by Lee Brainard
He remained by the break room door, pretending he was reading the material posted on the bulletin board. He hoped he didn’t look too conspicuous—did anyone actually read this stuff? He was not surprised when moments later Ariele shuffled to the office behind Sally. He kept his eyes glued to the board, steeling himself to not look up. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sally eyeing him as they passed. Interest? . . . likely not . . . suspicion? . . . hopefully not.
Woody knew that Ariele had breached operation policy when she had searched in the neighborhood of the Pleiades. But federal agents were a bit of an overkill if her only crime was merely looking in an unassigned sector. Her suspicions were probably correct . . . it really was a gigantic comet . . . the government knew . . . or feared . . . that it posed an existential threat to mankind . . . they were treating it as a matter of national security . . . trying to cover up its existence . . . trying to avoid nationwide panic.
An hour later Ariele returned to her cubicle, visibly shaken. She glanced feebly at Woody. He smiled back. Poor girl. He smelled trouble . . . knew he had to come up with a plan fast . . . and communicate the plan to her. But he couldn’t risk contacting her via cellphone, text message, or email. Nor could he just walk up and talk to her. People would overhear. He needed to use a discreet form of communication.
He decided to go get another cup of coffee. Maybe the walk and a little caffeine would stimulate some cerebral activity. As he turned up the hallway, he noticed Sterling at Sally’s office door talking to the two agents, then the three of them walked into her office and closed the door. Not good. Woody neither trusted nor liked the man. He was an arrogant heinie-smoocher who coveted Sally’s job. If he get’s her job . . . I’m officially in the job market . . . I’ll recycle aluminum cans before I’ll work for that preening opportunist.
His curiosity—or perhaps special ops instinct—got the best of him. He again pretended to be reading the bulletin board, feeling even more self-conscious than previously. I’ve read this stupid board more today than I have since I started. He heard Sterling’s booming voice through the door. “You can’t trust Ariele or Sally.” He winced. Though he couldn’t make out everything that was said, he overheard enough over the next five minutes to figure out that Sterling’s report on Ariele was as negative as Sally’s was positive. He portrayed Ariele as a serious threat who couldn’t be trusted . . . who was concealing her real beliefs for convenience sake . . . who was convinced that the comet interpretation was the only valid interpretation . . . who believed that the public should be told the truth about the comet. He also painted Sally as a weak leader who wanted to cover Ariele’s transgression instead of turning her in, and would have done so if he hadn’t forced her hand.
Woody groaned. This made a bad situation worse. He had to contact Ariele and warn her. Things were going to happen fast. Her case would likely be upgraded very shortly. They would start tailing her within the next hour or two. He felt awful. She doesn’t deserve this . . . she is such a sweetheart . . . wait a minute . . . Sweethearts . . . of course. He remembered that he had several bags of Valentine’s-Day hearts left in his desk drawer. A little overboard on the candy this year.
Back at his desk, he opened his stash drawer, counted out four styrofoam bowls—which he kept in his desk drawer for hot soup on cold winter days, grabbed the top bag of candy hearts, opened it, and poured out a pile into each of the bowls. Hopefully, this will work. He began pawing through the bowls, searching for words or syllables that he could use. As he found suitable hearts, he scratched off the words and letters he didn’t need. When he had found what he needed, he flipped the top layer in Ariele’s bowl so all the writing was facing down, then arranged his doctored hearts with letters up so they spelled out his message: “danger . . . meet me . . . ros-as . . . at-six . . . take-two-whee-ls . . . back-way . . . back-door . . . care-ful.” It only took him sixteen hearts. He had lucked out with the phrase meet me and ten whole words. He smiled with confidence. Ariele was a bright girl. She would understand the message, eat the evidence, and stir the bowl. Eat your heart out NSA. He stacked the other bowls on top of Ariele’s and sauntered off to distribute his treats to the girls in their cubicles.
