by David Beem
That has got to be the most incompetent assassin ever, says Nigel, his psychic sense affronted.
Good, I reply, because we may be the most incompetent spies ever.
“Bishop Shillelaugh?” says a male voice from behind me. I turn around. My face must be as white as my frock. A Catholic priest is smiling at me.
“It’s time,” he says, ushering me into the sanctuary.
But preaching is not my calling, Nigel is saying. I’m a salesman, not a man of God.
Don’t worry, I reply. Preaching’s like selling. Just sell Jesus.
Right. I should tell you I’ve only been inside a church the one time, and that was for Auntie Muriel’s wedding.
Don’t marry anyone today.
Right.
I take a deep breath and surrender control. A wave like ice water washes through me. I shiver. My body belongs to him now… Here we go.
For a few seconds, we do nothing but teeter in the church silence. A sea of expectant faces peer up at us. Old faces, stern, like Supreme Court justices.
My feet shuffle across the blood-red carpet. I grab the rich, polished wood pulpit to steady us—me, I mean. It’s weird, him being in charge. It’s usually capable warriors when I do this: Bruce Lee, Hattori Hanzo, Lieutenant Killmaster. But this is different. Nigel’s as ready to faint as I am. If my skin was white before, now it’s whiter than Mitt Romney at a Lil Wayne concert. I clear my throat and tap the microphone clipped to my robe. The sound system booms like the wrath of God. The assassin in the bell choir flinches. He sneers. His hand reaches beneath the table where he’s stowed his Uzi. He scowls at us. Me, I mean. Nigel makes my face smile. Kasabian’s shoulders relax. His hand slides out from under the table.
“This thing on?” I ask, twelve decibels too loud. Shrieking hearing aids answer me. “Yes, well—ahem. Dearly beloved—”
Wizened faces stare back at us.
“—we are gathered here today to—”
“YOU SUCK!” yells a kid from the back, his words reverberating through every nook and holy cranny of the vaulted ceiling. The parishioners gasp like frogs. The boy, who can’t be older than eight, kicks and twists as his mother wrenches him by the arm into the aisle. A hymnal is knocked loose and thuds to the floor. Nigel clears my throat into the microphone, and more hearing aids squeal.
“We are gathered here today to—”
“I DON’T WANNA GO TO DUANE’S HOUSE!” the boy screams. “DUANE SMELLS LIKE A BRUSSEL SPROUT! I HATE DUANE!”
A ray of light beams through the door as the mother wings it open. The pair exits onto the street, the boy kicking and screaming. The door booms shut. Like the Borg Collective, the congregation turns around as one to face me.
Silence—
Two hundred sets of sleepy eyes blink.
—And more silence, as two hundred sets of wrinkled ears perk up in anticipation.
“We are gathered here today…to pray!” Nigel exclaims through me. In the front row, a wattle-necked old lady clasps her hands and sits up straighter. A stern-faced old man peers out through half-lidded eyes. Nigel stands straighter. “Indeed. Yes, ahem. We pray for…things? Sometimes we pray for…expensive…things. We pray for…for…” Nigel casts around for an idea, something, anything to pray for.
A gleaming white high-heeled shoe.
“…SHOES! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we pray for shoes.”
My face prickles. Why do we pray for shoes? I ask.
“Why do we pray for shoes?” he asks out loud. “Well, dearly beloved, I’ll tell you…”
Turkey Neck frowns.
“Ladies like shoes? I guess?”
Turkey Neck’s head tilts.
“Rather, men like shoes also,” Nigel hastens to add. “Especially ones that don’t squeeze your toes together like a blinding good set of straight-jaw pliers. You know, the kind that get in there and squeeze, like, UHN! UHN!” He pauses and has me mime the act of foot torture with a set of air pliers. “And your feet are all like ‘ARGH! I’LL TALK! I’LL TALK! MAKE IT STOP, JEEZIE CHREEZIE! MAKE IT STOP!’”
Nigel pauses to breathe. Sweat rolls down my face.
Turkey Neck’s head swivels left—
Stern Face in the front row slips off a shoe and begins massaging his foot.
