Singularity

by Steven James

  Quickly, I go through them, observing what I’ve done, accepting where I am, focusing on what’s happening, intending to succeed, and committing myself fully to what I’m doing.

  I finish dealing the cards.

  Set down the deck.

  For a moment I stare at the five hands I’ve dealt on the floor.

  Okay, let’s see if I was able to pull this off.

  I turn over the second pile, the one that Solomon chose for his own hand, the one containing the nine of hearts. “This is your hand. A flush with a two, four, five, eight, and nine of hearts.”

  “Impressive.”

  Next, I turn to the fourth pile. “But you might have been dealt a full house.” I show him the three kings and two sevens that I’d dealt into that hand.

  “A better hand,” he says.

  “Or this one.” I flip over the third deck. “Four threes beats a full house.” I move on to the first hand, a straight flush of the four, five, six, seven, and eight of diamonds.

  “But I wouldn’t have wanted that hand either.” He’s staring at the fifth and final hand. “Right?”

  “Right.” I reach for it. “And this is my hand.”

  He guesses even before I have the chance to turn them over—the only hand that could beat a straight flush. “A royal flush.”

  I flip over the cards in order, the ten, jack, queen, king, and ace of hearts.

  “Bravo, Mr. Banks.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You memorized the deck that quickly?”

  “I did.” I’m not sure he’ll count that as figuring out the effect. Technically, he might, but it’s the best I can come up with on the spot, and it’s really the only possible way I can think of to even attempt this effect.

  “How did you do it so fast?”

  “I didn’t think about it too much. I suspected it would distract me if I didn’t trust my instincts. I pictured something else instead.”

  “And that was?”

  “The face of my friend Emilio lying dead in his coffin.”

  Without any hesitation he tells me, “Tomás Agcaoili is at the Nite Owl Motel out on the edge of town.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “Room 214.”

  “He’s there now?”

  “Yes. Waiting by the phone in case I should call to warn him that Akinsanya is on his way to find him. He’s scheduled to fly out later tonight.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He doesn’t ask me how I know that.

  “But he’s going to take a bus out of town instead. He knows people will be looking for him. I suggested he book the flight. Misdirection. I’m sure you, of all people, understand the importance of that.”

  “When? When does the bus leave?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “Will you warn him that I’m on my way to find him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re just looking for justice, something King Solomon himself would have helped you find. And Agcaoili didn’t tell me the truth.” He leaves it at that, and I decide not to ask him to elaborate. I just want to get to the Nite Owl Motel as quickly as I can.

  The colossal guy who’d led us into the room with Solomon leads us past the women in the hallway and back outside.

  Neither Xavier nor Martin is in the alley. Charlene’s car is there, Martin’s sedan is gone.

  When we try Xavier’s cell, he doesn’t answer. Charlene and I both check our phones and don’t find any texts or voicemails from him. When we call Fionna at the house, she tells us she hasn’t heard from him.

  Charlene asks me if I think Xavier might have gone somewhere with Martin.

  “That’s the only thing I can think of.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  Actually, that’s a good question. “Well, Xavier can take care of himself. He has Betty with him, and obviously, he’s well versed in how to use her. I say we keep trying his phone, go to the Nite Owl Motel and see if Agcaoili is still there, then worry about finding Xavier.”

  Charlene takes her place in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. “Jevin, how did you know Solomon had never seen that effect before?”

  “Because I haven’t seen it. At least not done like that.”

  “But it’s possible that he had.”

  “I doubt it. I was making it up as I went along.”

  I give her directions to the Nite Owl. “Tomás is obviously dangerous,” she tells me somewhat apprehensively. “I think we should call the police, have them take him in.”

  “For what?”

  “Murder.”

  “That hasn’t been proven. The police in the Philippines officially recorded Emilio’s death as accidental, remember? Not even the FBI is willing to look into it. Just because Tomás is here—if he’s even at the motel at all—doesn’t mean anyone in law enforcement is going to take our accusations against him seriously.”

  Only as I’m explaining all of this does it strike me that I have no real plan for what to do when I find Tomás. I’ve been so focused on just locating him that I haven’t thought through where to take things from there.

  I’m not sure what else to say, and apparently Charlene is at a loss as well, because we’re both quiet as we make our way through traffic to the Nite Owl Motel.

  In order to keep his gun trained on Wray, Fred had him take the wheel.

  Now they pulled into a parking lot outside a warehouse southwest of the Strip.

  “What’s this?”

  “This is where I design the effects for the show I work on.”

  “Banks.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the USB drive is in here?”

  “Yes.”

  Fred gestured for him to turn off the engine. “Alright, then. Let’s go.”

  We pull up to the Nite Owl Motel.

  Charlene parks. “It reminds me of the motel from Psycho.”

  She’s nearly as much of a movie addict as I am, and honestly, I have to agree that Norman Bates’s motel does come to mind, except this place is two stories instead of just one.

  “What are you thinking, Jev?”

