Flash

by Tim Tigner

  Studying the two faces hovering over his bed, Luther had to wonder if he had been subjected to enough psychological current during his gubernatorial bid that he had blown a fuse. Was there any other explanation for the fact that he did not recognize his staff, his house, his—“Where’s the paper?” He asked.

  The woman whose name Luther craved to remember exchanged another brief look with his aide before turning to retrieve the Los Angeles Times from the writing desk behind her.

  Luther accepted the paper with a nervous hand, his eye darting immediately to the date: Tuesday, September 30. His mind had blanked out three whole months. It was hard to process. He recalled that in addition to PhD students, combat soldiers were the most common victims of stress amnesia. Perhaps it happened to campaigning politicians as well, but they just covered it up. As he had to do.

  Three months seemed at once to be too long a period of time to black out, and too short a period for so much to have changed. Impossibly short. He let his eyes drift back to the date, this time focusing on the year. The last digit was not the 3 he had expected, but an 8. He had blacked out five whole years.

  “Are you all right, Luther?” The woman asked. “You’re looking a little pale.”

  Analyzing dates for the first time, he realized that he must have had five amazingly successful years if he was already at the doorstep of the governor’s mansion. He had been doing well as an attorney, but not that well. Perhaps he had caught the next O. J. Simpson case. No wonder he had blown a fuse. Regardless, he was not about to throw his life’s dream away now. He would play along—bullshit, deduce, and investigate—until he connected enough dots to function appropriately, or his memory returned.

  Calling on the nimble ability to compartmentalize his thoughts that served him so well in the courtroom, Luther donned a smile, looked up at his secretary, and said, “I’m just hungry.”

  Chapter 96

  “You really pegged him,” Emmy said, studying Troy with admiration. “I’m supposed to be the people person.”

  “It wasn’t much of a stretch,” Troy replied. “What successful, charismatic, ambitious attorney doesn’t dream of using Capitol Hill or the governor’s mansion as a stepping-stone to the White House—especially here in Hollywood? Let’s just hope that the rest of the morning proves to be as predictable.” Troy trailed off his speech and then snapped his fingers. “Oh shit. What if he turns on the TV? I say we get back in there and manage the situation.”

  Emmy’s instincts told her that Luther would find it suspicious if they appeared too clingy, and it was key that they keep him in a trusting mood. But to Troy’s point, if she were Luther, she’d reach for the remote the first chance she got. “Why don’t you go downstairs and wait for the press, help them get set up. I’ll manage Luther.”

  Emmy was a bit nervous that Troy might lash out at her suggestion. Neither of them had slept much during the past forty-eight hours, and the weight on their shoulders was gargantuan. But Troy just leaned forward and gave her a warm soft kiss. Then, without a word, he turned and headed downstairs.

  She was going to marry him, someday.

  Emmy knocked on the door to the master bedroom suite, said “Luther,” and then entered without waiting for a reply. Since Luther did not know what their relationship was, she might as well let him assume that they were intimate. That would deepen his level of trust. She found Luther dressed in the blue suit and red tie she had laid out. He was seated at the secretary, studying his prepared remarks.

  When he looked up, she said. “You look perfect. Very gubernatorial.”

  He nodded and returned his focus to the remarks Troy had given him. Something about the intensity of his gaze piqued Emmy’s fears. She wondered if they had gone too far. They had discussed the option of handing him the speech at the last minute, but ruled that out as appearing unprofessional. Well, she decided, it was too late to take it back now. All she could do was press ahead as planned.

  The plan was for her to plant a couple key thoughts in Luther’s mind before the press arrived. She cleared her throat and said, “We’ve got fifteen minutes before we need to go downstairs. I thought you might want to use them to practice for the Q and A?”

  “Does this look right to you?” Luther asked, ignoring her question. He held out his copy of the remarks and without pointing to any sentence in particular.

  Emmy instantly recognized Luther’s query as general and open-ended. She used such questions all the time when she needed to obtain guidance from her client without losing her authoritative air. She pretended to study the sheet for a minute, and then said, “It looks perfect.” She added. “This is it, Luther. This press conference is what pundits will call the tipping-point moment. And you’re going to do great.”

  “You’re sure about the figures?” He asked.

  Emmy glanced down for a split second. “The five-hundred million? Yes, we’ve run the tests. The additional press and wow factor you would get by taking it up to a full billion are marginal. As long as the word billion is in there, be it one or a half, most people’s reaction is virtually identical. And at ten percent of your personal net worth, a half-billion will play well with churchgoers. They’ll see that as your proper tithe. We have definitely got the right number.”

  She smiled and handed the paper back to him with a reassuring nod. Luther did not meet her eye. His mind was obviously riveted on the glorious revelation that he was worth five-billion-dollars. By her calculation, he would stop questioning things at that point. If the dream was that good, you did not want to wake up.

  And she still had the icing to layer on …

  “Remind me why we chose UNICEF?” He asked.

  “That question is addressed on the second page, in the Q&A prep.”

