Chapter 5

As I always joked with Hannibal, I never seemed to go looking for trouble. Instead, it just had a way of finding me.

Every step along the darkened street brings a fresh jolt of pain and a reminder that yes, I, H.M. Murdock, am in trouble. I'm in trouble because I have to find some way to find the Beltway's answer to Jack the Ripper, clear my own name, and save my team. And I'm starting to run out of time.

Think. You need to focus. The trouble is, when I try to, there is only a big blank spot where memories should be. It's like they've been wiped, as if Stockwell is a smug teacher holding a big eraser and my brain is a chalkboard. He knows something. He just doesn't want to tell me…yet. He wants me, no, needs me, to somehow puzzle it out for myself.

I think of the time we hypnotized B.A. to get him on a plane. I could use some of that right now. Because I can't remember anything important, no matter how hard I try. Intermittent memory loss is a real bitch.

I'm still carrying the bag of rapidly cooling Chinese food. My appetite is gone, but maybe I can save it for later. What I do know is the night, like the chow mein, is quickly getting colder, and my jacket and T-shirt are hardly any protection against the biting wind. If I'm going to get any thinking done, it'll be at my place, with a cup of coffee and a radiator going full blast. I quicken my pace, ignoring the throbbing in my ankle.

When I always used to read Spider-Man comics, he had his Spidey-sense. My own sixth sense, even if it doesn't have a catchy name, is tingling by the time I get back home. I can't say why, but three tours in Nam have given me a heightened awareness of danger. I slip my key into one hand and the pocket knife I always carry into the other. It almost makes me laugh. If the Ripper is in there, it's not much of a weapon. Maybe I can corkscrew him to death. But it's better than nothing, and its weight is reassuring. The lock clicks open.

Inside, all is quiet and dark. The third apartment is vacant, and the couple in #2 and the lady in #4 work odd hours. Nobody is here but me. I think. I hope.

My heart is working up from a trot to a gallop by the time I get the key in my own door, Swiss Army knife and cold take-out in hand. Come on. You're being paranoid now.

The minute I turn on the light, I see.

It's as if a tornado has gone through. Furniture upturned and torn to pieces. Books ripped to shreds. My collection of vinyl scattered and broken. Someone…and I have a fair idea who…has been here. If I hadn't gone out to get my food, he and I might have met.

I hear myself moan. It doesn't sound like my own voice. It sounds like a scared rabbit cornered by rabid dogs. My ankle, already painful, feels ready to give out on me. And then I see the words, unmistakable in two-foot lettering, scrawled across my kitchen wall:

FROM HELL

Whatever else Stockwell is, he isn't a prankster. He didn't do this. Whoever wrote this short, cryptic message was looking for me, pushing my buttons and driving me deeper down a rabbit hole I thought I'd left forever.

I recognize the Jack the Ripper reference right away. In so many years at the V.A. I read pretty much the whole of the meager institutional library, including the books about serial killers. (Why they kept them in a nuthouse, I never could quite tell.) Either the intruder thinks he is Jack, or knows something about the famous murders. Or…

It's a personal message. From hell.

A tiny beam of light has clicked on in the darkness of my recessed memories. Hell. Hell on earth.

Vietnam.

I'm too shocked to really be afraid. After a quick search to make sure the mysterious writer is, in fact, gone, I sit down on the only chair left untouched and still standing. I look down at my hands and see that they're shaking like Jell-O wobbling on a plate.

I could use a drink right now. The strongest thing I have in my almost-bare fridge is chocolate milk, so I pour myself a glass and chug it down.

My options are few. If I call the cops, they'll file a report and nod and assure me that Everything Will Be OK, which I know it won't. I can't call Face again. He'd worry too much and get himself tied up in all this. I imagine how that conversation might go: "Hey, Faceman, I think some psycho killer is trying to terrorize me before he uses me as a victim in The Washington Chainsaw Massacre." Scared as I am, that's good enough for a laugh.

There is nobody else. Everyone I've known, at least well enough to confide in, is either dead, invisible, or hanging out in a padded cell on the other side of the country. Game over. I have to accept that I've hit a dead end.

What I really need is sleep, but I know I'm too alert, not to mention afraid of a return visit from Mr. Ripper himself, to even consider it. I'm fumbling absently through the stack of junk mail on my kitchen table when something catches my eye. It's the Polaroid I took from the shoebox, the one of the party in Saigon. The one where Dr. Spicer is standing over by the juke.

She knows something. I can't say what, but any little piece might help me now. I glance at my watch. 11:15. A bit late, but who's counting?

