by Len Melvin
“Maybe that’s part of the attraction.”
“Maybe.”
Beaux went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. Several oranges lay on one of the shelves. She took one and tossed it across the room to Malouf. She took a long sip of water as she watched Malouf begin to peel the orange. “You know there’s more than one way to look at this.”
“How so?”
“Well, I could look at you as being really fucking hypocritical.”
“How?”
“Well, you telling me not to save my uncle who means everything to me because I might imperil the future while you go around saving people who you don’t even know and that could affect the future also.”
“Beaux…”
“Wait.” Beaux held up her hand. “Or I could look at it another way.”
“What way?”
“It could be that Mr. Well-Trained-Chrononaut who loves his job and his civilization in 2056 and didn’t lift a finger to save two presidents, used all his modern technology and risked his life and imperiled the whole thing to save me. I could look at it like he’s got too good a heart to turn away from someone in danger in the present even if it puts the future in jeopardy.”
Malouf didn’t reply.
“I could look at it like you cared more about me the other night than you cared about your job or what might happen in the future.”
Malouf was silent. “Maybe,” he finally muttered, his head bowed low.
“I think you might not be so good a chrononaut.”
Malouf raised up and smiled. “Maybe not. Actually, there is a condition that’s been observed among the chrononauts who have been doing it the longest.”
“What?”
“It’s called Chrononaut Fatigue.”
“Fatigue?”
“Yeah, the longer you document and do nothing, the harder it is. You begin to take chances. To do things and affect things and take sides. I think I might be at that point and if so and my bosses find out, I won’t be allowed to continue to time travel.”
Beaux strode across the room and stood in front of Malouf. She took his hand and looked up at him. “Do you think one act by me right now might imperil,” she stressed that one word, her voice tinged with sarcasm, “anyone in the future?”
He squinted his eyes in curiosity and leaned back against the counter. “Like what?”
She ran her hand through Malouf’s hair and kissed him on the forehead. With her other hand, she unbuttoned her shirt. She took it off and threw it on the floor. She removed her bra, tossed it on top of her shirt, then took Malouf’s hand and pushed him toward the bed. When the back of his knees touched the mattress, she forced him down and pinned him on the bed with her hands as she straddled him. Smiling, she reached down and put her hand between his legs. “Like this.”
“That’s probably okay.” Malouf took a deep breath, as the words caught in his throat. “I guess we could risk it.”
Beaux began to pull off his shorts. “I figured so.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Man, I forgot how hot it is down here.” Simon braided his hair and placed it over one shoulder.
“And you’re not even in a suit.” Yancy wiped sweat from his brow as rings formed beneath the armpits of his jacket. “And I’ve been in this goddamn humidity for a week now.”
“Advance work can suck sometime.”
“It’s nice when it’s the Hamptons, but this sucks.”
“So tell me the logistics.”
“See that building over there?” Yancy motioned to a large brick building that stood overlooking the open, green space at the college. “That’s Fondren Hall. The speech is going to be right in front of it. That’s the platform they’re all gonna be on.” He nodded to a structure where men with tool belts and hard hats swarmed like bees. “You do know who all is going to be here, don’t you?”
“Who?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“The whole goddamned government is going to be on that platform on Sunday.”
“What?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“I just go where the Boss goes. I didn’t know about anyone else. Who’s going to be up there?”
“Vice, Speaker of the House, maybe the Majority Leader and one of the Supremes. I can’t remember which one.”
“Christ, are you kidding? What are they thinking?”
“Ya’ got me.”
“What about that bell tower?” Simon squinted up at the steeple that rose over Fondren Hall.
“Inaccessible. There’s nothing up there. It’s just for show.”
“How do you know?”
“Visual. And we checked the plans. And the whole hall has been blocked off for a week with nobody coming or going.”
“What’s the security?”
“There’s going to be three fences, one to check weapons, an electric fence and then the main fence for entry with access at one spot. Just over there.” Yancy indicated the far end of the field.
“That’s not a lot of access.”
“We said the same thing, but they’re going to open early. They want a really big rally. Something to show that there’s still a lot of support for the Boss. And the Boss loves big rallies.”
“That he does. I think I’m going to walk around for a while. Kind of get a feel for the place.”
“Okay, if you have any questions let me know. And by the way,” Simon stopped and looked back over his shoulder at Yancy, “it’s an honor to meet the agent that saved the Boss’s life.”
Simon nodded. “Thanks. Is that coffee shop across the way where Mick’s having the security meeting?”
“Yeah and it’s actually pretty good.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there in an hour.”
◆◆◆
Whose idea was it to have an outdoor rally in Mississippi? Especially when everything is a lot hotter than it used to be. Simon stepped onto the green expanse where the rally was to be held. A faded yellow tint of faint symmetrical lines ran east and west, the tell-tell mark of, at one time, a football field, probably for a marching band to practice on. There were brick buildings, most of them two stories, that stood side by side facing a main road that ran along the south side of the field. They all seemed as if they had been designed and built by the a person who had favored efficiency and simplicity over creativity but at the end had decided to add a bell tower that had no purpose on the middle building. A bell tower without a bell. That’s telling, Simon thought.
