Remember Me (39 page)

Sitting in the Taxi heading to the rendezvous at J.W.’s office, I couldn’t help but reflect on the last couple of years and how I’d arrived at this point. Three months after Tom and Amy’s wedding, E.M.J. delivered the first two hundred Syncat chips (the marketing name for our chip.) Four months later we were in full production. E.M.J. was no longer unknown.

Our number of employees grew to thirty, and by the end of this year it should reach nearly fifty. I shouldn’t have worried about our marketing campaign. Amy’s daily routine consisted of fielding multiple phone calls requesting our chips. Stebben and his expanded staff were already hard at work on the Syncat 2. The contract that was eventually signed with our first client, promised them the Syncat Pro, a slightly more powerful version of the Syncat 2, when it was ready for release. It would be used in their institutional sales, for which they now had a monopoly. Their biggest buyer was the U.S. government. I stayed true to my original words to Stebben. I turned down all solicitations from the military branches for our chip. It did not go over well with Tom. He saw it as a way for E.M.J. to nearly triple in size and triple in profits.

Stebben had been right about the competition taking our

chip and hurriedly finding a way to copy and mass produce their own versions. The newly created technology war had begun. In retrospect, I had only raised the bar from what had S 293 S

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once happened in my life, to start a few years earlier and some of the players had been renamed. A couple of the “big boys”

from my time seemed to be hurt the most. One nearly lost their company in a hostile buyout attempt. They survived and were currently positioning themselves for a new chip release.

Their company guaranteed it would be better than our Syncat chip. All I could do was smile as I read the pre-release publicity.

I turned the daily operations over to Tom and Stebben. I took on more of a CEO’s role rather than president. It was now Tom and Stebben’s picture that adorned the magazines and television shows. It left me with time to establish new goals and to stretch my horizons. The original phone chip was safely hidden away in my new working office, an office which occupied the east wing of my new home. It had been included in the blueprints and made “state-of-the-art” by Stebben’s own personal design. I knew enough to turn the alarm on and off, maybe slightly more. Within the safe at E.M.J., was a dummy chip. It was nearly identical, but flawed. Should anyone attempt to install it in a computer, it would basically “self-destruct.”

Between the collective brains of Samuel, Stebben and Mark, I believe they could build the chip from scratch should the need ever arise. I was hoping that particular occasion would never come to pass. Heading for my meeting with J.W. Winslow,

only made me more cognizant of what was at stake.

I wasn’t fearful of the three of them moving on, Stebben had them under his wing and he and I were the purveyors of destiny. Mark and Samuel had more money than they could

spend, more than enough women to waste it on, and more

Mountain Dew than they could drink in a lifetime. In other words, they were good. I stayed out of their personal lives as I now did Tom and Amy’s. Stebben and Stacy were now

the only two within my close “inner-circle.” Professor Jasper Thurington had basically taken a back seat. He’d interviewed S 294 S

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me multiple times for his new and improved thematic hypothesis on parallel universes. Since I had no knowledge in which he could garner new facts, he settled for his quarterly royalty check. Money speaks louder than words, and to some it is the only voice they hear.

I never lost my uneasiness and always knew this day would come. I only hoped I had planned accordingly and was sufficiently prepared. It didn’t surprise me that I was being sought out by the “Family,” or better put—requested to meet with them at my convenience. In the last month, there had been initial talks about taking E.M.J. public. There had also been several inquiring probes to see if we were interested in selling E.M.J. What our asking price would be and what our stock price might rise to, were a hotly debated topic on the financial news shows. I had no intention of selling E.M.J. to anyone. In the mean time, Stebben and I co-founded a small gaming company called Gametech. It was still in the development phase and had exactly one paid employee, Jason Arnute, our epic software developer. He was privy to the game applications from my phone. Using Stebben’s personally built Protemp

computer that would read my chip, he was diligently working on developing a gaming system and several games.

