"No, Kathy, bring him back here, would you?"
A few moments later, there was a soft tap on the closed door of Reiss' office."Come on in," he called.
The door opened to reveal the receptionist and a man whom Reiss thought vaguely resembled the actor Charles Durning. Kathy politely motioned Brooks inside, then departed, closing the door after her.
"'Morning, Congressman," Reiss said. "Come on in. Have a seat."
Brooks sat down in the padded visitor's chair, but gingerly, as if his goods were still sore from the procedures. "You don't need to call me 'Congressman,' Doctor," Brooks said. "'Ron' is fine, and a heck of a lot better than what my opponent called me in the last election."
Reiss laughed politely. He sometimes found himself beating around the bush when delivering bad news to a patient, but never did so when the prognosis was favorable."All right, Ron," he said, "let me answer the question you really want to ask: You do not, I repeat,
not
have cancer."
Brooks grinned then, with far more wattage than he'd mustered a few seconds earlier, but the smile faded as his natural caution took over. "This isn't one of those 'good news, bad news' deals, is it Doc?"
"Absolutely not," Reiss told him. "You have an enlarged prostate gland, which is what's been causing your problems with urination. It is not cancerous, nor is it a pre-cancerous condition. In fact, it's a minor but common problem among men in your age group. You're what - 54?"
"Fifty-three," Brooks said. "Until September, anyway."
"Well, it's a common condition among guys your age. The prostate gland enlarges, for reasons that science still hasn't figured out yet, and this partially blocks the urethra, the tube through which urine flows when you empty your bladder - which is why you've been having some difficulty going to the bathroom."
"Will it get worse?"
"Hard to say," Reiss told him. "In some men, the prostate continues to enlarge, eventually blocking the urethra completely, in which case we have to operate - a minor surgical procedure, I assure you. In other cases, the swelling of the gland stabilizes at a level the patient can live with, despite some difficulty with urination."
"Does it ever shrink back to its normal size?" Brooks asked hopefully.
"Without treatment, hardly ever. But there are some new drugs available that have been efficacious with some patients. We can try you on one, if you wish, and see how things develop."
Ron Brooks (R-NY) left Dr. Reiss' office considerably more cheerful than when he had arrived. He was not going to die - not anytime soon, anyway.
Brooks was not an especially religious man, but he was inclined to take Dr. Reiss' diagnosis as a sign - an indication that he should move ahead with plans that had been in his mind for some time, but which had been put on hold when the prostate problem developed.
He was going to do it. He would have to move fast to catch up with the other contenders, but fortunately his 'exploratory committee' had been raising money for months. Ron Brooks was going to run for President.
Deputy Stan Meehan brought his cruiser to a slow stop in the driveway of the isolated farmhouse, gravel crunching under his tires like small bones breaking. Near as Stan could figure, this was the place he was looking for. He'd taken two wrong turns on his way out here. A city boy born and bred, he could never figure out why somebody would live out in the boonies who didn't have to. Stan was used to people and the noises that they made; spending all his time amidst the quiet of the country would have driven him bonkers.
As Stan got out of the cruiser and closed the door, it occurred to him that this patch of country seemed... different, somehow. It bothered him for a moment, until he figured out what it was: no birds. A place with this many trees around ought to be alive with birdsong, even this time of year. But it was quiet as the grave.
He scanned the half-bare branches, and saw not a damn thing. Stan knew from TV that birds will flee a predator, even if it poses no direct threat to them.
There's no bears in these parts, far as I know. No bobcats, neither. What the hell is big and bad enough to make all the birds get out of Dodge?
Stan gave a mental shrug and turned back to the house. His gaze took in the missing shingles, the wood that hadn't seen stain for several seasons, the broken windowpane repaired with a piece of cardboard.
Beat-up old place. I hear these professors make a pretty good living, even if they do only work about twelve hours a week. What's this guy do with his money, if he don't spend any on his house?
