PROJECT ANTICHRIST

By Pavel Kravchenko

To Babushka

Chapter One

Three days after I threw out my antidepressants, the world ended in countless eruptions of nuclear flame. I was in my living room, sprawled naked on the couch, and in my head every capital you could think of was getting the mushrooms, and every landmark you ever saw on TV was being cooked and powderized. I couldn’t tell you what started it or how long the world tour lasted, but to top it off I imagined one of the warheads — with a ticker and everything — detonating under my building. I imagined that by being seventy-eight floors directly above it, I would avoid that first flash. And it seemed to me that I would glimpse, as I was lifted with my luxurious Lake Shore Drive condo to the sky, the great Windy City being stripped from the prairie and sucked through my basement up, up into the great mushroom of my ass. For a split second I would become the garbage-incinerating, autonomous vacuum cleaner I’d helped advertise. Only better, because in the end I would be incinerated too, “for truly perfect cleanness.”

And then, I thought, Jennifer would regret leaving me.

Meanwhile, on TV was the news, and the Secretary of Defense was saying that regrettably the world was not perfect yet, and Dwayne Robinson promised to gauge the opinions of regular citizens walking up and down Michigan Avenue after the break.

The break lightened my mood; commercials with me in them still did, then. It was a well-crafted piece, not the one with the Auto-Vacs, but the most recent one, shot two months before, in which I was walking across a golf field, shouldering a driver and sharing a story of how the antidepressants manufactured by Freedom Corp. helped me regain my own freedom at the beginning of my career. I was mouthing the words, building up to the great punch line, when the TV wall went blank. Before I could comprehend what was happening, which isn’t to say it was a terribly quick transition, a huge eagle, armed with lighting bolts or arrows or something, spread its wings across the screen.

“Conscript!” a nasal voice snarled out of the speakers, causing me to jump. “You failed to report at the recruitment center on the assigned date. You are hereby placed under the advisory notice. Leaving the city limits is strictly prohibited. A unit of draft marshals will be dispatched to your dwelling between the hours of ten-hundred and fourteen-hundred. They have the authority to escort you in for questioning and subsequent registration for medical examination. Your unrestricted cooperation will ensure this misunderstanding is resolved quickly and efficiently.”

Without a good-bye, the eagle winked out, to be replaced by Dwayne Robinson’s tanned face. Flags on the bridge over the Chicago River occupied what meager screen space was left to them. Off screen, a regular male citizen was expressing his view on the rumors of favoritism in the draft system. Apparently, he didn’t think much of them.

I rubbed my face and did not open my eyes until I was sure I was no longer facing the TV. I found myself staring at the reproduction of Munch’s “Scream.” I felt like I hadn’t seen the painting in years, but it wasn’t exactly balm for the sore eyes.

Hallucinations? I thought. That wasn’t part of the deal. Of course, nothing had been part of the deal. In fact, there had been no deal. Just a whimsical flick of the wrist, and a tiny plastic bottle in rapid descent towards Lake Michigan. But although I’d seen a rough couple of days after that toss, it was only now that I for the first time entertained a thought of calling Dr. Wright and ordering an emergency refill.

“Mute,” I said. “Computer. Mail.”

Dwayne retreated to the corner of the screen. I called the remote, lifted a few cushions when no response followed, glanced under the couch, walked around the living room and finally gave up. Grumbling, I went up to the screen, waved my arms to make the list of ignored important messages smaller, and scrolled through them with my finger. Finding the header “United States Selective Service” and stepping away from the screen when faced with the helpful “Would you like to play the message again?” was a mixed experience. I wasn’t that crazy, but I sure was in trouble.

I combed my hair with my palm, put on a red silk robe and called the office. Christie, the receptionist, picked up.

“Luke,” she said. “You look different.”

“Christie, let me talk to Jimbo.”

“Oh, I think he’s busy setting up the reserve show,” she said. “He didn’t seem very happy about it, either.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset because your boss is upset, baby. I swear I’ll make it up to you somehow. Now can you please find old Jimbo for me? It’s extremely important.”

She frowned, but complied. Two minutes later James Cornwell graced me with his digital presence.

“First you drop a ton of work in my lap, then you refuse to leave me to it. This better be ‘important.’”

“I did?”

“What are you, on drugs?”

“ What? No. Never mind that.” I copied the message to him. “Here. Take a listen.”

He sighed. Indulging idle TV stars was, of course, part of his job, but he didn’t have to like it. I heard echoes of Stuffy Noseman giving him a piece of his mind. About half way through, Jimbo’s eyes began to dart between the eagle and my face.

“Is this a joke?” he stammered when it was over.

“I hope so.” But I didn’t think so, and now I saw he didn’t think so either. Still, watching his round cheeks shake, as though he had been the one called upon to protect freedom, I was glad to have phoned him.

“But on the off chance it’s not,” I said. “Do you mind telling me how I missed the first message?”

His lips formed a crooked little smile. “What? But how can I…?”

“You are screening my mail, aren’t you, Jimbo?”

“Well, yes… I mean, I hardly have the time to do it personally…”

“So maybe you can explain to me why my mailbox is full of crap I will never read, and yet an e-mail from the freaking military, a draft notice in fact, ignoring which is a criminal offense, never reached me.”

“Luke, old sport. I swear to you…”

“And now a ‘unit’ is coming to pick me up at ‘ten-hundred.’” This I yelled.

“Luke, calm down,” he spoke rapidly. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. I’ll contact the network. They’ll know what to do. Just stay put. I’ll get you out of it, I promise.”

“I’m not cut out for military, Jimbo.”

“I’ll get on it right away. Just stay put.”

“Is it doable?”

“What?”

“Is it possible to do something?”

“Of course, of course. Nothing is impossible these days. Let me just talk to… You stay put, OK?”

He signed off. I fell back on the couch. The Auto-Vac came to check on the commotion and began to buzz under the magazine table, having found something to incinerate.

I stayed put for about a minute. I went to the bedroom and changed into street clothes, which after three days in robes felt like a straightjacket. While I dressed, I was thinking of a bullet hitting me in the head, a random bullet from a machine gun, speeding towards me as I charged, heroically, over a dune. I imagined seeing a flash, a sun beam catching the bullet in flight, just before it hit me between the eyes, causing the world to wink out in a shower of smoke, like the last fireworks on Independence Day.

And then, I thought, slamming the door shut, Jennifer would regret leaving me.

* * *

It took fifteen dollars and some thirty minutes of aggravated speeding through the “gallery” level of I-94 to reach the right exit. I wasted another thirty minutes circling the suburban streets — a merry-go-round of identical lawns, shrubs, flags and trees decorated with yellow and khaki ribbons — trying to locate the house by memory. But the only thing I remembered was deleting the address from “My Destinations” the day I’d signed the divorce papers. Finally, just as I was beginning to regret the impulse that had caused me to disobey Jimbo’s instructions, I saw a wooden sign nailed to a decorated poplar. Olde Hillback Rd. My old streete.

Now that I found it, it occurred to me that there really was no reason to rush. The house I’d sought stood two blocks to the west, and it would remain there for quite some time. I, on the other hand, would be a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy a few quiet moments of a rural day.

I pulled the Winger over to the curb and folded the roof. The day was not only quiet, but also sunny and fresh. I leaned back and dipped my hands up into the wind current and breathed deeply and squinted at squirrels, as though that had been the purpose of my trip all along. And maybe this really is all I need, I thought. Some rural therapy for my shaken nervous system. Some roofless time. Maybe I don’t need to see her after all.

But then I saw the yellow and khaki ribbons again. “Support the troops,” I recalled. And “Support the fair draft.” The prospect of returning home helped me fight through my reluctance. With one last look at a gray squirrel, which was following an invisible spiral around the trunk of a thick maple, I put the car in gear and drove off.

A redbrick Victorian mansion Jennifer and I had bought with my first real paycheck was just where I’d expected it to be. The windows were dark, but then, I reassured myself, it was daylight. No car in front of the closed garage door. Nothing out of the ordinary, but already a spiteful, hopeful thought (maybe she won’t be home) had entered my mind. I shook my head to get rid of it.

I zipped up the jacket, crossed the lawn and climbed the five-step porch. Hesitating for a microsecond, I pushed the doorbell. It rang faintly, and it seemed something halted inside. She was home, no doubt now. I unzipped the jacket. There was a soft whisper of steps approaching. I inhaled and with great effort kept my hands in pockets, where I’d stuffed them a moment earlier. I heard her touch the handle, reach up for the lock, twist the metal, let the hand fall to the bottom one, slide the bar to the left.

“Who is it?” she asked, the door completely unlocked, but still shut. I blew a smile onto my face.

“It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Luke.” My nervousness evaporated; a grin split my lips. It was the right thing to come see her. The best decision of my life. In a moment she would open the door and we would talk and work it all out. We would work it out, and then I wouldn’t care then if they took me to war. Jennifer would wait. We would e-mail every day. We could even get married again, before I went, like in that movie. Jennifer would like that.

The door opened, and my euphoria dispersed as fast as it had come.

“What are you doing here?”

“I… haven’t seen you in a long time. Thought I’d—”

“Four months. It’s been four months. Why are you here? Have you come to clean your junk out of the garage? Because I was just thinking about throwing it all away.” In a long, sky-blue silk robe tied at the waist and with long golden hair loose she was so beautiful, it hurt to look at her. But especially it hurt to hear her. She spoke as if her lawyer was still present, as if we were still discussing terms.

“They’re… drafted me,” I stammered.

“What?” Bothered, annoyed eyebrows converging above her thin, delicate nose.

“I got drafted. Failed to appear… So now marshals are coming to pick me up.”

“They drafted. You. To the Army?” Curious, amused wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

“Yeah. So I thought I’d—”

And then, suddenly, “Honey, who is it?” a man’s voice like a spit in the face from deep inside the house. For the first time since the door had opened a hint of real emotion glinted in my ex-wife’s face. A brief widening of her eyes, lips gently parting, as my name raced up to them from the heart instead of the gallbladder. But it wasn’t enough. I hadn’t taken my pills for three days.

I shoved past her into the hallway. She shrieked.

“Honey?”

The sound of hurried footsteps from the kitchen. Honey, huh. I rushed to meet them. My ex-wife, meanwhile, recovered enough to start yelling.

“Who do you think you are to barge into this house like that?”

Paying her no heed, I ran into this guy in the dining room. Also in a robe, he was barefoot and brandished an empty coffee mug. Other than that, I didn’t really see him much; he must have seen even less of me.

My fist plunged into his meaty, cleft chin. Jennifer shrieked again, louder this time. “Honey” crumbled to the floor, but bounced up at once, fists ready. The mug remained on the parquet. He was squinting, looking for me, but I had lost interest in him by then.

“So four months, huh?” I whirled around. “Someone’s been keeping time!”

“I’m calling the police!” she screamed back at me.

“Don’t bother! I’m leaving!” I bolted back towards the hallway, ignoring the fist-rotating jock and his loud breathing. “Four months!” I shouted in her face again as I was passing her by, and for one enjoyable moment she cowered.

“I hope they kill you in the war!” was the last thing I heard as I slammed what had once been my door shut behind me.

Hitting that guy didn’t make me feel better. Just the opposite. For some reason, as I tore at the door and flung myself into the driver seat, mumbling “four months” repeatedly under my breath, all I could think of was the look on his face after I’d slugged him. Grimly determined he was, sad even, like a courier carrying the most important message of his life, who had been blindsided by a pick-up, and who, although he was able to immediately get back up on his feet, was just beginning to realize that his injuries might be worse than they seemed, that shock was wearing off, that he might collapse into darkness any instant, that the package, the very purpose of his life, might not be delivered. It was too much. Tears filled my eyes.

“I wish he’d punch me back,” I groaned. I began to shake, feeling like I was being submerged in cold oil. With an effort, I twisted the mirror and focused on my reflection.

Look at me, I thought. I’m a mess. Me, a TV star, whose show ranks number one among the non-police-themed shows. I have a billion fans, more money than I can ever spend, I slept with more women than I can remember, and I am sitting in my million-dollar Winger, about to weep my eyes out because I’ve hit a guy who’s banding my ex-wife in my ex-house.

There was only one thing to do. The solution to all my problems was right there, built conveniently into the dashboard. Spinning the car around, I punched the accelerator and dialed doc’s number.

“Dr. Wright is with a patient,” a female voice answered, but I was having none of it.

“Tell him it’s Luke Whales. It’s an emergency.” A moment later doc’s calm, confident voice resounded from the speakers.

“Luke, are you all right?”

“No, doc. No. I’m not. I lost my pills. I need a refill. Now.”

“When was the last time you took the medicine?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Wednesday? Three days ago.”

“Calm down, Luke. I will call in the prescription right away. Come straight to my office. And drive carefully.”

“Half an hour.” I hung up and, remembering very well the neighborhood now, headed for the highway.

* * *

I really meant to go straight to the doc’s office. I held onto my destination firmly, because I was afraid that in my current state any random small thing I encountered was liable to catch my attention and lead me off course, and God only knew what other trouble I would end up finding. Thankfully, there was never any traffic on the expensive first tier of I-94, with the majority of drivers opting for the cheap, open top level, so there was little cause for my gaze to wander away from that point in the middle of everything where all the lines meet.  I still held onto my destination as I passed a huge billboard hanging from the ceiling — a field of green under a sky of blue and the words: YOU ARE NOT ALONE — about fifteen minutes into the drive. But then I saw a pigeon flutter across the lanes to disappear outside and I saw that they still hadn’t put the glass between the columns like they’d advertised for years and I heard my teeth chattering and knew I was freezing because I had forgotten to put the stupid roof up, and I started thinking about that triple-layered Alpine wool ski hat I’d bought in Switzerland and how it would feel on my head right about now. I remembered its airy softness, its weightlessness, its innate warmth, which felt as though the wool it had been made of was still attached to the innocent lamb that created it. I imagined myself walking into the bedroom closet, kneeling, searching shelves and drawers, then finally straightening and reaching joyously up, as I recalled putting it away on the top shelf with the rest of the skiing clothes.

Shortly afterwards I found myself at the entrance to my building’s parking garage.

The monitor lit up at the check-in, a pink, triangular face on it. George, or Jeffrey, the front desk kid. He looked worried.

“Mr. Whales?”

“Ah… How are you, buddy?”

“Yes. I just wanted to let you know that two draft marshals have stopped by to see you.” I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, trying at the same time to cast a confused expression over my face.

“Did you say ‘draft marshals’?”

“Yes, sir. I assured them there must have been a mistake, but they insisted on seeing you.”

“Did they say when they would be back?”

“Uh, well, no. They’re waiting inside your apartment.”

“What?”

“That’s right, Mr. Whales. We weren’t supposed to tell you, but Mr. George felt it was the least we could do.”

“Did they have a warrant?”

“Of course, sir. We would never have let them in without it. ”

“All right. I’ll go up and see them… Jeffrey. Can’t argue with the government.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“And tell Mr. George I appreciate the warning.”

The monitor darkened, and the striped black-and-yellow arm rose up to the ceiling, like a guillotine blade. Letting go of the brakes, I numbly allowed the car to roll inside. It rolled down a level and into a double space marked “7805.” I pushed the button to set the roof in place. I turned off the engine and remained seated. Just like that the draft was back, making everything else seem distant, trivial. The recent promise to stop by Dr. Wright’s office was erased from my memory. Jennifer returned to the shelf of uncorrectable mistakes. The triple-layered ski hat faded like a pleasant dream.

Five minutes later I climbed out, locked the door, patted the hood and headed for the elevator. It dropped me off on the seventy-eighth floor, where I was picked up by the not-long-enough curving hallway and delivered to the dead end of my door. I pressed my thumb into the keyhole. The lock clicked. Cautiously, I stepped inside.

The hallway greeted me with dead silence, and then suddenly the phone started ringing like crazy. I almost had a heart attack. When the palpitations subsided, I was ready to cooperate with the officials, who would react to the door and the phone, but there was still no sound of movement. I let the phone ring until I could stand it no longer.

“Listen, I’m not going to try anything, so you don’t have to ambush me.”

No answer.

“I’m going to answer it! Just letting you know.”

Nothing.

With a shrug I said, “Phone. Pick up.”

Jimbo’s face appeared on the door display. A flicker of hope came and went.

“Luke, what the hell are you doing dressed?” he hissed.

“Tell me good news, pal.”

“You need to give us more time. We have the best in the business working on it.”

“More time? Jim, draft marshals have already come for me.”

“What? Already? How did you get rid of them?”

“I didn’t. In fact, I was sure they were waiting for me here.”

“So you went out?”

“Yes, I went out.”

“Didn’t I tell you—?”

“Not now, Jim.”

“Fine. So where are the marshals?”

“Beats me. I’m half-expecting them to pounce on me the second I step inside the living room.”

“What?”

“Jimbo, I don’t know what. I walk in, expecting to be handcuffed and hauled off to some boot camp. Instead, I find your pretty face on the phone and possibly a couple of deaf, mute and armed draft marshals hiding in my bedroom. You tell me what.”

“Well, let’s assume they don’t hire deaf and mute people to be draft marshals, old sport. That would mean, if you’re completely certain the cops have been there before, that they left. And that would, in turn, mean, the people who are trying to save your ass from Uncle Sam have more time to do their job. Now. Go take a nice shower, take your pill, shave and stay put. Does that sound like something you can make happen?”

“Are you done patronizing me? I’m under a lot of stress here.”

“He’s under stress,” Jimbo inhaled. Then it occurred to me.

“Hey, Jimbo, how do you know about my pills?”

“What?”

“You said just now, ‘Take your pill.’”

“Shit, old sport.” He waved a hand at me. “Everybody knows. Wait for my call, all right? Until then, cooperate with authorities.”

The screen went dark.

Everybody knows? How the hell do they? But it was the case of trying to stuff too many gum-sticks in your mouth at the same time. Pushing the question out of my mind, I locked the door and opened the closet. At that moment I became aware of two things: the smell of coffee and the buzz of the Auto-Vac coming from the kitchen.

So the law enforcers helped themselves to my twenty-dollars-per-pound coffee and made a mess. Slamming the closet door shut, I marched to the kitchen…

…Where I must have blacked out for a second. When light returned to my eyes, I saw that propped against the cabinet under the sink sat, staring right at me in surprise, a bulky, bald and completely dead man in a suit. In the middle of the man’s chest, where the coat had fallen open, there were two black bottomless holes framed in crimson. An empty cup of coffee lay on its side by his shoe. Another cup was on the table, half-full. My poor Auto-Vac buzzed with dumb, determined and fruitless effort to push the body out of the way, so that it could clean and incinerate a small pool of blood that had accumulated between the man’s back and the cabinet’s doors.

* * *

First I screamed. A pitiful, abrupt, desperate squeak. I took a step toward the body and immediately several away from it. Looking everywhere at once, I ran. In the living room the TV pulsed on, and I wanted to scream again, but only managed to freeze in the middle, grabbing my head in both hands.

This was Munch’s painting. The real “Scream” had no sound. What the crazy Norwegian had captured on canvas was not the act of screaming, but the need, the desire to scream. When you’ve just seen something you wouldn’t have been prepared to deal with even in a normal state, and you are far from normal, because you may have missed a few days of your depression treatment, and the day hasn‘t exactly been salubrious up to that point. When you’re so terrified that your lungs collapse and the vocal cords tighten around your Adam’s apple and you squeeze your temples in a desperate effort to prevent a capillary from exploding inside your brain. When you want nothing more than to scream, but no sound comes. And all you can do is beg for monsters to go away and although they don‘t, if you’re strong, or thick-skinned, or just lucky, the oxygen will reenter your parched mouth in a moment or two and you will live.

I was lucky.

But as soon as I was able to interact with myself, I realized that the pills I’d been taking were not simple antidepressants.

I must be schizophrenic, I thought feverishly. That’s why the medicine had no name. That’s why it all seems so real. They all knew about it, but never told me the real diagnosis. They humanely drugged and supervised me for five years and since I was making a fortune on TV and had no lapses and the medicine seemed to work so well and I got used to taking the pills as if it were brushing my teeth in the morning their guard slackened and they left me alone one ugly Wednesday and the first thing my wrecked and suddenly freed brain ordered was to toss the bottle out of the window so that it could take the gracious host out for a thrill ride. And none of today happened. I probably did not get out of bed yet. Probably, I am still under the covers, staring up at the ceiling. The doc, Jimbo, Jennifer — they’re all in on it. Shit, old sport. Everybody knows.

Maybe they did it on purpose. To ruin me. To have me locked up. Maybe Jennifer left so that she and Jimbo could…

The surroundings were becoming blurry. I imagined it felt like the cabin of a plane that’s losing pressure.

Suddenly, I was mortally afraid of passing out there. If this is inside my brain, a thought came, then it doesn’t matter whether I stay or go, but if it is, in fact, somehow, real…

I rushed to the bedroom closet and pulled out my cash cards. Stuffing them in my pocket, I changed into a brown fur-lined bomber jacket, slapped on the ski hat and rushed back out. Then, remembering that it wasn’t the cash or the hat I had meant to search for, I, gripped by another fit of panic, moaned and ran back to the closet again, rummaging through boxes on the top shelf.

Finally I found it.

I ripped out a small wooden chest and threw it on the bed, kneeling in front of it. I opened the lid. I saw the shape, stamped into red velvet, but the shape only. The gun was gone.

I tried to break the chest with my forehead. When that failed, I, with a titanic push, rose to my feet. The door to my beautiful condo closed behind me with a profound hiss.

Not the front lobby, I thought, keeping the elevator button pressed until it arrived. Not the car. The marina exit, then.

With the boating season over, the long, red-carpeted tunnel to the marina was empty and sparingly illuminated. Inside the hangar-like, steel-roofed structure the water was black. A lone sailboat swayed anchored on the far right. I turned my back to it, mounted two flights of stairs up to the ground level and climbed over a locked gate. Another minute, and I emerged on the lakeshore path.

When steady, cold breeze from the brown lake hit me in the face, I pretty much gave up the hope of waking up. The beach lay clean and desolate; the lakeshore path crawled with people. A few remaining boats, every single one with an American flag and some with ribbons, jumped up and down on the waves. Turning north, I tried to recall where I was going and failed, but went anyway.

The image of the staring dead man would not let me go. Images, actually. I discovered that the corpse wasn’t as deeply and permanently imprinted in my memory as I’d expected. Even though mere minutes had passed, I wasn’t sure now whether he slumped to the left or to the right, whether one of his legs was bent at the knee or both, what color his tie was and so on, so the scene in my mind shifted constantly around the immovable holes in the man’s chest.

The fact that I couldn’t remember something so shocking and so recent unnerved me. Fingers spread, I snapped my hands up to my face, terrified and half-expecting to find them covered with blood. They were clean, and I stuffed them back in my pockets. An instant later they were out again, and I frisked myself, pretending to smooth the clothes. Nothing. Embarrassment. Relief.

My phone began to ring. Without thinking, I pitched it in the water, attracting more glances from potential witnesses, most of whom were doubtlessly already finding my hunched figure familiar. I hastened my step, grumbling.

“What are you doing?” I muttered. “You should have stayed home and called the police and called Jimbo. Running is admitting guilt. And throwing the phone out is just stupid. Stupid, stupid. You should have called Jeffrey who would confirm you weren’t home until the last moment. There’s no gun; you had no time to get rid of it…”

Exactly. No time to get rid of it. The gun is there. It might be in the kitchen drawer, or under my mattress, or somewhere else I would not be able to find it before the cops showed up. Or it could be on top of the desk, begging to be grabbed…

My feet kept moving.

The next thought hit me like a lightning bolt. I missed a step and almost knocked over some mustached fellow on a bicycle. I apologized and forgot him. There were two marshals, the thought was. Jeffrey said there were two.

Cops were going to think I either took the other one hostage, or killed him too and hid the body, or, better yet, that I cut him into little pieces and fed those to my Auto-Vac for incineration or something.

But I didn’t. And if that other marshal was alive, he knew it. All I had to do now was find him in a city of fifteen million people.

Chapter Two

In a study with oddly slanted walls a tall, black-haired man stood facing a two-story-high triangular window. In his left hand the man held a vintage black revolver. With a thick cloth in his right he polished the gun’s barrel.

“Did he run?” the man suddenly asked, drawing a smirk from a woman who had just then walked in, very quietly, into the room.

“He ran.”

“Of course he did.”

“He will run back any minute now.”

“It has already been taken care of.” At that the woman bit her lip. The man turned around.

“What? Are you a big fan?”

“Shut the hell up,” the woman said and left. Grinning, the man returned to polishing the gun.

It hadn’t rained in two months. The surf was rising, although the clouds would not appear for another hour or so. Watching the storm coming, the man was amused by the excitement growing steadily within him. Finally, it is beginning, he thought, conscious of his usage of a meaningless adverb.

“At last!” He said pompously and laughed.

Chapter Three

I walked until my legs began to hurt, which did not take long, in terms of distance at least. I kept fit for the suits, but treadmills were never my thing.

I found myself on a bench on the edge of a concrete circle, where behind the erect and gallant Hamilton, subtle Goethe crouched, glancing across the avenue at an antique domed construction with columns. There were less people than cars there, and cars were anonymous, but the desired peace never came.

While I had trudged along the cold lake, I was focusing on moving my feet and avoiding eye contact. A simple task I could cope with. Now though, my solitude and immobility allowed my mind the opportunity to fully grasp the events of that day. The result was rather predictable.

Shortly, I was mumbling “I am Revenge; sent from th’infernal kingdom/To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind/By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes” over and over again. Something cheerful I remembered from my student days. I also might have had some saliva dripping out of the corner of my mouth. So when I heard the sounds of hoofs on the pavement, I imagined they belonged to horseback police, and my heart rejoiced at this chance to confess, repent and give myself over to the authorities, who would provide necessary medical attention. Smiling, I removed my hands from my eyes.

First there was nothing but bright, painful light. The sun, which had lingered on top of the dome across the street in order to blind me, was slowly withering away. Shielding myself from it, I turned this way and that, searching for the horses. Then I shrank back in surprise. Not ten feet away, right in front of me, stood a young woman. Short black hair framed her face, which, I thought, possessed the tiniest hint of Asian descent. She was skinny, dressed in jeans, a short black cashmere jacket with big buttons, beginning of the century style, and high-heeled boots. My gaze hung dumbly over those heels.

“Were you here all this time?” I asked her.

“How long is that?” Her voice had a coarse note in it and I looked up at her face, reevaluating her age. Twenty-five, maybe older. She continued to stare at me. I could not remember the last time anyone had looked at me for that long without recognition. Either she did not watch the TV, which was a ridiculous idea, or my ski hat and beard disguised me better than I had hoped. Regardless, I knew what was going to happen next. Sitting with hands over eyes in a public place is basically asking for a 911 call. But it didn’t really matter. There was nowhere I could go, and I was tired.

“Please, go on, call the police,” I said.

“What for?”

“I’m afraid I’m a target of a nationwide manhunt in connection to draft-dodging, shooting of two marshals, and disposing of a body by way of dismembering it and depositing the chunks into an autonomic vacuum-cleaner for incineration.”

Her eyebrows rose in a way that made me think of someone faking amusement after their best friend had told an unfunny joke.

“Well, did you do any of it?” She inquired suddenly. I gaped at her. Then sighed.

“No.”

“Why do you want to be caught, then?”

“I actually was trying to dodge the draft.”

“What, you don’t want to protect your country in some desert ten thousand miles away?” She chortled, dropped on the bench beside me and pulled out a pack of “American Spirit.” I stared. One had to be truly a hardcore smoker to continue buying cigarettes. Striking a match, she sucked the flame in and blew out a billow of smoke. “Mind if I sit down?” she asked, mistaking my startled look.

“I… I don’t think you can smoke here…”

“I thought you wanted to attract attention of the police. If none show up, then you don’t have to write your confession tonight.” Smoke trailed out of her nose as she spoke. She had a cute nose, thin and tiny and sharp.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Taking a walk.”

“Alone?” She didn’t answer that, only slanted her eyes in my direction. Instead, she asked her own question.

“What’s your name?” For a brief moment I had an unsettling thought that she was an apparition.

“Am I really that unrecognizable in person?”

She turned and squinted at me.

“In person? What are you, a movie star?”

“TV, actually. Though I’ve done a movie or two…”

“Oh.” A shrug!

“Name’s Luke,” I said finally, when it was clear she was not going to expand on that “oh.”

“I’m Iris.”

I found nothing to counter that, and we spent the next few minutes in silence. She finished her cigarette and threw it at Goethe. No cops showed up. I expected her to get up and leave then, but she just sat there. Silence began to pressure me.

“Listen, Iris,” I said, making it sound like a joke. “Since you won’t call the cops, may I use your phone? I threw mine into the lake.”

“Who are you going to call?”

“I’m hoping it will come to me when I have the dial in my hand. Look, I can pay you…”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I don’t do cell phones.”

“You don’t do cell phones? Come on. Everybody has a cell phone.”

“You don’t.”

I opened my mouth and closed it.

“I need to call somebody,” I said again, not knowing what else to say. Iris got up from the bench.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Where?”

“I know a place where you can use the phone safely.”

I hesitated. The whole deal suddenly began to feel creepy. She must have read my mind, which made it even creepier.

“Don’t be afraid. You’re the one the cops are looking for, not me.”

“What do you mean, safely?”

“I mean it’s impossible to use public communication system without a camera staring in your face. This place is probably not the only one, but it’s the only one I know.”

“Why should I care about safety?”

“Because you don’t really want the cops to find you.”

“Is it far?”

“Thirty, forty minutes walk.”

I scoffed. “I don’t think I can stand. Much less walk that far.”

“Of course you can,” said the girl. “Try it.”

I tried. She was right. I began lumbering after her. That hoofy sound her heels produced was the only indication she possessed any mass at all.

“So, Iris,” I called, mostly to make her slow down. She did, and turned. “What else you don’t do aside from cell phones?”

A smile appeared under that cute nose. “Pills,” she said.

* * *

By the time glands in my mouth reacquired their ability to produce saliva we had dug deep into Lincoln Park. Habitually, with sun setting beyond Schaumburg, people migrated from the streets to their cars and homes. Sidewalks emptied. Then the cars, too, disappeared almost entirely.

It was common knowledge that the city was a rough place after dark, and the feeling of vague apprehension grew steadily inside me, until my glances into dark alleys and shadowy corners attracted Iris’s attention. I noticed they did, because she suddenly stared at me with big eyes, bent her legs at the knees slightly and waddled forward in that semi-crouched position, jerking her head left and right. Astonished by such an unusual display, I heard myself laughing and relaxed my limbs. It turned out it was easier to breathe that way. Soon she was laughing with me.

“Did I really look like that?” I asked her.

“No, I flattered you.”

“Aren’t you a little worried? We’re in the middle of Lincoln Park after dark, and there isn’t a soul around.”

“If there’s no one around, who are you afraid of?”

I opened my mouth to reply, then turned it into an insincere yawn. I had nothing. The girl was weird.

“Who said I was afraid? Caution and fear are two different things,” I mumbled some time later, uncertain if I wanted her to hear it. It seemed like she did, so before she had the chance to answer, I added louder, “Where are we, anyway?”

It had been a while since my last visit to the area, and I certainly had not been there on foot before. We were walking to the northwest now, but the prized uncanny sense of direction common to human males was the extent of my awareness of our present location.

“We’re almost there,” said Iris.

“Why are you so cryptic? Is this place secret or something?”

“No.” She chuckled.

“So why not simply tell me where we are? You can blindfold me afterwards, if the code demands it.”

“Don’t be silly. How can you tell a person who’s never been to a place where he is? You want to know longitude? Zip code? The street signs and building numbers are available for your viewing pleasure. I never had the need to familiarize myself with them.” I gave up, because even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t know what to say, again. So much for being a talk show host.

Soon we emerged into a decently illuminated street. Immediately, I stared in disbelief. Across the road was the entrance to a theater complete with the retro awning, framed with flashing colorful lights and displaying this announcement in big black letters on glowing white background:

TODAY, TOMORROW AND THE DAY AFTER ONLY. HAMLET BY SIR WILLIAM SNAKESPEAR.

It’s impossible, I thought to myself. There were no theaters left. Iris grabbed my arm and began dragging me across. For a moment I actually resisted.

“Wait,” I pleaded. I noticed several men smoking by the revolving door. Just then a police car rolled slowly by. I shrunk inside my ski hat. “Wait,” I whispered.

“What?” She asked. The police car disappeared around a corner. I coughed, clearing my throat.

“Are they… are they really playing ‘Hamlet?’”

“Huh? On, no. The only things left from the theater are the sign and the building. Now it’s actually a gay bar.”

My facial expression must have been amusing, because she laughed for a long time. We crossed the street. The men at the entrance gave me a good once-over.

“Did you really have to bring me across the city to a gay bar to make a goddamn phone call? Why would this be any safer than anywhere else?”

“You know there’s freedom of sexual expression?”

“So? I don’t mind.” We passed through the door and entered the lobby, decorated with old drama posters. Cigarette stench assaulted my nostrils. On the left, a man in glasses was reading a paperback romance novel inside the empty coat storage. He looked up for a moment, nodded to Iris and resumed reading.

“So it’s the same deal as with free speech, free choice of religious practice and all other free stuff.”

“What the hell is the deal with free speech?”

“Our forefathers fought hard to secure those rights for you. Those are the very liberties that make America the best place in the world. Don’t you know there are countries where they will throw you in jail for speaking out against the government, for example?”

“Are we nearing the point which will explain why an exhausted man framed for murder hiked for an hour to end up at a gay bar?”

Iris ignored this. She could care less if I was pissed.

“In a democracy,” she was saying, “there’s always a majority and a minority. And in a prosperous, united democracy like ours — which is really a Republic, but that’s beside the point — in a democracy like ours, with eighty percent or whatever approval rating, the majority includes almost everyone. You’re getting it?”

“No.”

“The time of persecution of minorities in America, although not exactly ancient history, is long gone. When you have the backing of eighty percent of population who are patriotic, heterosexual, Christian — there’s no need to persecute, or even pay attention anymore. Let them have their liberties, who cares. They won’t make any difference, aside from showing how open-minded and tolerant our society is. Here you can say what you want against the government, you can worship Pan, have sex with other men and so on. They will proudly display how free you are, but ignore you otherwise, because you don’t matter one bit.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” I asked. Iris giggled.

“Listen, I’ve been coming here for a long time,” she told me in low voice. “There’s never been a single cop in here. Ever. Understand? And there’s no surveillance.”

I did understand then, kind of. I was still a bit angry, though, so I decided to be difficult in revenge.

“So by your logic there are no gay cops?”

She looked at me closely.

“Not the ones who sleep with other men, no.”

I walked into what used to be the amphitheater in a state of, once again, extreme puzzlement.

Rows of seats had been replaced with tables and booths. The floor slanted towards the stage, which remained intact, complete with the curtain. Under the stage, in what had once been the orchestra pit, was the bar.

The place was packed. Loud, unfamiliar, archaic music blared from some unseen source. Iris glanced at me over her shoulder and made a motion with her eyebrows. I bent to bring my lips close to her ear.

“Are all these people homosexual?”

“Of course not,” she screamed in reply. “And neither am I.” Her cold palm closed over my fingers, and she led me on through clouds of smoke.

Chapter Four

Special Agent Oliver Brome moved through the spacious living room pretending to examine it, while his partner, Special Agent Brighton, handled the homicide cops. Special Agent Brighton loved putting people in their place. And cops always needed to be put in their place when FBI showed up to take over. They always argued, stalled, gnashed their teeth, and in the end sulkily gave up the hopes of promotion for resolving a big case like this one, knowing full well from the moment they saw the corpse of a federal employee it was only a matter of time before the pompous feds showed up and took their bread. A circus, like everything else. Brighton enjoyed it.

Presently he appeared out of the hallway, grimly poised, but glowing with inner satisfaction. Brome nodded at him, glancing at the huge TV. A smiling female actor in doctor’s white was trying to convince him that he was not alone. That one out of every twelve Americans suffered from chronic anxiety and depression, but most were able to overcome their ailment with the help of personalized medicine from Freedom Corp., the leader in pharmaceuticals. She recommended not to delay the call. Help was well within reach.

“The cops are wrapping up,” Brighton said.

“Isn’t there a way to turn it off?” asked Brome.

“Motion sensors. And the command menu is probably voice-coded to recognize only the owner, Mr. Whales.”

“We’re the feds. Don’t we have some kind of a master remote for these things?”

“How about we catch our movie star murderer and bring him here to turn it off?” Brighton grinned. “Unless, of course, the street cops sell him the farm first. If they haven’t already.”

There was a good chance of that, actually. A dead marshal was just like a dead cop. The hunting season, although officially condemned, was very much open.

“What do we have?” asked Brome.

“Suspect: Luke Fredegar Whales, white male, thirty three years of age. Actor, talk show host.”

Brome nodded vaguely. Brighton droned on, skipping physical description as redundant.

“Called in sick three days in a row. During the conversation with his manager, James Cornwell, this morning appeared nervous, temperamental. Called the second time to report the discovery of a draft notice. Left the premises around 1 P.M., drove to his ex-wife’s house in Highland Park, where he assaulted her boyfriend and left in a state of extreme agitation.” Brighton paused significantly. Brome nodded again. “Getting interesting, huh? Let’s see. Made a call to his physician, Dr. Colin Wright, around 2, requested an emergency refill of his medication. Claimed to have lost the pills somehow. Some kind of antidepressant supposedly, the details are being obtained as we speak. Instead of going to the doctor’s office, returned to the building by way of parking garage around 2:45, as witnessed by the front desk clerk, Jeffrey Monroe. Ten minutes later or less the suspect was seen climbing the gate out of the marina. Has not been seen or heard from since. The police found an empty chest made to hold a handgun on the bed. That’s the case. Seems easy enough.”

“The victim?”

Brighton flipped a few pages in his old-fashioned paper notebook. Nothing but show, that notebook.

“Samuel O’Malley, white male, 44. Joined DHS Draft Marshals upon reestablishment the program in 2027. Prior service in the National Guard during the Iran campaign…” At that moment Oliver Brome, who had opened the door to the balcony and peered down through the glass wall, glanced at the little black notebook briefly. “…Immigration field agent, 2022 through 2027. Dead from two gunshot wounds in the chest. The bullets are 9mm, shot from a semi-automatic pistol. There’s a theory circulating that the gun that had fired them is the same one missing from the chest in the bedroom.” Brighton loved his sense of humor. “That’s the skeleton of it.”

“Do marshals carry guns?”

“Stun guns.”

“Any word on his partner?”

“Nothing aside from demographics, but here’s an old bookie’s advice: don’t bet on him being alive no matter what odds they give you.”

“If he’s dead, where is the body?” Brome asked casually.

“In the lake, most likely. Probably under one of the piers down in marina. I’ve already ordered the divers.”

“Do we have surveillance footage?”

“Oh, you’ll like this one. There’s no surveillance in the living areas. At all. Not even the elevators.”

“What? How is that possible?”

“Money, that’s how. There’s a bunch of famous people living here. Apparently, they decided their privacy was more important than security. This one will teach them.”

“They can’t ‘decide.’ This is downtown. There are regulations.”

“I don’t know how the bastards did it. Only that they did. The only cameras they couldn’t get rid of are at the entry points: lobby, service exits, garage, marina, but the one in marina had been out of order for the last two days.”

“Convenient.”

“Coincidental.”

“Why would Whales dispose of one body and leave the other one in the kitchen?”

“Who knows? Got tired, got scared.”

Brome shrugged.

“What?” Brighton asked.

“It’s too… neat.”

“Come on.”

“All of it. Big shot TV star, no surveillance, antidepressant pills, violent outburst in the suburbs, draft. Sounds like a lot of horseshit to me.”

“That horseshit is called circumstantial evidence. There’s a dead guy in the kitchen. There’s a missing gun. There’s an extra bullet casing. There’s even blood that doesn’t belong to either Whales or O’Malley.”

“And he ran,” added Brome.

“And he ran!” Brighton confirmed sharply. “Listen, some cases are just simple, even with no surveillance. Most of these actors are like time-bombs waiting to blow up. All that money makes them crazy. Let me tell you, if Whales survives a day or two, Morgan Chase will have a field day.” Having heard Brome’s acknowledgement of the fact that the suspect had fled the crime scene, which in his mind was as good as hearing the verdict, Special Agent Brighton mellowed again. Brome looked up at him in confusion.

“Who?”

“Who? Morgan Chase? That’s the host of ‘America’s Most Wanted.’ Have you been living on another planet?”

“Oh, that guy,” Brome said. “Are the forensic people done with the bathroom?”

“Eh? Oh, sure. I think so.”

“Excuse me a second.” Circling his partner’s imposing frame, Brome crossed the living room.

In the bathroom, which had a modest pool in place of a bathtub, Special Agent Brome made a face in passing at the mirror and stopped in front of the toilet. He lifted the seat, unzipped his pants and reached into his coat pocket. Extracting a small blue bottle he twisted the cap open, dropped a single capsule on his palm, resealed the bottle and put it back in his pocket. With a flick of his wrist he let the capsule fall into the toilet, urinated over it, zipped up and after a long search located the flush sensor, sending the swirling torrent into the bowels of the building. As he began washing his hands, there was a knock on the door. Ducking quickly, Brome filled his mouth with water from the faucet. In the doorway his partner’s head appeared.

“Sorry,” Brighton said, averting his eyes. “We gotta go. Seems the cops found our guy. He was hiding in one of those faggot bars on the North Side, can you believe it?”

Swallowing tap water and feeling only repugnance, Brome followed his eager partner outside.

Chapter Five

The telephone was backstage. The bartender — an obscenely tall, tree-like creature with a massive crown of hair and arms that could easily reach from one end of the bar to the other — refused to let me use it unless I bought a drink. I chose not to argue, although I began to harbor certain irritation on account of no one recognizing me. It was for the best, of course, but it irked me nonetheless.

His heavy hand unloaded a tall, misted glass in front of me. I didn’t know what the drink was, couldn’t tell you what it was made of even if the monster had bothered to give me its name. The last time I’d drunk alcohol prior to that night was at my housewarming party some six years earlier. The medication I’d begun taking shortly after did not mix well with booze.

I popped a twenty into the counter and said my thanks, waiting for him to direct me to the phone. He waited also.

“What? A twenty is not enough to buy a drink here?”

“You have to taste it,” the troll trumpeted over the music. I stared at him.

“You’re kidding, right?” He wasn’t. I looked over at Iris; she only shrugged, but I could tell she was amused.

I picked up the glass and sipped at the edge. It was strong, but I’d be damned if I grimaced in front of that oaf. Taking a hefty gulp, I shot him a challenging glance. He guffawed, held a lighter to someone’s cigarette on the other side of the bar and pointed to the left.

“Through the curtain, down the hallway on the right.”

I swiped the drink off the counter and headed in that direction. The last booth on that side of the bar was empty. Iris took the glass from my hand and said she’d wait there.

As soon as the curtain fell behind me, I felt like I was in a theater, and not in a bar. Certainly not a gay bar. Music, suddenly muffled, seemed far away. The sounds coming from the amphitheater were the hum of a crowd anticipating a play. On the left three steep steps led up to the wooden stage. On it, concealed from the outside world, in reddish twilight, stood a lonely pyramidal stepladder. I stared at it, as though expecting it to go and announce me, for longer than I should have. Finally remembering my urgency, I hurried into the passage, which ended at least twenty-five yards away in a door marked “EXI.”

The peeled pink hallway with doors on one side was empty and brightly illuminated by a cicada fluorescent light mounted on the wall. The first door was locked. The second, with a faded pentagram on it, opened into an abandoned dressing room. Inside, on a night table in front of an enormous framed mirror, rested a black phone, an old model, the one you had to press buttons on. Nothing else in the room. Nothing to sit on.

I picked up the receiver. Dial tone fascinated me. I listened to it for a while, thinking that the disguise really was shit and someone should have recognized me by now. The man in the mirror put his hand up on the wooden frame. I made eye contact.

“So,” I said. “What are you in for?” He eyed me, annoyed.

“You know what,” he replied.

“Well, how is it in there?”

“You know that, too.”

“Not much of a conversation we are having.”

“Are you here to talk to yourself or to make a phone call?”

But that was the thing. I had the receiver in my hand, but I had no idea who to call. Not only did my mind fail to yield a single face it deemed capable of helping me, I also came up with nothing when I tried to at least think of someone who wouldn’t dial police as soon as they heard my voice.

“Call Paul,” the man in the mirror said suddenly. I stared.

Could I really just call Paul after six years? He had been my agent back when I was still trying to get parts in theater. He had been my friend long before that. I had fired him, because theaters were dying and because Jimbo could and did get me places Paul never would. The last thing he ever said to me — when he realized I was being serious — had been an expletive. Yet, his name was the only one presently available. I didn’t know whether it was because my fairy godmother slipped my mind, or there simply was no one else. Actually, I knew.

“Dial Pail,” I said loudly. Nothing happened of course.

“Damn it. What was his number?” I asked my mirror-self. “And don’t say ‘You know.’” He didn’t answer. Then I knew the number. Hurriedly, I punched it in.

Phone rang for ages. It’s been six years, I thought. He probably changed the number a long time ago. Hell, he could have died of a heart attack for all I knew.

There was a click, and Paul said, “Hello.” I almost hung up, but just squeezed the handle in my fist instead.

“Hey, Paul,” I said stupidly.

“Luke?” His voice dropped to almost a whisper.

“That was fast.”

“Did you kill that guy?” I don’t know why I was so surprised, but I was certain then that for a moment my heart stopped beating.

“How?” I breathed.

“I just watched a special about you on the news.”

“Did they say I killed him?”

“They said you’re wanted for questioning in connection to. Where are you?”

I was suddenly afraid to tell him.

“So, how’ve you been these last what, six years?”

“Don’t get stupid with me.”

“I need help, but I don’t know what kind of help. Can you help me?”

“I don’t know. I can try.”

“Just like that? After the way I treated you—”

“Did you kill the guy?”

“God, no.”

“Are you the same jackass who sent me packing June 9, 2027?”

“I don’t know. I might be.”

“I don’t think you are. That jackass wouldn’t have called me for help. Let’s meet so you can tell me what the hell is going on. Somewhere the cops won’t bother us. Wanna come to my place?”

“I’m on foot. So… no.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the old theater.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a gay bar somewhere on the North Side. Couldn’t tell you more.”

“I know that bar. Not that I… Nice move for you. How did you figure it out?”

“I’ll explain when you get here.”

“Be there in thirty minutes.”

“Thanks, Paul.” I hung up. And felt better. I discovered I had a friend.

When I returned to the bar, the booth was empty. My drink was on the table. I sat and waited for maybe five minutes, throwing periodic looks at the bartender, who wasn’t looking in my direction. Just as I was about to go and ask him if he’d seen where Iris went, it occurred to me that she must have simply left. Who the hell was Iris, anyway? Who was I to her? Some guy in some kind of trouble, who needed to make a call. She had facilitated that, and now went home to her eight siblings.

Raising the moist glass, I shrugged. Thanks, weird Iris. Cute nose. Have a nice life.

I was back at square one. No, actually square one was in my kitchen, of which I tried not to think and failed. An empty booth in the corner of a gay bar must have been somewhere between squares three and four.

Turning sideways, I slid all the way inside my seat, leaned on the padded wall and sipped on the brew, searching the surroundings for Twiddledee and Twiddledum. Out there in the twilight, amidst smoke and music from the last century, citizens in couples and groups bent over tables, screaming conversations I could not hear. Small projectors painted the swirling clouds red, yellow, green and blue. It might have been the drink, or the knowledge that an old friend was coming to rescue me, but sitting there, alone, with a ghost of a dead marshal hovering always nearby, I gradually acquired calmness like I could not recall to have ever encountered before. For the first time that day I consciously believed that I would make it without my pills.

A big-nosed man in a suit at the table nearby turned his face and smiled. I smiled back, certain suddenly that he had felt before what I was feeling now.

Why did the corpse of a U.S. Marshal occupy my kitchen? Who shot him? And since it was pretty obvious that whoever shot him did so to set me up, why? Competitors? Even if one was to allow that show business was tough, killing a federal employee to set up a rival seemed excessive. I mean, the guy was dead.

My smile was gone, but I had not deteriorated into a shuddering, sobbing pile of meat. Maybe the withdrawal was beginning to let go.

Some tall, skinny, blond kid in a dark t-shirt with “Beware! The Paranoids Are Watching You!” in glowing green runes across the chest paused by my booth, bent his neatly combed head towards me, grinned, and shouted that universe was a carp. Then he asked me for a smoke. I screamed I had none and he, still grinning, gave me the thumbs up and moved on.

I was also thinking about something Iris had said to me in the park. She had reminded me that I didn’t do it. Yes, I had run and that would make me seem guilty, but not to myself. I knew I was innocent. Whatever happened, that was the main thing I needed to remember. That, and the fact that until the cops figured out it wasn’t me, I better not let them catch me. I had told Jimbo I wasn’t cut out for military — that went double for jail.

I looked over and Iris was back. I blinked. She winked at me through the smoke of her cigarette.

“What the hell?” I shouted.

“What?”

“I thought you left.”

“No, we’ve only just come. I was in the girls’ room. Did you make your call?”

“Yes. Yes I did. Why the hell do they even have that thing back there?”

“Some people don’t want their conversations broadcasted.”

“There are easier ways to get some privacy.”

“Easier? For someone with tons of money, maybe.”

“Well, thanks for bringing me over, anyway.”

“So what now?”

“Now I’m waiting for a friend. He should be here any minute.”

“So you do have friends.”

“Just one, I think.”

“Better than none.”

“Yeah, I’m in good shape.”

“Is that how you feel?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long has it been?”

“What?”

“How long since you’ve downed a pill?”

“A pill?”

“A pill.”

“What makes you think—?”

“I can tell.”

“How?”

“The same way you can tell.”

“I wasn’t aware I could.”

“The guy with the nose over there.” She nodded without looking at the man who had smiled at me. I followed her nod to make sure. Raising my hand, I looked at her with a patronizing smile.

“The idea of him taking pills has not even crossed my mind,” I told her solemnly. “And that’s the truth.”

“He doesn’t take pills,” she said. A feeling of slight disorientation came over me.. She grinned. “Not any more, I mean. Just like you.”

“The more I talk to you, the more I want to start again.”

She laughed.

“You’re becoming funny. But it’s not that kind of an addiction. Not like heroin, or meth. No one starts over after going without them for five days.”

I was going to mention that it hadn’t been five days yet, but refrained.

“Whatever,” I said instead. “The fact is I never had a clue he came near the stuff.”

“You exchanged smiles.”

“He smiled at me. I thought he was gay and decided to be polite.”

“Wrong. He smiled at you because he saw the same thing in you that you saw in him.”

“I didn’t see shit.”

“It’s the look in the eyes. Your eyes are beginning to look like kid’s eyes again. When you were on the pill you had robot’s analyzers of reflected sunlight instead of eyes. It takes five days on average to get rid of the glaze.”

This conversation was crazy, but by then I was getting used to her. Not only that, I enjoyed talking to her.

“What are you, an optometrist?”

She giggled and took a sip from her drink.

“What if I never took the stuff in the first place?” I asked. “I would have the same look then, right? ‘A kid’s eye.’ Sounds like a police drama episode.”

