Stasis: A Will Vullerman Anthology

by J. Tobias Buller

Mothinghotch popped into the room, glancing uneasily about. "Yes, sir?"

  "You have better eyes than I do. What do you see on the wall, there?"

  Mothinghotch peered down at the wall. "Not much, sir. Just something like a reddish stain that's been scrubbed away. Wonder how that—oh!" Mothinghotch gagged, cutting off his sentence.

  "That's what I thought." Brownbarr glanced down at Mothinghotch in disgust. "Stand up straight, Mothinghotch. You can't expect to be in the ASP and not see blood every once in a while. Tilt your head, just so. What does the stain look like?"

  "Uh...blood?"

  Brownbarr resisted the urge to cuff the aide. "No, what does the shape of the stain remind you of?"

  Mothinghotch squinted. "The letter A, sir."

  "Exactly. That's the wall where Tarent died."

  "Oh!" Mothinghotch straightened and backed away from the wall. "What...what does it mean, sir?"

  "It means that Tarent must have been too weak to get his comm, so he crawled over to the wall and left a note in his blood. The murderer tried to clean it off so we wouldn't notice. It's hard to see unless you're trying to see it."

  "You were looking for it, sir?"

  Brownbarr shrugged. "If you were an ASP agent, what would you do? You needed to leave some sort of message."

  Mothinghotch was silent for a moment. "Uh, sir," he started, "The letter A isn't much of a message."

  "On the contrary," Brownbarr said, turning around and striding out the door. "It gives us our murderer's identity."

  "How?" Mothinghotch trailed Brownbarr into the hall.

  "It tells us what we're dealing with."

  "I don't quite understand, sir."

  "A is the first letter in an acronym that should be well known to you." Brownbarr halted at the hotel's stairs and glanced back at Mothinghotch.

  Mothinghotch's eyes widened. "The AAA."

  ************

  On his way out of the hotel, Brownbarr called Rolvo back at intelligence. Mothinghotch followed silently.

  "Call connected," said his comm.

  "Rolvo, can you hear me?" Brownbarr said.

  "Loud and cleah, sah." Rolvo's voice crackled a little, but the connection was otherwise good.

  "Any news on Tarent's comm?"

  "We've traced a signal. It showed up first in the hotel, but the signal was either corrupted or permanently shut down."

  Brownbarr frowned. "It fits with my theory, I suppose."

  "Which is?"

  "We're dealing with an AAA man. Tarent scrawled the letter A on the wall of the hotel, and someone tried to scrub it off."

  There was a pause. "That cleahs things up," Rolvo said. "The man is obviously good with tech, which means we may be dealing with the AAA ringleadah, the one that kidnapped Mr. Vullahman. He has yet to be found.”

  Brownbarr thought about this for a moment. "Continue working on locating Tarent's comm. I'll do some detective work here."

  "Yes, sah. I'll call you if I have any furthah information."

  Brownbarr disconnected the call and walked back into the hotel.

  "Uh, sir?" Mothinghotch again, walking along behind Brownbarr. "Where are you going?"

  "Into the hotel." Brownbarr pushed open the door and walked up to the stomach-high front desk. A young lady in blue slouched behind the counter, fiddling with a hotel pen and looking indescribably bored. Her name tag read "Florence".

  "But sir, we've already been in—"

  Brownbarr turned. "You do your job, Mothinghotch, and I'll do mine. Now do me a favor and shut up."

  Mothinghotch pressed his lips together and didn't say another word.

  Brownbarr faced the desk again. "Miss?"

  Florence sat up. "Yeah?"

  "I'm looking for a friend of mine. He's a bit shorter than me, with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes, probably dressed casually, with a Persian complexion. He also has a bracelet made of wood around his wrist."

  "Look, grandpa," Florence said, leaning back in her chair, "I'm only takin' a summer job while my uncle's makin' moolah. I don't know this place any better than—"

  "Look, miss, can you just tell me if you've seen my friend?" Brownbarr restrained his anger. It probably wouldn't do any good to rant at a spoiled teen—she'd probably just clam up.

  "Maybe I have." Florence glanced at him.

  With a huff, Brownbarr dug into his pocket and threw some money on the table. "Will that help jog your memory?"