The Prof apparently hadn't shown up to teach his classes for a couple of days. He hadn't called in sick, and wasn't answering his phone, either. Bob Richman, head of Campus Security at URI, had called the Washington County Sheriff's Office and asked them to take a look-see, which is what had got Stan Meehan sent out here to the back end of nowhere.
Stan checked the copy of the report that had been faxed over. The guy was 47, supposedly.
Kind of young for a heart attack or a stroke. Maybe he slipped on a piece of soap in the shower and cracked his skull. That can happen to ya at any age. Hell, Ellie's cousin Frank did it a couple of years ago, and he was what, 28?
A photo had also been sent, and was stapled to the report. Stan looked at it closely for the first time. The dark-eyed, dark haired man with the goatee who stared back at him looked mid-forties, all right.
Stan peered at the name written on the report, which he hadn't really paid attention to, focused as he was on just finding the damn place. Hassan el-Ghaffar.
What the hell kind of name is that? Arab? Oh, shit!
What would some guy with an Arab name be up to, living way out here where nobody could see what he was doing? And a damn professor, too. The form didn't say what department at URI this el-Ghaffar taught in. Physics, maybe? Chemistry?
Stan felt his heart start to beat faster.
This was just like 24
, his favorite TV show, where every season another damn Arab terrorist was planning to blow up a city or assassinate the President. Hot damn! Could be Stan Meehan was about to get famous.
Unless the bad guys got him first. Stan unsnapped the leather strap that kept his .45 Colt Commander snug in its holster. He'd better be ready for anything.
He walked up the steps to the porch, the old wood creaking under his weight. He listened hard for signs of life inside the house, but heard nothing.
Stan knocked firmly three times on the front door, shaking loose a few small chips of peeling white paint. Then he quickly stepped to one side, just like he had seen Jack Bauer do. You had to be careful at times like this, in case the bad guys decided to open up right through the door at you.
No bullets punctured the old wood of the door; no gunshots disturbed the almost-eerie quiet. Stan wasn't sure whether he was glad or disappointed.
The six weeks of training he had received prior to joining the Sheriff's Department had not included instruction on how to kick a door in, but Stan had seen it done often enough on TV and in the movies. You had to plant one foot, make sure you were balanced, then slam the other foot into the door, just above the knob.
Bam
- door's open! But, just to be thorough, he figured he ought to try the knob first.
It turned easily in his hand. Relief and frustration once again warred within him.
Stan pushed the door slowly open with his left hand, the right one firmly grasping the butt of his weapon.
"Police officer!" he said loudly. "Anybody home?"
Silence greeted him, instead of bloodthirsty jihadists with automatic weapons. Stan noticed that the furniture was of a piece with the house's exterior - old, beat-up, and neglected. He checked the other rooms, and could tell with a glance that each was empty of life.
There was a door just off the living room which Stan thought might lead to the basement. He opened it carefully, and found that he was right. A light had been left on to illuminate stairs that led downward, but it was the smell that really got his attention. He coughed a couple of times, then covered his nose and mouth with one hand. He knew what he had here, now. Stan had uncovered a few ripe corpses in his four-year career with the law - mostly old folks living alone who hadn't been missed for a few days after they'd passed on - and in one memorable instance, for a whole week.
No terrorists making atom bombs this time. Stan would have bet money that there was a shower or bathtub down there where this el-Ghaffar dude had slipped, fallen, and died. He sighed behind the hand that covered his lower face. He couldn't call for the meat wagon until he had made a visual confirmation. That was procedure, and he'd have a hard time living it down if the smell turned out to be from a dead dog instead of a man.
He took a deep inhale of relatively fresh air, held his breath, and started down the steps, as quickly as safety would allow. With any luck, he could eyeball the corpse and get back out of the basement before he had to breathe the corruption from close up.
The third step down gave Stan his first view of the basement - a small section of concrete floor. The next step gave him a wider view of the floor, and his first hint that things were not as he'd expected. He could see circles and a big star painted on the gray concrete, and some partly-burned candles lying around.
