Nirvana Effect

57



“Seacrest!” muttered Edward under his breath. He pulled the car out of the driveway and idled it in the direction of the doctor’s house. He would give the doctor sixty seconds before he pulled off.

He could see the back of Seacrest’s house. It was all windows. Light flashed inside as a gun cracked. One of the windowpanes shattered.

Seacrest burst through the broken window. He held a briefcase in one hand and a gun in the other. He twisted his body backwards in a dead run so he could shoot as he fled.

“Seacrest!” shouted Edward.

An Onge crawled through the window after him, but ducked when Seacrest fired. The doctor was a lousy aim.

“Go! Go! ” shouted Seacrest as he leapt into the back seat of the car. Edward kindly waited until most of Seacrest’s body parts were in the vehicle before roaring away toward the city.

“What the hell is that?” Edward shouted above the over-revved engine.

“My briefcase,” said Seacrest. The doctor gasped. “Oh, mother of God, Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints…”

“I hope you’re praying,” said Edward sharply.

“I hope I am, too, father,” said Seacrest. Edward took his eyes off the road long enough to look in the passenger area behind him. Seacrest sat sideways staring into an empty briefcase.

“What was in there?” asked Edward.

It took the doctor a long time to answer. Edward made it half the way into town before getting a reply. He trained the rear view mirror on his passenger.

Seacrest had no color to his cheeks. He just kept staring down at the briefcase, as though he could will its former contents back into existence if he focused hard enough.

“Some personal effects,” was Seacrest’s answer at long last.

Edward slammed the brakes on the car. It skidded to a halt. He twisted around to face Seacrest. His patience was worn thin by the exhaustion and the aching. He could hardly think anymore. He had no idea how he had managed to keep on driving despite his weariness. “Listen! I’m not a cop, I’m a priest. And I’m not even a priest. I’ve never known you until now. After today, I will again not even know you. You have no reason to lie to me. There is no harm I can do to you with the information. But there is a great deal of harm I can do to you for not telling me what I need to know. If that briefcase is empty, then that means the Onge have what was in it. If the Onge have it, then I need to know what it is. You can tell me on friendly terms or on any terms you wish, but you’ve got to tell me.”

If that briefcase had money, Manassa could use it to make his move. The very idea panicked Edward. Edward had expected it to take more time for Manassa to gather his resources. A sudden infusion of cash could be disastrous. He could move immediately.

Seacrest climbed into the front passenger seat. “Your Onge are wearing off on you, old boy. Drive. I’ll tell you everything. No need for threats.”

Edward started the car. “What was in the suitcase?”

“My insurance,” said Seacrest matter-of-factly.

“Your what?” Edward’s asked curtly.

“My insurance. I’ll explain,” said Seacrest.

“Go on.” He’d better finish before I get to the clinic. The clinic was all Edward could think about. He had to get to the clinic basement before something happened to her.

Something already has happened to her. They have her. He somehow knew this, and yet he still had to hope and try.

“I am an exile, my friend.”

Tell me something I don’t know. “Yes?”

“I’ll explain,” said Seacrest.

“You’ve got ten minutes.” Or less. Edward managed to keep the kph slowly climbing. He was getting more comfortable with the Corvette at high speeds.

“I’m telling you this because you need to know it to help me get off this island. But if I tell you, you’ve got to tell me the real reason you’re at war with the Onge.”

“I can’t tell you why. I can tell you how. That’s all you need if you can help me.”

“Very well. Well, since it doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t have any insurance…I was a doctor in Melbourne. My practice was failing - the economy and so forth. This was more than a decade ago. A punk with a gunshot wound knocked on the back door of my clinic and collapsed in the staff lounge. I took him under treatment, sewed him up, and accepted a couple thousand bucks cash for the job. I started getting backdoor guests every week. Turned out the first kid I treated was the nephew of a very dark name in the city. A man approached me about turning my practice into a night clinic, and eliminating expenses by firing all of my staff.”

“An offer you couldn’t refuse?” asked Edward.

“It was an offer, mind you. But I took it. Business slowed a couple years later as this man consolidated his territory in Victoria. No turf wars meant no doctoring. They could no longer justify my fat salary, and I was getting hounded for taxes, so I took a transfer to Sri Lanka and a raise. They had started an operation out here and there was big demand for doctoring. Not to mention that Sri Lanka is more cash-friendly.”

“How did you end up on this island?”

