The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  These dreams are part of me. I’ve always had them. I think it’s the reason my instinct to circle the wagons is so strong. Mom and Dad left me a lot of money, but I’m rerouting all of it back to Gran. Getting her into Pine’s Place matters because she raised me. She’s the family I’ve got left. I owe her that much. But a psychologist once told me it wasn’t necessarily a healthy thing to give it all to Gran like that. She called it survivor’s guilt. She said getting Gran into Pine’s Place might really be about changing how my Dad Dreams end. There’s always a dark pool behind him, which supposedly represents death. And in my dreams, he always falls in.

  I pull off the highway and follow the dusty track that cuts through the foothills and into the remote region where Dad and I used to go fishing. Maybe these dreams had been real all along. Had he been reaching out to me through the Collective Unconscious? Trying to communicate? Is this really the place? It’s not Arizona. The shoreline is different. But maybe it’s wrong to try to glean those kinds of specifics. Maybe dreams don’t operate that way.

  I ease my foot on the brake. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. I pull to a stop. My chest hurts from the struggle of choosing between optimism and pessimism. I don’t want the letdown if I choose wrong. This is crazy! There’s no way Dad’s here! But the sleek stainless steel camper in front of me, identical to the one from my dreams, is awfully frickin’ weird.

  Chapter Forty

  I shut the car door. The sound caroms around the walls of my brain. The sun has dipped behind the foothills. The sky back there is awash in reds, yellows, and pinks. The sky over the camper is a clear, star-speckled black. Parked off to the side is an army-green Jeep Wrangler. Dad’s? He never used to drive Jeeps. There’d been an old Saab.

  My scuffing feet kick up dust. The camper windows are glowing at the edges. At the door, I raise my fist, hesitate. What if it isn’t Dad? What if it’s some random person who’s had it up to here with the Jehovah’s Witnesses? What if it’s number three on the FBI’s Most Wanted list? What if this is where Scott Baio lives?

  I bang on the door, three quick raps, and struggle to master the anxiety roiling inside.

  The door swings open.

  Not Scott Baio.

  A muscular, blond-haired, blue-eyed Adonis quarterback/Calvin Klein underwear model—and the shock of him being here in his Calvin Kleins, and nothing else, triggers a misfire of all the synapses in my brain. I’m smelling Ralph Lauren cologne with my eyeballs, and I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to work that way.

  “It’s the Edge!” cries Caleb. “Thanks for coming, bro. Yeah.”

  He waves me inside the camper. Wordlessly, I comply. Resistance is futile.

  The camper is bright, luxurious. Dark wood paneling, leather seats. Granite kitchen countertop. ESPN is on the plasma TV. It goes to commercial, and there’s a close-up of Caleb’s slow-motion butt in his Calvin Kleins, a commercial I’ve seen maybe a million times. I wince, and turn away—

  —and here’s real life Caleb shutting the camper door, standing there in his Calvin Kleins and gratuitously flaunting his zero-percent body fat, barrel-like pecs, washboard abs, and God of Thunder arms. In short, all the reasons Kate chose for cheating on me. No matter how much I work out, I’ll never look like that.

  “What am I doing here?” I hear myself ask.

  Caleb snatches the remote, powers off the TV. “Yeah, bro. I mean, you know, we’ve gotta talk.”

  I slide into the leather booth at the kitchen table, dazed. Caleb slides in across from me, and the leather creaks.

  “I need you at the game tomorrow.”

  “The game?”

  “Yeah. Home game. Packers.”

  “You’re playing the Packers.”

  “Yeah, bro. We’re playing the Packers. What—have you been living under a rock? It’s a big game.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah,” I reply, trying to strike a tone that conveys how his big game is naturally impeding my ability to function in life. “Yeah, man. Sorry.”

  “You okay, bro? You seem…kinda…off.”

  “No, no. I’m fine. You kidding? Psh. Fine.”

  “Are you sure? Because, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve kinda got your blobfish face on.”

  “My what?”