The Gametech system would not hit the market for a couple of years. It was too soon, and the timing wasn’t conducive to the long term vision we had mapped out. It wouldn’t be until the latter part of the nineties, when the spendable income of the younger generation dramatically increased. It was also the time when the childhood game players were turning into adults. It had become part of their social life. As adult gam-ers, they had the money to start demanding more from their games. They were also more willing to pay for their thrills.

The gaming system we planned on introducing by nineteen

ninety-three would make the current systems obsolete. When S 295 S

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our system was introduced, it would be similar to skipping PlayStation 2 and coming out with PlayStation 3. The difference would be so great that we could charge any price we wanted. It would take the competition years to catch up.

Jason Arnute was good, and he was also a very close friend of Stebben’s. I had to trust someone, and I placed my trust in Stebben. If anyone could derail everything I worked so hard to put in motion, it would be him.

If you truly believed a person from the next century could move on with their life in the previous century, then just maybe I was sort of doing it. My obsession with Amy was slowly becoming less painful to bear. She and Tom seemed to be truly happy. I wondered if maybe this time they would make it last.

In the last few months the talk of children had started coming up between them—Tom for it, and Amy who wanted to

wait. There were many times that I thought about what kind of children Amy and I would have had together. In my past life and the one I now lived as Peter Warren, it was nothing more than a wishful fantasy—a dream that I would never be able to make real.

After my declaration of love at her wedding, Amy started to distance herself from me. I couldn’t blame her. It was all the more reason to change my role at the company. I had more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime and that was only in the public eye. Behind the wall I had erected was a small fortune. It was hidden from prying eyes, but it was there just in case. I didn’t need to make bets any more. CJ still called for the big events, mostly out of habit, and I believed because of our strange friendship. I always gave him my best guess. I did alter the final points on the last Super bowl. The Forty-niners beat the Broncos fifty-five to ten. I relayed that it was going to be a close game. It was supposed to be a classic confrontation between Joe Montana and John Elway. The Broncos were S 296 S

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trying not to follow the likes of the Vikings by losing their fourth straight Super Bowl. Montana and the Forty-niners dominated from start to finish.

I doubted that this was the reason for my visit to J.W.

Winslow. The “Family” made money on the game, regardless of my hedging the point spread. I was only hoping to start creating a few cracks in my ability to correctly call the games.

I hoped they would begin to doubt the reliability with my gift of prognostication. My best guess for the coming meeting revolved around the success and the future potential of E.M.J. I’d been spending a lot of my time preparing for this very moment. I couldn’t have done it without Stacy’s tenacity for detail. I didn’t feel any anxiety, just the opposite in fact. I was actually ready to end this connection—if I could. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. I was afraid to die, but not because I feared the “Family” or death in general. My fear is personal. It lies solely in me not being able to rectify the loss of Emily. I had to make it to the wormhole. I was more certain than ever that it would be there.

J.W. Winslow had an office in the Dirksen Federal Building on Dearborn Street. The taxi stopped in front of the main door.

I paid the driver and turned to face the entrance. A gentleman in a black pinstriped suit met me outside. He approached me as I stood gazing at the front door.

“Mr. Warren, will you please follow me”

He fit my general perception of an accountant: clean-cut, minimal jewelry adorning his wrist and fingers, and an overall build that made him more unnoticeable than noticeable. I gripped the handle of my briefcase tightly until my knuckles turned white. The man led me through the front doors and away from the checkin desk. I glanced at the receptionist and she looked right through me—not a good sign. At the bank of elevators, we entered the one on the far left. It was designed S 297 S

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slightly different than the other two. It had an older look to it.

The other two appeared to be more modern. It also said “private use only” on a large plaque above the call button. Inside the elevator, the floor buttons began at seven and ended on fourteen. The man, whose name I didn’t know, nor wanted to ask, pushed the button for the ninth floor.

