The Enigmatologist

by Ben Adams

  John swiveled often, unconsciously, toward the large window at the end of the counter. Rosa’s Restaurante was a block away. It was getting dark, but John could see the light coming from her window. He’d thought about her all day, the way she touched him and how, when she did, it made his skin feel like lightening was shooting through it. He thought about the way she walked and smelled and how she was the only woman he’d met since graduation who knew what enigmatology was. Spinning toward the window, he wondered how he’d be able to see her again.

  “You gonna wear out that stool, you keep turning like that,” the sheriff said.

  “What?”

  “You got a thing for Rosa, don’t you?”

  “What? No. What?” John said, denying it like a grade school crush.

  “You know what? I think she’s got a little something for you, too. She’s usually pretty cold to guys, like she’s got something more important to do. It’s this restaurant a hers, it takes up all a her time. I always tell her, ‘life is short’. She needs to have some fun. You know, she closes up every night.” The sheriff checked his watch. “We’ll probably get outta here just in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  “For you to go talk to her.”

  John sipped his beer and turned again toward the window. The diner had emptied. Julio shredded potatoes for the breakfast hash browns, getting ready to close. John leaned back against the counter, peeled the label from his beer in thin strips. He would be returning to Denver in the morning, to his job, to the unfinished crossword puzzle, and all the puzzles he had yet to struggle with at the kitchen table in his mom’s apartment, head in his hands, a half-finished PBR Tall Boy leaving a ring on his scratch paper, another night of questioning why his inventiveness had dissolved. That was what waited for him, the bleak and vanishing prospects of the frustrated artist. But across the street, Rosa’s Restaurante glowed invitingly.

  “Fuck it.” John stood and chugged the rest of his beer. He threw a twenty on the counter and jogged to the door.

  The sheriff laughed, clapping his hands. “Hey, Julio! Look at this sonuvabitch.”

  “Be sure to get me a receipt,” John said, backing out the door. He flipped the sheriff off with both hands, then ran across the street.

  Outside, the sun was setting. A slight breeze coming off the mountains blew thin dirt. Dust reflected light from street lamps like a thin layer of dirty fog.

  Everything in the plaza was closed or closing, but a couple of the restaurants were still seating. John sprinted across the empty street to the only restaurant that mattered.

  Rosa’s Restaurante.

  The paper work, the files needing to be read, the forms requiring an authorizing signature, were organized into neat piles on Colonel Hollister’s particle board computer desk. The desk had been hastily assembled using Scandinavian instructions and an Allen wrench, and wobbled when he would put his weight on it, used it as a crutch to help him rise from his padded folding chair.

  Colonel Hollister rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, running two operations, being the senior administrator at the Los Alamos research facility and overseeing the investigation into The National Enquirer’s photo. This wasn’t a problem when he was younger, when he was constantly invigorated by his charismatic apprentice. White haired and past retirement age, he now wished there was someone else who could take over the field operations and he could go back to his lab and tinker and experiment with everything he’d collected. There had been someone who could have succeeded him, but that person had been taken from him.

  How long had it been? almost forty years since Elvis died? And there were still so many questions. He hoped that when they found this impersonator, and they would find him, it was just a matter of time, that he would be able to answer some of them.

  Colonel Hollister had suspicions about him, who he really was, where he came from. His suspicions were deepened by the fact that the impersonator didn’t exist four years ago. Since Elvis’s death in 1977, the Air Force had been compiling information on Elvis impersonators, looking for people with a specific connection to Elvis. They had extensive dossiers on every Elvis impersonator that either was or had been professionally employed. And when they intercepted Mrs. Morris’s photo, they discovered that the man in it was not in their registry.

