by Pat Bertram
“I thought Sissy got you,” he said in a loud, sibilant whisper. “Do you want a ray deflector? I can show you how to make one.”
Bob gave the suggestion a moment’s consi-deration. In a way, it would be a great disguise since no one ever looked closely at the foil man; on the other hand, the foil itself attracted attention.
“No thank you,” he said, propelling himself out of his seat. He stretched, not at all refreshed by his nap, and left the theater. The foil man followed along behind.
Bob turned to look at him. “What’s your name?”
The man stared wide-eyed at him for a few seconds, then bolted down the street.
A bus pulled to the curb. Bob climbed aboard, thinking prey such as he should keep on the move.
He gazed out the window, watching the world pass by. Toward the end of the line, he got off the bus and walked to a nearby motel.
He asked for a room at the back.
The blowsy, bleached-blond clerk glanced at the name on his registration card and handed him a key. “You’re in luck, Mr. Blake. We still have one vacancy on that side. Room two-thirty-two.”
Bob sat on the bed in the bland but clean room and stared at the ecru walls. He’d heard something today that kept poking at him, demanding to be acknowledged.
Then it came to him. Baritone had said, “I thought for sure the funeral would have flushed him out.”
Had the obituary been a hoax after all? If so, it certainly had been an elaborate one, involving, as it did, a real burial.
Or at least the appearance of one.
***
Bob ordered dinner at the restaurant attached to the motel. Hunger made his stomach growl, but he ate slowly, savoring every mouthful of chicken-fried steak smothered in brown gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, and cherry pie.
“Can I get you anything else, honey?”
Bob looked at the waitress, a hefty, tired-looking woman about his own age.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
She fluffed her short, curly brown hair, and smiled flirtatiously. “I get off at ten.”
Bob studied her with interest, contemplating her offer. Although she wasn’t his type, she seemed pleasant, if sad and lonely. Besides, he hadn’t been with a woman since he left Thailand.
“I’m staying at the motel,” he said non-committally, in case he misread the situation.
“What room?”
“Two-thirty-two.”
“I’ll meet you there when I get off work.” She turned to walk away, then glanced back at him, frowning as if she already regretted her proposition.
At five after ten, she knocked on Bob’s motel door. As soon as he let her in, she unbuttoned her uniform. She displayed no hint of the flirtatiousness she had shown in the restaurant, no smile, no small talk. She finished undressing with an air of dogged determination and slid between the sheets.
When he lay beside her, she took him in her arms, still exhibiting no amorous expectancy. Her manner seemed to be that of a person who had decided on a course of action and now wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
He wondered if she was punishing someone. Husband? Boyfriend? Herself? Had she picked him, thinking he’d deliver the retribution swiftly? If so, she had picked the wrong man. Neither his own urgency, nor her lack of it would hurry him.
He explored her body, luxuriating in the feel of her heavy breasts, the soft mound of her belly, her padded hips.
When he finally entered her, he felt his body melt into hers, and he lay on top of her for a few moments without stirring to prolong the sensation.
He moved in her, slowly, steadily. He caught the scent of frangipani in her perfume. All at once sixteen years disappeared, and he was back in Thailand, the first time he’d gone to Madame Butterfly’s.
***
Madame Butterfly smiled at him, a tiny knowing smile, and ushered him down the hall of her brothel to a small room, where she left him alone.
The room looked nice enough, but compared to the sumptuously ornate reception area, it seemed simple. The walls had been painted a very pale gold, and a darker gold carpet lay on the floor. An ordinary bed made up with white cotton sheets, two pillows, and a red and gold spread jutted out from one wall. Next to the head of the bed stood a small red lacquer table with a fringed Chinese lamp on it, and at the foot of the bed reposed a matching red lacquer bench. A decorative folding screen partitioned off one corner.
A Chinese woman stepped out from behind the screen. She dressed like the other girls in a silk cheongsam, but she was older, angular—no soft femi-nine curves at all—and exceedingly plain.
The woman came to him, took his hand, and led him behind the screen to a plant-filled bathroom containing a shower stall and a tub filled with steaming water redolent of frangipani and sandalwood.
She undressed him slowly and methodically, and hung his clothes on a rack. Then she turned on the water in the shower and gestured for him to rinse himself off.
Afterward, she took his hand again and led him to the tub. Feeling his control slipping, he got into the fragrant water and lay back. The woman stepped out of her dress, knelt by the tub, picked up a bar of strange-smelling soap, and washed him. All her movements were brisk and unsensual. Still, by the time she had finished, he tingled with desire from head to toe, and he had an immense erection.
When she helped him out of the tub and began to dry him vigorously, he grabbed her and pulled her toward him. Instead of putting her arms around him, she reached down, cupped his balls, and jabbed the tip of her finger into a pressure point at the base of his scrotum. He sucked in his breath. The immediacy of his need drained away, but his erection grew even harder.
She laid him on the bed and proceeded to massage his head, his scalp, behind his ears. Slowly she worked her way almost to his groin, then she skipped to his toes and worked her way up his legs.
