Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
A lapse.
A tiny little mistake.
A really small step out of line.
People are bound to go astray every now and then, aren't they?
Gilbert the laboratory technician saw it as a really unfair twist of fate that his, compared to those of other's, very minor misdemeanors had earned him a permanent relationship with a psychopath named Guerrero.
In a moment of weakness that had lasted about six months he had used his employer's facilities to cook meth – seriously, no big deal. Peanuts, compared to what drug labs in South America or Russia were producing, not to mention Korea!
But he, Gilbert Sullivan, harmless, by and large law abiding citizen, had had the misfortune of falling into the hands of that predator.
Granted, that kid's death due to a slightly contaminated batch shouldn't have happened, but that had been an accident and he was genuinely sorry for the boy's untimely demise. Although, on the other hand, it was a good thing his parents had decided to switch off the machines. After three months in vigil coma there really had been no perspective, neither for the parents nor for that kid.
Who could have known that the parents would hire someone to figure out who had done this to their son?
And anyway, it wasn't that he had forced the boy to slam that meth, was it? Unfortunately that explanation had fallen on pretty deaf ears with them. They (Gilbert was still amazed at how vindictive seemingly normal people could get) had wanted Guerrero to do to him what he – in their warped perspective – had done to their son.
Guerrero, however, had betrayed the parents, proving how truly amoral he was. He had put Gilbert in vigil coma for a week, with drugs that kept him just below being able to communicate. He could hear everything that was said in the room, could feel every needle that was put into him, but could not even move his eyeballs in a coordinated way.
Aside from the horrible boredom that bastard had sentenced him to, there was the constant fear that he'd just let him lie, would stop caring for him, out of malice or because something had happened to him. What if Guerrero had had an accident? He had been totally helpless, for heaven's sake! And that rat had always varied the times in which he stopped by to check on his prisoner, so that Gilbert had been constantly on edge, worried that Guerrero would one day not come back.
After a week, though, Guerrero had informed him that he would release and revive him if he left the city and the state forever. Gilbert happily agreed, of course, with a pronounced closing and opening of his eyelids, only to find out that leaving city and state did not equal to leaving Guerrero behind.
Gilbert found out the very hard way that the beast somehow managed to watch his every step. And whenever he needed some sort of laboratory testing to be done, he gave him a call, and he better answered it… like today for example…
… … …
"Concentrate, Harry. Is there anyone in particular that you pissed off lately? Anyone who'd love to get rid of you for good?"
"Might be quite a long list, dude", Guerrero told Winston from his position in the back of the room.
Winston retrieved his notepad from his pocket to jot down any names that would come up. "Shut up, will you? This is classical police methodology."
"Just saying you might need extra paper."
In the background Guerrero busied himself with the museum's computer. Ilsa was on the phone with Connie, discussing some foundation-related stuff. Apparently Connie wanted her to go on some sort of mini trip to South America as a representative of a project that was supposed to facilitate the resocialization of female delinquents after they had served their sentence. Chance had found a diorama showing hunters with a slain wooly mammoth and was dozing on the animal's comfy fur while Ames was sitting next to Guerrero, going through lists he was printing out for her.
"You make it sound as if I was constantly annoying someone…", Harry said with a hurt expression on his face.
Winston touched his nose with his index finger.
"The list, dude", Guerrero growled.
"I honestly can't think of anyone… okay maybe this client I had last week… though the hole in his Persian carpet really wasn't my fault… neither was the broken fish tank… I have to say, for such thick glass, it cracked surprisingly easily… I did save all the fish! Not a single one perished in the fire…"
Winston jotted down the name.
"Then there was this other client who accused me of having led his stalker to his secret hideout… Seriously, I'm a professional, I know how to shake any tails off. He must have found that shack in the woods by coincidence."
Winston jotted down that name, too.
"The landlord of the building where I keep my office is not entirely happy with me either ever since these thugs knocked down the front door and tried to get to me in my panic room by blowing a hole in the wall… by the way, thanks for responding so fast, Chance…"
A hand making a "no big deal"-gesture emerged from the mammoth's fur while Winston wrote down another name.
"Oh, and maybe…."
Winston put down his pen. "Harry, if I got this right we're talking about a time span of seven days – three mightily annoyed people in seven days? Are you aiming for an entry in the Guinness Book of Records or something?"
"Told you it'd be a long list, dude…"
"Any better ideas, wiseass?"
"What about Timothy Thornthrope, chief curator of this museum?" Judging from Guerrero's tone this was not simply a wild guess.
"But Timothy hired me!", Harry interjected.
"Ever wondered why, dude? Thornthrope's got a very unhealthy gambling habit and an even more unhealthy habit of borrowing money from the wrong people…"
"Yeah", came Chance's voice muffled from the wooly mammoth's fur, "but what do you do with a stolen t-rex?"
Good question…
Just then Guerrero's cell phone signaled. Gilbert had the test results.
"I think I know what you could do with a stolen t-rex…", he murmured, already typing into the computer again.