The Officially Unofficial Files of Dr. Gordon B. Gray

by Darcy Fray

  Harper greeted him curtly. “Hi, Dad, everything okay? I have like two minutes before I need to be in class,”

  “Yes, love, everything’s fine. I just wanted to give you a quick update on the pyramid. Apparently, the nanomush is a dead end.” Fletcher opened the fire exit door at the end of the hallway, ascended one flight of stairs and stepped out onto the roof of the building. A helipad sat before him, surrounded by the skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles.

  “Mesh, Dad. It’s nanomesh.”

  “Exactly, the nanomush,” Fletcher persisted, smiling into the phone. “However, they did find it’s made of a rare mineral called lonsdaleite.”

  “The hardest substance on Earth, but actually from outer space. Found at meteor sites,” Harper stated smugly.

  “My very own little Miss Encyclopedia Britannica.”

  “Why, thank you. The apple falls far from the tree. Anything else?”

  “That’s it. We sit tight for a bit.”

  A helicopter approached the rooftop. The sound was near deafening.

  “What is that?” Harper pulled her distorting phone away from her ear.

  “Helicopter...client...gotta go.” Fletcher’s voice broke up with the sonic distortion from the approaching chopper. He ended the call and placed the phone back in his pocket. As the helicopter touched down, he ran to the rear cabin, opened the door for a young impeccably dressed Middle Eastern man, and offered his arm as the man stepped down. With heads tucked, the new arrival and Fletcher jogged over to the rooftop door and disappeared through the stairwell.

  •••

  Gagarin, Russia - Clinic

  Gordon jolted awake in a pitch black room, blanketed in a cold sweat. He touched his throbbing cheek to find it had been bandaged. Where am I? He blindly set his feet down on the ground and gently pushed forward, feeling for a wall or a light switch. A loud metallic crashing sound rang out as he tripped over a bucket that sent him hurtling to the floor.

  “What the --?” Gordon slowly picked himself up and continued inching forward.

  Suddenly the door swung open, flooding the room with light. Gordon’s eyes took a moment to adjust, before focusing in on the slender silhouette at the door. Dr. Batkin.

  “You have good sleep?”

  “Where am I?”

  “Closet. You fall sleep. No wake up. I have patients to see, so move you to closet.” The doctor flicked on the lights, revealing stainless steel medical equipment, cleaning agents and a mop and bucket. It was indeed a closet.

  Gordon looked down at his watch. Two and a half hours had lapsed. He panicked, realizing he was no longer in possession of his father’s laptop.

  “You okay?” Dr. Batkin inquired, clearly puzzled by Gordon’s agitated expression.

  “My computer?” Gordon typed manically on the air with his fingers.

  “Ah, yes. Come.” Gordon followed Dr. Batkin back to his office, where his laptop sat undisturbed on the desk.

  “I leave. You come. You shower. My wife make soup. Clean clothes. Yes?”

  Gordon’s stomach growled loudly, answering on his behalf. He nodded in the affirmative.

  “You take these.” Dr. Batkin handed him two bottles of pills. “One pain, one antibiotics. You take now. Three times day.” He handed Gordon a glass of tap water. Gordon stared at the glass. 1) avoid drinking Russian tap water, and 2) avoid Russian hospitals at all cost. Gordon shrugged his shoulders, threw one pill from each container in his mouth and washed them back with the forbidden tap water.

  “Thank you. Do you have Wi-Fi? For the computer. Internet?” Gordon fired up the laptop and opened a browser window to show the doctor.

  “No computer home. Daughter teacher at school has. She take you after soup. Yes?”

  “Yes, thank you. Why are you helping me?”

  “Help? I like American. You pay me, wife happy. Make life very good,” Dr. Batkin responded with a broad smile and a friendly pat on the back. “Come.”

  Gordon followed behind the doctor as he exited the clinic and approached his car in the parking lot. It was in even worse condition than Gordon’s Lada. Gordon smiled.