“You’re over thirty,” she replied. It wasn’t a question, but she paused until I fidgeted in my seat, shrugging. She continued then, as though making me feel uncomfortable had been some kind of a prerequisite for revealing the knowledge that was to follow. “If we’re talking about ‘industrialized’ areas of the planet, the odds of finding a clear-eyed homo sapiens are quite small. But to encounter a clear-eyed human being between the ages of thirty and sixty who never took antidepressants manufactured by Freedom Corp., the leader in pharmaceuticals, would be nearly impossible statistically.”

We stared at each other across the table. Plainly, the small talk was over. Iris had just sincerely shared something that was very important to her. She had just initiated me, a total stranger, into her inner circle. She had revealed the Ultimate Truth. Considering we’d only met an hour earlier, it must have been a sign of tremendous trust. Trouble was, I felt awkward rather than properly honored, because I was Luke Fredegar Whales. And Luke Fredegar Whales happened to have firsthand knowledge of the fact that Iris’s Ultimate Truth was a pile of crap.

“I don’t know where you got that from,” I started diplomatically, “but that’s a bunch of nonsense.” She did not reply, just looked at me intently. Undaunted, I cleared my throat and continued.

“I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I’m a well-known TV actor. I have dealt with Freedom Corp. personally. In fact, I did a commercial for them a couple of years back.”

“So?”

“So I, and people who watch television, have reliable information that ‘statistically,’ one out of every twelve Americans experiences frequent anxiety and depression. What is known to me as an insider is that also ‘statistically,’ out of those rough eight percent of the population, half never calls to get treatment.”

I fell silent. I had said all that needed to be said. She could do the math. Iris was a kook, but I liked her. She had helped me, so I didn’t want to hurt her with harsh words. I’d heard mentally ill people were really sensitive to that kind of thing.

I snuck a peek to check her reaction. Clearly, my clumsy attempts at diplomacy had failed. She sat motionless, staring at me. Squashing the cigarette in the ashtray, she immediately lighted another one. I felt bad. Had I not been in the situation I found myself in, I would probably not have said anything. In fact, under normal circumstances I would not only let it slide, but also would be well on my way of getting into her pants.

“I’m sorry,” I said finally. At that, Iris burst out laughing. I decided to stop being nice.

“What pills did you stop taking, exactly?” She ignored the question. She was catching her breath.

“You should have seen your face,” she said once she caught it. I didn’t know what to think about that, and it was obviously useless to argue the point with her. I should have known better than trying to reason with a kook. Shrugging, I took another sip from my glass and turned away. Because of the noise, without eye contact her words seemed to reach me from far away. “First you’re shocking me with reliable information you got from a TV commercial and the very people who turned you into a zombie for god knows how long, and then, to top it off, you say you’re sorry for me. You thought I finally saw how crazy I was or something?”

Despite my effort, I turned and looked at her again. She wasn’t laughing now. If anything, as absurd as it sounded, it seemed she was the one feeling sorry for me.

“Hey, I know what you’re trying to say,” I said. “I know all about commercials being a little spiced up for appeal, trust me. But no commercial is that wrong. I could imagine the number being slightly off, but not anywhere near the insanity you’re spouting. And why would they even lie in the first place? What’s the point? What difference does it make? A commercial is there to sell the product. That’s a fact. How is saying it’s one out of a dozen instead of one out of three going to sell more pills? How?”

“You know how they always tell you ‘you are not alone?’” She asked in a normal voice, which sounded like a whisper. Ah, so you do watch TV, a fleeting thought. And then it hit me. I remembered. “Remember that time you heard it and decided to ask your doctor? One out of every twelve Americans…”

“I never felt so alone in my life,” I said, leaning back.

“It became obvious you were the one screwed up, not the world, right? You alone were the cause, and they were the only ones capable of helping you. The only ones who wanted to help you.”

“And the truth is what? The world is fucked up?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Blame it on the world. It’s the easiest.”

“Wrong. Blaming it on yourself is the easiest. I am only human. It’s human nature. Errare humanum est. Blah blah blah. Society is built around that stuff. Everyone will support you, help you, cure you, as long as you are the hero and take the blame. Admit that you are nothing alone. Confess your goddamn sins.”

She fell silent and leaned back. I had to admit there was some sense to what she’d said, but that made it no less insane to claim everyone was on the pill. There was no way to keep a thing like that secret. In search of a different topic I looked to the bar. There, I quickly located the bartender (in fact, it would probably be harder to locate the bar itself), who was presently shaking his bushy head at a thoroughly fed guy in a short leather jacket. The latter then turned around and, leaning on the counter with his elbows, began to survey the premises. There was a thick mustache on his face, which I, for some unknown reason, resented. I slunk back into the depths of the booth, keeping an eye on the man.

“What’s wrong?” Iris asked.

“I think that’s a cop,” I said, staring straight at her. She made a face and turned to look. “Don’t look,” I hissed, but it was too late. The guy began moving in our direction. Maybe it’s a friend of Iris’s, I thought hopefully, but one look at her puzzled face was enough to convince me otherwise. Run? What if he’s armed? Of course he’s armed, he’s a cop. It might have been reasonable to imagine there was a good possibility of me avoiding him in a dark, smoke-filled theater, crowded, besides, with civilians, if I made a run for it, but I was afraid of getting shot even more than of going to jail. I put both hands on the table in front of me and waited. Soon enough he towered over.

“Luke Whales?” he asked excitedly. Iris was looking at me.

“Who?”

“You look different with that beard, but not different enough.” I said nothing, waiting. “Anyway, we have to go. Now.”

“Where to?”

“Out. Flee. The cops have surrounded the place.”

“What? How?”

“An anonymous phone call, usually. No time to meditate on that now, buddy. We have to leave.”

“A phone call? But no one…” And then a painful thought pierced me right through. Paul. But Paul is my friend. My only friend. He wouldn’t sell me out. I told him I was innocent. God damn it, Paul. He could have made that call precisely because he believed me.

“If the police were near we’d know,” Iris said suddenly. Just as she did, the music stopped, and the “No Smoking” signs above the bar began to flash.

“Let’s go,” the mustached man said, and we got up. No one turned to look at us, although there seemed to appear a general annoyed tension.

“Didn’t you say we were surrounded?”

“There’s a way out through the stage,” the guy and, amazingly, Iris said at the same time. She winked at me.

“So the police was here once during my time.”

We passed the curtain and ascended the steps to the stage. Iris moved the stepladder. Under it was a trapdoor, opening outwards. She climbed down first.

“After you,” the guy told me.

“Wait,” I said, halting. “Who the hell are you?”

“Oh,” he chortled good-humoredly, offering a hand, which I expected to be sweaty, but it wasn’t. “Name’s Lloyd. I’m a big fan.

Chapter Six

Special Agent Brighton would have yelled, only FBI agents didn’t yell. Cop lieutenants yelled, and therefore yelling was beneath Special Agent Brighton. Instead, he spoke curtly but very civilly, while his eyes bore two smoking holes in the unlucky deliverer of news. In his white fingers the black notebook creaked, threatening to break in half.

Brome would be angry too, should have been angry, but after enduring the fifteen-minute-long ride to the scene, during which Brighton listed all actors and musicians he suspected of being “faggots,” the only emotion he observed within himself, as he listened to his partner presently, was glee. He concealed it by studying the pavement and shaking his head.

“…that those calls are normally very reliable,” the sweating uniformed cop was saying. “We catch 80 percent of our suspects due to similar calls. So when—”

“You are not listening to me, Officer Roberts,” Brighton interrupted. Brome’s gaze fell on the cop’s tag. It read Robbins. Turning away, Brome smirked and glanced up at the letters on the glowing awning. Nicely misspelled, he thought.

“The report we received stated clearly that you had him. Do you have him, officer Roberts?”

“The caller said he was inside and we surrounded the place—”

“Do you have him?”

“No, sir. We’ve searched the bar. He’s not inside.”

“Do you have your badge? But do be sure before you answer that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s hope so. That will be all.” The cop hurried off to shout at the reporters, who thrust their microphones at anyone inside yellow police tape. He then shouted at other cops to keep the line steady, then at the crowd to go home.

“They really should just stick to parking tickets,” Brighton said with disgust.

“What are they doing here?” asked Brome, referring to the press.

“The trusty anonymous caller, apparently, made more than one call this evening,” his partner said. “Let’s go inside.”

The amphitheater was full of yellow fog. As far as Brome could see, none of the patrons, who had been prohibited from leaving the premises, presently smoked. Nor they looked like they had been prohibited from anything. Quiet but steady murmur of their voices remained uninterrupted except for those moments when a flashlight-wielding police officer passed a table by. It was pretty clear they wouldn’t have left even had they been give a permission to do so. They simply waited for the annoying light to be turned off. And for the annoying cops to leave them alone.

The agents made their way down the aisle to the bar and its two-story-tall bartender, who might have refused to sit down, but more likely was not able to without breaking a chair.

Why can’t we ever get a suspect like that guy? Brome thought.

Brighton opened his notebook with a bit of a flourish. “Mr. Gulli? Mr. Vernon Gulli?”

“Right.”

“You’re the bartender here?”

No answer.

“You know why we’re here, Mr. Gulli. We’re looking for one of your customers… Luke Whales?”

“I only check dates of birth when I card people.”

“Please, Mr. Gulli. You must have recognized him. He’s famous. ‘Top Ads.’ Know that show? The same guy.”

“I don’t watch TV much.”

“Do you know your customers well? Regulars and such?”

“There are only few of those. Most of the people just pass through.”

“So it is possible that Mr. Whales has passed through here tonight?”

“Sure.”

“So, the host of the number one TV show in America comes up to you, asks for a beer and you don’t remember the encounter an hour later?”

“Is that show on at night? Cos I’m mostly here at night.”

“I see. Mr. Gulli, are you familiar with the term ‘obstruction of justice?’”

“Sounds pretty self-explanatory, unless you mean in a philosophical sense.”

“How about a philosophical sense of a solitary confinement cell at the county jail? Ever tried to fit into one of those?”

No answer.

Brighton wasn’t done, but a policeman appeared presently from behind the stage curtain.

“Agents, we found the escape.”

“You go,” Brome said. “I’ll finish up here.”

Giving the bartender one last glare, Brighton followed the cop backstage. Brome looked up at the giant.

“Would you notice if someone did not buy a drink?” The bartender shifted just barely. Something creaked. Brome thought of a semi truck switching into a different gear.

“I don’t force anyone.”

“I mean if a guy came up to you and asked a question or two instead of ordering a cocktail, like he was looking for someone or something, you would remember. Anything like that happened tonight?”

“It’s happening right now.”

“What about before?” Brome was patient. It wasn’t the case of “good cop, bad cop,” either. It occurred to Brome that he wanted to be patient simply because Brighton wouldn’t be. He was also wondering what Whales would be doing at a place like that. He looked around and saw no cameras. Meeting someone, or maybe making an off-the-grid phonecall. The bartender, meanwhile, was answering the question.

“Sure, before you there was a uniformed cop. Before him was another uniformed cop. Before that one was another. And before that one was a cop in civvies.”

“Great,” Brome said tiredly, then suddenly stared at the bartender’s face. “A cop in civvies? What cop in civvies?”

“I don’t know. What are the choices? A fat cop, had a mustache.”

“When did he question you?”

“Right before the uniforms started pouring in from everywhere.”

“What did he ask?”

“Same thing you ask, about some guy.”

“Luke Whales?”

“He didn’t mention his name. Said something stupid, like ‘fit, medium height, handsome.’ I reminded him that this was a gay bar.”

“If he didn’t say his name and only gave a lame description, then how do you know he was talking about the same guy?”

“Cos he was a cop, and guys in uniforms are cops, and you are a cop, even if you’re a federal cop, and you are all here together at the same time. So I took a wild guess.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“He was a cop.” The bartender also seemed as patient as a boulder his size would be. Brome sighed.

“Did he show you his badge?”

“Only feds do that.”

“So how do you know he was a cop?”

“I don’t know. He looked like a cop. Why? Was he supposed to be undercover?”

This is going nowhere, Brome summed up.

“See anyone going backstage?” he asked for the sake of formality.

“We have restrooms back there.”

“Fine. One last thing. Have you seen this officer around here since?”

The bartender looked around. “I don’t see him now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gulli.”

Brome headed for the curtain. The last booth on the right caught his eye. There were two glasses on the table, but no sign of patrons. He looked around. A total of two other booths were vacant, and as many tables. All were clean.

“Mr. Gulli!”

“Agent?”

“I don’t suppose you’d know who occupied this booth tonight?”

“Sure wouldn’t.”

“Do you have waiters here?”

“No, just a bus boy. Bogdan!”

Following the bartender’s eyes, Brome witnessed someone in a booth across the bar convulse out of a nap. He turned out to be a youth of no more than twenty, who, once his legs had unfolded with some struggle from under the table, came to stand almost as high as the bartender’s chin. Blond, in a white apron on top of a dark t-shirt. The bartender gestured at Brome, and the kid, as though forced to move by suction Gulli’s hand had created in the smoky air, floated closer. His red eyes regarded the agent with confusion.

“He doesn’t speak much English,” the bartender warned.

The bus boy shook his head. “A leetle beet.”

Brome turned and pointed at the empty table. Nodding gravely, the boy headed toward it.

“Hey, wait. No.” Brome had to reach out and catch the kid’s shoulder in order to prevent him from scooping the glasses. The sleepy eyes were now even more confused, moving between the agent’s face and the bartender’s.

“Mr. Gulli, how long does it usually take… Bogdan?.. to clean a vacant table after the patrons left.” The boy nodded again, thoughtfully.

“He’s pretty quick, especially on a busy night. Oh, I see what you’re saying, agent. Too bad I didn’t pay attention who sat in that booth.”

“How about you?” Brome turned to Bogdan. “You remember who occupied the table?”

“Yes,” Bogdan said. “People.”

“How many?”

“Two.” He raised two fingers after glancing at the glasses.

“Two men? Or a couple? How did they look?”

“Oh, I’m don’t know. Dark, many people. See full. See empty. I’m cleaning.”

Brighton returned from behind the curtain. The bartender turned away.

“A trapdoor,” Brighton announced. “Under the stage and into the basement, then sewer. Looks about a hundred years old. What’s this?”

“I think he was here. With somebody.”

“Why? Did the kid see him?”

“He saw the booth was occupied. He cleans empty tables. Quickly.”

“I see,” Brighton said.“Did Luke Whales give you an autograph? Who was with him? Did you see him go through there?”

“He doesn’t speak English.”

Bogdan nodded, uncertainly.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Officer, get the DNA from the glasses and have someone check the phone in the back.”

“You found an OTG phone? Is there really no way to trace it?”

“No. Which is probably why Whales came to this shithole. I personally can’t understand why OTGs are not illegal yet.”

“That will be all,” Brome said to Bogdan, then seeing no immediate reaction, added, with a little wave of his hand, “Bye.”

The kid smiled, nodded and went back to his booth.

“There’s more,” Brome said. “The bartender says there was a cop here dressed in civvies right before the uniforms overran the place.”

“A detective?”

“I don’t know, but he’s not here now.”

“You think he was the one sharing the booth with Whales?”

“He didn’t buy a drink.”

“Whales might have been waiting for him, so he bought two.”

“Could be.”

“You got a description?”

“Fat, mustache,” Brome shrugged.

Brighton chuckled grimly.

“I can arrest half a dozen of those without leaving the spot. Hopefully we’ll get something better from the glasses.”

“Speaking of leaving the spot. Are we done here?”

“I was going to chew the bartender out for forgetting to mention the trapdoor, but… to hell with it. I’ll have a cop do it.”

“Sewers, then?”

“No need. I sent Robbins to check it out. Let’s go back to the office and sift through possible contacts.”

Chapter Seven

We were out of the sewers, but life didn’t stink any less. On the bright side I had enough cash chips to last a few months. Unfortunately, there was also the dim side, which said I wasn’t going to last long enough to spend that cash. With no plan and possibly the most recognizable face in North America, I didn’t have much going for me in the chances department. Or friends department. To be fair, I gained two companions, who seemed to be providing help, but the manner in which they had appeared and the fact that I had no idea who either of them were, were not all together reassuring. I felt like ever since I’d climbed over the fence that morning I was being led, or even passed around like a relay baton. It was time to stop the race.

We were in some alley, walking in silence, no so much “going somewhere,” as “away from somewhere.” It was getting cold. My companions, who seemed perfectly at ease and had given no indication of intending to stop in the foreseeable future, noticed my absence after a dozen steps and turned around.

The ninety-pound girl with a cute nose and some pretty insane conspiracy theories, and a much heavier cop look-alike named Lloyd. It was the latter whom I addressed first.

“I think it’s time we talked,” I said.

“You’re probably right,” said Lloyd.

“Now that we’re far enough from the bar and the cops, maybe you could tell me who you actually are.”

“We’re not far enough for that yet. But I will tell you this. I’m someone who knows you didn’t kill that guy. I know you’ve been set up and I even know who set you up, only I won’t tell you that, because right now, knowing it will do you more harm than good. Instead, I will tell you that I’m here to help you. And that for me to be able to do that, you’ll have to leave it at that for now.”

“Leave it at that?” I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “You know who killed the draft marshal, and I’m supposed to ‘leave it at that’ so you can ‘help me?’ Are you out of your fucking mind? The only help I need is to prove that I didn’t kill the guy. The police are only after me because they think I killed the guy. Instead of pulling me out of that bar, all you had to do was tell them what you know. That’s it! I would have gotten my life back then and there.”

I inhaled and just kind of touched the sides of my head with my fingers, to make sure my skull hadn’t exploded. Lloyd watched me as though he didn’t know what I was. Iris watched us both with interest.

“Come on,” I said finally, turning around. “Let’s go back there. They’re probably still, you know, at the scene. We’ll just take care of it right now.”

I took a few pointed steps, confirmed that no one was following and stopped again.

“Why aren’t you coming?”

And suddenly it was obvious.

“Wait,” I said. “You don’t really know any of that. The killer, the set up, right? Otherwise it just wouldn’t make sense. You really are out of your mind. Missed your meds? Look, Lloyd, I don’t mean to offend. I know all about missing the meds and I appreciate you leading me out of that bar, but I think we should go our separate ways from here. Iris, I really appreciate all you’ve done, too. You should probably stay clear of me as well.”

“Where are you gonna go?” she asked.

“I think the best thing to do would be to find another phone and call my lawyer. Have him arrange a peaceful surrender, explain my flight by the lack of meds, go from there.”

“From there, you’ll have about a day to live,” said Lloyd.

“Oh, come on.”

“Look, I don’t care if you think I’m nuts, but you think you’re smart and you’re not. You’re stupid. You think proving you didn’t kill that man is your main problem, but it isn’t. Your main problem is why you were set up in the first place.”

“Oh, and I suppose you know that, too, but won’t tell me, because it will do me more harm than good.”

“No, I don’t know that. But I know somebody who does.”

“Are we going to see this person?”

“Yes, but not today. Today we need to get off the streets and lay low. It’s not too late, but it’s dark. It’s best to stay inside when it’s dark.”

I looked over at Iris. Her breath plumed gently in front of her face. Her hands were in her pockets. Her cute nose was red. Lloyd’s latest did not seem to faze her. It fazed me.

“I think I’m going to take my chances with the lawyer,” I said.

Lloyd stared at me, shook his head.

“You know what? Fine. Lots of luck with the lawyers. If he needs it so badly, he can send someone else to talk to you. I don’t have patience for this. ”

He turned away and drifted to a distance of about twenty steps, where he went up to the nearest wall and leaned against it. Iris came up to me.

“You know he’s not lying, right?” she asked.

“No, I don’t know he’s not lying. I believe he’s not lying, which is not the same thing. And even if he’s not lying, it doesn’t mean he’s right. It just means he believes what he says.”

“And what if he’s right?”

“Then I guess I’ll be dead very soon.”

She grinned and peered into my eyes, one at a time.

“Good luck,” she said, stepping back.

“Thanks again, Iris.”

She nodded, went up the alley and disappeared behind the corner. Lloyd continued to lean on the wall, ignoring me. I let him ignore my wave and began walking back the way we came.

The alley lay wide and bare, like a dried river bed. Most of the windows shimmered with blue light of after-dinner TV programming. The sky was a blob of deep purple with streaks of pink running through. I turned right at the next street and walked along fences of various height and fashion, until I emerged on to a great, brightly illuminated avenue. The sign said “Broadway.” I stood for a minute, letting the lights and the car noise sink in. When I began to walk again, it was to the left, where in the distance the towers of the downtown were rising. About a block later it occurred to me that I should be looking for a service station. A service station would have a vending machine.

I found one soon enough, its hovering logo spinning slowly against the purple sky. The phone vending machine was outside near the door, and I couldn’t help speeding up when I saw it. Hi, Larry, this is Luke Whales. Now listen very carefully… Larry, it’s Luke. I don’t have much time. I talk; you listen… I ran through a few more openings in my head, trying to pick the best one. But as I reached the machine and got out one of my cash chips, I realized that I had no idea what Larry’s number was. I looked around, as though expecting it to be written on one of the pumps or flashing in the window. There were two cars at the station. One parked in front of the store, the other at the pump. The woman in the car at the pump was looking right at me through the window. I hastened to turn my back to her and found myself staring into the camera lens.

It’s a scene, I told myself. You’re a guy buying a phone at a gas station. Action!

It worked. My limbs relaxed. The fingers began to cooperate. I chose, paid, and the drawer slid out, with a shiny new phone to be claimed inside. Cake in the park. Took me about twenty seconds. Now I just needed to call information and get Larry’s number. I turned away from the camera and began to casually walk away, punching the numbers into the phone. On my fourth step two sirens simultaneously went off nearby, and in another five seconds, which I spent motionless with my mouth agape, two police cruisers flew in from two sides of Broadway, screeching to a halt in front of the station.

I had begun to run before I realized it. I hurdled a low railing and tore into an alley.

“Freeze!” a voice cried. “Stop or you’re dead!”

That got my attention. I froze and turned, lifting my left hand to shield my eyes from the high beams of the police car.

“He’s got a gun!” the same voice cried. And then he shot me. Or would have shot me, if he hadn’t been so excited. There was a thunderclap and a CHUH of an impact, which I thought at first was coming from inside my skull. But the bullet actually zipped by my ear, tearing a chunk out of the brick wall and ricocheting away.

“Freeze!” another voice cried, and I think it must have momentarily frozen the first cop, because he did not shoot again for another second or so. Which was long enough for me. I ran for the second time, and that time I ran like hell. The new, shiny, apparently gun-looking phone still in my right fist, I burst across the alley, doubled back and crossed it again in the opposite direction, ducking into a narrower alley that joined the first one at a ninety-degree angle and putting the building corner between me and the lights. I was wind. I created wind. It was a sixty or seventy-yard dash to the next intersection, and I didn’t as much cover the distance in so many steps, as swallowed the space in two gulps. I assumed the cops had given chase, but all I heard was the wind, all I saw were street crossings, city blocks falling away behind me. I ran, I turned, ran, turned, until I could no longer breathe. I hugged a wet tree and stood there hawking and maybe crying a little, when my quivering, treehugging shadow was thrown against the nearest wall once again by the headlights of a car. All that running for nothing, I thought. No chance at all. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t have enough left in the lungs to yell “Don’t shoot!” I could no longer run. I couldn’t even tense up in the anticipation of being shot. I just stood there, hugging the tree, waiting.

“Luke, get in the car!”

“What?” I gasped. It was Iris. I couldn’t see her behind the lights, but it was her voice. I let go of the tree. “Iris?”

“Get in the back! Let’s go!”

I cleared the beams and finally saw the old beat up Civic. Iris gesticulated from behind the wheel. Lloyd was in the front next to her, not talking or looking at me. I pulled at the handle and fell into the back seat. The car jerked into motion.

* * *

We had driven for a minute or so, before I sat up and asked, “How?”

It seemed like a bad time, though. A pair of police cars flew left to right through an intersection a hundred feet in front of us, Iris hit the breaks and Lloyd shouted “There!” and pointed somewhere to the left with his gun. With his gun!

The sharp turn threw me sideways.

“Goddamn I’m an idiot,” said Lloyd. “They’ll notice. We should have just kept going across. Maybe they’re too busy.”

“What do we do?” Iris asked.

“They’ll be looking for a car now. I think we need to park somewhere and stay low. They don’t know what car it was, and there’s a million parked cars on this block alone.”

“So we sit in the car?”

“Yeah, just be on the lookout, get low if you see a cop car passing by.”

“What if they have someone on foot just walking and peeking inside parked cars?”

“Then… we… go to plan B.”

“You have a gun,” I bleated. “Why do you have a gun?”

“Wait,” Iris said. “Look, this is Greenwood. We’re like three blocks away from my place. We can make it there.”

I looked out through the back window. About three blocks back, which may have been the street from which Iris swerved into that alley, a cop car passed slowly. When it almost disappeared from view, it stopped, reversed, and turned into the same alley. I turned and saw Iris’s eyes in the rear view mirror. Lloyd twisted in his seat.

“We can make it there,” Iris repeated, making a hard left and a right at the next crossing. Sixty seconds later, she pulled into a small fenced courtyard, cut the lights and the engine. We listened for sirens. They seemed to be going off all over the place, but none were close for the moment.

“Let’s go.”

Iris led us through a doorway into the building and up the stairs to the second floor. There was just one door on the landing. It opened into a tiny foyer, which was the sharp point of a “V” created by two corridors. Of these, we took the one on the right and followed it until it turned left again. Iris’s place was full of doors, turns and muffled voices. It was dark, the only illumination coming from rare, painted-over light bulbs. Behind one of the doors we passed a rock band seemed to be rehearsing. Lloyd constantly glanced over his shoulder. At some point he had put the gun away.

We came to the sharp point of a V on the other side of the building. Iris unlocked a door, leading us into a small, two-room apartment. The living room had a kitchen, a couch and piles of books.

“Don’t turn the light on,” said Lloyd. He went to the window and peeked around the side of the blinds. Iris nodded and went to the next room.

“This place is crowded,” said Lloyd.

“No one keeps track who comes and who goes,” she replied, unseen. There was a sound of running water.

While they made small talk, I stood glued to the door. The slowing of the pace was causing everything to catch up with me all at once. A cop nearly shot me. Iris came back with a car. Lloyd had a gun. I almost got killed. Just like that. For buying and carrying a new silver-colored phone. And Lloyd had a silver-colored gun. My eyes found his silhouette in the dark, but he began to talk before I could get the words out of my open mouth.

“I followed you,” he said. “What you do is your business, but I was hired to do a job and I was going to do it. Or at least try to do it for as long as possible. So I was around the corner when the cops showed up. Thought you were dead when he shot you, but then you blew right by me like your ass was on fire. So I popped a few rounds in their direction before going after you, but I guess I misjudged how fast both of us could run. I saw your shadow disappearing behind a corner, and it didn’t look good for me keeping up. Still, I ran after you while the cops were wasting their time shooting the place up, but after about a block I saw no sign of you. That’s when a car caught up to me.”

Iris’s form appeared in the doorway.

“You see I live real close by where we were. We had a car — everyone in the building uses it if they need to — so I figured I’d give you a ride. You weren’t where I left you, but then I saw the police cars and followed them. Then I almost ran over Lloyd, and then I almost ran him over again, when I saw that he had a gun.” Which brought me back to my open mouth. I made a sound.

“I’m a bodyguard,” Lloyd said. “I have a gun, all right? Move on.”

“You shot at the cops?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I didn’t hear the shots.”

“You ran fast. And I guess the gun is pretty quiet, for a gun. Anyway, why would I lie about shooting at cops?”

“I don’t know. Why would you tell the truth about shooting at cops?”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” he said. “You sound like you’re about to lose it.”

The room flashed red and blue, as a police car rolled by right under the building, past the entrance to the courtyard and the parked Civic. I sat down on the couch. Iris opened the fridge and brought us bottles of water. Lloyd put his bottle on the floor and pulled out a metal flask from his jacket. He also pulled out a small orange bottle of pills.

“Relax,” he said, dropping the last two capsules on his palm and catapulting them into his mouth. “These are just for my PTSD.”

He proceeded to chase the pills from the flask, then offered the flask to me.

“Want some? The pills are shit. Don’t work without vodka.”

I did begin to want some just then. It burned, but it helped a little. I even asked Lloyd how he got PTSD. He scowled.

“Where’d you get your depression from?”

“Sorry. Wait, does everyone really know about that?”

“If someone wants to take a shower,” Iris said, “the towels are in the little closet.”

Both, Iris and Lloyd looked at me when she said that, which I found rather curious. Then I remembered that I haven’t showered since I threw out my pills three days earlier. And I also couldn’t help recalling some of the things that happened during those three days.

“Guess I’ll go first,” I said.

When I came out half an hour later, the light was on in the living room. Lloyd was chewing on a sandwich. Its brother was on a small table set in front of the couch. Being my breakfast, the ham sandwich tasted about as good as Chef Brunot’s Lobster Thermidor. Things were looking up again.

“I used your new phone to call a friend of mine,” said Lloyd with his mouth full. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not.”

“After I was done with the call, I broke your new phone into little pieces.”

“Why?”

“The passive approach almost got me killed, so I decided to take initiative. I couldn’t talk you into it, so now I’m trying to force you to trust me and not run off looking for another bullet, at least until we meet this friend of mine.”

“You know, it occurred to me in the shower, that the cop only shot me because he thought my phone was a gun.”

He almost choked on his food, began to raise his voice, but then took a deep breath instead. He almost smiled at me.

“I don’t want to argue about it. Can you do me a favor? Give me twelve hours? Or am I supposed to stay awake all night making sure you don’t decide to go out and get shot?”

“Is this the friend who knows things?”

“It’s not the friend, but he probably knows a good deal more than I, and can tell it a whole lot better.”

“Can’t we go now? We have a car, and things seem to have calmed down out there.”

“No, they didn’t. My friend thinks we shouldn’t move until about five or six o’clock in the morning.”

“Is Iris just going to let us stay here?”

“She’s your friend, why don’t you ask her?”

“You’re the one who wants us to stay.”

“It’s fine!” Iris shouted from the next room. “That couch unfolds into a bed.”

Lloyd beamed. “Ready when you are.”

I stood up and walked over and knocked on Iris’s doorway.

“Yeah, come in.”

Inside was a smallish bed, a computer desk, an easel and some paintings. Iris closed her laptop.

“Nice place,” I said.

“What’s up, Luke?”

“I think it’s a little creepy how you let two strange men, armed and on the run from police, stay the night at your place.”

“Didn’t seem like such a big deal, considering I already helped you escape the cops.”

“Yeah, why did you do that?”

“I did it, because you needed help, and I was in a position to provide it.”

“So what, you help everybody?”

“No, it’s impossible to help everybody. But if I’m there, and someone needs help, and I believe they deserve it, sure, I’ll try. Is that so strange?”

“It is, when by helping them you’re putting yourself in serious danger.”

“I try not to let fear get in the way of doing the right thing.”

“But how do you know it’s the right thing?”

“How does anybody know? Either they tell themselves it’s the right thing, or they let someone else tell them what the right thing is. I prefer my own judgment. But maybe I’m wrong. After all, you’re a TV star! Maybe my judgment has been impaired by your charisma. If I believe that, I’ll stop helping. For now, I believe you. Also, the pills you stopped taking are a matter of personal interest to me. And you seem like a great research subject.”

When I returned some time later to the living room, Lloyd was lying on his side on the sofa bed. It was quiet. With a sigh, I turned off the light and stretched out next to him.

Chapter Eight

Two men in gray suits stood facing each other in the middle of a spacious oval office. The one speaking in a raised voice was tall and slender, middle-aged, dark-haired and sharp-nosed. The other was of about the same height, wider in the shoulders, thicker in the chest, and with his gray sideburns could be taken for an older relative of the first man. Beyond the single large window lay, completely silenced, a busy New York avenue.

“So, if I understand this correctly, by ‘fool-proof’ you meant success was guaranteed, unless something completely unrealistic happened, something utterly out of the question, something preposterous, like when the subject you prepped for over five years STOPS TAKING PILLS?” the younger-looking man was saying, lapsing into a reverberating shout. He shouted without opening his mouth any wider than during regular speech.

The target of his wrath, accustomed to the present style of discussion, held his own. Having confirmed his interlocutor finished the sentence, he began to say, “The probability of such an event happening unaided is—”

“The probability?! Let me tell you something. As of right now, the probability of such an event is one hundred percent, you understand? Two marshals are one hundred percent dead; Whales is one hundred percent free; and we are one hundred percent screwed.”

“I agree, sir. But as I was about to point out—”

“This is the second time your TV star wiggles out of police’s grasp. Make sure there isn’t a third. You understand? Make sure.”

“There’s more to it,” the older man said firmly. His cheeks contracted briefly over a clenched jaw. His boss eyed his facial movements with displeasure, but he too, had known the man for a long time. Leaning with one hand on the desk, he listened. “As I said, it is very unlikely that Mr. Whales was and still is operating unaided.”

“Who could possibly be helping him?”

“I think you know the answer to that question.”

The younger man did, of course. There was only one answer to the question. Now he felt foolish for voicing it, and angry at the older man for pointing out his error. It was unlike both of them. The ordeal was taking its toll. He kept his voice calm.

“But how?”

“We have a rat.”

The men fell silent. After some time, the younger one spoke.

“If a rat is soiling our stock, send the hounds.”

“On the other hand, it may be better to let the local authorities resolve the situation. We are not entirely certain—”

“No. Send them. Better safe than sorry. You do have a back-up for the project, is that not correct?”

“It is, sir. But there’s a reason why he is a back-up…”

“Send them. Explain as much as you can. Let it be done quickly. In two months, when no one remembers Whales, we will proceed with the other one. Honestly, all we need is a nudge. He will do.”

“What about the FBI?”

“Who do they have on the case?”

“Brighton and Brome, sir.”

The younger man, who was becoming calmer, now that his orders were being obeyed, glared.

“You know well enough their names mean nothing to me. Give me the numbers. No decimals.”

“Three and Five.”

“A Five? Hmm. Well, we can risk one. We must risk one.” Then, after a brief pause, he added suddenly, “Which one is a Five?”

His assistant’s eyebrows climbed slightly and he almost smiled.

“Brighton, sir,” he said. The younger man nodded.

“That will be all.”

The old man turned to leave, hesitated. “Are you sure they will forget in two months? We’re really being hurried along this time.”

“They will forget.”

“Yes, sir.”

A gray door slid in and back out of the wall. The Chief Administrator was left

alone.

* * *

Special Agent Brome, a modest Three on the Human Agent Loyalty, Achievement and Potential (HALAP) scale, dressed in stiff black suit and warm wool slippers, was eating sugar-free corn flakes at the pallid kitchen table. He neither had any knowledge of being a Three, nor had he ever heard of HALAP. What occupied his mind that morning were the consequences of a divorce.

“Daddy, will you catch a bad guy today?” Annie asked, milk dripping down her chin. Just like him, she was an early riser.

Absently, daddy dabbed her chin with a cloth napkin. He wished he knew.

Grace, who was not an early riser, but woke up every morning to see him off, yawned in a cute way, smacking her lips. Flames of the morning sun slithered through azure drapes and got tangled in her hair. He went to put the bowl in the sink and kiss her.

“Why do you have to catch bad guys on Sundays?” Grace asked. “Why do I have to wake up?”

“At least you got that extra hour of sleep today.”

“Be careful,” she said. “Love you.”

“Love you, daddy,” Annie rang out, smooching his cheek and hugging his head.

“Love you, girls.”

Brome put on his shoes and went out the door.

He pulled out of the driveway, waved and hit the gas. The thoughts kept up no matter how fast he drove. He took the ramp to I-55 and hit the breaks. Stupid traffic. He remembered seeing, back a few years, a demo on TV, with the double-tiered freeways all over the place. But somehow the city ran out of money after completing just the northwestern part of the road, and the second level over Stephenson never got built. Thanks to that, Brome now had to suffer through the unending ten-foot spasms of a Chicago traffic jam, alone with his thoughts. He had no idea how people managed without pills. He felt like he was about to lose it, especially since the annoying, persistent voice in his head kept reminding him that his divorce thoughts only started when he stopped taking his medicine.

Brighton called, and for once Brome was happy to hear him.

“Are you almost here? The cops lost Whales again.”

“Where?”

Brighton, full of disdain, relayed what he heard from the police.

“They brought a dog,” he concluded, “and the dog showed them where he got in the car four blocks away.”

“Are they sure he was armed?”

“There are bullet holes in one of the cars.”

“Did they see anybody else?”

“No. Where are you, anyway?”

“Stuck in traffic.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Fine,” Brome replied, swerving out of the lane. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Accelerating his sturdy, respectable Chrysler — driving an American car to work was more than a semi-official policy at the Bureau — Brome pushed down the window. Cold wind wrapped around his face, sliding inside through his nostrils and lifting the earlier thoughts and frustration away. He felt capable again, acquiring suddenly that occasional clarity of mind, which kept him from going back on the pill. At the same time, though, he was worried. If Whales was getting into gunfights with the cops, then stopping the pills may cause more damage than he expected. He had seen Whales’s diagnosis and treatment logs. Not identical, but pretty similar to his own. He did have Whales beat by a few days as far as going pill-free, however. And of course, no one was trying to shoot him on sight. He was fine. The stupid divorce thoughts aside, he was fine. But still, Brome was worried. He had a nagging feeling that instead of catching the bad guy, he may have to shoot one.

Meanwhile, the righteous indignation, accumulating within the collective battery of the traffic jam Brome was bypassing without properly explaining himself, began to spill over. The iron herd mooed loudly in outrage. He ignored them for about five minutes, refusing to settle the matter by placing the flasher on his roof, when a black Toyota fell in behind him. As he watched in the rear view mirror, another car jumped out of the throng to follow the Toyota. Ahead, skyscrapers rose like peaks he was about to conquer. By the time they blocked out the sun, it was quiet again, and Brome’s escort counted no less than three dozen cars.

Brighton met him in the garage. He waved his notebook in the air, as though to drive away all pleasant thoughts.

“Guess how many contacts I have for Whales in the last five years?” he asked. “I mean aside from other celebrities, hired labor and one night stands.”

Brome waited.

“Three. His ex-wife, with whom he hasn’t spoken in months, his doctor and his producer, both of whom are technically hired labor. That’s it. Can you believe it? Whales is a celebrity with no friends.”

“That doesn’t really surprise me,” replied Brome. Brighton nodded, as though to show that it didn’t really surprise him either. What if I were to compile such a list for you? Brome thought suddenly. What if I made it for myself?

No one had friends. The very concept of friendship was outdated. An archaism, leftover from the previous millennium. If you were to utter the word “friend” seriously, using it in conjunction with a possessive pronoun, in the presence of other people, the expression would embarrass everyone involved.

There were plenty of less ear-jarring synonyms in use, like partner, neighbor, coworker, classmate, compatriot and buddy. Of these, “buddy” was the one closest to the embarrassing old version, but it sounded less implicating, it sounded as though it was an inside joke, that’s why it was popular. Of course, in reality, that’s really what “buddy” was — a joke. The funny guy who came to watch the game at the bar. The guy, whose shoulders you weren’t afraid to wrap you arm around briefly at a barbecue.

I wonder if Brighton thinks I am his friend, Brome thought, clicking the seat belt.

“How about family? Parents?”

“They were in San Diego in ‘17.”

“No luck?”

“No.”

“I’m guessing none of these three live within five miles of the place the police lost him yesterday.”

“Not even within ten. But I’m hoping one of them might know something we don’t. Maybe a new habit, a dealer’s name, a place.”

Brome had no such hope, but he said nothing. Although ignorant of the HAPAL scale, Brome was well aware of Brighton’s — another semi-official thing — higher rank within their duo. Brighton had the track record. Brighton brought results. That’s why Brighton tolerated Brome’s frequent, semi-insolent questions. Brome was the question guy; Brighton was the answer guy. Brighton was there to make Brome a better fed.

First they went to Whales’s TV studio, which occupied the seventy-seventh floor of a ninety-story skyscraper on Wabash. The place trembled with chaotic shouting and panicky movement. As soon as the word got out that the federal agents had arrived, the shouting ceased, but the movement intensified. Staff positively ran in all direction. At the same time, the people responsible for Whales’s TV show avoided contact with the feds so much that they preferred to run into walls and each other over coming within reaching distance of the agents. Brome looked around. There’s at least one happy person on this floor somewhere, he thought. Brighton frowned, grabbed somebody with his tractor-beam gaze and arranged passage to the producer’s office.

The receptionist squeaked and pointed at the door, half out of her chair and half-smiling.

“Special Agent Brighton. This is Special Agent Brome,” Brighton announced, entering the bleak room with a long table, at the end of which, a red-faced man in a white shirt stretched tight over his abdomen struggled to rise.

“Yes, a good morning, if you would call the dawn of Apocalypse that. James Cornwell. I’ll do my best, although…” He didn’t finish the phrase, as though the ending was too obvious to bother.

Having uncorked from behind the desk, Mr. Cornwell showed surprising agility, jumping towards them on short legs. He thirsted to shake their hands, and Brighton allowed it. The producer beamed momentarily, before slumping back into appropriate sadness.

“Luke, old sport…” He almost sobbed. Brome glanced at him with brief interest, then tuned out, looking out of the window at the infinite city stretching westwards. Brighton took over, wasting almost twenty minutes.

They wasted another fifteen speaking with several studio grunts denounced by Cornwell. They had all just assumed Luke was sick. This was really, totally unexpected.

An hour later they were in the suburbs, ringing the bell of a red Victorian mansion.

Jennifer Carlson, as she had introduced herself, stood leaning on the counter by the sink much like Grace Brome had earlier that morning. A lingering habit, perhaps, from her married days. The kitchen was, of course, a lot larger, packed with all sorts of electronics, crystal and china. It also had no chairs, so they drank gourmet coffee standing up.

Besides that coffee, they didn’t get anything of value out of Ms. Carlson either. Her boyfriend, a curly-haired jock with an ice patch on his chin, fidgeted nearby. When Brighton questioned him on what he did for a living, he blushed, grabbed his chin, winced, and mumbled something to the effect of being an actor. He blushed even more when asked to point out the exact spot where Mr. Whales had punched him, but stayed when dismissed, taking hold of his girlfriend’s hand when Brighton continued to ask about Whales in general.

That’s when the phone rang, and they were soon in the Yukon again, buzzing back towards the city, because the surveillance team seemed to have found something. Brome studied the image they sent over while Brighton drove. It was a picture shot from one of the traffic cameras. A blue Civic, pushing twenty years probably, a girl at the wheel and a man in the seat next to her. No sign of Whales, but the man was fat, mustached, wearing a black jacket. Brome turned the screen towards Brighton, incredulous.

“Fat cop in civvies?”

Brighton took a glance and couldn’t help a triumphant little smile.

“That,” he said, “is Lloyd Freud. The second marshal.”

Chapter Nine

Lloyd told Iris to park the “Civic” on the side of a narrow tree-lined street four blocks away from our destination. Trees stood naked in their lines. Black oily leaves coated the lawns and some of the cars. It was around seven in the morning. It began to drizzle as we walked.

“Chicago weather for you,” Lloyd said cheerfully. “The climate in the whole world can go straight to hell, but you can never tell in Chicago, because the weather here changes three times a day. You just keep on living as if nothing’s happening.”

I didn’t comment. I thought it was a stupid thing to say. Iris was silent as well, and looked a little cold. It wasn’t the best morning to be out, having the adventure which could lead to imprisonment or death.

We followed Lloyd into an alley, coming eventually to the rear of what seemed to be a strip mall. The moist parking lot we entered was empty.

“Whatever it is, looks like it’s closed,” I said.

Lloyd grinned. “The house of the Lord never closes.”

“You brought me to see a priest?”

“He’s also a doctor when he feels like it. A healer of souls and a healer of bodies are the same person for once.”

“I don’t need a healer of anything,” I argued.

“But I do,” Lloyd said. I was beginning to understand.

“Is he the one who supplies you the pills?”

He didn’t answer. He pulled at the knob, then slapped the door three times with an open palm.

“Why did we have to park four blocks away? Did you notice it was raining?”

“We won’t be using that car anymore,” he said. Something clanked on the other side of the door. “And I didn’t want the cops to find it here.”

I was going to say something to the effect of him dropping us off and then going to park the damn car wherever the hell he pleased, but the door opened presently. The face of the man on the other side of it was youthfully pink, despite his full head and mustache of white hair. He wore a maroon turtleneck and jeans and looked nothing like a priest. Nor a doctor, really. If anything, he could pass for an aging TV actor. He smiled, quickly scanning Iris and me. Finally, he nodded to Lloyd, taking a step back.

“Mr. Freud, please come in.”

“Father Young, I brought you some converts.”

“Please,” the white-haired man said, “call me Dr. Young.”

“I’m Iris,” Iris said, entering, while I processed that exchange. “This is Luke.”

“Of course. I do watch TV, you know. Keeps me sober. Come in, please.”

He led us through a darkened hallway into a small office drowned in paper. Newspapers, magazines, folders were piled on the desk and stacked in corners. Aside from it being a ton of actual paper and markings in ink on every single piece of print, I saw nothing religious about the room. Not even the measliest crucifix.

“Make yourselves comfortable. I have to finish my sermon,” Dr. Young said, gesturing indefinitely. “And get your medicine.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Dr. Young escaped through the door opposite the one we had come in through. As it opened briefly, I saw a pulpit and a slice of a large room with rows of gray folding chairs and ceiling painted hospital-blue. There were neither windows, nor people in my field of vision.

When the door closed, I turned to Lloyd. He had already filled the desk chair and was presently leaning dangerously far back in it. Iris found herself a seat under the wall. There was no seat left for me, but standing seemed more fitting for the talk I intended to have, anyway.

“So… Mr. Freud, is it? That kinda rhymes, doesn’t it?”

I received patronizing smiles and nods as answers to both rhetorical questions.

“I think it’s about time we had the rest of that conversation.”

Before he could reply, an improbably deep voice began to chant beyond the door to the nave. I could not make out the words, but it was plain the chant, or song, was measured and made of them. I blinked, and the office, Lloyd, unanswered questions, Chicago, were all gone. I was standing alone in the middle of a desert. It was nighttime and it was cold, and I heard the sound of water, and above me there were countless stars. In the distance in front of me, in the darkness, I saw huge triangular shapes. Another dark form was moving, a rider on top of a camel. I blinked and the vision vanished, but it left a lasting soothing effect, similar to what I’d felt after calling Paul the day before.

Lloyd nodded at the door.

“He’s really good at that.”

I just nodded and we listened for another minute in silence, which Lloyd interrupted.

“But it is time for you to learn some things. Here’s one: I am the other marshal.”

Soothed no longer, I gaped at him in complete bewilderment. As the deep voice continued to sing, something rustled and fell to the floor. I had sat on top of the desk.

“May I… May I see your ID?”

He chuckled. “Sorry, I tossed it at the beach by your house.” So the cops would find it, a thought came, searing through my mind.

“So you knew who set me up, because…” I started to say, when another, more important idea occurred to me. “Wait, did you… Did you kill your partner?”

“Not all partners are as chummy as they show on your favorite Tuesday night police drama.” Lloyd’s cheerfulness was also gone. His speech became abrupt, angry. “I barely knew the guy.”

“So you did kill him?” I wanted to say that, but it was Iris. We both turned to her. She sat straight and white-faced, hands on her knees. “Just like that?”

“Neither of you know anything about it, all right? I’m a soldier. I did my job.”

“Soldiers don’t kill innocent—”

“Bullshit!” Lloyd sprang up from the chair, cutting me off. The chair rolled backwards and hit the wall. “When were you a fucking soldier? Soldiers don’t know who they kill. They kill those who shoot at them. They kill those who look like they’d shoot at them. They kill who their generals tell them to kill. Nobody checks who’s innocent and who’s not. That’s why they’re soldiers.”

“But civilians—” Iris began.

“Kids!” Lloyd shouted at her. “I’ve seen a car full of kids shredded for failing to stop! A mother, a father, and seven children, none older than twelve — blown away! Like that! Not a single gun in the car. Not even a goddamn knife! One of them — a boy of eight or so — he didn’t die right away. Blood was gushing from his side and he just kept shaking and staring and turning his head, and all I could think was, ‘He doesn’t speak English, so he can’t even ask us why.’ And he died, and I sat there and couldn’t stop asking myself that…” Lloyd came back into present with a jerk. “Before you say that making one mistake is not the reason and blah, blah… Spare me. O’Malley wasn’t a civilian. He was not even a goddamn real marshal. He was an enemy soldier who didn’t know I was an enemy soldier.”

“Why did you kill him?” I asked.

“So you wouldn’t have to become a soldier.”

“That’s not a good enough reason to kill a person!”

“It is for my employer.”

“Well, he’s crazy then. I wouldn’t have gone either way. I got lawyers for that.”

“My employer seemed pretty confident that you would.”

“Is this Dr. Young your employer?”

“No.”

“Who, then?”

“You’ll meet him.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m going to call 911, introduce myself and tell them I have located the murderer of a U.S. Marshal found in my condo. Then I am going to…” I wasn’t bluffing. I made my way towards the antique, “cordless” phone on the edge of the desk and actually picked up the receiver. A loud clank stopped me in my tracks. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Lloyd was pointing the gun at me. I pretended to be calm.

“I don’t think your employer would appreciate—”

“You’re such a dumb shit still,” Lloyd said with disdain. “A cop almost put you in a box not twelve hours ago. Why don’t you ask for that guy specifically when you call? A whole week without pills, and your brain is still as fried as a breaded mushroom.”

“Well, certainly.” Dr. Young, who was suddenly in the room, said. Only then did I realize that the chanting had ceased. “He had you to enlighten him.” He tossed a small red bottle, and Lloyd caught it with his left hand. “I suggest you take your medicine, Mr. Freud.”

The murderer shook his head, reseated himself, dropped the gun in his lap and popped the bottle open. Customarily, he chased the pills with a hefty swig from his flask.

“You work for ‘Freedom,’” Iris said from her chair. Dr. Young smiled and waved his hand.

“No, no. Not for a long time. But there are good people even there.” Then he turned to me. “You see, Mr. Whales, Mr. Freud favors archaic methods resembling electro-shock therapy. He thinks just being out there sober should have scared you into understanding. Easy for him, of course, because he already knows, but quite shortsighted.”

“That’s why you’re the doctor and I am the grunt,” Lloyd remarked. His cheerful mood was returning quickly.

“You mean that’s why you kill people and he gives you pills so that you could sleep at night?”

His grin disappeared. “Listen, People’s Choice. I was ordered to prevent you from being drafted by any means necessary. What I had to do yesterday was necessary. I wasn’t pleased then and I’m even less pleased now, because I’m stuck babysitting you and I don’t see anything in your sniveling mug that would warrant the opinion my employer seems to have about your worth. The pills Doc gives me might help me bear O’Malley’s death for the rest of my life, but your whining is this close to becoming the straw that broke the camel’s back. And if you value your health, you don’t want that back to break.”

“Let us calm down,” Dr. Young said, stopping my response. “Don’t you think Mr. Whales is under enough stress without your threats, Mr. Freud?”

“He’s stressing me.”

“You have the medicine to help. He doesn’t.” Lloyd nodded and fell silent, looking away. Dr. Young turned to me. “Speaking of medicine,” he said, changing the subject.

“I think you are already beginning to suspect that the pill you have ingested for the last several years was not a simple antidepressant.” He paused.

“Mr. Whales what was the cause of your ailment? What did the doctor say?”

I didn’t remember.

“Chemical imbalance in the brain.” Iris said that. Dr. Young turned to her.

“Quite so! The hole in your head is caused by the rock!”

