Chapter 5
When the phone call came at seven in the morning, he was working out in his home gym.
Woodrow Justine pushed the two hundred pounds’ worth of barbell and Olympic weights up, eased them down again, feeling his pectorals strain at the load. He could already feel the lactic acid accumulating in the muscles, and now he was just pushing past the burn-point ... the place where strength training did the most work. That was the extraordinary trick that the truly cut, truly bulky guys had learned: Take the reps up to where you can’t go any more—and then, somehow go farther. Stripping, pyramiding, rest-burning—there were several methods, but the effects were the same. Hypertrophy to the max.
So when the phone rang, it annoyed Woodrow Justine terribly. He’d just gotten home last night from a whole week in the middle of the country, and he was looking forward to some R and R. If it hadn’t been his special, restricted line—the one from Headquarters, the Company Line, as he called it, he wouldn’t have answered.
With an expulsion of breath, Woodrow guided the barbell back, and let it drop into the cradle of the Weider bench’s extended arms, where it clanged to a shaky rest. He got up and padded over the mat-strewn wood floor of his gym, across the carpeting in his den, past the hamster cages, to his desk, upon which one of the three phones was ringing, flashing a red light.
He picked up the phone. “One-one-oh-six,” he said, his voice still breathless from the exertion. “Bananas for lunch!”
“Hold the mayo,” said a terse voice. “Number Two here, Woody. Sorry to bother you. Gotta call you back to duty.”
He blinked. He knew it had to be important; they usually liked to give him enough rest so that he’d be in maximum shape when they needed him. So, he didn’t say, “But I just got off a solid week of work!” which was what he felt. No, that wasn’t Woodrow Justine’s style at all. Besides, he didn’t know what they had for him. It could be something worthwhile!
“Okay. What’s the scoop?” He took the end of the towel around his neck and he patted off the perspiration from his forehead and temples.
“We’ve got a one o’clock Pan Am flight for you to Washington National. Tickets are at LAX; we’ll meet you at the airport with instructions and equipment. Just bring your muscles and your brain.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said in his usual monotone voice. “Tell me, though, what do I got.”
“You’re gonna like this, Wood. You’ve got a Code Four.”
Woodrow Justine took a deep breath, let it out, feeling a delicious shiver play along his back.
Code Four. Woody’s Fave, as people in his section called it. Termination with extreme prejudice. Plus the possibility of a little preliminary persuasion thrown in, if possible. Read: torture.
“Yeah,” said Woody. “Yeah, okay. Those things come along so seldom, I’m always ready for ‘em. What’s the make?”
“Tell you the full story when you get here. But it involves Scarborough. “
Woody grinned. “That jerk! Great!”
“I’m personally going to be there to meet you, Woodrow, and you’ll get the full details then.” The man hung up with no farewell, as usual. Business, with no à la mode. That suited Woodrow Justine just fine. He checked the clock, decided that he had time to do a few more sets before he had to get ready to go. Good to get pumped up, man. Primed. He could go out like a light on the plane, take a nice nap, and be ready to go all night, if necessary. But first, he had to get primed.
Primed.
On the way back, he stopped at the hamster cages. Obviously Conchita, his maid, had filled the water bottles and the food bowls yesterday. The sunflower seeds in the three cages were plentiful, and the carrots and lettuce, half-nibbled away, looked almost fresh. In the central cage, Albert, the great-great grandson of Woodrow Justine’s first breeding hamster, Sniffles, was racing pell-mell in the cage’s circular running-track. The central cage was a traditional wire affair. The left cage was actually a large glass aquarium, where Justine kept the bulk of his hamsters. The right cage was a colorful and complex modular affair, consisting of tunnels and skywalks and cupolas for the creatures’ amusement. Justine had twenty-two hamsters now, with a new batch on the way, now that Mildred was pregnant.
Woodrow Justine loved his hamsters.
“Code Four, AI,” he said to the running hamster as he peered into the cage. “Sorry to leave, you guys, but I got a Code Four. Conchita will take care of you, don’t worry.”
Albert just kept on running to nowhere, but some of the others looked up and twitched their whiskers at him, their round dark eyes popped cutely from their golden fur. April Bluesbuster yawned, showing a cute set of incisors. In the corner, Grandpa Bluesbuster slept in his pile of newspaper shreds, snoring. Grandpa was going a little grey around the edges, but he still ran a mean wheel, yes sir. Justine blew a hard puff of air onto the hamster, startling it awake. It spun completely around, revealing the soft white fur on its stomach, its little claws held up defensively, its eyes wide and confused.
“Just a joke, Grandpa!” said Justine. “Just a joke!”
Chuckling, he wiggled his fingers toot-a-loo to his hamster brood, then fairly skipped back to his weight room, where he commenced a spirited workout, including leg extensions and another set of bench presses, along with lateral curls and squats.