  “Dr. Batkin. May I buy your car? I will give you my car and more money?” Gordon pointed to his Lada at the back of the parking lot, as he reached in his wallet and pulled out ten thousand rubles.

  “Yes, yes. Your car now,” Dr. Batkin eagerly accepted. He and Gordon exchanged keys. “You follow me, yes?” Gordon nodded as he walked over to his new 1976 burnt orange Mosvitch 412, set his laptop down on the seat next to him and turned the key. The engine reluctantly sputtered to life. Gordon followed Dr. Batkin through the colorless town to his modest three-room home on the outskirts of Gagarin.

  Dr. Batkin’s wife met them at the door. She outweighed her husband by a good hundred pounds and looked like she would just as soon snap Gordon in two as feed him.

  “Thank you for your hospitality.” Gordon extended his hand to Mrs. Batkin, who instead, welcomed him with a cold stare. He lowered his arm and offered her a wide berth as he entered the Batkin’s home. The homey smell of cooked cabbage enveloped him, warming his insides and stirring his dormant taste buds. It was not an unwelcome feeling.

  “She not speak English. We can call her ‘old hag!’” Dr. Batkin’s laugh was so infectious, Gordon couldn’t help but join in.

  Mrs. Batkin may not have understood English, but she certainly understood her husband. She picked up a frying pan and slammed it down on the counter. Both men fell silent. She took the lid off of a large pot of cabbage soup simmering on the stove, picked up a bowl, dipped it in the pot and extended it to Gordon. Gordon approached her, humbly accepting the bowl.

  “Thank you.” Gordon bowed his head slightly, hoping to further demonstrate his appreciation. She scowled at him, before begrudgingly ladling a second bowl for her husband.

  “Come.” Gordon followed Dr. Batkin to the small dining table in the adjacent room, where they both took a seat.

  “I thought you said your wife was happy,” Gordon remarked with a frightened expression on his face.

  “You should see when mad!” Dr. Batkin looked toward the kitchen, just as his wife stuck her head around the corner to give him the evil eye. He quickly directed his gaze back to Gordon.

  Both men enjoyed the peppery soup accompanied by a few glasses of cheap vodka. Gordon’s cheek was tender, but the painkiller combined with the alcohol proved a highly effective analgesic.

  Dr. Batkin reached in his waistband, pulled out a spent .338 Lapua Magnum and laid it on the table.

  “Hunting?”

  Gordon regarded him quizzically.

  “From car floor. Hunting for cars?”

  Thankfully, the vodka had gone straight to Dr. Batkin’s head. He started laughing uncontrollably. Once again, Gordon couldn’t help but join in. Perhaps it was the painkillers or the vodka; either way, it was the most relaxed he had felt in the past week.

  “I was hoping to shoot a Ferrari, but all I got was a Lada!” Gordon exclaimed gleefully.

  “A Lada nothing!”

  Mrs. Batkin entered the room carrying the pot from the stove and slammed it down on the table next to the laughing men. She violently ladled the cabbage soup into Gordon’s empty bowl, spilling it over the sides, almost burning his hand.

  “Thank you,” Gordon remarked with a straight face as he gazed into her eyes. The scowl almost broke, but not quite. She turned away sharply and filled her husband’s bowl before heading back to the kitchen.

  “She like you. I can tell.”

  “I’m not going to lie. I’m a little afraid of her,” Gordon replied.

  “Me too. So, Mr. Jerry, the American hunter, where do you go next?”

  “I honestly don’t know yet. I’ve run into a few problems here in Russia and I’m waiting for friends to help me. That’s why I need the internet. For my computer.”

  “You sleep here tonight on couch. Tomorrow my daughter will take to school and computer wifi there. I insist.�
�

  The plush blanket resting at the foot of the comfy couch was all it took to convince Gordon.”Yes. I would appreciate that.”

  “Then we keep drinking. Good for pain.” Dr. Batkin pointed to Gordon’s cheek, before pouring two more shots. “Take clothes off and wife will wash.”