“That’s most likely what he told you, Mr. Whales. Imbalance of chemicals in your brain. The rock caused your head to bleed. Never mind the kid who threw it, never mind the father who never taught him it was a bad thing to do. Is the young lady a physician?”

“I’ve done human studies. A little bit of psychology.”

“Indeed? Very interesting. But then you don’t believe that, isn’t that true?”

“Yes it is. The imbalance is the body’s physical response to psychological problems, not the other way around.”

“And what do you think the reason was for Mr. Whales’s psychological problems? A tragic event in the family? Perhaps stress at work?” I looked at Iris, realizing suddenly I knew what she was going to say. And I was right.

“The world is fucked up,” she replied, meeting my gaze. Dr. Young laughed.

“Most eloquently put. I couldn’t have said it better myself. You surprise me, Ms. Iris. Are you an old friend of Mr. Whales?”

“No.”

“Fine, then. Back to the matter at hand. The bulk of your pill’s compound does nothing more than the antidepressants of yore. It works to help reestablish the chemical balance in your brain. There are a few variations, depending on what kind of rock your doctor believes it was that made your head bleed. Nothing unusual about it. Been used for decades. And although the latest breakthroughs in the study of the brain should have made it obsolete, it is still used, and will continue to be used, because it’s relatively cheap and quite effective. However, the progress made in the field did not go to waste entirely. The little pill you took included a tiny additive that was the direct result of that progress. It is there to eliminate the real cause. The cause, so colorfully summed up by Ms. Iris just now. Its active ingredient, if you will permit me, makes the world a better place.”

I glanced over at Lloyd, who was reassembling the pistol he’d just taken apart. Dr. Young continued.

“Obviously it doesn’t do that by feeding the hungry, stopping wars, eliminating income tax or performing any of the similar noble, but terribly idealistic, impractical and disastrously expensive deeds. Are you following me, Mr. Whales? I am not going to make this interactive, because it is so very simple. Simple as all genius. The only way to make the world a better place without altering it is to alter the beholder. Convince his mind that the world really isn’t so bad. Convince him that his country is the best. Assure him that he doesn’t have to worry about direction. That he, his children and his children’s children are in good hands. There are experienced and, most importantly, good people taking care of him. And best of all, cure him without him knowing it!” Dr. Young beamed and for a moment looked even younger.

“You know, this story is very recent. By recent I mean less than twenty years old. At the end of the last century one out of every twenty Americans suffered from depression. Very privately, too. But as the new millennium started, that number began to grow. Rapidly, Mr. Whales. I would wager you don’t remember hearing about Freedom Corp. fifteen years ago. Of course not, you were too young. But you wouldn’t remember even if you weren’t. The company had a different name then. We, the saviors, were just a small lab in the suburbs.

“We thought it was a blessing. Divine intervention. Quite seriously, I might add. We, the young, brilliant scientists could not get over the fact that this major discovery coincided in such a way with the sudden increase in cases of recurring anxiety and depression. It was our destiny to change everything. It was our purpose.

“I won’t bore you with chemical formulas and details of the project. Our end result was a pill, which was supposed to be prescribed and taken concurrently with therapy sessions. At the time when common antidepressants and standard therapy failed to address the puzzling influx of new patients, our miracle pill brought immediate results. Basically what it did was open the human mind to suggestions. Make it extra absorbent. Like mild hypnosis, but without amulets, candles or finger-snapping.

“Do you understand now, Mr. Whales? Up until the end of last century, there was no need for such a pill, because your group therapy was enough to keep the number of depressions low.”

“My group therapy?”

“TV, radio, printed periodicals, all of it. Back then things were a lot simpler. I mean, nobody really knew what caused depression, but most agreed it probably had to do with stress at work, mediocrity, tragedy, childhood and so on. We had medication, therapy. In the scheme of things, we had it well in hand. But then came the new century, and all the fearsome events, and all the fearsome information suddenly available on the still free Internet, and things began to change and spin out of control. We were unprepared. These massive jolts were scaring us into a new set of perceptions. Mr. Freud here would appreciate the method.”

“I was there, Doc. Where do you think I learned it?”

“Now imagine, we were still treating successfully the normal cases I’ve just mentioned, but suddenly a whole new population of patients appeared, none of whom responded to standard diagnostics. These people were successful at work, their fathers did nothing inappropriate, their dogs did not get killed by cars, yet they were every bit as depressed, and normal pills, which only treated the “chemical imbalance,” were failing. Only later some of us would realize what had happened. That the Media Therapy had failed. That the Media Therapy had worked before that.

“At the time, however, we invented a new pill. We began replacing generic antidepressants with it during combined treatment and it worked immediately! With the increased power of suggestion, therapy sessions began to produce the results again. Previously undiagnosed patients were helped to recall sources of their conditions. Finding the roots was easy once we broke through the wall with the help of the pill. Everyone has had an event in his life that could have triggered the depression. A doctor’s job then was to simply convince the patient that it was that very event that did it. Once he succeeded, and he did every time, the treatment turned pretty much back to the standard algorithm. Faith helping those chemicals to rebalance themselves.”

“So first you make up an illness for them, then you treat it?” Iris asked.

“Not us personally, but yes, my dear. That’s what psychiatry is.

“Shortly and inevitably, the situation has changed. Our pill attracted attention. Let me explain.

“The pill succeeded in treating the new patients, but it neither explained the sudden increase in their number, nor it prevented that number from increasing further. We didn’t bother with reasons. Our field was chemistry, not metaphysics. But soon we weren’t able to handle the volume. We needed to expand. The company went public. Our stocks flew off the shelves, so to speak. We were bought immediately. Long story short, two months later the word came we were expanding 500 percent. The size doubled in a year. The name became Freedom Corp. And we didn’t even know who it was that bought us. Nor did we care, to be honest. With the increased demand, our salaries quadrupled. I’m talking close to what you were making recently, Mr. Whales. It was very hard to care, you understand.

“Still, with time, as we worked, and the information trickled down to our basements, rumors we heard began to gnaw at us. I suppose I should say ‘at me.’ I heard the growth of the number of patients was so rapid, that there were no personnel for individual therapy sessions. Eventually, it became known to me that the pill was being distributed as a cure, and the patients were sent home without any treatment at all.

“The news shocked me. The very idea seemed sacrilegious. I realized that instead of helping people, we were now helping someone make money out of nothing, because I was convinced that without individual therapy the pill was useless. Worse, we were making money out of a lie. Finally, I could stand it no longer and confronted the Director, who promptly showed me the error of my ways. That was the first time I heard about the Mass Therapy. You see now? The task media had performed throughout the tumultuous twentieth century, the same take it failed to perform at the beginning of the new millennium, it was able to accomplish again with the help of our pill. And the results, once again, were miraculous. The world became a better place.” Dr. Young fell silent and looked at Iris.

“That’s when I left.”

“Is it addictive?” I asked him. He turned his head.

“You know that better than me, Mr. Whales, no? Well, in case you haven’t quite discerned that yet, no it is not addictive in the sense that heroin is addictive. That’s why it was so easy for you to stop taking it.”

“It wasn’t easy…” I mumbled unhappily. Both Dr. Young and Lloyd laughed.

“No, of course not. Not that easy, in any case. People are reluctant to stop taking pills because they believe their physicians and because they fear. Withdrawals, although relatively mild, can be horrifying for the unprepared. But I am afraid now there are those who think it is too easy to quit. I hear they are modifying the formula in order to remedy that. Stronger side effects, fearful hallucinations, severe lapses, fatigue and so on.”

“What are they doing?” Iris asked.

“Who are ‘they?’” I asked at the same time.

“On, no. Even if I was qualified to explain that briefly, I wouldn’t do it at this time.”

“Look, Doc, it was a great lecture, but I don’t take the stuff anymore. And nothing you said explained to me why I’m sitting in the same room with a murderer who set me up by killing a man…” I stared at the gun in Lloyd’s lap, finally recognizing it. “…with my own gun.”

“Quite right, it did not. But it is related.”

“Related? He killed a man for god’s sake, and you’re just standing there telling stories and sharing chuckles with him, instead of reporting him to the police.”

“I don’t approve of killing human beings for any reason, Mr. Whales. That includes, I believe, the recent attempt on your own life. I prefer no interaction with the so-called ‘authorities’ and I cannot reprimand Mr. Freud myself. I am not his employer. I am his doctor, and sometimes his priest. I have already ‘reported’ him to God, you may be sure of that.”

“I took your gun so you wouldn’t kill anybody. Those were my specific instructions.”

“That makes no sense. Why would I kill anyone?”

“Why did you run to your closet for the gun?” I had a few answers for that, and a question or two also (like “How the hell did he know?”), but none that would eliminate the next question about killing. I didn’t like that and said nothing. Instead, I asked Dr. Young a question.

”How is it related?”

Iris said, “I don’t understand how it ties to Luke, either. I mean, if Lloyd is supposed to protect him from some kind of danger… Why would he be in danger in the first place? Couldn’t be simply because he stopped taking the pills. I know a few people who have, and they never found corpses in their bathrooms.”

“Kitchen,” I corrected dumbly. Iris gave me a comforting smile.

“Were any of those people you knew famous, Ms. Iris?” Dr. Young asked, reaching for a coat that hung on a hook in the corner. She shook her head.

“So is it true that everyone is on the pill?” I asked, when neither of them bothered to elaborate.

“Everyone? Of course not. The numbers are quite substantial nonetheless. As of right now the pill is taken by approximately twenty-five percent of the population in the United States. Other countries… I cannot say.”

I glanced at Iris, who had been wrong for once. Dr. Young noticed.

“Were your estimates much higher, my dear?”

“I guess I thought better of us,” she replied. The old man smiled sadly.

“Yes. Three quarters of ‘us’ are doing just fine without the medicine. As I mentioned, however, the numbers continue to grow.”

“Wait, so it’s bad not to be on the pill now?” I asked.

“That depends on the case, and it depends on who you ask. Ms. Iris seems to think it’s bad not to need a pill, to look around and be perfectly OK with what you see without one. I happen to agree, but I assure you there are plenty of those who do not. In your case, as in, stopping the pills after years or taking them, we shall see, I suppose. Now, as to how the pill is related to your present situation… I don’t precisely know, but I would guess that if you had not stopped the pill, you would not be with us right now. Is that right, Mr. Freud?”

Lloyd looked up at him from his chair with a sour face. “I don’t know, Doc. Never mind that. Listen, what you need to know is that this drafting business was just a cover for something much more serious. I can’t tell you exactly what it was, because I don’t know. All he told me was that if you got drafted, it would start some kind of a chain reaction.”

“Oh, man, are you gonna tell me you’re from the future or something now?”

By the looks of it, Lloyd was going to tell me something else, but Dr. Young stepped in.

“It sounds like Mr. Freud’s employer is in possession of some information not available to us at the moment. There’s no need to discuss the point further.”

“Where do we go from here?” Iris asked.

“Now, that is a good question. Thank you. Mr. Freud, what were your instructions?”

“Keep the kid alive. Keep him away from the cops. Stay in a populated area. Stay indoors at night. Bring him to you, if possible.” Lloyd fell silent.

“I’m certainly flattered,” said Dr. Young, “but you must have more. What is your long-term plan? Are you bringing Mr. Whales to see your employer? Shouldn’t you be looking for a car or something? That would be the easiest way to leave, am I wrong?”

“No car. It can get pretty lonely in between cities, and we can’t have that. We need to try and get on the Mono.”

I laughed. “Great idea! Let’s go right now!”

“Mr. Freud. O’Hare and the Union Station have more surveillance than any other building in Chicago.”

“So I figure, no one’s really expecting a fugitive to try and make it out of the city through there.”

“There’s a good reason for that.”

“It’s fast, it’s crowded, it’s under ground and in a tight space. Four good reasons to try.”

Dr. Young thought about it. “You’ll need time. You will not be able to do it today. It will require planning, maybe a couple of trips down there. Can you afford another night or even two?”

“He couldn’t say. We might get additional help, though. He did say that.”

Lloyd wasn’t looking at the doctor when he said that, and he sounded neither reassuring, nor reassured. Dr. Young only nodded. He turned to us.

“We will stay at my place today,” he said. “It’s a short walk from here.”

”What was that about?” I asked.

“Mr. Freud is worried there might be dogs on your trail soon.”

“Dogs? It’s the thirties. Who uses dogs?”

“Come, come.” Dr. Young urged us out of the door into the empty nave. In a softer voice he added a ridiculous phrase, but something in the way he said it made me pretend I didn’t hear. The phrase was: “These are pooches you don’t want to meet, Mr. Whales.”

Chapter Ten

Brome didn’t like to admit it, but tying the fat cop in civvies and the marshal together was a good move. Punching the marshal’s image into the surveillance search was, of course, a no-brainer after that, but that first idea the two were one and the same had been sound. He might have come up with it himself if his head wasn’t full of static all the time. Or maybe not. Maybe Brighton really was better at it than he.

Shortly after they received the initial image, the car in the picture was identified, and the home team sent over the address. Brighton adjusted the course without interrupting his monologue. He had just finished a detailed explanation of how it all occurred to him and moved on to the new version of the crime.

“So this is how I see it,” he said. “Whales receives the draft notice. He’s off his meds. He panics. Calls his producer. Has a fight with his wife. He’s desperate. He comes home to be confronted by the two marshals. The first thing that comes to his mind is to pay the cops off. He offers something insane, a couple of million in cash, maybe. There are a few possibilities here for what happened next, but my version is: an argument ensues, it heats up, Whales pulls out a gun and shoots one of the marshals. The other one, Freud, agrees to take the money, though now Whales feels that he’s in too much trouble, and hires Freud to assist him in getting out of the city. He probably gives him a deposit. They split up and meet later at the gay bar. They escape through the stage — that bartender probably abetting, since I see no reason for either Whales or Freud to know about the secret door — and later, when Whales runs away from the cops at the service station, Freud covers his escape by shooting at the police.”

“And they come here, spending the night.”

He drove into a fenced courtyard. The building loomed before them like a gray ship with a sharp bow. A lone police officer stood guard at the door.

“And the girl? The car?” Brome asked.

“Belong together, I think. Knows either Freud or Whales. Probably Freud. Hard to imagine Whales having friends in this part of town.”

Brome thought that knowing someone wasn’t quite enough to give rides and lodging to the most wanted man in the country, but he said nothing. After all, she could have been paid, and he didn’t want to hear it from Brighton.

They went inside and spoke to tenants, all of whom were sleepy, despite it being noon. It was funny, Brome thought, how none of them saw anything, while in the suburb they’d just returned from, neighbors from five surrounding houses came out to give the federal agents detailed statements regarding Whales’s last visit to his ex-wife without being asked.

Still, they did manage to get the girl’s name from a very reluctant and apparently myopic gentleman in a tank top, but only due to Brighton’s intimidating glare.

“Scumbags,” Brighton said later, as they examined Iris’s apartment. “They hate to answer the questions, because, you know, we — the government — oppress them, but they’re too chickenshit not to answer. So they tell some truth, and get vague, and get stupid and add some bullshit and act like they don’t give a damn, so that they could tell themselves later that they fucked over the law.”

The man only had the girl’s first name, but that was more than their database was able to provide. The image from surveillance cameras matched nothing. Her apartment revealed little of its primary tenant, though they did find signs of recent occupancy by more than one person, and the crime scene techs got plenty of prints. The landlord did not have a copy of the lease. It was a pay monthly arrangement. In his books, such as they were, she was listed as Iris Smith. He assured them the name was provided by her.

The Honda was registered to a fellow named Emmanuel. The registration had not been renewed in four years, which coincided with the time Emmanuel had died of old age. The car was left for the tenants’ use. The keys hung on a nail in the kitchen.

They returned to the office at around three. The surveillance team was combing the morning’s footage for the right Civic. The picture of Lloyd Freud was transmitted to various law enforcement agencies and media outlets.

“I want every goddamn cop in the world to have those within the hour,” Brighton barked into the microphone, as though the person on the other end of the line was insolent enough to dispute his directives. Glancing at Brome, he shook his head in apparent exasperation.

Government agencies, including the Bureau, had the policy of not installing cameras in their phones. Protection, or something. Probably recommended by the Psycho Department, as well. When you got a call from the government, instead of a face, which not everyone possessed as impeccable and intimidating as Brighton, an emotionless, imposing seal glared at you from the screen. In this case, though, the face would work just fine.

“Good, so do it.” Brighton dropped the call and switched to the receptionist. “Give me Washington.”

While Brighton reported his progress to The Man, Brome browsed through the electronic file on the desk. It was a standard FBI dossier on Lloyd Freud. Brighton had passed it to him absently, busy as he was.

Flipping the pages, Brome skimmed through the multitude of data concerning the marshal’s life, starting from high school graduation. The information was sorted in chronological order within subdivisions: “Photos,” “Medical,” including copies of various lab test results and prescriptions, “Employment,” complete with resumes and pay stubs, “Personality,” and so on and so forth. Nothing unusual about it, either. “Family.” Parents deceased. Married one Linda Augusta Heisenstutter at the Church of the Illustrious Saints in Galena, Illinois on October the 23rd, 2015. Divorced, February 3rd, 2021. No children. No friends.

The next page referenced Freud’s military service. It caught Brome’s eye. Marine Corps. Two tours of duty in the Middle East. Honorably discharged… Two tours of duty, Brome read again, moving on after a brief pause. A note at the bottom of the page stood out.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (look “Medical,” pages M12-13.)

“Anything interesting?” Brighton inquired without interest.

“The guy has no present,” Brome replied, scrolling back to medical history.

“Probably no future, either.”

“Here’s something,” Brome said. “PTSD patient since 2020.”

“Post Traumatic Stress?”

“Two tours of duty in the Middle East some fifteen years ago.”

“I heard those were the worst days. The Guard?”

“The Marines.”

“Hmm. Got his doctor in there?”

“Yeah, I’m going to give him a call.”

“All right. I’ll check on the car meanwhile.”

They made their calls. Once both were done, Brighton magnanimously invited Brome to go first.

“Dr. Pareides has not heard from Lloyd Freud in over three years. The last time they spoke was after Freud has missed two appointments in a row and the doctor called him. Freud told him he moved and transferred to a physician closer to his new home. If a name was mentioned, Dr. Pareides does not remember it. He does recall asking where to forward Freud’s medical records. To which Freud said he would have the new doctor’s office contact him for those, but apparently it never happened, and Dr. Pareides has been too busy to follow up on it since then.”

“I don’t know what those nerds in Data get paid for these days,” Brighton said.

“Any word on the car?”

“They gave me an area that is about eighty percent certain to contain the vehicle. It’s going to take them about five hours to comb it, which will help, unless the car in garaged. If it is, then it’s all a waste of time.”

“We should get some more info on the new doctor and this girl, Iris. Even if we do find the car, chances are they won’t just park in front of wherever they’re hiding. It’s going to be abandoned far enough not to matter.”

“A dog might help,” Brighton said.

You’ll need a special kind of dog to follow a trail in this weather, Brome thought, watching raindrops splash and scatter across the window. But he said nothing, and even half-nodded, as though to say that anything was possible, if Brighton thought it so.

* * *

They arrived when twilight had already set in, but now they had to wait. The structure was too crowded. They watched as people and cars dispersed. When the area was sufficiently deserted, the pair appeared in the courtyard. Unhurried, they surveyed the two-story building and space around it. There were too many tracks — the crowd left heaps of ethereal waste — but it would not be long before they found the right one. Moving in opposite directions from each other, they began.

It took long. Too long. Pollution aside, someone had been trying to cover the tracks. Someone who knew that the tracks existed. Someone who knew the tracks would be sought.

Someone else may have paused, reevaluated the situation, consulted his superiors. But they didn’t send someone else. A Seeker — or dog, hound, as they were also called, though never in their presence — was no more capable of altering its course than a bullet shot out of a gun. They put the knowledge away for later, and continued the search. And eventually they had it. A curving strand of white, thin, almost faded. Had there not been a pair of them, or had their superiors sent someone else, the trail may have gone cold.

Bending sharply out of the gates, the white strand slithered into the west. Silently, tuning out the rest of the threads running in the same direction, the Seekers followed, dissipating in the shadows.

Chapter Eleven

Just as I had expected — and I had expected it only because of prolonged exposure to televised fiction — Dr. Young’s house appeared old and dilapidated from the outside. It was a two-story brick construction, with shuttered windows, lanterns on the porch and a box of a garage in the backyard. There were even a couple of mock tombstones on the front lawn, with a dirty hand protruding from beneath one of them. In a very conspiratorial way, the interior sparkled with neatness, functionality and occasional pieces of art, showing the owner’s substantial wealth, good taste and maybe insanity. The TV in the living room was as big as mine, could have been the same model, but he had done something to it, so that it did not turn on by itself when we entered.

That improvement was wasted, however. Dr. Young turned the thing on almost as soon as we sat down. Iris and I shared the longer part of the L-shaped, white, full-grain leather sofa. Dr. Young dropped into a workstation armchair and at once began to wallpaper the screen with info about The Union Station, The United Monorail, the Department of Transportation, Homeland Security and probably the Department of Kitchen Sinks, as well. It all looked ridiculous, but he really seemed to be putting an effort forth. Three odd hours passed. Somewhere in between, he sent Lloyd to the kitchen to make sandwiches. Lloyd returned in about ten minutes with half a dozen ham-on-ryes that were delicious, and we all ate, and Lloyd resumed hovering behind Dr. Young’s back, both of them mumbling occasionally. Also somewhere in between, I told Iris I was sorry that I got her in this mess.

“You didn’t get me in this mess,” she said patiently, closing her laptop. “The mess was there long before you came along.”

“Right, the world is not perfect. But I don’t think you had too much experience with murderers, police chases and kidnappings before I came along. At least I hope not.”

I chuckled.

“You don’t need to apologize for that. You didn’t do it.”

“Still, had you not decided to help me—”

“Luke,” she cut me off. “Are you trying to present me with a gift? Fine. Apology accepted.”

“It’s not a gift.”

“Then why do you insist on apologizing for something you believe to be my fault?”

“I… I just didn’t want to seem ungrateful…”

“That’s sweet, but if you don’t want to seem ungrateful, say ‘Thank you.’ Otherwise it may sound like you think I got you in this mess.”

“What? Ugh… I think we should start over.

“I run a couple of TV shows. What do you do?”

“I’m an extra.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Movies, TV. I’ve been a female cop on ‘Barlow and Warden,’ though you wouldn’t be able to tell. I’m leaning over the hood of a police car, with my ass to the camera, pointing a gun at a building.”

“Wow,” I said. “Huh. We haven’t, actually, met before, have we?”

She looked at me quizzically and giggled. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I just didn’t know with the pills how much I may have forgotten or didn’t pay attention to.”

“Yes, I’m a forgotten extra whom you seduced with promises of leading roles. I actually set up this whole thing to get my revenge. I am Lloyd’s employer.”

“Wait, didn’t that actually happen on ‘Barlow and Warden?’”

“I don’t know. I just saw that one episode that had my ass in it.”

“But no, what I meant was I could have forgotten being introduced to somebody. If I seduced you, I would remember. Pills or no pills.”

“Oh, thank you very much.”

“It’s not a gift!”

We talked more about the job of an extra and about catering and cash payments, and I asked her what school she went to, to which she replied that she went to Miskatonic in Arkham, which I’d never heard of, but didn’t let on, so as not to offend her. Then the conversation moved on to my school and I began telling her about my years at Northwestern and I think I must have chattered for two days straight.

At some point Dr. Young announced he was going to go “reconnoiter” the Union Station. I was enjoying the conversation too much, to pay too much attention to his nonsense. It seemed a long time since I’d spoken so easily and so much to a listener who wasn’t a part of my body. It was certainly my first normal conversation of the post-pills era. So Dr. Young departed, and Lloyd turned on the cartoons, and Iris and I just relaxed on the couch, facing each other, gesturing lazily, nodding and throwing our heads back to laugh. But then suddenly it was over. In response to a “Where are you from Iris?” Iris said they’d pulled her out of the water in seventeen.

“What?” I asked.

“San Diego,” she said. “I was six or seven, just floating around. Didn’t remember anything. They called me Iris because, you know, it contracted when they flashed the light on it.”

“Oh, it’s OK,” she hasted to add, mistaking my look. “I’m not upset about it or anything.”

“Is that a joke?”

Lloyd lowered the volume and turned towards us. Iris frowned.

“A joke? What are you talking about?”

“Everybody knows Luke Whales’s parents died in San Diego in seventeen.”

“What? I’m sorry but I didn’t.”

“I did,” said Lloyd.

“And if I did,” Iris added, “I would definitely not joke about it. Or about myself being an orphan pulled out of the water.”

I apologized, but the conversation died. We watched cartoons. I couldn’t stop thinking about that day when I left for Northwestern, driving cross-country all by myself, getting to the apartment and sleeping like twenty-four hours straight, then waking up and seeing the water on TV.

Eventually Dr. Young returned, and the insanity of the present which he brought back with him was preferable to the past. He also brought Chinese food, and we had dinner.

Iris volunteered to clean up. I volunteered to help. Lloyd and Dr. Young went back to mumbling together. Iris and I went back to cartoons. Some time later, Lloyd said, “Might just be better off putting him in the luggage. He’s not gonna try. And this probably won’t work even if he tries.”

“Unfortunately, you are correct. But the luggage idea might not be so bad, if it comes to that. Perhaps a coffin.”

“I’m right here,” I said.

“Oh, you would be very much alive, not to worry. And your part would be much simpler, which does seem like a better choice at this juncture. Unless, of course, we manage to somehow convince you of the truth overnight.”

“Speaking of nights,” said Lloyd. “I figure to be up most of it, what do you say I catch a few winks now?”

“I don’t mind, Mr. Freud. You know where the guest rooms are.”

“Wake me up, say, in three hours then?”

“Five.”

“Thanks, Doc. You want my gun?”

“No, thank you. I’m well-armed.”

“Just so you know,” I said. “You don’t need to be well-armed on my account. I decided not to run away. Tonight.”

Lloyd regarded me with a mother’s patience.

“Tell him something, Doc.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Make him understand.”

“Do you understand, Mr. Freud?”

“Make him believe, then.” When Dr. Young excluded himself by raising both hands, Lloyd sat down on the ottoman, turning to face me.

“All right. I’ll explain this again, because obviously you’re still a bit behind. Yesterday morning the plan was to set you up for murder. This may be hard to grasp, but try to. The plan had very little to do with you personally, as far as I knew, anyway. It was purely about “us” versus “them,” and you were their pawn my employer wanted to take off the board.

“As you know, everything went according to plan. I was well on the way to my retirement. That’s when my employer decided to inform me that you actually matter to him. That I’m supposed to protect you. Like I said earlier, I’m really not happy about that, and I’m not happy about the fact that I wasn’t told more before I shot O’Malley, but I’ll do my best, because that’s what I do. So get it through your head that you are not a prisoner here. My gun and Doc’s are not here to prevent your escape.”

“You pointed it at me back at the church.”

“You didn’t try to escape. You tried to call the cops on me. That’s different. Besides, it was only to frighten you. I wouldn’t actually shoot you.”

“So I can just get up and walk out that door?”

“Sure. But understand this. If my employer orders me to protect you, then it’s a good bet the police who would shoot you on sight for killing a federal employee are the least of your problems. Trust me. There’s nothing but death outside that door.”

We stared at each other. For a minute there was only murmur of the news. I got up from the couch, walked to the door and opened it. The warm inside air rushed by me, sucked into the night. The bright yellow ball of a streetlight was slashed with slanted, silent rain. No one else moved.

“If you don’t care, why are you telling me not to leave?”

“Cos I’ll have to follow and I’m tired and I’ll probably die too,” said Lloyd, rising once again to his feet.

“Would you close that door, Mr. Whales, please? It’s getting drafty.”

I did. Lloyd left the room. The stairway creaked under his weight.

“What about you?” I asked Iris, returning to my place on the sofa. “What would you do if I left?”

“I would go home.”

After that, the three of us watched the news.

…Two simultaneous explosions destroyed two buses in… taking lives of at least 32 people and injuring a hundred more, … police officials said earlier today. The timing of the bombings pointed to a coordinated attack. Investigators are waiting for one of the militant groups to accept responsibility…

…20 thousand US troops are returning safely from the Middle East. Their eighteen-months-long tour of duty began in April of last year. Watch the homecoming celebration special live tomorrow at 2…

…A heartwarming scene in the recently liberated town of … The citizens, mostly women and children, gather to greet and thank the Coalition troops. They bring wild flowers and caviar. “It’s days like these that remind us we’re doing the right thing here,” one soldier told us…

… Four hundred humpback dolphins mysteriously washed ashore yesterday on the northern coast of Zanzibar. Scientists don’t yet know what killed the dolphins, which live in the deep offshore waters. An early examination of the animals’ stomachs suggests that they either had not eaten in a long time or vomited very recently…

… NASA announced today that it shouldn’t take more than ten years to prepare the second mission to Mars. It will take about that long to process all the data we’ve gathered during the first one, anyway, a delighted senior official…

…a forty-nine-year-old babysitter confessed to killing the toddler he was watching. The man admitted to bludgeoning the girl with a hammer, then dismembering the body and hiding the remains in…

“This is your mass therapy, Doc?” I asked during a commercial break seemingly hours later. “This is the ‘better place’? I think I’m about to be sick.”

“Again you are forgetting that you are not on the pill, Mr. Whales.”

The commercials ended. It was time for some breaking news.

… The search continues for the former TV personality Luke Whales. Earlier today, law enforcement officials informed us that the missing U.S. Marshal Lloyd Freud, previously feared dead, may, in fact, be alive and traveling with Whales. The authorities would not elaborate in what capacity Mr. Freud is currently sought, stating only that if anyone has information on whereabouts of either Whales or Freud, they should inform the police or the FBI immediately. The third person of interest in the case is a woman named Iris Smith, seen in this recent photo. We apologize for the quality of the image. However, it is the only one currently available…

Picture of me, Lloyd and Iris appeared on the screen. Mine were a couple of long shots from the show and a few close-ups, in which my facial expressions showed something like poorly concealed anguish. Of course, in reality I was probably adjusting my underwear while off camera or something. Lloyd was smiling, looking like a toy store clerk possibly harboring a secret. Iris’s pic was a mess of squares. No one could possibly use it to identify anybody. Still, it was her in the picture, all right.

“This is from today,” she said.

“Probably shot by a traffic camera on one of the intersections,” said Dr. Young.

The talking head, meanwhile, continued.

…Luke Whales is being sought nationally in connection to the murder of a U.S. Marshal, Samuel O’Malley, whose body was found at Mr. Whales’s Chicago downtown penthouse. In a brief statement, an anonymous medical expert from Freedom Corp., the manufacturer of the antidepressant medicine Mr. Whales reportedly failed to ingest, said the side effects of the treatment interruption, thought to have caused Mr. Whales’s alleged mental breakdown, are not uncommon. Steps are being taken to improve awareness and eliminate such unfortunate accidents in the future, the official added. Freedom Corp. will continue to be committed…

“Great. Now I’m a TV star too,” said Iris.

…Sports and Weather will continue after these important messages…

Dr. Young switched off the TV. Iris slid deeper into the couch and crossed her legs in a simple lotus position. I almost apologized to her again, but remembered our earlier conversation and refrained.

“So what now, Doc?” I asked instead. “Want to run the plan for tomorrow by me again? Apparently they are looking for Lloyd, too.”

“Let’s leave that for tomorrow, Mr. Whales.” Out of nowhere, the old man produced a joint and lit it. Puffing at it a few times, he rose from his seat in the corner and approached.

“This stuff from the good people at the lab too?” I asked, making no movement to accept.

“It’s medical,” the doctor rasped. “It’ll help you relax. It is my professional opinion, Mr. Whales.”

I shrugged and took the joint and a couple of hits, lapsing into a bout of throat-rending cough.

“No cough — no laugh,” Dr. Young remarked, letting the smoke out.

“I thought you were a priest,” I said to him through tears. I felt saliva accumulating in my cheeks. Iris took a single long hit, passing the joint back to Dr. Young.

“God sees absolutely nothing wrong with a little ganja.”

“What God is that?”

“There’s only one God.”

“What’s his name?”

“What’s in a name…?”

“No need to be so damn coy, doc. I know it can’t be Christ, so who is it that you serve? Allah? Was Buddha a pothead?”

“I don’t serve.”

“You preach.”

“Not really.”

“What the hell were you doing at the church with those people?”

“What people?”

“I don’t know. Your flock. You wouldn’t just sing for your own enjoyment, would you?”

“For yours, also. And that wasn’t exactly preaching.”

I took another hit. Now my mouth was suddenly dry. Iris began to smile.

“Wait, you chanted there in front of an empty church?”

“I didn’t chant ‘in front’ of anything, Mr. Whales. I just sang.”

I chuckled. Actually, I giggled.

“It’s official. Everybody here is crazy. And I’m the craziest one for hanging around without having a clue.”

“Would you prefer that world you just saw on the screen?”

“There’s only one world, doc. I would prefer to hear something that makes sense.” Grinning merrily, I turned to Iris. “You’re awful quiet, Ms. Smith. Go on. I am sure you got some pearl you’d like to share.”

She glanced at me sideways, nodded matter-of-factly, and said, “All right. Luke, I am an undercover DEA agent.” I very nearly fainted. Staring at her I froze with my mouth open. After a minute, they both began to shake with laughter. “It’s a joke, you gullible fool,” she managed eventually.

“See?” I cried. “And you said it was hard to mislead me now Mr. Whales, because I am not on the pill and all that.”

“You know, Mr. Whales, perhaps Mr. Freud was not that far off in his assessment of your—”

“Screw you, Doc. Screw both of you. You especially,” I told Iris, but a grin was already splitting my face. The joint was out.

Out of everything that happened to me in those two days, this was the weirdest thing. We laughed and told jokes late into the night, as though there was not an unanswered question in the world, as though no one had tried to shoot me earlier, as though a marshal hadn’t died in my kitchen, as though his murderer didn’t sleep upstairs. We laughed like no one ever died nor would die in the future. At around ten, when the weed began to wear off, and we began to feel sleepy, Dr. Young showed us to our separate rooms, which disappointed me a little. I even quipped something to the effect of some houses having way too many rooms for their size and went to sleep feeling relaxed and like a complete fool.

Chapter Twelve

Brome was looking up at a four-story condominium building, brand new and with only one duplex left unsold, according to the holographic billboard. The holographic, discounted price equaled twice the value of Brome’s house. This was where U.S. Marshal Lloyd Freud had lived for the last three months. A possible benefit of being single?

Though supposedly occupied to near capacity, the building stood completely dark. The rain had weakened. Brome flashed his badge to the two cops in an unmarked car parked on the other side of the street and climbed the porch. He was alone. Brighton had told him Freud’s apartment would be a waste of time. Brighton was irritated, because three hours later he still had no car and, what’s worse, zero additional information on Iris Smith. Her name was not on any of the bills; no Iris Smith resided at that address according to both, the DMV and the IRS. And the picture from the car still produced no definite match. A wall dared to oppose Special Agent Brighton, and for that he meant to demolish it with his head. Everything else was a waste of time.

Brome sprinted up two flights of stairs to get the blood flowing. Freud’s apartment was the one on the left, number five. He unlocked the door and entered slowly, steadying his breath. There was nothing to listen to. Not much to see, either. The living room Brome entered was bathed in pale orange glow of the streetlight. There was a leather sofa, a TV, which presently pulsed to life together with the lights, and a bar counter with three foggy glasses and seven different bottles of vodka. All of which had been in the report. But the people who wrote the report were not looking for Freud’s doctor.

Brome remembered that he was late to take his medicine. He went to the bathroom and got rid of another dose. His bottle had three pills left. He flushed and looked around. Freud’s bathroom was about halfway between Whales’s and his own. Expensive tiles and shinier metal, but no pool. The mirror was set up the same way, too. Brome pushed a button on top of the faucet. The mirror slid sideways, revealing the medicine cabinet. Where amidst cotton balls and disposable razor blades stood an orange plastic bottle, identical to the one Brome still held in his fist. He scanned the label and got the name and the address. The name was Freedom Corp. The address was their branch office in Skokie, Illinois. Not helpful. Brome scanned his own bottle and the name and address of his doctor immediately popped up. He scanned Freud’s bottle again. Freedom Corp. “This better not be a waste of time,” he said to himself. He called Data and sent them the scan.

“Coming up as Freedom internal.”

“Yes, I noticed. I need to know who wrote the prescription.”

“All right. I’ll call you back.”

There was nothing to do but go back to the car and start driving. Brome drove northward, wondering if the fact that he, Whales and Freud were all taking meds supplied by Freedom Corp. was as improbable a coincidence as it seemed. Because it definitely seemed pretty far out there, and probably was so, unless in reality everybody was secretly taking pills. Brome chuckled and shook his head.

About fifteen minutes later Brighton called.

“They found the car. You should have the location now. Still nothing on the girl. Any luck at Freud’s place?”

Brome relayed his luck.

“So you’re waiting for an update?”

“Yeah. I’ll swing by to check out the car meanwhile.”

“OK. I was going to, but I may as well stay here and keep looking for Ms. Smith.”

“Good idea.”

This time Brighton didn’t say it was a waste of time, but Brome figured as much. The dogs would be useless in this weather, and Whales and Co. could be pretty much anywhere in relation to the abandoned car’s location. They were probably still within the city limits, but Chicago being Chicago that wasn’t narrowing it down too much.

He drove without turning the radio on, which lately had become his habit. Some fifteen minutes later he saw red and blue flashes reflecting off windows and walls. Two police cars silently picketing the street. Between the tree branches above, sky was turning brown. Brome parked by the “Civic” and spoke to an officer, a young fellow, straight out of the academy by the looks of him. A rookie, working the graveyard shift. Not a hint of sleepiness, all business he was, although there was little to report. Brome nodded, following politely the cop’s gestures and trying not to yawn. Another pair of flashing lights appeared from around the corner — a tow truck.

“Thank you, officer. Tow it,” Brome said, shivered and got back in the car. Moving the “Chrysler” out of the way, he parked it on the side of the street a little farther down. He turned up the heat. In the side mirror covered with dew he saw the tow truck driver’s silhouette crossing the yellow beams of the headlights. Big guy. Six foot five or so. Fat. All tow truck drivers look the same, he thought. All are big, fat, and likely armed. They have to be, because everybody hates them. Just like cops. Or feds.

Waste of time, Brome thought after the “Civic” had been dragged away, and the rookie cop drove by with a friendly wave. He leaned far back in his seat and stretched his hands above his head. Just go home, to Grace and Annie, to hot shower and cold dinner and short sleep. He considered calling, but decided not to. Instead, he tried to think about the case, but following his tired thoughts was like reading a sloppily handwritten story on a sheet of paper folded into origami peacock…

Brome opened his eyes. It was hot and it was late. The windshield was a blur. It had rained again. The clock in the dashboard showed 11:58.

“Shit,” he said, half-confused from the dream, raising the seat up and rubbing his face. His tablet was flashing. He reached for it jerkily, as though he was about to blame it for something. Two red blips flashed on the map. He popped the message. It was the name.

Dr. Benjamin Young.

The red dots were the addresses of his home and office. Brome stared at them, uncomprehending. A solid blue dot — his current position — was four blocks away from the latter and six from the former.

Suddenly awake and overcome with strange urgency, Brome pulled out into the street and punched the accelerator, dialing the Bureau as he did. Poodles, a memory came. He had dreamt of poodles.

Chapter Thirteen

I dreamt of Iris. She was dressed in an orange summer dress and we were walking down the Oak Street beach. Two black poodles pulled at the straps converging in her hand, straining towards something unseen to the human eye. The tide began to rise and the poodles snarled and tore themselves free, galloping forward. When I thought they were going to just run away, they turned, and I saw that their maws were huge, distorted and dripping something black onto the sand. They began to advance towards us. Iris screamed and tugged at my coat.

Gasping, I opened my eyes. Iris was gone. In her place was Lloyd’s face, grim, scared. I started to speak but he clapped a hand over my mouth. In his other hand was the gun. My face stung.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “Up. Now.”

He pulled me off the bed. I registered that it was still dark outside.

“What the hell?” I whispered as soon as he removed the hand to put his arm around my shoulders.

“Shut up.”

I did.

Leaning on me, as though he’d had one too many at a dockside tavern and I was the designated driver, he led me out of the room into the hallway, where we met Dr. Young and Iris. I caught Iris’s stare.

“Stick together,” the doctor whispered. “Make your way down the stairs.”

He had a shotgun. A ridiculously big single-barreled shotgun. It looked like a hand-held mortar I remembered seeing on the History Channel.

Removing the arm from my shoulders, Lloyd wrapped it around my waste and got really close to me. About and inch behind doc did the same with Iris. We literally stuck together. Just like the doctor ordered. Had I not been so terrified, I would find our procession amusing.

We began to descend. We moved so slow that the creaking sounds the hardwood floor under us made seemed like natural sounds an old house makes in the night. I tried to listen for noises outside, because I’d figured that’s where the danger must be, but there was nothing out there aside from the eerie, wavy humming of a distant highway. Under my left arm, which I had tucked in tightly to my body, my heart fluttered like a caught bird.

At the end of our mute journey was the center of the living room. Once we reached it, Dr. Young and Lloyd turned and sandwiched us between their backs. Iris grabbed my elbow.

“Dogs,” Dr. Young said suddenly and not in a whisper. I started so violently, my head almost fell off my shoulders. Twisting my neck, I tried to see where these horrible canines were coming from. I saw nothing. No sound outside, still. However, I believed him.

“Bad?” I whispered.

“Very bad,” said Lloyd calmly. He was pointing the gun towards nothing. To be exact, its barrel was trained on the middle of the wall.

“Is there a rear exit?” I asked.

“Yes, but we can’t run,” Dr. Young replied.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to get caught in that narrow hallway upstairs, that’s why we had to be quiet and move as one. But this here, I’m afraid, is as good a defensive position as we’re going to get. We cannot run.”

“We should have left town,” Lloyd remarked. “Should have given it a try, at least.”

“I didn’t believe they could be here tonight. Nor did you employer. And if they gave us at least another day, time spent here would slow their chase considerably.”

“The house?” Lloyd asked.

“Yes. That’s why they’re still outside.”

All this conversation began to relax me. The adrenalin overload subsided and I even smiled and made a little “crazy-talk” face at Iris, who didn’t turn her head to witness it.

“The house what?” I asked, shifting my limbs a little, but got no answer.

It wasn’t an explosion. The corner of the wall to the right of me and Lloyd simply disappeared with a crunching noise, like it was ripped out from the outside. Two glowing red orbs appeared in the darkness, and then the darkness itself burst inside through the gaping, jagged hole. At the same time Iris’s shrill scream tore the air and I felt Dr. Young moving against my back.

What I saw inside that house was not a dog. Far from it.

I could not tell how tall the creature was, but the burning red eyes hovered far above the level of my head. It had a maw set with multitude of long black teeth, and it had a torso, but it was impossible to count the limbs or even judge with certainty if the structure of its body in any way resembled human. Darkness swirled around it like ethereal black cloak. Thankfully, I mostly saw it out of the corner of my vision. Had my brain not sent the protective signal to avert my gaze, I truly believe I would not have kept my wits. Even now, much later, I shudder uncontrollably as I recall seeing them for the first time.

At the same time Iris screamed, the creature emitted a wail of such frequency and terror that I felt my hair rising, and not just on the back of my neck. Behind me I heard an echo, which somehow I knew wasn’t an echo. Dr. Young was facing another one just like it.

All of this happened in the blink of an eye. Or, rather, I wished I could blink.

Even before the cry ended I saw Lloyd moving the hand with the gun towards the creature. Iris’s scream ceased abruptly and she went limp, crumbling down with her arm stuck under mine. By fainting, Iris saved my life. As I, in complete stupor, ducked towards her, Lloyd shouted and began shooting and a black, cold shape flew over the top of my head, taking Lloyd with it as though he was made of papier-mâché. They crashed into the opposite wall, making another hole and disappearing in the backyard, from where more shots rang out. I heard Dr. Young inhale loudly, say something I didn’t make out and discharge his weapon. The guttural sound that answered him was beyond description.

Doc was falling over my bent body. Two halves of his shotgun clattered against the wood floor on either side of me. He scrambled immediately to his feet and, grabbing Iris under her arms shouted in my ear, “Out! Out now! Her legs!”

I obeyed dumbly, and we pulled Iris through the first hole the creature had made into the moist outside world. As we began to crawl over the wet lawn, I caught doc’s gaze looking into the house behind me and knew that the first “dog,” done with Lloyd, was returning. Doc’s eyes fell on mine then, resigned, and his lips moved silently, forming the words, “Don’t look back.”

They closed and it was the end. I tried to prepare, to invoke some dignity, to reconcile, but all I could think was, “Mama! Mama! Oh no, no, no!”

Suddenly another dark shape, this one unmistakably human, materialized in front of me in the street. The man drew a gun and, holding it with both hands, started shooting into the house over my head. Another wail was unleashed seemingly inches from my ears, and I grabbed my head with both hands, dropping Iris, struggling and, again, unable to scream. The creature jumped over me, and the man was flying over two rows of parked cars. He slammed into the brick wall of a house across the street, fell inside the low fence and was quiet. Without slowing down to celebrate, nor bothering to confirm the man’s demise, the creature, limbs, or tentacles, rising around it like petals of a giant black flower, turned and floated towards me.

But it never made it. Something, a ball, or a sheet of blue and white flame, fell on it from above, driving it to the ground and searing the darkness in half. A surprised guttural sound similar to one I’d heard less than a minute earlier in the house was cut off, as the creature’s body, if one could call it that, exploded.

At that point my tired brain finally decided to shut down for maintenance. With a deep sigh, I collapsed on top of Iris. The last thing I remembered was the heat of her belly against my icy ear.

Chapter Fourteen

Brome woke up with a start and the feeling of cold fingers on his throat. Through the slits between his eyelids he saw a shape above him. He tried to twist and grab the choking hand with his left, sending his right at the same time inside the coat for the gun. Immediately, a flash of pain in his back blinded him and he groaned, realizing that fighting was out of the question. Daddy was going to die without catching the bad guy, a thought came.

“Whoa. Easy, Brome. Take it easy now,” a concerned voice spoke somewhere not too far. Louder, it added, “Hey, where’s that gurney?”

Brome heard movement and opened his eyes wider. Above, in the blur of tears, there was a crown of a brown-leafed tree, and above that purple, dripping sky. A face, wide and with high and sharp cheekbones, hovered between the sky and him.

“Got limb movement. Your back is not broken,” the face said comfortingly and grinned. “What happened to you, anyway? Parachute didn’t open?”

That could have been it, for all Brome knew right then.

“One, Two, Three!” He was lifted onto a gurney. It began to roll soundlessly, probably across a lawn. Raising his head, Brome attempted to get his bearings. A street, crammed with FBI trucks. Men in dark FBI jackets moving about. On porches and sidewalks, several civilians in pastel pajamas sticking out of hastily put on coats and jackets. A house across the street with a gaping hole instead of one corner. Holy shit! a thought, and more of the desperate struggle to move, as memory began to return.

“Easy, man. Easy.” A strong hand pushed him back down, holding the shoulder in place carefully but firmly. “I said the back is not broken, but ribs probably are. You have to lie still.”

Holy shit!

“Hey, how about giving us a little more time next time?” Brighton’s voice, and then Brighton himself, looming over. “What’s his status? Go on, take him to the ambulance and wait for me there.”

“A bump on his head, I’m guessing a cracked rib or several, bruises. He might be bleeding internally. You should get him to the hospital ASAP.”

The gurney rolled on. Soon Brome was deposited in the back of the ambulance truck, which looked more like a lab from the in side. A man in a white robe came up to him with a tube-vacuum-like contraption.

“Can you lie still?” the smart-ass in the lab coat inquired and pushed some buttons. He began to move the PI, as though it was a treasure hunter’s cheap metal detector, in small circles above Brome’s body.

Lulled by its humming, Brome closed his eyes and tried to recall the events. He’d skipped the office and drove directly to the address of the doctor’s residence. He parked about a block away so as not to make too much noise and was going to wait for backup, but then he heard gunfire. He remembered running towards the house. There were people squatting on the front lawn: a white-haired man, a guy in a pilot jacket, likely Whales himself, and a girl. And then… in the hole… he saw something standing just inside the house… something… black and… shifting and inhuman. Holy shit. What in God’s name was that thing? He recalled a feeling of complete and utter panic washing over him. Then he was shooting. Shooting straight at it. The whole clip. It was impossible to miss. It had to be dead, whatever it was, but he could not remember what happened next. Actually, he could. Next there were cold fingers on his throat and pain stabbing him in the back like a hot knife.

He must have blacked out for a moment, because suddenly he was aware of the truck’s movement. He opened his eyes, squinting in the light. Brighton was directly above him.

“Where’s Whales?” Brome asked.

“You saw Whales?”

“The girl and the old man, also.”

“They must have fled after you got knocked out. I had the cops set up a four-block perimeter, but they were probably too late. Do you remember anything else?”

“Don’t remember getting knocked out.”

“Look, what we know is that you were in a fire fight, and you got slammed with something. Probably a car.”

“A car?”

“Seems most likely, looking at you. Either one of Whales’s bunch or just someone random, passing by and losing control because of all the shooting. The neighbors said they heard a car driving away soon after the shooting ended. Anyway, the good news is you’ll be OK. Doc here says you have three broken ribs, but nothing life-threatening. And you got the bad guy.”

“What? I thought you said Whales got away.”

“I’m talking about Freud.”

“You got Freud? Where is he? What does he say?”

“He’s in the other truck. And he doesn’t say much since you put three bullets in his chest. With that gun still in his hand, though, we don’t need a written confession.”

“All right, agents. You can chit chat later,” the lab coat said. “Time to sleep.”

The white ceiling shook, spun up, and was gone.

Chapter Fifteen

I woke up with a start, feeling like I had just been slapped in the face. First thing I saw was Dr. Young’s maroon turtleneck. Then I saw his hand, rising.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked him, trying to sound sharp and angry. It came out as more of a whimper.

“It’s morning, Mr. Whales.”

It all came back to me at once.

“Oh my God! What the! Doc! What the hell were! Lloyd? Where’s that fucking Lloyd?” Shouting all this, I jumped up — I had been resting in a fetal position on an undersized brown love-seat — with such speed that I almost lost my balance and had to grab hold of the nearby bookcase for support. Something wet was on my cheeks. I got even louder when there was no immediate answer. “Dr. Young! Talk to me! I said talk to me, you cultist piece of shit!”

“Enough, Mr. Whales,” he said sternly, staring at me through narrowed eyes. I quickly checked my immediate surroundings, looking for a moderately heavy, preferably pointed object. We were in a white windowless room (some kind of office again, I thought) with a brown-painted rubber-wood desk, completely bare, in the middle, a matching chair behind it, a folded thingamajig for sleeping behind that, the worn at the arms love-seat I’d slept on to the right and the bookcase directly behind me. Not a single piece of jagged metal. Looking over my shoulder, I surveyed the book shelves. There was only one sufficiently thick book there, but I left it alone. It was the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. An old Barnes and Noble edition. Leather, or at least “leatheroid” jacket.

“Yes, enough is right!” I shouted with a detectable note of disappointment in my voice. Turning back to the old man, I contemplated a lunge for his throat.

Suddenly, I spotted Iris behind him, on a chair against the wall, knees tucked under her chin. She winced, hands on her ears, not looking at me. That cooled me down. I shut up and dropped back on the loveseat.

