Winston Chase and the Theta Factor

by Bodhi St John

  The shoelace being there was no accident.

  Winston heard the gun click behind him, near the shadows at the clearing’s edge.

  “Stop,” said the agent with crisp authority. “Toss that thing away, nice and slow, and get your face on the ground right now.”

  34

  Homeless and Heartbroken

  Awash in the stench and clamor of traffic, Bledsoe tried to maintain his calm and focus. He stood on the sidewalk at the western base of the Burnside Bridge, essentially dead center for downtown Portland. Behind him, a stairway topped with an arched sign reading SATURDAY MARKET OLD TOWN led down to the lower street level. To its right stood a brown, many-windowed building that propped up the city’s iconic Portland Oregon neon sign, showing a larger-than-life white stag leaping within a yellow outline of the state. To the left of the Old Town sign squatted a bland three-story with a gray brick facade and a neon sign jutting from the building’s corner announcing this as the Portland Rescue Mission. A line of homeless people, most of them in droopy sweats and oversized coats, extended from the doorway and along the front of the building. More vagrants milled about in the Old Town blocks below. A man sat cross-legged on a frayed blue tarp just a few feet to Bledsoe’s right. Beside his knee, a jar with a single dollar bill in it accompanied a cardboard sign that noted: LONELY VETERAN - ANYTHING WILL HELP.

  Bledsoe observed all of this only dimly as he gripped the artifact in his left hand. Most of his attention concentrated on another layer of reality filled with trees, underbrush, and a boy meandering about a forest clearing.

  A black Ford Crown Victoria pulled up along the curb before Bledsoe, hazard lights flashing. Lynch emerged from the driver’s side, still moving with strange fluidity despite his bulk, low sleep, and having his left arm in a sling. He walked around the vehicle and helped Amanda Chase — Bledsoe still preferred to think of her as Amanda Dabrowski — to her feet. Steel handcuffs bound her wrists, but Bledsoe had allowed her hands to stay in front. The three of them drew glances from many of the homeless, but soon they went back either to staring vacantly at the traffic or fixating on the rescue mission’s entrance, beyond which their free breakfast waited.

  “Morning,” said Bledsoe as Lynch guided her to him. “I thought you might appreciate finally having some fresh air.” He sniffed at the damp breeze and wrinkled his nose. “So to speak.”

  Amanda’s expression tried to maintain accusation and anger, but her wandering gaze indicated that she wanted to know why they had come to this specific place. “What do you want?”

  “Take a look around,” Bledsoe said. He wiggled a shoulder toward the beggar at his right. “Look at this poor sap. Seem familiar?” He pointed at the mission entrance. “When was the last time you saw lines like this?”

  Amanda surveyed Burnside, and Bledsoe could see her taking in the scene, although she refused to speak.

  “You know the answer. The Depression. We’re supposed to be in this booming economy now, right? God bless America! But cities across the country look just like this, riddled with block after block of tent villages filled with people who either can’t or won’t catch a break. They’re just left to rot. All that potential — wasted.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes. “Oh, good. You brought me here to hear about your new passion for social justice and economic reform. Please continue.”

  Bledsoe blinked at her, head cocked, then burst out laughing. “Actually, yes. In a way.” He grew serious. “We had these dole lines everywhere in the Depression, but then they went away. Do you remember why?”

  “The WPA.”

  “The Works Progress Administration and National Industrial Recovery Act of 1933. We didn’t bail out banks. We bailed out the people! We built bridges, dams, schools — whatever we needed to have a better future and get people working. Head two miles that way—” Blesoe beckoned down West Burnside. “—and you’ll hit the Burnside Tunnel, completed in 1940 thanks to the WPA. Portland International Airport? Same thing.”

  Amanda mustered a sigh to show her disdain.

  “Wait, wait,” said Bledsoe. “I worked hard to read up on this over breakfast. My favorite Portland WPA project was a spot you might know. Council Crest?”

  At those words, Amanda froze, and the haughty smugness drained from her face. Bledsoe had to consciously purse his lips to keep from smiling.