  Colonel Hollister picked up a picture that sat on the edge of his desk. He and Elvis had just come from a meeting with the Joint Chiefs. The meeting, like all their meetings, was held in secret at an undisclosed location, which was usually a barbeque joint in midtown Memphis. It was one of Elvis’s favorite restaurants. He would sit at a large table, elbows on the red and white checkered vinyl table cloth, a plastic bib around his neck, slurping pork off rib bones, nodding and talking through his barbeque-sauce-covered face. In the picture, Elvis and Colonel Hollister are leaving the restaurant. Colonel Hollister is carrying a to-go bag and Elvis is teasing him about not being able to finish his meal while asking for the leftovers. A tourist from Iceland happened to be walking by and had taken the picture. He was arrested, his camera seized. He died in a secret prison in Tunisia. His family searched for him for years, but all records of him had disappeared. The restaurant had closed since then. It was a shame. They really had good barbeque.

  Someone knocked on his door, bringing him back from his dry rubbed and hickory smoked memories.

  “Uh, sir,” a young analyst said, sticking his head in the door, “we have a hit, sir.”

  Colonel Hollister brought a skeleton crew, two analysts, two Special Forces officers, and his personal assistant to Las Vegas, the idea being that Los Alamos was only a few hours away, and if needed, a small, armored platoon could be there quickly. They had set up their command center in a foreclosed house on Delores Street, a block and a half from the Elvis impersonator’s trailer. The house had been purchased through a shell bank they used to fund their black ops. Colonel Hollister had claimed the master bedroom for his office. He spent most of his time there, even sleeping on a small mattress and sleeping bag in the corner. The living room had been transformed into a command hub by the analysts who’d filled it with computer screens that showed images from around and inside the trailer park. They had also placed cameras all around the block, and were close enough that if the Elvis impersonator came home, or anyone snooped around his trailer, they could mobilize in seconds.

  “Well then, Private Ramsey,” Colonel Hollister said, standing and pushing his chair under his desk, making sure its cushioned back was perpendicular to the mahogany-finished plane, “alert the men. Put them on standby.”

  “Yes, sir.” Private Ramsey ran to his station and sat next to another analyst, Private Mulworth. Both men were interchangeable, same close-cropped hair, same pink, eager faces.

  Colonel Hollister tried to hide his grin, striding into the room. He had wondered how long it would take for the impersonator to return home. He trusted John to be like a typical Abernathy, accepting an assignment, then inexplicably sympathize with the enemy. So he wasn’t surprised when John lied to him, had said that the impersonator had quit his job, left town. Despite John’s attempted deception, Colonel Hollister was confident the impersonator wouldn’t leave just yet. He had known many impersonators while Elvis was alive, and none of them knew when to get off the stage.

  Colonel Hollister stood behind Private Ramsey, leaning over, one hand on the desk, the other on the back of Private Ramsey’s chair. The curtains were drawn and their faces glowed green from the monitors.

  “What’s the sitrep?” Colonel Hollister asked.

  “It’s a truck, sir,” Private Ramsey said, “registered to a Steve Johnson. The same Steve Johnson that the trailer’s registered to.”

  “And now he’s come home,” Colonel Hollister said, crossing his arms. “You’ve been tracking his movements, I assume.”

  “Yes, sir. You asked us to reposition the satellites, follow the Abernathy subject. We tracked him to a lumberyard. This truck left several minutes after your
phone conversation with the subject ended. Per your orders, we followed the truck.”

  “That was a half an hour ago. Where’s he been?”

  “Liquor store, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  “We have surveillance footage of him leaving Harry Mann Liquors with a thirty rack. That’s thirty cans of beer, sir.”

  “I know what a thirty rack is,” Colonel Hollister said, thinking of long nights at Graceland, body doubles passed out on couches, empty cans and half crushed diet pills on the coffee table.

  “And he was carrying a sack, possibly of some hard liquor.”

  “He must be planning on sticking around. Can you verify it was him? Credit card transaction?”

  “No, sir. We’re assuming he paid cash.”

  “Of course he did. Trying to be clever, staying off the grid. If I didn’t know better I’d say this Steve Johnson didn’t exist,” Colonel Hollister said, sharing a rare joke with his men. He knew that the analysts, to pass the time, created back stories about the trailer park residents, speculating about their jobs, whether they’d ever been arrested for stealing airplane glue, if their first sexual experience happened at the same time as their first DUI arrest. It was their favorite game. They continued it after they’d vetted everyone who lived there, their fantasies being more interesting than the truth, that the trailer park was occupied by dull and uninspired people.