What the fuck is this? Occult stuff?
By the fifth step, Stan knew he had a problem. He could see a man's feet in black shoes, toes pointed up. All well and good. But he could also tell that the corpse lay in the middle of a big, irregular brown stain that was almost certainly blood.
But it was his next step that introduced him to the real horror show.
The torso and head of what appeared to be an adult male was covered by what at first looked like a fur coat. Stan thought for a second that somebody had draped the coat over the body like a shroud, but then he realized that the fur coat was moving.
Stan took one more step down, and that was when the rats heard him, or smelled him, or whatever it is that rats do. They immediately scattered - all except for one of the bastards, the biggest rat that Stan had ever seen. A full-sized tomcat might have hesitated to take the damn thing on. It stood on its hind legs and faced him defiantly, something that looked like an uncooked sausage link clutched in its jaws.
The next few seconds were busy ones for Stan Meehan. In the first couple, he realized that what this immense rodent was holding and refusing to give up was almost certainly a length of human intestine. The rat then apparently decided on flight over fight and scurried away, taking its meal along. The next two or three seconds allowed Stan to get his first good look at what the rats had been dining on. Stan turned then, all thoughts of holding his breath forgotten, not even noticing the foul smell that permeated the basement. Four more seconds got him back up the stairs and through the basement door, which he slammed loudly behind him. In another two, he was bent over the kitchen sink, puking up everything he had eaten for lunch, breakfast, and a midnight snack last night, or so it seemed.
Stan knew you weren't supposed to contaminate a crime scene with anything, least of all your own vomit, but he hadn't had any choice in the matter. At least he hadn't left a mess for the other cops to kid him about - like they wouldn't have tossed
their
cookies, if they'd seen what Stan just did.
After a while, he realized he was done. Even the dry heaves had stopped. He ran some water to wash his stomach contents down the drain and splashed some of it over his face to wash away the detritus. He turned off the water, wiped his face with a handkerchief, then made his unsteady way outside and back to his cruiser.
Stan reached in and pulled his police radio from its plastic holder. He pushed the 'Transmit' button and started to speak, but this brought on a coughing fit. He spat on the ground a couple of times, cleared his throat, and tried again.
"Dispatch, this is Five, over."
Marge Lunsford's voice came back almost immediately. "This is Dispatch, how ya doing, Stan?" Radio procedure around the Sheriff's Office tended to be pretty casual.
Stan tried to make himself focus, to get the image of what he'd seen in the basement out of his mind so that he could function like a cop instead of a scared little kid.
"Uh, Marge, I'm gonna give you my twenty in a minute - as well as I can, anyway. It's gonna be tricky, 'cause I'm out here in the boonies about sixteen miles west of Kingston."
"No, problem, Stan-o. We can use your vehicle's GPS to pinpoint your location, if we have to. What's up?"
"I need somebody from the Coroner's Office, along with an ambulance. Also, some forensics people from BCI better get out here, too."
Marge's voice lost its light tone. "What's the matter Stan? Is it that professor guy you were looking for - El Gaffer, or something?"
"Affirmative. I'm at his house now."
"I assume you found him deceased."
"I - I'm not sure."
There was a brief silence over the air. "Say again?"
"I mean, I'm sure he's dead, or somebody is. But I can't make a positive ID on the body."
"How come? I know you've got a photo - URI faxed it over, and I know I attached it to the Missing Persons Report before I gave it to you."
"Affirmative, I have the photo. But it's no good, I mean I'm sure they sent the right picture, but it's no good for an ID of the vic."
"I'm not following you, Stan."
"
Because he doesn't have a face no more!"
Chapter 2
Mary Margaret Doyle looked up from the
Washington Post's
editorial page and said, "The pundits seem to be of the opinion that we haven't got a prayer."
The demon Sargatanas used Howard Stark's mouth to produce a tiny smile. "In my case," it said, "that is literally true - and has been so for a period of time longer than you could possibly comprehend."
"It's just an expression," she said hastily. "I meant no offense."