  “Started in 1938,” said Bledsoe. “Twenty-six WPA workers — people just like these unemployed folks — had to remove the amusement park that had been there for two decades. The new public park opened in 1941, and families have been meeting and playing there ever since. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  “Maybe we should rent a tour bus,” said Amanda.

  Bledsoe admired her ability to stay cool, even now that she knew he was building up to something she would dread.

  “All that work,” he continued. “No one starved. No tent cities crowding between city blocks. People worked and left a legacy.”

  Someone in a red Chevy Mustang pulled up behind Lynch’s sedan and honked, annoyed that a fraction of his lane was blocked. Lynch calmly strode to his rear bumper, arms crossed, and stared at the offended driver. The man considered his options, signaled, and quickly merged back into traffic.

  “So, in Devlin’s brave new dictatorship, we’ll have legions of formerly homeless worker drones?” Amanda asked.

  “You know, even insect drones have a sense of purpose. They would give their lives for the cause. Do you think any of these bums feels a purpose like that? America needs my vision.”

  “Oh, God,” Amanda said dismally.

  “And I want you to help me. I want us to do this together, side by side.”

  Bledsoe put a hand on her shoulder. Amanda cringed, but she didn’t pull away. She met his eyes with determination.

  “I already have a job,” she said. “I have a purpose. I have a son and a husband.”

  The way she emphasized that last word and tried to stab it into his heart like a stiletto made the last of Bledsoe’s levity vanish. His fingers clenched into the muscles of her shoulder as the fingertips of his thumb and index finger found bare skin above her T-shirt’s collar.

  “You haven’t had a husband in a very long time,” Bledsoe countered. “And the one you had, or what was left of him, is dead.”

  The muscles around Amanda’s mouth and eyes twitched as she tried to keep her emotions contained. She must have known this news would come, but hearing it still brought tears to her eyes. Bledsoe had lied to her boy about making her watch Claude’s death, exactly because he didn’t want to push her too far over the edge. Her hands clenched into fists, and Bledsoe wondered if she would try to strike him despite the handcuffs.

  “I can’t wait to see the payback you get,” she growled. “Winston is still out there, and he’s got a plan for you. Hopefully, it involves you burning in Hell.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he said. “But that payback part? Mmm, maybe not. Care to see?”

  Even with tears flowing down her cheeks, Amanda couldn’t refuse. She didn’t know what he had in mind, but she wasn’t about to turn away the prospect of seeing her boy.

  Bledsoe used the contact with her to share his vision of Winston in the forest. He had guessed that if Amanda could travel forward in time with Claude controlling the Alpha Machine, then she should be able to participate in his use of this one artifact. Her reddened eyes grew wider as her sight changed.

  Together, they saw Winston standing in a grassy clearing, his back to them, hands raised. In one, he held that tapered tube device and in the other what looked like a thick black string or shoelace.

  “What is this?” whispered Amanda.

  “The forest near the Tillamook Air Museum, where I left him last night and he was kind enough to give me this.”

  Bledsoe willed their view of Winston to pull back slightly, and an FBI agent came into view, gun drawn. He fired the gun, and though it was muted, Amanda still jumped under Bledsoe’s hand. The bo
y dropped the large device on the ground. His shoulders slumped. He was done.

  Bledsoe released Amanda’s shoulder and slid the artifact back into his pocket with a satisfied smirk. Honestly, he could not have timed this any better.

  “It’s like magic,” said Bledsoe, with some of his former cheer returning. “I just wish to see Winston, and the piece takes me right to him. Or maybe it’s to the other artifacts he has. Doesn’t matter. I can see where he is and whatever he’s doing whenever I want. I mean, I can see anything, but you know. Who needs to see inside the halls of power when I can watch your boy being captured?”

  Amanda tried to hold herself together, but it was too much terrible news arriving too quickly. She gasped as a sob escaped her, and her body began to hunch forward as tears fell with new insistence.

  Bledsoe looked down on her and smiled. “Wait, it’s not all bad. I still know something that you don’t know. Not even Winston knows, I think, although that gets a little tricky.”