When the door swung open he said, “Check in with the receptionist. She’s just off to your left.” He made no move to exit the elevator. I stepped outside the door and glanced at the area around me. The elevator door swooshed and then smacked

closed behind me. Immediately to my left was a hallway that extended straight away. It was banked by office doors on either side. In front of me was a modest waiting area. It had two rows of chairs forming an L shape with a corner table situated between them in the corner. Just past the waiting area, and on the left side of the room was the reception desk. Behind the reception desk was a large wooden door. It looked like it was made of fine mahogany, maybe cherry. I could only assume that it led to another room with offices, maybe even J.W.

Winslow’s office.

I took a deep breath and walked past the waiting area until I stopped in front of the reception desk. There sat another plain accountant type. He was eyeing me with great scrutiny.

I’d expected the receptionist to be a woman, but then again, I wasn’t too surprised to see a man behind the desk. He pushed a button on his intercom. It was answered by someone with a deep voice, “Yes.”

“Mr. Warren is here,” the receptionist answered. His voice contained a rough sounding edge to its tone, and a hint of something familiar. A Scottish accent…

“Escort him back,” the voice over the intercom directed.

“Aye sir.”

Scottish it was. The man stood up, and I was shocked at

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how tall he was. He was easily six-seven if not taller. He may have been dressed plainly, but he most definitely stood out. I got a closer look at his hands. He had the hard looking hands of a laborer, not an office staff worker. He could have been older than I thought. To me he looked to be in his mid-thirties. I didn’t see how it would benefit me to ask, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

He stepped to the side of the reception desk and opened

the large wooden door. “Mr. Warren, this way please.”

Like an obedient soldier, I marched dutifully in-line behind him. I had to hustle to keep up. He took one step for every two of mine. At the end of the hall there was another large dark-stained wooden door. On it was a brass name plate reading, “J.W. Winslow, President.” My escort buzzed the call button to the side of the door knob and instantly there was a clicking sound as the door unlocked. The man pushed the release, swinging the door inward. I held my breath as the door swung open. He stepped away from the door and motioned

me forward. I complied, though my legs felt like they had been submersed in mud.

Once I was through the door, he closed it behind me, and I heard the unsettling click of the deadbolt. My hands were clammy, and all of the sudden I was convinced that I was not going to be able to “stand my ground.” Every old-time movie about mob bosses and organized crime raced through my brain in “fast-forward.” I was scaring myself with the thoughts of impending doom. I willed my heart to relax. I shooed away the distractions in my mind. I needed to stay focused and sharp. I let my eyes wander around my surroundings. I was only slightly relieved by what I saw. The outer area where I found myself was tastefully decorated and actually seemed to be inviting. I’m sure it was professionally designed by someone with a name that I should know. A rather large blonde woman, with the S 299 S

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bosom to match, waited behind her desk for me to approach.

A name plate identified her as Alice Dubois. She had to be at least fifty. She wore a lot of make-up which made it hard to be certain. Younger, I doubted, older, it was more likely. When she spoke, her voice had a hoarseness tone. It probably came from too many years of heavy smoking. “Mr. Winslow is ready to see you now, Mr. Warren.”

Everyone here had that same professional, monotone

symmetry in their voice. It was business as usual, and by the way…we know who is in charge, don’t we? She pushed some

magic button on her desk, and after the high-pitched buzzing sound ended, the door gave a loud click and slid open with a vibrant swoosh. From where I stood, I could see into the office. J.W. Winslow was seated behind his desk, facing me. It was a “Kodak moment.” It was just like the picture I had of him from a magazine clipping. It had been taken in this exact same setting.

“Come in, Mr. Warren, and close the door behind you, if

you would,” he said it with authority.

Complying, I turned to close the door, but I wasn’t needed, Alice was already shutting it. I wondered if that was standard protocol, and why Winslow had asked me to do it. More than likely it was another one of his power moves. I turned back around to face J.W. again. He studied me as I made my way to the lone, stuffed armchair in front of his desk. The drapes had been closed on the view outside, but they were not so thick as to block out all of the natural daylight. The interior light for the room came mostly from the two floor lamps, one to either side of the closed drapes. An eloquent Tiffany lamp sat on his desk and cast a warm yellow light in front of J.W. Winslow.