  "Just fine, grandpa." Florence counted up the money. "I saw your...friend. A couple days back. He left early in the morning. He was a handsome guy, so I tried talkin' to him. Couldn't get much outta him, but he said he was headin' somewhere west of EC."

  "Thanks, that's all I need." Brownbarr turned and headed back out the door.

  Mothinghotch walked beside Brownbarr and glanced at him. "Uh, sir, what exactly just happened?"

  Brownbarr ignored Mothinghotch and called Rolvo again. "Rolvo? I've got news."

  "Yes, sah?"

  "We're after the AAA ringleader. The lady at the hotel desk needed a bit of cash to jog her memory, but she's seen him, and he's heading somewhere west of the European Confederation."

  "On it, sah."

  Brownbarr hung up.

  "Sir—" Mothinghotch started.

  "Mothinghotch, if you say another word, I'm going to lynch you. You'll find out what's going on soon enough. In the meantime, we've got a trail to follow."

  ************

  Will woke up to the sound of footsteps. He opened his eyes and blinked for a few moments at his blurry surroundings. Where was he? What was that loud sound?

  "Awake, my man?" Immanuel's voice.

  Oh. Now he remembered.

  Will rubbed his eyes and stretched. "I am now."

  Immanuel chuckled. "You bin sleepin' for th' last coupla hours. You take somet'ing ta knock you out?"

  "Sorry. I've been staying up late for the last few nights." Will yawned, glancing out the window. Blue sky, as usual. Nothing exciting. "I think it all caught up to me."

  Immanuel nodded. "Tough mission, yeah?"

  Will shrugged. "Sort of. I was worried about how it would turn out for a while, but the culprit was caught pretty easily. It looked like he just wanted to burgle the house. Still, the job's done. Once I talk with Brownbarr, I'm off on vacation."

  "Uh-huh." Immanuel paused a minute. "So th' Director say he comin' back ta debrief?"

  "Not specifically...he just told me to come back. I assume he'll be there. His comm signal wasn't that great, so I thought that he was off on a mission somewhere."

  "Hm." Immanuel seemed to digest this for a minute. "Las' I heard, he left yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” Will frowned. “I'll call and make sure.” He stuck his earpiece in and spoke. "Comm, call Brownbarr."

  "Connection error," the comm said. "Please reprogram."

  Will frowned. "Reprogram? What's that supposed to mean?" If the line was busy, then the comm would have said so. What was the problem, then?

  "Th' Director ha' no signal, maybe. Or it—hm?" Immanuel stopped mid-sentence at a loud beep. He swiveled his chair around and examined the screen in front of him. "Will, might wanta see d'is." Immanuel motioned for Will to come.

  Will stood up and leaned over beside Immanuel, resting his hand on the back of Immanuel's seat. "Urgent message—Danton Brownbarr, Director of the ASP" scrolled across the screen. Immanuel hit play.

  Brownbarr's voice sounded loud and clear from the speakers. "All ASP operatives on alert. We have a code yellow situation. Two nights ago, an ASP operative was murdered by the man we suspect of heading the AAA and also of kidnapping ASP operative Will Vullerman." Brownbarr then described the man and all known information on him, and then concluded the call, saying, "If any operative sees this man, report your position immediately and wait for backup."

  Will straightened once the call had ended. "So how is it that Brownbarr's able to call us, and why does he have a perfect signal?"

&nbs
p; Immanuel shrugged. "Tech," was his only answer.

  Will rubbed his chin. "That's always my excuse, but it's still a little odd.”

  "I'm more interested in th' murderer at this point," Immanuel said. "You met'm, yeah?"

  "Met him is an understatement. He kidnapped me and masqueraded as my grandfather." And hopefully the ASP would find him soon. Will had a score to settle with the man. He'd probably be hard to catch, though. The fellow was a tech genius. As long as he had a comm, he could probably do some bad damage. Hackers could easily do stuff like erase numbers and fake calls and stuff.

  Hold up. Will furrowed his brow. "Immanuel, you know more about tech than I do, right?"

  "Yeah. It requiah for pilot trainin'." Immanuel glanced at Will curiously. "Why?"

  "How easy is it to fake a call with someone else's voice?"