I'm excited enough at the prospect of talking to her, asking her questions, that my brain wants to overlook certain facts. Like, a crazed knife-wielding maniac might be waiting right outside my door to turn me into shish-kebabs. And that my phone is surely bugged. And that she's going to be really pissed getting a call from me at this hour, if I'm even able to reach her.

Who says I'm not still crazy? I think as I fumble around the mostly dark kitchen for a flashlight and a pair of rubber gloves.

Outside, I do a quick perimeter check. No Ables (the question of whether or not they sleep is answered now) and no homicidal maniacs. My ankle is a dull roar thanks to the four aspirin I chugged down with the last of the chocolate milk. I'm ready to go.

The plan, such as it is, is simple. Like Hannibal always says, sometimes simple is best. I'll find a pay phone with some privacy and call Dr. Spicer. Stockwell may be watching me but I doubt even he's found a way to listen in on all the pay phones. I have one in mind; it's maybe half a mile away and halfway hidden behind a big old oak. Nobody's likely to walk in on me. If the Ripper does show up, I have the biggest knife from my kitchen tucked inside my jacket.

I try to picture him. Nothing comes to mind except a wraith in a dark coat. Does he know me? Hate me? He clearly wants to send me a message. I don't know what it is, but I know staying ignorant may not keep me alive.

The phone booth is empty, of course. The whole neighborhood seems to be asleep. I flip through the "S" section of the massive phone book for the D.C. area. My heart sinks. There's nothing between "Spica" and "Spicerman." Then I remember her workplace. The morgue. It's a long shot, but I have to try. I put a quarter in and dial the number. It rings, and rings, and rings. I'm about to give up when a bored-sounding male voice answers with "State Medical Examiner's Office."

"Um, Dr. Penelope Spicer , please?"

"Let me see if she's still here. Do you mind holding?"

A minute, then another. The droning voice returns. "She's just about headed out. Lemme connect you."

And then I hear her voice. "Hello. Is that you, Agnes?"

I have no idea who Agnes is and I don't care. "Dr. Spicer, you probably don't remember me. This is H.M. Murdock. You know, I came in with General Stockwell yesterday?" The words come out in a breathless rush.

There's a moment of terrible silence. When she speaks again I can barely hear her. "You shouldn't be calling here. He'll know."

"I don't care. Please, this is really important. Can I talk to you? Alone? I need help, and I think you can help me."

I can almost hear her thinking. Maybe Stockwell has her in a tight little cage just like me. Then, she sighs deeply and whispers, "All right. I shouldn't be doing this, but…meet me in fifteen minutes where the 'U' is missing. Do you know that place?"

It takes me a minute before I realize what she means. I nod and tell her I do.

"Then I'll be there. I won't be followed. Be sure you're not either."

The line goes dead. If I'm lucky, I won't follow it.

Years ago, I'm sure the place was called Sully's All-Nite Diner. Now, it's just SLLY'S. I thought it was maybe "Sally's" or even "Silly's" before one of the waitresses clued me in. The place, a few streets from my place, mostly caters to cops, EMTs, and other poor souls who work weird hours. It's a dive and I don't know how it passes health inspections. It's true to its name in that they serve around the clock. Which is probably why Dr. Spicer picked it.

It's just about midnight by the time I walk through the front door. A pair of firemen and a skinny waitress behind the counter are the only people. I wonder if I've somehow beat her to it when I hear Dr. Spicer's voice.

"Mr. Murdock? Over here."

Her charcoal pantsuit is a near-match for the vinyl of the booth and the smoky, dingy environs of SLLY's. No wonder I didn't see her. I join her. She looks more tired than the last time I saw her; even in the dim light I can see the circles under her eyes. She offers a warm but weary smile.

"I'm afraid I can't stay long. What can I do for you?"

This woman, whose younger self once watched me and my friends get drunk halfway around the world, is my only remaining link to a past I've all but forgotten. I decide to be blunt. "You knew me in Vietnam, didn't you?" It comes out a little harder than I'd like, more like an accusation than a question.

"What makes you think that?"

The waitress arrives before I can protest. Without looking up, Dr. Spicer orders for both of us. "Black coffee. And some extra sugar, please." She looks at me, a soft, sphinxlike smile on her lips. "Tell me what you remember about your time with the Agency, Murdock."

Out of all the things she might have said, this is the last thing I expected. "Why?" I'm suspicious but curious.

"You can't remember very much, can you? Other than the two Air America jobs?" Her voice is gentle. She might have made a good shrink if she hadn't chosen her current line of work. "Don't you ever think about it?"

