The Return of the Incredible Exploding Man

by Dave Hutchinson

  Alex sighed. “Chief. Bud. I get it, I really do.”

  “I’m not sure you do,” said Bud. “What you write is going to be important, to a lot of people. Some of them maybe not so obvious.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  That made Bud smile, in an if-I-was-threatening-you-you-wouldn’t-have-to-ask sort of way. “I just want you to know that the stakes here are really high. Not just for Clayton and the scientists and what-all. For ordinary people too. You’ll finish up here and go back East, but we can’t do that.”

  “I think everyone’s overestimating how good I am,” Alex said. “And I haven’t even decided to do it yet.”

  The Chief sighed and walked back to the truck. “If you don’t, Clayton will get someone else,” he said. “He’s paying you a lot to do this, yeah?”

  “Yes.” There seemed no point in denying it.

  Bud opened the driver’s side door. “Might as well be you, then, right?”

  Back in the truck and heading for the hotel, he said, “We don’t care what the rest of the country thinks about us. I find some of those SNL sketches funny, myself. What we’re worried about is what Clayton thinks about us. The government can pull out, Defense can pull out, and we’d survive. If Clayton decides he’s had enough of the whole thing, this county might as well pack up and move to Minneapolis.”

  If Dru Winslow was telling the truth, they could certainly afford to do that. Alex sat looking out the passenger side window, thinking about it. “Okay, point taken,” he said. “But maybe in a couple of months you’ll be having this conversation with someone else.”

  Bud nodded. “Okay.” Bud pulled to a stop at the end of the track, looked both ways, then turned the truck back onto the road. “You might want to think twice about taking notice of Ralph’s opinions.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s had a bit of a chequered past, I guess. His judgement’s not quite right. A lot of folks round here tend to give him a wide berth.”

  “He seems harmless enough. What did he do?”

  Bud thought about it, then he said, “He was a big-shot writer, back in the day. Haven’t read his books, myself, but that’s what people say. He was teaching at some fancy college out East and he got caught having an affair with one of his students. Big scandal. It was all over the papers, I hear. Came out here to hide, is what people say. Doesn’t get out much.”

  “You don’t strike me as someone who pays much attention to gossip, Chief.”

  Bud shrugged.

  They drove a while longer in silence. Alex couldn’t get over how quiet it was here. He wondered what the population—the native population—of Rosewater County was these days, after foreclosures and rural flight.

  He said, “What was Ralph talking about? The guy you haven’t caught yet?”

  Bud scowled. “I told you not to pay any attention to what he says.”

  “Come on, Bud. I saw your face when he mentioned it.”

  Bud frowned. “Some folks have been reporting a prowler. He seems harmless at the moment, but sometimes these things escalate. I’d like to take him into custody before somebody gets hurt, and he’s proving… elusive.”

  Alex thought about that, thought about the knock on his door and the way everyone had over reacted to it. Was that really just a security thing? Or was something else going on? He said, “Is there much crime here?”

  “Most of what we get is domestic,” said Bud. “Big guy gets resentful about something, takes it out on his wife and family, that kind of thing. The usual stuff with high-schoolers—underage drinking, grass.” He shrugged. “We’ve got a lid on it.”

  Alex had known what the answer would be almost as soon as he asked. Sioux Crossing was virtually crime-free; none of the locals wanted to poison the well. No wonder they were worried about Stan closing down the project. Quite why they thought he could do anything to help was a mystery.

  As he got out of the truck at the hotel, something occurred to him. He took the sheet of paper Muñoz had given him and held it out. “This is for you.”

  Bud unfolded it and shook his head when he saw what it was. “Muñoz and his fucking customer satisfaction survey,” he muttered.

  “I thought it was your idea.”

  “No,” Bud said with a sigh, folding the survey again and slipping it into his breast pocket. “Between you and me, half the time I don’t even read them.”

  Alex raised an eyebrow.