  Immanuel didn't answer for a moment. "Well," he said, at last, "if you ha' good tech an' a sample o' th' voice, not too hard."

  "Then we may be in trouble." Will glanced down at his comm. "Did Brownbarr call you to come pick me up?"

  "Yes..."

  "Was the connection bad?"

  "Yes.” Immanuel frowned. “You mean d'at—"

  "What if the connection was faked? That would explain why my comm can't call Brownbarr, and why he has a good signal now when he had a bad connection earlier. And the AAA ringleader is behind it all, I'd bet." Will paced back and forth. It added up, didn't it? The bad connection, the terse call, and the apparent fact that Brownbarr wouldn't be at HQ like his comm message had said. "But why? Why would the murderer want to send me a fake call?"

  "Maybe he want you gone."

  "Gone? Why would he—"

  Then it hit him.

  The voice. The familiar voice. That scratchy voice that he was sure he had heard before. And he had heard it before.

  The call.

  The thirteenth call.

  Will staggered back. "Immanuel, turn this plane around!"

  "Will, what—"

  "Turn the plane around! No, no—I've killed them!" Will's breathing came hard and fast, and an empty feeling twisted his stomach into pieces. How could he have been so blind?

  "Will." Immanuel's voice broke into Will's horror like water over a rock. "Calm down, my man. What's wrong?"

  Will's chest heaved. His vision blurred. He turned on his heel and stumbled forward. "I've killed them, Immanuel.”

  "I don't understand—"

  Will turned back and focused on Immanuel. "Immanuel, it happened again. I arrested the wrong man! The real man, the one who's been making the calls—he's still out there!"

  ************

  May handed Alexander Torrey a stack of brightly colored papers. She gazed up at him with her big eyes. "Can we buy this, Daddy? Pleeeeeease?"

  Alexander glanced down at her with a smile. "What are these for, May?"

  "I'm gonna write Mister Vullerman a thank-you letter."

  Alexander smiled. "Okay. Just this once. Here, put it in the bag." Alexander extended the bag, already half-full of other products, and May plopped the paper inside.

  As soon as May was looking the other way, Alexander sneaked a glance behind him. There. It was that man again. The dark-haired man was looking away, but Alexander was sure that the man had been following them for a good half-hour.

  He walked a bit faster to catch up with his wife. He murmured in her ear, "You about ready to leave? Maybe it's just the aftershock of this phone-call business, but I feel a bit uneasy. I'd like to get home."

  "I've got enough to last the week.” Mary tossed a bag of chips in the cart. "Let's go."

  Alexander took May's hand and they started walking to the check-out. They paid for the groceries and then walked through the superstore until they reached the automatic doors and stepped outside into the warm day.

  Once they were outside, Alexander breathed a sigh of relief. The warm sunlight made the world seem friendlier.

  His temporary relief faded, however, once Alexander glanced behind him.

  The dark-haired man was following.

  ************

  Will clenched the seat until his knuckles bleached white. He ground his teeth together and said, "Can we go any faster?"

  "Goin' a'fast as I kin, Will." Immanuel's gaze was focused on the controls in front of him. "Askin' all th' time won't make it better."

  Will stared at the floor. His initial rush of adrenaline and stark terror had faded, leaving him feeling tired and helpless. He had heard the phrase "hit rock bottom", but he had never understood it until now. Will had hit rock bottom, and it hurt.

  How could he have been so stupid? It all made sense now. The taxi driver had either been a random burglar or a distraction to Will, but either way it had served to get Will away from the Torreys. Now they were unprotected and facing a ruthless and powerful killer. If the man had already managed to murder an ASP agent, how would a simple American family save themselves? If the man had fooled Will, then how could the Torreys escape?

  Will put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

  He had failed. Again. The last time he had failed, innocent people had ended up dead. Officially, their deaths hadn't been his fault. But Will knew better.

  And now he had made the same stupid mistake. Will had told May that he had changed, that he would protect them, but this new mistake proved him wrong.

  He hadn't changed. He was just as eager to get this “civilian assignment” off his hands, despite his claims to the contrary. And if the passing of time hadn't changed him for the better, what could? If time couldn't heal wounds, would they ever be healed?

