King Acid

5- BAD BREAKING NEWS

Blake Norton was taken to the facility at noon. He kept refusing to be anesthetized, and a momentary swoon was the only viable time for the anesthesiologist to introduce the sedative to his vein.

Wallace Boyd arrived in the afternoon. He had to draw on all his credentials to show he really worked for the NSA, and he still drowned in red tape for the first hour after he set foot in the facility. Then, he had to remain standing for several minutes and be subjected to a thorough pat-down, despite the aches in his knees inherent in being seventy-seven. Once he had the green light, he rushed to the infirmary. He got lost several times, since he had not been to that secondary station in decades and many of the workers there gave contradictory information on account of the place's secrecy. Finally, he had to make use of his vehement authority to learn that Norton was in a secret room in an apartment that officially did not exist fifteen yards below ground level.

A young employee wearing a necktie and a tucked shirt led him to a false waiting room with a vending machine. The employee then pulled out a blue coin with the NSA logo on both sides, introduced it into the machine, and punched in a series of soft drink buttons with enough solemnity for Boyd to know he was entering a password. The front casing unlatched, and the employee pulled it open like an ordinary door, unfolding the threshold to a small elevator. Once Boyd had entered, the employee bid farewell and closed the steel door. The latching triggered the elevator to slide down with no need to dial a button. There was only one destination.

Boyd remained in total darkness for a few seconds, listening to the gears creaking and squeaking above his head. For a moment, he wondered about the fate of the workers who had built the lift and the secret room. Maybe Norton had them killed so they could never reveal its existence, just as Ivan the Terrible had cut out the eyes of the Saint Basil's Cathedral architect so he couldn't build anything so gorgeous again. The sudden stop of the elevator nipped that sinister train of thought in the bud. It was still pitch black, and for a moment, Boyd thought the elevator had broken, but the uncoupling and opening of the door by another employee proved otherwise.

"Over here, Mister Boyd."

He soon arrived in a bright white room governed by numerous medical personnel and crowned by the illustrious patient, resting on a single stretcher and escorted by several machines Boyd was glad he wasn't familiar with, even in his old age. The boss' who lay connected to a drip and strapped to an ECG, was gawking at the ceiling with a contempt that was rare, even for him. All signs indicated it was not a good time to address him, but Boyd knew the damn moribund would cling obsessively to his wakefulness until he got the latest news.

"Got lost?" spat Norton disdainfully, not even deigning to roll his eyes towards Boyd.

"That often happens when one tries to look for places that don't exist, sir."

"I had them built all across the country to assist me, just in case."

"I know, sir. But who are these people?"

"They're my private medical team. Wherever I go, they come with, and they aren't usually seen. But it seems sanity's been suspended today."

Norton tried to sit up, but a doctor approached quickly and asked him to remain lying down. Norton accepted reluctantly, and this time he turned his head toward the old man's face. The roof's cold light accentuated the nascent wrinkles in Boyd's skin and lit up the fibers of his light brown hair, blurring the sparse white hairs sprinkled on his head and in his beard, and it flashed in his glacial blue eye, blazing out from it like an ice spear.

"OK, Wallace, you better be onto something."

"All right." Boyd cleared his throat and straightened his back, as if he was going to sing a psalm. "The team you sent didn't arrive in time to stop the killer."