He strolled casually around the perimeter of the field, as a caddy might upon visiting a golf course for the first time; noting mentally the yardages from one point to another, potential hazards and possible trouble spots. A six-foot wrought-iron fence ran the length of the field on the three sides that faced streets. An electric fence on the outside would help but Simon was uneasy. There’s a lot of open space and too many high-profile targets. Especially with all the shit that was going on.
He turned and headed to the coffee shop across the street but stopped when something caught his attention. Something that was not supposed to be where it was. In the shadow of a hundred-year old oak tree stood a young sapling, withered from the heat, a small black object lodged between two of its drooping branches. Simon approached the tree and then scanned the area. Agents gathered at the sidewalk in front of Fondren Hall but otherwise the campus was deserted. Normal policy would have been to have a total lockdown on the area for at least a week, but nothing was normal lately. He picked the object from the tree and turned it over in his hand, examining it closely. It was a tiny black cylinder with a glass cover at one end. He surveyed the area one more time, then stuck the cylinder in his pocket.
◆◆◆
“I want everyone of those goddamn workers going through security every time they come to work and when they come back from break. Every parked car within two square miles is to be towed. I want bomb-smelling dogs all over the yard. Every manhole cove
r gets pulled up every day. I want snipers sleeping on top of the surrounding buildings.” Mick stood at the head of two tables that had been pulled together at the back of the coffee shop. Simon stayed to the side, leaning against a wall, as the agents all leaned forward, their attention riveted on Mick. “Johnson, you got the airspace covered?”
“Yes sir. I’ve got some F-15s that are going to be controlling a ten-mile perimeter. There are going to be some Apaches close by and I’ve got two medevac helicopters with extra blood supplies on board. And there will drones and hovercraft patrolling the perimeter.”
“Good. Who has local police?”
“Me.” A thin agent with thick, black glasses held up his hand. “I’ve met with the Chief of Police and the Sheriff. Vagrants, petty thieves, all known troublemakers and homeless are being rounded up and will be jailed from now until the Boss leaves. Drug dealers, too,” he added.
“Good. The Boss hates to see any kind of shit on the streets. What about the National Guard?”
“I met with the Commander. All units have been mobilized. They’ll be out of sight but close. And they have backup helicopters close by in case.”
“Good work, Henry.” Mick turned his attention to another agent. “Burdette, what about the Class 3 assholes?”
A heavy-set man spoke from the end of the table. “Anybody who has ever made even a vague threat against the Boss is either in jail or will be.”
“Good.”
“How many perimeters are there going to be around the Boss?” Simon asked.
“Three.” Mick answered. The local police will be the first perimeter, regular Secret Service agents will be the second line and the President’s Main Protective Division will be the third.”
“Where is everyone staying?” Simon asked.
“On Air Force One. That saves having to background everyone in the hotels.” Mick straightened. “Any questions?”
“What about food?” one of the agents asked.
“Everyone’s eating on board the plane. That way we don’t need any testers. We are going to try get in and out of here quick. Anything else?” Mick waited, surveying the agents one last time. “Okay, let’s be vigilant. Everything you’ve done before, do it again. And be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. There’s going to be a lot of important people on that stage Saturday. Any questions?” Mick paused, and when no one replied, continued. “Okay, let’s go.”
Chairs scraped the floor as the agents pushed back from their tables, headed for the exit. “Burdette,” Mick called.
Burdette turned from the counter where he was waiting to pay for a bag of potato chips. “Yeah?”
Mick nodded toward some men sitting on the patio of the coffee shop, a large diagram spread out over their table. “Check those guys out. They look odd.”
“Okay.” Burdette paid for the chips and stepped outside to the table. Simon followed, curious about the group.
At the table sat four blandly dressed men, hair cut short, long-sleeved shirts tucked in neatly to khaki pants, no facial hair, all with perfect posture and none of them with any beverage or food in front of them. Another had long black hair parted in the middle, the hair on one side tucked behind his ear. He had a black t-shirt with the name of a band on the front, dark jeans, and an uneven growth of facial hair. He slouched, one arm back over the frame of his chair as he studied the diagram.
“Hey, how you guys doing?” Burdette stuffed some potato chips into his mouth after he asked the question. The four men that were dressed the same stared wordlessly back at him, then turned to the dark-headed man that Simon assumed must be their leader. Burdette pulled a badge from his pocket with his free hand and showed it to the group. “You guys interested in the campus over there? What you got there with the diagram?”
The black-haired man turned around in his chair and faced Burdette. “We’re press. We were talking about where to set up for the rally on Saturday.”
“You got credentials?” Burdette asked.
