The Victims Game
Part Eight - the Meet
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...

About eleven years ago, a friend with a mean streak woke me up with a bucket of cold water. I figured that was about the worst awakening I'd ever have.

Wrong again.

The first thing I realized, now, was that I was lying on my back, on grass. Someone's lawn, maybe? I tried to roll over, but there was something heavy on my arms, holding me down.

With effort, I pried my eyelids open, and couldn't figure out what I was looking at for a moment. Something flat, dark, and speckled. I puzzled for a minute before realizing it was the night sky. Yeah, I'm pretty bright when I first wake up.

There were a couple of large masses in my peripheral vision, one on either side, and at first I thought they were mountain ranges or something. Then they leaned over me, and I realized that it was Buzz Cut and Broken Nose. They were kneeling on my outstretched arms, pinning me down crudely but effectively. This didn't bode well for the rest of my evening.

Both men were pretty grim-faced, but Buzz Cut was giving me a little extra scowl. I gave him the Eddie Murphy smile and said, "You're not mad about the knee, are you?"

For a reply, he pulled a Glock semiautomatic pistol from under his blazer and pressed it against my forehead. I guess that answered that.

The Glock is a state-of-the-art pistol, often described as the handgun of the 21st Century. It's as reliable and accurate as a Swiss clock, and about as attractive as a brick. All of which was academic, when it's this close. He could have been using a cheap Saturday Night Special, and it would have had pretty much the same effect. One squeeze of the trigger and I'd be winging my way Heavenward, strumming my harp to the tune of 'If I Only Had A Brain (But I Haven't Anymore)'.

Amazing, the thoughts that go through your head just before a bullet does.

I couldn't see any buildings or trees or other landmarks to give me any idea where we were. We could have been in a Chicago park, or a field in Iowa, or a nature preserve in Southeast Asia for all I knew. Then something else entered my field of vision. Someone else, actually.

A woman with a familiar face was standing above my head, looking down at me. From my perspective, her face was upside down, and she seemed to have shed a decade or two, but there was no mistaking her. 'Millicent Carter', or an unreasonable facsimile. The woman I had ostensibly been hired by.

Looking at her now, I guessed she was in her late thirties, early forties. Assuming she hadn't been cloned, or magically rejuvenated, she must have been wearing some pretty convincing old-age makeup when I met her for the first time. At least, good enough to pass in that dim lighting.

While the face was familiar, the warmth she had projected during our earlier encounter was gone. Her brown hair was pulled back in the severe, no-nonsense style of a prosecuting attorney, and she was dressed entirely in cat burglar black. Black slacks, black blazer, black turtleneck. I couldn't see the shoes from this vantagepoint - they were right above my scalp - but I figured you'd do well to bet on black.

Broken Nose took hold of my head and tilted it back, roughly, so I was looking at her whether I liked it or not. I thought I saw the roof of a house behind her, but I couldn't be certain.

"Millie, darling," I said, as casually as my angled neck would allow, "I swear you look younger every time I see you."

"This is the only conversation we will have, Mister Fox," she said, coldly, "and my time is limited. I hardly think that sarcasm is warranted, as it's obvious I am not Millicent Carter."

"So what do I call you, for conversational purposes?"

"Joan," she said, as if choosing the name at random.

"Okay, Joan, can I ask you a relevant question at this point?"

"I doubt it, but proceed, Mr. Fox."

"Are you wearing black underwear?"

She didn't change expression, but Broken Nose gave my neck a little extra torque. She waved at him to ease up, that it was all right. Good thing, because my carotids were about to go out of business. Being a Natural Born Smart-ass is a curse sometimes.

Broken Nose relaxed his hold, but Buzz Cut kept the Glock muzzle against my head. It was going to be one of those nights, you could tell.

Joan began strolling idly in a circle around me, so my perspective of her was constantly changing. It's an old interrogation tactic, to keep the subject disoriented. Or so I've heard. I've seen cops do it, but it's the first time this sort of thing has happened to me.

"Daniel Fox, born Daniel Timothy Faulkner," she recited, "I advised my superiors that you would be unlikely to walk away from this matter once your job was done, but they overruled me, claiming that your interference would be negligible at best. Still, in the interests of efficiency, I have been authorized to make direct contact with you on this one occasion."

"Authorized by who? Or is it whom?"

"I assume you are familiar with organizations such as the Central Intelligence Agency, or perhaps the National Security Agency?"

Ohhh, boy... "Yeah?"

A very thin smile. "They haven't heard of us. They lack the proper security clearance."

I don't believe this is happening. "You're some kind of top-secret government agent, is that what you're saying?"

"If that is how you choose to interpret my words..."

That's a typical government answer for you. "And you're going to pull out the little red flashy-thing and erase my memory when we're done?"

The smile went away. "You watch too many movies, Mr. Fox." This from the woman who's giving me the X-Files conspiracy weirdness bit.

"So what are you guys doing stealing funds from a local hospital? Don't you have better things to do? Overthrowing Marxist regimes or Third World dictatorships or something like that? And don't try telling me that Carol Hathaway's a KGB sleeper agent or anything like that, please."

"The KGB is not a concern on this occasion," she said, taking me seriously, "Both County General Hospital and the Carter Foundation are minor players in a much larger game, the stakes of which are far too complex to be explained to you at this time."

"Let me guess: the Fate of the Free World is at stake, right?"

She smiled again, thin and humorless. "Such a statement supposes that the world was ever truly free. Like most American citizens, Mr. Fox, you suffer from the delusion that the darker machinations of international politics and economics are some sort of alien element or infection, and that everything will be all right if only you can keep them from contaminating your wholesome, 'normal' life. You refuse to acknowledge that these factors are an integral part of your everyday reality, and have been so since long before the birth of your grandparents."

