The image of his friend being carried out of the bar in Chicago like a stumbling drunk is frozen in his mind, to be replayed over and over again, as if someone is constantly hitting the “rewind” button in his brain. Rushmore must have known he was being watched and decided that the best course of action to protect the evidence was to pass it off. Anderson admires how incredibly courageous his friend acted and now, he wonders whether Rushmore sacrificed his life in order to keep the disc’s contents from falling into the wrong hands.
This last thought lingers in his mind as he closes his eyes, allowing a slight breeze from the lake to wash over him, taking a momentary pleasure in its coolness. Anderson leans his head back when suddenly, he hears a faint sound coming from the balcony of the cottage next to him. In Tamawaca, the cottages were built practically on top of each other, and the local joke is that if you need to borrow anything from your neighbor, just reach in through the window.
Anderson hears the sound again, like a burst of air escaping a tire. He stares across at the neighboring balcony, his eyes trying to penetrate the gloom of the cottage. He leans slightly over the railing, intent on determining the origins of the sound.
As he peers over, suddenly a face comes into view and whispers, “Over here.”
Anderson is so startled by the sudden appearance of the face that he nearly topples over the railing. The man was cloaked in the shadows before deciding to reveal himself, scaring the bejesus out of Anderson. The man, startled himself by Anderson’s reaction, returns to the shadows, with only a sliver of his face visible.
Anderson notes that the man’s face is rather plain, and he is practically bald except for small patches of hair on either side of his head. He possesses a look of a man tense with anxiety, paranoia even, as his head darts around, looking for other signs of life.
“Who the hell are you?” Anderson calls out.
The man motions with a finger to his mouth and whispers, probably louder than he wants to, “Shhhhhh.”
Anderson continues staring at the man, thinking what an unusual situation this seems to be. They appear to be the only two people around and yet the man is looking around as if there are demons huddled in the shadows around them, listening and watching.
Not wanting to spook the man any further, Anderson says very softly, “What are you doing up here?”
The man’s eyes finally come to rest on Anderson. He motions for Anderson to come over to the balcony he is standing on.
Anderson looks at the roof as it slopes down from the balcony about six to seven feet, whereupon the adjoining cottage’s balcony is a short jump across a void between the two houses. Although the gap is minimal, Anderson does not like entertaining the idea of leaping across no man’s land and coming up short. He looks at the man, intending to express his displeasure with the situation when the man, sensing his reluctance, pleads with him.
“Please . . . there is no other way,” the man says.
The man’s statement is odd, but Anderson senses an urgency to his voice, a tone of desperation even. He looks at the man and nods his head, catching a glimmer of relief in the man’s eyes.
He hoists a leg over the railing, gripping it with both hands, and pulls the other leg over. He maintains a hold of the railing as he looks over and measures the distance from where he is to the railing on the other balcony. He does a quick calculation in his head where his “launching point” will be, and briefly wonders why in the world he is doing this.
Anderson lets go of the railing and scampers down the roof. He jumps as far as he can, easily clearing the gap between the cottages. Unfortunately though, he lands with his midsection squarely on the railing of the neighboring balcony, his legs dangling over the sides. The blow nearly takes the wind out of him, and he loses his grip for a moment. Then, from out of the shadows, Anderson’s new friend grips his arms and pulls him up. Anderson is surprised at how strong the man is despite such a slight frame. The man seems to lift Anderson like he is nothing more than a paperweight.
Anderson drags himself over the railing and onto the balcony. He brushes himself off and finally, he looks at the mystery man who has beckoned him over.
“My name is Nitchie, Dr. Warren Nitchie,” extending his hand towards Anderson.
“Private James Anderson,” Anderson replies, tentatively shaking the other man’s hand.
Anderson continues to stare at Dr. Nitchie, waiting for an explanation. “Okay, Dr. Nitchie, what’s with the cloak-and-dagger stuff?” he asks.
“Private Anderson-”
“You can call me Jimmy,” Anderson interrupts.
As if he did not even hear him, Nitchie continues, “Private Anderson, there is something very bad going on here.”
The statement is delivered with the gravest of tones, and it chills Anderson’s blood to hear it.
“What do you mean?” Anderson asks.
“Well,” Nitchie starts, “I do not know if you are aware, but I am a new member of the team in charge of the evidence-gathering at the scene and the investigation into what occurred here.”
Dr. Nitchie stops and waits for Anderson to acknowledge this in some way, but the latter simply shakes his head no.
The doctor continues, “Well, so far, I have been assigned a number of what I would deem ‘tedious’ responsibilities to conduct. Mostly trivial tasks . . tasks that seemed to me, well, somewhat . . superfluous.”
“Superfluous?”
“Yes, superfluous,” Nitchie explains. “You know . . like unnecessary, redundant.”
“Gotcha,” Anderson nods.
Nitchie looks hesitant for a moment before continuing, “I suppose that might be expected given the fact I replaced a member who had fallen ill and was unable to join her other team members in the investigation. So I guess you could call me the new guy on the team, but, well . . um, I feel-”
“What is it, Doctor?” Anderson prods.
Anderson detects a note of embarrassment in the man’s voice as he explains, “I feel I’m being underutilized. I mean, I have a PhD in forensic pathology, in addition to a PhD in-”
Anderson cannot restrain himself, “You’re a modest fellow, huh?”
Dr. Nitchie sighs, not one to boast of his academic accolades, but he certainly can recognize sarcasm when he hears it.
“I’m sorry, Private Anderson, I don’t mean to sound so conceited, but-”
“That’s okay, Doc,” Anderson interrupts, knowing the doctor was not trying to be boastful or arrogant. “I was just needling you a bit.”
Nitchie emits a brief chortle, but it sounds more like a pig snort. “Yes, I know, Private Anderson, I’m just trying to explain myself.”
Anderson continues to eye the doctor, but he says nothing. His suspicion of the doctor has lessened since being spooked by him in the shadows, but Anderson still does not know what to make of him.
Likewise, the doctor gazes at Anderson expectantly.
“May I ask who is in charge of the investigation at the site?” Nitchie inquires.
“Well, as far as I know,” Anderson responds, “that would be General Cozey, on orders from the President himself.”
The air seems to go out of Dr. Nitchie and once again, the paranoia begins to dance wildly in the doctor’s eyes.
“That is what I thought,” the doctor says in a rather resigned voice. “But . . you arrived here with General Parker, right? He is one of the highest-ranking military officers in the country, is he not?” he asks hopefully.
“He is,” Anderson confirms, “and he is overseeing the investigation