Soul Identity
Copyright © 2007 by Dennis Batchelder
Published by NetLeaves at Smashwords
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2007932540
Ebook ISBN 978-0-9798056-1-5
Printed in the United States of America
prologue
The younger and cuter of the airport security ladies glanced down at my license. “Nice smile,” she said.
I put on an identical one as she looked up at me.
Her eyes narrowed and she swiped another look. “Just a second,” she said. She thumbed the microphone on her left shoulder. “I’ve got Waverly here at the head of the line.”
I put away the smile and tried a look of exasperation. “Is there a problem? My flight leaves in thirty minutes.”
“Just a minute, sir. They’re getting ready for you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Ready for me?”
She frowned. “Nice try.” She thumbed the mike again. “Tell me when.”
Her radio beeped, and a man’s voice came on. “We need another minute,” it said.
“Let me know.” She put a little pout on her lips. “You almost snuck by me with that smile.”
I sighed. “At least I have no carry-on.”
She checked me out and raised her eyebrows. “You have almost nothing on.”
“It saves time, with all the special treatment I get.”
Her radio squawked. “Send Mr. Waverly to the left line.”
She pointed. “Over there. You know the drill.”
I nodded. “Can I have my papers back?”
She held them out. “You won’t make it through. Not this time.” This with a stern expression.
“We’ll see.” I tugged the papers free of her grasp and headed to the left, toward the big man in the black and white uniform. I handed him my papers. “Hey, Fred, good to see you again,” I said.
He frowned at me. “I wish I could say the same. Where are we going, Mr. Waverly?” He looked at my ticket. “Chicago? Dressed like that?”
“I hear there’s a heat wave.”
He scratched his head. “Nobody flies on Sunday morning from Baltimore to Chicago wearing flip flops, a muscle shirt, and a bathing suit.”
“Just trying to make your job easier,” I said. “Can we get started? My flight’s leaving soon.”
He leaned toward me and dropped his voice to a whisper. “We’re gonna get you today, Mr. Waverly.”
“We’ll see.” I took my cell phone and wallet out of my pockets and handed them over. “This is all I’m carrying.”
He put my items in a tray and handed me my ticket. He pointed to the detector. “Keep them shoes on and walk on through. I’m right behind.”
I headed through the detector. No beeps.
Fred grabbed a portable wand. “Hold out your arms, please.”
I held them out. No beeps.
Fred aimed the wand at his watch and got a big beep. He pointed at a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Waverly.”
I sat. Fred wanded my feet. He took my flip flops and bent them in half. “You hiding anything in these?”
“They’re flip flops.”
“All the same, I gotta be sure. Sit tight.” He stood up, took them to the machine, and ran them through.
The two x-ray attendants huddled by their monitor and whispered to each other. They straightened up when Fred came over. “Nothing, sir.”
“Would you bet your jobs on it?”
They both gulped, rechecked the screen, then nodded.
Fred picked up my phone, wallet, and shoes. “Lemme hand-check these. Mr. Waverly, come and watch.”
I watched. Fred swabbed everything and ran the gauze through the spectrometer. “Clear.”
I smiled. “Nice to know I’m clean. You done?”
“I’m gonna tear everything apart.”
“Knock yourself out.”
He popped the back off the phone and pulled out the battery. Then he opened my wallet. “You don’t have much in here, Mr. Waverly. No pictures, no credit cards. Just a twenty dollar bill.”
“I told you. I’m making your job easy.”
“Easy would be if you gave up the goods.”
I shrugged. “You think that just maybe I’m flying to Chicago?”
“And maybe I’m Superman, moonlighting as a TSA employee. Don’t worry. We’ll get you.”
“So you keep telling me.”
Fred reassembled the phone. He handed it to me. “Call somebody.”
I dialed, held it to my ear, and then handed it back. “It’s for you.”
Fred took the phone. “Hello?” He glared at me. “Yes, ma’am, it’s Scott Waverly’s phone…no, he’s clean…I’m sure.” He nodded. “Of course you can.” He hung up.
“Now can I go?” I asked.
He laughed. “You had to be a smart ass and call my boss. Now she’s gonna check you out herself. Have a seat.”
“Hope she hurries.”
Two minutes later, the door behind Fred opened, and Jane Watson, a tall and shapely forty-something brunette, wearing a uniform identical to Fred’s but filled out so much better, walked out, looked around, and came over to me. “Mr. Waverly,” she said, “how nice to see you again.”
I smiled. “Now say it like you mean it, Jane.”
“I do mean it. I’ve been wondering all week if you’d be dropping by.” Then she frowned. “You’re not getting anything by me, Scott. Not on my watch.”
“We’ll see.” I stood up and held out my arms. “Come and get me.”