  Private Ramsey laughed uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure if Colonel Hollister knew they played that game about him as well. The current bet was that their colonel was assigned to show Elvis around Area 51 and was demoted when Elvis was caught having a three-way with some prostitutes on an alien spacecraft, Elvis having asked them to wear glow-in-the-dark alien masks. That’s why he had been assigned to work in Los Alamos, and why they were in Las Vegas, New Mexico watching a trailer park. Being new to the unit and not having the proper security clearance, the analysts didn’t know that this story was actually true, except Los Alamos wasn’t Colonel Hollister’s punishment, it was his promotion.

  “Where is he now?” Colonel Hollister asked.

  “A couple of blocks away. Alamo and Chavez, sir.”

  “Perfect. When he gets into camera range, I want a close up, a nice picture of this Steve Johnson.”

  Colonel Hollister stood back and crossed his arms, satisfied. Soon they would have him, whoever he was, and Colonel Hollister would get answers to questions that had kept him from sleeping soundly for forty years. He never understood how Elvis could just die like that. One day he’s a vibrant, vigorous man, the next he’s dead with his pants around his ankles. It didn’t make sense. Someone must have learned what Elvis was really doing, why he had all those body doubles performing for him, why he let himself be perceived as a drug-and-woman-crazed lunatic, and decided he was a threat to their machinations. Someone assassinated Elvis. There was only one group Colonel Hollister could think of that would be threatened by Elvis. The same group Colonel Hollister had been hunting his entire life, the same group he recruited Elvis to hunt alongside him.

  “Sir,” Private Ramsey said, “we have the truck coming into range.”

  Colonel Hollister stepped closer to the monitor. He squinted at the pixilated image of a truck driving up Alamo Street. The image on the screen was in black and white and he couldn’t tell if it was the same truck he saw in satellite images or just another one of the beat-up pick-ups that seemed to infest this town.

  The truck drove past the expertly-placed lens, but the driver’s face was blurred. Private Ramsey switched angles to a camera that was attached to a telephone pole across from the trailer park. The night before, it had captured the image of a hooded man leaving the park, a perfect view of his face. It helped that the guy had looked right at it. Private Ramsey hoped that the driver would look into what he was starting to call his ‘lucky camera’. But the window was up, and they saw a faded reflection of the gas station where they bought microwaveable jalapeño poppers and energy drinks.

  He switched to a camera attached to the gate leading into the trailer park. They had to replace this one every few weeks. Some of the local kids discovered it and ripped it down, using it to film homemade zombie movies. Private Ramsey routinely changed its positions and camouflage, hoping it would remain undetected. Now it hung from a tree growing next to the mailboxes, hidden in a birdhouse shaped like a 1920’s Craftsman home with purple walls, white roof and trim. Private Ramsey had found it at a yard sale and hoped none of the neighborhood kids would think to look for one of his cameras in it.

  The truck turned into the trailer park and stopped in front of a row of mailboxes. The driver pulled some mail out of a box, flipped through a few bills, junk mail, a pennysaver, and tossed them on the truck’s floor. He shifted into drive, but waited, his hands on the wheel, like he was thinking about something. He backed up until he was even with the birdhouse and stared at it like he was contemplating its existence. An open beer can sat in the cup holder. The man took a sip, leaned back, sighed. Then he hurled the half-full beer at the birdhouse. The coat hanger holding it to the tree rocked and slipped off the branch, and the birdhouse fell to the ground and shattered.

  The camera feed stopped.

  “Rewind a couple of frames,” Colonel Hollister said.

  Private Ramsey tapped at his keyboard. The birdhouse rose from the ground. The beer can flew into the driver’s hand, and his slightly blurred image stared into the camera. Private Ramsey outlined the window and cut away everything else. He zoomed in and adjusted the resolution. The image resembled different colored blocks, but, with a few key strokes, Private Ramsey smoothed it out, revealing the man’s face.

