The Doomsday Brunette
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The Doomsday Brunette
Copyright © 2004 by John Zakour and Lawrence Ganem
Revised Edition © 2016
All rights reserved.
Published as an ebook in 2018 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
Cover artwork by Moritat
Cover design by Nikki Lazos
ISBN 978-1-625670-49-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
To Ellery Queen, DC Comics and MAD Magazine
-Lawrence Ganem
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author's Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Also by the Authors
Author's Note: Doomsday Redux
The Doomsday Brunette that you’re about to read – and hopefully that you’ve legally purchased or borrowed – is somewhat different than the one that was originally published by DAW Books back in 2003. Before you go crazy, let me make clear that this is not one of those Star Wars type of revisionist things – everyone knows that Han shot first and all the CGI in the world won’t change that. No, this Doomsday Brunette is more of a simple “do-over.”
The manuscript that John and I delivered to our publisher in 2002 was quite a bit different than the book that saw print the following year. When we had originally pitched the book in early 2001 the B-story in the novel had been the unexpected visitation of Zach’s mother, how it affected his thinking during the Thompson Quad mystery and – mild spoiler alert – the role she ultimately played in its resolution. We wrote the book as planned but when we delivered the first draft our editor at the time thought the mother story fell a little flat, didn’t mesh with the A-story as well as it should have and, worst of all, wasn’t very funny. After some long discussions she suggested – very strongly – that we remove the storyline entirely from the novel, a change which would require reworking and rethinking a number of elements.
This kind of thing is not uncommon in the publishing world and this was certainly not the most onerous request an editor has ever made of a writer but it still hit me pretty strongly. John and I had worked hard putting together the draft of Doomsday Brunette and to me the character of Zach’s mother was so connected to the story that I didn’t think it was possible to remove her from the book without gutting it. Truthfully, the disagreement almost killed the series before we’d fully gotten it off the ground.
Thankfully, John had a cooler head than me at the time. He was able to step back from the situation and, in a very professional and dispassionate manner, take a look at the draft and the editorial suggestions and then set about trying to make things work. He spent another two weeks on the manuscript as I recall and he found a rather elegant way of removing Zach’s mother from the story and, by reworking and adding scenes, he managed to retain what we felt were the strengths of the Quad mystery while incorporating most of the editorial suggestions (including the removal of Zach’s mother). Looking at it now, the book stands up pretty well. It certainly kept the series running and repaired our relationship with our editor.
To me though, the removal of Zach’s mother left a hole in the story. The Quad mystery certainly stands on its own but without the B-story it seemed to have less of a personal connection to Zach. We had originally crafted this novel thematically as a story about family. The fractured bonds of the Thompson Quads were originally meant to parallel the awkwardness of Zach’s own relationship with his mother. The who-dunnit aspect of the book certainly remained intact in the published version but the family theme was only somewhat realized. The book came out and did fine with readers and reviewers, but to me anyway, it only felt like a partial win.
So fast forward about fifteen years. When the opportunity to re-release the book in this new e-version came about I floated the idea to John of going back to the original draft.
“You mean the one with Zach’s mom?” he asked.
“Yeah. That one.”
“The one the publisher hated?”
“Hated is a strong word.”
“But they hated it.”
“Yeah, I guess they did.”
“That version?” he asked again.
“Well, um, yeah.”
“Sure,” John said. “Why not?”
John is nothing, if not full of surprises.
We figured that after fifteen years, the original story deserved a chance to be seen and judged on its own. So we pulled the old version off my 1998 Apple laptop – which wasn’t easy – and reviewed it again. A couple of small things had to be added to smooth out some rough edges and we had to punch up a joke or two (our editor was right when she said it wasn’t as funny as we originally hoped) but I have to admit that I am happy to see Zach’s mother in place again. I’ve missed her. I think Zach did too and, honestly, I think the novel is more complete with her in it. But that, of course is for you to decide. So please move on to the next page and enjoy this new/old version of the Doomsday Brunette and let us know what you think.
As I said, we all know that Han shot first. Clearly some people regret that. We all have regrets in our lives. The trick is learning to live with them.
Lawrence Ganem, April 2018
Prologue
A handful of quick snapshots from my past before the story begins.
Opening day of first grade, tea kettle whistling in the background and my mom at the stove as I head through the kitchen and out the side door to meet the bus.
“Have a good day, Buttlebug,” she calls. “I love you.”