Fred held out the wand, but she waved him away. “I’m doing him manually.”
“Lucky me,” I said. “Can we go behind the screen? I don’t want to get your other passengers jealous of my free massage.”
Jane shook her head. “Fred needs to watch and learn.”
“Your call.” I turned around. “Start with the back first—I have a couple knots that need working out.”
“Very funny.” Her hands squeezed me up and under each arm, across my shoulders, and then down my back.
“Easy, Jane,” I said. “People are watching.”
“It’s for their protection.” She ran her hands over my butt, lingered for a minute, and then squeezed her way down each leg. She lifted each foot and checked between my toes. Then she patted me on the shoulder. “Turn around, please.”
“I didn’t know you were allowed to check my bare skin,” I said.
“I do what’s necessary to protect my country.” She felt my neck, chest, and abdomen. Then she looked down at my bathing suit.
I stepped back. “Don’t ask me to take it off, I�
��ve got nothing on underneath.”
“My lucky day.” She patted my waist, then stepped up close against me and shoved her hands inside while she looked me in the eye.
I cleared my throat. “I wish we could have cuddled first.”
“In your dreams, mister.” She withdrew her hands and looked at Fred. “You were right—he’s clean.”
Fred nodded. “Now what?”
She frowned. “It seems Mr. Waverly really is just taking a trip to Chicago. Let him go.”
Fred handed me my belongings. “You have fifteen minutes. You can make it if you hurry.”
“Thanks.” I looked at Jane. “Next time I’ll bring flowers.”
“Next time drop by on somebody else’s shift,” she said.
“And let you miss all the fun?” I slipped on the flip flops, walked into the terminal, pulled out my phone, and dialed. “I’m through, Dad,” I said when he answered.
“Took you long enough.”
“Full body search. You guys ready?”
“Your mother is wandering around. I’ll send her over. Keep an eye out.”
“Cool.” I hung up the phone and headed toward the exit. I stood right before the “Warning: any passengers crossing this line must re-enter through security” sign.
A security guard sat behind the wooden podium. “Busy day?” I asked.
The guard glanced at me and then back toward the exit. “Not too busy yet,” he said. “Sunday mornings are slow until after ten. You going out?”
“No, just waiting.” I stepped back, out of his line of sight. I watched my mom walk around the corner on the other side of the exit and head down the hall toward the guard. She wore a white wig and a slightly askew cardigan. She carried a green leather old-style suitcase and a large pink purse.
I pulled out my phone, held it down by my waist, turned on the camera, and started recording. I had to step back to get both the guard and my mother in the screen.
Mom tottered toward the guard, and he waved her back. She took another step and looked at him. “Is this the way to the airplanes?” she shouted.
“No, ma’am.”
She brought her purse hand up to her ear. “Excuse me?”
“You have to go through security.” The guard pointed behind her.
Mom nodded. “Thank you.” But as she turned around, she slipped and fell to the floor with a clatter.
Her pink purse went skidding to the far wall, and her green suitcase hit the ground and burst open. A large number of small items spilled out. I saw handkerchiefs, loose papers, and two prescription bottles of medicine. One of the bottles dumped out a handful of pills as it rolled along the floor. Mom lay on her back and let out loud moans.
She had put on quite a show.
The guard ran over. And as he helped her sit up and then repack her suitcase, I focused the camera on her pink purse.
A box the size of a thick book, colored the same gray speckled shade as the floor, slid out of the purse. I raised the camera up toward the exit and caught my dad fiddling with a black plastic remote control. I pointed the camera back at the box.
It slid along the floor toward me. When the guard turned around to retrieve the pink purse, the box stopped, and when the guard turned back to my mom, it came shooting my way. I stepped in front of it.
The guard turned and held up his palm toward me. “Stay back, sir.”
I nodded. When he handed the purse to my mom, I bent down, picked up the box, and walked to the security gate.
I caught Fred’s eye. “Where’s Jane?” I asked.
He used his thumb to point over his shoulder. “In her office,” he said. “Why aren’t you on your plane?”
I rapped on Jane’s door. “Come on in and I’ll show you.”
“Oh, man,” he said as he followed me.
Jane opened the door and smiled. “Why Scott, did you come back to congratulate me?” She looked down at the box in my hand, and her smile evaporated.
I pointed into her office, and Jane stepped aside to let us in. She closed the door and crossed her arms. “Tell me.”
I held out the box. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“Might as well get it over with.” She took it, turned it over, and spun the wheels that stuck through its underside. “A rolling box?”
I nodded. “It’s got a remote control car inside. Open it up. There’s Velcro along the edges.”
She ripped the side open and pulled out a large and shiny chrome plated pistol. “Dammit.” She looked up. “Now tell me how.”