  When the truck turned down Alamo Street, everyone had certain assumptions about the driver’s appearance, that he would look like an Elvis impersonator, but what they saw failed to fulfill those expectations. He had short, gray hair, no sideburns. His skin was wrinkled with red splotches, like he had been drinking in the park and passed out under the sun everyday for most of his life. His nose was large and thin veins spread across it. And he was short. Elvis was six feet tall, without platform shoes. This man appeared to be 5’5”, his seat pulled close to the steering wheel.

  “Goddamnit,” Colonel Hollister said, hitting the desk with his hand. He turned his back to the monitor, hands on his hips.

  “That was a waste of time,” Private Ramsey said.

  “Excuse me?” The colonel turned his head.

  “Sorry, sir. I’ll, uh, I’ll tell the men to stand down.”

  “You do that.”

  Colonel Hollister paced the living room. He had been at this for forty years, searching every town, city, and suburb in the country, and just when he thought he was getting somewhere, a sixty-year-old alcoholic had to go and throw a beer can into his plans. And Private Ramsey, being so glib. Did he understand what it meant to dedicate one’s life to something? sacrificing everything for the mission, family, friends, a life outside of service? He could never perceive the world, see the full scope of it, know the classified knowledge, the hidden dangers, understand that the awareness of those mysteries eliminated choices, compelling the individual to dedicate their life to finding and stopping threats that disguised themselves as friends, ultimately betraying that trust by taking the most beloved person in the world, the son that sacrifices had denied. Private Ramsey couldn’t understand what that was like. No one could.

  The Abernathy boy would be able to. But he didn’t realize it. Not yet.

  “Sir,” Private Ramsey said, “your orders?”

  “Monitor the truck. Let me know where it goes.”

  “I’m sorry this didn’t pan out, sir. I know how much you wanted this to lead to something.” Private Ramsey spun his chair, faced Colonel Hollister.

  “Do you now?” Colonel Hollister stopped pacing, glared at the private.

  “Yes, sir. It’s frustrating, spending you time looking for someone, only to…”

  “I’ve been at this a long time, Air
man. Longer than you’ve been alive. And I’ve learned that patience wins the day. So we’ll wait, wait until the man we’re looking for shows.”

  “What if he never comes back? What if he disappears, assumes a new identity, and it takes us another four years to track him down?”

  “If this man is who I think he is, it’ll take another forty years for him to reappear.”

  “But…” Private Ramsey put his hands in his lap, studied at them. The last time he Skyped his girlfriend they talked about their future, she’d become a school teacher, he’d work whatever he could while he went to college. Anything was better than a life in Los Alamos. Unfortunately, that’s what they’d get, a lifelong assignment in a town of secrets where you needed security clearance to cross the street.

  “Don’t worry, Private,” Colonel Hollister said, with disingenuous interest, “we won’t be here long.”

  In the monitors, the truck parked in front of the trailer from the photo.

  “Our enemy is playing a longer game than we are. They’ve been at it for centuries. So we have to play the long game, too. Whether we want to or not.”

  The old man stepped out of the truck, carrying the open case of beer. He fumbled with his keys, dropped them and hit his head on the door as he bent over to pick them off the ground. The door popped open. He swayed and laughed and stumbled inside.

  “And one of the virtues of playing the long game is that you see each move for what it is, a short step one way or the other. Do you know why this is important, why seeing the world like this is really a beautiful thing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It means that you have more than one piece in play at all times.”

  Two men walked up the basement stairs and into the living room. They were the Special Forces operatives that had served as Colonel Hollister’s security when he confronted John Abernathy. In a failed attempt to look inconspicuous, they had traded their black uniforms, the vests holding ammunition and other tools of urban soldiering, for windbreakers, jeans, tennis shoes. One man pulled out a gun, checked his clip, and returned it to his shoulder holster.