Thomas World

by Richard Cox

  THIRTY-THREE

  We’re in a small room now. Three of the walls are white and bare and one of them is covered partly by a mirror. It should be obvious to you and everyone the mirror is also a window.

  There is a square table surrounded by four chairs. I’m sitting in one of the chairs and Scruggs is sitting in another. Smith, the short, chunky guy, is standing in a far corner, stroking his chin with his hand. It’s all very clichéd. B-movie quality at best.

  “So how are you feeling, Mr. Phillips?” Scruggs asks me.

  “I’m scared.”

  “Why are you scared?”

  “Because I don’t know why you’re here.”

  “We just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  Scruggs smiles. He is pale and his black hair is very coarse. His gray suit is about the same color as my former cubicle. His hands are hairy and his face is covered with day-old stubble. He looks as tired as I feel.

  “We think you know why you’re here, Mr. Phillips.”

  I am unprepared for this. During the entire episode I’ve imagined these men following me, or perhaps even seen them following me, and have assumed when they finally approached it would be to provide answers. Before they killed me.

  “The only thing I’ve done wrong is accidentally drive off the highway interchange.”

  Scruggs looks at me, waiting for me to say something else. Seconds tick by and the silence reinforces my fear. Will they kill me here? Or do it in public, make it look like an accident? Like on the freeway, for instance?

  “I hardly think the FBI would be worried about something like that,” I decide to add.

  “You’re right,” Scruggs says. “We don’t care about that at all.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “I told you,” Smith says suddenly from across the room. He still isn’t looking at us. In fact he’s no longer stroking his chin with his hand but appears to be biting that hand just below the thumb. “I told you he wouldn’t cooperate.”

  “Special Agent Smith is a little frustrated,” Scruggs says to me. “He doesn’t like being dragged out of bed at four-thirty in the morning to conduct interviews.”

  “Who would? Why are you even here at this hour?”

  “Because we have been looking for you for a long time, Mr. Phillips. We had no real hope of finding you, to be honest. So when we learned you had been taken into custody, we felt compelled to get here as soon as we could.”

  That’s a lie. They’ve been following me for days. I know it for a fact.

  “You might not know to look at us, but we’re shocked you finally dropped into our laps like this. We figured you were way too crafty to ever get caught…especially by the local PD. I mean, come on, Mr. Phillips. You’ve been avoiding them for years.”

  Clearly this is a game of poker, and if they aren’t going to show their hands, then I’m not going to, either. Not when we’re betting for my life.

  “I’m confused. You’ve been looking for me for years? You realize I work in marketing for a company that sells sprinklers, right? I’m married. This is the first time I’ve ever broken a law. Hell, I’ve never ever gotten a speeding ticket.”

  Agent Smith, from across the room, laughs. Scruggs joins him. They both laugh for what seems like an unreasonably long time.

  Eventually even I crack a smile.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Of course you’ve never been ticketed for speeding,” Smith says. “Do you think we are idiots?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Just tell us who you’re working for,” Scruggs grunts.

  “You want to know the name of the sprinkler company?”

  But I hope they don’t ask. I just realized I don’t know the name of the sprinkler company. The one where I’ve supposedly worked for twelve years.

  “Stop fucking around,” Smith says. He approaches the table and puts his arms on it, standing between Scruggs and me. “The gig is up, Phillips. We’re right here. We’re telling you we know what’s going on. So don’t fucking lie to us.”

  I’m so confused. They have been following me. They have the information. Not me.

  “Russia? Iran? Mossad? What?”

  “You’re out of your mind,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice steady. The Mossad? What in the holy hell? “If you don’t believe me, look it up. I specialize in search engine marketing. I spend half my day surfing the Internet.”

  “We did check you out,” Scruggs says. “You work for Deckard Sprinklers. Or at least you did until Monday, when apparently you were fired. Why’d they fire you?”

  “They said I wasn’t dedicated enough.”

  “You weren’t dedicated to your wife, either?” asks Smith. “You’ve had an eventful couple of days, Mr. Phillips.”

  See. They have been following me. So why this charade?

  “Like I said,” Scruggs tells me, “we checked you out.”

  “I know you have. I’ve seen you following me. Or do you think I am an idiot?”

  The two agents look at each other, then back at me. A long moment passes while no one says anything.

  “I’ve seen you in your brown car,” I add. “So I don’t know why you’re asking me all these questions that you already know the answer to.”

  Smith slams both his hands down on the table, which rattles and jumps off the floor.

  “Stop bullshitting us!” he yells. “We know what you’re doing!”

  “What? What am I doing?”

  Scruggs says, “Thomas, things will go a lot better for you if you’re honest with us. I know you think we can’t prove anything, since we can’t produce any electronic surveillance, but the testimony of the officer and the nurse will go a long way toward convicting you.”

  “For what? Drunk driving?”

  “For obstruction of justice. Do you think there’s no penalty for defeating two separate blood alcohol tests?”

  “I did everything I was asked to do. I didn’t willfully defeat anything.”

  “Or how,” Smith growls, “when you arrived at the station, you rendered the video surveillance system inoperable.”

