by Mazza, Ray
“Can you forgive me for messing her up?”
“Just don’t do it again. And I know you won’t. Listen…” she said, lightening up. “I’m sorry I yelled on the phone earlier. You did great. And you made a good choice to call me. Everyone makes mistakes… hell, I’ve made plenty. But Damon doesn’t understand that humans are fallible, and he’d probably chew your head off. My advice is not to tell him. And if I don’t tell him, my head is on the line, too. Because if he finds out that I was keeping this from him…”
“I won’t tell him.”
“Good,” said Hillary. She lowered her voice to an enchanting hush: “This will be our secret.”
Chapter 18
The Delivery
Lenny, a pudgy man in his mid thirties, rubbed his weary eyes with one hand and held the steering wheel of the dark Lincoln Navigator with the other. He let out a big, gaping yawn.
It was damn early. Lenny worked for a private courier service, and today was normally his day off. He could have still been in bed for another three hours… why did he answer the damned phone? The company requested he fill in for another runner that was out with the flu. Lenny had never been quick with excuses. Maybe if he’d been more awake he would have been able to come up with something clever, like he was trapped under the rubble of his apartment after it collapsed, and to please send over a large pepperoni pizza to help him survive.
His head also pulsed with dull pain from drinking about four too many lagers at the pub last night. Lenny sped down the highway, pleased, at least, to be driving such a sweet car. All the company vehicles got replaced every year; he’d take any of them over his own junker, which spewed so much filth from its muffler that it probably contributed more to global warming than all the industry in New York State.
He wasn’t sure what he was delivering today, all he knew was that it was “extremely urgent.” His pickup had been at a nearby airstrip where the package had arrived on a private jet. There was no name on the receiving end, only an address. Lenny was dismayed that the delivery was already paid for, which usually meant about half as much chance he’d get a tip. It didn’t matter how affluent his receiving clients were, nothing guaranteed a tip. As a matter of fact, he’d learned over the years that the richer someone was, the less likely they were to give him one.
One time he had to deliver a package to a famous NHL player – he was pretty sure it contained steroids, judging from the size of the guy – and the dude actually handed Lenny a wrapper from a Twinkie he was chewing the last of, as if Lenny would be thrilled to have such a breathtaking piece of sports memorabilia. He remembered the guy’s nonchalant words: “You can sell this on eBay.” Dick.
It was the only time Lenny had been tipped with trash, but to make up for it, he helped himself to a nice leak on Holier-Than-Thou’s potted orchids on the way out.
After a ten minute drive through a wildly affluent suburb where the houses reminded him of Beverly Hills, Lenny arrived at the indicated address. It wasn’t the biggest home on the block, but it was probably still worth ten times more than Lenny had either made or spent in his entire life.
A security guard at the front gate took a snapshot of Lenny and his driver’s license with a digital camera, frisked him, searched his trunk, then finally waved him on through. Christ. They have this place on lockdown, Lenny thought.
He hoped the recipient was home, because this was a hand-to-hand delivery, meaning Lenny would have to wait and hand it over in person. Funny thing was, without a name, he had no idea who to ask for, but was assuming it would be the head of the household.
Lenny grabbed the shoebox-sized parcel from the passenger seat and made his way between the pillars to the front doorstep. A young female housekeeper answered the door, and was irritated that Lenny wouldn’t hand over the package. After explaining to her, she huffed off up the grand staircase in search of her employer, while Lenny leaned in a bit and enjoyed the view of her curvy backside marching away in a short skirt.
In a few moments, the intended recipient strolled down the stairs, dressed casually, and approached Lenny. Lenny hadn’t expected… was this really who it looked like?
“I believe that is for me?” the man inquired. He smelled lightly of ambery cologne.
“Conway Couriers, at your service. This must be for you, sir.” Larry handed over the package. The man thanked him and shook his hand, and Lenny felt the wonderful sensation of crisp cotton-linen paper bills brushing the inside of his palm. He withdrew his hand, palming the cash, and politely deposited it in his pocket for later inspection.
On his way out the door, all Lenny could think to say was, “Good luck!” and immediately winced and cursed to himself under his breath, wishing he’d had something more intelligent to say.
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
When Lenny got back in the car, he fished the money out of his pocket. He uncurled his fingers. Sitting in the palm of his hand was a joyous pair of one-hundred dollar bills. A two-hundred dollar tip. And from him! As Lenny pulled out of the driveway, he considered saving one of the bills as a memento. The other bill, well… Benny Franklin would be buying him a few rounds tonight.
~
The recipient watched the pudgy courier scuttle away. He shut the front door, gripping the package enthusiastically, an excitement that was hard to contain, yet he kept his casual demeanor in an effort not let on to his staff that this delivery was out of the ordinary.
He made his way to his study upstairs where he locked his door and drew the curtains, then settled down in a sofa chair. He put his feet up on the edge of the coffee table and methodically removed the tape from the cardboard box and opened the flaps.