“What happened, Doc? Tell me it was the weed,” I begged, covering my eyes with my hands. As soon as I did, an image of that black thing appeared in my mind. With a loud slap my hands landed on my knees, grabbing them until the knuckles turned white.

“We were attacked. By dogs.”

“Dogs!?” I shouted again, not able to control myself. “I know what a dog looks like! Those weren’t any motherfucking dogs, OK?”

“No, of course not. They are just called ‘dogs’ because their method of search is similar to that of a canine. You see, they follow one’s trail. Not the smell, like normal dogs do, but another kind of trail—”

“Look. I don’t need a lecture. Just tell me what those things were.”

“Aliens,” Iris said. I grunted. Dr. Young glanced over at her and gave a ridiculously serious but slight nod, turning back to me.

“Perhaps it would be easier for you to think of them as angels, Mr. Whales.”

“No, Father Young. It wouldn’t be easier for me to think of them as angels. Angels are white, with wings, harps and glowing zeros floating above their heads. What I saw in that house was about as far from an angel as it gets.”

“They can change appearance,” he replied. “The form you saw has been picked as suitable for the task at hand. It is a lot easier to destroy a victim frightened out of his wits.”

I had been, still was frightened out of my wits. I knew, because my wits should have convinced me the event I had witnessed was a hallucination, caused by either the lack of medicine or some kind of a devilish drug Dr. Young had mixed in with the cannabis we smoked. Or it could have been even simpler and funnier. A very elaborate and successful Halloween prank, with guns shooting blanks and a couple of out-of-job basketball players in high-tech monster suits. The whole present conversation about “angel-dogs” should have seemed utterly absurd.

But my wits deserted me. Lloyd’s method of scaring me into a revelation apparently prevailed after all. I have seen the creature. I had no doubt about that. I heard its blood-freezing cry. I heard the shots. I somehow knew they had come to destroy me. And for all the dismissive gestures and face-making, I believed Dr. Young when he said they were not terrestrial. Which scared me even more.

Yet, there remained one comforting fact in all of this, I suddenly realized. Whatever they were, they had failed. I was still alive.

“Those… things. Were they immune to bullets?”

“Not any more than you and I are immune to mosquitoes.”

“How did we get out, Doc?”

“Well, we drove, but prior to that, I am not sure, Mr. Whales. I stopped one of them, if temporarily; the fate of the other one puzzled me all this time. Since you were facing it when it was in the street, I was hoping you were going to enlighten me about that.”

“Something killed it. There was a flash of white light…” I tried to remember more, but couldn’t. Instead, I remembered Lloyd and the hole he and the creature had made in the wall of the house. “Where’s Lloyd? I think I want my gun back now.”

As soon as the question left my lips I regretted asking it, because I knew Dr. Young was going to answer it in the same voice he’d just told me angels were out to kill me. I was right.

“I am afraid that was the end of the road for Mr. Freud. He is not with us any longer.”

I leaned back in the loveseat and looked at Iris. Her eyes told me she’d learned about Lloyd while I was unconscious.

I was surprised to find my own eyes swelling with tears.

What I knew about Lloyd could fit on a fortune cookie, and it wouldn’t have prophesized anything favorable. Hell, the guy was a murderer. But now I was alive, and he had died protecting me. One of those things had destroyed him instead of me.

And why? I still hadn’t a clue.

I wiped my eyes roughly with a sleeve of my sweater.

“Your report of the creature’s demise, however, is very comforting indeed,” Dr. Young continued, as though he was at a podium and just turned a page. “It seems you have other friends, Mr. Whales.”

You might survive yet, Mr. Whales. He didn’t say that, but I heard it nonetheless. And, despite the “comforting report,” facing the death of Lloyd, who had been trained and armed, I wasn’t at all crazy about my chances.

“Doc,” I said as calmly as I could. “I’ve seen the angels. I think it’s time you told me why they are trying to kill me.”

His eyes bore into mine, considering. Finally, he nodded. Iris got up from her chair and came to sit next to me on the loveseat.

“You’re right, Mr. Whales. You have seen the angels. You have taken the pills and you have stopped taking the pills. You are beginning to understand. You, I think, already know what I am going to say. But I am not certain if any of this makes you ready. I can tell you from personal experience that knowing what the answer will be and being ready for it are two very different things.”

“I don’t want to die not knowing the reason, Doc. I’m ready.”

“The problem is,” he continued as though he did not hear me, “that if you aren’t prepared, the knowledge, or let’s call it ‘information,’ will not be digested. If your brain rejects it once, it will be very hard to convince it afterwards.”

He sighed.

“However, with a narrow escape that we had, I am afraid there’s no other choice but to take that risk. I will try to be brief and basic.”

“As you know,” he began, immediately pausing to give me a doubtful glance. “As you probably know, Mr. Whales, history books teach us that organized religion originated from elemental worship. The first Man was helpless, clueless and fearful, so he began to worship different aspects of nature in order to appease them. It is a compelling and plausible theory. It does well to explain the evolution of elements into God-figures that govern them, the God-figures that were inevitably either animalistic, humanoid or mix of both, because the primitives could not imagine anything beyond what they saw. These beliefs, then, evolved further, most deities became more and more humanoid, and the animals they were previously ‘combined’ with them became ‘associated’ as in either the ability of a certain God to take on a form of a certain animal, or simply an animal being a symbol of that God for whatever forgotten reason. Presently, animal worship is mostly out of fashion, with the predominant religions all focusing on either purely humanoid (but infinitely more divine) Gods or their even more humanoid prophets. Thus, since religion was created by Man, its evolution will be complete when Man, becoming less and less fearful, clueless and helpless, becomes God.”

“This theory, although it is, as I said, very plausible, is not without flaws. Here are some of them: it is impossible to prove empirically the fact of elemental worship; there’s some speculation in regards to the earliest known religious works — Vedas — actually portraying the divinity of Man already then through symbolism of elemental Gods; finally, in this day and age, when all factors are seemingly in place for Man to evolve, he remains, although few will admit it, fearful and clueless, and instead of achieving divinity he’s returning to the worship of the inanimate, be it technology, money or something else.”

“Then we have the great collection of elaborate mythos, commonly known as archaic religious works, but treated as fairy tales presently without a second thought of that fact’s implications. Ancient mythology, which by the way bears significant similarities in cultures as widespread geographically as this planet allows, portrays Gods as conspicuously material. These Gods looked like men, they ate, slept, had children, sometimes even with humans. Moreover, they fought between themselves, they envied, they lusted and were greedy; in short, they did a lot of things that modern religions reserve purely for human race. Which is why these myths are considered silly folklore now. Now the predominant religions are based on the pure divinity and concealment of God and complete inherent sinfulness of the human being. That, if you were paying attention, also goes against the abovementioned theory of religious evolution.”

“We will be moving to the fun part shortly, Mr. Whales.

“The strong majority of the world’s population follows these predominant religions, despite the popularity of the evolution theory, despite the mythology, despite the fact that most of the awe-inspiring miracles we read about in scriptures would seem mundane to us now. I am sure you would agree if I said it would not be too hard to construct a moving pillar of smoke, or that the nuclear explosions that destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah would look bordering on boring on a TV screen. The funny thing is, the same majority — at least numerically — also believes in the existence of aliens, but very few draw any connection between the two. There’s a group of people, I call them ‘Charioteers’, who do. They have been trying to popularize their theories for the last sixty years or so, but they never got beyond cult status.”

“So this is what you’re saying, then?” I asked.

“Right. I believe that what we commonly refer to as God is a Being, or rather Beings, from another world who have usurped the place of the real God.”

“Demiurge.” Iris said that. “Gnosticism.”

“Close. Most Gnostic sects claim Demiurge have created the material world to oppose the spiritual world of the real God. Personally, I interpret that differently. Yes, these beings are very powerful, awe-inspiring even, but not enough so to create the Solar system, Earth, or even to cause a world-wide flood. I think the material world Gnostic teachings are referring to is not the planet or the galaxy. Rather, it is what we call ‘civilization.’ I do believe, however, the story of Adam and Eve to be at least partially true. Even if they did not create the physical aspect of humanity, as Gnostics also claim, then at least they modified the species, although to what extent, I do not know. Now, is that hard to swallow so far?

“No, not really. Why are those things hunting me, Doc?”

“In a moment, Mr. Whales. For a race as technologically advanced as they were, it would be very easy to convince the population of their divinity. If you and I appeared to the ancients in a helicopter, we would be Gods. Probably of thunder. Now, if you created the species and supervised their breeding for a thousand of years, I imagine the task would be even easier.

“Most historians agree that modern civilization, or the ‘material world,’ suddenly began in Sumeria around six thousand years ago. I also agree. I think the numbers were then sufficient enough for Gods to begin it. They showed humans how to build cities, they taught them to buy instead of exchange, they encouraged the development of science and technology. They taught humans about humans, they taught them about the divine. First scriptures appeared. Written word turned out to be an incredible tool of control. Media Therapy, Mr. Whales, the same I’ve mentioned just yesterday, existed for several thousand years.

“Today, written word’s influence is surpassed by imagery — TV — because it requires less effort and achieves, as the imagination faculties of an average human being deteriorate due to stagnancy and neglect, faster effect. Today the planet is almost ready.”

“For what? I thought you said they already rule.”

“Well, I did and I didn’t. This is the confusing part, Mr. Whales. You see, ‘ruling’ the humans as a concept holds no meaning for creatures as powerful as Gods. The notion is comparable to people ‘ruling’ the cloned sheep, or video game characters. Essentially, the lord-vassal relationship is only possible between beings of equal — or should I say equally low — level of development, preferably of the same species, which is amusingly paradoxical, don’t you think?”

I nodded uncertainly.

“In other words, humans can only be ruled by humans, hence the caste of Administrators was created to maintain order and direction. The aliens — Gods — after a period of rather hands-on monitoring the beginning stages of our brand new civilization, departed, leaving behind the Administrators, armed with knowledge and certain tools to keep the wheels turning. Religion was one of the tools. Written Word and all subsequent forms of Media Therapy was the other. There is the third tool, closely related to the first one, and, perhaps even more effective, especially now. For seven thousand years, this powerful tool of control and development has remained virtually unmodified. Would you like to venture a guess what it is, Mr. Whales?”

I wasn’t ready to venture anything. I was doing fine listening to what he was saying, even understood some of it in an indifferent, dull sort of way, but answering a question was presently beyond my mental capacity. My mind was too full of last night’s events, of Lloyd, of my immediate future. As far as I could tell, none of what Dr. Young had said up until then, had anything whatsoever to do with me. There wasn’t a passage in that speech that in any way touched on the reason why a couple of angels wanted to eat Luke Whales, and to me, that was all that mattered.

Yet, at the same time, I felt I almost had it. It was as though the answer was closely orbiting my brain. If only I could hook it and reel it in…

“War,” Iris said. A hostile, almost hateful expression distorted her pretty face.

Dr. Young regarded her.

“Remarkable, once again,” he said respectively and even “ventured” a bow. “And quite correct. Please elaborate.”

“War produces fear. Fear leads to the desire of protection, the illusion of which is provided by both, human rulers and religion, in exchange for obedience. Obedience leads to war.”

“And it is also one of main incentives of technological progress,” Dr. Young finished.

“But every religion on Earth preaches peace,” I argued. “Thou shalt not kill, right? Treat your neighbor the way you wish to be treated?”

“So does every government, Mr. Whales. Yet you would be hard pressed to locate a decade in the last couple of thousand of years during which there wasn’t an armed conflict going on somewhere. You see, by preaching peace as fervently as they do, the war is made to seem something quite out of their hands. A horrible, abhorred thing, but something no one can control. And as for condemning it, I, for one, am not able to recall an occasion during which a prominent clergyman of any denomination would declare that every military man is going to hell for killing.”

“Not to mention those who send soldiers to kill,” I said grimly.

“Yes, that seems to be the popular opinion. Soldiers are guiltless, because they simply follow orders.”

“You sound like you don’t think so.”

“I don’t, Mr. Whales. Those who enlist in armed forces expect to be given orders to kill. Why enlist, then?”

“Don’t have much of a choice anymore.”

“Very true, which is why such an overwhelming majority supports the draft. People hate choice. Well, our little pill helps also.”

“So I take it that draft notice I got started the whole thing. But why did it even matter if they got me or not?”

“Mr. Freud’s employer seems to believe your role in their plans is too significant for him to just let them have you.”

“One of these days I am going to kick his ass.”

“If I am correct, Mr. Whales, you will probably thank him.”

“Right… But if these ‘Administrators’ or whoever had plans for me, then why did they send those… things to kill me?”

“Most likely because they realized that Mr. Freud’s employer had a hand in helping you evade them.”

“So what, they just sweep me under the rug and go to plan B?”

“Quite so.”

“Great.”

“But…”

“Yeah, I know. ‘I have other friends.’ For all I know, I am only alive because your ‘employer’ has plans for me still.”

“I have reconsidered my attitude towards employment some time ago, Mr. Whales. As to his plans for you… Trust me when I say, few things could be worse than the bidding you would end up doing for the other side.”

“But you don’t know what it was.”

“No, I do not know. I do have suspicions, however.”

I leaned back in the loveseat and shook my head. Lloyd was dead. He was really dead. He had been alive yesterday, and he was dead today. I seemed capable of only one clear thought. Looking around me, I suddenly realized I had no idea where I was. I sighed.

“You said the planet was almost ready, Doc.”

“Yes, Mr. Whales.”

“For what? Second Coming?”

“You surprise me. The Second Coming, as you call it, has already happened.”

Oh, I surprise him? “What?” I gaped and glanced at Iris, who didn’t seem quite as shocked.

“The creatures yesterday. The ‘saviors’ are already here.”

“So what are they waiting for?”

“For the Antichrist to show himself, of course. Can’t have the play without the antagonist.”

“The play? You mean—”

“Precisely, Mr. Whales. The War to end all wars. The end of the world.”

Chapter Sixteen

In a cool, sterile, loft-like office with a view on Chicago River, behind a desk of glossy black ceramics just wide enough for a person to spread elbows, plump, stately Dr. Colin Wright sat erect and unmoving, peering into the dark brown leather of a couch standing against the opposite wall. He was breathing heavily and was painfully aware of a sweat bead sliding slowly from his armpit down the curvy side. He felt it tickle the roll of fat just above the waistline of his slacks, hang from it for several long seconds, then plummet down to splash on the shirt. Dr. Wright allowed himself a grimace, but only that. His eyes moved towards the digits on the cylindrical desk clock.

Ten minutes had passed since the phone monitor returned to displaying the picture of his wife, Nora against the backdrop of the Great Pyramids of Giza. Five more to go.

He went through this every single time they called him, because there was no other way.

It was fear, but in the real world he was not afraid. They had never attempted to scare him overtly — not even when one of them called to blame him for Whales a few days back — but even if they had, Dr. Wright was not an easy man to scare when he was awake. He was too pragmatic. He’d seen too many things.

Dreams were another matter. The tranquility of his child-like sleep was one thing he truly obsessed about. It was that one window of escape from reality he could not bear losing. And they possessed the ability to take it away, he knew.

The irony of it was, he had not had a nightmare in fifteen years. Not ever since that one time in the beginning when he woke up in the middle of the night with half of his hair turned completely gray. Inconvenient, but nothing a little dye wouldn’t fix. Ever since, however, he was manically terrified of the possibility. One can get used to anything, except for that which he has tasted once and which has not happened since.

A famous and expensive psychiatrist who had failed to diagnose his own mental condition, Dr. Wright had analyzed this odd, even unnatural lack of nightmares long and hard. Eventually, he had come to the conclusion that nightmares’ absence was a sort of a mental block facilitated by them, and that every conversation carried a veiled threat of removing that block, and maybe, worse yet, sending some nightmares his way. It was never anything blunt — a hint here, a transparent clue there — but it was enough.

In the course of years since that discovery, meticulous in his madness, Dr. Wright worked out the ritual he was presently performing. He would sit motionless for exactly fifteen minutes after every call from them, sweating and imagining an inflated cuff, the kind nurses used for blood pressure measurement, only full-body sized, squeeze his body until it was hard to breathe. He visualized the nightmares, possibly “planted” within him by way of telephone transmission, rising like steam up, out of his wet, dyed hair and through the floors of the skyscraper above out to cosmos, back where they came from.

No matter how insane something might seem, if it works one will stick to it. And it was working for Dr. Wright. The same lack of nightmares that terrified him so much and caused the madness in the first place, also proved the effectiveness of the remedy.

Of course, no one aside from Dr. Wright ever knew any of this. His secretary had long ago been instructed not to bother him under any circumstances when a call came in on that line. If she thought it was weird, she was paid more than well enough not to show it.

Sighing disgustedly at the fifteen minute mark, the red-faced doctor leaned back in his chair, relaxed, relieved and slightly nauseous from feeling the shirt cling to his wet back. Two calls within a week. That never happened before.

He glanced at the blue bottle of brand-new pills and picked it up from the desk. No more failures, the man from New York had said. The new medicine was better, but he needed to step up the counseling.

“Why don’t you do it yourself, then, you powdered son of a bitch,” Dr. Wright said distinctly, confident in his defiance and defiant in confidence, twisting his chair around to face the city. “Do it yourself,” he repeated after a minute, and, with a satisfied nod turned back to his desk, pressed a button and said, calmly now, “Jane? Darling, please check when the appointment is scheduled for Mr. Chase.”

* * *

His side of the room was darkened, but a sheet of sunlight hung like a yellow screen on the opposite wall. Under it, in a recliner, with half of her face illuminated, sat Grace, staring into the twilight under his bed. Her purse, like a sundial, cast a triangular shadow on the table next to her.

Brome moved his hands, aimlessly, just to see that he could. An IV tube was attached to the back of his right wrist.

With a small cry Grace jumped towards him.

“Oh, God, Olie! I was so scared! When Brighton called me…” She was by the side of the bed, clasping his free left hand. Her own hands were warm and a little moist. Somewhere in the haze of his instincts he found a comforting smile.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m all right. A couple of bruises, nothing more. Where’s Anna?”

“I took her to the babysitter before coming here. She doesn’t know. She kept asking about you and I just kept smiling and telling her…” She began to sob. “God, Olie. I thought I was going to go insane in the time it took me to drop her off.”

“I’m sorry.” He pulled her closer and kissed her lips. It felt good. He felt good, he suddenly realized. Despite the hospital bed, despite the IV he felt better than he could remember in a long time. He got the bad guy. Didn’t quite catch him, but…

Letting Grace go, he planted his hands at his sides and pushed up into a sitting position. Pain, dull and distant, like a muffled scream in the next room, spread through his body but caused little discomfort.

“The button, Olie. Just push the button,” Grace said with concern, taking hold of his hand again.

“It’s okay,” he said, noting the IV bag above his head. “I’m okay. See how it is.”

Spreading the gown’s flaps apart, Graced leaned over to look. He heard her gasp and regretted the request.

“It’s all purple down here. Jesus, Olie…”

“Nothing to worry about,” a confident voice said behind her. Grace turned and stepped aside, revealing a tall, lanky man in a white robe. Streaks of gray hair shone on the sides of his deeply tanned face. His smiled shone, also. He shook Grace’s hand. “Dr. Kent.”

“We’ve already fixed the rib fractures. The procedure went splendidly. We’ll keep him here overnight, but tomorrow morning you can take him home. Painkillers for a week and he’ll be better than new.”

Damn, Brome thought. They can fix fractures within hours, but they can’t get rid of the stupid bruises? But it came and went, like a whiff of some unpleasant smell.

“Thanks, Doc.”

“No thanks are necessary. You do your job and we do ours. Besides, the Bureau always pays the bills on time, unlike some other agencies I could name.” They all grinned. Grace patted Brome’s shoulder. Dr. Kent checked the IV bag, bent around to glance at the bruises on Brome’s back, nodded, satisfied. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” To Grace he added, “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Brome. You should be proud of him.”

“I am,” Grace said tearfully.

Dr. Kent nodded to both of them with a restrained smile and left. Grace left two hours later. She needed to pick up the baby. Before going she assured him she would be there first thing in the morning to take him home. Brome took a nap. When he woke up it was dark and quiet.

With the push of a button he raised the bed and rolled his head around to work his neck. He heard a juicy crack and smiled. Careful not to pull too much on the IV tube, he stretched his arms. He wiggled his toes, curled and uncurled his feet. Languid tingling of muscles and joints, rested after what felt like years of hard, uninterrupted work, spread through his body. He somehow knew that wrinkles in the middle of his forehead and in the corners of his eyes, the ones Grace had always complained about, and Annie often tried to pull apart, stretching the skin with her tiny fingers, were gone. Never before solving a case felt so satisfying and refreshing. Even his brain crackled with energy inside its shell, greatly rejuvenated and ready for another marathon. It wasn’t until he felt its crispness that Brome realized how tired his brain had been. Probably more tired than any overworked limb or muscle.

He sighed. He didn’t want to think back, because he already knew what had really happened. Whatever his worn out mind thought he saw in that hole, supposedly big and black, had been in reality a man’s silhouette, Freud’s silhouette, dark against the brightly illuminated room. The gun, the one Lloyd Freud clutched in his hand to the last breath, gleamed with reflected light, causing Brome to open fire. Good thing I didn’t share any of that nonsense with Brighton, Brome thought, rolling his eyes. At least I had enough sense to prevent that from happening. And to think I felt perfectly capable. It’s a wonder I ended up in the right place at the right time. Likely a coincidence more than anything else.

It occurred to him then that stopping the pills had been a stupid idea. He would call in a refill as soon as he was discharged. First thing in the morning. But he still had some pills left… He looked around, wondering where his clothes were.

The plastic door slid to the side, letting in the night nurse. She was a short, neckless, impetuous woman of around fifty, with a squinty grin on her face.

“Awake, agent Brome? How’s the hero of the day? Hungry?” She darted about, checking the machinery, the sheets, the bed’s angle and plastic bags. Not waiting for his answer she asked, “What will it be? We don’t have much, especially at this time, but a nice sandwich with some drink should be no problem. Dr. Kent also said he had nothing against a double portion of dessert.”

“Ham, please. On wheat. Mayonnaise, mustard, onion, lettuce.”

“Not afraid of a little onion breath? That’s a good boy. People stress over those things too much these days. Well, everything seems to be in order here. You’re comfortable, right? Good. I’ll return with the food in a jiffy.”

“I was wondering…”

“There’s a button for the TV if you feel like hearing about yourself on the news. Pretty sure it’s all over the country.” She pressed the button under Brome’s left arm. A TV slid out of the ceiling, flicking on. A familiar rum commercial was just beginning. “Volume is on the other side. You’ll figure it out, won’t you? Good. You know, I knew from the start that boy Luke Whales couldn’t kill anyone. He’s just too cute, isn’t he? Ah, but you wouldn’t know anything about that.” She patted his leg through the sheet. “Ham on wheat coming right up. Anything else you needed while I’m awake? I’m just kidding you. I won’t sleep till my shift is over.”

“I was wondering where my clothes were. I had a… I had a bottle of pills,” Brome said, eyes watching bandaged penguins and polar bears comradely passing around a bottle of rum after a pretty mean match of football.

“Your wife took your clothes. I hope she’ll dump them straight away. Torn, dirty all over…” Seeing Brome’s quick glance, the nurse lowered her voice. “Don’t worry. They took the pills out before giving them to her. Everything’s confidential.”

“I appreciate that. Can you bring them when you get the food, please?”

“Sorry, no outside medication allowed in the hospital. They’ll give them back to you tomorrow before discharge. But, like I said, not to worry. You didn’t miss anything.” With that squinty grin the nurse nodded at the IV bag. “All right? All right. Be right back.”

As the door slid back in place behind her, Brome looked up at the drip bag. On TV, the news resumed.

Chapter Seventeen

It made no sense.

Still, I thought it over for a minute or two, because lately a lot of things that had sounded like gobbledygook at first became a lot more sensible once I thought them over. In this particular case, however, thinking it over amounted to nothing. I came up with nothing. It simply didn’t make any sense, and coming at the end of Dr. Young’s convincing and at times interesting lecture, this nonsense cast on it a different sort of illumination.

Iris met my gaze with a distant stare. Dr. Young sat in the chair Iris had occupied earlier, watching me think.

I was about to give the verdict, but again I got distracted by the question of where we were. It suddenly seemed like a good idea to ask that first. That would allow me additional minute or so to make sure I didn’t look like a fool telling Dr. Young that he needed a doctor himself.

I opened my mouth, but before the question was formed, the door cracked open and a vaguely familiar blond head peered inside. The youth the head belonged to noted our positions in the room and grinned for some reason.

“Sleep well?” he inquired. “Come, you have to see this.” Throwing the door open, the kid disappeared. Through the door I saw the pink wall of a vaguely familiar narrow hallway.

I got up slowly, sending a most quizzical grimace in Dr. Young’s direction, but he only shrugged and pointedly looked at Iris.

“Don’t ask me,” said Iris in a tone suggesting she was not entirely startled to be asked.

My confusion lasted only the time it took me to reach the hallway. Once through the door, I recognized it immediately. We were back at the theater-bar, where, aside from the off chance of Dr. Young being of an alternative sexual orientation, only Iris could have brought us. The blond kid must have worked there. He was the guy who had asked me for a smoke while I waited for Paul in the booth.

The next door on the same side of the hallway was ajar. We entered something like a VIP lounge with a full-size dark green polyester couch, a couple of armchairs, two lagoon-like tables and an aquarium with several long and thick fishes. Fleetingly, I wondered why the hell I had to sleep with knees covering my ears on that loveseat, when there was a couch like that in the next room. The kid, stretched all over one of the armchairs, directed our attention to the screen built into the wall, bookended on both sides by two potted plants.

They were showing a picture of some square-faced guy, and then suddenly my face appeared. I knew at once something was amiss. I was smiling amiably in all the pictures they showed.

“…Still no knowledge of his whereabouts right now, but sources tell us Mr. Whales has been known to sleep late,” the female anchor I haven’t met reported with a smirk. “Perhaps he just joined us. If that is the case…” She leaned closer, smirk turning into a warm smile “…come on back, Luke. We’ve missed you.”

A handsome weatherman agreed. “We certainly have, Joan. And we have even more good news. The next four or five days promise nothing but sunshine…”

“Wait… what happened?” I asked groggily. My gaze wandered from Iris to Dr. Young to Iris and, finally, to the kid in the chair.

“They shot the guy who killed your marshal,” the kid said. “The FBI wants you to show up for the statement, but otherwise you have been cleared of all suspicion. Of course, the cops say they never really made you an official suspect in the first place, but everyone knows it’s a pile of crap.”

I stared him for a long time, then turned and stared at Iris.

“Congratulations,” she said.

I breathed out a cautious chuckle, suddenly wanting to hug her. She must have seen it in my eyes, because she threw open her arms. I ducked in, wrapped my arms around her and squeezed, lifting her into the air. I could have lifted my old Winger right then with as little effort. The blond kid jumped from his armchair, slapped me on the back and, grinning that suddenly infectious grin, left the room.

“Mr. Whales, may I have a word with you, before…”

I put Iris down and turned to Dr. Young, thinking maybe to toss him up a couple of times too. The intense look on his face stopped me. He commanded the TV to shut down, and when that failed, frowned deeply and settled for mute. In the silence I heard a fan in the ceiling, buzzing a nightingale’s song.

Dr. Young began to talk rapidly and I stood there nodding, but, to tell you the truth, I didn’t catch much of it. Funny how the mind works. I recall him saying something about being calm and rational and not making some mistakes twice. But despite the events of the previous night, despite Lloyd, despite what he had said only five minutes earlier, all I could think of was: I can forget it all and go back.

“Choice, Mr. Whales,” Dr. Young said after he’d done some talking. “It was not a coincidence that I’ve mentioned choice to you. Don’t let them choose for you.”

That was one statement that got through to me. It really soured my mood. “Choice, Doc? What choice? I was framed for murder, remember?”

“You were being framed long before Mr. Freud appeared on the horizon.”

“So you say. And maybe it’s true, or maybe it isn’t. Regardless, I didn’t get to choose any of it.”

“You chose to stop the pills.”

“Stopping pills is one thing.”

“You chose to be free, instead of ‘fighting for freedom.’ Are you intending to report to your nearest recruitment center now?”

“No, I’m not. But I don’t need to stay on the run for the rest of my life dancing to some lunatic’s pipe and dodging God knows what creatures to take care of that problem. There are other means.”

“Think of what you know. Think of what you’ve seen—”

“What I’ve seen is two corpses and some other things I would rather forget very soon. As to what I know… I don’t know jack, Doc.”

“You are not five years old. Those ‘things’ aren’t going to cease to exist the moment you put your hands over your eyes.”

“Let them exist. I can’t do nothing about their existence. They existed long before I knew about them; they will go on existing long after I am dead. What do you want me to become, Doc? A vampire hunter? Sorry, I’m a talk show host, not a super hero, not even an ex-soldier like Lloyd. I get paid to talk and look pretty on TV. I think the best chance I got to stay alive is to simply return to my old life—”

“How can you even speak of your old life? Do you think you can just become one of them again? Go back to your advertisements, your shows?”

“I am one of them. And so are you, and she, and Lloyd was, and the blond kid, and even that ten-foot-tall bartender.”

“Why? Why should we be? Because we have the same number of chromosomes? Is that what makes us the same? Is that why we must accept whatever the rest of them accept? To be part of this circus, this zoo. To be ruled by the glass-eyed majority who are prepared to turn into pillars of salt at someone’s whim, as long as they don’t have to make any decisions?”

“See, that’s the thing, Doc,” I said quietly. Dr. Young deflated, embarrassed at the volume of his voice. He peered at me accusingly.

“I don’t believe it,” I said. “The war. The end of the world. I thought about it. It makes no sense. Explain it to me. What could possibly be gained by annihilating the planet? I mean, if you want to rule, there’ll be no one left to rule. If you want the planet, no planet will be left to speak of. Just a piece of radioactive rock. Not to mention making us do it. Why? For what? Amusement?”

He sighed and slid his hands in the pockets of his brown slacks. His shoulders rose in a slow shrug.

“You’re right, Mr. Whales. I can’t explain it. I don’t know why they would do it. Nonetheless, I look at the world, I look at people, events, and I believe it to be true. I believe there is a reason for it. But I am allowed to sometimes believe things. After all, I am a priest.”

He looked up at me with a sudden sad smile. “You know, ever since Mr. Freud introduced us, I was hoping you would be the one to help me put it together.”

“Me? But how?”

“By connecting me to Mr. Freud’s employer, all else failing.”

“You’re telling me you never met him?”

“Of course not. You were my chance.”

“Look for him, Doc. I’m sure you’ll find him eventually. Don’t see why you’d want to, though.”

“Then you have made up your mind.”

“Sorry, it’s not for me. And thanks for… you know.”

I fidgeted in place, feeling Iris’s eyes on me and not knowing what to do next. Dr. Young helped me out by hastening to depart.

“Good-bye, then, Mr. Whales.” He smiled at Iris and took her hand. “Cherish you friends. I really hope you made the right decision. By the way, it wasn’t your friend Paul who made that call to the police. Mr. Freud told me that some time ago, but I never got the chance to let you know.”

“It was Lloyd,” I stated. Bowing his head full of shiny gray hair, Dr. Young walked out of the room. Iris and I were left alone under the buzzing vent. “Good old Lloyd.”

Chapter Eighteen

They put everything on Lloyd. They said rather than a murderer, Luke Whales had been a hostage all this time, and they wondered if a formal apology would be issued. They thought it only fair and the least the authorities could do. All of this was true, but I had no idea how they figured all of that out without me. They made no mention of Iris, a person of interest only half a day ago.

Iris walked me back to Goethe’s bench and stopped. The plans I had been secretly making during our conversation on the way crumbled around me. I realized it was as far as she would go.

For several moments we stood in silence, passing a cigarette back and forth and watching the spires of the downtown smoke with us. The promised sun was right there above us, burning like it was about to kick the world backwards into summer. I took my ski hat off and wiped my forehead with it.

She pulled out a piece of paper and an old ballpoint pen, jotted down a number with “Iris” above it and handed the paper to me.

“Here,” she said. “This is my number.”

Normally, a casual gesture like that would mean it was up to me to call, but in this particular case I suddenly wasn’t so sure. It occurred to me that “this is my number” was a silly thing to say, and Iris didn’t say silly things. If she wanted me to call her, I thought to myself, she would have said, “Here. Call me,” and gave me the number. Or, if she wanted to see me again she could have asked for my number in exchange, but she didn’t. She just said, “This is my number,” which is a pretty dumb thing to say when you’re handing someone a sheet of paper with digits and your name on it. Redundancy just wasn’t her style. I suppressed a sigh.

And stared down at the scrap of paper, doing my darnest to examine it.

It was strange saying good-bye forever to a girl I didn’t have sex with. It was like the last grain of oddity sand to fall down through a week-long hourglass of weirdness. As soon as it landed, I would be able to flip the bastard and return to my normal life. But I couldn’t bear utter something like, “I’ll keep in touch.”

Instead, I shook the scrap of paper in my hand, knocked it a few times against the nail of my left thumb and asked, “At the apartment?”

Iris gazed at me momentarily through narrowed eyes… and burst out laughing. I began to laugh too.

“You started it!”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Still grinning, she rose to her tiptoes and kissed my cheek, tugging at the arm of my jacket. “Take care, Luke.”

“Iris!” I called after her. She turned around. A skinny girl in high-heeled boots. “Who the hell are you?”

To answer that, she bared her teeth and lifted her arms, making mock paws with her tiny hands. She walked backwards like that for a little bit, then turned around and disappeared around a corner.

Shaking my head, I hooked on my shades and headed briskly across the field of grass towards the lake.

Backwards. I kept seeing this image of Iris walking backwards, as I walked backwards along the lake. Sand within the imaginary hourglass, which I imagined to have flipped, fell backwards. Everything was backwards. Maybe the sun had, in fact, kicked the world backwards into summer.

I was experiencing a backward deja-vu. I was seeing it all again: the joggers on the winding lakeshore walkway, the mustached guy on the bike, the dirty birds, the waves, the decorated, jumping boats. As I passed, backwards, the spot where I’d flung my cell phone away, I was sure it was still buried in the silt in the exact same place where it had landed. As well as it should have been, I realize now. Cell phones are not in the habit of strafing around the bottom of the sea, but back then it seemed part of the whole.

I felt woozy and helplessly disoriented. I suddenly wondered if all that had really happened was just that walk up and down the lake shore on a sunny day. The supposed events of three previous days were so surreal that I could easily recall them all within seconds. Maybe even one second. Maybe less. What if I simply “called” then the events I could so easily re-call now? What if I had walked up to where Goethe was having a picnic, sat on the bench and called them, living through the whole imaginary deal in the matter of milliseconds. What if it’s still the same day?

But wait a minute, I thought. What about the dead marshal I found in my kitchen before going for a walk?

And then it dawned on me… I must have called that one too. But then… the shore walk I’ve just considered the real one, must also be a deja-vu of some earlier walk along the beach, which would have been in the same direction I was headed now, and not backwards. While I searched my memory for that fateful, real, previous walk, another idea scared me, namely the idea that there was no guarantee that the previous walk had been, in fact, the real deal and not just another deja-vu. How many deja-vu of the same event could there be? Or maybe! They were not deja-vu at all; they had all been real, these walks, and all I’d done my whole life was walking up and down this beach and calling everything else into imaginary existence. Sisyphus of the Midwest.

At this point a wry voice spoke inside my excited brain. “Listen, Sisyphus, old man. I know a place you should call next.”

The gate of the marina barred my way. Above me, the tower, destroyed once in my nuclear fantasy, swayed in the wind. Inhaling deeply to chase away the last remnants of that fearful thought-loop I’d gotten myself into, I pondered going through the main entrance and decided against it. The rewind was complete.

Chapter Nineteen

There was a guard at my door. Not a cop, but the semi-bearded maintenance guy, whose name I’d forgotten. In an indifferent, business-like manner he explained that he was waiting for the “go” concerning the removal of yellow police tape. He hadn’t specified how long he’d been waiting for, but a day and a half seemed like a decent guess.

Unable to come up with a topic for conversation, I removed the tape myself. The maintenance guard watched me do it, radioed the office when I was done to relay the development and ask for instructions. He was still waiting when I dropped the twin plastic tape holsters to the floor and shut the door behind me.

I was back in my hallway. Back in normal life. After coming home to an empty apartment every day for the last four months, all I required to confirm my solitude beyond doubt was a single glance through the hallway into the living room. The TV screen was black. Sunlight, reflected weakly from airborne particles of heavy metals rising from the streets, coaxed hazy shadows out of the sofa and the overpriced Chinese vase on top of the overpriced magazine table. Faces, mine all of them, peered from de-glossed photographs protecting the cemetery of books I’d never read. The stillness was complete. Only it didn’t feel normal.

The air was thick and cool, like shaving foam. A familiar feeling of disorientation came over me, only this time it wasn’t a deja-vu. It occurred to me that I was not home at all. It seemed I was looking at a set, expertly prepared for the dramatization of the events that had taken place at the luxury downtown condo of a famous actor and show host Luke Whales. Filming for “America’s Most Wanted.” The fake Lloyd must have just shot his fake partner and now crouched behind the table in the fake kitchen, waiting for… Or maybe this was still the old, more marketable version, in which it’s Luke Whales who kills the marshal and takes the fake Lloyd hostage. Then I would be some guy they hired to play Whales.

I realized I hadn’t moved from the door. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me and whether or not it was going to go away.

The door monitor flashed on, Jeffrey’s wide-eyed triangle of a face on it. Or was he and extra? Good casting, even for minor roles. He looked pretty damn close to the real deal. I rubbed my eyes. I was tired.

“Mr. Whales!”

“I’m back, Jeffrey.”

“We heard the news, sir. Congratulations! Isn’t it great how things have turned out?”

“They could be worse, sure.” I turned away from him and began to move forward, removing the jacket on the way. His hurried words caught up to me as I neared the alcove leading into the kitchen.

“Oh, Mr. Whales, I’m terribly sorry. With the police tape on the door…”

A smear of brown, as though someone had started painting the cabinet, determined the color unfit for the general atmosphere of the kitchen and changed his mind, was left on the gray counter and cabinet door. At the bottom of it, what had once been a small puddle, became maroon moss covering a tile and a half of snow-white marble floor.

“…we couldn’t send anyone up to clean. If it’s a good time for you…”

“It’s a perfect time, Jeff,” I raised my voice over a jagged swallow, moving away sideways and stumbling down a set of steps into the living room. The TV flashed on.

“…had passed the bill in a tremendous show of support…”

“Mute,” I said through my teeth.

“I understand. Someone is on their way.” He signed off with another apology as I walked fast through the living room to make the TV turn off. I stopped in the hallway on the other side, not knowing what to do. It was too early to sleep; I didn’t feel like eating. Showering while that spot was still in the kitchen seemed pointless.

I walked around my domain, finally settling on the balcony, the same spot where a bottle of pills had started it all five days earlier. I sat down there and zoned off for a bit, reflecting vaguely on recent events. It wasn’t the most comforting or calming endeavor, as evidenced by the fact that I almost had a heart attack when something began to hum under the chair. I cried out and jumped up, knocking the chair over. It was, of course, only the Auto-Vac.

A minute later, over the tam-tams of my heart I heard the front door open. They could be lightning-fast, these people, after someone else had removed that one puzzling obstacle. There was a woman’s gasp and unintelligible murmur, probably a quick prayer. I stepped out into the hallway, as much out of desire to change the scenery as out of politeness, and faced the maid across the living room. The cursed sucking contraption followed me like a basset, sniffing at my heels.

The woman jumped when she saw me, dropping the handle of her tall, industrial-strength floor cleaner. Something popped open and a cylinder-shaped clip clattered to the floor, rolling through the alcove into the kitchen. Not young. Not pretty. Her eyes, full of embarrassment and horror as though she walked in on me in the shower, shot to my feet and rose up my body in an instinctive, almost too quick to be noticed motion.

“I’m sorry, sir. They didn’t tell me nothing. They just said I need to clean up.”

I gave her an apologetic smile, turning involuntary desire to cover myself up into a gesture of encouragement and consent. With an understanding nod, she gathered the handle and pushed the machine forward. The Auto-Vac, having spotted a relation, gave chase, but could advance no farther than my boot, against which it bumped its mushroom head a couple of times, before I bent down and deactivated the damn thing. As the brief moment of unhumming ended, I went to the study and turned on the computer.

I had 232 messages. It said so on the screen. Normally, a voice would tell me the number of new items in the mail box, but evidently there was no script for two hundred and thirty two.

The overwhelming majority of e-mails were dated today: Monday, October 30th. The overwhelming majority of those had “Congratulations” typed in different holiday fonts in the subject line. I hadn’t gotten that many since I’d won that People’s Choice Award a couple of years back. “Congratulation, Mr. Whales, on account of not killing anyone.” Or maybe, “Congratulations! We are glad the police couldn’t prove…” “Luke, buddy. I just knew it in my heart you weren’t a murderer.”

I scrolled down, deleting them in chunks.

Soon I stumbled on an e-mail with no subject. It was from Jennifer Carlson.

“You know, I kept thinking over the weekend: I was this close to being killed by a psycho ex-husband. Why did he let me live? And today it’s all over the news that you are innocent. So now I am thinking: he did punch Bruce… How can they be suddenly so sure it was not him? Stay away from my house.”

I wondered if she was drunk when she wrote that. She never used to drink. But then, neither did I.

A few dozen deletions down. Subject: Don’t Do It. From: Unknown Sender. I opened it.

“Whales. Don’t try to save them. Even if you could (and you can’t), it would be a waste of time. D.”

I read it and shrugged. Wrong number? Who wasn’t I supposed to save? The whales? My wits? I read it again, pointer hovering above the “Delete” button. Whatever. You got it, friend D. Not saving anyone.

Further down there was a message from Paul Haugen. It read:

“Heard the news. Does this mean you won’t be calling me for another five years? Hehe, hey, no pressure, man. I was glad to hear from you anyway. Glad to hear you’re all right, too. Oh, wait, I didn’t hear if you were all right yet. Are you? Paul.”

Paul! I minimized the mailbox and opened the organizer.

“Call Paul. Today. Important,” I said. Satisfied, I deleted some more messages. There was one from Morgan Chase, titled “I could have made you a star.” Garbage.

Soon there were only two left. The first one was from the FBI.

An imposing, double-headed eagle with a seal appeared on the screen instead of a face.

“Mr. Luke Fredegar Whales,” the eagle said in a well-trained, melodic voice. “This is a call from the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Chicago Branch. The United States Government summons you for a formal witness statement regarding a case of extreme importance. Please appear at our headquarters at your earliest convenience. No appointment is necessary.” He proceeded to give me the address and the phone number. I gestured rudely.

Jimbo’s message was almost as interesting. Only it had his face. Red, cheerful, fake. After he’d gotten through the congratulatory part, he told me the network was willing to consider any vacation requests. That I could show up any time I wanted, but it was no rush.

I was drawn out of the study by noise in the hallway. The maid was pale, but she was done. I rushed towards her, ignoring the TV, and thrust a fifty-dollar bill in her grasp. The kitchen was clean. Sighing and shaking her head she stuffed the money under the apron as I ushered her out the door. Closing it, I leaned my forehead against its cool wood. The apartment was empty, peaceful, normal.

Now for the shower.

I realized two things under the massage of steaming hot water. First one was the fact that I had been real cold until then. Or tense. Or tense from being cold. I felt my body growing, relaxing, swelling with blood, especially the extremities — toes, fingers and so on. The other thing I realized was my stubborn repetition of a phrase “Don’t think of the dogs” in my mind. Although there was no way to be sure, I suspected I had repeated that phrase more than several times since beholding leftovers in the kitchen. So much for speedy recovery.

The good thing was, when I became conscious of my insisting on not thinking about dogs, I stopped insisting it and, eventually, stopped thinking about the dogs.

I went to the bedroom, disconnected the phone, fixed the closet door, which for some reason wouldn’t close, shut the blinds, and slithered under the sheets, intending to take a nap until indefinitely later. “I am back,” I said before closing my eyes.

Chapter Twenty

Brome hugged his little angel gently, wincing from having to bend.

“I missed you, daddy.”

Grace was smiling behind Anna’s back. Brome smiled in return.

“I missed you too. But now I’ll be home for a while.”

“Did you catch the bad guy, then?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Yay!”

“Maybe we’ll go somewhere warm. You want to go to Florida?”

“Disneyworld?”

“Sure, I think we can drop by there.”

“Yay! Are we going today?”

“No, not today. Daddy still has to finish up at the office. Can you wait a couple more days?”

“Thursday?”

“Let’s say Friday, how’s that?”

“Fine.”

“Let’s ask mommy if she’s okay with that.”

“I’d love to,” said Grace.

“Then it’s settled.” Brome clapped his hands, grinning. Suddenly a worried expression came over Anna’s face.

“Daddy?”

“What is it, honey?”

“Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? Of course I’m okay! Why?” Brome glanced at Grace in time to notice a fleeting frown. His daughter was watching his eyes and turned to look at her mother, who was now smiling again. When she faced him again she seemed ready to cry.

“You look like Gumpy again.”

Grace squatted behind her, pulling her close. “Well, of course he does, honey. That’s why we bought Gumpy, remember? Because he looked so much like dad?”

Brome kneeled, taking the girl’s face in his hands. “I though you liked Gumpy, princess.”

She peered at him closely, the pre-crying pucker replaced with seriousness only a child is capable of.

“I do,” she said. “But I like you more.”

Grace went to drop off Anna at the daycare, whispering to him on the way to the door that he should take it easy. The gentle smile, which Brome held on to until the door closed behind his girls, dropped from his face. Suddenly compelled, he hurried to Anna’s room and found the doll clown. Gumpy grinned at him. Gumpy always grinned. Lifting the doll up, Brome went to the mirror. Gumpy had a square face, and so did he, but aside from that Brome failed to detect any resemblance. We’re nothing alike, he thought. I can’t see.

He passed his hand over a sensor to open the drawer and stuffed the clown inside. He looked at himself in the mirror again. “It was you,” he said to his reflection. “It was you who almost got stuffed in the drawer the other night.” Then my baby wouldn’t have the option of choosing between me and Gumpy. But I got the bad guy. Did I get the bad guy? My gun put three bullets in his chest, so I must have, right?

He reached in the pocket of his red pants.

They had disconnected his IV while he was still asleep. Now, almost eight hours later, the medicine was wearing off. Brome knew it was time for the next dose. He wanted nothing more than to take the next dose.

To take it and become normal again. Become Special Agent Gumpy. Like everyone else, only better. Because he would be a regular fed. Or even an exceptional fed. The guy who catches bad guys fast. Like Brighton. He could be better than Brighton even, if he really put an effort. Sky was the limit, if that.

Anna would get used to it soon enough. She was only a four-year-old. It had only been one week. By the time she’s fifteen, she won’t remember a thing of it, he told himself.

And then, when she’s twenty, when she’s halfway through some half-good college, when she gets engaged, or married, or pregnant, she’ll get her own prescription.

He stared in the mirror. “And why the hell not? The world is a fucked up place. We’ll keep it that way for our kids just like our parents kept it for us. It was not our fault, and it won’t be theirs. We couldn’t fix it, but at least, unlike our parents, we invented a pill that will help our children get by. And they will get by. We’re getting by, right? Doing well for ourselves.”

With that he made a round gesture to show his reflection his daughter’s automated room, an adjustable “one size fits all” bed with a neat stack of pink pillows, toys of all shapes and sizes begging to be touched, windows with the weather-sensitive tint, the wallpaper with six different themes available at the push of a button.

The reflection seemed less than impressed. In fact, the guy in the mirror looked pretty sour. “Stop preaching,” he said suddenly. “You want to take it — just take it and feel better.”

Discovering his fingers locked around the small bottle inside the pocket of his favorite pants, which Grace had brought him together with a crisp white t-shirt and matching red jacket to put on at the hospital that morning, Brome pulled his hand out slowly and studied the label. A non-descript sixteen-digit number. A unique, confidential number that wouldn’t mean anything to anybody else. His number.

He pressed the button, releasing the vacuum seal. The bottle hissed open. A small, round pill rolled out into the crease of his palm. With a nod that almost broke his neck, Brome threw the pill into his mouth and ground it into bitter dust. His stomach turned, but he would not go for water. He remained in front of the mirror, chewing and competing in hateful, challenging stares with the guy on the other side.

Chapter Twenty-One

Millard Fillmore, Director of Operations at the Freedom Corp. facility in Long Grove, Illinois, hurried to the helicopter pad on the roof of the seamless obsidian building, dubbed, lovingly, “Freedom’s Tombstone” by the employees, to meet the visitor. It was the 31st of October, a holiday.

There was no sign of a helicopter, which he had expected, uneasily as always, but there was no sign of the visitor either, which lobbed his uneasiness into anxiety half of the field. The north wind blew in jerks and fits, scattering rare clouds this way and that. On the right Millard Fillmore could see the check point: a breach in a twenty-foot-tall black wall, around the top of which a current of electricity lay in ambush like a python, snatching an occasional bird. Useless, he thought, both the wall and the check point. Put a sign “No trespassing. Military Installation.” Stick it on a pole at the branching of the road and no one would approach within a mile. The guards, knowing as much, were probably playing poker in the guardhouse. Or sleeping.

Beyond the wall, brown and yellow hills rolled south, towards the distant spires of the city.

Could have just come down to the office, Millard Fillmore thought bitterly, turning his back to the wind.

“Can’t beat the view here, though,” a woman’s voice said. The Director of Operations turned around slowly, deliberately. The woman looked Asian and wore a red summer dress with spaghetti straps; the skirt flowed in the wind, revealing slightly tanned thighs. Her hair was raven black, short. She would be very much his type — and they knew that — if only she had been human. He shivered, instinctively checking the roof for a helicopter. The woman grinned. Stupid instincts.

“Yes… we have to literally chase away the artists who want to paint the landscape from here. This is like Mecca for them,” he offered. Her grin never wavered. Humor never extended beyond the greeting. They were like those postcards, with one stupid phrase printed and the rest blank for handwriting. Switching to business, he asked, “Change of plans?”

“Change of plans.” The woman walked around him slowly, failing to notice a sudden gust of freezing wind that almost tore the tiny dress off her body. Following her with his eyes as she turned her back to him and stood, staring thoughtfully at the check point below, Fillmore glimpsed a pair of red lace panties. The image of the dress, convulsing like a junkie as it plummeted down into the courtyard appeared in his mind but only for a split second. He didn’t even reach the image of her, standing there in red panties and probably a matching red bra, something he would find very appealing under more human circumstances. He knew the dress couldn’t be torn off her body, because it was her body, or its body.

Immediately, another shiver shook his limbs. No one ever touched a Sobak. In fact, thinking about touching one was also dangerous. Especially after what happened recently. Word got out pretty fast among humans. Most of the medium-level brass had already heard the hushed whisper about the Dog that got blown away in Chicago the other night. Really killed dead. God only knew what that could mean. God! Right…

Now they send a Sobak dressed like a hot thing to tell him they changed their minds again about Whales. And she’s all deliberate about it. She looks almost sad. It’s a trap, he told himself. Better not slip up. Don’t go running your stupid mouth.