—swivels right—
A woman old enough to remember the Sindarin elves leading the charge against the armies of Morgoth unwraps a cough drop.
—Turkey Neck shrugs and nods.
Oh, man. This pope dress is hot-hot-hot. Nigel sticks his finger in the neck hole and pulls it to the side to ventilate. The assassin in the bell choir clutches his Uzi beneath the table and squints at us.
Come on, Nigel. He’s getting suspicious.
You’re welcome to take over any time.
No, no. You’re doing great.
Thought so. Nigel continues.
“Let us remember in our prayers Duane of the Brussel Sprout Smellers. For theirs is the kingdom of tiny cabbages.”
Turkey Neck, Stern Face, and Battle of Morgoth Witness nod along like Duane’s body odor really does need our prayers. Kasabian’s wearing a what-the-Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph expression, and a burst of confidence surges through the Collective Unconscious from Nigel. Now watch the master salesman close the deal, he says.
“Some people pray for advanced menstrual relief.”
“Amen!” Mary yells from the back row.
“There’s one now,” says Nigel. “These sorts of prayers are best answered with…Happy Healthy Hippie’s Go with the Flow: Wellness from the Earth, Hormonal Balance and Relief! Go with the Flow is a vegan-friendly, non-GMO supplement consisting of four powerful herbs so you can be at outer peace with your inner vagina. Go with the Flow. Balance your body, balance your hormones, balance your demonic impulses.”
A loud crash pulls our attention leftward; the assassin has toppled the bell table, drawn his gun, and is racing out the side door. Mary’s already charging down the side aisle.
Go get him! I yell.
Right! replies Nigel, pulling the frock over my head and tossing it aside. My hand slides into my pocket and pulls out the Z-ring.
“Don’t forget!” yells Nigel as we’re storming out the back. “Go with the Flow: Wellness from the Earth! Act now and get a one month’s supply of Joy-Filled, a one-hundred-percent plant-based supplement to relax your mind, boost your mood, and relieve stress!”
The door bangs open into the church office. Scattered papers in the air. An overturned desk—and a disarmed Grunka Kasabian, facedown on the ground, his neck pinned beneath Mary’s high heel. She’s got one hand pointing his Uzi at his head, and the other placing a call.
“Alex?” she says. “We’ve got him.”
Nigel bristles. “I can’t work under these conditions.”
CHAPTER Twenty-Two
Steam billows through the cracked bathroom door and ghosts through me. I reach into the cloud, and my wiggling fingers phase in and out. If I had my powers back, I could ask the ghost of a real spy to phase in. Take charge. Do this meeting for me, please and thank you. I could lie to myself and pretend it’s not me going behind Mary’s back. It’s the ghost.
You need to focus on your mission, says Nigel. This is dangerous!
Mary said someone’s tampering with my service. Do you remember that?
Yes.
She said it like it’s a fact. Did you get that impression?
I was too busy enjoying the moment, Nigel replies, queueing up Mary’s backseat near-kiss from my subconscious like a streaming movie. Heat and arousal pump through me.
Stop—it’s private!
My cell rings—Alex. My hands are shaking as I answer it before the second ring.
“It’s time,” she says.
I squash the streaming movie Nigel’s playing in my head and refocus.
“You never told me how I’m supposed to get past Mary.”
“That won’t be a problem. But you’ll need to be quiet, and you need to go no
w. I’ll meet you out front. White van.”
The line goes dead. My stomach knots. I stuff the cell phone into my pocket and slip out the door of my bedroom into the suite. Tiptoe to the front door, grab the latch—carefully—turn. The changing pressure on the seal is louder than I expect as I pull the door open. I cringe, straining to hear over the piercing whistle in my ears any activity from Mary’s side of the suite.
Nothing.
Go—go! Nigel urges.
I sneak outside, inch the door shut. The lock click seems as loud as a cargo car coupling onto a train. Pause—listen. Nothing. I pad down the hall to the elevator, press the button. My heart’s pounding like cave troll fists on a hobbit. The wait is thank-my-lucky-Yoda-underpants short; the elevator dings. I hurry inside, select Lobby, and mash the Close Door button six or seven times. Golden reflective metal lumbers shut.