Ariele quickly figured out the message. She knew Rosa’s well. It was a Mexican and Western restaurant conveniently located for Woody—near Caltech and on his usual route to and from work. He enjoyed the cooking, the waitresses, and the atmosphere. Several times a week he ate his breakfast and dinner there. On occasion Ariele joined him for dinner when she was in the mood for dining out.
Within seconds after she had figured out the message, all sixteen hearts were in her mouth—almost too much and too tart to chew and swallow. Not doing that again.
How she could respond, she wondered, without anyone knowing it was a response except Woody. Nothing came to mind—she drew a blank. While she was pretty savvy with math and science, she didn’t have his creativity. He could write poetry, paint, carve, and come up with ingenious solutions on the fly, even in difficult situations. A valentine-heart message . . . that’s so Woody . . . brilliant . . . original . . . and funny . . . wait a minute . . . funny . . . humor . . . of course! . . . that’s it!
She scrolled through her personal email, found the corny joke that her brother had forwarded to her a couple days earlier, claiming that there was a culture of prejudice against brunettes because no one told “dumb brunette jokes,” added “Yes!” to the comment line, and forwarded it to Woody and several other friends. She had a strong suspicion that he would both understand the communication and appreciate the joke.
44
Los Angeles
Tuesday afternoon, June 4, 2019
Ariele walked to her car with a heavy heart after work. After she climbed inside, she slumped on her steering wheel and tried to zen away the feeling of being crushed. It didn’t work. With a sigh, she started her VW and headed for home. As she pulled onto East California Boulevard, she noticed a black SUV in her rearview mirror. Am I being followed? After a few blocks it vanished. Must have been a false alarm. But a few blocks later the black vehicle, or another one just like it, reappeared not far behind her. Rats. Then it was gone again. Then it appeared again. Maybe I really am being tailed. This happened several times during her drive home. She hoped that the SUV appearances were a coincidence and that she was just being paranoid. But she wouldn’t bet on it.
When she entered her apartment, she tossed her purse on the table and headed straight for the kitchen. Time for some comfort food. She reached into the antique cookie jar on her counter for a handful of chocolate covered coffee beans, her favorite snack, placed them in a small bowl, and popped one in her mouth. Next, she made a fruit smoothie—blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, a banana, and yogurt for thickener. Then she poured al bowl of habanero salsa and a bowl of Red Hot Blues. Finally, she grabbed two Cajun chicken wings from the box she had purchased at Whole Foods.
She felt slightly guilty for eating a full meal now though she was meeting Woody at six at Rosa’s. Oh well . . . I’ll just have a piece of peanut butter pie and a cup of coffee. With her table spread, she sat down, picked up a chip, reached for the salsa . . . hesitated . . . and for the first time in years said her prayers . . . on this occasion HeEtz, HaAdama, and SheHakol. It felt awkward but comfortable, like returning home after a long absence. She had been running from her Jewishness for years. Lately, for some profound reason, she found herself drawn to it.
As she ate, she thought about her meeting with Woody. He was obviously nervous about the situation. Danger was the first word in his message. If Woody thinks that I’m in danger . . . that speaks volumes . . . that means my fears are not groundless . . . but if I’m in danger . . . what can I do? . . . how do I get out? . . . not gonna worry about it . . . Woody will know what to do . . . he’s been in many sticky situations over the years . . . he knows how to get out of a jam.
But if Woody got her out of her predicament, would he be able to extricate
himself? She was tormented with anguish for dragging him into this mess. This could spell the end of his career . . . not that he had much of one. It had fizzled out six years ago because of his unacceptable views.
Her mind wandered into contemplations on the courage and character of her gray-haired friend. She admired the independent-thinking maverick who stuck to his guns, no matter what the cost. He had paid a steep price for holding “obscurantist” views that challenged the “accepted” theories of modern physics. He had been demoted from his position as department head at the Cahill Center and marginalized—banned from the major telescopes, black-listed by the peer-review journals, shunned by the industry publishers. He now labored in grunt work, with occasional time on the Hooker, though he was fully qualified—apart from his publishing record—to head most astronomy departments in the country.
