The New Adventures of Foster Fade, The Crime Spectacularist

by Adam Lance Garcia

He scanned the paper again. “It's like the series of numbers that was on the police note and Hackrox's note.” He traced the figures with a forefinger. “What do they mean?”

  “Search me,” she said. “Telephone numbers?”

  “No. Too long.”

  “Post office boxes? Safety deposit boxes? License tags?”

  “Yeah, too many choices. But the sequence must be important.” He shook his head. “I'm going in to think.”

  “Mental lubricant is in the bottom drawer.”

  “God bless the repeal,” Fade said.

  He shouldered his way into the office and thumped down behind the desk with a sigh. He idly noticed the time as he leaned back.

  Half past twelve.

  Abruptly the building shook and a rumble brought him out from behind the desk. He darted into the reception area and found Din against the wall, her face pale as her platinum coiffure.

  “Fade?” she quavered.

  “Steady,” he told her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

  “I was going to get some coffee and must have tripped over my own stupid feet,” she said with a weak smile. “Bumped my noggin on the wall as I went down. I'll be fine.”

  “Let's get you into the office,” he said, lifting her off the floor.

  “Really, I'll be okay,” she objected.

  “You just let Papa Fade be the judge of that, hussy. Now, come on.”

  He led her into his office, not noticing the figure standing just outside the elevator, watching.

  Chapter 2

  THE BOMBS HEAT UP

  The lobby was a shambles. The revolving door hung askew while the glass in it and the other doors lay in shards everywhere. The impact of the blast had jammed the clockwork of the huge rotating metal globe, bringing it to a halt for the first time since the Planet first went to press. The bomb victims, tourists and employees alike, lay broken as police and firemen went about doing what they could to bring relief while a steady stream of screeching ambulances roared to and fro in the avenue. Smoke hung thickly in the air.

  Fade picked his way through the crowd, pausing when he noticed a small body covered with a sheet beside two others. He knelt down beside it and pulled back the cover.

  A battered Yankees ball cap tumbled out of the folds of the sheet. It was Tim. The boy must have been hit by falling debris. Fade clenched his teeth and turned his head from the sight as he replaced the cover. Sick to his stomach, he stumbled into the street, dodging rubbernecking taxis. He reached the other side of the avenue and turned to look back.

  The little gift shop next to the Planet was destroyed. Rubble from the shop was strewn into the street and sidewalk. Smoke poured from its remains. Windows had broken on all the buildings around it up to the third floor. Bits of ornamental brickwork had dislodged and burst against the pavement. He whistled and shook his head. It had been a dickens of a blast for him to feel it all the way up on the fortieth floor.

  “Some mess, huh?”

  It was Din. She must have come up beside him while an ambulance wailed off because Fade hadn't heard her approach.

  “Yeah,” he replied, watching yet another ambulance leave. He coughed as dust kicked up from its departure.

  “I hear several people died.”

  “Yeah. Tim was one,” Fade mumbled.

  Din gasped, hand flying to her face. “Tim? My God.”

  “Whoever is doing this is one heartless...” He choked off the word. Another ambulance pulled away as he turned toward Din.

  “You figure the police will think you know something about this?” Din asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Din said, “it did happen near the Planet.”

  “That means nothing,” Fade said, waving that away.

  “They might think so.”

  Fade didn't respond. The loss of life and property was bad enough, but the way the police were acting combined with the accusatory notes made it look more and more like he was being made a patsy for somebody's devilish game. This was definitely personal now, whether the bomber had intended that or not.

  But who was he?

  ***

  The offices of Bryan Manufacturing were empty as dawn rose. A large maker of printing machines in the state of New York, their biggest client was the Planet, although they also provided jobbing presses for local businesses. Located in Brooklyn, Bryan Manufacturing had been in business about ten years. People were beginning to arrive for the day's duty when the clock on the wall of the supply room ticked over to 5:30 AM.

  The blast killed or at least deafened anyone within a half mile and Bryan Manufacturing was no more. The fireball climbed nearly one hundred feet into the air, the explosion sending parts of the building raining down into the surrounding area. Police and fire trucks began arriving within minutes but all they could do was watch the place burn to the ground.

  Standing in the cover of a building just down the road, a dark figure watched the authorities in their futile efforts. He smiled and slipped away into the murk.

  ***

  Fade maneuvered through the workers busy at repairing the damage to the Planet lobby, thinking about the radio report of the explosion at Bryan Manufacturing earlier. The Planet's stringers had picked up on it within an hour of the bombing and relayed the information for a rush second morning edition, but even so the radio somehow nearly scooped them. He chewed on a doughnut as he pushed the call button for the elevator and watched the repairmen work as he waited for the car to arrive. He was very glad they could still be working. The Planet had been lucky. The building was well built and stood up to the blast fine. The building on the other side of the gift shop hadn't been so lucky. It was being prepared for demolition.

  The elevator arrived and Fade stepped in.

  “Forty,” he told the operator.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Fade.”

  As they rode in silence, Fade turned over the events of the last few hours in his head. The paper mill bombing, then near the Planet tower, then Bryan's this morning. What was the connection between the telegrams and the bombings? There had to be one, but exactly how?

