by P. J. Day
“Matt, what the hell are you doing?”
“What?” he said, blushing and looking at Cindy, his eyes immediately sagged with worry.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I’m at my girlfriend’s.”
“Have you been on the internet today?”
“No, why, what’s going on?”
“Are you crazy? Don’t you realize what you did last night? Your chance at endorsements went out the window with your stupid little performance last night.”
“Look, Jacob, I’m sorry. I thought my girl was with another guy, and I let things get out of hand,” Matt said, as he rubbed his face with despair and anguish.
“Another guy?” Jacob yelled. “You had a nervous breakdown—there was no other guy. We need to get you help. We need to cancel the fight. Really, where are you?”
Cindy overheard Jacob’s screeches from the kitchen and began browsing her laptop, searching for any evidence pertaining to Matt’s little episode at Perry’s. She found the video on the DMZ website and played it. Her eyes widened and she placed her hand on her mouth. “Is this a joke?”
Matt overheard Cindy and walked toward her laptop. He narrowed his eyes in disbelief, as he saw himself fighting nothing in the video—wind-milling the empty space in front of him.
“Jacob, I can explain. DMZ is smearing me. They edited out the dude I was fighting. I’m telling you Logan was there. You can ask my girlfriend...” he said, looking at Keelen’s bedroom door. “...when she decides to get out of her room.”
Cindy then opened another tab on her browser and searched for other videos of the fight on YouTube. She played the highest-ranked one that was filmed by one of the other patrons outside the restaurant. It showed the exact same footage of Matt fighting ghosts.
“Okay, were you guys experimenting with some heavy shit last night?” asked Cindy, perplexed at the bizarre viral footage.
Matt shook his head. He was in shock as he realized that all the videos of last night’s event showed the same exact thing. Matt had gone bat-poop insane before the biggest night of his life.
“This can’t be...”
“Get your ass to the gym. Now,” said his trainer, with a strained, high-pitched voice. “We need to evaluate you immediately.”
Matt hung up the phone and looked at Cindy with a blank and submissive stare. “I gotta go. I’m sorry, Cindy. I have no idea what the hell is going on on the internet. It’s probably some meme created by some nerd in his mother’s basement that’s gone viral. Tell Keelen that I’m sorry,” he said as he walked toward his jacket lying on the couch. He pulled out two tickets from one of his pockets. “Here, two front-row seat tickets for you guys. They were reserved for both my parents, but Dad is still in prison and couldn’t get out in time for the fight, and Mom doesn’t want to see her son’s head get bashed in.”
Cindy snatched the tickets from Matt’s fingers. “I’ll go if she goes.”
“Sell them—get some money from them if you can’t come. They’ll probably be worth something, because everyone’s gonna want to see the crazy guy fight, it seems.”
Matt threw his jacket over his shoulder and slouched out of the apartment. Each one of his steps filled with regret and uncertainty.
As soon as Matt closed the door, Cindy glimmed at the artifacts on the kitchen table with unease.
The novelty of the contents inside the box was beginning to wear off. The book, the rod, and the ball were passing the Ouija board threshold of fun. Cindy began having second thoughts about pursuing more answers. She began thinking about the possibility of possessions or hauntings.
“Is he gone?” asked Keelen’s muffled voice from beyond her bedroom door.
“Yes,” Cindy yelled.
Keelen opened the door and peeked through the door. Her hair was disheveled and her face was in desperate need of a good scrubbing. “Is he really gone?”
“Yes, I said, he’s gone and left us two tickets to tomorrow’s fight. Front row, too.”
“Ugh...”
“I’m guessing you don’t want to go?”
“We have to go,” Keelen said. She sat on the couch and put her messy locks up into a bun. “I can’t believe he did what he did—why did you tell him where Logan and I were?”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t lie. He called me because he’s constantly worried about your transportation issues. I told him the truth, why wouldn’t I? There’s nothing going on between both of you and I’m not a good liar, and I didn’t want him to think something was up.”