"More than you'd think." The coffee arrives and, in annoyance, I drink mine too fast, burning the tip of my tongue. Goddamn, I hate it when I do that. "You can't not think about it. I've been thinking about it for nearly twenty years."

She is more careful with her coffee, swirling in several packets of sugar and stirring. I want to be angry with her, but somehow I can't. "Why have you been going to Baltimore, Murdock?"

I'm about to answer her, but then I stop. I actually think about it. Why would I go there? It's not exactly in the neighborhood, and I've been short on money since I came to Virginia. "I guess I like the scenery," I say, aware of how stupid that sounds. "You know, the Inner Harbor and all that."

Her smile is as mysterious as the Mona Lisa's. If she were Stockwell, I'd have reached across the table and throttled her. She doesn't speak for a moment; just sips at her coffee and looks at me. It's as if she, too, is trying to remember something.

"Did you ever go to a little dive in Saigon called Lucy's?" I decide the risk is worth a possible reward.

She laughs. "I went to a lot of places like that when I served."

Okay, now we're getting somewhere.

"Do you remember a guy's birthday party, must have been in '70? Good-looking guy, a real ladies' man?"

I can tell that for all Stockwell claims to be mysterious, an enigma wrapped inside a puzzle, he has absolutely nothing on Penelope Spicer. Absolutely nothing of what she's thinking is reflected in her expression. I could be asking her about the weather, or about the Orioles. She ought to look into playing poker professionally.

When she does finally speak, it's in a low whisper. I have to lean in to hear her.

"Listen to me. I can help you. It's not going to be easy, and we may have to lose our tail. Don't look," she says, gesturing ever so slightly at the two guys across the room, "they're watching us and they've probably overheard. Hunt is, well, he's a suspicious man, let's just say. But I've had enough of his game. I want out just as much as you do."

I feel my heartbeat quicken. She's either sincere or a great actress. "You were with the Agency too, then?"

She nods. "I did a lot of things for a lot of people. I still do. The time has come for me to start balancing out some of the things that…" her voice falters for the first time, "…that perhaps I'm not proud of."

"What does this have to do with me?"

Her grey eyes lock onto me. "Everything."

It's as if all the air has been sucked out of the diner. I realize I've been holding my breath. "Why do you want to help me? Stockwell's not gonna be happy, and you know about this Jack the Ripper guy on the loose, right?"

She sighs. "You're…how shall I put this?"

What she meant to say, I'm not sure, because I see the two "firemen" making their way over to us. They're Ables, for sure: I recognize them just by the humorless expressions and brick-wall builds. After what I went through with Stockwell earlier, I'm going to be in serious trouble now. I doubt very much that I'll just get a slap on the wrist.

"On the count of three, help me turn over this table," says Dr. Spicer.

"What?"

"One, two…three!"

Some animal instinct tells me she's right. I heave with all my might, and the Formica table goes crashing into the two big guys, knocking one of them sideways into the jukebox. The other one stumbles, then reaches for his underarm holster. The waitress begins to scream.

"Hold it!"

Dr. Spicer holds a neat little Ruger in a perfect shooter's stance. The two Ables look at one another, as if embarrassed, then toss their own sidearms to the ground. "Tie these guys up," she orders me.

I'm only too happy to oblige; I use one of the diner's tablecloths to improvise a rope.

"You're not getting away with this," the dark-haired Able snarls as I hog-tie him to his partner.

"Oh, I'm afraid I am," Dr. Spicer says. Her steely gaze, and the barrel of the Ruger, never waver. "Tell Hunt I give him my best regards, won't you?"

We turn to leave as if it's the most normal thing imaginable, a man and his favorite aunt out for a late-night bite to eat. The young waitress has stopped screaming but is cowering behind the counter. "Are you the cops?" she asks in a trembling squeak.

"No, my dear. We're the CIA." She removes a $20 bill from her purse. "And please, keep the change."

Outside it's colder than ever. Sleep is out of the question now.

"We'll have to borrow a car that's not bugged. I presume you still know how to hot-wire one?" Dr. Spicer has returned her handgun to the inside of her jacket, but still glances around nervously in case any more Ables are around.

I have to nod sheepishly. One more thing Faceman taught me how to do. My eyes immediately find a vomit-brown Plymouth parked by a mailbox. Perfect. It's even unlocked, I find, hands reaching underneath the steering wheel. And has nearly a full tank.

As the engine sputters to life, the doctor climbs in beside me. "Where are we going, anyway?" I ask, thinking I already know the answer.

"I hear Baltimore is lovely this time of year."

To Be Continued