The Stickmen (9 page)

“In that garage you will find a list of some
names you’re not familiar with. Pay very close attention to those
names. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, sure. Pay attention to the
names…”

Suddenly, Swenson was smiling very coyly.
“There are a few other things in that garage that you’ll find
interesting too. And if you successfully complete this task, you
can do
whatever you want
with those things.”

Garrett decided to set a dare. “What if I
don’t
complete this task of yours? What if I run off with
this list of names and these
things?
”

“Then I’ll have you executed,” Swenson
calmly replied.

Garrett believe him.
I guess that says it
all,
he thought. But then the most obvious fact occurred to
him. “Listen, I’ve had my tail stepped on about this stuff so many
times it’s not funny. I’ve been bugged, robbed, DF’d, tailed, beat
up—a couple times I’ve almost been killed. In other words, it’s
been made pretty clear to me to lay off the subject.”

“But you won’t lay off, Harlan. You’ll never
lay off.
It’s not possible for you to do that, not in a
million years, and you know it. Big Brother could cut your legs
off, and you’d still be coming after him in a wheelchair.”

He’s probably right,
Garrett
considered. “Okay, I agreed to no questions. But let me ask you one
thing.”

“All right.

“Why? Why are you giving this to me?”

Swenson rubbed his chin in the thought.
“Repent ye, and ye will be saved’? I don’t really know, Harlan, but
I doubt that it’s anything so dogmatic. Doesn’t matter anyway,
really. I’ll be dead in a matter of weeks or even days. Were I more
of a man, had I more resolve and more conscience—if I were more
like
you,
Harlan—I might’ve done this years ago. I can’t do
anything
now, though. I can’t even get out of bed.”

Swenson broke into a coughing fit, his frail
chest heaving. At this precise moment, with all he’d been told,
Garrett didn’t know which way was up, and even though he’d always
thought of Swenson as his worst enemy in the past, it pained him
now to see the bald old man in such distress. Garrett gulped,
holding the tiny envelope.

“You want me to call one of the SP’s?”

Swenson shook his head through the rest of
his coughing fit. “No, no, it comes and goes. I’m all right…but—”
His words fell off, and he…sniffed. “Harlan, I don’t mean any
offense by this but have you showered anytime recently?”

That’s just great.
“My water got cut
off because I couldn’t pay the bill,” he recited, embarrassed. “I
was on my way to Nero’s Roman bath-house Y when your two Keystone
Cops hauled me off the street.”

Swenson’s brow narrowed. “You can’t pay your
water bill?”

“Or my phone bill, if you must know. But
that’s fine because if my phone’s not working then the NSA can’t
tap my calls anymore.”

“You’re broke, in other words?”

The frown seemed to stretch Garrett’s face.
“I’d call it a mere matter of temporary financial insolvency.”

“You’re broke; we can’t have that.” Swenson
pressed a buzzer by the bed. Instantly an SP popped into the room,
pistol in hand.

“Everything all right, General?”

“Yes,” Swenson said. “Get twenty thousand
dollars out of the safe and give it to Mr. Garrett.”

“Yes, sir.”

The SP vanished.

Garrett almost relieved himself in his
jeans. “Gee, thanks…Dad.”

Swenson’s face was getting pink again,
another coughing fit coming up. “This is no joke, Harlan. For what
it’s worth, I always liked you. I’ve always thought of you as
something of a wayward son.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Garrett
said.

“I’m sorry things couldn’t have been
different.”

Garret felt oddly choked up.

“Go now, Harlan. Time is of the essence. And
good luck.”

“Thanks… I think.” Garrett, still mystified,
was about to turn and leave, not even knowing what he was leaving
to—

“And, Harlan?” Swenson stifled a cough.

Garrett turned back to him.

“Be
very
careful.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The basement was Danny’s favorite place now,
though he wasn’t sure why. It was dark and cool and quiet.
Something about the cement-and-cinder-block walls helped him feel
at ease.

He guessed that maybe the Stickmen couldn’t
talk through the cement-and-cinder-block walls. He didn’t like it
when the Stickmen talked to him. It always made his head hurt like
after the time he got hit with softball during gym class.