  Dr. Batkin called out to his wife in Russian. She left the kitchen and walked to the back of the house, returning with a rather large dressing gown. She handed the gown to Gordon.

  “You wear to sleep. Take off clothes. Shower. Bathroom. Not wet face.” Dr. Batkin pointed to a door in the hallway. Gordon obediently did as he was told.

  The bathroom was the size of a broom closet and featured a vintage squat toilet, sink and half shower.

  Gordon removed his clothing and lifted his nose in disgust. The pungent smell that had been trailing him was coming from his own body. He turned on the shower and stepped in, careful to keep his head out of the direct stream.

  The warm water felt heavenly against his weary body. Long showers had always been a guilty pleasure. Growing up, they had also been a daily source of conflict. The General never tired of lecturing him on the virtues of the under-two-minute “Navy shower” as opposed to Gordon’s fifteen-minute “Hollywood shower.” It was just one of many areas where they didn’t see eye to eye.

  Dad. The horrifying image of his murdered father laying alone in the snowy field, flashed before his eyes. With no identification, Gordon wondered what would happen to the body. A proper burial seemed unlikely. Gordon was not a religious man, but as he stood there in the shower, he prayed for his parents to be reunited somewhere, wherever that might be.

  Gordon washed his face gently, careful not to wet the bandage, and scrubbed the blood from his torso and limbs. He already felt better, though a bit woozy from the vodka and painkillers. He stepped out of the shower and examined his reflection in the small mirror over the sink. He barely recognized the person staring back, with dark circles under both eyes, preternatural crow’s feet and a massive white bandage covering an entire side of his face, he felt as if he was meeting his older self in some sort of cosmic time warp. Unsettling.

  He ran his fingers through his damp wavy dark locks, pushing them to one side before stepping into the ridiculously large sleeping gown. If only the women of Caltech could see me now. He laughed at the absolute bizarre universe he had stumbled into.

  He left the bathroom carrying his folded dirty clothes and handed them to Mrs. Batkin, who had apparently been standing guard outside the bathroom door. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Batkin looked him up and down and erupted in a deep thunderous roar. She brushed past him carrying his dirty laundry and disappeared into the bathroom.

  A blushing Gordon rejoined Dr. Batkin at the dining table.

  “I told you she like you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  New Day

  Gagarin, Russia - Batkin Residence

  THE CLANG OF pots and pans combined with the mouth-watering aroma of a traditional Russian breakfast roused Gordon. As he pushed himself upright on his makeshift bed, his uncooperative eyes refused to open beyond a mere squint. A blistering headache, a bad case of cotton-mouth and a throbbing cheek wound welcomed him to the day. He asked himself the eternal hangover question: Why?

  His cleaned and ironed clothing lay neatly folded on the coffee table in front of him. Mrs. Batkin had even managed to remove the blood stains from his blazer and shirt, without the aid of a washing machine. Gordon smiled to himself – perhaps she did like him after all.

  After dressing for the day, Gordon and Dr. Batkin enjoyed a breakfast of blini served with sour cream, and tea. It was delicious and just what he needed to fight the vodka-induced haze. They ate in silence...apparently, Gordon wasn’t the only one suffering from a hangover.

  After an awkward, prolonged goodbye hug from Mrs. Batkin, he and Dr. Batkin departed for his daughter’s school. As he made his way out to the vehicles, Gordon couldn’t help but notice that the rear window of his former Lada had already been repaired with a heavy clear sheet of plastic and some duct tape. Duct tape -- holds the universe together.

  Gordon followed behind Dr. Batkin in his newly acquired Mosvitch 412, and they made an uneventful drive to the Gagarin Elementary School.

  •••

  Gagarin, Russia - Elementary School

  The first grade classroom was cozy, with baby blue and white walls, worn brown vinyl flooring and two-student desks arranged in neat rows. Colorful educational posters adorned the walls, and Russian toys and children’s books filled a bookcase at the back of the room. A kind-faced woman of about twenty-five sat behind the large desk positioned at the front of the empty classroom.

