Like Grownups Do

by Nathan Roden

  “It’s not safe this time of night, Mr. Athas. I would hate for something to happen to you after going to the trouble of returning my wallet,” Babe said. Gabriel and Mr. Pendleton had resumed their love fest.

  “He’s jacked up now. We used to walk every night before it got too cold.”

  Babe looked up and inspected the sky.

  “Looks like the rain is over. I’m going to take him for a little walk before we turn in. You’re welcome to come along if you like. You can crash here until the busses start running, or as long as you want,” Babe said.

  Gabriel stood.

  “Okay, Babe.”

  Babe raised his eyebrows.

  “So, it’s ‘Babe’ now?”

  Gabriel grinned and pressed his face to the bridge of Mr. Pendleton’s nose. He looked up at Babe and winked.

  “Well, Brother, it looks like I have been adopted.”

  Twenty-Five

  Russell Eckhart got into his car in the Bureau parking garage, started the engine and glanced into the rear view mirror. The black widow’s peak and black sunglasses of Dante Vlada stared back at him, nearly stopping his heart. Eckhart jumped and swore. Vlada threw his head back and bellowed a laugh that was void of humor.

  “That never gets old,” Vlada said.

  “Yeah. Funny. Ha-ha,” Eckhart said.

  Vlada reached toward Eckhart, a move that made Eckhart flinch, but Vlada merely patted him on the shoulder twice.

  “It seems that I underestimated your instincts, Russell. I am man enough to admit when I have made a mistake.”

  “What mistake?” Eckhart said.

  “Special Agent Englemann; he continues to overachieve despite his personal hardships. Unfortunately, this presents us with a threat that we…that I, did not foresee,” Vlada said.

  “What are you talking about?” Eckhart asked.

  “One of his analysts has alerted him to the presence of a back door program— not an active one, merely fragments of an access from some time ago. Your Mr. Englemann has established a team of three men who are monitoring the internal system as we speak. There is nothing else for them to find; however, I did not foresee this level of…attention. I now believe that a change is necessitated. I need for you to prepare to step into position,” Vlada said.

  “Are you talking about…you’re going to kill him?” Eckhart said.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Was this not the scenario you have dreamed of, Mr. Eckhart? And yet you act like a frightened child. If you are not capable of presenting the FBI with a worthy successor to the position of Special Agent in Charge, your services may soon hold little value for us.”

  ”That’s bullshit. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me,” Eckhart growled.

  “A dog can learn to obey commands, Mr. Eckhart. What we are in need of now, is a convincing actor; a skilled, politically savvy, self-serving bureaucrat—the role you were born to play, Russell. I sincerely hope that you are able to rise to the occasion. For you see, we will have but one opportunity.”

  Eckhart waited until he was sure Vlada was gone. He gripped his steering wheel; breathing deeply and fighting to maintain control of his body. He bolted from the car and almost made it to the corner of the parking garage before he threw up. He looked around to make certain he was still alone, and then returned to his car.

  Russell Eckhart was lost.

  He did not mourn the loss of Graham Stemple, but the man’s death had affected him more than he could have ever imagined.

  The fuel on which Russell Eckhart had run for most of his life was negative emotion: Bitterness, resentment, anger, inferiority, vengeance, and especially fear—were the forces that drove him from waking to sleep.

  Now, the sun of his solar system of misery, the personification of every ounce of the evil that controlled him, was dead.

  Russell was dizzy and terrified by this void, unable to recognize it for what it was. The loss of his hatred’s momentum left him flailing and unsure of everything.

  He found himself desperately trying to fall back into hatred toward his father but he hadn’t seen the man in decades, and his father was dying a hollow death in prison. He tried, but failed, to conjure a hatred for his mother. He could not get past the reality that she was as much a victim as he was.

  Russell Eckhart was faced with a freedom that he could not enjoy, a life of hate that he was now forced to lead without the energy that had created it. In league with Dante Vlada, his future held only madness and death.

  Russell leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

  He pictured the seven year old boy; fresh crew-cut, red and white striped polo shirt with the collar turned up. Brand-new Sears Roebuck jeans with the cuffs rolled up, on top of white canvas Keds high-tops—flying down the street on his bright red stingray bike with the banana seat and sissy bar; Not a care in the world and his whole life in front of him.

  Russell smiled for that boy until he choked on sobs for that boy—

  Because what he pictured was the last day of his life.

  Babe groped for the snooze button at eight thirty. He did the math in the mental morning fog. Have to be in by ten.

  That gives me two snoozes, if I skip—

  God, I’m sweating. Like a pig. Shut up, Millie. Shit. I need to check on her.

  Babe swung his feet to the floor and downed two aspirin before he even stood up. He had learned that much. He had also learned to keep cans of tomato juice in his refrigerator. Mr. Pendleton greeted him excitedly as he entered the sun room, jumping and twisting and making that cute-as-hell noise that wasn’t a bark or a growl but sounded like an attempt at speech.

