Free Crack-Up by Eric Christopherson Page B

foot of the bed and turned my trunk in different directions, searching for a makeshift weapon.   But I couldn’t seem to find anything.
    “What did they teach you at West Point , Argus?   You remember.   Best weapon in the world is the element of surprise!”
    But how, I wondered, could I surprise them?   Them .   By them I meant whoever and however many John Helms sent to kill me.
    I’d surprise them , alright.   First thing I’d do, I’d fix it so I could hear them coming.   I’d soak the carpet outside my door in the hallway.   Hell, I’d soak the hallway end to end, so I could hear their footsteps squishing a mile off.
    “Better start the tub running,” I said to myself and dashed back inside the bathroom.
     
    * * *
     
    The hotel manager slid an itemized bill in front of me and said, “We had to estimate the damage to the carpet and hallway floor.   It’s a conservative estimate.   We’ll contact you with the final, adjusted figure as soon as possible.”
    I raised the bill to my eyes and scanned it quickly.   The total charge for my overnight stay was: seven thousand four hundred thirty-nine dollars and forty-three cents.
    I slipped my credit card from my wallet and gave it to the manager.   “Better safe than sorry.”
    “I’m not sure I follow . . .”
    He kept saying that, the manager did, every time I tried to explain something, anything, everything.
    “Never mind,” I said.
    I leaned against the front desk, resting upper body weight on my elbows, feeling weary.   I’d been up all night.
    The hotel manager checked my ID before swiping the credit card through the scanner.   I watched his mustache twitching as he waited for authorization.   When it came, the manager had me sign my credit card slip with a pen.   I handed the pen back.
    “Are we done?”
    “I wish you wouldn’t leave just yet, Mister Ward.”
    “Why not?”
    “May I say, sir, you don’t appear well, and we have a physician on staff—”
    “Physician?” I said.   “Doctor Shields?”
    “No, sir, Doctor McClure.”
    “He may know Doctor Shields.”   I snatched my receipt and rushed toward the exit.   I had to get out of there fast.
    “Sir!   Mister Ward!   Wait!   Please wait!”
    I ignored the hotel manager.   The man didn’t understand.   Doctor McClure could alert Doctor Shields to my whereabouts.   And Doctor Shields, I knew, was trying to lock me up.   Because I’d gotten the message the night before.   From that lady in the gold dress.   I couldn’t be locked up!   I’d be a sitting duck!
     
    * * *
     
    “How do you know he wants to kill you?” asked Darth Vader.   Or James Earl Jones.   Or whoever’s voice was coming through the air conditioning vent in my car.   “Tell me!   How do you know?”
    “I guess I really don’t know for sure.   But people keep trying to convince me.”
    “Why you?” said Darth.   “Why would John Helms bother with a little shit stain like you?”
    “You’ve been gone awhile, pal,” I said.   “I’m a national hero now.   I saved the president’s life.   I own my own security consulting firm too.   And this car is a Beemer.”
    “Shut up!” Darth said.   “Just shut up, and go find out the truth, you little shit stain!”
    Some people can’t help living in the past , I thought, bitterly.   Some voices too .   But Darth was right about what I had to do.   So I turned off the George Washington Parkway at the Pentagon City exit and caught the 395 freeway toward Virginia .
    Passing the Navy Annex, my engine began to sputter.   I didn’t know what was wrong until I looked down at my gauges.
    “I’m out of gas!”
    “He’s out of gas,” Darth said.
    “I don’t believe this!   I never run out of gas!”
    “He can’t believe it.   He never runs out of gas.”
    “No, not that game!” I said to Darth.   “Please!”
    “He’s begging not to play the game.”
    “Stop with the fucking play-by-play!” I said, giving