Another pause.
“Mr. Stephen Rowan of 14500 Windermere Drive, Apartment D2?” The voice had changed, just slightly. It wasn’t quite as abrasive and superior. Steve thought he could have a conversation with this guy.
“Yes.” Steve’s state of awareness was beginning to recover sufficiently so that it wasn’t taking all of his concentration to talk on the phone. Unfortunately, that allowed him to begin to look around the room. If he hadn’t just received his ten-year chip from Narcotics Anonymous, he would have instantly identified this as a drug dream—and not a pleasant one.
The smashed sliding door. Glass shards covering the carpet. The dozens of framed photographs he’d hung to remind himself of the good times when he’d worked in cool places were gone. They were in a heap of wood, glass, and photo paper on the other side of his bed. Only one remained. A picture of a Lebanese militiaman with an AK-47 wearing a T-shirt decorated with a picture of an AK-47 and the words “Lebanon War.” He reached over and straightened it.
“Mr. Rowan.” The voice on the phone had changed again. Now it sounded like a person cowering with fear. Hell, this guy was afraid to speak to him. “Umm. Are you busy at the moment?”
Steve looked around the wreckage of his apartment. His cheek tickled and he touched it with a finger. He stared at the blood on his fingertip. “Busy? No, not really.”
“Would you be so kind as to consider possibly doing me a favor?”
Now the voice had gone all the way to obsequious.
“Not until you tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you want.” Steve licked his finger, tasting the blood as if it might tell him something about what had just happened. “And stop sucking up.”
“‘Sucking up’?” There was another series of clicks and silences, and the caller continued in its previous, more confident tone. “Mr. Rowan. Let me ask you a question. Could you use a job?”
Steve reached into his back pocket to check his wallet for his current financial position. Suddenly, he felt a hand stroke his butt. He jumped. When he looked down, he realized it was his own hand because he was still naked. Then, a sudden stab of pain proved that the silvery dust all over him was tiny bits of glass from his broken door and he’d just shoved a shard into his ass. He pulled his hand away sharply and held it out in front of him–carefully examining both sides.
“Mr. Rowan?”
“Oh. Sorry, I was distracted for a second. What...Oh, yeah. I have plenty of money.”
“From your increasingly occasional work as a freelance reporter?”
Steve didn’t say anything.
The caller continued. “How’s that working out for you?”
Steve surveyed his ruined stereo and television and stopped as he saw his metal-cased laptop. It was rolled into a cylinder. He wondered what in hell could do that to an expensive computer. Or at least one that had been expensive when he’d bought it.
“Don’t worry about the laptop. I think you’ll find your telephone will be sufficient.”
Steve’s eyes widened and he slowly pulled the cell phone away from his ear and regarded it carefully–again, front and back. When he turned back to the main screen, a cartoon of a hand making a “thumbs up” sign had replaced his usual home screen picture of the Lebanese militiaman.
Steve just stood there and looked at the hand. He knew it was a cartoon because it only had three fingers and a thumb. Somehow, the artist had made it look happy and confident. That worried Steve.
He heard a faint squawking from the phone. He held the phone with only two fingers and raised it gingerly until it was an inch from his ear.
“Mr. Rowan? Can you hear me?”
Steve cleared his throat and answered carefully. “Yes.”
“Good, we can continue.”
“Not until you tell me how you knew about my computer, we can’t.”
“Your computer? Oh, you mean that you were looking at it?”
“Yes. How did you know that I was looking at it?”
The voice sounded more confident, almost comradely. “That’s easy. Look straight out your window. See the apartment building with the exterior stairs?”
“They all have exterior stairs.”
“Well, the one with stairs and exceptionally ugly pink paint.”
“Got it.”
“OK. Look at the left edge of the building and then run your eye straight up.”
Steve saw the gleaming black cube of a building on the other side of the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. There were dozens of round white satellite dishes on the roof.
“OK, I see the building across the highway. The NSA or Fort Meade or whatever.”
“Just keep watching.”
Slowly, almost ceremonially, all the dishes on the roof turned, swiveled, swung, or tipped so that they were all pointed straight at him. Without thinking, Steve’s left hand moved to cover his crotch.
He made a noise, but it wasn’t a word. Something between a cough and the beginning of a scream, but definitely not a word. On the top of the black building, all the dishes nodded up and down in what he could only describe as a friendly fashion, and then moved back to their original positions.
“Mr. Rowan?”
Steve cleared his throat again. “I guess you just made that happen.”
“Yes.”
“That was better than anything I ever saw in college, even on mushrooms, but it still doesn’t tell me who you are.”
“No.”
“But it does answer the question of how you could see me.”
“Yes.”
“And demonstrates a certain amount of power over things.”
“Things and quite a few people as well.”
“I would have to say that that remains to be proven, but I can agree that you’ve gone a long way in that direction.”
“Why don’t we leave the rest of your questions for a later time and let me ask you one?”
Steve’s eyes wandered from the roof of the building across the highway. “What am I looking for?” he wondered.
Then he remembered.
“Give me just one more question first.” Steve walked out on the balcony and scanned the horizon as far as he could. “Where is the smoke?”
