Maze: The Waking of Grey Grimm

by Tony Bertauski

  “My apologies for the delay, Mr. Hunter.”

  She spoke with a South African accent that was sophisticated and alluring. He immediately wanted to listen to her, let the words softly fill him, as if just hearing them would lift his social status. She handed him the towel.

  “You must hate our city. May I take your coat?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  A puddle had formed around him. He wiped his face and adjusted the stocking cap. She stood back while he wiped down the sleeves. Her smile was bright red and plump. Her eyes, chocolate. Hair closely cropped. Her smell was melodic.

  “You mind?” He gestured to the stand of cards.

  “Be my guest.”

  “These are business cards?”

  “More like brochures.”

  He flipped it over, studying the random pattern of black lines, an explosion of ink. “Doesn’t tell me much.”

  “It says everything it needs to.” A slight turn of her head, a devious smile. “Take two. You might need them.”

  Hunter slid a pair inside his overcoat and looked around the sparse line of products. “Commercial minimalism. Don’t see that much these days.”

  “Simplicity, Mr. Hunter. We believe the most elegant products are quite simple.”

  “And who are we?”

  “This.”

  “What do you call this?”

  The devilish smile returned, painted red. She walked around the room, heels clapping, calves flexing beneath smooth and shiny flesh. She called out the products with a thick accent while he stayed put, following her legs.

  “What are you lacking, Mr. Hunter?”

  “What?”

  “Our mission is to enhance the human experience. What are you lacking that we may enhance?” She spread her toned arms.

  “Dry socks.”

  “Maybe if you found the joy of having wet feet, you would not be lacking.”

  “Says the person with dry feet.”

  “Change what you believe, Mr. Hunter, and reality transforms.”

  “Reality is relative?”

  “We perceive what we believe.”

  “And if we don’t believe?”

  She strode diagonally across the room, legs crossing in runway fashion, arms swinging. Eyes daring. Hunter had not moved from his puddle. He’d seen products like these; they were nothing special. And that was the problem. Anyone could purchase this online. Why all the pretense?

  “Problems don’t exist, Mr. Hunter.” Her scent wrapped around him, the allure of oils, a touch of pheromones.

  “Tell my ex-wife.”

  “You’re not married?”

  “I come with baggage.”

  “You appear to pack light.”

  He handed back the towel, trying to suppress a smile. He wasn’t accustomed to a come-on. Not particularly a handsome man, lacking game, he always settled for whomever was willing to talk to him when the party was over. And he didn’t go to many parties.

  “Are we flirting?”

  “I’m being friendly, Mr. Hunter. Are you?”

  Her smile said otherwise. If she was friendly, it had benefits. She draped the towel over her forearm.

  “I’m investigating a Maze incident. Believe it or not, it’s led me here.”

  “I am aware of your intentions, Mr. Hunter.”

  “You are?”

  “You’ve been with the FBI most of your life. A career man.”

  “Very good. How many years, exactly?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Hunter frowned. “You investigate all your appointments?”

  “We’re quite thorough, Mr. Hunter.”

  “We?”

  “Do you know where you are, Mr. Hunter?”

  “What did I have for breakfast?”

  “A bagel and orange juice.”

  He stiffened. Twenty-seven years with the FBI wasn’t hard to find on the Internet. A crafty middle schooler could learn that. But breakfast?

  She began laughing, a melodic chortle that sang off the walls. When an uncharacteristic snort erupted from her slender nose, she covered her mouth and smiled with her eyes, undress me stenciled around the pupils.

  “You’re staying in a hotel, Mr. Hunter. I assumed you ate the complimentary breakfast and there aren’t many options. Bagel was a high-percentage guess, you see.”

  “Sunny Grimm came to your business,” he deadpanned. “She said you could help her, that her son had used a punch to awareness leap and suspected it might be Maze related.”

  “That is true.”

  “Why do you think someone sent her here?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be of much help, Mr. Hunter. You already know everything. She arrived hysterical, said the Maze emblem was on the punch. I feared for her safety and suggested she report this to the police. There was no one in her apartment, I’m told. I’m afraid she may have suffered from schizophrenia.”

  “I’m sorry, did she pass away?”

  Her smile faltered. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “It’s just, you used past tense.”

  “It was unintentional, Mr. Hunter.”

  “How did you know her son was not in the apartment?”

  “The police came to us. They asked questions. Perhaps you should talk with them. They will be of more help than we are, I’m afraid.”

  “I thought you would know I already talked to them.”

  “Perhaps I do.” She winked playfully.

  “Who is Micah?”

  “There is no Micah.”

  She adjusted the damp towel. The corners of her smile sagged. Her first lie. But did she want him to see that? Want him to know she was telegraphing a falsehood? Deception was the mission statement of this setup, including the woman in front of him. A lie within a lie.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

  “I am Dova.”

  “Dova? Lovely name. It means dove?”

  “Morning dew.”

  “Very nice. When will Micah be here, Dova?”

  Her smile was genuine, unperturbed. “Can I offer you coffee?”