  “Blobfish face,” he says, making an exaggerated frowny face. “But, I mean, you know, don’t take it the wrong way. I’m worried you’re all right is what I’m saying.”

  “Ri-ght,” I say. “Really. I’m A-O-Kay.”

  Caleb studies my face a moment longer, apparently measuring the subatomic activity of blobfish. “Okay,” he says, leaning back into the leather seat. “Right. Okay. So, where were we? Oh yeah, Nostradamus.”

  I purse my lips thoughtfully. Were we at Nostradamus? Sure. Nostradamus. Why not?

  Caleb’s talking again.

  “We think Nostradamus is planning to disrupt the game. We don’t know the how, what, or why—”

  “But where is a solid start,” I offer.

  Caleb nods. “Exactly. We’ve got the where. And we’ve got the general when.”

  “Sometime during the game.”

  Caleb nods some more. “Sometime during the game. Hey. You’re taking all this pretty well, bro.”

  I wave it away like it’s nothing. Because it is nothing. I literally have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Look at you, bro! You’re almost, like, down with all the spy stuff already. Right on.”

  He raises his hand for a high five, and when I don’t respond, he picks my hand up and takes it into a ridiculously elaborate handshake. He’s up to the elbow, the shoulder, down to the wrist, flips my hand over, knocks our elbows together; he’s down the forearm, fingertips, and now it’s one more time up and around the shoulder. When it’s over, he winks, snaps his fingers, gives me double-barreled finger guns, and flexes his bare pecs, making them dance, right-left, right-left, right-left.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask.

  “That’s the Bro Shake, bro. So look, we need you there, in the stands. I’ve got your tickets right here.” He reaches beneath a stack of papers, finds two tickets, and slides them across the table. “Your job is to keep an eye out for whatever Nostradamus is up to. See anything fishy—stop ’em.”

  “Stop ’em.”

  “That’s right. Use your superpowers. Make it fun, bro. No one’s sayin’ it can’t be fun.”

  My eyebrows come up. I take the tickets. “Nice seats.”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, don’t get too distracted by the game, though. Trust me. You’re not ready for that yet.”

  “I’m not?”

  Caleb laughs. “All right, all right. Show-off. So you’ve got all these powers now and you think you’re ready to do what I do. But do you have any idea how hard it is to do what I do?”

  My bottom lip juts out as I consider how best to answer this question, and, since I have no idea what it is he does other than passing a football and doubling as Captain Underpants, I hurriedly shake my head.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” he says. “Besides remembering the two entirely different sets of hand signals—one for the spies and one for the game, you know—then there’s the playing every week in front of thousands of spectators and not, you know, blowing my cover. I mean, come on. Not to mention lighting up Drexel Titanic on national TV and no one being none the wiser.”

  “Drexel Titanic,” I repeat, deadpan. “The two-hundred-eighty-pound defensive tackle for New England.”

  “That’s right,” says Caleb. “And don’t tell me you didn’t see that game.”

  “You’re saying Drexel Titanic is a spy.”

  Caleb’s face goes blank. He shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

  “And when he tried to sack you…”

  “Lit. Him. Up. Boom, baby!”

  “And this you did because Drexel Titanic is a Bad Guy, with a capital B and a capital G?”

  “Edge, you’re acting really weird, bro. Yeah. Of course I did it because he�
�s a bad guy.” He leans in close to the table. A sly smile cuts across his face. “Hey. I sent that bad guy a-packin’. But not Green Bay a-Packin’, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “No,” I say, standing and backing away. “No. I don’t know what you’re saying. NFL spies? What the hell am I even doing here? I thought I’d find my dad, but—ah, that’s crazy. I’m crazy. And—and you!” I wag my finger at him. “You are definitely crazy.” I shake my head, waving the whole thing away. “Ah—I’m outta here, bro.”

  I move for the door, grab the handle. Caleb calls out.