“Smoke?”
“Smoke. From the crash of the plane that just flew over me.”
“Mr. Rowan. Can I suggest you step back inside? Good. You were frightening several of your neighbors. No, there is no smoke and, as a matter of fact, no airplane. Since there is no airplane, there wasn’t a crash and, ergo, no smoke. That’s one of the things I’d like to hire you to investigate.”
Steve thought for a second. “I don’t like it when people say ergo. But we can deal with that later. Right now, I’d like to know why–no wait, let’s begin with how I would investigate the nonexistent crash of an airplane that wasn’t there.”
“You’re getting a bit redundant.”
“You’ll have to live with it. It’s a side effect of the unease I’m feeling due to the stress of this uncommon and aberrant situation.” Steve’s voice rose to a shout. “Stop fucking around and tell me what the hell is going on!”
“Well.” The voice on the phone paused as if choosing the next words carefully. “The jetliner did crash. At the same time, it did not crash.”
“OK, I’m relieved that you made that clear. Now that I understand, I’m hanging up.”
“Mr. Rowan! Wait! Just one more minute.”
Steve didn’t say anything, but he didn’t punch the END symbol, either. He really wasn’t sure why.
“There has been a Change.”
Steve blinked and looked at the phone. He put it back to his ear. “Did you just capitalize the word change?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, I suppose I did. This particular change is a pretty big deal and certainly deserves to be capitalized.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. What do you want me to do about this capitalized concept?”
“Would you work for me? Investigate this Cha
nge?”
Steve’s answer was quick and automatic. “I’m an experienced freelancer. I don’t work for just anyone.”
“Really? Not even if it was for the Good of the Nation?”
“Stop talking in capitals and, if you mean working for the government, the answer isn’t ‘no.’ The answer is ‘Hell, No.’”
“I believe those last two words were capitalized.” Steve’s head felt like it was about to explode. “Possibly.”
“Would it make you feel better if I hired you on a temporary freelance basis?”
Once again, the answer was swift and automatic. “What are you paying?”
“Well, I think I have unlimited funds...”
“Then you’re full of crap. I’m hanging up now.”
The phone began to vibrate in his hand and the voice became agitated. “Mr. Rowan. Don’t do that! It has to be you. No one else observed the airplane!”
Steve’s eyes closed and whatever it was that had woken him up came back with the feeling of a knockout punch. His face twisted up in anguish at the memory of all the people...their terror...their helpless panic. He groaned.
“Mr. Rowan! Are you all right?”
“Not one of my better mornings.”
“I am actually glad to hear that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d hate to think of what it might take to cause a worse morning. What’s your daily rate?”
“Five hundred dollars. Double over ten hours.” Steve always held out hope even though he hadn’t made over $350 a day for the past decade.
“You’ve got it.”
Steve opened his eyes. “Plus expenses?”
“Expenses and the use of a car and driver.”
“A car?” Steve walked over and looked out to the space in the parking lot where he’d parked his light-blue Prius. He thought it was still there, but it was difficult to tell because an enormous jet engine was smoking sullenly on top of the entire row of parked cars.
He could make out some twisted pieces of light-blue plastic in his usual parking space.
“I guess I will need a car.”
“Good. Then we are in business, right?”
“I guess so.”
“Good. I’ve got some things to do right now, but I’d appreciate it if you could begin immediately.”
Steve slowly turned around and looked at his apartment. His clothes looked as though a knife-wielding fashion critic had attacked them. He touched his laptop and it rolled away, revealing fluttering bits of paper that he deduced must be his stack of notebooks. One of his shoes was lying by his right foot. He picked it up and slowly poured broken glass out onto the floor. “I’m going to need to be paid up front, I think.”
“Not a problem. Just answer the door.” There was the synthetic clicking sound that cell phones made to indicate the end of a call.
“Answer the–”
There was a firm knock on his door.
CHAPTER THREE
Steve looked for a moment and then carefully worked his way across the glittering carpet in the manner of a trained soldier moving through a minefield. When he reached the front door, he leaned against the wall and cautiously removed the worst splinters from his bare feet before he looked through the peephole. Standing in the hall was a woman with the wide shoulders and blunted V- shaped torso of an Olympic swimmer. She was wearing a tight olive-green T-shirt, loose tan cargo pants, and a military-style dark-blue baseball cap with an extremely short blond ponytail poking out of the back. Her face had the classic beauty of a movie star–marred by the fact her nose had apparently been broken several times.
He was instantly sure he had never seen her before. He would definitely have remembered.
He watched without speaking as she reached forward and knocked again. Then she called. “Mr. Rowan? I need to speak with you on a matter of some urgency.”
Steve realized two things. First, his original assumption that anyone that good looking was knocking on the wrong door was incorrect, and second, he still had nothing on but a dusting of broken glass.
“Can you wait a second?” he called through the door.
“Yes.” Steve could almost hear the automatic “sir” that she had clipped off.
Looking around the debris that filled his efficiency apartment– hell, that now was his efficiency apartment–he could see that most of his clothing was in the usual places, i.e., strewn across chairs, bed, desk, and carpet. Consequently, all of it was covered in broken glass. He thought that it might have been a good idea to put some of his things away.