  She walked to the lonely door at the back of the room, steps measured and decisive, and returned with a cup. The oils swirled on the mocha surface. He wasn’t in the mood, but sipped out of curiosity. Cream, no sugar.

  Just like he took it.

  “We are very sorry for Mrs. Grimm,” Dova said. “We understand why she would come here, of course.”

  “Because you have connections with the Maze?”

  “We deal with high-end technology, Mr. Hunter. Sensory enhancement. Naturally anyone in a state of hysteria would seek out an establishment such as ours.”

  “She was told to ask for Micah.”

  “You’ve made that clear.”

  “Did you forget that I’m with the FBI? I can look him up, find him in a database. When I do, I’ll come back with friends. We won’t have coffee.”

  Her smile grew on one side, eyes walking on him. A faint tickle fluttered over his scalp, the harbinger of something deeper, more insistent. He didn’t break eye contact, resisted blinking. Her smile deepened.

  She went to the glass wall, observing the crawling traffic. He wondered how many accidents she’d caused just by standing there.

  “Micah is an associate.”

  “Your boss?”

  “He controls such things.”

  “What things, Dova?”

  “All things are connected, Mr. Hunter. Events, people, natural phenomenon... they are intertwined like fabric weaved together. Pull a thread and the effects ripple throughout existence.”

  He shook his head, clearing his throat. “What did he do with Grey Grimm? That’s all I want to know.”

  “He did nothing. You must ask Grey what he did to himself.”

  “Where is Grey?”

  “I believe you are asking questions to which you already know the answers.”

  Her allure returned to wrap around him, tentacles that suctioned t
ightly, penetrating his senses, his brain. His groin. The image of taking her on the bamboo floor unreeled, a pornographic display for those stuck in traffic.

  “I would like to show you our products. You have made an appointment. Perhaps there is something that will interest you.”

  She took the coffee from him and placed it on the floor, then hooked her arm around his and guided him around the perimeter. Their lazy footsteps echoed. She pointed out the latest iterations of cochlear implants that connected with brainwaves for thought control as well as Wi-Fi speakers; there were visual enhancements that did something similar, purporting to project informational holograms with depth-of-field touch capacity. A mind net, she described, was the newest line of nervous system modulations. It put the user in control. Pain could be dialed back. Pleasure heightened.

  She squeezed his bicep. “I am boring you.”

  “I’m more interested in seeing the rest of your products.”

  “It is what you see that we have, Mr. Hunter.” The smile.

  “You show only by appointments to high-end customers. This here is just window dressing.” He waved at the room. “Pretend I’m wealthy and know nothing of the FBI. What would you show me?”

  “I’m showing you everything, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Show me what’s back there.” He nodded at the back door. “The awareness leaping tanks.”

  “I’m afraid those are rumors, Mr. Hunter.”

  “You mean a psychiatrist can’t send a wealthy patient to you for a little dip?”

  “Don’t believe everything you read.”

  “Indulge me, then. Just crack the door, let me take a peek. I won’t even walk inside.”

  “We could accommodate your request, but not today.”

  “Then tomorrow.”

  “I can let you know, Mr. Hunter.”

  “I know it sounds like I’m asking, Dova.”

  She let go and stepped back. “We have nothing to hide, Mr. Hunter. This is what we offer. It is for you to see.”

  Her smile remained. The back of Hunter’s head began to tingle; a faint itch niggled beneath the scalp and reached for the scar on his forehead, stabbing it with a phantom needle. He flinched. Even made a little sound. A valve in his sinus opened.

  A warm salty gush flowed over his lips.

  “You’re bleeding, Mr. Hunter.” She pulled a folded tissue from her bosom like grown men came in with bloody noses all the time. It smelled of sweet perspiration.

  He tipped his head back. The ceiling was white and curved at the corners, lending it the illusion of endless white sky. Eternity.

  “I can take you there, Mr. Hunter, through that door,” she whispered. “But it’s not what you want to see right now.”

  “And what do I want to see?”

  She cradled the back of his head, wiping the blood from his lip. She stepped back, palming the tissue. “I would like to invite you to a demonstration party.”

  “Here?”

  “No.” She shook her head. Don’t be silly. “I will send a car. You’ll see everything you want to see, Mr. Hunter. I assure you. Afterwards, if you are not satisfied, you can make your calls to walk through the door at the back of this room. I won’t waste your time.”

  “There won’t be a need to go through the door. You will have made arrangements by then.”

  “Perhaps.” She took his arm and walked him to the front. “A car will pick you up at the hotel.”

  Hunter stopped to take another card from the stand. He pocketed it with the others. Find a way to please yourself.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said. “What does your name mean?”

  “It’s just a name. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Names don’t mean much where I’m from.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you tonight. And I will show you everything, Mr. Hunter. Perhaps you can show me something in return.”

  He could be mistaken, but her double-talk was telling him something entirely different. If she thought he could be distracted by her slim figure and dangerous curves, she was right. This was unusual for him, out of his normal experience. People went out of their way to avoid a federal agent, especially those that peddled technological trade. They made great efforts to cut conversation short.