“I took too many clients. Once I set up shop in Sri Lanka, I started accepting pay from a couple allied gangs, in addition to my own clan. The local cartel got hostile with us. The main man at the cartel, Liang – well, his son was wounded near my clinic and he knew he could get help there. He was a personal friend of mine. I took him even though relations were strained. He died in my care within minutes. There was no way to stop the bleeding. Liang blamed me, said I let his son die on purpose, and put a price on my head.”

“What about your…”

“Gang? My employers?” Seacrest laughed. “Don’t kid. They sought peace with Liang, and came after me, too. I exiled myself to Lisbaad.”

“Why Lisbaad?”

“It was a deal we made. Liang controls practically all ships going to and from Lisbaad. He may as well own this island.”

“Then why aren’t you dead?”

“The deal is, I live in Lisbaad and never leave. If I leave, Liang kills me. And in return for his consideration, for allowing me to live in this cell, I don’t allow certain photos of him dealing with a known CIA operative to surface amongst his cartel underbosses. My insurance.”

“And your ex-employer?”

“Let’s just say that certain photos of white mobsters raping heretofore missing in action yellow women of the cartel would put an end to all the profitable operations they have going here.”

“Your insurance.” This is far worse than cash in Manassa’s hands. Instead of a bird in the hand, he gets five thousand in the bush. Edward prayed the Onge didn’t know what he had. “How’d you get these?”

“A lot of money paid to people who didn’t know what they were worth.”

“Was there any money in the briefcase?” asked Edward.

“No, just the photos,” he answered.

“Well, why are they so important to you? If this truce you have is already negotiated, then why does it matter whether you have them there or not?”

Edward’s question struck a nerve. Seacrest screamed spontaneously, “Because I want off this island! That’s why! I want to renegotiate. I don’t like the deal, for Christ’s sake.” Seacrest sighed. “Sorry.”

Edward waved.

“Sorry,” Seacrest repeated. “Anyway, I’m miserable on this island. I’d rather be dead. My ticket out was this briefcase. Now I’ll need to do plan B.”

“What’s plan B?”

“Get a friendly ex-priest to smuggle me out on a boat to Sri Lanka and I will in return assist him, in ways that only I can, in his odd battle with the Onge.” His underground connections. Manassa just got a lightyear forward but so did I. “If it’s drugs you’re dealing with, I can help.”

“You could get off this island without me,” said Edward.

Seacrest shrugged. “Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. I think my chances are better with your help.”

“It’s Callista,” said Edward.

Seacrest shrugged. “I get it, she’s your gal.”

Edward just watched him.

“Look,” said Seacrest. “She’s a friend. We can talk. I don’t have many friends. I’ve spent my life running from good guys and running from bad guys and only helping where it pays. I don’t know.”

“How do I know you won’t start running?”

Seacrest shrugged.

I need Seacrest if they’ve taken Cali to the mainland. I’d have no way to find her without him.

“You could just jet when you hit the mainland, is my point. How can I trust you?” asked Edward.

Seacrest leaned forward. “What is your first name again, Styles?”

Edward was taken aback by the abrupt change in tack. “Edward,” he answered

“Well, Edward, although you are pushy, and have threatened my life on two occasions in less than four hours, I can understand that you are a man on a mission - and the fact still remains that you saved my life. So both you and Callista fall under the friend category. If you help me you will not regret it, Edward.”

“What kind of help do you need, exactly?”

“We can burn that bridge when we get there. Nothing too difficult. We need to get back to burning this bridge we’re on right here, though, don’t you think?” asked Seacrest.

Edward studied the crook’s eyes. Well, if he deserts me on the mainland I won’t be any worse off. The greatest thing he’d learned in his experience with Manassa so far: never trust a human being completely.

Except Callista. There were some things that ranked over mere survival, Manassa’s philosophical drivel to the contrary. But Edward had no plans of forming a lifelong love with Seacrest. Here was a man who’d survived in the underworld. Every one of his words had ten intentions behind it. The only thing Edward could be sure of was that Seacrest would help him as long as it benefited Seacrest, regardless of whatever words might spew from his mouth to the contrary.

“Fine. I’ll help you, you help me,” said Edward. Seacrest put out his hand. Edward shook it.

“Styles,” said Seacrest, acknowledging him with a nod. Yes, I’ll have to watch this one, thought Edward.

Edward looked behind him. There was a car pulling over the nearest hill. It was the first one he’d seen in a while. Edward started the Corvette down the road. He could feel Callista calling for him.