  “I’m reevaluating what I said earlier about calling the cops. Maybe we should.”

  “What’ll we tell them?”

  “We’ll tell them there’s been a murder, and the man who did it is in this motel room.”

  “But we don’t know yet if he’s really there.”

  True. “No, we don’t.”

  Regardless, after a little more discussion I go ahead and make the call, telling the 911 operator what we know.

  Then we wait.

  Minutes pass by.

  The clock in the car tells me it’s just six, but it seems like sixty.

  Finally, I get out of the car.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going up to the room.”

  “Why?”

  “To stand near the door and make sure he doesn’t run away before the police arrive. We’ll adapt, come up with something to tell them if he’s not there.”

  Considering our conversations earlier today about how she doesn’t want me risking too much, I prepare for a disagreement. However, this time she doesn’t argue but instead just exhorts me, “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  I head to the stairs that lead to the walkway encircling the second story. I have no idea what the response time for the police will be. I’m hoping it won’t be much longer.

  But what then? What’ll happen after they arrive?

  They certainly won’t arrest Agcaoili without good reason, and when they find out that he’s not even considered a suspect by the Philippine National Police—if anyone’ll get arrested, it’ll be Charlene and me for accusing him of murder.

  Maybe I hadn’t thought this through so well after all.

  I reach the second level and walk toward room 214.

  So wait for the police or go after him yourself?

/>   Knock on his door or wait?

  I pass room 208.

  But what would happen if I did knock on his door? If I did confront him? He fled once and left a writhing pile of cobras behind to block my path. He’s obviously dangerous—

  Room 210.

  But if the police just release him, he’ll get on that bus and he’ll be gone—

  212.

  And he’ll undoubtedly take steps to make sure we never find him again.

  I arrive at room 214.

  And stare at that door.

  No police sirens yet, but that doesn’t exactly surprise me. I doubt they would come in with their lights flashing and sirens blaring, especially if they were coming to apprehend a murder suspect, as I’d told them Tomás was. After all, making that much of a scene would only warn a suspect and give him a chance to flee.

  The muted sound of a television in the room seeps through the thin walls, but I can’t see inside because of the heavy curtain that’s pulled across the window.

  Is he even here? Was Solomon telling the truth?

  A phone rings inside the room.

  I lean close to listen. The ringing stops, but I can’t pick up any of the conversation.

  Now I’m really not sure what to do.

  I glance back toward the parking lot and see that a police cruiser has crawled into the far end over near the motel office.

  Okay, now the police are here, now I can—

  The door in front of me bursts open and Tomás appears.

  After three years of sparring, instinct takes over, and I raise my hands to fight back or block if he comes at me.

  But rather than run like he did in the Philippines, he immediately flicks out an automatic knife.

  “Señor, retrocedes.”

  “No. I’m not getting out of the way.”

  Not until the police get up here.

  With his other hand he flicks out another knife, then cries out something in indistinguishable Spanish and lunges through the doorway at me.

  The Warehouse

  I like sparring in the gym, but I’ve only had to use TaeKwonDo twice in real life. Both times were against the same man and both times he had a knife. The first time, he managed to slash Charlene’s arm; the second time, he didn’t fare so well. I knocked him down, he landed on the blade, and he never rose.

  One knife that time.

  Two tonight.

  Agcaoili swipes one blade toward my abdomen, but I step to the side and knock his arm out of the way with an outer forearm block. Out of instinct I use my right one, which is also my wounded one, and a rush of pain shoots through it, cutting across my shoulder and burying itself in my chest.

  Okay, that arm’s out of commission.

  Not good.

  Although the walkway runs the length of the building, it’s only about five or six feet wide—not a lot of room to maneuver, so when he comes at me with the knives again, I end up with my back against the railing.

  I land a kick to the side of his knee and it buckles but doesn’t break, and he manages to still rush me, slashing a knife wickedly through the air at my left arm.

  I slide to the side just in time and do a jump front kick to his sternum to push him back. I manage to land a spinning side kick against his ribs. I don’t know if I broke any or not, but I know he felt that.

  His expression becomes fierce, barbarous, and he flips the knife in his left hand around and goes for my throat, but I duck and land a punch to his rib cage where I kicked him.

  All at once, the police siren cuts through the night and the flash of blue lights flicks across the side of the building. Out of the corner of my eye I see an officer sprinting toward the stairwell.

  Hold Tomás off. Just for a few more seconds.

  I’ve retreated a step and my back is against the railing again.

  He comes at me fast, just as the officer makes it to the top of the stairs about fifty feet away. “Drop the knives!”

  I knock Agcaoili’s right hand out of the way, and the blade in his left skims across my chest. Snagging his elbow, I spin backward to get out of the way. He smacks hard against the railing and the momentum tips him forward, he flails for a moment and then falls two stories and lands on his back with a harsh crunch on the roof of a car parked below.

  The police officer has his gun drawn on me. “Put your hands to the sides!”