Well, it was too late, now not to mention that planning for explosions was something he’d always seen as a bad sign when he was working in battle zones. In his experience, that sort of thinking was usually followed by shaking, weeping, and leaving.
Concentrating hard, he managed to work his way back to his bureau with only two pauses to grit his teeth and stifle a scream as broken glass opened a new cut on the soles of his feet. “I have to keep my mind on what’s important here,” he thought. “Shrieking like a little girl would hardly impress that hottie at the door, would it?”
He opened the bureau drawers and examined the contents. Since it only held things he never wore, he found himself pawing through a pile of colorful, stretchy, and utterly useless exercise outfits that he’d bought in his occasional periods of irrational optimism. For Steve, exercise had always been a case of negative reinforcement. He felt like a schlub in the baggy sweats that actually fit him, so he didn’t go to the gym, and therefore couldn’t even squeeze into the cool exercise outfits.
“Well, it’s no use crying over missed gym sessions,” he thought. “Opportunity has just knocked and I shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
Finally, he pulled out a pair of red gym shorts and a black T-shirt. The shorts had CAPE MAY LIFEGUARD printed across the butt, and the shirt featured a flaming skull with the words WASHINGTON, DC: WHERE THE WEAK ARE KILLED AND EATEN.
“Not perfect,” he thought. “However, they will simply have to do.”
After he’d banged a pair of flip-flops together to get rid of the glass, he put them on, took a step, winced, removed the flip-flops, and brushed off the soles of his feet. He went through this entire routine twice before he could crunch across the carpet. He took a second to compose himself and opened the door, trying to appear casual and unruffled.
“I’m Steve Rowan. Can I help you?”
There was dead silence as the woman gave him an extremely thorough head-to-toe examination–including a glance around the side to read what was written on his rear. She shook her head slowly, took a deep breath, and appeared to gather the determination to weather a bad situation.
“No, Mr. Stephen Rowan. I’m here to help you. I’m Master Chief Petty Officer Ace Morningstar. You may call me Ace or Chief. May I come in?”
“Is this a police matter?” Steve asked. “Because if it is, the answer is ‘not without a warrant.’”
“No, I’m not with the police. I’m your driver and bodyguard. You may call me ‘Ace.’ or ‘Chief’” She reached into one of the many pockets of her cargo pants and produced a small sealed envelope. “Here’s your fee for the first week–in cash as agreed. I’d like to come in and check out your security situation. Once that’s completed, I’ll take you in my car to your first briefing.”
Steve automatically took the envelope, which felt like any other envelope filled with a fair-sized amount of cash. While his right hand was busy attempting to work out how much money was in the envelope strictly by feel, she stepped around that side and entered his apartment. She said over her shoulder, “I’m sure that these are great clothes for hanging around the apartment, but since we will be meeting with people over the age of twelve, I think you’ll be more comfortable in something a bit less…comfortable.”
Closing the door, he said with a touch of sarcasm. “Come right in. Make yourself at home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rowan, I would, but I’d never consider livi
ng in a place like this, so I can’t really consider it home.” She stepped out onto his small balcony through the empty frame of the sliding door and began a long, slow survey of his surroundings.
Tossing the envelope on the bed, Steve went to see if there were any respectable clothes that hadn’t been rendered into exquisitely painful bondage attire.
Eventually, he found a pair of khakis, a blue button-down shirt, and a blazer in the back of his closet. To his surprise, there were unopened packages of boxer shorts and socks in the lowest drawer of his bureau–a drawer he could have sworn he’d never opened in the entire time he’d lived in the apartment.
Clearly, a previous renter, a snappy dresser, had left them by the evidence of the leopard prints and pastel stripes. Steve had a vague feeling that it was wrong to wear someone else’s underwear; on the other hand, he could see by the label that they were his size. As he broke open a pair of red-white-and-blue striped boxers, he reflected that it was probably appropriate in the current state of emergency.
Just as he stripped the red gym shorts down to the floor, he heard glass break over by the window. Evidently, Ace had completed her survey.
“I have to say, it’s not much to look at.”
Steve froze as he realized his bare butt was aimed squarely at the woman’s voice. Deliberately, he switched the shorts for the boxers, stepped into the khaki pants, and pulled both up at once as he stood up. Reaching for his shirt, he said, “You mean the apartment?”
“Obviously.”
“Yeah, well, it’s usually a mess. I’d have to say that that explosion outside has significantly raised the bar on what I’d describe as a ‘mess.’”
“Explosion?”
Buttoning his shirt, Steve gestured out the window with an elbow. “Well, whatever that was that blew the sliding doors in just before you knocked. From that engine, it looks like a major jetliner crash.”
“Engine?”
Slipping his feet into the loafers that had taken a good five minutes of banging against the wall, running his hand inside, cursing, sucking on a finger until the bleeding slowed, and then repeating, Steve walked out to the balcony. He pointed at the jet engine still smoking on the parked cars. “Yeah, that big round thing with Boeing and Roll-Royce logos on it that’s sitting where my car used to be.”
The Last American Wizard Page 2
