Naked Tao (14 page)

“Memos…what did they say?” 

“This scientist was alarmed by the ferocity of the virus,” I answered. “Within minutes of exposure, the virus consumes all of the oxygen in the blood stream starving every cell in the body. Death is swift and painful. He begged them to shut the project down and destroy the virus.” 

Rose’s hands were trembling. Her eyes haunted. I placed a reassuring palm over her shaking hand. She broke down. Between sobs she repeated over and over, “Oh my God…my baby…my poor baby.” 

It seemed to be confirming something she already knew. Had something happened to Kim? How was she involved in all of this? Before her breakup with Uncle Jim, Rose and her daughter, Kim, lived with us for several years. Kim was like a sister to me and if she had been injured during the shooting at the Center, I would never forgive myself. I should have called the police when I found Tiny’s body. 

“Has something happened to Kim,” I asked. 

“The Center…she was at the Center…” 

The door to the interrogation room clanged open and a deep voice bellowed, “Get her out of here…now!” 

Two burly men with buzz cuts stormed in, grabbed Rose under the arms and dragged her from the room. I expected the door to close behind them, but instead a tall grey haired man with cold blue eyes stepped into the room. He was dressed in a military uniform. I didn’t know how to read the man’s rank, but his chest sported an impressive collection of medals. 

Mr. Medals strode across the room in two strides and then stopped within arm’s reach, as if daring me to take a swipe at him. I guessed his height to be six four or five. In my seated position, it was a bit of a strain to tilt my head up and look him in the eye, but I did and I wished I hadn’t. 

The room suddenly felt cold. Goose bumps appeared on my arms. As hard as I tried I couldn’t stop shivering. It probably only lasted ten seconds, but it seemed much longer. Stillness followed. I didn’t dare blink. Instead, I waited and watched wide eyed just knowing death was near at hand. 

Finally, Mr. Medals asked, “Where is she?” 

It was the last thing I expected. What did he want with Ginny?  Even if I knew, I wouldn’t have told him. So instead of answering I continued my vigil. 

Very deliberately, Mr. Medals opened a manila folder, removed a photograph, and slid it across the table. I guess I expected him to say something, but he didn’t. 

I cut my eyes to the photograph and saw a man wearing a wife beater, combat boots and military style trousers. He posed in front of a dust covered Humvee with muscular arms folded across his chest. I guessed him to be about 5’8”. His brown hair was cropped short and a combat hardened face was partially obscured by aviator glasses. 

Shrugging my shoulders I deliberately pushed the photograph back to him and waited.  It was getting easier to look into death’s face without feeling sick to my stomach. 

He studied me closely. Maybe he saw something, I don’t know, but he tapped the photo with his forefinger as if to say, “Look again.” 

Something was vaguely familiar about the soldier in the photo, but I couldn’t get my mind around it. My mind grasped at fleeting images that flashed through it at lightning speed, like those subliminal messages encoded in video that they outlawed years ago because of their alarming ability to brainwash us all. 

I was really close to putting my finger on it when Mr. Medal’s fist slammed the table and he shouted, “Where is she boy?” 

She? He seemed to be referring to the photograph of the soldier. It was then that I realized the soldier was a woman. 

My dad was Chinese and mother was mulatto. Most people don’t have a clue about my ethnicity. They just think I am exotic. I was only one-quarter African-American, but calling me boy was enough to piss me off. It made me hot enough I was willing do something stupid, like kick this jerk’s ass. 

That was exactly what I was about to attempt when an authoritative voice ordered, “Stop right there.” 

My unwavering gaze was locked unto Mr. Medals, but his eyes faltered for the first time. It was a small victory, but one I desperately needed under the circumstances. There are pivotal moments in a life when everything seems to turn on a dime. This was one such moment. Mr. Medals released me and turned to the voice. 

“…in Order to form a more perfect union…”

– United States Constitution

It was an orator’s voice, powerful enough to carry to the back of an auditorium without assistance from a microphone. Deep and rich, it commanded one minute and seduced the next. I knew it well. The saving voice belonged to Laurence Filmore, my criminal law professor. 

He was a tall man with a full head of white hair that draped his proud face like a lion’s mane.  He was dressed in a bright Hawaiian shirt covered with pink pineapples, Bermuda shorts, and lime green flip flops. At the moment he didn’t look much like an attorney, but it was Sunday, after all. Come to think of it, he didn’t look like he’d just come from church services either. 

Despite the lack of a proper lawyer costume, Filmore filled the room with his presence. It was more than charisma, although he had that in abundance. This man commanded respect. 

In addition to teaching young men and women to be effective litigators, he was Louisville’s top criminal defense attorney. His success was legendary. He never lost a case. The very mention of his name causes law enforcement officials to cringe. 

Law hadn’t always been his career path. Following his graduation from the Naval Academy he rose to the rank of admiral. He brought his skills to bear in two wars, but shifted gears when his son was wrongfully convicted of a brutal rape and sentenced to fifteen years in prison thanks to a forced confession. 

Filmore earned his law degree from Georgetown University during a tour of duty in Washington, D.C. The Navy wasn’t willing to let him go and when he insisted on practicing law, President Bush convinced him to remain in the naval reserves. 

