George Chesbro - Bleeding in the Eye of a Brainstorm

"MO?"

"A specially packed, low-velocity twenty-two-caliber bullet to the base of the skull. They've been described as being very young. An eyewitness to the killings says they looked like teenagers-a male and a female."

"Punch and Judy," Gerard Moliere replied without hesitation.

"Come again?"

"Punch and Judy are their code names, noms de guerre. They are husband and wife whose real names are Henry and Janice Sparsburg. They are rumored to live somewhere near Paris, but the Surete appears content to leave them unmolested as long as they limit their business activities to countries outside Europe. Their preferred method of killing is the same as you described."

"How old are these people?"

"They are certainly not teenagers. They are young merely in appearance, and then only if seen from a distance. Dressing and behaving like young people seems to be a fetish with them, and they are rumored to make regular visits to a plastic surgeon. May I ask whom they have killed over there, and why?"

"Just between you and me, I think the CIA hired them, but I can't be certain of that. A dozen patients escaped from a very shady mental hospital where they've been conducting illegal experiments for years. I think Punch and Judy have been sent to kill them before they talk to anybody about it."

"Why don't these people go to the police?"

"They're probably not even aware that they're being hunted; but even if they are, they'll probably still avoid the police. They're on an effective but very dangerous medication I'm sure our FDA has never even heard of, much less approved. Without the medication, they'll slip back into insanity and probably die inside twenty-four hours. They're afraid the drug will be confiscated. They have a limited supply of the medication, so I'm trying to identify the drug and get more of it in order to buy them more time. But it's all going to be a pointless exercise if they're killed before I can find a way to help them."

"I understand."

"Anything else you can tell me about Punch and Judy? Personal habits? Favorite haunts and restaurants?"

"I'm afraid they're too professional to be that predictable, Mongo. I have heard the rumor that they are brother and sister as well as man and wife, but I can't see how that information would help you. They are very. . how do you say? Kinky?"

"That's as good a way of saying it as any."

"It particularly interests me that you suspect the CIA of having hired these assassins. If it's true, there may be some irony in the situation."

"How so?"

"There are rumors that Punch and Judy were discovered and developed-if that is the proper way to describe the nurturing and training of assassins-by a department of the CIA called the Chill Shop."

"The Chill Shop?"

"Yes. That is what other CIA operatives with whom I have occasional dealings call it. These people I have spoken with don't much care for the operation, or the personnel who run it. That name derives from the acronym BUHR-the Bureau of Unusual Human Resources. I heard it was shut down some time ago because of budget cuts, but that information may not have been accurate."

"This Chill Shop was-is-a school for assassins?"

"No. Punch and Judy represent only one of their products. Chill Shop personnel were tasked to find people with unusual talents, skills, or characteristics-even subjects some of us might describe as 'freaks'-that might prove useful in covert intelligence work. That's all I know about it, Mongo. If you like, I will make discreet inquiries about this matter, and get back to you if I find out anything that I think could be helpful to you."

"Thanks, Gerard. I'd really appreciate that, and I owe you."

"You owe me nothing, Mongo. Speaking to you and possibly being of service is my pleasure."

"Oh, there's one other thing. Since Garth is in the neighborhood, there's a good chance he may drop in again. If he does, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention this conversation to him."

There was a pause, then a hesitant clearing of the throat. "Are you sure, Mongo? Garth would certainly want to know if you're in danger."

"I don't think I'm in any danger at the moment, Gerard, because the bad guys don't know I'm on to them; but even if I were, there's nothing Garth could do about it. I plan to proceed very carefully. If my brother gets wind of this, he'll head right to the airport and fly back here, and I don't see any reason right now to disrupt his and Mary's vacation. If I do need his help, I'll call him myself."

"If the time comes when you need help, my friend, it may be too late to call."

"I've given the matter a lot of thought, Gerard. Right now I can handle things myself."

"I'll do as you ask, Mongo."

"Thanks again, Gerard. Ciao."

"Ciao ," the Interpol inspector replied, and hung up.

Step Three.

It was time to mix my metaphors and go trolling for more lost sheep. I had plenty of room in the brownstone.

I went back upstairs to check on Margaret again. She was sleeping, which was to be expected, but her color was returning and her pulsebeat was regular. I went in the other room to ask Michael to write down the names and descriptions of the other patients who had escaped with him on the bus. When he had done so, I memorized the information and tore up the paper.

Although Sharon Stephens and the patients could be scattered through the five boroughs, and would be if they were acting logically, I still had the feeling that most of the people, if not the psychiatrist and her ward, had remained in Manhattan, in close proximity to the site where they hoped to rendezvous and receive salvation on Christmas Eve. So Manhattan was where I would begin my search.

I took the A train to the northern end of the borough, and then slowly walked through the George Washington Bridge bus terminal, searching end to end and top to bottom, looking for anyone who might fit the descriptions Michael had given me. It was no easy task. The patients could have altered their appearance, and it wasn't as if all the homeless people and drifters in the terminal were standing up against a wall and facing me as if they were in a lineup; many were sleeping with their faces to the wall, or were covered with mounds of rags or surrounded by plastic garbage bags stuffed with their meager belongings. Finally, it came down to the question of how one could pick out a particular escaped mental patient from all the other mental patients wandering around the streets of the city as though it were some great, labyrinthine outpatient ward.

I didn't see any man or woman who exactly fit any of the descriptions I had been given, but when I saw somebody who came close, or appeared relatively lucid, I would stop, offer the person a dollar or two, show them the black-and-yellow capsule I carried, and then begin asking personal questions about Rivercliff, Dr. Sharon Stephens, and Raymond Rogers. What I was looking for was a reaction, shadows moving in the eyes, a sharp intake of breath, or an attempt to move away. All I got were requests for more money.

When I struck out at the bus terminal, I headed for the nearest homeless shelter, an armory. I slowly walked through the cavernous space, examining the faces of the men and women who had already checked in for the night and were resting on their cots as I discreetly held a handkerchief over my nose and mouth to try to protect myself from the new and virulent strains of tuberculosis that were now spreading rapidly through the city's population of homeless.

As I worked my way downtown through shelters and other havens for the helpless, I developed a list of questions for any of the guards, volunteers, or social workers who would talk to me. Had they noticed anything "unusual" about any one of the people who had first come in during the past two weeks? That question always got a laugh. Had they noticed anyone displaying any unusual talents or traits, like being very skilled at chess, or being able to see particularly well in the dark, or anything at all peculiar? More laughs. I had no trouble getting people to talk to me, only in taking me seriously after I had asked my first few questions. I came to realize that, with the noticeable exception of three or four fresh volunteers who had only been on the job a week or two, few of the employees any longer "saw" much of anything around them at all. They simply could no longer distinguish individual faces in the vast, cruel tapestry of human misery that cloaked them, the tide of suffering that swept in each evening to overwhelm, and then swept out again the next day. Most of the staff, in the interest of self-preservation, had willfully allowed themselves to grow numb, half blind and half deaf. I couldn't say I blamed them in the least.