“Well, if there is nothing going on, then I’m giving you permission to lie. Next time, lie,” Keelen prodded. “Where did he go, anyway?”
“His trainer sounded pissed, so I guess to the gym?”
“I can’t believe he challenged Logan to a fight, and Logan dodged all his punches, it was incredible.”
Cindy spun the laptop toward Keelen, showing her the video.
“Where’s Logan? How come he’s not in the video?”
“I don’t know. There are over a dozen videos like the one on DMZ showing the same thing. Maybe Logan is some sort of vampire.”
“Don’t be silly.” Keelen’s face contorted with dismay. She pulled up a chair and sat next to Cindy. With her face stilled in fright she said, “Please tell me these videos have been manipulated.”
“What are the odds?”
“Let me call Logan,” Keelen said, fumbling her phone. She dialed Logan’s number. It went straight to his voicemail. “Dammit, Logan, call me back, like now.” After she left the message, she hung up.
“Look, I need to get to Professor River’s office, please go with me. I’m freaking out about everything.”
“That’s fine, but I need to get a hold of Logan. I don’t want Matt’s career to be derailed. I feel like this is entirely my fault. I should’ve been up front with Matt about everything,” Keelen said.
Cindy tried consoling Keelen by pouring her a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
“If Logan doesn’t call you back, we’ll head on over to his place after visiting the professor. All right?”
Keelen nodded. “This is all starting to feel like some crazy reality show—your book, the economy, Logan, Matt.”
Chapter Twenty:
Bailout
Mark Cohen sat at his desk watching the television, in self-imposed exile. A cigarette dangled from his lips. It was the first time he’d lit one in five years. The last time was when the market crashed in ‘08.
He’d cancelled his flight to New York. The last thing he wanted to do was face the wrath of his employees and his shareholders. Instead, he sat in his home, ignored the phone calls from his partners and the overwhelming pestering from the throngs of reporters, journalists, and market watchers.
He stared at the ceiling fan above. It looked solid enough. He picked up the $500 silk tie on the desk and yanked it from both sides. He took another swig of scotch and took his chair to the middle of his office. He stood on the chair and threw out his arms to the side, catching his balance. He then tied the silk tie between the brass canopy and center pipe of the fan, recollecting the hazy skills of a once-proud Webelo Scout. He gave the tie another abrupt yank. The stucco in the ceiling crackled like the tearing of fabric. The bolt on his office door was not fastened. He stepped down and peeked through his door before locking it.
“Milt, no calls,” he said loudly. “If Rachel calls, tell her I’ll meet her at her parents’ house tonight.”
Milt came over from the kitchen.
“Sir, the partners are livid. You really need to get back to them. If they start showing up at the door...there is only so much I can do.”
“Turn them away,” said Mark. “This is my private property. They can’t force their way in. Tell them I’m not here.”
Milt pursed his lips. “Yes, sir.”
Mark closed the door and slid the bolt. He stepped onto the chair and began reciting the Lord’s Prayer as he st
retched the black tie underneath his chin. It wasn’t long enough. He stepped down from the chair, opened the door, and called out for Milt again, painfully prolonging the process.
“Can you bring me a tie?”
“Sir, there is someone here to see you.”
“I said to turn them away, dammit, Milt,” Mark yelled with a slight slur.
“Mr. Cohen,” yelled the raspy, gentlemanly voice from the front door.
“Go away,” barked the CEO.
The man stepped foot into the house with confidence. “My name is Augustus Fisker. I’m with the FBI. May I come in and speak with you about your company’s recent activities?”
Mark paused and gazed over his shoulder and huffed at the chair.
“Give me a minute,” he yelled. He took the tie off the ceiling fan and moved the chair back in front of his desk. “Send him in,” Mark said loudly, in a defeated tone.
Fisker was led by Milt toward Mark’s office, where he was greeted with a glass of scotch.