Inside was a sleek onyx lockbox with a note. He gently unfolded the note. It was on plain paper. It read:
As discussed, item is made exactly to Her specifications. Diagnostics confirm item is functional, although to what extent is unclear. I remind you that since this has never been used before, we are uncertain of the outcome. Attach the included disc to the underside of your watch so we can monitor your vitals, and do so before using item.
PS – You have only one chance to key in the combination. A false entry will destroy contents and render the lockbox inoperable as a necessary precaution.
He put the packing and the note aside, and sat with the lockbox in his lap, going over the code in his head. He knew it backward and forward, but the thought of accidentally annihilating the item was terrifying.
The man tilted the digital keypad toward himself, and punched in the numbers so they lit up on the display where they emitted a comforting blue light: 2-9-9-7-9-2-4-5-8. The one who gave him this code explained its significance – it had something to do with... space? Stars? The universe? He hadn’t really paid attention because he had spent all his energy committing the number to memory. Right now, the item in the box was the only thing on his mind.
He double-checked, then triple-checked the code. When he was satisfied, he pressed the Submit button. The digital readout now displayed “Dialing…” accompanied by some faint tones and static of various pitches, as if the thing had a built in modem. The display flashed to “Accepted,” then turned blank.
There was a slight hiss of compressed air escaping from the seams as the lid popped up an inch. He opened the heavy lid the rest of the way. Inside was a small, thimble-sized device nestled in a bed of silvery foam.
Next to it was the shiny, thin disc the note had mentioned, the size of a quarter. He quickly affixed it to the underside of his watch, its cold presence uncomfortable at first, though it quickly warmed to his body temperature.
Then, he gently lifted the item from its protective surrounds and set the box on the floor. He turned the item over in his hand and stared at it for a few moments. It was a shimmery-tan color, felt spongy, and miniature flaps of silicon-like material protruded from the surface. Scores of them, almost like fur. And it was nearly weightless.
It seemed so miniscule, yet so elegant. To anyo
ne else this might appear to be litter from the street, but he understood the effort that went into developing it.
A shiver of anticipation coursed through him. This item was going to help him change the world. He clasped it between two fingers, closed his eyes, and inserted it into his left ear. The tiny flaps rubbed against the edges of his ear canal, creating a tickling sensation. Then, as if it was meant to be a part of him, he couldn’t feel it anymore.
Slightly creeped out, he stuck his finger back in his ear and yanked it out with ease. He had worried the thing might have affixed itself to his ear permanently. It was a ridiculous notion; he should have known better than that.
He took a deep breath. Lifting it back to his ear, he whispered, “Salvation…” and reinserted it.
He experienced the same tickling followed by non-presence sensations. The man sat there and waited. He wasn’t sure what for, he just knew it would be obvious when it happened.
And then, it did happen.
His ear tingled briefly.
An impression of pins and needles grew, rippled through his extremities, then subsided. Then a delicate warmth washed over his brain. It was one of the most soothing feelings he’d had in his life. The man smiled.
Then, darkness, as he fell unconscious, collapsing into the sofa chair, his arms dangling awkwardly over the armrests.
Chapter 19
Taken
Trevor Leighton sat bolt upright in bed, his heart hammering in his chest. There had been a strange beep. Hadn’t there been? What would make a beep? Or was he having a confused nightmare? He checked his clock: 3:29 am. He’d been asleep for almost five hours. Slowly, he let his breath out. It was just part of a bad dream.
Sometimes horrible events played out in his sleep. He’d dream that his teeth were falling out or his family members were drowning or that he’d lost limbs. Then he’d wake up and feel such relief, realizing that it was only a nightmare. What had he been dreaming about just now? He couldn’t remember.
There was a chill across his temple. Trevor put his hand up to his forehead, feeling it damp with sweat. Looking around he noticed he’d left the bedroom window open, which now blew cold air over him. He dragged himself out of bed and slogged over to it, sliding it closed by leaning all his weight down on it rather than using his muscles. It squeaked snugly into its wooden base, which had been warped from water damage. He’d left it open further than he felt comfortable with at night. Sometimes on sweltering nights he’d get up and open the window like that without being fully conscious. This time he didn’t recall opening it.
He crawled back under the covers with a shiver.
Trevor had just been drifting off to sleep again when he heard a thock sound. Without so much as shifting his head, he opened his eyes and listened, careful not even to breathe for fear that the air moving through his mouth or nose might obscure his hearing. That sound had definitely been out of place. What the hell was it?
He imagined all the terrible things that could have made that sound. It could be someone putting a large knife down on the table briefly to pull on gloves. It could have been the sound of someone dropping a bullet round on the wooden floor. But those didn’t quite seem to match.
And then he placed it. He knew exactly what the sound was. It was the sound of the deadbolt on his door sliding open.
Shit! There was someone trying to get into his apartment. And then he heard a faint jingling sound. He wasn’t sure whether to run for his window, run to the door, or grab the phone or a weapon of some kind. He could use a lamp. No, you’ll get yourself killed. Could he make it to the door in time to jam it shut?
The jingling sound was his door chain. They were trying to undo it. Trevor knew there were ways of getting past door chains besides wrenching them off the frame. He had a latch on his door, too, near the very top. They must have opened it in order to get to the door chain.
