by Guy Harrison
Chapter Twenty-Two
With the sun descending toward New York’s western horizon, the foot traffic in Central Park has lessened substantially. Through my wobbly haze I find a sharp rock just outside the Agency of Influence’s not-so-hidden entrance and bring it to a more secluded area on the other side of the reservoir.
On my way there, I catch a glimpse of what life will be like post-Arrowhead. Everyone I pass at least takes a peek at my jumbled, bleeding face, if they aren’t blatantly staring. I didn’t even think about plastic surgery after Suburban Station but I may have to reconsider. I’m not usually the self-conscious type but, when you have a face like mine, you lose confidence real quick. I wonder how Ronni, with all of her vanity, will deal with this new development.
Surrounded by lush green grass and tall, towering trees, I place the Arrowhead on top of a large rock. The rock is so large, so firmly embedded into the ground that it could easily pass for a tree stump.
I kneel down and study the Arrowhead. Its design is so intricate; I wonder how long it took the shaman to make it. If there were an afterlife, what would the shaman say if he observed me doing what I’m doing now? Would he be pissed that his work is going to be defaced? Or, considering the manner in which it was taken from him and used thereafter, would he be happy to see it destroyed?
I transfer my jagged tool from my left hand to my right hand.
Richardson and others spoke of an impending blitzkrieg that would befall me upon destroying the Arrowhead. Was there something to that? Did Daphne Tierney actually exist? Or was that just another whopper on a long list of dishonest yarns that were spun to discourage me from destroying what has become a major cash cow?
Fuck Richardson.
I squeeze the rock in my right hand and take one hard rip at the Arrowhead.
No damage.
I pull back and attack the Arrowhead three more times.
Still no damage.
Suddenly, I grow angry at the relic, angry for all of the anguish it’s caused me and the people I love. I’m also pissed because the damn thing won’t break.
“What … the … hell,” I say with each of the next three swings.
I stop to give my hand a break and to look at the relic. Nary a scratch.
Don’t tell me this thing’s indestructible.
Feeling wobbly again, I put my head down a moment to recover before trying again.
This time, I squeeze the rock extra hard in my hand, making sure to leave its sharpest edge exposed. I pull my right hand over my head and bang on the Arrowhead three more times.
On the third rap, the Arrowhead finally cracks.
I wipe away a layer of sweat forming on my brow and center the Arrowhead on the rock again.
If I were still recruited as an Agent of Influence but the agency’s Philadelphia branch had not been compromised, would I still be doing this? What if another A of I had been framed? What if someone else’s case subject suffered the same fate as that of Josh Jenner? Would I still be doing this? What if it was a nondescript Agent of Justice who authored the Suburban Station attack? Would I still be doing this?
I suppose Richardson and I were both right; everything does happen for a reason … but we also get to choose our roles in life. Life’s roadmap puts us in positions to make life-altering decisions. Given another opportunity, I just as easily could have handed over the Arrowhead to the gunman.
I squeeze the rock one last time and swing down with a mighty cut.
Broken.
The Arrowhead of the Seminole lies on the large rock, lifeless and divided.
I let out a loud, high-pitched laugh as I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Elena.
“Calvin,” she says after one ring. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great.”
“Did you get it?”
“Destroyed it.”
“Ay dios mio,” she says with a gasp. “That’s—that’s—wow.”
Silence.
“It worked,” she says with a laugh.
“Huh?”
“It worked! I just tried moving the TV. It wouldn’t budge.”
I breathe a sigh of relief before allowing myself to fall into the grass.
“I even tried lifting my glass of water,” she says. “Nothing.”
Silence.
“Calvin, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I just …” My voice catches. “When do you get out of the hospital?”
“The doctors are going to run a test tomorrow morning. If everything checks out, I’ll be good to go.”
“Awesome,” I say, placing my hand on my forehead as tears form in my eyes.
“When are you coming back for me?”
“Tomorrow. Maybe even tonight if I can catch a last minute flight.”
“Well, have a safe flight, then.”
“I’ll see ya.”
After hanging up the phone, I take a moment to lie in the grass in silence, save for the din of pigeons and taxis behind me on East Drive. I then spring to my feet and grab the two pieces of the Arrowhead.
My head hurts. Badly.
I grit my teeth and jog out to the trail along the reservoir. I toss both pieces of the relic into the water and watch them sink into the million-gallon basin. I turn around and face New York’s east side.
Needing a cab, I walk away from the basin and head for East Drive.
I was only a shape shifter for a little over a year, so not much readjusting there. But I will miss being able to move things with my mind. I probably could have found constructive ways in which to use that power, too. For example, if that squirrel sitting way up there on that tree branch were a cat stuck in a tree, I could simply—
Holy shit.
