Ridley Pearson - Choke Point

The proprietor knocks. John answers the door and thanks him.

“Coffee,” he says. “No milk. One sugar.”

Sonia looks out from a curtain of wet, stringy hair over the rising mist from a mug of coffee. The mug is from Starbucks in Oslo. As she tilts it, its bottom reads: MADE IN CHINA. “I’m sorry for what I said, John.”

It hurts more than her accusations. “Listen—” The truth dances on the tip of his tongue.

She samples the coffee. “This tastes horrible.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I have to see her. Yasmina.”

“Never going to happen.”

“We must get her back.”

“Yes.”

“You are distracted.”

“Thinking,” Knox says. “A lot to think about.”

Her hand is occupied with the hot coffee, so when the towel falls open she has only the one hand to try to deal with it. Knox comes to her aid, reaching for the mug, but Sonia reconsiders and opens the towel fully. Finally, she passes Knox the mug as she lies back on the berth.

Knox locks the door.

—

LATER, AFTER SONIA HAS RETURNEDto her cabin, Knox pulls out his phone—his version of smoking a cigarette.

“It’s John,” he tells the man who answers. Daniel, he thinks. But Daniel may have been the nurse before this. “John Knox.”

“Sure. Hello. How can I help you?”

“Just wondering how Tommy’s doing?”

“It’s a rough patch, Mr. Knox. It’ll pass.”

“Physical, mental, or both?”

“Let’s not limit him,” Daniel says. When Knox fails to respond, he says, “The new medication is causing insomnia. That’s triggering some of the old behavior. I have a call into his doc.”

“Which doc?”

“Foreman.”

“Okay. Good. But he’s okay?” Tommy’s progress toward at least the guise of independence has been promising—even encouraging; any reversion to earlier behavior is a blow. The suggestion that Tommy hasn’t progressed, his meds have simply improved, leaves Knox desperate.

“He’s okay.”

He’s never loved Daniel—if that’s even his name—but Tommy likes him. Daniel treats Tommy as an adult, which is more than can be said for the nurse that came before him.

“Can I call him?”

“A visit wouldn’t hurt.”

He remembers now why he doesn’t like the man.

“Thanks for everything you’re doing.” Knox’s version of a white flag.

“It’s my job, Mr. Knox.”

Knox ends the call, tempted to smash the phone.

Tommy’s number rings right to the edge of when the live answering service will pick up. Tommy struggles with mechanics. The live service is a godsend. But at last he picks up and Knox says hello.

“Johnny?” Sometimes his brother can sound especially young.

“Hey.”

“How ya doing? You sound kinda out of breath.” Tommy finds this amusing.

“Out for a walk,” Knox lies. He doesn’t like the sound of this already. Blames himself for so few visits.

“Where?”

Tommy knows better than to ask.

“How about you? How goes?”

“Darkest hour is just before the dawn.”

“Is it dark or dawn?” Knox asks, cringing. He knows this pattern: random quotations, inability to find words of his own.

Tommy takes the question literally, as always. “It’s just past three in the afternoon.”

The time. That’s progress, though Knox can’t mention it.

“And how’s business?”

“Dollars to donuts. Bob’s your uncle.”

“Tommy . . . Just hang on a second . . .”

“Just desserts. Rack your brains.”

“Stay with me here, Tom.”

“Stand and deliver. Silence is golden, duct tape is silver.”

Knox plays along. “Keep the ball rolling.”

A sudden silence.

“All’s well that ends well.” Knox checks the connection. As he does, a call comes in from Dulwich. Hanging up will crush Tommy.

“Tom, I gotta run.”

“Run amok. Run of the mill. Run out of steam.”

“It’s nice hearing your voice.”

“You, too. YouTube,” Tommy says.

“We’ll talk soon.”

“I miss you.”

“And I, you.”

“You said you were coming.”

Knox silences Dulwich’s incoming call.

“I’m working on it,” Knox says.

“How much longer?”

“I wish I could say. Don’t know. I’m being honest, Tommy. Treating you like an adult.”

“I know.”

“Your meds are off.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Daniel’s working on it. Hang in there.”

“It’s noisy in here.”

Knox isn’t sure what to do with that. In his head? In his apartment?

“I’m here for a reason. For you, man. We both want the same thing for you—”

“But it costs money.”

“I know you don’t want to hear that.”

“I want to see you.”

Knox won’t lie. His voice catches.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. That’s the truth, Tommy.”

“Truth hurts. Truth or Consequences. You can’t handle the truth!”

It hits Knox in the chest. Jack Nicholson. A favorite film scene of the brothers.

“Gotta go.”

Knox calls Sarge back.

—

THE EXTERIOR OF THE FIVE-STARSofitel Grand on Oudezijds Voorburgwal harks back to Europe’s glory days a century or more before. Inside, its Gothic-arched ceiling is painted ceramic white and supported by massive columns. Two seven-foot-tall metallic vases hold purple alliums reaching five feet higher, a contemporary dazzle where form meets function and where blue jean–clad millionaires mix with the business elite. Sitting before the glass-enclosed gas fireplace, in two of the modern overstuffed seats, Grace and Dulwich sip a Pimm’s and a lager as conversation blurs around them.

Grace is connected to the lobby’s free Wi-Fi. Dulwich has one eye on the front door, the other on their escape route to the dining room.

“Your upper lip,” she says.

Dulwich pats the perspiration away. This is the third time they have lounged like this around the city in as many days, sometimes for hours at a time. Grace acknowledges her boss’s impatience; Dulwich comes out of fieldwork, he’s not wired for stakeouts, physical or virtual. He’s a leader of men, good at running supply convoys from the safety of Kuwait into the killing fields of Iraq. He’s tough and durable, filled with titanium screws and pins and enough stitches to make a quilt. Apparently incapable of holding down a relationship, he is a single-minded workaholic. But sitting around in the lobby of a luxury hotel is anathema to him. The perfume, the piped-in classical music, the distant chiming of arriving elevators—everything here conspires against him.

“They are in,” Grace says calmly. The moment they’ve been waiting for: Grace delivers it with all the aplomb of a telephone operator.

The announcement nullifies Dulwich’s former sarcasm and disrespect for the process. Grace made the investigative procedure intentionally difficult. Too easy, and they would be suspected; too difficult, and the enemy would never connect the dots. It’s a cat-and-mouse game where, the mouse can leave nothing but a scent and a whisker or two to follow.

Grace has been planting the crumbs to follow: the business card left with the real estate agent; listing an e-mail address; her persistence with Marta; the thumping she gave Marta’s runners. All pieces of a whole—a woman looking to set up a sweatshop of her own. Dulwich, the doubter, failed to believe anyone would figure it out. But Grace knew. She would have. Knox, as well. Those who establish a beachhead can smell the enemy coming.

She’s the enemy, and she awaits notice. An e-mail address she has used has led back to a service provider; the service provider to an ISP; the ISP accessed via a router; the router tracked to the hotel whose lobby Grace and Dulwich now occupy. Bread crumbs. Grace’s firewall will require several attacks before submitting. This because it’s expected.