  “Yes, I remember. You have a new boyfriend,” Babe said. “I guess he’s gone already.”

  Babe walked into the dining room where he found a note and a plate covered in a warm towel. The note read, ‘Thank you for the hospitality. I will see you next week’.

  The note was not hand written. It had come from a printer. Babe lifted the towel— Two eggs over easy, four slices of bacon, a slice of ham, hash browned potatoes, and buttered toast; all still warm.

  Babe dropped the towel and walked into the kitchen. There were no cooking smells and no pans or dishes in the sink. He checked the garbage can. There was nothing there that he did not recognize. He went back to the sun room where his PC was connected to the only printer in the house. The computer was not turned on. He looked in every room in the house and even the back yard.

  Babe finished the last bite of egg and the last bite of toast. He placed a slice of bacon on his napkin, picked up the plate and the note and walked into the kitchen. He put the plate into the sink and was about to put the note into the trash can when he noticed that there was more printing on the back side.

  ‘I hope you do not mind, Mr. Pendleton had four slices of bacon’.

  Babe dropped the paper into the trash and walked through the dining room. He picked up the slice of bacon and folded it into his mouth.

  Babe stood at the door of Millie’s apartment with a full grocery bag in his left arm. He tried to recall the coded knock that MG had come up with. With a fuzzy confidence, he knocked the series: two short knocks, pause, one knock, pause, one knock, pause, two quick knocks.

  How about that.

  Millie opened the door and quickly stepped behind it to let Babe through. Millie led him into the kitchen-slash-dining area where he put the bag on the table.

  “Good morning, Millie. You’re putting some weight on your foot. That’s good. How is the rest of you?” Babe asked.

  “I’m going to live, thank you. I don’t know what the hell is up with my face. Every time I look at it it’s a different color. Did anyone say anything about my not being there yesterday? I’m scared shit-less about that,” Millie said, as she leaned into a bar stool to take weight off of her foot.

  She sat down.

  “I wish you had told me. I would have bought a laxative,” Babe said, as he began emptying the paper b
ag.

  “What did I get? I’m starving,” Millie said.

  Babe looked into the bag.

  “Well, I brought a shovel full of my back yard. I don’t really know how to shop for the stuff you eat. I think those are squirrel turds. Can you eat squirrel turds?” Babe asked.

  Millie laughed and then winced as pain shot through her face.

  “Shit, I’m sorry, Millie. No more funny stuff. I promise,” Babe said.

  “You’ll do no such thing. If I can’t enjoy your humor, then I have no real reason to keep you on— unless you shave your legs and wear short skirts,” Millie said.

  “I have here, M’lady, grapefruit, granola cereal, bread for toast, organic butter. What can I prepare for you?” Babe asked.

  “What are those?” Millie asked.

  “Brown sugar cinnamon pop tarts,” Babe said.

  “Gimme,” Millie said, beckoning with both hands.

  Babe handed Millie the box. She tore open the box and extracted a pair.

  “Those were mine,” Babe said.

  “Awww,” Millie said with a pouty face.

  She held the pastries toward Babe, but as he reached for them she tilted her hand to reveal a single finger.

  “Milk?” Babe asked.

  “Mmmnnnpffft,” Millie said. She nodded, with a quarter of a pastry in each cheek.

  Babe poured a glass of milk and sat it down in front of Millie, who was swallowing pop tart number two. Babe sat down and looked around at the apartment. Millie watched him.

  When she had chewed enough to speak, she said, “It’s in the bedroom.”

  “What?” Babe asked.

  “My treadmill. Asshole.”

  “Busted,” Babe said.

  “I’m supposed to be in by ten, Millie. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can bring you?”

  “Nothing I can think of, Babe. You’re very sweet. Thank you.”

  “I’ll respect whatever you want to do, but would it be okay if I told Tom what happened? I don’t feel comfortable lying to him. It won’t change anything, I just may have to tie him up to keep him from…well, he gets…excited, you know.”

  “I don’t mind. I would feel terrible if I damaged your fragile male relationship,” Millie said.

  “You know our love is not like that. I mean, he’s so…hairy,” Babe said.

  “I missed, didn’t I?” Millie asked.

  “Missed what?” Babe asked

  “His balls,” Millie said.

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess you did. If you hadn’t he would still be on the floor. You can kill a guy like that.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” Millie said. “I’ve found one more thing to be disappointed about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where the fuck is Oprah? I’m going to be sitting here for days, so, naturally, I thought me and girlfriend would be hanging out, and she has just up and quit on me. I mean, really? What is up with that?”

  Babe reached out and carefully placed his hand on Millie’s left cheek.

  “I will contact the networks immediately, my darling. We shall see what can be done.”

  Millie patted Babe’s cheek, a little too hard, and in an exaggerated Scarlett O’Hara impersonation, said

  “I can't think about it right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.”

  “Call if you think of anything else, Millie.

  “Get well, we miss you.”

  “Thank you, Babe. You are a good friend.”

  “Good morning, MG.”

  “Good morning, Babe.”