  Fade stepped out on the fortieth floor. Din stood as he walked toward the office door.

  “Hi, Fade. Got something for you.” She handed him an envelope. “Another telegram. It came just an hour ago. The telegraph office said it came from a station in Yonkers.”

  He thumbed it open and unfolded the message.

  POLICE WONT HELP STOP 03131745 STOP

  He stared at the numbers. A sudden thought hit him.

  “What's today?”

  “Tuesday, why?”

  “The date. What's the date?”

  “March 13th.”

  He snapped his fingers. “March 13th. 0313.” He looked at his pocket watch. “It's just after 9:00. That means we have less than nine hours.”

  “Until what?”

  “Until the next bomb goes off,” he said. “Grab your coat. We're heading to Yonkers to talk to that telegraph office.”

  ***

  The Yonkers office was close enough to the Hudson River to smell it. Fade and Din arrived just before 11:00 to find the place already busy with lunchtime customers. Luckily, all three people in line recognized him and didn't object when he asked to step up to the window ahead of them.

  “Can I help you?” the woman behind the counter asked, eying him with interest. She was in her early twenties, sporting one of the new natural hairstyles. She tugged at a curl in the back and said, “Say, aren't you Foster Fade?”

  “That I am, my dear...” Fade said, smiling as charmingly as he could.

  “Kathy,” she said, returning the smile.

  “Kathy. I was wondering if you could tell me who sent this telegram to me? I'm afraid they neglected to sign it. As you can see, it seems to be rather urgent.”

  She took the offered telegram and quickly read it. “I don't recognize the message. Let me check the night man's log.”

  “Th
anks very much.”

  With another smile, she disappeared. Fade took the few minutes she was gone to exchange some words with the others in the office, answering questions about his past exploits that oft times he could not recall. Luckily, Din was there to “remind” him of this or that detail.

  “Mr. Fade, I have the order here,” Kathy finally said from the counter. She handed the paperwork to him. “I'm afraid the telegram was transcribed from a note slipped under the door during the night with cash payment, so no one, not even the night watchman, saw who left it. I'm terribly sorry.”

  Fade hid his disappointment behind a grin. “Thanks anyway, Kathy.”

  “I get off at 5:00,” she told him with a sidewise glance, passing a folded piece of paper to him. “Call me.”

  A slim hand appeared on Fade's shoulder from behind.

  “Sorry, honey,” Din said, pulling Fade away. She shot the other woman a cold smile. “He's busy.”

  While Kathy sulked, Fade let himself be ushered out of the building and hustled into his car. As they wove their way through traffic back to his office, he considered the situation.

  He was a cagey one, this bomber. A blasted ghost. Worse, if the numbers were any indication, there was more to come. Much more. He had to crack this or more people would die. Well, he wasn't going to just let that happen. He was going to do everything in his power to stop the killing.

  They arrived back at the Planet at half past noon. He was acutely aware of the time passing all too quickly. They hardly had time to think about what to do next when the telephone rang, nearly making him jump.

  “Fade,” he said into the receiver.

  “Hello, Crime Spectacularist,” the voice on the other end squeaked snidely. Obviously, the person was trying to disguise their voice. “I see you solved part of the riddle.”

  It was the same voice from the late night call.

  “Who is this?” he demanded. He pressed a button in his desk. The button sent a signal to the operator to trace the call. The switchboard would recognize the signal and set the wheels in motion. He just needed to keep the line open long enough.

  “You don't know me,” came the reply. “Not yet, but you will.”

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “What do I want?” the caller said with a chuckle. “Just to prove you're not as smart as you think you are.”

  “Why?”

  “Let's just say, I have a score to settle.”

  “What score?”

  “Check your messages.”

  The line went dead. Fade waited on the line for the report from the operator.

  “Hello,” the operator's voice came on. “We traced the call to a public telephone in Yonkers.”

  A public phone? And Yonkers again.

  “Do you have any messages for me?” he asked.

  “Just a moment.” There was a slight delay as the operator located the note. “Yes, just one. It says 'Central Park'.”

  “That's all?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fade.”

  He thanked the operator and hung up. He pulled out his watch. 12:45. The clock was ticking. What did the message mean? The location of the next bomb? Or was it just a red herring? He couldn't afford to ignore the chance it might be the next target.

  Best to get there and take a look around. He headed out of the office.

  “What's up?” Din asked as he went by.

  “Going out.”

  “Wait, I'll go with you,” she said, reaching for her pad and camera.

  “I don't know about that. I may get in trouble.”

  “Good. I need a new Crime Spectacularist article.”

  “You may get more than you bargain for,” Fade warned.

  “Shut up and get going.”

  ***

  Central Park was a large patch of green in the middle of the steel and concrete that was New York City. Although the park itself was pretty overgrown and sheep grazed in its meadows, there were areas still relatively clean where people walked and picnicked on multicolored blankets. People sat on benches feeding pigeons and little kids played ball. It was a glorious spring day.