“No thank you,” said Fisker, smiling. “There’s a lot going on. I need to be clear of mind.
“The world is crumbling, pardon me if I continue to numb myself in your presence,” Mark said, downing his glass with ease. “Have a seat.”
“A terrorist could’ve detonated a dirty bomb in the middle of Wall Street and would’ve created less damage, do you understand?” said Fisker, as he sat down. “Your organization was the first to liquidate and the one that liquidated the most.”
Mark smiled awkwardly and placed both elbows on his chair’s padding. He placed his hand over his rib, still sore from the impact of Logan’s force. “We are all correcting a wrong,” he said. Mark paused and noticed Fisker’s faint tattoos. “Sorry, but can I see your I.D. please?”
“Of course, you noticed these, huh?” Fisker smiled and pointed at his neck tattoo. He pulled out his old wallet and showed Mark his credentials. “Been with bureau for 20 years.” The truth was Uriel had been with the organization since its inception in different capacities and different names.
Mark nodded. His eyes trailed Fisker’s hand as he put his wallet back into his back pocket.
Fisker sat back in his chair and adjusted his coat, he squinted his eyes with deep skepticism as he glanced down where Mark had his hand over his rib. “The police were at your home on the eve of the redistribution. I read the report and it said they responded to an intruder who miraculously escaped and exhibited cat-like skills. Can you tell me what happened?”
Mark sat still, stone-faced. The bags under his eyes quivered. His bottom lip curled downward.
“It’s okay. Tell me what happened.”
“I have no idea,” he wailed. Tears streamed down his cheek.
“Come on, Mark. You’re not the only one. Was it a young man wearing a mask?”
Mark nodded.
“He told you to do this?”
Mark nodded again.
“How did he get into your house?”
Mark pointed toward a large frame that was against the wall. Fisker raised himself from the chair and inspected it.
“Logan Drake is the artist?” he asked, while staring at the blood caked canvas.
“I paid almost half a million for that piece,” Mark said solemnly.
“Did you get this through Sotheby’s, too?”
“Yes, why?”
Fisker spun the frame on one of its corners and repeatedly examined both sides. “Well, every CEO, vice president, CFO, chairman who just took a dump on the economy had one of Mr. Drake’s pieces in their office or home.”
“I had another of his pieces in my office. It’s in the same melted condition, according to Cheryl, my secretary,” said Mark.
Fisker walked toward the desk. “Did he threaten you?”
“He’s threatening the entire system,” Mark said. “He knows everything. He knows too much. This is just the beginning. My career is over.”
“Well, it seems like everyone is playing by his rules. Nothing has come out yet. People are dancing in the street right now. On some level, they think you guys are heroes. I’d enjoy it if I were you,” he said, with sarcasm.
Mark lowered his head and spread out his hands on the desk. “You need to find this guy. Make him pay for all this. You need to take him out before he reveals everything we’ve done. The Feds, the treasury, the wars, the manipulation of the system. You have to know what I’m talking about. You wouldn’t care otherwise.”
Fisker put his hand in his pocket. He was just as concerned as Mark. Autonomy was the antithesis to the harvest. The last thing Fisker wanted before Israfel blew his horn was complete societal disruption. Fisker knew Theolodus had something to do with this, and Logan Drake was the key. “Do me a favor, Mark. Keep your mouth shut about all of this, okay?”
“Is there any way you can offer me protection?” asked Mark, in a panic. “I promise I won’t say a thing.”
“From what?”
“I know I have many powerful people around the world upset with me right now. I’m too chicken shit to take my life. I can’t go through with it. Please understand. Grant me and my family protection, please.”
Fisker crossed his arms. “What else did he tell you?”
“He said he’d contact me, once I did what he told me to do.”
“Is that okay if we try to trace his phone call from your house?”
“Yes, please. I won’t say a word. I don’t care. I’ll do anything you tell me to do.”
Fisker’s phone rang. He placed the phone to his ear.