  “What?”

  “It was fantastic work, to be honest, disabling the system in only the areas where you were present, and then turning it back on when you were clear. We aren’t sure yet how you did it, but we’ll figure it out. In any case it’s a crime to interfere with a law enforcement investigation, Thomas.”

  “That’s absurd,” I say. “How could I possibly do what you’re suggesting? How could anyone?”

  “You’ve been doing it for years,” Smith growls.

  It’s one thing to imagine you are somehow immune to any sort of surveillance or tests, but another thing to have it verified by the FBI.

  “Fine,” Smith says. “We’ll play your little game and tell you what we know. There are video cameras mounted at every major intersection in this city, and they sporadically fail. So do security cameras at banks, in shopping malls, everywhere. We’ve never been able to pinpoint who was behind these failures, and for good reason, since they never appear on camera. Now, finally, some guy named Thomas Phillips gets taken into police custody and the same fucking thing happens right here at the police station.

  “Do you understand now, Mr. Phillips? We know. We know.”

  What Smith is saying doesn’t seem right, though. If those cameras really do fail every time I pass them, surely someone could systematically figure out where and when this was happening and watch those places in person. Even if the electronic devices can’t track me, human eyes obviously can. And we’ve already established the tedium of my daily routine. Surely someone—anyone—could have watched the intersections I pass through every day and eventually figured out it was me who jamming the video cameras.

  Something with these FBI agents isn’t what I expected. I’m not as afraid of them anymore. They keep telling me they know what’s going on, but really
it doesn’t seem like they know anything more than me.

  “Why are there cameras at so many intersections, anyway?” I ask them.

  Smith makes a blustery sound of disgust.

  “They’re intended to monitor traffic patterns,” Scruggs says. “To help optimize the flow of traffic.”

  “Well, they aren’t doing a very good job because it seems like I’m always stuck at a red light.”

  Scruggs chuckles. “However, upgraded cameras have been installed in many of these systems, which helps track the movement of suspected criminals and terrorists.”

  “He knows all this!” Smith yells. By now he is back on the other side of the room. His arms are folded over his chest.

  “This is ridiculous,” I tell them, feeling bolder now. “I was arrested for DUI. I’m sober now and I would like to leave.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” Smith says.

  “Why not? I served my night in jail.”

  “All you have to do,” Smith says, trying to sound patient but not doing a very good job of it, “is tell us the truth. It’s very simple. Tell us who you are working for and we’ll let you go. We know you aren’t the important one here, Mr. Phillips. But we also know you can tell us who is.”

  That’s a rather ironic statement, since it seems right now as if the entire world revolves around me. And whether or not I’m crazy for believing this, it may not matter. If I’m living a story that’s already written, then whatever is going to happen was going to happen, anyway.

  The problem is I’m not quite sure I believe that. And besides, there’s no way to know. I have no choice but to behave as though I can affect the outcomes of things, because the alternative would be foolish and depressing.

  “What on earth do you think I could be doing? What information do I have access to? I told you what my job is. You verified it. What sort of espionage could I possibly be involved in?”

  To my surprise, Smith pulls out a cigarette. He lights it with a blue Bic lighter and squints at me.

  “Mr. Phillips, did you or did you not write a screenplay about the leader of a covert think tank that tries to get himself elected president of the United States?”

  “Oh, come on. Is that what you’re going with? I made that stuff up. I found it all on the Internet.”

  “So you admit you did write it.”

  “Yes, of course I wrote it. It was optioned in 1998.”

  “And again in 1999,” Scruggs adds.

  “That’s pretty standard procedure.”

  “Did you find it surprising the screenplay was never turned into an actual movie?”

  “No. Depressing, maybe, but you must know most optioned screenplays never become feature films.”

  “That screenplay seemed to foretell a lot of world events that have happened in the years since,” Scruggs says. “Like for instance a terrorist attack on the World Trade Center.”

  “That already happened once before I wrote the script. Everyone in the world knew the World Trade Center was a target. Besides, in my film the terrorists stuff their clothes full of C4 plastic explosive.”

  “There was also a contested election in your screenplay. And a major hurricane hit on New Orleans.”

  “There were seven major hurricanes in my film. It was an end-of-days story. You’re grasping at straws here. And again I have to ask what you think I was doing. Where would I have obtained information? Who was I supposedly passing it to?”

  Smith walks back to the table. He takes a big drag on his cigarette, bends down, and blows smoke in my face. His breath is a putrid mix of cigarettes and coffee.

  “Fine, Mr. Phillips. Let’s forget about that film and discuss your current project.”

  Is it me, or is it cold in this room? Suddenly very cold.

  “My current project?”

  “Yes,” Smith says. “Could you summarize it for us, please? Generally.”

  I look at him. I try hard not to blink.

  “I’m not working on anything right now.”

  “We pulled the file from your computer at work,” Scruggs says. “Just tell us.”

  “You have the file?”

  “Just tell us, Thomas,” Scruggs repeats. “We already looked at it.”