Now I see me.
Dressed in all black, the person staring back at me looks ready to pull off a diamond heist. Except his skin is pasty. And the way he’s twisting the fake wedding ring on his finger is too self-conscious to be a diamond thief. I take the ring off and stuff it in my pocket. It jingles against my superhero ring. I stand up straight, thrust my shoulders back. This is how Nigel does it when he’s in charge. This person could be a spy.
A chilling ding announces the lobby. I flinch. The doors open before I can reclaim the composure of the other guy. I exit, glance left and right. No sign of Mary. I hasten across the lobby to the front doors, guilt twisting in my stomach. Outside, a white van idles in the loading zone, exhaust snaking out the back.
The bellhop ducks his head as I pass. I peer into the van through the side door. Alex is waving me in, a frown twisting her elfish features. I haul open the door, climb inside. She pulls away without a hello. I glance in the back. Electronic surveillance equipment. We’re alone.
“No Caleb?”
She shakes her head. “He’s still interrogating Kasabian.”
“You get anything?”
“Name, rank, serial number.”
“And Mary? Is she okay?”
Alex spares me a quick glance. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“She’s my loyal protector. She doesn’t let anything bad happen to me. The fact I got out at all means you drugged her, tied her up…something.”
She huffs. “Boy, are you whipped.”
“I’m not whipped.”
She shoots me a frown, then reanchors her attention on the road.
“I’m not whipped.”
“Your girlfriend’s all right, Bonkovich.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Do to her? Is that what you think of me? She happens to be taking a bath.”
“Really? That’s it?”
The corner of her lips quirk.
“Alex.”
“And… All her clothes are being laundered. Your girl is buck naked, and she’s got nothing to wear.”
I expel a burst of air. “Now I’m really wishing I’d stayed home.”
Alex returns a tight smile. “I bet you are.”
CHAPTER Twenty-three
So… That’s a Gothic Bridge, all right.
Gee, you think so? asks Nigel, his psychic sense dripping with sarcasm.
The stylized bridge supports and ornamented guardrails are giving off a strong Rivendell vibe. With effort, I refrain from touching my earpiece before speaking. No reason to broadcast to planet Earth I’m wearing a wire.
“Alex, I’ve got eyes on the bridge. Do you copy?”
“Loud and clear. Mission’s a go. Proceed.”
“Okeydokey. I mean, um, copy. Over and out. Buh-bye.”
“Jesus.”
Well, she’s not exactly pants, now is she? says Nigel.
I have absolutely no clue what you’re saying to me right now, I reply.
I ease my neck left, then right, and approach the bridge. A high-pitched shriek echoes. I startle and scan for the source. Through the trees is a fenced-in, green-and-white tennis court. A man and a woman are shaking their rackets at each other and laughing. I breathe in. Breathe out. No good. Still have the jitters. Somehow, the proximity of people being normal seems like it ought to make this meeting feel less clandestine, or give me one thin ray of confidence I’m not going to get tranqued in the neck, but it doesn’t. Nostradamus doesn’t care about witnesses. It cares about results. I shove my hands in my pockets, clutch the Z-ring, and continue.
Two joggers pass going the opposite direction as my feet hit the empty bridge. I clutch the Z-ring harder and scan the trees on the far side. Their steel-colored trunks are dark in the twilight but too narrow for hiding. I glance over my shoulder. No one there but the receding joggers. Maybe he meant under the bridge?
Feedback squeals through my earpiece. I hunch and snatch the earpiece out.
Is that normal? asks Nigel.
No. We’re getting interference.
Okay, Radio Shack, says Nigel. We should go now. This is enough superheroing for one day, don’t you think?
Oh, now we’re calling your sermon superheroing?
I examine the receiver. Still emitting feedback. I turn it over, shut it off. Across the bridge, the trees are the same as they were. Back the way the joggers went, there’s no one. My lucky night: no one around to hear a squealing earpiece.
Or to hear you scream when you’re stabbed in the neck, offers Nigel.