  I do.

  “Down! Get down!”

  As I kneel and then lie down on my stomach, I peer through the railing. Amazingly, Tomás pushes himself to his feet and scuttles off the car. A female officer is dashing toward him.

  The cop by my side cuffs me.

  My attention is on what’s unfolding in the parking lot. Tomás still has one of the knives in his hand and is facing down the cop who’s standing about fifteen feet from him. She has her gun aimed at Tomás’s chest and is shouting for him to drop the knife now!

  Rather than pull me to my feet, the cop here on the walkway tells me to stay down, then aims his gun at Tomás to help his partner.

  More sirens blare through the night.

  Backup.

  It’s over. They’re going to get him.

  Part of me wants the officers to shoot him, to end this, to deliver swift and certain justice. A life for a life.

  The police officer in the parking lot orders Tomás to drop the knife and finally he must realize that the gig is up, because he tosses the knife aside. A moment later he’s on the ground and cuffed.

  Well, at least with him in custody, maybe we’ll be able to find out some answers about how Akinsanya is involved in all this and why he wanted Emilio dead.

  As the cop pulls me to my feet and hustles me toward the stairs, I expect him to read me my rights like they always do in movies, but instead he just says, “What happened here?”

  “I was standing outside his door waiting for you to arrive. He came at me with the knives. I was trying to defend myself.”

  “I saw what you did,” he says somewhat cryptically, and I’m not sure how to take that—if he’s accepting my version of things or not. “We got a call that there was a murder.”

  “It was overseas. I think if you offer him something in exchange for information, he can tell you who paid him to kill my friend. I think it’s a fugitive wanted by the FBI who goes by the code name Akinsanya.”

  The officer stares at me blankly. “What?” I run through it again as succinctly as I can, and then we reach the bottom of the stairs and Charlene rushes toward me.

  “Stand back, ma’am.”

  From here I have no idea how things are going to play out.

  The officer walks me toward one of the police cars as his partner and two other officers who’ve just arrived manhandle Tomás into another squad car.

  Just how much trouble I’m in, I don’t really know.

  But right now at least I’m happy about one thing.

  Tomás Agcaoili is in custody.

  And he is going to face justice for what he did to Emilio.

  “So where is it?” Fred demanded. He was running out of both patience and time.

  “This way.” Wray led him past a series of water torture chambers, spinning blade machines, and other strange apparatuses that Fred couldn’t even identify but that Banks evidently used for his escapes.

  A set of fluorescent lights high above them lit the room brightly, and Fred was glad because in a place this cluttered with hiding places, he did not want Wray to slip off somehow into any shadows.

  An extensive collection of handcuffs, shackles, straightjackets, ropes, and manacles lay on a wide counter attached to one wall. Swords and daggers hung on a vast pegboard. Handguns, throwing knives, targets, and walkie-talkies in various need of repair were scattered across the countertop. Fred had no way to know if the guns were genuine or just props for the show.

  “Don’t try anything.”

  Wray didn’t answer.

  “I said, don’t try anything.”

  His only response
was to point toward a set of drawers on a rolling stand twenty feet away. “It’s over there.”

  “Why there? Why is it even in this warehouse?”

  “To keep it safe,” Wray answered vaguely. “Here, I’ll go get it.”

  “I’ll get it.” They were ten feet from the drawer, and Fred motioned for him to stop walking. “Which drawer?”

  “Second from the top.”

  Fred waved him away. “Get back.”

  Wray retreated four steps until he was standing between a steel water tank and one of the cluttered workbenches. He had his hands raised slightly in the air to reassure Fred that he wasn’t a threat.

  Fred’s phone rang.

  The ringtone told him it was the man who was blackmailing him. He was going to demand the files.

  Which Fred did not yet have.

  He opened the drawer, kept his eyes on Wray, but when he felt around inside there was only a jumble of hand tools.

  The phone rang again.

  In desperation, Fred glanced into the drawer, and that must have been what Wray was waiting for, because he snatched something off the counter and threw it toward Fred.

  Even in the large room the explosion was deafening. A burst of smoke poofed into the air and Fred struggled to grab a breath, and by the time the air had cleared Wray had already ducked out of sight.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Answer it!

  No, don’t. Get Wray.

  Fred didn’t know what to do. On the one hand he didn’t want to upset the guy by not picking up, but on the other hand he had nothing to tell him.

  He’ll release the pictures.

  No, not if you get the files in the next couple minutes. You can call him back. Find Wray!

  Fred did not answer the phone.

  At last it stopped ringing and he called out, “I will shoot you if you don’t give me the files!”

  No reply, apart from the blunt echo of his words bouncing off the walls.

  The warehouse was so full of magic equipment that Wray could be just about anywhere.

  Fred cautiously glanced toward the pegboard to see if Wray had gone for a weapon, but it didn’t appear that any were missing. He crossed the room toward the warehouse’s entrance to block it off so Wray couldn’t sneak away.