  Amanda sniffled and forced herself to stand straight. “What?”

  “My good man Agent Lynch here got a call from a mystery girl this morning. I think your boy isn’t quite finished. Yet.”

  Bledsoe watched as the sobs tried to take control of her, but she battled against them heroically. Yes. That was exactly the kind of woman he needed in the coming world, only without all the years of misdirection and disdain. That could be fixed.

  “Why?” she managed.

  “Because this girl, whoever she is, wants us to meet with Winston tonight at Council Crest Park. Ten o’clock sharp. So, it’s a win-win. If the FBI brings him in, I win. If he escapes and meets us, I win, because I already know he’ll crack like an egg if I threaten you. He already proved this with his dad.” Taking her arm, Bledsoe led her back to the Crown Victoria. “Oh, Amanda. This is going to be such a great day!”

  35

  A Shoelace…Shocking!

  Winston’s heart paused in his chest as a spike of fear ran throughout is body.

  What should he do? Hope the man was slow and try to fire on him? Bad odds.

  Do as he said? Then it would be game over, and the Alpha Machine would be as good as in Bledsoe’s hands. Winston liked those odds even less.

  He dropped Little e at his feet, where it would still be accessible within a second, but he raised his empty hands to show that he posed no threat.

  “I’m going to turn around slowly, OK?” he called.

  “I said face on ground!”

  Hardly daring to breathe, Winston inched his way around to face the agent. The FBI man’s gun fired, and the report struck Winston’s ears like a physical blow. He shuddered on legs that no longer wanted to support him.

  A second later, though, Winston realized that he hadn’t been hit. He could see the agent from the corner of his eye, handgun pointed skyward. It had been a warning shot.

  The agent was a bit older than Winston expected, with a broad bald strip down his scalp and gray mixed into his day-old stubble. His slacks were smeared with dirt, and mud clumped around the soles of his black loafers. Clearly, he’d been out searching all night. Despite that, he seemed reasonably sharp and fresh, which wasn’t encouraging.

  “I’m not gonna do anything!” Winston cried. “I just want to talk. Is that cool?”

  “No, it’s not. You can tell it to—”

  “Look, you’re out here chasing us because of this Devlin Bledsoe guy, right? But have you looked in that hangar down there? He killed my dad. He cut off the top of his head, tested him like a rat, blew off—”

  The agent fired again, and this time Winston saw a puff of dirt erupt from the ground ten feet to his right.

  “The next one will be in your leg,” said the agent. “Maybe. It’s been a very long day.”

  “Sir, I’m not a threat to anybody!” Winston tried again, hoping the right words would come to mind. They didn’t.

  The agent gave a short, bitter laugh. “Like I care.”

  Winston heard a crackle of electricity, and the man’s body suddenly went rigid. He stood there, trembling, eyes wide and mouth open, and then slowly slumped sideways like a falling tree. In his place, Shade crouched after having crept silently up through the shadows behind the agent. He gripped the little black-and-yellow film camera in his hand.

  Holding it toward the agent’s face, which now lay cheek-down in the dirt, Shade put on his most bemused expression and said innocently, “I care.”

  Winston gaped at him.

  Shade grinned as he planted a knee between the agent’s shoulder blades. “Which movie?”

  That brought Winston back to himself, even though his hands still quivered. “Empire Strikes Back. Of course. What is that thing?”

  “Homemade stun gun.” He showed Winston the metal screw protruding from the camera’s side as well as the nail he held in the other, which had a shaft coated in thick blue rubber and a tip glued to a thin wire that retracted back into the camera body. With the shock over and his muscular control returned, the agent tried to get his hands under himself and rise, so Shade placed the camera body on the agent’s neck and the nail’s bare metal head against exposed skin just above the agent’s belt where the shirt had come untucked. He depressed the shutter button and sent the man into a fresh set of spasms. Shade winked at Winston. “Only six million volts, but with twenty-five milliamps, it does the job. Now, let’s get this guy out of the way.”

