The Victims Game
Part Eighteen - the Choice
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMERS:  Hi. We've got some legal stuff to wade through before we can jump into things. Mostly the usual prerequisite jazz: ER and all related characters are the property of Warner Bros., ConstantC Productions, and Amblin Entertainment Television, a bunch of really swell, understanding guys who won't sue me if I mention that the aforementioned characters and institutions are being used without their permission, but only for entertainment purposes, and that no form of profit is being made on this work. For the benefit of the content-conscious amongst you, I'll assure you that there's nothing here that you couldn't see on the show, anyway. Except maybe some language, I'm not sure yet. Depends what kind of day I'm having as I write. Beyond that, I make no promises about what's in store. Could be silly, could be scary, could be sexy, could be sad. I'm not telling. Come on, live dangerously...

It was almost eleven at night, and I was in my rental car, slowly cruising through a low-density suburb on the farthest outskirts of Chicago, looking for a particular address. This was not the kind of neighborhood you picture when you think of Chicago. It looked more like any sleepy little suburb that you would see in Oregon, or Virginia, or any number of other places far away from one of the most prominent cities in the United States. Many of the homes looked like they had been built by hand, by the same people who owned them, and who lived rich, full, happy lives in them. You could imagine schoolkids trick-or-treating safely in the streets, crunching through ankle-deep red and yellow leaves.

At this hour, though, it felt more like Elm Street. As in "Nightmare On..."

As I parked and walked the last block to my destination address, I felt unaccountable chills between my shoulder blades, and I wished again that I had my gun. I've been in worse places than this, and yet I hadn't been this nervous. Although I had never been to this place before, I was feeling a healthy dose of déjà vu. What was going on?

Finding the right house, I went up the porch steps and knocked. When it opened, I would not have been at all surprised to see Ted Cassidy, in full "Lurch" makeup, intoning "You rannggg?" with those vocal cords that went down to his kneecaps. But it wasn't him.

It was someone even tougher, though. A man a few inches taller than me, maybe thirty pounds heavier, and about twice my age. The silver-white hair that receded from his forehead was long enough to brush the back of his collar, like the late William Hartnell, and his handlebar mustache would put Sgt. Pepper to shame. Although the hour was late, he was dressed, as always, for a night out on the town. Any town in the civilized world.

I said, "The password is still 'swordfish', right?"

Richard Wintergreen scowled and stepped back to let me inside. As he closed the door with his left hand, his right slipped his large, well-maintained Webley revolver into the holster under his shoulder. He has used the same pistol since the Second World War, and never found a need to upgrade his armaments. "Delinquent as always," he rumbled at me.

I smiled. "Good to see you, Richard. I was beginning to think you'd found some handsome young stud and eloped to Bermuda or something."

"Nonsense, lad. You know I much prefer the companionship of my own generation," he replied easily. Richard is entirely comfortable with his own sexuality, neither flaunting nor hiding it. After more than half a century of police and detective work, he is stronger than most men my age, and remains fast of hand and sharp of eye. Next to nobody has ever called him a fairy. Nobody has done it twice.

I nodded, the requisite partner bonding over with. "So, what are you doing here?" I asked him, as we sat down in the cheap chairs someone had placed in the house's living room. The house did not appear lived in, its walls and rooms empty, except for a few makeshift furnishings. Temporary dwelling necessities. "You on stakeout, or something?"

"Precisely. As it happens, Daniel, I am afraid you and I have been operating on roughly parallel endeavors for some time, now. I believe I have mentioned Mrs. Millicent Carter in the past, have I not?"

"Yeah. You worked for her a while back, right?"

"On more than one occasion, as it happens. There are other, local investigators whom she has employed, specifically the Strauss firm. However, while honest and hardworking, they tend to be rather plodding and unimaginative. For certain matters, somewhat delicate or complex ones, Mrs. Carter prefers to retain my services."

"And she's done that now?"

He inclined his head. "I came to Chicago at her bequest, little more than a month ago."

"Are you kidding me?! I've been running my ass off all over the city for the last two weeks, and all this time you've been kicking back in here, singing 'Play That Funky Music, White Boy'?"

He sniffed, indignantly. "Don't be absurd, my boy."