  Will lowered his head and stared at the floor again. He hadn't prayed in a long time.

  But if there was ever a time to pray, it would be in that moment. Maybe Will couldn't redeem his failures. But maybe God could.

  “That's what drives us to pray,” he said, quietly, to himself. “When we've got nowhere else to go.”

  He bowed his head.

  ************

  Brownbarr glanced out the window. Another town was rolling on past. A couple of fast-food restaurants peeked up at the broad highway, but other than that it wasn't much. Brownbarr turned to Mothinghotch, who was in the driver's seat. "Where are we now?"

  Mothinghotch kept his gaze forward. He might be a pretty sorry aide, but Brownbarr had to admit that Mothinghotch was a good driver. "We're at Salira, sir."

  As if Brownbarr knew where that was. "Hold on, I'll check in with Rolvo and see where the last sighting was. Pull over and grab us something to eat."

  Brownbarr called Rolvo's comm number as Mothinghotch coasted to the exit. "Rolvo, any more sightings?"

  "Nothing. Where ah you now?"

  "Salira, wherever that is. Somewhere in western EC."

  Mothinghotch pulled into a junk food joint and drove to the drive-thru.

  "The sighting was about a half hour behind you. If he's heading west, though, this is the best road he could take."

  "All right, we'll keep driving. Keep me updated."

  "Yes, sah." Rolvo hung up.

  Mothinghotch pulled forward and grabbed two bags of food from the drive-thru window. The greasy smell of french fries and burgers steamed from the recycled bags.

  "You're a lifesaver, Mothinghotch." Brownbarr tore into his bag. He took out a burger and breathed in the heavenly smell. "America might be gone, but American food lives on."

  Mothinghotch chewed on a deep-fried french fry, keeping one hand on the wheel as he pulled out of the parking lot. "It's rather unhealthy, though."

  "I'll be lucky if I don't have a heart attack after I'm done." Brownbarr bit into his burger and let the taste sit for a moment before swallowing. "My sister's house is two hours away, but if we want to be alive by the time we catch our man, we might have to stop there for supper."

  Mothinghotch shrugged. "I guess so, sir."

  ************

  Will opened his eyes and stared out the porthole at the sky. "Imma
nuel, bring up a computer-to-comm connection, please." He stood up.

  Immanuel glanced back at Will. "Sure," he said, after a moment. "Why you need it? You got a plan, my man?"

  "You bet." Will strode over to Immanuel's chair. "If my plan works, we might have enough time to undo my mistakes and save lives."

  Immanuel nodded. "What you need me ta do?"

  ************

  Brownbarr's comm dinged in his ear. "Call incoming. Private jet no. 2394 is dialing with an ASP urgency code."

  Brownbarr frowned. A private jet? Why would a private jet be calling him? And why was the call urgent? "Answer," Brownbarr said.

  In a rush of static, Will Vullerman's voice shouted into Brownbarr's ear. "Director, sir! This call could be cut off at any time. Get to your sister's house if you want to save her life. The AAA murderer is on his way to her hou—"

  With a beep, the comm said, "Call disconnected. Please reprogram."

  Brownbarr stared down at his comm's keypad, which still read "private jet no. 2394". His mind grasped what Will had said, and he looked up at the road in front of the car. "Step on it, Mothinghotch," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Drive like I'm about to kill you, because I will if you don't go faster. Drive!"

  Mothinghotch glanced at Brownbarr. "Sir?"

  "My sister's in danger, you idiot!" Brownbarr roared. "Step on it!"

  Mothinghotch floored the gas and hit the ASP blinkers.

  Brownbarr watched the speedometer rise and prayed that they could go faster. His sister's life depended on it.

  “Call the local police,” he said to his comm.

  “Error. Please reprogram.”

  Brownbarr ripped the comm out of his ear and threw it on the dashboard. “Mothinghotch, does your comm work?”

  Mothinghotch frowned. “Call the police,” he said. Then his frown deepened. “Some jargon about the police lines being down, sir. What does that mean?”

  “That means that there's not going to be any backup.” Brownbarr gritted his teeth. “Drive faster.”

  ************

  Alexander sat on the couch and sighed. At last, his feet could have a rest. "Have I mentioned that I hate shopping?"