Ackerman had been immediately impressed by the roominess of the hotel’s closets. Most establishments didn’t provide the space necessary for proper sleep, and so he would curl up in a corner or beside one of the beds. But whenever reasonable, he preferred to slumber in the confines of a nice closet. The benefits included a greater sense of comfort and rest accompanied by various tactical advantages. Most interlopers looked to the beds and bathrooms. The closet was a secondary concern during a surprise attack, which gave him ample opportunity to plan his counteroffensive.
Now, however, he was not alone in the closet and was consequently unable to properly enjoy the spaciousness. The vermin had insisted on joining him inside his small sanctuary, and the dog now lay curled against his midsection.
Ackerman wanted to roll over, but he didn’t move for fear of waking the furry beast, which could result in more licking and tail wagging. He hated to admit that his tolerance of the thing was growing. He still considered the canine to be a tumor, but at least a benign one—a remora to his great white shark.
The little dog popped to attention a full second before Ackerman heard the sound of breaking glass.
Sliding open the closet door, he crawled across the beige carpet and listened. Then, still staying low and out of the line of fire, he rolled toward the source of the crash: his brother’s room.
He and Marcus shared an adjoining door, but it was currently locked. Ackerman was considering whether he should kick it in or merely knock when Emily burst into his room with her weapon drawn and ready. She scanned the whole room before making eye contact with Ackerman. He pointed toward the room allocated to Marcus and Maggie.
Emily stomped forward and propelled the door inward with an impressive spin-kick.
Following her inside, Ackerman saw Marcus in the bathroom, sitting atop the toilet with blood gushing down his face and dripping from his right fist. Resisting the urge to check the closet first—there were not many with thought patterns similar to his own—he accompanied Emily as she rushed to his brother’s side.
Marcus said, “I’m fine. It’s just a little cut. Looks worse than it is.”
“What happened?” Emily asked.
The bathroom mirror had been shattered and bloody pieces filled the sink. By the patterns of the breakage to the glass, Ackerman could see that at least one of the impacts had been caused by Marcus’s forehead. He said, “Brother, we need to know whether or not you’ve been attacked.”
“I tripped. Just let me wash off the blood and—”
“Quiet,” Emily snapped. Then, as she tended to Marcus’s wounds despite his objections, she said, “What really happened?”
His brother’s gaze was locked on the brown tile floor. Ackerman noticed the slight odor of disinfectant and insect repellant which he had come to warmly associate with his little sister. He asked, “Where’s Maggie?”
After a moment, Marcus reluctantly offered, “She’s gone. The email is still up on my computer screen. You might as well all see it.”
Returning to the bedroom, Ackerman located the MacBook and read Maggie’s message. Most of what she said he had seen coming for some time now. But he hadn’t expected the kind sentiment of the postscript.
… PS - Tell Ackerman that I hope he endures an extremely painful death in the very near future ;-) …
A moment later, Emily joined him and read the message. Ackerman said, “Wasn’t that sweet at the end. I must really be making an impact on her.”
“It doesn’t sound very sweet. She hopes you die painfully.”
“Exactly. Death would be a grand adventure. To live is Christ and to die is gain, as written by … I can’t recall if it was John or Paul … No matter … As you’ve said, pain is my drug of choice. Therefore, a painful death would be a most satisfying beginning to my afterlife.”
Emily narrowed her gaze but said, “It’s sad that the first part of that note you comment on is about yourself. Maggie could be in serious danger. Not to mention that she’s suffering enough emotionally to abandon us during an active investigation.”
“That’s the thing about warriors and hunters, my dear. When aren’t we warring and hunting in one way or another? It’s hard to focus on anything else when you’re constantly faced with situations of life and death. Maggie merely needs to do some soul searching. It’s really no surprise. I saw this coming all the way back in Chicago, and I assumed you had as well.”
Marcus—a towel wrapped around his head like a red-and-white turban—joined them at the hotel room’s desk and slammed the lid of his laptop. “Everybody out. I need to lie down before we meet with Detective Ferrera and their source.”
“You’re not lying down after suffering a head trauma,” Emily said. “You need a hospital.”
“For what?”
“You need stitches.”
“I’m fine.”
Ackerman said, “I can stitch him up. I’ve performed the procedure many times. On both the living and the deceased.”
Marcus nodded. “Well. There you go. No hospital.”
Emily’s ability to endure never ceased to amaze Ackerman. She said, “Fine. Enjoy that Frankenstein scar. But while he’s sewing you up, I need to know what really happened in there? When it comes to the team’s mental and physical safety, I’m the boss, remember?”
Ackerman interjected, “Marcus said that he’s fine. Besides, you know why he did it. It was just yesterday morning I was informing you of the article I read on the relationship between head-banging and a sense of relief for those with my brother’s particular neurodiversity.”
“That’s enough, Frank.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve held my tongue on this subject long enough. Head-banging is a survival strategy used to deal with the devastating amount of sensory and emotional input attacking my brother on a daily basis. Head-banging is a pain that he can control. The brain of an individual with ASD shows higher brain activity, even while at rest. It’s no wonder Marcus can’t sleep. And the more emotional stress and sensory overloads he suffers, the more he can’t sleep. With lack of rest comes the breakdown of his filtering and coping mechanisms. It’s a vicious cycle. You want to discuss the mental and physical safety of this team. I believe that keeping the truth from my brother is endangering every one of us on both counts.”
Emily wouldn’t meet his gaze, but Marcus said, “What the hell is he talking about? I’m really not in the mood for this, and I tuned about three quarters of that nonsense out, but from what I did hear, you’re both keeping something from me. From now on, we all need to be more open with each other. If I had been more open with Maggie, well … One of you is going to tell me what’s going on.”
Sensing that this was Emily’s moment of truth, Ackerman held his tongue. After a deep breath and a long silence, she said, “Marcus, I wanted to wait to share this with you until a more opportune and private moment, but I’ve diagnosed Dylan with Autism Spectrum Disorder. And although this is far from confirmed, there is a genetic component to ASD. You certainly display some of the outward signs, but it’s impossible for me to give a diagnosis with any certainty without—”
Marcus interrupted, “I’ve heard enough. There’s not a damn thing wrong with me or my son. Everyone out. Now.”
“But your stitches?”
“I’ll do it my damn self! I’ve survived this long without anyone’s help. I think I can make a go of it a bit longer. I’ll see you both in the lobby in one hour. Now, get out.”