Power

by Thomas Hollyday

  “This car is fortified for a war,” he joked as he sat back in his seat beside her. “Comfortable, though.”

  “Not unless you start one,” she answered curtly, looking out her window at the peaceful town street.

  “Someone put a bomb on our ship yesterday.” He watched for emotion but she showed none.

  “Did you find out who did it?”

  “No, but it may have been one of the Tinker protestors who have marched against us at the port.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. The volunteers are often very enthusiastic and unfortunately sometimes get hurt. We have no control or knowledge of their activities.”

  The limousine moved slowly down the main street of River Sunday. He thought the faces of the onlookers on the street looked apprehensive, perhaps fearful. Ahead drove one of the green SUVs with several men inside. Behind Tinker’s car another SUV followed. Far to the front of the convoy he noticed the sheriff’s cruiser with its red lights forcing local traffic out of the way.

  Soon they left the town. Fields of corn and soybeans covered both sides of the highway as they sped to Baltimore. He had the momentary sense of entering a cell in a strange prison, one which might never let him regain his liberty.

  He pointed to the scar on Elizabeth’s forehead that her hair tried to cover. “Did Ferrars ever ask how you got that scar?” he asked.

  “Most people are not like you. They don’t mention it, and I don’t talk about it.”

  “If you’re their boss, I doubt they dare. I figure you are the boss from hell after meeting you at the farm.”

  He knew the story. Elizabeth grew up in a poor section of Boston. Her mother barely existed in the poverty, thin with stringy brown hair going gray. Loggerman always saw her in the same blue-checked dress, washed clean. Elizabeth’s father, a large muscular man with a rosy grinning face, was around most of the day in his repair shop, working as the neighborhood handyman.

  The mother told him young Elizabeth once followed her dad around and stood close to him at his tool bench. One stifling hot summer’s day a pipe he was grinding came loose and rolled across the floor, making the child step back. As Loggerman heard it, the father picked up the pipe and drove it angrily at his daughter, hitting her above the eye. Neither parent could explain why this happened but Elizabeth avoided her father afterwards.

  “So you will plague me all the way to Baltimore with these comments?”

  Loggerman grinned. “How you got to be a manager with Ferrars, I can’t figure. You never really got along with men. In Africa you disliked the chief of the village. Obviously I learned right away you hated me from the start of our marriage.”

  “I trusted we had something for a while. Having a child did me in.”

  “Still don’t understand why you took Stephanie with you to the States.”

  “I could not stand her staying with you.”

  “Boy, did she get a treat. Your mother? Did you ever see her again?”

  “She left my father. She remarried. He is a rich man who keeps her in a big house in Florida. She’s not thin anymore. She’ll never have a child again, she swore to me. She called me a fool for having Stephanie. She said it made me a slave to a man.”

  “You did the same as she did. She must have laughed at you.”

  “Yes. In her eyes I had to live that down.”

  She hesitated, “I found out I did not regret Stephanie.”

  He said, “Made you feel good. Using her, you could get at me. You had it in for me.”

  “I was afraid you would act like my father. I worried about you hurting her.”

  “I could not have hurt her more than your keeping her in this Tinker hell.”

  “You don’t know anything.” She looked at him and did not answer. After a few moments, she reached for her scar and tried to smooth it into the surrounding flesh as if to make it disappear.

  Loggerman added, “You and Ferrars make a nice couple. You both have scars on your faces. His is also deadly.”

  She winced and said, “You don’t play by the rules. Think about it, Loggerman. All you had to do was come to Baltimore, load your ship, and go on your way.”

  “I want my daughter.”

  “Your daughter doesn’t want you. Don’t you know that by now?”

  He replied, pointing into the next compartment, “Don’t you know that Cole doesn’t want you anymore?”

  She smiled at Tinker fondling the woman in the next compartment. “It’s true - he never stays with any one woman.”

  “I should feel sorry for you. Men seem to let you down.”

  “I’ve been his assistant t since those days in Congress and he always treated me fairly. I have no complaint.”

  “You and the rest of his harem.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’d hardly say I’m part of a harem.”

  “Have it your own way.”

  “You don’t know what a great man he is, Loggerman. We’re all proud to be helping him. When we help him we help all people.”

  “Free energy?”

  “I’m coming to that. In the Congressional days I came over here a few times. Then it was only a few houses, some cows and chickens, and a few fields planted to corn and soybeans.”

  “I get the picture. Very bucolic and innocent.”

  “Many sent him letters complaining about the high cost of energy for their homes, their cars, their children’s schools, and their businesses. Of course, other issues came across his desk in those years. However, I noticed that he read more and more about the energy issues. He corresponded with the major energy companies trying to get their opinions on solutions. He went to various groups in the population concerned with the future and tried to get opinions and ideas. In short, with his connections he became sort of a clearinghouse. We set up a newsletter and later our website, Tinker Time, devoted to the subject. Young people came to us to work for Tinker, to help in the energy crisis in any way that they could.”