  Fade paid the taxicab and walked with Din into the park, glancing at his watch. 1:30. About four hours to go. Maybe. He looked around. It had never dawned on him how big the park was until now. If there was a bomb, how would he find it in time?

  A beat copper walked by, whistling. He resisted the urge to ask the man if he had seen anything out of the ordinary. No sense in causing trouble just yet.

  “We better split up,” he told Din. “You head that way. Meet me back here in an hour.”

  “What if I find something?”

  “Don't touch anything and come get me here in an hour,” he repeated. “We should have enough time.”

  Din looked uncertain. “Shouldn't I tell the cop?”

  “Do you want a story or not? If you tell a cop, that's the end of that.”

  She nodded. “An hour.” She headed off, giving him one quick look back before turning to her search.

  He made his way through the park, alert for anything that might look odd or out of place. He paused to watch some children playing with their dog. A sick feeling settled on his stomach to think what might happen.

  “You're Foster Fade, aren't you?”

  He spun to find himself facing a young smiling couple carrying an infant.

  “You are!” the woman said, excited. “I recognize you from your picture in the paper. Could we have your autograph?”

  The man offered him a pencil and a memo pad. Fade took it, smiling best he could, and scribbled his name.

  “Wow! Thanks, Mr. Fade,” the man said, gazing at the signature. “I think you're swell!”

  “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  “Say, are you on a case?” the woman said, wide eyed.

  He shook his head. “Just out for a walk.”

  They looked a little disappointed. He glanced around furtively. Was that man standing nearby watching them?

  “Excuse me,” he told the couple.

  He took a step toward the watcher. The man was wearing a tweed coat and a fedora that covered most of his face. When Fade moved, he began to walk briskly away. Fade followed, ignoring the couples' farewells.

  The quicker he strode, the faster the man walked. As they traveled through the park, Fade became convinced the man was trying to avoid him while doing what he could not to look pursued. They passed the statue of the 107th Infantry Memorial and the man broke step for just a moment, quickly looking over his shoulder. Fade took advantage of the pause to dart forward, reaching out to grab the man's arm. His quarry broke into a full run and dashed into some nearby bushes. By the time Fade got there, the man had vanished into the crowd on Fifth. He looked around frantically, but the tweed coat was nowhere in sight.

  Cursing his luck, he backtracked to the statue. He circled the base, looking closely.

  There it was, a black satchel resembling a doctor's bag sitting against the statue. He looked at his watch. 2:06. He knelt down beside the satchel to examine it. There didn't appear to be any trip wires attached to it. Still, there might be something inside that could detonate it if moved. He looked around but saw nobody close by. At least if he was wrong nobody else would get hurt.

  He carefully lifted the handle and curled his fingers around its leather loop. He started to pick it up.

  A baseball thumped against the back of his foot. He froze.

  “Hey Mister!” a boy's voice called. “Can you throw me the ball?”

  Fade gingerly unwrapped his fingers and grabbed the ball. The little boy ran up to within a few feet, baseball glove open and waiting. Fade lobbed the ball to him.

  “Thanks, Mister!” the boy said and ran back to join his playmates.

  Fade sighed in relief. He turned back to the satchel. He had just enough time to see the mystery man in tweed swing the blackjack before everything went black.

  Chapter 3

  FADE MAKES A CHOICE

&nb
sp; Somebody was pounding on the inside of his head. He painfully opened his eyes. Several people were standing around him with concern written on their faces. Din knelt beside him, stroking his forehead. Fade recognized the young couple he met earlier standing behind her.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He struggled to sit up, holding his head to keep it from falling off.

  “I saw it all,” the young man said. “The other guy ran off with the case.”

  Fade blinked away the spots. “I'm okay. Just got my bell rung.”

  “What's all this?”

  The policeman shouldered his way through the crowd. He stopped over Fade.

  “You okay, buddy?” the cop asked.

  “That's Foster Fade, the Crime Spectacularist,” the young lady with the baby informed.

  “Well, well, so it is.” The cop turned to the others. “Okay, okay, show's over. Everybody go back to your business.” He began shooing the rubberneckers off.

  Fade got unsteadily to his feet. “Hang on, Officer, I want to talk to them.” He pointed at the young couple.

  “All right, but the rest of youse move along.”

  Fade rubbed his aching neck. “What's your name?”

  “Robert Mulligan,” the man said. “This is my wife Anne and my son Bobby.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Robert, Anne. This is Din Stevens.”

  “Charmed,” Din said with a smile.

  Fade reached for his pocket watch. It was missing. “Anyone have the time?”

  “About a quarter past two. Why?” Mulligan said.

  Fade breathed a sigh of relief. “Which way did the man go?”

  “He left the park. I saw him get into a taxi.”

  “Did you notice the company?”

  “Better than that,” Mulligan said with a satisfied smirk. “I got its number.”

  Fade reached out and shook the man's hand. “You have no idea how helpful you've been, Robert. You may just have saved hundreds of lives.”

  Both Mulligans smiled in stunned disbelief.

  “Really? Gosh!” Anne said.

  “Now, what was that number?”