Yes, thank you, Nigel.
I pocket the receiver and head farther out onto the bridge. At the center, I stop walking and let my arms hang loose at my sides. Well? Here I am. Alone.
This is a very bad idea, says Nigel.
Relax, I reply. Alex will realize she’s lost contact, and she’ll come looking for us. She’s GSPOT, you know. Those babes have got mad skills.
I wouldn’t know, he replies, his psychic sense going all gloomy on me.
“Good,” a man’s voice says from behind, and I nearly fall over.
I turn around and face—an empty bridge.
Okay, let’s go! says Nigel. No ghosts! No ghosts!
“Hello?” I whisper.
“I’m cloaked, duh,” the voice replies in an unmistakable Australian accent.
“Whoa.”
This is incredible. I’m staring into thin air!
No ghosts! Please—I hate ghosts!
You are literally a ghost, I point out. You are a ghost who is afraid of ghosts.
“Were you followed?” asks the invisible man.
Was I followed? Crap. I didn’t even think about that. Kind of obvious in hindsight. Man. I must look like a total newb. That’s the first question people always ask in clandestine meetings on bridges at night. It must be like a spy procedural rule of order. Maybe spy secretaries log it into the Clandestine Meeting Minutes. No clandestine meeting on a bridge at night may begin without The Question. I bet it’s in a packet I didn’t read right next to the part about Yakuts.
“Were you followed?” the invisible man asks again, his tone biting.
My left hand comes out of my pocket to wave his concern away. “Psh. No. Ha—me? Of course not.” Clearing my throat and raising my right hand like I’m testifying under oath, I go for my best Official Business Tone: “I hereby acknowledge The Question has been read into the Meeting Minutes.”
“What’re you doing?” asks the invisible man.
“Following protocol, sir.”
“Stop that. Stop with the body language. The tone. The waving and the shrugging. Can’t you just, I don’t know, act like you’re alone on the bridge?”
I frown. “I mean, people don’t usually walk out onto a bridge alone and stand around talking to themselves.”
“Gah,” says the invisible man. “Look—I am the prime minister of Australia. By pissing me off, you are risking an international incident. Now walk over to the goddamn railing and lean on it, goddammit. Act like a normal fucking person.”
An invisible hand gives me a shove.
“Wow,” I say, allow
ing myself to be herded. I put my elbows on the railing, grip my hands together like his neck is between them, and peer out over the park. “You’re a total asshole.”
“I’m a head of state.”
“You mean dickhead of state.”
“Gah—shut up and listen. I know why your powers aren’t working.”
“Wait. You know about my powers?”
“Yes, you idiot. You’re Zarathustra, Savior of Humanity—barf. Now shut up. I’m trying to tell you I have technology you need.”
Despite my wanting to throttle this guy, my hopes rise. “But that’s great! Then let me have it.”
“Shut up. People don’t talk to themselves on the bridge. Remember?”
“Sorry.”
“Shut. Up. God, are you deaf? Listen. No, I didn’t bring it here. It’s too risky.”
“Well then, what is it? When can I get it?”
“If you open your mouth one more time, I swear to God I’m going to push your loser ass over this bridge. Do you understand me?”
I nod.
“Don’t nod either. Jesus Christ. Seven and a half billion people on the planet, and Mike Dame chooses you.”
I peer down at my white-knuckled hands. My jaw clenches. I want to punch this guy in the teeth. How am I supposed to answer him without talking or moving in any way?
Just use your mind, says the Invisible Man, his voice coming from inside my brain.
Holy shit.
Hello, says Nigel. My name is Nigel. It’s nice to meet you.
“Shut up. Both of you,” he says out loud. “Now that I have your attention. Listen.”
The Diner. Forty-four 9th Avenue. Monday. Nine p.m. sharp. No press. Come alone. Tell no one.
“There,” he says out loud. “Now. Without talking or nodding—did you hear?”
With an effort, I manage not to nod.
How is he doing that? asks Nigel.
I don’t know, I reply.
“But you heard me?” he says. “Repeat it back to me, mentally, exactly what you heard.”