  “I just came from seeing Millie,” Babe said.

  “I just got off of the phone with her. How does she look?” MG asked.

  “She’s healing quickly and putting some weight on her foot. And she’s still…” Babe smiled. “She’s still Millie on the inside.”

  “She’s a strong girl. I knew that as soon as I met her,” MG said.

  “No doubt,” Babe said.

  “Gabriel Athas rescheduled for ten next Tuesday, if that works for you,” MG said.

  “That will be fine. Can you believe it? I lost my wallet outside of Momma’s. Athas found it and brought it to my house at three o’clock this morning. He was walking. He even left me breakfast this morning. This is a very strange man,” Babe said.

  “You’re going to make Tom insane. Please warn me if you two are going to start clawing at each other’s eyes. I don’t want to be here,” MG said with a smile.

  “I should have known better,” Babe said, squeezing his eyes shut. “Millie did the same damn thing.”

  “Is there anything I need to take her?” MG asked.

  “I bet she would like to have a hot meal. And you didn’t hear this from me, okay? Pop Tarts.”

  “So, do you think there is a chance we get through some of this material today?” Babe asked Gabriel Athas.

  “I am under control. Fire away.”

  “The terms of the non-disclosure agreement that you have signed covers all content contained during sessions in the offices of Research Consultants, Incorporated, regardless of the applicant’s status of employment with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Said agreement includes the non-disclosure of the existence and/or implementation of forms, tests, or questioning which may occur during interview sessions. These terms carry the full weight of the Federal government of the United States. Are there any questions, Mr. Athas?”

  “No questions, Your Honor. Mums the word,” Gabriel said.

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Athas, I have been unable to obtain any information involving your military career except what you may volunteer. I’m sure you are aware that details of your military duty are very highly classified?” Babe asked.

  “I would certainly hope so,” Gabriel said.

  Babe stared at Gabriel as if trying to read something from his face.

  “I’ll not bore you with attempts at prying information regarding your military experience, but any such information that you volunteer may be referenced in reporting by this office to the FBI, is this understood?” Babe asked.

  “I know this is serious business, but are these disclaimers going to continue, ad infinitum?” Gabriel asked, looking around the room.

  “Mr. Athas—” Babe began.

  “Let’s just talk like two regular guys. I am not going to screw you over, okay? If you ask me something that I have a problem with, we can discuss it. I have nothing to hide, but there are some serious people at the Pentagon that will be very upset if I were to talk ‘out of school’, and you do not want to upset these people. Please continue, Mr. Babelton.”

  “Very well. You report to be fluent in multiple languages, none of which correspond with your school transcripts—” Babe stopped when he saw Gabriel shaking his head.

  “Very well. Why have you decided to end your military—?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “Were you good at dodge ball, Mr. Athas?” Babe asked.

  “That is funny, Mr. Babelton,” Gabriel said.

  “Well?” Babe asked.

  “Are you— is that a serious question?” Gabriel leaned over Babe’s desk, trying to read upside down. Babe jerked backward on the papers he was holding.

  “That is the only kind you will be asked in this office, Mr. Athas,” Babe said.

  “I was the best at dodge ball. Most boys never considered that there was a strategy, like so many things in life.

  “Thinking not required. Throw ball. Inflict pain. I studied the other team’s technique, offense and defense. It never occurred to most kids that their opponent might actually be using their brains, so they repeated the same techniques over and over. If I noticed anyone actually calculating strategy, I tried to recruit them,” Gabriel said.

  “What grade level was this?” Babe asked.

  “Second—maybe third. This was before the pacifists took over and dodge ball players became subject to life imprisonment or the death penalty, and school textbooks were altered to
reflect the fact that only the Hitler Youth had ever played dodge ball,” Gabriel said.

  “You had no online gaming presence that I could find, Gabriel; pretty unusual. What can you tell me about that?” Babe asked.

  Gabriel shook his head once and then stopped. His face became immediately serious.

  “I want to cooperate, Mr. Babelton, but I must be assured that confidentiality works both ways. I am not talking about illegal behavior—however, certain things may be considered controversial. I have a number of acquaintances that wish to remain anonymous. I am afraid this is not optional.”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Athas, that this office has the same desire for confidence. Anything you declare to be off the record will be treated as such. What I said earlier about details of your military career only pertains to voluntary disclosure related to classified activity. Just think of me as Father Babe.”

  Gabriel shifted in his seat.

  “I have a group of friends that work in the fields of software design, hardware design, and game development. This is a serious group of geeks; not one IQ below genius level—they eat, sleep, breathe, and defecate computers and games. And Mountain Dew. When you see a media blitz for a new game, usually before the holidays, you probably assume as the average citizen does—that everything that is released is the very latest technology. That is not exactly the case. Hardware, software, and games have become sophisticated enough to warrant the regulation of governments and even some militaries. So, what reaches the public is well short of what developers are capable of producing.”

  “God, Tom would be freaking out,” Babe said.

  “Your associate, Tom?” Gabriel asked.