  She sighed. “It was very exciting for me, meeting all these leaders. You have to understand, too, that this was not just a national issue but one of great international import. Letters of interest in his work came from people and organizations all over the world. After he had retired to pursue this full time, we set up the compound as a center.

  “As we worked on the problem we found out that a very simple thing had happened in the energy world. We studied history. Early man controlled his own energy. With civilization the sources of energy became profit centers for the strong. The price of energy went up and the poor had to pay for something they had once had free. Over time this control of energy became more oppressive. Today’s world is no different. It even happened in River Sunday among the farmers and town businessmen. Everyone wanted cheap energy but they wanted to make money even more. So instead of doing anything about the problem they raised their prices to pay for the energy and thus catered to the incomes of the rich. The poor began to get less and less use of the energy supplies. In time many of the same farmers were hurt too. All of these people turned to Tinker as a former politician who might be able to help them turn this around.

  “This is when Tinker came up with his breakthrough. Tinker stated, and this was his brilliance, free energy was a given right of every human being, of every citizen of the United States. It’s the same as medical care, food, housing, education and security.”

  “Tinker is not that smart. It sounds like someone gave him the idea.”

  She paused. “We all worked with him.”

  “What did Ferrars do that you didn’t?”

  “He brought in the money, the big funding.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Everyone gave what he or she could from our social media audience. He also organized all the young people who were coming to us to work. He hired Spire to teach them.”

  “So the Tinker’s hold on Stephanie is Ferrars’ fault?”

  She sighed again. “He’s very powerful. You should not cross him. Do what he say
s at least for our daughter’s sake.”

  “For her sake or for yours?”

  She looked away.

  Facing him and sprawled in the adjoining compartment was Cole Tinker. On each side of the man was a woman, one of them he recognized as Spire. The other was Bitchy, whom he had seen in the computer room.

  Spire was dressed in the same prim business outfit but the jacket was open and her hair disheveled. In a moment he could see why. Cole was so intoxicated he would suddenly wave his arms and legs and Spire was getting the worst of these motions. Cole’s arms knocked her back against the seat several times.

  The other woman held his left hand tight against her large right naked breast. She was more successful in pinning him against the seat. Bitchy was taller and her size gave her an advantage.

  At that moment, Tinker sat up abruptly, his drunken eyes staring through the compartment glass at Loggerman. “What’s this guy doing here?”

  “He’s speaking tonight. Mister Ferrars wanted him brought to Baltimore,” said Spire.

  “For what? The guy ought to be sent back to Africa.” He gestured at Loggerman, his right arm flailing, both women trying to hold him back against the seat. “You get the hell out of here, Loggerman. You are trouble.” He collapsed back against the upholstery, muttering, “Ferrars ought to send him back to Africa.”

  As they drove Loggerman thought about Stephanie. Years ago, when she was small, he taught her and her friends knot tying by the Niger River. They’d follow to the rowboat tied at the fragile dock the villagers used for their canoes and motorboats, He dressed in brown cut off shorts, his feet bare. He waded out and held the line tying the boat to a pole. “This is a line,” he said. Each one would repeat. The local boys and girls, the sons and daughters of his workers, spoke with accents. Stephanie used Edo, the local language. He’d tell them the knot tying stories so they would remember the twists as they laughed together. The wife of the chief would bring them snacks. Then from the direction of the sun, the chief would fly over in his ancient red Waco biplane and make them cheer.

  Elizabeth spoke in his ear “People are ahead of us who do not want Tinker. They hate him. The fools.” He watched her face redden, the scar deepen with anger.

  The afternoon had passed to twilight and shadows. The Tinker convoy moved slowly through this part of Baltimore. The streetlights brightened the concrete and darkened the spaces between the old apartment tenements. The driver did not stop for red lights but instead coasted slowly through each intersection.

  As they arrived at the avenue on which the conference center stood, the neighboring streets filled with people. On the sidewalks Loggerman saw men and women of all ages standing in groups holding signs. Some wore headdresses in the shape of flashlights that twinkled on and off. The collections of signs appeared equally matched pro and con free energy. Angry faces stared hotly and screamed “Up with Energy,” contrasted with “No Free Lunch.” As the car progressed, moving slower against the hordes, the dress of the mobs changed, the suits becoming more expensive, the women more stylishly dressed. Green was everywhere in hats and shirt colors. The anger in the eyes and mouths did not change and if anything, grew more intense. Some signs welcomed the convoy with jeers of “Hello Comrade. We are not communists.”

  “I see Tinkers everywhere,” the guard from the front seat optimistically announced on the car speaker.

  “Yes, but the others are here too,” said Spire. “Wake up, honey, your fans are here.”

  Tinker grunted, his eyes opening, as he retched into the lap of Bitchy. She said, “You’re all right, Sweety. You get well for your speech.”

  Spire mouthed, “Clean it up.”

  She looked at the vomit and moved slightly away from Tinker, her left hand sweeping at the fabric of her dress.

  “Got to like the smell, girl, or you only get one night,” Bitchy said with a laugh.

  Spire sneered as she turned to the window.

