The tall blonde man glances around at the darkened yard. “The gentleman said that you are to keep this package safe at whatever cost.”
“And can I open this package?” I ask.
The man shrugs. “I suppose. He didn’t say. But he stressed that whatever happens, you are not to lose it. Don’t set it aside. Don’t forget about it. No matter how much time passes you must keep it safe. He was very insistent about that.”
“Is this person still here?” I ask. “Can you point him out to me?”
The man gives an apologetic shake of his head. “I’m afraid not. He left as soon as he spoke to me. Very strange, right? Now, I really must be getting back to work.”
“Yeah, strange…” I glance up to see him walking away and call after his retreating figure. “What’s your name?”
He turns back to me and says, “Peter Windsor.”
A British name. And his accent sounds upper class. I wonder what he’s doing here on this side of the pond handing out beers to drunk politicians. I tear open the package, revealing something small and shiny. It’s a metal horse. A trinket, really. Like something you would buy at a tourist shop.
Standing, I turn the object over several times. I shake my head, putting the small metal trinket back into the package and tucking it into the inside pocket of my jacket. I fish out one of the two whiskey bottles I had pilfered from the limousine. Down the hatch. I finish it off and drop the bottle into a planter, fishing the next one out of my pocket. No man should be subjected to what I have been through tonight and still be expected to stand in front of a few hundred people while remaining sober. At least I had managed to stay mostly upright before delivering my talk. I plan to make quick work of that.
“You too?”
I turn, startled.
“Longdale?”
“Hey, Jim.”
Arthur Longdale steps from behind one of the several columns lining the voluminous back patio. Arthur was a friend from college, and twenty-five years ago he had lived through one of the most harrowing days of my life with me—of both of our lives. We had gone on an impromptu trip up to a friend’s lake house for the weekend when a nearby dam had burst. Three of our friends were lost that night, presumed drowned in the resulting flooding. Longdale strides over, holding aloft a bottle of Glenfiddich.
“Good find,” I say. “Did you smuggle that in here?”
“Swiped it from the bar,” Longdale says. “You?” He gestures at my mini-bottle of Johnnie Walker.
“The mayor sent over a car. I plundered the mini fridge.”
“How resourceful.”
“I hear you’re at Apple now?”
Longdale looks down, smiling as he nods like he’s trying to hide it. “We’re about to launch these blue home desktop monstrosities. They look like spaceships. Who knows if anyone will buy them. How about you? Still doing wars?”
“No.” I shake my head. “No more wars.”
Longdale lets out a small laugh. “I don’t blame you after, well, you know…”
We both drink at the same time.
“You remember Ellis Claymore?” Longdale asks.
It’s a rhetorical question. Ellis had been there on that night as well. “I was just thinking about him tonight. He drank a lot of Johnnie Walker when we were roommates.”
Longdale nods. “The one and only.” He waits a moment, then continues. “I heard about him recently.”
“Let me guess, he’s writing the next great American screenplay, or novel, or whatever.”
“Good guess, but no. Think… weirder.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
“He has a radio show.”
“A radio show?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It’s called Night Terrors: Investigations into the Weird and the Paranormal. “
I choke on my whiskey, spraying it all over Longdale’s shoes.
“Sorry—I just—what the hell?”
“I know, right?” Longdale is doubled over and we’re both choking now, coughing the remnants of our drinks all over Mayor Schueller’s marbled patio steps.
“How the hell did you hear about that?”
“I’m driving across country to San Francisco for this new job. It’s late at night and I’m on this empty stretch of nowhere in the middle of the Arizona desert. I turn on the radio, and I hear this voice I recognize talking about the most insane things. I’m thinking, what weird part of the world have I stumbled into? Then he signs off at a commercial break and it clicks. He goes by E. F. Claymore on the show, but I knew it was him. I nearly torpedoed my Highlander straight off the freeway and into a field of cacti.”
“Tell me you kept listening,” I say, as we both recover our bearings.
“What else is there to do at 2am in the middle of cactus land?”
“And?”
“Aliens, mole people, chem. trails, everything.”
“Chem. trails?” I shake my head, a grin plastered across my face. “Ellis Claymore.”
“Ellis Claymore,” Longdale echoes.
We clink our bottles. I look down, noticing the lack of liquid gold. “I’m out.”
Longdale nods sympathetically. “Have some of mine.”
I take the bottle and throw back a cringe-inducing slug. Maybe it’s the booze, or maybe it’s the commiseration over life’s strange missed turns, but I suddenly feel the need to open up to my old college friend. “I think my wife is going to leave me.”
His eyes go wide in empathetic shock. “Molly, right?”
“That’s right.”
“What was it? Is she screwing her psychiatrist?”
I shake my head. “No, nothing so dramatic.”
“Okaaaay, what then?”
“She has a go-bag.”
Longdale looks away thoughtfully. “Interesting.”
“I found it this evening. A duffel bag. A good-sized one, too. There’s everything you would need in it for at least two, maybe three weeks. There’s an envelope of cash. Over $1000, and a plane ticket for Chicago that was booked for this Saturday.”
“And you never…” He trails off, letting the thought dangle for me to find it.