By the time she reached the top of his thighs, he was gasping for breath, desperately in need of release, but again she jabbed him with a finger, and again the immediacy passed.
She played with his nipples, soft bites and gentle scratches, acting as if she had all the time in the world. She turned her attention to his belly and finally to his crotch.
He lay there passively while she stoked his desire to a red-hot electric glow, igniting erogenous zones he didn’t even know existed.
After one more painful poke, she climbed on top of him. She rode him steadily until he exploded with an orgasm so great he felt as if he had shattered into a million pieces.
Through it all, the woman never stopped moving. Still sensitized, he could feel himself grow hard again immediately.
He fell asleep for a few moments while she rode him, and he had the most wonderful dream of everlasting sex. His orgasm awakened him. This time it didn’t come as a shattering explosion, but like surf crashing on the shore—warm, sweet waves of bliss that she managed to keep ebbing and flowing for so long he finally passed out from sheer exhaustion.
When he awoke, he gazed at the angular Chinese woman lying next to him. She smiled at him, not erotically as would be expected from such an accomplished courtesan, but innocently, almost mis-chievously, like a young girl. Looking at her, he could not believe that for even a second he had considered her plain—she was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
***
The sudden scream from the Denver woman bucking wildly beneath Bob brought him out of his trance. He erupted; the woman screamed once more. They collapsed and lay still.
Later they came together again and yet again before they arose in the morning. While she dressed, she kept staring at him. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it.
She left without saying anything.
Chapter 6
Bob looked at the address he had written on a scrap of paper, then at the group of buildings. Sperling Plaza, the sign said.
His brother lived in a downtown office complex? He checked the address again. Accordi
ng to the phone book, his brother did live here somewhere.
As he ambled about the plaza looking for his brother’s building, he came across the sales office with publicity stills of the sales representatives in the window. Although the men and women all looked alike—smug, arrogant, prosperous—one face jumped out at him. The nameplate under the photograph confirmed it was his brother.
He went inside. The receptionist talking on the phone didn’t look up as he strode past her. He saw an office door with Jackson’s name on it, but found it locked.
When Bob left the building, he heard a man’s overloud laugh. He turned his head to see his brother talking to a well-dressed couple in their thirties.
“You’re going to love it here,” Jackson said, clapping the man on the back and winking at the woman. “I myself live in one of the condos, and I couldn’t be happier. Close proximity to great restaurants, theaters, museums, and shopping, to say nothing of the fabulous views—what more could a successful young couple like you want?”
Bob shook his head, thinking his brother still acted like a charmer—a snake charmer. He wondered if the prospective customers were aware of the cool calculating look in Jackson’s eyes, or if they only noticed the wide smile, the bright teeth, the too effusive personality.
As if he heard Bob’s thoughts, Jackson absently glanced his way, but didn’t seem to notice him.
***
“I thought you left town,” Kerry said, bringing Bob his hot chocolate. “I haven’t seen you in here for a few days.” Putting her hands on her hips, she frowned at him. “You look different.”
Bob stirred his drink, watching the swirls of whipped cream disappear into the chocolate.
Kerry sat across from him, folded her arms on the table, and leaned forward. “You’ve discovered something.”
“Maybe.” He told her about going to the VA, and how his records indicated that he had no left foot.
“Robert limped,” she said, eyes bright. “Those must be his records.”
“Could be, or perhaps my name ended up on another person’s file. According to Dr. Albion, such things are not uncommon in the military.”
While he sipped from his cup, he could feel Kerry’s gaze focused on him.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said at last. “I’ve never known anyone who talks as little as you do.”
His head came up. “It seems as if lately that’s all I do.”
Light dancing in her eyes, she shook a finger at him. “You’re evading.”
He sighed. “It’s too bizarre. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a maze of mirrors, and I can’t tell if what’s reflected back at me is real or not.”
He busied himself with his chocolate, but she leaned forward and stared at him until he finally gave in.
“When I came home from a walk yesterday, I found two men searching my room for papers. Apparently, they’ve been looking for me and those papers ever since I arrived in Denver.” Spoken aloud, it sounded paranoid even to him.
She straightened. “What men? What papers? Why you?”
“I’ve been asking myself those very questions.”
“What did you do?”
“I left, of course. Spent the night in a motel. I went back to the boardinghouse this morning and discovered a couple of men staking my place out. They’re still there. I checked before I came here.”
“What’s that?” Kerry asked, indicating the shopping bag on the seat next to him.
“I bought some clothes and toiletries since it doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to get into my room for a while.”
She gave him a considering look. “Does this have anything to do with your other self?”
“I don’t see how, though two completely different strangenesses centered on a single individual are a bit much to swallow.”
“Could the obituary have been a hoax after all? To lure you in?”
He wanted to smile at the way their minds seemed to be working in concert, but his face wouldn’t cooperate. It felt rigid, as if made of brick.
He worked his jaw. “I’ve been playing the funeral over in my mind, and it sure seemed real. I also went downtown today to the offices of the newspaper the obituary was in and found out the notice was paid for by Jackson. I located him, but I walked away without saying anything. Then it occurred to me that maybe the other obituary held the key.”