She didn’t think his “obscurantist” views were opposed to knowledge and scientific advance, much less dangerous. They actually sounded plausible . . . the universe is infinite and static (non-expanding) . . . all galactic motion is orbital and the galaxies orbit in radial equilibrium . . . redshift is not proof of an expanding universe . . . redshift is not a function of speed at a steady acceleration rate and therefore cannot be used to calculate distance . . . redshift is a composite of plain-vanilla factors including galactic composition, density of galactic and intergalactic plasma fields, and Doppler effect from orbital motion relative to Earth.
She wasn’t sure who was right, but his view did seem to explain how quasars that are connected to the same galaxy by filaments can have widely different redshifts.
Her favorite argument of his was his protest against the view that gravity is the preeminent force in the universe. He loved to point out that gravity is a comparatively weak force . . . that electromagnetic energy is a billion billion billion billion times stronger than gravity . . . that a fridge magnet can lift a washer off a table, overcoming the gravitational attraction of the entire planet . . . that electromagnetic energy is the force that holds the universe together and maintains its orbital relationships . . . that once you own the preeminence of electromagnetic energy, there is no need for theoretical contrivances like black holes, dark matter, and dark energy to find enough gravity to hold the universe together.
He had also offended some of the movers and shakers with his belief that the complexity of the universe pointed to intelligent design. The universe can no more self-exist or self-assemble than a Rolex watch. For him this was merely a matter of scientific and philosophic honesty—he wasn’t a practicing Christian. Enough with the wandering, girl . . . eat . . . gotta get ready . . . and go.
After she finished, she changed into an outfit that would be more comfortable for a bike ride to Rosa’s—a pair of coffee-brown gauchos, an eggshell peasant top with colorful embroidery, and brown trail shoes. She was almost ready to walk out her front door when she noticed, out her front window, a black SUV parked outside. The two men sitting in the front seat were dressed in suits and ties like the FBI agents that had talked to her earlier that day. That pretty much proves that I’m not being paranoid . . . I’ll bet Woody expected that this might happen . . . that’s probably why he told me to take the back route.
Her survival instincts kicked in. She felt the same rush of adrenalin that had energized her body on several occasions when she had been accosted by gangbangers in the park. On one of those instances, she had maced three mouthy punks and left them cursing and crying. The other two times she had simply outrun the scuzzballs who threatened to rape her.
She reached into her closet, grabbed her Counter Culture Coffee sweatshirt, and stuffed it in her daypack. Then she added two changes of socks and underclothes, a pair of jeans, two blouses, and her sandals. Hastily she moved to the bathroom, where she grabbed her personal hygiene kit and a package of baby wipes. From there she raced to the kitchen and added a dozen Clif Bars, four bottles of water, and her vitamin C tabs.
She was again visited with a wave of doubts. Maybe I’m over reacting. Maybe they’re just insurance salesmen or Mormon missionaries. She walked by the window and glanced out of the corner of her eye. The SUV was still there and so were the goons in ties. They weren’t getting out of the vehicle. They weren’t retrieving literature from large leather bags. The one in the passenger seat was working on a laptop. And the vehicle sported federal plates. Better finish packing.
She opened her desk drawer and grabbed her stash of cash, two gift cards, a write-anywhere pen, a waterproof notebook, a swiss knife, and a no-battery flashlight, and stuffed them in her purse. Then she placed her purse in her daypack, along with the emergency kit which her father had given her for Hanukkah two years ago. Almost as an afterthought, she added her kindle reader and a solar charger. Think that should do it. No, wait . . . my laptop. She fetched it and stuffed it into her pack. Glad I didn’t forget that. Not only was it a pricey unit, it contained her scanning software and all of her files on the comet. She suspected it would come in handy in the future, wherever that might take her. Not to mention, she definitely didn’t want to leave it lying around for the FBI to find. After one last mental checklist, she cinched up her pack and clasped the flap.
