Indigo Man

by M. J. Carlson

  He dropped it back inside his shirt. Taking a deep breath, then releasing it, his shoulders loosened. The ring on the chain around his neck suddenly weighed him down. “Laz is right,” he said, out loud. “It is time to move on. Next opportunity, the ring goes.” His thoughts turned once again to the Secret Service agent. He’d considered ways to ask her out all week, but every time he thought he had an opening, his own insecurity had pulled him up short. She was outside his quantum level and they both knew it. She only came back around because he’d tossed a grand’s worth of reagent down the drain. “Set your sights lower,” he said out loud. Laz’s reaction to his admission about the chemicals made him laugh again and he reconsidered Laz’s offer.

  “Auto-drive,” he said, to the car. Once again the thin green stripe across the dash lit.

  “Destination, please.” The car’s voice said through the speakers.

  It was time for a change. “Uncle Chuckle’s.”

  “Beach address?” the car asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Entering destination. Destination entered, calculating route. Route calculated.” The car rolled away from the curb, made a left turn, and accelerated away, headed toward Thirty-Eighth Avenue and another left, heading west, toward the Gulf.

  ***

  Sara Goode returned the way she’d come, the flat heels of her shoes clicking softly on the ancient, cracked concrete sidewalk. She crossed the street and walked quickly to where she’d left Murphy’s Caddy, parked away from the streetlights under the shadows of a large oak. As she crossed the street to where it waited, she slipped the car door keys she’d had made from her pocket. She slid it into the slot, climbed in, and fastened the old-style seatbelt.

  Sara leaned back in the seat, closed her eyes, and concentrated on her breathing. An image of Marshall, sitting at his gray desk in his laboratory formed in her mind’s eye. He grinned up at her with his silly, cock-eyed smile and hair that looked like he’d styled it by sticking his head in a blender. Her skin tingled. She shrugged the thought off, trying to focus. “He has to be somewhere.” She mentally flipped through his pitifully thin folder. Not at home, not at the lab. “Where else?”

  His file had been slim, almost scant. Unlike his friend, Dr. Thomas, Dr. Marshall rarely went out. There were a couple of places he stopped from time to time, but he was practically boring. When the team had checked the pair out before turning the sample over to them for examination, they’d all shared a laugh. Marshall’s skimpy file earned him the nickname ‘mad monk’ among them and a certain amount of respect from Sara.

  “Where would you go, where would you go, where would you go?” she asked herself like a mantra, mentally rummaging around in what she’d memorized of his file. It was no use, she thought. She couldn’t just drive around searching for him. Eventually Murphy would go home, and find his car wasn’t where he’d left it, and then the worms would be out of the can.

  She was about to give up when a parked car at the corner a block away caught her eye. She leaned forward in the seat and stared hard. A fierce grin tugged at her lips. “Finally.” She wanted to laugh. “A break.” She cracked the door, and stepped out of the Caddy. Before she took the second step, Zach Marshall’s little black car pulled away from the curb.

  “No,” she grumbled, as she jumped back in and slammed the Cadillac’s door. She grabbed the seatbelt and twisted the ignition key to start the engine. Her mouth dropped open as nothing happened. Up ahead, Zach Marshall’s car braked and turned the corner. Sara twisted the key again, but the Cadillac’s dash lights flickered and went out. She slapped her palms on the steering wheel in response. “God dammit!” She spat the words. She was not going to let anything happen to Dr. Marshall if she had to chase him on foot.

  A tiny red light on the dash blinked. She leaned in close to make out the lettering underneath. System Breaker Reset. When she pressed the button, the dash lights flickered back on. She settled into the seat and snapped the seatbelt as a black Secret Service SUV turned onto the street and parked less than a block from where she sat. Her blood chilled when she spotted two males dressed in black climbing from the SUV. The pair made their way toward the same vantage point where she’d peeked in at Marshall’s house.

  “Damn.” As she watched, Murphy and Newman strolled along the sidewalk like they hadn’t a care. She couldn’t move the Cadillac until they turned the corner. If she started after Marshall, they would see the car’s headlights. Murphy would undoubtedly recognize them as belonging to his personal vehicle. By the time the pair turned down the street next to Marshall’s, she’d formed a plan.