“The first one,” she breathed.
He nodded. “I checked both the News and the Post, going through a month’s worth of obituaries—two weeks before my mother died the first time and two weeks afterward—and I didn’t find a funeral notice.” He stole a look at her. “You probably think I’m as delusional as the rest of the denizens of Colfax.”
Laughter gleamed in her eyes. “I can adjust.” Then, “What are you going to do now?”
“Find a motel for the night.”
“You can stay with me.” She seemed as sur-prised by the words as he did.
“I don’t imagine Pete’s Porches would appre-ciate that,” he said.
The light in her eyes fractured into a whole galaxy of stars. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you. I left the cheater. I’m staying with a friend, and she’s out of town for a couple of days, so no one will know you’re there. Maybe together we can figure this out.”
Bob felt the hollowness in his chest ease.
She slid out of the booth. “I’ll be right back. I need to make a phone call.”
Returning, she announced, “I got someone to cover for me tonight. She’ll be here in an hour or two.” When the door opened to admit several customers, she added, “It looks like I’ll be busy until then. Oh, no! What’s he doing here? He’s been eighty-sixed.”
Catching sight of the foil-helmeted man loping toward him, Bob held out a hand to Kerry. “Let him stay. He can keep me company while you work.”
She gave him a dubious glance. “You know him?”
“Not really. But on some level we seem to connect.”
She pushed back her hair. “Okay, but if he bothers anyone, you have to get rid of him.”
“All right. When you get a chance, will you bring two meatloaf specials? Also a cup of coffee for him?”
She nodded. Writing the order, she hurried off.
The man in the foil helmet neared and shoved something toward Bob’s face.
Bob’s hand shot out reflexively and he grabbed the object.
The man jumped back. He looked at Bob for a second before sliding his gaze away. “Sissy will get you. Sissy gets everyone in the end.”
“Probably,” Bob said, gesturing for the man to sit.
The man furiously shook his head no.
“Why not?”
The eyes darted back and forth. “They don’t like me here.”
“Tonight it’s okay.”
The foil man hesitated, then lowered himself onto the seat as if he were afraid it would blister him. He gripped the edge of the table, trembling with the effort to hold himself in check.
Bob examined the object the man had given him: a red nametag about the size of a credit card, with a nickel alligator clip attached to it. At first glance, the card seemed imprinted with only the name Herbert J. Townsend, a barcode, and a photograph bearing a vague resemblance to the foil man, but when Bob slanted the card, he saw the words Information Services, Incorporated encircling a holographic eagle with the letters ISI inscribed on it.
The last time Bob had seen the man he had asked for his name. Showing the nametag seemed more than Herbert’s way of responding; he seemed to want Bob to know he had once had a real life, been a real person.
When Herbert’s hand inched its way across the table, Bob gave him back the card. As Herbert carefully stowed it in his shirt pocket, it suddenly dawned on Bob the man didn’t harangue about a girl named Sissy, but about ISI, which he pronounced Issy.
Kerry paused by the booth long enough to place a cup of coffee on the table and give Bob a look that clearly said, “I hop
e you know what you’re doing,” then she moved on to the next customer.
“Are you Herbert Townsend?” Bob asked.
The foil man gave a start as if it had been a long time since he’d heard the sound of his own name. He hunched over his coffee, shoulders curved forward. After a long moment, he bowed his head in a tiny nod.
“You worked for Information Services, Incorp-orated?”
Again that barely perceptible nod.
Bob studied him for a minute. The photograph had shown a man with slicked hair, a fleshy face, and a cocky smile, while the man sitting across from him, noisily gulping from the cup he held in both hands, was gaunt, almost skeletal, as though his mission consumed him physically as well as mentally. He dressed in threadbare jeans and a torn tee shirt, and despite the nippy weather, he wore no jacket.
Townsend looked down at himself then up at Bob, a slight deprecating smile smoothing away his usual glower, and Bob caught a glimpse of the man he must have once been.
“What happened?” Bob asked softly.
Townsend shrugged and drained the rest of his coffee. Bob noticed he seemed less twitchy with the caffeine in him.
By the time Townsend had worked his way through meatloaf, whipped potatoes with gravy, salad, a chocolate sundae, and copious cups of coffee, he acted subdued. Bob remembered coffee used to have a reverse effect on his father, too. Edward had always guzzled several cups of coffee before going to bed, claiming it helped him sleep.
After Kerry had taken away the dishes and refilled the coffee cup, Townsend gave Bob a sidelong glance and whispered, “They put a microchip in my brain.”
“Who did?” Bob asked.
“Smeary people.”
“Smeary people? You mean they looked blurry?”
A nod.
“Were you drugged?”
Townsend seemed to give this some thought. “Must have been,” he said at last.
“Why did they put the chip in your brain?”
“So they can control what I’m thinking.” Townsend touched the aluminum foil helmet. “This protects me so I don’t have to believe what they want me to believe.”
