Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  This, of course, raised another question: What might NTAC know about her?

  SIXTEEN

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  “MORNIN’, AL!”

  Alfred Twenter offered a smile and a wave to Shane Bridges as he walked past the middle-aged man’s desk in the bank’s loan department—this despite his dislike for being called Al. He did not especially enjoy any of the diminutions of his given name that he had received without request from people all his life. Not Fred, Freddie, Alfie—particularly not Alfie, a nickname that his great-aunt Helen had cottoned onto greeting him with when he was a toddler and that had dogged him well into adulthood.

  “How’s it going, Shane?” Alfred replied, pushing the tortoiseshell frames of his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. His question went unanswered, as Shane already had returned his attention to the steaming mug of coffee in his beefy hand and the newspaper lying atop his cluttered desk. Alfred generally assumed the nick namers in his life were well-meaning. Most of them had been family or classmates or co-workers such as Shane, possibly compensating for his having a name that seemed unnaturally older than his years. Therefore, Alfred interpreted Shane’s greeting as a reminder that even at thirty-seven, his appearance remained boyish enough to keep him from fully growing into his name just yet.

  His hard-soled wingtip shoes clacking against the marble flooring, Alfred made his way through the spacious lobby of the Federal Commercial Bank of Las Vegas. He walked past the long row of tellers, each separated from the customers by a set of thin, brass bars, and weaved around a succession of well-polished wooden desks. All around him, customers conducted various financial matters with bank employees, their voices hushed yet still echoing slightly within the large, open workplace.

  It was the interior of the bank that had charmed him from the moment he first entered its lobby several months earlier, after returning to Las Vegas from Seattle following his prolonged stay there. The bank’s traditional décor—“old school,” as he had come to learn the current slang for anything society had deemed outdated or passé—made him feel more at home than just about any other location in the city, a sad statement considering he had been born and raised here, long before it exploded into the “Entertainment Capital of the World” sometime during his extended absence. For him, the bank represented a respite from the strange, new world in which he found himself. In his mind, this place was his daily, personal portal back to September 6, 1956, the last day he remembered from his previous life before starting all over again as one of the 4400.

  Arriving at his desk, one edge of which hugged a wall near the bank’s walk-in vault of safety-deposit boxes, Alfred paused to hang his black fedora on a hook installed on the wall behind his chair. Hat hooks had vanished from the bank over time; taken down, he assumed, as they fell out of fashion. Upon his employment as customer service manager of deposit boxes, he was allowed a few personal modifications to his work area, the first of which was the hook.

  “Good morning, Alfred,” said Jennifer Martin, the bank manager’s young, vivacious secretary—administrative assistant, they were called nowadays—as she walked in his direction on her way to her own desk. Dressed in a cream-colored silk blouse and dark blue skirt that rose higher on her legs than would have been appropriate in Alfred’s day, she waved at him as she walked past, eyeing him in approval. “I’ve gotta say, you sure know how to make that suit work.”

  Alfred smiled at the compliment, and even felt himself blushing at the younger woman’s attention. “Thank you, Jennifer,” he replied. While he had chosen to embrace life in this “new” world on many levels, his code for professional dress was one affectation on which he refused to compromise. Looking smart and businesslike never went out of style, he decided, and his appearance seemed to please his customers, particularly the older, conservative types who regularly were steered to him by his superiors.

  Among his fellow employees, however, he quickly learned that his wardrobe had earned him quite a different reputation. His penchant for hats, dark suits, skinny black ties, and crisply starched white shirts lent him an appearance that prompted some of his fellow employees to refer to him behind his back as a “Blues Brother.” After searching the Internet and discovering the origin of their assessment, Alfred admittedly agreed with the moniker and played along with the good-natured joke at his expense.

  Ah, the Internet, Alfred mused as he dropped into his seat, switching on his desktop computer. Personal computers and the Internet in particular were aspects of life in the twenty-first century that Alfred had embraced with conviction. He was introduced to the wonders of the Internet via acclimation classes provided by NTAC during his time in quarantine, and now relished the conduit of knowledge at his fingertips.

  By nature, he was an information gatherer—what folks in his youth used to call a bookworm—and always had immersed himself in reading whatever he could get his hands on. When his 4-F classification blocked him from military service as the United States went to war against Germany and Japan, Alfred worked the night shift at a rubber reclamation center near Las Vegas Army Air Field—later renamed Nellis Air Force Base—keeping his days free to consume every magazine, newspaper, and book that crossed his path. When he returned to the workforce after the war and took a job as an assistant manager of a grocery store, his desire for information was fueled by the store’s magazine racks as well as the library down the street.

  If it was out there to be learned, Alfred wanted to learn it. He found himself mesmerized by each new issue of Popular Science, Popular Mechanics, and anything else concerning the latest advances in technology. When his mind turned to fanciful applications of such development, he explored the worlds to be found within the pages of pulp science-fiction magazines such as Amazing Stories, Incredible Tales of Scientific Wonder, and Galaxy. His love for such tales certainly played into his greatest regret about being a 4400: like each of his fellow returnees, Alfred could remember nothing about his time “away,” as they called it. He had no idea if he may have spent that time with alien or advanced life forms, as he secretly hoped was the case. Instead, he assumed that one day, the purpose of his abduction would be revealed, and he trusted that the reason would make perfect sense.