  Shade released the shutter but kept the electrodes on the agent’s skin as he directed Winston to open his backpack. Winston soon emerged with two zip ties and a small roll of duct tape. He quickly bound the agent’s hands behind his back and cuffed his ankles while Shade kept him immobilized. The agent tried to speak, but Shade cut him off with a curt, “Like I care.”

  When Shade was convinced that the man wasn’t going anywhere, he returned to his bag but soon grimaced.

  “Oooh. I’m really sorry, FBI guy.”

  “What?” asked Winston.

  “I’m out of clean socks,” he said as he held up a specimen colored more in grime than white. “It’ll have to do.”

  The agent’s eyes bulged and he began to thrash and object, but Shade held him still and stuffed at least half of the sock in the man’s mouth. Still, he was courteous enough to lead with the neck end. Winston held the agent’s head as Shade wrapped duct tape across his mouth and behind his neck three times, careful to leave his nose open. The agent was not shy about making his displeasure clear.

  Together, the boys dragged the man off into the trees.

  “Here,” said Shade as he directed them to a particular pine tree surrounded by waist-high shrubs thick with prickly leaves and small red berries. Winston fought against complaining as the bushes scratched at his exposed skin. They propped the seated agent up against the tree, and Shade kept him still with the threat of another shock while Winston bound his torso to the tree with a length of slender nylon rope from Shade’s pack. Winston only knew how to tie square knots, so he erred on the side of keeping the rope tight and doubling every knot.

  “What are you?” asked Winston. “An assassin with a Bag of Holding? How much stuff can you fit in there? Did you bring chairs and a card table?”

  “Efficient packing is a virtue.”

  “Hey, sorry to leave you hanging so long. I had to check out for a little bit. My dad…” Winston paused in his work as he swallowed thickly. “Bledsoe killed him. And I had to give him one of the pieces. The geoviewer. Although the pieces are being weird. It’s blocking me from more than it’s allowing now.”

  Shade’s countenance softened, and he seemed at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, man,” he managed.

  Winston added another couple of rope bonds around the agent and tree, just to keep his hands busy. “I mean, he was in bad shape, anyway. But Bledsoe…made it so much worse. He’s completely over the edge.”

  Shade nodded. “We’re gonna figure this out, and that guy is gonna go back to whatever dusty hole he calls home. Of cou
rse—” He tapped the agent’s chest with the camera. The man jerked in fear, but Shade had not pressed the shutter button. “It would be easier if certain people would just leave us alone.”

  “Speaking of.” Winston cleared his throat. “What did you do last night?”

  Shade smiled. “At first, I hid in a tree. One guy actually walked right under me, so I don’t want to hear any more from you about looking like a corn dog in these OSU sweats, ‘cause it came in handy against all those leaves. Around one o’clock, I came down and painted one side of a Mylar blanket in mud for camouflage and buried myself in leaves under a fallen tree. Slept like a baby for about four hours.”

  Winston shook his head. “And here I thought you might have been running around or captured.”

  “Pfff!” Shade waved the idea away like a mosquito. “No, and definitely no. I mean, there might have been a problem if they’d called in more people, especially anyone who knew what they were doing.” The agent snarled and grumbled into his gag. “But no, it was all cool.”

  Winston knelt before the man. He clearly had most of his bodily control back, and his sweaty, dark expression did not have a look of understanding sympathy.

  “Sir, I’m really sorry about this,” Winston said. “I’m not a terrorist, but the guy you’re working for is a maniac.” He stood up, and the agent’s glare followed him. “And I’m sorry about Shade’s sock.”

  “Really sorry,” Shade added. “Mom is gonna be so mad about losing one, but…whatever. OK, let’s go.”

  As the man tried to call out for help behind them, Winston and Shade tightened their pack straps and set off together into the forest.

  With underbrush tugging at their feet and stray pine and elm branches groping for their faces, Winston and Shade ran deeper into the woods. Winston couldn’t help but notice that Shade’s steps were sure and strong while his own threatened to betray him. Twice, his toe caught on roots, making him stumble and nearly face plant in the dirt, and he almost turned his ankle on a rock that he should have easily evaded.