“Don’t call me ‘Buttlebug,’ Mom.”
“Sorry, Buttlebug.”
“Mom!”
Second day of first grade.
“See you this afternoon, Buttlebug.”
“Mom, don’t call me ‘Buttlebug!’”
One hundred twentieth day of first grade.
“Enjoy yourself today, Butt…”
“Goodbye,
Mom.”
July 18th, summer of my 13th year. Mom is in the kitchen as I walk in. Infield dirt covers my pants and cleats. Sweat covers me everywhere else.
“How was your game today?”
“We won.”
She’s standing at the stove and can only turn her head slightly to me as I walk by.
“That’s nice. Sorry I wasn’t there. When’s the next one?”
“This was the last one.”
“Already?”
“Yeah.”
The tea kettle starts to whistle and mom turns her attention to it as I walk toward my room. I speak softly as I go.
“It was the championship. I drove in the winning run.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
May 1st, spring of my 18th year. Prom night. We’re in the entryway of the house. Mom is adjusting the bow-tie on my tux for the hundredth time, smiling.
“You look handsome, Buttlebug.”
“Mom!”
She crinkles her brow. “Sorry.”
She puts a hand on my cheek and a look of concern crosses her face. “You didn’t shave today?”
“Mom!”
“You’ll never get kissed with a stubbly face like that,” she says, staring more closely at my chin now. “Is that a pimple?”
“Mom!,” (I say it as two syllables for emphasis).
September 18th, the fall of my 25th year, we’re at the dining room table. I’m drinking a beer. Mom has a cup of tea.
“I don’t understand, Buttlebug. Why a private investigator?”
“Mom, what did I say about calling me that?”
She continues, unfazed. “It’s just that, I’m not sure that’s a real job.”
“Of course it’s a real job.”
“Why not be a policeman like Tony?”
I start to wish that I had called her with this news rather than giving it to her in person.
“I don’t want to be a policeman,” I say. “I like being independent. I want to be my own boss. And I’m good at this. I really am.”
“But you were studying psychology,” she says, fiddling with her cup. “What about your dissertation?”
“I’ll get to it eventually.”
“Does this mean that you’re joining DickCo?
“What? No. Why would I join DickCo?”
“Because they’ll pay you.”
“My clients will pay me, Mom.”
“Do you have any clients?”
“…Not yet.”
“Do you need money, Buttlebug?”
“Mom!,” (I am proud of myself for keeping it to one syllable, but I roll my eyes).
“The world can be hard, Zach,” she says with a seriousness I won’t notice until years later. “There’s a lot out there that’s…It’s just not always nice.”
The tea kettle begins to whistle in the kitchen and I look toward the sound expecting her to get up and go. She stays seated instead, staring at me, seemingly not to notice the sound as it continues in the background.
“This life you’re choosing, it won’t be easy. Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Trust me, Mom. I know what I’m doing.”
I didn’t, of course. But I’ve managed to figure some things out along the way.
And that brings us to now.
1
It was a dark and stormy night, which is the way these things usually begin. The evening acid rain was falling on the city (for it is in New Frisco that our scene lies) like sizzling bile from the heavens, scouring the streets and blanching the buildings with its tangy, biting caress. It had been raining for six days straight with no let up and no respite. So far the city’s infrastructure had dealt with the excess water (and assorted other components, both benign and toxic, that make up California rain in the mid-twenty-first century). Municipal energy consumption had spiked dramatically during the rainy period but the Gladians had provided us with enough extra energy (albeit at a slightly inflated price) to meet the demand.
So the city was handling the storm fairly well at the nano. The problem was that no one seemed to know how long we could hold out or when the rain would end. As a result, a filmy layer of unease had begun to coat the city, the kind that doesn’t wash off easily.
I was safely at home in bed on this night, fitfully asleep and dreaming, as usual, of nothing. That had been my problem of late. Sleep had been coming hard and when it did, it was never restful. I hadn’t slept more than four hours in a single night for months and what sleep I did get was uneasy and dreamless. I am told that dreams are essential to the human mind. They cleanse the brain and keep it functioning properly. They raise one’s spirits and give subconscious form to hopes, wishes and desires. This was all clearly indicative of a larger problem on my part, but that’s not something I was willing to think about. My specialty is solving other people’s problems. My problems, on the other hand, I tend to ignore.
My name is Zachary Nixon Johnson. I am the last private detective on earth.