The dark-headed man stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a square, laminated badge that had a red cord attached to it. Burdette glanced at it and grunted. “Los Angeles, huh? You a liberal?”
“Just a journalist.”
“A liberal, then,” Burdette said. “I never heard of that news service before.”
“It’s an independent service.”
“Can I see that?” Simon spoke for the first time.
“Sure.”
Simon took the badge and examined it. “Your name is Malouf?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your last name?”
“It’s just Malouf.”
“You only have one name?”
“Yes.”
Simon stared at Malouf for a long moment and then reached for the diagram. “Can I see that?”
Malouf hesitated and then picked the diagram from the table. “Sure.” He handed it to Simon. “The ‘X’ marks on the diagrams are where we are hoping to film from.”
Simon studied the diagram, turned it over and then checked the front again. “Hmmm.”
“The rest of you guys got your credentials?” Burdette tossed the empty bag on the table and held out his hand. The four men handed over their badges. “They only got one name, too.” Burdette said to Simon. “I think it’s a trend lately.”
“You look really familiar to me.” Simon narrowed his eyes. “Have we met before?”
Malouf smiled. “I doubt it.”
“You ever been to the District?”
“No.”
“London? Vegas? Spain?”
“No. I’ve never been to those places.”
“I know your face from somewhere.”
Malouf shrugged. “Sorry.”
Simon studied Malouf’s face a few seconds longer. “Okay,” he said finally. He turned to Burdette. “These guys look alright. Let’s go. I need to talk to Mick about something I found.” Simon set the diagram back on the table. He checked the badge once more and handed it back to Malouf, then he and Burdette walked toward Fondren Hall. Before they crossed the street, Simon looked back at the group sitting at the table. Malouf sat completely still, staring at them.
Something’s wrong. Simon knew he had seen Malouf’s face before but couldn’t place where.
And that never happened to Simon.
Chapter Eighteen
“What was that about him thinking he had seen you before?” one of the androids asked as he rose and took the empty bag of potato chips to a garbage can that stood against the wall.
“I don’t know. That was strange.”
“Is there a way he might know you?” The android sat back down.
“Not a chance,” Malouf said. “Not unless he’s been to the future. Or the distant past.” Malouf motioned toward the Secret Service agents who were now talking to another man in front of Fondren Hall. “What are they doing?” Malouf turned to the android next to him. “Zoom in on them and tell me what you see. Put it on record.”
“Yes, Sir.” The android stood and focused on the three men.
“What’s happening?” Malouf asked.
“It looks like the man who thought he knew you is showing the new man a small black object.”
“What’s it look like?”
“Just a second.” The android squinted and moved forward a step. “It’s really small. It looks like a cylinder with a piece of glass on the end.”
“What could that be?” one of the other androids asked.
“I bet he found a miniature video camera.” Malouf said. “Probably one that McCown had set up.”
The android that had been filming sat back down. “This man makes me uneasy.”
Malouf gazed out at the men who were now looking back at them. “Me, too.”
◆◆◆
Christina threw her purse on the table. The bed was made and everything in place. A lone piece of luggage sat on the floor next to the bed, unopened. It didn’t look like he had even been there. He proba
bly had gone straight from the airplane to the rally venue while his bag was delivered to the room.
Simon hadn’t wanted her to come, said that he would be too busy, but she hadn’t seen him in two weeks and she had always wanted to see where he came from and to meet what little family he had.
She undid the bun of hair that was affixed on top of her head and ran a brush through the blonde strands that reached to the middle of her back. Her head close to the mirror, she dabbed at her cheeks with cotton swabs. She didn’t need make-up and never wore it but a little attention to the skin was sometimes needed.
When she finished, she went to the bed and sank down onto it. Now what? She checked the map on her phone. The restaurant owned by Simon’s sister was almost next door. He probably wouldn’t be around until late and she could hopefully meet the only relative he ever talked about.
She went to the window and opened the curtain. There was still light out but it was dark enough that the red electric sign attached to the restaurant was on. She pulled her gun from the luggage she had checked and inserted six bullets into the cartridges.
The restaurant was close and there may be some light left, but it was also still America.
◆◆◆
“Beaux?” Christina stuck out her hand. The tall girl stopped mid-stride. Blonde bangs, cropped high across her forehead in an uneven line, gave her a bright, open-faced look. Her hair was curly and disorganized, but somehow not unruly. Greenish eyes shone bright but perplexed, as if she was supposed to know Christina. A long, broad mouth curled upward without trying, just below a faint array of freckles that dusted each cheek. She had the long legs of a dancer, not overly muscular but sinewy and trim.
Beaux extended her hand. “Yes, Ma’am?”
“My boyfriend told me you were pretty, but he didn’t say you were beautiful.”
“Thank you.” The cheeks reddened so that the freckles were obscured. “Who is your boyfriend?”
“I think he’s maybe your favorite uncle.”
“Uncle Simon?”