“I’ve never touched her.”
“Because there’s a lot of reasons a woman might want to leave. But some are more common than others.”
I feel myself getting defensive. “Look, I might be an asshole, but I’m not that kind of asshole. For the life of me, I can’t come up with anything. other than…”
“Than what?” He asks.
“We’ve never really known each other. We got married, and I was traveling several months out of the year. We kept saying I would transfer, that things would be different. But it never was. Then, the kidnapping happened…”
“She’s younger than you, right?”
“Almost ten years.”
“How did you meet?”
“Around the neighborhood. She was young, exciting. I was a world traveler. I think she found it, I don’t know, sexy. But now I won’t leave the house and I'm thinking of trading it all in for writing a book. Ridiculous, I know.” I hand the bottle back to Longdale. “I’m sure she just finds me boring.”
“A book? What kind of book?”
I shrug. “I’ve always liked detective stories. You know, the kind with guns, dames, and all sorts of trouble.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Listen, whatever the reason, you’re lucky to find out early. Who knows, maybe there’s still time. She hasn’t gone anywhere yet.”
I nod halfheartedly. “Maybe…”
“Jim Gardner, where’ve you been all night? And my god! Is that Arthur Longdale I see you talking to? Who let that irresponsible cad in here?” Congressman Boyle strides toward Artie and me, followed by Molly, who’s teetering a little as she walks, a wine glass dangling from her hand. “Jim, your wife here is an inspiration. Where’ve you been hiding her all these years?”—I open my mouth to say
that I haven’t been hiding my wife at all, that Molly Gardner has been enjoying an accomplished career of her own as an editor at Renaissance Magazine, and that it’s a little bit difficult to go anywhere with my wife when I’ve spent the last six months locked up in a one-room apartment in Saudi Arabia, held hostage by Jaysh al-Saalihin, but he barrels on without giving me the chance—“And how the hell do you know Artie Longdale?”
“Good evening, Congressman,” Longdale replies, an amused smile on his mouth. “Jim Gardner and I go way back, long before he was a war correspondent with the New York Journal. We met in California ages ago. College, actually.”
“Is that so?” The Congressman asks.
“Honey,” Molly cuts in, slurring her words slightly. “Speaking of California! Remember that road trip we took into the mountains? It was the first time we met!”
“What road trip?” I ask, feeling thrown. Molly and I didn’t meet on a road trip in California. We met five years ago in Brooklyn. What the hell is she talking about?
“You’re going to love this story,” Molly says, turning back to the Congressman. “This is Jim like you’ve never seen him. But hold on, I need another drink first.” She finishes her wine glass and then chases after a server, calling for another drink.
Congressman Boyle moves immediately to someone more interesting than me. Across the lawn, I see Mayor Schueller approaching with a wide grin. I slip out of Congressman Boyle’s grip and turn to the mayor.
“I’ll be right back, gentleman,” I say.
“Jim,” Mayor Schueller says, picking a piece of food from his teeth. “I’m so pleased you agreed to this. I know it’s not easy to dredge up the past, after what you’ve been through, but it means a lot to Congressman Boyle, and to myself. We're all in this together, am I right?”
I had been adamant about turning down public appearances after my rescue, but Molly had finally convinced me when this offer came up to make an exception.
I put on a plastic smile. “Ya know, I admit I was a little unsure at first, but Molls has a way of getting me to see what’s really important.”
“Wives certainly have a knack for that, don’t they? And your wife seems quite the catch.” The mayor has a glint in his eye that I do not appreciate. I turn, looking for Longdale, but he is apparently the more interesting person that the congressman has found. Mayor Schueller leans in, putting a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Just so you know, I am fully aware that I owe you one. Now that you’ve done this favor for me, I would like to do one for you.”
“What kind of favor?” I ask.
Mayor Schueller leans in even closer. “Between you and me, the 2000 Presidential elections are going to be a wide-open race, and I’m putting my name in the hat. So what do you think? I’m going to need a speechwriter.”
“So, you want me for my writing?”
“You’re a damn good journalist.”
“It’s not just because of my recent rescue from being a prisoner of Jaysh al-Saalihin during a time when the Algerian Wars are a distant memory and both Democrats and Republicans are looking for reasons to increase military spending? Mr. Mayor, please. I’m not an idiot.”
Schueller laughs nervously. “See, that’s why I need a man like you. To keep me on my toes.”
I shoot him back a deprecating smile. “I don’t think you’d appreciate it in the long run.”
“Come on, Jim.” He spreads his arms wide. “This is a chance to be a part of something big.”
I shake my head. “Al Gore may not have been a particularly beloved President, and people are sick and tired of hearing about global warming for the last eight years, but the last time a Democratic President was succeeded by a member of their own party was James Buchanan. It’s a long shot, Mr. Mayor, and I’m not really a gambling man.”
Congressman Boyle’s loud voice cuts again through my chatter. “—Jim, I had no idea you met your wife in college!”
I turn back to Congressman Boyle. What does he mean, we met in college? I want to correct him, but I can’t because Molly is barreling along with a story that, I realize, she’s been telling for the last minute.