This explained why I hadn't been able to reach him by phone in LA, and why he hadn't called me back until now. Richard Wintergreen does not carry a pager. He does not own a cell phone, a microwave, or a VCR. In general, he considers anything invented after 1960 to be useless junk. I once talked him into getting cable, because I thought he might enjoy the History and Learning Channels, but he spent most of his time railing at the screen, denouncing all the programs as "revisionist rubbish".

Richard explained that Millicent Carter had hired him to determine who was causing a drain on the family finances. Her accountants had been unable to trace the money, and she had suspected foul play by someone who could cover their tracks pretty darn well.

The primary suspect had been Walter Montgomery, who had caused them some difficulties in the past, but there was little evidence to prove or disprove their suspicions. Until a few days ago, when he disappeared. Just about the same time, I figured, that Kerry Weaver and John Carter and I were interrupted at dinner.

I said, "Why did Mrs. Carter keep Montgomery on her payroll, if she had suspicions about him?"

"Mrs. Carter treats her organization like an extended family," Richard told me, "which includes forgiveness for past mistakes. However, she is also a believer in the adage 'keep your friends close, and your enemies closer'."

"Where you can keep an eye on them."

"Correct. To complicate matters, she had reason to believe that dismissing Montgomery would cause the Foundation as many problems as it would solve."

Oh, really? "You think he had some dirt on her?"

"Walter Montgomery was privy to many of the Carter family's secrets, both professional and personal. He knew where the bodies were buried." Richard cocked an eyebrow. "Few people of Millicent's success are above reproach."

I suddenly became strongly aware of the floppy disk in my pocket. The one marked 'CARTER'. Makes you wonder how much damage it could do the Foundation if it dropped into the wrong hands.

You see what I mean? About wealth promoting paranoia? Lifestyles of the Rich and Brainless...

"However, Mrs. Carter admits that she may have waited too long, or too placidly. She would never have stood for the disruptions at the hospital, had she known such developments were forthcoming. Now, what exactly is your situation, Daniel?"

I told him the story, starting from Kerry Weaver's phone call to our office, and filled in what I had discovered about Amanda Lee, and her possible correlation with 'Joan'. Richard was highly intrigued by Kerry and John's description of Lee, as I relayed it to him, but when I told him about Joan's 'secret agent' act, he looked disgusted.

"Amazing. People are so quick to see conspiracies at every turn, these days. It's all the fault of that bloody 'X' show..."

"Oh, sure, blame the idiot box..."

"Everyone wants to believe in stories like that, because they can't bear the thought that the world is honestly dull. Speaking as one who's been involved in the odd government conspiracy, my lad, I can assure you they're just as tedious as everything else."

It didn't surprise me that Richard would say this. There are some things he handles that he doesn't want me involved in. Some of them date back to his Scotland Yard days, when he often worked either parallel to, or in tandem with, British Intelligence. He makes a point of not involving me in them, or speaking about them in detail. He says I'd just blunder in and make a mess of things, but I think he just doesn't want me to have certain things on my conscience.

Rather than bring up this argument again, I said, "Where are we? Whose house is this, and what are you doing in it?"

"It's a rental," he said, "and the important thing about it is its view of the house across the street." He led me over to a window, and I peered carefully through the venetian blinds without adjusting them. There was a good view of a two-story place on the corner. Looked like a nice place to raise a family in relative comfort.

"What's important about that one?" I asked. Someone was moving past the windows of the other house.

"It's owned by Walter Montgomery," Richard said, "but under a false name. The members of the Strauss firm and I have been keeping watch, in the hopes that Montgomery would take refuge there. Thus far, he has not."

The figure in the other windows looked like a woman. "Well, someone's in there," I said. "Any idea who?"

"I have now," he said. "She arrived a day ago, alone."

"Let me guess," I said, "She's white, brown eyes and hair, late thirties, about yea tall?" I held a palm off the floor, indicating.

"Precisely." Richard handed me a pair of binoculars.

I took them and looked more carefully. The woman across the street was in the downstairs living room, lit by candles. She had a soft fall of brown hair, and wore a cardigan and full-length skirt. She was the right height and build to be Joan, but I couldn't get a good look at her face. There were probably millions of women in the state who looked like Joan from this distance. Her demeanor seemed a little sad.