Down here they never talked to him.

Danny was doing another picture now, not
with paint like in Miss Romesch’s art class but just with colored
pencils. He was sitting up at his dad’s work table and had the
lights turned on. This was his favorite place to draw.

Danny liked to draw—it was his favorite
thing to do—and maybe Miss Romesch was right; maybe he should be an
artist when he grew up. One time even his mother had said that,
“With your drawing talents, Danny, you could work for an
advertizing firm when you grow up, or one of those computer
graphics companies, and you could make a lot of money.” But before
Danny could even think to say anything in response, his father had
grumbled from the couch: “Honey, Danny’s not going to be any
candyass
artist,
for God’s sake. That’s not a
man’s
job. He’s going to be a
soldier.
He’s going to go to West
Point, and he’s going to go to jump school and Ranger school, and
he’s going to be a hardcore Army combat officer. Right, Danny?” and
then his dad had leaned over an patted him on the back. “Only
sissies are artists. You want to be a
soldier,
right?”

“Yes, Dad,” Danny replied because he knew
that if he said anything else, then his dad might start yelling
like he did a lot when he was drinking beer, and his mother would
start crying, and it would all be Danny’s fault. One time his
father had told him that once he got into high school he could try
out for the football team, but Danny had never been too good at
sports and he said he didn’t want to. Boy, was
that
a
mistake! Pretty soon mom and dad were shouting at each other.
“Jesus Christ, Joyce!” dad had yelled, “you’re turning the kid into
a little pansy the way you coddle him. All he does is sit around
and draw pictures when he should be out playing little league and
toughing himself up for life,” and then his mother had shouted
back, “You can’t
force
your son into being what he doesn’t
want to be!” “Yeah, well I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let you
raise him to be a queer!” They’d argued some more until dad slapped
mom hard across the face. Danny hated seeing that; it must’ve been
his fault too.

He guessed it was just better to do what his
dad told him to do.

Today he’d drawn the Stickmen’s ship again,
only closer this time: the big light bar on the bottom and the
trapezoidal windows on the side. He couldn’t remember what the
inside looked like, but he knew he’d been there at least once. The
next picture was the first Stickman he’d seen, the one that had
come into his room, and the next was him getting into the ship the
night they’d shown him where it was.

I wonder what I should draw next… I
know!

Danny began to draw the gloves…

««—»»

Garrett’s car was not what many would call a
primo set of wheels: a ‘76 Chevy Malibu whose shiny candy-apple-red
lacquer had long since gone over to something like the finish and
color of house-bricks. The A/C didn’t work, the radio didn’t work,
and the windows didn’t roll down, but Garrett figured as long as
the wheels turned, then it beat taking the bus.

Before he’d set out, he’d paid his phone
bill, his water bill, his back rent plus a month in advance. He
paid his tab at Benny’s Rebel Room, and Craig had almost fainted.
Then he went home and took a shower. So far, so good…until he’d
called Jessica.

She’d changed her number.

Just playing hard to get,
he thought.
She loves me.

But as for Swenson and his “assignment,
Garrett still didn’t know what to make of…ANY of it, and since it
was his nature to be suspicious—in fact, it was his job—there was
no one he knew in the world who warranted more suspicion that
General Norton Swenson. The twenty grand was a life-saver, and
Swenson’s hubbub about actually liking Garrett and even thinking of
him as a surrogate son seemed strangely sincere. But Garrett
acknowledged one possibility with no hesitation whatsoever.

This whole thing could be another
set-up.
Swenson had admitted that he’d been a disinformation
officer for the A.I.C.

Maybe this is just more disinformation, and
like a sucker, I’m falling for it. I’m doing THEIR work for
them…

Whatever the case, he’d find out soon
enough.

The sun was going down by the time he’d made
it to Annapolis. Route 50 cut a great swath toward the Chesapeake
Bay, and just a few miles before the bridge, Garrett found his
destination.
Talk about out of the way,
he thought. He’d
almost missed the looming U-STORE sign, which was not illuminated.
The Malibu’s tie-rods shimmied as Garrett motored up a winding
service road until he eventually idled into a long deserted parking
lot. The lot was plunged in darkness, and there was no sign of a
security guard.