The branch breaks, sending the squirrel to the ground.
Weird.
What if I presented Elena with a nice bouquet of freshly picked flowers? If we take a stroll through the park, I could simply pick some of those cherry blossoms off of that tree over there and—
Are you kidding me?
I motion for a patch of grass to come up out of its soil. It obliges.
With a slow wave of my hand, I pick up a rock and wing it into the reservoir.
No. This can’t be. This is making my brain hurt.
I run and hide behind a tree.
Swoosh!
My face feels normal. I’m Kevin Stewart again.
Did Elena lie to me?
She wouldn’t.
I pull out my phone and dial Richardson. The phone rings three times before he picks up.
“Hello?” he says in his unmistakable twang.
“Richardson, you lied to me.”
“I was wondering if I’d be hearing from you.”
“You told me everyone would lose their powers if I destroyed the Arrowhead.”
“Well, that part is true.”
“Then why do I still have my powers?”
“Because,” he says, “as the power came from the Arrowhead’s creator, it, in turn, stays with the Arrowhead’s last possessor. You’re the last of a dead breed, my friend.”
Feeling hazy again, I lean against the tree. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did, if you listened carefully. There’s a reason she got the name Disappearing Daphne.”
“Son of a …”
“I couldn’t just come out and tell you. I didn’t want to give you any extra motivation,” he says. “I thought I could scare you off.”
“That worked out, didn’t it?”
“That’s why the page was missing from my manual. The agency made me shred it when I retired.”
“In case the manual fell into the wrong hands.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Calvin, you should look at this as a reward.”
“How the hell is this a reward? What makes you think I want this?”
“Most people go looking for the Arrowhead out of greed. You were willing to make a significant sacrifice, one that many others would not have made if g
iven the same information as you.”
“The only information I had is that it sucks to be the one who destroys the Arrowhead.”
“Yes, and that’s still somewhat true. You’re the only one who can rebuild the Arrowhead to its full power.”
Of this, the old man did truthfully warn me. It didn’t seem like such a big deal before but, given everything I’ve learned today, a life of constantly looking over my shoulder suddenly seems disconcerting, even if I have uncanny ways of protecting myself. “Hey, out of curiosity,” I say, “why’d you hire Elena?”
“Well, when I first met her, she was very quiet, very guarded and rigid. And even as she moved up the chain of command, we never saw her pleasant side.”
“But it was always there.”
“Correct. Her present openness paired with her intelligence gathering skills is what we were hoping to get when we hired her. She would make the perfect Agent of Influence now.”
I was right about what I said when I was hired. Richardson hired skilled people who also had faults that might not lend themselves to an agency such as the A of I. When those negatives were flipped to a positive, they all served a purpose. The old man might have been greedy but he had a plan and a vision.
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, this guy—Mayne, I think his name was …”
“Oh, Dennis?” Richardson says with a chuckle. “I took Elena fair and square. Anything else he tells you is a bold-faced lie.”
I’ll give the old man the benefit of the doubt.
“What are you going to do now?” he says.
“Adapt or die.”
He chuckles. “Very good, Cal. Hey, if you ever need anything, give me a ring.”
“Don’t hold your breath. You’re still one of them.”
“Smart man.”
I hang up the phone and look across the reservoir. Lasse Gantert emerges from the entrance, stoops down and closes the mechanical door with his key.
And so it begins.
I calmly turn around and continue walking toward East Drive, keeping my eyes out for a taxi.
For most of my adult existence, I’ve searched for a life greater than that of an ordinary man. I thought I had found that when I was hired by the Agency of Influence. Instead, there’s no greater opportunity for significance than when you can accomplish things no one else can.
The possibilities are endless. I could go back to being a matchmaker, only working cases similar to that of Mark at Phil’s Coffee. Maybe I’ll be a businessman by day and a crime fighter by night. Maybe I’ll be an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Or maybe I won’t have time to do anything but live life with my head on constant swivel.
I wave down a taxi and climb into its backseat.
“Where to?” the driver says.
“Hudson Hotel, please.” I suddenly don’t feel so good. The cab feels like it’s spinning. I put my arms around my stomach and sit back.
“You okay, pal? You don’t look too good.”
I shake my head.
“Hey, don’t puke in my cab!”
My headache intensifies. The interior of the cab spins at a frantic pace. My vision blurs. I hear a ringing in my ears. As I lay down across the backseat, I hear the driver say something but I can’t make out what he says.
Suddenly, my eyes start to close as they meet the driver’s in the rearview mirror.
A worried expression on his face, he stops the taxi and turns around to look at me right before my eyes finally close.