  “Wait—wait! Okay. Let’s just back it up then, okay? We’re just gonna back it on up. You’re not crazy. I’m not crazy. Nobody’s crazy. Except, well, I mean…your two stoner buds.” He laughs. “You’ve gotta admit, those guys are a little crazy. Am I right?”

  I pull the handle down.

  “Your dad was here!” says Caleb.

  I release the handle so fast, it springs back up with a pop.

  “He was here?”

  “Yeah.” Caleb hunches over and makes slow waving gestures to get me back to the table. “Your dad. He was here. Okay? But then he, you know, went off the grid.”

  “Off the grid? What does that even mean? He’s been off the grid for, like, twenty years!”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “I know. But now he’s like, more off the grid. He’s so way off the grid now, bro.”

  “Cut the bro shit,” I snap. “You’re not fooling anybody. Why are you here? Is this your place or his?”

  Caleb frowns. “His, br—I mean—his. I thought you knew that. Why else would you come here?”

  I take a deep breath, release it. My feet take me back to the table. I sit, arms at my sides, eyes straight ahead.

  “Okay. Let me get this straight. You, Caleb Montana, are a spy for the United States government?”

  Caleb nods.

  “Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah. PMA—Positive Mental Attitude. I like it!”

  “And this whole NFL spy gig—that’s a thing. As in, there are other spy football players out there, and bad guys, besides Drexel Titanic.”

  Caleb’s features flatten and activate the Duh Face. “Of course. Who do you think had their hands all over Brady’s balls? And don’t tell me you’ve never wondered what the hell is going on with the Colts.”

  “Ri-ight. And so, if you’re working for the government, does that mean Drexel Titanic works for—who? This Nostradamus person?”

  Caleb shakes his head. “Not person. People. Nostradamus is an evil global syndicate made up of bad people.”

  “Well, naturally. Can’t have an evil global syndicate without bad people.”

  Caleb raises his arms in a gesture of exasperation. “That’s what I’m saying!”

  “Okay, okay. So you’re telling me there will be bad-guy football players on the field tomorrow. Playing for the Packers.”

  He shrugs. “Might be. Might not be. Sometimes I can’t tell until, you know, the game starts going.”

  “And what tips you off?” I ask. “Is it the brand of jockstraps?”

  “This is serious, Edge. We intercepted communications talking about a bomb in a ball.”

  “A ball. Like, a football?”

  “Maybe. Not necessarily. I thought they said disco ball, but that doesn’t make any sense. Anyway, check it out. The game is a big crowd. The ball could have a weaponized virus in it. Release it into the crowd—oops. Sorry, United States of America. You’re all going to die because Edger Bonkovich thought the jockstraps were some kind of sick joke.”

  “But I thought we were looking for the AI?”

  “You are. That’s why I need you at the game. InstaTron has been breached. That’s what this is about. That’s why you’re in this predicament. I told you not to say yes to Mikey.”

  “You drugged and kidnapped me!”

  “Well, technically. Yeah.”

  “And now you’re going to ask me to trust you?”

  Caleb shrugs. “Well…yeah. I guess. Listen, Edge. We’re gonna find your dad, okay? Let’s get through tomorrow without the world ending, and then we’ll find your dad. Sound good?”

  The beginning of a neck headache unspools its tendrils into the base of my skull.

  “No,” I reply. “It doesn’t sound good. I’m dying, Caleb. This thing in me is going to kill me. Why doesn’t anybody give a crap that this thing’s gonna kill me?”

  “No, no, no,” says Caleb. “I mean—I give a crap. I told you, I’ve got your back. Right? But you’re not gonna die. You got that part wrong. There’s a booster. Didn’t Mikey tell you about the booster? Come on, bro. Where’s that PMA?”

  I shake my head, then rest it facedown on the table in front of me, my hands still at my sides.

  “Mikey didn’t tell me about the booster until after it was stolen straight out of his weirdo office,” I say, not looking up.

  “Stolen?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I sit up, and Caleb’s gaze pans left thoughtfully.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Could be your dad. He’s the one who stole InstaTron Tron.”