“Great place for a murder,” he muttered. He
turned on the dome light and slipped out the key Swenson had given
him. A standard brass disk-tumbler; the engraving read: #A-104.

Garrett got out, flicked his cigarette, then
stalked ahead with his flashlight in hand. Before him stretched
multiple rows of long connected storage units; each unit was fitted
with a garage-type door. Garrett stumbled amongst the rows for a
good twenty minutes before he found it. He had to work the key back
and forth several times before it grittily turned. Then, “Oooof!”
he exclaimed once he grabbed the handle and pulled. The door didn’t
budge.
Damn it, Spock, I’m a writer, not a fuckin’ fork-lift.
Either this door’s heavier than William Howard Taft or it hasn’t
been opened in years.
Several more back-bending tugs got some
play, then the rust-choked track-wheels began to grind in their
rails. Finally the door clattered open.

Garrett scanned the interior with his
flashlight.

The storage unit was empty save for a single
small black suitcase.

“Somehow, I
don’t
think it’s Jack the
Ripper’s medical bag…”

The damn place didn’t even have an overhead
light; Garrett’s puny flashlight would have to do. He knelt at the
case, noticed that it was scuffed, crackled, and very old.

When he flipped open the top, he pointed the
flashlight in, and—

««—»»

The sign on his desk was an impressive one;
the engraved brass plate read: “The Honorable Willard G. Farrell,
U.S. Court of Appeals.”

The job, though, wasn’t nearly as impressive
as the sign.

It was ten o’clock at night, and Judge
Farrell was still in his chambers. Taking the world of the
judiciary by storm? Balancing the scales of justice? Making the
country a better, fairer place for the citizens protected by the
Constitution?

Hardly.

Interlocutory reviews and assessments, one
right after another. The Federal Trade Commission, the National
Labor Relations Board, the Securities and Exchange Commission, plus
discretionary territorial-court-reviews for more trademark and
copyright appeals than he could shake his gavel at.

GodDAMN, this is dull,
the judge
thought behind the wide, cluttered desk. Dull, yes, but the
pressure was on; it always was. If Judge Farrell made even the most
minute oversight, the case could be taken to the Supreme Court, and
those were twelve curmudgeons he
definitely
 didn’t want
quoting him in a reversal that might go down in history.

Behind him, in the window, Washington, D.C.,
glittered below a smear of stars. Farrell hoped the sun wasn’t
rising when he finally finished up.

He was wearily rubbing his eyes when his
door opened.

“Another long day, huh, sir?” a beefy U.S.
Marshal named Willy asked. The Marshals provided security for the
building; Willy was the captain of the night watch…

“You got that right, Willy. Sometimes I
think the federal offenders do this

to me on purpose because they know I don’t
get overtime.”

Willy made a modest chuckle. He looked
around the dark office. “You’re the only one here tonight,
sir?”

“Yep. Just me and my lonesome, the judge
regretted. “My secretary and research assistants are long gone,
because they
do
get overtime. The GOP’s gonna cut the
federal budget, all right, and it looks like they’re starting with
my staff.”

“But look at the bright side, Your Honor.
They’ll have more to pump into the Graffiti-Artists Rehabilitation
Program.”

Farrell laughed, because there actually
was
 such a federal spending program.

“You look pretty tired, sir. You want me to
send one of my men across the street for coffee?”

“No, thanks, Willy. I’ve got a pot
cooking.”

“Okay. I’ll tell the lobby guard you’re
still here.”

“Thanks. With any luck I’ll be out of here
in a few more hours.”

“Goodnight, Your Honor.”

Willy left, leaving Farrell to make more
notations behind the opened legal tomes on his desk. At least the
U.S. Marshals in the building let him feel safe, not that there was
any danger in
this
blasé office. If he were a federal
prosecutor on RICCO case, that would be different. But there were
no Gottis or Giancanas in this building.