With the kind of shock you feel when you almost screw up in a big way, she remembered her phone. Thank you, GOD . . . that would not have been pretty. She opened her pack, retrieved the phone from her purse, plugged in the charging cable, and left it on the counter. That should buy me some time . . . the dudes tracking my phone will think that I’m still at home.
Rolling her eyes at herself, she closed up the pack again. Finally ready. She eyed her knapsack, which was bulging out the sides and stuffed to the brim. With a groan, she lifted the bulky bag and headed for her balcony. This is going to be miserable . . . never rode with a pack stuffed this full before . . . my shoulders are never going to forgive me.
45
Los Angeles . . . Pasadena, California
Tuesday evening, June 4, 2019
Ariele opened the sliding door to her balcony, slipped out, closed it behind her, and turned around to proceed with her getaway. Oohh! . . . she found herself in a quandary . . . forgot I was on the second floor. How was she going to lower her bike to the ground? Umm . . . parachute cord. She opened her pack, dug out her purse, and retrieved the hank she had been carrying for years—just in case. Solution in hand, she jammed the purse back into the pack and recinched her straps. Hastily she unraveled the cord, tied a round-turn and two half hitches onto her seat post—learned from a sixties-era Boy Scout Handbook she found at a flea market, added a few extra hitches because she found it hard to trust such a simple knot, and looped the cord around the railing for a brake.
Holding the brake end in her left hand, she lifted her bike over the rail and lowered it until the cord was taut. Then, using both hands, she payed out line until her bike touched the ground and flopped on its side. With a silent whoop, she removed the loop from the railing, tied the loose end of the cord to her pack, and lowered it to the ground. Her hands felt like they were on fire—yikes!—a quick inspection revealed several nasty rope burns. No time to worry about that now. She tossed the cord down, scrambled over the railing, hung momentarily from the top rail, kicked her legs out, pushed away with her hands, and dropped. She landed hard on her right ankle, crumpled to the ground, stood up with a wince—scratch the Hollywood stunt woman idea—and hastened to her stuff.
Feverishly, she untied the knots on her bike and pack, wadded up the cord, and shoved it in her pocket. Then she slung the pack onto her shoulders, hopped on her bike, and peddled hard, heading almost straight across the courtyard—away from the black SUV and out of its line of sight. She hadn’t had time to plan her route, so she had to improvise. Let’s see . . . zig zag through the streets and alleys of the business district and industrial park . . . hit the trails in Elysian Park . . . both would make it tough for anyone tailing me . . . then make my way to Stadium Way somewhere north of Dodger Stadium . . . from there take
Riverside under the interstate and make my way to Rosa’s . . . that ought to do it . . . game on.
She worked her way north and east out of the complex, weaved her way through the industrial neighborhood, got on North Main, crossed the canal and the Metro tracks into Taylor Junction, worked her way back north and west to Broadway, crossed the canal and the Metro tracks again, and then accessed Elysian Park off Park Row Drive.
Once she hit the trail system, she slowed considerably—her legs felt like jello and she was gasping heavily. She tried to convince herself not to worry about her slowed pace. Pretty sure I lost them by now if they were trying to follow me. She weaved her way northwest on the streets and paths looking for Stadium Way, getting more and more nervous that she had lost her way because her ride was taking longer than expected. When she finally came across Angels Point Road, she shouted Kowabunga! Now she knew where she was and how to get to Stadium Way.
Upon reaching Stadium Way, she followed it northwards to Riverside Drive, which took her under the interstate, then she headed southeast along the canal to North Figuroa Street. She stopped at the intersection for several minutes to catch her wind. When she started again, her pace was slowed even more by wobbly legs that begged to be relieved of duty. But she steeled herself—remembering a line from the Tanakh that she had heard a rabbi once say with great vigor, “This too shall pass.” Block by painful block she pedaled her way to York Boulevard, then San Pascual Avenue, then South Arroyo Boulevard, and finally to West California—the street Rosa’s was on. Now she was close.