I held up my phone. “I filmed it for you.”
Fred and Jane watched the replay. I tried not to look too pleased, but still ended up with a big smile on my face.
“You snuck it in the exit.” Fred said.
I nodded. “You’ve focused all your security on the entrance. That exit’s your weakest spot, even during the slow times.”
“Who’s the old lady?” Jane asked.
“My mom. She’s wearing a wig.”
“And your dad guided the car?”
“They said I’ve been having all the fun, and they wanted in this time.”
She sat down behind the desk and held her head in her hands. “Okay, Mr. Security Consultant, I guess congratulations are in order again.” After a minute of rubbing her temples with her fingertips, she said, “I’ll work on the exit. Send me the report.”
“You’ll have it next week.”
She nodded. “Hey, some guy asked me about you this morning. I told him you were the best.”
“You get a card?”
“He wouldn’t give it. Twenty-something, dark hair. A little freaky looking.”
“Thanks.” I paused. “You guys are getting better, you know.”
“But not fast enough,” she said. “Eleven months now and you’re still getting through.” She dropped the pistol in her drawer.
“You’ll get there.” I opened the door. “Oh, and Jane?”
She raised her eyebrows.
I winked. “Your massages are getting better too.” I stepped outside, but not before I heard Fred burst out laughing.
one
A delivery man in a green van carried a package down my dock later that afternoon. He should have delivered it to the house, but we were out back fishing, and he needed a signature.
I watched him as he walked out the dock. He wore a green long-sleeved uniform and a small pair of silver sunglasses. When he got close, he pulled a green pen out of his pocket and held out a clipboard. “Delivery for Mr. Waverly,” he said. “Can I get a signature?”
I took the pen and clipboard and wrote John Doe in the signature box. The loops on the J invaded the neighboring boxes. “Here you go.” I handed him the clipboard and glanced at the embroidery on his shirt pocket. “I didn’t think delivery companies worked Sundays, Robert.”
“Ours does,” he said. “And my name’s Bob. Not Robert.”
“Did you change your name after you ordered your shirts?”
“Another Bob started before me.” He shook his head. “They told me I could add an initial at the end, but then it would say Bob O. That sounds like a clown.” He looked at my signature. “Mr. Waverly, can I see some identification?”
I was still wearing the bathing suit from the airport work. “It’s in the house,” I said. “You got the right address. What’s the problem?”
“You signed John Doe in the box.”
“You claim your name is Bob, but you’re wearing Robert’s shirt.”
His frown made his forehead crinkle between his eyebrows. “I need to be sure that I deliver this package to Scott Waverly.”
“You have. That’s me.”
He sighed and pulled a small handheld computer out of his pocket, flipped open its cover, and typed on its miniature keyboard. “Just a second while I verify, sir.”
“Verify what?”
“You.” He tapped the screen. “Here we are. Five foot eleven, medium build, brown hair, hazel eyes.” He tilt
ed the screen my way. “It’s you, all right.”
A photo of me standing in the airport this morning graced his screen, along with my address and information about our company. “So it was you talking to Jane this morning,” I said. Jane was right; he was a little freaky looking.
Bob flipped the handheld’s cover shut and shoved it in his pocket. “Yes sir.” He handed me the package and headed up the dock.
“Hey, you forgot your pen!” I called.
“You’ll need it, sir.” He climbed into his green van and drove away.
Dad examined the package. “It’s from Soul Identity—do you know them?”
“Nope,” I said. “Wait, I do. Somebody from Soul Identity called on Friday. I gave him the spiel about our security auditing services.” I handed him the bait knife.
He slit the package open and pulled out two yellow envelopes. He pointed at a READ ME FIRST label. “We should start with this.”
“I’ll get the other.” I tore the end off my envelope and pulled out a yellow plastic device, oblong in shape and flat on its sides. It looked like a bright yellow slice from the middle of a hard boiled egg. Instead of the yolk it had a button labeled “Soul Identity reader.” A lens the size of a pea glinted from the small end, and a key ring dangled from the other.
Mom plucked it from my hand. “It looks like a keychain flashlight.”
“It’s not a flashlight,” Dad said. “Listen to this. Dear Mr. Waverly, blah blah blah, we wish to engage your services, but in order to commence the engagement—” He looked up. “Commence the engagement? Who writes like that anymore?”
“Old people. Old companies. Old lawyers.” I said. “What do they want?”
“In order to commence the engagement, you must signify your acceptance by providing us your soul identity. Kindly use the enclosed reader, blah blah blah, return the reader by the same delivery company, blah blah blah, instructions for using the reader are attached.” He read to himself. “The rest is just legal stuff, and then it’s signed by Archibald Morgan, executive overseer of Soul Identity.”
Soul Identity Page 1