Shit! Did he have time to run to the door before they finished opening the door chain? How long does bypassing a door chain take? He didn’t have time to think. Trevor leapt over the end of his bed and threw the covers on his floor in one quick motion. He turned right into the main room and ran three steps before his brain understood the dark blob-like shape by the door that his eyes could scarcely discern in the dim of the apartment.
It wasn’t somebody trying to get in, it was somebody trying to get out! The inky outline standing between him and his front door was a person. The figure had finished undoing the door chain when he looked over and saw Trevor. Momentary panic shone in his eyes through a dark mask obscuring the rest of his face.
Trevor stopped so quickly his feet pushed the rug forward, slipping from underneath him, and he fell backward onto the floor.
The figure turned back to the door and yanked it, but it wouldn’t open. He hadn’t noticed the latch near the top. He yanked the door as hard as he could, but it only gave slightly toward the bottom before snapping back.
The man glared at Trevor, who had rolled over and was trying to scramble on all fours back into the bedroom. The figure ran straight toward him. The man grabbed at a DVD shelf as he ran past, stepping on Trevor, and yanked it over behind him. A waterfall of movie cases rained onto Trevor before the shelf landed across his legs, pinning him to the ground.
Trevor watched the man grab the bedroom window and, with a loud grunt, throw it open so hard it shattered a pane of glass. He clambered through it onto the fire escape.
Trevor managed to slide out from under the shelf and get to the window in time to see the figure sprint down to the next block and turn the corner. In the streetlights he could see that the rest of the man’s outfit was a dark sweatshirt and blue jeans.
Tiny shards of glass glinted from the windowsill and floor like a scattering of stars. Trevor stepped away from them and looked at his hands as they trembled uncontrollably. His reaction had hardly been the one he often fantasized about: a scene laden with ninja heroics, bravado, and throwing-stars where he’d deftly leap from the shadowed rafters to disarm the invader, hog-tie him single handedly and then drop the intruder’s sorry ass off at the police station doorstep with a frilly bow on his head.
~
While Trevor waited for the police to arrive, he sat on his couch wide awake, wondering if he’d ever be able to sleep here again. That was the most frightening experience in his life.
Trevor got up and looked around the rest of his apartment. His wallet was still on top of his dresser. His keys were hanging on the hook where he’d left them. His computer was still sitting there. Everything of value seemed in place.
Then he heard another beep. It was the same as the one he’d woken up to. It had clearly come from his computer.
He turned on his monitor to find a message complaining, hardware improperly removed: USB mass storage device. He looked around. His sapphire-blue memory stick was gone.
The only thing they stole was the memory stick.
The only reason someone would take his memory stick and not grab something more expensive was if its contents were valuable. That meant the thief knew about the letter from Allison on his memory stick... but if he knew about the letter, he knew about Allison, so the letter wouldn’t be important, would it? And he hadn’t told anyone about the letter other than Damon. And the police. And Valerie Winters.
Now that he knew about Allison and the technology Day Eight had, conspiracy theories began unfolding in his head. Maybe Damon was trying to get rid of evidence… or plant it on Trevor’s computer, and redirect blame to him for the internet surge so the company wouldn’t have to take the fall? He could trust Damon, couldn’t he? Of course. After all, Damon had entrusted so much to Trevor.
Maybe the thief could have just used the memory stick to steal things off Trevor’s computer, like his personal bank account and credit card information... he had a whole list of passwords and accounts on his computer.
Eventually two cops came – thankfully not the same ones that had arrested him. They took a statement, dusted f
or prints, and left. The cops told him that he probably spooked the guy when he got out of bed to shut the window, and the guy made a run for it before getting a chance to grab anything of value. They said that memory sticks were commonly taken during lootings because they were so small and could fetch a few bucks on the street. Then they told him to be careful, because sometimes intruders would return to finish a job. Usually only the ones cracked-out on drugs though.
That didn’t make Trevor feel any better.
He sealed his window with a garbage bag and duct tape, locked it shut, then spent the next few hours watching TV until the sun started to rise. Then he showered, ate some waffles, and caught his ride to the Winters estate for the second day of his new job.
~
Trevor finished a Rueben sandwich, prepared masterfully by Fredo.
He looked at his phone. Damon hadn’t called yet or yelled or otherwise chewed him out about crashing Allison, so Trevor figured he was in the clear. As he was about to put his cell away, it rang in his hand. He answered.
“Mr. Leighton? This is Officer Fulton, from the station?”
“I remember, yes?” Trevor said, feeling uneasy to be conversing with an officer while out-of-state.
“Listen, I’m aware that there was a break-in at your place last night.”
“Yes, there was.”
“Right. Well, the trouble is that we went to file it and needed to pull your history here, but your other files have apparently been... misplaced.”
“Misplaced? Is that bad? What do I need to do?” asked Trevor.
“Well, it could be bad. Depends. A handful of files are missing from the ‘Ls’ section – not just yours. There’s a slim chance they may have been stolen. If so, we want you to be aware that it makes you a candidate for identity theft. A lot of personal information was in your file.”
