by Guy Harrison
***
I check into a hotel in East Falls. As soon as I enter my room, I waste no time throwing the binder open on my bed. Initially, the manual reads like a directory. It lists the location and contact information of every A of I branch director in North America. Next, a table of contents lists the Arrowhead of the Seminole as being on page eleven. Never minding the threat of a paper cut, I flip through several pages, overshooting the eleventh before finally flipping back.
The section begins by explaining the Arrowhead’s origins in greater detail. While engaged in friendly conversation with the Seminole tribe and its shaman, Ponce de Leon caught a glimpse of the relic and instantly became enamored with it even though he didn’t know of its power. He tried very hard to barter with the shaman for the Arrowhead but the shaman would not give it up.
One day, de Leon snuck into the shaman’s personal effects and stole the Arrowhead. The shaman caught him and put up a fight but de Leon stabbed him, killing him instantly.
When de Leon returned to Spain, he then realized the power that the Arrowhead contained. Instead of keeping this power for himself, however, he tried to use it for financial gain. He had some of Spain’s finest handcrafters replicate the Arrowhead only to find that the replicas never worked. De Leon was ready to give up on his scheme until he one day decided to carve a replica Arrowhead himself.
It worked.
The manual explains that, as the original Arrowhead’s then-current possessor, de Leon organically held its power, allowing him to successfully make more Arrowheads. He made a handsome profit by selling the replicas, but only to people he knew to be good citizens.
On his last voyage to Florida, however, de Leon was killed in an ambush by native warriors. His second mate, who knew of the Arrowhead’s power, took it and never returned to Spain.
The manual then reads: Today, the branches of both agencies each have one replica Arrowhead and harness the original’s power into their Change Machine, which embeds the power into the cells of any human being.
Yada-yada-yada. I already know that.
At the bottom of the page, the manual states that, to guard against tampering, the location of the Arrowhead alternates every five years between the two agency’s international headquarters.
Interesting.
As the manual starts to provide information regarding the Arrowhead’s history, I continue reading until the next page, located on the right side of the binder, randomly jumps to a section about the rules governing the use of power. I look at the page number at the bottom. Fourteen. Pages twelve and thirteen are missing.
I do a double take. “Huh?”
I flip back to the table of contents and into the directory, which lists the location of each branch of the Agency of Influence, including its international headquarters.
“Of course.” New York City. Central Park. The Jackie Onassis Reservoir.
I pull out my phone and dial Elena as it occurs to me: the Agency of Influence has the Arrowhead of the Seminole and know about the A of J’s treachery but have done nothing about it. They’re just as irresponsible.
“Calvin,” Elena says. “How are you?”
I can barely contain myself, “I think I know where the Arrowhead is.”
“Richardson told you?”
“Sort of,” I say. “I have a question first.”
“Sure.”
“The Arrowhead is currently in the A of I’s possession, yes?”
“It changes hands every five years but, yes, the A of I has it.”
“Then I know where it is.”
“Miami?”
“No. A of I Headquarters in New York.” Silence on the other end. I close the binder backwards, its front cover lying flush against my bed.
“Of course,” she says. “Makes the most sense.”
“You guys made it sound like it was in Siberia. You know, that location’s in Central Park, not nearly as obscure as FDR Park. How do they stay hidden?”
“No clue. I’ve never been.”
“I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“How will you get in?”
I shrug. “I’ll charm my way in.”
“Be careful, Calvin.”
“I will.”
“Goodnight.”
I hang up the phone and place it on the nightstand as I start to think of the persona I’ll assume tomorrow. In the eyes of the A of I, Richardson’s retired, not fired. But who’s to say they would let him in? At worst, they’d turn me around and I’d have to figure out another way to get inside.
I’ve never been much of a fan of New York City. It’s loud, it’s crowded, and its citizens have a proclivity for rudeness. Be that as it may, I’ve never been so anxious, so restless to visit the City That Never Sleeps.