Woodrow Justine was twenty-nine, and he’d worked for the U.S. government since he was eighteen years old, when he’d joined the Marines right out of high school. An exemplary first two years mastering a number of different technical trainings, as well as a startling expertise at martial arts and weaponry, promoted him quickly. He’d been stationed at a number of hot spots around the world, including the Philippines and Beirut, where he just managed to not get blown up, but his real showing came during the invasion of Grenada, when he stormed that Caribbean island with the élan and determination of a young John Wayne. Soon, a special branch of the Central Intelligence Agency came knocking at his door. A number of interviews and a battery of tests later, Justine was invited to work for his country in a different capacity—an operative for the CIA. He was trained another six months before he was put into the field, where he quickly became known for his dependably ruthless and efficient methods to deal with potentially unpredictable situations. After three years of first-rate service, not just in the United States but in various other parts of the world, doing what he laughingly called his James Bond service, he had been contacted by yet another affiliated branch of the CIA. A highly secret branch ... so secret that it was unclear if it was truly a branch—or the tree itself.
These were the Editors.
In just three years, Woodrow Justine had become a Junior Editor, assigned to Special Project, Codename: Skylark. He was entrusted with highly classified secret information, and the power that it imbued. He reveled in the power, and was openly amused about the secrets he knew. Amused because, as a controlled psychotic personality, it fit in perfectly with his paranoid purview of the universe. He ate his medicine like a good boy, got his checkups regularly—and in turn, the U.S. government paid him, taxed him, and assigned him people to kill. All for a good cause, of course. Justine was nothing if not a patriot. His victims were enemies of democracy—even if they didn’t know that they were. All in all, Woodrow Justine was extremely grateful to his country, and the intricate superpower structure that really ran it. Justine was a dangerous psychotic killer. If not for the Marines and the CIA, he’d be a criminal psychotic killer. The difference was spelled out in rank, prestige, salary and perks—which included this beautiful suburban home in Venice, California, just a half mile from World’s Gym. A beautiful home in the city he loved, El-Ay, Cee-Ay—mellow city without a soul. But with lots of distractions.
When he was finished with his abbreviated workout (usually, he preferred two to three hours), Woodrow Justine flexed a bit in front of a full-length mirror. Justine kept himself muscular and sinewy, but not ostentatiously muscle-bound, like a lot of weight lifters. He kept a perfectly symmetrical body, geared to work well with his training in karate and aikido. He loved weight-training because it gave him such control over his body. People said that he looked like the rock ‘n’ roll star Bryan Adams—all the way to the pockmarked face. Justine knew they probably wondered why, as an Angeleno with easy access to plastic-surgery clinics, he didn’t smooth out his face a bit. Not that it was deeply pitted or anything—just that it didn’t fit with the rest of his body. Justine rubbed his face now, frowning at his visage. What they didn’t know was how important it was to him to keep his face rough, to keep the memories of his teenaged years when the acne had erupted, just one more nail in the coffin of a social outcast. No, he wanted to remember, he wanted to savor that pain still burning in his soul. It gave such fire and immediacy to his purpose. Maybe his victims weren’t his classmates, or his principals or teachers back in that Houston, Texas, suburb ... but they were just the same. People were all the same, they were just pieces of shit bobbing in this cesspool called earth. Yeah, old Charlie Whitman back on that Texas tower had the right idea ... but he wasn’t as smart as Woody Justine. A psycho can kill just as many people as he wants, as long as he has the law on his side.
Justine admired his biceps and his delts and his traps one more time, loving the way the bright California sunlight created a sheen over the patina of sweat on his skin. He loved the smell of his musky sweat, full in his nostrils. He could feel his cock getting hard in his gym shorts, just looking at himself, and he rubbed it, feeling a tingle of urgency.
Maybe he could call Conchita, he thought. The wetback was always looking to make a few more pesos. Or maybe Candy.
But no, he was on the way to deal with a mark, and it wasn’t good to shoot a wad within a day of a kill.
“Hands off, pal,” said Justine, slapping his own wrist playfully. “Cold shower, bud. Gotta be primed, Woodrow Justine. Can’t have that lightning comin’ outta your balls!”
After his shower, he packed some light articles into his flight bag. He didn’t have to take any weapons ... That was the nice thing about working for a widespread government network. They always had just what he needed, waiting for him. He went on airplane rides clean as a newborn. And if perchance he needed to carry heat—well, they’d give him a license and a badge to boot. Justine felt well-cared-for by his bosses. And to work for such great minds—knowing that destiny was within the grip of intelligent, molding hands ... Yes, he had found his ecological niche, he knew. He was proud to be a Junior Editor. He was proud to kill for his country.
He parked his luggage by the door, along with a note for Conchita, who would be in on Monday morning to clean and feed and water the animals. Just in case. Who knew, he might be back by then.
He had a few errands to run, so he was leaving early. But there was one more thing to do. Justine went back to his den and kneeled before his hamster cages.