“We were going to act upon a guilty and dead subject.” The woman turned around finally, just when Fillmore, cautiously silent, began to shuffle his schedule in his mind to find a spot for a doctor’s appointment on account of frostbite of his left ear. Slowly, hips swaying, she began to walk towards him. He held his ground, trying to prevent his teeth from chattering. “Now he’s innocent and alive. Therefore, change of plans.”

She was real close now, her thin, delicate nose almost touching his chin. Fillmore labored to keep the balls of steam coming out of his mouth steady and even.

“Are you cold?” she asked in a whisper.

“I await instructions,” he managed to say.

“I trust the structure is in place?”

He nodded quickly, eagerly. “Of course. We’ve been ready for months.”

“Good. Your people will have their first solved case. And it will be a big one.”

Fillmore was beginning to understand.

“I see,” he said. And then, stupidly, added. “Has the replacement been found for Whales?”

She looked up and raised her hand. No steam came out from between those flaming red lips.

“No one is irreplaceable,” she said and touched his cheek. Fillmore felt panic rising from somewhere below the back of his neck, rising and melting his facial muscles. The touch was soft and cold, like a jellyfish, but dry like an insect. It took all of his being to fight the desire to simply run away screaming. “But as you can see, even when you are replaced,” the woman continued, retracting her hand. “We may still find use for you.”

Finally, she took a step back. Fillmore stared, without realizing it, straight down at her breasts. Small. No matching bra. Her nipples poked through satin. Then he heard the sound of her shoes on the roof, evoked, seemingly, for his benefit. With a start, he followed the visitor through the door into the elevator.

Chapter Twenty-Two

When I woke up, I was certain my dream had been unpleasant. I didn’t really know what it was about, but somehow I felt really good that it was over. Still, when I, squinting from a horizontal sunbeam my blinds had neglected to quarantine, looked down over the orange steppe of my blanket, I spotted a characteristic, newly erected mound on the horizon. Since a Scythian tribe passing through my bedroom seemed like a farfetched idea even for my last couple of days, I had to conclude that I had a hard-on.

I got out of bed and called Iris.

Not because of the erection. I don’t know about you, but in my experience morning erections, especially when you wake up alone, rarely constitute the feeling of sexual arousal. First thing registering in my emphatic mind is usually a concern regarding the time my penis has had to strain against the binds of underwear standing in the way of its desire to recline on my stomach. After that I get up and walk to the bathroom, trying to figure out a way to urinate without getting into yoga position. Unsuccessfully. It was on my way to the john that I decided to call Iris. Not because of the hard-on. I just thought, “Whatta hell.”

Dialing the number I noted the time: 9.23 AM. It was only then that I realized it was the morning of the next day. My nap lasted about twenty hours.

“Hello?” a sleepy male voice said. My monitor slipped into a sunset-over-ocean wallpaper.

“Hi… Is Iris there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could you please check and call her to the phone if she is?”

“Yeah, why not. Iris! Are you home? Phone!”

I waited a few minutes. There was a noise like bones cracking, then her voice.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” I said. “It’s Luke. You want to have breakfast? With me?” There was the tiniest of pauses. Probably long enough for her to think, “Whatta hell.”

“Sure. I’m hungry. Where do you want to eat?”

“Well… With all the attention I’ve been getting lately, I thought to stay in.”

“Do you have food?”

“No. No, I don’t. And I can’t really cook. But I can order.”

“Chinese?”

“If that’s what you prefer.”

“Hunan shrimp.”

“Done. When should I pick you up?”

“Just give me the address.”

I did.

“See you in a few,” she said. “Oh, and get a side order of pot-stickers.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Water.”

“Got it.”

She disconnected. I took a shower, put on a new pair of boxers and went to the study. “Important! Call Paul!” was flashing on the monitor.

“That was important yesterday,” I said. “Today Iris is coming for breakfast. Call Paul Haugen.”

The telephone would not. Paul’s number was not in the memory. I knew I had dialed it manually only a few days earlier, remembering it somehow after all those years, but today I hadn’t a clue. Thankfully, I located Paul’s resume, of all things, in the old files somewhere in the dusty basement of my computer. I input the information into the phonebook, saved it and said again, “Call Paul.”

Several seconds later Paul’s cheeky face under a mess of blond hair appeared on the screen. Contact lenses: one black, one green. (His favorite book had always been “Master and Margarita.” He’d even claimed he could understand the humor.) Hadn’t changed a pimple. But Paul wasn’t home. The face was a recorded message.

“Hello, you. I am either not home or it’s my fuck-the-phone day. Leave a message and maybe I’ll call you back.”

I left him a message and hung up. Fuck the phone day, I thought. That reminded me that I didn’t have a cell phone. Immediately, I dialed Jimbo. Christie picked up.

“Luke! We’re so glad you’re all right!” She positively beamed with fakeness. She hated my guts and she knew that I knew it. But I could tell she was getting better at it. I offered her my most charming smile.

“Hi, baby. I missed you the most, you know. You look ravishing as always. Is Jim around?”

“Let me check.” She put me on a brief hold. That sunset filled the screen again. If the picture was made in the U. S., it has to be Pacific, I thought idly as I waited. Unless, of course, it was shot from the west coast of Florida. Or Cuba, which, for all intends and purposes counted as U.S., even if they still had their own government there. Christie returned. “Mr. Cornwell is ready for you, Luke. It was nice seeing you again.”

“I am going to come visit you in person soon, don’t you worry.”

“We can’t wait.” She patched me through, lipstick smile lingering on the display surface like Cheshire Cat’s.

Jimbo tried to be professionalism incarnate in his blue suit and red tie and platinum watch and cufflinks, but it’s kind of hard to do when it seems like you don’t have enough skin on your face. He began to recite a network memo he’d memorized for the occasion, but I cut him off.

“Jim,” I said. “I need a cell. I lost mine somewhere.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll have it delivered to you.” He typed something with one finger.

“So who’s been covering for me?”

“No one, really. The network brings a new random star for a guest appearance every day.”

“No shit. Anyone people would recognize?”

“You would be surprised how many half-faded has-beens are trying to cash in on the attention our show has been getting these last few days. The network is saving a bunch on paychecks. Some of these guys are willing to pay us just to host the show.”

“That’s why the network is ‘prepared to consider any vacation requests,’ huh? But what about the ratings?”

“Like I said, with your search going national, the ratings are off the scale no matter who’s in the armchair. They are so high the execs aren’t certain we could do any better even if you came back.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Is my job in question here? You know this buzz is going to die down in a week.”

“Oh, no, old sport. I agree. Now that you’re… you know…”

“What? Innocent?”

“No, but yes, to them. You know what I mean. They will definitely want you now, but…”

“But?”

“Speaking of cells, the execs want to first make sure your… medication trouble resolves.”

“Medication trouble? What the hell kind of business of theirs is it? And what cells have to do with it, anyway?”

“You do know about the new law enforcement agency, right? So the mention of cells was sort of a joke.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The ‘Rexes.’ They already got a nickname for them. The Rx-cops. Have your kidnapper tortured you with TV cold turkey? They just gave it a go, but these folks are already working like they’ve been doing it for years. Like they’ve been lying in wait.”

“I think I am more confused now that you explained it to me.”

“It’s like the police that are going to be investigating all crimes committed or allegedly committed… how should I put it… under the lack of influence of drugs?” He chuckled amiably and his third chin trembled. “Rx-cops.”

I just stared. My brain was working double time, but this was turning out to be a tougher nut to crack than some of old Dr. Young’s musings. The prescription police?

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How did they manage to get it through the Parliament?” Jimbo would have puckered his face if he could; I heard it in his voice.

“Get it through the Parliament?” he echoed absently. “How should I know? What’s the normal way? I guess they got the majority of the votes, or something.” Which, of course, was the repetition or my question rephrased, but he didn’t see it, and I was pretty sure he had no better answer for me, so I let it go.

“Right,” I said. “But what does it have to do with me? The news said I was innocent, right? So it must be true. I didn’t commit anything under the lack of influence.”

He lowered his voice and brought his face closer. “Luke, old sport, you dodged the draft.”

Oh yeah, there was that. To be honest, I had completely forgotten about my unpatriotic ways. I nodded and he leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

“Allegedly dodged the draft,” I corrected him feebly. He raised both hands in the sign of victorious surrender.

“And by the way,” I added. “I thought you were taking care of that mistaken draft notice.”

“We could have done something before… But now that—”

“I see.” I knew what he meant. The execs didn’t want to mess with the new law enforcement agency. Nor they wanted to mess with me until the case of “avoiding the draft under the lack of influence of antidepressant medication” got resolved. I needed a real lawyer. I needed Larry.

I hung up on Jimbo, promising much to his chagrin to stop by and say hi to everybody.

I spent some time in thought there at the desk in my boxers. Larry could wait. In light of recent events that Rex-cop business sounded positively silly. Iris was coming, and I still hadn’t ordered the food. So I called Jeffrey and took care of that. I also described Iris to him.

Food arrived in twenty minutes. A Chinese (I presumed) lady, who looked like she was in her late thirties, which meant she must have been over fifty, delivered a plastic bag full of white paper buckets and packages of condiments to my door. The containers reminded me of my college days. Back then we ate Chinese takeout from a closet-size place on Church around five times a week. In over a decade that had passed since, the containers and packages of soy sauce and sweet and sour sauce remained exactly the same. It must have been the last thing untouched by progress.

I paid cash and took the food to the living room, despite the TV. I was going to switch to the cartoons, but remembering what Jimbo had told me, kept the news on. Sure enough, in less than a minute the shapely, pouty Vitalina confirmed Jimbo’s report. I, meanwhile, tore the plastic bag and arranged the containers in tallest-to-shortest order on the magazine table. Then I placed the red, yellow and brown packages in a circle around them and a set of plastic silverware on a napkin on either side. Pleased, I sat back in the sofa and gave myself over to Vitalina and a certain Frank Polokakis, “our political analyst from the Capitol Hill.”

Iris showed up some fifteen minutes later. The fervent Polokakis was just about to analyze me into a spitting episode. I had to wipe the saliva from the corner of my mouth, before Iris thought I was drooling. And I could have been drooling just as well.

She wore the same black cashmere jacket, but under it were a tight-fitting red wool v-neck sweater and a short loose red skirt. Calf-high black leather boots finished the ensemble.

“Hi, Luke,” she said as I, with my mouth open, turned sideways, motioning for her to proceed to the living room. She handed me the jacket.

“You look…” I started — she turned to me, face mischievously expectant — and failed to finish.

“Thanks.” She smiled and went to the living room. I stared first at her back then after her, until I heard “Are we going to eat or play Trivial Pursuit?”

Hurriedly, I stuffed the coat in the closet.

“That’s not a game,” I replied when I caught up. “That’s a table for two. You want wine, or really just water?”

“Wine is fine, if it’s red.”

“It’s red.” I went to the rack and slid out a bottle of Pinot and two glasses.

“I see you’re watching the…”

“Have you heard about it?”

“Yeah, last night. You realize, of course, that in five years at the most, not taking a pill as prescribed will itself be a crime.”

“Probably sooner, seeing how quickly they started.”

She nodded. I poured the wine. She picked up her glass and turned towards me. I raised my own glass.

“Have they come visit you yet?”

“Who?”

“The Rexes.”

“Why would…?” I sighed. “No, but I think they will pretty soon. My bosses seem to think so, anyway.”

“Vacation, then?”

“Or medical leave.”

“Well, you get paid for doing nothing.”

“But less than I got paid for doing nothing before.”

She smiled, took a sip and started opening the containers.

We drank wine and ate shrimp and rice and scallops with sand in them, and watched the news. Aside from the Parliament’s latest tremendous display of support, there was a man who opened fire at an office in Atlanta, shooting five coworkers dead and wounding three, twenty inches of snow in Rome, tension along the Chinese-Indian border, a fire on the West Side that killed four people including two children, a small plane crashed two miles from a suburban airport, a late tropical storm brewing in the Caribbean, something about a bubble under Yellowstone that was long overdue, clouds in Chicago, with chances of rain, snow, hale and sunshine, a town of Hajim, liberated by our troops in the Middle East with minimal casualties, Bird Flu confirmed in Oslo, the Support-The-Troops holiday celebrations attracting the biggest number of patriots yet across the United States, including a dozen of top-listed pop-divas touring together through the military bases and camps, President would fly on official business to Vatican in two days or as soon as the airport is cleared of snow, and, at some point, there was a modest, presumably final note regarding yours truly. Of course, yours truly also starred in a couple of commercials, a healthy dose of which provided much needed breaks between the stories.

Despite that digital assault on sanity, I managed to keep up my upbeat attitude with the help of frequent glances at Iris’s legs. Iris appeared completely immune to the crap being poured into the living room through the 80-inch-wide window and proceeded to eat and giggle and point and shake her head, as though she was watching a comedy. She even made fun of my hair in the BOACC ad. As I conceded, with a mockingly hurt grimace, that my hair indeed looked like Gary Cody’s in “Born Free,” I wondered excitedly if she was nervous.

I knew I was. Like a homeless beagle in Seoul. Not at all fitting a man of my experience and, shall we say, mileage.

After breakfast we took our wine and I, nervously, offered to give her a tour of the place, strategically placing the bedroom to be the last waypoint of the itinerary. We looked out on the lake from the balcony, walked cautiously by the kitchen, visited the study and the fake Munch, the skill of whose forger she vigorously complimented, then finally, after I almost shoved her in and out of the bathroom, we reached the boudoir.

“This is it,” I said with a grand round gesture and leaned on the doorframe to try and appear nonchalant. The trouble was, I didn’t know what else to say or do. I opened my mouth and closed it. Opened it again, and this time she saw me closing it. I was pretty sure by then my face was becoming the color of the wine we’d drunk. For once, Iris dispelled my embarrassment instead of causing it.

She grinned and came close and said my silliness was cute. Then she rose to her tiptoes and kissed me. Off went the orange blanket, settling like a parachute over our clothes landing on the floor.

Later we lay in bed and neither of us was nervous anymore. We looked out of the window at the steel clouds pierced by sunbeams that looked like traces of God’s arrows. I placed my hand on her lower back.

“Iris?”

“Hmm?”

“Who are you, Iris?”

“I am a time traveler from the past.”

“From the past?”

“The past is the easiest to be a time traveler from.”

“Not really. If they invented a time machine in the past, how come we don’t have it now?”

“You don’t know a thing about what we do and do not have.”

“Maybe you have a point there. But if I was a time traveler, I would be from the future.”

“The future?”

“Well, there are really two choices. You can’t very well be a time traveler from the present.”

“Sure you can.”

She lifted her head and stared down at me; her hair, coal-black, a mess around her Asiatic-shaped, aquamarine eyes.

“I can’t believe you’d rather be from the future, though. You have a chance to use a time machine and you use it to travel to the past?”

“What’s wrong with the past?”

“It already happened. You would waste a chance of a lifetime to see something that’s already happened?”

I looked out of the window again. The clouds have regrouped, united and patched up the wounds. Maybe even forgotten about them already. Maybe I could get there before a certain thing happened. Leaving the thought a thought I have suddenly located another reason, not a fake one, but a more conversational truth it seemed to me.

“I am just not too sure about the future, you know?”

She didn’t answer. I squinted at her. She was looking back, smiling. Such and innocent, girlie smile she had.

“You think he’s right,” I stated accusingly.

“I don’t think he’s lying.”

“He might be crazy.”

“Wouldn’t necessarily make him wrong.”

“But it doesn’t make sense.”

“Wouldn’t necessarily make it wrong.”

“Can’t we talk about time machines instead?”

“We are.”

“A time traveler from present, you mean?” She just grinned, pushed away and got out of bed.

“Good thing you showed me the bathroom,” she dropped casually over her shoulder. I snickered.

“What do you suggest I do?” I called after her. I heard the water running, and the bathroom door closed. Falling back onto the pillow, I closed my eyes and imagined her there, naked, in front of the mirror wall, splashing freezing water over her face. Her hair got stuck to her cheeks; her lips moved soundlessly, but I read the single word they constructed easily.

“Survive.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Iris went home soon after the shower, declining my offer to move in, but giggling as she did. As I closed the door behind her and stood in the hallway, I suddenly grinned, warm despite being stark naked. Warm and at home I felt, for the first time in at least four months, but likely in a lot longer. Four months of lonely dread and four days of horror had been dispelled by just three hours spent with her. Those hours did more to make me believe that I could, in fact, go back to my normal life, than all the news coverage in the world. They also made me believe it was possible to anticipate something beautiful after making love rather than before it. I could have sworn even Jennifer never roused such feelings in me.

“I think I am in love,” I said aloud to sum it up, goose bumps advancing up my spine.

Thus upbeat, mind full of Iris, I drove several blocks to the FBI headquarters. A couple of News Vans started after me as I emerged from the parking garage, but the Winger made short work of those.

At the FBI building, as pristine and hectic as a psychiatric ward, I was led into a small room with comfortable leather armchairs resembling those we had on the show. There, three polite agents and I spoke at length about my adventures. Actually, they spoke at length, and I did little more than nod affirmatively to their questions, which were supposed to confirm the line of events the Bureau’s brilliant minds had reconstructed from clues. They didn’t seem to (and obviously neither did I, given the circumstances) care for any version of events other than their own, so it wasn’t surprising when we all came to the conclusion that their story hadn’t had a single incorrect assumption in it. We exchanged pleasantries — they congratulated me and I complimented them on the job well-done — and I got up to leave.

That’s when one of them, a man I would not recognize if I ran him over with my Winger twenty minutes later, extracted from somewhere a black briefcase, which slid open to reveal my shiny semi-automatic. Very nearly made my jaw pop out of joint.

I got suspicious. “Never seen a murder weapon returned in any of the police dramas,” I said.

They got a good chuckle out of that one.

“We would certainly understand if you preferred for us to keep it, Mr. Whales,” the tall fed, Agent Bright One or something, said finally when the smiles were turned off.

“Can’t possessing a murder weapon implicate me somehow?” Their merriment was renewed.

Bright One shook his head. “Not unless it’s used again. The case is also yours, Mr. Whales. It has a good lock. Compliments of the Bureau. To add to that official apology.”

So I took the gun and the briefcase and, instead of stopping by the network, drove straight home, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

At the garage check point I was halted by Jeffrey’s face.

“Mr. Whales.”

“How is it going, Jeffrey?”

“Very good, sir. I have a package for you. Would you like me to bring it upstairs?”

“A package?” I asked, and for some reason glanced at the briefcase on the passenger seat.

“Yes, sir. I believe it’s a telephone.”

“A cell phone! Of course. It’s all right, Jeffrey. I’ll pick it up on my way.”

“Very good, sir. But…” Here he brought his face closer to the cam, spilling it beyond the borders of the screen on my side. Anxiety, so recently banished, sprung up inside me again. What could it be this time? I held my breath, waiting. “But there are reporters here,” he finished gravely.

I exhaled and even laughed. I must really be rattled, I thought. A gun that I myself chose and bought had me driving with both hands on the steering wheel. Now a pair of reporters almost spooked me into cold sweat. What’s next? A shoe squeak will cause a heart failure? I guess one day isn’t quite enough to heal my nervous system, even it if is, possibly, the happiest day of my life.

“Thanks for warning me, Jeffrey,” I said cheerfully. “I’ll be right there.”

I should have had Jeffrey deliver it. That was the wrong heroism opportunity to take advantage of. Instead of a pair, there were a couple dozen reporters with cameras on their heads swarming out of every corner of the vestibule as soon as I set my foot out of the elevator.

Taken aback, but only for the moment it took the professional instincts to kick in, I smiled and nodded and answered the same questions they’d asked me at the FBI, the only difference being the phrasing. FBI: “Upon entering your dwelling on the early afternoon of October the 28th, was your life directly threatened by a weapon held in Mr. Freud’s hand?” Media: “It must have been a horrific experience to open the door of you home and find a corpse and a gun brandished by a deranged man pointed at your head? What were his first words?” Uh-huh.

I don’t know why I did what I did as my closing act, but it seemed like a cute idea at the time. I opened the briefcase and showed them the gun, preceding its appearance with a nasal, Chase-like “Murder Weapon” announcement.

Let me tell you, when the Russian President had gone public with the “Vodka Tax” a couple of months earlier, the Red Square might have witnesses more raw emotion than the lobby of my building was presently enduring, but it wouldn’t win by too large a margin. You wouldn’t believe that much noise could be produced by twenty pneumatic drills, much less twenty reporters. I couldn’t make out a word they were saying, but at that point no one cared. They were oblivious to me. Their eyes stared unblinkingly at the gun as they continued to scream their questions. It was the gun the questions were directed at. Which was ultimately to my advantage. I was able to close the briefcase and, disregarding their collective groan, slip quietly out to the elevator, while they remained in orgasmic shock.

In blissful silence I entered my home, just in time to see myself — and the Silver Killer — “live” on TV.

I opened the package and caught my fingers punching in Iris’s digits. Shaking my head happily, I dialed Paul instead. This time he picked up.

“Luke?” he gasped. “What the hell, man? I’m watching you live on TV.”

“That was about five minutes ago.”

“How is it ‘live’ then?”

“Everything within thirty minutes is ‘live.’”

“Shit, well, that suddenly seems like a freaking rip-off.”

“I thought you worked for a network.”

“Yeah, but I was in sound. You know: lower the volume for entertainment, crank it up for commercial breaks.”

“That was you!” I exclaimed. “I always hated that.”

“I’m sure you did. Your mug was in half of those commercials. Speaking of your mug. How come you’re not on my display? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I am ‘live’ on your TV.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Just unpacked the cell.”

“Ah.” I heard the noise in the background stop. “So tell me what the hell really happened to you.”

“Come visit, and I will. And bring a bottle of something strong with you. All I have here is wine and I don’t want to go back out there.”

He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll show up. Got any food?”

“No, but I could order Chinese.”

He ordered beef and hung up.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Special Agent Brome read the transcript of Whales’s deposition at his desk, while everyone stopped by to express their congratulations, surprise at his being in the office and concerns regarding his health. To be sure, he was feeling not a little sick. Only some of it was caused by the lingering aftertaste of the greenish vomit he’d splashed all over the toilet back at his house.

Maybe it was good he hadn’t been present during Whales’s visit. Brighton, who was now gazing down at him from his perch on the corner of the desk, had said as much.

But Brome was in a bad mood. He was well past his usual, diplomatic indifference.

He closed the digital file, got up from his chair, bent down towards his partner and, having still retained enough control not to raise his voice, hissed, “This is bullshit.”

Brighton grimaced. “You see? That’s why you shouldn’t have come back today—”

“Listen,” Brome cut him off, deepening the grimace. “I was there. I don’t know what it was I shot, but it sure as hell wasn’t a fat mustached guy in a leather jacket.”

“Three bullets fired from your gun are still in his chest.”

“I was knocked out. Someone could—”

“Who? Whales? The old man? The chick? Why?”

“I don’t know why. And I don’t know who—” Brome did raise his voice now. Several heads turned and it was Brighton’s turn to hiss.

“Calm down. You aren’t thinking clearly. You should go back home—”

Brome inhaled deeply. “What about the holes?”

Brighton didn’t answer. For a moment he seemed thoughtful. Brome pointed down at the desk.

“There’s not a word about the holes in the walls in there. Did anyone bother to ask for an explanation of that? Or did you think this Dr. Young simply had a strange interior design taste?”

“Yes, the holes are bizarre,” Brighton admitted. “But we found an extremely high caliber weapon inside, which presumably belonged to Dr. Young. I tell you, that thing could make holes.”

“Why did Whales forget to mention it in his statement? And we forgot to ask him about it.” Some of that diplomacy was returning. Otherwise, Brome would have said, “You forgot to ask him.” Brighton caught the meaning nonetheless.

“It’s not that important. The important thing is he confirmed there was an altercation between Freud and the rest of them, which escalated. He confirmed the before and the after, and he didn’t get hit by a car.”

“I saw a black shape,” Brome said slowly. “What I shot at was a black shape over seven feet tall. I don’t know who or what it was, but I am guessing that same shape knocked me out and killed—”

Evidently, Brighton had had enough. He got off the desk and became taller than Brome once again.

“You got hit on the head,” he said.

“I remember it clearly—”

“Enough,” Brighton cut him off, raising his hand and lowering his voice. “It might seem clear to you, but you put that in the report, and I guarantee you’ll be chasing Internet movie pirates for the rest of your career. The case is closed, as far as The Bureau is concerned. Whales is innocent; the psycho is dead. Cops are searching for the hit-and-run driver and they probably will not find him. I don’t care. Go home, take a pill and think about it. Better yet, don’t think about it. Your vacation has already been approved.”

With that and a slap on the shoulder, Brighton retired to his own desk.

He was right, Brome knew. Brighton was right about the report, and Brome had just been threatened. He doubted the mention of medication had been Brighton’s own idea. Most likely his partner had been specifically instructed on how to deal with Brome’s predictable stubbornness regarding his vacation. Someone must have overlooked the doctor-patient confidentiality clause.

What are they going to do, Brome thought as he looked about his desk in search of personal items to take home, give me over to the prescription cops? There had never been anything personal on his desk, he remembered. The thought about the Rexes renewed the bitter taste in his mouth, because it was when he had turned on the news, having just won the mute insult contest against his reflection and having manly consumed the pill without water, that Special Agent Brome lurched to the bathroom to regurgitate his future as a normal citizen and Super Agent Gumpy.

He didn’t bother with customary elevator theatrics on the way to the garage.

* * *

A bench made of two logs and a wide untreated plank had no back, so it faced both east and west. Around it, like giant hooded druids arranged in a Stonehenge-like circle, stood six gnarled elms. Their stooping sinewy limbs were bare. On this Caribbean island they were the only subjects of the flora kingdom that remembered autumn.

The elms also remembered Britain, from where their new landlord had them moved. They were the last survivors of the ancient British breed consumed by the Dutch disease.

Their savior presently sat on the bench wrapped in his customary black wool coat, which caused him no discomfort in the eighty-degree heat. He faced east, staring at the lightening horizon. His attention, however, was directed northwards. It was from the north the beam came, causing the man’s form to blur briefly.

—You killed a Sobak.

—Lower caste. A Seeker.

—You broke the rule.

—I believed you.

—Do you know when the last Sobak was killed?

—Wasn’t that a couple of years back?

The man’s lips stretched into a smile.

—They think it was me.

—Or one of your friends.

—Same thing.

—If I am you, I do not want to be in Chicago right now.

—But you are in Chicago.

—I am very inconspicuous.

—You came closer to being discovered than you know. A stupid prank, or mistake, almost led them to you.

—Someone played a prank on a Sobak? One of yours?

—No. But one of mine reports the prankster is still alive because they think he is mine.

—Feeling sorry for him?

—Just telling you to be careful.

—Noted. What now?

—Now Whales is in trouble.

—Now he’s in trouble?

—Before they thought he was just a pawn in my game of messing up their plans.

—Before a Seeker was killed to protect Whales’s life.

—Right.

—So why is he still whole?

—I don’t know. Maybe they don’t know what to make of it yet. After all, I haven’t acted overtly in… a couple of years? Maybe they will try and find use for him to contest my efforts. Maybe they want to bait me. Or think they already have. They do know that I don’t have many friends left who can kill a seeker. And they are watching Chicago.

—I know, but they cannot detect my transmissions.

—That fact could lead them to you as well.

—I did not think of that. That’s why I am just an errand boy.

—We will have to wait for their next move. It will not be long.

—What if their next move kills Whales?

—It will be an elaborate death. We should be able to react.

—I’ll pass that along to reassure him.

—Where did you pick that up?

—What? The humor?

—Yes.

—Same place you did.

The beam wavered and was gone. The dark-haired man rose from the bench, glanced northwards and grinned.

“From humans,” he said to the elms.

* * *

There weren’t any holes, not even the variety known as “windows,” in the faded façade of a one-story edifice that housed the “Temple of God,” but the place looked even more uninhabited than the ruined house Special Agent Brome had just revisited. After a brief inspection and a futile rap on the door, Brome drove around the block and parked the car in the building’s parking lot.

Three feet away from the grill of his “Chrysler,” the back door hung half-open.

Immediately, Brome experienced the distinct feeling of being baited. Like the majority of other bait targets who become aware of being baited, he decided that the target’s awareness of being baited equals the baiter’s failure and removed the safety from his gun. Leaving the car door ajar, he stepped inside.

Even though it was early afternoon, it was early November afternoon, and on top of that clouds sucked into the city from the lake seemed to have gathered purposely in the southwestern corner of the sky, casting a kind of macabre twilight over the land. Inside the narrow hallway darkness was almost pitch black.

As Brome navigated the first silent passage sideways, to let the thin light from the open door illuminate the way, his grip on the weapon tightened. He wasn’t really scared, although a thought had occurred to him that it would be very hard to quickly notice a dark shape in some corner, even it was seven feet tall. His tension was of another, frustrating kind, the kind he owed to years not of work in the field, but of watching “thrillers” and police dramas on TV.

He expected some stupid cat, or a rodent, or a random hollow object to fall off a shelf suddenly and scare the bee-gees out of him. The feeling of anticipation was almost unbearable. Brome found it very hard to keep himself from making a loud noise just to break the silence before something else had the chance to. He stopped, took a deep breath, loosened his hold on the handle and continued. Then he remembered that usually, when the goof who freaks out at some mundane mammal turns around sighing with relief and embarrassment, he finds some ugly, huge, but ninja-like stealthy brute holding a melee weapon of choice two inches away from his nose.

In short, Special Agent Brome was aching all over and trying to keep sharp.

He turned the corner and found himself in now complete darkness. After a brief hesitation he flicked on the gun-mounted flashlight. Its blue cone revealed a shorter corridor ending in a doorway. The door that was supposed to shield that doorway stood leaning neatly on the wall to the left.

Here comes the cat, Brome thought, as he stepped through into an office left in state of extensive disarray. A desk lay on its side, two chairs lay on their sides and piles of paper had been thrown around the room, with some visibly torn to pieces. It seemed impossible to keep silent there, and he listened for a while before taking another step. He heard nothing. Stepping lightly, he passed through the room and the door on its other end. He entered the auditorium, with many folding chairs placed in rows and a single broken window in the middle of the ceiling. The gray rectangle on the floor directly under it shone with bits of glass and was dotted with first drops of rain. Despite the abundance of easily moveable furniture here, only the pulpit had been toppled.

Halfway up the left wall, at the end of an aisle, he saw what must have been the front door. To his right there was another, smaller door, and he swung the beam of his flashlight towards it, moving cautiously, ears straining.

There was nothing to hear aside from whispers of the wind in the window above. The sign on the door read “Meditation and Maintenance.” It opened into something like a large panty, with cabinets on every wall and an overturned cot in the middle. An unbroken window looked out on the parking lot. All of the cabinets were left ajar and empty. White powder on the floor suggested flour, or medicine crushed under a boot. A blanket and a pillow had been tossed into a corner.

A smudge near the cot turned out to be blood. Not only did we break in and messed up the church, we also found someone sleeping on the cot in the back, made him bleed a bit on the floor and took him for a ride. No concealing the deeds here, he thought, kneeling beside the cot and noting the blood’s freshness. Why?

He packed the gun and went back to the car, deep in thought. Outside the back door, under the wall crouched a black cat, seeking shelter from the rain.

It meowed and disappeared in the darkness of the hallway, as Brome dialed the police and started off, towards the rain and the city.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Over spicy beef, and later over shots of “Stolichnaya,” I told Paul the real story, starting from the cylindrical UFO “PillBottle-1” and ending in the news program I’d watched about myself at the North Side gay bar. Eating Chinese for the second time that day was nice, in a nostalgic sort of way, but the beef had nothing on the mighty “Stoli.” By the time I was done with food, I had to wrestle with myself not to continue the tale into play-by-play log of Iris’s visit. The honorable “I” finally won that fight, limiting the would-be story to an exuberant mention of me being in love.

Paul, on the other hand, showed surprising resilience to the Russian Tears. I say surprising, because back in college Paul had always been the one unconscious in the photos. Unconscious and naked from the waist up. But now I was the one feeling like my overpriced sofa was a tree-legged stool on some brig in the middle of a storm, and Pauly, like a sea wolf boatswain, with rum instead of blood in his veins, kept refilling the glasses with a steady, despite the gale, hand. He did believe my story on the first try, though, so I don’t know.

“Argh, man,” he said when I summed my tale up with yet another shot. “He’s fucking right.” He probably didn’t say, “Argh.”

“What?”

“The doctor… pastor guy. They want us to blow the place up.”

“Et tu, Brute? But why?”

“Why? Who the hell needs a ‘why’ when you have spaceships!”

“OK… Why don’t they do it themselves, then?”

“It’s more fun that way? I don’t know. They’re aliens for Pete’s sake. Next time you see one, ask’em.”

It was still early, but his logic was already beginning to wear down on me.

“You though,” he went on. “Why aren’t you in your Winger halfway down to nowhere? What, you think after seeing what you’ve seen, they’re just going to let you sit there eating shit on national TV with someone about commercials? I mean, boys who can change shape tried to kill you and you’re still alive. Never mind if they really were angels.”

“At least one of those things got whacked in the process. Maybe they don’t want to mess with me anymore.”

Paul gazed at me incredulously. “Is that supposed to be logic or humor? Either way, I think you’ve had one too many.”

“What, now I have to take logic lessons from Mr. Spaceships?”

“The dudes were there to kill you! What the hell changed since?”

“I was a wanted man, a murderer on the run. Now the public knows I am innocent.”

“The public knows! What good is that? You think they’re going to organize a protest rally when your corpse washes up on North Avenue beach? Demand a thorough investigation? Start a riot? Even if your glorious public farted all at once in outrage — and really, you’d have to be a little bigger than Luke Whales the snob TV star for your average Joe down in Des Moines to put down his ham on rye and open his mouth, not to mention lifting his fat ass from the couch — a twenty says the shape-shifting guys wouldn’t smell a whiff of it. And you wouldn’t care by then anyway, cos you’d be dead.”

“The public knows,” he scoffed again. “You work on TV. You should be the last one to rely on public and their knowledge. Think it’ll be hard to make the public ‘know’ you slit your wrists, because that new girlfriend of yours broke your heart? Or better yet, make them ‘know’ she was a junkie and shot you, because you refused to give her a hundred for a fix.”

“I have a gun,” I said and showed him the gun.

“There!” he shouted gleefully, almost dropping the bottle. “She could use your gun! That prick Dwayne Robinson will have an aneurysm. ‘The Cursed Gun Gets Its Owner!’”

This discussion wasn’t going as planned. Paul poured me a comforting shot, and I tossed it down my throat.

“Why…” I started, but had to pause to scrunch my face, as a mighty shudder shook me. “Why am I still alive?”

He thought about it. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, man. Maybe they’re coming up with the best story to give to the vigilant public. Although… I’m surprised it’s taking them as long as it is.”

At that moment the door bell rang. Thankfully, I was drunk. Had I not been, I am afraid I would have discharged the weapon I still grasped and hurt somebody. Instead, Paul and I froze in our seats, staring at each other. Not really a rigid “froze,” more like a frozen gelatin.

It rang again.

“Shit,” I said. “Jeffrey.”

“Who’s Jeffrey?” Paul whispered. He was soberer than I and probably more scared.

“The concierge.”

“That him at the door?”

“No. He always warns me on intercom when someone’s coming up.”

“Maybe someone from the building then?” Which sounded like a rational enough idea. Only somehow I didn’t think so.

“Probably,” I said buoyantly and lifted the pistol. I got up from the couch and, leaving my shoes behind for stealth purposes, crept in socks to the door.

The bell rang again, urgently this time.

I pressed the camera button. A panel slid away, revealing the display and the corridor immediately in front of my door. Leaning on the wall with my back and holding the gun up high, I peered at it from an angle.

There was a man outside. A human. Or at least he looks human, I reminded myself. He was dressed in black suit and tie and would have looked like a fed, only I’d never seen an unshaven and uncombed fed. His dishevelment relaxed me somewhat. It was hard to imagine a shape-shifter disguising himself as an unshaven federal agent.

“Yes?” I asked the microphone. The man outside was just about to ring the bell again. Hearing my voice from the speaker, he turned to the camera. The camera zoomed in. Square face. Bags under blue eyes. Wrinkles.

“Mr. Whales?”

“Yes.”

He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. “Special Agent Brome, FBI.”

Suddenly his dishevelment wasn’t very relaxing. I glanced back at Paul, who had risen from his chair and was standing on the first step that led out of the living room into the hallway. As our eyes met, his narrowed, and he moved his chin slightly to the left. He felt the same way.

“How do I know you’re really FBI?” I asked aloud.

“I am showing you my ID,” the man said patiently and moved the hand with the wallet a little bit from side to side.

“An ID is easily forged,” I parried, trying not to slur. I was bluffing, of course. I didn’t know the first thing about the degree of difficulty involved in the process of forging government-issued documents.

“I assure you mine is genuine.”

“I just came back from FBI,” I said. “I answered questions and had the impression we were quite done. Why didn’t they tell me an agent was coming to see me later?”

“I know you were there today, Mr. Whales. I read your statement. As to why they didn’t tell you I would be coming… they don’t know I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’d rather not discuss it through the door.” He put the wallet away, and as he did I glimpsed the handle of a gun in the under-arm holster. “I was the man you saw from the lawn in front of Dr. Young’s house.”

“Then how are you walking?”

“With a great deal of pain. If you let me in, I’ll gladly display the bruises on my back.”

“I don’t like bruises,” I said, unlocking the door and pulling it towards me. And not too crazy about men’s backs either. Suddenly remembering, as he walked with a nod past me, I added, “Oh, and I have a gun in my hand behind the door here. I don’t want you to be alarmed by it and shoot me or something.”

He stopped and turned around, staring, as I pushed the door forward, revealing the pistol. He must have smelled the fumes, because he didn’t seem entirely at ease.

“I appreciate you telling me,” he said imploringly, like a regular fed in a police drama. “Now if you just put it away…”

“Already done,” I assured him and, seizing the gun by the barrel, went to the living room and put it on the magazine/drinking table. I showed the fed my hands. He came down the steps, giving the room a quick once-over and the TV, which was playing a cartoon on mute, a frown. I motioned for him to sit down and dropped on the couch. Across the table, Paul nodded in greeting, having magically reappeared in the armchair.

“Special Agent Brome,” I hastened to introduce. “My friend Paul.”

He eyed Paul interestedly, I thought even amusedly for a moment, then sat down on the opposite side of the couch, clasped his hands together and turned to me.

“Bullets fired from my gun got stuck in Lloyd Freud’s chest,” he stated flatly.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked.

“No, thanks,” he said. “Actually, yes.”

Paul poured vodka in his own shot glass and went to the cupboard to get another one. The fed downed a drink like he was chasing something with it.

“I didn’t shoot him,” he said.

“I know.”

“What did I shoot, Mr. Whales?”

“An alien,” Paul replied in passing. The agent looked up at him briefly and frowned.

“I see you were more liberal interpreting the night’s events to your friend, than to the agents of the federal government,” he said.

“Are you here to hear me repeat the same version?”

“Half-hoping you’d try it at least.”

“Why not just forget the whole thing like it never happened?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason you won’t be able to,” he said. “Because I, too, stopped taking pills.”

Even in the blur of alcoholic intoxication I suddenly saw he was right. I wondered how I had ever planned to really forget that night. Being with Iris might have worked to make me not think of it, but that wasn’t the same thing. It also dawned on me that the abovementioned alcoholic intoxication had very little in common with antidepressant intoxication and, from recent memory, even less with marijuana intoxication. I began to wonder how many different types of intoxication there were total and whether or not what we, the people, always considered the state of soberness was not simply another type of intoxication, which led me to the ponderous idea of death being, perhaps, the ultimate sobering, or, more optimistically, just a bad hangover, after which, with the help of sleep, shower and maybe coffee, the real sobering would follow. At this point I shook my head and awoke, so to speak, and found myself shocked most of all by the last phrase agent Brome had uttered.

“When?” I asked breathlessly.

“Some ten days ago. Almost lapsed today, after the trip to the local hospital.” He motioned for Paul to refill the glass.

“I don’t know what those things were,” I said as he dispatched another shot. “Someone told me they were angels.”

“There was more than one?”

“Two.”

“What happened to the other one?”

“Not sure. It got shot in the face… area… from a sawed-off shotgun.” He glanced at me with incredulity, but it was only a reflex. Understanding almost at once replaced it.

“And the one I shot? In other words, how did you get away?”

“That one got split in two by something. Then I don’t know. I passed out.”

“You fainted?”

“If you must call it that…”

“What happened next?”

“I became innocent.”

“Haven’t seen anything unusual since?”

“Not until you showed up on the door display.”

He studied me for a moment, nodded, leaned back in the couch, lifted his face up and groaned a long, tortured groan.

I stared at him in awe. It was such a simple, primal, sincere — hell, human — reaction to the matter presented that I immediately liked the fed. I felt like hugging him. Paul, meanwhile, refilled his shot. “Stoli” had just passed its midlife crisis and was booking a place in line for social security benefits.

Brome straightened, cleared his throat and adjusted his coat. He looked like an actor who caught himself in the middle of the very blooper he’d been coaching himself against for days. He glanced down at the glossy table surface, nodded to Paul without looking at him, and picked up his glass shotgun shell. Holding it steadily afloat he turned to me again, “Mr. Whales…”

“Just call me Luke.”

“Luke,” he agreed. “What the hell is going on?”

So I repeated my account, by the end of which the once — and always remembered that way — warlike “Stoli” was sent on its last journey down the recycling pipe.

We lounged in the now dark room, illuminated only by photons bombarding our faces from the TV screen. I was reminded of the college days again, and the absence of smoke, or at least the smell of smoke, in the room reminded me of Iris for some reason.

We were silent; Paul and I waited for Brome to speak his verdict. I was also pretty thirsty. Brome took his time, or it could have simply seemed that way to me, because aside from being thirsty I was pretty nearly floored. Finally I could wait no longer.

“So?” I asked him. “Do I have a chance for lived happily ever after?”

“Sure,” he replied, looking up at me out of the dark lake of his thoughts. I attempted a triumphant gaze in Paul’s direction, but found him asleep in his armchair. Brome wasn’t done talking, though. “There’s always a chance. I’m not sure how big of a chance you have, though.”

While I gaped, I heard a cackle coming from Paul’s direction. I spread my arms out.

“Seems quiet.”

“It does,” Brome conceded. “But I have a chapter of the story you haven’t heard yet. Dr. Young’s office has been trashed and left empty with some blood splattered on the floor in the back room.”

“Shit,” I said.

Paul sat up and leaned forward. “Maybe he got upset by a nosebleed and stormed out of there, tripping over things.”

“Since we’re talking probabilities, I suppose there’s a chance of that too,” said Brome.

“Why didn’t you tell me this as soon as you came in?”

“Sorry, seven-foot-tall creatures that don’t die when you empty a clip into them seemed a more urgent issue. Besides, I didn’t know what to make of it then.”

“What do you make of it now?”

“There’s some chance that he’s alive, but…”

“If he were dead, why not just kill him and leave him there?”

“Who knows.” Brome shrugged. “They, whoever they are, may want to find something out first. Maybe about what killed one of their own. Or about whoever it was that hired Freud.”

“Or,” he added, sounding maddeningly like Paul, “Maybe they eat corpses.”

“Shit,” I said again. “I have nowhere to go.”

“Someone of your means could make a place to order. Although I don’t know if fleeing is the best choice for you right now,” said Brome. “From what I understand, you still have no idea what’s happening. Maybe your ignorance is evident enough. The fact that Dr. Young has disappeared and you’re still here might indicate their lack of interest. Either way, you might be better off spending some time in public. Here seems a safe place, too. You’re a TV star after all. Act normal, wait, and hope that whoever… or whatever protected you last time will do it again, if it comes to that. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ll have to wait too long for some sort of news.”

“Oh great,” I said. “I was afraid I was going to die of waiting.”

He sprang to his feet, ignoring my comment. “Meanwhile, I’m going home.”

“Going home?” Paul and I said at once, and I moved as if to stand up.

“Yes. I have a daughter and a wife waiting for me.”

“What about doc’s disappearance?”

“Police is handling it. FBI is off the case, and I’m on vacation.”

“What about me?”

“What would you have me do? Get you an order of protection from an angel? Got his name, social security number? There’s no way to make this official, Luke, and my personal ability to help is, as you well know, limited. I sent my phone number to your database. You can call me if something happens.”

He turned to go.

“What about the world?”

He looked over his shoulder, cartoons dancing once again across his square face. Behind him, the hallway light flicked on.

“As I know it?” He shrugged. “It was a depressing place three days ago. Now it’s got monsters. I don’t see how—”

“I mean the end of the world. What Dr. Young said.”

“Oh, that. That didn’t make much sense to me either. In fact, ‘aliens are gods’ theory weighs about the same as ‘gods are gods’ on my scale. And the latter is the one I am more comfortable with. My wife is a Lutheran. My daughter has been baptized. I… like Christmas.”

I did get up then. Took quite an effort, but I was determined.

“Well, Merry Christmas, then, Special Agent Brome! I wish it to you in advance, because the forecast is not looking good for me surviving that long. People die, people disappear, aliens… and I still don’t have a single tangible reason why I am in the middle of this mess. But what do you care. Go home, to wife and daughter. Go on vacation. If you see on TV that I committed suicide, believe it. Take it easy.” Having run out of things to say, I raised my hand in mock salute and had to grab the back of the sofa with the other to keep balance.

Brome looked at me long and hard, then turned around and disappeared in the hallway. The door closed and locked.

“Shit,” I said and fell, like a raindrop from an awning, back into the sofa.

“It’s me, you and the gun,” said Paul.

“I have wine,” I mumbled.

“I’ll pass. Don’t feel like puking tonight.”

“I do.” And with that I got up and rolled to the bathroom.

When I returned to the living room I was afraid Paul wouldn’t be there. But he was, only he moved from the armchair to the sofa.

“Got a pillow and a blanket?” he asked me. “I’m pooped. I think I’m going to sleep over.”

When I brought the beddings he was crouching near the TV.

“Where’s the ‘Power’ button?”

“It doesn’t have one.”

“I thought only the cheap models didn’t have one.”

“Maybe I overpaid.”

“So how do you turn it off?”

“I don’t. It’s got some kind of floor sensor system…”

“Want me to break it?” It was tempting, but sounded like too much trouble.

“No,” I said. “Although… I don’t know how you’re planning to sleep here.”

“Step out of the room,” he said. I did, watching him from the hallway. He threw the pillow on the sofa and lay down on his side, lifting his feet from the floor.

“Sleep.”

For a few seconds nothing happened, then the dancing images died silently. The room became submerged in night.

“Damn,” I said. “I never knew you could do that. So how does that work? Is it pressure or optics of some kind? Or does the command work all the time?”

In reply to my excited queries, Paul snored.

“Goodnight, then,” I said and, still thinking about it, went to bed.

I woke in darkness with the hangover’s band and dance troop parading back and forth through the desert between my skull and my stomach. But it wasn’t the hangover that had woken me up, I realized, staring at the blue rays flashing on the walls of the bedroom.

My phone was ringing.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The bedside clock showed 00.23.

“Take a message,” I groaned and fell back on the pillow. The phone slumbered for a moment, then began to ring again. Muttering obscenities, I sat up.

“Pick up,” I said. “This better be good.”

“Mr. Whales?” an excited, high-pitched, male voice called out. “Mr. Whales!”

Strategically, I had no monitor in the bedroom, so I imagined a short, rotund fellow with a red beard in a green suit.

“What time is it where you at?” I demanded, none too friendly.

“My name is Dr. Coughlin. Dr. Young might have mentioned me to you. We worked together at Freedom Corp.”

“He didn’t. How did you get this number?”

“Could you please come to the monitor?”

“Why?”

“I want to make sure it’s you.”

Through the raging headache, I registered a weary thought: you’re calling my number, who else will it be? And then, as I placed my right hand carefully on the side of my face, I thought, Trust me, it’s me. But what I said was, “And if it’s not me, will you call back the morning after… never?”

There was a pause. Optimistically, I imagined the little mythical creature was considering it. My hopes were dashed quickly.

“Please, Mr. Whales,” the voice implored. “It is the matter of life and death.”

It was really hard to care, but somehow I made myself stand up and go to the study.

“Monitor on,” I moaned and descended into the chair. “All right, see if it’s me.”

The face on the screen was pale, gaunt, and continued far up the forehead. The man, of about fifty-five, wore glasses in a transparent frame and stared past the camera. He was in the dark, and in the background shadows flew by, right to left. Dr. Cocklin was driving.

He glanced down; the monitor must have been safely built into the dashboard. When he did, I saw that his remaining hair was gray. He gave a nod and looked up.

“Mr. Whales,” he said as gravely as he could in that voice. “Dr. Young has been kidnapped.”

“So I heard,” I said. He glanced down at the monitor again and stared at the camera in astonishment. I felt uncomfortable, because he seemed to have completely lost interest in the road.

“You… heard?” he finally managed.

“Never mind that. Why are you calling me? If you know where he is, you should call the cops.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It would compromise me. They own the cops. I have seven grandchildren.”

“Who owns the cops?”

“Time is short.”

“So start making sense. Who kidnapped Dr. Young?” I figured I could call Brome myself.

“Freedom, of course.”

“Freedom Corp.? You mean the pill makers?”

“I think you know they are much more than that. They brought him to the facility in Long Grove earlier today… yesterday, actually. I don’t think you have much time.”

“Why does he have any time at all?”

The man glanced down. “I don’t understand.”

“Why is he alive? You said he doesn’t have much time, so I’m guessing you mean they will soon kill him. If they want to kill him, why haven’t they?”

“No, no, they will not kill him. If they meant to kill him, he would already be dead. A suicide, senseless homicide, plenty of options, really.”

I shuddered; something moved in my stomach, as though alive, and I was also thinking back to the earlier conversation. As I did, I listened to the sounds from the living room. There were none.

“What are you talking about, then?” I asked.

“I said you don’t have much time.”

I stared blankly.

“Wait, so you’re calling to—”

“You have to get out of town, the sooner the better. Don’t tell me where you’re going. Pack up right now. Better yet, don’t pack. Just leave.”

“Just leave?” I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. When I opened them a minute later, the pale-face was still there.

“How did you figure to call and warn me?” I asked him, as it occurred to me suddenly.

“Ben told me to.”

“Ben told you to? You mean Dr. Young? You spoke to him?”

“No, no. Of course not. I saw him from a distance.”

“So how did he—”

“I was on my way to the garden for a break and saw them escorted out of the elevator. I might have been the first — and only — live human being who was not a guard they saw at the facility. It gets quite deserted there… Anyway, as soon as they spotted me, the girl jumped on one of the guards and screamed ‘Help!’ and while they were subduing her, Ben mouthed a single word to me, which I recognized as ‘Whales.’ It wasn’t too hard to deduce—”

“Stop!” I shouted.

He tensed immediately, mouth open in mid-word, eyes darting from camera to monitor to the road and back with desperate speed.

“What is it?” he whimpered.

I leaned forward, placed my palms over my face and rubbed my eyes like I wanted to erase them. The hangover became a distant throbbing in the center of my skull. I tried to peer out of the window, but there was nothing to see, just the room and me all over again.

“Mr. Whales?”

“What the hell is going on?” a voice demanded behind me. Paul was squinting in the doorway. In his hand he had the gun I’d left on the table. I looked at him over my shoulder, then at the man on the display.

“The girl,” I finally said. “Who was the girl?”

The man’s face relaxed somewhat, although his eyes remained wary. The camera mounted on my display allowed him a view of the weapon in Paul’s hand. Paul’s sincerest scowl didn’t help the matter either. I just waited, knowing the answer and prolonging the idleness before I would have to think of its implications.