Filmore and I became friends thanks to a program the law school called “Dining with a Professor”.  Each of the law school professors would invite a small group of students to their homes once a month and cook dinner for us. I chose Filmore because he reminded me of Uncle Jim. In fact, it turned out Uncle Jim had served under him on some secret mission during the Gulf War. Their history created a bridge that helped facilitate our relationship. 

Mr. Medals knew who stood before him. I could see it in his eyes. It was also evident that he was weighing his options and not liking the outcome of any of them. 

“Stand down,” ordered Filmore. 

Mr. Medals’ jaw tightened. There was a flash of defiance in his eyes that Filmore moved to quash. 

“You will not ask my client another question until I’ve had an opportunity to speak with him in private,” said Filmore. 

“You are interfering with my investigation,” growled Mr. Medals. 

“This young man is a murder suspect and you just tried to provoke him into a fist fight,” said Filmore. “You’re a Marine Colonel and you answer to me. This isn’t Bagdad. Step away from my client.” 

“I was testing him,” said Mr. Medals. 

“You were trying to entrap him,” said Filmore. 

“I wanted to know if he really has the skills to survive an encounter with her,” said Mr. Medals. 

“Who is she?” asked Filmore. 

“This investigation is classified, Admiral,” answered Mr. Medals. 

“Then, you’re done here,” said Filmore. “That’s a direct order.” 

Mr. Medals deflated with a sharp hiss. His eyes scanned from side to side a couple of times as he quickly processed Filmore’s order. When he spoke again, his tone was less combative…softer. 

“There is another set of prints on the murder weapon,” said Mr. Medals.

“The killer’s prints…they belong to Pony Tail,” I said. 

Mr. Medals pointed at the photograph on the table and said, “They’re her prints.” 

Filmore calmly walked to the table and picked up the photo. Recognition flickered in his eyes. His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch and, for the first time since his dramatic arrival, he seemed unbalanced…less sure of himself. 

“Kim Slotter was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for God’s sake,” said Filmore. “How could this happen?” 

It wasn’t so much a question directed at Mr. Medals. Instead, it seemed to be a private thought that, somehow, managed to find voice. One of those slips of tongue that leaves us wondering if we really said that out loud. The problem was that Filmore never made mistakes. It was as if the photograph had put him in a place where he lost himself. 

“Private sector”, answered Mr. Medals with a hint of distaste as if that explained everything. 

Filmore looked up from the photograph. The trance was broken, but he looked less commanding…more collaborative. Even though he knew me well, he studied me like a potential enemy. My life was in his hands and he appeared to be compromised. It scared me. 

He was looking at me, but his next question was directed to Mr. Medals. 

“She’s one of yours, Colonel,” said Filmore. “You trained her?” 

“Yes. She’s the best I’ve seen. This man could not have survived a knife fight with her.” 

“You’ve lost your objectivity in this investigation,” said Filmore. “Stand down.” 

“I have to find her,” repeated Mr. Medals. “It’s a matter of national security.” 

“You’re only protecting one of your own,” said Filmore. “How is that a matter of national security?” 

Mr. Medals shook his head and said, “That’s classified.” 

“I am your superior officer,” barked Filmore. “You will answer my question.” 

Mr. Medals cut his eyes to me and said, “Not in front of the civilian.” 

Filmore turned sharply toward the door and said, “Follow me, Colonel.” 

They left me alone to ponder this strange turn of events. I had assumed Tiny’s killer was Pony Tail, but it was Slotter. She had killed Biggs and stole the documents from his desk. Military use of the virus was too horrible to imagine and I couldn’t figure out what possible connection any of this had to the events at the Center. 

Before Rose was dragged from the room in tears, she was about to tell me something about Kim…it had to do with the Center. An image popped into my mind…a stray memory of the audience crowding the exit doors. I saw fists pounding unopened doors. It was as if they were locked from the outside, but that is impossible. 

Then, I thought about the swat team and the interrogation. The physicians from the CDC kept asking how I was feeling and whether I noticed any unusual odors at the Center. I told them I didn’t smell anything other than gun powder. Why did they ask that and why was the CDC involved in a murder investigation? 

Then, there was the full blown physical exam they put me through. It went way beyond the collection of evidence. Geez, they wore hazmat suits for heaven’s sake, like I was hazardous or something. 

Then, it hit me…the documents. The connection was the virus…the bio-weapon Pathogen’s geneticists had created. Could some monster have released it at the Center? There were over three thousand people there, including Kim. I tried my best to stay calm and remember this was only a theory. It was too horrible to imagine. 

Filmore’s return interrupted my macabre thoughts, but, when I noticed his pale face and trembling hands, my fears returned with a vengeance. I desperately wanted to know what Mr. Medals told him and started to ask, but he shook his head. The police station had too many eyes and ears. 

Motioning me to follow, he led me out of the building and to his black Cadillac parked in front of LMPD headquarters. I couldn’t believe we were just walking out of there after all they put me through. Judging by the sun, it was early evening. I had been interrogated for nearly twenty-four hours and was exhausted, but ecstatic. I really thought they were going to lock me up and throw away the key. 