  His lust for the Internet and what it offered resulted in acquiring a quick affinity for computers, which in turn helped him land his current job. At least, this was what he was told at the time. Later, Alfred learned that his hiring had more to do with his unusual notoriety, and that he was a conversation piece that lent an odd interest to the bank. Alfred was well aware that many of his co-workers, sometimes accompanied by friends or customers, would make obvious detours toward the safety-deposit boxes he managed only to slyly gesture in his direction and whisper among themselves.

  Though he usually took such things in stride, there were times when Alfred felt the discomfort of being an object of curiosity for the rest of the world to see. On such occasions, he sought support from other returnees, often finding that solace within the Internet-based message boards and other communities he visited. The time spent with his partners in conversation—he still hesitated to call them “friends,” as their presence was anything but physical—brought him a measure of comfort, and reminded him that his experiences in this still-new world were not unique.

  Indeed, knowing that he would have time during the usual morning lull before anyone came looking to access their safety-deposit box, Alfred was in the midst of calling up one of his favorite 4400 websites when a voice called out to him.

  “Alfred?”

  Minimizing the web page on his desktop computer monitor, he looked up to see Matt Dorning, one of the young tellers, approaching his desk and escorting a petite, attractive woman Alfred did not recognize. He caught himself before a look of disapproval crossed his face at the sight of Matt’s rumpled state of dress, which consisted of a purple dress shirt and black trousers that each sported matching wrinkles, as though the man had slept in his clothes and then slept thro
ugh his alarm.

  “Hello, Matt,” he said, reaching up to adjust his glasses as he rose from his chair and offered a warm smile. “Looks like we have an early bird this morning.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Matt replied, his tone betraying his lack of interest in Alfred’s courteous enthusiasm. “She wants to get a safety-deposit box.”

  “Then I can take it from here,” Alfred said, prompting the younger man to return to his duties. When Matt turned and departed with all due haste, Alfred again smiled at the woman while gesturing to a chair alongside his desk. “My name is Alfred Twenter. And you are?”

  “Abigail,” she replied, leaning forward as she took her seat and affording Alfred an unencumbered view at what he now noticed was the copious amount of cleavage revealed by her tight red dress. He averted his eyes in time to meet hers, hopeful that his sudden interest in her body had gone unnoticed. Her smile suggested it likely had.

  “Then, Abigail,” he said as he produced an application from one of his desk’s side drawers, “let me ask first whether you need a box for your important documents, or perhaps one for larger valuables, such as jewelry.”

  She paused, apparently thinking over the choices, and Alfred found himself studying her face. He realized that her dark hair, worn in a jagged-banged pageboy style that framed her wide, hazel eyes and her rose-colored lips, reminded him of his favorite photograph of Elizabeth Taylor from a cover of Movie World just last year, or, rather, from 1955.

  Where does the time go? Alfred nearly laughed aloud at his own little joke.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Twenter,” Abigail said after a moment, casting her eyes toward her hands, which rested in her lap. “I don’t actually need to rent a box.” She looked around, as though to ensure she was not being overheard. “I’m here because I wanted to speak with you, personally.”

  Personally? With me?

  Her soft-spoken words piqued his interest, though it also triggered a pang of nervousness as he considered why she might be here. It took physical effort to keep from reaching up to stroke one side of his sandy blond hair, which he had waxed into a modest flattop. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m all ears. How can I help?”

  “I know it’s not good to focus on what you hear in the news,” Abigail replied, her eyes wide and sincere. “I mean, the press is only looking for the sensational stories, right?”

  Alfred shrugged. “Um, sure. I guess,” he said, uncertain as to why she had come to him with such concerns, but still curious enough to at least lend a sympathetic ear. “It’s what sells these days.”

  “I can’t help watching those reports, the ones they keep showing over and over about that man in Colorado,” Abigail said, her hands fidgeting. “That…4400 man.”

  “Oh.” Alfred’s voice went flat, as did any interest he held in this faux customer. “So, that’s why you wanted to talk to me. You could’ve just come out and said so. I’m more or less used to that type of thing now.”

  Abigail had the good grace to appear shocked at his reaction. “No, it’s not like that. I’m—”

  “No, no. Let’s just jump right in, shall we?” Alfred countered. Initially discomfited at having been waylaid by her charms, he now allowed that embarrassment to give way to impatience and huffiness. “Shall I just answer the usual questions and get them out of the way? No, I don’t have any children who are now older than me. No, I don’t remember meeting any bug-eyed space monsters from Planet X. Yes, I know how to use microwave ovens and DVD players and—”

  “Stop it!”

  Her admonition, hissed through gritted teeth, was sharper than he might have expected from a woman of such small stature, and was more than sufficient to end his frustrated litany. “I said it’s not like that.” Once more looking around as though to verify that they were alone, she added, “I’m a 4400, too.”

  “What?” Alfred asked, feeling his brow furrow in confusion along with renewed interest. “You are?” Why had she not simply said so in the first place?

