I wondered what the hell I was doing.

I was on suspension. I wasn’t even sure I was going back. Yet here I was, waiting to meet with a man who had a hell of a story to tell, a story that couldn’t help but end up getting splashed across page one. Provided, of course, Bertrand Magnuson allowed me to write it.

My original thinking had been that I could use this story as leverage to get my job back. And not just any job, but my feature-writing job in the newsroom.

But there was another person who could use some help restoring a reputation and getting back into the newsroom. I could take all this stuff I was getting from Brian Sandler and hand it over to Sarah. Let her write it, take the credit, get the hell out of Home!

I’d have to tell Sandler, of course. I didn’t want to mislead him. I’d tell him about the suspension, but not to worry, my wife was a seasoned journalist. She’d been an investigative reporter before moving up the ranks and becoming an editor. She’d do a better job putting this story together than I would, truth be known.

That’s what I’d tell Sandler.

If he ever showed up.

I glanced at the digital dashboard clock. It was 9:15. Okay, not really late. There were any number of reasons why he might be fifteen minutes late.

But it was harder to explain being thirty minutes late.

At 9:31 a.m. I dug out the slip of paper with Sandler’s phone numbers on it. With my own cell phone, I tried his cell. It rang four times, then went to his voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Next, I tried his line at the city health department, and again, I got his voicemail. I wasn’t interested in leaving a message there, either. The only number I had left for him was home, and I punched it in.

After three rings, I figured no one was going to answer, but after the fourth, someone picked up.

“Hello.” Quiet, sullen. A young voice, it sounded like. Male.

“Hi. I’m looking for Brian? Brian Sandler?”

“Who’s calling?”

Should I say? Had Sandler told anyone he was talking to me, that he’d made arrangements to speak to a (suspended) writer from the Metropolitan?

“Just a friend,” I said.

“Well, he’s not here. This is his son. Can I help you?”

“Maybe you could tell me where I could reach him. I have his cell and office numbers, and tried both of them, but he’s not picking up.”

“He’s in the hospital,” the son said.

“What? When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“What happened? Is he sick? Was he in an accident?”

The boy paused. “He got all burned.”

My stomach felt weak. “I’m so sorry. Listen, is your mother there? Could I speak to her please?”

“My mom’s at the hospital. Me and my sister are waiting for my uncle and then he’s going to take us to see him.”

“Which hospital?”

“The Mercy one?”

“Okay. Listen, I hope your dad gets better real soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

I put the phone in my pocket, turned the ignition, and drove from Bayside Park to Mercy General Hospital. I parked in one of the short-term metered spots near the emergency entrance and ran into the building, approached the information desk.

“Brian Sandler,” I said. “He would have been admitted yesterday?”

I was directed to the west wing of the third floor, room 361. When the elevator doors opened, I got my bearings, saw which way the room numbers were running, went down the end of one hall, hung left down another, and found the room. It would have been difficult to miss.

It was the one with a cop posted at the door.

“Is this Brian Sandler’s room?” I asked the officer. He gave me half a nod. “Look, my name’s Zack Walker, I’m with the Metropolitan. Technically, at the moment I’m sort of on a leave, but Mr. Sandler and I were supposed to meet this morning, and when he didn’t show up I called his home and found out he was here. What’s happened to him?”

“Sorry,” said the cop, “but I’m not authorized to make any comment, I’m just keeping out visitors.”

“Why are you here? They usually put you guys on the door if you think the patient’s going to try to escape or you think someone’s going to come in here and kill him.”

“Look, pal, if you need a quote or something from somebody, you’ll have to get it from the detective in charge or public relations.”

“Is Sandler’s wife here?”

“She’s off talking to the doctor someplace. She’ll probably be back in a bit.”

I glanced through the half-open door, saw a pair of hands that looked like they were inside enormous white oven mitts. Half of Sandler’s face was shielded by the privacy curtain, but the half that was visible was covered in bandages, except for one eye, which was closed.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “What did they do to him?” The cop kept his lip shut. “Just off the record, what the hell happened to him?”

The cop considered whether to speak, then said, “Someone put this guy’s face and hands into a goddamn fucking deep fryer. It’s a wonder he’s still alive. When they get the bandages off his face and he has a look in the mirror, he’ll be sorry he survived.”

“Is he able to talk at all?”

“Be a lot easier if he had lips. They haven’t been able to get much out of him so far.”

“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” I said. “I need to talk to him, or her, or whoever it is.” I didn’t have much doubt who was behind this, and I was more than happy to tell all.

The cop dictated a name and number, which I scribbled into my notebook. I thanked him and headed back to my car. Driving home, I dialed the number he’d given me.

“Hi. This is Detective Herlich. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

“Yeah, hi, my name is Zack Walker and I think I can tell you what happened to Brian Sandler. Look, I’m heading home, I’ll give you that number.” Which I did, and broke off.

Sandler’s instincts were right. His boss, Ellinger, must have suspected Sandler was up to something after he’d dropped by his office and asked all those questions. And then, and I was guessing here but it all seemed to make sense, Ellinger put in a call to the Gorkins, who brought Sandler in for a visit with the deep fryer.

I imagined Mrs. Gorkin and her girls must have had a few questions for him before they dunked him into the sizzling grease. Like what he was up to, whether he was going to play along, whether he was going to the police.

Whether he was going to the media.

Shit.

I decided that when I got home, I would put in a call to Lawrence Jones. Get a few tips on how to watch my back. Maybe drop enough hints, act frightened enough, that he’d come over and babysit me until I told Detective Herlich everything I knew about the Gorkins and Sandler. Herlich was welcome to hear the audio file as well. Wouldn’t take long, once he had all of that, I figured, before arrest warrants would be sworn out for the Gorkins, they’d be in custody, and I could let Lawrence go home and listen to his jazz collection or surprise philandering husbands in motel rooms.

I parked Trixie’s car in our driveway, got out my keys as I mounted the front porch steps, and opened the front door.

The twins were on me in an instant.

I spotted the one on the stairs first, and would have turned to run, but her clone had been hiding behind the door and slammed it shut once I stepped inside. She came up behind me and encircled me in her meaty, pasty white arms while the other one came at me like I was in a bullring waving a red flag.

I tightened the muscles in my stomach when I saw the fist coming, but I am not exactly a hundred-crunches-a-day kind of guy, and when she drove her hand into me I turned into a rag doll. The one holding me let go and I dropped to the floor, desperately trying to catch my breath.

“Oh God oh God oh God,” I said.

It took a moment before I was able to breathe again, but even once I had air going in and out of my lungs, I didn’t have the strength to get back up. I rolled over onto my back and saw that the twins had now been joined by their mother, who looked down contemptuously at me.