What Happens In Baltimore
by Invisible Ranger (HBF), 2012
Disclaimer: TAT and related characters belong to SJC/Universal. This is strictly for the jazz.
Dedicated: To AJ. I promised you this one.
The moon wanders, overhead, its light reflected in the waters of Inner Harbor. The stars wander along with it, little pinpricks of light visible even through a few wispy clouds.
My mind wanders too. It would be a good night for flying, even if it's cold enough to freeze the nuts right off a brass monkey. I wish I'd brought a scarf and gloves before I walked out the door of my apartment. That's one thing I haven't gotten used to up here, this damn winter weather. Turned cold the last of September and I've been shivering ever since.
I wish I were three time zones away. Forget San Francisco; I left my heart in L.A.
Some church bell, far away, tolls half past one. I always enjoyed the middle of the night. Less people to worry about and more silence to fill up with the never-ending voices of my subconscious. There's nobody around and I'm free to do as I like, talk to myself if I feel like it, skip down the sidewalk. The first time I slipped out to go exploring, I felt like I was twelve again. I mostly did it because I was bored and I couldn't sleep. Now, I actually look forward to these "adventures" almost as much as seeing my guys.
It's uncanny how quiet even a big city gets this time of night. Very few cars, no screaming sirens, no squawking gulls fighting over chum. Like I've been cast in some weird remake of that old movie with Vincent Price about the last guy in the world.
Only I'm not alone.
It's not a vampire or anything like that. I stopped believing in that stuff when I stopped believing in Santa Claus and the Chicago Cubs ever winning another Series. But I know somebody is there, watching, stalking me just out of sight. I spent too many years in the dense jungle highlands of Nam to ever lose that sixth sense. Whether or not they mean me any harm remains to be seen. I try not to think about it.
Tonight is actually the first time I've ever been to Baltimore. It's also the farthest I've ever dared venture out on one of my nocturnal adventures. I'd done some of the swamps down along the Potomac, the National Mall, Arlington National. Either insomnia or sheer curiosity brought me here, hitching rides as to discourage the Ables who like to follow me everywhere. In any case I think I've lost them. I've spent the last few hours wandering around the chilly, damp downtown area. Thinking, mostly.
If I have plenty of time to do anything nowadays, it's thinking. I'm probably supposed to be working at…where the hell do I work, again? It occurs to me I can't remember.
That's the troubling thing. There's a lot I can't remember. They said that was cured of that, of the memory lapses, when they sent me on my way from the hospital. I have my doubts. There are holes in my memory big enough to drive a Sherman tank through. I don't like that any more than I like having to work civvy jobs.
There's that shadow again. It's there, for just the barest instant, out of the corner of my eye, then it's gone again. I'm starting to worry.
The street sign tells me this is Calvert Street. That means next to nothing other than my pilot's internal compass telling me I'm walking north instead of south to the harbor. Buildings loom to either side of me like so many stained teeth. Any one of them could be the hiding place of the set of eyes I'm sure is watching me.
Just because I'm sane doesn't mean I can't have a level of healthy paranoia.
I'm not sure how far I've been walking on Calvert when the internal alarm bells start to go off. Something is definitely not right here, and I'm not thinking it's the dead rat in the gutter. This isn't the best part of town; there's all kinds of stuff from cigarette butts to used rubbers strewn around, but my sixth sense is practically screaming.
It's a good thing I see in the dark as well as I do, otherwise I'd have stepped right onto him. Or what's left of him.
Weirdly, considering his throat has been viciously slashed, his handsome face has a look of peace about it. Only a few drops of blood on his expensive dark suit. Tie still neatly knotted. It takes another second for me to remember I've met him before.
Whatever kind of jerk you were in life, Able 16, you didn't deserve to die like this.
Just to be sure, I kneel down beside him, probing for a pulse. I get nothing. His skin has the texture and feel of a marble slab. I'm no medic but I guess, conservatively, that 16's been dead for a couple hours.
"I was hoping I'd run into you here."
The voice comes so suddenly, from so close by, that I jump like a scared cat. My heart thunders and I reach for a sidearm that isn't there. When the speaker emerges from the shadows, I wish I were armed.
"Surprised, Captain?"
"Not really. You seem to be one of those creatures of the night," I tell him, bitterly, doing a passable Bela Lugosi at the same time.
Hunt Stockwell looks like he always does: cool, well-dressed, supremely smug. He's even wearing those damn glasses of his in the veiled moonlight. He isn't smiling, but instead wears an expression that's hard for me to read. Is it pity? Sadness? Does the man even have the capacity for empathy? After several months of knowing him, I am inclined to think not.
"Sixteen was a good agent," he says as he stoops and gently closes his dead operative's eyes. "Three months out from retirement. Whatever will I tell his wife and son?"
I snort. "Whatever you like. You're pretty good at making up stories, aren't you?"
Now he takes off the glasses. I must have pissed him off, which makes me feel almost triumphant. His expression stays inscrutable.