"Could be her," I admitted.

"I've been rotating shifts with the Strauss people, hoping Montgomery would show up, as it's our only lead on him. Of course, it's not likely to do us any good now, is it?" he added, with a bit of an edge in his voice.

"Why's that?"

"Because, Daniel, now that you've had young Dr. Carter inquiring about him all over, he's bound to be alerted to our suspicions." Richard rapped his knuckles on the top of my skull, reprimanding me. "By now, he's quite probably thousands of miles away, in some non-extradition country."

I rubbed at my head and gave him a little smile. "Only if he could get past a self-proclaimed militant lesbian with PMS and a gun."

"Eh? How's that?"

I explained how Maggie Doyle and I had tracked Walter Montgomery down - at Joan's apartment, ironically - and apprehended him. I told him how Doyle was taking Montgomery to County General, and would hand him over to the authorities from there.

Richard Wintergreen raised both eyebrows, which, for Richard, is tantamount to jaw-dropping astonishment. Then he beamed a delighted Buddha smile and said, "Well, my lad, it would seem we've solved each other's problems! I've treed your quarry, and you mine!"

"Got a little synchronicity action goin' for ya," I said, giving him the Val Kilmer smile. It would have been a high-five moment, but Richard does not go in for such gestures.

"It would seem that my surveillance is moot. Shall we go confront the young lady, and determine if she is your mystery woman?"

I looked at the woman again. If it was Joan, all we had to do was walk over and pick her up. She wouldn't be able to escape the both of us. "Yeah, I guess that would be the next move, but..."

"But what?"

"I don't know..." It felt like there was something else I should do first. But what?

Richard looked at me carefully. "I've never known you to hesitate like this."

"That a problem for you?"

"Not at all. Caution and forethought are always laudable," he said, adding, "albeit uncharacteristic..."

I took one more look at the woman, then I put down the binoculars.

"May I ask what troubles you?" he said, concerned.

"There's something missing." Then I knew what it was. "You have a phone?"

He nodded and showed me where it was, turning back to the window while I dialed. It rang, and I wondered how I was going to handle this. I imagined the conversation: Hello? Kerry, it's me, I-click! Buzzzz...

I was a little relieved when Carter answered instead. "Hello?"

"Hey, Carter, it's me. I need to talk to her, is she in?"

"Danny..." His hesitation was evident. "I don't think she'll want to talk to you right now. Maybe you should give it a day or two, let her get over it..."

"This can't wait, John. Just tell her, the phone's for her, but don't say who. Please."

There was a pause, then he said, "Okay. Hang on."

I waited.

"Hello?"

I raised my voice. "Hey! This is radio station KDLZ-FM! For two thousand dollars and a trip to Maui, WHO IS BURIED IN GRANT'S TOMB??"

A stunned silence. Kerry said, "What...?"

"Okay, I just wanted to get your attention," I said quickly, "Richard Wintergreen and I are in a house across the street from Amanda Lee. All we have to do is go in and get her."

"Jesus, Daniel... So why are you telling me this? Do you want me to give you my blessing?"

I said, "That's up to you. I'm letting you make the choice."

"What are you talking about?"

"If you don't want us to go get her, I won't."

"I already told you I didn't want you to-"

"Yeah, but that was when we were in a bad position. Now we're in a good one, and I'm giving you the choice this time, instead of making it for you."

"And you expect me to believe you'll listen to me, this time?"

I gave her the address where Richard and I were, and said, "I'm going to wait an hour before I go across the street and face her, unless I hear from you in that time. If you don't think I'll listen to you, call the police and have them arrest us for prowling when we go to her house."

"Daniel... What are you trying to prove?"

I didn't answer for a moment, and then I said, "I shouldn't have overruled your choice back at the hospital, but I did. I can't undo it. But I'm giving you a choice, now." I told her, briefly, about finding Walter Montgomery, and that the money had been mysteriously returned to County, so things were more stable on that end of things. "This is just a loose end to wrap up, but only if you want us to."

There was a silence on her end for a while. Then, she said, "Damn you, Daniel..." in a tired voice.

I said, "While you're thinking, here's an easy one, since you didn't get the Grant's Tomb question. Fill in the song title: 'Might As Well Face It, You're Addicted To...' blank?"