  “Yeah, I saw that bit about the shrinking world and the neediest among us. But what’s the real reason?”

  Emmy shrugged. “Well, for starters, you tug at absolutely everyone’s heart strings by reaching out to children. It’s the only universal demographic. Had you donated it to a children’s group here in California—as the old saw: All politics is local might dictate—you would raise questions and perhaps even animus because of who you did not choose. Other politicians have fallen victim to that trap. By donating to the United Nations Children’s Fund, however, you avoid all that while showing yourself to be appropriately worldly.” Studying Luther’s eyes, Emmy saw that he endorsed her calculations. She decided to move in for the kill with the two words that would make him a puppet. “That worldliness image will be invaluable four years from now, when we’re looking on upgrading the governor’s mansion to the White House.”

  Chapter 97

  Alone and befuddled, Luther wandered about his enormous estate, exploring rooms, looking for familiar objects. With each step, the events of the morning replayed uncomfortably in his mind. The press conference had lacked the pizzazz he would have expected, given the dollar amount and political stakes. When he mentioned to his executive assistant—he really had to learn her name post haste—she had assured him that this was normal for anything short of a presidential campaign, and that in this electronic age, a little went a long way. “Newspapers habitually pick the majority of their stories off the wire,” she added. “And television networks routinely show pool video clips.”

  Not wanting to parade the very ignorance he was struggling so desperately to hide, he had let the subject drop. Then she and his aide had excused themselves to “go ensure maximal coverage” while suggesting that he “rest up.”

  Resting up was, of course, exactly what he needed given his mental condition. Obviously they had sensed as much but had the tact not to mention it. He would not be able to rest, however, until he got a grip on his situation. His search of the house had yielded enough familiar objects to convince him that he wasn’t completely bonkers. Space aliens had not beamed his soul into someone else’s body. But most of his surroundings still looked unfamiliar, even if they didn’t feel foreign. And on the bright si
de, it would not take long to get used to calling such luxurious surrounds home. Of course, he might be moving to the governor’s mansion before he got the chance.

  Completing his tour of the main house, he returned to his study, the room with the most familiar objects, and turned on the television. Perhaps, he thought, current events would jog something loose. One of the local network affiliates showed his picture and made mention of a prominent L.A. lawyer’s half-billion dollar gift to UNICEF. There was no mention of his campaign to succeed Schwarzenegger. He supposed that this might be intentional. His team had hoped to keep the politics out of the news coverage so that it would play like a pure act, and to that end there was no mention of the gubernatorial race in his speech. Perhaps that linkage would come with the evening news, once the political editors and pundits had time to digest his momentous philanthropic act. Still, he thought they should at least have mentioned his candidacy.

  Luther’s concern grew when he got all the way through a cycle of CNN’s Headline News without hearing mention of his phenomenally generous gift. Was the population at large really more interested in some B-list celebrity’s racial slurs, or just CNN’s news director? “Hello, people. It’s half-a-billion dollars. Wake up.”

  A crashing sound downstairs brought Luther out of his doldrums. Leaping out of his armchair he ran out onto the hallway and looked over the rail. Two police officers the size of linebackers were running up the stairs at him, weapons drawn. Luther froze, rooted to the spot by confusion and fear. The policeman on the right, the first to the top of the stairs, pointed his weapon at Luther’s chest and fired without word or hesitation.

  Luther felt his chest erupt in flames as white heat blinded his eyes. As his whole body began to spasm, the understanding that he was being Tasered jolted through his besieged mind. Then everything went black.

  Chapter 98

  Luther awoke to find himself strapped naked to a bed beneath a blinding spotlight that was focused on his bare belly. No, not a bed, he realized, a table, an operating table. The skin on his stomach felt as parched as a rotisserie chicken’s, while his hands and feet were frozen. He began to shiver, although whether from cold or nerves he was not sure. Had he gone into cardiac arrest when the trigger-happy cop zapped him? He looked around the room but saw only darkness in every direction. No walls. No people.

  Two jointed stainless steel constructions rose around him like robotic arms. The right arm terminated in a menacing set of pincers. The left arm supported a video screen, which although less sinister than the neighboring pincers was no less disturbing. Dark and lifeless, it mocked him. A link to the outside world was just inches away, but given the grip of his restraints, it may as well have been miles.

  Shaking like a rehabilitating addict and feeling desperately alone, he strained against his wrist and ankle shackles with all the strength he could muster. Drawing blood or even breaking bones were of little concern to Luther. The physical pain this caused was negligible compared to the torment in his head.

  He needed to be free.

  But the broad straps of thick leather running tautly across his chest and hips robbed him of all leverage. He called out like a madman howling at the moon and received a hollow echo in return. An echo. The sound sobered him. Wherever he was, it was much more expansive than your typical operating theater.

  Luther cried out for what seemed like days. Perhaps it was just hours, but it was definitely longer than minutes, for his voice faded to a gravelly whisper and he began to suffer from thirst. Lying there, immobile, with nothing but the spotlight for company, he began to wonder if the Taser had killed him. This place certainly felt like purgatory. If not for the overwhelming sense that he was waiting for something, it would qualify as Hell.

