“I might. But I would likely be more interested in how you pulled it off so that other people, who might not have the best intentions in mind, would not be able to.” She leans forward. “So, theoretically, how would you have done that, if you had?”
I’m a magician.
Involved in the only honest profession.
So I tell her what she needs to know.
As I wait for word from the doctors, Fionna and her children arrive. Xavier must have told her about me being in the tank because she hands me a set of dry clothes from my house.
After changing, I hear from the surgeons: Charlene is recovering well. It looks like she’ll be spending a couple days in the hospital but will be alright.
I hear Turnisen is in one of the rooms on the first floor.
After checking in on Charlene and finding her asleep, I swing by Tim’s room on my way to fill Xavier and Fionna in on Charlene’s condition. The door is slightly open and the lights are off.
I decide not to disturb him and head to the lobby to update my friends, wondering how much trouble I might get into with the undersecretary.
And who the person Akinsanya reported to really is.
Part VIII
Fallen Princes
Here’s what we know:
(1) Charlene is doing well.
(2) Dr. Schatzing got a pretty good gash on his head when he was attacked last night, but it looks like he’s going to be fine.
(3) Dr. Jeremy Turnisen is getting the wounds that Akinsanya gave him treated.
(4) Tomás didn’t commit suicide after all. Video surveillance at the police station showed a couple of cops walking down the hall to transfer him to another cell. But the transfer was never sent through from HQ. Turns out it was the two cops who’d been in the theater helping Akinsanya last night.
(5) There’s nothing on the news about the drone incident, which comes as no surprise to Xavier.
Now, Fionna and the kids are out flower shopping for something special for Charlene, and Xavier and I are in the hospital room with her. I’m sitting beside her bed; Xavier has positioned himself on the wide windowsill where he’s eating a pecan log roll.
Agent Ratchford swings by. “So, I just wanted to see how you were,” he tells Charlene. “I was shot last year. I know how much it hurts.”
He was shot?
This guy continues to surprise me.
“I’m feeling much better. Thank you for stopping by.”
We talk for a few minutes. He isn’t able to share much with us about the case. “But there is one thing you might be able to help me with,” he says. “Did any of you hear the name ‘Jesús Garcia’ when Akinsanya and his men were around you?”
We all shake our heads.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. His name came up yesterday. A woman who Akinsanya poisoned mentioned it before she passed away. That’s all we have right now. That, and some unsanctioned research we need to look into at a robotics center. But who knows, maybe if I can get permission we might be able to subcontract a couple researchers to help look into Garcia.”
“Fionna and Lonnie?” Charlene guesses.
“Let’s just say that’s a possibility.”
After he leaves, Xavier crunches his way through a mouthful of pecans and nougat. “I still don’t understand who Akinsanya was working for. You think it’s this Garcia dude?”
They both look at me as if I might have some insight into it. “I don’t know,” I tell them honestly. “I really don’t know.”
As I think about it, that’s not all I’m wondering.
Something else still bugs me.
After everything that happened, the drone didn’t go where Akinsanya was trying to get it to go. The coordinates were wrong.
Or were they right?
Charlene asks if I wouldn’t mind getting her a Coke, and mulling things over, I leave for the soda machines in the lobby.
As I pass the nurses’ station I see a series of photos cycling across the woman’s computer screen — her standing next to a broad-shouldered, smiling man, children playing beside a cabin, a collie running across the desert.
It gets me thinking.
“Say”—she looks at me knowingly—“aren’t you the man who did that magic show for the children yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“I was there. It was very nice what you and your friends did.”
“Thank you.”
There’s a web of relationships here, and I can see threads leading from one person to another, but how they’re all connected is still murky to me.
The photo of Emilio and Tim.
The RixoTray USB drive.
Emilio’s notebooks.
The one person who might be able to shed light on everything is here at the hospital.
I’m not sure if I’ll be allowed to see him, but this nurse seems to have an affinity for me from seeing the show, and she unreservedly gives me his room number when I ask for it.
I swing by the vending machines and buy the Coke. I’m on my way back to Charlene’s room when I decide I can afford a couple-minute detour.
I knock on the door and Dr. Turnisen invites me in.
He’s sitting up in bed.
When I see the extent of his grievous injuries, my heart goes out to him.
Akinsanya cut his face and then stitched him back up in ways that almost made you want to look away when you saw him. It’s gut-wrenching to see.
His left hand is thickly bandaged. I heard he lost three fingers, sliced off by Akinsanya.
“Hello, Dr. Turnisen. My name is Jevin Banks.”
“I’ve seen your billboards.” He struggles somewhat to get the words out. “You must get that a lot.”
“They’re hard to miss. I’ll have to get you into the actual show sometime.”
A nod. “You’re the one who found the codes at my desk.”
“Yes.”
Out of propriety I’m about to ask him how he’s doing, but I figure I can already guess that by seeing his condition. “You went through a lot yesterday.” I really can’t think of any other way to get a conversation started. “You were incredibly brave.”
“Thank you.” He seems unsure how to respond to the compliment.
“We had a mutual acquaintance.”
“Emilio Benigno.”
“Yes.”
“Agent Ratchford filled me in,” he explains. “I was a little out of it last night.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
After a moment he says, “You killed him. The man who did this to me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“From what Ratchford told me, he didn’t die in a very agreeable way.”
“That’s true.”
“It sounds like a strange thing to say, but I’m glad.”
“Considering the circumstances, it doesn’t sound strange at all.”
As I think about what Dr. Turnisen went through yesterday and our visit to his research area at Groom Lake, a few things come together.
The photo on his desk.
The progeria research.
The launch codes.
They were the wrong codes.
Or the right ones.
Yes. It would explain a lot.
“You know, Doctor, a friend of mine once told me you can tell what’s important to someone by looking at three things: his calendar, his checkbook, and his refrigerator door.”
“That makes sense.”
“Well, there’s one other place.”
“And that is?”
“His desk.”
“His desk?”
“Yes.” I walk toward the window. Look out across my city, with all of its filth. With all of its glory. “There was only one photo on your desk.”