“Hello, sir,” said the man on the line.
“Yes, Agent Clark, what good news do you have for me?”
“Our warrant did the trick. Sotheby’s has agreed to give us Logan’s address.”
“Send me the address. Don’t send any agents. I’ll go alone.”
“Excuse me, are you sure?”
“Yes, this is a direct order. Your job is to consult the media. Contact the major players and advise them to change up their stories a little bit. Too much focus on these life-changing stories for ordinary families. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have a feeling this is all part of this asshole’s plan.”
Fisker hung up his phone and placed it back into his jacket. He faced Mark. “I’ll make sure a couple of officers are assigned to your home. I’ll work on your immunity, too. But your job is to prevent world war, and try to smooth things over with the global economy. This is the largest transfer of wealth in history and I’d be lying to you if I said it’s not making governments around the world uneasy. The markets are upside down and all the money is in the hands of the proletariat.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll see what I can do. I mean, I can ask the feds to print more.”
“See what you can do, make sure things get under control.”
Mark walked Fisker to the front door. Outside the mansion was the agency’s black SUV with tinted windows, its driver wearing black Ray-Bans and an earpiece. Fisker looked at his phone as Agent Clark texted him the address to Logan’s warehouse. He looked up toward Mark and smiled.
“It was a pleasure, Mark. I hope your life gets back in order. I’ll have my techies at your house in a few hours. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Thank you, Augustus.”
Fisker slid into the passenger seat. He leaned forward, grinned and waved at Mark. The SUV exited the driveway, heading toward downtown.
Chapter Twenty-one:
Codex Unleashed
The campus was typically empty for a late Saturday morning.
Keelen followed Cindy into the Dornsife building and walked the hallways of the second floor. Most of the lights were turned off. Cold, dry air permeated the hallways. Keelen rubbed her nose as it itched inside her nostrils.
“I still can’t wrap my head around why Logan didn’t show up on that video,” asked Keelen. The clack of her heels bounced off the thick walls.
“Why aren’t you listening to me? I’m telling you, he’s a friggin’ vampi
re,” whispered Cindy. “All the blood in his studio, his nocturnal lifestyle. I’m surprised he didn’t gnaw your neck when both of you dated.”
“You’re so stupid,” Keelen said, dryly. “Remind me why we’re here again.”
“Because you’re the most amazing friend on the planet and you care about your best friend’s trivial pursuits?”
Keelen snorted. “Trivial? There is nothing trivial about this.”
“Listen, this is going to turn out to be the greatest archaeological find since the Dead Sea Scrolls, just you watch. They’re going to rename this building after me.”
Just before they reached the office, they heard two men quarreling.
“Paolo, what’s happening cannot be good for the economy. Investment will die, consumption will rise, and the majority of these people that were bailed out are going to squander the cash. Buy Amazon, Wal-Mart and McDonald’s stock because that’s where all the money is going to go,” said the bearded, bald-headed man. His voice traveled high through his sinuses.
“No, I disagree. I’m telling you this is all gonna spark the rise of small businesses, the elimination of debt is a wonderful thing. Think post World War economy here,” argued Paolo.
“No one is going to want to invest with us anymore. Other countries are going to be wary of doing business here.”
“Good,” exclaimed Paolo. “The money is going to stay here now.”
“Umm, excuse me,” Cindy said, interrupting the impromptu debate.
“Cindy,” Paolo said. His hair was disheveled and he wore the same outfit from the previous day. “This is Professor Mitch McCormac. He’s our head Austrian economist at the university.”
“Nice to meet you, girls. I understand you have some exciting research to attend to,” Mitch said. He then turned to Paolo and puffed out his chest and sniffed. A tick he showed whenever leaving a good debate. “Believe me when I tell you this, no good will come of this. We are in decline.”
“Well, at least I’ll have more money in my pocket during this downward spiral.”
Mitch patted Paolo on his shoulder, nodded at the girls and left the office.