She hung up on me.

Richard was looking at me in some surprise.

I said, "Since we've got Montgomery, your job is done, right? You don't need Joan for anything?"

"This is true," he allowed.

"So you wouldn't have reason to object if I had to let her go?"

He shook his head. "At your discretion."

Off his look, I said, "I've got something I need to prove."

"To Dr. Weaver?"

"To myself."

He nodded, respecting my choice without fully understanding it. That's okay, I didn't entirely understand it either.

We waited in silence.

About forty-five minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door. Richard answered it, gun in hand, then stepped back to admit the visitor. "Dr. Weaver," he said.

"Richard," she replied, curtly. Wintergreen has known Weaver longer than I have, and under other circumstances, they would have greeted each other far more warmly. But she wasn't in the mood now, and he sensed it.

Dr. Kerry Weaver was in full battle-dress. Tight, form-fitting black jeans, black ankle boots with low heels, and a black leather jacket that fit like skin over a dark red shirt. No jewelry. She gripped the crutch as though it were a weapon, rather than a weakness. It was a fashion statement, four syllables long: Don't Mess With Me.

She walked directly up to me, staring into my eyes. Richard hung back, giving us some space. "Why are you doing this to me?" she asked.

"Love," I said.

"What?"

"It was Robert Palmer's 'Might As Well Face It, You're Addicted To...Love'," I clarified. "Come on, even Richard could have gotten that one."

"Speak for yourself, lad," he muttered, "I'd have guessed the answer was opium."

Kerry looked disgusted and turned, as if to walk out again, then turned back. "The whole damn world is a big joke to you, isn't it?"

"No, just carefully selected bits of it." I offered her the binoculars, and said, "Take a look across the street. House on the corner, first floor."

She snatched them away, then went to the window and peered out. After a few moments, she said, "That could be her, but it could be anyone."

"We could all go find out," I said. "What do you say?"

"What the hell do you expect me to say, Daniel?" she snapped, coming back to me. "Am I supposed to be flattered by this gesture of faith? Oh, gee, what a choice: do I do the obvious thing, giving you permission to go play hero again, or do I refuse and look like a total bitch? This is such a loaded choice..."

"Kerry," I began, "this is not a trick question. I will abide entirely by your decision. If you say walk away, I will walk away and never speak of it again. So will Richard. Look, maybe you and I can't ever understand each other's ethics, but I'm giving you an opportunity to see things from my position. I'm putting you in control of this situation."

"Why me?"

"Because you've been injured more in this matter than anyone. Except maybe Carol Hathaway, and I don't know how to reach her. If anyone's earned the right to confront Lee, or Joan, or whoever she really is, it's you."

Kerry rubbed at her eyes. "It's not a question of rights, Daniel. The fact that you've put me in this position is..." She trailed off.

I put a hand on her shoulder. "I know you probably hate me for this. I have to live with that. And I know you're worried about that vengeful dark side appearing again..."

She looked at me, sharply.

"...but I know you can handle it. This isn't like last time, and things will not get out of control. I have faith in your ability to deal with this situation with good judgment and intelligence, Kerry. More than anyone I know. Except maybe Richard, but he doesn't have much stake in this."

Kerry Weaver and I looked at each other for a long time. Then she brushed off my hand and said, "Richard?"

He joined us.

Kerry said, "All right, boys, this is how it's going to be. If we go over there, it's under my instruction. We go to talk, not to commit violence. If I say we walk, we walk. You two are there to back me up, and you'll act only to prevent anyone from getting hurt, nothing more. Either you agree to these conditions right now, or I call the police and arrest both of you, right now. Do we agree?"

"Yes," I said.

Richard said, "As milady wishes." If anyone else had said that, it would have come off sarcastic.

She looked steadily at me. "I am so angry at you for this," she said to me. But there was no fire behind it.

"I know."

She closed her eyes, let out a breath, and shook her head. "All right, then. Let's go."

Richard took up his magnificent walking stick, donned his bowler hat, and stood by the door, waiting for us. I looked at him, then at the leather-clad Kerry Weaver, and gave them the Patrick MacNee smile and said, "Mrs. Peel, we're needed."

"Shut up," they chorused.

We stepped out into the night.