Free The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Four by Randall Farmer

the
wood-toned Chrysler Town and Country wagon through the bushes that lined the
road edge ditch.  He suspected the brains of the outfit had to be in the other
car, the one he had lost with his quick freeway exit.  Tailing him, here,
wasn’t very bright of them.
    They spotted Hank’s vehicle, parked a mere ten feet up
Focus Abernathy’s driveway and slowed.  Hank had parked his Mercedes at the end
of the driveway on purpose, both to attract the attention of the tail, to
attract Focus Abernathy’s bodyguards’ attention, and to block the driveway in
such a way that to go around his car the unknowns would have to cross the
ditch.
    “Two of them are Transforms,” Focus Abernathy said. 
“Focus DeYoung’s stooges.  I recognize the tag from when DeYoung visited last
month, when she tried to get me to turn coat on Suzie.”
    Focus Abernathy’s loose lips answered a half dozen
questions Hank had futilely asked several other Focuses.  Most Focuses wouldn’t
have recognized the owner of another Tansform’s tag, but Focus Abernathy had
the power and the talent.  Now if only she had brains too, she would be a top
end Focus.
    The vehicle sped up, and both Hank and Focus Abernathy
ducked down behind Hank’s Mercedes.  “That’ll teach’m,” Focus Abernathy said,
chuckling her old farmwoman best, as the Chrysler sped on by.
    “You didn’t,” Hank said, secretly pleased.  Things were
looking up.  The opposition, this ‘Focus DeYoung’, wasn’t even a Focus he had
ever heard of.  She had to be from somewhere other than the Northeast Region,
and both young and stupid.  Focus Suzie Schrum was opposing Focus DeYoung, and
thus ostensibly on his side in this.
    More accurately, he was on their side.  Politics often
got in the way of his research and his ability to help Focuses and their
households.
    “Uh huh, Hank,” Focus Abernathy said.  “I untagged the
sons of bitches.”
    Focus Schrum was going to owe Focus Abernathy for saving
Hank’s bacon, as well as counting coup on the opposition.  Focus Abernathy knew
this quite well, enough to scratch a smile across her dour face.
     
    ---
     
    Hank drove by the address in Queens once, careful.  As
advertised, the place was a small run down vacant warehouse.  He found no cars
parked out front, so after checking yet again to make sure he had lost the
tails, he circled around back.  Someone had cleared an obvious path across a
truck parking area, removing the weeds growing through the asphalt.  The path
led to an open truck-sized doorway.  He caught a flicker of movement from
inside, a hand wave he interpreted as ‘get the hell inside before anyone sees
you’.  Keaton, he guessed.  He rolled inside the warehouse and turned off his Mercedes.
    Keaton opened the car door, yanked him out, and sat him
painfully on the concrete floor.  While he sat she rifled through his car,
inspecting his teaching materials, every other second swiveling her head out
the doorway.  A half minute later she walked away, grabbed a walkie-talkie from
her belt, and held a whispered conversation.  At the end, she said “Fuck” and
slammed shut the warehouse door.
    “Zielinski, the Focus Bitch said you could help me.  She
promised you would be able to help me.  So far, one strike.”  She stalked back,
lifted him up, and held a knife to his right eye.  “You’d better hope you can
help me and my medical issues for real, or it’s strike two and I’m going to cut
out your eye and feed it to my guard dogs.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said.  He didn’t hear any guard dogs. 
He had no idea what she meant about strike one, either.  Somehow, he had
already disappointed her.  “I’m ready right now, ma’am.”
    “Do it, motherfucker,” she said.  Her voice was raspy,
as if she had been shouting for hours.  As he gathered his materials, he
studied her as best he could out of the corner of his eyes.  She looked worn,
not wounded.  Hassled and annoyed.  Twitchy and