“Never seen her before,” Coughlin replied. “Skinny, short hair, good-looking, I think. Wore something red, if I recall correctly. I really couldn’t study her for too long, you understand.”

“I understand.” I looked up at him. He glanced down again.

“You know her,” he stated rather than asked. When I didn’t immediately respond he started shaking his head. “You cannot be thinking of going in there to get them out. They’re gone. You can’t help them. Leave. Save yourself.”

“Did anyone hear me ask what the hell was going on just now, or was I still dreaming?” Paul entered the study fully, frowning at the doctor and stuffing the gun behind the waistband of his pants.

“I appreciate you calling me,” I said to the man on the screen. “Go home to your grandkids. Drive safely. I need to think about things.”

“There’s nothing to think about,” he insisted. “You cannot break in or out of the ‘Tomb.’ Even if you do, you might be facing more than just men…”

“Good night, Dr. Coughlin.” I cut the connection.

“Well?” Paul inquired from the top of the desk.

“I think they got Iris,” I told him, while dialing the number of her apartment. In reality, though, I knew they got Iris. The phone rang forever. No answer, no machine, no hope.

“Fuck,” I groaned. Paul studied the life lines on his hands.

I felt bad about Dr. Young, too, but he seemed to have been mixed up in all sorts of queer stuff. That church of his, the house, the weapons, acquaintances like Lloyd and so on. The fact that he had once worked for Freedom, also. Of course, none of that meant he deserved it or anything, maybe just that he kind of had it coming, you know? In other words, if Dr. Young had been the only one captured, I would probably have followed Coughlin’s advice, with shame, sincere regret, but not much of a hesitation.

But Iris… Iris was my fault. Iris was just a bored girl who helped out a fugitive TV star and, probably, the only reason she stuck around was simply because she liked me. Look where that’s gotten her, I thought.

While I guzzled “Stoli” and chatted about being in love in the comfort of my four-million-dollar condo, Iris, still in her short skirt she’d worn earlier to our date, was likely being tortured in some cold basement.

I inhaled deeply and looked up. Paul was nodding, an unfamiliar, grim expression on his face.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said.

“Make something up and we’ll try it.” He jumped off the desk.

“I’m just a talking head, Paul. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Begin by calling friends you made recently. Still got that fed’s card?”

I followed him out of the study.

“I think we will have to make do without assistance from government agencies. I’ll be damned if I trouble the very Special Agent Brome at this hour, or any hour for that matter, with my nonsense. Let the man have his Christmas.”

Outside the window, in the darkness between my reflection and lights from the Michigan shore of the lake, the rain had been forgotten. It began to snow in large, clueless flakes.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

At three in the morning there were few cars on the highway. Brome counted eleven and as many city trucks cleaning the snow that had started without waiting for a forecast. Now the snow looked like it was never going to end, but then, this was Chicago.

He had known he would be coming back to the city even before Whales called him. Had known he couldn’t just walk away pretty much the same time he’d found blood in Dr. Young’s pantry. Must be my “inner hero,” he thought. It was a good try, what he said at Whales’s, though. He had almost believed it himself. Would have believed it, if he hadn’t thrown up the medication that morning. Then again, if he hadn’t puked the tabs he wouldn’t have gone to the “Church of God” in the first place. The church with the open back door and furniture on its head and blood, just enough to be acknowledged, in the back room.

It was to get away from these thoughts that Brome counted cars and trucks. Annoying, persistent thoughts that always ended in the idea that somebody had expected him to drop by Dr. Young’s that afternoon, when he, himself, went there following a sudden impulse. Actually, thoughts didn’t end there. They continued on to his subsequent visit to Whales, and he had to wonder whether that also hadn’t been planned by someone else. And that could mean his eventual return… Nonsense. He was going too far. Even after his suspicions regarding his sanity had been reduced significantly — although not eliminated all together — by Whales’s story, this was too much. In fact, it might have been that story, so far out there and fitting so well with his observations that night at the ruined house, what caused most of these mental wanderings. If you believed something like that, and he did, simply because he had been there when it happened, you naturally began to look for conspiracy signs in every spoonful of cereal. Brome shook his head. Stick to the facts, agent. Let’s just stick to the facts and leave paranoia for the CIA.

And yet, and yet…

There weren’t enough cars on the highway at three in the morning.

He thought of his little girl. She was sleeping when he got home, tiny pink soles of her feet sticking out from under the blanket she had kicked up. He sat on the edge of the bed, tucking in the blanket and smoothing it over for a long time. She didn’t wake up. Her ceiling was the night sky. In the corner above the window, crescent moon was trying to hook Venus. Milky Way sprinkled its dust through the middle. The Sky Ceiling didn’t come standard. It had cost him a good buck a couple of years earlier. He heard the new model was the sky that moved. Falling stars, wispy clouds and everything. Ridiculously pricey, but he was considering splurging for it. Annie loved to sleep under the stars.

Maybe after all this is over.

He kissed her forehead and went to the bedroom. There he changed out of his fed clothes, refastening the holster onto a black turtleneck sweater, then hiding it under a navy-blue cashmere coat. Grace didn’t wake up either. An ugly thought occurred to him that he should check if they came up with a newer model that wakes and strikes up a small conversation when you walk into the room in the middle of the night. His face turned crimson from shame. He bent and kissed her cheek and she moved in her sleep and made sounds.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.

“Hmm,” she replied without waking.

Still disgusted with himself, he went down to the study and wrote a note:

I got an urgent assignment. Will be out of town for a couple of days. Go to Florida on Thursday instead. I will meet you both there as soon as I’m done.

Love, Oliver.

He hid the note in his pocket just in case and spent some time scrolling aimlessly through Internet pages. Then he woke up to find his phone ringing.

Now, as his “Chrysler” carried him silently through the first blizzard of winter, he wondered if he should have added “Don’t call the office.” Because Grace might do just that when she found the note. Or, on the other hand, she might not, but would if he had added the specific instruction not to. No matter. Either way it was out of his hands now. Even if she called the office, he hoped she trusted him enough to take the baby to Florida, regardless of what she found out.

He also hoped he would keep his promise.

From the car he sent a request to the FBI data base for the file on Dr. Coughlin. It took him a few minutes to sort through the entries and find the right one. He put it on audio playback and listened as more trucks appeared around him.

Dr. Coughlin’s file reported nothing unusual. Graduated from UIC in ‘04, PhD in ‘09. Stayed in the Midwest ever after. Married to his college sweetheart. Three children, two girls and one boy. All three presently married. Diabetes, cured in 2024. Works for Freedom Labs since 2011. Salary, 220000 dollars per year. Golf once a week. Drives BMW’s. Likes fishing, gardening and chess. DUI on Christmas, 2015, two parking tickets since. Catholic, republican.

Brome glanced at the pictures, arranged in the chronological order of receding hairline. Pale face, glasses, no cheeks, no smiles. He looked like a regular, non-mad scientist. Much more so than Dr. Young. With a sigh, Brome dismissed the file. He stared straight ahead through the blur of wipers that had just switched to maximum speed. The new Japanese models, he thought, don’t need wipers.

The road curved and the downtown rose in front of him, sudden and whole, like an iceberg floating east, too close to avoid. Thinking again of his daughter under the ceiling of unmoving night sky, Brome sped towards the iceberg’s eastern tip.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I called the fed around 2. Of course I called the fed. There was no one else to call. All my friends were in attendance. Took me that long only because I’d said I wouldn’t. So after I’d vomited, Paul and I spent an odd hour in the living room with our feet up. Paul in grim, concentrated silence; me in painful awareness of my own empty procrastination. I was an all-in poker player unable to reveal, or even to face, the bluff that had been called.

I was supposed to come up with a plan. It was the girl who meant something to me. So I tried and tried, and then pretended to continue trying for a long time. But with one gun and the seventh place in the in-campus BF5 tournament between us, Paul and I weren’t exactly the “Alpha” team. Going up there immediately and storming the place in the middle of the night had crossed my mind, but only as a means to end the whole ordeal quickly. I was ashamed, but still I was mute.

So around two o’clock Paul took the matters in his own hands.

“Just call the fed,” he said. And I did.

I dialed Dr. Coughlin’s number as soon as I hung up with agent Brome.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Mr. Whales.”

“Dr. Coughlin, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I haven’t slept.”

“Tell me how to get in.”

“First let me reiterate that the very idea is ludicrous…”

“I know, Doc. I know.”

“Well, as far as I see there are only two ways to get in: either in the trunk of my car, or over the electrified wall. Both of those ways get you on the property, but neither of them puts you inside the building. Security is pretty tight and I can’t very well carry you in my briefcase. That is to get in. As to getting out… I haven’t the slightest idea.”

I asked him a few serious questions — how many guards at the check-in, how tall is the wall and so on — before letting him go.

“Please sleep a few hours,” I told him. “We will make a decision and call you around six.”

“We?” he asked. “Who’s we? You and that friend of yours? I hope you understand I can only take one of you inside the trunk.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I hope he doesn’t have a stroke before then,” Paul remarked, when I disconnected. “Although he’d probably be better off for it. No matter the outcome, chances are the poor guy will hug the cold one in the end. Wonder why he’s helping you.”

“Seems people just like to help me,” I said with a pointed look at Paul. He grinned.

“Besides,” I added. “Me and you will likely hug the same cold one.”

“That’s the spirit,” Paul cheered. “Plan for the best, but prepare for the worst.”

“Maybe the fed will get us through this somehow,” I offered after a pause.

“Sure,” he agreed enthusiastically. I glanced at him.

“You think we should just make a run for it?”

“Not if you care about the girl.”

“How is it going to help her if I die?”

“How is it going to help her if you run?”

We were both silent for a minute. Paul sighed.

“Maybe the fed will get us through it somehow.”

I rose to my feet. The TV came to life. Some obscure actor, who looked like that guy I’d dropped at my ex-wife’s house, was working a confusing soap commercial. It featured cows and latex rather prominently. That one would never make it to my show, I thought. And then I thought of Jennifer, and whether or not I would be planning a rescue right now, if it was she who had been kidnapped. Yes, I would be, was the answer. But I would be doing it out of guilt, not love.

“It’s going to be another hour before Brome gets here,” I said. “If you want to shower, go ahead. I’m thinking to take a bath.”

“Showering is overrated,” Paul said. “You have a spare toothbrush, though? I hate the morning taste in my mouth.”

“Yeah, in the bathroom cabinet.”

“I’ll brush after you’re done.”

I turned to go.

“Hey, I knew this guy who was drunk and decided to take a bath in the middle of the night,” he called after me.

“Oh yeah?” I said over my shoulder. “Let me guess. He fell asleep and drowned?”

“Not exactly,” said Paul. “He fell asleep and took a dump.”

Things must be funnier at two in the morning. Or they are funnier when you think you have about five hours to live. Either way, I was still giggling when I entered the bathroom. I did decide to go with the shower, however.

As I stood in the shower, giggles long gone and thoughts of Iris making the water cold, a strange voice began to speak to me. Strange, because it was my own voice, only someone else was talking.

“It’s a trap,” it said.

I opened my eyes.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s a trap,” I heard again, but now faintly, through the noise of running water. Absently, I turned the water off.

“It’s a trap?” I echoed.

“It’s a trap,” my voice repeated. “Dr. Coughlin is a phoney.”

“How do you know?”

“Are you talking out loud? Try and think the words instead. Otherwise I get a terrible static,” the voice complained.

Embarrassed for no reason, I stepped out of the shower box and wrapped a towel around my hips. My hand cleared a window in the mirror’s fog. Staring in it I formed the words in my mind: Who are you?

“I am the employer of the late Lloyd Freud,” a reply came like a tap on the inside wall of my stomach.

So it was I who hired him?

“I just said it was me.”

And you are a separate personality inside my body.

“No, I am not.”

How are you in my head, then?

“I tuned into you.”

What?

“Don’t worry about that now. I’ll teach you later. If you make it.”

“This is insane,” I said and rubbed my face. I must have thought it, too.

“Just relax and take it as it is,” the voice said. “I will help you, but I can’t stay in your head for too long.”

Why, is it too tight?

“Humor is good. It helps. Now listen. Coughlin is with them. The only reason they kidnapped Iris and Dr. Young is to get to you. I have a few ideas why they still want you, but nothing concrete enough for you to bother with at this time. Just assume they want you.”

You’re telling me I shouldn’t try to rescue her.

“Not at all. You should try. Just not the way they want you to.”

What other way is there?

“I have to break away. I am sending you help. Good help. Don’t make a move until he gets in touch.”

The voice in my head was gone. Still wrapped in the towel, I went back to living room. Paul was lying on the couch, watching the news.

“You know, you can turn it on even with the feet up,” he said and looked up at me. “Can I go brush my teeth now or did you leave something in the tub?”

“Something happened,” I said dumbly. Paul sat up and glanced around. “I just had a conversation with a voice in my head.”

“You do that often?”

“I wasn’t talking to myself. Someone else was talking in my head. He said he was Lloyd’s employer.”

“What else did he say?”

“That it was a trap.”

Before Paul could respond, the doorbell rang. After a wide-eyed moment, I went to open it, holding the towel together with my right hand, as though nothing in the world would have protected me better. Paul fell behind me, gun ready. Or rather, gun in hand.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Brome,” the speaker in the door said.

The fed, in civvies-civvies this time, stepped inside like a cat, eyes noting my towel, Paul’s gun and the room behind us all at once. He nodded and looked me square in the face.

“It’s a trap,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“It’s a trap,” Iris said. Her coat was gone, and a sleeve had been ripped off her sweater. A cut on the punched upper lip, and the back of her head, where her hair had been pulled upwards, both hurt like hell. Had she worn eye-shadow, there would have been smudges around her eyes. “It’s a trap,” she repeated. “For him.”

Dr. Young nodded and wheezed, blowing air through the nostrils coated in caked blood. A broken nose was the sum of his injuries, because Dr. Young had been reasonable enough not to resist. But as he crouched in the corner of the gray windowless room that had been revealed to them with the removal of blindfolds, his hand kept returning to touch his nose every thirty seconds or so. Iris suspected the old man had never had his nose broken before.

“I should have known better than to return to the church,” Dr. Young said, probing the side of his nose carefully with a pinky. “Then again, I should have been more persistent with your friend, also. I cannot fathom what’s got into me. How I failed to foresee something this obvious…” He sighed, then suddenly looked up at her in wonder. “A trap for Mr. Whales?”

Iris sat on the floor in the opposite corner, scraped bare knees under her chin. Heels of her black boots stamped the two hems of her red skirt to the floor. “Of course,” she said, a note of irritation in her voice.

“No, no. I am afraid that hypothesis is a little farfetched. There were one or two other targets for a possible trap on my mind, and I have assumed you were talking about the same personages, which is why I permitted myself that expression of accord. But a trap for Mr. Whales, with us as bait? Please, don’t get me wrong, Ms. Iris. We’ve certainly been through several exciting episodes together, and I thought Mr. Whales displayed his fondness of you rather unambiguously, but…

“No. If I were to venture a guess of my own, I would say Mr. Whales is presently two doors down the corridor.”

“And it’s either Freud’s employer or whoever killed that… one of them they are trying to bait,” Iris finished.

“Assuming they are not one and the same… entity, which I personally doubt, precisely.”

Dr. Young touched the tip of his nose and seemed to attempt to examine it with his eyes. Having failed he sighed again.

“No matter now. I doubt very much this trap will be sprung. They are overestimating—”

“Why would they keep us together and Luke separately?” Iris interrupted.

Dr. Young shrugged. “For any number of reasons, really. To make the trap more elaborate, to see who would be the first choice in case there would have to be a choice…” Abruptly, he halted and directed another wondering gaze at her. “But that is not the real question that is on your mind, is it?”

“Why am I here?” she asked.

Dr. Young leaned back against the seam of merging walls, his hair merging with the wall’s gray, and stared at her silently, as though he was just then seeing her for the first time. His fingers levitated almost imperceptibly slowly to touch the blood on one side of his nose, glided over to the other side and hovered there for a long time. For a much longer time, in fact, than the answer to the question required. Iris held his gaze steadily, but inside her a vague anxiety was rising.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t the question itself that startled her. She had heard that same question several times over the course of the previous week from Luke. It was the sound of his voice in an empty prison cell after a long silence. It startled her the way a champagne cork might startle, as you wait for it to pop.

“Who are you, really, Ms. Iris?” Was what Dr. Young said. Iris drew back slightly and leaned forward again, as the phrase registered and she realized that unlike Luke’s, Dr. Young’s added “really” seemed to imply something.

So instead of a reply she stared back at him until he looked away and sighed again and shrugged, saying, “Perhaps you’re right. Although I can hardly see of what use—”

The door slid open silently, but they were both immediately aware of the additional space beyond it. Two white-uniformed guards walked in. One pointed at Iris.

“You’re coming with us.”

“Where are you taking her?” Dr. Young demanded, rising.

“With us. You’re staying here.”

There was no point fighting, but Iris had a hard time controlling herself nonetheless. She rose to her feet, and the guards, one of whom had a black eye from her elbow and the other a patch on the cheek from her nails, stiffened and glowered. There would be no surprising them this time. She glanced at the old man.

“See you soon, Dr. Young,” she told him.

He nodded, face comforting, eyes hopeless.

Outside the cell two other guards joined the first pair, leaving another two to guard the door. The four assembled in a tight box around her. The door slid shut and they began to move along a curving hallway. Neither shoving nor blindfolds this time. Somehow, Iris did not think that was a good sign.

* * *

His fury was not an emotion any more than a storm’s fury would be. And like a storm’s fury, his would seem chaotic and purposeless to half-breed creatures that called themselves “human,” simply because human emotion of fury was such. Because all of human emotions were such. Nothing but a hindrance. When humans realized it, they began to build tools and machines, like the elevator, on top of which he presently waited, emotionless, driven by purpose, to do things they could no longer do themselves.

Sobak built tools too. They also built Seekers.

He watched the wavering, dancing forms of the three humans through the walls. Another Sobak creation. Moving back and forth, sitting down, standing up, bending, straightening, waving their arms. Blind to his presence. Blind to everything, including the fact that the only quality separating them from animals they called “monkeys” was the ability to imagine themselves standing higher on the imaginary evolutionary ladder.

Like monkeys, humans copied from others.

He had watched their attempts at Seekers even since the war ended. Pathetic. He had broken several himself. Easier than a kaluuk. Easier, because a kaluuk had no emotions. No one could break a Seeker. A Seeker could be destroyed, as the traitor had shown, but never broken. A human wouldn’t see the difference.

The three shapes began to move towards him. They advanced through the hallway, talking in hushed, terrified voices. The elevator came to life and descended a floor, fast and silent, as a Seeker would. When the doors opened only a brief moment later, all three humans showed fear, their most common trace. It subsided when they walked into the tiny space under him. Had he not been a Seeker, he would be amused.

The elevator started down. There was a trapdoor in the ceiling of the machine. He could come down on top of them without ripping the roof off. He could slide in and sink his fangs and claws in their flesh, tearing the life out of all three before they had the chance to scream. He wanted it. His fury demanded it. An elevator is designed for one purpose — to move cargo between floors of a building. A Seeker’s single purpose is to seek and destroy humans. Those may seem like two separate tasks, but to a Seeker they are one. If a Seeker is sent to find a human, then that human is dead. That is a given.

He peered at one head in particular. The fear fog around it reappeared and began to grow thicker rapidly.

Had been a given, until he and his partner failed their mission. Now his partner was destroyed and he punished. He was sent back to find the human whom they had failed to eliminate. And he was ordered not to kill him.

He felt the fury rise within him, as though it was flexible as an emotion. But he was not human. He would not move. Before a Seeker was taught how to despise a human, a Seeker was taught to obey. They would keep their lives. For now.

The descent halted. Doors opened. As they did, his target launched his body through, twisting his neck and stumbling. His companions caught up before he collapsed on the concrete floor of the underground garage. They talked for some time, then walked away hurriedly. He watched them impassively now, fury controlled.

They would get in a car, he knew. A car would not help them evade him. He waited as instructed, giving them several minutes of a head start. He had been told not to get too close after they leave the target’s home. A traitor could be near by and on alert. If he followed later, slowly and carefully, he would detect the traitor first. The traitor might have destroyed a Seeker, but he was not a Seeker himself.

The humans drove away. Soon it was time to follow. Suddenly, the elevator started and began to rise. He slid inside through the trapdoor and considered stopping the elevator and pulling the doors open. Instead, he slammed through the floor and fell several stories down. Sending twisted and torn doors flying across the parking lot, he started after his prey.

They called Seekers the Lower Caste, because all Seekers knew was to seek, kill and obey. Humans also thought themselves superior to the machines. How many of them looked under their feet before entering an elevator?

The city was dark and empty and white, and the trace lay thick and clear. He followed it at the pace of the car, instructed not to close in until the targets reach the beacon. Had he not been a Seeker, he would soon note the familiarity of the targets’ destination. He would suspect foul play. But a Seeker was not taught to suspect.

Only when the same gray building he and his partner had once started their hunt from appeared in front of him did he understand that he had lost the human again. The car was parked inside the fenced yard; the trace disappeared in a tangle of leaping, flashing fakes that surrounded the building in a ball, with threads leading in every direction. He would find the right one, there was no doubt about that, but it would be too late.

He circled the building twice ands stopped, facing the planet’s pole. In the grayness in front of him, a short distance beyond the city, was the beam of the beacon. Without disturbing the fresh snow, the Seeker started towards it, fury rising.

* * *

Brome wasn’t enjoying the ride in the shotgun seat not just because there was an actual shotgun strapped between the front seats of a civilian vehicle, but also because the vehicle was a “Yukon” and riding shotgun in it reminded him of Brighton.

“What was that all about?” he asked the driver, who had folded almost in half to fit behind the wheel.

“Just a precaution,” Vernon Gulli boomed. It sounded reassuring, but explained little. In the back seat, Whales, pale as their future, and his friend did not speak. They hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised to find the bartender of a gay bar waiting for them at the rendezvous point. Nor had they been surprised that the rendezvous point was Whales’s girlfriend’s place. To tell the truth, Brome wasn’t sure if he had been surprised by any of it. What he did know was that he was irritated. Illegal weapon and “Yukon” aside, the case of telepathic conversation relayed to him by Whales seemed a bit too crazy even in light of recent events. Especially now, after the “elevator episode.”

He looked at the TV star in the side mirror.

Whales had fallen apart as soon as they left the apartment. Got hysterical in the elevator. Cried. Now he was visibly better, although still pale, but Brome wondered how much of an effort it took the man to put up that brave face. He didn’t want to find out too late. Their mission was likely to be suicidal to begin with.

The giant bartender drove them slowly, as more snow fell, rising over the curbs. There was not a soul outside. Apparently, he was taking them back to the bar.

“When Luke said there would be help, I didn’t know what to think,” Whales’s much steadier friend Paul said leaning forward. “Seeing you, I feel a little better,” he told the bartender. The giant guffawed.

“I’m not the help,” he replied. “I’m the driver. Whatever you boys are mixed up in, I don’t wanna know it. Especially since you got a fed in on it too.” He offered Brome his most charming grin. Paul looked disappointed, but in a moment chuckled also.

“Why are we going to your bar, then?” asked Brome.

“It’s a safe place this time of day. I was told you needed a safe place.”

“Who told you that?”

“That’s a surprise.”

“I doubt it.”

Vernon Gulli glanced at him and guffawed again.

“There,” he said, pointing. “Patience, agent Brome. We’re almost there.”

They were. They passed the awning of the old theater with the misspelled bard’s name and turned into an alley. Gulli parked the truck in the single parking spot that was there, threw the door open and started extracting his limbs. His three passengers got out and waited for him in the snow. The moonless night was dark and cold. Somewhere far off, a siren howled. Another shortly answered its call. Whales clapped his hands and stomped his feet, grinning. Brome eyed him warily.

“Stupid bastards,” Gulli was mumbling, completely out now. “They can fit a factory inside a shoebox, but they can’t build a big enough car.”

“It’s just they built you too big,” Paul quipped. The bartender opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but settled for another guffaw instead.

“You should go on in,” Gulli said finally with a glance at Brome. “I am going to up to sleep, anyway. Figures to be a tough night at the bar tomorrow. Today, already. Good luck!”

He ushered them to the back door. The long hallway with peeled pink walls on the other side of it ended in a curtain. Beyond it stood the tables and booths of the main room, Brome remembered. As they passed by one open door, Whales said excitedly, “I called you from right here, see?” Inside was an old black phone in front of a mirror. Paul clapped Whales on the back. Whales grinned again.

Soon they passed through the curtain. The bar was completely empty, aside from the booth nearest to the curtain, in which the blond immigrant busboy was taking a nap. On the table in front of him stood two full glasses and two bottles of beer, looking to be “Hacker-Pschorr.” As they approached, the kid opened his eyes and grinned.

Brome had always been as cheerful a fed as you could find, but even he was getting pretty sick of grins.

“So we meet the driver and the waiter,” he said, turning to Whales. “Who’s next? A spokesperson?”

“No, agent Brome. You don’t need to meet anyone else. I’m the help.” It was the grinning Eastern-European youth. Brome faced him, frowning.

“I thought you didn’t speak English.”

“Didn’t need to.”

“How can a kid help us? Are you an arms dealer or something?” Whales’s friend asked.

“Never touched a gun in my life,” the kid replied. “I deal in messages. Do sit down and have a drink. I have a plan. Water for you, agent Brome.” He pointed at one of the glasses. On the busboy’s blue t-shirt in white letters was the phrase: No one knows what’s happening. Only what just happened.

Brome looked at Whales. Whales shrugged. He looked like a man resigned to his fate. In his mind, Brome compared the consequences of staying versus forgetting the whole deal and going back home. Yes, after Whales, he could be next, but it didn’t seem likely. His gaze wandered back to the blond kid.

“All right,” the kid said and slapped the table gently. “Time is short. Let’s get this out of the way. Don’t start shooting now.”

To hell with it, Brome thought. He was about to apologize to Whales and take his leave, when something happened. The kid at the table became another person. Not just any person either. His body was a blur for a moment and then his face and his clothes changed right there in front of them. In the booth before them, where the blond Eastern-European immigrant had been, sat Brighton.

“Whoa!” Paul blurted out.

“So who’s this?” asked Whales, stunned and seemingly nauseous. Brome was just stunned.

“That’s not the point,” Brighton replied. “I could become Vitalina if you’d like.”

“You’re one of them,” Brome stated when his breath returned.

“I’m one of a kind!” Brighton exclaimed, grinned and changed back into the busboy. They sat down.

Chapter Thirty

The gun was doing the River Dance in my hand. I wasn’t nervous. I was scared shitless, which was a noticeable improvement over the way I’d felt on my way out of the house. It was as though someone had sabotaged my First Aid Kit, and instead of a Motrin for hangover I’d swallowed a horse-sized fear pill that kicked in right when we left the condo. Now, almost three hours after Vernon Gulli had called to set up a meeting at Iris’s place, the effects were still going strong.

Good thing was, seeing me in this condition and with a gun, Dr. Wright wasn’t doing much better. At first, as I pulled him inside the twilight of the office illuminated by a computer monitor and shut the door, gun inches from his nose, he just gaped and panted and stared. When his eyes adapted, so that he saw who I was and saw, also, that the “emergency call” had been a set up, he actually relaxed. Bogdan — otherwise known as our holy crap friendly neighborhood alien — had made that call. Whatever he told Dr. Wright made the man get to his downtown office, fully dressed but unshaven, in less than thirty minutes. Then he saw that it was me and relaxed, but as I remained in my picturesque silence, ignoring his agitated demands, for an extended period of time, his confidence began to waver. He began to throw glances at Brome, who, to his credit, paid so much attention to the gun in my hand that it made him look like he was convinced I was going to just snap any moment now, sending the doctor to the boatman with a hole in his face and no fare.

“Time is short, man,” Paul said suddenly. Doc’s eyes shot towards him like a road kill’s at two headlights.

“What does he mean?”

I told him what we needed. I guess hearing me speak made him feel better again. So much so, he started pacing left and right.

“You know, Luke,” he said, “you were making quite a progress. Six more months and you would have been completely fine. I actually put that in your chart after your last visit. I’ll show it to you if you want. It’s all here. Even when you called me for that unscheduled refill all could still be made right. But look at you now! You’ve thrown it all away. Your career, your life — all of it. And for what? To be different? To be a hero? To fight the system? Nonsense! They don’t give a damn. You’ll die today and everyone will know Luke Whales was crazy. Just another star, cracked from all the money and fame. Serves the bastard well, they’ll say, and they’ll be right, because you’re nothing but a sad draft-dodger with a gun. Whatever you think you know, is only a schizophrenic fantasy inflicted upon your sick brain, devoid of proper medication, by someone who is manipulating you. Some enemy you’ve made unknowingly at some point. A deranged fan, or an old acquaintance envious of your success. I’m guessing they have you convinced there’s a hidden benefactor who is helping you against this army of evil that is out to get you. I’m also willing to bet you haven’t seen or talked to this mythical person. How does he relay instructions? Anonymous e-mails? Subliminal clues? Telepathy?”

He waved his hands dismissively and sneered. Then he sighed and spoke softly.

“Look around carefully, Luke. Do you really know the people here in the room with you?”

In the silence that followed, I took a deep breath and slowly lowered the gun. My hands were steady. Good old Doc Wright, I thought. He always did have the ability to make me feel better. Over my shoulder I looked at Paul who was leaning on the door, hands in pockets. In the gloom his teeth flashed a grin. To the left of me, Brome crossed his arms on his chest. Doc’s face was the one illuminated most by the blue glow, and in his eyes a flicker of hope lit up.

“Give us what we need, Doc,” I said. “Or I’ll shoot you.”

His lips disappeared.

“Fine,” he spat. “I see you’re beyond help.”

He bent down to pick up the slender briefcase and put it on the desk. The locks clicked and my hand snapped up. I pointed the gun at his back.

“Not so fast,” I said. Those police dramas really stick with you after twenty odd years. “Step away from the briefcase.”

With an exasperated shake of his head, Dr. Wright complied. Brome walked over and opened the case. Evidently, there was no gun inside.

“It’s in the side pocket,” said Dr. Wright. After a brief search, Brome nodded.

“Good,” I said, stuffing the pistol behind the belt. “What time is Jane starting today?”

“What?”

“Jane. What time is she going to be here?” I pulled out a camera and took a few quick pictures of him, hiding it immediately inside my jacket. For a moment the flashes disoriented him.

“Nine. Why… What are you planning—?”

Paul, who had meanwhile snuck up behind him, grabbed his arms just as I placed a previously cut piece of tape over his mouth. He struggled and made sounds.

“Calm down. No one’s going to hurt you. We’ll leave you here to wait for Jane.”

Brome lifted the chair from behind the desk and placed it in the middle of the room. I checked Dr. Wright’s pockets, found a cell-phone and, with a certain measure of satisfaction, ground it to pulp under the heel of my boot. We sat him down in the chair. Paul was having a hard time holding him down while I applied the rest of the tape. The way he writhed and groaned and rolled his eyes, you’d think I was tying him to a stake to be burned. He continued to struggle even after we were done securing him.

“Calm down. In a couple of hours you’ll be free,” I told him again. He would have none of it. I shrugged.

Brome had just then put the desk-phone out of commission. We were ready to go.

Paul went outside. Brome and I paused in the doorway and looked back at the man taped to the chair in the middle of the office. He shook the chair and tried to shout something that sounded like the same phrase over and over through the tape. After a brief hesitation, Brome went back to him and pushed the chair over, so that Dr. Wright rested on his side. If anything, his struggles intensified.

We left him there. Outside, the sky was graying in the east. There wasn’t much time left. In two hours it would be over, one way or another. Brome went to get the “Yukon” we borrowed from the bartender. Paul and I jumped into Dr. Wright’s Mercedes. Now I needed to get my junk out of the garage.

.

Chapter Thirty-One

To get blood circulation going in his legs, Ted Boone was pacing the tiny guardroom when Dr. Wright showed up with a sidekick. On Ted’s portable the news girl had just managed to squeeze in a mention of that talk-show guy, Whales, getting into some new trouble. There had been an explosion in his building that morning, and Whales was seen leaving the building in distress at the same exact time. Then he supposedly broke into his wife’s house, but no one really cared. The whole morning had been about the Pope and the Antichrist. “He walks among us.” Eerie stuff, to be sure. Ted glanced at the clock. It was seven minutes to the end of the shift. Antichrist or Jesus himself, he was in a mellow mood, knowing that in half an hour his head would be slowly denting the pillow. He smiled widely in greeting.

“Haven’t seen you around these parts in a long time, Doc,” he offered. “And never that early, I’d wager. Aside from a couple of work junkies and poor slaves like myself, the place is empty. You hear about the Antichrist?”

“Yes, yes,” the man rasped. He raised his hand without slowing down. “Listen, I have a very urgent appointment.”

Only then did Ted notice that Dr. Wright didn’t look himself. Pale, hunched, sweaty, with eyes as red as Ted’s own, he clutched a square metal case to the side of his wrinkled black suit. The sidekick, also in a wrinkled suit that didn’t seem to fit him too well, gave Ted a slanted nod and stared straight ahead. These guys looked like not only they had heard about the Antichrist, they were about to meet him in person.

The pair halted in front of the glass door of the scanner and stood stiffly with their backs to him, waiting.

Ted checked the clock again. Six minutes. And that bastard Stauffer nowhere in sight. Hating every step, he walked up to the visitors from behind, keeping a very deliberate pace.

“What’s in the case, Doc?” he asked as he came around the side, hands hanging at his hips. Dr. Wright’s head snapped towards him, red, exhausted eyes rising slowly to meet his.

“Something you don’t want to ask questions about, Ted. Please, open the door.” There were resolve and menace in his voice. Ted didn’t recall hearing the like from Dr. Wright before, nor did he like it. On the other hand, he was a security guard. A security guard was not paid — and paid well — to hear things that soothe the ear. A guard was expected to defend the facility from reporters and other scum, not a regular who wore a VIP Visitor tag and shook hands with the Man himself. But there was something wrong. Something had gotten Dr. Wright real worked up. Also, the sidekick had no ID tag, VIP or otherwise, and no one had ever refused to open a metal case, which would otherwise set off the scanner automatically. Why me? Ted thought. Why not that stinking Stauffer?

“You know I can’t let you in without checking that box. Come on,” he said. The sidekick began to move. No, he remained in place, but he was moving. Dr. Wright, meanwhile, took a look around.

“Listen to this,” he finally said. “If I open this box, we’ll both be in trouble. If I stand here for too long because you won’t open the door, we’ll both be in trouble. If I make a phone call to you-know-who and explain why I’m bothering him at this early hour, we will both be in trouble, but one of us will be in bigger trouble than the other. Want to guess which one?”

Before Ted could respond, he continued.

“There’s another option. You open the door, let us in with the box intact on my responsibility and go home to sleep in five minutes. This day has started out rather disappointingly. I would hate to get into more trouble, but I have to deliver this box.” With that, he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and held it up.

All three were silent for the whole minute. The sidekick kept moving, right on Ted’s nerves. Stauffer still didn’t show up.

“Damn, Doc. Why you putting me on the spot?” Ted demanded finally.

“You know me, Ted. I would never do it, unless I absolutely had to. They tell me to bring it not tampered with, so I must deliver.”

“Stupid bastards,” Ted grumbled, referring to “them.” He turned to go back to the guard room. “They put you to guard the place, then change their minds and no one sends a word. And who’s on the spot in the end? Ted Boone, of course, who else.”

He slammed the button with the palm of his hand and turned off the scanner with the other. The glass door slid to the side. The men in wrinkled suits hurried through, leaving Ted with a bad taste in his mouth.

Less than a minute later he heard a badly whistled tune from that show on Food Network and cursed. Stauffer came to take over the post.

* * *

This was it, Dr. Coughlin thought, unclenching the steering wheel and moving the moisture from his hands onto the sharply ironed khaki slacks he’d worn that morning. They were supposedly waterproof. A quarter of a mile ahead of the nose of his BMW, at the end of a straight thick line of black asphalt, was the gate and the wall, and beyond that,  looking even more black against the snow that had submerged the countryside around it in the course of one night, Freedom’s Tomb.

Might be someone else’s tomb before lunch break starts, Dr. Coughlin thought, turning off the heater. Better someone else’s than his. He didn’t know much about the plan, but he knew enough about the planners not to question. Nor to disobey.

And really, even what he’d told Whales was largely true. He might not have seen the two prisoners himself, but he knew they were there. He also told him repeatedly that it was madness to go in. Whales was given every chance not to attempt the rescue. Would he listen? Of course not.

Now Whales lay in the trunk with some kind of a stupid plan of his own, and his friend or friends probably crept through knee-deep snow somewhere nearby, prepared to scale the electrified wall. Maybe they will be lucky enough to fail climbing over it.

Dr. Coughlin considered the thought for a moment. If these friends do turn around and leave… And Whales is captured, or… They will know where to find him. Or worse, they might go public with the story of Dr. Coughlin being the man who helped Whales get access to a certain facility in Long Grove, from which the latter never came out… No, nothing serious would become of that, of course, but he may end up answering questions…

Maybe if I warned them in time about these friends, he thought, extending his hand towards the car-phone’s dial. It froze halfway there. No. They must have some kind of a failsafe against that. Besides, he had been specifically warned against all verbal communications.

All he had been ordered to do was tell the story, take the passenger if there was one and press the speed dial button on approach. Let them care about the rest. He found the button with his finger.

Arm-thick steel bars of the gate gleamed dully less than a hundred yards ahead. A uniformed giant, Tim or Tom or Todd, stepped out of the guardhouse with hands in his pockets as the car rolled to a stop. Dr. Coughlin pressed the button and leaned back in his seat, raising a hand in salute to the guard. He was done.

* * *

Out of the third-story window Millard Fillmore watched the crimson BMW crawl ever closer, bright red flame on the black fuse. The thin clear plastic card in his hand made his bicep contract involuntarily from strain, and he switched hands for the twentieth time. In the dead middle of the card the single button was also clear. All of it was clear, his task especially, but that didn’t stop him from being anxious.

Why was he given the detonator? Anyone could have pressed the button. One of them could have pressed the button. So why him? Was it a punishment of some sort? Or was it the opposite, an initiation? He couldn’t honestly say which of the two he would prefer. Actually, he would probably prefer the former.

More so now, since he’d seen the girl that was to be his “prize” when this was over. “Slim, dark hair, just the way you enjoy them,” they’d said. Later he saw the girl and it was the same one he’d talked to that day on the roof. Sure, this one was likely human, but still…

He felt a shudder coming on and switched hands. He looked over his shoulder at the tan-colored telephone on the green desk. Silent. Dead. Maybe Whales decided not to come after all.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to press the button. What if he pressed the button and nothing happened? What then? Suddenly a terrifying idea occurred to him that he would be somehow to blame.

Maybe they expected him to fail. Maybe it was he, Millard Fillmore, and not Whales who was being set up. The car was almost at the gate. Still nothing.

Switching the hand again, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his coat.

Nonsense. He was losing his mind. Better not to show it around them. He wished the damned thing would ring already and be over with.

In the next instant, it did. He saw a guard, he wasn’t sure who, come out of the guardhouse. The car rolled to a stop at the checkpoint. He froze with his mouth open, then whirled around to stare at the telephone, as it continued to ring. Years seemed to have passed.

He was suddenly certain he was late, that he did fail. He thought about it for so long he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do. Color drained from his face.

“Shit,” he whimpered and squeezed the button and his eyes shut at the same time.

* * *

The explosion clove the car into spinning fiery halves, tore the roof off the guardhouse and tossed dishwasher-sized pieces of reinforced concrete wall into the sky above the Tomb. Orange and black flame snapped outward in a chainsaw circle then rose in a bubbly, seemingly liquid sphere. The steel gate, twisted and mute because of the tremendous blast, bounced across the sparingly filled parking lot into the first floor windows.

In an instant it was over, fire turned to smoke and silence reigned in long seconds it took the debris to begin their return to earth.

None of it touched the four Guardians any more than did the fates of the humans in the car and gatehouse. They’ve seen millions of humans die and would see more. A million of dead humans deserved sympathy. Two, or five… meant nothing. Humans died easily. A dead Sobak, on the other hand, was an event so rare and significant that four of them had been sent.

They stood cloaked, scanning the countryside around the building in all directions, even as debris crashed down around them. A moment later the two posted on the corners above the façade saw him.

A blur against the white field.

The traitor.

The murderer.

The one they’d been sent to wait for and capture. He glided away straight across the field, already aware of them. He moved much faster than a human, but it was obvious he was hurt and not fast enough to escape the Guard. There weren’t many who could outrun the Guardians in perfect health.

The front pair touched the snow together, followed closely by the other. They started the pursuit wide and began to spread wider, maintaining the perfect square formation that continued to expand. They could have taken the shortest way and forced the traitor to make a stand early, but they needed him alive, and time was nothing but a meaningless human concept. Nor did they clutter their minds with estimates of the traitor’s identity. There were not many choices, and it would be revealed soon enough. He had already been caught. In the end, they would have him surrounded. None were capable of breaking out of the Guard’s Square once they were inside. Not even the Rebel himself.

* * *

“There’s been an explosion,” the old man reported.

His green-eyed superior regarded him over the knot of intertwined, manicured fingers. Outside the window behind his back holographic billboards illuminated the gloom of a New You City morning. He pressed the button to close the shutters.

“You seem disappointed,” he stated.

“I liked his show, sir.”

The younger-looking man frowned.

“Is there no doubt he was in the car?”

“It will take some time to recover and identify the body parts. I am told there were four victims total. The doctor, however, had been instructed to signal only if he was.”

“Is there a chance he lied? They could have found out. Forced him to switch sides?”

“There’s always a possibility. However, I am uncertain Whales and his friends could have frightened Dr. Coughlin more than we did.”

The Chief Administrator fell silent. The old man was right, he knew, and yet… something was wrong. Whales had evaded both the police and the Seekers. It was hard to believe he would just walk into a trap.

“What of the rogue Sobak?” he finally demanded.

“One has been spotted retreating from the site immediately after the blast. The Guardians are in pursuit as we speak.”

“Where did he come from? Was he in the car?”

“It wasn’t specified. From the description of the explosion, however, I doubt even a Sobak could have been mobile, if he had been inside the vehicle at the time.”

“Why wasn’t he detected before the blast, then?”

The old man paused. “I cannot say. Perhaps he was.” He studied his superior’s face.

“You suppose the doctor could have been deceived instead of frightened, sir?”

“They can change shapes.” The Chief Administrator unclasped his hands and placed them carefully, palms down, on the desk. His assistant was thoughtful. It was a possibility. A strong one.

“Even if the doctor was tricked by the rogue, it still wouldn’t explain why the Guardians didn’t detect him sooner. The car would not have concealed—”

“That’s true… But something is wrong. I can feel it.”

As though to confirm his feeling, the old man tilted his head to the right, hand rising. His superior stared at him. Another transmission was coming in.

“There’s been a disturbance at the Waukegan facility,” the old man finally said. His boss waited. “Just before the explosion at Long Grove. Someone was trying to escape on the shuttle train with a hostage. It appears the security personnel have apprehended the subject. They are transporting him presently to the Long Grove compound.”

“Order the Guard back to the Tomb,” the Chief said abruptly. The older man’s eyebrows climbed.

“Order the Guard, sir?”

“We have jurisdiction here. They know that.”

“When it comes down to our people—”

“Don’t call them that.”

“—we do. In this case, however, we are talking about them pursuing a possible murderer of one of their own. With all due respect, we aren’t even sure—”

“Enough! You’re right as always. But we must do something. Can you prevent the broadcast? Or at least hold it until we make sure?”

“The materials have already been distributed. We could try and contact—”

“No. It won’t do.” He turned away, staring into the gray shutters. “How could they not have seen that?”

“They didn’t care, sir. They wanted the traitor. Whales was never more than an afterthought.”

There was another pause. Finally, the Chief Administrator turned, green eyes flashing.

“I want the human guards to keep to their posts. I want this thief and the hostage both detained. Double the prisoners’ security. No one leaves the building until our men get there. Two squads. I want the best. Search the building, including the tunnels. If Whales is found alive…”

“Understood.”

“And those with him.”

“Done.” The old man turned to go. His boss’s voice halted him in the doorway.

“After Whales’s death has been confirmed, kill the prisoners.”

“But the Sobak wanted them.”

“They’re human aren’t they? You said it yourself. Afterthought. Our people.”

* * *

The creeping hill, one of about fifteen grotesquely conspicuous mounds bulging out of the plain, hunched right above the road. The layer of dirt was thick, but even with the dirt and the fresh chemical carpet they called lawn and dwarf trees and snow, the smell remained. Buried under the dirt, the hills were enormous piles of waste. Human waste. Also buried there, although not as deep, was the beacon. From the shadow under the huge placard that read, “Rolling Hills Homes, Eco-friendly And Affordable, Coming Soon,” he saw the black edifice in the distance.

He waited, despite the stench. He waited, motionless, centered, calm, because he was the Seeker. The stench would not affect the scent he followed. It only fueled his fury.

The explosion surprised him. He saw the fireball rise, saw the shockwave rolling across the fields before the sound of the blast reached him. Then, moments later, he saw the traitor, fleeing from four of the Guard.

It was the one, he had no doubt.

The Guard were coming on wide. They were going for capture, not kill. Mechanically, he calculated the distance, angle and speed. He could intercept. He could cut in front, link with the Guard, and the chase would be over. He could look the traitor in the eyes and know he avenged a Sobak’s death. A Seeker’s death.

Yet he didn’t move. His gaze traveled back to the black building, a cloud of black smoke now above it.

His target did not pass him by. There’s been an explosion, and now the traitor was trying to escape, but neither of the thirteen cars that had driven up that road since he arrived left the matching trace. If it had been his target they meant to destroy in that explosion, they had failed. The human was still alive. And he’s coming to the black building, he suddenly knew.

He looked back across the field at the chase. He had lost his chance. The traitor was beyond his reach now. No matter. Four of the Guard would not let him escape. His target, on the other hand, had evaded certain death twice. There would not be a third time.

He descended half the slope, then leaped over the road, landing in a snowdrift under a tree on the other side. The road had been blocked by several humans who stopped their cars immediately after the explosion and presently stared and pointed at the cloud of black smoke rising into the sky. Behind them, lines of cars grew quickly, and so did the noise. All those involved were too busy shouting to pay attention to a snowdrift that suddenly exploded, spraying white powder in the lower branches of a nearby spruce. He wouldn’t care if they weren’t.

As he started towards the smoke, he remembered his order not to kill the human. A Seeker obeyed, but now they thought the human was already dead. His order applied only while the target was still alive.

Chapter Thirty-Two

After Ted, we found ourselves alone for a while. Which was good, because I didn’t think I could handle another encounter with someone who knew Dr. Wright. I had been worked up enough even before hearing about the Antichrist on the radio. Paul had laughed, but he probably would have laughed if the captain of the firing squad preparing to execute him had a wart on his nose or something. To me it didn’t sound all that funny. In fact, it wasn’t funny at all. By the end of the conversation with the security guard, I sweated so much, my high-tech make-up began to itch.

Once out of Ted’s sight, I scratched my face gently as we navigated the empty passages of Freedom Corp. offices in Waukegan, following the shortest way down. The way I had memorized from the map provided by Bogdan, who seemed to have a three-dimensional blueprint for every Freedom facility on the continent. I had no idea how he had come to obtain them. And all he would say about it was, “That’s what I do.”

Our destination was Sub-Level 3. Rumor had it the guard posted at Sub-Level 3 was not from Ted’s temp agency. I doubted Ted even knew of the Sub-Level 3’s existence. But it was there, and, according to the map, the shuttle train was there too. Dr. Wright must have taken the train a time or two. The ceramic card we’d gotten out of his briefcase worked on every door we passed.

At the end of a winding steel stairway, the plain white door marked “S-3” opened into a waiting room, equipped with enough lounge chairs and magazine tables to accommodate about fifty people. There were monitors in the walls and something like a bar counter, for god knew what occasions, in the corner to the right. Presently, the room was empty, aside from the white-clad security guard in the glass booth by the single door on the opposite side.

As we entered and advanced across the room, chatting loudly about new golf clubs, the guard got up, placed a white helmet on his head and casually pointed a sub-machine gun at us. The helmet’s black visor concealed everything but his chin. The sight of it was almost as distressing, as that of the gun in his hands. We were forced to switch to plan B, and me distracting the guard while Paul knocked him over the head had been a pretty shaky plan A to begin with.

We kept walking, loud, confident-looking, and clueless. I contemplated grabbing the guard’s weapon, but that plan also failed before it started. When we were about ten feet away, the guard said abruptly, “That’s far enough. Another step and I open fire.”

“Fire?” I echoed incredulously. “Surely you know who I am…”

“Shut up.” He lifted the weapon. “You, with the gun. Pull it out and lower it to the floor. Slowly.”

I turned to Paul. “The gun?” was all I could muster. Our trip was over. And we hadn’t even reached the place. “Jeffrey? What is he talking about?”

Paul gave me a sour look. I turned to face the guard, stepping in front of Paul for a moment. “I’m sure there’s been a mistake. This is Jeffrey Sloan. He’s been my assistant for six years. I can assure you—”

“Out of the way!” the guard shouted, and suddenly an arm was wrapped around my neck. Pretty damn tightly, too. Something cold pressed against my temple.

“Drop the gun or I’ll blow his brains out!” Paul yelled, pressing the barrel farther into my skin. The metal case I’d picked up from the garage together with the make-up kit fell on my foot. I didn’t even have to act scared. Sure, it was my friend behind me. But when the barrel of a real gun, from which someone has been shot to death, by the way, is pressing into your head, suddenly nothing is certain. Don’t be a fool, I reassured myself. He’s not going to shoot you. What if he gets scared, and his finger slips? I stared at the guard’s visor, silently appealing for help.

“Like hell I will,” the guard replied a year later. He took half a step back into the glass booth, leaving only the gun and half of his helmet outside. I was willing to bet the glass was bulletproof. Thoughts raced through my head. One of the more coherent ones was: Oh, no. He must have seen that episode of “Barlow and Warden.”

“I’m not joking!” Paul shouted.

“Put the gun down, turn around and get on the floor. Now!” The guard sounded dead serious, but he still didn’t open fire.

“I am going to count to three…”

“Don’t put your gun down,” I whimpered to the guard. “He’ll kill us both.”

“Shut up, Doc.” Paul tightened his grip around my neck, and I started feeling a little short of breath. “Listen. No one needs to die here. I got what I came for. Now I just need to get on the train.”

“Like hell you are,” the guard said, stern as ever, but I imagined he didn’t sound entirely resolved.

“What?” I breathed, eyes dropping towards the case on the floor. “You mean… You made me carry it for you? You son of a—”

“One more word out of you, and someone might die after all,” Paul said with a nudge of steel to my head. Grimacing sincerely from pain, I noted the tiny camera filming us from the top of the door.

“I give you one last chance…” I heard the guard.

“He’s got nowhere to go,” I mouthed the words, hoping he could read my lips. “Please.”

There was a long pause, at the end of which the guard’s gun clattered to the floor. I almost passed out from relief.

“All right, push it towards me with your foot,” Paul ordered.

The guard complied.

“Good. Remove your helmet, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“You got nowhere to go,” the guard said when his helmet was off. He was bald and wore a bearded sneer. “The train won’t help you. It doesn’t go to Union Station.”