  Somewhere in the swirling haze of passing hours, he figured out what had happened. Someone had seen the news story on his charitable contribution and figured that he was literally worth a king’s ransom. He was being held until the ransom was negotiated and paid, kept under maximal stress so that he would readily agree to any demand when screen finally came to life.

  Yes, that was it. He would be asked to authorize a transfer via videophone, and then the robotic arm would release his bonds. With no human contact, the crime was virtually perfect.

  As if in answer to his speculation, a dark voice echoed forth from the void, “Hello Luther.”

  Luther craned his neck and tried again to pierce the blackness, but it was useless. The spotlight spoiled his vision. He strained his ears, searching for a footfall, the rustle of clothes, breathing. They found only silence.

  “Who’s there!” He shouted, his mind too garbled to manage anything but the cliché.

  After the echo of his own cry faded without hint of another noise, Luther began to fear that he was hallucinating. He was so lonely. Food, water, yes he wanted those, needed those, but there in the sterile blackness of that vast space, companionship was what he most craved. He did not want to die alone, a naked chicken roasting on a cold iron spit.

  Mocking laughter erupted from silence as the video screen before him sprang to life. When his eyes came into focus, he found himself face to face with a mid-forties male. “Remember me?” The talking head asked.

  Luther strained his brain for any trace of recollection, any hint of a memory of the handsome aquiline features that were contorted into a vengeful mask. Never before had Luther wanted anything so much, needed anything so desperately. He felt as though his very sanity depended on his ability to make that single connection, but he was betrayed by his own mind. It offered nothing, a complete blank.

  Almost as bad as the cognitive failure was the realization that he would never be able to explain his condition to his captor, at least not convincingly. Stress-induced episodic amnesia. Yeah, right. He hardly believed it himself. Staring into the eyes he now feared would be the last he’d ever see, Luther found a glimmer of hope and latched onto it: The eyes were intelligent, the face dignified, and the skin white.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” The intelligent eyes narrowed.

  “No.” Luther said, his voice hoarse and shallow. “I don’t remember a lot of things.”

  The head nodded slowly as the lips thinned. “My name is Arlen Blythe. I’m the Chairman of Savas Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  Arlen inclined his head perfunctorily, acknowledging the sentiment. “You do remember giving five-hundred-million dollars to charity though, right?”

  Luther simply said, “Yes.” He wanted to say more, but did not know where to start.

  Arlen’s face hardened as though instantly turned to granite. “It was mine.”

  Despite Arlen’s sinister expression, Luther felt a surge of hope. If this was only about money, he could deal with it painlessly enough. He was a wealthy man. A billionaire. With power. “I’m sorry. There was an accident. I, I just don’t remember. I will pay you back though, of course. With whatever interest is appropriate.”

  “I really wish you did remember, Luther. That would make this so much more satisfying. But alas …” He shrugged.

  “What? Make what more satisfying?”

  “The news.”

  “What news?”

  “You’re broke Luther. Wiped out. You owe far more than you own.”

  “No, no. That’s not true. I have five billion. Well, four billion five hundred. And I am about to become the Governor of California. I’m sure we can work this out.”

  Arlen sprouted an amused look and nodded three times. Seeing this, Luther let out a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be okay.

  “So that’s how they did it,” Arlen said. “I was wondering.”

  “How who did what?” Luther asked, the knots recapturing his stomach.

  “Got you to give my money away, irrevocably.”

  “It was a scam?” Luther asked, even as the implications sank in. “I really am broke?”

  Arlen nodded. “And you know what that means?”

&
nbsp; Luther slowly shook his head, dreadfully confused and utterly terrified.

  The robotic pincers above Luther whirred to life. They disappeared beneath the table only to reappear a second later clenching a scalpel.

  “It means I’m going to have to extract half-a-billion dollars from your flesh.”

  Chapter 99

  Troy looked over the sweating silver bucket toward the strawberry sky, and smiled. Aruba’s famous green flash had been beautiful, but it had nothing on Emmy’s eyes. Had he ever been so happy? He’d never know. And he was okay with that.

  As the couples without beachfront bungalows turned to walk back to their rooms, Troy picked the cordless phone off the rattan table and looked over at his breathtaking companion. “You sure this is the way to go?”

  Emmy set down her champagne flute and accepted the receiver. “Absolutely. Especially now that Luther’s dead.” She grimaced while speaking the last word, and Troy knew she was picturing the grotesque scene that had made tabloid covers all over the world. The world’s first robotic homicide.

  “I mean the part about keeping it anonymous,” Troy clarified. “Perhaps it would be better if they knew where the money came from? Perhaps knowing about Luther and his fate would give them closure?”

  Emmy shook her head. “It will only raise painful questions, reopen wounds, and make the gift feel like blood money. Best to just let a little good fortune rain on those who have endured so much bad.”