  The car stopped, surrounded by the mob. Two men, one in Tinker green, the other very tall in a red and white clown costume, traded blows near the front right bumper. The fight spread along the side of the big limousine. Red bricks began to crash against the car metal, the metallic thuds echoing inside.

  A police truck stopped nearby. The protestors overwhelmed it, stamping on its roof. Green-starred Tinkers rocked it back and forth. One broke the front window and attacked the officer in the front seat.

  A woman in police camouflage climbed out of the vehicle and pushed the rioters off the truck top. She ordered the crowd back and pointed a stubby machine gun at them. They approached her and she waved the muzzle of the gun. Another Baltimore police officer in regular uniform tried to assist her and got shot by someone in the crowd. He fell to the street, his hand trying to trap blood spurting from his stomach.

  The crowd of anti-Tinkers, led by the clown, ripped the gun from her. Loggerman saw her thrown down. The crowd ripped at her clothes and weapons belt. He saw her crawling, half naked, trying to climb a brick wall of a building to escape into a first floor window. The crowd found her and pulled her back.

  Another officer tried to come out of the truck. He opened one of the back side doors. The front of the truck burst into fire. He got only part way out and was caught. The crowd pushed against the door causing his leg to be cut by the pressing steel. He brandished a weapon firing it into the air, its bullets hitting the side of the building and throwing off chips of brick. Another person grabbed the officer’s gun and, using it, hit him again and again. The crowd again tore at his uniform, ripping it to shreds, leaving him bloody and without clothes.

  Sirens were heard. The crowd began to quiet, the people standing side by side without fighting as they waited. Many had blood running down their face and arms.

  Large military trucks with soldiers arrived. It was the Maryland National Guard. Overhead the chopping drone of a helicopter arrived and the lights of search beams played over the crowd.

  “Throw down any weapons you have at once.” The helicopter command was clear and loud. “Put down your weapons at once.”

  One of the lights in the helicopter shattered from a bullet fired from the crowd. Glass and plastic shards fell among the mob. Another shot was fired and a voice from the helicopter ordered, “Get down on the ground immediately. Get down on the ground.”

  The Maryland Guard came marching through the crowd picking up weapons and ordering people back against building walls. Most moved quickly, some more slowly. One man on the ground in a green suit did not get up. A police officer, upon inspecting him, yelled back to his sergeant, “This one’s dead, Sir.”

  Loggerman spotted the burning truck raided by the mob. The policeman had succeeded in pulling his leg back into the truck. He writhed in intense pain in the back seat. Flames approached the body of the camouflage woman officer, her face and chest a mass of blood where she had been repeatedly beaten by a team of Tinkers.

  More troops now entered the street and enforced the lineup along the walls. The crowd taunted the soldiers with cardboard signs on long sticks, holding them in the soldiers’ faces. A man who had been firing at the helicopter was led away, his hands cuffed.

  The convoy moved ahead. It went by more rioters, all of them glaring at each other. Loggerman knew this was only a temporary respite. The fights would continue all over again as soon as the police left the area.

  One of the soldiers came and knocked with his pistol butt on the front windshield of Tinker’s limousine.

  “Drive ahead now.”

  They had half a block to go to get the big car into the building for the speech. Along the side of the car people stood holding large green signs as if they were battle axes. The crowd moved back as they saw Tinker’s convoy and cheering began. They parted enough for the car to get through to the garage entrance.

  Just as the car began to turn, one of the police guards lost his footing and fell on the sidewalk. Protesters lunged forward at him. The Tinker people with their free energy signs t
ried to help him. A mass of arms flayed in the air grasping at the policeman’s gun. He was kneeling. Loggerman realized he was unconscious and the crowd was keeping him erect. The man’s helmet rolled in the street liked a soccer ball.

  Others grabbed at his gun. The barrel was pushed into the crowd accompanied by shouts of

  “Energy for Many,”

  “We want freedom not communism,”

  “Go back to Russia.”

  The gun went off at the chest of a policewoman. She fell back screaming, blood gushing. The shot stampeded the mob. Some climbed on the limousine roof cheering.

  Tinker was so drunk he kept lolling his head in the laps of his attendant women. His left hand stroked Bitchy’s open vomit-covered right breast. Spire herself looked at Loggerman, her eyes cunning, as if she knew his death was coming. He stared back at her and she looked away. Meanwhile outside, a black policeman, his bloody fingers sliding on the limousine glass, grasped the car for protection as multiple hands tore at his uniform and then his exposed back. He died then, his face suffocating with the pressure of the many bodies pressing him against the car.

  The convoy rushed through the opening of the hotel and wheels squealed. The steel doors closed quickly behind, slashing at impaled protesters and throwing their blood into the air. The screams of pain receded while red puddles spread beneath the closed doors. Inside the gray walls of the garage, it was quiet except for the quiet mutter of the limousine engine.

  When Loggerman and Elizabeth got upstairs from the garage they entered a lobby festooned with flags of the free energy movement. Great banners with the green circle on a field of white hung from the ceiling. Rows of guards in Tinker uniforms and carrying submachine guns were arranged at the sides of the lobby.