“Let me worry about that,” Paul said, pushed me aside and squeezed the trigger. Both, the guard and I ducked. The first bullet took a chunk out of the white wall, revealing gray concrete underneath. The second smashed the camera, casting a rain of glass and plastic over the guard’s hunched shoulders. The guard turned around slowly, face as white as the wall, aside from a thin trickle of red that escaped from a cut on his forehead, getting lost in the bushy left eyebrow.

“Yes, you’re still alive. Turn back around and get on your knees,” Paul commanded. When the guard, breathing loudly through his nose, turned away and lowered himself slowly to the floor, Paul winked at me, hid the pistol and picked up the discarded machine gun.

“You don’t even know what kind of trouble you’re in,” the guard was saying. “When they catch you—” He didn’t finish what promised to be an interesting phrase. Paul walked up to him and slammed the stock of the submachine gun into the back of his head. The guard fell face first to the floor. For a moment, I thought he was dead.

In the silence that followed, I heard a distant but urgent chatter coming from the white helmet. I strained to understand what was said; I suddenly was very curious.

“We have to hurry,” Paul said, startling me into senses. “Running late already. Plus the damned camera.” He gestured at the helmet with the gun. “Want me to shoot that thing?”

“No!” I exclaimed, adding in a softer voice, “just leave it for now. Change clothes with him.”

Paul hesitated, but soon nodded. “We’re talking him for a ride?”

“We have to,” I said, rubbing the right temple. From the case on the floor, I removed a roll of tape.

The train was about sixty feet long and consisted of a single passenger car, with drivers’ cabins on both ends. We dragged the guard inside, and I held the gun, while Paul helped him out of his suit. After Paul’s clothes had moved to reluctantly conceal — they were of approximately the same height, but Paul was a couple of sizes smaller — the guard’s under-suit, I taped his wrists, ankles and lips. We left him there on the white leather couch. These guys, whoever they were, clearly had a thing for white.

While Paul dressed, I went to the cabin. The controls were pretty simple: ON, OFF, NEXT STOP, DOORS LOCK/UNLOCK, and a FAST-SLOW-STOP lever for manual drive. I pressed the ON button. CABIN ACTIVE sign lit up above my head. Shrugging, I almost sent us to the NEXT STOP, but froze midway to the button, realizing I had no idea what direction our next stop was. I tried to recollect the North by reversing our itinerary from the compound entrance, but there were so many turns and stairs, that it seemed impossible to be completely certain. I wished I had my phone. Staring into the curving tunnel, I considered waking the guard.

Paul put his head in, zipping up the suit.

“I’m keeping my shoes,” he announced. “What’s up?”

“I think we have to guess which way to go. And if we guess wrong…”

He stared forward, looked back over his shoulder and laughed.

“See, I knew my tacky watch would come in handy.”

“What?”

“A gift. Long story.”

He showed me his watch. A cheap, plastic monstrosity, but above the time dial it had the digital arrow of a compass. As he faced the tunnel, the arrow pointed towards his left ear. It took us a moment to figure it out.

“The other cabin!” Paul was the first to declare. I pressed the OFF button with a sigh of relief and followed him into the car.

Soon we sat on white benches facing each other across the aisle. The trip wouldn’t be long, I knew. It was about fifteen miles between Waukegan and Long Grove. The train glided on leisurely, but it couldn’t take more than twenty minutes.

Paul’s new helmet sat on the seat on his left, the submachine gun on his right. He had returned my gun to me, and I placed it on the floor between my boots, and sat staring at it and scratching my face with both hands.

“I was thinking,” Paul said, leaning forward.

“Hmm?”

“Some shit with that Antichrist on the same day, huh?” he said abruptly and chuckled.

“Yeah.”

“Right.” Here he leaned in even closer and lowered his voice. “We won’t be able to act our way through all of it, you know?”

I kept staring at the gun on the floor.

“I mean once we’re in there, we might actually have to shoot somebody. If it’s either us or them, I’d rather it were us.”

He said nothing more for a while. I didn’t either. I knew he was right. This gun on the floor would take someone’s life before the day was over. I would take someone’s life. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head.

“Judging from your performance back there,” I said, lifting my face to meet Paul’s troubled gaze, “you’re a much better actor than a shooter.”

His face slowly regained its habitual grin. “So let’s at least try?”

“So let’s at least try.”

“Screw you, by the way,” he added after a pause. “Two bullets is too much? That was the first time I shot anything but breeze since that time we played BF. Be grateful I knew which way to point the thing.”

“I am grateful,” I said, holding his gaze for a long time.

“Don’t start with that.”

“Seriously, man.”

“What?”

“What? Last time we saw each other was six years ago. when I treated you like crap. And now you’re risking your life for me.”

“Remember our quartet?” he asked me. I didn’t suppose he really expected me to answer and I was right. He leaned back in his seat, shrugged, leaned forward again. “After you dumped me I landed in some unhappy shit. Wasn’t because I was heartbroken or anything. Just a bad stretch with no cash and a messed-up roommate. So I went to Brian to try and borrow some money. A lousy grand I needed for the rent. He’s still with his hot little wife, by the way; still up in Evanston. Look, I mighta showed up a little buzzed, but…”

“He turned you away?”

“He couldn’t even do that.” Paul shook his head. “He said he’d get the cash and call me the next day. When I called two days later, no one picked up on any of his numbers. Finally, after I called him for three straight days thereafter, his hot little wife picked up the phone and told me not to harass Brian anymore, or she would notify the police. I mean, what the hell do you make of that? If you don’t have the money, or you don’t feel like lending it to an old friend, just tell me straight up, right? Why waste my time, which I had none of, giving me false hopes. I mean, if I didn’t scramble to this prick I hate at the last minute, I’d be on the street. Shit, I’d probably be dead by now, you know?” Again, he didn’t wait for me to respond.

“So that’s the Jokester. What about Orlando? Last time I saw him, Old Lando called me an ungrateful commie, when I tried to tell him not to enlist, and very nearly kicked my ass, when I said that if I got a notice, I’d send it back with a note that the president and his draft can both suck the same cock.” He glanced at me. “He actually shoved me. Had that same look in his eyes like… I only hope the poor bastard is still alive.”

Paul fell silent, looked down at his hands and shrugged again. I spoke when it seemed like he was done.

“So why—”

“I didn’t make any new friends,” he cut me off. “In five years I haven’t made a single real friend. There were a couple of funny guys I hung out with when I worked for the network, but… Never learned to live like everyone else, without friends, either. Never married, maybe that’s why.

“College was the best time of my life. I mean, it was the only time I really enjoyed my life. Now you understand why?”

I did, because I remembered. I understood, but I doubted I would do the same thing if I were in his place and he in mine. I did learn to live without friends.

“I am glad you’re here,” I said.

“All right. Let’s not hug yet.”

As we grinned at each other, a stern voice began to speak. I hoped it was too loud to be inside my head, but no speakers were visible. I stared at Paul, relieved to see him staring back.

“This is White Command,” the voice said. “Identify yourself immediately.”

We didn’t.

“This is White Command. Your shuttle operation is unscheduled and unauthorized. You have one minute to identify yourself. I repeat. This is White Command. If you do not identify yourself in fifty seconds, the quarantine protocol will be engaged. I repeat…”

The voice went on and on. We didn’t know what exactly the quarantine protocol involved around these parts, but the words sent us scrambling. At fifteen seconds Paul located a suspicious-looking contraption on the back wall of the cabin. By the count of seven he figured how to make it work and panted into small microphone.

“WC, WC. Abort the quarantine. I repeat. Abort the quarantine.”

“Who is this? Identify yourself immediately.” Frantically, I snatched the helmed from the couch and thrust it at Paul, pointing at the code on the inside padding. Paul’s eyes demanded affirmation. I shrugged and motioned for him to go ahead.

“This is W-I-L-23 dash 1,” Paul said in a gruff voice.

“WIL23? What’s your status? What happened down there? You did not respond to our attempts to reach you.”

With a glance at me Paul continued. “There was a disturbance. I… managed to apprehend a suspected thief, who tried to escape through the shuttle system. The helmet radio must have been damaged in the tussle.”

“We saw some of it on camera. Who was the other one?”

“Some Dr. Colin Wright. He helped with the guy. His ID’s check out fine.”

“He wasn’t scheduled to be there. What did this supposed thief steal?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s a case. I didn’t open the case. Since my radio was out, I figured I’d take them down to base myself.”

“That’s a negative,” the commander snapped. Paul looked over at me. I knew he was thinking the same thing. We could ignore the order and continue, but if the WC could remotely reverse the train… After a pause, the commander returned. “Not the base. Proceed to transfer them to the squad at the next stop. Then return to your post. Another squad will meet you there. And keep and eye on that doctor, too.”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“White Command, out.”

There was silence. Paul released the button and exhaled slowly. Ahead of us, the tunnel ran straight now and we saw a bright light no more than five hundred yards ahead. Our stop.

“You think he bought it?” Paul asked in a whisper as we slumped back to our couches.

“Even if he did—” I started, but again didn’t have the chance to respond properly.

We heard something like a rumble of an oncoming train. Only there was no train. The rumble must have been loud, considering no external sound had breached the car since we’d started moving.

“Bogdan,” we both said at the same time. A moment later, the lights went out. Paul in his white suit, the white couches, the unconscious guard, the train — everything was swallowed by pitch black. I felt the train slowing, rolling to a gentle stop.

In those moments of complete and utter darkness thoughts of Iris suddenly swarmed me. Only then did I realize that I’d been forcing myself not to think of her. Somehow it was easier to do when I could divert my attention to something else. But in the dark, it was just me and my fears, and no one there to help.

It was hopeless. I had deluded myself into optimism with our progress, when in reality we hadn’t even started yet. Bogdan did his thing, but how could I possibly rescue anybody? Iris was dead, or taken away somewhere else, and I and Paul and probably even Brome would be dead soon enough. Dead, alone in complete darkness forever, because if there was no real God, then there was nothing afterwards. Just blindness. Maybe Dr. Wright had the truth of it. Maybe I was crazy and pitiful. Maybe someone was playing with my head. I’m too young, too successful to die, I suddenly thought.

It was Paul’s voice again that came to my rescue. “Damn, this thing is sturdy.” His delighted words jumped at me out of the dark.

“What?”

“The helmet. I can see like it’s daylight. Freaky stuff. You got a scared mug, by the way. Afraid of the dark? I know this guy, he’s like forty, a decorated ex-marine and sleeps with a light on at night. Terrified of darkness. He’s on some pill, too. He says the pills help a lot, but he still keeps the light on out of habit. So I told him he needed a different pill for that now.”

“You are one crazy son of a bitch,” I told him gratefully.

“You better watch it. I got the magic helmet.”

“All right, I’ll keep the payback for the dent in my head for later.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “So. Someone blew up the electricity. What do we do now?”

“Walk. The station can’t be more than a couple of hundred yards away by now.”

“What if the lights come back on when we’re still on tracks? Aside from the current, we’ll have an unmanned can of whoop-ass chasing us at fifty miles an hour. Did you notice how tight the pipe was? There are no sidewalks.”

“What I noticed was there aren’t any tracks,” I told the darkness, which my eyes could not adjust to. “The rail is on top of the train. We’re hanging from the ceiling. But you’re right about the other part. You have to go alone.”

“Why me?”

“You got the magic helmet. I got the doc’s face.”

“Then how are you going to see the controls you need to operate before I get squished?”

“The lights will be on.”

“Damn it,” he grumbled. I heard him move around. “You know, I coulda played the doctor just as well.”

“Don’t think I could do the part with the hostage, though,” I replied. I could hear his grin.

“That was good, wasn’t it?”

“Just like on TV.”

He chuckled. “So I bring a couple of guards back with me…”

“Right.”

“I hope they don’t have some secret handshake or something.”

The rest was a mumble, and then I heard a hissing sound of a door being opened. “At least this still works.”

“It’s a good omen,” I offered. He ignored it.

“It’s really narrow here, man. And there are reinforced beams I’ll have to really squeeze by. What do you suppose they do with the passengers when there’s an outage?”

I thought about it. He was right. With no sidewalks, they must have twenty-seven back-up systems for powering the trains. There was no way for him to make it walking even if it was only a hundred yards.

Just as I thought it, without a hint of a warning, the train was blindingly back. Talk about a bulb going off in one’s head. That particular one brought my hand up to my eyes so hard I felt my skin burning. But then I had to force my eyes to open, because during the split second in between, my blurry vision revealed Paul hanging halfway out the door.

“Paul!” I shouted and launched blindly towards him, groping for the nearest steel bar for support. “Get back.”

There was a gentle hum and the train jerked forward. I felt my hand close over the collar of Paul’s excruciatingly white suit, and I pulled him back into the car, my one open and watery eye noting a white reinforcing beam darting past an inch or two from his helmet’s visor.

Back on the floor I pushed him off and once again hid my eyes in the blissful reddish darkness of my palm.

“Magic helmet, man.” Paul was panting. “I swear, makes no difference inside the thing if it’s light or not. Did you see that? That beam almost took my head off.”

Little by little, I was able to remove the cover from my eyes.

“I saw some of it,” I said, sitting up.

“Maybe we should just start from plans B from now on? Or is it plan Bs?”

Yet again, there was no time for an answer. As I rose to my feet, I saw the darkened, tile-covered station, which looked like — although it had admittedly been a while since I’d seen one — a subway station in the city, only smaller. Two guards in white suits floated from left to right slower and slower outside the window. We were arriving.

Chapter Thirty-Three

As soon as they confirmed the radio was dead, Sono took half the squad up into the building, leaving him with Lietbarsky. Which was all right by him, even if Lietbarsky was an ex-cop. It was better to stay down there at the quiet train station with an ex-cop, than go chasing bombers in the company of bored, trigger-happy, pure-bred mercs. It seemed Lietbarsky shared the sentiment, although he probably wouldn’t be inviting his ex-mil co-worker to a donut-eating contest any time soon. Face hidden by helmet, Lietbarsky shrugged and walked away towards the guard lounge.

Fuck him, Pare thought. We don’t have to talk.

Four seconds later lights appeared in the tunnel, and then a train pulled in and rolled to a stop with a hiss. Inside were one of the guards and some guy in civvies. Lietbarsky returned and, having met Pare’s visored look, shrugged again.

“What the hell’s going on here?” the guard in the train called out when the doors slid open. Pare couldn’t tell by voice who it was, but that didn’t really surprise him. Most of them knew each other from the barracks, but mercs came in and out often, and assignments were shuffled constantly. Friendship was not encouraged. As if. Probably one of the ex-cops, Pare thought.

“Something popped. We don’t know,” Pare replied. He pointed with the barrel of his gun. “What’s this?”

“A cargo I’m dropping off. Didn’t the orders come in from WC?”

“The radio is dead,” Lietbarsky said. “No one’s allowed into the building until further notice.”

“Keep him here, then. I don’t care,” the guard motioned for the passenger to get off. “Go on, Doc. This is your new home.”

“Doc” didn’t seem happy. He was probably around fifty and looked like one of those guys who’d charge you five hundred bucks for looking into your mouth. Or worse, a shrink. Must have been a good one at that. He’d started getting on Pare’s nerves even before he stepped out on the platform.

“No. You keep him until Sono shows up,” Pare said. “Stay inside the train.”

“Sono in charge here? Listen, buddy,” the guard started. Buddy, Pare thought. A goddamn ex-cop, for sure. “My orders are to drop these fruits off and head back to Waukegan. I’m sure as peanuts not getting in trouble with WC because of you. All right? Now get your ass in here and unload this heavy bastard. That’s an order.”

“Fuck you, pig,” Pare said. “You can stuff your orders where the sun don’t shine.” The fucker had the nerve. As though a career of chasing bums around and booking whores gave him the right to bark orders at a war-tested marine. But he had forgotten about the goddamn Lietbarsky. Who presently bristled. You could see it right through the suit.

“Those aren’t his orders, I’m guessing,” the Polack hissed out of his helmet. “Sono will be sure to hear about your attitude when he gets back. I’ll tell him you’re bored with being an ex-mil. That you’d rather be a regular mil again, than follow Command’s orders. I hear they need people out there in the sands.”

That’s why everyone hated ex-cops. Sure, pure-breds were crazy, but at least you could talk to them. Cops, though, cops were rats. To a man. Although Pare didn’t buy the active duty threat for one second, he knew there would be trouble enough without it. He would get back at Lietbarsky for this. Before long.

“They’ll find you buried in the sand somewhere one of these days,” he spat back. “Come on, then. If you’re so anxious to help your pig friend, then let’s go get the fucker he brought. I am sure as fuck not hauling him out alone.”

He went inside. Lietbarsky, triumphantly, followed.

“Who the hell is he?” Lietbarsky asked the other ex-cop, as Pare made his way towards the white couch and an unconscious, taped-up, heavy-set guy in a wrinkled black suit.

“Shit if I know. Tried to escape the place on the train. Stole something, supposedly.”

“What’d he steal?”

“That case over there.”

“What’s in the case?”

“Hey!” Pare called. “Discuss it over a Boston Cream later. I’m not here to listen to your gossip.”

He reached the body now and was about to pass it, so that he could come around from the shoulders, but suddenly halted. The impending revenge on the ratting ex-cop evaporated from his mind. He knew the guy on the couch! Not the name, but he knew his face from the racks. An ex-cop, too. A guard. And both of the train guys were now behind them. He glanced over sideways out of his visor. He should have left Lietbarsky with the “Doc” outside.

At the same time Lietbarsky came up beside him. He would recognize a fellow pig for sure.

“Get up,” Lietbarsky said and kicked the guy’s foot.

The bastard is not without brains, Pare thought, sweating. Lietbarsky meanwhile, tossed the PM on his back and bent over the prone guard, turning his face away from the intruders and working his right hand towards the sidearm on his hip. “Get up and walk. No one wants to carry you.”

Cops might not be known for their bravery, but it seemed Lietbarsky was pissed. The scum dared to play him on the sacred ex-pig comradeship. It occurred to Pare that he was about to do some kind of a spin move out of a police drama. He wouldn’t mourn, and the Polack was between him and the pair of strangers, but the distance was too small. There was no place for maneuvering. No cover. Fuck, he thought. The brokenhearted pig is going to get us both killed.

“All right, let’s get the fucker up,” he said meanwhile, glancing casually to his left. There was another door within reach. If he could get it open, get out on the platform… “Hold up. Let me open this bitch up. No point dragging him all through the train.” Lietbarsky nodded, and Pare raised his hand to open the door.

“Another move from either of you, you’re both dead,” a voice said. Silently, Pare turned his head towards the two guns that were now pointing at him.

Lietbarsky, back still turned, started straightening casually, chuckling, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Shit, he’s going to do it, Pare thought desperately. You can’t! his mind screamed. You can’t, they got us made!

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Don’t do it!” I screamed at the guard who kept turning. Paul had him. The gun in my wooden hands was trained at the shoulder area of the one by the door. I screamed again, but he did it anyway. Changing pace suddenly, he whirled around and dropped to one knee. I saw his gun rising, heard Paul shout and the thunder of a submachine gun being discharged.

From his spot on the floor the guard was thrown four yards back to crash helmet first inside the cabin. I felt heat on my neck, like when a careless make-up girl touches you with a curler. A dizzying thought came: I’m hit! The gun in my hand acquired the mass of Titan, the largest moon of Saturn. It occurred to me suddenly that I’d forgotten about the other guard and I almost shot at his white suit out of horror. But I didn’t. The suit was still there, a voice in my head reminded me. He hadn’t moved.

“Don’t move!” Paul screamed at the same time. And immediately followed with, “On the floor! Face down! Drop your weapon!”

To me it sounded vaguely familiar. Somehow the guard deciphered it and went down. Paul rushed forward. Kicking the two guns away, he spun around to face me. The third gun — the one in his hands — trembled.

“What now?” he yelled. “What do I do with him?”

I realized two things then. First, that my wound was not serious. And second, that Paul expected me to tell him to kill the disarmed guard. He had just killed his first human being. Now he waited for me to tell him to kill another one.

Gingerly, I walked up to them.

“Take off your suit,” I told the guard. To Paul I said, “Get the tape.”

“All right,” Paul said and nodded. “All right,” and nodded again. Finally, as though he was Tin Man working against a magnetic field, he went to get the tape.

Rising to his knees, the guard took off his helmet and unzipped the jacket. He did it sullenly, without looking at me. Just like the Waukegan guard he was bald and wide.

“Pants too?” he asked the air in front of him.

“Yes, hurry up.”

Paul returned with the tape. His helmet was also off. His blond hair was stuck to his forehead. Below it, his face was red. The guard stood up and stepped out of his pants.

We taped him up like the other one, and put him on the couch across the aisle. Before placing a piece of tape over his lips, I asked him about the door. He said nothing on the subject. I reminded him we were going through a lot of trouble not to shoot him, and the least he could do in return is be helpful. He disagreed. I let the matter drop. I wasn’t really going to shoot him, and I saw no other way to persuade him. I thought his badge would probably open the door.

As I was changing into the white suit, the Waukegan guard opened his eyes. He began to make noise and struggle to sit up.

“Shut up,” Paul told him, giving his shin a gentle kick. “Or you’ll be sleeping again.” The guard gave us, especially me, a hateful look, but calmed down.

Soon we were ready. I slung the submachine gun across my back.

“We’ll send them back towards Waukegan,” I said.

“Yeah, it should give us a good twenty minutes,” Paul agreed. The red was gone from his face now. Completely. He eyed the cabin.

“You stay here and hold the doors open,” I told him. “I’ll do the controls.”

He nodded and peered intently outside the door at the empty station. I went to the cabin, where the corpse of the guard lay on its side. What gave it away was the blood. Or the obvious absence thereof. The presumably dead guard, at whom I, at first, attempted to slant only a fleeting glance, revealed none of it. Which led me to squat beside him to get a closer look. There were four bullet marks on his jacket, but none of the bullets had penetrated it. Carefully, I lifted his helmet and poked his neck in several places before finally locating what I searched for. Gentle, rhythmical, almost tickling pushing against the skin of my fingers. He had a pulse! For a moment I was terrified. Having discovered the guard alive, I expected him to suddenly come to and grab me. When he did not, I turned to Paul, who had been watching apprehensively.

“He’s alive. Unconscious, but alive. The thing is bulletproof.”

Without waiting for an answer, I rose to my feet and pressed the OFF button. I pushed the manual drive lever forward. I thought to push it all the way up, but reconsidered, leaving it at about a third.

“All right.”

“Ready,” Paul replied.

I pressed ON and, as the train began to move, jogged to the door and out onto the platform. Paul stepped out behind me and the doors slid shut. The shuttle train slid into the tunnel and was gone.

We were alone in the dark station. Unlike in Waukegan, there was no lounge here, just the platform, the guardroom and the door. The door did not react to the guard’s ID card at all. There was no power. The train system must have been powered by a different backup generator. The building above us was still dark.

We positioned ourselves by the door and waited, hoping the rest of the guards were not going to return before electricity. Having to wait gave me the opportunity to remove the disguise. Dr. Wright’s face would not really work with the guard’s suit. And it itched. I tossed everything on the tracks. It felt good to have my own face back, though I hid it immediately under the helmet.

“Thanks, man,” Paul said after a bit of silence. Then, after another bit, added, “Wait a minute. This guy, Sono, went in somehow. With no power, right?”

He was right. I went up to the door, pressed against it, pressed some more, and suddenly it gave and slid an inch to the right.

We pushed it open together and entered the empty, darkened hallway beyond.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Stealing a chopper wouldn’t be hard. Special Agent Brome, although technically on vacation, still had complete access within the FBI headquarters. Or close enough to complete. His access included roof; he was sure of that.

The hard part was being alone.

He was to fly out at nine o’clock sharp, and for eighty minutes between then and his departure from Whales’s house in the suburbs Brome battled an army that would not relent. Doubts.

It started with the decision about the infiltration to be carried out by two untrained civilians. He had agreed to it initially, because all signs pointed to the fact that getting in the facility would be easier than getting out of it. He had agreed, yet as he drove back downtown, Brome couldn’t help thinking that he should have stopped them. God knows chances would be slim if he was there. Without him “slim” began to sound like desperately optimistic odds.

None of them could fly a helicopter, he reminded himself. And immediately had an idea of confiding in Rush, one of the FBI pilots he’d gotten chummy with because of his background. Rush is a decent guy, he thought. He’ll understand. I’ll call him and have him do the evac. Meanwhile, I’ll turn around and catch up with Whales and his friend before they get themselves killed.

It sounded so reasonable in his head, he almost dialed the number. However, there was no active communication link between Whales and him. The alien had said it was too risky. If he turned around now he could end up late. Would likely end up late. And Rush would end up in serious trouble regardless of the outcome.

Which led Brome to his own troubles. What they were about to do — and this in the event of success — would render his vacation permanent. In the event of success Special Agent Brome would probably end up on the wanted list. What would he do? What would he tell Grace? That he threw away his career and hers and Annie’s future because aliens were after a talk show host whose show he always hated? That’s a ticket to a padded room right there. He shook his head and drove on.

A billboard hanging from the highway’s ceiling caught his eye. To the left of the face of an obviously beleaguered, middle-aged white man, in big, soothing, green letters was printed:

TIRED OF THINKING? LET US DO THE WORK FOR YOU!

It flew past and disappeared before his mind registered the advertised company’s name.

Somehow it helped.

His doubts shrunk. The plan was weak, but it was the best one possible considering the available resources. As to his own motivations… It was the right thing to do. Simple as that. Grace will understand, he told himself. If she doesn’t, Annie will. He knew it. And in that knowledge he took comfort.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The lights came back about a minute after we left the station. We were in a long curving hallway, painted — of course — white. We moved at a trot, partly because time was short, and partly because a couple of trotting guards would probably look less conspicuous than two who strolled leisurely along, several minutes after a bomb had almost destroyed the building.

We passed doors and narrow crossing hallways, which sometimes opened into much larger spaces. It felt like we were in service corridors of a huge mall, barely finished and not yet populated. But Freedom Corp. wasn’t about to open a mall under its Long Grove facility. What was the place for, then?

For now we ignored the elevators. According to Bogdan’s map — whose scale I had really misjudged — both the dormitories and the infirmary were on the same level as the shuttle station. Since the map did not have a locale called “Dungeon” or “Prison,” we had hoped one of those places would be where they usually held hostages. The labs, on the level below, was the third possibility, but I refused to consider it until I checked the first two. Getting inside the labs would be a whole different story.

Traffic was scarce. Aside from the occasional jogging snow-whites in teams of three and four who paid us no heed, we encountered no staff. No civilians of any kind; no damages from the explosion. No clues, either. And I needed those, because the size of the facility threw me off completely. I had no idea where we or anything else was. The map in my head was useless.

We followed the hallway as straight as we could through intersections, but the damn thing always curved to the right, and soon I began to suspect that we were going to end up back at the train stop. Paul had by then voiced his doubts once or twice. To those I preferred not to respond on account of saving my breath.

Just when I really started to despair and hyperventilate, the hallway abruptly ended in a bend. As we slowed to a walk and came around it, trying hard not to expose our exhaustion, we were greeted by a pair of glass doors and the most unurgent guard we’d seen all day. Droopy-cheeked and helmetless, he was seated at a crescent-shaped white desk and, as we approached, was trying to break the record for the largest bubble blown out of a chewing gum. He seemed pretty close to doing it, but then suddenly the green ball popped and fell limp over his chin. If it caused disappointment, he hid it well.

“Let me guess,” he yawned, staring up at the ceiling. “Diarrhea.”

We found one of them! I thought excitedly. The gum slithered like a lizard back into his mouth. I saw a golden triangle insignia stamped on the white in the middle of his chest.

“Sir, no, sir!” I blurted out. “We are reinforcements. To provide additional prisoner security, sir.”

“Ain’t no prisoners here, you dumbfuck.”

“Is this the infirmary, sir?”

“What? Not only you’re dumb, you also blind? Of course it’s the infirmary.”

“Sir Sono directed us here, sir. He said the prisoners—”

“That’s cos your Sono is a dumbfuck too. Now get outta my sight.”

When we didn’t immediately comply, the guard finally graced us with his gaze. He contemplated us for a moment, then shook his head.

“Try the dorms.”

“Sir, thank you, sir.”

“Take off your damn helmets before you pass out,” he added before we left. “See, I don’t want to be bothered. If they bring you back here when you pop a vein from running all day in those things, I will be bothered. Where’d you serve?”

“Army, sir. One hundred—”

“Ah, forget it, then. Run on, rook,” he interrupted and leaned back again.

So we did. Only slower. To get to the dormitory we needed to take a branching hallway on the right, I recalled from the map, but we must have passed a dozen of them on the way up and I had no idea which one would lead us to our destination. I considered taking every single branch until we found the correct one, hoping that none of them could be as long as the main. Even if they weren’t, that would take time. Iris didn’t have time.

There was a whistle like a bomb in a movie, and a voice thundered inside our helmets. Radio was back.

“Attention all security personnel,” it demanded. “We have a code Black. I repeat, code Black. Those not specifically reassigned by their direct commanders are to return to their posts immediately. Your squad leaders will brief you.”

The radio went dead again. Nothing had visibly changed — the guards still moved about like before — but I knew soon it would not be the case. Soon the hallways would be empty. There was no way to search every side corridor without getting noticed. We had minutes, maybe seconds to find the right one.

“Think it would arouse suspicion if we asked for directions?” Paul asked in between breaths.

I figured it was a rhetorical question. Other than that, I didn’t have an clue about much of anything. We passed by the first corridor branching off to the right without stopping. Another one opened shortly, and we almost bumped into a squad of guards filing out of it. There were murmurs, but otherwise no reaction from them. No bright ideas either, aside from, “That could have been it.”

If ever there was a good time for some telepathic guidance, I thought, it was now. Instead, as we were about to pass by the third corridor, a familiar sound reached me. I only realized I was hearing it once we were past the opening in the wall and the sound abruptly cut off. I halted so abruptly that Paul ran by me and had to double back about thirty feet. As I turned around and went back to where the side hallway began, I saw the squad we had passed trotting in our direction.

“What the hell are you doing?” Paul hissed when he caught up to me.

“This is it,” I told him and ran into the side passage, which at once began to curve to the left. I didn’t know if the sound I heard would qualify as telepathic guidance. After all, it was a sound. But it was a sound Paul couldn’t hear for some reason.

“How the hell do you figure that?” he demanded as he followed me.

“I hear him,” I replied, adding before he could ask the obvious question.

“I hear Dr. Young chanting.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

When he detected the lone Seeker on the hill to the left he knew immediately who the Seeker was and that he, the Messenger, might not deliver another one. His instincts practically screamed at him to drop the disguise on the spot. Before the Seeker could move into position. Because then none of the tricks would work. Not even fighting would work. He had seen from the Guard’s formation that they intended to capture him. They would not allow him to be killed in battle.

True, there would be five dead humans if he revealed himself that close to the compound, but they were humans, no matter how important. He was important. If he was captured today it would all be a waste. His sacrifices would go to waste. And not just his. There was no telling how many rebel Sobak would fall. Maybe all of them.

Yet he hesitated. Let him just make a move, half a move, he thought, keeping the same pace. The slightest motion and I’m gone. Sorry, Luke, Iris, I rather liked you guys, but…

But the Seeker, inexplicably, stayed put. A moment later the Messenger and his escort were out of reach. So certain he had been of the Seeker’s impending attempt to intercept him, to revenge his fallen partner, that when it didn’t happen, he almost missed a step. Not now, he told himself. Can’t think about it now. When four of the Guard pursued you, a missed step was as bad as an unforeseen Seeker cutting off your escape. He forced the Seeker out of his mind and continued on, curving his rout gently to the right, away from the city.

They sent four — half of the Guard — after him because he killed a Sobak. Had they known who he truly was, they would send all of them. There would be ships circling above for support. Sometimes it’s good to be dead, he reflected. Of course, in mere minutes he, the Messenger, would be resurrected.

Those minutes passed with the Guard methodically gaining ground. He fought for scraps of time, increasing his pace ever so slightly. Someone else might have gotten suspicious. The Guard simply adjusted, compensated and continued to gain.

They almost had him now. He felt them shifting, coming around for the final maneuver. The chase had moved to the roofs of the Southwestern suburbs that flew by under his feet. Chicago receded behind him and to the left. The city that had been a good tomb to him; the city he was not likely to see ever again. But he had never been one afraid of change. That’s how he had died. That’s why he’d stayed dead for so long.

Thinking like a human again. Long? A couple of years’ time, barely that. Long time on Earth, though. Compared to that time, the minutes he had managed to collect from the Guardians were like a human’s lifespan compared to a Sobak’s. Seventeen earth minutes here, fourteen back. Meager thirty one total. Nothing for a Sobak. However, the time he’d won wasn’t for a Sobak. A human might be able to do something with it. Would have to be able to. It was all he could give. The chase was over. Half a minute more and he would be inside the Guard’s Square. It was time.

He dropped the disguise.

He heard their recognition, their outrage, the realization of their mistake. Instantly the formation was forgotten. The Guardians came on in a rush, as desperate as it was futile. In a bit of un-Sobak-like, human immaturity, he turned to face them, hearing again their sudden hope.

Then he leapt backwards. Forty miles backwards. He saw their flailing, receding forms as they jumped after him and soon landed. No one could move like the Messenger. The winged shoes, he thought to himself amusedly as he landed, turned and leapt again, heading straight south. Whatever came next, his task was done here. He had given Whales half an hour. It better be enough.

As for him, now they knew. Next time they wouldn’t be unprepared. But it felt good to be alive again. No wonder humans made so much fuss about resurrection, he thought. Resurrection was… fun.

* * *

In the narrow hallway by the cell’s door six guards — the prisoner security had been tripled, rather than doubled here — kept the small talk to a minimum. They paced silently, leaned on walls, checked their weapons and stretched, directing occasional glances towards the curve, beyond which the hallway eventually joined the main. Other than that they gave no indication of anything out of the ordinary happening.

Stone, the ex-mil Unitman, didn’t blame them. Sure, Code Black was serious enough business, especially with that car bomb going off up by the gates and somehow knocking off power, but there were forty-six guards presently on the floor, and underground levels had been built to limit hiding places. A patrol was bound to spot the intruders sooner or later. Chances were they would never make it to the dorms. If that bomb was supposed to be a distraction, Stone thought grimly, the amateur fools were about to find out just how poorly it worked.

Still, he made himself look vigilant, barking orders and gesturing every now and then, in case someone was watching.

Out of the same consideration he accessed the display panel to check on the prisoner. The old man with the bloody nose was standing in the middle of the cell, eyes closed, face and palms turned up towards the ceiling. The sensors picked up a faint, chanting-like sound emanating from him.

“Hey, shut up in there,” Stone barked into the microphone. The old man didn’t move a muscle. As Stone was about to open the door and do some disciplinary work, a voice started talking in his helmet. According to the visor, the transmission was coming in on Leader channel.

“This is Sono,” the voice said urgently. “One or more intruders have likely entered through the train station. Two of my men are missing. That means their suits could have been used to disguise. Account for all your men. If you see guards who are out of place or act suspicious — shoot first, ask questions later. This is straight from White Command. I am staying at the station to prevent any escape attempt. Sono, out.”

There was silence. Sure, stay at the subway station, Stone thought bitterly. Let someone else do the job. Just like Sono.

Suddenly, another voice spoke. “This is Talbot. A pair dressed in guard suits just stopped by the infirmary. Said Sono sent them, but Sono says he didn’t send nobody. They’re coming to the dorms. Prepare the meet and greet.”

Talbot signed off, but another voice replaced him immediately. “Stone, this is White Command. Your orders are to shoot to kill. If they are wearing guard suits, submachine gun fire will only temporarily incapacitate them. But your orders are: shoot to kill. Is that understood?”

Stone nodded, forgetting that the voice was coming on radio.

“Is that understood?” WC repeated impatiently. “Respond.”

“Yes, sir,” Stone finally said, not bothering to switch the frequency. WC could hear him on any channel.

“Good.” WC said no more.

After a momentary reflection, Stone was barking orders once again. They were not just for show this time, and the men sensed it immediately and started moving.

“All right, listen up. We have at least two incoming. You three — prone on the floor here.” He showed with his hand. “One, two, three.” The three dropped flat. Stone opened two nearest compartments on either side of the hallway and had two men get into doorways for cover. When all were in position, he nodded satisfactorily and took a knee behind them, in the middle. From the holster on his hip he pulled out an old-fashioned Desert Eagle and removed the safety. The suit would not stop a bullet from that.

In the cell, the old man chanted on.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

We were about fifty yards into the side passage when a voice in my helmet called for Pare and his status. It repeated the question four times and fell silent. Afraid that someone could now be listening in on Pare’s borrowed suit, I motioned for Paul to be silent, and we walked on carefully and hopefully quietly, hugging the corridor’s left wall.

Suddenly Paul, who had somehow ended up in the lead, halted and raised his right hand in a fist. One had only to have a brief acquaintance with police dramas to know what that meant. Sending a glance over my shoulder I pressed my back against the white wall.

In a moment Paul was leaning on the wall beside me. He raised his hand again and this time he curled only two fingers, leaving three straight. I nodded and glanced back the way we’d come from one more time. That way the hallway remained empty. But the chanting continued. It was getting stronger. There could not be a mistake.

I turned to Paul again, contemplating removing the helmet and asking him to remove his, so that we could see each other’s faces. Before I could, Paul’s hand rose up once more. Placing his thumb under the fingers, he opened and closed the palm three times, paused, turned the palm sideways, curling his fingers in and leaving the index pointing straight forward and the thumb up. That wasn’t in any of the episodes I’d seen, but I understood. Talk or shoot. It was up to me.

Only for a short time.

Hurried footsteps resounded in the hallway behind us. It seemed the squad of guards we’d passed was returning for a couple of questions.

“Go!” I shouted, forgetting the silence. “Go!”

And off went Paul. He charged around the bend, and I followed closely, screaming “Ahhh!” at the top of my lungs, drowning out the chanting that continued to grow in my head. In what I thought would be my last moments, I couldn’t come up with anything better. So much for actors being creative.

As we came around the curve, I saw that the hallway from there ran straight for about fifty feet, ending in a single silvery door. Three guards in white heard me. The hallway began to crackle with gunfire.

Paul stumbled and went down. Thinking he’d been hit I screamed louder and started shooting, still running towards the guards. One of them was thrown back against the door. Before I had the chance to cheer, something like an invisible freight train smashed into my left shoulder, tossing me back in a triple toe-loop.

Oh, that hurts, I thought to myself as I spun, watching a familiar-looking submachine gun float by me. Then, right before I lost consciousness, I saw Paul, sliding along the floor on his belly and shooting. “No more ice-cream, mister,” said my mother’s voice. “Or you will be sick.” The lights went out.

When my eyes opened Paul’s red, wet face hovered above me. His lips and eyes were moving frantically, but I couldn’t hear a thing. It was about to tell him as much, when a stab of pain woke me up better than any latte. I almost bit my tongue off.

I groaned and struggled to get up. “How long was I out?”

“Two, maybe three seconds!” he shouted in my ear. “Now fucking move!”

Through the door he pulled me into… an elevator. I twisted around, not comprehending. Outside there was the hallway and the bodies. A bunch of armed people in white ran out of the curve.

“Close, you piece of shit! Close!” Paul was shouting and shooting as bullets whizzed by, and finally, the door obeyed. Several dull thuds sent the elevator on its way up.

“Get up! Can’t rest here!” Paul shouted at me and pulled me to my feet. “We’re still alive, brother! Haha! Man, this is just like BF5, man!”

My head throbbed, but he didn’t seem capable of lowering the volume. Leaning against the wall, which was soft and orange, I shook my head. As I did, another burst of pain tore through me, almost causing me to collapse. Yes, I’m alive, I mused, but I wish a small part of me, namely from the left shoulder down the arm, was dead. Or, if that’s what dead feels like, I want no part of it at all.

“Whoa, whoa! Hold it, man! The ride will be short! I need you awake!”

I realized, absently, that he’d slapped my face. He was right, I knew, I needed to get it together, but everything else was wrong. Why were we going up? The prisoners had to be on the underground level. Yet, even as I thought that, I heard the chanting in my head, stronger than ever. We had to be on the right track. Had to be, unless there was no chanting and I was crazy. What a time to find that out, I reflected.

I brought my good hand up to my face and found no glass. Just sweat. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my helmet. Pare’s helmet, really. But who gave a damn? It felt good to touch my face.

The elevator stopped. Paul pushed me against one wall and leaned flat against the other, gun ready. The door opened. On the other side of it was a room, an office, large and empty. Inside the room only the ceiling was white. Under it, the walls were painted sea-foam, with malachite desk, spinach carpeting and viridian arm-chairs. Hideous colors all, as far as I was concerned, but after the maddening white of the underground, the room looked like it was from another, better world. It looked like we made it out alive. Beyond the window that filled the opposite wall, smoke was rising. There’s a fire out there in the Emerald City, I thought. Or emerald people are having a barbecue.

“What button did you press?” I asked.

“Wait here,” Paul whispered and stepped out cautiously. Having made sure the empty room was empty he returned with an arm-chair, jammed the elevator’s doorway and motioned me out. On the left there was a door. Paul checked it. Locked from the inside. The wall on the right had a dozen monitors, all tuned in to the news. I recalled the Pope’s morning announcement, which seemed like it had happened last year, expecting to see broadcasts from Vatican. Instead, I saw myself. And I seemed to be in a lot of trouble again, only this time it was worse.

This time, I was dead.

They were showing an extended collage of images, which included frightening, sudden close-ups of initially distant, grim, some bordering on catatonic shots of my face recycled from the fugitive days broadcasts, a shot of me grinning maniacally while brandishing the “Silver Killer” from the day before, and assorted other pictures or short feeds of me being an asshole to someone on the show. Then they decided to let us see the “disturbing footage from this morning’s bombing” one more time. I figured it would be the Ace. And boy, was it ever.

There I was, sure as Friday, seated beside Dr. Coughlin in the BMW, having a pretty heated argument with some guard in regular, non-white uniform. The guy reminded me of Ted from Waukegan. The angle switched, so that you couldn’t see the inside of the car any longer, and Ted’s look-alike pulled out a gun and screamed something. Next was the explosion and the camera feed was finally cut off. From the commentary that followed I learned that two other doctors were missing and feared dead. “Dr. Benjamin Young, a retired ex-employee of Freedom Corp., and Dr. Colin Wright, Whales’s supervising psychiatrist.”

“Damn,” Paul remarked in a hushed and largely unenthusiastic voice.

His lack of interest surprised me less than his voice control. When I turned, he pointed at a new door in the corner. Before following, I limped towards the window and looked outside. The BMW was still mostly there, but parts of the wall and the whole guardhouse were missing. Four police cars, two fire trucks and an ambulance were parked in a semi-circle on the outer side of the black smoking crater. Behind them, on the road (neither yellow nor brick) several more of each kind were approaching and leaving. Various emergency response people talked in groups beyond the screen of their vehicles. None of them had entered the compound. I wondered if any of them had the chance to see the news. Then it occurred to me that there were no news vans out there, despite the footage on the national TV, but that thought was pushed back by a more pressing one.

I wondered what would happen if I shot out the window and called for help. Even if they had seen the news, I was almost certain I could convince them I hadn’t gone up in flames inside that BMW. Maybe I would be rescued. Probably arrested for something minutes later. But guards in white overalls would not shoot at me any more. I would be alive. I would get some pain medicine.

I turned and walked to where Paul was waiting. Dr. Young’s persistent chanting reminded me why I was there. If all I had wanted was to stay alive, I would not be. Iris, my Iris had to be somewhere close. We needed to hurry.

Through the door, then. To see the wizard. Prepare your wishes. And your guns.

The door was unlocked. The Silver Killer entered the stage. Paul turned the knob and we were inside the adjoining room. The chanting stopped.

“Doc?” I called in a whisper.

“I said not to bother me,” an irritated, whiny voice complained. I couldn’t see the man, so I immediately assumed he was behind a curtain. But there was no curtain. The man was seated in a deep, high-backed, emerald-colored, velvet armchair with its back to the door. He got up, a glass of something dark in his hand, and turned to face us. His haircut was goofy at best. The top was combed to the left, while the hair on the sides was curled into thick muffs covering his ears. From the spot between his tiny eyes and heavy, drooping cheeks, a rather meaty proboscis pointed at my boots. He measured us both with a stare a studio exec directs at a camera man.

Then he recognized me and nearly fell over. He didn’t drop his glass, however, clutching it instead to his heart.

“You,” he breathed. And then another voice, one that almost made me fall over, cried, “Luke?”

“Iris!” I shouted and ran towards the man, gun outstretched in my hand. As he sagged to the left and whimpered, I saw her, all at once, face bruised, the red sweater torn, bound to some grotesque offspring of a marriage between Procrustean bed and a gynecological exam table. Her skirt had been lifted to reveal the black panties she’d worn to our date.

“Luke,” Paul said quietly behind me.

Forgetting the pain, I grabbed the gun with both hands and spun around to face the bastard. He was slinking slowly towards the window. Covering the distance with two steps I would later not remember taking, I pushed the muzzle of the gun into his cheek and screamed in his face.

“I didn’t do anything!” he pleaded. “I swear! Please.”

“Luke…”

“It’s true, Luke.” That was Iris now. “I’m sure he was planning it, but between the blast and now he just drank and complained.”

She sounded frightened, and awkwardly serious. After a pause I was able to bend my elbow and pull the gun back. Then I smashed his face with the handle. He cried out and fell backwards, writhing and covering his mouth. The green carpet got stained with blood, in a small puddle of which pieces of teeth appeared to swim.

Putting the gun away I hurried to release Iris. Outside, in the larger office someone was banging on the door. Paul went to see and I heard several shots. The bleeding man on the floor moaned. The banging stopped.

“We have to leave,” Paul shouted.

I helped Iris off the contraption. “He said it was you in that explosion,” she said, staring at me as I untied her.

“He wasn’t lying, but that doesn’t necessarily make it true, does it?”

Suddenly, she grinned the old Iris grin and jumped on me, covering my face with kisses. I did it! I thought. Here I was and here was Iris, both alive. I laughed, then gasped and almost fell with her on top of me, as my wounded shoulder reminded me of itself with momentary darkness. Iris noticed and jumped off.

“Luke, you’re hurt.”

I chuckled against despite the pain, but my grin disappeared quickly.

“Iris, where’s Doc?” I scanned the room. There must have been a hidden passage somewhere, a cell, a cage, something.

“They kept us in a cell downstairs before bringing me here,” she said.

“No, no, no,” I was saying. “He led me here. His… chanting led me here. I heard it all the way, then it stopped as soon as we entered this room. He must be here somewhere…”

I turned to the toothless guy.

“Where’s Dr. Young?”

“I don’t know!” he groaned. I started walking towards him. “Please! Last time I checked he was down in the dormitory. They might have moved him if he isn’t there.”

Suddenly, it dawned on me. “No. He is there. Damn it, Doc.”

We couldn’t go back for him. I knew it, and Dr. Young had known the same thing when he had begun his weird telepathic chant. The crazy doctor-priest I barely knew had led me straight to her, and with her freedom I’d accumulated a debt I couldn’t repay. We had to leave. Now.

“Luke!” Paul shouted. More shots were coming from the other side of the locked door.

Taking Iris’s hand in mine I hurried back into the TV room. Paul was pushing the armchair across the floor. He wedged it under the locked door, which was now under heavy fire. It gave in just as the elevator closed. More thuds.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Brome, what are you doing?” It was Brighton, on the chopper’s radio. Four minutes had passed since takeoff. He needed nine more to get there. He ignored his partner, but did not turn the radio off.

“Brome, I know you’re there. The cameras picked you up. We’re tracking you heading north. Listen, whatever it is, you’re not thinking straight. Land the chopper and surrender. I talked to some people here. They know about the pills. They’re willing to give you a long medical leave with full pay. I’m talking three, maybe four months paid vacation. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

The radio stayed silent for two minutes. When Brome showed no sign of following the instructions, Brighton returned.

“Listen to me. You should know how edgy everyone is today. First the Pope, then we get word Whales drove a car-bomb into some lab…” A pause. “Now you’re stealing a chopper and flying it in the same direction. Not too hard to make a connection. They think you might be headed to finish the job. That you and Whales are friends now. Of course, I know better than that, but…” Here Brighton lowered his voice. “They want to blast you out of the sky. The only reason you’re still airborne is because I keep telling them you’re not the sort to blow up a building. That you’re not crazy. Help me out here, partner. Land somewhere we can talk.”

Down below him the Chicagoland sprawled like an old bed sheet. He had complete feel for the machine now; the inevitable rust was off. Also, now that he was in the air, Brome had complete control of himself.

Brighton was bluffing. He knew as well as Brome that FBI choppers did not carry any missiles. Twin eighteen-millimeter machine guns were the extent of their armament. A chopper like that would do well against infantry, but there wasn’t enough firepower to damage a building much, let alone blow one up. Same went for blasting him out of the sky. Even a civilian would not immediately catch an anti-air rocket less than thirty miles from O’Hare. For an FBI agent there would be calls made, then there would be an escort. A couple of fighter planes to make sure he didn’t reach anything important. It would be at least fifteen minutes between the first call and the escort reaching him from Chanute Air Force Base. All Brome needed was five more.

“Oliver,” Brighton’s voice said. “Grace and Annie are here at the office. They’re worried sick. We all are. Do them a favor. Land the chopper before it’s too late. Come on, partner. Don’t throw it all away.”

Brome shook his head. Another bluff. Had his family really been there, they would be on the radio right now. He knew Brighton well enough to expect that.

Just then, a dying cloud of smoke and the distinct black rectangle of the facility appeared on the northern horizon.

“Brighton,” Brome said into the microphone. “Stall them. I’m not going to blow anything up. This is a rescue mission, not an assault. I’ll bring the chopper back to the HQ in twenty minutes.”

Switching the radio off, he began to descend.

Chapter Forty

The song of helicopter blades that greeted us when the elevator doors opened could have easily topped every chart in the world. Top it off with the brightest sunshine I had ever squinted against and the touch of frigid November wind on my wet hair, and even thoughts of Dr. Young’s sacrifice loosened their hold on my conscience. The pain in my shoulder I had forgotten completely.

Still holding on to Iris, who must have been freezing in her attire, I stepped out on the roof’s black surface. The sound of the helicopter was coming from the north, from behind the gray squat box of the elevator chamber. Turning, I saw its whirring blades over the top.

“Good old Brome,” I said and started skipping towards it, when Paul’s hand grabbed my maimed shoulder and pulled me back behind the cover of the wall. I howled in pain, but before I could punch him in the face, a volley of automatic gunfire erupted from the chopper’s direction. Iris and I dropped to the floor and crawled back to the elevator.

Bullets whizzed, ricocheted with sickening, resounding CHOWs off the walls and tore the black vinyl of the roof’s surface to shreds all around us. Throwing my hand forward, I prevented the elevator from closing.

Paul returned fire, sticking the gun out around the corner.

“Four!” he shouted through the cacophony. “Coming around the right side.”

Taking a quick peek, I saw four surprisingly black shapes circling in from the left, behind the cover of vents, satellite dishes and stairway exits that concentrated mostly in the rear half of the roof. The damned elevator chamber we’d come out of grew like a boil in the dead middle, twenty or so feet from the roof’s façade edge. Not a single piece of jutting terrain for miles around it.

“There’re four on the left, too!”