"Look, lady, I don't know who's giving me more of a headache, you or him..."

"Consider: the hospital of which you are so fond is funded, for the most part, by the State of Illinois and, by extension, the United States Government. That government thrives and prospers only by dominating its global neighbors, whether by peaceful trade, overt force, or...more sinister methods still."

She held up my wallet and extracted a slip of paper. Walter Montgomery's check. "This check, for example. The money comes from the seized assets of a European arms dealer whom we found it necessary to liquidate."

"Montgomery paid me off with blood money?"

A slight shrug. "An unnecessarily melodramatic term. We prefer to think of it as making use of available resources. Certainly, the former owner won't be utilizing it."

"Waste not, want not, huh?"

She replaced the check in my wallet. "Cash it if you wish, Mr. Fox. You needn't worry, the deposit will clear."

I chose to take that as a sign that I'd be alive when this conversation ended. I hoped... "Why did you bring me into this?"

"You seemed a useful operative. Our profiles indicated that your own vanity, coupled with your connection to County General's employees, would compel you to accept the task of gathering the patients' signatures, while blinding you to any suspicions a more objective party might have harbored. Of course, your lack of official affiliation with the hospital or local authorities would make it a simple matter to discredit you...or eliminate you, if need be."

"And, ah...does need be?"

"That remains to be seen," she replied, rather ominously.

I tried a shift of topic. "You want to maybe explain what this is all about? What you're trying to gain?"

"It would not be my first choice, no."

"Aww, come on! You went to all this trouble to talk, and I don't even get any answers? James Bond always got an explanation from the bad guys before they tried to kill him."

She raised a finger in mild warning. "Be careful, Mr. Fox, it may yet come to that. If I allow you to live, it will only be a result of your continued ignorance. I am not authorized to reveal any of the larger details to anyone. This conversation is occurring only as a matter of convenience."

"Yeah, this is real convenient for me..." I muttered, eyeing the two big guys pinning me down.

"I am speaking to you for two reasons. The first, and far more incidental, is to apologize to you for deceiving you, when it was necessary for me to impersonate Millicent Carter. Although I am expert in such operations, I take no pleasure in practicing dishonesty. Particularly to someone such as yourself. Your integrity and persistence, although hampered by egotism and delusions of heroism, are commendable."

"Oooh, damned with faint praise..."

"The second, primary reason for this meeting is to inform you that no further investigation or interference on your part will be tolerated. Although you are incapable of grasping the scope and nuance of this matter, your curiosity could pose a hindrance. Perhaps enough to merit your termination. It would be an extremely minor effort on our part, I assure you, but one I'm certain you would wish to avoid."

True enough.

"Have no illusions, Mr. Fox, if we wished your death, it would come entirely without warning, and no one would ever learn the truth of it."

"You think not, huh?" I said, thinking about Richard Wintergreen, my partner and the best detective I ever knew. Would he be good enough to find these guys, if it came to that?

"Tragedies happen every day to good people, often without apparent reason or cause, and seldom with justice afterward. Ask your friend Dr. Greene, if you don't believe me."

I thought maybe there was just a hint of something in her eye when she mentioned Mark's name, but I couldn't be sure. Then it was gone and she was all business again.

The Glock pressed a little harder.

"Let this serve, therefore, as your only warning," Joan continued, "There is nothing further you can accomplish here. Make things easier on yourself and simply let the matter drop. Having said that, I believe our business is concluded."

"Wait a second, what about Weaver and Hathaway? It doesn't bother anyone that they lost their jobs over this? Or that Hathaway may go to prison?"

"Incidental pawns, unavoidable casualties. A regrettable turn of events for the both of them, to be sure, but believe me, in the long run, far more good than harm shall come of these events."

She spoke with the faintest hint of sadness, as an academic historian speaks of a tragedy that occurred hundreds of years ago. Maybe that was her secret: maybe she was a time traveler from a far-distant epoch in which humankind dwelt in a cluster of domed cities or sky-towers, like the Jetsons. Maybe she had come to our time to preserve her perception of critical historical events, like in a James Cameron film. Maybe Carol Hathaway's twins were fated to become the messianic leaders of the future, like the Skywalkers, but they would only achieve this destiny if their mother's medical career were suddenly ended in disgrace, and she had to retreat into exile. Maybe my brain wasn't getting enough oxygen.

I said, "Just tell me this: is Carol Hathaway guilty?"

She didn't answer straight away, drawing it out. Then, "Guilt and innocence are subjective terms at best, but...she had nothing to do with this, no."

Something lightened inside me, knowing that Kerry and Mark's faith in her wasn't misplaced. But it didn't really help my immediate situation much.

"I doubt you'll have any luck convincing anyone of that, Mr. Fox. You have only your own word for it. Officially, and to all proving, this conversation never occurred." As she spoke, she produced a hypodermic needle from somewhere. I couldn't tell what color the liquid in it was. Then again, if I could, it wouldn't tell me anything.

Broken Nose got off my arm, and rolled up my sleeve. I didn't have any strength to struggle with him, and it wouldn't have done much good if I did. They had me, and they knew it. Very cool, very professional.

"Don't worry, Mr. Fox. It's a clean needle, I assure you," Joan said as she injected the liquid into my arm.

As the world began fading out on me, I had the sensation of being lifted off the ground, probably by Buzz Cut and Broken Nose. The last thing I heard was a kind of thumping, like something was locked inside a metal box, and was trying to get out.

Then I was gone again.



"I don't know how to thank you guys!"
--- Fozzie Bear, 'The Muppet Movie'
"I don't know WHY to thank you guys..."
--- Kermit the Frog, Ibid