  “Papa! Rad tebya videt.” The woman rose from her wooden chair to greet her father with a welcoming hug.

  “Meet my American friend, Mr. Jerry.” Dr. Batkin pulled away from his daughter’s embrace, placed his hand on Gordon’s back and gently nudged him forward.

  “Hello, Mr. Jerry. My name is Anna,” she said transitioning effortlessly to English, as she offered her hand to Gordon.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anna.”

  “It is also a pleasure to meet you,” Anna replied.

  “Mr. Jerry needs computer internet,” Dr. Batkin said, pointing to the laptop Gordon carried in his left hand.

  “I see. Please come with me.” Anna preceded the men down the narrow corridor leading to the small teacher’s lounge at the end of the hallway. As they entered the lounge, Anna pointed to a wireless router sitting on a window ledge on the far side of the room. “Wi-Fi. Please make yourself comfortable.”

  “Well, my friend Mr. Jerry, I must work. So goodbye.” Dr. Batkin left Gordon with a heartfelt hug and a robust back slap.

  “Thank you for everything, Dr. Batkin. I owe you one.”

  “Agggh,” Dr. Batkin waved his hand as if to say, “It’s nothing.” “You remember take medicine. Wear your Russian scar proudly!”

  Dr. Batkin and Anna exited the room together, conversing quietly in their native tongue.

  Gordon took a seat at a large communal table in the center of the room and powered up his father’s laptop. The battery charge was just below 75%. He had a few hours of usage left before he would need to find a power supply.

  The Blacknet network window was still open, just as his father had left it. Gordon read his last message:

  t<>

  f<>

  m<< nanomesh is a dead end. pyramid is made of lonsdaleite. two main sources: tunguska event in krasnoyarsk krai, russia and diablo canyon crater in arizona. seeking info on collectors.>>

  Gordon selected the school’s open Wi-Fi network and waited for the laptop to connect. A green cursor began to blink, drawing his attention. He examined the Blacknet syntax. Simple enough. He typed:

  t<>

  f<>

  m<<151 is dead. this is his son gordon. i am in trouble in russia. please advise.>>

  He glanced around the teacher’s lounge. Not so different from its U.S. counterparts...window, water cooler, table, cheap artwork, a few potted plants, microwave and a dry erase board. The electric blue walls seemed an odd choice, but after taking in the drab industrial view the sole window offered, he could understand the need to infuse a bit of color.

  The sound of Anna’s approaching footsteps broke the silence. Gordon turned toward the door.

  “Is everything okay?” Anna inquired from the doorway.

  “Yes, thank you. Perfect. I really appreciate all your family has done for me.”

  “You more than doubled my father’s yearly salary in one day. It’s a good way to make friends in Russia.” It was difficult for Gordon to read the tone of her voice and her stoic face revealed nothing. “I have some work to do before my students arrive. You know where my classroom is if you require any further assistance,” she said before departing.

  Gordon shook his head. Women...the great u
nsolved mystery.

  Gordon turned his attention back to the laptop where a message awaited him. His heart skipped a beat in anticipation.

  t<>

  f<>

  m<>

  Gordon placed his right thumb on what appeared to be a standard thumbprint reader and held it there. Moments later, the print reader slid open and Gordon felt a slight pinch on the underside of his thumb. He pulled his hand away from the pad and observed a blood drop forming on the tip of his thumb. He looked back to the screen and its green blinking cursor.

  t<>

  f<>

  m<>

  Gordon typed.

  t<>

  f<>

  m<>

  t<>

  f<>

  m<>

  Gordon shut down the laptop. The directive returned his focus. He walked down the hall to Anna’s classroom and gently knocked on the closed door.

  “Come in.”

  Gordon entered. Anna was sitting at her desk correcting homework. She barely acknowledged his presence.