  She turned the key again. The engine caught. She dropped it into gear, pressed on the accelerator, and pulled the huge car away from the curb. At the first driveway, she turned the car around, maneuvered into a shadowed area at the corner, and positioned it where she could still see the SUV. It would take Murphy about two minutes to figure out they’d missed Marshall. She was betting he attached a tracking device somewhere on Marshall’s car, and how they left the scene would tell her what their intentions for him were.

  She didn’t have long to wait. After a few minutes, Murphy and Newman moved along the sidewalk at a rapid clip and jumped into the SUV. She was half a block behind and with a car between them as the SUV launched onto the street, leaving a fresh coat of rubber on the pavement. Murphy was tying up the loose ends. She set her jaw in determination, hoping a plan B would present itself as she hunched over the wheel and pressed the accelerator to keep the SUV in sight. “Fuck you, Murphy,” she said, through gritted teeth.

  CHAPTER 5

  Uncle Chuckle’s was definitely Laz’s kind of place, Zach thought, as he sat on a stool at the bar. Couples moved on the floor to the pounding music offered up by the band. Typical of beach bars, the entire rear wall was open to the deep indigo of the nighttime Gulf of Mexico. The breeze off the water ruffled hair and pushed enticingly at the lightweight, pastel beach sarongs wrapped around some of the women. Many of the others wore bold-colored spandex micro-dresses, either with this year’s fashionable mid-calf length boots or classic heels.

  Zach leaned on the bar and took in the spectacle. The males on the dance floor and on the prowl at tables or sharing the bar with him generally came in one of two versions. One type wore knee-length shorts and either vivid-bright tropical tee shirts or baseball shirts. The popularity of the baseball shirts was a mystery to Zach. The other, dressed much as he was, wore conservative dress shirts and carpenter jeans or dark slacks. The place crackled with sexual tension.

  Bracelets, chains, rings, and body piercings glittered in the colored dance floor lights. Out on the recycled plastic, faux-wood deck, couples and the occasional single man or woman moved in the shadows or stood at the railing, cooling off from their back-beat inspired dance floor exertions. As Zach inhaled the gentle salt-air, a smile flowed onto his lips. He’d worked at a place not much different than this while in college. He checked out the women and wondered if working so hard in school and since had been the right choice.

  In one corner, a group of college-age kids sat at a table, laughing and playing a drinking game Zach recognized with nostalgia from his own past. He watched from the bar for a few minutes, then scanned the room again, but there was no sign of Laz. When he checked his iLink, he had been in the bar for almost an hour and was growing bored by the festivities. He tilted his third cranberry juice back and finished it, letting one of the almost-melted ice cubes fall, slick and cold, onto his tongue. He checked his Link again and shrugged. “Something must’ve come up.”

  He turned to the bar in time to see the bartender, whose nametag read “Sunni” shaking a silver cocktail shaker. Her movement became enticingly kinetic, leaving Zach smiling in spite of himself. She noticed Zach noticing her, and a musical laugh floated to him as he worked at finding the bar’s scarred wooden surface suddenly interesting. A customer at the end of the bar leaned forward, talking to her.

  Sunni put the guy’s drink on the bar
in front of him. She flipped her long, black pony tail over her shoulder in what Zach recognized as a carefully choreographed move and smiled. She said something to the guy Zach couldn’t make out.

  He scowled in response.

  The corners of Sunni’s fluorescent blue lips curved up at the guy so skillfully Zach almost believed it was real. She added something that brought a glimmer of hope back to the guy’s face.

  He reached into a pocket of his shorts and laid a bill on the bar’s surface.

  Sunni pulled a pouty face as she slipped the bill into her cleavage before shaking her head in the negative. She smiled again as she turned to Zach and leaned toward him so they didn’t have to shout. “Can I get you anything else, sir?” She emphasized the question with a wink of one of her bright blue eyes.

  “No, thanks. I’m good.” He returned her smile, handed Sunni his credit card and waited, letting the ice melt in his mouth. When the she returned with his slip, he signed it, folded his copy and slipped it into his shirt pocket. There was a break in the music set, allowing Zach to hear the conversation a few feet away at the bar.