  “Fine. There is this guy, this regular Joe, and a couple of federal agents are convinced he’s the mastermind behind a plot to dismantle the country’s electronic infrastructure. They chase him across the country in an effort to stop him.”

  Beats of time tick by while no one says anything.

  “So perhaps,” Scruggs finally says, “you can understand why we want to know more about your screenwriting.”

  “I don’t know how it’s happening. I swear. I had no idea until the breathalyzer wouldn’t work. I swear it.”

  “You wrote about it in your fucking screenplay!” Smith barks.

  “I don’t…I don’t know how to explain that. I don’t understand what’s going on. I don’t. Everything is all confused. Nothing is right.”

  I look away from them, at the ceiling, at the floor, and when I look back Scruggs hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He sits only a few feet away. For the first time I realize he’s as frightened as I am.

  “Is that us in the screenplay, Thomas?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know. I wrote that before any of this happened. I don’t know what’s going on. But you guys have been following me the past couple of days. I’ve seen you.”

  “We haven’t been following you,” Scruggs patiently says.

  “Well, how in the hell did I see you, then?”

  “You tell us,” Smith says from across the room.

  “I saw you. I saw you in those Stetson hats. How could I dream up something like that? It’s not exactly common to see a couple of guys dressed like you.”

  “No,” Scruggs says. “It isn’t.”

  “So now what happens?” asks Smith. “Or should we just take a look at the script?”

  “This is why you guys have called me in here? It’s not because you think I’m jamming surveillance?”

  No one says anything.

  “I’d like to go now,” I tell them.

  “We don’t have to let you go. We can hold you for forty-eight hours, or longer if we identify you as a possible terrorist.”

  “Oh, come on. I am not a terrorist.”

  “Then explain to us how all this is happening. The surveillance, the screenplay. All of it.”

  “Is it happening right now?” I ask them. “Are there any video cameras in this room or outside that window that are malfunctioning right now?”

  “That’s a mirror,” Smith grunts.

  “Because if there are, I invite you to strip search me right here. Do a body cavity search. I don’t care. You won’t find anything. I’m not doing anything. If something is happening it isn’t my fault.”

  “Maybe the device is implanted somewhere inside your body,” Scruggs says. “Or maybe it isn’t a device at all.”

  “What do you think it is, then?”

  “I’ve encountered some pretty unbelievable things since I joined the Bureau,” Scruggs says. “Although I will admit this is the strangest.”

  “Maybe you have. But that doesn’t mean I committed any crime. This isn’t The X-Files.”

  What a ridiculous thing to say. This is exactly like The X-Files. A moment of silence drifts by, directionless, like a White Star ocean liner.

  “You’re right,” Scruggs says. “You haven’t committed any crime, other than the DUI.”

  “So let me go, then.”

  “Fine,” Scruggs says. “You’re free to go.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You’ll be discharged after you’ve been at the station a total of three hours. Do you have a way to get home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Here’s my card,” Scruggs says, handing me a business card with the name “George Scruggs” printed next to the FBI seal. “Our investigation is ongoing, and we will be in touch.”
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  The confusion on my face must be obvious, because as I take the card Scruggs adds:

  “I would appreciate a call if you decide to leave town. Surely you understand our interest in you remains high.”

  “I know you’re going to follow me.”

  “Please,” he says. “Call me if you decide to leave town.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  On the way back to my cell I notice most of the drunk tank prisoners are gone. I cross my fingers and hope Runciter is still there, but he isn’t. Scruggs tells me to expect an officer to return within the hour to process and discharge me from custody, and once they’re gone I am alone.

  It’s very quiet in the cell, so quiet the ringing in my ears is pronounced again, almost deafening. After standing there for a few moments I lie down on the fiber optic cot and close my eyes. I wonder if Gloria will answer, if she would be willing to pick me up. The thought of seeing her face is almost enough to bring me to tears, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I call her. If she agrees to pick me up, there are going to be consequences. For instance she will suggest that I seek help—psychological help—and I’ll only drive her further away if I refuse. But I don’t want to seek treatment. A therapist is never going to believe me. No one is. Even if I showed them VALIS and went through all the unlikely details, everyone is going to think I’m crazy.

  Let’s for a moment stop thinking about my life as a plot and consider it more as the existence of a real human being. What should I do next? I need a way to get to my car. I need rest. My ears aren’t just ringing…they are roaring from a hangover that is slowly but steadily consuming me. My eyes sting. I can barely hold them open. My hands are shaking. My entire body feels wrung dry, as if there is not a single molecule of water to be found in any tissue, anywhere. The jail cell spins vaguely, as if orbiting around me. And right now it seems like none of these things, not one, will ever get better. How could anything get better? My whole life has been turned upside down, and at this point the existence of the universe itself is dubious at best.

  To be honest, I’m not sure I ever want to leave this fiber-optic cot. It’s more comfortable than you might think. In a perfect world the clear filaments would eventually work their way into my skin, and at some point they would begin to stimulate my nervous system with information that is surely passed from a computer. The filaments only appear to be a cushion, but are really cables that pass data and energy, enabling me to lie here in a vegetative state, being fed stimuli and dreams and fantasies and memories…