"Captain, what I'm about to tell you is confidential. And I hear you," he pauses for a moment, "are uniquely qualified to keep confidences."
I'm not sure what his game is. One of his precious Ables is dead and here he shows up wanting to play Truth or Dare with me in the middle of the night. Something isn't right. But I decide to play along anyway. If you want information from this guy, you have to do it his way, at least for a while.
Stockwell, for the first time since I've met him, looks tired and old. Mortal, even. "This is not the first Able we've lost. Or even the second. I'm afraid it's becoming a pattern and, as you know, I dislike losing valuable assets," he says.
A million thoughts explode in my mind like fireworks. I'm tired and thirsty and about a hundred miles from home. But this revelation, and its implications, jolt me wide awake like a shot of caffeine.
So they can die. They're not superhuman after all.
I shrug, trying to stay casual. "What do you want me for, General? You're a man with a lot of connections. You don't want the police involved, get some of your boys out at Langley to figure it out. I'm just a former crazy guy. I'm not Kojak or Sherlock Holmes." It ends up sounding harsher than I'd intended, but I really don't care. There's a dead man on the ground and another one in front of me who might already dead if it weren't for my hesitation a few months ago.
I should have shot the bastard when I had the chance.
He just smiles. Insults and sarcasm never do much for him, even Hannibal's. "I thought you'd say that. However, I do know you're Agency trained," he holds up his hands to stop me when I open my mouth to protest, "and I know you have the sort of mind I need to get to the bottom of all this. If you agree, I'll make it worth your while."
"Oh? Like you made it worth the guys' while to be your trained monkeys and work for you?" I can't help it now. I am being purely sarcastic but, again, it's Stockwell and I really don't care.
"That is a different matter, and one which does not concern you…"
"Like hell it doesn't. They're my guys and I stand by them no matter what. Or did your precious dossiers not tell you that?"
"If you'd let me finish, Captain Murdock, I'll explain. I've not told your beloved A-Team about this matter because it is a matter of security. You of all people know how Colonel Smith and the others thrive on good intelligence. However, I have a proposition for you."
Which, I know, could mean anything. "I'm listening," I say, but my Spidey-senses, not to mention my bullshit antenna, are at full alert.
"You, meaning only you, are given free rein in the matter of my three dead Ables. I don't intend to lose any more. Bring me the party or parties responsible and you get one request of me. Think of it as .a genie with a caveat in place."
Before I can stop myself, it's out of my mouth. "I want a full pardon for my Team. No questions asked."
"Ah. That's the one caveat in place," Stockwell says, sighing. "They are not to be involved in any way in this investigation. And my agreement with them is a separate one."
I'm starting to get angry now. I knew this all had to be too good to be true. "You're telling me you can't pull some strings and get it done, Stockwell? C'mon, I thought you could do whatever you wanted, and you didn't exist, and all that spook stuff. Or were you just bragging?" My voice is getting so loud, I'm surprised nobody's woken up in the high-rise behind us.
We share a long, hard stare. What they call a Mexican standoff in the movies. He looks away first, but just for an instant. "Let's not put the proverbial cart before the horse, Captain. First I need your word that you'll find this killer and not involve the A-Team. If you utter so much a word to them, and I'll know if you do, the deal is off and you're back to where you started." He snaps his fingers. "Ex-crazy man working a lousy job and trying to pay the bills. I'm offering you the chance to help me, and change your fate all at once. I'd not take that lightly."
This is too much. Too fast. I came up here to get some time to think. I never wanted any of this, and I certainly didn't want Stockwell playing God in my life any more than he already does. At the same time, he is God for all intents and purposes right now. He's holding all the cards and if there's even a chance I can help my guys, I've got to take it.
I meet his stare, then offer my hand. "It's a deal, but you'd better not be using me, Stockwell. I had enough of that back on the island." I know I'm making a deal with the devil, but I can't help it.
Better the devil you know…
"I'm glad you see reason, Captain. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a prior engagement. I'll be briefing you tomorrow at 0800. I believe you're still in Merrifield?"
"You tell me," I say, defiantly folding my arms.
A black limo approaches on Calvert as silently as the shadow of Death itself. As it pulls to a halt, a uniformed Able (Seventeen, perhaps?) opens the door for Stockwell. The General offers me a twisted smile.
"Captain, I appreciate a man with a sense of humor. I think you'll need it, along with your considerable intellect, to find the killer."
That reminds me all of a sudden. There's a dead man sprawled out at my feet. "Hey, what do you want me to do with Sixteen here?"
The limo window drops. "Don't concern yourself about him, Captain. I'll have my people take him to the lab. I'm guessing we may need him later." And then, Stockwell is gone.
As the big black Lincoln disappears around the corner, the only thing I can think to myself is how I should have just stayed home and watched the late-night reruns of My Mother the Car instead, because I've just experienced the strangest three hours of my admittedly weird life.
And you know, muchacho, it's just gonna get a hell of a lot stranger.
To Be Continued