couldn’t remember the last time he entered his apartment without her opening her door and convincing him to come in for a cup of coffee and to check her blood pressure. He made a mental note to check on her later.

Geoff reached into his pocket for his keys, fumbled the keychain, and dropped it on the floor, the noise echoing along the hallway. As he bent down to pick it up, he heard a sound, not from the hallway, but from inside his apartment.

Was it his imagination?

He put his ear to the door and heard the sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, drawers sliding open and closed, what sounded like things being dumped on the floor. The door showed no signs of being forced open, and he didn’t remember leaving any windows unlocked.

Geoff reached down to his shin, unsheathed his combat knife, and gripped it in his left hand. One swift pass with the blade could easily slit a man’s throat. That would do nicely.

Slowly, he inserted the key into the deadbolt, tumbler by tumbler, unlocked it, turned the doorknob.

The door creaked as it opened. Geoff listened. The activity continued unabated. Whoever was inside hadn’t heard him.

Geoff set his pack down by the door and walked toward the bedroom, from where the sounds were now coming. As he passed through the living room, a glimmer of something resting on the carpet reflected in the light and caught his eye.

Geoff bent down to pick it up. It was an old pair of glasses, frame bent and thick, bloodied lenses smashed as if they had been intentionally stepped on. Geoff bent down and studied them closely. They were cataract glasses. The only one he knew who wore glasses like those was Mrs. Lubka. A trail of dried blood lead to the broom closet.

Geoff’s heart pounded so fiercely he wondered if it could be heard a room away. He tightened his grip on the cold metal weapon as he approached the threshold of the bedroom, peaked around the corner.

A man stood by the window, looking through Geoff’s dresser. Geoff tried to get a better look, but could see the man only from behind. Tall and broad shouldered, he wore a running suit. A black ski mask covered his head and face.

This wouldn’t be easy, but Geoff was trained for hand to hand combat. Geoff heard a murmur of frustration as the man threw down the dresser drawer. The intruder checked his watch, then looked around and paused. His gaze focused on the night stand.

The man bent down and opened the drawer. He removed a small, grey box and picked it open easily with a metal pin. Geoff could see the shadow of a smile as the intruder opened the box and removed two small glass vials.

He had found what he was looking for.

Geoff’s heart pounded more loudly. His pulse raced wildly. He tried to slow his breathing. He shifted his weight, and the floor creaked.

The intruder set down the box after quickly slipping the vials into his pocket. He reached inside his jacket and removed a small, black pistol with a long silencer on the end of the barrel. He scanned the room, cocked the slide. Geoff backpedaled toward the living room.

The intruder reached the threshold of the bedroom, gun leading the way.

Geoff squeezed the knife handle, raised his arm.

Now, man, now or never! Geoff’s knife came crashing down with great force and caught the man by surprise. It missed his neck, slashed his right arm instead.

The man howled, the gun flew out of his hand and bounced onto the carpeted floor with a thud. Quickly, the intruder regained his footing and held his injured arm, blood dripping on the floor. For a few long seconds they locked stares. Geoff examined the frosty eyes of the man behind the mask, his chilling stare hauntingly familiar.

Geoff summoned all his reserves and lunged toward the pistol. He was surprised he got to it first. He stood up ready to confront the intruder and pull off his mask, ready to shoot if he had to, but when he looked up the man was gone.

Geoff heard the front door open and close, then the squeaking sound of rubber soles skidding down the tiled hallway, down the stairs. He ran to the door, gun in one hand, knife in the other, thinking he’d chase him down, but realized the chase would likely be fruitless.

The peas. Check the peas!

Geoff ran to the kitchen and retrieved the bag of peas from the freezer. He ripped open the bag and spilled the contents into the sink, retrieving the two vials of endorphins. He sighed in relief as he clutched them in his hand.

His plan to root out the players had worked almost too well. It had almost cost him his life. Most difficult was the sense of betrayal, no one he could trust. He couldn’t do this alone any longer, not with a professional hit man, or whatever he was, involved.

Geoff made another decision. He set the vials down on the kitchen table, removed a card from his wallet, and dialed the phone.

“Detective O’Malley, please. Tell him it’s Dr. Geoff Davis from the New York Trauma Center. No, tell him it can’t wait.”

“Well, doc, that’s quite a story,” said Detective O’Malley as he chewed on a fresh piece of gum, the stub of his unlit cigar dangling from his lips. O’Malley leaned back in the recliner, gazed at Geoff, who was seated in the overstuffed couch opposite him.

“They say truth is stranger than fiction.”

“They do, don’t they, doc? I must admit, after twenty-two years on the force with all I seen, I’d have to agree with you. I mean, I could’ve written ten books by now. They’d all be bestsellers, nobody’d believe the stuff was true. You hear what I’m sayin,?”

O’Malley paused for a moment, glanced at his note pad, then peered up at Geoff with a slight squint. “Even so, doc, what you’re saying is far-fetched. Don’t get me wrong. You seem like a pretty sharp guy. No reason I know of to think you got a screw loose or anything like that. Still, you’ve had a busy few days yourself, to say the least.”

“That’s very true, detective.”

“There’s that word, again, doc. Truth . That’s really all I think we’re both after here, isn’t it?”

O’Malley turned on his recorder and placed it down on the coffee table. “Let’s recap today’s events first. Interrupt me if I say something wrong.”

Geoff nodded.

“You say you left your lady friend’s apartment about six o’clock this morning and came straight home. You didn’t stop anywhere on the way. After entering the building you took the elevator up to the third floor. You didn’t see or hear anything unusual—no sounds, no strangers, nothing out of the ordinary—except of course that there were no sounds, nothing going on, which you say is unusual at that hour.

“You go to open your apartment door and two things strike you: your neighbor, Mrs. Lubka, doesn’t open her door to see what’s going on as she usually does when you come home—because she’s stuffed in your broom closet with a bullet in her head—and you hear sounds in your apartment.” Again, Geoff only nodded.

“You sneak in and find a guy going through your night table and see him steal a couple of dummy vials you planted there. You sneak up on the fellah and slash his arm with your knife.”