Filmore didn’t speak until we pulled into Uncle Jim’s driveway. 

“You need to be very careful, Grant.” 

“What is going on?” I asked. 

“Something very dangerous,” he answered. “That’s all I can tell you. Try to get some rest. You look like crap. One more thing, stay out of the city.” 

His intention was clear. I was dismissed. Uncle Jim was waiting for me at the door, looking like a worried parent, so I thanked Filmore for his help and went to face my uncle. 

I expected him to drill me with questions, but instead Uncle Jim pointed to the sofa and handed me a pillow. Grateful, I curled up on the couch and closed my eyes. I remember thinking too much had happened over the last couple of days and sleep would be impossible, but I did sleep. As I drifted off, the last thing I thought of was the Colt 45 tucked in Uncle Jim’s belt. It was a comforting end to an insane day. 

The smell of fresh coffee woke me from a nightmare. It was the familiar one involving the Fat Lady. I peeked out of the corner of my eye and into a ray of light shining through the living room window. It was morning. My back was stiff from the soft cushions, but I was safe in Uncle Jim’s house. A hand moved toward me, blocking the glare. 

“Have you started having those dreams again?” asked Uncle Jim as he offered a cup of coffee. 

“Yes, they’re back,” I murmured. “How long was I out?” 

“You slept about fourteen hours. It’s Monday morning. Come join us for some breakfast.” 

“Us?” 

“Padma showed up a few of hours before you,” answered Uncle Jim. “It was kind of weird. I didn’t hear a car drop him off. I’m not sure how he got here. When I asked him about it, he said he took a ride on a magic carpet.” 

“Showed up…didn’t I leave him here Saturday night?” I asked. 

“He slipped out of the house,” said Uncle Jim. “I didn’t even know he was gone.” 

Uncle Jim looked thoroughly disgusted with himself. Given his background in the Special Forces, I could understand why it bothered him that a monk was able to slip by him undetected. 

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and followed him into the kitchen. Padma was sitting at the table drinking coffee. The guy never stops smiling. Geez, you’d think he would have to give his cheeks a rest once in a while. 

Sausage gravy was bubbling on the stove. Bird was perched at his favorite spot on top of the refrigerator. The smell of homemade biscuits drifted from the oven. Jars of jelly and sorghum sat in the center of the table. It was a comforting scene. 

“Aaawk, the jailbird is free,” said Bird. “Did you make any new friends in the slammer? I’m surprised you can sit down.” 

“Hush bird,” said Uncle Jim. 

Oddly, it made me feel better. It was familiar. Bird gives me a hard time and Uncle Jim calls him out on it. You might call it a family tradition. 

“Merry morning!” greeted Padma. 

I’m not much of a morning person, but it felt good to be home. As Uncle Jim topped our cups with hot coffee, I had to smile at Padma’s mug.  There was a silhouette of a nude dancer with her leg hooked around a pole. He turned it so I could read the other side where it said, “Support a Single Mom.” After his performance at the party, it was more than fitting. 

“Good morning Padma,” I said. “That’s an interesting coffee mug.”

His smiled widened and said, “Isn’t it lovely.” 

Geez, sometimes he sounded so gay. If I didn’t know better, I would bet on it. 

“It was a gift from my doctor,” said Uncle Jim. 

I choked on my coffee. The spray made a huge mess. Sadly, a stream of it hit Bird, sending him squawking across the room in a flash of red, blue and yellow.  He was very upset. Oh, the joy of revenge! 

“She worked as a stripper to pay her way through med-school,” said Uncle Jim. “And yes, she was a single mom.” 

After I cleaned the mess, Uncle Jim filled mismatched plates with hot buttermilk biscuits and then poured sausage gravy over them.  He sat a pitcher of orange juice and a gallon of whole milk in the center of the table. I rarely eat breakfast, but my stomach rumbled approval. 

I filled Uncle Jim in on last night’s events, but left out my theories about the virus. Until I knew more about what really happened, there was no reason to alarm him unnecessarily. After a good night’s rest, it seemed like a far-fetched theory. 

I had more pragmatic things to worry about, like paying my bills and Ginny’s disappearance. Kinsey said Ginny was in love with me. I didn’t know what to make of that. I still believed she left the party with that guy. She was naked and flirting with him for God’s sake. What was I supposed to think? On top of that, she’s angry with me because she thinks I slept with Gil’s wife. I am not a slut! 

I shook my head in exasperation as I tried to make some sense of it all, but it was hard to focus. So much had happened in the last day or two. 

We finished our breakfast in silence. Uncle Jim was thoughtful. Padma was inscrutable.  Bird focused on his morning bath and shooting me dirty looks every couple of minutes. I’m pretty sure I heard him grumble something about never getting the stains out of his feathers. 

After the last dish was washed and put away, I excused myself and stepped outside for some fresh air. I needed time to think. Too much had happened too fast. The door squeaked opened behind me and Uncle Jim stepped out. He draped his arm across my shoulders and stood quietly next to me. I had a memory of him doing the same thing after my dad was killed. It was comforting.