  Turning toward the guy who’d been trying to chat her up, she smiled. “I have to step into the back for a few minutes. Frank will take care of you till I get back.” She waved an index finger at Zach and bounced into the back room.

  The noise level kicked up a notch, and Zach started for the exit. He shook his head as he crossed to the men’s room, thinking he’d been spending too much time in the lab after all. After a quick pit stop, he made his way to the parking lot to hunt for his car. He stopped and checked the PCOD screen on his wrist once more, trying not to worry about Laz. There was a voicemail message from a number he didn’t recognize, but he waited to get out into the quiet of the parking lot to check it.

  The parking lot had filled while he was inside, but his larger, long-range hybrid was as easy to spot in the sea of brightly colored, single-seat, urban electric three-wheel models. Parked under a streetlight at the edge of the lot, it beckoned to him. Sliding into his seat, he took the slip from his pocket to drop it in the console, and noticed handwriting on it. He shook his head at the flowing scrawl that read, ‘Sunni’ with a link number. He laughed out loud and slipped the paper back into his shirt pocket with a shake of his head. “I have got to show this to Laz. If this isn’t an omen, I don’t know what is.”

  He checked the time. He still had half an hour to kill before he could go home. Laz deserved seven kinds of shit for standing him up. Dork. He plugged his iLink into the charging port as he considered rolling by Laz’s. The voicemail light on the dash blinked as the Mitsu’s on-board computer brought the car’s systems to life. A message waited for him. He slipped the link’s receiver into his ear.

  The car’s computer said, “Voicemail message received at nineteen-forty-three. Would you like to play or store?”

  Just my luck, he thought, for Laz to call and bail while I’m sitting in a noisy, crowded beach bar waiting for him. “Play message,” he said, a touch irritated.

  “Dr. Marshall.” He recognized the voice and his heart skipped. “This is Special Agent Goode.” The message continued, “Do not go home. I repeat, do not go home and do not go to Dr. Thomas’s house. Your life is in jeopardy. It is imperative I speak with you. You can tag me at this number. I repeat, it is a matter of life and death that you neither go home nor to Dr. Thomas’s house. Go nowhere you would normally go. Please tag me as soon as you get this message.”

  His mouth dropped open. “Tag last caller,” he said into the microphone. Hell, he thought, he was already at a place he never went. As the link searched for a connection, he said to the car, “Engine on, air-con on.”

  “Unable to connect,” the link said in his ear. “Do you wish to leave a voicemail?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Voicemail message. This is Zach Marshall, Special Agent Goode. I’m at a place called Uncle Chuckle’s on the beach. I was supposed to meet Dr. Thomas here, but he seems to have been detained. I’m going to the nearest convenience store and grab a Coke, and then for a short drive. The fire department has my street blocked off for some kind of emergency and I couldn’t get home right now if my life depended on it. Tag me when you get this. I’m curious what’s so important. Save message.” He repositioned the earpiece and said, “Disconnect.” Then, “Open link. Laz.”

  After a few rings, Laz’s voicemail picked up. “Hey, this is Laz. If you owe me money, leave a message. If I owe you money, Laz doesn’t live here any more. If you’re from from the lottery with a check, leave your name and number because I really, really want to talk to you.”

  At the beep, Zach spoke. “Hey, jerk. That has to be the lamest message I’ve ever heard. When you’re done abusing yourself to cheap porn vids, tag me. The fire department is having a block party on my street, and I can’t get home for a while. I thought I’d cash in one of those rain checks I’ve been collecting and we could get that drink.” He disconnected. “Auto-drive.”

  “Yes?” the car replied.

  “New destination. Nearest convenience store between present location and home.”

  “Calculating route. Route calculated.” The car backed from the parking space and rolled out of the lot. It accelerated and melded in with southbound traffic on the road running along the beach. At the first intersection leading to the mainland, the Mitsu flashed the turn signal and made a left. Several dozen cars, mostly electrics, paced Zach over the causeway. An equal or greater number sped by toward the beach.