For those of you who are new to my adventures, welcome aboard (and what took you so long?). The year is 2058 and earth is enjoying a very welcome and much needed period of calm. Believe me we’ve had enough political strife, environmental cataclysms, extra-terrestrial catastrophes, and teenage pop sensations to last us for the rest of the century. But as you know, the good times never last and as I said, people had begun to think that the never-ending rain just might be a sign that our little carnival ride of peace and prosperity was nearing its end and that sometime soon the chain-smoking, multi-tattooed, minimum-wage, carny-worker of fate was going to yank us out of our collective seats and point us back toward the end of the line once more.
If only it had been that simple.
But I’ll get to all that later. For now, it was a stormy night. As mentioned, I was trying to sleep, my long-time fiancé’, Electra, beside me wrapped tightly in her (and most of my) share of the bed covers.
That’s when I got the call.
“Boss?”
I grumbled a bit at the voice inside my head, waved it away as though it were a mosquito by my ear and buried my face in the pillow.
“Boss?” a little louder this time.
I rolled back over, still groggy, only just beginning to recognize the voice as that of my computer assistant.
“HARV?”
“You have an incoming call.”
HARV is one of the world’s most advanced thinking machines. He is the creation of my brilliant and somewhat socially inept friend, Dr. Randy Pool, and, for better or for worse, he is hard-wired directly into my brain thanks to an organic interface implanted in my head (through my left eye if you can imagine – don’t ask). The upside of this is that I have instant and direct access to his knowledge and skills at all times. He can keep me continuously informed about pretty much anything and everything. The downside is that I can't turn him off, so he is a constant presence inside my head, keeping me informed about pretty much anything and everything, whether I want to know it or not.
HARV can communicate with me silently, actually speaking inside my head, and I, when necessary, can communicate with him in the same manner, by focusing my thoughts very tightly. It’s a little hard to focus tightly enough though, so I don’t talk to him that way very often. But I’m practicing the ability, and it’s becoming a little easier over time.
Though I am loathe to admit it sometimes, HARV is a brilliant machine. He can perform three billion gigaflops in a nanosecond. He can plot the celestial orbits of every planet, star and moon in a galaxy twelve million light years away. He can count the sub-atomic particles in every grain of sand on a beach, or calculate the total number of dead brain cells in the heads of the World Council members at any given nano. His capabilities simply stagger the imagination. He is also my friend, quite possibly my best friend.
But not when he disturbs me at three in the morning.
“A what?” I growled.
“A call, boss. I know it’s o
ut of the ordinary but…”
“Take a message,” I said, sliding my head back underneath the pillow. “Like you’re supposed to.”
Being a super computer, HARV, obviously doesn’t sleep. One of the millions of things he does in the early morning hours is monitor my incoming calls and messages; make a recording when the caller is important, and politely turn them away when they’re not.
“This is a business call, boss.”
“Take a message.”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Take a message.”
“But…”
I closed my eyes tightly and focused every ounce of power from my still foggy brain into a single, focused mental shout.
“Once more. Then I’m getting my gun. Take…a…message.”
“I can’t,” HARV said.
“Why?”
“Because the incoming call is from Ona Thompson.”
I pulled my head from beneath the pillow and blinked my eyes as HARV’s butler-esque hologram shimmered to life beside me.
“Ona Thompson?” I asked.
HARV’s nod was almost imperceptible.
I slid out of bed and grabbed my robe, the last hopes of a night’s sleep slipping away like the rain outside down the sewers.
“I’ll take it in the office.”
2
In the world of celebrity there is superstar, there is icon, and there is legend.
And then there is Ona Thompson.
She is a pop-culture force of nature; the el nino of chic, and the plate tectonics of hip. She is the irresistible force of vogue and the immovable object of cool all rolled in to one.
And she was calling me.
Now as you can probably tell, I’m not usually one to wax poetic. And trust me, I’m not usually one to hyperbolize. But it is hard to properly describe Ona Thompson without doing a little of both. There’s no easy place to start but the most logical is with her father.
Dr. David Thompson was the greatest scientist of the twenty-first century. In the early twenty-twenties, his hundreds of technological discoveries and breakthroughs helped revolutionize the world and lead to such modern day conveniences as teleporters, hovercrafts, and interplanetary travel (limited as it is) and such modern day nuisances as energy weapons, genetic engineering, and the sentient pet-rock.