Pushing Iris back into the elevator, I readied the gun. No longer chaotic, the bullets continued to rain around us, as the two squads advanced methodically. One bullet took a chunk out of the corner, showering my face with concrete dust. Paul and I were both shooting back now, hitting nothing at all.

“Shit!” Paul’s shout came behind my back.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “This doesn’t look good at all.”

Something hit the back of my knee. It was Paul’s head. He was on his back, face a grimace of pain, blood on my jeans, a black hole in his white shoulder.

“Paul!”

“Hurts like a motherfucker,” he growled through clenched teeth. “My bulletproof vest is defective. I wanna talk to a supervisor.” I pushed him into the elevator as gently as I could in my hurry and picked up the gun he’d dropped. It became quickly apparent that the extra gun would not do me any good even if I had two operational arms. Both squads were at the last point of cover. They were ready to advance into the final stretch of open space. Heavy suppressing fire chewed up corners, preventing me from further assessing the situation. I assessed it well enough in my brain, though. In about thirty five seconds it would all be over.

Slinking inside the elevator I looked down at Paul and Iris, who knelt beside him, trying to do something she didn’t quite know what about the wound. I placed my pistol by Iris’s bare knee. Paul caught my gaze and held it. I shook my head.

“We have to go back down.”

“We can’t.”

“We’ll take our chances with the guards downstairs. At least they don’t have armor-piercing rounds in their guns.”

“All right, man,” Paul said, but even as he did he was shaking his head. And I knew he was right. There was no point. I stuck my head out of the doorway. The eastern crew was advancing across the open. I took a shot and missed, but for a moment they went flat, returning fire. I didn’t bother checking the other side, assuming the picture was the same there. The masterpiece of the famous French painter Fuckuover De Lastmoment, called, “Au revoir, le suckers.”

“We surrender!” I shouted. The shooting stopped. “We surrender. Don’t shoot.”

There was a long silence, disturbed only by whirring helicopter blades, the sound of which I no longer found appealing. Silence long enough for the squad leaders to confer with their superiors. Silence so long that it spoke volumes.

“Come out with your hands up,” a voice replied finally. “You will not be harmed.” Even as I heard it, I knew he was lying. Take no prisoners had been the answer. Reconfirmed. They meant to kill us. All of us.

I took another peek eastwards. Four dark-clad soldiers were kneeling some fifty-feet away, guns breathing suddenly hot air. Guns that would kill me as soon as I stepped out into the open.

Resigned, I almost did. But at that point I realized that the sound of the helicopter was getting stronger. And then I saw it, rising above the line of naked trees behind the kneeling soldiers to the east. They turned their heads towards it, then their bodies, then their guns. They began shooting, but it was no use. I saw the helicopter’s sides light up, and bullets began to rain on the black roof once again. The soldiers shook and lurched, as pieces of their flesh flew in all directions. One tried to run back to cover, but a bullet took him in the back of his helmet, separating the top of his head from the rest of the body. He ran several more steps before collapsing with arms outstretched.

I turned away, which afforded me a view of the western squad. They had scrambled back and were now firing on the chopper from behind cover. Ignoring them, the pilot spun the chopper and unloaded on their transport, which was trying to take off from the pad. There was a pop and a crash. The other helicopter landed again. Brome (I figured it could only be our very Special Agent) brought the machine towards us, landing it so the elevator chamber was between him and the second squad.

I saw Brome’s grim face through the side window, as bullets hit and bounced off the glass. Unbuckling his seat belt, he rushed to the back and slid the door open.

“It’s Brome,” I said hollowly, still not quite believing his timing. Seemed Paul believed it well enough, though.

“Brome!” he shouted. “A bottle of the best vodka in the world is on me! If the rich boy pitches in, that is.”

“Come on,” Brome urged from the chopper. He was still dressed in his civvies-civvies, but there was a big rifle in his hands. He lifted it and popped off a few rounds in the direction of the black-clad gunmen.

Iris went first, ducking inside head forward. She must have bumped her knee; I saw her wince and rub it as she turned. Next Paul, with Brome’s help climbed into the cabin. I was about to follow, to leave, to complete the half-successful rescue, when it dawned on me that the gunfire had stopped. Brome, who had stretched his hand out to me, froze, staring over my head. His face lost color.

Now what? I thought, turning around reluctantly. Immediately, I wish I could undo the move, but unlike the previous encounter, this time I couldn’t even avert my eyes.

About fifty feet away, in the open area between me and where the second squad had found cover, so black that the roof suddenly seemed gray, its tentacles stretching outwards like spikes, stood the seven-foot-tall nightmare I’d seen once before at the house of the man whom I’d just failed to rescue. “Dog,” Dr. Young and Lloyd Freud had called the creature. Now one was dead and the other as good as dead. And the dog found the last hidden bone.

Chapter Forty-One

The human inside the crude flying machine began to fire his weapon. He felt the stings, some quite painful, but this time he would not be distracted. All he saw was his target. Every white strand, which blind humans could not see. Every feeble limb, which he intended to pull slowly out of the still alive body.

The bullet that hit him in the head was the cue. His fury, kept in check for so long, was set free.

He launched forward and in one easy leap was on top of his prey. A piercing cry, one that had frozen so many in place, arose and fell. Fear, thick and juicy, flared up and quivered before him, emanating from those inside the helicopter. He stared into the human’s eyes as his tentacles wrapped around the body and squeezed, pushing air out of the puny lungs.

The human gasped, trying to draw the air back in, and he squeezed harder, but not too hard. He wanted him to be alive. To feel what was happening to him. Sure, this was the end, but just this once a Seeker’s quarry would not die quickly. As he continued to squeeze, the human’s eyelids began to flitter and close. Yet even as the consciousness was leaving him, as his lungs were prevented from refueling his life force, the human continued to resist. His muscles, feeble as they were, remained tense. His veins bulged. There was no hope, but still the human fought.

The Seeker squeezed too hard. The body in his embrace suddenly went limp. The fight was over. Over too fast. The human’s head, lifeless, fell forward. In a second, the white strands would disperse like fog. Stunned, he relaxed his grasp momentarily.

Then something else happened. Something that was impossible. The head moved. The eyes of the human snapped open and a steady, determined gaze confronted him. Furious, automatically resolving the problem as misinterpretation of symptoms on his part and discarding the solution immediately, before he remembered that Seekers didn’t make mistakes, he squeezed again, discovering that this time the flesh would not give. In fact, he suddenly realized, he was no longer touching the flesh at all.

He saw the white strands, those that no human could see, wrapped around each of his tentacles, holding them at bay as easily as though he was a human. It could not be! Another cry echoed across the fields. Fear rose again: three threads inside the helicopter, twenty-seven from humans down below, who could not see him, but none of it came from the target who was no longer in his grasp. Engulfed in fury and simply unable to comprehend something that was impossible, the Seeker squeezed with all his power, snapping at the human’s head at the same time with his maw. It did nothing. His maw, open and wide enough to swallow the entire skull, froze inches from the target’s face, as those eyes continued to watch him calmly.

After a pause, the white strands that held him started pushing him away. He struggled and tossed, managing only to leave two of his tentacles in the white clutches, spraying steaming bodily fluids on the roof. Ignoring the lost limbs he continued to try to free himself, until a loud and clear voice spoke in his head in his own language.

“You cannot defeat me, Seeker of Sobak. Go and tell them what you saw here.”

The human’s eyes closed, and the Seeker was thrown backwards. He slammed through the top of the squat concrete box directly behind him, causing pieces of stone to burst in all directions. The impact interrupted his momentum, but only that. His flight continued until, at last, the fiery remains of the other helicopter stopped it.

In an instant he was up again, prepared to resume the battle he could not understand to be already over. The human was inside the flying machine, which was rising up, beyond his reach. He rushed ahead anyway, but was stopped dead in his tracks by a sudden command.

“Do not reveal yourself to humans on the ground, Seeker.”

The Guard. Four of them rose and landed on top of the black roof. Not five. Their target had somehow evaded them, too. As he, they returned empty-handed. The helicopter was receding in the distance. His target was inside, but the seeker would not follow. Because a Seeker obeyed. For now.

Chapter Forty-Two

I was flying. That was the only thing I knew for a long time. Years, maybe. I suspected I was dead, and it occurred to me that it wasn’t so bad after all. Unless what I had taken for flying was really falling.

As I pondered that possibility, another truth was revealed to me. My head was pounding. As though it was bulletproof and someone had shot it from a submachine gun, I thought. Then it all came back to me in a single large wave, and I opened my eyes and ran. Tried to run, really. I was flat on my back, so my heels kicked at the floor. Hands grabbed at my shoulders and I screamed.

“Luke! Luke!” a familiar voice was calling. “Calm down, man. It’s over. It’s over.”

It’s over. That short sentence popped the stopper and I slumped to the floor like a deflating air-mattress. It was over. We were in the helicopter. The blades were rotating. We were in the air. We made it. But why does my head?

“You tanked and conked the back of your head on the edge here,” Paul said. I must have asked it aloud. He was seated above me, pale and jacketless, shoulder tightly bandaged. He pointed where I had conked my head. I examined the spot and found nothing particularly enlightening.

Propping myself up on the elbows, I looked around. Iris was behind me by the window, a black cashmere jacket over her shoulders. “You okay?” I asked. She nodded and smiled.

I sat up. From my vantage point I could only see the uninterrupted blue of the sky outside. It felt like we hovered in place.

“How long was out?” I asked Paul. “Wait, don’t tell me. Three seconds?”

“Almost ten minutes,” Iris answered for him. Paul attempted to grin, but it came out one-sided and distorted his face. Giving him a glance, I crawled into an empty seat.

“Did I miss anything?” even as I asked it, I felt how still the air was inside the cabin.

Iris smiled again, but didn’t answer. Instead, she sort of half-shrugged and looked out of the window. I followed her gaze and there was the lake, brilliant in the sun. To the right, downtown rose to meet us like a huge castle built by a race of pacifistic artisans, all towers and no walls. Agent Brome guided the helicopter up, over the first buildings.

“Might not be over yet,” he suddenly said, pointing to the right. Approximately three hundred feet in that direction a military plane appeared and assumed parallel course. On the left, another fell in formation.

“They won’t let us leave the city,” Brome said. “Quiet now.” He flipped a switch.

“Brighton, this is Brome. Do you read?”

“Like a book,” a dry voice replied. “About time you decided to tune in.”

“What’s with the boys on my wings?”

“A formality. They’ll escort you straight to HQ. The welcoming committee here is anxious to see what you’re bringing.”

“You’ll see soon enough. ETA two minutes.” With that he turned the radio off.

“You’re dropping us off at the FBI?” I inquired politely, as soon as he did.

He thought about it.

“Seemed like a safe enough place, but now I have a bad feeling about it,” he finally said. “Call it a hunch. Don’t know what else to do, though. I really didn’t think they’d call in fighters. If you have a plan, let’s hear it within the next thirty seconds.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. Whatever it was they were acting weird about would have to wait. But how was I, having just woken up, supposed to come up with…?

I opened my eyes and saw it.

“There,” I shouted, pointing.

“What?”

“There, land us right there.”

Iris looked at me with a curious expression on her face. Even Paul was stretching his neck to see what I was pointing at. Neither of them understood, but Brome did.

“You sure?” he asked, turning to face me.

“Let’s do it,” I confirmed. He studied my face for a brief moment, nodded and turned away. Taking a sharp left-sided dip, the helicopter plunged towards the white “H” painted on the roof of a 90-story, double-horned skyscraper.

Chapter Forty-Three

Christie Lane had seen her share of weird. Like that new security guard down in the garage who kept staring at her eyes. Or like when they killed Malcolm Tenner on that episode of “Barlow and Warden.” Or the couple of days of weirdness, when Luke Whales was a fugitive from justice.

But even though it was barely ten in the morning, today had already swept the awards for the weirdest ever. And it was a Wednesday, of all things.

It started with the Pope on TV, creeping the cakes out of her with the Antichrist talk. If ever there was a good time to start censoring the news, she had said to herself, it was now. Then, as if the Antichrist wasn’t enough for the ratings, Luke Whales went and drove a car full of explosives into some place, with himself still in it. Where the first news caused like a massive depressive murmury gloom over the studio, the part about Whales sent people running back and forth through her waiting room, and James Cornwell rushed out all red and ran up to her and stood there, panting and squeezing her shoulder and shaking his head. She cried a little and eventually he went back to his office, but then, to top it all off, Whales himself walked in an hour later!

Since no one was getting any work done, anyway, she was absorbed by the News Special, on which Jack Moore followed Whales’s progress, as it was masterfully reconstructed from clues, offering commentary in his rumbling voice. The black car marked “LW” just reached the Freedom Corp facility on the map. The fateful spot was the end of the itinerary, which had started at Whales’s downtown condo at around four in the morning, passed through some doctor’s office across the river and took the audience to the scene of a break-in at Whales’s ex-wife’s suburban home, where, thankfully, no one was hurt. Jack Moore watched in silence as the black car on the map reached the imaginary gateway and turned into a ball of orange digital fire. The image spoke for itself. The map zoomed in and the horrific footage of the explosion started to play.

At that moment the door opened, and Whales strolled right in, dressed like a mortuary assistant, or an angel without wings, and carrying a huge pistol.

“Hey, Christie,” he said, despite being repeatedly blown up on the screen. “Is Jimbo in?”

Without waiting for an answer — which wasn’t coming any time soon, anyway — he went into Mr. Cornwell’s office. Christie was so impressed that it never occurred to her to dial police or some other agency that dealt with… that. About two seconds later Whales and Mr. Cornwell both reappeared in the waiting room, Mr. Cornwell, seeing his friend resurrected, even redder than before. Whales pointed a gun at her, inviting her to join them.

“For Christ’s sake, Luke,” Mr. Cornwell was mumbling.

Christie stood up from her chair, straightening, placing one hand on the chair’s back and tossing a curl off her forehead with the other. “Are you going to kill us, Luke? Is that it?” she asked indignantly.

“Of course not,” he replied with a grin. “You know I always liked you, baby.” And Christie began to cry, because he was lying. He had always hated her. He would definitely kill her. Probably on TV.

“For Christ’s sake, old sport.”

The ghost ushered them to the set, where the rest of the staff had already been herded together and seated. Two men with guns watched the crowd from the darkened rear. Instructing Christie to join the others, Whales took Mr. Cornwell to the middle of the room. The murmurs hushed.

“Hi guys!” Whales said cheerfully. “Good to see you. I even missed some of you. As we all know, there’s been a little misunderstanding this morning. I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by and set things straight. For that I’ll need a camera, sound and lighting crews. It won’t take long. The rest of you will just watch from here until we’re done. You can’t get out, because we jammed the elevators and barricaded the stairs. But there’s nothing for you to worry about, I promise. Besides, Jim says it’s OK for you to help me out. Right, Jim?”

Mr. Cornwell gave the slightest nod.

“All right, folks. Let’s get moving.”

No one even thought of resisting. The technicians went to workstations without hesitation. Some of them grinned as they passed beyond Mr. Cornwell’s sight; not a few of those grins dropped when they saw her looking, though. Several staffers openly went to shake Whales’s hand or slap his shoulder, probably to make sure he remembered they were his friends. Tiffany from Make-Up had the audacity to flirt, chirping something about being offended he didn’t need her services.

“I wish I had more time,” he told her and she flittered away like a perfect little butterfly.

Soon, the crew signaled they were ready. Whales climbed in the seat behind the host’s desk. His desk.

“Jim!” he called out. “I want this out there. Live. Right now. Paul! You know how these things work. Would you go with Mr. Cornwell and help him?”

One of the two gunmen came forward and motioned for Mr. Cornwell to lead the way. He was in his early thirties, well-built, blond, but not really attractive. He looked wounded. His right arm hung in a sling.

“Long time no see, Jimmy,” he said, grinning. Mr. Cornwell hurried to the booth, gasping for air.

A voice came over the speakers. “We’re ready.”

“Thirty seconds.”

The seconds blinked away slowly. When the clock wound down to zero, the theme from the show began to play. Whales looked started for a moment, then laughed and began to speak. Christie turned to watch on one of the screens.

* * *

“Thanks for that, buddy. “ Whales said, chuckling. “I’m sorry, folks. I thought it was funny that after a morning I had something as simple as a lame musical theme from a lame old show could still startle me. Then I realized how you must feel, when the most interesting news program in years is suddenly cut off, and the same guy who suicide-bombed a lab not two hours ago is having a good laugh right on your TV screen.

“But yes, it’s me, Luke Whales. Before those of you who are especially sharp-minded have an ‘A-ha!’ moment: No, this is not a pre-recorded suicide note. We are broadcasting live, and I mean right now live, from our Chicago studios. Some people got together to help me, but we didn’t have time for a script.

“This show will be short and without commercials, so let’s get down to business. I am not going to tell you the whole story. Just a couple of self-evident truths for you to ponder.

“Truth number one: I did not drive a car full of dynamite into a building. I didn’t blow myself up; didn’t blow anyone up. Never handled explosives in my life. What you saw on the news, what experts said, that footage, that was all fabricated. Fake. First Luke Whales is a murderer, then he’s a suicide bomber. Where it all came from, and how it got out so fast, I’ll leave for the networks to explain. But what you have to understand right now is that all of it would be true, if I didn’t manage to show up at the studio this morning, and there were people out there putting a whole lot of effort to make sure I didn’t.

“Which brings me to the second point. Yes, I did stop taking the pills, but no, I did not go crazy immediately after. Sure, I might look strange to you right now in someone else’s uniform and no make-up, but that is too long of a story for this show. I assure you, though; I never had a clearer head. Recently I learned some things (from an expert, by the way, whom I… who was no able to make this show) about the antidepressants manufactured by Freedom Corp., the pills I have been, and you are taking. Yes, I did say ‘You are.’ Those of you who thought it was just good old Luke Whales in ads and you, once I thought so too. But there are more of us than you can imagine. According to the expert I’ve just mentioned, the number is about three times what you hear on TV. You understand? One in four. You really are not alone. Remember that.

“Anyway, back to the pill. There’s this new chemical that they add now. I don’t know what it’s called, nor do I care. But that new additive is what makes the medicine so effective. What it does is make you react to the world in a different way. Doc’s words for it were: ‘It makes the world a better place.’ But I think that was one thing he was wrong about. Probably because he never tried the pill himself.

“Now, by ‘the world,’ I don’t mean the sky and sunshine and the trees and your backyard and your pet and your children and everything you love and live for. That’s not the world. That’s you. ‘The world’ is what’s being fed to your from the screen. That’s what the new chemical in the pill makes you accept. It helps suppress the moodiness, the nausea, the outbursts, the general feeling of something just being wrong, your head feeling wrong, the desire to spit or to laugh or to cry, in short, all of those things you felt when you watched your TV before the pill came. It allows you to function in a society where three quarters of the population don’t need the pill, but it doesn’t make the world a better place. It doesn’t eliminate the cause, only the symptoms. There’s no happiness. It fills you with the indifference of a machine, but under it you are still pissed, and you’re scared, and you’re lonely. You still know deep down inside that something is wrong. But those who feed you the pill and those who feed you the world make you believe that something is wrong with you. They make you believe the pill is the only reason you are not making things worse.”

“It worked well for a while, but now it looks like either the pill or the TV is failing. It looks like some people are beginning to reject both. My case is famous, but it’s probably happening a lot. That’s why the prescription police was created. To add a little bit of fear to the equation. To give the pillmakers the time they need to improve the medicine. To give the mass therapy people time to fix up the signal. I’ll let you decide if you want to give them that time. You know enough, even though you don’t feel like you do. Just be sure you understand: stopping the pill will definitely not make the world a better place. But maybe it will be a truer place.”

He paused.

“Now, my third and last point. Don’t support the troops. Ooh, I can feel that shudder running right down your spine. So I’ll say it again. Do not support the troops. Don’t enlist. Dodge the draft if you have to. Stop the war. Stop pretending that killing people while following orders of a man you elected is noble. You want to protect your country? Protect it here. At home. Don’t help them make it worse. Even if you’re told those people hate you and want to attack you. Give them the benefit of a doubt. Remember the footage from earlier? Take a hint. Don’t believe everything the analysts say on TV. Question what you’re told, and if the answer doesn’t make sense or they call you un-American or your question is treated as though it doesn’t exist, ask it again, louder.”

“On that cheerful note I, Luke Whales, am done. Thank you for your time. Perhaps you’ll see me again, although it’s unlikely. My show is now officially over. Good day.”

He bowed and got up from the chair. No music followed. The cameras simply turned off.

Chapter Forty-Four

No one clapped. I took it as a good sign, because they always used to clap when the shows ended. At the same time, the feeling of a couple dozen stares, averted as soon as you turned to look, was unsettling. It was as though questions “What just happened?” and “What now?” hung in the middle of the set like twin piñatas, and none of those present at the party wanted to take a bat to them. Even I, the host, the birthday boy, wasn’t overly eager to raise that bat.

Sure, I’d jumped in the seat eagerly enough, caught up in the excitement of successful rescue and forthcoming revenge, but the question of what to say had never truly entered my mind. I would make sure everybody understood I was alive, I’d known that. The rest of it, though, simply poured and kept pouring until it was done. And although I believed all I’d said to be true, I could not recall a time or place when those ideas could have been coherently formed. In short, I didn’t blame the crowd for feeling weird.

The atmosphere reminded me of my awakening in the helicopter. I couldn’t dwell on it, though, just like I couldn’t dwell on the soreness in my shoulder. There remained a matter of eluding the cops, who would have by then already surrounded the building.

Of course, escaping from the studio wasn’t the only problem left. There was also a small quandary of what to do after that for the rest of my life, but at least I still had a life. Thinking about what to do with it could wait.

“So what now?” Paul, who had returned with Jimbo in tow, asked in a hushed voice. I grinned and clapped his healthy shoulder. Good old Paul. You could count on him to swing the bat. Behind him Jimbo’s face was the color of his once-starched shirt.

I didn’t immediately answer, because the immediate answer “Now we have to get out somehow” wasn’t what Paul wanted to hear. He knew we needed to get out, thank you very much. His question was about how we were going to do it, and I presently had no idea.

But then my wandering gaze stumbled on Tiffany’s cherubic face, and one idea occurred to me. Hell, I thought, it worked once.

“Mr. Cornwell! Jim! Let me borrow your phone for a second, old sport!” Everyone jumped and stiffened at the sound of my voice. Jim pulled out his cell and hesitantly handed it over.

“Thanks,” I said. “It’ll be brief.” He nodded. I dialed 911.

It took a little while to get through the human robot operator, but finally there was a click and a vaguely familiar voice reverberated in my ear.

“This is Special Agent Brighton, FBI. What do we have, Mr. Whales?”

“How are you, Special Agent Brighton. What we have is a little over two dozen hostages held by an unknown number of gunmen on the seventy-seventh floor of the CBN building. What we need is to resolve this without anyone getting hurt.”

“That seems easy. Since you obviously had nothing to do with the act of terror at the Freedom Corp. facility, the only crime you are presently known to have committed is illegal broadcasting. Something that someone with your means should be able to if not shake off, then receive light sentence for. Now, taking hostages is a lot more serious. Frankly, I don’t understand the point. Surrender immediately and no one will get hurt.”

“I wish it were that easy, Special Agent Brighton.”

“It is.”

“I am not going to argue with you. Here are my terms. Hear them without interrupting, if you will. I will surrender, but not to the police or the FBI. Don’t ask me why. I have my reasons. I want a Secret Service helicopter on the roof of this building in thirty minutes. When they—”

“Secret Service? Why in the name of—”

“Shut up and listen, Brighton. When they arrive, I want a camera up there, which will broadcast them displaying proper identification to this studio here. When I confirm it, I will send the people down in elevators immediately, excluding only my friend James Cornwell. He will accompany us to the roof, where we will surrender him and ourselves to the Secret Service custody. Now, questions?”

“Why Secret Service?”

“I don’t trust the local authorities, Agent Brighton. Some strange things have been happening to me; let’s leave it at that for now. Secret Service protects the president. I think it’s adequate for them to protect me.”

“We can’t get them here in thirty minutes. Secret Service is stationed in D.C.”

“I’m sure there’s a safe house of some sort in Chicago. You have thirty minutes. My gunmen and I are tired, nervous and scared. I don’t know if we could keep ourselves under control for longer than that.”

“Fine. Let me talk to Brome.”

“Don’t waste your time, Agent. Find my president’s men.” I hung up and handed the phone back to Jimbo. He took it absently, staring at me.

“Luke, why me?”

“It’ll be fine,” I told him. The crowd looked livelier now. Things were clearer. They’d already forgotten my monologue. This was more exciting.

Iris and Brome stood together in the rear, watching me. They heard the conversation too; I’d spoken loudly enough to make sure of that. I gave them a thumb up and scanned the crowd until my eyes located Tiffany. Wearing my most charming smile, I motioned for her to come closer.

Chapter Forty-Five

Special Agent Brighton spent forty-two minutes following his conversation with Whales on the ninetieth floor, pacing and giving orders. Now he returned to the roof, where the FBI helicopter had dropped him off earlier, to meet the Secret Service.

They had just landed their fancy black civilian DFC-4300, and two of the four agents disembarked. The only difference between them and the FBI, as far as the attire went, were the silly shades. True, FBI agents favored sunglasses also, but they occasionally took them off. These guys likely slept in them, if they slept at all.

The pair who got out of the chopper stood twisting their necks and holding their chins so high, you’d think they couldn’t see through the lenses, but only from under them. As one of the lesser agents went to greet them, dragging a parka-clad cameraman along, Brighton couldn’t help but think about his idea to simply put shades on a few feds and fetch fake IDs for them. The only reason he hadn’t gone through with it was Brome. Whales was a fool — this notion of surrendering to Secret Service, as if that would make any difference, was a good indication enough of that — but Brome would know if there was a ruse. He also knew Brighton well enough to expect something of the sort. Besides, there was really no point in taking chances. Bringing a few bored SS agents from their Chicago branch hadn’t been hard. A single phone call.

The IDs were shown to the camera.

Brighton dialed the number.

“Hello,” Whales answered.

“The Secret Service are on the roof. Release the hostages and come out.”

“All right, Brighton. The hostages are on their way down. Clear the Eastern Stairwell. I don’t want to see anybody in there. I will come out in exactly fifteen minutes. Tell the Secret Service to keep the engines running.” He hung up. Brighton grimaced.

No matter, he thought. This was the last time Whales told him what to do. He would soon learn how Secret Service protects.

But another unpleasant thought suddenly entered his mind. Whales was a fool, but if Brome was on his side he would see that this idea of extraction by Secret Service was stupid. So why didn’t he…? Was Brome on Whales’s side? Or did he see the situation for what it was and decided that anything Whales came up with was fine, as long as he would surrender without getting himself or anybody else killed? That sounded like Brome, yet Brighton was not convinced. He wished he had surveillance, but all the cameras on the seventy-seventh floor were out of commission. He had watched Brome and Whales smash every single one. He still had the infrared scanners from across the street, but those weren’t too helpful.

There was an audible click in his ear and Dietrich’s voice. He had send Agent Dietrich down to the foyer to take charge of the cops there.

“Agent Brighton? We have three elevators on the move. I think it’s the hostages.”

“A fine observation, Dietrich. Tell the local police to escort them to safety and wait for further instruction.”

“Yes, sir.” Dietrich signed off. Brighton switched to SWAT team in the Eastern stairwell.

“Sergeant Rose here.”

“Sergeant, move your men down to the seventy-sixth floor and stay alert and quiet. Do not engage anyone going up, but I don’t want a soul to descend. Is that understood?”

“It’s done. Rose, out.”

Brighton nodded. He liked SWAT. They didn’t talk much and they didn’t talk back.

Soon, Dietrich reported twenty hostages evacuated. The next ten minutes went by very slowly. Super slowly, if one took into the account the below-freezing wind chill on the roof of a Chicago skyscraper in November. Secret Service retired back to the helicopter to escape it. Brighton stubbornly watched the western vista.

Finally, it was time. Then it was one minute, then two minutes past time. Brighton dialed SWAT.

“Rose,” a whisper came.

“Any movement?”

“Negative. All quiet here.”

Squads covering other stairwells reported the same. The infrared scanner from across the street reported heat signatures inside the office at the southeast corner. Brighton dialed Whales’s number, waited five rings, then cursed loudly when a woman’s voice asked him to kindly leave a message for Mr. Cornwell.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled. Although he had been instructed to report to his superiors before taking any drastic measures, Brighton was by then pretty sick of phone calls.

“All SWAT teams, move in immediately,” he snapped. “Standard ROE. Keep the radio on.”

Glaring at the snug Secret Service agents, he went inside. In his earpiece the doors were being breached and shouts of “Go, go, go!” resounded. No gunfire out right. He knew storming the doors could mean casualties, but the hostages, presumably aside from the fat Mr. Cornwell, had been safely evacuated. If it so happened that they lost the producer… He shrugged and continued to descend, monitoring the chatter.

“This is Rose,” a calm but slightly hurried voice came after a while. “Place seems dead.”

“This is Mauser, Charlie squad. We have noise in the executive office.”

“Go in,” Brighton said hollowly.

“Yes, sir.”

A minute later Mauser reported locating six civilians taped to chairs around a conference table. Two females and four males, one of whom was the office’s owner, Mr. Cornwell, in various state of undress. Brighton switched frequency to Dietrich’s even before the SWAT mentioned the pile of discarded clothing in the corner. He shouted for Dietrich to detain all hostages immediately, and knew Dietrich took off at a run when he hung up, but he also knew by then it would be too late.

Chapter Forty-Six

Thirty hours, give or take a few, passed since we’d escaped the siege with the help of Tiffany’s magic hands. As I watched Iris play in the sand with Brome’s four-year-old, and as beads of sweat collected in the stubble under my nose, I was reminded of the conversation Iris and I had a few days earlier at my place after we made love. Now I felt we all were time travelers from the past. Only instead of an armchair with a lot of mirrors, our time machine had been an underground train, in which we managed to skip seven or eight useless months and emerge under midsummer sun.

If you ever traveled to Florida in winter, you know what I am talking about.

Annie’s bell-like giggles also made it seem like all our troubles were over, but unfortunately that illusion did not last long. I was all too aware of Paul sleeping in fever inside the small cottage behind me, and although Brome and his wife had gone pretty far up the beach, the heat of their conversation was obvious. Grace, Brome’s wife, gestured quite eloquently.

“For what?” I imagined hearing her voice. “Who is he to you? Did you think of Annie? Did you think of me?”

Iris gazed at me, then at the couple in the distance, then back at me. I had nothing to say. Grace was right, of course, but without Brome we would all be dead, so I couldn’t really support her beyond acknowledging that fact. Brome saved our lives. It would be enough to tell Annie her dad was a hero, Grace however… Grace was an adult. To an adult, a hero on TV deserved applause; in real life, up close, a hero, especially a selfless one, was stupid at best. So I shrugged, and Iris returned her attention to the sand castle she and Annie had started to build.

The castle they wouldn’t get the chance to finish. We couldn’t stay at the beach cottage Grace had rented for long. We might have stayed too long already.

I looked up toward where Brome and his wife were talking. I needed him back to begin deciding where to go next, but they showed no sign of returning.

Sighing, I lifted a towel to wipe the sweat off my face. When I brought it back down, a white sailboat rocked on the waves in front of me, three hundred feet off the shore. A lean forty-five-footer, it looked just like the boat I had always wanted but never got around to buying. Three men, all clad in white, seemed to be staring in our direction from its deck.

“Iris,” I said barely audibly, but she heard me and lifted her head. Following my stare she turned and saw the boat, just as a black banner flew up its single mast. Iris and I jumped to our feet at the same time.

“Annie, go inside,” Iris said.

The girl stared in astonishment, and for a moment I thought with dread that I would have to scare her. She studied our faces briefly, gazed at the boat and, thankfully, got up and ran towards me and the porch. I heard her pause in the doorway behind me, then the door closed.

Iris was slowly walking backwards, eyes on the vessel. Taxing my creativity, I assumed what seemed to me a protective position in front of the cottage door. Exactly what degree of protection either me or the old plywood door would provide when it came right down to it remained to be seen. I suspected it wouldn’t be a high degree.

Of course, by then I’d more or less pieced from my companions’ hints what had happened on the roof of the black building. I say hints, because a loud discussion of the event’s origins and implications, the kind we would undoubtedly have commenced back in our dorms a decade ago, had never taken place. I’d simply gathered the witnesses’ statements in a process no more involved than an insurance adjuster’s would be, and everyone was content. I kind of believed it, too, not because it was plausible, but because I didn’t think Iris or any of the others were lying. Either way, the knowledge, if it could be called that without being a memory, of having mysteriously defeated a super-strong alien in hand-to-hand match failed to bring comfort. First of all, I had no idea how I did it. And second, I doubted that my latent wrestling skills, outstanding as they may have been, would stop a bullet or seventy, fired from a rapid-fire machine gun.

Our own hands were empty. All the firepower had been discarded in Jimbo’s office, even the infamous “Silver Killer.”

There was movement in the left corner of my vision. Brome was running. He must have told Grace to stay where she was, because she was running about fifty feet behind him. In the other direction the beach lay barren as far as I could see, aside from an elderly couple taking a nap under a red-white-and-blue umbrella two cottages over. They were close enough to be awakened by gunfire, but so what?

Ten maddening seconds later a small boat appeared from behind the ship and sped towards the shore. In it sat a lone man, and as he came closer, I relaxed and leaned heavily on the door. The man — a kid, really — waved and grinned from under a mess of blond hair. I couldn’t help grinning back. Iris stared, wide-eyed. Brome stopped running and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, but I saw that he was also relieved. Grace, who must have been scared out of her wits, caught up to her husband and hung on his arm, looking up at him for answers.

“A black flag?” I called out. “Why not a warning cannon shot to ease our minds?”

“Someone could have heard it,” Bogdan shouted back. Then, as the boat continued towards the shore, he jumped out and ran the last fifty or so feet beside it. On the water. Even to me it looked spooky. From Brome’s direction came an audible gasp.

“Hey, no freaky stuff,” I managed weakly. “We got a kid here.”

“Sorry.” Both Bogdan and the boat now reached the beach. He went up to turn off the engine. In the following silence he bowed and added with a round gesture, “All aboard.”

“Going where?” asked Brome.

“There’s somebody I want you to meet,” Bogdan said. “And you know who are close. They picked up your trail. They’re angry. We have to leave. Now.”

“Won’t they continue to pick up the trail no matter where we go?” I asked. It never even occurred to me to wonder how he’d found us.

“Not after I work over the house here. The only thing left to find will be my signature.”

“So that’s it?” said Iris. “We disappear? All of us?”

Bogdan nodded, grin gone. His barely out-of-acne-age face looked apologetic.

“For how long?”

“Hello,” a small voice said behind me. Bogdan grinned.

“Annie!” Grace screamed before he could return the greeting. “Come here, baby!”

The girl ran towards her. “Sorry, mommy. Uncle Paul is mumbling in his sleep. Can daddy run on water too?”

Grace dropped to her knees, clutching the girl close, as though she was the only thing left real in the world. Brome put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, then removed it. Bogdan turned to him.

“For now. Then you decide.” To me, it sounded like he said, “Forever.”

“Paul is hurt,” I told him. He nodded again.

“I know. I brought a good doctor with me. Come, we must hurry.”

“Are we going on a cruise, daddy?”

“Yes, baby. A good long cruise,” Brome replied. As he did, Grace started crying.

* * *

We arrived at the island on the second night. Bogdan’s doctor — a smiley young man who looked not a day older than Bogdan himself — turned out to be good, all right. As we approached the unfriendly piece of barren rock jutting out of the foggy ocean, Paul stood on the deck beside me, and the hand he had placed on my shoulder did not feel hot. Under that hand, my broken collarbone throbbed, but didn’t really hurt.

“Underwater lair or a secret cave leading to a lagoon encircled by sheer cliffs, what do you think?” asked Paul.

“Neither,” Bogdan’s voice replied before I could place my wager. “Just cheap smoke and mirrors. Look.”

He pointed and we looked, and suddenly the barren rock was out of focus. As we came close it melted and disappeared into thin air, replaced by a different island. A small picturesque beach greeted us, from which a narrow stairway wound up the slope of a mountain towards a solitary house built on top of and seemingly into the rock. The disguise might have been smoke and mirrors, but it certainly didn’t look cheap.

We docked at a short, sturdy, wooden pier. Bogdan and the doctor came ashore with us, leaving the third member of the crew, who had identified himself only as Davy, with the yacht. We climbed the stairway in single file and silence. Brome carried Annie, asleep on his shoulder. Grace, calmer now, gazed around in wonder.

At the end of the stairway was an iron gate in a wall made of limestone. There was no guard, and the gate hung open. Inside was a fruit garden, which in twilight looked dominated by apple trees.

Through it our procession reached the front door. The huge, two-story house was built in swank, modern style, but still managed to suggest serious regard for functionality. Somehow the weird angles and spheres made sense.

The main doorway was also unlocked. Bogdan led us in without knocking. We found ourselves in a high-ceilinged hallway, illuminated brightly by a crystal balustrade. Despite the modern construction, the interior décor was decidedly retro, with curvy-legged furniture and carved banisters. Several portraits in thick ornamental frames lined the walls.

“Dr. Livesey will show you to your rooms,” Bogdan said. “You are safe here. Get some rest.”

“Please, follow me,” the smiley young man said, starting up the stairs. Brome took another look around and nodded. Everyone moved to follow.

“Not you,” Bogdan said, stopping me. Brome, four steps up, also stopped and turned around, frowning.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“I have to meet him,” I replied, suddenly queasy. This, now, was the end of my road. What had started with a plastic bottle tossed out of the window was going to end here, today, in the crooked house on the island of Nowhere. Bogdan nodded, and I had a queer feeling his nod responded to what I thought rather than what I said.

“We can all meet him then,” said Brome and took a step down. “There’ll be plenty of time to rest afterwards.”

“You’ll meet him, don’t worry. But tonight is reserved for Luke alone.”

“Who the hell is the guy, anyway?” Paul asked.

“Tomorrow, Paul. Tonight you rest.”

“I’ll go with Luke,” said Iris, taking my hand. Bogdan considered it and gave another nod.

“This way. We’ll see the rest of you tomorrow.” With that Bogdan started down a narrow corridor. Squeezing Iris’s hand I followed.

* * *

The library we entered would feel right at home in any upscale house with triangular windows. There was your fireplace, your redwood desk with drawers, your leather armchairs, your velvet curtains, your bookshelves filled with books. The room was two stories high, which, together with the triangular windows, made the walls seem to slant inwards. Here also several paintings decorated the walls; the one above the fire place caught my attention immediately. A skillful reproduction of it hung in my study.

A tall, black-clad man was leaning on the windowsill of an open window. In the darkness outside strange shadows moved and shifted. The man’s youthful face was clean-shaven, thin, had a prominent Roman nose and high cheekbones. Curls of his charcoal hair moved with the breeze. He studied us, a hint of amusement in his small, deep-set eyes.

“Two steaks, one well done, one medium rare, just like you ordered, sir,” Bogdan announced with a flourish.

“I’m joking,” he hastened to add with a grin, seeing my face. “Good night.”

“He’s still new at humor,” the man said when the door closed. He spoke with a distinct British accent. “As I am. By the way, the walls do slant. This study is actually within a pyramid. I’ll show you later from the outside.”

Still not altogether comfortable, I turned towards “Scream.”

“So that’s where the original has been all these years.”

“Hmm? Oh, ‘Scream?’ No. That’s a fake. Not the slightest idea who has the real one.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a good fake,” Iris said.

“You give me too much credit,” the man replied with a chuckle. Both Iris and I grinned, and I breathed a sign of relief. The man pushed away from the windowsill.

“Enough of the small talk,” he said. “Go ahead, Mr. Whales.”

I stared at him, relieved no longer. He nodded encouragingly.

“It’s you,” I blurted out. A small smile appeared on his face, but he didn’t reply. Iris gave me a raised eyebrow.

“You are the Antichrist.”

There was a minute of silence, shattered abruptly by a burst of laughter. Iris’s look said I was completely off the simplest truth ever. I stood and bore it. I figured it was just one of those days. The man, meanwhile, circled the desk and lowered himself in the armchair behind it.

“You have it all wrong, Mr. Whales,” he stated finally.

“Then who the hell are you? Aside from Lloyd’s employer that is. I know that.”

“I am what they like to call Satan, of course!” he exclaimed.

I grunted in righteous indignation. “How is that different?”

“I am an alien, Luke. The Antichrist is human. Which makes the commonplace disinformation about the Antichrist being the son of Satan impossible to be true. All that talk about the mark of triple-six is nothing more than a primitive numerological code for human. Father, mother, child. We, the ‘divines,’ are seven.” He chuckled and reached down into the drawer. I turned to Iris. I knew she was about to say it. The room was suddenly stuffy. My heartbeat became the sound of a speeding train. Paralyzed, I watched her lips form the phrase.

“You are the Antichrist.”

“That is correct on more levels than one,” the man, the creature who called himself Satan, confirmed cheerfully.

The crazy, asymmetrical room shook around me, Munch’s painting a prominent feature, but the magician wasn’t done yet. As my eyes found him, they saw the show’s clincher, which he must have pulled out of a top hat. It was a polished black revolver, and its barrel pointed straight at my chest.

Chapter Forty-Seven

To my credit, I didn’t faint that time. As soon as it became clear that I was going to be shot, the glossy barrel of the black revolver, Satan’s amused face, Iris’s eyelashes, the queer room around me — all acquired the perfect focus of objects in a vivid dream, in which inevitable lacks the slightest logical reason. There was nothing I could do to avoid it, aside from waking up. The realization brought about a strange feeling of peace. More, I was not only calm, I was fascinated.

I was also wrong. Again.

“I was going to shoot you,” Satan said in apologetic tone. “Was really looking forward to it. Polished and re-polished the gun, took shooting lessons. I’ve become quite adept at shooting from the hip, if I do say so myself. It was supposed to be a big deal. Resurrection is always a big deal.”

“Alas!” he cried dramatically, tossing the gun back in the drawer. Upon the contact with mahogany it emitted a loud Twank! I might have jumped. “You made my preparation an utter waste of time. You went and died and got resurrected all by yourself. Even I failed to anticipate that. And I’m much better at anticipating than at shooting, I’ll have you know.”

“Sorry, Satan,” I said dumbly.

“Hah! That’s good,” he chortled. “But call me Stan, please.”

“You mean when they faked the footage?” Iris asked.

“That’s clever, but no,” “Stan” replied with a careless wave of his hand. “I admit fondness for human symbolism, but my reference was rather more literal.”

“On the roof,” I said. “He means on the roof.”

I saw it all again. The roof, the gray, chewed-by-bullets cube of the elevator chamber, the black maw of the Seeker inches away from my face, gaping, filled with teeth but devoid of stench or even breath. I searched my mind for flashes of memories, for the proverbial “life” passing before my eyes, but there was nothing there aside from struggle, pain, anger, and finally darkness. And yet I knew he was right. Which made everything else wrong, and not only to me.

“But how?” For the first time Iris looked like she was asking a question she didn’t already know the answer to. “They were only setting him up.”

“And by getting away we thwarted their plans—”

“You simply did not become their version of the man. Their Project Antichrist. Their sock-puppet Antichrist for the masses. What my advanced, but on occasion hopelessly nearsighted brethren failed to imagine was the possibility that you could be the real one. That there could be a real one. I’d wager your performance on that roof has caused a lot of excitement.” He was positively beaming as he said that. “Yes, I confess, the very idea has been the source of considerable amusement.”

And as though out of what he’d just said his amusement was the statement least likely to be believed, Satan stared off into glossy surface of his desk for a moment, then threw his head back and cackled.

I looked to Iris for support. Somehow she managed to shrug with just her face. I held my own shrug in check, afraid I would not be able to stop shaking for about a year had I allowed it.

“But the prophecy is fiction!” I shouted, apparently not entirely in control after all. “How is it nearsighted to think there shouldn’t be a real Antichrist when you, yourself, have written the fake prophecy about him? More importantly, how is it not insane to expect one to exist?”

He peered at me over intertwined fingers with something near annoyance on his face. “Frankly, I’m not sure what you’re going on about, Luke. So the prophecy is fiction, what of it? Are you saying that by creating a character in a book of fiction the author somehow erases that character from pages of reality? That we should eliminate the possibility of ever meeting Oliver Twist or Raskolnikov simply because Dickens and Dostoyevsky have written about them?”

“N-no?” I began to lose thread of the conversation. And to sweat.

“Come now,” Stan said. “What exactly are we arguing about here? All of you saw what happened on that roof. All of you wondered, if not knew. And now that I’m telling you what it was, what you are, you’re scared, even though you know it’s the truth. But you shouldn’t be frightened. ‘Real’ Antichrist is not bound by the fake prophecy. In fact, I’m only using the name in the sense that you’re someone who stands up to them, to the way the world is set, which is, ironically, closer to the meaning of their prophecy than what you would become had I not interfered.”

“Only that? All I have to do is stand up to a bunch of gods and about seven billion of their followers? Boy, do I feel stupid for being afraid earlier.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You’ve been doing the very thing ever since that doctor called you in the middle of the night. Quite successfully, I might add.”

“Successfully enough to get myself killed, if you’re to be believed.”

“There’s cute and there’s stupid. Neither becomes you.”

“Fine, I’m alive. I came back. So what? I nearly got Paul and Brome killed; I rescued Iris but left Dr. Young behind. It was too close, and that for only a partial success of a small rescue mission back when they didn’t know I could toss Seekers across roofs. We managed to survive, and I’m very happy about that, but I don’t really know what it is you expect me to do now.”

“Never mind what I expect,” he said. “But you forgot a small detail in your summary of your adventures. Your show.”

A display slid out of the middle of his desk and spun around, offering Iris and me a view of a website. It was a hastily put-together page, black font on white background, filled with images, video clips and questions, but at that moment all I could see was the header in large letters: SEEKING LUKE WHALES, in which the letters of my name changed every five seconds or so to spell out ANTI CHRIST. Under the header the hit counter kept rolling. I began to count the digits.

“One hundred thirty million hits,” Satan said. “In just under three days.”

* * *

From that first draft notice my life had been ruled by conspiracies, by desire to survive, by momentum. Run, hide, fight, but mostly run. Now the chase was over. The wheel I’d been running inside halted. They brought me out and told me that I was not like other rats in the lab. For the first time, they put me on the table and asked me what I wanted to do next.

One hundred and thirty million may not be an immediately impressive number to someone whose show had often boasted that many viewers in a single night, but converted into unique hits on a homemade website that went live some six hours after the end of my five-minute-long hijacking of the airwaves, against the backdrop of the sudden stillness, sudden absence of the momentum that had propelled me forward up to that point, that number affected me more than anything else I had learned within that pyramidal library.

But I had to learn at least one more thing. The first thing.

“Why do they want us to end the world?”

Satan, who had walked off to stand by the window while I’d scrolled through the forum topics on the website, turned around, nodded.

“Actually, ‘restarting’ the world would be a more accurate term.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This would be the sixth time the world ends. Since we’ve been around, in any event.”

“That’s insane.”

“Yes, it is. Which is why I chose to no longer be a part of it. Well… that and my refusal to accept the solution as final.”

“Solution to what?”

“When a human dies, a certain amount of energy is released. A miniscule one per human, but when seven billion die at the same time, the energy burst is substantial enough to harvest. We’ve been doing just that over the last few hundred thousand earth years. Breed a species, start a civilization, then, when the time comes, let it develop to extinction, making sure the species do not have the chance to ‘overdevelop,’ replenish the tanks and start over.”

“You’re collecting souls,” said Iris.

“No, we can’t do that. The energy released is related to what you call ‘soul,’ but capturing souls themselves is beyond our technology.”

“But why do it at all? Why capture souls, energy, whatever? You’d think with all your gadgetry you’d be able to use solar batteries or something to power you flying saucers.”

“Our flying saucers are doing just fine, Luke. The energy we harvest this way is used to ‘power’ us. It’s the only known way to replenish our life-force.”

“So without it you…”

“Would die. Yes. The gods are mortal. We live a very long time by your standards, but eventually we would die, and we cannot reproduce any longer. And as for why we don’t do it ourselves, well — and be discreet about this, please — there’re only twenty-three of us left, not counting the Seekers. We are strong, but at this stage if all humans work together against us, there may be losses we cannot afford.”

“This is lunacy,” I said some time later, finding myself on my feet in the middle of the room.

“I understand that it’s difficult to digest it all coming at you at once—”

“Explain to me how did this beekeeping operation of yours begin? You just sail randomly around the universe, find this tiny blue planet in the middle of nowhere, find primates among a trillion animals populating it, and say to yourselves, ‘Hmm, maybe these monkeys have souls, maybe there’s energy released when they die, maybe we should see if we can eat it?’ Talk about anticipation. I don’t care how advanced you are. It makes no sense.”

He smiled. “Oh, I see what’s troubling you. Well, it makes sense. Because we originated from you.”

I stared at him, at Iris, at the desk, at the million questions on the monitor with an open mouth. My eyes found the painting on the wall, but even that did not help. There was no longer anything dreamlike about the room. It, they, everything around me was solid, stationery, three-dimensional, reasonable, provable and proven empirically, simple.

“Jesus Christ!” I said in exasperation. Satan shot me an amused glance, but continued.

“Our ancestors moved from this planet a long time ago, and when the immortality and the reproductive ability were lost we knew exactly where to return. The source.”

“You lost immortality?” Iris asked. “So you’re saying…”

“Yes! Ironically, unlike us, humans are truly immortal. As far as we can tell, anyway. So you see, it’s easy to defend what they’re doing. Death is painful, but humans don’t really die, and human death is essential for our survival.”

“But you broke away, leaving yourself without the possibility to replenish,” she said.

He smiled at her, then at me. “Why take such a risk? Well, you know what they say about Satan. I want your soul.” Seeing the look on my face he hastened to add, “ But of course that’s only partially true. I don’t want your soul in particular — even if I did, there’s no way to get it — but rather a soul. Like we used to have. I believe the current method of sustaining our population is bound to fail sooner or later. I believe we can be healed. I believe we can truly return.”

“So that’s your plan for me?”

“That’s my hope for you. And who knows, perhaps you could also save the world while you’re at it. Good night.”

Then he was no longer there.

I guessed the conversation was over. Wasn’t really mad about it either, to tell you the truth. I went to his desk and sat down, the monitor swiveling around to gaze at me. Iris came to stand behind the chair, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“You think it’s possible?” I asked her. She was silent for a long time.

“It’s possible,” she finally said into my ear. Then she kissed my cheek and left also.

* * *

Half of the website’s unique visitors wanted me dead immediately; half of the rest stopped by to let everyone know how stupid they were to believe such nonsense; half of the rest were ready to submit to my command and get the show on the road; half of those left had signed on to denounce me as impostor and proclaim themselves as antichrists. Which left about eight million people who admitted they had come to the website looking for answers.

All this I, of course, only guessed. Or rather, estimated, judging from those posts I had been able to peruse during the hours between Iris’s departure and a rooster’s luciferian song coming from the garden.

“It’s possible,” I told myself, as the sun’s first beams touched the books and paintings. There are people out there, many people, who want to hear, see, feel, do something different. There are people there who want the circus to stop. There are people who want to know they are not alone.

Touching the keyboard for the first time, I created a new forum topic.

In the title bar I typed: Nothing is inevitable.

Content

PROJECT ANTICHRIST
By Pavel Kravchenko

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six