  Abigail nodded. “Yes, I’m just like you. The first of December, 1993. That was my last day before whatever it was that happened to us. I wasn’t gone for nearly as long as you, but I still feel out of place, just like you.”

  “Forgive me,” Alfred said, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses. “I haven’t encountered any of…us…since leaving quarantine in Seattle. Not in person, anyway.” In truth, he had taken steps to avoid coming into contact with other returnees.

  “I know, Alfred,” Abigail replied, her voice taking on an air of playfulness as she smiled. “You’ve told me that when we’ve talked online. I’m ShortStuff93 from the 4400Web room. And when we chat, you’re…”

  “SciFiGuy56,” Alfred said, finishing her sentence. He paused, trying to reconcile his mental picture of this fellow 4400 he knew only as a quirky nickname with the woman now sitting before him. The idea that a woman, and a young, attractive one at that, would pursue him from the Internet into his real life raised his excitement as well as his skepticism. Struggling to keep his composure, he hoped he at least appeared polite.

  Drawing a deep breath, he weighed what to say next. “ShortStuff…I mean, Abigail…look, it’s not that I don’t believe you. I do, but, how did you find me? I’ve never told you who I am or where I live. I never offer that sort of information to anyone.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it by myself,” she replied. “That took a little digging with the help of a friend. I wanted to meet you in person, Alfred. Because of our conversations, I happen to think you’re a very sweet man. Also, well, I know what you can do.”

  Hearing this revelation was enough for Alfred to sit bolt upright in his chair. While it was possible that his enthusiasm for companionship and conversation may have caused him to reveal enough fragments of personal information that someone might piece together clues to his actual identity and location, he never—never—had discussed with anyone the strange “gift” he seemed to have acquired during his still-unexplained abduction.

  While his power was in its earliest form, one Alfred only partially understood and was still learning to control, he discovered NTAC’s ongoing research into emerging 4400 abilities. During one of his first medical screenings after relocating to Las Vegas, he had connected to the mind of the NTAC doctor while he suffered through blood tests, blood pressure checks, and other examinations. The contact had revealed to Alfred the nature of the promicin neurotransmitter believed to be active in each returnee, as well as NTAC’s concern over how to deal with it. Fearing that he might be subjected to some form of drug or other treatment inhibiting his ability, Alfred had already decided he would forgo his next checkup, currently scheduled for the following month. Since then, he had guarded his secret with utmost care.

  “Wh-what I can do? What do you mean by that? What makes you think I can do anything at all?” Pausing, Alfred drew a breath and attempted to regain his composure. “Not all of us have some sort of special power, you know.”

  Leaning forward in her chair, Abigail lowered her voice. “Maybe not, but I have one. I have this way of knowing what we 4400s can do. I’m not sure how I know it or why I know it, but I do, so that lets me help people like us. I like to think of myself as something of a matchmaker.” She shrugged. “That seems…romantic, I guess.” Reaching out, she rested her bare arm on Alfred’s desk, her palm upturned and open. “Here, let me show you what I mean. Give me your hand.”

  Alfred looked around to ensure they remained unobserved before resting his hand atop hers, closing his eyes as his fingertips brushed the soft skin of her palm. Almost instantly a jarring rush of vibrant color began filling his mind, and he gasped at the momentary mental hyper-stimulation, just as he always did when physical contact allowed him to peer into the thoughts of another person. His perception of passing time slipped away as he sorted through the blurred bursts of color and guided them to form coherent visual images.

  He saw flashes of Abigail’s childhood in small-town Michigan, as though he was watching rou
ghly edited Super 8 home movies. Disjointed glimpses of people flashed in his mind, and he recognized them all: her parents, her twin brother, uncles and cousins and pets—all as clear to him as his own memories. Her whole family life—not merely factual information but also her true emotional reactions to those experiences—washed over him, and the more he saw the more Alfred hungered for it to continue.

  Just as he always had sated his need to absorb information with hours upon hours of reading, his newfound gift offered instantaneous assimilation of a person’s knowledge and experiences—and at a level of satisfaction far higher than anything he might learn through the printed page or even the Internet. Indeed, this need for mental connection with other people had become almost an addiction. Until Abigail, Alfred only had been able to slake this peculiar thirst in all-too-brief moments, such as a casual brush against someone in a restaurant or casino, or a handshake held an extra second or two. Abigail, however, offered her thoughts freely to him.

  Then the colors and imagery disappeared.

  Abigail pulled her palm from beneath his fingertips and he opened his eyes in surprise, only just realizing that his breathing was labored, as though he had just jogged up several flights of stairs. She was breathing heavier, too, he noticed, as she withdrew her hand and returned it to her lap.

  “I want to share myself with you, Alfred,” she said. “I really do, but now isn’t the time or place.” Rising from her seat, she offered him a knowing smile. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later.”

  “Later when?” Alfred asked, jerking to his feet and still feeling the weight of her thoughts and memories mixing with his own. Whatever she was doing, she was not acting alone. This much he knew from the jumble of thoughts that continued to dance within his own consciousness, but he needed more information. He needed to return to her mind.