  “Muñoz is a great cop,” said Bud, “but there are times when I’d swear he’d be happier working in Human Resources. Have a good evening, Alex. I’ll see you soon.”

  “I don’t doubt,” said Alex.

  He watched Bud drive away, then he turned and went into the hotel, waving to Grace as he went past.

  Back in the suite, he got a beer from the fridge and stood at the window. Clearly the whole of Rosewater County had been driven batshit crazy by the sudden eruption of Stan and his project into their lives, and if he still had the sense he’d been born with he’d get out of here tomorrow morning and never come back. On the other hand, there was something intriguing about the situation, and he was still enough of a journalist to respond to that. He sighed and slumped into the armchair.

  His phone rang. He looked at it, saw an unfamiliar number, thumbed the answer icon. “Hello?”

  “Oh, hullo,” said a diffident English accent. “Alex Dolan?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Kitson. I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?”

  “I’ve had a long day, Mr Kitson.”

  “Yes, I appreciate that, but it’s a rather tricky matter and we’d appreciate your help in sorting it out.”

  Alex sighed. “Yes, okay. How can I help?”

  “Could you meet me in the Telegraph Diner in about half an hour?”

  “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Alex closed his eyes. He was too tired to cook, and he didn’t think he could face one of the hotel’s family-size meals. At least he could have a bite to eat while he was at the Telegraph. “Yes, okay. I’ll see you there.”

  HE’D BARELY LEFT the hotel’s car park when a silver-grey Accord pulled up alongside him and slowed to keep pace with him. The driver wound down the passenger window and called, “Mr Dolan? Sam Kitson. We spoke on the phone.”

  Alex stopped. So did the Accord. He bent over slightly so he could see into the car. The driver was a young man wearing jeans and a chunky sweater against the cool evening air. “We did?”

  “Yes, just a few minutes ago. I’m just on my way to the diner. Can I give you a lift?”

  Alex was tired and mildly fuddled by the events of the previous few days. “Thanks.” He got into the car and Kitson drove off again.

  “Can I ask a huge favour?” Kitson asked.

  “I don’t see why not; everyone else does.”

  Kitson reached into the caddy in his door and came up with what looked like a small cloth bag. He held it out. “Would you mind putting your phones in here?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain in a moment.”

  The bag felt surprisingly stiff. When Alex opened it he saw that it was lined with what looked like copper mesh. He put his phones inside and zipped it up. “Okay,” he said. “Why did I just do that?”

  Instead of replying, Kitson took a laminated card from his pocket and passed it over, then he switched the overhead light on so Alex could read it. The card identified the bearer as Samuel J Kitson, a British consular official.

  “I thought you worked for Mickey Olive.”

  Kitson shook his head. “I’m attached to the British Consulate in Minneapolis.”

  Alex looked at him. “No you’re not.”

  “Ah, but I am, and most of the work I do is stultifyingly dull. But every now and again I get sent out on a little excursion.”

  Alex looked at the card again. “Any idiot could make one of these up in twenty minutes with a laptop and a lam
inator,” he said.

  “I’m not sure there’s any way to convince you in a hurry,” Kitson said. “I’m not going to show you my Licence To Kill or my Winston Churchill tattoo. You’ll just have to take my word for it for now. You can call the Consulate later. Ask for Colin and tell them it’s about a visa and they’ll put you through to me.” He looked apologetic, but not much. “Best I can do. Sorry.”

  Which sounded a lot like the little bit of business Stan had pulled with his attorney. Alex looked out of the windscreen. Main Street and the Telegraph sailed by. “We’re not stopping,” he said.

  “I just wanted a quiet little chat,” Kitson told him. “How long would it take you to walk from the hotel to the diner? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Twenty-five after dark when you’re making sure you don’t trip over something?”

  “About twenty-five.”

  “Good. I’ll drop you off there when we’re finished. Now then, we understand you’ve been offered a position here.”

  “I don’t think I should be talking to you,” Alex said.