  The rain had given way to a light drizzle.

  Hunter stood on the steps. Her footsteps echoed through the glass door. When he looked back, she had already made her way across the room. The itch in the back of his head had calmed down, but something still bothered him. A lot was bothering him, actually, but something in particular was front and center.

  Perhaps you can show me something.

  He could’ve sworn she glanced at his forehead when she said that.

  16

  Hunter

  After the Punch

  A CALL ARRIVED FROM the front desk.

  Dova had said they would send a car. He’d never told her where. It still bothered him that she knew his breakfast. A bagel and orange juice wasn’t exactly original, but slightly beyond a lucky guess. He was being watched and she wanted him to know it.

  He arrived in the lobby, waited with a clear view of the street, and pulled a postcard from his overcoat. The brochure Dova called it, something that carried less information than a fortune cookie. An address, a tagline and a bunch of random lines.

  You see what you see.

  There was a challenge in it, something he wasn’t seeing. It reminded him of those colorful static posters that contained three-dimensional images. To see them, you had to look at it differently, focus just right and the image would emerge. Some people had an easier time than others.

  Hunter wasn’t one of them.

  He looked at it from various angles, blurred the edges, crossed his eyes, put his nose in the center, placed the card on the other side of the room. Even took a picture and converted it into a negative.

  “Mr. Hunter?” the clerk called. “Your car has arrived.”

  A black sedan was at the curb. Hunter pulled his stocking cap down to his eyebrows. He checked his nose for blood. Two nosebleeds in one day. Perhaps it had something to do with the weather.

  Or something else.

  The driver waited at the back door. He was Caucasian and middle-aged, a freshly shaved scalp. Tiny flecks of moisture drifted about, a thick mist settling on the waxed hood of the car.

  “Where we going?” Hunter asked.

  “We’ll arrive in approximately ninety minutes.”

  This was unusual, a federal agent attending a function like this, but they invited him. Perhaps he was walking into a trap. Or maybe I’m already trapped.

  The driver didn’t say a word during the trip. His hands remained on the steering wheel. No radio to pass the time, just the countryside. It was dark when they pulled down a narrow road.

  The massive canopies intertwined, blotting out the stars and moon, a cage of knobby branches. His phone had dropped reception at some point during the trip.

  Strings of lights greeted them at the end of a winding road. A sprawling oak was draped with dappled light, the kind of tree found in southern climates with moss and resurrection fern, certainly not something he expected to see in these parts.

  The driveway swung around the tree. There was a one-story ranch, a green metal roof and a generous porch where ceiling fans turned lazily and people milled about. Someone opened the car door. Hunter stepped out with umbrella in hand, but the air was humid and the sky was clear. It was the first time he’d seen the stars since arriving in the city.

  “Recording devices are not allowed.” The man that opened the door was not large, but the edge of his voice was sharp. His complexion was the color of putty.

  “I was invited.”

  “Of course you were, Mr. Hunter. We ask that you make no attempts to record the weekend.”

  The weekend?


  “Mr. Hunter.” Dova descended the wide stairs in a long red dress, a color that matched her lips and nails. “Welcome.”

  Hand on his forearm, she rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. He remained stoic and professional, but if she slid her hand to his crotch, he wasn’t sure he could stop her.

  “I didn’t realize this was a party,” he said.

  “Oh, do not worry. This event is for many people.”

  “Do your friends know I’m with the government?”

  “Ah, you met Blair.” She smiled at the man, who was harassing the next car in line. “It is a formality, that is all. Your technology won’t work; it is impossible to record. You may tell your friends at the bureau everything you see here, we just prefer you not record the details. Trade secrets, you see. You will probably find this boring, you know so much already.”

  She winked.

  “Then why invite me?”

  “You want to see, Mr. Hunter.” She hooked his arm and guided him to the front steps. “Would you like a drink?”

  They climbed the steps. The house was wide and luxurious, but the single story seemed out of place for the implied opulence and number of people. Most were speaking English; there were various accents and a few foreign languages. They drank martinis and scotch and wine. A few took sips from longneck bottles of beer.

  He recognized no one. And no one was interested in him.

  “Strange crowd,” he said.

  “How so?”

  He hinted at the beer, the man laughing at a bawdy joke. “Thought you only catered to real money.”

  “We are not prejudiced, Mr. Hunter. Our mission is to help everyone.”

  “Who can afford it.”

  “We are a business, yes.”

  “That’s doing quite well.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Perhaps you chose the wrong line of work.”

  “I don’t like seeing people get hurt.”

  She reminded him of the nervous system modulation product line, the promise of pain control and heightened pleasure. This was the next step in human evolution, no longer slave to primal urges and outdated nervous responses. He’d heard that argument for technology before. He wasn’t buying it.

  He’d seen too many people hurt.

  He was one of them, at the mercy of others when he was a child. The scars were still raised, the wounds still raw. The itch still real.