“—one night we go on this spontaneous road trip to a cabin up in the mountain—me and Jim and a whole bunch of his friends—and we left at three in the morning for some god-awful reason, and James is nodding behind the wheel of the van—he drove a VW bus if you can believe that—and the rest of us have lit up, because, you know, it was the seventies, when suddenly there are sirens behind us going WEEEE OOOO! WEEEE OOOO! and everyone is screaming and James is losing control and shouting ‘What do I do? What do I do?’ so when the cop comes up to us I do the only thing I can think of and I start yelling, ‘a man! there’s a man running down the road, and he just tried to steal our car and he was wearing handcuffs!’ and, I swear to god this is true, and that cop went running down the road so fast we didn’t even have time to put out our joints!”
Congressman Boyle’s polite chuckle turns into a roaring laughter and soon the others have joined in.
“Helluva story!” The mayor says, grabbing a champagne bottle from a nearby server. “We have to hear more. But first, a toast to Congressman Boyle, our next New York Senator!”
As the mayor begins tugging on the cork, I stare at my wife, trying desperately to claw back to the present moment. What the hell is she saying? We met five years ago in the vegetable aisle of a grocery store in Brooklyn. I look for Longdale to back me up on this, but he’s moved on to a different conversation. I turn to Molly. “Honey, that’s not how we met.”
She smiles at me, but there’s a shift in her demeanor, like a crack in her armor. It’s there a moment and then gone. “Of course it is. What are you talking about?”
“Just one more moment,” The mayor says, still tugging on the cork, “And we”—tug—”will start”—tug—”sorry, I can’t seem to get this!”
I snatch the bottle out of the mayor’s hand. “Let me help you with that.”
One good yank and the cork comes loose, jettisons from the bottle, and strikes its target, Congressman Boyle, directly in the center of his forehead. The huge man stumbles backward, entangling himself with the attending caterer, who lets his tray of hors d'oeuvres go flying. There’s a scream and a splash and then Mayor Schueller is floating in the koi pond, his heels sticking up like two, desperate signposts.
The congressman quickly retreats, leaving me standing with the bottle in my hand and champagne dribbling down my shirt.
“Jim,” someone asks.
I turn to see Longdale staring at me with a concerned expression on his face.
“What?” I say.
Longdale steps close to me. “I remember that road trip as well as you, and that was fifteen years before you and Molly actually met. So why the hell would she say that she was there?”
“Ask her yourself,” I mutter, turning to look for my wife.
But she’s gone, and the mayor is struggling out of the water, his face livid, as he screams and splutters something about me never working in this damn town again.
Molly is already sitting inside the limousine when I climb in. I see her face, reflected in the passenger-seat window. She is leaning back, a hand on her forehead. I open my mouth to ask her a question and then shut it again. There is something blatantly ludicrous about asking what needs to be asked. Why were you making up stories about how we met? I push the question away.
“Do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere?” It’s out before I realize what I’ve said.
“Where?”
She’s confused. I can hear it in her voice.
“What about that restaurant we went to after our first date? That pizza place up by Yankee Stadium that we stumbled into after the game?”
“You think they’re open?”
“Oh, they’re open.” The driver says, glancing back at us. “I know exactly the place you’re talking about.”
“You want to go to the Bronx?” Molly asks. “Right now?”
&nb
sp; I lean forward. “How late do we have you for?”
The driver grins. “All night.”
I turn back to Molly. “Let’s do it. Let’s go.”
“Okay,” Molly’s face brightens. “Why not?”
There’s a whir and the divider rolls up.
The car begins to move. Molly looks at the window, and I glance at her, feeling a rush of conflicting emotions. Do I ask about the bag, do I bring up the fact that she lied about how we met, or do I put off both conversations for tomorrow, hoping for a pleasant end to this weird night?
“I know we didn’t meet in college,” she says, her voice quiet.
I swallow. “Where did you hear that story?”
“I’ve heard you say it before, and—”
“No, I’ve never—”
“You have,” she insists. “And, well…” She sighs. “Have you ever wanted a better story to tell?”
“About what?”
“About us.”
Her eyes become distant and sad, and I feel myself relax. This is the Molly I know. The Molly I fell in love with. And then I remember the duffel bag. I turn away, closing my eyes. Longdale’s voice breaks through: “There are lots of reasons a woman might want to leave.”
“I saw that bag in your closet.”
She blinks and looks away from me. “What bag?”
It’s old, just another relic from before we moved in together, just like everything in the box. Nothing to worry about. Let it go. But I need to know. “It was behind the box of all your things. The one you keep saying you need to go through but never do.”
We slow as we near 96th St. The flashing lights of construction vehicles highlight some pylons that narrow down this stretch of the FDR to one lane. The lights cast the inside of the car in odd shades of red and orange.
“Oh, that bag,” she says.
“You wanted to know why I’ve been acting weird. It’s because I’ve been thinking all night about the reasons someone might keep a bag packed with a week’s worth of clothes, an envelope of cash, and a one-way plane ticket, and Molls, none of them sound good.”
Incursion: Book Three of The Recursion Event Saga Page 2