  “We’re just having a friendly chat,” Kitson told him. “Two Brits together in a foreign land.”

  “You’ve kidnapped me.”

  Kitson snorted. “Don’t be silly. I’m giving you a lift into town. We’re just taking the scenic route. You can tell me to stop at any time and you can get out and walk back and you’ll never hear from me again. But I would strongly advise that you listen to what I have to say.”

  Alex sighed.

  “So. You’ve been offered a position here, yes?”

  “I haven’t even decided whether to take it yet.”

  “Oh?” Kitson looked surprised. “Whyever not?”

  Alex felt his spirits sag. “I’m tired of having this conversation. I just haven’t decided yet, okay?”

  “Well, we can’t have that.”

  “You can’t force me to do it if I don’t want to.”

  Kitson smiled. “This is really going to be something of a voyage of discovery for you, Mr Dolan. I understand they want you do do some kind of public relations thing?”

  “Stan Clayton wants me to write a book and a series of articles about the Collider.”

  Kitson nodded. “And in support of this work you will of course need to have access to the Collider itself and the scientists working on it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Mr Dolan, have you ever considered working for your country?”

  “For Scotland?”

  Kitson sighed. “I’d rather you weren’t tiresome, Mr Dolan. There isn’t time.”

  “You want me to spy for you.”

  “We’d like you to carry out your work for Mr Clayton but let us know if you come across anything… unusual.”

  “Unusual how?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “That’s… helpful.” Alex looked out of the windscreen again. “Pretty much everything anyone could ever want to know about the SCS is in public domain,” he said.

  “Well, not everything. The US Defense Department has quite a large stake in the project, and that part of it is classified.”

  “I’ve signed an NDA.”

  Kitson chuckled, as if to show what he thought about quaint concepts such as NDAs.

  Alex thought about it. “You might as well get it over with. What happens if I say no?”

  Kitson nodded approvingly, as if pleased that Alex had decided to play the game. “Well, there’s the question of your green card, isn’t there.”

  Alex looked across at him. “Is that all you’ve got? Really?”

  “You mustn’t underestimate how unpleasant deportation procedures can be,” Kitson told him. “Also, it’s not a good look when prospective employers run a records check on you.”

  Alex looked down at the bag in his lap.

  “Not that there’s a lot of work anyway, back home. Not for someone in your line, anyway,” Kitson went on. “And then, where would you go? You haven’t paid National Insurance for eleven years so claiming benefits would be tricky. You’d wind up living with your mum, and I doubt her pension would stretch very far trying to support both of you.” He paused, to let that sink in. “And that would be a shame, particularly when it’s all so easily avoided.”

  “What’s to stop me just going to the Americans and telling them you’ve approached me and threatened to get me deported? I haven’t signed the Official Secrets Act or anything.”

  “Ah, now,” Kitson said. “I’m afraid you have.”

  “No I haven’t.”

  “You really have.”

  Alex thought about it. “You can’t do that.”

  “No,” Kitson said sadly. “No, I daresay we can’t. You’d have a hard time trying to prove anything, though.” He glanced over at Alex and his expression softened. “I’m sorry about the thick-ear stuff, I really am. We wouldn’t normally play so rough, but we only heard about you yesterday and we’ve had to wing it, rather.”

  “Suppose I don’t find anything?” said Alex. “Suppose I genuinely come up empty-handed. What happens then?”

  Kitson smiled. “You won’t. There’s something there.”

  Alex thought some more. “How do I get in touch? Dead drops? Secret postboxes?”

  “Look in the glove compartment.”

  It took a few moments for him to work out how to operate the catch, but he finally got the glove compartment open. Inside, among wads of hire company documents and dusters, was a mobile phone. He took it out and looked at it.

  “There’s a number in the contact list under ‘Colin’,” said Kitson. “It’s encrypted and frequency-agile but try to use it where nobody’s likely to overhear you. It might be best if you didn’t use it indoors, at least not in Sioux Crossing.”