  He was almost off the causeway when a large, black four-wheeled SUV passed him going in the opposite direction. It hung a quick U-turn in his rear-view screen and started in the same direction as Zach. It moved between cars in the light traffic, gradually gaining on him. The dinosaur truck snuggled in behind Zach’s car and hung there as he rolled through town. The brightness of the headlights made him squint, even in the brightness-corrected screen.

  “Auto-drive.” Zach raised a hand over the screen.

  “Yes?” the car responded.

  “Correct rear-view tinting for headlights.” He wondered who the ass behind him was.

  “Setting is at full correction.”

  The lights were still blinding. Squinting, he made out the trouble. The guy had his high beams on. That, and the height of the thing put the headlights right in the car’s rear camera sight line.

  “Jesus,” he said out loud. “He have airplane landing lights on that thing?” then, “Auto-drive, pull into the empty lane.”

  “Convenience store ahead on the left. Do you wish to reset destination?”

  “No, pull in and park.”

  The car’s turn indicator flashed, and it wheeled smoothly into an empty space. The big black SUV continued on with the minimal traffic, the whining from its huge tires on the pavement rapidly receding. Zach grabbed his link and opened the door. He quickly stepped into the light from the front overhang of the store. When he reached the door, the Mitsu’s lights flashed once letting him know he’d reached fifteen feet. The car locked the doors and engaged the alarm.

  The street was deserted, except for the occasional car.

  He took his time in the store, checking the aisles. Finally, he grabbed a tube of Coke and headed to the counter. Out the front door again, he trotted across the parking lot to the sidewalk and checked the street. He half-expected to find the SUV lurking in the shadows like some huge, extinct predator. “Oh, no, not feeling paranoid, are you?” he said to himself and chuckled. “Whatever she wants, it’s not national security, and it isn’t you.” He turned and walked toward his car. The Mitsu responded to his approach by flashing the parking lights and unlocking the driver’s door.

  Inside the car, he twisted the Coke tube’s base, releasing the compressed carbon dioxide and beginning the cooling process. He placed the bottle in the cup holder and checked the received calls to make sure being in the store hadn’t interfered with reception. No new calls popped, so he retried Laz’s link. When his call went t
o voicemail again, he rolled his eyes. “Hey, if it takes you that long, you need some new vids. Where are you, buddy? I know you don’t have a date.” He tried Goode’s number again with similar results. “Still trying, Special Agent.” He disconnected the call and directed the car to head south. If nothing else, he’d drive around for half an hour and reassess the situation.

  Four or five blocks from the store, a truck sprung from a side street onto the avenue behind him. In the rear-view screen, it looked like the same SUV as before. A shiver ran down his back. It tucked in close behind him, its grill filling the little screen. There couldn’t be that many black, four-wheeled SUVs out tonight. His heart sped. “Auto-drive, change lanes and allow the vehicle behind me to pass.”

  “Acknowledged.” The car flashed the turn indicator, and shifted into the other lane. The SUV followed, neither gaining nor dropping back.

  His muscles tensed. “Auto-drive, move into the empty lane.” The car complied. The SUV shifted position as well. He thought of the uniformed officer from his street. “If you’re a cop, pull me over if you’re going to, but stop dogging me.”

  “Auto-drive, change lanes and slow to twenty-five miles per hour.” The car complied. The vehicle stayed behind him. His breathing quickened, along with his pulse. As he watched, the truck inched closer. “Auto-drive, speed up to five miles an hour over the—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, the SUV closed the gap and nudged his car. Not hard enough to damage his car or alert the computer he’d been in an accident. If it had, the software would have automatically stopped the car and notified the police, but the SUV definitely shoved the Mitsu. These weren’t the cops. Zach’s pulse quickened. They might be car thieves. If he stopped because he’d been in a minor accident, he might well find himself in the middle of a car-jacking.

  “Auto-drive.” He grasped the steering wheel in both hands. “Manual operation. Link 911 emergency.” The green strip across the dash winked off as the wheel expanded and became responsive to his hands. The accelerator pedal moved to his foot’s prodding. The electric motors hummed, and the Mitsu jumped away from the SUV. It accelerated behind him.