  “He did what?”

  “Someone over there at InstaTron is a mole for Nostradamus. Your dad and I were working to uncover the mole. A week ago, your dad took matters into his own hands. They were about to do the first human trial when your dad found something. He never told me what, but I think he stole InstaTron Tron to keep the Zarathustra program from falling into Nostradamus’s hands. He’s been off the grid ever since. You know, like, more off the grid than normal.”

  I nod slowly as pieces of the puzzle begin falling into place. “Mikey mentioned he was having security problems. He didn’t mention it was my dad who stole the AI, though.”

  “He doesn’t know. And he can’t know. Not until we figure out this mole problem. Edge—do you realize what this means? Your dad created that booster. If we can find him, we can get you fixed up.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah. I knew that. That, I knew.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  I switch the headlights off as I roll to a stop in front of our apartment. The living room light is on. I put the car in Park, turn the key. My adrenaline is spent. My arms are heavy. My quads are tight. A headache is suctioning my brain. I’m afraid to think about what this could signify. I don’t understand how the Zarathustra serum works. How it enhances what I can do physically, or its potential toll on my body. But the headache is freaking me out. Is this what’s going to kill me? Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Because I can’t die yet. I’m still living with Gran and Shep. I always thought I’d do something for myself after getting them into Pine’s Place. But now I’m facing death—and my life is still on hold.

  I expel a burst of air, and a surge of frustration overwhelms me. I snatch the keys from the ignition. I want to punch something. Anything. I bang the back of my head three times against the headrest. Not enough. I punch the top of the steering wheel. I punch it again, over and over, accidently sounding the horn multiple times.

  I collapse backward into my seat. The night falls silent except for the pounding in my chest and a barking dog somewhere up the street. The air is woody and humid. I breathe it in in long bands.

  A second wave of frustration hits me. I strike the wheel and again hit the horn by accident. The outdoor light switches on.

  Crap.

  Gran opens the front door, her face full of concern.

  “Dear?” Gran calls.

  I plaster a smile on my face. Open the creaking door—gently. My heart is still racing when I climb out.

  “Hey, Gran.”

  “Were you honking your horn?”

  “I, uh, got tangled up in the seat belt.” I drag my hand through my hair and gesture at the car like it’s a man-eating death trap. Gran frowns doubtfully. On the front step, I stop and give her a hug, and the big, scary world settles down.

  Chapter Forty-Two<
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  The kitchen still smells like Golumpki, Gran’s specialty. The soft glow from the living room tells me Shep is still up. The volume on the TV is low, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner kicking on. Reality begins asserting itself. The sounds and smells of my childhood turn a secret valve on me, releasing the tension I’m still holding.

  Gran kisses me on the forehead and then puts on a pot for tea. I toss my keys into the bowl. The kitchen overlooks the TV room, where Shep is watching The Late, Late Show. I stand there, not really paying attention, but not really thinking about dying or superpowers or InstaTron Tron.

  “You’re home late,” says Gran, taking down two mugs from the cupboard. “Maybe you finally met a nice young lady.”

  I scratch the back of my neck. My gaze drops reflexively to peer into the pastels-speckled laminate surface of the kitchen table.

  “You have met a young lady!”

  “Edger got laid?” calls Shep from the living room.

  “Shepherd!” says Gran. She slides out the tea tin from the back of the counter, opens it, and pulls out two bags. “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s nice. She’s…” I sigh, wondering how best to put it. “I mean…well, she’s amazing,” I finish lamely.

  “Oh, dear.” Gran smiles.

  “Gran,” I say. “What if we moved up the schedule on Pine’s Place?”

  Her eyebrows rise. “I thought you said you needed six more months?”

  I swallow. Assuming I live through all this, maybe Mikey will be happy enough with my work to give me an advance on the next six months of my salary. That is, if he’s not too pissed about me cutting a hole in his window and going AWOL.

  Gran’s eyes narrow. “Take the six more months, Edger. There’s no rush.”