  “You think they have the whole place wired?”

  “A project this size? With Defense Department involvement? I’d be surprised if there wasn’t some kind of surveillance. The phone they gave you is probably bugged. Certainly it’s got a GPS tracker.”

  Alex held up the bag. “And I thought this place was weird enough already.”

  Kitson glanced at the clock on the dashboard. He pulled the car to a stop at a crossroads out in the middle of nowhere, looked both ways, then did a U-turn in the middle of the intersection and started driving back towards town. “So,” he said. “Are we in agreement?”

  Alex sucked his teeth. “I want it on record that I’m doing this under coercion.”

  Kitson beamed. “Bless you, Mr Dolan, you’re such an innocent. If I give you my word that such a note will be made, will that do?”

  Kitson’s word was, of course, essentially worthless. For all Alex knew, this was some bizarre scenario cooked up by Stan to test his loyalty. If so, it was a test he felt quite relaxed about failing. “I’ll call the Consulate.”

  “Please do; the number’s on the website. I’d wait till tomorrow evening, though; I’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of me now.” Kitson pulled the car to a stop just outside town. “I’ll drop you here. There’s a blind spot in the traffic cameras. Talk to you soon.” He didn’t offer to shake hands.

  Alex unzipped the bag, took out his phones, and put them in his pocket. He dropped the bag in the footwell and got out of the car. Kitson drove off without another word.

  It was busy in the Telegraph. Alex spotted Dru Winslow, and Danny Hofstadter wearing a business suits and sitting at the counter chatting to a couple of farmer-types, and after a few moments he recognised Officer Muñoz in civvies, sitting with a pretty young woman with long brown hair. He sat down in the only unoccupied booth, and had just ordered steak and potatoes and a green salad when something like an eclipse occurred and Bud Rosewater sat down opposite him.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hey,” Bud said amiably. He nodded hello to Muñoz. “You okay?”

  “I will be once I’ve had something to eat. I missed lunch.”

  Bud nodded. And then they sat looking at each other. Finally, Alex said, “Was there so
mething you wanted?”

  Bud put his hand in his trouser pocket, brought it out dangling a bunch of keys. Alex squinted at the tag.

  “I guess these are yours,” said Bud. “I found them in the truck after I dropped you off.”

  Alex took the bunch. They were, indeed, the keys to Number Twenty-Four. He patted his pockets. “I must have dropped them,” he said. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Bud grinned. “No problem.”

  “You could have just dropped them at the hotel, though,” Alex said. “Or I could have picked them up from the police station. You didn’t have to come chasing me around town.”

  Bud got to his feet. “It’s all part of the service. Have a good meal.”

  Alex thought of the mesh-lined bag, of how his phones must have seemed to disappear from the network when he zipped them up inside. “I’m sure I will.”

  His steak, when it arrived, was very good, but suddenly he didn’t have much of an appetite.

  THE CAR THEY sent the next morning was another of those brand new silver SUVs. Its driver was named Doug and he wore a suit and tie, and he introduced himself and got Alex settled in the back of the car and then didn’t say another word for the whole journey.

  Which was good in one way—Alex didn’t feel much like talking. On the other hand, he could have used the distraction. While he watched first Main Street and then the countryside going by beyond the smoked windows, he thought about Stan coming in and buying up and then rebuilding the town. He thought about all the people who owed their livelihoods to Stan and who would suffer if the Collider project was shut down. He tried not to think of Kitson’s phone—the 007 Phone—in his pocket. He tried not to think of Kitson at all. Grace had said that there was 7G all over the county, which presumably meant that its broadband and mobile contact with the outside world ran through cell towers and routers owned by Stan. The people of Rosewater County probably used their phones and their fast download speeds and didn’t have a second thought about them, but from a certain point of view—Alex’s this morning, for instance—it did look a bit like a deal with the Devil. He wondered just how much data wound up in Bud Rosewater’s hands, to help in his never-ending fight to keep the town crime-free.