“Hey, kids,” he said. “Sorry to have to leave you so soon, but I’ve got a job to do. You all know what Daddy does, don’t you? And that’s one of your reasons to be here, to help him, right? So whose turn is it to show your love?”
None of the hamsters volunteered, but several responded to the sound of his voice, wiggling their whiskers and sniffing the air, coming forward to the perimeter of their worlds to peer out at the Great Being who fed them. The cages smelled of fresh Los Angeles Times, rodent urine, and that elusive perfume of life which dangled over all animate beings. Justine filled his nostrils full of the effluvia, and held his hands beneficently out to the creatures before him. “Lo! Behold your maker and your benefactor,” he began to intone. “Your feeder, your father, your god. Bow down and worship me, my children, for I am a jealous god, and will have no other gods before me!”
The hamsters twitched. One yawned and went about his business, chewing on a carrot stick. Another sniffed a female tentatively.
“This morning, I seek a Chosen One,” murmured this muscular Jehovah as he hovered over the hamsters. “A Chosen One, to perform the ritual of Love. Let it be known amongst your number—I need a volunteer!”
For several long minutes, Justine watched as the hamsters went about their business. Then, one young male—Earnest, as he recalled by the dabs of colored paint marking the rodent’s back—got on the wheel and began to exercise.
“Ah!” said Justine, smiling. “The Chosen One.”
He opened up the cage, stopped the wheel with his hand. He reached down and gently grabbed Earnest around the midsection, pulling him out of the cage.
The hamster squealed in protest, squirming and kicking. But when Justine started to stroke the back of his neck, the hamster’s hackles went down, and he became calm under the familiar ministrations of his master.
“Good, very good, Earnest. You are my beloved. Come, and I will show you my bounty.” Gently petting the hamster, Justine carried him through the hallway, through the cool and dark dining room, tastefully decorated in a modern style, into the kitchen, brightly lit in the California sun. Stainless steel gleamed, and newly waxed linoleum glowed, smelling of a gentle pine scent. Though he seldom used it, preferring to eat out, Justine kept his kitchen extremely clean and well-equipped with the latest in can openers and Oster food-processors. His earliest memories of kitchens were wretched—gas fires and garbage and heat and spattering grease. His kitchen was immaculate.
“Here, Earnest, look,” said Justine, opening the door of his refrigerator. “Nice, huh. Food. We can drop the “me, God; you, servant” line now. It’s just you and me, Earnest. Want some lettuce, pal? Let’s get you some lettuce.”
Justine opened the crisper and tore off a leaf of lettuce from the head inside. He closed the door and carried the lettuce and the hamster over to the counter by the sink. He put the lettuce down, and let the hamster go right beside it. The hamster tested the air with a few sniffs, and then settled down to nibble at the green, crunchy leaf.
Justine leaned over, his head propped on his hands, watching his pet. “That’s right. Enjoy, Earnest.” He looked over to the sink for a moment, smiled, then turned his head back. “You see, pal. It’s like this. I need you. I’m about to go on a Code Four ... Yeah, really exciting, huh? And I’m not ready yet. Oh, I worked out, and I packed—but a guy in my position—well, he’s gotta get ready in a different way. He’s gotta get primed. And that’s how you can help me.”
The hamster just chewed and chewed obliviously, happy with his fresh meal.
“That’s right, Earnest. Another few bites. Enjoy, enjoy.”
Justine took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He visualized the man that Two had mentioned, Dr. Everett Scarborough. For three years, Justine’s life had hovered around Scarborough’s. He knew Scarborough, he’d read all his books, he’d seen him lecture many times. He had never actually shook hands with the man, or spoken with him, but nonetheless, Woodrow Justine knew his type. Arrogant, haughty, charming—a member of the invisible ruling social class of this country. Justine hated the man for this, and other reasons.
As though preparing his mind Samurai-like in Zen meditation, Woodrow Justine focused on his mental image of the popular scientist. “Scarborough!” he whispered.
With one quick motion—with reflexes trained for incredible speed—Justine grabbed the hamster, stepped over to the sink, and stuffed the squirming rodent into the drain, past the rubber guard that stood above the garbage disposal unit. The hamster squeaked shrilly in protest, scrabbling to get out. Justine topped the drain halfway by its rubber plug with his left hand. With his right, he reached over to the electrical switch.
“Yeah!” he said, and he turned the switch on.
The rodent was able to emit one last shriek before the grinding began. The unit gargled and coughed and sputtered on the bones and the fur, but in the end it chewed the thing up as though it were just the latest hunk of garbage pushed into its maw.
A small gout of blood splashed from between the rubber plug and the metal, landing on Justine’s fingers. He reached over and turned off the disposal, then he took a deep breath of the fresh blood-smell that hovered over the sink.
Yes, he was primed now.
Woodrow Justine was ready for his assignment.
He was ready for Dr. Everett Scarborough.